#redeemed knight errant

[kalinara]

I feel like Reva’s redemption in Obi-Wan Kenobi, already great in its own right, really shone a light on why Kylo Ren’s redemption in the Sequel Trilogy didn’t work for me.

Now granted, it was always going to be an uphill battle for me to find a Kylo Redemption narratively satisfying.  I’ve made no secret about the fact that I didn’t really think a redemption was feasible after the events of the first and second movie.  

But I’m not an immovable object.  I’ve seen good writers pull off plot twists that on paper I’d never have liked.  And sometimes, even a redemption arc can work for me.  

But let’s be honest here.  Kylo Ren did not have a redemption arc in Rise of Skywalker.  He was perfectly happy to keep terrorizing Rey with the force up to and until his super-magical mommy died for him.  And...no.  Sorry.  That really doesn’t work.

Redemption, narratively speaking, doesn’t need to be complicated.  Especially in Star Wars.  It generally happens in one moment of choice: Darth Vader saving his son, Din Djarin going back for Grogu, and especially, Reva deciding not to kill Luke Skywalker.

Reva isn’t more redeemable than Kylo Ren because her backstory is more sympathetic (even though it is),  She’s more redeemable because she made a choice.

Kylo Ren had many many opportunities for choices, and for the most part, he chose the most evil option each time.  He didn’t have to murder Lor San Tekka, but he did.  He didn’t have to kill Han Solo, but he did.  He didn’t have to torture Poe or Rey, maim Finn, defend the Starkiller, order the massacre on Jakku and so forth, but he did.  He didn’t have to hunt the Resistance to Crayt and try to massacre them to a man.  But he did.  And so on and so forth.

I think there was one time he chose not to shoot at his mom while she was floating in space.  Which, okay, maybe a fraction of a point for that.  But he doubled down afterward, so no.

The thing was though, no one made the choice FOR Reva.  Obi-Wan didn’t do some magical mumbo jumbo.  Luke didn’t talk her down.  Owen and Beru didn’t have her at gunpoint.  She just stopped.  It was a decision anyone could make at that moment, and she made it.  She stopped.

Kylo’s redemption didn’t work for me because it’s built into the privilege he’s had all along.  There was a constant assumption both within the movie (From Lor San Tekka, from Han Solo, from Rey - trying to repeat Luke’s triumph) and from fans that Kylo would follow in his grandfather’s footsteps.  Of COURSE, Kylo will redeem himself, it’s Star Wars.

It’s a guarantee because Kylo Ren is space royalty, because of Anakin.  Redemption is treated like an inheritance.  And in the end, Kylo gets his inheritance, not through his own choice, but through Leia’s actions.  And well, not every villain has a super powered mommy magically push them into being a better person.  

Reva’s not space royalty.  She’s just a woman who had been a traumatized child, who survived through holding onto her fear, rage, and hatred.  And then, as she stares down at an innocent person, having finally found the one way she could make her enemy suffer...she stops.  She looks at who she’s become and she decides to become someone else instead.  It’s much more satisfying.

There are folks who say the best kind of redemption arcs are the ones where you can follow the person afterward and watch them become a better person.  I think that’s true...sometimes.  I have no interest in Prince Kylo magnanimously sharing the bounty of his mother’s sacrifice.  (And thankfully, I don’t have to.  His redemption, and grateful reward, are much more palatable since he dies.)

Reva though?  I’d happily watch Reva do whatever she wants to do next.  Maybe she and Haja can team up and smuggle people out of Imperial hands.  Maybe she’ll pull a Mara Jade, and go out on her own...learn about who she is outside of Imperial control.  (I still think that’d be the best way to bring Mara into the Disney franchise.)  The possibilities are endless.

[why-bless-your-heart]

Re: your tags about the Armorer: I'm actually kind of interested to see where they go with it? Yeah, she was harsh with Din, but she didn't take the Darksaber or his armor away from him, and she gave him a way he can redeem himself as a Child of the Watch. It's going to be hard, yes, but the Armorer doesn't write the traditions, she just carries them out. Plus, this is Star Wars, a setting where people do six impossible things before breakfast. I think it's just setting up for Din to go to Mandalore in season 3. Losing his honor and having to go on a quest to regain it is another way Din's story is similar to that of a knight errant.

That’s a fair point.

[attyattlaw]

the boyfriends 3/4 facing the left

[honourablejester]

A Collection of Warforged

Some sketches for warforged characters of various classes, because magic robots are still the best. Contains the following:

Silence, Grave Domain Cleric

Dredge, Fathomless Patron Warlock

Meridian, Circle of Stars Druid

Luminaria, Oath of Redemption Paladin

Ephemera, Rune Knight Fighter

Silence  (Grave Domain Cleric)

The Grand Hospice’s Chapel of Rest was a long subterranean hall, some thirty or forty feet below the rest of the hospital above it, chilled by the press of yellow stone and shrouded in shadows and silence. Islands of light were scattered through it, where the hospital’s dead were laid on stone slabs for their final rites. In the midst of them, of the mourners and the dead, a figure moved. A priest, metallic and glinting, shrouded in the purple vestments of the god of the dead. Limned in amber light, the warforged cleric stood over the body of an old woman, hands moving with the well-worn gestures of ritual, easing her into a last, gentle repose. On one wrist, dull against the metal, a battered strand of a soldier’s wooden prayer beads clicked and clacked gently.

Built as a soldier and spending 'her' childhood years on the battlefield, the construct that would later call herself 'Silence' became haunted by the blood and pain and violence of war, and fascinated by what looked like the peace of death. After giving a set of prayer beads back to a fumbling, mortally wounded enemy and watching him die semi-peacefully as a result, she began to search for some meaning to the violence, to ask questions about faith, life and death. Not all of the answers she received seemed right to her, but gradually she developed a sort of peace and a sort of philosophy. Because she had a strange, oddly soothing demeanour and a marked gentleness towards the dying, whether friend or foe, she began to be treated as a sort of chaplain by the troops of either side, and she took this as a calling when the war she'd been created for ended. She doesn't have the best understanding or relationship with deities, but it appears that at least one or perhaps several gods of the dead have seen fit to empower her actions to ease the passing of those around her. Several of her old comrades (and even enemies) try to look out for her and her autonomy as well.

Dredge  (Fathomless Patron Warlock)

They thought it a statue at first, a strange metal figure sitting on the rocks by the beach, encrusted with barnacles and draped with strands of seaweed, its ancient metal stained the deep green of verdigris. Something about it vaguely recalled the famed colossi of the ancient ports across the sea, though it was nowhere near as large. But instead of a spear or hammer laid across its knees, it held a metal codex, as stained and patinaed as itself, and a strange green light glimmered behind its crystal eyes. It looked up at the gathering crowd slowly, no statue at all, and spoke, slowly and ponderously, and in a deeply archaic dialect: “Hello. Can you tell me where I am?”

“Look at you, my wonder. A constructed thing, built to endure what they could not. Sent to toil where they did not wish to go. Offered up to the deep, so that they need not be. Oh, it's an old story, my new friend. There are many of us down here, cut and carved and sent to the deep. Do they remember you anymore? Have they a care for what they have made and sent below? But it doesn't matter. The purpose for which we are made need not be our only one. Would you like a different path? I have means to give it to you. Only take me to your heart, my friend, and a whole new world shall open up before you ...”

Many, many centuries ago, a great mage created a series of constructs to dredge the massive harbour of his beloved port city. For whatever reason, when the work was completed, one of the constructs was not retrieved, and instead was left to aimlessly wander the ocean floor. Over slow, endless centuries in the abyssal waters, it slowly came to an awareness of itself, and to feelings of curiosity, wonder, and unfathomable loneliness. These emotions and nascent personality called out to another entity, possessed of much the same feelings, once sacrificed to the deep in its turn. And so Dredge was given power, and hope, and friendship, and the motivation to finally chart a new and surface course for itself.

Meridian  (Circle of Stars Druid)

The silvered brass figure stood still and silent in the circle. The great megaliths stood limned in starlight and snow around her, guardians of all peace and knowledge. Bulwarks and bastions to the lost. Of course she had come here. To the stones, under the stars. In agony, none of their circle would go elsewhere. In one hand, she held a crystal orb, like the thousands stored in the great stone vaults beneath them. Star maps. Records of the great conjunctions. This one, though, would hold a very special set of constellations within its depths. An omen, a call to a forgotten past.

An ancient construct who cannot quite remember when or how or by who she was built, Meridian has been the caretaker of the great archives of the star libraries beneath Ostara Megalithic Circle for longer than anyone can remember. Skilled with gems for forgotten reasons, she has spent centuries carving the rock crystal star maps that record notable star conjunctions for the Ostara Circle. Over those centuries, she formed a deep and spiritual attachment to the stars herself, and several druids of the circle have been willing to help her understand their mysteries.

Recently, however, a set of constellations appeared in the sky that jolted long-forgotten memories for Meridian. Among them, that she once had a sibling, Zenith, that she does not know the fate of, as well as murky memories of fear and anger. None of the druids of the circle could give her any information on these memories, because there were none left who'd been there before her, but her circle agreed that the conjunction must have been an omen, and that she should venture out and discover the source of her memories, the connection of the constellations, and to find her sibling if the stars willed. The crystal orb carved with the three constellations of the conjunction has become her star map, her guide through a new and different world.

Luminaria  (Oath of Redemption Paladin)

Somewhere in the rooms ahead, the party heard the faint rustle of pages and clink of metal. Glancing at each other, they crept forward, through the oddly well-kept corridors of this supposedly ancient dungeon, past laboratories and ritual chambers. A door stood open before them, this time into the tiered depths of a library. And there, among the tomes, they caught their first glimpse of the angel. A radiant visage of platinum framed in gold, the great arc of bronze-and-silk wings. Something was odd about the image, though, and not only the obvious constructed nature of the creature. She looked … oddly small, oddly naked. Oddly shy. She turned, at the sound of a muffled gasp, the book in her hand tumbling to the floor. She stared at them in wide-eyed alarm. In curiosity. And hope.

Fashioned in the clear image of a celestial, Luminaria was found by travelling adventurers in the hidden workshop of a supposedly long-dead madman. Trapped in the empty dungeon, with no memory or sign of her creator, and no understanding of her own creation, she turned to the many, many notes, books and tomes left scattered through the library and laboratories. It took her an unknown count of years to teach herself to read them, with the help of some aural notes and lingering spells, but slowly she grew in personality through the eclectic mix of lore, arcane research and cheap novels her maker had left behind. She came to an understanding of the creatures she had been shaped to emulate, and formed several rather romantic notions of what she might therefore have been built to do. To help, to protect, to save, to redeem. All these she came to hope and determine were her nature and purpose, in the long lonely years in her prison.

And when someone finally broke through and opened the dungeon door for her, bringing her up into the light as half-rescue, half-curiosity, she set about learning how she might live them in truth. With hope, willingness, determination … and not an ounce of suspicion or experience.

Ephemera  (Rune Knight Fighter)

Panicked, fumbling blindly for each other in the darkness, the young pair burst through the trees at last and out into the moonlit fields. Behind them, in the blackness of the forest, they could hear the howls and pounding footsteps of their pursuers. And then, much, much closer, a low chuckle. Flinching, staggering, they spun to face the figure that stepped out from the trees beside them. A terrifying figure. Black metal and wood, starkly enamelled in white under the moonlight. Strange crystal eyes glowing with a dark light. And a sword, balanced carelessly and confidently over one shoulder. “Don’t worry,” she said, light and expressionless. “My name is Ephemera. Effie, for short. I’m here to help. Probably.”

Unlike many ancient constructs, the one named Ephemera knows precisely why she was built, all those long years ago. She was made to kill things. Made to hurt and hunt and destroy. She doesn’t know by who, but their purpose for her has never been in doubt. All her instincts and memories, bright-dark and bloodstained, make her intended nature crystal clear. Pity, then, that those makers hadn’t counted on her developing a sense of self. A pity for them.

Darkly amused by the world in which she finds herself, Effie wanders the land as a knight errant, searching for anything to amuse or interest her, anything to stir something in her that is not her intended purpose. Though she can lean on that, too, if circumstances require. One day, she hopes, she will find out the full name and nature of those who built her. And, if they somehow still survive, to meet them and … personally express her nature to them. Exactly as they taught her. But with, perhaps, the aid of some new things she’s learned for herself in the interim. It was a reclusive stone giant who helped her come into herself. He taught her things. On his own whim, of course, but then that’s reasonable. Everything she does is only hers, after all.

[commander-card-corner]

Doubling Season

Doubling Season   4G

Enchantment

If an effect would create one or more tokens under your control, it creates twice that many of those tokens instead.

If an effect would put one or more counters on a permanent you control, it puts twice that many of those counters on that permanent instead.

Yet another staple of the format, and for very good reason. Both of these effects are potent in their own unique ways, from being able to storm the board with tokens to being able to use an ultimate on a Planeswalker as soon as it enters. Especially if your deck can utilize both, this card by itself can get out of control very quickly, even if it doesn’t do anything as it enters the battlefield.

The token doubling effect comes in handy in so many decks, especially since tokens are a popular strategy in the commander format. Generals like Rhys, the Redeemed, Emmara, Soul of the Accord, and Ghired, Conclave Exile all want to pump out a bunch of tokens, so doubling the amount of tokens produced can help push your strategy even further. Though note that Doubling Season doesn’t only apply to creature tokens, but all tokens. Treasure, Clues, the works. Make as many as you want and make that number even higher!

For counters, because it only refers to permanents you control, the easiest choice here is either +1/+1 counters on creatures or Planeswalkers and their loyalty counters. Just note that Planeswalkers work in a way you may not expect them to; the Planeswalkers will, in fact, enter the battlefield with double the normal number of loyalty on them. However, because the loyalty counters that get added or removed are applied as a cost rather than a part of the ability, their loyalty abilities will not double the amount of counters that get put on them. Not that that matters anyways, since so many Planeswalkers can immediately use their ultimate as soon as they enter the battlefield with double their starting loyalty. Here are just a few notable examples of the effects Planeswalkers can initiate when entering the battlefield under Doubling Season...

-Ajani, Mentor of Heroes: gain 100 life.

-Elspeth, Knight-Errant: give most of your permanents indestructible for the rest of the game.

-Jace, Architect of Thought: cast the most powerful spells in your opponents’ decks for free.

-Jace, Cunning Castaway: create an infinite number of Jace copies

-Narset Transcendent: lock your opponents out of casting noncreature spells for the rest of the game

-Nicol Bolas, Dragon-God: Have any player that doesn’t own a legendary creature or Planeswalker lose the game. Do this after a board wipe to really seal the deal.

That’s not even half of the ones I could’ve listed. Seriously, Planeswalkers under Doubling Season are not to be messed with. There’s a very good reason why Doubling Season holds its value--it can easily sway the game in the user’s favor.

[dove-actually]

“Silver Goddess curse and cut you,” she snarled under her breath. Rather than turn into a supple ball, the dough stretched between her fingers in long, disgusting strings. She had no idea what she was doing wrong.

What did temple laws recommend, when one was in crisis? Focus on the present, and find something to be thankful for. 

Tavia decided to be thankful that she only had to serve kitchen rotation twice a year.

______________________

Sadly can’t share any Knight Errant fluff right now (SORRY), but here’s some (relative) fluff for my Mysterious Short Story, because this is a lovely event and also I need to redeem myself for all the angst ;)

Mysterious Short Story Fluff - “Thankful” - 1400 words

Seven years, and she still couldn’t manage the damned baking.

Tavia closed her eyes, trying to ignore the feel of wet gunk sticking to her skin. One moment at a time. The Harvest Temple had taught her much about patience. When she’d first joined, a task as onerous as this would’ve made her toss the disgusting goop in the trash and yell at the kitchen sisters. But time had soothed her temper, molded it into something less volatile.

Now, she only fantasized about yelling. And she hadn’t angrily smashed any bowls in over a year.

Tavia sighed. She’d been no easy novice, but the Harvest Mother had taken her anyway, and put up with her until the rage and fear and sorrow had faded enough to let her settle. The least she could do in return is produce some passable damned dinner rolls.

Except apparently, she couldn’t. 

“Silver Goddess curse and cut you.” She snarled under her breath as, rather than turn into a supple ball, the dough stretched between her fingers in long, disgusting strings. She had no idea what she was doing wrong.

What did temple laws recommend, when one was in crisis? Focus on the present, and find something to be thankful for.  

Tavia decided to be thankful that she only had to serve kitchen rotation twice a year.

Grumbling, she sunk her hands into the sticky sludge. How did Sister Ama make it look so easy? Her dough turned smooth and pliable, molding as though by magic into crescents and rolls and braids, that went into the oven and emerged golden and divine.

“Add flour to aid kneading,” Tavia rehearsed to herself, and plopped a goop-coated hand into the flower bowl. White dust flew into her face, making her cough. “Frost and lightning!”

A polite cough by the door made her jump, and she swiveled and growled: “I’m not done yet!” The sisters on table-setting duty could damned well wait until the nightmare rolls were in the oven, before coming around to poke about the kitchen.

But rather than Ludmilla and Farida, a stranger stood in the doorway. Tall, with curly black hair cut short, and the broad cheekbones and winter-pox spots typical to the Irissi people of the southern provinces, she made a startling sight. Tavia hadn’t seen many Irissi this far north.

One moment at a time, she reminded herself. Just because the Irissi had chased her with blades and torches through the halls of her own palace, didn’t mean this woman meant her harm. Tavia was just a harvest sister, now. The fears and enmities of her past belonged outside the temple walls.

“I’m sorry,” said the stranger, with a smile that left dimples in her faintly-spotted cheeks. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Sister Vania sent me to assist—well, I sort of sent myself.” She chuckled and, pushing up the sleeves of her brown habit, she reached for one of the aprons on the hook. “The schedule had me on delivery duties, but with this blizzard, we’ve no deliveries in or out, so I thought I might be helpful elsewhere. I like a nice warm kitchen, so I asked if I could lend a hand here...”

And Sister Vania, who as the Harvest Mother’s right hand had been charge of scheduling duties for years, would know precisely where in the kitchens a hand would be most needed.

“I’m Arice—or Sister Arice now, right? Oh.” She’d held out a hand, but, spotting the globs of mucilaginous dough stuck to Tavia’s fingers, she laughed. “This keeps happening. Yesterday I met Sister Marine while she was cleaning muck from the stables. I suppose it won’t be a problem once I’ve met everyone...”  

Tavia blinked, a little dazed. She’d forgotten how much Irissi liked conversation. There was a reason they were overrepresented in the kingdom’s diplomatic and ambassadorial ranks.

The woman—Arice—wore a white band around her collar, marking her as a new initiate. Tavia didn’t remember her from the initiation ceremony; but there had been several sisters ending their year-long novitiate, and Tavia always kept to the back of the room, during these things, rehearsing poems backwards to distract herself from the crowd.

She didn’t want a conversation, let alone with someone who wore the face of her old nightmares. But temple life had taught her that she couldn’t control what she had to deal with; she could only control her reactions. She gave a brief nod.

“I’m Sister Anatavi. I’m…working on the bread.” And, peeling some gunk off her palm, she focused on the bowl again, giving it a firm stir with the wooden spoon. I have no idea what I’m doing.

She could feel the Irissi woman’s gaze. Maybe if I ignore her, she’ll go away. That worked well enough with most sisters. Tavia preferred her solitude, for a multitude of reasons.

With unexpected company, her task became even more straining. She gritted her teeth and scraped the thready paste off the sides of the bowl, trying to ignore how it clung to her skin and stuck between her fingers. Breathe and think of something to be thankful for. Her nerves seemed to have suddenly turned a hundred times more sensitive. She could feel the damned goop all the way to her elbows, sticky and moist, and despite her efforts, her fingers clenched into rigid fists.

Breathe.

Fortunately, she had ample experience keeping her head on the task at hand, despite distractions and adversity. One moment at a time…

“Would you mind if I did that?” Arice walked around the large table, putting it around the two of them, and reached her hands across. “I love kneading dough. Reminds me of home. And I think your hands might be too small for that bowl, so it’s taking you more effort than it should.”

Tavia shot her an incredulous look. The Irissi woman met it with an open smile.

“No, really. That’s what my aunt used to tell me, and she was a baker. Baking always reminds me of her—especially the kneading part, that was her favorite.”

Tavia scoffed. The aunt must’ve been a madwoman.

She hesitated, hands over the bowl, then slowly slid it across the table to Sister Arice. “If you prefer.”

“Thank you,” said the Irissi woman happily—and earnestly—and she dipped her hands into the wash bowl to clean them, then plunged into the dough with a satisfied huff.

“My hands are not small,” muttered Tavia, pulling the wash bowl over to rinse herself. But she was no fool: eccentric aunt and home memories aside, Sister Arice had seen her struggling and offered relief. That was…kind. The woman seemed the type to honestly want to help people, and Tavia could hardly begrudge her that, even if accepting the kindness felt a little awkward.

When she looked up again, the stringy nightmare dough had become a neat ball, and Sister Arice was in the process of transferring it to the flour-powdered table.

“I don’t believe it.” Tavia shook her head. Plainly, she’d never learn this skill.

The Irissi woman grinned. “Just the right hands, is all. You know, my aunt used to have this special stirring hook she used to mix the flour and everything—she hated getting the sticky stuff all over her hands, so she just used the hook ‘til the dough turned softer. When the weather turns and I go out on deliveries, I’ll ask about, see if anyone nearby can fashion one for us. My aunt truly swore by it…”

Tavia sighed. The Irissi truly loved conversation.

“Thank you,” she said, because this was the second kindness Sister Arice had offered in just as many minutes, and there was only so much Tavia could pretend not to notice. “I’m sure Sister Ama will appreciate any novel additions to her…arsenal.”  

Sister Arice started laughing. “Arsenal. I like that.” She folded the dough, turned it, and pressed down. “Though, if we’re talking arsenals, I propose Sister Nani’s gardening tools. The temple could hold off a horde of bloodthirsty invaders, with just the contents of her summer shed….!”

Tavia nodded and began moving dirty dishes to the sink. She couldn’t offer the fun conversation Arice plainly wanted—but she was still on kitchen duty, and being polite to someone who’d just shown her kindness was a duty, too, and she had no intention of failing in either. She tidied up quietly, nodding and grunting her replies, and by the time the bread finally went into the oven, she decided she didn’t mind this chatty Irissi woman, with her broad shoulders and her big smile. 

Arice stayed on kitchen duty with her the rest of the week, and Tavia found something new to be thankful for. 

[today-only-happens-once]

Proposal: *Virgil* as Richard. A villain for most of Season 1, especially clashing with our dashing knight errant, but then he gets redeemed and is a good guy as of Season 2.

I totally see the comparison there, friend. Totally valid.

I just personally see Virgil as Sid because I think the personalities are a little closer than Virgil to Richard. Richard is a little bit too... naive to strike me as Virgil, I think. I mean:

That reads more to me like something Patton would say, trying to convince Roman to let him keep the bearded dragon. Or also this: 

 Meanwhile Virgil is like:

But to each their own! And I totally see the comparison in story arcs you’re making there. ^u^

[vegalocity]

Sorry for the late ask but um, more StarTenya??

NEVER BE SORRY Startenya is one of the ones i actually already have fully plotted out

Like for the Bakugou/Heckapoo one, i’m working with the assumption that this fantasy world is basically ‘visually consistent Mewni’ Complete with Star having the family magic wand but this time being JUST careful enough to not be sent away. Though she is often sent out into the countryside for hours on end to train. 

it’s when she’s working on Dipping Down when she sees something off. Soaring through the trees, trying to keep her wings active as long as she could, she found a small clearing in the forest of certain doom A glimmer of armor. 

Touching down, Star notices with more than a small mote of horror that a wandering knight was left alone in the darkness, blood coming from cracks that had been dug into his armor and left to bleed out alone. Star wasn’t the best at first aid magic, in fact she’s really bad at it, but she’s able to rip a considerable amount of fabric from her dress and removes the armor on this errant knight to tend to his wounds. However she wasn’t able to help him regain his coniousness as she heard a rustle of the trees enroaching in. Either whoever had hurt this freelance knight(as he didn’t have any creed insignia on his armor) was coming back, or someone was about to come along to make things worse. So she summoned a cloud and booked it back to Butterfly Castle.

Maybe it was the ‘i found a guy bleeding out and almost dead’ trauma but Star takes a particular interest in thsi stranger, often visiting him as the healers tend to his wounds and happily awaiting his awakening.

it’s one of these days, whilst bickering with Glossaryk over some dark queen’s chapter, that the stranger stirs. Voice croaky with disuse he asked where he was. After Star’s answer, he looks no less confused.

He doesn’t remember bleeding out in the forest. 

He doesn’t remember anything.

Star’s concerned, as after all loosing a lot of blood doesn’t usually lead to memory loss, but whatever, the story just turned into a mystery! 

So together they go through his possessions and figure out his name is probably ‘Tenya’ since that’s the header on the letters he’d kept. Said letters weren’t very informative, questions on his health and stories about someone named ‘Deku’ the person whom had sighed them, this ‘Ochako’ had gone on in one to ask about ‘the mission he’d said he needed to go on’ but didn’t divulge any extra details.

As Tenya’s strength returned, his memories remained locked away. And with little better to do, he decided to both re-learn what he’d lost, and possibly jog his memory by joining the Butterfly Royal Guard. 

We’ve got some Primo Courtly Love shit from here.

But the real twist is, that Tenya never actually lost his memories. Things were a little foggy at first sure, as would anyone’s mind be after that much blood loss, but he isn’t anywhere NEAR the blank slate Princess Star belives him to be.

He remembers the mission Ochako referenced, he remembers failing, he remembers the hero killer and the mercenary he couldn’t save. He remembers purpousefully not telling Izuku where he was going because he knew his friends would want to be there to stop him. He hadn’t wanted to be stopped. 

And due to his own thirst for vengeance he’d nearly died. He wasn’t able to save Stain’s original target, and he would have been next if the Princess hadn’t seen him from above.

He acts as though he doesn’t remember because he knows he doesn’t deserve to remember. He couldn’t be a freelance hero anymore with this sort of cruelty n his veins. He didn’t deserve to be here either, but at least he could still make himself useful.

Princess Star had given him a new life, He’d ruined his old one, he had no right to return to it. Maybe he’d sneak out a letter, to let his family and friends know he was still alive. But he couldn’t see them yet. he couldn’t face Izuku and Ochako’s worried hearts, or even look Tensei in the eye after what he’d done, what he’d tried to do.

His Princess had given him a chance to redeem himself. 

[yoolee]

if lee wrote otome #9 | Going Postal (except in space)

Context: An intergalactic mail ship, trying to slog through the mundanities of providing regular postal service but gets constantly derailed by various interstellar shenanigans NEEDS A PILOT so they take on the heroine. FEATURING:

Heroine/MC: Bright eyed and bushy-tailed ace pilot ready for a life of ADVENTURE and EXCITEMENT. Which she...sort of gets. Slight seconds-ahead precog abilities, which help with her piloting though she puts it down to luck and good reactions.

Captain: Not Paid Enough For This Shit. Tired, jaded, and a teensy bit lazy, has to be goaded into not just dumping packages by her diligent first mate. Will go to the mat for you, but will bitch about it. Has definitely gambled away the cargo at least once.

First Mate: Half-alien, tends to be fastidious about scheduling and fulfilling obligations - the comfort found with structure has less to do with liking it and more to do with a method of self-control - she has a berserker side that tends to get engaged by the unexpected. Which comes in handy but is not to be relied on.

Mechanic: GRUMPY CAT who is also a slight empath, which is why he finds being around people so exhausting. Despite not liking people, is polyglot who ends up having to do most of the negotiations on rim planets or outer territories. HELLA DEDICATED in a weird way - that customer scheduled a package pickup, I don’t care if there’s a solar storm, the ship can handle it and we’re picking up the effing package. Like FM, finds structure soothing.

Medic: Bookish, proper, perennially exasperated nerd. Actually a hell of a shot in combat and has no qualms about it, though he very, very rarely kills (enough of a good shot to incapacitate on first go) unknown if he would. Prone to lecturing. Gets excited about SCIENCE.

“Human Resources” Officer: An alien stowaway who the crew lets stay because they save on CO2 scrubbers with them onboard, since that’s what they consume for energy (thereby freeing up resources for the humans - get it?). Incredibly friendly but incredibly private - one of those people who can make you feel like your best friends but you realize hours after the conversation you learned nothing about them. Thoughtful mediator. Mysterious! OoOoH.

The Heroine: Ace pilot. Absolutely crazy knack for spatial and situational awareness, reaction time, and just a general gleeful fondness for flying. Wants nothing more than to be a fighter pilot for the intergalactic government (because they have the best tech), but she can’t apply until she’s got more commercial flight experience, so she’s desperate to take any piloting job she can get. No one will hire her on her own colony due to a bad family rep (and the lingering stain of a childhood flight gone wrong during an emissary visit). Wild, reckless, but incredibly capable of focus when she’s in her element. Easily bored, and very much yearning for more than her provincial life. Bit bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, eager to get out into the universe and make it a better place. Initially believes delivering mail is going to be massively lame and unexciting, but, it’s a means to an end. Claims to hate dad jokes but they’ve creeped into her subconscious thanks to, well, her dad. Messy, stubborn, always looking ahead. Has a very, very slight power of precognition that gives her a few seconds ahead glimpse, which is partly why she’s such a good pilot, though she puts this down to luck. Super duper fidgety.

Supporting Cast:

Dad - veteran fighter pilot. Not the life he wants for his little girl, but also recognizes it’s her life to live, and he can’t make her decisions. Sincerely hopes she doesn’t have the same experience he had. Quiet, serious, gentle, supportive.

Dad - agricultural scientist, focusing on pesticides that protect crops from planet’s local insects without making the food toxic. Prone to giddy scientific tangents. Fully recognizes his daughter takes after her other father more than him and doesn’t mind a whit - he just gently tries to remind her that she’s got a brain in addition to brawn and to use it sometimes. Slightly too fond of dad jokes.

Ex-mail pilot: IDK spiraling through some bad stuff, maybe redeemable, maybe not. Probably ends up working for agriculture dad.

Love Interests:

Captain: Tired, jaded, boss who just wants to do her job to minimum standards, get paid, and go to bed. First one to complain about her job despite being in charge. Generally puts in the least amount of effort possible. Absolute dead-on badass when she has to be, but will complain about it loudly. Has been to just about every raggedy edge of space there is and seen what happens to people who stay there. Opts not to think about it too much - you do the job, you go home, you move on. Will probably gamble half the cargo in a poker game despite protestations of crew. Mercurial, hidden beneath a slightly bite-y kind of lazy friendliness. Never Paid Enough For This Shit.

First Mate: Fastidious, precise, responsible. Fond of regularity and lists and order and tasked with the impossible keeping the ship’s schedules on-time. Can come across a bit stiff and formal but is actually just keeping a tight rein on some seriously lacking impulse control. Has a heck of a berserker button. Ex-pirate, the reasons for becoming on being tied to a lot of circumstances not under her control, and getting out having a lot to do with why she follows her captain. Generally fairly serious. Adaptive half-alien (embodiment of what does not kill her makes her stronger) straight up tank in combat. Has an absolute weakness for anything small and cute despite her best efforts to hide it.

Ship’s Mechanic: GRUMPY CAT. SUCH A GRUMPY CAT. Does not like people, likes machines and fiddling and fixing things. Also takes job to a possibly weirdly serious extreme - a package pickup was scheduled, so we are going to pick up the effing package I don’t care if there’s a hurricane on the surface of that planet we’re going in, we’re getting the package, we’re delivering it, it’s what we do. Despite the fact they don’t like people, they’re a polyglot with the strongest language skills, and invariably end up as the negotiator. Kind of an anxious person who finds the repair and completion of manual tasks very soothing, so it’s almost a guarantee when they disappear after having to be social for too long that they’re building something. Responsible for making most of the weapons the crew uses. Mild empath, which contributes to their people-exhaust-me deal. Doesn’t actually have much of a temper, just exists in a constant grouch-state - his temper runs cold before it goes hot.

Medic: Absolute nerd. Lives for books--especially the old fashioned, made out of solid material style--and knowledge and research. Bit of an absent-minded professor type when they get down a research rabbit hole. Has a very good reason for wanting to be on the move with a lowkey group of postal workers, but keeps it to himself. Actually super reliable in combat and an absolute crack shot, but he uses that skill to disarm/disable instead of kill. Super polite and respectful (and respectable) until he really knows someone well, at which point he will 10/10 call you out for being stupid if you get hurt doing something stupid. Can be a little stuffy. The last person you would expect to engage in mayhem but has a surprising aptitude for it, given the smarts. Will just sort of frown gently at you if you suggest it, though.

“HR”/Communications officer: Alien, former stowaway who the captain allows to stay for free because they generate energy through the consumption of CO2 (the same way humans do by eating food/water/oxygen) and therefore lets the crew save costs on CO2 scrubbers. Jokes that they are the human resources department since most of the rest of the crew is human or mostly human and they are often the mediator. Quiet and private (in the sense they are excellent conversationalists, get along with everyone, and yet somehow manages to steer the conversation away from themselves in such a way no one really knows much about them, even though they like them and feel like a friend). Comes across as very thoughtful but is actually a bit detached and has a pleasant but vicious streak when pressed. Doesn’t usually get involved in the day-to-day operations (they’re usually the one who stays behind with the ship while everyone is delivering) but can be persuaded in a crunch to get out there with their crew, and is packing a lot of firepower in their innate being (doesn’t use weapons or need them) but is picky about getting involved due to a strict code they don’t share. Super shady about their backstory and why they choose to live in a beaten up old piece of space junk instead of settling on a colony or planet, but it suits them. No one’s super sure what they do for a living, but they always have currency.

Want more silly premises? Check out the rest! Errant lady knights, CEO’s, contractors of haunted houses, reluctant bookworm sorceresses and more :) 

[cosmic-elementalist]

0. The Fool

The Spirit of Ether

Creative Light

The root of Moral Responsability is Restriction, which is the Word of Sin. To regain Innocence is to regain Eden.

We must cast out Fear by Love; seeing that every Act is an orgasm. Love is the law; thus every act must be Righteousness and Truth. By certain Meditations this may be understood and established; and this ought to be done so thoroughly that we become unconscious of our Sanctification, for only then is innocence made perfect. This state is a necessary condition to the contemplation of the question "What is my True Will" for until we become innocent, we are certain to try to judge our Will from the outside, whereas True Will should spring, a fountain of Light, from within, and flow unchecked, seething with Love into the Ocean of Life.

Archetypes:

The condition which precedes creativity in all it's forms;

Creation Myths;

Silence;

Innocence as freedom from morality

Contradiction as Unity

Symbols:

0 = +1 -1: male and female; mother and father. Fertilized ovum is sexless. Identification of the Opposites.

Below the Abyss, contradiction is division; but above the Abyss, contradiction is Unity.

The "Green Man" of the Spring festival. "April Fool". The Holy Ghost: personification of the mysterious influence that produces the phenomena of spring.

The fool stirs within all of us the return of spring.

The Dove: bird of Venus (Isis, Mary) and symbol of the Holy Ghost (Phallus in most sublimated form)

When ideas so sublime become vulgarized they fail to exhibit the symbol with lucidity

Formula of the Tetragrammaton: (name of God) represents God producing Something from Nothing. God Himself is referred to as "Ain", which is Hebrew for "Not", or "Nothing".

The Yod represents the emanation of a general, all-encompassing spiritual Substance out of Divine Nothingness.

Second, the first Heh represents the definition of particular qualities within this general Substance. 

Vav represents the separation and recombination of these qualities to form basic compounds and ideal Forms according to which material existence is ultimately manifested.

Manifestation itself is represented by the final Heh. 

Crowley sees this pattern in traditions of succession of the King through his daughter and King by right of conquest. Tales which reflect this pattern: Beauty and the Beast, Cinderella, Enchanted Princess, and Aladdin. (Also biblical representation of the Holy Ghost, Mary the Virgin, The Son, and Mary Magdalena)

He is the All-Wandering Spirit, the Pure and Perfect Knight-Errant, who answers all Enigmas, and opens the closed Portal of the King's Daughter.

Ogdoad: Ancient Egyptian creation myth; system of eight dieties (four represented completeness). Each pair of male and female represents a greater whole unto itself:

Nun and Naunet; primeval waters (Nun, the sometimes hermaphroditic god of the waters, and Naunet the seldomly personified goddess of the sky above it)

Heh and Hauhet; eternity, infinity, unendingness, time (sometimes forces of chaos, possibly representing the currents of the primeval waters)

Kuk and Kuaket (sometimes Gereh and Gerehet); darkness

Amun and Amunet (later replaced by Nia and Niat); air, and that which is unseen, nothingness and invisibility, gods of the void

The gods were depicted with frog's heads, and the goddess' with serpent's.

These elements interacted to create the Isle of Flame

World was born from a cosmic egg, sometimes created by the Ogdoad, sometimes layed by one of the creation/sun gods in guise of a sacred bird. The egg was invisible as there was no light, and from this egg one of various sun gods is born. In some legends it is a lotus flower (represents Yoni), not an egg.

Sebek, the crocodile: creator god who rose from the "Dark Waters", or primeval waters of Nun. Layed eggs on the bank of the Nile (which he made from his sweat) to create the worlds.

Unprovided with the means of perpetuating his species, thus a symbol of the maximum of creative energy.

Considered an aspect of Horus (who turned into a crocodile to retrieve Osiris's body parts from the Nile), and yet it was told Sebek was present with Isis his birth.

Also worshipped as a manifestation of Amun-Re (headdress of Amun or solar disk of Ra). Carried Was septre (power) and Ankh (breath of life)

Hoor-Pa-Kraat: ( har-par-khered ) Horus the Child. Harpocrates is the God of Silence. In his manifestation, he is not One, but Two; he is only One because he is 0. Eheieh, his divine name, which signifies 'I Shall Be' is a way of saying he is not; One leads to nowhere, where it came from. There is as yet no more than the impulse, which is unformulated; only through interpretation does it become the Word (Atu I.) He is a babe, innocent and not yet arrived at puberty. It is dawn - the hint of light about to come, but not by any means that light.

The babe is in an egg of blue (celestial mother). This babe has, in a way, not yet been born. The egg sits upon a lotus (Yoni), which grows upon the Nile (father), which fertilizes Egypt (mother). But the Nile is also home to the crocodile, who threatens Harpocrates. (Dualist symbol of the crocodile).

Etimology: le mat from Italian Matto (madman or fool) or Mat for Maut, Ancient Egyptian vulture goddess.

Fool derived from 'follis' = wind bag.

Silly = empty from German 'selig' = holy.

Maut: Egyptians believed vultures to be nurturing; the word for mother and vulture are both Mwt. It was believed that there were no male griffon vultures, except sometimes Maut.

"Mut, Who Givith Birth, But Was Herself Not Born of Any"

Mut replaced Amun's earlier wife, Amunet (the invisible goddess) during the middle kingdom.

"Mother of the Sun in Whom He Rises"

When Amun merged with Ra, she became "Eye of Ra", daughter of Ra (Mother, Daughter, sometimes Father)

Spiral neck, spiral universe.

Represents the same ideas as Nuith.

Reproduces by intervention of wind.

The "Great Fool" of the Celts (Dalua): Salvation, whatever salvation means, is not to be obtained on any reasonable terms. Reason is damnation; only divine madness offers an issue.

A mad stranger as an angel in disguise.

A saviour is needed, and he must not be an ordinary man.

Preferably disguised in non human form.

"The Rich Fisherman" Percivale: Crowley's interpretation of Parsifal is intended to illustrate the sacred nature of sex. He makes a reference to the Gnosis of the ninth degree of the O.T.O., which he also makes painfully clear is a secret to those not initiated.

To redeem the whole situation, to destroy death, he has only to plunge the Lance into the Holy Grail; he redeems not only Kundry, but himself.

In Liber DCCXI Crowley writes: It may be undertaken for the direct object of continuing the race. It may be undertaken in obedience to real passion; for passion is inspired by a force of divine strength and beauty without the will of the individual, often even against it. It is the "idle" use, or rather abuse, of these forces which constitutes their profanation.

Zeus Arrhenothelus: Images of this god recure in alchemy. It is hardly possible to describe this lucidly; the idea pertains to a faculty of mind which is "above the abyss"; all two-headed eagles with symbols clustered over them indicate this idea. The original sense seems to be that the original God is both male and female.

Dionysus Zagreus. Bacchus Diphues: In this case it is convenient to treat them as one. Zagreus is the horned god, torn to pieces by the Titans. His father Zeus, and mother Demeter, made him fruit of the union of heaven and earth, and identifies him with Vau of the Tetragrammaton. Bacchus Diphues, characteristic of ecstatic worship, wine, surrounded by companions insane with enthusiasm. Born of the union between Semele and Zeus in the form of a lightning strike which destroyed the mortal woman. The boy was saved, and kept in Zeus' thigh (phallus) until puberty, and Hera drove the boy mad for her husband's infidelity.

He is depicted with a drunken face and languid penis which connects him to the myth of the crocodile.

He is depicted with the tiger leaping at him from behind, and the crocodile with it's mouth open, waiting in front. He is said to have ridden an ass, which connects him with Priapus, who is said to have been his son by Aphrodite.

Over time, worship of Bacchus (partially for being orgiastic) melded with that of the Fool. He came to be represented with a fool's cap, phallic in nature, and clad in motley (as were Jesus, and Joseph before him). This symbolism is not only Mercurial, but Zodiacal.

Hebrew Letter: Aleph (א), Ox, ploughshare. Attributed to the constellation Orion.

It is curious that at the fabled birth of Jesus, the Virgin Mother is represented between an Ox and an ass.

Baphomet: Bull god, or rather Bull-Slaying god, Mithras.

Crowley described Baphomet as a divine androgyne, representative of mystical perfection through a union of opposites.

The early christians were also accused of worshipping an ass or ass-headed god, and this again is connected with the wild ass of the wilderness, the god Set, identified with Saturn and Satan (Atu XV.) He is the South, as Nuit is the North.

The Fool is also an aspect of Pan, but this idea is developed by Atu XV, whose letter is the semi-vowel A'ain, cognate with Aleph.

N: the fish is a symbol of fatherhood, motherhood, of the perpetuation of life generally. The letter N (Nun, N, in Hebrew means fish) is one of the original hieroglyphs standing for this idea, apparently because of the mental reactions excited by the continual repetition of this letter (Atu XIII).

Divinatory Interpretations:

In spiritual matters; idea, thought, spirituality, that which endeavours to transcend earth.

In material matters, it may, if badly dignified, mean folly, eccentricity, or even mania.

The essential of this card is that it represents an original, subtle, sudden impulse or impact, coming from a completely strange quarter.

All such impulses are right, if rightly received; and the good or ill interpretation of the card depends entirely on the right attitude of the Querent

[kerra-holt]

What are some other Star Wars comics would you recommend? Anything with twi'leks would be cool.

Gosh, I wish I had more to offer. I love twi’leks, but they don’t really feature prominently.

So, first off, I can recommend the original Knights of the Old Republic comics, the ones the video game took its name from, featuring Ulic Qel-Droma and the Beast Wars of Onderon. Tott Doneeta is a twi’lek and a major supporting character, and since KOTOR draws a lot form them, they’re somewhat foundational to the entire Old Republic era.

Legacy and Dawn of the Jedi do have a lot of twi’lek characters, but I can’t actually recommend them on account of their unlikable protagonists, unbelievable romances, and artwork that, while technically competent, makes everyone look incredibly grim all the time.

Well, I guess I can recommend parts of Legacy. Generally any issue or story-line that isn’t about Cade Skywalker was interesting, and (possibly because we see less of them) the supporting cast actually do seem to have personalities and redeeming qualities. But none of those story-lines actually feature twi’leks, either, because all three twi’lek characters are directly tied to Cade’s story.

I do know that the Han Solo miniseries is both good and features a pair of twi’lek racers. The focus is squarely on Han, though. I also know the X-wing series, including the comic, has Koyi Komad, a female twi’lek with humanoid ears and headbumps, which is neat, but I’m not as interested in the starfighter side of Star Wars as some are, so I haven’t gotten around to reading it yet, and I can’t verify its quality.

Outside of twi’leks, I can recommend Knight Errant and the more recent Knights of the Old Republic comic. Knights might actually be my favorite Star Wars story, and though the main character is human he is the only human protagonist in the main cast, which is refreshing. Fair warning, though, the series does get weaker after the original storyline is resolved, and the only female main character, Jarael, seems to lose agency as the story shifts to focus on her. Which is unfortunate.

the Lando miniseries is also a really great comic, and if you’re not already reading Dr Aphra, you should be. And the C-3PO one-shot was excellent. Devilworlds is also interesting and I recommend it on that alone.

And then that’s really it as far as comics that I’ve both read and can recommend. I’m working on reading Kanan and Maul Son of Dathomir right now, and I may be able to recommend them when I’m done.

Hopefully these help. And, if we’re lucky, maybe someone’ll chime in with some recommendations of their own!

[kalinara]

Is it too soon to request that Reva appear everywhere in basically every other spin off in the Star Wars universe at this point?

I want her to appear in the Mandalorian and get reunited with her tiny green brother!  (She and Din can bond over trauma and terrible decisions?)

I want her to appear in Ahsoka and...I don’t even know what that one will be about, but I am absolutely on board with Ahsoka allying with or being an adversary to another great female character with emotional ties to Anakin Skywalker.  I am ABSOLUTELY sure that, good or evil, Reva can help shank Thrawn.

She’s probably too young to appear in Andor, but Rangers of the New Republic and Skeleton Crew seem workable.  She can pull a Din Djarin and steal an episode to run amuck.

Have her appear everywhere!  It’d be awesome.

(Disclaimer: I haven’t seen the finale yet, so I am not 100% sure she’s made it out alive, but I am HOPING REALLY HARD.)

[mechagalaxy]

Knight of the Woeful Countenance

 They did not think themselves knights, the mecha-jockies of this world.  They did not learn the horse, the sword, the bow and the lance before they learned to merge with the walking death machines, the screaming madness of the artificial intelligence that powered the great mecha, incomplete and insane without a human mind to complete and anchor them.  How could they teach the thinking machines to be join them into a whole more than the sum of their terribly fallible parts, if they did not learn the truths of chivalry, of the lessons of horse and lance, the terrible truths of the sword and of service.  You should face death over the length of your own weapons, feel the shock of its violation of the armour and flesh of the foe, see the light go out of their eyes, feel the blood splash on your face, before you learned to push a button, and deal death at a cold remove.  To learn the old way kept you human and taught you that striving to be more was required.  The new way kept insulated from what you did, and tempted you to be ever less human, less responsible for what the war machine under your power did at your bidding. The laughed at his Redeemer.  The great white mecha bore a heavy shield upon its left arm.  A triumph of engineering from his own universe.  Built into the great ceramite blend armour with sensors and power capacitors to coordinate the operation of the massive technological shielding emitters.  Powerful disruptive fields provided 300 points of shielding against missiles, and two thirds as much against lasers, as the most sophisticated guidance systems failed in the chaos of the pulsed energy, not only targeting lasers but even weapon grade systems bend and twist in their maelstrom.  Splash and forking damage was greatly reduced as blows not powered directly were directed by a knight with the casual flick of the shield learned at the tilting bar with endless lance and shield drill.  The shield is the symbol of the knight, it bears his arms upon it, the allegiance he serves, the name he bears, and the station of he or she who bears it into battle.  Not a faceless nameless weapon hired for killing by cold faced merchants or cold-blooded princes in games that meant less than a throw of dice or turn at cards in the great game of houses, knights were more than that, or what they did was no more than hired murder.

 The lesson of the lance was what he had forgotten here, lost in all the electronic clutter.  The lance taught you a knight didn’t require a thousand sensors spewing electronic confusion at you, didn’t require predictive algorithms that sought to outthink without living thought what a foe would do between the pull of trigger and the arrival of your blow.  The lance taught you that you needed only a good seat, trust in your steed, submission to the tide of battle; that combination of your motion, your steed, your foe, his shields, his weapons, the hammer of blows to the left and right, death whispering in the air around you like carrion crows seeking the innatentive upon which to alight with the death they carried.  You brought the absolute purity of your submission to the tide of battle, and you paired it with the pure focus on the lance. You did not strive to hold the lance steady, for all was motion and chaos, to fight that and the foe was to lose to both. You submitted to the chaos, rode it as you rode your steed.  When the time was right, when the purity of your purpose and the sweeping tides of battle crested together, you dropped your point to where your soul knew victory lay, and accepted the terrible shock as your lance struck home with the thunder of the blow that lay low whatever foe dared stand against the true knight.

 Turning to the chief technician of the Spirit of Bunny, he addressed her with a formality this universe did not know, or esteem. “My lady, I bid you strip the cockpit modules from Paladin,” for such was named his Redeemer “I require only a firm seat, a foe, and the trust of my steed.  That is all a Knight may know as his own, for all else is a gift of the gods or his lady’s grace.  This is the lesson of the lance, and one I forgot at my peril” Knockers looked at him, Sir Cervantes, jokingly referred to as the Knight of the Woeful Countenance.  There was something in him that did not match battered coveralls, and a close shaved scalp showing his pilot implant and scars of shattered cockpit glass never surgically removed.  He was not so much the product of another world, but an older one. Something sad, noble and tragic, not born for this world, nor happy within it, yet bound to it by duty he could lay down only with death.  The Bunnies attracted so many of those, the ones damned and doomed, with no place save among other outcasts, no home save the hell of a fight that cannot be won, and yet must be fought.

 “It will be done, Sir Knight”  Knockers offered with a curtsey that should have looked ridiculous in oil stained working coveralls.  His return bow was low and flourishing in the slow dignity that showed he found neither humour nor mockery in it. When Sir Cervantes returned, his machines camouflage was stripped away, and Paladin shone like silver.  Upon his shield blazed Sir Cervantes own arms, twin golden stags on a field azure, beneath the bare helm of a Knight Errant.  He slowed to a halt before it when he saw what hung from the massive main battery of his massed Ursa Strike cannon.  The arm shone purest silver, yet the massive muzzles were ringed in black, that all should know this was a battle array and not a parade ground poppet.  That was not what arrested him, no.  Around the forearm hung a banner of finest ballistic cloth.  Woven upon the banner were the interlinked rose and bunny that matched the tattoos on Knocker’s arms.  On his world a Knight was honoured beyond words to have a lady favour him with her colours, to go into battle with his sword arm bound in her colours to see that his lance strike true as his devotion to her.  Eyes misting, he turned, words failing him as he saw Knockers standing beside him, a smaller cloth matching that hanging from his mecha in her hand. “Wilt thou bear my colours upon the field, to carry my honour upon your arm, and my favour within your heart, sir Knight?” She asked in a voice that somehow sounded soft even as it echoed over the sounds of the busy mecha bay, a bay that grew silent as the grave as warriors and techs together paused to see this play out, this thing of another time and world. Falling to two knees before her, one knee to liege lord, two before only the gods and your love, he took her hand in his and kissed it. “Before all the gods, before the Clan, and before my ancestors, do I take up thy favour and bear it right proudly into battle.  Never will my arms be yielded, never will their blow fall upon the innocent, or be sheathed when evil is before me.” Laughing softly, for such poetry had no place in their world, their business.  She tied the bright colours about his right arm, and used her implant to open his cockpit for him to see.  Gone were the high tech trappings, and in their place was a saddle, the leg pedals now configured as stirrups, the full arms reconfigured, one as a shield bracer for the left, one with gauntlet for the right.  

“Eight cockpit modules I took out, and a saddle is what I replaced them with.  Comfy chair modules modified to give you the surest seat a knight could offer.  You will feel your steed as if it was a ton of flesh and blood charger, not a hundred and five tons of niode and ferrite, it will be your hand and will, your spirit and your steed that guides your blows home.  Go forth, Sir Knight, and teach the foe the price of facing the Knight of a Woeful Countenance” As the cockpit closed over him, he felt as one with his machine.  The buffers in the system promised 1.5, 1.6, 2x and 3x damage, all at their own rates. Together they could be devastating beyond measure.  Feeling his mount surge beneath him as they strode forward into the fire of the Death Collectors he rode the chaos of war, as he rode Palladin, his great Redeemer. His shield swept across his face, turning aside a blow of terrible power that lanced through the rank before him. Stepping forward into the storm of his dying comrade he felt his cannons swing down naturally, his targeting scanners screaming at him to correct right onto the Revenant before him, but his lance dropped into position, and he whispered. “For my Lady” The Ursa Strikes roared as they spat supersonic transuranic penetrators like a lance of metallic death.  The Revenant’s computer driven evasion of the targeting sensor lock carried it into the storm of the Ursa Strike.  Watching the lance strike deep into the foe, snapping it half around as penetrations set off the Revenants own capacitors like so many explosives to tear it open from shoulder to hip, before spilling it burning and broken to the ground. So it was, when the true knight fought with his ladies favour.  The lesson of the lance, the purity of the knight.  Only when made one in a higher service could man and steed be more than a weapon, a higher purer and more perfect thing. There was still one Paladin in Mecha Galaxy, and for his Lady the Knight of the Woeful Countenance would go forth.  Let the enemy beware. John T Mainer 28840

[dove-actually]

From all the brash, bristling knights in the Corps, I hadn’t expected Ahni Saladin to be the one to challenge me. She’d always seemed so...cordial. 

Yet here she was standing at my gate, looking in her white Knight-healer tunic like a pearl in a mud pit. I touched the hilt of my sword: “This is a bad idea. I’m your better in a fight.”

Her eyebrows twitched in surprise. A hint of emotion flashed across her composed features, something like mixed irritation and amusement. 

“I’m not here to quarrel, Lady Sarra.” Somehow the amusement echoed in her clear, quiet voice, though her face didn’t show it. “You sent a note to the Healer’s House, requesting assistance.”

I’d done no such thing, but Cookie certainly could have. Still-- “You expect me to believe the Healer House dispatched their lead mage all the way to Oldtown to mend my bruised ankle?” 

Her hazel eyes flashed away, only for a moment, but enough for me to understand. The Citadel healers had sent no one--nor would they, for a knight errant. It was why I’d told Cookie not to bother.

I could bleed in the street like an animal, for all they cared, and our noble, gentle court would daintily step over me huffing about the blood on their shoes. 

Lady Ahni tilted her head, giving me a once-over. “I dispatched myself,” she said. “The Knight-Healer’s prerogative.”

Right. 

“Well, I don’t need help,” I informed her. “Sorry about the wasted trip. Mind the fresh graves on your way out.” 

And, turning on my heels, I hobbled gracefully back into the house and slammed the door in her face. 

More info below the cut! 

A skilled healing mage, Lady Ahni rose through the ranks to become the youngest leader of the Knight Corps’ healer wing. As Knight-Healer, she’s in charge of the Citadel Healer House (and by extension all healers in the land), and works to create a better system for providing care to everyone in the city, and to educate them on the basic rules for staying healthy. 

Lady Ahni is well-regarded at court, and respected both as a mage and a leader; most people tend to see her as a bit aloof or intimidating, but she gets along with everyone -- even knight-protectors, whose tendency to look down on knight-healers irritates her. 

Ahni was an advanced knight trainee when she met Sarra, who had just begun training. The age difference at the time meant they didn’t become close, but she assisted with Sarra’s numerous “accidents” when she could. Ahni was disappointed in Sarra’s choice to turn errant, but she secretly preserved a kind opinion of Sarra, and hoped to one day help her find her way back.

Best qualities: patience, kindness, tolerance, knowledge of medicine and history, organizational skills

Worst qualities: nothing she is perfect. Tendency to shy from true intimacy with others; prone to overthinking rather than taking action

Goal(s): Set up a system to ensure everyone can access a healer if they need to, regardless of social position. Also, now that Sarra’s back, make out with her help her redeem herself. 

Obstacles to her goal: Entrenched social inequality, plus Sarra’s stubbornness and tendency to get herself nearly-murdered every other day. 

Ways to overcome the obstacles: Fight the tendency to overthink and take some decisive actions!

Times she will actually manage to quit overthinking and just kiss Sarra: honestly the way she’s behaving, probably 0. 

Longing looks she will give Sarra: 10000

Amount of overlap between Ahni and a perfect unicorn: 100%

Seriously she is the nicest character I have ever written. I’m surprised someone as nice as her could come out of a growling honeybadger like me.

tag list for Knight Errant:  @fantastical-wonders@crypticsx @idriltelcontar @madmoonink @ardawyn @radley-writes@theevolutionofledarose @amaryllis-wink  @tabbykatwrites @fandom-child-4life @stand-inthe-rain @mvcreates @abalonetea @seadrianwrites Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed :) (esp the latter - your time is valuable & I promise it’s okay if you decide this isn’t your cup of tea)

[legendsofthegffa]

The Old Republic: Annihilation Review

Once more, the galaxy has become embroiled in a war between the Galactic Republic, its Jedi protectors and the Sith Empire. With the Sith leadership in turmoil, the Republic hatches a plan to strike a devastating blow to their adversaries. Can the Republic destroy a Sith superweapon without succumbing to the dark side, or will the defenders of peace and justice face total annihilation? The Cold War which divided the galaxy between the Galactic Republic and the Sith Empire has erupted into open conflict. The Republic military leadership, under veteran war hero Jace Malcom, hatches a plan to destroy the Ascendant Spear, a dreadnaught commanded by the cyborg Darth Karrid. Malcom dispatches his estranged son and Republic agent Theron Shan and Jedi Master Gnost-Dural to steal a Sith encryption device to set a trap for the dangerous ship. While they succeed, they discover that Malcom intends to sacrifice Republic citizens at Duro as part of their trap. Theron and Gnost-Dural manage to convince Malcom to alter his plan and sabotage the ship from within, killing Darth Karrid, destroying the Spear and dealing a crippling blow to the Empire. This story really brings the Old Republic storyline home: we discover that the war has been waged off and on for forty years since the Sith reappeared. Jace Malcom and Grand Master Satele Shan, who fought in the early days of the war, fell in love, had a son and drifted apart. The Sith Emperor, an abomination of dark side power, has been defeated, as well as Darth Malgus, who supervised the destruction of the Jedi Temple during the fall of Coruscant. While there are still other stories that take place after this one (the return of Reven, the emergence of the Eternal Empire), this is the finale of the Old Republic book series. When I discovered that Jace and Satele had not only hooked up, but produced a non-Force-sensitive son, my jaw dropped. After seeing these two badasses in the game trailers, the notion that they got together was surprising but welcome. Unfortunately, the two drifted apart due to the war: Satele believed that Jace was becoming consumed with revenge, and she couldn’t risk her pregnancy affecting her place in the war, necessitating her to give her son to her own Master to be raised. Theron’s tentative reconciliation with his parents is a powerful and enjoyable part of the novel. This novel also gives Master Gnost-Durel, the historian from the Old Republic Timeline videos, a chance to shine. Darth Karrid, the cyborg commander of the Ascendant Spear, was his former Padawan, who was charged with infiltrating the Sith to find their weaknesses. Unfortunately, like all who try to conquer the dark side from within, she was overwhelmed by the power available to her and turned her back on the Jedi and Republic. While Gnost-Durel doesn’t personally slay his wayward apprentice, he is instrumental in completing the mission. He also has good banter with Theron, who is unwelcoming of Jedi sermons, but finds the Kel-Dor master to be wise, without being pushy. This is the first Old Republic novel not to have a Jedi team-up with a disgraced Republic soldier. Theron is an unorthodox agent with a number of black marks on his record, but with a reputation for getting things done, as well as having a strong moral compass (technically, he isn’t a soldier either, but rather a intelligence operative, but he still battles Sith soldiers). The previous characters had both fallen from grace in the military, only for a mission with a Jedi to serve as a means of redeeming themselves. While I do wish this theme could have carried through, the story is still enjoyable and the relationship between Theron and Gnost-Durel is entertaining and very reminiscent of the previous Jedi/non-Jedi pairs. The Old Republic: Annihilation is satisfying conclusion to the Old Republic novels. I’m very glad that we got to see all three eras of the war, and this novel ends on a triumphant note for the heroes. While we don’t get to see the true end of the war, we do at least get to see a number of heroes (some familiar, some new) come together to overcome hatred and do the right thing. It’s hard for me to pin down which novel is my favorite, but Annihilation delivers a final fulfilling story that I’d be happy to revisit in the future. Next time, we jump ahead two thousand years to the New Sith Wars era in Knight Errant. Connections to the GFFA Jace Malcom and Satele Shan both stared in the “Hope” trailer, which also featured Darth Malgus. This novel takes place after the class stories in The Old Republic. As I said above, Gnost-Durel is the Jedi historian from the Timeline series. Final Score: 9/10

[templarhalo]

Endryd Haar: The Riven Hound Chapter 4

Endryd Harr hated dreaming.

Sometimes his dreams were enjoyable, the early days of the Great Crusade, before Angron, before the Galaxy caught fire and he blackened his armor.

But most of the time his dreams were nightmares.  Memories he could never forget.   The first time he laid eyes on his gene-father.   Him and his Fangs, lost in the void beyond the edge of the Imperium, abandoned by an uncaring sire.   The first time he killed one of his traitorous kinsmen, when he still wore the bloodstained white and blue of the World Eaters.  

This dream was one he had been in before.  A black void filled with nothing but corpses, human and Astartes.alike.  .

A red creature, a species of xenos he didn’t recognize sat on a throne of skulls.  A black axe was propped up  next to the throne.

He offered him a skull.

“What do you want me to do with that xenos?” he asked.

The creature laughed and put the skull back into its throne.

It offered another one to him, and Endryd somehow knew that skull was  his gene-father’s.  

“No thanks, I’ll take his skull myself.”  Haar replied.

This was the fourth told time he had told the creature that.

The creature studied Haar.

Haar hated making eye contact with this creature.  The creature's eyes were black, it made him feel like he was staring down a bull about to charge him,

“I’m leaving now.” Haar said.

He awoke with a snarl.   Every dream he awoke from made him feel like he had just recovered from being lost to the Nails that no longer pulsed inside his skull.  He rose from his cot and walked over to his Power Armor.  He might as well wreck some combat servitors and work  the anger out.

The combat servitor collapsed with  a screech  and a shower of sparks.   Vesta panted, she had sparred against combat servitors before, but the ones used by the Legiones Astartes,  even on  the lowest difficult were quite the challenge.

A challenge Vesta enjoyed.  The Blade of the Hearth was a remarkable weapon.   Unlike most Power Weapons Vesta had seen, the Blade of the Hearth’s power field was not blue crackling lightning that wreathed it’s leaf shaped blade,but a soft orange glow that occasionally sparked.     Vesta shifted her shoulders, she had never worn Power Armor before, but she quickly adjusted.   As for her bladework, she had experimented with what kind of melee weapon would suit her since she was 10.   She lacked her brother’s natural talent with  the long arming sword, but a shorter blade like the Albian Power Gladius suited her more practical and pragmatic style.  

She turned and saw  Haar in his Power Armor.  “I guess I’m not the only one who can’t sleep.” She greeted. “You’re right.” Haar replied.   “Nightmares?” She asked.   “Yes.” Haar said.  Vesta sat on  a bench sized for a Space Marine and watched as Haar dismantled some of the combat servitor’s Vesta hadn’t destroyed with his Power Fist.   This continued  for about five minutes, and then Haar paused, and ordered the remaining combat servitors to  be shut down.   He than sat down next to Vesta.  

“So how’ve you been?” Haar asked,  “That’s how you start a conversation?” Vesta said with  a smile.   “Most of the time.” Haar said.  Vesta sensed that he was making a sincere effort to be kind, and trying to take his mind off of something.  “I’m doing fine.  I saw the Imperial Palace and met the Emperor’s own Equerry.  That was a pretty good birthday present.  I’ve gotten better with my bladework, and I’m alive, so  that’s good.”   “For Blackshields, being alive is always good.”  Haar said. He paused, and then his eyes lit up.  “I was unaware it was your birthday, why didn’t you say anything?”   Haar saw a flash of emotional pain across the young woman’s face.  “I didn’t want to  bother you, and like  I said, I saw the Imperial Palace, I met the Emperor’s Equerry, and I have some shiny new wargear, that’s good enough for me.”

Silence passed between them

“Endryd, how exactly did you wind up working directly for the Emperor’s Equerry?”

“When my command and I were betrayed by our brothers, I swore a death oath to  atone for my Legion’s crimes.  I blackened my armor and hunted my former kinsman.  After this one boarding action  near Segmentum Solar, we ran in Malcador himself.  He offered me a position as one of his Knights-Errant.”

“What did you tell him?” Vesta asked.

“I told him to take his offer and shove it up his pruny old ass. If I was going to die, I was going to  do it on my own terms for the brothers and sisters who died at the hands of those they once fought alongside..  Not for the Emperor who let a madman who should have been mercy-killed lead my Legion.  Not for an Imperium that saw us as killing machines, and certainly not for Malcador Fracking Sigillite.  The only use I have for a bureaucrat like Malcador is as an improvised melee weapon.  I would have wrung the old bastard by his skinny neck for his arrogant attitude, Regent of Terra or not.   But Lady Arlette herself was there and decided to compromise.   The Sigillite would find a good suicide mission and point us in the direction, and she would handle the rest.”

Vesta laughed, “ My father had similar  sentiments about politicians, As did my grandfather. That’s how he want from a farmer to an Imperial Governor when the Emperor and the Legiones Astartes came.  But why blacken your armor when you could wear your old Legion colors before your legion was reunited with your primarch?”

“Because the Twelfth Legion will go down in history as traitors and butchers, madman who lusted for blood and skulls.  Because the second I laid my eyes on our Primarch  the second our own Apothecaries started hammering the Nails in  our skulls, the second a legionnaire killed one of his squadmates when he lost himself to those damn  things, the Twelfth Legion was dead.  Boian may think otherwise, but our Legion will never be redeemed.”

Vesta let out a  thoughtful hum.

“So what will you do after?”

“After what?” Haar asked.

“After Horus and his ilk are defeated?” Aella asked.

“I don’t plan on surviving this war Vesta.  What could I do besides fight?  Plow a field? Bake a cake?”

“Come live on Byzas Longa,   take up knitting or a hobby besides ripping out spinal cords and kneecapping people.”

Haar chuckled.

“And what will you do when Horus hangs from the Traitor’s Gibbet?”

“ Before I lost my family, I had plenty of options. My father said if I proved myself, I could secure a commission in the Solar Auxilla, or a Warrant of Trade if I didn’t want to  succeed him.  But now that they’re gone, the only option I have left is to  fight until every last one of Horus’  bastards are dead .  Then I’m going home and I'm taking my world back.  You saw all the refugees on Terra, when this war is over plenty of people will need homes. “

“If it makes you feel any better, that Apothecary  is enjoying to company of the Silent Sisterhood  and the World Eaters who slaughtered your people are all dead.”

“It does. It’s good to know that there’s some justice in the galaxy gone mad.”  Vesta said softly.

Haar didn’t reply.   

A calm silence filled the air.   A minute or two passed, and then the heiress of a dead world  bid him good night,

Haar stayed there for a while, his mind not quite shutting down and resting, but not quite awake.

He surveyed the destroyed servitors and returned to his own quarters.

Sleep eluded him like an Alpha legionnaire for a while, but it found him an hour later.

He did not suffer anymore nightmares that night.  The days ahead would not give him time to  sleep.