#right up there with diminutive and childlike

[kaurwreck]

hi! i really want to tell you that i love love love your blog. i feel so much joy when i see you've made a long post with your thoughts. i admire the way you engage with things you enjoy! you've genuinely inspired me to get back into reading. i've been struggling with migraines and after some time i started associating reading with suffering. i stumbled upon your blog because of bsd, and i got so fascinated with the way you communicate with the source material that i had a childlike realization: i want to have that too! and i picked up akutagawa, and i'm enjoying myself so much. i'm never not thinking about the post where you said that the trick to being clever is to stop obsessing over being right. life-changing, really. sending you so so so much love! p.s. as a russian-speaker it's a delight reading your thoughts on dostoevsky, especially seeing you use diminutives, for some reason. in russian slang we sometimes say, "ты так чувствуешь!" ("you are really feeling!") meaning "you really get it on an emotional level!" and that's what i think every time i read your thoughts on dostoevsky.

I hesitated to answer this ask because I wanted to covet it and hoard it and keep it tucked away where I could revisit it to my greedy heart's content without anyone noticing, but I'd rather you know that this ask was so delightful to receive and absolutely melted me in the best way, so I'm publishing it even though that means submitting to the mortifying ordeal of creating a tag so that I can more easily return to your kind words, and perhaps other, similar asks and posts that are emotional balms.

Also, I am so sorry, I'm sleep-deprived and I was so excited and charmed and delighted by your ask that I lost my mind and wrote you a veritable novel in response. Thus, I've added a readmore and headings (because WOW, I went on tangents, sorry!)

Returning to Reading

I'm so sorry you have migraines; I don't get them often, but I do occasionally get them, and it's some of the worst, least tolerable pain I've ever experienced. So, whatever it's worth, you have my sympathy and admiration, especially since returning to reading when you experience frequent migraines implicates some common triggers. (Never mind how annoying I know it is when you're in too much pain to read as a distraction either.) But I'm delighted you're reframing your relationship with reading separate from suffering, and that you're enjoying the process! I'm also returning to reading, and while I don't have the same challenges, I am also engaging in a process of relearning and recontextualizing reading for myself, so I'm always here to chat about it.

I'm especially thrilled that you picked up Akutagawa; Akutagawa is the author who also coaxed me back into reading literature (as opposed to comics or webnovels). He might still be my favorite even now that I've read several, several other modern Japanese authors.

Akutagawa Adoration Hours

[I apologize; I hyperfocused and wrote an entire multi-paragraph essay on how much I love Akutagawa below... I promise I come back to your ask!]

Akutagawa's literary voice is just so vivid, sharp, and intentional. He compels you to cling to the weight of each word with rich, clever language that cuts to the hearts of matters frankly, bluntly, and sometimes scathingly. But even when his authorial voice is ostensibly irreverent or lacquered with detachment, he cradles his most foolish characters, bundling them with naked affection for their sincerity, vulnerability, and childish conviction. They embody his unadulterated faith, and he reserves for them in the implication the same salvation he's convinced he's too sullied by shame, terror, and self-consciousness to deserve. Akutagawa does not squander the gravity of your attention, and even in brief vignettes in which humans become lice or have had their personhood severed from them by the untenable yet escalating demands of their responsibilities to others, there's humanity in his horror and absurdity, and closure in his ambiguity. I rarely feel as if there's certainty in Akutagawa's narratives, but neither do I feel as if nothing that occurred mattered.

Even when nothing has objectively changed for the characters, Akutagawa sources meaning from the subjective perceptions of the characters, the impact of which is rarely diminished by the objective or observable. Thus, the bleakness, horror, and absurdity of the characters' circumstances are sometimes interminable, but they shelter Akutagawa's fondness and latent certainty that existential meaning is inherent to humanity because of, rather than despite, our fragility, foolishness, and callous disregard for measurable truth.

His contemporaries criticized him for the detachment and perceived stagnancy lent by his polish and technical brilliance, but I've never read any of his stories and not felt an earnestness that persists entirely apart from the explicit narrative, as if someone is reading over my shoulder and murmuring "isn't she brave?" whenever a character is so simple in their sincerity that they become vulnerable to humiliation and abuse. And that's not detachment; that's Akutagawa relentlessly writing hope, love, and compassion into the creases of his own grotesque fear, and in doing so, filling spaces we perceive as empty in ourselves with the faith and devotion he was so certain he lacked.

You Said Childlike In Passing But Chapter 55 of the Tao Te Ching Rewired My Brain and I Was Lost In the Akutagawa Sauce So...

And it's childlike how, even when characters like O-Gin are debased and humiliated, Akutagawa yearns for their salvation enough to smudge the ink at the edges of his precisely rendered language so the silly, ignorant little fools might transcend the boundaries of the narrative that otherwise ruthlessly scorned and punished them for their guilelessness. His need for innocence is itself indicative of the keen sense of violation that prompts a toddler to indignation when his jejune reliance on fairness is first exploited and then provided as cause for exploitation.

Akutagawa was wise enough to know childlike conclusions are the most profound and self-actualizing insights we can have, but too certain of the inevitability of his suffering and too overly prescribed barbiturates to nurture and cherish his own salvific childishness. So, your realization was brilliant for its childlike wisdom, and I think it's both wonderful and meaningful that you then nurtured that wisdom by pursuing the relationship you wanted with the source material.

Being Right vs. Playful Engagement

I'm also so glad that the post about being clever =/= obsessing over being right was sticky and impactful! It's, quite frankly, immensely less fun and more pressure if you're hinging your enjoyment on whether you're right when engaging with media where "right" is subjective and layered, and where you're engaging with a foreign cultural context. I get the impression that centering your engagement on making and assessing the accuracy of predictions also lends itself to biases, defensiveness, disappointment, misplaced resentment based on unmet expectations, and incuriosity; at least more so than engaging with the story playfully and sincerely.

I'm also just extremely biased towards bsd and Asagiri's approach to storytelling; I think he's engaging in a challenging and layered approach to storytelling that is wholly unique to him. (At least, based on my own experiences with referential multimedia titles.) I'm so charmed by how Asagiri throws himself into creative challenges and engages in meaningful and remarkably substantive conversations with the source materials, his own portfolio of interlocking narratives, and his audience. I would kill to chat with him about his processes.

Everyone I'd Encountered Who Seemed Parasocially Obsessed With Dostoevsky Was Right

Before I get into this next babble tangent, I want you to know that your kind words and perspective as a Russian-speaker regarding my Dostoevsky thoughts mean SO much to me; I'm very proud if I'm able to do an ounce of justice to the text in my ramblings, and I'm so excited to know the appropriate phrase for what I'm experiencing right now because I am REALLY feeling.

I was admittedly a little nervous about reading his works with only minimal background, and I went into Crime and Punishment without first consulting any published critiques and analyses (which I sometimes do for foreign classics to bridge gaps in context). But, I was eager to start the story, so I decided to just get into it with the understanding I might need to pause for further research if I felt I was missing too much context to engage with the text meaningfully. But, wow, I was immediately consumed. I struggled to put it down for most of it, and I've been staying up too late and sneakily reading at work; things I haven't done since I was in middle school.

While I know I'm missing context, even with the attentive footnotes (and I absolutely will read so many academic papers on it once I finish these last fifty pages), I was pleasantly surprised by how not only engaging his writing and this translation are but also by how familiar with and connected I feel to the characters and circumstances and emotions and dynamics. He has rendered the human experience and specific flavors of People into such compassionate, teasing, sincere, frank, and sobering characters who I feel like I've had entire conversations with.

I love classic lit, but Dostoevsky is sincerely rekindling a joy I haven't felt in years while reading. Also, his frankness and compassion regarding alcoholism and parentified children and trauma and ennui and guilt and the contradictions we grapple with within ourselves and with who we are to different people are giving me a framework for reflecting on swaths of my trauma and childhood that I've struggled to articulate my thoughts and emotions around for years.

I'm so energized and excited about reading his other works, but, wow, I'm going to miss these characters so much.

Accounting For My Crimes Against the Russian Language

I have very little background in Russian, but I'm passingly familiar because in high school (i) I was obsessed with Russian history, particularly related to the USSR and swaths of imperial Russia (I actually taught the lesson on Ivan IV Vasilyevich in my Western Civ class because my teacher was pregnant and exhausted and I knew the material better than she did); and (ii) I studied Russian with a private tutor in my senior year of high school (very lightly; once a week, only for a year, I met with her and two French language teachers from my school who were also interested in Russian for hour-long lessons and to receive homework assignments).

So, while my experience with the language is shallow at best, I've always loved Russian diminutives. I'm obsessed with the sheer amount of information relayed in someone's name. It's incredible. Of the languages I'm familiar with, none have a comparably satisfying gradient range of (i) affection and (ii) disrespect.

That said, I use diminutives for characters I'm particularly fond of, to show affection, and to teasingly disrespect them since I think it's quite overfamiliar for me to take such liberties.

Also, while I try to check after myself to ensure I'm using them correctly, I have only a surface-level understanding of what I'm doing, and some language forum threads are more helpful than others, so I'm very, very sorry if I use any incorrectly, and I encourage you (and any other Russian speakers and learners) to yell at me if you notice I'm misusing someone's name.

So far, my approach has been to check general searches, forums, and Reddit when I've encountered diminutives in Crime and Punishment, and I'll continue to look up every single name variation in the Dostoevsky novels I'm reading, no matter how long it may take me to realize what I've been scouring for isn't a diminutive at all but instead probably (emphasis on "probably," because no one providing English explanations seemed wholly certain) the same name but spoken in the form native to a separate Slavic language than the languages anyone else in the conversation was using, not that it really seemed to matter, since the same characters within the same conversation each used multiple forms of the same, with only one remark on what was most likely the correct form, which everyone ignored/disregarded, including the remarking character. So if you have context on THAT dynamic, I would love to hear about the etiquette and conventions around language forms among the many different languages and dialects in Eastern Europe.

For reference, the diminutives I've been using re: Crime and Punishment and bsd, with more context:

Raskolnikov is "Rodya" unless he's naughty, in which case I call him "Rodka." Unless he's REALLY naughty, then he's Raskolnikov.

Avdotya is Dunya always; I do feel egregious because she commands grace and gravitas, and I respect her SO much. But I love her dearly and am very warm towards her and everything she does, so I call her Dunya as if she were my sister because if she were, I would treat her better than Rodka right now.

Razumikhin is Dima which may be wildly incorrect, both in form and historical context; the only reason I haven't confirmed it yet is because I had an OC named Dmitri in high school that I was very fond of and referred to affectionately as Dima, and I'm similarly fond of Razumikhin, so I've delayed confirming and correcting myself here, although that's very Rodka-naughty of me, I know.

Fedya is always bsd!Fyodor, and only when he has really wide eyes and is being adorable bunny Fedya. He is Fyodor when he is being nasty or squinting. I call the author by either his last or full name, although I'm sure I've carelessly called him Fyodor before too. I try to maintain some consistency in distinguishing who I'm referencing between the characters and their namesakes.

Tl;dr: I love Russian diminutives. The only other time I've come close to feeling the same amount of immense delight over names-as-love-and-violence is when my work mentor, who is Chinese, was providing me with her preferred titles (laoban ["old boss," old meaning "venerable" rather than indicating age], jiejie ["big sister"]), and my other coworker chimed in to say, "Wouldn't you be da-jiejie ["first/eldest big sister"], since you're the oldest?" If looks could kill.

[geraldtarrant]

Winter Solstice [1,208 words]

Fandom: Coldfire Trilogy - C. S. Friedman Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Almea Tarrant/Gerald Tarrant Additional Tags: Winter Solstice, Bittersweet, Yuletide, Yuletide Treat

Written for @theobscurepotato as a Yuletide 2022 treat. Full fic below, also on Ao3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/43638243

The white doors of Merentha Castle’s great room had been left ajar.

Gerald Tarrant placed a hand on the wood, trembling. Light spilled out the narrow opening alongside children’s voices, silver bright, its pull as strong as a waterfall. He had no place here, nor any right to take comfort in it. Yet with a deep sigh he pushed the carved panels open, and in he walked.

The domed skylight rose above him, and the slanted evening light shimmered down over splendid garlands decked in tinsel and glass. He braced himself for the sight ahead as he approached, knowing already what he’d find: the great Winter Solstice tree—narrow at its base as Ernan tradition dictated, to accommodate presents; its middle lush with leaves and ornaments that shone gold in the fireplace’s warm glow. But he knew that no amount of preparation could shield his soul against that breathtaking moment when he first saw her; not this year, or in any of the years he’d known her.

She was stars and sunshine in her winter holiday gown. Its flowing silk hem hid her feet so that, having climbed up onto a ladder to place the sparkling tip atop the tree, she appeared suspended on air, ethereal like a spirit from the heavens. 

“It’s going to fall on Eric!” 

Tory, the diminutive dark-haired source of the dire warning, was gesturing wildly while jumping up and down to punctuate his words. It was incredible that someone so small could produce that volume of sound, Gerald Tarrant mused, and he felt his face melt helplessly into a smile.

“It is fine where it is,” Eric announced calmly, then lifted his chin proudly, his silver gaze far too perceptive for one so young. “What do you think, Dad?”

He opened his mouth to speak, and then she turned and saw him, and all his thoughts quieted as if sunk under the waters of the deepest sea. “Gerald,” she whispered, beaming, and God of Earth, she was so beautiful he thought his heart would shatter.

“It’s perfect,” he whispered, blinking to keep his sight from blurring. 

All of a sudden she put a hand on her rounded belly, gasping, and he stepped forward in unthinking worry. “I wish you’d let me help, in your condition,” he said, “if you must insist on giving the servants this night off.” Because of course she had done so, as she always did, so that they could spend this time with their own families. 

“I’ve been through this twice before, Gerald, if you have forgotten,” she chided, though her eyes were bright with her smile. “Have some faith.”

“At least choose a more sensible gown next time.” He placed a hand on the ladder to steady it, eyeing the long tangled cloth around her feet with irrational, instinctive concern.

“You love this gown.”

“Not if it puts you at risk, my love.” That was Eric, in a haughty voice that was a perfect imitation of his father’s, apart from its childlike pitch. Almea’s laughter rang out like chiming bells, followed by Toby’s far less dignified but enthusiastic screams.

“Do more ‘Serious Dad,’ Eric!” Toby demanded—he had always been direct rather than diplomatic—and Gerald Tarrant had to give up any pretense at keeping a straight face as his eldest son pulled himself up to his full six-year-old height and solemnly intoned: “Ignorance is, and has always been, the source of humanity’s greatest fears. Therefore I will now take it upon myself to fight this evil—by finding out what’s in this present!” he finished abruptly, then ducked under the tree with surprising speed, snatched up a wrapped box, and sprinted away with it.

“Wait!” Toby yelled, already running after his brother. “I want to see!” 

And just like that, he was alone with her. He gazed up into her face, marveling at the luxury, drinking his fill of the sight in the way a rescued man marooned at sea gulped his first drink of water. He didn’t quite mean to offer his embrace, but somehow he must have stretched out his arms for her, and she put her own arms sweetly around his neck and let him help her down. She wore only her thin gown and chemise, and her delicate form molded itself softly against his chest, stirring desires he’d thought forgotten.

Gently he put his arms on her shoulders, and made himself take a step back, though even the slight distance felt like a world apart.

“Stay with me,” she said, as he pushed back a strand of silky red hair behind her ear. “Spend the holiday with us. Like you used to, back in the good days.”

“In the good days,” he echoed, long fingers sweeping against her face absently, so very softly. “If only.”

“Why won’t you stay?” Her pleading voice was trembling, though she tried to hide it.

“Because,” he whispered through the tears in his throat, “I know how our story goes, Almea. And it is not a happy one.”

She frowned, puzzled, but when she looked up at him there was hope in her eyes, so much hope. “And so?” she asked him. “Give it a different ending. Isn’t that what you’ve been doing all your life? Rewriting our history, against all odds to the contrary.” He shook his head helplessly. God, don’t let me cry, he mouthed silently, and the prayer tasted strange and bitter on his tongue. “Gerald,” his wife said gently; infinitely loving, all too trusting as always. “I know you can do it. I’ve always known it. You can do anything you set your mind to.”

“Not this one thing,” he whispered, touching his forehead against hers, and he felt a single tear escape from his eyes. He let it run its staining trail down to his lips, for her, heedless of who might see. “I wish I could.”

He kissed her, then. Her lips were pure as cool snow, a single moment’s peace in a world of chaos and pain, and that was what gave him the strength, just barely, to do what he knew he must. 

Keeping the deadly blade out of her sight, he drew his sword with slow care. Then, swiftly and ruthlessly, he let the blazing key to a Banishing flare up in his mind's eye, and watched as the great hall vanished like windswept ashes, along with its light, and its tree, and at the very last Almea, who wasn’t really waiting for him, and wouldn’t ever again.

The sea was dark, with no Earth Fae in sight, and the roar of the waves was drowned out by the inhuman screeching of the constructs that surrounded the Desert Queen like so many hungry leeches. The only illumination came from the icy blue of his own Working, but its glow was enough to keep him anchored as he stared ahead impassively, cold walls in place as his soul thrashed within. 

He could feel Vryce’s inquisitive gaze upon him. Could almost read, through their link, how eager he would have been for Tarrant to trust him with some sort of soul-stripping disclosure. 

As if the priest would understand, or spare him a single drop of unearned compassion. 

As if anyone would. 

[wifiwuxians]

as always i kinda overdo it a little on xy’s birthday so i figured i’d give him a little tenderness in 3 of my AUs heheh 

in the corpse!yang AU, his caretaker has developed a soft spot for him. he can’t move his facial muscles much, but he’s very happy! (i trust you guys to keep this non shippy please, lol,,,)

in the revival AU, since they’re endgame, well. have a little kissy. (this one is actually intended as romantic unlike the one above fhjf) 

and in the songxiao sect AU, well. baby get squish.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY XUE YANG

[id: image 1, a pink-tinted sketchy drawing of song lan and fierce corpse!xue yang. song lan is carefully holding xue yang to his side and planting a small, innocent kiss to the top of his head. their travels together have endeared him to what remains of the man who once ruined his life, since he is more childlike and inoffensive and only seeks to be cared for. xue yang, with his limited mobility, is smiling and squinting his right eye happily, his lone arm draped over the one holding him. on song lan’s shoulder, a small xiao xingchen and a-qing are draped, stacked one over the other. both are happily observing the scene.

image 2, a more hot pink-tinted sketchy drawing of xue yang and wen chao, who is donning green robes as he often does in the AU this image belongs to. he is somewhat bashfully kissing xue yang’s cheek and wishing him a happy birthday, and his hair is fashioned in a high ponytail. his hands are resting low on xue yang, who is grinning happily and has his arms wrapped around him. not used to displays of affection, he is laughing. skewers of tanghulu create something resembling a background behind them.

image 3, a humorous chibi of xiao xingchen hugging a child xue yang to his cheek, gleefully proclaiming ‘it’s yangyang’s birthday!’ an elated xue yang, with giant fish eyes, replies ‘meeee’. below, a diminutive a-qing is reaching up to him and saying ‘gege.....’, and song lan watches the scene in surprise from a distance as he returns with a gift. they are all surrounded in hearts /end id]

[alirhi]

chapter 25 FINALLY yeesh...

Title: Winter's Frost Chapter: 25/? Fandom: MCU Rating: R to be on the safe side Pairing: Loki/Bucky Summary: Loki never told anyone the real reason he became so obsessed with Midgard. Much better to let them think he wanted to hurt his brother than draw their attention to the one thing in the universe that makes the God of Mischief truly vulnerable. Notes: I kinda really hate that they gender-swapped Laufey in the MCU, so now I have to do the same with Farbauti. The main reason I have a problem with this is Loki's name – it was one of the very distinctive things about him. In a rigidly patriarchal society, Loki's surname is matrilineal. I don't know if Marvel misunderstood or changed it on purpose, but they basically erased a detail that makes Loki a feminist icon. Also, I'm drawing from actual Norse mythology again, a little.

"Whoa."

"Welcome home, Your Highness."

Hiding a smile at his lover's childlike wonder, Loki nodded cordially to Heimdall. "How have things been here?"

The Guardian of the Bifrost chuckled, watching Bucky wander slowly about the room. "Tense, as I'm sure you can imagine. Your wife and mother ask after you daily."

"And what do you tell them?"

"The bridge is rainbow!" Bucky was leaning against the far wall now, peeking out at the world beyond the open door. "It's actually rainbow! And super shiny... Is it as slick as it looks? That doesn't seem safe."

"He's adorable," Heimdall murmured, making Loki cough to mask his laughter. Clearing his throat, he returned to the topic at hand and told the Prince, "I tell them that you're well, and that your brother is aiding you in clearing your name so that you may return home."

Loki snorted. "Oh, is that what Thor is doing? When I left, he was playing cards with Stark, Banner, and Miss Potts."

"If it makes you feel any better, he's losing."

"It does, actually," he admitted with a grin. "A bit."

"This is Jotunheim?" Eyes hilariously wide and never settling on one thing for more than a second, Bucky approached them. "It's not as cold as I expected."

Loki chuckled and held his arm out, pleased when his beloved immediately cuddled up to his side. "No, darling. This is Asgard."

"Asgard?! I thought-"

"We can't linger," he explained, somewhat surprised by the melancholy ache in his heart at the thought. "Heimdall has been kind enough to agree to open the Bifrost to us; I didn't want to risk harming you by teleporting between worlds after how you reacted to being transported between continents on your own world."

"I appreciate that." Bucky glanced around again, the awe and curiosity in his big blue eyes reminding Loki vividly of their daughter. Eira truly did take after her father. "That's a lot of gold. Is that actual gold, or just paint?"

The Aesir and Jotun both opted not to answer him. While Loki fought not to laugh, Heimdall reached for the Bifrost sword and told him, "Be careful, Your Highness. This isn't a fight you can win with deception."

He sighed. "Wait a moment." While the Guardian smiled and dropped his hands, Loki stepped away from Bucky and turned to face him. "I'd better show you now so you aren't shocked when we arrive."

"Show me what, Doll?" The words were barely out of his mouth before it dropped open as he watched Loki's disguise fade away. Loki tensed, seeing the look of stunned disbelief on his lover's handsome face, but Bucky quickly came back to himself and laid his fears of rejection to rest. "How in the Hell did you just get more beautiful? Are those tattoos? Or... No, they're markings. Were you born with those? They're gorgeous!"

"Y-yes." He cleared his throat, glancing helplessly at Heimdall's fond, patient smile before returning his attention to his beloved. Immediate, enthusiastic acceptance was... not exactly the response he'd been expecting. "Yes, I suppose I was born with them."

Grinning, Bucky closed the gap between them and tugged Loki into his arms. "You look good. Ready to get this over with?"

With a soft, amazed chuckle, Loki hugged his love and kissed his scruffy cheek. "You are a wonder. And yes, let's get on with it. Heimdall?"

"Be well, my Prince." As he twisted the blade and opened the bridge again, Heimdall assured him with a smile, "I'll assure your wife that she's in your thoughts, and that she will see you again soon."

"It's nice that someone there is on your side-fuck it's cold!" Bucky cringed, rubbing his hands together as his lover snorted and conjured him some warmer gloves and another jacket. "After this, we take Eira to the Caribbean, yes?"

Laughing outright at that, Loki conjured him a hat, as well. "We'll see. Are you going to be alright?"

"I'll live." He held up his left hand, looking a bit perplexed. "You know this one doesn't feel anything, right?"

The Trickster shrugged, already turning and heading away from the Bifrost site. "Take the glove off, if you wish. Honestly, I'd forgotten it was metal."

"How? I could use it as a disco ball!"

"Well, if it isn't the little Princess."

Loki stopped, shifted to female form, and smirked. "Well, some of the time." Standing straight and doing her best to ignore the unnerving height difference, she stared the guard down. "I'm here for an audience with your Queen."

"Why do I doubt that she's expecting you?"

He was staring openly at her, taking in the fur-lined Asgardian armor, the diminutive stature, the blue skin marked with swirling designs... She allowed it; after all, she'd dropped the illusion that she was Aesir on purpose, to get their attention. Small or not, under Odin's magic and then her own, she was Jotun. She belonged in this frozen wasteland about as much as she belonged in Asgard.

For the moment, she chose to ignore what a low bar that was.

"I am Loki," she reminded him as she switched back to male form. He was perfectly comfortable either way, but as a man he was a little bit taller; still tiny for a Frost Giant, but he'd take what he could get. "Son of Laufey and rightful King of Jotunheim."

The guard smirked. "King Helblindi will be quite surprised to hear that."

Loki stalled out for a moment, stunned. He'd forgotten that he actually had biological brothers, not just a very annoying adoptive one. No wonder he'd been cast aside; his father had other sons to replace the worthless runt.

He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and turned. Bucky's wide blue eyes were locked on the guard, who the flustered Prince had just belatedly recognized as his other brother, Býleistr. Visibly steeling himself for a confrontation, Bucky sucked in a deep breath and addressed their amused audience.

"Prince Loki is used to having to boast and take an offensive position to be heard. I'm sure you're familiar with Odin and his unending pomposity?" Grinning when Býleistr chuckled, he continued sweetly, "Obviously, your people are much more refined; couldn't you look past his boorish Asgardian upbringing and see that he only wants to talk to his family?"

Laughing red eyes drifted from Bucky to Loki, and Býleistr nodded. "I like this one, little brother. Very diplomatic, for a Midgardian. Come. I'm sure Mother would like to see you."

As he turned and walked away, Loki paused to gape at his lover. Bucky was lightly bouncing on his toes, though Loki wasn't sure if it was from pride or cold. Just in case, he conjured him a warmer coat and a scarf. "You truly are a wonder, James!"

"Hey, I listen when you talk!" he teased, prodding him lightly until they were both moving, hurrying after Býleistr. "I know what a total asshole Odin is. Seemed a safe bet that the people he's been oppressing for centuries would agree that he sucks."

Loki chuckled, draping an arm over the other man's broad shoulders. "I did tell you that you're brilliant. I love being proven right."

___________________________________________________ Next Masterlist

[pywackett-barchetta]

No Signal

[An anonymous commission for a Touhou size story. It’s been forever and a day since I’ve done one of these, but I figured I’d take up the opportunity! tldr; Reimu flattens a cell tower because sure.]

_____________ 

"I mean… I guess it is kind of an eyesore." The ordinary magician shrugged, leaning back and snapping the edge off of another rice cracker between her teeth as she stared off from the shrine.

"Well, yeah… but more importantly, it's suspicious!" The Hakurei shrine maiden leapt to her feet, sweeping an arm out and pointing her gohei defiantly toward the massive metallic structure in the distance. It stood taller than even Gensokyo's most gargantuan oni (at least on most days), its tallest dolls (admittedly, a much higher bar than one would think, thanks to the concerted efforts of one particular dollmaker), and whatever that contraption the Moriya Shrine cooked up that one time was. The floorboards creaked as she frustratedly strode past the miniature bug cage 'house' set out on the floor, its diminutive denizen flinging the door open and startling back at the comparatively colossal FWUMP of a titanic tabi sock thundering down in front of her home.

"Hey, watch it! I thought we agreed my house was going back up on the table!" The purple-haired kobito shouted up, a surprisingly loud little force, but ignored with a shrug nonetheless as the 'massive' miko poured some more tea.

"So, what's got you all keyed up about it?" Marisa casually chimed in. "Yeah, it's a big weird tower, and around here, those tend to summon ancient evils or lightning or be some sort of other incident thing, so I get it. But this is a, uh… 'cell tower', right? Not gonna lie, I kinda checked out a few minutes into Sanae's explanation, but it's sorta like the yin-yang orb for you, right?"

Reimu let a moment pass in contemplation as she sat back at the shrine's edge in the sunlight, taking a sip of her tea. "Yeah, she was saying something about macrocells and picocells and Gees, but… It's a big obvious tower! That's pretty much always bad, especially when they're involved!"

"Lemme guess, even if they're serious, because it's the Moriya Shrine getting all the credit, it's bad for business~?" The magician snickered.

"I didn't say that! It's just… you see it's an incident waiting to happen, too, right? They're always making everything that much more of a pain!"

"Why don't you just go stomp on it, then? Isn't that a big clumsy giant's answer to everything?" The voice of the little princess pipes up from the floor again, and her face pales as the two 'titans' go silent and turn to look down to her from high above her tiny two-inch-tall frame. "...what? You heard me! You almost flattened me again this morning!"

Marisa chuckled to herself as she watched the gears turning in Reimu's mind. Of course.

'Of course!', thought Reimu. "...hey, that mallet's all charged, right?"

"Yep! Just finished up today, so finally I can grow big again for a while!"

"...can you grow me big instead?"

She startled back at this. "W-what!? Why would I do that!?" THWOOM, THWOOM, the miko's palms slam down on either side of her, enormous eyes staring down, like a wild animal cornering their prey… but with a glimmer of excitement. No, not just a glimmer; she seemed absolutely thrilled, with childlike glee.

"You've done it before, right? Just make me big again! I'll put your house wherever you want or whatever, just… make me a giant!"

Already thoroughly towered over, the massive magician didn't help matters for Shinmyoumaru by leaning in with a chuckle. "I don't think you've got much choice here."

_____________

"Growwwwwwwww big!"

"..."

"Pff."

"Make me bigger!"

"Um, tha-"

"Don't tell her yet."

"Make me giant!"

"Are we really just gonna watch her-"

"Oh, absolutely."

_______________

Some time later, when the Hakurei shrine maiden remembered the mallet was only usable by the kobito themselves and had begrudgingly, blushingly handed it back to its usual owner, she stood outside the shrine.

"Alright… this time for sure."

"Are you seriously ready…?"

"Yeah, I'm ready! Let's go, already!"

"Okay! I'd rather it be me, but… groowwwwwww big!"

The Miracle Mallet began to glow a glorious vibrant gold, its wielder locking her gaze on the woman she focused its power upon. Soon, the shrine maiden began to radiate those dazzling colors as well, and lifting herself off the ground in flight, stretched her arms out to embrace this. (Purely for dramatic effect, of course, but it's not like anyone could judge.) And sure enough, her body began to slowly expand…

A symphony ensued, for those near enough to hear it. Tough, resilient tabi socks slowly stretching to fit gradually growing feet, her toes and soon her heels back to touching the ground despite her high vantage point. The creaking and trembling of the earth beneath her feet to take on someone of supernaturally supreme size… The stretching of skin and fabric keeping up with her as the view below dwindled down and down and down…

THOOM. THOOM.

The shrine shook and rattled as the newfound giant stamped her colossal soles down on each side of it, her shadow blotting out the grounds below as the others stared up in awe from below. Shinmyoumaru gulped. Marisa simply let out a whistle of surprise, a dramatic undersell for, as she now noted from the soft white horizon before her, a best friend growing so huge that one toe eclipsed her entire body.

"This is even cooler than last time!" Her enormous voice roared throughout Gensokyo, those just below her hastily covering their ears as she looked around this world in awe. Sure, she usually saw it from this height, but not with her feet on the ground. "Back to business, though. I'll go stomp on that thing and go from there, I guess." She waved her hand in a casual goodbye as she thundered off towards the horizon, leaving her houseguests to simply watch as she did so.

"Have fun!"

"...what have I done."

__________

THOOM, THOOM. THOOM, THOOM.

Gensokyo shook and rumbled at every leviathan footfall of the massive miko; vast expanses of trees and flowers and wide open paths were unceremoniously pounded into deep, tabi-shaped craters. Villages trembled and shook, tengu flitting between the trees to try to cover what this strange seismic event may be before the Hakurei shrine maiden was inevitably called in to put a stop to it… Well, not this time. Fairies and youkai hurtled out of her path in astonishment and awe; as if she wasn't enough of a force of nature normally, being 200 meters tall made things a whole lot more obvious!

She'd saved these lands countless times, so for a bit, she didn't mind the sensation of it all going crunch under her heels, or the sounds of the ground cracking with each THWOOM of her soles down against Gensokyo's surface. Even the Underworld was shaking a little…

As she peers down, she notices a little green speck floating in her path; even from that high up, it's barely at her waist. "Out of my way."

"I already explained it to you! It's just transmitting RF signals!" The goddess-slash-shrine-maiden piped up, from the path of the lumbering behemoth. It didn't even slow her.

"Should've said that before you put it up. Still an unauthorized building, still knocking it down." In all honesty, she just really wanted to stomp on it at this point, but this'd be a suitable, if flimsy, excuse.

"But I did-!" Her protests are cut short as the giant bears down on her, continuing to walk straight in an unstoppable march, Sanae's view slowly filling with nothing but the mega miko's midriff. She turns to flee, flying as fast as she can, but those immense strides catch up almost instantly, being bowled into by the behemoth's belly, stuck up against it like a bug to a windshield (if far more unharmed). She watched on begrudgingly as the rampaging Reimu thundered towards the tower… it looked positively tiny in comparison.

Even as the humongous Hakurei stopped to stand before it, chuckling as it didn't even come up to her waist, Sanae found herself still stuck to the soft stomach of the giant woman, a strange sensation of comfort from the warm body heat of her…business rival? Fellow incident-solver? Something like that.

Reimu lifted her massive, giant foot, leaning it and much of her colossal weight against the cell tower.

Ggrrnnnnnnn….

Under that unfathomable mass, it begins to buckle and shear apart, the metal letting out a deafening shriek as the mighty mountain's socks softly smother it. Supports snap and spark, the massive monument collapsing in portions, a giddy chuckle escaping her as she wiggled her toes.

She raises her foot up high once more, over that crumpled heap…

THOOMMMMmmmmm….

...and smashes it down, flattening all that hard work in under a minute. With a twist of her foot, she grinds the last of it down to nothing, smirking despite herself as she plucks Sanae up off of her.

"There. Anything else I should know about?"

"...no?"

"That's awfully unconvincing for someone in the palm of my hand, y'know."

"No, that was it… I thought we'd finally get, like, texting in Gensokyo, even if our own version… maybe someday."

"Well, next time, just have your gods ask nicely first, okay?"

"Okay…" She was too winded to put up much of a fight right now, as it was. This’d blow over eventually; surely her gods would understand that divine wrath is a bit stranger around here...

[dailycharacteroption]

Roleplaying Races 5: Gnome

Of all the core races, gnomes are perhaps the one that has gone through the most revisions of concept in their history as part of The World’s Oldest Roleplaying Game. As such, there’s plenty of potential inspiration to work with when creating characters using the diminutive fey-kin.

Gnomes are actually a relatively recent creation of human mythology, appearing in alchemical lore as the earth elementals, as well as renaissance artwork as fey beings that exist as a sort antithesis to the typical graceful and capricious fey courts, being down to earth sorts, their aesthetics being very reminiscent of various “house faeries” across different cultures, though gnomes did not necessarily always live in close proximity to humans in the stories.

Fast forward to The World’s Oldest Roleplaying Game, and gnomes blended a bit of their alchemical lore with their tinkering nature as house fey-like beings, becoming something akin to “smaller, less surly dwarves with an interest in the sciences and magic”. As you can imagine, aside from their natural magics, gnomes really didn’t stand out much from either dwarves or halflings in many cases, except when authors and world builders made a specific effort to, such as the fast-talking, machine-obsessed gnomes of Dragonlance. Such an obsession with engineering would later be used in the Warcraft franchise, where not only are gnomes skilled engineers, but also they are in fact a race of former machines transformed into living flesh by an ancient curse.

In Pathfinder and later editions of TWORG, however, they’ve decided to play up the fey aspect of the race. Pathfinder in particular paints them as humanoids formerly native to The First World, the realm of the fey and primordial first draft of material reality. At some point, a large population of gnomes left the fey realms for the material, though accounts are vague and contradictory on why. Some claiming they were exiled by the Eldest Fey for some crime, or that they left to explore the wonders of the material plane.

Indeed, wonder and exploration are a key part of gnomish culture and biology, for they not only delight in new experiences, but actually rely on them to stave off a racial illness called The Bleaching, in which boredom overtakes a gnome and slowly washes all color and vigor from them. Those that survive the malaise running its full course recover, but are never the same, all color and wonder gone from their bodies, leaving ashen skin, white hair, and cynicism.

A popular method of staving off The Bleaching is the development of obsessions, choosing a themed desire that the gnome wants to explore as much as possible until it no longer engages them. These can range from collecting and cataloguing different species of leaves in their travels, to examine the magic aura of new magical items, and even stranger things.

With their childlike wonder at the world, curious natures, and general disregard for boundaries, gnomes can simultaneously be charming to some, and annoying to others, but the vast majority are not malicious. The trick with playing them is being a wide-eyed stranger that stands in open defiance of the cynicism that surrounds them. Goodly gnomes may boldly seek to right injustice and discover new wonders, while evil gnomes might pursue an obsession to dangerous, amoral ends.

Gnome society is typically one of meritocracy, with more experienced and/or more qualified gnomes stepping in when needed, and stepping down when not needed or able to. Meanwhile, their culture itself highly values creativity and art, finding new ways to express themselves in even the most mundane tasks.

 Though not physically impressive, gnomes are surprisingly tough, and their generally friendly attitude makes them fast friends with most.

As small creatures, gnomes gain the advantages and weaknesses of that size, not to mention the smaller stride.

Used to fighting bigger foes, gnomes in particular excel in fighting against giants and the like, avoiding their mighty blows.

Additionally, as fey-kin, they understand that things may not be as they seem, and are always looking to pierce any illusions.

That focus on perception allows them to pick up on details others would miss, especially with their night vision, and their obsessions predispose them to skill in related crafts.

Gnomes have a natural talent for illusions, and many have access to minor magics, namely the creation of lights, generating sounds, producing minor magical effects, and even speaking with animals.

Having an unfortunate history with goblins and kobolds from their early days on the material plane, gnomes are typically trained to fight said foes with increased fervor.

As a core race, gnomes of course have a massive variety of alternate racial traits, representing various differences between gnomes. Many such traits grant them bonuses to other skills. Others might grant them a strong connection to a type of terrain, gaining protection while within it or other abilities, gain the optimism to fight past fear and failure, gain a talent for sensing and resisting the fey, gain alternative spell-like abilities, gaining defensive or offensive boosts against the incorporeal or shadowing beings, having a tendency to develop obsessions with people, reacting extremely positively to healing, or perhaps even having that knack for machines. This list is by no means comprehensive.

 With their eagerness for new experiences, gnomes often make excellent adventurers, and can excel in both stealthy and charisma-based classes, making rogues, sorcerers and all manner of charisma-based casters an excellent choice, their only weak choices being melee combatants on account of their size and strength penalty. However, there are ways to get around that.

And that is the end of this week’s special! Tune in next week for more content!

[ironbound-praetorium]

A Place to Start Over

Tirisfal still smelled like blight and ash even days after the Horde and Alliance clashed at the gates of Lordaeron, but it didn’t deter any member of the Praetorium from venturing out in the hopes of finding those left behind to ruin. Raelin Dawnsorrow, above all of them, had stood at first hand witness to the atrocities committed under red and blue banner. As days bled into one another , he raced across the tree line in an endless grid pattern ferrying civilians back to the trio of ships that hovered over the landscape.  Only when he was commanded to sleep did he fall into his rack and nightmares about those he hadn’t been able to reach in time.

 The Ironfist had a soft heart, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit it was directly centered on the children of the world, as he hardly thought it was fair they had to deal with adult concept like war and unnecessary death.  It was a direct result of his own tragic past with regards to his younger siblings whose ashes now lay peacefully in the Dawnsorrow mausoleum. Those losses had driven him near to madness, but purpose had been found in knowing he could stop others from suffering the same fate… if only he was strong and fast enough.

 Thankfully, Raelin had an ace up his sleeve when it came to the speed necessary to grid out Tirisfal and search block by imaginary block for those left in the wake of the war machine. Dalis, the Ironbound protodrake had been encountered in Ulduar when the world’s heroes sought the release of the Titan stronghold from the grip of the Old Gods, but it had been fate which brought the two together.  They’d weathered a hundred battles together since that day, and not once had their trust wavered, even when words between them were entirely absent.

 It was that trust that kept Raelin steady as Dalis veered hard to the right and made a beeline for a outcropping of trees along the eastern border of Tirisfal.  Shifting his weight, the ginger elf laid flat against the drakes back as the air rushed over him and bright blue eyes scanned the ground for whatever target they were after. It could have been up to three miles away knowing how keen draconic eyesight was, but the pungent smell of decay and smoke signaled they were far closer.  

 Their target was seen as the drake maneuvered to a clearing a short distance away, landing with a thud that shook the ground and caused loose and burning limbs to fall. Dalis wasn’t even fully settled to his haunches before Raelin was off his back and striding for the burned out remnants, his loud voice sure and strong as he announced his arrival; a necessity given the volatile climate he was current in.

“I’m here to help! Hello? Anyone here?”

 Long strides carried him up the broken stone path, though the moment he reached the door long ears flicked in response to the sudden knowledge that he wasn’t alone. Raelin knew better than to make any sudden moves, as war gave way to paranoia for many, and he rather liked his head attached to his body.

 “Just here looking for civilians that need help…Silver Hand…promise I’m not here to cause any ha- oh shit…” Turning around slowly as he spoke, the Ironfist’s eyes went wide as his ‘company’ was viewed clearly.

Five childlike figures clad in mud streaked rags formed a half circle around the Ironfist as the scent of ichor stung his nose.  Undeath had not been kind to any of them, as protruding bones and missing parts came more clearly into view. Ligaments and sinew hung limply from one’s arm where clearly an axe had tried to lop off the offending limb, while another’s cheeks were stained black from the dangling eye that clung only by a bundle of nerves. Their injuries were substantial, yet not one of them seemed to register the pain, as no doubt the shock of everything they had seen had muddled their minds to the most base of responses.

 “Hey there…” Raelin began, slowly beginning to crouch down in order to not tower over the diminutive figures. “M’dragon over there seemed to think you guys needed some help, yeah?” His voice, while usually littered with vulgarity became soft and quiet as he offered a hand outward. “M’name’s Raelin...”

 The smallest of them, a little girl who couldn’t have been anymore than 6 when she rose as a Forsaken, began to take a step forward as if she would accept Raelin at his word but was blocked by the lanky boy who stepped in front of her in a protective way. His spindly fingers curled against his tattered pants as hollow eyes stared down the large man while the others seemed more fixated on Dalis, who had intentionally gone very still as to not frighten the poor creatures.

 “Your eyes are blue…” the ‘leader’ said, his raspy voice cracking as if he was perpetually stuck in the throes of puberty.

 “Mmm, they are...but not here under the Alliance banner, see?” Moving cautiously, the Ironfist shifted upwards to tug on the Silver Hand tabard that was displayed over his chest, tapping one finger against the closed fist. “I don’t much like red and blue, always preferred yellow… like in sunflowers? My Ma used to grow them in our gardens back in Eversong when I was younger…”

 Skeptical to be sure, the boy took a step forward to inspect the tabard with a narrowed gaze while the small girl’s voice piped up in garbled tones. “I like flowers...”

“Yeah? My favorites are blue roses…” Raelin offered, casually glancing to the others who remained wary of him as he reached to flip up the edge of his tabard where the aforementioned flower was embroidered.

The tension in the air was palatable, as it always seemed to be when dealing with the Forsaken, as they were not at all inclined towards dealing with the living. Drawing in a deep breath, his forearms settled on his knees as he looked between them all with a faint smile cast across his rugged features. “How about you let me take a look at all your hurts, and then we see about getting you to a safe place, hrm?”

 “We’re not fucking children, you idiot!” Taken back by the temper that came out of nowhere, Raelin’s eyes shifted back to the leader with both brows raised in response.  It hadn’t dawned on him until that moment that they’d been stuck in this perpetual state of youth for gods knew how long and that he’d gone about the whole situation in entirely the wrong way.

 Lifting his hands again, a helpless shrug was given with a crooked grin. “Oh, well good… means I don’t gotta watch my fucking mouth. Guess you’re just going to have to forgive this big dumb elf for making that mistake and let me make it up to ya, yeah?”

“And how th’fuck is some Quel’dorei bastard going to do that, hrm? Drag us off and put us in chains to be held at the mercy of the Boy-King?” countered the leader of the small group as steps were taken closer to the elf in defense of his companions. “No-fucking-way that shit is happening. We didn’t want no war t’begin with!”

“Actually, was kinda thinking we’d go take a little ride on my dragon to a big shiny ship in the sky… get ya injuries seen to and a hot meal? I mean… if chains are your thing, good on ya… but not exactly too pleased with ol’Anduin and his puppet master Greymane at the moment, so...” Raelin kept his tone nonchalant as he moved to lean against what remained of the house, again holding his hands out to the small contingent.

“Fuck that flea-ridden asshole, deserves to be skinned and mounted!”

“Well…I can’t argue with that…” Raelin laughed which seemed to ease the group from the precipice of violence.  “However, none of us are getting away with that anytime soon… so, how about we make sure we get to see that day come and raise an ale to the ol’bastards death? “

“Where will we go?” questioned the ‘little girl’ as she moved closer to Raelin, reaching to flip up the edge of his tabard and trace the rose stitched neatly into the fabric.

“Most of your people I’ve been giving lifts to end up in Silvermoon…” the Ironfist stated, watching their displeased reactions scrunch up little noses and set their lips into grim lines.  “….but I mean if you’re really after getting away from the war, I know a pretty decent spot to start over…”

 “At what cost?” Another of the ‘children’ asked, stepping next to the girl to put a protective arm around her shoulders.

 “No cost… just have to want to live in peace and not play into the faction crap the world would have you believe is necessary…” Raelin said, shrugging his shoulders as he shifted to accommodate the curious inspection of his tabard.

 “How do we know you’re not feeding us a line of shit and plan to throw us in the Stockades?” It was a viable and logical question that, unfortunately, Raelin didn’t have an answer to.

 “You don’t…suppose it’s a leap of faith in that regard. Just going to have to trust this big stupid elf if you want to get the fuck outta here and away from the bullshit going on. Question is…. Do you really want to?” Shared looks and silent understanding brought all five to nod their heads as Raelin crouched down to look eye to eye with the small girl and offered the crook of his arm as any gentleman might, causing a tittering of laughter to slip out in raspy tones.  “Shall we then, my lady?”

 One by one, the Ironfist lifted the injured and tattered Forsaken ‘children’ onto the back of the massive protodrake and gave them each a small loop of leather to hold onto. After climbing on himself, the Praetorium communication stone was pulled from his pocket as Dalis lifted into the air. “Commander, got an intake of five Forsaken on the way… give Bri a heads up for me?”

 “Bri’s on patrol with Cora…but I’ll let Tanner know to give the medbay a heads up” came Maladir’s tired voice as the small party raced across the skies towards the awaiting Sanctuary City ships and what was hopefully a decent and peaceful future for the refugees at the Ironfist’s back.

(( @sanctuary-city-wra @kelladen @silverfall-patriarch for mentions/involvement))

[l3monsoda]

OK Listen Up

ALL THE SPOILERS AHEAD FOR STEVEN UNIVERSE OK SO LIKE JUST SKIP IF YOU HAVE TO

Also very long post I got lots to say here

First of all Freaking Called it so freaking long ago!

I FINALLY found time to watch A Single Pale Rose and listen folks, all yall just about driving me up a wall with your constant screaming “OH Worst plot twist ever boo!” and “This totally makes Rose the villain. Wahhh” and “She totally was a manipulative mastermind who selfishly and single-handedly orchestrated the entire gem war resulting in the death of thousands and endless suffering for all of our heroes! That devious dastardly monster!!!” 

Ok guys chill out for a second and hear me out ok? I think everyone is missing some very important already established aspects of Rose, and now Pink Diamonds character. I’m going break this down slowly so bare with me ok because I’ve got about the whole shows worth of points and evidence to go through here because honestly crewniverse has been building up to this since like day one.

First thing I want to get out of the way is those of you who are talking about how after this there is no way to reconcile the initial image of Rose Quarts as a kind all loving compassionate leader who only did things for the greater good everyone around her. To those folks; I have to wonder if you have been paying attention? Because guys Steven literally went through a whole arc about this already, Rose was not the perfect amazing flawless gem that the original cast of the crystal gems always made her out to be. She’s not supposed to be viewed that way by us anymore. All kids grow up and find out there parents aren’t perfect, Steven included. Rose had secrets, she lied, she stamped out rebellion within her movement and quickly buried the evidence. and this is just the obvious stuff that is told to us.

If you really want to know the real Rose Quartz you need to be paying really close attention to episodes where we see her through the eyes of not the gems but Greg. That is when Rose’s true characterization comes out and we start to get some real insight into who she was. The Rose Greg knew was sweet and silly but also lacking in something that I think was previously attributed to her by sheer virtue of being “good” empathy. Rose is compassionate, she is kind, she genuinely finds value in the uniqueness and wonder of life on earth but she can’t empathize with it. Rose’s perspective of understanding is completely limited to her own point of view, she is incapable of seeing it another way. We see it in the way she handles her relationship with Greg, the frivolous nature she approaches humanity as a whole, the callousness she puts toward the care of a baby. She appreciates and values human life but in the way a scientist watches ants build a colony. 

She thinks humans are cool and fascinating, fun to watch and they do all these silly and funny things that are so much fun be a part of. To understand how Rose views humanity look no farther than Pink Diamonds human zoo. On the surface it is benevolent and on a practical level it is paradise where nothing bad happens ever, an actual ant colony for what was no doubt an early exploration by Pink Diamond into humanity. This displays again a form of compassion with out empathy. Rose loves humans but she doesn’t connect with them, for her there is a barrier that she can’t bridge and it stems from a complete inability to put herself in another’s shoes. I like to think Greg helps with this somewhat in a way that no other human companion had, his empathy abounds and his patience to explain things to Rose both the world and his feelings seem to have helped them make some sort of progress, but honestly I have always suspected the whole Steven experiment was just Rose’s way of finally bridging the last step she never could, Rose can only truly understand what she has experienced for herself and so Steven was her way of finally understanding humanity once and for all. 

Now at this point you might be thinking “See Rose is a villain!” but I’m here to tell you no. Rose is not evil, Rose is selfish. Contrary to what generations worth of Disney films have been telling you, that is not an inherently evil trait. A lot of very compassionate and giving people are selfish. See selfishness is often coupled with greediness and while the two can exist quite harmoniously within the same person they don’t have to. To be selfish or self centered just mean that everything is usually viewed first and foremost through the lens of you. Your needs, your wants, what benefits you. But this doesn’t mean you can’t do nice kind things and also I’m of the opinion that it doesn’t some how negate the positive impact of that kindness just because it was done in part to benefit the doer as well. All through out history you have astoundingly humanitarian and kind acts being pursed for selfish reasons. As long as the selfish motivation doesn’t impeded the good detrimentally, as long as good gets done should we really care why?

The other thing we need to take note of is this, Rose and especially as Pink Diamond, is childish. She literally refers to her relationship with Greg as “Play”. Every action we’ve ever seen rose take that was not seen through the lens of the adoration of the Crystal gems or through the almost fairy tale like narrative sometimes given to us be Garnet we see Rose take with a note of levity and lack of seriousness that has always caused me to call into question her leadership capabilities. Now when we saw this trait in Rose it manifested itself as charming and sweet (Most likely Greg’s influence since it’s in his memories that when we witness the most flawed versions of the woman but she was still the woman he loves and therefore very much a still biased viewpoint) but when we meet Pink Diamond we see it’s far less endearing implications. It’s important to note that by Rose’s own words, gems do not grow up and change, they come into being as they are. This means that Pink’s diminutive stature and two year old like tendency to throw a tantrum are not credited to her lack of experience but more who she is as a character. At the core of who Pink Diamond and therefore by extension Rose Quartz is is a child who has been made to lead. This isn’t something she was liable to outgrow especially since there is all the emphasis on not only the flawlessness but also the unchanging eternity that is a diamond. A Diamond is forever.

So when we add these well established and known parts of the character up what are we left with? Well for starters we are most certainly left with a huge heap of a mess of a war and hurt and grieving parties on all sides that could clearly be traced back directly is the defiantly questionable choices of Rose Quartz. Though the blame game is such a silly waste of time since you could also say that the fact that the other Diamonds gave the clearly incapable Pink Diamond a colony in the first place was in pretty poor judgment, also no one made the diamonds corrupt all the gems on earth including their own soldiers, they were clearly going to abandon earth anyway, they could have just left and let the cluster do it’s work and so on and so forth.

Any way I agree Rose has a huge part of the blame in the amazing tragedy that was the Gem war but this prevailing opinion that it was all a carefully plotted masterful manipulation meant to hurt everyone and just let her do whatever she wanted without consequences is honestly giving too much agency to a character that as far I can see from what we’ve been shown was regularly just keeping her head above water while busily preforming “Fake it til you make it”.

Pink Diamond’s Story looks to me to be this, A child who was desperate to grow up. She wants to prove she is capable and strong and at first it manifests in a desire to run her own colony, then she gets one and falls absolutely in love with her planet with a childlike wonder and reverence that can only be achieved by truly childish entities. She tries to defend this new found bauble she has gained but the wheels for colonization are in motion and she’s just a child in spirit and overwhelmed so she reaches out to those who have always fixed it for her. They are not in agreement they poo poo her so she takes matters into her own hands but hides under a disguise to evade punishment from her elders. Suddenly growing up isn’t about colonies or running things but being able to have her own say in how she lives and what she believes in. It becomes clear the other diamonds aren’t going to “Let her be a DJ.” so she does what every child does when they don’t get their way, she runs away. Albeit running away in her case involved faking her own death cruelly conscripting her pearl to silence and adding even more fodder to the fire of the thousands year long gem war but children rarely think too far beyond the consequences of their own perspective.

Her desire to live among humans, her abject praise of all things new, her obsession with growing things, her fascination with all things on earth’s ability to change, and her constant encouragement to other gems to go ahead and become something new, to recreate themselves outside of the diamonds expectations this all fits in perfectly with this narrative. Rose is obsessed with growth and development, because ultimately it’s exactly what she wants for herself. She struggles with it due to a lack of empathy, she tries her best to be good and do right but the truth her perspective is so limited that her action often end up tone def. 

What’s most interesting about this character to me is that she seems to be self aware of this problem with in her. That one line in ‘We Need To Talk’ literally haunted the moment it aired. Greg cries out her barely even knows her and Rose grimly and resolutely responds with “That’s a good thing.” Actually do me a favor and go back and watch the whole scene because honestly it perfectly illustrates my empathy point too. But Rose KNOWS she done messed everything up, you can see her trying to form an understanding to do and be better but she just lacks the tools.

See I’m not on here trying to defend the viewpoint that Rose is a wonderful perfect all benevolent leader because honestly, it a stance that doesn’t have a leg to stand on. I’m saying she is someone who wants to do good thinks she is doing good but just falls short of the mark and she knows it. She tries to fix it with things like working to cure the corrupted gems and taking the time to really understand humans but even she knows it’s not enough.

This brings me to Rose’s final crime, leaving all of the consequences of her past to Steven. See in Rose’s mind becoming Steven was no different than killing Pink Diamond to become Rose Quartz. It was a natural progression and the final answer on how to grow up, how to understand humanity, how to be better. Steven has what Rose lacks in spades, he is arguably too empathetic. Everyone tells Steven when he’s kind that he’s like his mom but actually he like what his mom was trying to be but wasn’t. It didn’t seem wrong unfair or even cruel in Rose’s mind to leave the mess of her past to Steven because she was going to BE Steven. Rose thinks that by becoming Steven, this half human gem hybrid she’s actually at last gaining the means to clean up her own mess. We know that’s not at all the case but again this comes not from a malicious intent but a lack of perspective on Rose’s part. 

Rose just like every other character in this show is not one thing, she’s nuanced. Honestly it shouldn’t be all that surprising in show that’s done nothing but take the time to show us that sometimes there are no villains just a lot of different viewpoints and misunderstandings.

Sorry for the long post if your still here my god you have my sympathy and respect.

[uncheckedtomfoolery]

So I wrote this piece for a friend a while ago, but since I’m grumbling about Eiki anyway, I might as well put something up. Story below the cut.

Once, there was a stone. It was by nature a gentle stone, a kindly stone, with all the sun-drenched warmth that a rock might carry. It was the sort of stone that, were it thrown at someone, would do all it could to veer off-course and bury itself in the mud. It owed this to its shape: A Bodhisattva statue in the shape of Ksitigarbha (a mouthful by anyone's standards), who had once sworn not to ascend to buddhahood until all the souls in hell were free. The kindly stone stood there, and it watched over the road. Watched over those who passed by it, its unmoving face smiling gently at them, guiding their steps so they would not wander from the path. They would come to it, the lost and the frightened and the confused, and they would pray. It could give them no miracles, but it hoped to give them peace, hoped to give them guidance.

One by one, they prayed. Prayer is a buoy. Enough of it tied to a thing or a person will carry its object up, making it soar, whether it chooses to or not. The stone resisted for as long as it could, lingering through spring and summer, autumn and winter to guide just one more traveller along those dangerous roads. Finally, after four seasons, it passed.

But this is not the story of the stone.

Once, there was a traveller. She was a stone before, an irony lost on the host around her. So much seems to be lost on those quiet, stoic figures that row their boats all around the one she occupies; enough to make one wonder if they are even alive, or if they have forgotten such things. Their eyes turned unnaturally in their heads, one fixed perpetually on her, one on the route ahead. Was it a route at all? The silent rowboats made their way across an endless, mist-wreathed black river, hours from the other shore. She could only assume her entourage had some destination in mind.

Eiki Shiki, they called her. Eiki of the four seasons. The one who lingered, who clung to earth, who resisted being carried upward by a thousand prayers. It was not praise or condemnation for her stubbornness. They did not judge. It was not their place.

"So you're the new hire, huh?" The ferrywoman that shared her boat was animated enough to make up for all the others, though not without a certain sense that she was forcing much of it. She called herself Komachi Onozuka, and of all those rowing the small, quiet ships, only she had volunteered a name. It was explained to the traveller that she was to be a yama. A judge of the dead, who examines the life of a soul, its character, and sends it either to heaven or to hell. The thought sent a shiver of inexplicable fright down the spine she had not even had for very long. They told her that she was to represent all that is just in the world, the law sewn into its every fabric. Her every action, by her very nature, would be right, would be just and good, beyond reproach.

"What if I'm wrong? What if I make a mistake?"

The seven rowing around her said nothing, but there was something in their one-eyed stare, something strange. Not pity, as such, but it struck her as a look they might reserve for a dead woman walking. Komachi laughed instead, shaking her head, wearing an expression of utter amazement.

"Shiki, was it? Or, ah... Lady Eiki? I think you might be the first one to ask that! Don't get your type around here often."

That stood to reason; most yamas, she was given to understand, were made for the task, not ascended, if that is even the right word. Her nature, as much as a piece of rock might inherit that of a Bodhisattva, is to empty the hells, not fill them.

Komachi told her that this was nothing, that she made no mistake; indeed, that she could make no mistake no matter how hard she might try. Komachi told her that the ride was a long one, finally, and urged her to sleep. Everything would be alright; there was no harm in her question, or in her sentiments. That was when Eiki learned how easily a yama can discern a lie.

Condemning soul after soul was a task that would call for only the purest sort of person, and a task that would grind down any such person very quickly indeed. The solution, she realised, was to create judges tailor-made for it, a far cry from a person of any sort. It was not an answer, she realised, that left much room in the equation for her.

Quietly, gently, the ferrywoman prayed that this one would last longer than the others she had heard such stories of. That she would be the exception to the rule. Prayers could soar, even then and there, ever higher; far enough to find themselves in the same hands that sent the weathered statue down this river.

But this is not the story of the traveller.

Once, there was a judge. She had travelled far, and lived in the yama's courthouse, opulent and vast, built up in intimidating gold and black. Its full extent was covered up in river mist, and the stories said that the mist only showed itself to a sinner's eyes. It was only a legend, but it was one that struck fear into the souls that walked in. For all its size, the world seemed to narrow down to a point as they stand there: The judge, Eiki Shiki, on her massive throne, inscrutable and imposing.

She hated that throne. Hated the decadence of the courthouse, and all its splendour and finery that might be better put to use elsewhere. It was almost painful, sitting there on something so clearly made as nothing but a show of grandeur to inspire terror in petitioners. Seeing the ones she was supposed to guide looking up at her with frightened eyes, making their case and staring into the cleansed mirror that sifted through their lies. Even the ones they thought to be true.

She was not meant to be filling the hells, but emptying them. And yet, one by one, away they went: The misguided, the ones who had made their little missteps, even the ones who likely deserved their place, but left her wishing to see some good in them. They filed away to their fates, given to them from on high. The judge held fast, implacable and impassive. She had to be, in the courtroom, through case after case. She could not let them see anything else. It was just work, she realised one day, that she did here. It did not call for a cruel woman who reveled in this, much less a kind one who mourned over every petitioner; something she had pieced together on her first day, and tried to ignore every day since then. It was work best fit for a machine, a gear in Samsara's workings. She was no machine. She had heard stories of others like her, now and then, the ones who failed to fit their role. One by one, they were ground down and replaced by someone- by something more fitting.

Another soul stood before her now, and prayed to the judge, to the gods, to whatever mercies may be listening. His prayers soared, as they always did, until they were caught in the rafters, going no further.

But this is not the story of the judge.

There is a prisoner, who calls herself judge. Whispers in the ministry turn to rumour, then to decree: She will be stationed in Xanadu, an affectionate title among those who remember their old posts fondly, as much as they are capable of fondness or affection. Gensokyo by another name. She will be the yama of paradise. Do they think her fitting for it? Is this some strange mercy? Over a century later, she still doesn't have so much as an inkling.

Days of sentencing fade to the small mercy that is mindless paperwork for the ministry. Here, at least, not a soul is hurt. She works day after day after day in her cramped office - cramped by choice, rejecting the luxury that would be customary for her - toiling over endless sheaves of papers, and sometimes collapsing face-first into them for the briefest moments of sleep. She does not rest, even in the rare breaks she is given; instead, she wanders Gensokyo, trying to guide whoever she can away from the paths that would force her hand in a cruel sentence. It's a mercy to them both, not entirely selfless, in her mind.

They never listen, of course, and it never seems to make a difference, but perhaps some day it will.

She is trapped here, in the courthouse that is so clearly not meant for her. She does not begrudge it, not consciously. The thought never occurs to her. She only works in her pursuit of mercy, as much as she is allowed to give any, day after day. She says little of this to Komachi, but after so long, they have an understanding; some of it comes through, try as she might to keep quiet. The yama is small, almost childlike in appearance. Some call it a symbol of innocence or purity. Others, a small piece left over from her days as a diminutive stone statue. To Komachi, she only looks terribly fragile.

The prisoner of the Sanzu works day after day, tirelessly, but nothing she can achieve seems to be enough for her. There is a mirror in her office, a badge of office carved from purest crystal, said to scour away all lies and show even the smallest sin in the hearts of those exposed to it. Some days, Komachi notices her staring into it, sometimes for hours at a time.

It's a shame, Eiki reflects to herself at times, that she has risen so high on the backs of prayers; there is no one, in turn, that she might pray to, whether for help or simple guidance.

But this is not the story of the prisoner. As she would be quick to say herself, there are far more important ones to be told.

[stillellensibley]

EXPERIMENTS OF THE ORDINARY: GIORGIO MORANDI AT THE CENTER FOR ITALIAN MODERN ART

All accounts suggest that the Italian painter Giorgio Morandi (1890-1964) enjoyed a life of uninterrupted calm and isolation. Introverted by nature, Morandi spent his entire lifetime in Bologna, in the same apartment no less, and was dubbed il Monaco due to his almost monastic reclusiveness. He tended to paint at home, either in his bedroom or an adjoining studio, committing himself almost exclusively to the natura morta, or still life. Seemingly obsessed with the interplay between form, negative space, and color, Morandi executed upwards of 1,000 paintings and etchings within the genre, and today his oeuvre tends to be seen as an endless parade of bottles, vases, jugs, jars, tea kettles, and cookie tins inching towards—but never quite reaching—abstraction.

GIORGIO MORANDI, NATURA MORTA, 1963. OIL ON CANVAS, 26 X 26 CM, 10 3/16 X 10 3/16 IN. PRIVATE COLLECTION. © 2015 ARTISTS RIGHTS SOCIETY (ARS), NEW YORK/SIAE, ROME.

In the United States, we have been most frequently treated to Morandi’s later paintings from the 1950s and early 1960s. Small canvases adorned with thin strokes of paint depict densely stacked bottles jockeying for a spot at the front of the line; geometric landscapes push the boundaries of representation, looking more like the clusters of objects in his still lifes the longer we stare. Because of their looser technique, comparatively diminutive size, and inclusion of fewer objects, Morandi’s paintings from this period are more common than those from any other stretch of his career. Yet while they, like the majority of his preceding works, center around the variability of optical reality, to focus on the later paintings alone is to miss the breadth of Morandi’s lifelong pursuit of a personal visual dialect, like picking at the remnants of a creative explosion while failing to examine what led up to it.

Like most lives, Morandi’s was colored by paradox. Despite his eventual commitment to the still life, his early years were marked by exuberant experimentation and an inclination towards the avant-garde. Though his studies at the Accademia di Belle Arti in Bologna exposed him to the Early Italian Renaissance, the young Morandi became attracted to the otherworldly work of Giorgio de Chirico and the rest of the scuola metafisica movement, and he began covering his canvases with lustrous textures and fractured representations. By the mid-1920s Morandi had moved on, alighting on a more ethereal, naturalistic style that earned him the admiration of the Fascist Strapaese movement, which championed Italy’s agrarian roots. Curiously enough, Morandi had developed this approach out of admiration for Paul Cézanne, whose individualistic experimentation would have shocked the state-driven Strapaese. (Due to the brevity of this association, as well as Morandi’s own independent nature, he is presently viewed as the modern Italian artist least tainted by Fascism.)

It is partially thanks to Cézanne that Morandi became so wholly engrossed in the still life. The vigor of Cézanne’s weighty brushstrokes and the way his compositions elicit a tension between geometric forms proved that the natura morta—literally translated as “dead nature”—could indeed hum with fluctuating energy. From the 18th century master Jean-Baptiste-Siméon Chardin, Morandi learned that the mode could either reflect or obscure the chaos of the outside world. Either way, each composition would need to be considered with unflinching deliberation, possessing its own inimitable visual dynamic.

GIORGIO MORANDI, NATURA MORTA, 1931. OIL ON CANVAS, 42 X 42 CM, 16 ½ X 16 ½ IN. PRIVATE COLLECTION. © 2015 ARTISTS RIGHTS SOCIETY (ARS), NEW YORK/SIAE, ROME.

Though it contains wide-ranging examples of Morandi’s output, the illuminating exhibit currently on view at the Center for Italian Modern Art pointedly focuses on this era of discovery, giving viewers an unprecedented opportunity to grapple with the curiosities driving his art. During the 1930s, after securing a post teaching printmaking at his alma mater, Morandi began relentlessly depicting his unremarkable cast of bottles, vases, jugs, and jars in both paintings and etchings. While he worked at an unusually slow pace, executing an average of one painting each month, it was during this decade that he focused his aesthetic vision and established the parameters that would advance it.

No matter what style they employ, each of these still lifes depicts an arrangement painstakingly labored over. Every object was specially chosen for its ordinary nature; if a bottle possessed too much flair it would find its label removed and its glossy surface muted by paint. In other instances, Morandi would reconstruct certain objects to his liking, employing the ready-made in a far subtler manner than Duchamp. For weeks Morandi would mull over the placement of each item, examining his assemblage at different times of day in order to choose the most visually intriguing option. He would often wait several months to begin painting, after each item had accumulated a sufficient layer of dust.

GIORGIO MORANDI, NATURA MORTA, 1931. OIL ON CANVAS, 36 X 56 CM. MUSEO D’ARTE MODERNA E CONTEMPORANEA DI TRENTO E ROVERETO (MART), COLLEZIONE AUGUSTO E FRANCESCA GIOVANARDI. © MART-ARCHIVO FOTOGRAFICO E MEDIATECA. © 2015 ARTISTS RIGHTS SOCIETY (ARS), NEW YORK/SIAE, ROME.

Though seemingly impersonal, these arrangements often allude to the monumental quality of medieval Italian architecture, reminding us that even at his most abstract, Morandi pursued the interchange between the world outside and worlds constructed. In this defining period, he created a personal universe from varying shades of brown, frequently depicting the same tableaux using several different approaches. Occasionally he would apply his brushstrokes evenly, though more often they would leave thick globules in their wake; sometimes objects are graced with dramatic shading on one edge but not another; or they are stretched to add drama. In other instances, two objects, for example a vase and a candlestick, will overlap to create an unreal amalgamation that could never actually exist but could be concocted by the fallible human eye. Even more frequently, negative space will outshine physical actuality, with untamed swatches of paint leaping from the encircled boundaries of a tea kettle’s handle. Whether veering towards realism or surrealism, or instead implementing a childlike brushiness, every canvas is adorned with Morandi’s contemplative fervor, his boundless passion for each object pushing him towards unending variability.

While some may get bogged down in the apparent repetition of Morandi’s paintings, most viewers will find themselves invigorated by the astonishingly diverse visual languages he used to communicate. Even his etchings, three of which are on display at CIMA, reflect a persistent desire to convey the protean nature of visual authenticity. One of them, its arrangement seemingly cloaked in darkness, contains cross-hatching so dense and so fine that it resembles woven cloth, an illusion furthered by an irregular edge that evokes an unsewn hem. Its next-door neighbor portrays the same cluster in a thinly veiled brightness, shifting the focus back to contours and textures instead of the specific quality of light. The third print features a more sparsely populated gathering and combines the two techniques, using a chiseled background to emphasize the dynamism of its subjects, several of which contain delicately erased highlights.

GIORGIO MORANDI, NATURA MORTA A GRANDI SEGNI, 1931. ETCHING, 24 ½ X 34 CM. PRIVATE COLLECTION. © 2015 ARTISTS RIGHTS SOCIETY (ARS), NEW YORK/SIAE, ROME.

In such a comprehensive context, Morandi’s narrow band of subject matter communicates his own dogged commitment to receptive observation as well as the equally high demands he placed on his audience. By repeatedly returning to a visual theme, Morandi instilled each attempt with a distinct optical truth. His intensity continually led him towards variation, ensuring that students of his catalog would need to maintain a similar level of dedication in order to develop any sort of literacy. To truly see a Morandi we must look upon it with the same pliability and fervor that he was able to summon time and time again.

With our minds thus focused, previously opaque works suddenly spring to life. Certain arrangements take on the monumentality of looming cityscapes, while others bring to mind a troupe of performers enacting a particularly harmonious collaboration. Aligned on Morandi’s humble stage, we recognize specific objects—a carafe, or a sea shell, perhaps—that we have seen before, in another impossibly different portrayal. While our cherished carafe may have starred in one especially striking depiction, across the room it fills a minor role, gladly submitting to Morandi’s interchange between individuality and group dynamics.

GIORGIO MORANDI, NATURA MORTA, 1938. OIL ON CANVAS, 31 X 46 CM. © ALBERTO BORTOLUZZI. FONDO AMBIENTE ITALIANO, COLLEZIONE CLAUDIA GIAN FERRARI. © 2015 ARTISTS RIGHTS SOCIETY (ARS), NEW YORK/SIAE, ROME.

As it unravels in a series of dips and dives, knotting itself here and there, history—more accurately termed “time” until it can be fully parsed and dissected—is marked by untidy variations. The artist, whether choosing to comment on this state of flux explicitly or not, finds his or her work transmuted by it all the same, entire novels, sculptures, or performances eternally backlit by impermanence. Over the course of the 1930s, Italy’s mounting vulnerability triggered a concurrently increasing volatility. Not surprisingly, Giorgio Morandi changed during this period as well, and so did his work. Still enthralled by his objects, by the end of the decade he had drifted towards heightened clarity and had added the reds and blues of medieval texts to his earth-tinted palette. With the inevitable outbreak of the war, Morandi quickly shifted back to a mud-colored and increasingly unsettling world of near abstraction, nodding towards the chaos at large by reminding his audience to stay nimble.

Seeking safety and a reclamation of the monastic calm he is so commonly remembered for, Morandi spent a great deal of World War II in Grizzana, a mountainous village about twenty miles southwest of Bologna. Forced to leave his precious belongings behind, he turned the focus of his continual visual interrogation upon the land itself. These telescopic imaginings are completely void of intelligible horizon lines, and they use trees, ravines, plains, and mountains to create shapes and negative spaces much as Morandi’s still lifes do. Though able to return to his assemblages in time, Morandi used this hiatus to deepen his exploration of the fertile middle ground between consistency and variation. Thanks to his vast oeuvre, and CIMA’s skillful display of such a vital swath of it, we also realize that volatility, exhilaration, and vitality can grace the canvases of one of modernism’s most reclusive and reflective masters.

Source

[wishtorn]

✍ - a memory of their mother

memory meme / accepting .

          he never comes with her. anya is eleven, and tasting for the first time, cautiously but with some relish, the bittersweet sting of resentment, of a dark, secret anger that tastes like the air struck by lightning. of course the obvious target is her father. she had noticed, lately, when she thinks of him that it isn’t lord desmond or even father, but a mere, ominous him. especially now, on the shore of horseshoe rock ( and is that not the most appropriate name for this island ? nothing more than a thin scythe of pebbled beach and spray of tangled trees and overgrowth. a mossy rock dropped into a shallow pool. ) climbing the steps up to the small hillside keep, under the watchful eye of guards and septa sophine. 

         with a new dress for her name day she’s desperate to show off, she takes the steps two at a time, leaving her retinue behind her. this excitement is routine, the childlike thrill of seeing her mother again, but anya’s older now, and there’s a weight to her steps. she’s nearly a woman grown, or so she thinks, and it’s beginning to dawn on her in that unspoken, instinctual way, that something about all this isn’t right, not normal. but her mother is at her window, facing the bay — has seen the little boat dock, unload, and sail back out into the water, because if it stays on the coast she may find the courage to steal it and run off, a ridiculous notion — and when she spots anya bounding up to the steps rushes to her. there are no lords or ladies for whom she must be proper ; she can run on bare feet, her hair loose and wild, lift her daughter in an embrace and spin her around once, twice, press a kiss to the top of her head, and bite back tears. 

         ‘ you’ve gotten so tall, look at you, so beautiful, ’ lady viola says, like she does every time ; but anya, always diminutive but straining daily to be as tall as her siblings, still likes to hear it.

           you look so sad. the thought startles anya, but before she can consider whether she dares say so, septa sophine appears behind her over the hill, a kind but stern frown on her face. tut-tut and little lady and you’ll ruin your dress, what would your father say, half-wild, you are, but anya only nods sweetly, says her apologies so blithely they both know she doesn’t mean it and takes her mother’s hand. 

         they spend the morning on the terrace, lady viola nursing one glass of iced arbor gold and brushing anya’s hair, as anya fills her in on all the exciting events of the past half-year. calla has been wed, and lives on the mainland with her new husband now ; andrey, the kennelmaster’s son, you remember him, don’t you ? has been sent to the citadel on father’s word, and he told anya he would learn magic there ; and, most preciously, the grey-and-white cat that had stalked the arbor for as long anya could remember had had kittens. where she found the father, no one seems to know — no one has yet seen him — but anya is convinced she will be able to, with enough time. 

         all the while, septa sophine’s presence is constantly felt. she keeps to her stitching, quiet, sips only water and does her best not to intrude, but she has strict instructions not to permit the lady viola to be alone with the child, and her duty to her lord always overshadows her sympathy towards the woman. the disapproving line of her lips, the severity of her gaze — she needn’t say anything, and it was enough to dissuade anya from being too free in her stories. if she hadn’t been there, if it had just been the two of them, she would have told her mother about the kiss she and andrey had shared, hiding in the gardens sharing sweets and stories of magic. might have even told her about how he had pushed her away, laughed, but that she was sure there was some kind of hurt in his eyes, something else that made it not her fault. 

          instead they sit in the summer sun and talk of little nothings, and in the afternoon when the heat is too much to bear, they descend the steps back down to the cove and walk the length of the beach with bare feet in the cool water, skirts held up to their knees. this is how anya will try to remember her, years later. ( she might have even known then, studying her mother with a childlike, joyous admiration that desperately tries to hide a dark desperation — but such feelings are too deep for her to swim in just now. ) her dark hair loose, dark eyes that she passed down to her daughter bright with joy and something else ; a haunting, almost unnatural beauty that anya dreams she will grow into. her skin, sunkissed and only faintly creased, glowing warm in the sun and as real as anything, barefoot and ankle-deep in the water, the hem of her white dress damp as it dips carelessly below the surface.

          tears fill her eyes at sunset, when anya settles back into the little boat. she holds them back until they’re far enough out in the water, thinking she’s hiding her sorrow from her daughter, protecting her childlike innocence. anya’s old enough now to know better, and she sees the tears and the sorrow in her mother’s face as they set out. she spends the whole time on the way back to the mainland wondering, her mind as stormy as the waters are calm, turning the problem over and over in her head like some mysterious artefact that she’ll never quite make sense of. 

[goldeneyedgirl]

ficlet: shadow to light 1/?

More 31_days because the prompts are fantastic this month. Beginning of an AU exploring ideas that I outlined in The Long Way Around. Pretty happy with home this came together. 

A girl who is both death and the maiden

She is no bigger than a child, with big eyes. He finds her wandering around nowhere, Mississippi, and lures her back home, like a starving kitten. He expects nothing of her, truly, except another body for Maria’s campaign. Maria is suspicious of the tiny, bewildered girl, who has no memories of her humanity, of her change or the burning. The only thing she has, other than eyes that pierce right down to whatever remains of his soul, is a ragged hospital gown with ‘Mary-Alice’ written on it in smeared ink. Whether or not it was her name when she was alive, it is her name now. No one expects her to survive training, but somehow she makes it through a battle, darting and spinning through the fighters. Her dress is shredded to ribbons, and there is a ragged bite to her arm, but she lives to watch the victory pyre stoked and burning. It is only then that he learns about her gift; Maria is delighted, of course. Mary-Alice is vague about her gift, that she describes as the ability to make the right choice. Knowing where it is safe to run in a battle, knowing how to move to avoid destruction in battle. But no matter how she tries, she cannot see those choices for anyone else. But it serves her well, as she becomes deliciously lethal, spinning, twirling and then tearing her victim apart. It is made sweeter by the idea that she looks so sweet and innocent, with her beautiful eyes and doll-like build, clad in dresses that never quite fit right, barefoot and gnawing on her bottom lip. He is lost before it even begins. -- She becomes a balm for his misery, her dreamy countenance and innocence. In his room, she will perch on the window sill, twisting bits of paper through her fingers, into roses and small birds, butterflies and boats. She offers him some comfort in the wake of the loss of Peter. He thinks about confiding in her, in a moment of weakness, that he let Peter and Charlotte leave instead of tearing them apart. That Peter was a pillar of strength he never truly acknowledged until it was gone. But tiny Mary-Alice, with her oddly reflective eyes and childlike demeanour, he couldn’t. He couldn’t condemn her to Maria’s retribution if the truth came out, and Mary-Alice knew anything about it. Maria had a talent for knowing the truth from a lie, and he never wanted Mary-Alice in her firing line. And that is how they continue. A girl with her head in the clouds and a disturbing talent for battle, and a hollowed-out soldier with a death wish. -- He barely remembers how it begins; he has to trace the nights and days back through his mind to figure it out. His constant shadow, Mary-Alice, and more battles. Maria has long since cast him from her bed, and he has no time or energy to block his gift long enough to bed one of the newborns. So, when the battle against Paolo’s goes far too well (it is a slaughter, over in seconds, because Paolo is obsessed with the idea of a strong, aged army rather than the tried and tested strength and viciousness of newborns and, well, Maria had made it clear that she would not tolerate anyone questioning her boundaries) and they are all full of adrenaline; an animalistic wildness that swallows up Maria’s army. They stoke the victory pyre, burn the remains, and there is a great and terrible joy that dawn. He kisses her once, deeply. She nearly falls off the railings she is perched on, at the sudden intrusiveness of his kiss. Only his hand resting against the small of her back stops her from tumbling into the dirt. She blinks curiously at him when he pulls away, studying him carefully. But before anything else can happen, some of the newborns are fighting, and it is enough to draw his attention to break it up. She watches him go, irritation obvious in his every movement. He is low on patience, the wildness still thrumming through all of them, and when a newborn challenges him, riled up and wanting to fight, he simply destroys two of them, and strides away. It is little loss. The news of Paolo’s spectacular defeat will spread, and no other armies have approached in months. The end of the summer is approaching; the one-year mark upon them. They may not even dull this pyre, leave it to burn the ones that are no longer useful. Maria dislikes relighting the fires. If nothing else, it cautions the rest of them not to defy the Major, no matter how thick the venom runs. -- She pads into his room late in the afternoon, cloth pulled tightly over the windows; Maria has always been insistent of the debilitating effect the sun has on the strength of their skin, on their long-term health. It is why the younger ones are kept in the barns or in the basement, where they cannot do anything foolish. “Darlin’,” he calls to her, his voice low and alluring, from where he sits on the old daybed, a book carelessly tossed aside. Fresh blood thrums inside of him, and she has always been beautiful, graceful, untouchable. Until now. Her eyes are so red, the colour looks flat and dull, as if all light has fled from her eyes. She perches carefully on the daybed beside him, in her filthy dress, her funny short hair brushing her cheeks, and that look of curiosity in her eyes. He’s going to hate himself for this later, he knows. He’ll add it to the list of despicable things that he’s done; he needs this more than ever. The touch of someone familiar (perhaps even trusts), the distraction, the satisfaction. He still does it, and it isn’t slow and kind. His hand is behind her head, pulling her into another terrible kiss, as the other slides under the dress. And as soon as he knows she won’t pull away, he drops his hand from her head, and begins to peel back her clothing, urgency and desire building too fast for him to control himself. After all, he lured this girl out of the woods and into a war. Why shouldn’t he finish the job, and deflower and debase her, as well? -- He expected Mary-Alice to cower from him after that first encounter; one that left the bedframe twisted and mangled, and him more agitated than ever. But Mary-Alice had said nothing against him; he had long noticed that the girl kept her own confidences. She still shadowed him, still sought him out and folded her paper creations, and fought like a demon possessed, and he could almost forgive himself for the bites he carelessly left upon her body. He doesn’t forgive himself for helping himself to her again and again; somehow, the touches become less demanding and more adoring; the kisses deeper and slower, the nights shorter. She smiles at him more, twists her fingers in his hair, and even talks to him. They talk about anything and everything – books, history, music, war. Her laugh is like soft bells, and he savours it. He’s not in love with her, no. She is just a balm for his misery. There is only Maria to worry about. She will not tolerate their bond, this small sanctuary from their realities. Anything that could threaten their loyalty to her is unacceptable, and he has no doubts that Maria would toss Mary-Alice on the fires before she ever let him out of her grasp. But when he confides this to Mary-Alice, she blinks at him and smiles slyly. It takes practically no effort to set up Maria to work in on them – or rather, to see the Major slaking his lust with one of his inferiors on her knees. He orders and snaps at her, and Mary-Alice nods and ducks and obeys without flinching, and he hates the look of satisfaction on Maria’s face as he dismisses the diminutive creature with a wave of his hand and not so much as a glance. He loathes himself, this ridiculous charade, and everything about this hellish life. -- It is a day in late fall, when the winds are blowing south, and Maria has intelligence that the Louisiana coven is on the move. They are crafty, manipulative, a worthy foe they’ve beaten back many times but never truly defeated. She appears like a ghost, her mouth twisted down and her eyes dark. “The answer is ‘yes’,” she says to him in a low voice. “Do not even question it.” He looks up from where he is repairing his boots; Maria has been testing them, sending Mary-Alice back to the barracks in the barn, as fit her position. To see her here and now is a risk. “What are you doing up here?” he asks, his voice streaked with irritation, out of concern. “When it happens, you will know, and the answer is ‘yes’. It’s the only way you’ll live,” she says sharply. “Get out of here,” he grunts at her. “Maria ordered you out.” “I can take care of myself,” she enunciates. “Swear you’ll say yes.” “Go!” he yells, and she vanishes, like a ghost. It’s the last thing he ever says to her. -- When Peter reappears three days later, on the very edge of Maria’s territory, he couldn’t be more stunned. He had always held little hope that he and Charlotte would survive without crossing another coven, being dragged into another army, without finding death outside of an army. But he had to give them that chance. That sliver of hope. Peter looks well, with bright eyes and new clothes, and speaks with an eagerness and urgency. Maria’s territory stretches from Monterrey to Laredo to Corpus Christi, and he’s left Charlotte just outside Laredo, so he hasn’t got long. They came back for him. For the one that nearly destroyed both of them. Peter promises him no fighting, no terror; just nomadic peace. Freedom from Maria’s tyranny, from the constant struggle for territory. “Will you come with us?” Peter asks, looking almost hopeful. His closest friend has just travelled back down into hell to retrieve him, dragged his mate with him, to certain death if they are unlucky. “The answer is ‘yes’. Do not even question it.” Mary-Alice’s words come back to him instantly, and he doesn’t understand how she knew this was going to happen. How lost he is to make the decision. Why he believes her, when he started trusting her completely. “I can take care of myself. Swear you’ll say yes.” “Okay,” he tells Peter, and his fate is sealed. “Okay. Let’s go.” And they run. -- In the years that pass, and everything that happens to him, he carries Mary-Alice with him; an invisible shadow. Another mark against him, abandoning her to that hell without a second thought. Once, he tried to imagine how she was there; but the side of him that is cold and unrelenting, all about strategy, firmly tells him that she would be dead. Maria had a fierce temper, had destroyed others for looking at her wrong at a bad time; if she had a clue that Mary-Alice knew an inkling about his disappearance… and it took only a second to slip in battle. He hoped her death had been quick, something she never saw coming. He’s sorrier than anyone will ever know that he didn’t take her with him, that she will never know the peace of the north, and the kindness of the Cullens. He’s sorry he ever found her that night, and thought taking her back to Monterrey was a good idea. The sorrow sits upon him like a mantle, and pushes him forwards. Mary-Alice died for his freedom, for his survival, and he will never dishonour such a gift with his weakness, give in to temptation. This was never his life to waste.

[komatsunana]

Uncommon character dev asks for the main ladies in the lovely adventuring party: 2, 6, 11, 12, 14, 18, 21, 22, 23, 25, 26, 28, 29, 30. Feel free to split this up by character or number!

Hm, I’ll split it up by character since that makes more sense to me.

* means unofficial name(this was run, esp answering some of the questions I wasn’t sure of yet myself - thank you!)

Ausra:

2. Does your character have any noteworthy features? Freckles? Dimples? A scar somewhere unusual? etcShe has splotches of molten purple all over her skin from a deadly illness  (that I haven’t fully expanded on yet) in her youth. She has a special paint that she puts on the center of her forehead that would change from blue to red if the illness became active and contagious.

6. If you were to pick one song — and only one song — to describe your character, what would it be and why?She’s one of the characters that building a playlist has been hardest for. I dubiously say Warning Call by CHVRCHES11. What do they think of creation? Do they believe in evolution or do they believe in God? What is their religion like?

Gods in this world are all ascended mortals but are just a fact of life, nothing to dispute since interaction with them is pretty frequent. I’m unsure of how this world approaches Creation and evolution atm. Despite growing up in a religious setting though, Ausra serves no god/deses personally and is embittered by them.

12. Describe 5 unusual characteristics your muse has.- Always wears her hair in a tight ponytail to keep her hair out of her face but ponytails give her a headache and headaches make her cranky. She’s always cranky. This might be connected.- Her cooking has healing abilities.- Has very good luck.-  The most important thing you need to know about her? Accent: Valley girl.

14. Are they a team player or do they prefer to be solo?Will do anything to ensure the people around her survive to her own detriment (which is often to their detriment as well) but she is difficult to work with in a team and is prone to making things more difficult for everyone by complaining.

18. Are they a leader, do they prefer to follow, or would they rather just stay on the sidelines altogether?She makes a difficult leader but she’s hardly a follower and questions everything. Her only concern is getting everyone under her protection out alive and unharmed and she’ll sacrifice a mission to ensure that.

21. Your character has been granted 3 wishes; what would they wish for and why?N/A22. Does your character trust people right off the bat or does it take them some time to warm up to someone?She doesn’t hold people at arms’ length from lack in trust in others but lack of trust in herself.

23. Do they prefer romance or affection? What is the quickest way to your character’s heart?She’s very affection starved but it’s hard for her to accept it.  The easiest way to heart is probably just acquiescing to her fussing for a bit and then thanking her - that’ll gobsmack her. So’s a big appetite, especially if someone asks for seconds of her food - not that she’ll give it.

25. Do they have any weird bedroom habits? Any unusual kinks?Tbh, my OCs are like my kids so I haven't really thought about it deeply. Just taking a quick think on it… Ausra has a tendency to doctor people and not in sexy way.  I can see that following her into the bedroom. Shirts come off and she feels a lump and she’s like “Gotta get that checked out.”  Might be into hair-pulling? idk

26. How does your character prepare for bed? Do they sleep at all or can they stay awake for days on end without trouble?She has a whole bedtime routine with tea and scented lotions. She sleeps easily and quickly - helped by her aforementioned bedtime routine. She doesn’t want to let her own exhaustion cause anyone else’s death so she ensures she gets enough sleep.

28. Are they afraid of death? Do they have any regrets?Despite having a bit of a death wish and feels guilty for surviving through several events for which she was the only survivor for, she desperately wants to live.  She regrets surviving at the expense of others though.

29. Does your character get restless when things are too quiet or do they favour solitude and silence? Why?She says she hates when things are hectic but she tends to wallow if she’s left in solitude and silence too long, stewing in her own guilt.

30. Finally; if your character was forced to eat one thing for the rest of their life, what would they choose and why?Probably potatoes lmao. Because they contain all the necessary nutrients to live and she’d know that. She’d hate it though.

Baby:

2. Does your character have any noteworthy features? Freckles? Dimples? A scar somewhere unusual? etcHas a facial scar that she tries to keep covered at all times. Gets sun freckles easily.

6. If you were to pick one song — and only one song — to describe your character, what would it be and why?I have plenty of choices on her playlist, but I gotta go with P!nk’s So What

11. What do they think of creation? Do they believe in evolution or do they believe in God? What is their religion like?Rather than worship a Deity of the water or Ocean like most pirates, Baby worships the Ocean itself which is unusual.

12. Describe 5 unusual characteristics your muse has.- Hates carrying money and jewels and stuff - as a pirate it’s weird- Isn’t sure what she did but she’s definitely cursed from approaching the ocean rn - it’s like repelling a magnet and she bounces back- Always wears something that shows off either her boobs or legs… but it’s one or the other- As a former sex worker, she now uses their services herself- Baby is actually a diminutive petname from an ex that she kept when she became a pirate.

14. Are they a team player or do they prefer to be solo?She’s treated as if she’s a loose canon by the rest of the squad but she was first mate as a pirate and highly trusted by those under her employ - she’s always there for the team when it counts. 

18. Are they a leader, do they prefer to follow, or would they rather just stay on the sidelines altogether?She’s good at giving and following orders, but she cannot stay on the sidelines.21. Your character has been granted 3 wishes; what would they wish for and why?One of them would be to break the curse on her. Others are secrets.

22. Does your character trust people right off the bat or does it take them some time to warm up to someone?It takes time for her to trust people but she has a soft spot for abuse victims and children.

23. Do they prefer romance or affection? What is the quickest way to your character’s heart?After her ex-husband ran out on her leaving her in a bad position (after years of abuse), Baby tends to take the lead in her sexual ventures. She’s not looking for romance (rn), just to show women a good time.

25. Do they have any weird bedroom habits? Any unusual kinks?Hm, not much that I can think of that I haven’t already mentioned. She’s tried a lot of shit as a sex worker.  Doesn’t like mixing pleasure with pain in the least.

26. How does your character prepare for bed? Do they sleep at all or can they stay awake for days on end without trouble?Tends to go until she passes out.

28. Are they afraid of death? Do they have any regrets?Her only fear is never being near the ocean again.

29. Does your character get restless when things are too quiet or do they favour solitude and silence? Why?She loves partying but the quiet doesn’t bother her - it’s good for her to ground herself sometimes and actually think ‘cause otherwise she acts on her emotions.

30. Finally; if your character was forced to eat one thing for the rest of their life, what would they choose and why?Idk, some kind of fish dish. I don’t know anything about eating fish though so I can’t answer more than that right now.

Coda:

2. Does your character have any noteworthy features? Freckles? Dimples? A scar somewhere unusual? etcSpoiler. :3

6. If you were to pick one song — and only one song — to describe your character, what would it be and why?Applause by Lady Gaga

11. What do they think of creation? Do they believe in evolution or do they believe in God? What is their religion like?Her whole deal is convincing other people to worship her and to ascend to godhood.

12. Describe 5 unusual characteristics your muse has.- Even her appearance is a lie- Won’t let anyone touch her- All of her speeches are pre-written- Writes hymns and shit for her followers to sing- Tends to prefer the underdog

14. Are they a team player or do they prefer to be solo?She’s a team player by necessity but she’ll take credit for ensuring the other’s success by her divine power. 

18. Are they a leader, do they prefer to follow, or would they rather just stay on the sidelines altogether?Well she’s trying to be the ultimate leader.  She’s been a follower before and she’ll never stay on the sidelines ever again.

21. Your character has been granted 3 wishes; what would they wish for and why?She spent a long time trying to find wishes and miracles to bring back to life the 3 most important people in her life.  Now she’d just use all three wishes to become a god, because she knows the primary wishes are impossible.

22. Does your character trust people right off the bat or does it take them some time to warm up to someone?Trusts absolutely no one and feels constantly persecuted.

23. Do they prefer romance or affection? What is the quickest way to your character’s heart?After a childhood of isolation, despite being in her 30′s, Coda is very childlike when it comes to love. She still just craves family, rather than romance. Sees the worship and faith of her followers as love.

25. Do they have any weird bedroom habits? Any unusual kinks?Covers up completely so no one can see her as she sleeps.

26. How does your character prepare for bed? Do they sleep at all or can they stay awake for days on end without trouble?See previous. Also she *needs* her beauty sleep.

28. Are they afraid of death? Do they have any regrets?She doesn’t fear death, wants oblivion. Regrets? She has those.

29. Does your character get restless when things are too quiet or do they favour solitude and silence? Why?She can lay up on the act she’s playing when she is alone so she doesn’t mind it.

30. Finally; if your character was forced to eat one thing for the rest of their life, what would they choose and why?idk................ Grapes?

Esca:

2. Does your character have any noteworthy features? Freckles? Dimples? A scar somewhere unusual? etcHer eyes are milky white and hair is oily.

6. If you were to pick one song — and only one song — to describe your character, what would it be and why?Beekeepeer by Keaton Henson

11. What do they think of creation? Do they believe in evolution or do they believe in God? What is their religion like?Serves Goddess of Death, as her family has always done.

12. Describe 5 unusual characteristics your muse has.- Never left the forest she grew up in- Leads people through the forest for money but if she doesn’t like them she’ll let them get killed by the animals that live there- Had a lantern named Ghostlight with magical properties- Found her son abandoned as a baby

14. Are they a team player or do they prefer to be solo?Solo.

18. Are they a leader, do they prefer to follow, or would they rather just stay on the sidelines altogether? - Prefers the sidelines - leaving the sidelines to find her son right now.

21. Your character has been granted 3 wishes; what would they wish for and why?Specifics are secrets, but they’d all be for her son’s benefit.

22. Does your character trust people right off the bat or does it take them some time to warm up to someone?Doesn’t really even know how to relate to people. Has good intuition.

23. Do they prefer romance or affection? What is the quickest way to your character’s heart?N/A

25. Do they have any weird bedroom habits? Any unusual kinks?N/A

26. How does your character prepare for bed? Do they sleep at all or can they stay awake for days on end without trouble?Can go as long as needed without sleep without being impeded upon.  Can sleep sitting up and will wake up at the slightest hint of danger.

28. Are they afraid of death? Do they have any regrets?She serves death so no. She just wants to be laid to rest with her lantern to guide her into death. Has many regrets for how she raised her son.

29. Does your character get restless when things are too quiet or do they favour solitude and silence? Why?Prefers solitude because it’s what she’s used to - being around people is overwhelming.

30. Finally; if your character was forced to eat one thing for the rest of their life, what would they choose and why?Idk like.......... Venison?

Helga*:

2. Does your character have any noteworthy features? Freckles? Dimples? A scar somewhere unusual? etcShe doesn’t have any birthmark tattoos which is noteworthy because her people all do.  She also has 4 scars over her lips, where something big clawed her face.

6. If you were to pick one song — and only one song — to describe your character, what would it be and why?Augustine by Vienna Teng

11. What do they think of creation? Do they believe in evolution or do they believe in God? What is their religion like?Serves the Goddess of Justice.  A relatively newly ascended Goddess, it’s a small community..

12. Describe 5 unusual characteristics your muse has.- You’ve heard of the mom friend… now meet the grandma friend! Knits in her spare time and always has hard candy on her.- Won’t shut up about religion- Trying to purge herself of her feelings of love for someone she shouldn’t love- Has multiple step siblings, doesn’t know who her mom- Teaches civilians how to defend themselves in her spare time

14. Are they a team player or do they prefer to be solo?She’s a great team player unless the team is doing something against her morality. Then she’s impossible.

18. Are they a leader, do they prefer to follow, or would they rather just stay on the sidelines altogether? A good leader, a better follower. She’ll stay at the sidelines if commanded to.

21. Your character has been granted 3 wishes; what would they wish for and why?She’d want to wish away her romantic, ‘sinful’ feelings but she’d feel that was selfish. She’d make her wishes all for the good of others and re-double efforts to rid herself of her feelings.

22. Does your character trust people right off the bat or does it take them some time to warm up to someone?She gives all people the respect they deserve - if those in authority are not using their power kindly she dispatches them. Warms up pretty easily, but doesn’t let people in necessarily.

23. Do they prefer romance or affection? What is the quickest way to your character’s heart?She denies herself romance, but if the right woman swept her off her feet…

25. Do they have any weird bedroom habits? Any unusual kinks?Her culture has many customs, including touching fingers or even hands to each other’s necks be the ultimate form of intimacy and trust. I just want to take this moment to say it’s not a breathplay thing lol.

26. How does your character prepare for bed? Do they sleep at all or can they stay awake for days on end without trouble?Always bathes before bed if possible. Wears special silk armor for pajamas. Likes to have a bed time because she likes routine but can skip it if needed. Doesn’t sleep much regardless. Typically goes to bed after midnight and gets up before the sun rises.

28. Are they afraid of death? Do they have any regrets?No fear for death. The only regrets she would hold is that she could never quench her secret desires.29. Does your character get restless when things are too quiet or do they favour solitude and silence? Why?Likes her solitude but she enjoys the distraction that other people provide.

30. Finally; if your character was forced to eat one thing for the rest of their life, what would they choose and why?Idk probably some kind of bread in connection with her Goddess.

Lois*:

2. Does your character have any noteworthy features? Freckles? Dimples? A scar somewhere unusual? etcUh, probably has dimples. Maybe freckles. Definitely has a prominent cowlick. 

6. If you were to pick one song — and only one song — to describe your character, what would it be and why?Shoot I don’t have a playlist for her...... Idk something like Hero by Pegboard Nerds

11. What do they think of creation? Do they believe in evolution or do they believe in God? What is their religion like?Serves a Cow Farming God or something like that

12. Describe 5 unusual characteristics your muse has.- Middle child of 13- 28-ish and has never left her family farm until now- When I say family farm, that includes extended family - her farm has 200+ people and all of them are related to her or married in or want to- Befriended the Giants living behind her family farm eventually- Family loves and supports her and she gets care packages on the road

14. Are they a team player or do they prefer to be solo?She thinks she’s ready to go for either but she tends to get into trouble when she’s alone.

18. Are they a leader, do they prefer to follow, or would they rather just stay on the sidelines altogether? She’s not ready to lead.... yet. She’s a total Shounen Hero though and gains peoples respect and trust easily.

21. Your character has been granted 3 wishes; what would they wish for and why?N/A

22. Does your character trust people right off the bat or does it take them some time to warm up to someone?Trusts people implicitly - due to an upbringing with virtually no hardships - distrust is earned instead over time.  Except with Family Cow Secrets. She trusts no one with those lmao

23. Do they prefer romance or affection? What is the quickest way to your character’s heart?Wants to sweep a girl off her feet like a real hero.

25. Do they have any weird bedroom habits? Any unusual kinks?Idk would probably be into roleplaying in bed

26. How does your character prepare for bed? Do they sleep at all or can they stay awake for days on end without trouble?Gotta get into her jammies and drink a glass of warm milk every night. She’s used to a happier and cushier life than the others but she’s always used to not getting a lot of sleep and doesn’t lose steam easy.

28. Are they afraid of death? Do they have any regrets?Doesn’t really think about death much - probably doesn’t realize she can die. No regerts!

29. Does your character get restless when things are too quiet or do they favour solitude and silence? Why?Likes when things are exciting and fun but she uses the quiet to study and write in her journal/letters to her family

30. Finally; if your character was forced to eat one thing for the rest of their life, what would they choose and why?Cow’s milk from her family’s dairy farm.

[stag28]

"When Americans try to explain anything that they think is bad about modern Russia, they inevitably blame the Soviet Union. Russians like flashy clothes because they didn’t have them for so long, they say. Or Russians don’t smile because, well, if you’d grown up in the Soviet Union, you wouldn’t smile either. And so on. This makes us feel good about ourselves—we were on the right side of history—but it’s also incorrect. The great disruption, the sea change, far presaged the rise or fall of the Soviet Union. It was Peter the Great, in the late-17th and early-18th centuries, “cutting a window,” as Pushkin put it, to Europe. That genuflection to the West—reorganizing the army, imposing new styles and codes of conduct on the aristocracy, liberalizing universities—may have been right, but it was also brutal and bloody, and it spawned a crisis of confidence, and a questioning or ambivalence about what Russia ought to be that has existed ever since. For the next three centuries, this questioning, very roughly, pitted Slavophiles (those who believed in the inherent goodness of the old Russia) against Westernizers, who wanted to transform the empire into Europe: liberal, less insular, more secular. [..] In the late 19th century, in the wake of the 1848 revolutions in France and Austria and the German and Italian principalities, and the publication of Marx’s Communist Manifesto, the wandering—the battle—sharpened. A radical consciousness opened up. It had been imported from Europe, but, in Russia, as always, it acquired a new ferocity. What had been a desire for polite and incremental reform morphed into a violent nihilism. Change, whatever had been meant by that, would no longer suffice. Now, the only option was to blow it all up and start over. Dostoevsky, who traveled widely in Europe but was suspicious of it, despised passionately the revolutionaries and their desired revolution. He spent the 1860s and 1870s obsessing over Russia’s looming confrontation with itself. [..] it’s unclear which of Dostoevsky’s characters, if any, Putin identifies with. That’s not really the point. The point is that Dostoevsky very clearly delineates right from wrong in a distinctly Manichaean way. Russia, the old Russia, is good, pure—childlike or diminutive, in a way. The West is bad. [..] This sounds fantastical to Americans because we’re an ahistorical people. That doesn’t mean we’re ignorant of history, although there’s a great deal of that, too. It means the categories with which we apprehend the world are not defined by the past, and we can’t really understand how it could be otherwise. [..] when he allegedly helped disseminate fake news about the candidates, it wasn’t because he cared, first and foremost, about the election result. It was because he wanted tens of millions of Americans to doubt the legitimacy of their own election. After all, Putin can’t really be sure Donald Trump will serve Russia’s interests better than Clinton would have. That Trump is so erratic must worry the Kremlin. That his instrument of choice is Twitter must compound those worries. What is beyond debate, however, is that Americans losing faith in their democracy—and the institutions that prop up that democracy, like the media—does serve Russia’s long-term interests."