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jawsandbones · 6 years

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The Romances - Dragon Age: Inquisition

Fandom: Dragon Age

Rating: G

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Summary: A single person can change everything. For Blackwall, Cassandra, Cullen, Dorian, Iron Bull, Josephine, Sera and Solas, the Inquisitor means more to them than they can say. From childhood to present and ever onward, having love in their lives has changed so much for them. The least they can do is give their love in return. An examination of each LI, and their relationship with an Inquisitor who romances them.

Blackwall

He is given orders. A good soldier, he does not question. As he sinks the blade into her belly, he remembers what he was before. Nothing. Pride turned him away from a chevalier. Greed made him a mercenary. Envy made him want more. As he pulls the blade free, blood on metal, he remembers the threat. He was nothing before, can be made nothing again. He is given orders. A good soldier, he carries them out. He takes his men with him to do the deed, and they stand together, bonded in blood. Shame takes him when the bodies are found. Fear, when better soldiers are sent after him. A coward, as he runs. A nothing, as he hides.

In a small place, filled with small people, he fights. For what, he does not know. He sees a wrong, and feels he must right it. Perhaps he thinks it might undo all the wrong he has done. Blood on his knuckles, and a Grey Warden sees more in him than what he is. When the offer is given, the chance to become a Warden, he does not hesitate. Forget the past, right the wrong. When this chance is taken away, the Warden slain, Thom Rainier dies with him. A mockery of Blackwall stands in his place and he can’t forget. Pride makes him try. Greed moves him forward. Envy makes him want more. Regret, and he remains haunted.

The name hurts as much as the deed, and the bond cannot be broken. A mockery of Blackwall, but wanting more, he peels back the lies. The hurt on the Inquisitor’s face and they say they would have understood. Shame takes him as they pace outside his cell. Fear, as he’s taken from the prison. A coward, as he’s put in chains. A nothing, as he kneels before their judgement. The Inquisitor tells him he must take up his true name, his true banner. Face the past, right the wrong. At their side, the name hurts a little less. At their side, he is Rainier once again.

He throws himself wholeheartedly into every single hug. Wrapping arms around them, holding them close. Half the time, lifting the Inquisitor into his arms, burying his face into the crook of their neck. He exudes heat, a comforting warmth, the scent of hay, the sweetness of barns. Around the edges, the sword oil, that iron and metal of armor. Blackwall is a wall indeed, unmoving and strong, keeping all other things at bay. In his arms, it’s so easy to forget the rest of the world, all the things outside of the hug.

He chews mint sometimes, absentmindedly. Something he does, while he works at making wood eagles, figures. They can taste it faintly on his tongue, along with the terrible beer of the tavern. His beard tickles against their face, but he keeps it clean, soft. He gathers them up, and it’s as though they’re being devoured. So gently, so lovingly, but devoured nonetheless. They don’t mind.

Cassandra

She is young as she stands in a hallway empty, as soldiers put hands on her shoulders. Taking her to a cage made of gilded gold, blankets silk and chains of brightest silver. She is young as she is told that her family chose the wrong side, that her parents are never coming back. Living in a place she doesn’t know, under the protection of someone she barely recognizes. She is young as she stands beside her brother in a city made for the dead. They are the living, the ones left, and she begins to understand.

She is older as they lay their burdens on her shoulders. She is told she is meant to be a dragon. Proud and strong, fierce and unyielding. She is told she is meant to be a lady. Polite and kind, courteous and soft. At times, she tries to be one or the other. At times, she tries to be both. None of it matters. She is older as the horse gains on him, she is older as the scythe swings down, and she is older as she watches her brother die. Holding his head in her hands, and she promises herself. She will not bend, she will not break. She is older as she makes a place for herself out of metal and flame.

She is older, she is younger, and she forces herself to the present as she stands on the battlements. Hand on the hilt of her sword, the other resting on cold stone. She looks forward because she cannot afford to look back, to second guess, to rob her life of meaning. All the things she has done, all the things she will do, the wrong she must right. She is a lady when she speaks harshly to diplomat and noble. She is a dragon even as she fights dragons in the field. Cassandra is herself with the Inquisitor’s hand on her back, someone who expects her to be nothing less.

She tries to hide how downright delighted she is as the Inquisitor draws near for a hug. Arms open wide and she’s holding the frown – at least until those arms are actually around her. Smiling against them as she wraps her arms around them, laughing as they sway from side to side. Foot against foot, head against head, and she’s shy underneath their gaze. Cassandra is wild raspberries, green mint leaves, and the edge of blade oil. She’s candles under moonlight, staying up late to read by stars, and all the edges of parchment.

She smiles bright as the Inquisitor tips her back. A testing, teasing, glance, and the faintest blush on her cheeks. Sweetness in the kiss of her, deserving of the laughter in every inch of her. Lucky, to have her and wanting to give her everything she’s ever wanted. The Inquisitor will settle for saving the world for her, and tells her so. Tells her to save them a kiss after. Earning a punch and deeper red, and Cassandra tells them, “I can’t believe you remember that line.” The Inquisitor reads every book she gives them.

Cullen

He wants to be one of them and he doesn’t see it yet. The rust that creeps in around the edges of shining armor, the blood that drips from a flaming sword, the poison in their veins. It feels safer where they are, these Templars, so protecting and proud. He wants to be one of them and can’t see it yet. He doesn’t hear the sickly song in their heads, see the blue in their blood, the chains around their necks. He practices in the barn, a wooden sword against a wooden dummy, pretends himself a shield in the dark. He reads the Chant by candlelight, mumbling the words in his mouth, remembering it in the morning. He wants to be one of them and doesn’t know what that means.

He remembers the first taste of it. The older Templars holding him down, the needle in the Chantry sister’s hands. Finding the vein, piercing through skin. Coursing through his blood, seeping into his bones. A rot, an infection, one of his own choosing. He is one of them and doesn’t want to see it. He knows his vows and the vows he keeps. He is good and faithful, untested, unshaken. When the storm comes, it does not start with rain. It starts with thunder. The thumbs pressed against his eyes. Hands that sink inside of him. Shape him, twist him, break him. Thoughts not his own, speech strange on his tongue. He knows his vows and the vows he keeps, but he stays broken.

It’s made clear in flame and in rubble, and he sees it far too late. He feels the chains choke tight around his throat, squeeze in his lungs. There’s rust on his armor, blood on his sword, poison in his veins, a sickly song in his head. He keeps a vial in a locked box, and the pain is a reminder. In the ruin of who he once was, he pulls at the strings of someone different. The Inquisitor puts a hand on his chest, helps him find something worthy. Safe and solid. They bury the box in the courtyard. Protecting and proud. They tell him he can do this. He feels like quiet. Their hands on his cheeks, silencing the song. Stronger when they hold him

Cullen leans into them. Holding them close, holding them tight, burying his face into the crook of their neck. It’s as though every touch is a parting, a last chance, and this is the only way to show them. How much he wants them, how much he needs them, how much he loves them. Closing eyes, breathing in the scent of elderflower and oak moss. Some stable tree, whose roots are far more fragile that they seem. The Inquisitor keeps him grounded as his hands tremble on their back.

He loses himself in the kiss. An arm around their waist, pulling them in. The stubble of him tickles against them, and he can feel the smile in it. He thinks of the Inquisitor and only the Inquisitor, all other thoughts are erased under their touch. They curl fingers against his cheeks, still tickled, and he can’t help but smile with them. Tipping them back slightly, making them hold onto him for balance, nose touching nose as they laugh together.

Dorian

Each time he loves him, he thinks it might be the last. The last lingering smile around the edge of his mouth, of a gaze that shifts from his to want of a kiss. Of a head that tilts, nose bumping against nose. Warm palm at his cheek, warmer breath on his lips. He worries each kiss will be the last time he kisses him. Arms wrapping around him, holding him close, hand splayed against his back. Between shoulder blades, those last remnants of wings, and there’s some desperation in the way they exchange breath. From lungs to lungs, giving bits of himself on his tongue, taking his in return. He touches him as though each touch is the last time.

Savoring the mornings spent next to him. Sunlight on skin, his head in the crook of his neck. Memorizing the stray strands of hair that slip across his face. Each morning could be the last. Wanting the nights spent at his side. Hands on skin, his mouth on his neck. Memorizing the way he runs a hand through his hair, the coy smile he gives. Needing the moments spent in sleep, legs tangled up together, wrapped up in one another. Eyes opening and he thinks it could be the last. One morning he will wake, one dream he might take, and he will realize.

Dorian loves him, and thinks it cannot last. It will end something like the others. With a quiet, a moment, fingertips slipping away. Better to be alone than to be together. Better to be unhappy than to be yourself. Hiding away, unwanted, unseen. He memorizes the line of his shoulders, the shape of his back. Each time, he has loved him for the last time. Kissed him for the last time. Touched him for the last time.

It’s always the Inquisitor who reaches first, who pulls Dorian into the embrace. Arms around him, holding him close and Dorian doesn’t quite know what to do. Not at first. Slowly letting his hands rest against his back, pulling himself closer. Head resting against head, feeling the Inquisitor breathe against him. Such casual affection, things he could do with no one else before now. Dorian is lavender and spice, fragrant and with an edge. He eases into the hug, holding him tightly as they sway together.

This, this is where he excels. Dorian always smiles first. It crosses his lips, finds its way into his eyes. His gaze never leaves the Inquisitor’s. Reaching for his waist, meeting in the middle. Nose against nose, leaning forward, and he keeps his hands steady at his Inquisitor’s hips. Fingertips that tap a trail up his back at the first touch of lip against lip. Fiercely given on the inhale, exhaling want, sharing air on the next. There’s so much in a kiss, more than words can tell. To do it in front of others, to tell the world: he is mine, I am his.

Iron Bull

Ashkaari. Ben-Hassrath. Hissrad. He’s had many names, earned them all. Names that are armor, a burden glorious and heavy. They put the sword in his hands, and he learns it quickly. They give him a mission, he fulfills his duty. Under the Qun, he is worthy. Some dragon fire licks the inside of his ribs, this cage he holds closed, but the Qun keeps him from burning. Into the fray, he fights. Deep in the jungles of Seheron, he despairs. There’s blood in the grooves of his axe, of both friend and foe. Those who would betray the Qun, those who have betrayed the Qun, and he feels himself falter. He has been a butcher for too long.

Mercenary. Charger. The Iron Bull. He takes on more names, some given, and some taken. Carving out a life unlike any other he’s known, far away from the Qun. In the Qun, he still believes. Hearing the whispers, reporting them back to masters who cannot see him. Who do not know if he fulfills his duty. They do not speak back to him, and the flames still lick at him. Beginning to burn, to ache, a hurt without a reason he can place. Under the Qun, he is worthy. When the order comes, he knows he cannot disobey. The flames will take him, otherwise.

There is worthiness of a different kind, serving the Inquisitor. He has been too long without instruction, takes direction gladly. These orders are not meant to be orders. A choice, in each one – serve, or do not serve. There is no punishment and the Inquisitor still thinks him worthy. The Qun offers him a different choice. Inquisition. Bull. Tal-Vashoth. He’s had many names, earned them all. Some given, and some taken. He thinks he likes Kadan the best.

In this, as in all other things, he is enthusiastic. The Inquisitor thinks he might hoist them onto their shoulders, or at the very least, break their ribs. Squeezing tightly, laughing brightly, and each hug ends in another hug. Bull’s touch is constant, reassuring, there when the Inquisitor needs it most. Hands splayed at their back, safe against the beating of his heart. Bull is earth and rock, the ground beneath their feet. Soil that can be tilled for something more, the earnest and honest Kadan underneath.

The kiss is fire and passion, playful all the same. Warm and warmer, with Bull nothing is ever half-done. From the joy in the first moments, the want in the middle, the love and longing by the end. His hands all over their body, meant to keep them close, keep them knowing that they – his Inquisitor – is the one for him. He has spent so long searching for something he could not name, finds it in the heart of another.

Josephine

They call it a game. The stakes are freely forgotten when she finds it easy to play, an amusement, a laugh. The board, the pieces, and she, not seeing behind it all. A pawn in some larger scheme, moved by some greater power, meant to be sacrificed. Pushing against it all, and there’s silk underneath her palms. Josephine does not fall, but he does. Reaching out towards each other as balance tips, as she can only watch. His head, dashed against the bottom of those steps. She still feels the silk against her trembling fingertips, the sleeve that slipped through her grasp, and the knife rests in the wood at her feet. A waste, and no one else cares. Laughing as they sip their champagne, tell her that it is only the game. She knows she’s not meant for this.

Innocence falls from her shoulders, and a cloak of diplomacy takes its place. She learns guile, persuasion, and all the ways to ply a tongue. She smiles at each turn, gracious and patient, but her kindness is never ignorance. Each promise is backed by knowledge, written word and secrets taken. Alliances forged, disputes solved by force of her will, voice and letter. She takes pride in it all, and remembers a life that has been long passed. Her fingers never forget, a conscience that cannot be soothed, but it will not hold her back, makes her work harder for a future he will never see.

Through the Inquisition, she finds an acceptable challenge. Finding coin where there is none to be had, weaving careful strings between legions. Seeking out common ground, weaving around the masses. Tying them all together for one common goal, greater purpose. There are times, behind her desk and buried in parchment, that she wants a sword in her hand. Regret, in no proper training, of that stain of violence that she could not wipe away. What good are words when they are out on the field – fighting the battles that her quill could not solve? A worry that passes into relief as the Inquisitor steps through the door, arms open wide and her name on their lips.

Jasmine and daffodil, some open field in some distant place, sunflower bright. Josephine’s smile lights a darkened room, battered heart, her hands on their arms. Slowly winding around them, banishing the darkness that seeps from their shadow. The Inquisitor is quick to return it, arms around her waist, lifting her up into their arms. She laughs brightly, holds tightly, whispers words meant only for their ear.

A hand against their nape, pulling them close, fingers at those soft wisps of hair. Fiercely kissed, squeezed against their lips, quickly given and nose bunched against nose. Laughter as they properly align, as they sway together. Footsteps moving to music shared between only them, and this second kiss is softer, pliant. It gives way to the next, and the next, and Josephine, so eager to give them all and more.

Sera

Sera was never an agreeable girl, but she was, once. Hands on her back, on her shoulders, and they are hurried through the streets. Finding an abandoned cellar while the nobles lock their gates and their doors. Street rats and urchins alike, they huddle together in the dark. As the soldier closes the cellar hatch, he tells them not to make a single noise. Sera was never quite the quietest girl, but she was, once. She puts hands over her mouth and listens as Denerim burns around them. The screech of the darkspawn, the answering call of the soldiers. They scream, they yell, they charge, and draw the darkspawn away from the townsfolk. In the morning, Denerim is smoldering ash, and those soldiers line the streets. Sera was never quite the gentlest girl, but she was, once.

She finds a bow and starts from nothing. Painting boxes with targets, cutting her fingers on arrowheads. The others laugh as she practices, tell her she’s better suited for servant work. She is no elf, but she’s no human either and when Sera cuts her hair, she thinks she might cut her ears too. She brings a bow and the others laugh, but her arrows begin to find targets. The next time they laugh, she finds better targets. She stands for herself now, when she might have stood for nothing before, and thinks she could stand for the rest.

Sera finds Friends, belongs to something more than herself. She listens in all the right places, speaks to all the right people. Every arrow is loosed with a shout, a scream, a yell, a charge, and draws the attention towards her. She will not go quietly, not go gently, and Sera will never be nothing. A hand at her back, on her shoulder, and the Inquisitor pulls her to safety. Laughing as they fight together, loud as loud can be. Sera was, once, but Sera is, now, and finds acceptance and pride from her Inky, Buckles, Shiny, Teetness, Tadwinks, Honey Tongue.

Sera shouts as she leaps into her arms, arms out and legs wrapped around her waist. Laughing as she throws her head back, and the Inquisitor is worried for a minute that she might drop her. Spinning around together as Sera whoops and cheers, finally wraps her arms around her neck. Forehead pressed hard against forehead and Sera is still wiggling and squirming, cooing out nickname and oozing syrupy love in between delighted giggles.

Peppering her face with kisses, Sera delights in the laughter of her lover. Covering every inch of her cheeks, down to the tip of her nose. Over forehead and brow, a teasing nibble at her earlobe. Squeezing her face together as she plants the kiss, sways as the Inquisitor holds on. Sera is the sea, an ocean of waves, and her kiss is much the same. Salt and salted, caramel and candy, sweet and sweeter. A smaller kiss after the longer one, the signature of Sera, making sure that her love lingers.

Solas

He stands on the outer edge, stares into bottomless depths. A desert around him, some certain death. Something worse waits behind, follows at his heel. A single misstep and he will fall, fail. This endless chasm was dug so long ago. From its very core came everything that was, everything that is, and everything that could be. Pouring with possibility, it overflowed into the hands of the greedy and they hoarded its great treasures. There’s only one choice. He thinks it’s the right one. He casts a veil, feels it tear at the very heart of him. Solas sleeps, and a history different than the one he remembers is written.

He wakes into a world not his own. Some distorted image of what he left behind, a mirror darkly, sickly, broken. Pale imitations, parchment thin. Ink that bleeds through, stains all it touches. He did this. He did this. Overcome with grief and guilt, he sinks in an ocean of it. Wallowing in all the darkest places, the deepest grave, and knows this cannot stand. Clawing back to the surface, ragged and bloodied, he lays careful plans. He will make it right. He will fix his mistake. But, he isn’t strong enough.

He finds strength in the spine of them, the responsibility resting on their shoulders. Another mistake, another burden he placed on them. The Inquisitor does not falter, fall, fail, strives towards the same goal. To make it right. In the Inquisitor, he finds ghosts become real. Touch solid, words spoken. In his mistake, some solitary flower has bloomed. Regret, in that he must pluck it. All its splendor, all its wonder, and Solas mourns. He asks the Inquisitor to turn away from him. He does not want them to see what he becomes. The monster he knows he is.

He is slow to ease into it. Startled at the first, the arms around him, and the cheer in which the Inquisitor hugs him. It’s as though he thinks he doesn’t deserve it. Soon he softens, shoulders relaxing, not quite so stiff. A smile that spreads as he hugs them back, although he is quick to break it. The scent of him lingers, lavender and lilac, but some deeper earth underneath. Rich soil, roots that spread far. When the Inquisitor leaves, they do not see the way he ponders it, his arms around himself, wondering at the ghost of their touch.

To kiss is another matter altogether. Those times when Solas is swept in the wave of feeling, unabashed and unafraid, taking the Inquisitor into his arms. To hold them tightly, bend them back, a leg between theirs. Slipping a tongue into their mouth, feeling them melt into his embrace, into his kiss. Always some satisfied smile afterwards, and then, another kiss, just there, on their cheek. Some signature, a lasting memory, a mark to call them his.

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mikkeneko · 7 years

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The conclusion, for now, of the ‘Blackwall’s cover gets blown by the actual Grey Warden in the Inquisition’ saga. There may be a few more Anders and the Inner Circle vignettes later, but they won’t specifically deal with Blackwall. (Probably.)

Anders mounted the stairs towards the Skyhold great hall, and noticed with some misgivings that there were few other people around. A messenger had come to the infirmary not long before, asking his presence for 'the judgments of the Herald.' Yet unlike all of the other judgments the Inquisitor had performed -- including his own -- this one seemed to be private, without the general public in attendance.

He stopped in the antechamber, arrested by the sight of the people gathered there. Blackwall was there, as was Leliana -- and, somewhat to his surprise, Iron Bull. The Iron Bull leaned up against the wall behind him, his pose and expression casual but his gaze sharp. Why had Adaar chosen to bring him into this? For support, insight, or perhaps just to make sure that Blackwall didn't run? Either way, it was hard to read past his air of affability to discern what he really thought of what was going on.

One look at Blackwall's face told him everything. The warrior didn't look bewildered, or anxious, or angry -- his shoulders were slumped, his back hunched, and the face beneath the bushy beard was wracked with lines of guilt and grief. He had the look of a broken man, who knew his fate and was resigned to it.

It was all too familiar a feeling to Anders. After a moment's hesitation, he swallowed and stepped across the antechamber to Blackwall's side. "Listen," he said, hating himself even as he did so. He'd ruined Blackwall's life, blown open his secret, probably destroyed his chances with Adaar; he wouldn't blame the man if wanted to hear nothing from Anders ever again. But still, he had to say it. "I want you to know that I'm… sorry for how this turned out. I didn't wish any harm on you, on anyone."

Blackwall hunched down further, but after a moment, he grunted out, "I know." He looked up at Anders, his eyes dull and face drooping. "You… I don't blame you."

"You don't?" Anders said, startled.

"No… telling her the truth…" He slumped even further. "It's the right thing to do. I should have told her months ago… I meant to, but I just didn't have the strength. You… had the strength I lacked."

Anders nodded; the lump in his throat blocked any further speech. He backed away, and the Iron Bull met his gaze and gave a wave of his hand like a lazy, informal salute.

The doors to the hall opened, and they all turned to look as Josephine stuck her head out of the doorway and beckoned them inside. "The Inquisitor is ready to begin," she said, her softly accented voice struggling for a neutral tone.

Blackwall stood up, keeping his head bowed, and trudged into the great hall. No chains for him, Anders noticed, although the Iron Bull shadowed him all the way in. For such a big man, he did a remarkable job of making himself unobtrusive, Anders thought.

After some hesitation, Anders followed them in. The messenger had summoned him, after all; his testimony as a Gray Warden might be required. He wished Cole were here, to confirm his story if needed.

It wasn't needed. Blackwall -- or Thom Rainier -- denied nothing. Neither the lie about his identity, nor the crimes for which he had initially been wanted. Nor was he a Gray Warden, although he insisted that he had in truth been recruited as one -- the real Warden-Constable Gordon Blackwall had met him in a tavern while on the run and decided to take him on as a recruit. During their return journey to Val Chevin, the real Blackwall had been killed by darkspawn and Rainier had made the impulsive decision to take his place.

Anders had no trouble believing this account of things -- either that the Grey Wardens would choose to recruit a wanted criminal if they showed promising skills, that the real Blackwall was more likely to have met an untimely end at the hands of darkspawn than his prospective recruit, or that the criminal Rainier would have felt such an overpowering desire to stop being himself and start over as a new man. None of the testimony had the feel of a lie -- over the years since joining with Justice, he'd found that he could almost always tell truth from lies. Belatedly, he wondered if that ability was why Dian had asked him to attend.

The cross-examination was brief, conducted mostly by Leliana while Adaar sat stone-faced on the throne. It was the ornate monstrosity fashioned after the flames of a pyre that Anders remembered seeing from his own judging, although it seemed today that all the energy and animation had been drawn out of the metal itself, leaving the blades of fire frozen and unmoving.

At last the inquiry came to a close, and all present -- Josephine, Leliana, and the Iron Bull -- looked up to the Inquisitor for a conclusion. After a long silence she stirred, and her voice filled the empty hall.

"Gordon Blackwall is dead," she said, the words ringing out like drawn steel. "He died with honor, serving with the Inquisition to defend the world from Corypheus. Word of his sacrifice will be spread across all the land." At this she glanced over at Bull, who met her eyes and nodded in understanding.

"For obvious reasons, you cannot remain in Skyhold any longer." Her cool, stony eyes settled back on Rainier. "You must depart this keep by nightfall, and anything left behind will be destroyed on Blackwall's pyre."

Rainier bowed his head, eyes squeezing closed. Anders saw a flicker of quick motion at Dian's through, like a gulp of air. "However..." she said. "If Thom Rainier were to come to Skyhold, seeking to lay down his life for the cause and serve the Maker and his bride in penance for his sins... then he would find a place here. If he were willing to face the censure of those whom he deceived, those he has wrongs, then he could have that chance.

"All who seek to stand against evil are welcome. No matter your sins, Andraste makes it clear: With a penitent soul, you can be forgiven. With a brave and compassionate heart, you are not unworthy of love."

Rainier looked up, stunned and disbelieving. Anders could sympathize. Josephine looked like she might cry, and even the Bull cracked a small smile.

"I would recommend a change of clothes... and a shave," Leliana told him dryly.

"Thank you," Blackwall -- Thom Rainier -- choked out, his voice barely a whisper. "Thank you, my lady… Inquisitor."

��Anders knocked on the door to Adaar's quarters, hoping that she would be willing to see him quickly; his hand was already going numb from the tin he carried. "Lady Adaar?" he called out. "It's me, Anders."

After a moment she opened the door; her eyes were red again from weeping. "Oh, Anders," she said, sounding tired. "Come in… can I help you?"

He cleared his throat. "Actually, Lady, I was hoping I could help you," he said. "You've had a pretty trying day." Pretty much the only one whose day had been worse was Thom Rainier; he had left Skyhold already, and the Bull's Chargers were already in the tavern beginning to spread stories of "Blackwall's" heroic death.

Dian shook her head. "I've lived through worse. I don't know why this should hit me so hard," she said, a touch of desolation in her voice. "I tried to do the right thing, I think I did the right thing, but…"

Anders nodded understanding. "But it still feels bad," he said. "Missing him, knowing it's your own actions that drove him away; that you hurt the one you cared about, however necessary."

Dian nodded. "Yes," she said, almost a whisper. "It does feel bad."

"I don't think it would be a lot of help to tell you that you did the right thing, or try to suggest that everything will get better later on," he said. "For tonight, all you can really do is try to think of other things, and try to feel a little better."

"How?" she said despairingly.

"Well, that's what I brought this for." Anders held out the tin he carried, frost creeping up the sides. An oversized metal spoon stuck out from the corner, under the lid. "Here."

Dian took it, frowning slightly in perplexity; she moved the top off and sniffed, and her eyes widened. "Chocolate?" she exclaimed. "And… is that alcohol I smell?"

"Well, yes, but only a bit," Anders admitted. "I had to get the chocolate from Josie, and a few other ingredients from the kitchens, but… It's an old Circle recipe, there's not an apprentice who doesn't learn it from the time they start casting frost spells. It's called creamed ice, and you can mix it with fruit, cheese, yogurt… or chocolate. In the Circles it's said that there's no better remedy for a broken heart."

Dian smiled. She opened the tin and took up the spoon, eyeing the ladleful of brown goop with a doubtful gaze for a moment before she licked her. Her eyes widened. "It's amazing!" she exclaimed.

Anders smirked. "What can I say, magic has its uses," he boasted.

"It certainly does." Dian sat down on the couch in front of her fireplace, the tin seeming much smaller in her hands. She looked up at him and managed a small smile. "Thank you, Anders."

"It was the least I could do," he mumbled. "After… all the trouble."

"It's enough," she said. "That you cared."

They sat in silence for a few moments, consuming the cold treat in small nibbles. At length, the peace was broken by a small sniffle.

"Do you think he'll come back?" she asked, and Anders perched on the back of the couch and laid a hand on her shoulder.

"With you to come back to," he said, "I'm certain of it."

#inquisitor adaar #adaar/blackwall #mikke fic #sit in judgment: anders #anders meets the inner circle #dating age 2

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inadarkdarkroom · 7 years

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I Told You So

In the late ‘80’s I moved to a small town called Mercer Island just outside of Seattle to live with my aunt and her three daughters. I had just gotten out of one of those “troubled kids” institutions that I still blithely refer to as a reform school, and needed to enough credits to graduate.

I was totally cool with it. My aunt is a lovely woman and I did not want to go back to England where my dysfunctional immediate family lived. Fuck Margaret Thatcher, you feel me? I’d gotten used to living in the states after spending my entire life as an ex-pat.

When I first moved in with my aunt she’d been living in Winthrop, Washington, a small town in a county the size of Rhode Island but with only one stop light. But my aunt was getting her degree at the University of Washington, and Mercer Island has one of the best high schools in the state and she wanted to make sure her kids had a better chance of getting into the colleges of their choice, so we moved there soon after I moved in with her.

Mercer Island was, and is to this day, a very insular, wealthy, and tony community. And the people who lived there(not all of them, but most), were very pleased with themselves that they lived in a little John Hughes movie-type neighborhood. Which meant that there was fuck all for the local kids to do.

There had been bowling alleys and video arcades and an all-ages venue, but the parents had complained that these places were not in the Mercer Island spirit of making sure their kids were staying at home and hitting the books and making them proud. So pressure was placed, letters were written, complaints were filed, and one by one all these places went out of business. Then the parents would loudly bitch and moan and wonder why all their kids were dying in drunk driving accidents on the floating bridge coming back from keg parties held in Seattle eight miles away. It’s amazing how adults’ cogent thoughts and logic reasoning tend to disappear once they can afford a BMW...

What this meant was that there were two places for teenagers to congregate on Mercer Island. One was the parking lot at McDonalds, and the other was the local Denny’s. Years later, after I’d moved to Seattle, the local Parental Fun Police decided to take on this particular den of iniquity as well, with the end result that Mercer Island wound up as being one of only two places in the US where the Denny’s wasn’t open 24 hours, closing at 11 on weekdays and midnight on weekends.

So I’m now a senior at a real American high school after spending my entire life overseas. Sure, it’s in the middle of a overprivileged white ghetto, but the school is top notch and I’m making friends. And my friends and I would go and hang out at the local Denny’s, drink endless amounts of cheap coffee and smoke Camels and bullshit.

So one night my friends and I go down to Denny’s and I wind up meeting George Russell, who is hanging out there as well, and we sit at his table with him.

George Russell is charming. George Russell is loquacious. George Russell is well read. George Russell makes eye contact when talking to you, his handshake is firm. George Russell is also one of the very few black people who live on the Island, and all my friends who are quite sheltered are glad to have their One Black Friend to prove they aren’t that quite sheltered.

I could care less about his ethnicity or my friends’ attempts to gain street cred. I’d just spent eighteen months in a reform school after being kicked out of a British military academy I hadn’t wanted to go to in the first place, I have nothing to prove.

And like I said, George Russell is quite a fellow. That night we talk about comic books, and the publishing houses of Dark Horse and Fantagraphics, literature, movies, politics, foreign policy. George Russell’s a smart chap, and quietly self-effacing. Purposefully harmless.

But George Russell is also in his thirties, and while I understand the allure of associating with an older individual, especially if that older individual can buy your underage ass beer, that older individual is still hanging out with your underage ass.

And George Russell also has a police scanner on the table in front of him. Every now and then he would cock his head to the side to hear what was coming over the airwaves, pausing the conversation to hit the squelch button and fine-tune the frequency. Later that night, two cops wandered into the joint for some comped coffee and they give George Russell The Nod. George Russell gives The Nod right back. I ask him about it. Quite pleased with himself, he informs me that he does “some side work” for the local PD. My friends assure me that George Russell is cool. Don’t worry, he’s not a narc. He just helps them around the office. Also, he gets all the chicks. George Russell is the man.

But this sets my spidey sense tingling. I’m only eighteen, but I’ve already been around the block a few times in quite a few different neighborhoods in several different countries. And I’ve just gotten out of a reform institution. I can judge body language and vocal inflection and eye movement, and there’s something about George Russell that doesn’t add up. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s so self-effacing and purposefully harmless. Maybe it’s the fact that he screams Cop Groupie. And trust me, people who are Cop Groupies should set your antenna twitching. But no matter. As a minor acquaintance, he’s a good conversationalist.

So George Russell would buy my friends beer, hook them up with whatever shitty brick weed they were desperate enough to smoke, sometimes hang out with us at parties. We would chat a little bit, the two of us. But in the back of my mind I thought him an unctuous creep with a bad case of the smarm so we didn’t associate.

After I graduated I would still spend time on the Island, and I would run into George Russell here and there. By this point I was using my Swiss passport as a “fake ID” and my gift of the gab to get it past the liquor store clerks’ limited understanding of French and German so George knew he couldn’t sidle up to me and be all like “Hey bro, you need a half rack of Rainier? I can totally get it for you.” So we’d just give each other The Nod, and that was it.

One night I was hanging out at the Bellevue bus station waiting for the #220 to arrive. I looked over to the side and saw this girl nearby. Poor thing. She was probably barely seventeen and covered in makeup and her slumped posture and guarded body language just screamed “Get me out of here. Please. Take me away from this godforsaken dump and knock me up with two brats to beat in the double-wide while you’re working triple shifts at the brewery to pay off your Camaro lease, I don’t care. Just get me out of here.” My heart went out to the poor girl. Even though I was barely out of my teens myself I remembered how awful they could be.

Just then a voice said “Hey Dude. What’s up?”

I look over and there’s George, all smiling and harmless. He bums a smoke from me and we take in the night. He notices my pitying look at the sad case off to the side and apropos of nothing busts out with “Yeah, I noticed her too. Wanted to go over and say something and cheer her up, you know? But you know how it is. A black man in a town like this talking to a white girl? I’ve got to watch myself..”

The bus arrives. We stub out our Camels and get on board, he in the front with a magazine, me in the back with my Walkman and my thoughts. And my thoughts were this: What the fuck?

First of all, while Bellevue was another well-to-do white neighborhood on the East side, it sure as shit wasn’t Alabama. And yes, by this point I’d been living in the States for a few years and had realized that outside some cities it was kind of a racist shithole populated with really spiteful ignorant cunts who didn’t know jack and hated anyone that did. But it didn’t mean that if you needed to pull that Ralph Ellison Invisible Man shit, that Bellevue was the place to do it.

Second, every single other brother I knew would not for a moment have said something like that, much less to a white boy like me. Public Enemy was king, Malcolm X was years away from hitting the movie theaters but Africa medallions were omnipresent, NWA was pissing off both the cops and Tipper Gore in equal measure, no way somebody with any kind of self respect would up and announce that statement. Unless it was something they thought it was what you wanted to hear.

I remember looking at George Russell in the front of the bus and thinking to myself that yes, he was an unctuous creep with a bad case of the smarm. But there was something else. Something I didn’t like. I scanned my thoughts for racist overtones, but honestly could not find any.

Look, I understand if you’re a diplomat or a spook(Note to readers: Spook as in the pejorative of a member of the Clandestine Services, not that other pejorative. Please take a short fall off your high horse) or a diplomat who’s a spook or you’re an undercover cop and you want to blend into the background and not attract attention. I get it. But if you’re a normal citizen, a citizen, and you’re going out of your way to be unseen? There’s something going on.

And there was something going on with George Russell. And it made me suspicious that he told me what he thought I wanted to hear. Moral of the story here, if you’ve got spidey sense, listen to it when it tingles. It’s there for a reason.

A few months later one of my friends had a party at his apartment. He was one of the few of us who had one and because it was on the quiet white East side instead of Heavily Armed Hobo Junkie Alley where my warehouse was in Pioneer Square, all my friends would go there instead.

George Russell was there, doing hot knife hits off the stove and flashing that famous smile of his. Making small talk and minor physical contact, little pats on the back or touching your forearm when talking to you, like a waiter angling for a bigger tip or Bill Clinton hitting you up for a campaign contribution.

I remembered that night at the bus station and kept my distance. Just gave him The Nod, got it back in return. So far, so good.

George Russell soon left to go on a date, leaving behind the better part of a case of Henry Weinhardt’s for my friends to toast his early absence with. That was the last time I ever saw him. I don’t think I even touched a drop of his beer bribe, I just concentrated on the Afghani Blonde I had smuggled back from overseas the year before, so cut with henna it was like smoking designer shampoo.

Once again I voiced my personal opinion of his character to my friends, but they were white kids barely out of high school and so stoked to have a homeboy to high-five with, that they assured me I was just paranoid and definitely not as def and down with it as they were. My manners dictate that I don’t mention that they live in a fucking Disneyfied suburb where the most dangerous thing they have to deal with is drunken frat boys at TGIFriday’s.

The next morning a man walking his dog spotted what looked like a body by a dumpster near a nightclub noted for it’s blond and brainless clientele. The local homicide arrive in their unmarkeds and discover a twenty three year old female vic, naked and strangled and raped and most unsettling of all, posed. Laid out on the sidewalk like Jeebus on the cross, legs folded over each other, arms akimbo and outstretched with a pine cone carefully placed in each open palm. She’d been kicked so hard her liver had split open against her spinal column.

This is one was not a crime of passion. This one had had time spent on her. This one had been used like an object to send a message. This is not good.

Even though it’s a singular instance in a small town with a small police force, to give them credit they wise up quick. They swallow their pride and send an assistance request to Behavioral Science at Quantico.

But the Feds have a backlog a mile long and two miles wide. Everyone knows Washington State has the highest number of serial murderers in the nation, but the hard-ons in wingtips have been burned before out here. They’re still smarting from the fact that the Green River Killer has evaded capture for decades, burned up countless man-hours with nothing to show but the occasional awkward press conference. We’ll look into it. We promise.

About a month later a man broke into a woman’s apartment that she shared with her two young children. He raped and beat and strangled her to death, then placed her corpse on the bed posed so that when her kids came into the room the next morning to find out why she hadn’t made them breakfast before taking them to kindergarten, that the first thing they saw was the shotgun he’d inserted into her vagina and left there.

The suspect was a secretor, and the semen samples matched those of the woman found in the parking lot the month previously. The press dubbed him The East side Killer, and noted the two victims were habitues of local nightclubs where popped-collared douche bags flashed cell phones the size of bricks to impress the type of women easily impressed by a fucking cell phone.

Less than two weeks later, The East side Killer struck again. This one also was caught napping. Beaten with a baseball bat so badly her brains splattered all over the bedstead, he had then taken a knife and stabbed her almost three hundred times from her head to the soles of her feet, left her corpse with a dildo in the mouth and a copy of The Joy Of Sex tucked under what was left of her right arm.

By this point the Boys From Virginia With No Sense Of Humor had come on the case post haste. They sent out John Douglas, whose character Scott Glenn in The Silence Of The Lambs was based on. Overworked and seriously underpaid, he wound up with brain fever caused by exhaustion and almost died in a cheap hotel room in Seattle. But he recovered and continued to work the case. Posited that all three murders were the work of one man. Definitely a Cop Groupie. Maybe an African American, skilled at blending in white society, maybe brought up in white society.

This was big news. Serial killers go on the hunt inside their own ethnic backgrounds, at least, that was the given up until this happened. Douglas discussed how white American mono-culture had become so entrenched in media that it had become easy to imitate for outsiders. He was proven right when forensics found the pubic hairs found on all three vics were African American.

Meanwhile, good old George Russell was still being good old George Russell. Cheerful and good-natured and pleasant. But chinks were appearing in the armor. Ex-girlfriends now found him hostile towards them, whereas before he had always been Mr. Smooth. Whereas before he had always been modest, now he was cocky and arrogant.

One of the reasons George Russell had been doing “some side work” for the PD on Mercer Island was because he had been arrested a lot as a kid for petty crimes, and the local police had taken him under their wing to try and straighten him out, give him errands to run and a vision of a possible future that didn’t involve a vision from behind bars.

But it hadn’t taken hold, and they knew it. When the word was being spread around cop shops from Bothell to Bellingham that the suspect was an African American perhaps brought up in white society, they just knew. After all, Mercer Island was pretty much white society.

When they arrested him they found personal belongings of all three victims on his person. And although DNA testing was still considered science fiction, and expensive science fiction at that, they put up the scratch to have it done and it came back positive. He smiled and joked with them as they put on the cuffs. This is all a big misunderstanding fellas. Don’t worry, we’ll all have a good laugh about this later at Denny’s. Ha ha, you guys....

Good old spidey sense. It saved me from being subpoenaed. Because we didn’t associate I never had to stand up on the witness stand and point him out to twelve tried and true. A neighbor of mine with whom he’d had a relationship later told me he once confided to her that I scared the shit out of him. He was probably lying. If he wasn’t then it was probably one of the nicest things anyone has ever said about me. Friends, acquaintances, they weren’t so lucky. Summons servers slapped paper on them and they had to go to King County courthouse and see the glossy technicolor close-ups placed on an easel for evidence, Kodachrome enlargements showing battered bags of meat that had once been mothers and daughters. Human beings turned into bloody mush out of rage and anger and hatred hidden behind a smile they’d all fallen for.

And there, in front of them in a snazzy sport coat and tie, seated grinning by his grimly aware public defender, was George Russell. Giving them little waves of encouragement. Hey fellas. Sheesh, can you believe this? What a world, eh?

In Washington State they still hang you, you can decide between the noose or the needle if you get the death penalty. Fucking barbaric either way, I suppose. George lucked out with three consecutive life sentences. No possibility of parole.

Walla Walla isn’t the worst place to do time, but prison is prison and inside your word is bond. Some chancer who fancies himself a smooth mover with a fancy line of patter isn’t going to get much credibility no matter how brutal the crime. Last I heard he’d been attacked while in the yard, had his throat sliced ear to ear with a piece of broken light bulb. Whatever genius for a day trying to make his rep wound up missing both carotids, so George survived. Probably still trying to weasel his way into the upper incareration echelon. Hey Dude, remember when you tried to kill me? Ha ha, good times, Bro. Good times..

My friends were astounded and creeped beyond belief. None of them had known any of the victims, but George Russell had been their buddy, man, their bro, and their bro had turned out to be a fucking great white shark in their very small pond. They were lucky they were minnows, they just didn’t realize it. I’m not a cynic, I’m a realist. Very few cynics get to say I told you so as often as I do, but in this case I kept my mouth shut and didn’t remind them of the times I had warned them about him.

At this point I’m working two jobs while taking night courses at the UW in filmmaking. Evenings I’m bouncing at the Moore Theater to feed my concert habit, but by day I’m back at Mercer Island working at a video store, pretty much getting paid to get a filmmaking education of another sort. And the housewives would come in and chatter about the local boy turned serial killer, getting a slight frisson as they discussed the case over little cups of overpriced frozen yogurt.

I’ll never forget a comment made by one of these people that sort of made me see it from George Russell’s perspective, which was really creepy in and of itself. These two women were talking, and one of them said: “Well, you know he was never reallyfrom Mercer Island. He just moved here as a child.”

I almost wanted to scream at them what fucking idiots they were. They were so soft and suburbanized and stuck up that one of their own had started hunting them for sport and taking their lives as trophies but hey, at least he wasn’t really from the neighborhood. Their property values weren’t compromised. Hooray for them.

If you don’t believe me google George Waterfield Russell(Because remember all serial killers have three names, natch), but be prepared to see blurry cop polaroids of a dead and naked woman with a shotgun inside her.

But the point of this story is, is that Bundy was arrested in Florida, Bianchi was tried in California, at the time this all went down Green River was still considered a bad place to turn tricks, this means that I used to hang out and get high with the first convicted serial killer in Washington State.

And he was a total creep.

#serial killer #serial killers #George Russell #George Waterfield Russell #scary story #scary stories #true stories #true scary stories #serial killer story #true serial killer story #i told you so #washington #green river killer #ted bundy #mercer island

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barbecuedphoenix · 7 years

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200 Followers: 11 Things About Me

So I was re-tagged a week ago by @eldarya-scenarios. (I had no idea I tagged you twice, dear. ^_^ Having two aliases is awfully sneaky.)

If you’re a little curious on who your friendly fan blogger is behind the Leiftan icon and the barrage of text-winks, feel free to read on. Watch out though: it’s a long post like everything else I write...

And if not, please continue to enjoy this blog’s smart-assery and the text-winks. ;)

1) Why did you name your blog the way you did? ...Because that’s the screen-name I use for my main Eldarya account. I’m not very creative with names. :( Not to mention that it’s probably very politically-incorrect to say ‘Barbecued Phoenix’ in the faery realm. Huang Hua would not be amused. And my blog is guaranteed to be politically-incorrect as far as folklore and faeries are concerned. ;) My screen-name is actually homage to a Neil Gaiman short-story called ‘Sunbird’, which is still one of my favorites from its double serving of dark humor and culinary catastrophes. And it sounds really funny when you say it out-loud (at least that’s my opinion).

2) What was your last meal? *checks bowl next to laptop* Eh… a fruit salad I scraped together from some Rainier cherries and leftover cantaloupe slices. It’s summer here, and I enjoy my fruits. :)

3) Jeans or skirts? …I must have at least nine different pairs of jeans in my closet, half of which I don’t even wear most days. And just one pencil skirt. Because at least once in my life, I’ll need to go to a court room. So there’s your answer. :)

4) What’s your favourite letter of the alphabet? In the English alphabet, ‘L’ is my favorite. It just rollllls off the tongue so nicely. :)

5) Favourite fandom/shipping? I’m a mercenary crack-ship writer. Anything goes so long as characters are in-character. ;) *cough* Truthfully, I haven’t shipped anything in a fandom since I was eleven or twelve, and that was waaaay back when the cartoon series Avatar the Last Airbender premiered. I think that experience has inoculated me to serious shipping. So now, while I enjoy seeing a well-developed, well-paced canon romance (because it means the creators have really thought the story through), it’s never a huge concern for me who’s paired up with whom. Romance isn’t actually the selling point for me for a lot of stories; it’s individual character development and plot direction that counts. And anyway… fan shipping is really a fabrication. With a bit of imagination, effort, and tactical writing, functional relationships can be spun between anything and anyone, and unraveled in the same way. Even when keeping all parties in character. So why blow a gasket over shipping? To each their own dirty little fancies. ;)

As for my fandoms… they’re a patchwork quilt of games, books, movies, TV shows, anime from a lot of different sources, and it changes every year. For the sake of time, I’ll give a rundown of just the fantasy/supernatural genres I’ve been following for a while (translating some of the titles to English when possible):

Games: the Dragon Age series, Folklore (also called FolksSoul), Uncharted, the Persona series

Books: Discworld, His Dark Materials, the Dr. Siri Paiboun series, the Temeraire series, The Tiger’s Wife, Brisingamen, pretty much anything done by Neil Gaiman… the list goes on. With a few rare exceptions, I’ve shifted from being a high fantasy lover (those tropes get old after a while) to an acolyte of more low-key genres like magical-realism, fantasy-historical-fiction, and satirical-fantasy.

TV Shows: Supernatural

Anime & Cartoons: the Fate series (even though my fanfiction ends up making fun of it 95% of the time, it’s still a really intricate universe), the Avatar series

Movies: Practically anything done by Studio Ghibli and Tomm Moore, ‘Coraline’, ‘Corpse Bride’, ‘Therapy for a Vampire’, ‘Let the Right One In’, ‘Groundhog Day’, the very first installation of ‘The Hobbit’

6) What’s your favourite sport? (You don’t necessarily have to play it) Favorite sport I can’t do, but love to watch: Surfing. Forget berserk football matches; give me a crazy Australian riding a tunnel wave any day. :D Favorite sport I can do: Bicycling. I’m no Tour de France candidate, but my bike regularly takes its share of unreasonable hills and descents in the city where I live. Personally, It’s a great way to get around. ^_^

7) What’s your idea of a perfect day? Getting everything on my list done with minimal coffee and hair-pulling. -_- Sorry… I’m still listening to the robot half of my brain. Switching over. Start the day by making a difference and sharing a good time with both the students I see where I work, and the odd friends and colleagues I do have. Attend a really good lecture. Then take a quiet bus ride to the beach or an aquarium, where I can watch all the wildlife shenanigans I want. Tourists included. Cook something awesome for lunch or dinner, and eat it to discover that it’s still more awesome. End the day with a good book, an avalanche of blankets, and a conveniently-rainy night. And maybe a quick Skype/phone call with my dad. ;( Oh there I go, listening to the sappy half of my brain. Switching over.

8) What animal do you hate with all your soul? The logical part of my brain tells me I have no cause to loathe any animal for existing. But the cave-woman part of my brain still gets creeped out by a few of them…. Geckos especially. Because the house where I grew up was infested with them (like a typical equatorial house, actually). The geckos could be found on absolutely any flat surface, even the underside of the table and on the ceiling, so we always had to check right before sitting down that something cold, bug-eyed, and squirmy wasn’t going to drop on us in the middle of dinner. And they also liked to appear in other surprising places: like in your shoes (as my father found out one day while rushing to work), inside drawers, inside trash cans, crushed between door hinges, trapped in the kitchen sink, and inside the refrigerator a couple of times (worst idea ever, for a lizard). One of the best things that happened to me on moving to this corner of the United States: no geckos anywhere. I can clean my apartment with an easy heart. \o/

9) Can you dance? Besides some lingering muscle memory from my early days doing classical ballet... no. :( I’d really like to take up Spanish Flamenco though. Generally, I do better with choreographed dances rather than impromptu club-dancing. As all my friends have told me. I’ve given them so many priceless memories on the dance-floor…

10) What’s the name and age of your favourite character? (OC or otherwise) I can’t decide on a ‘favorite’ character in media; there’s too many of them. So how about a favorite OC instead? ^_^ Right now among the Eldarya OC cast, my favorite would have to be Zephania ‘Zee’ Tantiango because she’s a magnet for trouble as a protagonist very dynamic heroine to work with. (She’s 23, in case you’re interested.) Zee is actually the latest incarnation of the ‘funny-but-unlucky action heroine’ archetype I’ve spent years working on, and I’m happy with how she’s turning out so far. On one hand, she’s the typical small-town heroine who’s sharp, plucky, energetic, and more than a little kooky herself; the story never stops moving once she starts improvising in a tight situation. :) But there’s a strong undercurrent of tragedy in the way she continues to isolate herself through her pride and her decisions, especially because she’s allergic to either admitting that she’s in real trouble, or cutting herself some slack for her mistakes. There’s a lot of sadness behind that finger-snap smile. I’m still debating on whether to give her a good ending, or a bitter one. :( No, that was not a spoiler for the fan-fiction that’ll one day hit this blog.

11) What got you into your favourite activity?(i.e how did you start?) Favorite activity? Like… a hobby? Well the longest-running hobby I’ve ever had is writing (no guesses there). And it was more-or-less self-taught. As a kid, nobody could take me anywhere without a book in my hand, or some other adventure happening inside my own head (which made it awfully inconvenient to get my attention in a mall… but hey, I never wandered off). And writing short stories was always the most entertaining school assignment for me. But it wasn’t until I started home-schooling at thirteen that I found the time and need to write something for myself, putting to paper those increasingly-complex sagas and fan-fictions that lived in my head (because my short-term recall just couldn’t keep track of all the dialogue and plot twists anymore; I needed to start recording my stories to make sense of them.) And I haven’t stopped since. :)

Uh-oh. Here come… my questions. For @mentacomchocolate, @areyntheheartseeker, and @the-irish-hoor.

Why did you name your blogs the way you did? ;)

What would your honest personal reaction be if you accidentally stepped into a fairy ring, landed in a strange place, and got threatened by a fox-lady wielding fireballs?

What’s your dream job in this life?

Is there anyone you have a crush on that you’re still really embarrassed to admit? Would you like to mention them anyway? ;)

If there’s only one book genre you could spend the rest of your life reading, what will it be?

What are the top 5 things you geek out over? (Today, at least. ;) )

If you’ve been given a 24-hour advance warning that the world is definitely going to end (i.e. via Death Star), what will you do?

And if you’ve been given an exclusive two-person escape pod during above scenario, what/who would you bring with you to escape the planet? Would you want to?

If your friends can agree on one thing about you, what would it be? Do you agree with them?

What’s the most embarrassing thing that happened to you this past week?

What do you remember as your most incredible feat of endurance to date? Physical, mental, and/or social?

*looks up* ...All right, those are some weird questions. I won’t blame you at all if you ignore them.

#Q&A #tag post #blog milestone #200 followers #OC: Zephania

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papirlife · 7 years

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Good day my dear readers, I sincerely hope that you are all having a fantastic day!

Now, you must be thinking, ‘what the hell is a blog dedicated to books and the lot doing with a post about movies?’, well since it’s October, the month of the Sabbath and a period of terror and also Friday the thirteenth, I decided to kick off the month with some much-needed horror.

So without further ado, let me introduce you to some of my favorite horror movies!

1. Silent Hill

After the continuous sleep walking episodes of Sharon, Rose Da Silva’s adoptive daughter, a decision is made to take Sharon to the place only mentioned in her restless dreams, Silent Hill.

However, the road to Silent Hill is anything but easy to encounter, and when Rose enters into a high-speed chase with a police officer, she inevitably leads both herself and the officer into an accident.

When she wakes up, Sharon has disappeared and Rose is at the entrance to the deserted, dream-like town of Silent Hill.

As she begins the search for her daughter, she begins to see the true terror and mystery that encompass the fog riddled town before her.

Rose is led on a blind search for her beloved child, but ends up finding herself getting more and more entwined into disturbing past of Silent Hill.

It is, in every sense of the word, Hell on Earth.

Silent Hill was originally a survival horror video game franchise, whose games were well known for their intense, psychological stories and downright terrifying game-play.

The franchise had gained popularity with their first release, ‘Silent Hill’ in 1999. However, many fans would agree that the sequel, Silent Hill 2, was by far the most disturbing of all of the games.

The movie for the Silent Hill series was released in 2006, and as far as horror movies go, was generally well received.

I watched the movie a few years ago, and I have to say that it remains one of favorites to this day.

In my opinion, it combined the elements of horror very nicely and I honestly fell in love with the concept of Silent Hill after watching it.

Fair warning though, the movie is very gory and disturbing as far as I remember and it is not recommended for the faint of heart.

2. The Ring

At first, it sounded like just another urban legend – a videotape filled with nightmarish images that leads to a phone call foretelling the viewer’s death in exactly seven days.

Newspaper reporter Rachel Keller is skeptical of the story until four teenagers all die mysteriously exactly one week after watching just such a tape.

Allowing her investigative curiosity to get the best of her, Rachel tracks down the video and watches it herself.

Now she has just seven days to unravel the mystery behind the tape, and save her son’s life in the process.

The Ring is an american remake of the 1998 Japanese horror movie, ‘Ringu’, which in turn was based on the ‘Ring’, the first of a book series written by Koji Suzuki and published in the 90’s.

I watched this one a few months ago and I have to that it is by far one of my favorites.

‘The Ring’ doesn’t use blood and gore to terrify its viewers, instead it focuses on the elements of psychological horror and while it might not necessarily scare you shitless, it will disturb you and creep you out to no end, and after watching it you’ll still be thinking about it days later.

There might also be that silly bit of paranoia that you’ll die after seven days of seeing the movie, I distinctly remember that very thought in the back of my mind that stayed in my head for a week after I saw the film.

‘The Ring’ delivers a kind of horror that stays with you, no matter how many times you try to be beat it down. Because, you see the thing about good horror, is that it never really dies.

3. Insidious, Chapters 1 and 2

Josh Lambert and his wife Renai move with their three children, Dalton, Foster and Cali, to a new home, in hopes of a fresh start.

However, one day when Dalton is exploring the attic, he falls from a ladder and hits the head on the floor.

The next morning, Dalton does not wake up and he soon falls into a coma, but the doctors are not able to come up with a concrete diagnosis.

Three months later, strange events begin to occur in the Lambert household and Renai soon starts seeing apparitions.

She is sure that the house is haunted and convinces Josh to move again. But things are no different, if not worse in the new house and this time Josh does not believe his wife when she tells him of the spirits she has seen roaming the halls of their new home.

That is until his mother, Lorraine tells Josh that she had a vision of a fiend in Dalton’s room.

Frightened and desperate, the Lambert’s take Lorraine’s advice and invite the medium and Lorraine’s old friend Elise Rainier, who brings her team of ghost hunters to investigate the supernatural phenomena in their home.

Elise explains that Dalton has gained the ability of astral projection and his spiritual body is lost in a place called the Further that is not meant for the living and the entities there are gathering around him, trying to get inside his empty physical body.

Among these entities there is a demon that needs Dalton’s body to complete its malicious agenda.

And to complicate matters even more, Lorraine discloses that Josh had also once been a traveller and may very well be the only person who can bring Dalton home.

I like the Insidious series for its take on the this ‘Other world’ of sorts that was deigned for the dead.

It’s a very creepy place to be, and definitely not somewhere you’d want to end up. This movies essentially go hand in hand and Chapter 2 pretty much continues the story from where Chapter 1 left of.

Insidious Chapter 3 is an older story that takes place before the events of Insidious but I didn’t really enjoy it as much as I did it’s predecessors.

The movie in general is very creepy, the music ties into the film really well and it’s chock full of jump scares that’ll keep you on the edge of your seat.

It’s also got a good story line, which is a little surprising for a horror movie and it’s overall a must see movie for the season of Halloween.

4. Hush

A deaf writer who originally retreated into the woods to live a solitary and peaceful life must fight for her life when a masked man arrives at her window with a fierce determination to kill her.

Now, I get it, just by the summary, it sounds just like one of those cheesy horror flicks you’d watch when you’re bored but trust me ‘Hush’ is way better than that.

It’s not really the idea of the movie that makes it so great but it’s more so the way it’s been made.

In no way, shape or form is the heroine ‘weak’ or ‘helpless’ as heroines are often depicted in the horror genre. Instead, she’s just as determined to survive as her killer is to murder her.

And she might not be able to hear, but she uses her wits and intelligence to outsmart her would be murderer.

This is one thriller that will for sure have you on the edge of your seat, even if it doesn’t sound too enticing at first glance.

5. The Woman in Black

Arthur Kipps, a lawyer and recently widowed and grieving the loss of his wife, is sent to a remote village to put a deceased eccentric’s affairs in order.

But, soon after his arrival, it becomes clear that the villagers are hiding a terrible secret.

Kipps discovers that his late client’s house is haunted by the spirit of a woman who is trying to find someone or something she lost, and that no one — not even the children — are safe from her terrible wrath.

Now, I watched this a very long time ago and I can’t really tell you much about it aside from the fact that the movie gives off a very creepy vibe in general.

And that it runs along the same lines as the Insidious series.

So in my opinion, if you liked Insidious then you’re sure to like the Woman in Black.

6. The Conjuring

In 1970, paranormal investigators and demonologists Lorraine and Ed Warren are summoned to the home of Carolyn and Roger Perron.

The Perrons and their five daughters have recently moved into a secluded farmhouse, where a supernatural presence has made itself known.

Though the manifestations are relatively benign at first, the situation soon escalates with a horrifying intensity, especially after the Warrens discover the house’s macabre history.

This was a very creepy movie as far as I remember and it does a really good job of making your hair stand on end.

That being said be sure to add this to your Halloween horror movie list because like all the others, it’s a real creep show.

Well, those are the only ones that I can think of right off the top of my head.

Now, keep in mind, I love horror and anything there is to do with the genre and because of that, I’ve pretty much watched every horror movie Netflix has to offer and then some.

And most of the time, the movies I watched sucked and as far as I remember, these are the only ones that stuck with me over the years and they are the ones I enjoyed the most.

These are all movies that incorporate the fear factor more than blood and guts.

They might not necessarily scare you outright but they’ll always be at the back of your mind on those dark nights when you can’t sleep.

And that’s when they’ll really scare you.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this post and please do let me know what you thought, and as always, happy reading!

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Horror Movies to Watch this Halloween Good day my dear readers, I sincerely hope that you are all having a fantastic day!

#halloween #horror #lists #movies #thriller

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