#the one with faith's story

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Good morning, Sleepyhead.

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[dollya-robinprotector]

Once upon a time... Reference: Hylas and The Nymphs by John William Waterhouse

[tritoch]

i know a lot of people (very understandably) dislike the paladin job quests in ffxiv, particularly HW, but i do think it's fun that, now that the pre-ShB MSQ revamp is complete, paladins now have a very cool and thematic in-game storyline that happens without a word being spoken: the development of passage of arms.

none of the below is directly stated in the script, but imo it's a fairly obvious gloss on what the game presents, if you assume a paladin warrior of light. spoilers for all expansions through the end of 6.X.

in the new version of steps of faith, as vishap breaks through each ward protecting ishgard from attack, lucia mounts a final desperate effort to hold him back, with a very familiar looking animation:

but even lucia can't hold back vishap's flame alone, so the temple knights surge forward to assist her. their efforts make the shield visually more powerful and larger. the temple knights here band together in defense of ishgard, and their knightly resolve to protect their home is the difference between victory and defeat.

lucia and the knights do ultimately succeed in defending the last ward, as you have to defeat vishap before their shield falls or you lose.

later in heavensward, obviously, we will get ffxiv's most famous (failed) attempt at blocking something with a shield.

this moment can be read as fairly impactful on the warrior of light's development; as i've noted elsewhere, after the trauma of watching haurchefant bleed out in their arms at level 57, at level 58 paladins learn to channel their magic into healing (and it's called "clemency," or mercy. mercy for whom? who was guilty?), and as someone pointed out on that post, at level 58 dark knights used to get "sole survivor", letting them heal in response to a marked target's death.

for a time, you literally carry haurchefant's shield with you, and 3.3 very much literalizes in genre fashion the idea that even when you are standing alone, your fallen friends stand with you. you don't need to call any allies to stand at your side and raise their shields with you because they are already there, in spirit.

stormblood marks a pretty important turning point in the warrior of light as a combatant, in my opinion, and the text makes this clear in several ways. first, in pretty much all your jobs, you've now far exceeded your trainers and are pioneering new techniques. this is no less true of paladin, which for 60-70 abandons any trainers at all for you to show off your peerless skills in a tournament.

second, stormblood is straight up a story about you getting stronger. at level 61, zenos kicks your ass. at level 70, you kick his ass. why? because you fought and got stronger and developed incredible new techniques and became a one-man army.

for a lot of classes, this story lines up nicely with the big rotation changes or flashy new finishers on the way from 60 to 70. SMN is now busting out bahamut and casting akh morn; RDM gets verflare and verholy; DRG starts harnessing nidhogg's power directly through dragon sight and nastrond.

the tanks are divided in two: warriors and gunbreakers get huge damaging upgrades at 70 in the form of inner release and continuation, each of which lets them hit the same button many times for lots of damage and satisfying animations. paladin and dark knight get more protective abilities; dark knight gets the blackest night, and there's been plenty said about that already by pretty much everyone.

paladins get passage of arms. instead of a relentless new attack (and you get requiescat at 68, which is a way bigger deal for your dps rotation), your big reveal at 70 for zenos in your fight in ala mhigo is a superior way to protect your party, a shield that lets you stand for your allies so they never have to fall for you again. it's lucia's same shield, except you need no allies' shields to reinforce you, proof of your martial prowess and your ability to transcend limits, and perhaps in truth a reminder that you never really stand alone.

in many respects passage of arms should really feel like a paladin signature move to you now if you are playing it at this point, because you should be popping it in pretty much every fight (you are using your mits, right...?). basically every FFXIV fight has at least one big AOE with downtime that warrants passage of arms usage, usually after the mid-fight add phase with slowly filling bar. since that AOE usually drops during downtime, there's no reason not to pop passage of arms (which otherwise restricts your movement and actions), and even on normal, sometimes every little bit counts on a damage check even if it means dropping DPS (thinking here of harrowing hell P10N on release, which was...less consistent for a lot of roulette parties than you might hope).

so from 70 onward, passage of arms is in a sense a paladin warrior of light's signature move, and certainly the one a player gets to most actually enjoy (since if you're using it, you're by necessity not doing anything besides moving your camera and admiring your sick animation). it doesn't have any competition in terms of spectacle until confiteor, and those you're usually throwing out in the middle of movement.

it's such a signature, in fact, that the only other person shown using your one-person version of passage of arms is your greatest admirer, who studied your legend for over a century.

and it's when he fails (should've popped arm's length, bud) that the warrior of light decides they can't let their friends fall for them, and sends them away with the transporter beacon. this is all wrong: you were meant to die for them, not the other way around. yours is the shield that stands between your allies and defeat. it is you who will win this passage of arms and break your opponents lance. and you do.

and then later, when they need to quickly establish zero's domain as a place of fallen grandeur, the home of someone who once believed in heroes but is now a cool and cynical vampire hunter d, what do they use? a decayed statue of someone in the paladin endwalker gear doing the passage of arms animation, of course.

from a visible instantiation of knighthood as a joint effort to defend what is sacred, to a tribute to the fallen friends whose memories stand by you and animate you, to a symbol of the wol's power as emulated by their allies or darkly mirrored in other shards.

not bad for a mit button you hit once per fight and otherwise never think about!

[zzztlk]

I'm filipino and I've been following your art on insta for a long time but didnt know much about ties that bind, so when I found out that raegan was filipino and you were also an SEA artist it was super cool bwehbdhe

Happy to hear anon!

[lynxalon]

i've seen a fair bit of... pessimism about dorym lately, esp with the ep107, for example wondering if dorian's opposing views on the gods making orym fall out of love, and i have to say. i very highly doubt it, ur fr talking about the man who has held on to will for so long, holding onto will's family and affectionately calling this *his* family too because that didn't stop when will died. i dont think falling out of love is an option or even a thought to orym.

that said, we know that orym has contingencies for if anyone in bells hells crosses the line into being a version of themselves they would despise, for anyone who jeopardizes their mission. his mission. i think, for the first time since knowing dorian, orym finally has a contingency for him. the longer dorian is back, the more orym sees how scarred he is by what's happened (understandable so) and knows that dorian is with bells hells all the way. but if he isn't...

[botanautical]

'We all yearn for the woods. That's why every fellow on this island wants to settle down near a tree - just one will do.'

[shalom-iamcominghome]

Something interesting I've noticed about conversion stories is many people seem to have both a rebellious streak and a deep-seated, insatiable desire to learn everything.

One of my shul's well-respected members (who runs the hebrew/judaism class that will start soon) talked about how, when he lived in my town, he would sneak out of the house just to go to shul. That's what I'm doing now, and it's funny (I'm not sneaking out per se, but I am also not telling anybody I'm going to shul). There's an aspect of free-spiritedness that I notice in many converts, and it's fascinating to hear each of their stories. And you know the funniest part? They sound like my story.

[amaltheas-garden]

people still shocked that in the year of our lord 2024 some of us don't want to see Dany get her 'happy ending' by becoming the white savior who was promised

[general-cyno]

apparently it's the 15th anniversary of zoro's sacrifice in thriller bark (not sure if manga or anime though) so yknow. time for more zolu of course

one of the many things about zoro and luffy is that despite how their approach to certain situations might differ at times, they're still pretty similar at their core, sometimes to a comical degree (see: their definition of what a hero is back in fish man island arc). and this understanding of how the other works is what leads to moments like jaya,

this little one in water 7/enies lobby,

and follows consistently all the way to wano arc.

and I was thinking the other day about how their childhoods too kinda mirror or parallel each other's in a way that emphasizes (to me, at least) how special zoro's particular protectiveness toward luffy is, and why luffy relying on zoro that way is just as special.

the specifics of their childhood stories are different but both luffy and zoro have a turning point of sorts that's marked with the grief and loss of sabo and kuina, respectively, which leads them to say these:

(I cropped the panels, but luffy's also crying here)

it's important to note zoro and luffy had dreams/aspirations before this, to become the greatest swordsman and luffy's secret thing that we've yet to learn about (that ace, sabo and the crew now know). however, losing kuina and sabo is what prompts them to, on top of that, strive to become stronger for other people's sake. for zoro, it's his way to honor his friend and fulfill their shared dream. for luffy, it's to avoid losing the people he loves.

throughout the story, zoro and luffy end up expressing similar frustration and sentiments due to this. there's zoro innerly chiding himself for being too weak as he trains in the aftermath of arcs like little garden, alabasta and thriller bark, where the crew get stuck in situations in which zoro isn't able to help as he wishes he could (the wax cake, the sea prism stone cell, kuma). there's luffy swearing he won't lose a single member of his crew even if it kills him (the davy back fight) and reproaching himself for not being able to save any of the straw hats in sabaody, with the worst of it right after losing ace in marineford.

(and man do I have thoughts about bon turning into zoro, out of all the straw hats, back in impel down.)

anyway. as to why all of this is meaningful - when zoro agrees to join luffy, he mentions that his goal to become the greatest swordsman is all he has. yet as the straw hats go from journey to journey, and with a certain emphasis in luffy, you can see how zoro's view slowly shifts. he's now driving himself to become strong to protect them as well, to the point he's willing to set aside his ambition and offer his own head in exchange for luffy's, if it means he can ensure luffy's life and safety. that's huge. as mihawk inwardly points out, zoro has something, someone he values even more than his ambitions and pride. and it's through his adventures with luffy and the crew that he becomes closer to achieving that initial dream of his.

whenever people wonder why zoro's as loyal as he is to luffy, aside from all the reasons why luffy as a character has earned that loyalty through his actions, I also remember that one line koushiro said to zoro in a flashback: "the pinnacle of swordsmanship is the power to protect what one wishes to protect and cut what one wishes to cut. a blade that injures all that it touches isn't really a sword." while sure, it works in the context of later power ups like haki, imo it perfectly captures zoro's character growth too and what luffy's given him. the current zoro isn't lost or directionless with only one purpose in mind or to live for, bounty hunting as a means to survive. he has a home to return to, people to cherish, to protect and keep getting stronger for, people who nurture him in turn. kuina's death is something zoro couldn't have prevented, and losing people in accidents like those is something that could happen again, but still within the limits of what's preventable - zoro can protect his friends now.

as for luffy... zoro kinda steals the spotlight when it comes to grand gestures of loyalty/devotion and being the MC of the story means luffy fights for different people (both crew and non crew), carrying their wishes and hopes as if they were his own. he gets help and learns from others as well and all members of the crew are important for luffy to achieve his dream one way or the other, but the way he relies on zoro specifically is so subtly meaningful to me. we don't get as much insight on luffy's inner thoughts, still, we do have context.

for someone like luffy, who is at his innermost genuinely terrified of being alone and losing the people he loves, the fact that he trusts zoro to protect and keep everyone safe (even luffy himself) is so good. as shown above, luffy vowed to become strong in the first place to ensure he'd never go through loss like sabo's again and this vow is all the more renewed after ace's death. luffy has to be strong for everyone but... the fact that he can trust zoro to follow his lead even when others might not understand his reasons to do x or y, that he's so unwavering in his faith that zoro will protect the others when luffy can't, entrusting the people he cares about to zoro, whom luffy also cherishes - it's all pretty special. everyone in the crew has their strengths and zoro may not be the only fighter, but all of them, including sanji, fall under his protection whenever it's needed.

it's not only about raw strength though. zoro's also there to set luffy straight and remind him of what's important when the circumstances arise, like in water 7 or punk hazard. and even when they don't necessarily agree, like wrt vivi's situation after the reverie in marijoa, luffy knows when zoro's right and acquiesces (albeit grumbling a little) because, once again, he's also aware that zoro wouldn't just risk everyone's safety. luffy listens to him. and their reunion in wano too, luffy's sheer happiness at the sight of him again, is a very clear example of how much luffy adores zoro even beyond all that.

although luffy isn't aware of what happened in thriller bark (that we know of), zoro's actions are proof of why luffy trusts, has faith in, and relies on zoro as much as he does and why it's so important for luffy to have him by his side, considering how afraid he is of being unable to keep his loved ones safe. this is more on a speculative note, but I can imagine how comforting that must be for luffy - to not shoulder that on his own.

happy anniversary!

[orchid-n-petals]

So I've already shared parts of this on a discord server, but I have to scream about Ketheric Thorm on here as well. Obviously spoilers about the character under the cut! It's a long one.

The entirety of act 2 is about him, right? Jaheira, Shadowheart and numerous other NPCs shit on him for his fickle faith. First Selune, then Shar, then, as we meet him, Myrkul. You hear about his changes of faith on a whim, you hear that he's the person responsible for the shadow curse, he is painted as a villain, plain and simple.

You can figure it out pretty early on that Isobel was resurrected and that she is his daughter; the detail as well that he wants Isobel alive is so on the nose, it gives him away completely but there are still a few questions that remain unanswered, mainly about his faith.

And then you get to the mausoleum and the picture assembles; this entire tragedy, the death of hundreds if not thousands and the complete ruination of a landscape was all, ALL because you had this absolutely wrenched, heartbroken father who had lost everything and nobody answered his grief. He was left woefully alone, the Goddess whose daughter his daughter was involved with did nothing to save Isobel.

Imagine outliving your wife and your daughter. Imagine dedicating your life to fight the Lady of Loss, your Lady of Silver's enemy, and then be left so completely alone and in silence with your grief, with your loss. It's so, so poetic how and why he turned from Selune, and it's so understandable as well; he broke. His spirit completely broke. He couldn't deal with that void of having lost the only two important people in his life, seemingly undeservedly so. He was going mad with this and a lot of his ire was likely targeted at Aylin who, in his eye, represented Selune; she's literally her daughter, after all, and it was implied that even before the deaths of his family, he sort of saw Aylin courting Isobel as Selune taking his daughter from him, despite his service. This relationship was clearly not seen by him as a boon of "giving his daughter to the Moon-maiden".

His ways in the past clearly didn't spare him from tragedy and having to cope with it (which he clearly didn't, he snapped under the weight of his grief). He was clearly angry and unable to do anything, furious and helpless, which is a dangerous combination. A good part of his first change of heart must have been fuelled by a sense of revenge.

But then Shar didn't provide any balm to his aching heart either. If you read his letters in Grymforge and in act 2, he is so focused on enacting the will of Shar because he believes that healing lies in oblivion. Everything would be easier if he could just forget, if the damn world could just forget, if nothing was remembered because without Melodia and Isobel, nothing was worth remembering.

Then came Myrkul. Literally the only god who was not only able, but WILLING to give back his daughter to him. Imagine spending your all, EVERYTHING you have to serve two gods who would not give a single shit about the greatest suffering in your life. You were basically nothing, your loyalty didn't matter for shit, everything that was taken from you amounted to no recognition whatsoever: you should simply cope and seethe. Your grief will not simply go unanswered (which is not inherently antagonising) but ignored.

And then comes this supposedly evil entity who can alleviate your pain just like that, snap of a finger and it's a done deal.

I am so serious when I say that I believe Ketheric's main incentive was to extend Aylin's immortality to Isobel as well. You can read in her diary that she feels a taint after having came back, and there are things not even Selune can cleanse, but at this point, Ketheric doesn't care about Selune, vengeance is secondary if not tertiary, he's done that war during his Shar years and what did it give him? Literally nothing.

He doesn't even care about the fact that Isobel is still her cleric. He cares about the single most important fact: Isobel is back. Life is worth living again, there is something for him, and it was not Selune or Shar who gave it to him but Myrkul, and for this singular gift, he would raze the world for the Lord of Bones. Like people can clown on him for being disloyal but the man has the loyalty of a dog bonded to its owner.

He is powerful and is willing to go to insane lengths for crumbs. What is raising a single life for a god? Nothing. It has happened and it will happen again. But Ketheric will go to the ends of the earth to serve the single god who actually listened to him. The one god who didn't ignore him.

He knows that what he does is not the morally upright thing! He is so insanely self-aware that allying with Orin and Gortash and doing this entire plot with them only to then betray them is morally reprehensible at the best of times, he knows that people hate him, etc-etc. He was a Selunite at one point and he's not stupid. He just doesn't care; it could be literal Asmodeus and he wouldn't care as long as he got what he wanted, no matter the price.

He is probably the only one from the three of the chosen who has complete clarity over his situation, he almost sways (if you pass the check during his confrontation), he is not an inherently evil man blinded by power.

But he is inherently loyal to those deserving, and as of the story's standing, completely broken by his grief. In his eyes, at this point, the only one deserving loyalty is the one who actually listened to him. Isobel lives. It doesn't matter that she hates him, that his entire life has fallen apart, that literally nothing else that is good has come of it, because Isobel lives.

I don't think he regrets a single thing. His consciousness might tear at him at the end, but I believe he would do everything over again, exactly as he did, because in the end, his daughter was brought back. Because what would a grieving, broken parent give to bring back their child? Everything. Absolutely everything. And it's such a simply given answer, no second thoughts, no doubts.

Nobody can tell me that this man is fickle. Nobody. This man was willing to burn the world to the ground, create a Boudica destruction layer all by himself for the one single thing he wanted. For any God that would listen.

I don't know, I just have a lot of thoughts about his character.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Broken Roofs and Fixed Perspectives

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[whitehartlane]

HARRY KANE (10) & SON HEUNGMIN (7) OF TOTTENHAM HOTSPUR The greatest partnership to ever exist in the world of football. “When you turn, I will be always there.”

BBC Sport / Kane and Son break the all-time record for Premier League goal combinations / The Guardian / Kane-Son trademark celebration during Liverpool 1-1 Tottenham, 07th May 2022 / Kane-Son trademark celebration during Manchester United 1-6 Tottenham, 04th October 2020 / Kane-Son trademark celebration during Aston Villa 0-4 Tottenham, 09th April 2022 / Kane-Son trademark celebration during Tottenham 2-0 West Ham United / Kane on Twitter after assisting Son on 4 goals against Southampton / Tottenham 1-0 Burnley, 26th Oct 2020 / Nice to Mich You, Son Heungmin / Premier League / Kane and Son hug during Manchester City 2-3 Tottenham, 19th Feb 2022 / Kane and Son hug during Tottenham 1-0 Crystal Palace, 20th Sept 2015 / Kane consoles Son during the Carabao Cup final against Manchester City / Kane and Son celebrate during Tottenham 5-2 Southampton, 26th Dec 2017 / Commentator on the Kane and Son partnership / Tottenham 2-0 Arsenal, 06th Dec 2020 / Caption from ‘Heungmin Son and Harry Kane guess their Premier League goal combinations’ / Stray Kids, I am YOU / Kane and Son celebrate during a 6-1 game against Leicester City, 18th May 2017 / Kane and Son celebrate during a 4-0 game against Everton, 13th Jan 2018 / Kane on Twitter / Frank O’Hara, ‘Morning’ / Kane wins the Golden Boot 20/21 / Son wins the Golden Boot 21/22 / Kane assists Son against Southampton / Caption from ‘Heungmin Son and Harry Kane guess their Premier League goal combinations’ / Mitski, Francis Forever / YouTube: Record breakers! Kane & Son react to becoming Premier League’s most deadly duo! / FootballJOE on Twitter, referencing Son’s trademark goal celebration, the ‘camera,’ through which he is looking at Kane / Gang of Youths, ‘Achilles Come Down’ / Kane and Son celebrate their goal against Arsenal / Kane on his relationship and link-ups with Son / Son and Kane on Instagram / Kane and Son after Kane assisted Son on four goals against Southampton / Tottenham 3-2 Ajax, 08th May 2019 / cr. Shaun Botterill, Getty Images / Commentator on the Kane and Son partnership / Tottenham 3-2 Manchester City, 19th Feb 2022 / Caption from ‘Heungmin Son and Harry Kane guess their Premier League goal combinations’

[marlynnofmany]

Small-Scale Comedy

A lot of the time when our little courier ship makes deliveries to alien planets, the captain will send someone of the customer’s species for the hand-off. It puts them at ease to see a familiar face and all that. Usually. Other times, the customer is of a notoriously egotistical species, likely to feel affronted if the delivery person has a shinier exoskeleton than they do.

Guess which today was.

“Good greetings,” Mur said, looking up at the insectlike bundle of limbs that loomed over him. Our customer for today was colored in white and the palest pinks, edging into more vivid red at the ends of her legs, and the blades of her pincher arms. She looked like a murderous flower.

And while we had two perfectly eligible Mesmers back on the ship, one of whom I’d accompanied on similar deliveries before, Captain Sunlight had decided to send in two of the squishiest crewmates instead.

Mur lifted the package with half of his tentacles, using the rest to hold himself up at a respectable height. I stood behind him with the payment tablet. I tried to stand very still.

Instead of grabbing the box or offering to pay, the customer called imperiously for someone to come open it for her. We were indoors, in what I’d thought was an empty room aside from all the tables molded from the same brown clay as the walls, and the copious amounts of junk on them. (Buildings here were made of the classiest mud I’d seen in a while, with burnished tabletops and patterned walls. But the mess of scientific equipment and photography supplies was much less classy.)

One of the locals scurried out from one of the many holes in the wall that I’d honestly thought were decoration, but now that I thought about it, there had been a balcony at about that height outside. No need for elaborate doorways when you’re shaped like a centipede.

Yeah, our customer was a large bug person spending time among smaller bug people. This was a comparison that was probably only amusing to me, so I kept it to myself. I’m getting good at that.

The centiperson — no idea what they’re actually called — scuttled over and took the box from Mur. This looked like a risky operation to me, and I had my hands out to catch it just in case the leg-sized whatever toppled over backward, but everything went fine. Their many top legs clung to the box while that long body curled into an S, and their bottom legs skittered over to set the box on a table. Then the centiperson manipulated the combination lock with some very skilled little leggies, and opened the box.

The Mesmer swooped in to pull out a sheet of what looked like tiny stickers, muttering and inspecting it for flaws. When I was starting to wonder if Mur or I should remind her that she still needed to pay for the delivery, she handed it off to the centiperson, whose many legs handled it with more dexterity than her little wrist fingers could. Mesmer pincher arms are excellent at doing damage, but not great for detail work.

“Right, yes, money,” she said, turning back toward us. “Put those on the three in the test chamber!” That part was for her assistant, who was already climbing up onto a table full of terarriums and lightboxes. “Tell me they’re doing better!”

I held out the payment tablet. She grabbed it with a pincher and typed in her information, making me glad for the thick rubber casing on the edges. We could have used a metal case for it, but Zhee had demonstrated how easy those were to dent by crushing one with his own pinchers. It had turned out like a work of art.

“They are healthy,” reported the small voice of the centiperson. “I have applied the cameras.”

“And?” demanded the Mesmer, striding over without giving the tablet back. “Show me!” She peered down into a white-sided box that currently had a lot of lights aimed at it.

Before I could ask, something happened in the box to make the Mesmer exclaim in frustration and lift the tablet skyward. Mur made a noise, worried just like I was that she was about to smash it.

But instead she just stalked back over and thrust it into my hands. “Here. Either of you know much about animals?”

I, with my veterinarian training, had to answer, “Yes.” Mur was pointing at me with multiple tentacles.

“Good. Tell me what is wrong with these animals.”

I found myself ushered over none too gently, while the centiperson moved aside and the Mesmer spoke at length about the videography work she had come here to do.

“The final thing I need is a point-of-view recording from one of these, and I have acquired the absolute smallest of camera tabs, and I am starting to worry that the local population is diseased.”

“Why?” I asked uneasily. The white box held three tiny whatevers, each smaller than my last finger joint, as brown as the walls. They had froglike hopping legs, though none seemed interested in going anywhere. Their faces were pointed like bird beaks, and an itty-bitty camera tab sat on each head like a tiny hat.

“Their jumping is impaired,” the Mesmer said from above me. I made a mental note not to turn around quickly. “And I know that it’s not the cameras throwing them off; those have the molecular weight of smoke. I’m more concerned that something is wrong with all of the creatures here. None of the ones we’ve caught can land on their feet.”

To demonstrate, she stuck a pincher blade into the box, which made the three not-frogs scatter.

Wow, she’s not kidding, I thought as they landed on everything but their feet. They scrambled upright quickly enough, but that was some spectacular tiny pratfalls.

From right next to me, Mur asked, “Is there a disease that causes that?” He’d climbed onto the table himself, and was watching with interest.

“It’s possible,” I said. The centiperson was observing in silence, and I asked, “Are they always like this?”

“Yes.” The answer came quickly, in a flat voice that suggested this conversation had happened before.

The Mesmer waved a pincher arm, folded this time. “The entire population may be suffering from something, either a creeping illness or a low-level poison.”

“It could be,” I said slowly, watching the centiperson turn their head toward the ceiling in what looked an awful lot like exasperation. “Or these animals could be built like a small animal on my planet, with a similar problem.”

I had all their attention now.

“What problem?” demanded the Mesmer.

“Their inner ear is too small to work properly,” I said, gesturing toward the side of my own head. “The part that senses which direction gravity is pulling. It has fluid that needs to slosh around, but the channel isn’t big enough to do it.”

There was silence for a heartbeat, then Mur said “Wow,” and the Mesmer said, “WHAT?”

The centiperson just said, “That makes sense.”

“An entire species can be like that??” exclaimed the Mesmer, stepping back to where she could gesture without hitting anything.

“We did tell you,” said the centiperson.

“I thought it was toxins!”

The centiperson looked at me. “The common name for them is ‘headhoppers.’”

“I thought they had a habit of jumping onto people’s heads!”

Not replying to that, the centiperson produced a little hand net from the far side of the table, and deftly scooped up the tiny not-frogs. They really were about the size of Pumpkin Toadlets, just not bright orange, or fully frog-shaped. Once these had their tiny camera-hats removed, they tumbled willingly into a terrarium full of plants.

“Well,” Mur said, “That’s interesting.” He hopped to the floor with a splat.

The Mesmer was complaining to the world at large that fate was cruel and she’d never get the recording she wanted.

I looked to the local. “Are there any similar animals that are a little bigger?”

“YES.”

“Did you already tell her that?”

“Also yes.”

The Mesmer whined, “They’re nocturnal.”

“Flashlights exist.”

I stepped away from the table, careful to bring the tablet with me. “I’m pretty sure you can come up with a workaround. You should listen to your local expert here; sounds like there’s a wealth of information ready and waiting.”

The centiperson spread many legs and looked skyward, which looked grateful to me. The Mesmer grumbled but didn’t say no.

Already halfway out the door, Mur said, “Good luck with everything!”

I echoed the sentiment and followed him with a wave. The centiperson waved back: a rolling motion along one side that looked especially jaunty. The Mesmer’s arm motion was more of an “Ah, whatever,” but I’d take it.

“So tell me more,” Mur said as we walked back to the ship. “The tiny animals on your planet land on their faces every time? How are they still alive?”

“Well, they’re too small to really get hurt by it,” I said with a shrug. “And I’ve heard it said that any predator is probably laughing too hard to eat them.”

“Yup, that’s definitely it. Your planet sounds hilarious. I’d love to visit someday.”

“You should!” I said. “It’s a great place. Though you know what other animal jumps like that? Fleas.”

“What’s fleas?”

“Oh, let me tell you about fleas.”

~~~

The ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book. More to come! And I am currently drafting a sequel!

[hydrachea]

WHAT ARE WE.

[citrenecult]

Ahaha I’m making a CotL AU. I’m calling it the Reborn Gods AU, where after the end of the game the bishops are reincarnated into new gods, because I think it could be fun!

Notes:

-They keep their old names, but have no memories of their old life.

-They are still gods but don’t have the same power without their crowns so they don’t have a following.

-Young gods let loose on the world with no direction sound very chaotic don’t you think? :)

[bookshelf-in-progress]

A Wise Pair of Fools: A Retelling of “The Farmer’s Clever Daughter”

For the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge at @inklings-challenge.

Faith

I wish you could have known my husband when he was a young man. How you would have laughed at him! He was so wonderfully pompous—oh, you’d have no idea unless you’d seen him then. He’s weathered beautifully, but back then, his beauty was bright and new, all bronze and ebony. He tried to pretend he didn’t care for personal appearances, but you could tell he felt his beauty. How could a man not be proud when he looked like one of creation’s freshly polished masterpieces every time he stepped out among his dirty, sweaty peasantry?

But his pride in his face was nothing compared to the pride he felt over his mind. He was clever, even then, and he knew it. He’d grown up with an army of nursemaids to exclaim, “What a clever boy!” over every mildly witty observation he made. He’d been tutored by some of the greatest scholars on the continent, attended the great universities, traveled further than most people think the world extends. He could converse like a native in fifteen living languages and at least three dead ones.

And books! Never a man like him for reading! His library was nothing to what it is now, of course, but he was making a heroic start. Always a book in his hand, written by some dusty old man who never said in plain language what he could dress up in words that brought four times the work to some lucky printer. Every second breath he took came out as a quotation. It fairly baffled his poor servants—I’m certain to this day some of them assume Plato and Socrates were college friends of his.

Well, at any rate, take a man like that—beautiful and over-educated—and make him king over an entire nation—however small—before he turns twenty-five, and you’ve united all earthly blessings into one impossibly arrogant being.

Unfortunately, Alistair’s pomposity didn’t keep him properly aloof in his palace. He’d picked up an idea from one of his old books that he should be like one of the judge-kings of old, walking out among his people to pass judgment on their problems, giving the inferior masses the benefit of all his twenty-four years of wisdom. It’s all right to have a royal patron, but he was so patronizing. Just as if we were all children and he was our benevolent father. It wasn’t strange to see him walking through the markets or looking over the fields—he always managed to look like he floated a step or two above the common ground the rest of us walked on—and we heard stories upon stories of his judgments. He was decisive, opinionated. Always thought he had a better way of doing things. Was always thinking two and ten and twelve steps ahead until a poor man’s head would be spinning from all the ways the king found to see through him. Half the time, I wasn’t sure whether to fear the man or laugh at him. I usually laughed.

So then you can see how the story of the mortar—what do you mean you’ve never heard it? You could hear it ten times a night in any tavern in the country. I tell it myself at least once a week! Everyone in the palace is sick to death of it!

Oh, this is going to be a treat! Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a fresh audience?

It happened like this. It was spring of the year I turned twenty-one. Father plowed up a field that had lain fallow for some years, with some new-fangled deep-cutting plow that our book-learned king had inflicted upon a peasantry that was baffled by his scientific talk. Father was plowing near a river when he uncovered a mortar made of solid gold. You know, a mortar—the thing with the pestle, for grinding things up. Don’t ask me why on earth a goldsmith would make such a thing—the world’s full of men with too much money and not enough sense, and housefuls of servants willing to take too-valuable trinkets off their hands. Someone decades ago had swiped this one and apparently found my father’s farm so good a hiding place that they forgot to come back for it.

Anyhow, my father, like the good tenant he was, understood that as he’d found a treasure on the king’s land, the right thing to do was to give it to the king. He was all aglow with his noble purpose, ready to rush to the palace at first light to do his duty by his liege lord.

I hope you can see the flaw in his plan. A man like Alistair, certain of his own cleverness, careful never to be outwitted by his peasantry? Come to a man like that with a solid gold mortar, and his first question’s going to be…?

That’s right. “Where’s the pestle?”

I tried to tell Father as much, but he—dear, sweet, innocent man—saw only his simple duty and went forth to fulfill it. He trotted into the king’s throne room—it was his public day—all smiles and eagerness.

Alistair took one look at him and saw a peasant tickled to death that he was pulling a fast one on the king—giving up half the king’s rightful treasure in the hopes of keeping the other half and getting a fat reward besides.

Alistair tore into my father—his tongue was much sharper then—taking his argument to pieces until Father half-believed he had hidden away the pestle somewhere, probably after stealing both pieces himself. In his confusion, Father looked even guiltier, and Alistair ordered his guard to drag Father off to the dungeons until they could arrange a proper hearing—and, inevitably, a hanging.

As they dragged him to his doom, my father had the good sense to say one coherent phrase, loud enough for the entire palace to hear. “If only I had listened to my daughter!”

Alistair, for all his brains, hadn’t expected him to say something like that. He had Father brought before him, and questioned him until he learned the whole story of how I’d urged Father to bury the mortar again and not say a word about it, so as to prevent this very scene from occurring.

About five minutes after that, I knocked over a butter churn when four soldiers burst into my father’s farmhouse and demanded I go with them to the castle. I made them clean up the mess, then put on my best dress and did up my hair—in those days, it was thick and golden, and fell to my ankles when unbound—and after traveling to the castle, I went, trembling, up the aisle of the throne room.

Alistair had made an effort that morning to look extra handsome and extra kingly. He still has robes like those, all purple and gold, but the way they set off his black hair and sharp cheekbones that day—I’ve never seen anything like it. He looked half-divine, the spirit of judgment in human form. At the moment, I didn’t feel like laughing at him.

Looming on his throne, he asked me, “Is it true that you advised this man to hide the king’s rightful property from him?” (Alistair hates it when I imitate his voice—but isn’t it a good impression?)

I said yes, it was true, and Alistair asked me why I’d done such a thing, and I said I had known this disaster would result, and he asked how I knew, and I said (and I think it’s quite good), that this is what happens when you have a king who’s too clever to be anything but stupid.

Naturally, Alistair didn’t like that answer a bit, but I’d gotten on a roll, and it was my turn to give him a good tongue-lashing. What kind of king did he think he was, who could look at a man as sweet and honest as my father and suspect him of a crime? Alistair was so busy trying to see hidden lies that he couldn’t see the truth in front of his face. So determined not to be made a fool of that he was making himself into one. If he persisted in suspecting everyone who tried to do him a good turn, no one would be willing to do much of anything for him. And so on and so forth.

You might be surprised at my boldness, but I had come into that room not expecting to leave it without a rope around my neck, so I intended to speak my mind while I had the chance. The strangest thing was that Alistair listened, and as he listened, he lost some of that righteous arrogance until he looked almost human. And the end of it all was that he apologized to me!

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather at that! I didn’t faint, but I came darn close. That arrogant, determined young king, admitting to a simple farmer’s daughter that he’d been wrong?

He did more than admit it—he made amends. He let Father keep the mortar, and then bought it from him at its full value. Then he gifted Father the farm where we lived, making us outright landowners. After the close of the day’s hearings, he even invited us to supper with him, and I found that King Alistair wasn’t a half-bad conversational partner. Some of those books he read sounded almost interesting.

For a year after that, Alistair kept finding excuses to come by the farm. He would check on Father’s progress and baffle him with advice. We ran into each other in the street so often that I began to expect it wasn’t mere chance. We’d talk books, and farming, and sharpen our wits on each other. We’d do wordplay, puzzles, tongue-twisters. A game, but somehow, I always thought, some strange sort of test.

Would you believe, even his proposal was a riddle? Yes, an actual riddle! One spring morning, I came across Alistair on a corner of my father's land, and he got down on one knee, confessed his love for me, and set me a riddle. He had the audacity to look into the face of the woman he loved—me!—and tell me that if I wanted to accept his proposal, I would come to him at his palace, not walking and not riding, not naked and not dressed, not on the road and not off it.

Do you know, I think he actually intended to stump me with it? For all his claim to love me, he looked forward to baffling me! He looked so sure of himself—as if all his book-learning couldn’t be beat by just a bit of common sense.

If I’d really been smart, I suppose I’d have run in the other direction, but, oh, I wanted to beat him so badly. I spent about half a minute solving the riddle and then went off to make my preparations.

The next morning, I came to the castle just like he asked. Neither walking nor riding—I tied myself to the old farm mule and let him half-drag me. Neither on the road nor off it—only one foot dragging in a wheel rut at the end. Neither naked nor dressed—merely wrapped in a fishing net. Oh, don’t look so shocked! There was so much rope around me that you could see less skin than I’m showing now.

If I’d hoped to disappoint Alistair, well, I was disappointed. He radiated joy. I’d never seen him truly smile before that moment—it was incandescent delight. He swept me in his arms, gave me a kiss without a hint of calculation in it, then had me taken off to be properly dressed, and we were married within a week.

It was a wonderful marriage. We got along beautifully—at least until the next time I outwitted him. But I won’t bore you with that story again—

You don’t know that one either? Where have you been hiding yourself?

Oh, I couldn’t possibly tell you that one. Not if it’s your first time. It’s much better the way Alistair tells it.

What time is it?

Perfect! He’s in his library just now. Go there and ask him to tell you the whole thing.

Yes, right now! What are you waiting for?

Alistair

Faith told you all that, did she? And sent you to me for the rest? That woman! It’s just like her! She thinks I have nothing better to do than sit around all day and gossip about our courtship!

Where are you going? I never said I wouldn’t tell the story! Honestly, does no one have brains these days? Sit down!

Yes, yes, anywhere you like. One chair’s as good as another—I built this room for comfort. Do you take tea? I can ring for a tray—the story tends to run long.

Well, I’ll ring for the usual, and you can help yourself to whatever you like.

I’m sure Faith has given you a colorful picture of what I was like as a young man, and she’s not totally inaccurate. I’d had wealth and power and too much education thrown on me far too young, and I thought my blessings made me better than other men. My own father had been the type of man who could be fooled by every silver-tongued charlatan in the land, so I was sensitive and suspicious, determined to never let another man outwit me.

When Faith came to her father’s defense, it was like my entire self came crumbling down. Suddenly, I wasn’t the wise king; I was a cruel and foolish boy—but Faith made me want to be better. That day was the start of my fascination with her, and my courtship started in earnest not long after.

The riddle? Yes, I can see how that would be confusing. Faith tends to skip over the explanations there. A riddle’s an odd proposal, but I thought it was brilliant at the time, and I still think it wasn’t totally wrong-headed. I wasn’t just finding a wife, you see, but a queen. Riddles have a long history in royal courtships. I spent weeks laboring over mine. I had some idea of a symbolic proposal—each element indicating how she’d straddle two worlds to be with me. But more than that, I wanted to see if Faith could move beyond binary thinking—look beyond two opposites to see the third option between. Kings and queens have to do that more often than you’d think…

No, I’m sorry, it is a bit dull, isn’t it? I guess there’s a reason Faith skips over the explanations.

So to return to the point: no matter what Faith tells you, I always intended for her to solve the riddle. I wouldn’t have married her if she hadn’t—but I wouldn’t have asked if I’d had the least doubt she’d succeed. The moment she came up that road was the most ridiculous spectacle you’d ever hope to see, but I had never known such ecstasy. She’d solved every piece of my riddle, in just the way I’d intended. She understood my mind and gained my heart. Oh, it was glorious.

Those first weeks of marriage were glorious, too. You’d think it’d be an adjustment, turning a farmer’s daughter into a queen, but it was like Faith had been born to the role. Manners are just a set of rules, and Faith has a sharp mind for memorization, and it’s not as though we’re a large kingdom or a very formal court. She had a good mind for politics, and was always willing to listen and learn. I was immensely proud of myself for finding and catching the perfect wife.

You’re smarter than I was—you can see where I was going wrong. But back then, I didn’t see a cloud in the sky of our perfect happiness until the storm struck.

It seemed like such a small thing at the time. I was looking over the fields of some nearby villages—farming innovations were my chief interest at the time. There were so many fascinating developments in those days. I’ve an entire shelf full of texts if you’re interested—

The story, yes. My apologies. The offer still stands.

Anyway, I was out in the fields, and it was well past the midday hour. I was starving, and more than a little overheated, so we were on our way to a local inn for a bit of food and rest. Just as I was at my most irritable, these farmers’ wives show up, shrilly demanding judgment in a case of theirs. I’d become known for making those on-the-spot decisions. I’d thought it was an efficient use of government resources—as long as I was out with the people, I could save them the trouble of complicated procedures with the courts—but I’d never regretted taking up the practice as heartily as I did in this moment.

The case was like this: one farmer’s horse had recently given birth, and the foal had wandered away from its mother and onto the neighbor’s property, where it laid down underneath an ox that was at pasture, and the second farmer thought this gave him a right to keep it. There were questions of fences and boundaries and who-owed-who for different trades going back at least a couple of decades—those women were determined to bring every past grievance to light in settling this case.

Well, it didn’t take long for me to lose what little patience I had. I snapped at both women and told them that my decision was that the foal could very well stay where it was.

Not my most reasoned decision, but it wasn’t totally baseless. I had common law going back centuries that supported such a ruling. Possession is nine-tenths of the law and all. It wasn't as though a single foal was worth so much fuss. I went off to my meal and thought that was the end of it.

I’d forgotten all about it by the time I returned to the same village the next week. My man and I were crossing the bridge leading into the town when we found the road covered by a fishing net. An old man sat by the side of the road, shaking and casting the net just as if he were laying it out for a catch.

“What do you think you’re doing, obstructing a public road like this?” I asked him.

The man smiled genially at me and replied, “Fishing, majesty.”

I thought perhaps the man had a touch of sunstroke, so I was really rather kind when I explained to him how impossible it was to catch fish in the roadway.

The man just replied, “It’s no more impossible than an ox giving birth to a foal, majesty.”

He said it like he’d been coached, and it didn’t take long for me to learn that my wife was behind it all. The farmer’s wife who’d lost the foal had come to Faith for help, and my wife had advised the farmer to make the scene I’d described.

Oh, was I livid! Instead of coming to me in private to discuss her concerns about the ruling, Faith had made a public spectacle of me. She encouraged my own subjects to mock me! This was what came of making a farm girl into a queen! She’d live in my house and wear my jewels, and all the time she was laughing up her sleeve at me while she incited my citizens to insurrection! Before long, none of my subjects would respect me. I’d lose my crown, and the kingdom would fall to pieces—

I worked myself into a fine frenzy, thinking such things. At the time, I thought myself perfectly reasonable. I had identified a threat to the kingdom’s stability, and I would deal with it. The moment I came home, I found Faith and declared that the marriage was dissolved. “If you prefer to side with the farmers against your own husband,” I told her, “you can go back to your father’s house and live with them!”

It was quite the tantrum. I’m proud to say I’ve never done anything so shameful since.

To my surprise, Faith took it all silently. None of the fire that she showed in defending her father against me. Faith had this way, back then, where she could look at a man and make him feel like an utter fool. At that moment, she made me feel like a monster. I was already beginning to regret what I was doing, but it was buried under so much anger that I barely realized it, and my pride wouldn’t allow me to back down so easily from another decision.

After I said my piece, Faith quietly asked if she was to leave the palace with nothing.

I couldn’t reverse what I’d decided, but I could soften it a bit.

“You may take one keepsake,” I told her. “Take the one thing you love best from our chambers.”

I thought I was clever to make the stipulation. Knowing Faith, she’d have found some way to move the entire palace and count it as a single item. I had no doubt she’d take the most expensive and inconvenient thing she could, but there was nothing in that set of rooms I couldn’t afford to lose.

Or so I thought. No doubt you’re beginning to see that Faith always gets the upper hand in a battle of wits.

I kept my distance that evening—let myself stew in resentment so I couldn’t regret what I’d done. I kept to my library—not this one, the little one upstairs in our suite—trying to distract myself with all manner of books, and getting frustrated when I found I wanted to share pieces of them with Faith. I was downright relieved when a maid came by with a tea tray. I drank my usual three cups so quickly I barely tasted them—and I passed out atop my desk five minutes later.

Yes, Faith had arranged for the tea—and she’d drugged me!

I came to in the pink light of early dawn, my head feeling like it had been run over by a military caravan. My wits were never as slow as they were that morning. I laid stupidly for what felt like hours, wondering why my bed was so narrow and lumpy, and why the walls of the room were so rough and bare, and why those infernal birds were screaming half an inch from my open window.

By the time I had enough strength to sit up, I could see that I was in the bedroom of a farmer’s cottage. Faith was standing by the window, looking out at the sunrise, wearing the dress she’d worn the first day I met her. Her hair was unbound, tumbling in golden waves all the way to her ankles. My heart leapt at the sight—her hair was one of the wonders of the world in those days, and I was so glad to see her when I felt so ill—until I remembered the events of the previous day, and was too confused and ashamed to have room for any other thoughts or feelings.

“Faith?” I asked. “Why are you here? Where am I?”

“My father’s home,” Faith replied, her eyes downcast—I think it’s the only time in her life she was ever bashful. “You told me I could take the one thing I loved best.”

Can I explain to you how my heart leapt at those words? There had never been a mind or a heart like my wife’s! It was like the moment she’d come to save her father—she made me feel a fool and feel glad for the reminder. I’d made the same mistake both times—let my head get in the way of my heart. She never made that mistake, thank heaven, and it saved us both.

Do you have something you want to add, Faith, darling? Don’t pretend I can’t see you lurking in the stacks and laughing at me! I’ll get as sappy as I like! If you think you can do it better, come out in the open and finish this story properly!

Faith

You tell it so beautifully, my darling fool boy, but if you insist—

I was forever grateful Dinah took that tea to Alistair. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen the loophole in his words—I was so afraid he’d see my ploy coming and stop me. But his wits were so blessedly dull that day. It was like outwitting a child.

When at last he came to, I was terrified. He had cast me out because I’d outwitted him, and now here I was again, thinking another clever trick would make everything well.

Fortunately, Alistair was marvelous—saw my meaning in an instant. Sometimes he can be almost clever.

After that, what’s there to tell? We made up our quarrel, and then some. Alistair brought me back to the palace in high honors—it was wonderful, the way he praised me and took so much blame on himself.

(You were really rather too hard on yourself, darling—I’d done more than enough to make any man rightfully angry. Taking you to Father’s house was my chance to apologize.)

Alistair paid the farmer for the loss of his foal, paid for the mending of the fence that had led to the trouble in the first place, and straightened out the legal tangles that had the neighbors at each others’ throats.

After that, things returned much to the way they’d been before, except that Alistair was careful never to think himself into such troubles again. We’ve gotten older, and I hope wiser, and between our quarrels and our reconciliations, we’ve grown into quite the wise pair of lovestruck fools. Take heed from it, whenever you marry—it’s good to have a clever spouse, but make sure you have one who’s willing to be the fool every once in a while.

Trust me. It works out for the best.