#volatility thereof

[illogarithmil]

Often I look at how Productive people are on here and get a bit distressed because I feel very ineffectual by comparison, so as a form of self-care I decided to go and list all my ongoing projects to remind myself that I'm *not* ineffectual, just sometimes inefficient.

Creative projects I presently have ongoing in addition to two seperate bits of academic/social research:

Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay 4th Ed campaign, monthly

Mongoose Traveller 2e campaign, monthlyish

Narrative Warhammer Fantasy Battles campaign using a unique campaign system which I designed and am playtesting for general release in the process

Reading a book every week for an entire year

Designing a massive modular homebrew RPG and low-fantasy setting for it that all my RPG friends and I will be able to play in for the rest of our lives once I'm out of uni and have time and energy to run campaigns again (*please ignore the above, they don't count because reasons*), including detailed climate maps, a table of fictional cultures presently 70 pages long and a setttinh map that'll be about two metres wide when completed

Reading every single product in the TTRPGS for Trans Rights in Florida bundle (link, by the way) - might do a review of the ones I like when I'm done, I'm getting close now!

Projects I want to start soon:

A third revision of my TTRPG Candlelight, designed for telling narrative fantasy stories the way I like to tell them. Probably too much of a heartbreaker to release to the public, but the second version is really good for what it is and just aching to be reworked based on what I've learned about game design in the last third of a year (mostly from the aforementioned bundle-reading)

Making a hack of Vampire: the Masquerade that makes it a sword and Sorcery RPG with Greek Epic tinges, because A) it would be funny and B) I actually think it would work shockingly well with minimal rules changes

Designing a lot of homebrew rules for Warhammer Fantasy: other human nations based on actual cool setting lore rather than the random stereotype mashup of Matthias Eliasson's Warhammer Armies Project and rules for raising armies in a way unique to each faction and for incorporating the strategic and operational level into your games

Projects I am actively preparing to start:

Second game of a FIST two-shot about hunting down psychic vampire demon summoning nazi occultist undead Northern Irish loyalist paramilitary child kidnappers and tarot card thieves

Vampire the Masquerade/Mage the Ascension two shot in which a group of vampiric elders make a huge fucking mess whilst trying to clear out some local anarchs and the Technocracy gets sent in to fix it.

Projects I technically am working on but are staring at me accusatorially at the moment as they perch on the edge of the abyss of forgetfulness:

Drawing a fairly complex encounter map of a coastal cove for use in some rpg or another some day

Designing a TTRPG about vikings and nominative determinism (it's called In Search of a Name, I've posted about it on here before a bit and I still really like it conceptually but it's maybe a bit narrow given I'm not actually a huge viking fan so I think the concepts might get cannibalised into other things)

Going through every trope on TVtropes to construct a fake TVtropes page for an old D&D game which I really loved (I had read half of all trope pages on TVtropes when I last updated it a month or so ago, over the course of about nine months)

Projects recently resurrected from that abyss and eager to regrow:

AYUG, a Skirmish wargame with cards I designed with some friends a couple of years back about battles between collections of weird philosophical devotees fighting for their beliefs in spaces that literally shift to represent those beliefs, featuring hypercapitalist fairies, an army of boltzmann brains and a faction whose major mechanic was probing socratic dialogue that made your opponent give up their beliefs and go home. We all loved this game, I wrote a load of lore for it and I have no idea why we stopped.

Memories of the Light, a system designed to port traveller-style lifepath mechanics into 20th Anniversary World of Darkness

The Dragons of Čachtice, a Vampire the Masquerade... supplement? I guess? about a tradition of ghouls linked to Erszebet Bathori (Elizabeth Bathory) who bathed in the blood of vampires to gain the powers of a ghoul without thr bond.

Would you look at that? I feel (marginally) less useless. My therapist will be so happy that I'm Challenging Negative Self-Talk™. Apologies if I've now become part of the problem that originally sent me down this road... moral of the story is, though, I guess that if you feel like you're not finishing anything it might just be that you're splitting your energies a lot, and that's fine and cool and good too and probably makes you a more interesting person - certainly more interesting to me!

And if you are just ultra-focussed and productive, please consider the impact your actions have on others and become horribly distractable instead /j <3

[slitherinky]

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A Different Lesson Than Usual

Setting: Draco Malfoy x fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ smut, MDNI, dom!Draco, forcefulness, choking, hair pulling, oral sex (man receiving), deep throat, finger sucking, degrading, use of "Sir"

Summary: During potions class you get paired with Draco. From the start, he takes charge, ordering you around and making you do all the work. Despite your efforts, Draco is unimpressed with your performance and attitude. After class, he drags you to his dorm, determined to teach you a lesson. “If you can’t listen, I’ll make sure you learn.”

2338 Words

Please be aware of the warnings before proceeding. If you are underage, sensitive to depictions of violence, or intense explicit content, it is do not to read further. This story is purely fictional and does not reflect or endorse such behavior in real life. Any attempt to replicate the actions described in this story in real life is strongly discouraged. Harry Potter and the Wizarding World is a trademark of J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros.

The stone corridors of Hogwarts were colder than usual that morning, and my hurried footsteps vibrated through the hallways as I clutched my books to my chest. The hands of the   grand clock in the tower were unforgiving; no matter how hard I tried, time simply didn’t bend to the will of a frazzled student.

I was late.

Again.

The door to Professor Snape’s Potions classroom appeard ahead, its heavy oak surface etched with shifting runes that seemed to mock my tardiness. I hesitated for a heartbeat, my hand hovering over the iron handle. There was no way he hadn’t noticed my absence. Professor Snape was known for his strict demeanor and his nearly magical sense of punctuality—or rather, his ability to detect a lack thereof.

Bracing myself, I pushed the door open.

“Ah, Miss Y/n,” his voice greeted me before I even stepped inside. It was cold, precise, and carried the weight of both disappointment and expectation. The professor stood at the head of the class, his long, dark robes flowing like shadowy currents around his feet. His silver-rimmed spectacles glinted ominously in the light of the floating lanterns above.

“I see the concept of time continues to elude you.”

“Professor, I—” I began, but he raised a pale hand to silence me. The twenty-something pairs of eyes from my fellow students—half curious, half pitying—burned holes into my back as I stood there, wishing I could melt into the stone floor.

“Spare me the excuses. You’ve disrupted my lesson.” He gestured sharply towards the rest of the room, where the students were grouped into pairs. Each pair had a cauldron before them, bubbling with the early stages of a potion I didn’t recognize. “Since you seem so keen on making your own rules, let’s see how well you fare when paired with someone you’re… less familiar with.” My stomach sank. 

No. No, no, no. Please, no.

“Draco Malfoy,” he called, his voice like the toll of a bell. “You will work with Miss Y/n for today’s assignment.”

My eyes widened in horror as a murmur of amusement spread around the room. The Slytherins, Draco included, seemed especially amused.

Slytherin. It was not my house.

I didn’t want to be stuck with that spoiled brat.

But before I could protest, I was being marched across the classroom and deposited at a table in the back, where the notorious Draco Malfoy was lounging in his chair. His hair was silver, his face chiseled in the manner of an angelic creature, and his gaze was icy, grey-blue. When his eyes met mine, his lips curled into a mocking smile. I took my seat beside him, ignoring the smirks and whispers around us.

“Now,” Professor Snape continued, his focus shifting back to the class at large, “you have exactly one hour to complete the Draught of Shadows. And remember—this potion is highly volatile. Mistakes will not go unnoticed.”

Perfect. Just perfect.

Draco Malfoy—my crush since forever—was sitting next to me. I’d fantasized about being this close to him more times than I cared to admit. But not like this.

“Here,” he said, shoving the parchment toward me. His tone was smooth but held a sharp edge. “You’ll do the measuring. And the stirring. Basically, all of it.”

“Uh—what?” I stammered, blinking at him. I’d barely sat down, and already he was bossing me around?

“You heard me,” he said, leaning back in his chair with infuriating nonchalance. He stretched out his long legs under the desk, taking up more space than necessary. “You don’t want to mess this up, do you?” His smirk was equal parts cruel and devastatingly charming.

“Fine,” I muttered, pouring the first ingredient into the cauldron with shaky hands. “But you could at least help.”

“I am helping,” Draco said, his voice taking on a teasing lilt. “I’m supervising. For your sake, and the sake of the people around us, you’ll do as I say.”

I shot him a glare, but he just raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying my flustered state. My stomach churned with frustration, but I said nothing and continued with the potion. I told myself this was fine—better than fine, really. This was the most interaction I’d ever had with him. Even if he was being infuriating, he was still talking to me.

By the time I added the powdered obsidian, though, my patience was wearing thin. “Stir faster,” he said, his voice dropping into an almost amused drawl. “No, not like that. Clockwise. Honestly, Y/n, are you trying to ruin this?”

“Or you could stir Mr. Know-It-All” I snapped before I could stop myself. My face flushed immediately.

"What was this?" he said. But I couldn't answer him. Or else I would have told him to fuck off. 

"Y/n," he said softly, but his voice was tight with anger. "I'll ask you one more time—How did you just call me?" 

His hand was resting on the edge of the table, the tips of his fingers curling and uncurling as if he wanted to hit me. 

"I'm sorry!" I burst out. "I didn't mean that. I was frustrated, and it slipped out." I was blushing even more now, my fingers trembling on the wooden spoon.

There was a moment of silence. The bubbling of the cauldron was almost deafening, the silence in the room heavy. Professor Snape's sharp eye was on us, and I wondered if he'd overheard.

"You better," Draco muttered, his voice soft and rough at the same time. My eyes flickered to meet his, and I felt a thrill of fear mixed with excitement. I opened my mouth, wanting to say something, but he stopped me immediately.

"Shut it. Don't make things worse." My mouth shut with a snap. 

The rest of the class passed in a blur of shame, frustration, and occasional, sharp corrections from Draco. He didn’t say a word about what had happened, but it hung in the air like a cloud of tension. I stirred the potion until it turned to a deep silver, then carefully poured it into glass vials as Professor Snape had instructed. I glanced at the clock, relief washing over me; it was almost time to go.

“Excellent,” Professor Snape said as he approached our table. His eyes scanned the finished product on the table before him, lingering over each of the five vials of Draught of Shadows. “Well done, both of you.” 

Yes of course. Now that Ass gets my praise, even though he has done NOTHING but order me around. And be mean. But at least the class is over. As the Professor walked away, I started to pack up my things.

“Don’t.” Draco's hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist in a cold, unforgiving grip.

I stared up at him, a shiver of fear running down my spine. “What?”

“Don't pack. We're not done here.” His voice was dark, his gaze intense. Then his attention shifted to the rest of the classroom, where his friends were gathering their things. “Excuse me for a moment,” he told them, before his fingers tightened around my arm, and he yanked me out of the classroom.

My feet struggled to keep up with his, stumbling slightly as he dragged me through the corridor. I couldn’t believe it. Where were we going?

The answer came when he pushed me into a room I recognized immediately—the Slytherin common room. The door of his room slammed shut behind us, the heavy wood reverberating through my bones as Draco released my arm. My heart was pounding.

“You were a very disobedient little girl in class today,” he drawled, his back to me as he leaned against the closed door. His voice was low and rough. “Do you know what happens to little girls who can’t behave themselves?”

“No—” I whispered, my stomach sunk. “I—”

But before I could finish, Draco was striding toward me, his movements fluid and predatory. I gasped as he pressed my body harder on the door, his hand grabbing my chin.

“Look at me,” he ordered, his tone almost hypnotic. I felt my gaze drawn to his, my body responding despite itself. The heat of him against my front was almost overwhelming. My vision blurred for a moment, his face swimming in my mind like a half-remembered dream.

But the haze was shattered by his next words: “Now, you’re going to learn your lesson.”

His fingers dug into my jaw as he forced me to stare into those piercing grey eyes. His grip was unyielding, and I could feel my breath coming in shallow gasps as his hand slid down my chin to my throat, choking me. I felt a rush of fear, but it was underscored with excitement. My blood hummed in my veins like a warm river, my cheeks burning under his gaze.

“Tell me you’re sorry,” he demanded, his voice dark. “Tell me you’ll be a good girl from now on.”

“Sorry,” I whispered. My tongue felt heavy in my mouth, and I couldn’t tear my gaze away from his. My voice was barely audible. “I’ll be good,” 

"What else?" he asked demanding.

“I won’t be disobedient.”

The words tumbled from my mouth like a confession. 

“Mmm,” he murmured, his gaze tracing over me. “I want to see you apologize.”

"Undress yourself and get on you knees." he ordered softly.

My cheeks flushed, and I hesitated, my mind in a daze.

He raised an eyebrow. “Now.”

My fingers trembled as I fumbled with the buttons of my shirt, my vision blurring around the edges. I peeled off my shirt, tossing it aside, and slid off my skirt. The cool air of the room danced over my skin, and I shivered.

“Panties,” he prompted, his voice low and dangerous. My pulse raced as I hooked my fingers into the waistband of my panties and pulled them down. There was something about the way he looked at me—something that made me want to obey him. 

I knelt on the scratchy carpet, my heart pounding. How the hell did I end up here.

But the thought was short-lived as Draco’s hands settled on my shoulders, his cold fingers digging into my skin. I watched as he reached for his belt, sliding it free with a metallic jingle. The leather creaked as he wrapped it around my neck, pulling it tight with his left hand. My breath caught in my throat.

“I am going to teach you your place.” His gaze was burning, his eyes pinning me “You’re a good little slut,” he whispered, his voice making me shiver. “Aren’t you? Tell me.”

"Yes Sir"

“That’s more like it.” His right hand wrapped around the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair. “Now,” he purred. “What do you say to me?”

“Thank you, sir.” I felt something inside of me shudder, some last vestige of resistance falling away under his touch.

“Good girl."  His hand tightened in my hair as his other hand started stroking my cheek. The belt around my throat relaxed. His thumb caressed my bottom lip as he murmured, "Now open up." The roughness of his voice made my heart jump. The command made my head swim.

“Open,” he repeated, his voice sharp this time.

I slowly parted my lips. Then, without warning, he shoved two fingers into my mouth.

"Suck them," he growled. I moaned in response, the sound muffled by his fingers. His left hand tightened painfully in my hair as he pulled my head back. My eyes watered. "Suck them." he repeated, shoving his fingers deeper.

I obeyed, sucking and licking his fingers eagerly. He watched me with a satisfied smirk. It only made me hotter, making me suck his fingers harder.

He pulled his fingers from my mouth and unzipped his trousers.  My mouth fell open as he pulled out his cock, hard and thick. The sight alone made my pussy clench in anticipation.

He grabbed my hair, forcing my head back as he positioned his cock at my mouth. He gave me no warning, shoving his cock down my throat with one smooth motion. I gagged on his cock as he started pumping in and out. My throat ached as he fucked my face, tears streaming down my cheeks. I struggled to breathe around his cock, since the belt tightened around my throat, was restricting my breath as well.

He pulled out, letting me catch my breath before shoving back inside me. He held me there, his cock buried deep in my throat. I gasped for air as he fucked my face.  His grip on my hair was unyielding as he used me for his pleasure. The belt tightened as he thrust into me again. My lips were stretched tight around his cock, saliva dripping down my chin. He was ruthless in his use, uncaring of my pleasure. All I was, was a hole to fill with his cum.

He started panting, his thrusts speeding up. "Good girl," he groaned as he fucked my mouth. "Such a good little slut." My pussy ached to be fucked, but I knew I had to wait. My mouth was for him. "Take it all," he growled.

His fingers tightened in my hair as he rammed deep into me. I felt his cock pulsing in my throat as he filled my mouth with his cum. The salty taste of his cum was my only reward as he filled my mouth. I swallowed his cum down greedily, lapping at his cock with my tongue. His moans of pleasure sent shivers through my body as he used my mouth to clean off his cock. His softening cock slipped out of my mouth, his cum still dripping down my chin.

"Such a good little whore." he purred, stroking my cheek with his thumb. "If you do something stupid again, remember that I know how to punish you. And next time, it will be much worse."

© SlitherInky 2024 Do not copy, repost or translate.

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[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

So, obviously the answer is "George Lucas didn't plan ahead" but I've always wondered something about Obi-Wan and Yoda and their reaction, or lack thereof, to Leia being in danger. Or, more bluntly, how Leia is not as much of a priority as Luke is to them.

I mean, isn't she supposed to be the back-up in case Luke fails? But, in both ANH and EMSB Obi-Wan and Yoda seem more nonchalant when she's in peril. They are laser focused on Luke and Leia is more of an afterthought. Wouldn't it make more sense to get them both trained as Jedi, so if one fails the other can just pick up where the other left off?

Caveat

As you note, Lucas didn't plan for that. Leia wasn't his sister at all until Empire Strikes Back was written, something that has been a spicy topic since it was revealed.

As a result, bit hard for Leia to have been treated as Luke's sister... in a film where she wasn't intended to be his sister.

Back to Obi-Wan and Yoda

But this is the blog where we ignore all of that stuff.

And the thing is... neither Obi-Wan nor Yoda were all that keen on training Luke either.

We see in the prequel series that the Jedi are incredibly leery of training anyone who falls outside the typical margins. Even if you have tons of Force, if you're too old or too volatile they don't want to tell you how to use it. The last thing they want is a Force user with enough knowledge to really go off the handle if they're unsuited for life as a Jedi. Better not to give them that equipment at all.

That's the mindset that Yoda and Obi-Wan have had instilled into them from day 0... and it's something that blew up in their face with Anakin Skywalker. Obi-Wan insisted Anakin be trained due to Qui-Gon's wishes, Yoda reluctantly agreed to it while privately thinking "this could go bad :/, but also leaving him to his own devices could go worse :(" And lo and behold, Anakin becomes a Sith and is so bad he destroys the Jedi Order, murders all the children, and ruthlessly hunted down every survivor.

And as a result, we see a hesitation to train Luke, let alone Leia.

Luke grows up on Tatooine, completely clueless, until he confronts what he only knows as "old hermit Ben" about rescuing Leia. Obi-Wan's reaction is to sigh deeply as he sees Leia begging him personally to save her, and very sadly tell Luke that actually his father was a Jedi and old comrade of his (don't ask questions). Then Luke's family is murdered and now Luke has nowhere to go/nothing to do except go on this journey to rescue Princess Leia. But it's only when they're on their way that Obi-Wan begins to reluctantly train Luke in the Force... And even then, it's just a few days of teaching and the very very very very basics.

Obi-Wan dies before he can get serious about training Luke, and then Luke is told to go find Yoda.

Yoda, meanwhile, has been a hermit in a swamp for decades. He takes one look at Luke and says "mmmmmm, no". He has to be all but bullied into training Luke and then, well, Luke runs off to save his friends long before he can complete his training.

In a way, I'd argue Leia is far more of a priority to Obi-Wan and Yoda. She was placed with Bail Organa, is now a part of a royal family and a key political figure, she is a key figure of the resistance as well.

Luke was supposed to stay in the backwaters of Tatooine and never, ever, ever be found. Maybe he'd get trained in the Force *someday* but that someday seemed increasingly distant, and, well, it'd be putting a needless target on Luke's back.

Things didn't work out like that, however, because Leia was captured and Luke happened to be the one to get the message. If someone else had delivered that message, Luke probably wouldn't have been involved with the story at all.

The thing also about Luke is that they knew Vader knew he'd had one child. Luke is, well, the one who more obviously looks like his father. (Now why they put him with Anakin's fucking relatives through his mother's marriage on Tatooine is a mystery for another time, but Anakin didn't find him so it works out I guess).

They did not want him figuring out that Leia is his daughter. Training Leia in the Force would be a surefire way to clue Vader into the fact that Leia is his daughter. She's too public, too involved in the resistance, and all Anakin would have to do is remember that his wife was good friends with Bail Organa to realize where his baby who might not be dead went.

Again, maybe Leia shouldn't have been given to such a public figure with ties to Anakin's wife--but don't worry about that, that's not important.

What is important is that I can see why they concluded it would be a horrible idea to train Leia and would get her/the entire royal family of Alderaan murdered.

At least Luke is hanging out in the outer ring, in the backwater of the galaxy, and even then they don't train him until he's in his twenties and they don't have much choice in the matter.

TL;DR Obi-Wan and Yoda are not Albus Dumbledore, there didn't appear to be some grand plan to raise the twins to defeat their father where they hyperfocused on Luke to do it for some reason. Luke wasn't trained until very very very late and barely knew who Ben Kenobi even was.

[chirpycloudyrobin]

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im just thinking abt an au where wwx actually did die at the burial mounds but him surviving long enough there and even pioneering a new branch of cultivation to do so was enough to punt his ghost straight up to wrath rank. however he is unaware that hes actually dead since hes too focused on his goal to absolutely decimate wen chao to pay attention to his bodily functions/needs or lack thereof.

everyone else gets this feeling that something is off with wwx but they figure its just heebie jeebies from the demonic cultivation. it's only until wwx went back to the burial mounds with the wen remnants that it sinks in that hes dead. but then he realises that if this gets out, the cultivation world will be hunting for his head more viciously so he keeps this very tightly under wraps. all this secret keeping and exhaustion and starvation just makes wwx a teensy bit more volatile but at least he has his own little family to keep him sane.

until shit starts to go downhill. and it just keeps on going. until everyone is gone and hes the only one left standing and he needs to destroy the stupid fucking seal and keep the others from discovering where he hid a-yuan so he takes his chances and pours his everything into destroying the seal. except this time hes a little more powerful than he wouldve been if he was mortal and he levels part of the burial mounds before he went. and thus was the last of wwx.

or was it ?

the world believes wwx to be dead ("good riddance") but actually hes still kicking and in a more incorporeal form. he had to retreat somewhere deep in the burial mounds to recover and thus was unable to see that lwj had come back and taken a severely feverish a-yuan with him. wwx thinks everyone is dead and gone and everything was all for naught so he stews in his mistakes and tries to repent while stitching himself back together.

sometime after, he ends up in mount tonglu which was reopened because the aftershocks of the destruction of the stygian tiger seal were strong enough to disturb mount tonglu's magma chamber of resentment basically. so for ~12 years wwx was in there fighting his way thru which was why he didnt answer to lwj's calls

wwx survives as the last standing ghost after the slaughter and stews in the kiln for another month and a half or so. this would be around the time mxy is preparing to summon wwx's ghost for the summoning.

so imagine wwx just came out of the thing as a newly minted supreme/ghost king and hes immediately yanked to where mxy is. wwx's soul isnt stuffed into mxy's newly-emptied physical body since hes a ghost king this time around. still, he helps mxy but in the shadows bc hes still not keen on getting yoinked just when he returned to the mortal world.

everything proceeds as canon, with wwx sharing mxy's body via possession at some points for the comedy gold and the bit (because he would !! let the man be silly)

after that he absolutely yanks mxy outta there after lwj arrives (just after he spends like 5 minutes staring at lwj's beauty of course) and decides hes gonna adopt this sad little wet cat and teach him the actual proper ways of cultivation and steer him away from demonic cultivation bc tbh it's just not worth it esp since mxy has a golden core and who knows how demonic cultivation will affect a golden core-

anyways

wwx decides to do a silly little makeover so he wouldnt be recognised by any of his old acquaintances. his new appearance ends up a weird lil mix between himself and mxy, enough to claim that theyre distant cousins and normal rogue cultivators just starting out. wwx plans on taking his new charge around the country and away from the sects after he learned the godawful way the lanling jin have treated mxy

"single parenthood will be hard, but this father will make sure you get the best life on the road, my sweet little loquat." "you barely look older than me to be my father, wei-qianbei" "shush let me have this"

their traveling is off to a good start. but then dafan mountain happens and holy shit wen ning is still alive(?? technically ??) and holy shit why the fuck is everyone from wwx's previous life gathering here and holy shit did he just insult his shijie's son and-

why the fuck are they going with the gusu lan cultivators

what the fuck just happened

what

anyways

wwx introduces himself as a golden core-less distant mo cousin ("had an unfortunate run-in with the core melting hand back then") who used to be a rogue cultivator back in the day and is now dabbling with the art of talisman making and definitely isnt practicing demonic cultivation no siree

somehow he and mxy end up separated as lwj and wwx go to investigate the severed arm together and mxy ends up going w the juniors with a lil encouragement from wwx

"youll have a better time socialising with people your age, little loquat" "wei-qianbei plz ,,, u just want to go w hanguang-jun alone dont u" "lmao hahahahah who said that"

wwx is absolutely having the time of his life roleplaying a damsel in distress while being completely oblivious to the bone chilling fear he induces in their undead opponents. he invents silly little talismans to help hanguang-jun in battle. hes a little perplexed at how much shit lwj is letting him get away with.

hes also 90% sure lwj has figured out that hes a ghost and hes sweating like a sinner in church deep inside

i havent thought of much past this but heres some more tidbits of info that i thought about

at some point wwx is made aware of his infamy as the "Devil Flute Upon Graves". his self destruction at the burial mounds wiped out most of the vengeful ghosts in that area and, as mentioned before, shook mount tonglu w enough resentful energy to bust it open

wwx has an army of ghostly corvids that are essentially made of condensed resentful energy. they are also sort of empathetically connected to him ??? so theyre also chatty, yappy things who are extra fond of lwj and the junior ducklings

actually wwx's entire being post-supreme promotion is just condensed resentful/yin energy and being in his presence should be dangerous for regular ppl and cultivators alike but (a) he has mastered the art of keeping the effects contained within himself and (b) existing within the same space as lwj and doing their everyday means that their yin and yang energy are constantly balancing each other out to the point where it just naturally and passively happens. lwj literally dampens wwx's natural heebie jeebie vibes bc of good dick

because hes made up of yin energy, this does mean that it's ridiculously easy for him to switch back and forth between a male and female form. he usually ends up walking around in an androgynous form that leans towards a healthier, happier looking yiling laozu

VERY IMPORTANT ADDITION: yes ofc wwx gives lwj his ashes. it's in the form of an ornament. idk where to hang it tho. maybe wangji-guqin ? or his belt ? still debating on it for sure

the burial mounds are regarded in the ghost realm as his territory now and the ghost realm and heavenly court wait w baited breath to see what this new ghost king would do

the answer is he gallivants all over the damn continent with his new cultivator husband and their gaggle of children. wwx really dgaf about anything else really, he just wants to be Wife and Teacher

the wen remnants are given a second chance at life by wwx himself after the second siege of the burial mounds and they now live a happy afterlife at wwx's new ghost town where their old settlement used to be

he and hua cheng get along by virtue of being former street kids who just want to hang out w their godly spouses and their conversations together are just praise after praise for said godly spouses

wwx's birbs do eat hua cheng's butterflies and it's a frequent point of contention. no harm is done to the butterflies tho, the birbs just spit them out whole bc they taste absolutely nasty/poisonous

wwx 🤝 xie lian : little to no self-preservation instincts. they just want to help people okay !!

after the entire guanyin temple ordeal wwx ends up with a worshipped godly aspect whose primary place of worship is in yiling, who still remember the yiling laozu who just wanted to help his little family survive to the next day. to them, wwx became the god of innovation, ingenuity, and protection

he also becomes the patron god of street children ??? he just finds himself helping street kiddos and taking in vengeful ghost children because it was what he needed back when he was a kid okay ??? hes just using his powers for good, thats all

mxy is taken in by the gusu lan clan where he ends up become a promising candidate as a talisman master, thanks to wwx's encouragement and guidance

also !! it turns out more than a couple of other ppl ascended into the heavenly court, namely:

- jiang yanli ascended as the new water master, while jin zixuan became a martial god. shes a goddess of abundance, the home, and reconciliation. hes a god of wealth, fortune, and justice - nie mingjue also ascended to become a martial god after his spirit was laid to rest. he was supposed to ascend naturally but jin guangyao's bullshit derailed his fate. - wen qing ascended to become a medical master/goddess of medicine and sacrifice tho shes also kind of infamous for her friendship with devil flute upon graves. but nobody can say shit cz if they do say shit then they wld also be saying shit abt hualian and they dont want to deal with two calamities up their ass

thats all i can yap abt rn but i might add more we dunno

[gendergenius]

hiiii i'm ebegging again :/

^ kitty for engagement

so instead of a $300 deposit like we had been under the impression of, we need to pay $700 dollars if we want to move in (not including that month's rent)

it is extremely important to me that we can move out soon. we are currently living with an extremely volatile and abusive roommate who flies off the handle at the slightest provocation or even lack thereof. it is to the point where i am drinking every night to cope. i have had to talk my boyfriend down from suicide multiple times due to their treatment of him. we feel trapped in our own home.

that said, im totally aware that most of us are in a rough place financially, so if you're already struggling with money, this post ain't for ya. reblog if you feel so inclined, but take care of yourself first

here are my links:

c*shapp

v*nmo

p*ypal

don't tag as anything please!

^ kitty for engagament

[morgottbathwater]

Can't you treat me better? ♡

SFW. AO3. Canon typical violence, referenced abuse and neglect, and implied sh. Mohg is struggling to accept Morgott's inertia.

Word count — 638

A/N: I shared this fic with other people and they liked it, with their encouragement I'm sharing this here and on AO3. It's a bit rough around the edges.

────────────────────────────────────────────

The unseemly tranquillity of the Shunning-Grounds was broken by intermittent pleas of prisoners, begging for grace and absolution. Gross sobs punctuated their prayers of surrendering their treacherous faith to the Erdtree, only for their cries to be disciplined till they cease. The twins enjoyed a moment of calm, though the brick walls of the sewers held onto the winter’s cold, they were granted warmed water. Morgott wasn’t enjoying his meal, but he could disregard the taste in exchange of warmth. Mohg listened to the distant holler, now mixed with his brother’s chewing, with the droplets splashing onto the wet floor. 

The ambiance smothered him.

“Brother,” Mohg began, watchful eyes examining a distant pebble. “What is your cause?” 

“Prithee, elaborate,” his brother inquired, throat aching as he swallowed a piece of dry bread.

“Your compliance, your submission, the courtesy you show. Have you no honor?”

“Courtesy to whom?”

“To Father, to the knights who hound us, to the very reason we’re shackled,” Mohg scowled, impatience brewing within. He clamped his hands to fists, fine nails digging holes in his palms. “You truly are cut from the same blood stained cloth.”

“Doth not taketh of Father in vain, for he didst saveth us; grant Father esteem for protecting thee and I.”

“Father buried us in disgrace, to him, we may be bereft of life. He would be none the wiser,” he snarled as he gave his brother a leering look. His chest deflated before it could inflate, each word was spoken with more malice than the last.

Morgott observed his shorter twin. His scalp has traces of dried blood, settled around the bases of his horns. His forearms trembled as he clasped his fists further, his gaze was devoid of emotion; yet he seemed as if he would erupt any given moment. 

“You are a disappointment,” Mohg blurted, he maintained contact with his brother as he continued. “Since the day we were bairns, you have been a mishap. Fooled to believe Mother and Father will grant us grace. You will be omitted from their memory, as will I.”

In a burst, Mohg felt the loose rope around his neck being torn, pressuring his neck. He looked attentively as his mellow brother roused to ire. The rising hostility drove the brother’s further, each crueler with every gash.

Morgott held his brother against the floor, hands grasping wrists and knees pressing against his thighs. He was immobilized; he didn't hope to harm his brother.

“Thou art heedless of our privilege!” 

“Existence is a birthright, and nobility is not!”

Twisting and turning, using every stressed fibre of muscle within his limbs, Mohg gained control. He bore claws into his brother as he collapsed onto him, he was bound underneath Mohg’s weight; stationary and lame. Morgott noted Mohg’s expression, or lack thereof. Despite his volatile upheaval, his sight was blank. His cloudy eyes were fully absent, his ferocious affect was wholly feral.

“Don’t touch me,” Mohg threatened. 

Morgott’s lungs stressed as his wind-pipe compressed, he felt familiar claws tearing skin once more.

“Why is it that Father only favours you? Why are you spared of the consequences when I am not? It isn’t just!” He sniveled, hands becoming slack. “Your aversion and preference, I shoulder our burden.”

Supporting himself with his hand pressing against Morgott’s strained chest, he wandered off without a word. Morgott’s back had become cold as laid motionless on the wet floor, his gaze tied to the ceiling, his growing horns ached as his brother had pushed them to the floor. He was dazed.

────────────────────────────────────────────

Wandering aimlessly in the dark, he had finally spotted Mohg in the corner, legs pressed against his chest and aching wings hugging him. Morgott’s lantern illuminated stains of spritzed blood on the floor. 

“Forgive me, brother,” Mohg murmured. “I don’t know why I’ve become like this.”

[antisocialsharky]

Hi, I would like some tips on how to write a romantic relationship between two characters with ASPD. They both have problems with controlling their emotions, aggression in particular, and they both can't admit their mistakes. I like this idea and would like to hear your ideas on this topic.

Hi, thanks for asking! ^^

So you'll of course have to adjust this depending on the type of society you're writing and what defines your characters outside of ASPD and all that jazz, but with that dynamic, I'd say you might be doing it well if you:

• write explosive conflicts, since trouble controlling emotions, especially if its on both sides, will absolutely clash and cause emotionally loaded arguments! screaming, getting verbally nasty, getting physically nasty...all works! triggers should be sort of related to trauma/bad experiences or just stuff that overwhelms them in general? vulnerability/intimacy or lack thereof setting off arguments works rather well too actually!

• if they both cant outright admit their mistakes, you could have them show it in others ways, such as bringing the other person something they like, doing something they said they wouldn't do, doing something sorta reckless to make up for it, etc.

• it would potentially also work well if you have them defend each other rather passionately? the typa "having to hold them back by the jacket to keep them from jumping the person who made fun of their partner" vibe? cus rare bonds aka that person means something to you and volatile emotions, will mix into boiling over and wanting to defend what was threatened I guess?

• if they aren't the type to show affection via words or whatever, you can write their love in the sort of way, where they go out of their way to keep certain symptoms at bay for the other person? or where they offer to be the relief for the other persons symptoms...that works too

• I suppose you could probably also write conflicts/problems into this, where the solution is hella easy and it could be solved in seconds, if only they actually talked to each other and were able to be a bit vulnerable!

• Depending on whether or not they're actively engaging in breaking the law, you can have them be the "lets break shit together, we thrive in being freely us" type of couple? Where they kinda fuel each others symptoms, where they are sorta toxic and either push each other over the edge, or save each other from falling down

• I'll be honest, the first thing that actually popped in my head here is: hate sex. lots of hate sex.

Thats just what I can think of right now, it will depend on what other symptoms/characteristics they have, what you aspire for their character development, etc! Have you ever read "Kiss the Villain" by Rina Kent? One character from the main couple has pretty much canon ASPD and the other is sorta ASPD coded (imo) and they both sort of struggle with this stuff? Well or "Sick Bargain" by Nordika Night, which is a toxic love where they find comfort in sickness, if thats the vibe you're going for. I felt those two relationships represent best how I feel about my own ASPD (tho they arent perfect ofc and not free from ableism).

[lorephobic]

literally nobody asked for it, but here's my list of saltburn essays that i've slowly been drafting over the course of the last week which WILL be required reading for anybody trying to engage with me about this movie. my very personal saltburn 101 syllabus just dropped

A Wolf in Deer's Clothing: Saltburn's Attempt at Innocence

an examination of party costumes and our character's last attempts to masquerade as something they're not: felix—an angel, all-forgiving and all-knowing, something to be worshiped; and oliver—a prey animal, prey to class-divide, prey to saltburn, prey to felix.

thoughts about oliver specifically are loosely organized in my #bambi tag

A Midsummer Night's Mare: Farleigh Start as the Ultimate Victim of Saltburn

a farleigh character study, about the ways he was mistreated and manipulated at saltburn, about fighting to stay alive and the scars left behind by knowing when to give in

alternatively titled "QuickStart", may be adapted into a conclusive essay specifically focusing on oliver and farleigh's relationship

The Eye of the Beholder: On Saltburn's Voyeurism & Violence [working title]

how wealth and class pushes the catton's toward the volatile reality of being able to look, but not touch. on desire and the lack thereof, and portraying yourself as an object to be desired

may end up as two separate essays on wealth and aestheticism but i'm pushing toward a conclusive essay about the intersection of the two, which i feel is at the heart of saltburn

alternatively titled "Poor Man's Pudding: A Melvillian Approach to Saltburn's Class", again, may be adapted into it's own essay

Gender-Fluid: A Study in Sexuality and Saltburn's Desire to be Dry

a deep dive into the bodily fluids of saltburn and how oliver upsets the standard of men who are just so lovely and dry. on the creative choice to lean into the messy wetness of sex and desire and the audience's instinct toward repulsion

a celebration of the grotesque and an examination of why we would label it as such

least developed of the four, heavily inspired by @charnelpit's lovely post about the fluids in saltburn

if anybody is actually interested in any of these, i can work toward something closer to a finished piece instead of just bullet points and quotes in a google doc, but mostly this is so i can share my very brief takes on a multitude of themes in saltburn that have been haunting me

edit for people seeing this in the future: all posts about my essays are being organized into my #saltburn 101 tag if you’re interested in following these through to development!

[bird-inacage]

Only Friends: Can Ray be Redeemed? Is Sand the Solution?

I know Ray has upset a lot of people in Episode 8. I do find it really fascinating how quickly the tide has turned on him, especially when you compare his actions to those of our villains of the first arc: Boston and Top. Perhaps I'm in the minority, but I still choose to believe that Ray does care. He's hugely misguided but not heartless.

Let me firstly preface that none of what I'm about to say excuses Ray's behaviour but is an attempt to unpack why I still hold hope.

A child lost with no anchor

Ray is emotionally immature (which as cliché as it sounds, is a direct product of his upbringing - or lack thereof). He largely operates on basic needs, as a child would: 'I want. I need'. It's all based on serving the self. He seems wildly incapable of thinking very far beyond that. Like a child, he can barely take care of himself, let alone anyone else. He's pretty helpless on his own in a lot of respects. Most people grow out of this. Through knocks and hardship, we learn the world doesn't revolve around us and how to equip ourselves with healthy and appropriate means to navigate through life. Ray however, still seems to be stuck in his infantile box.

I often joke that Ray is a bit feral, but there is some truth to that. Ray's been left to his own devices for the majority of his life. So it's no surprise he's developed this 'me against the world' attitude which is volatile and defensive, but ultimately keeps him caged in said box.

These traits are abundantly apparent in his relationship with Mew. Ray is the vehicle for Mew's self-destruction, but all he sees is the exhilaration of having a 'partner in crime', someone to be in 'cahoots with'. Like a pair of naughty school kids getting into mischief, rather than an adult partnership. Ray is all about immediate gratification over long term fulfilment because (as children do), they don't possess the wisdom and experience to think ahead. Ray seems unable to grasp repercussions or consequences in his decision making. It's always act first, think second.

To put it simply, Ray hasn't been taught boundaries and how to respect them. He just gets criticised for crossing them which doesn’t help him learn. No one has had the patience to teach him why and how. To guide, to steer, to direct, to mentor. To educate rather than scold. Prevention rather than cure. As a result, everyone around Ray serves to clean up his messes rather than equip him with the ability to not create them in the first place. He falls into patterns of behaviour that no one has seriously attempted to break which has only amplified with adulthood. The longer those habits prevail, the harder they are to change.

Does Ray harbour ill-will or bad intent?

Is Ray the worst? In my opinion, no. (Not yet anyway - I might eat my words later, who knows). I've said this somewhere before but intent makes all the difference when judging someone's actions. Choosing to actively cause harm whilst being fully conscious of the impact versus triggering damage to occur as a symptom of your behaviour is vastly different. This is where Ray and Boston differ. Boston acts without remorse, he purposely and calculatingly makes choices that will cause the maximum degree of suffering. Whereas Ray's a loose cannon. He leaves a trail of destruction where he goes, due to a lack of control and means to channel how he feels in a constructive manner. Boston's victims are targets, whereas Ray's victims are collateral.

I don't think Ray means to purposely hurt or harm the people he cares about. Because in doing so, he'll push them away - which is precisely what he doesn't want. (Though saying that, Ray doesn't seem to give as much of a damn if it's people he isn't invested in, such as Top). Ray's world consists of what Ray needs. It's not that he doesn't care about a single person besides himself, he's just so wrapped up in his own needs to even gauge the bigger picture.

When others do point out to Ray that he's hurt them, he does tend to look guilty and taken aback, as if he's thinking, 'But I didn't know. No one told me. I had no idea my actions would cause you to be upset'. Painful levels of ignorance. But I also see a huge amount of internalised frustration. 'But why? Why didn't anyone explain this to me? How was I to know?'

Ray is capable of showing remorse, of displaying guilt. He's not cold-blooded. Anyone who can demonstrate compassion is capable of redemption. Ray is seen to be genuinely appreciative and grateful when people are good to him. He's fiercely protective over people he cares about. Ray was also willing to jump in when Sand gets a call from his mum being in trouble.

One thing I do have to stress is the difference in Ray's demeanour when he's severely drunk/high versus when he's sober. His addiction tends to amplify his most primal desires, his most 'childlike' traits. The uglier sides of Ray presented in their worst light, set to maximum. The raging tantrums, the absurd and unpredictable demands, an explosive and dangerous impulsiveness. People often refer to addiction as a form of sickness, which is worth noting when the person under scrutiny is effectively not well.

Learning by Example

Now let's talk about the huge importance of Sand in this equation.

Let me be clear - it's not Sand's responsibility to teach Ray how to grow up or behave more like a functioning adult. It's neither his duty to be a stand-in parent or caretaker. The unfortunate truth is that Ray doesn't have anyone in his life who plays that role. Who is the voice of reason. To keep him on the straight and narrow. In order to actually incite change, Ray needs to be receptive to whoever is trying to help him. We've seen he doesn't respond particularly well to the majority of people in his life. He's defensive with his father, his friends, deflective and pandering with Mew. The only person he's seen to show any signs of actually listening to and registering is Sand.

Whilst it's not fair on Sand, he might be the only person who has any real chance of encouraging healthy and positive growth in Ray. Because Sand loves Ray, he genuinely wants to see improvement for Ray's own good. I don't think it's a coincidence that we tend to see Ray's more endearing side when he's with Sand. His childlike qualities take on a sweeter, more harmless, playful tone.

He needs someone with an almost parental level of unconditional love to not give up on him, where others have thrown in the towel. Ray's character is essentially a personified cry for help. His mother was unable to cope. His father seems chronically exasperated and far too busy to actually be present. His friends have always seen him as bothersome and too much of a handful.

I personally don't want to write Ray off as a lost cause. Ironically, Sand may be the saviour he didn't ask for, but the one he really needs. Someone who can save him from himself.

[fwwerabtry]

The way they did Bard's Lament(or the lack thereof) is one of the changes I don't really mind, because it logically follows from other, sensible, differences. Primarily, Ashley isn't across the country most of the time, and so Pike isn't away from the party/on autopilot most of the time. Sam's already said that Pike could have convinced Scanlan to stay, and having her be a more constant presence logically would have helped things be less volatile.

(Also, the lack of the mean-spirited prank)

Was it a great emotional beat? Yes. Would it have made as much sense in a context where Pike wasn't gone half the time? Not as much.

[trappedinafantasy37]

Asking you 11, 15, and 22 as well >:3c

Tossing up a second serving of Daedra lore @arach-tinilith! And uh, thank you for the web! But, Daedra got tangled up in it and made a mess...

11. What was Orin and your Durge’s biggest point of contention before the tadpole lobotomy?

A persistent point of contention for the both of them was freedom, or the lack thereof.

Orin really did not like how free Daedra was and thought it was unfair. Daedra didn't have to be perfect and didn't need to live up to Bhaal's expectations. She wasn't confined to the temple like most of the Bhaalists were and often had free reign on the city, disappearing for days at a time, seemingly independent of Bhaal. Daedra didn't really worship Lolth, but she did frequently access Lolth's web and maintained that connection. What little does Orin know is that Daedra is under extreme control under Bhaal, but Daedra learned how to play him. She had to be perfect in ways that Orin didn't see, which is what gave her the freedom. Orin doesn't know that while Daedra is out, she is often feeding the urge and giving Bhaal the murders he demands. Daedra has a much higher quota for death than the others in the temple that she needs to meet to make Bhaal happy. Sure, Daedra may be doing personal stuff out there, but Daedra is not as free as Orin thinks she is.

Whereas, Daedra was overly controlling and restricted Orin's freedom. The only time Orin was allowed to leave the Temple was either with permission from Daedra or under Daedra's direct supervision because Daedra believed that Orin would just fuck things up. Orin had to be the most ideal Bhaalspawn and behave in the ways you'd expect a Bhaalspawn to behave and was punished for deviating. Every little thing they did together was always turned into a lesson in which Orin always failed somehow. Daedra is being incredibly selfish in the way she is treating Orin because she needs Orin to fulfill her own plans. But she has also convinced herself that this will be of benefit to Orin in the end. Daedra knows she only has the freedom that she does because of her own lessons while in clerical school and is trying to impart some of those lessons on Orin, trying to teach her how to earn her own freedom one day. But Daedra is clairvoyant, not a mind reader, and has no idea that she's turning Orin into a powderkeg. She knows Orin will ambush her one day, but has no idea just how volatile she is making things.

15. What did Orin and your Durge dislike the most about each other?

Daedra very much disliked that Orin was needy. I mean, Daedra is a Lolthite drow who is incredibly emotionally constipated. So she never learned how to really express her own emotions, was punished for expressing them, and ridiculed Orin for having them as well. But, Orin is a different person and thus responded to this treatment different (plus, they are not in Menzoberranzan so there is no social expectation to be an emotional wall). Daedra was very uncomfortable and felt disdain every time Orin expressed any kind of emotion and snipped at her for it every time. Even though Daedra was controlling, she did not give Orin the attention she really needed, no one did, and so Orin craved it more than anything. Sometimes, Orin would seek Daedra out just because Daedra was the only one even willing to hold a lengthy conversation with her (not all conversation resulted in Daedra being an asshole). But Daedra still was not providing Orin with what she really needed, so she began acting out and turning murder into art, hoping that someone, anyone, would pay attention. But no one did.

Orin hated just how perfect Daedra was. Daedra was an excellent fighter and archer, a powerful cleric with potent magic and the only real magic wielder in the temple (as well as the only cleric). There was nothing that Daedra could ever do wrong. She was flawless and everyone loved her, going as far as kissing the very ground she walked on.

22. Does your Durge resist or embrace Bhaal? How does that affect their relationship with Orin? How does she feel about them breaking away, or trying to get their position back?

Pre-lobotomy Daedra's relationship to Bhaal is a bit complicated. She ultimately does want to resist and makes these little plans (like with Orin's ambush and the Absolute) as an attempt to inevitably free herself from Bhaal. But she is selectively compliant and does the things that he wants so that he doesn't become suspicious and try to force control over her like he has in the past. But there have been a few moments that she has defied Bhaal and runs the Temple more like a Lolthite Temple rather than a Bhaalist one. But, because she is a serial killer and is really good at the mass murder stuff, Bhaal lets it go and is a bit more lenient when Daedra does break his rules since she makes up for it in other areas.

This would definitely be a point of envy for Orin. Why does Daedra get to do her own things at times, completely renegading against Bhaal but she gets punished for being a little artistic? Why does Daedra still get to cling onto Lolth and Lolthite behaviors, but Orin cannot just live as herself? To her, Daedra is the ultimate nepo baby and is given everything she doesn't deserve, while Orin is left fighting for her life just for a crumb of acknowledgement and maybe a high five and a job well done.

Post-lobotomy Daedra selectively feeds the urge so she doesn't lose control of it, but ultimately wants to find a way to rid herself of the urge. Once she learns about Bhaal, she wants to rid herself of him and accepts that death may have to be an option. By the time she gets to Baldur's Gate, Daedra does have the Slayer. This infuriates Orin to no end because Daedra is still being defiant against Bhaal but she is still his favorite? WTF?! She doesn't even want the Slayer, she plans on rebelling against him entirely and she isn't secretive about it this time, but she still has his favor? Yeah, Orin is definitely screaming in her room and throwing the furniture around, occasionally throwing a knife at her mother's corpse shrine.

[gemsofgreece]

Hello!

This is a genuine question tangentially related to the response you posted:

Do you think the characteristic of the God of the dead in Greek myth as someone comparatively more positive of a person (as close as a God gets to being one, at least) is something based in cultural/historical/archeological/mythological evidence or the absence of it? As in, when you view him through a more positive lens, do you base your opinion on any particular local idea of him, or on the lack of "negative" myths about him?

I know there are certain parts of the general cluster of info on him that point towards his positive traits (some epithets, seemingly positive take on H/P in Lokri area, and so on), but what do you think is the main reason for him to be viewed positively? What is your reason?

I do agree with you, by the way, that there's a lot of weird... hypocrisy in how people now treat different Greek Deities. So, my question is more to ponder with you on the topic, don't consider it a nuanced attack or anything. Thank you in advance!

Hello! This is a great question.

I do have a reasoning and it is based on the general information we have about him rather than the lack thereof.

First of all, Ancient Greeks generally did not like Hades and avoided mentioning him but this was not because of some presumed cruelty or flaw of his character. They simply thought of him superstitiously and feared that too much engaging with the worship or even thinking about Hades would bring - what else - death upon them. (This superstition is huge even nowdays - don't mention / analyze something bad or unfortunate or it will come to you). This avoidance and the fear are perhaps the reasons why there are relatively fewer myths about him compared to some other gods.

However, it seems they were also aware of this avoidance and in the back of their minds they were concerned that it would anger the god and have the opposite result (bring them death out of spite / vengeance). I believe this is why they also developed positive traits about him (the most important being that he was also the god of wealth - Pluton). The fact that this name and domain of divine authority was attributed to him a little later in time supports the hypothesis that they were trying actively to make his worship more palatable in order to appease him.

But I think there's another reason why Hades had generally positive traits and this is that... he was the God of the Underworld!!! OK, hear me out! Unlike the major Olympians, Hades was the only one who was not ruling over living beings. The other gods domineered life and all of the nature with its elements. They domineered over things that underwent changes constantly, sometimes unexpected or violent. So their personalities reflected that constant change and this unpredictability - be it in nature, in the sky and the sea, in the animals and humans themselves and the livings they led. On the contrary, Hades ruled over the dead, the unchanging eternity, the ultimate silence. It didn't make sense for him to be a noisy, lively or volatile god because this is not what death is. I bet this is also the reason why he was the only one who was viewed as mostly monogamous and interested in longterm romantic relationships - he was not a god who contributed to creation and procreation, he was associated to the exact opposite. It would be jarring for the dead to have a god that constantly has sex and has babies and births life. I believe the few partners given to Hades and his few children (three and three respectively) were likely even serving some necessary concepts Greeks had to attach to some symbolism (i.e Persephone and nature), otherwise Hades might as well be portrayed as celibate. Him ruling over the eternity of death made him stable, consistent, more sensible, generally quiet and calm and capable of more profound, undying emotions.

Hades was also responsible and decent. There are some insinuations in the myths and their variations I think that he wasn’t all that happy for being assigned to be a ruler of the underworld. He accepted his fate with dignity however, even though he was the oldest brother, out of respect for his younger brother Zeus saving all of them from Cronos and perhaps out of wisdom for deciding it’s not worth it to argue it out with super strong Poseidon for the seas. After that, he ruled the Underworld with dignity, total responsibility and great care. I think this might be some symbolism associated with the solemnity, decency and sacredness people treat their dead.

Furthermore, he was viewed as just. This also makes sense because upon observation Greeks could guess that Death is just. It comes to all, lucky, unfortunate, rich, poor, privileged and loved or marginalized. No one ever escaped or returned from death. Death was fair and absolute. Surely the Greeks would also like to imagine the Underworld as fair and equal towards all the souls of the dead [with a special treatment for extreme wrongdoers - Tartarus, rarely for normal human beings - and rare glorious legendary heroes - Elysian fields - and then all the average souls together in Hades (the place)]. Hades (the god) also employed three srict but good judges to determine how a soul was to be treated in the afterlife, based on how they had fared once alive. Despite being generally good and fair, he was stern and cold because how could the god of the dead be joyous or overly expressive and animated? And he was adamant at keeping the souls to his realm, greatly guarded, because who ever came back from the dead?

So this is why I think Hades was viewed as quiet, consistent, just and reliable. Because this is what death is - reliably it will come to us all and we will all receive the same treatment.

And now, sorry, but I have to do this:

[minglana]

A reflection on tourism

It's not easy to predict the tourism industry's evolution. The touristic sector can be classified as volatile, without a planification being considered necessary by leaders, against a possible tendency towards change in Spain, despite being subjected to factors that cannot be controlled, since this depends on the trust of the consumer. In this way, the following elements should be considered: the reliance on the climate, on the economic circumstances, on the risks (or lack thereof) of insescurity or social and political instability in other countries, on publicity campaigns destined to divert travelers, the evolution of these [travelers'] habits, the decisions of international operators... Or the emergence of pandemics...

It also should not be forgotten that, despite the triumphalist numbers that are always given, it should be considered that the only numbers considered are the tourists' consumption, but not the cost per visitor in environmental terms (water and energy waste, garbage, residual waters), healthcare, security, etc.

Conversely, the persistance on tourist growth allows not only the obscene enrichment of others, that tends to be based on or accompanied by corruption, just like what had been happening until the real-estate bubble burst, but it also allows to continue building in lands next to coastal areas, as if the concrete that's already invaded it wasn't enough, and furthermore leads to a destruction (despite its contradiction) of the landscape, gravely putting at risk these territories' future.

Problems derived from tourist activity have already begun to pop up, such as speculation, illegal apartments, city occupation and saturation, which obviously is already happening in Barcelona, Venice, or Amsterdam, since the rampant spread of tourist is detrimental to the quality of life of the cities' residents. Protests against gentrification [...] have taken place, due to the arrival of new businesses, stores, and inhabitants which negatively affect the neighbors that have traditionally lived in these areas; there's also protests against tourism and tourism excesses, real-estate speculation stemming from this activity, the rent increase in these areas (which substantially affects workers living in those areas), agglomerations, dirtying and damage to nature, massification, etc. In the summer of 2017 there were some protests against massive tourism in different european cities: abroad, in Venice and Dubrovnik, and in Spain basically in Barcelona and Palma de Mallorca. The Spanish government quickly reacted and coined the term 'turismofobia'. [...]. In the south of Europe gentrification most commonly gets turned to 'touristification'; it's not that a poor community gets substituted for a rich one, but it gets replaced by a non-community of tourists, who spend a few days at most in the neighborhood. Gentrification substitutes populations; touristification erases them. In a market economy, where land and housing are goods bought and sold at prices at-will, it's hard to rehabilitate a neighborhood for its neighbors. Any improvements to an apartment or its surroundings equates a raise in rent, one where the tenants usually cannot meet this demand. Even in cases of residents who own their housing, the offers of investment funds of various origins, interested in buying, leads them to selling their housing and leaving. The disappearance of local commerce and its subtitution for souvenir shops and expensive restaurants puts ordinary life at risk.

Where is the limit to tourism, particulary in Spain? There is a saturation risk. The tourism industry wants to obtain more expenses per visitor, "quality tourism". When there's neighbors who protest against the rise in tourism and its impact in their daily lives (for example, in their access to housing), it turns out that in the interior [of the Iberian peninsula] there's a margin for the market to still flourish. There should be a balance between what is an option for leisure and freedom for millions of people, and the risk for the balance of the welcoming countries, and proceed towards a seasonal and geographical diversification.

In relation to the mountain, ideally, the economy should be diversified and the use of the territory and landscape made to be compatible with the natural environment.

Original text underneath in Spanish:

[starswornoaths]

A Fulcrum Dark and Radiant - Commission!

Commission for @sarenhale, who is a delight as always to work with and has been so patient and gracious with me! Featuring oc Arihel and Urianger!

Set during the events of 5.0, Urianger does everything he can to ease the suffering of Arihel as he absorbs more and more Light. When things finally boil over and the night sky is once again gone, it's all they can do to turn toward one another.

word count: 7,945

Commissions: Open!

To be an Astrologian was to study not only the stars, but also to find the gravid pull of one’s focus. The center of one’s universe was, as far as the greatest scholars of Sharlayan could deduce, the core of one’s power. 

The more clinically minded attributed the core of their power to the heaven’s gates and the unlocking thereof. Those with a more romantic flair would often profess that the object of their desires was the source of their strength. 

From what Urianger had been able to glean from his colleagues in school, teachers would insist that, from a purely academic perspective, only the former was absolutely required for the study of stars. The latter, if true at all, was a more volatile source of power and focus: namely, in that it can wither, change, or be lost.

Having the blessing and burden of both facets of study, Urianger understood that it was only a practice of both in equal harmony that would truly open one to the potential to tame the stars themselves. Would that he had understood such an important lesson sooner in life.

Alas, what study he had undergone was of a more practical sort, versus academic. By the time he was able to grasp starlight in the palm of his hand it had come from another sky entirely, on a world far from home.

For a blessing, Urianger had refused to let his focus be idle as they awaited their champion’s arrival to the First shard; a mastery of the stars meant that he could instead turn his focus to the study of aether itself, the properties by which it operated, and how those properties might be altered. That the man he had come to so dearly cherish was so far away from him had made of him another star to draw strength from when Urianger felt himself waning.

But the work was never finished. In its own way, that was a good thing: it helped keep his mind off the Crystal Exarch’s schemes—and his complicity to them. Working out charts of aetheric flow and how best to alter their currents felt at least like some sort of penance for a sin that he continued to choose to commit. It was the less amoral of the manipulations he was a part of now.

Nothing had brought that into focus more clearly than Arihel’s arrival in Norvrandt.

Pretending that they were overly familiar before that point would be insult to both of them; Urianger had always held a deep and abiding respect and admiration for Arihel. For how he continued to try, even in the face of almost certain failure. For who he was inherently as a person, enough that there was always a sort of warmth in his chest when they were near one another.

But that did not mean they were close. Their interactions had been naught but amiable, even friendly. To Urianger’s mind, Arihel had carried himself beyond reproach, but neither of them had approached one another for more than a few brief moments—and almost always for work related dealings.

So it was something of a surprise when Arihel approached him, of all the Scions, for help.

All the more that he came to Urianger’s room in the Crystarium, not long after night had returned to Il Mheg. Arihel came alone, and deep enough into night that Urianger had only barely settled in from their hasty retreat from the land of the fae. 

Conversation between them had not started smoothly even after Urianger had ushered him in for tea but eventually, Arihel had broached the true reason for his unexpected arrival.

“Not going to pretend you didn’t see how I brought night back to Il Mheg,” said the Warrior of Light and Darkness both. “Wasn’t the first time I did it—you probably know that, too.”

For several long moments, Urianger dared not breathe. “Wherefore wouldst thou make such a claim?” he had found himself asking.

“‘Cause I feel like you know everything.” Arihel had answered as though it was obvious.

Ignorant of how the air left Urianger’s lungs at the statement, ignorant of how close to right he was for all the wrong reasons, he sheepishly added, ““and you talked a lot about the different aspects of aether before. Back in Il Mheg.”

There was little and less sense in pretending that he did not immediately see and feel the changes that had taken place in the time since they had last seen one another on the Source. It was one of the few things left that he did not have to lie about. 

For he would know more than most what was happening—he was complicit in the scheme from the moment the Exarch had brought him into the fold. More than anyone, he understood the immense but exact cost of each patch of night sky…and who was meant to pay it.

“I do confess to no small amount of concern for thee—moreso than what hath become customary for thy heroic exploits, that is.” Urianger recalled measuring each word like a tentative step on ice. “Ere you had set foot on the First…much and more had already changed within thee, though I do not understand the depth of such changes. But the changes hath only become more striking since thy arrival here.”

“I…there’s so much goin’ on, so much at stake—Urianger, I can’t come to anyone else with this.” Arihel had said, words almost tripping on his Lominsan accent and mounting anxiety. 

Despite being nearly half a head taller he seemed determined to make himself small in that moment, and it was well that he was pointedly looking at the kettle on the stove lest he might see the way Urianger flinched. The Warrior of Light was now the second person to tell him that, and of direct consequence to his first confidant in this world.

“Thou hast no need to fear reproach from me, Arihel.” he said softly, hands occupied with cups and the filling thereof. “Aught I might do to lessen the burden on thy shoulders, thou needs but ask it of me, and I shall do all in my power to make it so.”

As if to seal the promise in the ways of the fae folk—a habit hard formed over the last three years—he pressed a steaming cup of tea into Arihel’s hands.

“...I believe you.” he whispered half into his tea. “I have to—wouldn’t be here in the first place if I didn’t, right?”

It was Urianger’s turn to lower his gaze. Given all that he withheld from all those he had held so very dear, he felt unworthy. In equal turns, he felt a churning sense of desperation to be worthy of it twist with the guilt, the uoroboros tangled itself around the corrupted fulcrum of his very being. His secrets had brought about this fear within his friend. His secrets would bear salvation to him. Both were sins born of virtue. He could not falter now when it would doom all he loved and cherished—Arihel included. 

Choosing damnation over oblivion, as he always would, Urianger opted for silence to coax Arihel to speak.

Words strung together, halting for the rattling breath and pulls of drink told a tale of corrupted closure. A battle unfolding on the Azim Steppe between a father figure and the man who saw the monster within him. 

Nergaal might have succumbed to his adopted son’s blows after a long and arduous battle, but Arihel was never the same again. 

Both combatants had been granted the Echo—but Nergaal had something more wicked still to darken his shadow: voidsent. Devoured for their essence and grafted onto his soul in grim patchwork, the creatures had both strengthened and consumed the man from the inside out, his body sustained only by his Blessing outrunning the rot. 

When Nergaal could no longer outpace Arihel, the voidsent he had devoured had congealed into a concentrated corruption. Fearful of what would happen should such malfeasance be left to do as it wanted, Arihel had taken it unto himself.

“In the middle of it all,” he whispered after the silence stretched at length. “I’ll never forget those eyes…looking at me. Always, always looking at me.”

Before that point, Urianger had known Arihel’s eyes to be a bright, almost luminescent colour. He had never managed to hold the man’s gaze long enough to tell whether the color of that radiance was a seafoam green or a cloudy sky blue, but only the faintest limbal ring of that hue remained in eyes that now glared a fierce garnet red color. Where Arihel’s eyes once resembled dappled sunlight streaming through the window, Urianger could only now equate their glow to smouldering coals in a dark furnace.

How much longer could Arihel continue to burn before he guttered out to the last embers, Urianger wondered grimly.

As if to shield his heart from the memory, Arihel gave a shudder so violent his torso folded in on itself. 

“Everything already felt off after I took the voidsent into me.” he said in a tone that made it clear admitting it hurt almost as much as the corruption itself. “I thought—I dunno, I thought if I absorbed the Light here, it would balance it out somehow? I thought it might after hearing you talk about aether, at least—”

“Were it a simple matter of pure aether absorption, there might be some merit to the theory,” Urianger said slowly, searching for words to soften the blow, “but as thou hast doubtless discovered, the imbalance of such confluence, and the darkness within thee a direct result of not mere aether but voidsent, only further complicates thy perilous predicament.” 

Even so much time later, after so many moments that reflected this first true meeting betwixt them, Urianger recalled the way Arihel had all but whispered, “Help me, Urianger. Is there anything that can help?”

Down to his marrow was Arihel a Warrior of Warriors, and rarely did he speak of his pain. He was not one to openly disclose his suffering, and tried to do aught in his power to hide what afflictions he was battling.

But Sharlayan Astrology had a peculiar way of drawing the focus to that which is in need of realignment. In finding the fulcrum of one’s desire to heal in the molten core of the patient’s agony, the weak points began to show like stars in the night sky.

“Aught in my power to try, I shall.” Urianger had promised him. “Thou needs but come to me, and I shall render mine all.”

Every time Arihel took back a part of the night sky, he and Urianger would secret themselves away in a private moment all their own, and the Warrior would give his battered aether over to the Wizard’s inspection. 

Grimly, the march toward the Exarch’s gambit proceeded apace: a fulcrum dark and radiant all at once, neither cancelling out one another but burning differently at the same flesh. The more of the night sky returned, the more those voidsent were but flecks on a pearlescent core like the shadow of vultures against a blazing sun. 

The first time Urianger had deeply examined Arihel’s aether, he had done so without touching him. It had been a request of Arihel’s—fear of what had happened with Nergaal had made him averse to physical contact even before they had been pulled to Norvrandt, and the absorption of Light during his time here had only rubbed that nerve raw.

Patience and pure necessity had won out in the end, and the night after freeing Amh Areng from perpetual day found Arihel in the worst pain he had ever been in.

“Harder to hold in now.” he had admitted, words forced through grit teeth stained iridescent from the aetherically charged bile he had begun to cough up. “Feels worse than before.”

That time, Urianger had all but begged to be permitted close enough to touch—out of a tangled growth of affection and fear that had rooted itself in his heart. With baited breath, he admitted that the need to try and protect him outweighed any concern there might have ever for his own safety.

“I could hurt you,” Arihel warned when a hand was held out in offering to him again.

At that, Urianger smiled and reminded him, “As thou ever could.”

For all the fear Arihel had over anyone touching him, Urianger’s first brush with skin and scale was alarming for how soft they were against his hand. At first contact with the apple of his cheek Arihel’s skin flared in heat, a deep flush creeping over warm skin. 

Both of them had held their breaths for long enough that the room had vaguely spun as their aether connected. In stark contrast to the almost tender caress of Arihel subtly leaning into Urianger’s palm, the first tendrils of Arihel’s aether tangling with Uriangers felt almost violent, as if to claw the relief out of him. 

Almost immediately the sensation softened, and Urianger did not miss the way Arihel had frowned deeply as if in concentration.

“Thy control is highly commendable,” Urianger praised softly, trying in vain to balance his friend’s aether. “But I assure thee, thou art safe with me. ‘Tis alright to let go of thy facade. ‘Tis alright to bear thy pain unto me. I shall take as much from thee as I can. Thou art safe in my care.”

Before their arrival on the First, Urianger had known Arihel’s aether to be more fire aspected than anything, warm as a hearth and radiant as the sun. Astral, which might well suit to point to a perfect counterbalance to the Light whorling within him. 

Thus was Urianger’s theory set in motion, attempting to channel enough water aether into Arihel that his aether could be tilted closer to its natural center. Waves woven with the care of a tailor crafting a gorgeous gown, Urianger wove a luminescent night sky of umbral water over Arihel’s heart in an effort to blanket him in calmer tides. 

With each attempt, it became easier. With every touch, every whispered secret between them, Uriagner attuned himself to the ever-shifting sands of Arihel’s aether. Almost without effort, Arihel had become the radiant sun of Urianger’s universe: the fulcrum of his focus and the gravitational pull of his heart. The shores upon which his waters would return in rhythmic ebb and flow of need and understanding, given and taken in kind.

Of course Urianger was going to give his all to try and bring Arihel back from the brink. What else could he do? Whose shores could he find safe haven within save for Arihel’s? Who else could he love but him? What else could he do but continue to try?

If he reminded Arihel, in word and in soul, of the man he had once been before he had shouldered the burden of monsters— first, that of another man and then of another world wholly, if he could ensure that there would be enough of his friend left to save, then it would all be worth it. Urianger could sit with the guilt of betraying his trust, of hiding the truth of the Exarch’s plan, if it meant that Arihel and the rest of his Scion compatriots would be alive. 

Such was the Exarch’s gamble. The die was cast. They had failed long before they had reached the heights of Mt. Gulg in an effort to chase away the last of the Light, but it wasn’t until they had reached its summit that they realized how far gone everything had been.

To the last, Urianger had hoped that G’raha Tia’s plan would come to fruition. To the last, selfishly, Urianger had hoped the Crystal Exarch would be the one to die. This process had been agony enough to Arihel but even if he never spoke to Urianger again, he would at least have lived.

Emet-Selch had done exactly as he had promised, and foiled their plans at the last. It was all that Ryne could do to keep Arihel from turning into the last of the Lightwardens that instant. The Oracle had given every onze of her aether just to stabilize him—and half of Urianger’s, when he offered more as they had ferried him back to the Crystarium. 

No one looked at the sky outside the airship. No one dared breathe a word of the returned poisoning of Light in the sky. No one needed to.

It was only after Ryne had done all she could that Urianger left Arihel’s side, aiding her in finding her own rest once the mendicants had taken over his care. Absence from him itched at some newly deepened protectiveness in Urianger’s heart, dark and radiant and undefinable. 

That yawning chasm that Arihel had occupied left room for Urianger to reflect, however, on how utterly out of balance his heart and mind were, where his dearest friend was concerned. Little wonder he had rarely known how to handle when they were together; he was in a constant state of dizziness, tumbling from the height of his love for Arihel and crashing into the lows of his knowledge of the man.

Urianger was the one Scion out of all of them that Arihel had chosen to go to when in need of succor. Even if other Scions might have known more of the man, they knew little and less of his aether and soul. 

Not he. Not Urianger, who could sculpt a topographical map of Arihel’s pain and how it had changed with their travels across Norvrandt. Urianger, who was so privileged to know what it looked like when the most immediate of the pain was soothed away, how the sharp ridges and grooves between his brows softened into a tentative smile. Urianger, who could track the worsening of the Light’s poison in how long it took for his hands to stop trembling after a dose of healing magic—

Urianger, who only knew his tragedies. Who only knew of the horrors visited to him at the Steppe. Who only knew Arihel loved vegetable soup because the Scions were beginning to sound like the healers working the Inn at Journey’s End.

Mere hours had passed until Arihel awoke but they passed like days. Urianger scarce kept himself sufficiently distracted with fretting over his compatriots. For a blessing, everyone else seemed otherwise no worse for wear, if keeping their head down in various aspects.

Bereft of purpose otherwise, Urianger returned to Arihel’s room, wherein he found the suites empty of occupants. Thus, he found his purpose, and began to search for where his guiding star had drifted off to. 

There was little and less surprise when he was found wandering with Feo Ul about the Crystarium—but that his stride became purposeful as he caught sight of Urianger most certainly was.

“I was looking for you.” Arihel admitted.

Urianger’s initial reaction was to panic—habit dictated that he was sought out for comfort when the pain became too much. 

“Hath thy pain begun to flare anew? Shall I send for young Ryne to attend you, or Y’Shtola—”

“No!” Arihel cut him off, voice just a touch rougher and louder than intended.

Wincing, he softened and tried again, the mumbled words smudged warmly in his accent. “No. Just—wanted to see you. Talk to you, but—”

Used to Arihel searching for words, Urianger fell into step beside him and waited.

“This is his garden. The Exarch’s.” Arihel finally said, and lowered his gaze to lock with Urianger’s as he said, “I want to walk in yours.”

And thus they found themselves in Il Mheg, approaching the Bookman’s Shelves. Their journey had been a quiet but companionable one, the silence not unlike that which encompassed the bulk of their encounters on the Source.

It wasn’t until they were making their way uphill from the Bookman’s Shelves that the silence was broken—and even then, in a voice interrupting the quiet as gently as a skipping stone on the surface of a lake.

“I wish we had talked more. Before, I mean.” Arihel spoke up suddenly. 

“Before—?” Urianger prompted.

“Before—before everyone started going to sleep.”

There was an almost boyish charm to describing the theft of their souls in such a way. Like a fairytale. Like Urianger was just waiting to wake up and discover this was all a horrible, wonderful dream.

That, not for the first time, he would wake before he gave in to folly and bore his heart to his Warrior.

Whilst in the grips of this dream-turned-nightmare, Urianger sought to soothe the wincing frown that marred Arihel’s face, countering, “amateur though I mayst be in casual conversation, I floundered all the more ere we began to dream on the Source. Doubt not that though the want was there, the courage had not found me. Blame thyself not, I prithee.”

“I could have tried talking to you.” argued Arihel. “Or at least…tried harder. But you’re so smart, and it’s hard to keep up with you sometimes. Figured you wouldn’t want much to do with me.”

“Thy humility prevents thee from admitting to thy own wit.” countered the Bookman as he ushered Arihel unto his Shelves and latched the door behind them. “That thy light shines differently than mine own dims not its brilliance.”

Words chosen poorly, he realized a second too late when Arihel flinched as he brushed past him. 

Another wound he had inflicted. Another sin to be forgiven lest it be devoured.

“Mine metaphor got away from me, I beg thy forgiveness—” he stammered, hands glittering with starlight reaching to soothe out of habit.

“S’alright. I get what you mean.” Arihel answered, waving a hand dismissively without looking back as he continued to move further into the room.

It was Urianger’s turn to flinch.

Such was the same reaction Arihel had given to the knowledge that not only did the Exarch—G’raha Tia—withold critical information about their mission, but had also brought in Urianger as his conspirator. This had always been Arihel’s way, though he now understood the differences—before, such had been in his carefree nature, always banking fires before they outgrew containment. Always letting everyone around him be warm without burning.

These days, he let them go for fear of becoming the fire. With how reserved he had become, the few waspish barks of frustration and anger had seemed as warning sparks in search of kindling.  He had never said as much in so many words, but all that Urianger had been privy to—in both memory and deed—spoke for the Warrior of Light in much the same way it always had.

A string of sneezes from Arihel snapped Urianger out of his thoughts, watching with mild amusement as the man sneezed with such intensity that the leg not supporting his weight lifted and bent at the knee, his tail flailing on its own from pure reflex and knocking over several precariously stacked tomes.

After saying a string of words in Limsan that Urianger presumed to be curses, Arihel knelt down in front of the books splayed out on the floor. 

“I’m so sorry! Wasn’t paying any bloody attention—” he said over his shoulder, scrabbling to try and gather them all in a hurry.

Crossing the room to where he knelt in a few long strides, Urianger knelt before Arihel to assist in the gathering of papers and books.

“Thou hast no need for apologies, my dear friend. ‘Twas the natural consequence of mine own indolence, leaving these tomes strewn about—”

As they both reached for the same book, their hands brushed. Arihel nearly reeled onto his backside for how he flinched and recoiled but Urianger caught his hand before thinking better of it. 

Accidental contact was one thing. It was an easy enough thing to dismiss and pretend at coincidence. Urianger would not have his intentions mistaken: he gave Arihel’s hand a squeeze.

“Just as thou hast naught to apologize for, so too, do you have naught to fear in this place. With me.”

Silence hung heavy in the space between them, even as Arihel had yet to take his hand back. Instead, he stared at Urianger at length, eyes wide and lips parted in surprise.

Time caught up with them when Arihel caught up with himself, realizing their hands were still entwined. Eyes widening even further—this time out of fear, Urianger realized—he snatched his hand back with such speed that his scales scraped Urianger’s palm.

Before he could hold it back Urianger yelped, more from surprise than any sense of pain. All the same, it was enough for Arihel to bodily flinch and attempt to tuck the offending hand into his own chest, as if to hide as much of himself away as he could.

“I’m sorry—fuck, I’m so sorry!” he wheezed, eyes wide as saucers. “Don’t know what I was thinking, I could have hurt you—”

“As thou hast always been capable of.” Urianger reminded him gently, and showed his unharmed palm for inspection. “And yet, thou has never. Not once.”

“But the Light could have—” Arihel tried to argue.

Urianger cut him off with a shake of his head. “Thou has never.” he repeated in a voice that was all at once quiet but firm. “Regrettably, I cannot claim a similar truth. To mine immense shame, I hath inflicted more pain unto thee than thou hast to me. By an immeasurable magnitude.”

“What?” Arihel balked, his brow furrowing deeply. “But you haven’t—”

Urianger shook his head again and argued, “‘Tis writ plain on thy features, Arihel: I see it in the streaks of starlight in thy hair, in the shift of thy aether. I see it in the way thou hast carried thyself through our most recent trials. Pain is all I have given thee—”

“Okay, that’s not true.” Arihel cut him off firmly, his frown deepening. “Wouldn’t have come to you so many times for help if it hurt.”

Looking down to the hand he had curled into his chest he seemed to wrestle with himself for a long moment. Squeezing his eyes shut, his hand shot out to grab Urianger’s again, as if to do it before he could talk himself out of it.

Urianger was startled less by the suddenness of the action and more that it had happened at all but he managed to repress a flinch of surprise, fearful that it would be misconstrued. All the same, he couldn’t help but gawk at their joined hands, suddenly timid with the shift in conversation and the warmth of the contact.

“I…I went to you first because you try to make things better.” Arihel said, words slow and deliberate. “And…and all of this—”

When Urianger looked up at the motion of Arihel’s hand waving at his own face, he was surprised to see how deeply flushed the man had become. 

“All of this,” he tried again, “isn’t your fault either. Not even all of this is the Light.”

“How canst thou be so certain—”

“Nergaal had white hair and red eyes.” Arihel cut him off sharply. “This was starting before I came here, and you know it.”

He seemed to realize that he was starting to get upset, and took a deep breath before speaking again, “Quit trying to find things to beat yourself up with, y’hear? I don’t blame you for it. So don’t blame yourself for me.”

Urianger hid his flinch by tipping his head to look again at their joined hands. Shame had flooded his veins long before Arihel had come to the First, and it now resisted being flushed from him at the reassurance. Unworthy was a chant in his head as steady as his heartbeat, and it would not be silenced by simple words.

“Oi!” Arihel huffed when he attempted to take his hand back in turn. 

Lunging forward to take Urianger’s hand back, Arihel insisted, “If I don’t get to pull away, then you don’t either!”

Which left them knelt among a splayed out pile of books, holding hands and gaping at one another’s flushed faces. For several long moments, neither of them moved for fear of breaking themselves out of this trance.

Belatedly, Urianger realized that this was the longest they had gone with physical contact that served no purpose: for the first time, their touch was intentional without any further goal than to be held by one another. 

Was this not a sort of healing in its own right?

Heart in his throat and blood roaring in his ears, Urianger swallowed and croaked, “Thou hast me at a disadvantage, as thou always has.”

With an intensity normally reserved for the battlefield, Arihel leveled a glare at Urianger as he insisted, “If you’re not running, I’m not running. If you’re running, I’m running with you.”

Meeting Arihel’s gaze as evenly as he could, he promised, “As thou sayest.”

Almost immediately, he had to lower his gaze from those piercing eyes, burning like coals in a fire. He felt the heat of that stare as it remained on him, even as Arihel let go of his hand and picked up the stack of books they had collected.

“We should actually put these on shelves, y’know.” he said.

When Urianger grabbed the other stack of tomes they had rearranged, Arihel stood and offered him an outstretched hand. In accepting the offer and letting himself be helped up, Urianger felt the deliberate nature of both the offer and the way their hands stayed linked for several seconds after he was upright.

“Verily, thou hast the right of it.” he said when their hands at last disentangled. “‘Tis only right to put away that which I stacked unto the floor in mine academic fervor.”

Arihel’s bark of laughter startled Urianger, who jumped just a little at the burst of noise before they both looked at one another for a moment and dissolved into fits of giggles. With the stuffy, warm stillness of this sanctuary, it felt like they were two young academics trying not to get caught by the Librarian being loud between bookshelves. 

Like they could have always been friends.

Like Urianger was always going to love Arihel.

It was less that the tension had left them entirely and more that it waited politely at the door while the two of them put away stacks and stacks of books. They could have stopped at just the two stacks that had been knocked over but time passed more pleasantly when they passed it together, and the decision to keep tidying up had been silently agreed upon between the two of them.

Everlasting Light burned outside but through the wide, dusty windows of the Bookman’s Shelves it almost passed for beams of afternoon sun, honeyed through the faint tint of the thick glass windows. Time mattered both less and more when the night was not coming. 

Long had it been that Urianger was helpless to the gravitational pull of Arihel. Voidsent and Light and a doomed future could not change the way he was drawn closer. 

Filing books on the shelves was just as good an excuse as any to be near—never mind that Urianger was putting them in the wrong places and that future Urianger will have to redo this entire section of the wall to his typical exacting standard, it was worth being able to be close enough that he felt Arihel’s warmth radiating against his side.

Arihel was not a star that he needed to wield nor master, to claim nor even to touch. That Urianger was warmed by him, in his orbit, was more than enough.

And as they worked, conversation inevitably began to bubble up. Slowly at first, with a few murmured questions about placement and equally soft replies. But with time, Arihel began to ask about some of the titles—what is this one about? Can you tell me about it? 

Ever weak to the opportunity to teach, Urianger gladly answered any questions until eventually it turned retelling Arihel stories he had collected over the years. Some of them weren’t even among the books that he had here but were on shelves a world away, doubtless collecting dust without his custodianship. Stories that had helped him learn how to socialize with others— “Always was I a timid and meek child, terrified of the prospect of conversation,” he explained with a chortle to himself. “I didst rely heavily upon fairytales and ancient myths to shape my words when I had none myself. Thus did I speak this way.”

“So it’s like a cover?” Arihel asked without judgement. “Like pretending you’re a character in a book makes it easier for you to talk?”

Urianger nodded. “Donning the mask of a character in a hero’s tale permitted I couldst speak at all. Were it not for Moenbryda’s outgoing radiance, I fear I may not have made a single friend during my younger years. My peers thought me ‘weird,’ though I suppose they were not incorrect in the assumption.”

“I would have been your friend.” Arihel replied with immediate surety. “We would’ve been weird together.”

A smile bloomed unbidden on Urianger’s face at that. “Of that, I do not doubt. Not for a singular beat of my heart.”

When the last books were shelved, their hands brushed. A glancing sunbeam of warmth in this stillness. The two of them froze again, hands hovering in the space between them and only just connecting.

Arihel’s expression suddenly crumpled. “We’ve wasted so much time.” he rasped. “Why did we wait so long to just sit and talk?”

Because I knew I wouldst love thee from the first moment we met, should I seek to befriend thee. Because I was right. Because I am a coward.

“For mine own part, ‘twas a fear that I wouldst have naught to say of interest to thee—nor aught of enough to interrupt thy work.”

When Urianger made to take his hand back, Arihel caught it with his own and tangled their fingers together. 

“I wanted to talk, you know.” he huffed. “I even tried to, a few times! But it was like my tongue went stupid when I was around you and I couldn’t say much.”

Urianger squeezed to keep his grip as he lowered their twinned hands. He studied the tangle of their fingers in favor of yet more reflection on all they could have been before.

“Though the prospect of lamenting what we did not speak of in the past be a tempting chalice to drink from, we shall not find satisfaction in the act, I think.” he pondered aloud.

Daring to be bolder yet, knowing what they were about to face, he held Arihel’s gaze steady with his own, unguarded and afraid, as he murmured, “I would instead consider sharing what we wish to, in this moment, in this place. I would propose that we choose to make of the present what we will.”

Arihel nods slowly, eyes drifting away in thought. It was enchanting, watching the way he bit the inside of his cheek when mulling something over. 

When he looked back to Urianger, he seemed just a bit less guarded than before. “I don’t…think I’m ready to walk away from this yet.” he admitted quietly, lashes fluttering as he visibly fought with the urge to look away. “This feels nice, being here. With you.”

Heat bloomed on both of their faces, and though they trembled with the want to distance themselves, they both remained right where they were. Together—for no other reason than they wanted to be.

“Come, then. Let us wander our own path a while longer.” Urianger offered with a gentle voice and an extension of his hand. “Together this time, if thou wouldst have me.”

There was no hesitation in the way that Arihel took his offered hand. Even when Urianger led him out the door and into the everlasting glow of the Light, Arihel did not so much as flinch when emerging from their sanctuary. As if he trusted that Urianger would never lead him astray. Trusted even now, even after everything that had happened.

Unworthy and deeply aware of it, his heart fluttered all the same.

As they approached the nearby bank of Longmirror Lake, he could feel Arihel’s curiosity rolling off him in waves, steps beginning to turn syrupy and slow but never truly stopping. Ponderous, but not doubting. Never doubting.

“All will be well.” Urianger promised him. “Thou needs but have faith.”

“I have faith in you.” Arihel affirmed as their boots began to sink, gently, into to sodden earth of the lakeshore. 

Urianger did not break his stride, his grip on Arihel’s hand sure and firm as steel as he murmured an incantation and held his focus on the water that rose to meet their footfalls.

Not once did Arihel hesitate. Not once did he stop walking beside him, nor let go of his hand. At first, Urianger had put it down to blind faith, until Arihel looked down a few steps in and realized what was happening.

“Don’t look away.” Urianger rasped, still keeping his focus on the spell. 

Stunned by the lack of formality, Arihel remained transfixed on him as they continued to walk across the surface of the lake. It afforded Urianger the space to weave his spell protectively around them. The lake only just rippled with the brush of Urianger’s robes, the light splash of their feet tapping against it in the most shallow of invasions, steps wrapped in starlight, the surface of the lake stretching and warping to keep them aloft.

It is enough for them to make it to the roof of a submerged house that stood above the surface of the lake, the two of them sitting on it with all the fanfare of resting on a log at the side of the road.

“I like your light more.” Arihel said softly.

A canopy of deep, shifting umber whorled sluggishly over them, dense enough to devour the ever-burning Light, softening it into something like moonbeams and accented with the glittering of the stars themselves. It remained even after they had no need for the water walking spell, Urianger’s focus pulled to Arihel so naturally as to forget to release it.

A blessing, so it seemed. The effort made it harder for him to be anything but his truest, most honest self.

“My light?” he asked softly, almost fearing the answer.

Arihel nodded, reaching out after a moment of debate with himself to tuck a stray hair behind Urianger’s pointed ear. “This—it’s like starlight. Like you know just enough to show me who you are without blinding me.”

His hand lingered on the apple of Urianger’s cheek as he whispered, “So I can see you.”

“I will admit, I maintained it to keep thee shielded from the Light.” Urianger confessed, almost timid but grateful for his little piece of the night sky, grateful that he could stand in a softer light. “But the night sky has always held a greater comfort to me than that of the day. Little wonder that I took to Astrology so readily, when in need of healing magic.”

“I like seeing you like that, when you’re enjoying the stars.” Arihel said as though agreeing with him. “S’part of why I wanted to bring back the night sky so badly. Because you love it so much.”

It was a rare thing for Urianger to be well and truly stunned to silence. When fumbling for something to say, many a poetic turn of phrase from the books he so dearly cherished was enough to fill the silence until someone else deigned to fill the void. Moenbryda often made a game of trying to fluster him into being nonverbal. 

Little could have robbed him of words more thoroughly than the focus of his affection, the center of his gravity, telling him with all the weight of discussing a favorite book that Arihel brought the night sky back for no other reason than because Urianger loved it.

“I heard you describe it to Y’Shtola, and it felt. I dunno. I could tell how much you missed it. So I wanted you to have it back, even if it’s different from home.”

“Betimes, I would struggle to remember what the night sky looked like—or the day’s sky, for that matter. Everything was bathed in shimmering gold and opalescence from the moment of mine arrival.” Urianger admitted. “In a way, I believe I studied Astrology due in no small part to mine own homesickness. It all felt less out of my grasp, when I wrapped the stars ‘round my fingers.”

“I’d think about what you were doing here all the time, before I came.” Arihel nodded. “I didn’t realize how much I missed it until that first time I absorbed the Light—oh!” 

He startled at that, as though something had only just occurred to him. “You weren’t there for that yet—that was in Lakeland, before we went to Il Mheg.”

A peculiar but darling flush spread across Arihel’s face, a deep red that almost turned scarlet nearly matching the red on his scales and in his pupils. As if caught, he admitted, “I lose track of when you were here, I think about you often enough that I sometimes picture you in places I know you weren’t at. Like you were in the corner of my eye in all of them.”

For several long moments, Urianger did not move. Even his breathing was shallow in that moment, as if scared to disturb the steadily shrinking space between them.

“Thou thinkest of me that often?” he asked in a rasp, the air leaving his lungs on the question. “Truly?”

“I feel safer with you around. Even in my own head.” Arihel answered immediately. “‘Specially in my own head.”

And through it all, Arihel did not look away from Urianger once. Not even when his archaic speech patterns fell away from his focus, when he chose to choose to be just that little bit more vulnerable, just that little bit that was more than he had been with anyone since his days in Sharlayan. Like he didn’t have to draw on a hero he looked up to as a child just to have the bravery to speak. Like he was free.

He must have been quiet for just long enough to worry Arihel, who frowned up at the suspended cloud of illusory night sky.

“Is it hard to keep up, though? You shouldn’t tax yourself—”

“The concentration of this spell would be far more daunting, were it not for thee.” Urianger said before he could stop himself. “Astrology, and the practice thereof, requireth a foci—an anchor to which all the magic of its wielder centers its casting. It is the gravity of that magic user’s very star.”

Arihel gawked at him, lips parted as though to say something. A moment passed, and he closed his mouth with a heavy swallow. 

Despite this, his voice sounded dry when he asked, “Do you mean—?”

“Thou art the sun of mine own sky. The center of mine universe. The focus of my devotion, my study, and my cause.” Urianger confessed, words soft and touch softer, as he reached up to press Arihel’s hovering hand flush to his own face. “I wouldst wrap the stars around your center of gravity. Thou needs but ask it of me.”

“I…I want…” Arihel breathed. “...I want so many things, in this moment.”

“Tell me,” his astrologian begged.

“I want…I want to be better. I want it to be night, so you don’t have to do that. I want to be your focus.” Arihel began with tentative words, but the longer he looked at Urianger, silently urging him on, the more the words tumbled out of him with reckless abandon, “I want to know you better. I want you to know the happier parts of me—the better parts of me than what I ask to heal. I want—”

At that, his flush returned tenfold. Were it physiologically possible, Arihel might be glowing, Urianger thought. He might be glowing regardless—he was beginning to resemble an aetherically charged rolanberry.

“You want…?”

“I want to kiss you very badly.” Arihel admitted in the quietest voice Urianger had ever heard. “I have for a while now.”

If he did not fear Arihel taking it the wrong way, Urianger might have laughed at how utterly darling that he was being in that moment, how utterly dear he was to him always. He wanted to laugh in joy, to weep in sorrow at what had been done to his beloved. To howl in indignation at the situation that had put them here to begin with, that this was what it had taken for them to bear their hearts to one another.

In lieu of all that, Urianger prayed, “Please—”

Was there a pull from the hand on his face, or did he fall into Arihel with no prompting at all? Had they both come together in the middle, stars colliding in the scant space between them? The hum that reverberated from Arihel in to Urianger at the first tender caress of their lips certainly made that seem likely. 

“I want all of that and more with thee.” Urianger murmured as he rubbed their noses together. 

Foreheads pressed together to catch their breaths, Arihel’s eyes slipped shut as a pleased, rumbling click rose in his throat. The subtle tip of his head into Urianger’s palms when they cupped his face told him that he still had his Warrior’s attention. 

Knowing this, he persisted, “I want us to win the day in that way that those heroes in tales so oft do. I want to win back all our tomorrows. I want to know thee in the shade of the moon, in the light of the sun. In light and darkness, I wouldst know every piece of thee, and bear mine all to thee in turn.”

Clinging to boldness, he kissed Arihel again and whispered against his mouth, “I love thee. I want thee to live.” 

At that, Arihel opened his eyes and looked at Urianger—really looked. His hand had remained on his face, thumb softly stroking the apple of his cheek. He grew just still enough to worry Urianger but moved to kiss him more deeply before he could open his mouth to voice it. 

“Let’s be alive here for a little longer.” he all but begged when he took his lips back momentarily before diving back to plunger Urianger’s mouth for his every coherent thought. “Just a little longer. Let me love you here for a few seconds more. Then, I give you back the night sky wrapped up in a pretty sash, we save G’raha Tia, and get to the business of living. Sound good?”

They would make their way back to Lakeland in a few more minutes—by way of teleport, at the insistence of Urianger to conserve Arihel’s strength. They would return to their fellow Scions, solidify a plan to save the day, and then…and then…

And then…tomorrow would come. A tomorrow that would let them all live to see it, to know themselves and one another.

But that was tomorrow. In this moment, on this sunken in roof on a fully sunken house, peeking just over a lake on a star far away from home, Urianger held a piece of the night sky overhead just for them, just for Arihel to kiss him under.  A taste of the life they would fight for in the next few hours, sampled now, to remind them of just what they were fighting for.

[spectralpixelsredone]

Weiss Schnee and Cinder Fall: A Foil Analysis in RWBY

Weiss Schnee and Cinder Fall serve as compelling foils in RWBY, embodying contrasting elements, motivations, and character arcs while sharing certain parallels that deepen their narrative opposition. Weiss, the ice-wielding heiress of the Schnee Dust Company, and Cinder, the fire-manipulating Fall Maiden, reflect opposing responses to similar struggles, particularly their abusive upbringings and quests for power and identity. This analysis explores their foil dynamic through thematic contrasts, character traits, and narrative roles, highlighting how their differences and similarities underscore their respective journeys.

Elemental and Seasonal Symbolism

Weiss and Cinder are defined by opposing elemental and seasonal motifs, which reflect their personalities and narrative roles.

Weiss: Ice and Winter

Elemental Motif: Weiss wields ice through her Semblance and Dust, creating glyphs and summons that evoke snow and frost. Her abilities align with her initially cold, aloof demeanor, earning her nicknames like "Ice Queen" and "Snow Angel."

Seasonal Connection: Associated with winter, Weiss’s name ("white snow" in German) and snowflake emblem tie her to the coldest season. Her older sister, Winter Schnee, reinforces this connection, symbolizing resilience and purity amidst harsh conditions.

Personality Reflection: Her icy exterior masks a lonely heart shaped by an abusive father and an alcoholic mother. Her theme songs, such as "Mirror Mirror," use snow imagery to depict her quest for freedom and self-discovery.

Cinder: Fire and Fall

Elemental Motif: Cinder commands fire, both through Dust and her Fall Maiden powers, manifesting as scorching attacks and glass weapons forged in flames. Her fiery abilities mirror her volatile temper and destructive ambitions.

Seasonal Connection: Named Cinder Fall, she embodies autumn, a season of decay and transition. Her role as the Fall Maiden further ties her to this theme, symbolizing loss and transformation.

Personality Reflection: Cinder’s fiery nature reflects her unrelenting ambition and rage. Unlike Weiss’s sympathetic tragedy, Cinder’s fire burns unsympathetically, consuming others in her pursuit of power.

Weapon-Based Characterization

Their weapons—or lack thereof—reveal stark contrasts in identity and self-expression.

Weiss: Myrtenaster

Myrtenaster, a royal rapier with a revolver-like Dust chamber, reflects Weiss’s affluent background as the Schnee heiress. Its elegant design complements her dance-like, balletic fighting style, emphasizing grace and precision.

The weapon’s Dust vials symbolize her connection to the Schnee Dust Company, the foremost Dust provider, and her ability to wield versatile elemental attacks.

As an extension of her soul, Myrtenaster underscores Weiss’s individuality and growth, evolving with her as she masters her Semblance and summons.

Cinder: Absence of a Signature Weapon

Cinder’s original weapon, Midnight, is discarded after she becomes the Fall Maiden, symbolizing her rejection of a fixed identity. Instead, she conjures temporary glass weapons, often mimicking those of powerful figures in her life (e.g., Raven or Ozpin).

In a world where weapons reflect one’s soul, Cinder’s fragile, imitative glass creations highlight her lack of a true self. Her identity is a shallow reflection of those she envies, underscoring her insecurity and obsession with power.

This contrast emphasizes Weiss’s growth toward authenticity versus Cinder’s descent into a hollow, parasitic existence.

Tragic Backstories and Responses to Abuse

Both characters endure abusive upbringings, but their responses diverge, shaping their moral alignments.

Weiss: Tragic Ice Character

Backstory: Raised in Atlas’s cold northern continent, Weiss grows up under an abusive father, Jacques, who married into the Schnee family for control of the Dust company, and an alcoholic mother. Her isolation is compounded by the White Fang’s attacks on her family’s business, fostering her initial racism against Faunus.

Response: Weiss channels her pain into a quest for freedom and redemption. She trains to become a Huntress, defying her father’s control, and enrolls at Beacon Academy to forge her own path. Her journey involves overcoming prejudice, as seen when she reconciles with Blake, a former White Fang member, and declares Team RWBY her true family.

Growth: Weiss’s arc is one of transformation. She sheds her racism, apologizes for her family’s mistreatment of Faunus, and becomes a compassionate, heroic figure, using her pain to fuel positive change.

Cinder: Tragic Fire Character

Backstory: Cinder’s abusive childhood, hinted at through her Cinderella-inspired origins, includes mistreatment by her stepfamily. Her hatred extends to everyone, lacking the specific prejudice Weiss harbors.

Response: Cinder responds to her trauma with unbridled ambition and cruelty. She aligns with Salem, seeking power through the Fall Maiden mantle and destruction. Her actions, such as manipulating Emerald or betraying allies like Neo and Watts, reveal a selfish, abusive nature.

Regression: Unlike Weiss, Cinder becomes increasingly monstrous. Her determination and ambition, while virtuous in theory, are warped by narcissism, leading to reckless decisions and repeated failures. Her lack of self-reflection cements her as an unsympathetic villain.

Character Development and Team Dynamics

Their interactions with others highlight their contrasting growth trajectories.

Weiss: Took a Level in Kindness

Initially arrogant and judgmental, Weiss resents Ruby’s leadership and struggles with teamwork, as seen in their Dust explosion mishap and bickering during initiation. Professor Port’s lecture prompts her to prioritize self-improvement over ego.

Over time, Weiss becomes selfless, sacrificing herself for Yang in a tournament match, defending Yang’s reputation, and apologizing to Blake for her past prejudice. By Volume 7, she arrests her father for treason, fully embracing her chosen family and mission.

Team Dynamics: Weiss evolves from feeling “surrounded by idiots” to valuing her team, particularly Ruby and Blake, as she overcomes her spoiled brat tendencies and learns to trust others.

Cinder: Descent into Cruelty

Cinder starts as a charismatic, threatening leader but grows meaner and more unstable. Her allies, including Tyrian, Watts, and Neo, mock or despise her, while Emerald’s loyalty stems from abuse and gaslighting. Even Salem tolerates her begrudgingly.

Her leadership is marked by teeth-clenched teamwork, as her reckless ambition alienates her cohort. Her Leeroy Jenkins approach in Volume 5 and repeated failures in Volumes 6–8 reduce her to a Goldfish Poop Gang figure, despite her “Evil Is Cool” aura.

Team Dynamics: Cinder’s “surrounded by idiots” attitude persists, but unlike Weiss, she never grows out of it. Her alliances are transactional, and her betrayals (e.g., abandoning Neo and Watts) reinforce her isolation.

Combat Prowess and Narrative Roles

Their combat abilities and narrative trajectories further contrast their effectiveness and reputation.

Weiss: Skilled but Naive

Combat Style: Weiss’s graceful, balletic fighting combines fencing, figure skating, and Dust-enhanced Semblance glyphs. Her summons, like the Arma Gigas knight or Queen Lancer, reflect her growth in mastering the Schnee family’s inherited Semblance.

Challenges: Early in the series, Weiss struggles with solo victories, earning a “Jobber” reputation among fans. Losses to Vernal, Flynt, and an elite mook highlight her inexperience, though her assists and saves (e.g., rescuing Ruby from a Death Stalker) showcase her team value. By Volume 7, her victory over Marrow begins to redeem her reputation.

Narrative Role: Weiss is a Lady of War and Jerk with a Heart of Gold, evolving from a spoiled brat to a heroic, empathetic Huntress. Her scar across her left eye, from the White Trailer’s Arma Gigas, symbolizes her resilience and growth.

Cinder: Strong but Flawed

Combat Style: Cinder’s fiery Maiden powers and glass weapons make her a formidable Magic Knight. Her combat is aggressive and improvisational, reflecting her adaptability but also her lack of a stable identity.

Challenges: Initially a dominant threat, Cinder’s defeat by Ruby in Volume 3 marks a turning point. Her injuries in Volume 4, reckless battle in Volume 5, and repeated losses in Volumes 6–8 diminish her credibility, earning her a Butt-Monkey reputation. Her reliance on Neo for success in Volume 7 underscores her declining competence.

Narrative Role: Cinder is a Jerk with a Heart of Jerk, whose determination and ambition are deconstructed as toxic flaws. Her eye scar, like Weiss’s, parallels her physical and moral scars, but her refusal to learn from failures casts her as a tragic, villainous foil.

Shared Traits and Divergent Paths

Despite their contrasts, Weiss and Cinder share key similarities that underscore their foil dynamic:

Abusive Upbringings: Both suffer under oppressive family figures—Jacques for Weiss, and her stepfamily for Cinder. However, Weiss uses her pain to become heroic, while Cinder’s trauma fuels her villainy.

Scars and Symbolism: Both bear scars across their left eyes, symbolizing their enduring wounds. Weiss’s scar reflects her growth, while Cinder’s marks her descent.

Combat Stilettos: Both fight in high-heeled boots, emphasizing their grace and agility, yet Weiss’s style is refined, while Cinder’s is destructive.

Color-Coded Powers: Weiss’s glyphs and Cinder’s Maiden powers shift colors based on elemental effects (e.g., blue for ice, orange for fire), highlighting their parallel versatility but opposing intents.

Conclusion

Weiss Schnee and Cinder Fall are quintessential foils, embodying ice and fire, winter and fall, heroism and villainy. Weiss’s journey from a prejudiced, aloof heiress to a compassionate Huntress contrasts sharply with Cinder’s descent from a cunning antagonist to a narcissistic, self-sabotaging villain. Their shared struggles—abusive upbringings, scars, and quests for identity—highlight their divergent responses to pain and ambition. While Weiss finds strength in teamwork, redemption, and self-discovery, Cinder’s obsession with power isolates her, reducing her to a tragic figure whose virtues become her downfall. Together, they illustrate RWBY’s core theme: how one’s choices shape their destiny, for better or worse.

(also both seem to give off super villain smiles whenever they want)

[inocennt]

is the typewriter real in TTPD the song?

I think it's real when you consider the additional broader, enveloping context of TTPD (album) as being a concept album about a government department that studies the minds and works of poets/writers. Because there's an additional layer of external narrative happening in there. While the country-wide galivanting, mania-induced love story is playing out within the text, one must remember that all of those songs are chapters in a story that all make up the evidence binder being submitted to an investigation on the narrator (Taylor) by said department. The department of which Taylor is also the chairman of. This reframes the storyline itself as a form of metaphorical poetry rather than a by-the-books retelling, as the point of this department is to interpret and analyze the mind and works of the poet(s) in order to come to some grand conclusion about them as artists and people.

With that in mind, it creates this imagery of the subject of TTPD (the song) also being a member of the department, and the two of them essentially having this workplace romance type dynamic. Sometimes, he brings his work home with him, physically, in the form of the typewriter. And she, in trying to perhaps keep her work and private lives separate, brushes him off for that behavior. Who uses typewriters anyway? At least, outside of the context of our jobs?

But keeping the work and private lives separate was always futile when your private life, your romantic relationship, is your work. And so even though she doesn't physically bring her typewriter home with her, she does bring her coworker home with her. And then she starts psychoanalyzing him the same way she would do to the minds of other poets at work. You're not Dylan Thomas, I'm not Patti Smith, this ain't the Chelsea Hotel, we're modern idiots.

I think "I've read this one where you've come undone" and "Who else decodes you? Who's gonna know you if not me? Who else is gonna know me?" are really great examples of her job as an analyst/the chairman of this department bleeding in to the romantic relationship. She's literally likens repeat instances of the muse's emotional volatility to "reading" something over and over again, like one would do to construct an analysis or come to a verdict on a trial over. She points out how they're the only ones who are really going to "know" each other, which, if you interpret the song in the context of the department narrative, makes sense--they're coworkers in an extremely specific environment dedicated to the analysis of tortured poetry. Everyone they know understands why it's meant to be.

And obviously it isn't meant to be, as the poetry itself implies. It doesn't work out, her behavior is thrown into question by the other members of the department, and the chairman herself is flung into the hot seat to be analyzed and prodded by her fellow members, to determine the validity (or lack thereof) of her actions.

I'm sure that the parallels to fame, privacy, and audience perception are clear within all of this, as well....