#where have all the merrymakers gone?

[maocin]

Where Have All The Merrymakers Gone?, 1997, Harvey Danger

Harvey Danger is not a hall-of-fame band. They are not special, they produced no classics, they left very little imprint on our larger culture musically. But with Where Have All The Merrymakers Gone? they wrote a pretty much perfect album. Aside from two minutes of dead air at the end, this record rocks from start to finish. I want to talk about why this is one of my favorite albums of all time.

Starting Off Strong

Okay, so you've heard "Flagpole Sitta". Good song! A nice summer-y bop to get heads turning when it comes on over the radio. Something everybody can sing along to when the chorus hits. Maybe, if you knew who Harvey Danger were off the top of your head, you've heard "Carlotta Valdez", the frankly electrifying album opener that makes an equal case for most listenable on the album. This strong one-two will get you moving, get you hyped. Plenty of albums from genuinely talented artists go by without having even one song that you feel like really fucking screaming along to. And yet, from the first chorus of Carlotta to the very last four-count in Flagpole Sitta, if I'm not in public, I'm probably losing my voice. Maybe even if I am in public.

The guitars sound like what I want guitars to sound like, sometimes twinkly and bright with an undercurrent of grungy distorted rhythm, sometimes driving fully into the territory of punk with a warbling angry lead and a forceful drive on crunchy power chords. The drums keep things moving -- there's no laying into the groove here, no snapping on two and four. This is for moving your whole body to the inexorable pull of a fucking awesome downbeat. The vocals are distinct but still speak the language of late 90's pop-grunge with some typical growls, a sarcastic, cynical delivery, and the obligatory megaphone-sounding bridge every now and again.

Oh, and holy shit, that bass. Paul McCartney is crying tears of happiness somewhere.

These first two songs are perfect pop-punk anthems. When I finish "Carlotta Valdez" I want to scream YES! along with the guys in the studio. Flagpole Sitta makes me want to go drive a car too fast, strut around Main Street with the crew, unapologetically enjoy my world with awareness of the enlightened hipster perspective and rejection of its caustic holier-than-thou attitude. In short: Go, white boy, go.

2. Changing the Game

It's extremely important what happens between "Wooly Muffler", "Private Helicopter", and the three songs that follow. And now I want to talk about lyrics, because yeah, those matter too. Wooly Muffler opens with a strikingly evocative image given what you're used to hearing after the first two songs: Flagpole Sitta's "Only stupid people are breeding/The cretins cloning and feeding/And I don't even own a TV" seems like it comes from some Green Day song* but the vulnerability of "All I ever wanted to be was a wooly muffler on your naked neck" belongs on Pinkerton. Neither of these are necessarily good or bad -- they're just well-executed in equal measure, and the range should be acknowledged. Wooly Muffler is not the first hint that this album might be much more than another dumb pop-punk effort, but it is the most obvious. Unless you're a Hitchcock fan. For everyone else, when the guitars kick back in heavy on Wooly Muffler, we know for sure it's real. "If you've got greatness in you/Would you do us all a favor/And keep it to yourself" is one of my favorite lines in anything I've ever read, seen, or heard. These guys are the real deal, another Nirvana, capable of capturing the energy without succumbing to the bullshit. *(although it's actually quite delightfully ironic and clever and if we're being charitable "Longview" is too, and everyone everywhere should really give artists more credit because being authentic in ways that everyone agrees with is comically hard)

And then "Private Helicopter" comes on. You just can't help but recognize everything awful about the genre in the way Sean Nelson delivers "favorite ex-girlfriend." I almost turned the album off right here the first time I listened to it. There's no use lying; I totally did, and I had to go back later to finish the rest. I am here to promise you: it's not blink-182. You are not hearing the beginning of a boyish album about sex drugs and rock'n'roll. It's one miss for one verse, if it's that. Yes, it's scary to hear a record that sounds like it's headed in the right direction almost veer into the wrong one, but I solemnly swear that this song gets personal, it gets angry, it is not a bit piece. And that's why getting through the first half is so important, because it's not their fault that "What's My Age Again" and later Offspring albums are cringey to listen to now. This song suffers for sins that are not (!) its own. So you might be upset heading into the middle of the album. Fortunately --

3. Holy shit these next two songs are really fucking good I mean wow

"Here's a fact you cannot rise above/We'll have problems, yeah/Then we'll have bigger ones."

As a writer or listener for a vast amount of music all told, I am not uniquely qualified to say this but I am qualified enough. When Sean Nelson says he doesn't know what the line "From damage to damn control" means, he is not admitting defeat. The best writers in the world will tell you a good song is a gift and a good line is pure dumb luck. Sometimes, it's just stringing words together and singing them in a way that means something to someone. If you don't feel anything when you listen to "Problems and Bigger Ones", there's something fundamentally wrong with you as a human person.

Jack The Lion is deeply personal and deeply sad. I watched my father lose his father to Alzheimer's; I read the 23rd Psalm at Papu's funeral. I was too young to understand why Dad cried at "Cat's Cradle," call it self-centeredness. "When you coming home dad?/I don't know when" just didn't hit as hard at eight, because my father had been home for me. It's not nostalgia talking when I say I fucking love this band. It's "Jack The Lion." Watching my father deteriorate would break me. This song is really, really good.

4. Now that we're all sold on this being phenomenal, lets listen to some songs about love and hate and all that good stuff

I don't have much to say about "Old Hat." It's one of those love songs that you have to squint at to realize it's astoundingly true. There's not much conventional beauty in that. However, it works out to be exactly what it's meant to be. What a commendable thing to aspire to. To ape one of my favorite people on the internet, the brevity of Old Hat has a lot to teach about the craft of writing. I learned, of course, absolutely nothing.

"Old Hat" is about love. So is "Terminal Annex," but a different kind: the inverse, really. "Dreaming of the fistfight I never got into/Thinking of the mean shit I wish I'd said to you" is one of those lines that means a lot to those born into boyhood in America. I hope I've sold you on the idea that these fine gentlemen are self-aware; it's my firm belief that the song isn't actually about how much he hates this girl, rather it's about the ways that kind of hatred can influence a life. In any case, it means something, and that's another check mark.

5. Taking it home

The last two songs have to mean something too. We're this close to a more-or-less perfect album, just bring it home.

And oh brother, does "Wrecking Ball" almost fuck it up or what. Maybe you're into this sort of thing, but I was enjoying my album free of hackneyed metaphors, with its depth coming from reflection and self-awareness and trust in the artist. Creating a metaphorical house is... a little much for my taste. But it's got that profound sound, and just because it has the T.S. Eliot accent isn't enough reason to hate it.

Let's talk about "Radio Silence" now. Assume for a moment the last three minutes of the song don't exist. What a fucking song. In 1997, before Twitter collapsed all nuance, before Facebook bore our personal information into the gaping maw of every aggregating advertiser, before the hyper-modern fractionalization of every group of people, we have "Radio Silence". The lament of a man who just so desperately wants to be left alone. And by way of that lament, his caricature. And by way of that caricature, some form of commentary. Sure -- it winds up meaning what you want it to mean. Absolutely it's true that you could overanalyze this album to death, it has the accent of profundity and enough words to feed a freshman lit class for weeks, months if they can bring in other works to compare it all to. Obviously this much is true.

But in 2023 when you listen to this fucking song and you hear "All hail to another confession" how can it not make you feel at least something. Some people walk around living thinking a friend who asks for favors is no friend at all, some people believe their public profile is a great place to drop all the trauma of their childhood. Is it so much to ask to maintain a little radio silence? If you choose to read it as a plea for normalcy, it might look a little something like that. But it's all yours to interpret and that's the best any artist anywhere can offer.

All that said, here's my two cents. The ending refrain of the song sounds fucking beautiful. By that point I've already decided what I want to believe for the day -- a song's not going to change my mind about what should and shouldn't be acceptable in polite conversation with strangers. Whatever I'm feeling or thinking, when that refrain comes in, I get chills.

6. Go forth!

If you lived through the nineties you might remember Flagpole Sitta, or if you were on Vimeo in 2007 (google flagpole sitta lipsync), or if you listen to your local alt-rock radio station. But it's not even the best song on this album. I prefer Carlotta Valdez and Jack The Lion. Furthermore, Where Have All The Merrymakers Gone? isn't even their best whole work -- that probably goes to King James Version, although Little By Little was also well recieved.

Harvey Danger is self-aware and self-important, deeply involved with the culture that birthed it and equally parts mocking of its origins. They are fine lyricists, fine musicians, they put the music first and produce songs that you can enjoy listening to. And most importantly, if your friend who likes good music asks you how the album is, you can play Flagpole Sitta -- but if you have a friend who thinks Nirvana were industry plants, well, you can just as easily play them Radio Silence, and get a less frigid reception than if you had confessed to liking Dave Matthews. They created an almost-perfect album. Had Sean Nelson taken a better tone at the beginning of "Private Helicopter" and the record label decided to lop off the last three minutes of nothingness with noise, this album would be impossible to find fault with. Not a 10 by any means -- it's no great work of art -- but something even rarer: a perfect seven.

7. Postscript

Reasons you might not like this album:

It's not very musical and the vocal performances range from 'nothing special' to 'straight-up grating if you don't like pop punk'.

Mired in mediocrity, it doesn't strive for or achieve anything beyond the grounds it covers. No innovative sound or meaningful lyrical accomplishment; it never captured a movement or spoke to a generation the way a classic album does.

The lyrics aren't much! If you're used to something like Springsteen's grit, or Penelope Scott's wittiness, or the complexity and sincerity of Kendrick Lamar, you're going to be disappointed. Hell, even if you're more of a Taylor Swift fan you might find "So casually cruel in the name of being honest" to be more pithy and striking than most of Harvey Danger's offerings. Although if you think "All Too Well" inarguably clears everything on this album, even after listening, then I'll be very sad.

By calling this a perfect album I don't mean to say that it's full of perfect songs, or to argue that it's a classic, or even to say that it's particularly good for your tastes. If you look for greatness in your music, you will not find it here. But what they try to achieve, they achieve, and they do so entirely without fault. This album left a sincere impression on me and I hope you didn't read this far because what the fuck are you doing you're wasting your time go listen to it!!!

[panda-music-1982]

Harvey Danger, "Flagpole Sitta"

Where Have All the Merrymakers Gone? (1997)

[albumtober]

Day 14: An album to play loud

Harvey Danger - [Where have all the merrymakers gone?]

This was my first real delve into 90s pop punk and holy shit. Love it. This is my teen angst album... that I found in my 20s. Flagpole Sitta was the first song I heard from it, and it still remains my favorite. Maybe I'm basic or a poser. F**k it. It's not a crime.

[yourfavealbumisgender]

Where Have All the Merrymakers Gone? by Harvey Danger is a Lesbian!

requested by @us-costco-official

[tillman]

been listening to a lot of harvey danger lately to please child me who thought it was the only person on this earth to know who harvey danger is.

[new-albums-daily]

Harvey Danger – Where Have All The Merrymakers Gone? (1997)

10 tracks, 46 min 26 sec

Rating: 9/10

Top Track: Flagpole Sitta

Alright, this is one where I know basically nothing about the band going in except that John Roderick (of The Long Winters and other things) played bass for them on tour and that Flagpole Sitta is their big hit. Chose this album because I wanted to hear that song, but also it seems to be their most popular release anyways.

Was actually not expecting to like this as much as I did, but in the end really enjoyed it. All the tracks were pretty solid, so I was looking at an 8, but those final 3 tracks brought that rating up. Haven't had a great day, and taken together those three, as I wrote in my notes, "picked up my body, smashed it on the floor till I broke, then built me back up again". Can't explain it any better than that, folks. As standalone tracks, favorites for me included Carlotta Valdez, Wooly Muffler, and Terminal Annex.

[cloudseeker14]

Late Spring (Scaramouche x GN!Reader)

Pairing : Scaramouche x GenderNeutral!Reader

Summary: The Balladeer's heart had always been a closed door but you'd managed to throw it open. Your love, though he never knew how to return it, was like warm sunlight kissing his skin. Yet, good things never last, do they?

Love. 

A word that shook the heart of every creature with tumultuous yearning, the subject of bards in every drinking den across Teyvat. 

Scaramouche could only scoff at the ridiculous notion. Love could never be true, not within the boundaries of a wretched, heartless world where emotions were a source of disdain. 

Not in a realm where his tears meant being cast aside, a creature as noble as him was supposed to be as steadfast as the mountains that slumbered in stone. 

Especially not in a world where you couldn’t exist. 

Scaramouche downed a bottle of whiskey, leaning against the headrest of his velvet armchair as he relished the burning sensation of the drink running down his throat. 

The stinging tethered him to this pathetic plane of existence, fastening the strings of his limbs to the earth as he attempted to fly away to the heavens. 

He could still remember that night, the wind had felt frigid on his porcelain skin as bonfires reached up to the sky. 

The fatui had been rejoicing, their hoarse cries of victory at the thought of another pesky obstacle in their path being tossed into oblivion. 

Yet, all he could see was you, all thoughts of merrymaking cast aside at the sight of your bright laughter. The sound of your joy had been a gentle breeze, blowing the cobwebs and opening the windows to sunlight in his heart. 

You’d drunk yourself to a slobbering mess, stumbling around as you jested with your peers. Scaramouche swirled his cup of cherry red wine, positively relishing the blush that coloured your face when you met his eyes.

After a couple of hours of painstaking formalities with the other harbingers, The Balladeer couldn’t help the groan that escaped from his throat as the gathering cleared,leaving him all alone with the stars and his mind.

His accursed mind, tormented with the sights of eras long gone.

He could practically see those cruel violet eyes in front of him, mercilessly casting him down from the heavens as he writhed in the air.

Scaramouche shuddered, breathing shakily, the silence penetrating the nooks of his heart.

Just as he was about to return to his quarters, he’d felt a tap on his shoulder.

The harbinger whirled around, only to be greeted by your charming face.

“I wouldn’t have come for this banquet if you were only going to keep staring at me.” You smiled, clasping his hands

If any other soul had done that simple action, it would have warranted instant death but what could Scaramouche say, in your hands he’d always been putty.

You stared at Scaramouche, eyes raking over the way the moonlight lit his porcelain features.

The way his clear blue eyes seemed to hold the depth of all the oceans of Teyvat itself.

The way that soft smile making its way into the corners of his lips had your heart bursting into flames.

“I missed you.” He muttered

“Hmm, what was that again?” You smirked, snaking your arm around his waist

“Don’t test me.” Scaramouche gritted, but the growing grin on his face said otherwise.

The two of you sat between the tall blades of grass, the birds chirped softy as a shooting star whizzed past.

“Did you see that!? Scaramouche, please tell me you saw it!” You cheered, your eyes practically about to fall from their sockets.

You were radiant, a source of such pure vividness that even someone as vile as him couldn’t shun away from.

“Yeah.” Scaramouche said, staring at you as he traced the lines of your palm. “It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

Deep inside you both knew he didn’t mean the star.

“Y/N.” The harbinger called, gently laying his head on your shoulder.

You stiffened, your heartbeat echoing in your ears as his cold breaths fanned your neck.

“You’ll stay with me, right? Always?”

“Always.”

“Once I get that gnosis, you’ll have to be the one by my side,” He confessed, biting the inside of his cheek “It can never be anyone other than you.”

“Whether you have the gnosis or not makes no difference to me, but if it makes you happy, I’ll stay by your side as long as you want me to be there.”

Scaramouche could swear that a strange warmth seemed to blossom in his chest, but that would remain a thought for him to ponder during a freezing, lonely night.

You placed a chaste kiss on his forehead. “I love you.” You whispered

Scaramouche nodded, closing his eyes. What else could he say? How could a creature like him, a broken puppet with neither a heart nor strong will, be able to understand the intensity of your words?

You knew you would never hear it back but that was fine, it would just be a silent prayer you’d utter to him each day. You didn’t need that simple sentence to understand how he felt, as long as you could still see that gleam in his eyes when he looked at you, you knew you had nothing to worry about.

It was love, Scaramouche just hadn’t understood it yet.

—

With you in his life, Scaramouche knew he was invincible, nothing could stop him anymore. 

He was no longer that fragile creature, sobbing and wailing, he was going to be a god.

The gnosis was so close to falling within his grasp that Scaramouche could practically taste victory on the tip of his tongue. 

Yet, all those thoughts fell apart into dust fluttering in the wind at the sight of you on the ground, your skin devoid of it’s warmth. 

Hair clung to forehead, drenched in blood as you pitifully covered the gaping hole in your stomach. 

“S-scaramouche,“ You called, feebly reaching for the man you were bound to leave 

“Who did this to you!?“ Scaramouche bellowed, cupping your face

A whimper escaped his lips at the coldness of your body and with every second that passed, Scaramouche swore he could see the light fading from your eyes.

“I-I’m sorry I couldn’t make it through.“ You felt warm tears falling upon your arm and you forced yourself to look at Scaramouche, the bottom of your lip trembling as the harbinger stifled his sobs. 

“I won’t let you die!“ He bellowed, tightening his grip on you. You weakly shook your head as your vision blurred. 

“I love you, Scaramouche. D-don’t forget me.“

No. 

No. 

It couldn’t be you. 

Another betrayal, another mar upon his frivolous existence. 

You grasped his arm tightly, hopelessly trying to hold on to the last embers of life within you just to not leave the man before you ablaze in rage. 

But alas, the archons had other plans, and you shut your eyes; blissfulness washing over you. 

Scaramouche would have followed you to the ends of the world but at that moment, you’d slipped away to a paradise he’d never be able to reach. 

“I love you too."

Those were the words that escaped Scaramouche’s lips, only to be heard by the stars. 

He knew what love meant now. 

It was you. 

It was your touch, the comfort you'd ushered him into.

It was the web of passion he had allowed himself to be foolishly woven into.

You, the one who’d made him have a heart by giving yours even though he’d done nothing to deserve such a boon. 

Scaramouche couldn’t help but bawl your name, the wind carrying the puppet’s rage across Teyvat and to the archons. 

The world shouldn't be the same without you, it should have been torn apart in flames that should tower the mightiest pantheon, stifling every creature with smoke.

A world without you had no right to have even a glimmer of beauty.

Scaramouche remained rooted in place, the facade of the ruthless harbinger shattering into pieces, leaving only a wailing child stuck in the body of a man crying for the loss of his only salvation.

[fizzy-tizzy]

Mediocre skin dump! (I’ll explain why under the cut!)

Okay so! The first one- roseate Walani!

I don’t like this one bcs it doesn’t really feel like something walani would wear, and the head feels too similar to other roseate walani designs I’ve seen.

Verdant walani- I like where I was going w/ this, (I think leaning into walani’s heritage w the traditional hula outfit is cool) but it just… kinda feels unfinished to me? It feels too simple compared to the other verdant skins, and I don’t like the orange I used (I should’ve gone with my gut and done red)

Merrymaker wortox- I like this one the most out of all three, but I feel like it’s somehow cluttered and empty at the same time. I think the main brown should be lighter, and I shouldn’t have bothered with the color between the main brown and the cream. I also think I should’ve added in some green somewhere and maybe a bow or two to make it feel more festive?

Anyway these skins have been haunting me since I made em so I’m posting them here to hopefully give myself peace of mind again :D

[earthling55]

An Unexpected Reunion

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Hi! So, this is my first Daemon Targeryen fic. I don't actually know the storyline that well, so if I make some kind of mistake, please let me know (politely). Aka, also why there is no synopsis here.

Warnings: implied physical abuse

I taste the blood before I even realize I’ve been hit. It leaves it’s awful coppery taste in my mouth, a bitter reminder of what my life has become.

I curse the day my father married me off.

I curse him.

It’s a shame he’s already dead.

A door slams somewhere in the distance, but I am yet to move from where I’m standing frozen in place, the effects of the slap still fresh on me. My body stuck in an uncomfortable position, head pushed away from the force of his fist.

The air feels dead.

Sometimes I wish I was.

……………………..

I do my best to cover the bruises. Thankfully, after all this time my dear husband has learned where not to hit me and so my face and arms are relatively clear.

There are far less questions that way.

Taking my place next to the others, I wring my hands out and avoid the ever growing glare of my husband from across the room as Daemon walks in.

I can hear the spiteful whispers of the other ladies over my high necked gown and gloves, so out of place next to their low cut, sleeveless gowns.

My eyes betray me, constantly straying to where he is.

Absently, I wonder what it would have been like if I would have said yes.

If I would have let him whirl me away on Caraxes years ago when he asked.

If I would still be covered in bruises then.

The wine flows freely at the feast that night. The joyful merrymaking drowning out my unlawful thoughts.

I watch him as he talks to his brother. Eyes taking in every inch of his face, from his violet eyes to his starkingly white hair.

Memories flash through my mind.

My hands fondling through those soft locks. Scorching looks given over rooms packed full of people. Hot breath ghosting over bare skin.

He meets my eye from across the room. Just a fraction of a second and then it’s gone, leaving me wondering if I imagined it.

I down the rest of my wine in one gulp. Steadfastly ignoring the way my hand shakes as I set it down and leave the room.

I clutch my dress with an iron grip, hands hidden neatly in the many ruffles of the blood red gown as I rush forward.

Heavy footsteps thunder behind me, and my heart jumps to my throat as I hurry along.

They get louder, and before I know it, a strong hand is gripping my arm and I’m struck back against the cold stone wall.

I flinch at the cold contact, a bit too harsh as is evident by the concern that flashes through Daemon’s light purple eyes. But then it’s gone, and again, I tell myself I just imagined it.

‘Y/n,’ he whispers, mouth a hairs breath away from mine as he shamelessly looks me up and down.

I pray he doesn’t comment on my high collared dress, or, God forbid, lower it to expose the mirage of colors that lie underneath.

It feels as if he’s sucking up all the air around us. My throat constricts, and just as I feel I’m gasping for air, he backs off.

I’m about to question if he’s okay when a loud clang sounds from down the hallway.

I take the opportunity to escape, but before I can the same strong hand grips my elbow.

‘Midnight. Our spot.’

I don’t even have to think twice to know what he’s talking about.

His voice is stern, commanding. Leaving me no room to argue. I nod minutely, just enough to give my confirmation and make him let me go.

He releases my sleeve with an audible sigh and turns around.

I stay there, frozen in the hallway and wondering what the hell I’m getting myself into.

////////////////////////

Short part 1, but there will be a part 2!

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

Iorveth, Vernon Roche, his bald spot and Emhyr

Yes, this must sound utterly strange. Yesterday, @fandomwarehouse posted their hc about Iorveth seeking revenge on Emhyr because Vernon Roche is going bald in this post. Then, @she-who-drank-vodka-with-cats fueled my sudden interest in writing a story about this with even more hilarious ideas. Anyway, I know I said I have no time and I asked @valandhirwriter to write something, and she did, but so did I. Meaning here's two (very different) stories about Iorveth's assassination attempts on Emhyr – all because Vernon Roche is going bald. This was fun! It's not going on AO3 so ... do your magic, Tumblr!

Sine Qua Non (by @valandhirwriter)

Belletyne had never quite been Emhyr’s favourite celebration, at least not during his tenure in Nilfgaard. It had always reminded him of what he had lost, of things done and gone. Even now, that Belletyne had become the much happier occasion as the Crown Princess’s birthday, Emhyr was tense as he watched the guests mill about the wide areal of the royal gardens. Cirilla moved among them with ease, smiling and exchanging polite words. She was here and there charming her way through the assembled nobility, breaking a few hearts while she was at it. It allowed Emhyr to watch, observe and keep his distance from the general merrymaking. 

Now and then he cast a glance across the flower rondel to where he could see Geralt. Sir Geralt of Rivia, Chevallier de Corvo Bianco made a better figure on these events than one might expect from a former Witcher. The Duchess of Toussaint had done Emhyr an indirect favour by bestowing estate and title on the man - as it allowed for him to be called to court without arousing suspicion. With Emhyr’s… fondness of the man, that was a boon indeed.

And it was why he watched so nervously. Cirilla had insisted that besides inviting her foster father, she also would invite her foster Uncle, another Witcher by the name of Eskel. Emhyr had of course been aware of the man’s existence. He had extensive files on each and every member of the school of the wolf, that had still been living around the time that Cirilla had come into their care. And the man in question had fought in Undvik. Otherwise, he was of no consequence, except that it seemed his daughter remembered him fondly. 

Or Emhyr wished that this was the only consequence there was, if his daughter had a Witcher on hand, who could occasionally take missions from her or act as a body-guard, he’d not deny her, Emhyr had availed himself of Geralt’s help often enough, after all. But there was another reason Eskel was here. Cirilla had decided that she had it and wanted her Uncle and her foster father to stop avoiding each other. And with that, she had thrown a stone into a hornet’s nest. Emhyr knew that Eskel was highly critical of Geralt’s relationship with Emhyr, or of his acceptance of a noble title in the south. And while Geralt rarely cared what others thought of him, and did as he pleased, this was not just some stranger but a kind of older brother. 

Emhyr peered over nervously, how easy could it be that some stern words of the dark Witcher could make Geralt break it off with Emhyr? Decide that it was dishonourable for his kind to be in an… affair with a ruler? The thought made Emhyr’s stomach churn. The two witchers stood in the shadow of a huge dove tree and the conversation appeared tense. Geralt stood leaning back on his heels, arms crossed in front of his chest, and his brother mirrored that posture, both were ready to argue or fight. From the distance it struck Emhyr how similar those two were - of sure, the colouring was different, Geralt was pale, with white hair, and Eskel was dark, bronze tanned and had dark hair, but otherwise, they were similar, body language, the same cat-like movements, even the same over-sharp reactions to their surroundings. 

He wished he could listen in, hear how the conversation went. And yet, he did not want to know. He could imagine how that would go. He is the Emperor of Nilfgaard, the man who had you almost executed, a conqueror with more blood on his hands than any other before him, a coward, a liar, an overall cruel man. He is not worthy of you, Geralt. That’s what his older brother would say, before reminding Geralt of his duties to the school of the wolf and the world as a whole. 

A loud gong announced noon - the hour of the sun - and Cirilla approached Emhyr, casting her foster father a sharp glance. Geralt dutifully left his place and followed her over, Eskel in tow. There as a short gaggle of servants to prepare the goblets for the semi-private blessing of the reborn child - in this case, Cirilla, before the servant approached with a tray of glasses. Emhyr was handed his glass, of course, before the tray was presented to the others. 

“Kaer Morhen toast, dearest Crown Princess?” Eskel suddenly asked, he had a deep, hard voice. “To celebrate your twenty-fifth year and your ascension?”

Emhyr was startled, Ascension was not a concept of Nilfgaard, but familiar. Why was he bringing it up? To his surprise Cirilla beamed at Eskel, taking a glass, and gesturing the two witchers to follow suit. “Trade with me first, Eskel?” She asked, extending the hand with the glass.

Now Emhyr was confused, as he saw his daughter and the foreign Witcher reach around one another’s hand and exchange the glasses. Then Cirilla beamed at Emhyr. “Come, father, it is an old tradition and brings luck,” She said extending her hand.

Emhyr wanted to tell her that an Emperor did not trade glasses, but gave in, what was the harm? They traded glasses, and Cirilla turned to Geralt, while Eskel turned to Emhyr and the ritual was completed before Geralt offered the same trade to Emhyr, and then another time. Emhyr shook his head when the round ended with laughter. “Am I allowed to drink now?” he asked Cirilla a bit tersely. 

She smiled at him. “Of course, father. May the sun illuminate your path.” They all drank. It was a Toussaint Pearl Wine, La Chaire de diable, a very intense vintage. Emhyr frowned, that should not have been served. Why had the cellarer brought this up?

He saw Geralt throw his head back, like in shock, and when he looked at him again, Geralt’s eyes were bleeding black, the same as Eskel’s. The two Witchers did not waste time, moving past Emhyr. At the same moment, a young man in a velvet doublet panicked and raced towards the next exit from the area, only to be caught by one of the soldiers stationed there, grabbing his neck, and quickly restraining him.

The full sequence of events hit Emhyr, the Witchers - and maybe Cirilla - must have detected the poison in the wine, and their inane glass exchanging had made sure the wine ended with the Witchers who were immune against most poisons. His heart skipped. Most poisons. Not all. What if Geralt had imbibed something even more dangerous for a Witcher? “What is the meaning of this?” he asked, his own worry covered by the additional harshness of the voice. 

Cirilla looked to Eskel. “You spotted him,” she said softly.

Eskel pointed to the man in velvet and to another fat noble. “Fat one passed the vial to velvet, velvet dipped the contents into the crystal pitcher from which your Highness and her Imperial father are served,” he said firmly. “By the taste, it is a mix of Ashbloom, foxglove, winter lily, and snow-root. An old elven recipe.” 

And slow acting, Emhyr added in his mind. Very slow acting. It would have meant a tortuous death for him and Cirilla. He cast a worried glance at Geralt, but his lover stood there, watchful, strong, with no signs of discomfort. “Eskel, can you get the name of their employer from them? My Axii never was that strong,” Geralt rasped.

Emhyr wanted to remind him that a confession under mind control was not a confession at all, but Eskel shrugged. “There are better ways,” he said, taking a glass of wine from a shell-shocked servant and adding something - where he got it, Emhyr could not say - to it. The wine became greenish, and after a finger gesture of Eskel, glittered with strange sparks. He went over to the man in velvet, opening his mouth with a hard grip around the jaw and forced the glass’s contents down his throat. He struggled, screamed and then slumped on a bench. Eskel - his eyes still black as the night - looked at him. “They tell you all the time about Witchers and how we breed us little monsters,” he said gravely, “now, there is a taste. You can feel it burn in your already, do you? The pain along the spine, and in your bones. They will start to grow first… to transform you…”

The man gasped. “You cannot do this. I… I am a baron…” 

Eskel shrugged. “Barons, Beggars the substance knows no difference, you are meat and meat changes…”

The man’s hands were shaking, and there were swellings forming at his knuckles. “It begins,” Eskel said softly. “The pain is only moderate now, when the bone spikes break through your flesh, it will be agony… and you will not be able to pass out. More will come out of your spine… your shoulders…” He reached for his side, tossing a small vial up in the air. “It is reversible… but only before the first spike breaks through. You know what can save your life.”

Emhyr watched in a sick fascination, as the man’s fingers swelled further, and his eyes went from fear to anger… to capitulation. “I was hired by an elf…” he rambled, “a former Scoia’tel, Esthelin, he had a compromising letter, that would have incriminated me… I had no choice. He… he waits, for confirmation of the Emperor’s death… at the Three Coroner’s Tavern in the city…” He raised his swollen hands pleadingly. “Now… please… don’t make me a monster.” 

Eskel took the vial and dumped it down the man’s throat, he passed out immediately and the guards took him away. They also had cleared out the shocked guests, to ask further questions to all of them, de Rideaux had taken over there. 

“What did you do to him?” Emhyr asked sharply. “I will not have a baron, not even a guilty one, changed into a monster,” he remembered the quills all too well.

The dark Witcher scoffed. “I added some of your flowering elf-root seeds to the wine, it creates a strong allergic reaction, which leads to swelling and bulges at the joints. Uncomfortable, but essentially harmless. The rest was a sign, a useless one that produces nothing but sparkles.”

The entire threatening house of cards collapsed as Emhyr realised it had been a trick. A menacing trick, underlined by poison-black eyes and legends about the monsters from the North. And the Baron had spilt it all. Emhyr had already gestured to several guards. “Have de Rideaux apprehend the elf immediately.” 

With the celebration cut short, Emhyr returned inside and used the short span in between to speak to Geralt. His eyes were slowly fading back to the familiar gold, and he was tense. “We need to find out what is behind this,” Geralt growled, “that dose could have killed you thrice over,” He stepped closer and touched Emhyr’s shoulders. “This was too close.”

While Emhyr agreed with the principle, he was more worried about Geralt. “What about you? You took the entire dose meant for me?” He wanted to fuss about his Witcher, just a little, to make sure he was alright.

“There never was danger for me,  Ashbloom, foxglove, winter lily, and snow-root are all plants Witchers will use for food.”

Relief, sweet, painful relief exploded in Emhyr’s chest. Of course, that was why Eskel had recognized the taste, he was used to eating these plants. Eating poisonous plants. Without thinking he reached for Geralt, pulling him close into a chaste, but warm, kiss. “You will refrain from shocking me like that,” he added, trying to not show how relieved he was. 

Geralt arched an eyebrow at him quizzically, maybe the strongest way it showed he was worried about the assassination attempt. They were disrupted by the news that the elf in question had been caught and brought to the palace dungeons. “Any hope the same trick will work on him?” Emhyr asked.

His lover shook his head. “No one beats an elf at botany. I need a word with Eskel… Vesemir taught him some mean trick, and I say: mean as in brutal, on how to get the truth from an elf. Takes a lot of control in sign magic,” 

Emhyr chose to accompany Geralt, much as he did not fancy getting told he was not worthy of a certain white-haired witcher, he wanted to stay close to Geralt. Eskel listened to what Geralt had to say and shrugged. “I can do it - be warned while bloodless it is cruel. Very cruel. I can try words to soften him up before going all in, but if he is committed it will mean breaking him down.”

“And still bloodless?” Emhyr asked, he had seen enough interrogations to know how it looked, and where it led.

“Bloodless, there won’t be a mark on him,” Eskel cast him a sharp glance. And the glance said that he was doing this for Geralt, not for Emhyr. 

The elf had been secured in the dungeon, tied to an iron bar. He had been stripped of weapons and armour and spat at them when they came in. Emhyr remained in the shadows, just willing to watch. “I’d usually be merciful with you,” he drawled, “put a few pins under fingernails and get the truth. Even the mages swear that five pins inserted under the nails break the strongest compulsion to keep silent. Works directly into the subconscious or something… would be much less messy.” He seemingly cleaned his hand with a rag.

“But as you committed a crime against his majesty, someone wants to do this the hard way.” He walked up to the elf, fingers lightly touching the ear tips.

Emhyr could see the elf freeze, the touch was so light, it could barely be felt, but suddenly there was fear in the elf’s eyes. “Awww,” Eskel mockingly cooed. “Now you see… all it takes is your anatomy. Even a human, knowing how your eartips work, could do some things to you, but a witcher, controlling the vibrations of aard… there is no limit.” 

He did not move, Emhyr could not even see something, there was no visible touch, but the elf began to spasm, winding in a fierce wave of… lust? His body convulsing. Eskel held him there for less than a minute before removing his fingers. “Just a light one, for starters…” he said, “pain, pleasure, happiness… there is no feeling that cannot be stimulated in those ears of yours, even love. Where shall I take you? So much pain, that you curse your own mother for ever giving your father that first kiss? Or maybe lust? Make you want until you beg all the guards in this hellhole to take you? Love maybe… make you overwhelmingly set on this dungeon’s chief interrogator. He is even good looking for a d’hoine….” 

The elf panted and spat on the ground. “You can kill me, like your master is killing Ivoreth’s d’hoine. Go on, Witcher…”

Emhyr cast a confused glance at Geralt. “Which lover?” he asked softly. 

Eskel must have picked up on it. “Whom is my master killing?” he asked, almost caressing the elf’s ear tips. Emhyr saw the elf shudder in fear. How much control could be gained over an elf via this method? How much had they to fear being manipulated through their own anatomy? He had never heard of the secret before, but the demonstration had been clear. 

“Ivoreth’s d’hoine… Vernon. Your Emperor had him poisoned with some sickness.” The elf growled. “Just like him, use the man first and then dispose of him when he finds a little happiness.”

“Being happy is never advisable in Nilfgaard,” Eskel replied, and Emhyr saw the elf’s shudder, not knowing what feeling Eskel had just incited him. “But what sickness is this… what is happening to Roche?”

“He… he is sick. His hair falls out, it changes colour…” 

Eskel let go of the elf and walked around him. “Changes like this?” he pulled a few pale streaks from his own hair. 

The elf nodded. “But it falls out, it gets thinner and thinner and…”

“He is getting grey and losing his hair?” Eskel shook his head. “And because of that, you wanted to assassinate the Emperor of Nilfgaard? Why?”

“This is his doing, and if he kills Ivoreth’s love, then he will not live to either.” 

Eskel ran his hand through his dark hair. “In the kingdom of fools, you squirrels are all Emperors,” he growled, leaving the cell. 

Outside the dungeon, Geralt looked at Emhyr. “You didn’t poison Roche, did you?”

“Why would I?” Emhyer was still slightly shaken by the revelation. “It would be damaging and put Temeria into needless unrest. Though why Ivoreth would overreact like that…”

“Sine qua non,” Eskel said. “That without not - the one thing we cannot be without. And Ivoreth now comes face to face with the pain of loving a human. He will watch him grow old and die, while he lives on almost unchanged. When he realises what happens it will get worse.” 

Geralt had gone pale, the words might hit closer to home than he liked. “But… there is no need to kill the elves for this. Give them the information and maybe something to restore Roche’s hair a little…”

Eskel scoffed. “And the next time Roche shows frailty, the same will happen again. Humans are frail and short-lived. Ivoreth never considered that, much like you, brother. Wailia’s tears might be a solution, though Vesemir would turn in his grave if we resurrected that knowledge.”

Emhyr cast the witcher a sharp glare. “I should prefer you not take up the snake oil trade, Wailia’s tears are as much a myth, as Amritsar or the golden Elixir of dreams.”

“They exist,” Eskel and Geralt exchanged a glance. “They need some unusual ingredients - drowner spit, dragon teeth, piss of a royal gryphon - the good stuff. We might not even have to tell Ivoreth, brew it up, send it to him with his elf here as a “cure”, with a warning. The Empire retains its nasty image, Roche will be around a while longer, and all is well that ends well.”

Emhyr was about to answer when Geralt left his side and walked up to his brother. “What about the blood? You are just so beyond the line…” 

Eskel shrugged. “If it doesn’t work, I know where to find someone who still is strong enough, brother,” he replied. “But that’s not what you want to ask, is it? You want me to make more.”

It was a strange dynamic between them, a mix of disapproval and worry, and a mix of misunderstanding and care. Emhyr could not truly translate it. “Sine qua non,” Geralt said softly. “I never understood what Vesemir or you meant by that… now I do. And…”

“You don’t want to lose him,” Eskel ran his hand through his dark hair. “Alright, you give me a week, and you make sure that Emperor survives all other elven heroics. And there will be more. Then we talk.” He stepped past his brother and cast a sharp glance at Emhyr. “I’ll say it only once - you hurt my little brother, you harm him, and it’s my blades that you need to worry about.” 

It was a strange moment, usually, Emhyr would have rebuked such bluntness, but suddenly he felt elated. Because whatever else it may mean, it also meant acceptance for what he and Geralt were and might become. It was a chance and one he would grasp with both hands.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Thing About Iorveth, Vernon Roche and Emhyr (by me, @do-androids-dream-ao3acc, yes I have no title for this)

Geralt became suspicious at the second assassination attempt, Emhyr only at the third. As far as that was concerned, Vizima turned out to be a real viper's nest – no pun intended, because witchers, especially vipers, had nothing to do with it. Geralt quipped, however, that they also had a reason for such attacks. Emhyr did not find that funny. 

This whole situation was quite surreal. Geralt came to Vizima more often; Emhyr had not yet left the north, as if he still had to mend fences, including with his own daughter. The latter had agreed to take up her inheritance, but she had set a peculiar condition: until the emperor would retreat to Nilfgaard, Geralt was to act as her advisor. It was a rather absurd proposal, which Geralt flatly rejected, saying that his dislike of politics was common knowledge. Whereupon Emhyr, of all people, had reminded him of his involvement in the death of Radovid. 

In general, Emhyr. Where was this strict guy, who had once demanded that Geralt be bathed and dressed in black clothes before he had forbidden him to speak, yet now… Now he was still impatient, bossy, and quite demanding, but there was Ciri, and for some reason he had nothing, absolutely nothing to counter her with. Ciri was a force of nature, and Geralt found it quite appropriate that Emhyr was quite helpless in the face of it. 

So Geralt was now somehow a member of Vizima’s court, feeling like an exotic exhibit in the showcase of an auction house. At least until the assassination attempts occured. The first one was almost ridiculous, a small explosive box smuggled among the cargo – whoever had placed it there only revealed they had no idea Emhyr did not even get to see such things. Emhyr claimed assassination attempts occurred almost daily in Nilfgaard, and that this one neither surprised him nor did he think it was original. Geralt thought he sounded almost proud. Perhaps the man had to keep convincing himself of his worth by withstanding attacks on his life, what did he know. 

The second time was about a delivery to the kitchen. This time it was more sophisticated – Geralt later learned that the local supplier had taken a bribe. In this way, poisonous plants had found their way into the kitchen. Something must have gone wrong here, because the cook had recognized them immediately. Geralt found the composition strange: psilocybe mushroom, banewart and a branch of bohun upas, a tree with poisonous sap. All these plants resembled non-poisonous ones, but were easy to recognize for the trained eye. Incidentally, they grew in dense forests, which Geralt also told Emhyr, who did not care much.

"I leave the art of botany to those who know more about it," he had said, and he had not even let Ciri interfere, who had already reacted to the first assassination attempt with concern. 

The third time, however, Emhyr's cool facade crumbled, as Geralt noticed, not without satisfaction. Emhyr had introduced a (in Geralt's eyes superfluous, insecure and somehow silly) gesture in Vizima, which consisted of him and Ciri conducting public negotiations, weather permitting, in the palace's spacious courtyard. Much later, Geralt learned that this had come about mainly because Emhyr found the palace ugly, dark and kind of creepy, which in turn was somehow cute. Ciri seemed to prefer being outdoors anyway, and so did he, of course. So there Geralt stood, one step behind the old and the new ruler, always trying to stifle a yawn and at the same time keeping an eye out for danger. 

On that particular day, an arrow made it very close to Emhyr, an arrow from a bow that was later discovered near the outer wall. However, no trace of the archer was found. Emhyr had the bow shown to him, and he remarked, "This looks familiar."

Geralt was surprised, but also somehow pleased. He had now had many weeks of forced study with Emhyr, and had learned much in the process. Emhyr was extremely well-informed on certain subjects (though mostly politics, military matters, and espionage), and on some things he was a walking encyclopedia. He could quote Ciri's origin up to Lara Dorren by heart, had peculiar knowledge about the viper-witchers and knew very well about magic, despite an understandable aversion to it. 

Somehow, Geralt liked that. Apart from insane rulers like Radovid, he had known those who were downright stupid, those who farted half the day into their throne’s pillow and seemed to have more straw in their heads than the farmers on the fields those king’s and queens owned. Emhyr was indeed literate, and interesting beyond that, which admittedly made Geralt a little uncomfortable. He found that bad deeds were not to be outweighed by aristocratic features, a mysterious nature, and a pleasant smell. 

And yet he liked it, which of course he kept to himself. He also liked that Emhyr had been able to identify the carvings on the bow – it was clearly an elven weapon. 

"Maybe even Scoia'tael," he thoughtfully added, whereupon Emhyr became pensive. 

The fourth attack plunged the court into great chaos. A perfectly normal and hitherto quiet (i.e. boring) day of audiences was nearing its end, when a great roar sounded and finally the doors to the throne room were pushed open with force. Something – one could not describe it otherwise because of the confusion and its speed – flitted through the room, a tangle from which arrows occasionally escaped. In the end, it turned out to be a band of elves, Scoia'tael in fact, who made a lot of noise, but were basically only five men. 

Emhyr's soldiers easily put down the small uprising, and yet one managed to get within a hair's breadth of Emhyr. Had it not been for Geralt, who had kept track in all the chaos and noticed that one man of this group had broken away. However, he was not the only one: the equally striving and attentive Impera captain had almost caught the elf when Geralt hastily shouted, "Stop! Let him live!"

After a bit of a scuffle, they actually managed to pin the elf down, and Geralt and Emhyr both shouted at the same time, "Iorveth?"

Indeed. They had captured the famous elf leader, whom neither Emhyr nor Geralt had ever believed they would see again – albeit for different reasons and with different feelings. The mess had somehow ruffled Emhyr’s hair; a curl had stolen from what was actually a well coiffed, severe hairstyle and hung down into his forehead. Geralt found this very inappropriate, because it reminded him of earlier times and caused a feeling in his stomach as if he had just drunk a good liquor – only without the intoxication, and that was somehow strange. In any case, Emhyr claimed that he needed to recover from this mess, although Geralt believed that the man was meeting with his intelligence chief in the background to exchange information. Some time later, Emhyr – again, quite odd – came to Geralt personally and asked him to be present at Iorveth's interrogation. 

"You have a history together," he said. "Maybe he'll be more likely to tell you what this is all about than my torturers."

"I would think that’s clear even without torture," Geralt returned, "he's obviously not well disposed towards you, after all, you took advantage of him and then tried to have him executed."

"No man can undo his past," Emhyr replied cryptically, "and what was logical at an earlier time will seem cruel in many a history book. Be that as it may, it doesn't explain why he shows up years later to exact his revenge."

That was true, though. Admittedly, the Scoia'tael had not benefited much from peacetime so far. Emhyr had abolished all reprisals against otherlings in the North, but the execution of his orders still left much to be desired. It might be that Iorveth simply wanted to finally act out his deep resentment against Emhyr. However, it turned out that Geralt was quite wrong with this thought. After they had exchanged some typical rudeness, which in the case of Iorveth had been combined with much shouting, clamoring and fidgeting, Geralt demanded to know what the problem was. 

"Emhyr is the problem, isn't that obvious?" spat the elf. 

"Well," Geralt returned calmly, "I'm the last one who wants to play the diplomat here, but why are you coming up with this now? The war is over, and while conditions are certainly not ideal..."

"What?" Iorveth interrupted him, confused, "Who said it was about that?"

"It isn’t? Well, why then, if not out of a grudge against Emhyr?"

"Oh, you bet your ass I have a grudge," Iorveth scoffed. "Are you familiar with the concept of blood ties, Geralt?"

Geralt nodded, and then – maybe for old times' sake, or maybe because he finally had to get this off his chest, Iorveth told him everything. 

Later, Geralt met with Emhyr, who had insisted on a private parley, without Ciri, without his curious valet, and without his soldiers. He was really acting strangely lately. 

"We need a sorceress," Geralt said, "or a Ban Ard mage for all I care, if you have one handy."

"As it happens, I don't," Emhyr grumbled, uncomfortable with the thought of magic. "Why? Did the elves get involved with magic? Do they possess an artifact that could harm me or Cirilla? Do they have a mage at their service?"

"Nothing like that," Geralt said, and then he started laughing. 

For a while he enjoyed Emhyr's wry look. Somehow the man had really changed. In the past, he would have had him thrown out right away; after all, laughter was not a pastime that was particularly popular at this court. Emhyr had become more patient, even with Geralt.

"If you would have the kindness to explain this to me?"

"We need a strong hair restorer, and it must work quickly, preferably immediately. An ordinary one could be prepared by any alchemist, of course, but I have told Iorveth that only magic can help here. He believed it."

"A... hair restorer."

Emhyr's brows seemed to creep into his hairline. Geralt had never seen the man so confused. It was kind of touching. 

"Yes. What I'm about to tell you absolutely has to stay between us, because if this thing is going to work, nobody can learn about this. Watch out. Iorveth thinks you're causing Vernon Roche undue stress and discomfort."

"Vernon Roche?"

Emhyr pushed his lower lip forward as if he were an offended child. 

"The thought of me making this creep uncomfortable pleases me, frankly. I am surprised, however, that Iorveth does not feel the same way. If I remember correctly, the man pursued him mercilessly, and for a long time."

"That's right. But you see, sometimes old enemies can discover commonalities they weren't aware of before."

He looked at Emhyr, and somehow that warm feeling in his stomach was back. It felt like he had eaten something very good, or watched a particularly beautiful sunset. His own words echoed in him, and he thought, good heavens. Is this really true?

"You mean, people who previously rejected each other can see that their reasons no longer hold water?"

It was a strange formulation, Geralt thought. But he also thought that Emhyr was looking at him with great interest, at least if he interpreted the glint of those honey eyes correctly. 

"Yes," Geralt replied slowly, as something inside of him tugged at his heartstrings, "or even a human and an elf. Anyway... I hardly dare say it, but apparently Vernon Roche and Iorveth have grown closer."

"Oh," went Emhyr. "Do you think that's bad?"

Geralt looked at him in surprise. The question was unusual. Did Emhyr really want to know his opinion on such a delicate question? Well, he had actually done his homework – as far as Geralt knew, same-sex relationships were not particularly uncommon in Nilfgaard and nowhere near as frowned upon as in the North. 

"Well, I'm still having trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that Vernon Roche and Iorveth, of all people.... But basically, no."

Their eyes met, and Geralt wondered if Emhyr had ever had the same feeling in his stomach that he had now. Whether he had ever given this feeling space or a name, like Vernon Roche and his Scoia’tael leader, who apparently were a thing now.

Emhyr cleared his throat noisily and continued, "All right, so the two are a pair. I’ve heard stranger things in my life. Now what do I have to do with that?"

"Well," Geralt said with relish, "you're obviously the cause of Vernon Roche's distress. I mean, of course Roche is not happy with the developments. His dream of Temeria – well, it was almost manic, and as for resentment, he probably has an even bigger one than Iorveth. In any case, Iorveth describes him as stressed. Because... the man loses hair. And the ones he has left would be white, Iorveth says."

Geralt grinned broadly, but Emhyr grimaced.

"Just the thought of that guy taking off his chaperon to show off his lice-ridden mane to anyone... wait. Let me do the math... That sounds like a natural progression."

"Exactly. Vernon Roche is in his prime, and apparently he's going bald. But you know what? Elves don't get bald heads. They never lose their hair, and it doesn't turn white until they're very, very old."

"Most Scoia'tael don't live that long," Emhyr followed, and Geralt nodded.

"Exactly. That means Iorveth doesn't know what this hair loss means for Roche. He thinks it's due to stress, he must have heard once that it can be a reason for all kinds of symptoms in humans. I've essentially confirmed it."

"But why?"

"Very simple. He wouldn't have believed the real explanation. The guy is obviously crazy about Vernon Roche, although I don't understand why, but to each his own. Furthermore, Iorveth now considers the man his blood brother, which is an important concept among the Scoia'tael – it means preserving the other's honor at all costs, protecting and caring for him. And one thing is clear: these assassinations will never stop, because in his opinion it's your fault, and there are still a lot of Scoia'tael out there who follow Iorveth. So I made him a peace offering."

"Which is?"

"Well, I've maintained that you can't officially make reparations to the Blue Stripes or the Scoia'tael, but would be quite willing, in order to keep the peace, to recognize past services."

"You did what?"

Emhyr's eyes almost popped out of their sockets. 

"Emhyr, listen to me. This is an ingenious and simple solution. You've been siccing your advisors on me for weeks to teach me the basics of diplomacy. Can't you see I'm doing just that?"

Emhyr swallowed. Even his Adam's apple looked elegant. Was that what Vernon Roche saw in Iorveth, and vice versa? A person, not an enemy image? What a thought. 

"What exactly did you promise him?" he asked cautiously. 

"Nothing but a hair restorer," Geralt grinned. "I told him you were willing to invest considerable cost in an experienced sorceress or mage to restore Vernon Roche. In return, Iorveth agrees to refrain from further attacks."

"Surely Vernon Roche will see through this nonsense."

"He would. But we will, of course, instruct the sorceress or mage to keep it secretive – which also means that Iorveth will have to try to administer the stuff to Vernon in secret. Roche mustn't know about it, because otherwise it won't work, I've told him that."

"It's a devious plan," Emhyr admitted after a moment's thought.

"Love drives people to do strange things," Geralt replied, lowering his eyes.

"All right, I agree," Emhyr finally said. "I'll have a sorceress come and make a hair restorer for Vernon Roche. I can't believe I just said that."

"Of course," Geralt said slowly, "as long as you have Iorveth in your power, there could be more attacks, after all, the Scoia'tael will miss their leader."

"You're not seriously suggesting I release the man after half the court witnessed him pounce on me," Emhyr protested. "It will already seem like a strange act of mercy if I pardon him later, all without anyone knowing anything about a hair restorer."

"That's not what I'm saying at all. But... I should probably stay close to your side for the time being. I know the Impera are capable guys and all, but I’m a witcher, and I may know some more tricks… I mean, if it's all right with you."

Geralt felt like he was stammering. Emhyr, however, fixed his eyes on him, honey and amber and a hint of hazelnut, and he nodded.

"I think I would like that."

[yourfellowhuman07]

Where Do We Go Now?

A She-ra: Princess of Power 2018 fanfiction

The war is finally over. Prime is dead, the hive mind is broken, and everyone is reunited with their loved ones. However, there are some questions left unanswered. What will be the fate of Catra and Hordak? What are these new memories Wrong Hordak has? What is Etheria's place in the wider universe? Where do we go now?

___________________

I have returned with chapter two! I hope you enjoy it!

___________________

Chapter 2: Horizon Lines

Wrong Hordak sat on a log staring at the horizon as it changed colors. Fading from reds and yellows to pinks and purples. He should be with the others celebrating the defeat of the tyrant he once called a brother; instead, he sat running through every memory he had.

When Prime was defeated, the hive mind broke, releasing all the memories locked away during reconditioning, causing Wrong Hordak to get a splitting headache and a flood of newly released memories.

As the clone ran through his memories, there was always this group of clones he saw that he felt a connection to. There was one clone that stuck out from the group. He was of a higher rank than the rest, which did not make sense because all the little brothers were equal in Prime’s eyes. Then things became clear. The clone served as a general, and Wrong Hordak and the rest were his guards. Wrong Hordak felt a connection to these clones. It was like the relationship he had with his other brothers, only on a deeper level. He ran through his memories again and he was able to piece together words from his memories. One notable thing was that, when not around other clones, they would call each other by their serial numbers instead of a brother. Also in the earlier days of their being together, they were much more independently minded than other clones. That attitude calmed down over the years, but the feelings still lingered. As he ran through even more memories, one day, the group of clones was gone. Then, there was only blackness, until he was awoken by Entrapta, and that was only three months ago.

Wrong Hordak then wondered what happened to all of them. Had they died in battle like many of his brothers, or had they survived?

All Wrong Hordak knew was that he needed to see them again. However, he knew now, is not the best time to seek them out. He could tell despite all the joyful celebration, there is an underlying uncertainty within the crowd about what is to come next.

Wrong Hordak once again lifted his head to gaze at the horizon one last time before standing up and returning to the rest of the Princess Alliance and their merrymaking.

[yellowspiralbound]

Cringe is dead but I'm not so here are the godly parents I think the Avengers (and a few others) would have if they were Riordanverse demigods.

Tony - Dionysus

Most people would go straight for Hephaestus when assigning Tony a godly parent, and that's not wrong, but I think Dionysus is a better fit. Tony is an alcoholic. We see that all the time. He has been since he was young. He also engages in all sort or merrymaking and revelry and is also quite dramatic - all of which are Dionysus's specialties. He also has a similar personality to Mr. D in the earlier movies, in my opinion. I think the most accurate thing to call Tony would be a son of Dionysus and a legacy of Hephaestus, with Howard being a child of Hephaestus.

Steve - Nemesis

At first, I thought Athena would be the best choice for Steve as she's a goddess of war strategy...but let's be honest, Steve is not a paragon of wisdom or reason. He shucks those traits relatively often. I think Nemesis, the goddesses of balance and retribution, is a much better fit. Steve's whole shtick is retribution; he hurts people after they've hurt someone else.

Thor - N/A (for obvious reasons)

Bruce - Janus

Might be slightly fucked to put Janus as Bruce's parent tbh but it's kind of the only god that fits him. I could have gone Ares because of the whole "I'm always angry thing," but I just don't vibe with it. Janus, as the god of transitions and the in-between, works way better and incorporates the hulk aspect of Bruce better.

Natasha - Psyche

Natasha was actually really hard to pick for, but I think Psyche, the god of the human soul, works best for Natasha. Natasha has a very intimate understanding of humanity and what makes people tick - as a super spy, she kind of has to. Psyche being her godly parent would add to this insight.

Sam - Athena

Sam is always shown to be somewhat calculating. Unlike other members of the team, he has no superpowers or enhancements to back him up; he barely even has body protection at first. Because of this, he relies on his wit. He's clever, wise, reasonable, and a good strategist which all fall under the Athena umbrella.

Bucky - Aphrodite

This is actually the idea that prompted this post; I've been toying with the idea of writing a crossover fic with Bucky as a child of Aphrodite for a while. Aphrodite is the goddess of two things - love and war (though she's only a love goddess in the Riordanverse and people rarely recall she was a war goddess as well). Tell me that Bucky's entire life isn't defined by one of those two things. Like, pre-WWII, his life is determined by his love for Steve. He lives with him, takes care of him, and is his emotional support. He then goes to war for 70 or so years until it is love that brings him back out. He's so Aphrodite coded.

Scott - Hephaestus

Scott is defined by the things he can build and the complex physics he understands. It's how he makes his living, however shady at first, and it's how he becomes a superhero. An argument could be made for Hermes, but Scott never set out intending to be a thief; that's just where he ended up.

T'challa & Shuri - Bast, obviously

It's literally canon that Bast is the goddess (or one goddess of a pantheon) worshipped in Wakanda. She bestows the Black Panther with their powers. It's kind of a no-brainer.

Yelena - Hestia

Yelena always wanted a home, even one that wasn't real. She wanted a sister and a loving childhood. I just think it'd be fucked up and fun if her mother was literally the goddesses of home and family.

Carol - Ares

Carol is definitely the rage part of war. It's contained but definitely present. She's a powerhouse and she'd make him proud.

[nekrotiize]

ruby and red ochre!

[For The Shades of Red Ask Game]

Ruby: Favorite pre-2000s song?

[Jigsaw voice] Hello, Anon. Before you is a CD containing the 1997 debut album Where Have All the Merrymakers Gone? by Harvey Danger. If you do not listen to it within the next 30 minutes, I will be very sad, and you will be missing out on not only the best Mituna Captor voice claim in the world, but also missing out on music that he would legitimately make. Rock out or I cry. Make your choice.

Red Ochre: Are you inclined to watch a TV series if a lot of people on the Internet are talking about it?

God, no. Especially on Tumblr. Most people on Tumblr have godawful taste and think telling me a show is Totally Gay is gonna sell me on it.

Anyways, go watch Naoki Urasawa's Monster. It's an undertaking (sitting at 74 episodes) but it is an incredible watch. It's in that flavor of anime/cartoon that I affectionately call "A TV Show That Just Happens To Be Animated". Really intense drama, really captivating story, excellent character designs. The whole thing is a religious experience. It's about a young Japanese neurosurgeon working in 80's-90's West Germany having a really fucking bad decade. Serial murders, human experimentation, and psychological torture ensue. You get to see the face of true evil, all because the main character, Dr. Kenzo Tenma, made the mistake of doing the right thing one day.

[reddawnmultimuse]

“Itachi! Itachi! Close your eyes!”

They had been in the middle of unwrapping presents. This time as an official family. Itachi had finally accepted Sarada as a daughter. Sakura was pregnant with their first child. Pretty heavily so. It appeared they were going to have a son together. Sarada was excited to be a big sister. This was really the family Sakura always dreamed of. One full of love. One where everyone was happy. Something she never thought she deserved or would ever have. 

Itachi was sitting on the couch next to the christmas tree, Sarada was on the floor, legs crossed with one of the gifts Itachi got her in her lap. Sakura got up for a moment only to come back and place a scrapbook in Itachi’s lap, “I figured you would like something sentimental over some random store bought thing. So Sarada and I made this scrapbook for you!”

The front cover was decorated with colorful stickers with ‘Uchiha Family’ written across it. Inside were pictures of Sarada’s childhood. Starting with all her ultrasounds, to pictures of Itachi first holding her as a baby. Then pictures of him taking care of her. Sarada’s first steps.  Pictures of the three of them together as a family. Some sly pictures that Itachi never noticed her taking. One being the time Itachi fell asleep on the couch with a young Sarada napping on top of him. The book continued with pictures of Sarada graduating from the academy. Pictures of her training with him. Feeding his chickens together. And then there was a page labeled, ‘The next chapter.’ The pages after that were all the ultrasounds of their baby. Much like she did with Sarada, there were pictures of Sakura tracking the growth of her belly. (Itachi took most of those pictures.)  Then pictures of the three of them together while Sakura is clearly pregnant, before the book reaches many blank pages.

Sakura had been resting her cheek against his shoulder as he flipped through the book with a smile on her face, “The blank pages are for new memories to be made with our growing family. The three of us can keep adding to the book! We have so many new and exciting things to look forward to! I hope you like it. We both do.”

It was Itachi's first Christmas with his newfound family and it was perfect, so perfect. Though, he may've gone overboard with the presents for both Sarada and his firstborn. A son too! Not to say he hadn't gotten gifts for Sakura too. Because he did.

While he was disappointed that he couldn't spend the holiday with Sasuke too since his little brother was out of Konoha on business, at least the eldest Uchiha wasn't spending it alone. In fact, this was the first Christmas he had celebrated in a long, long time. Since integrating back into Konoha, he hadn't much of a merrymaking mood until now.

Upon Sakura's ask for his to close his eyes, he delivered the pink-hair women a curious look. "Oh...very well." Despite that, he did as Sakura asked, closing his eyes. And so she didn't think him peeking, he shielded them with his hands too. Though, he didn't understand the secrecy of it. It was in a box, was it not? But no, it was not a box but a book! A scrapbook!

Opening it up, Itachi looked inside at the precious memories of baby Sarada and himself. Including a few he hadn't been knowledgeable of but were cute, nonetheless. They were such happy memories and he couldn't help but notice how they mirror the photographs his own mother had of him and Sasuke as children. Sadly, they had been lost after the massacre. Likely burned or tarnished by thieves.

Then, Itachi got to the end. Or, what he thought to be the end but was in fact, pictures documenting Sakura's pregnancy. It wasn't until he finally flipped onto the blank page did he realize they were empty for their future son. Nor that he had started crying until his tears hit the plastic.

"I...I apologize..." Itachi babbled, shutting the book and blanketing his eyes with his hand so his tears didn't soil the album.

He didn't understand why he was crying when his heart was bursting with joy. Were they tears of happiness? He didn't know. All he knew was he hugging Sakura, smudging her face in tears and wet kisses before leaning down to do the same with Sarada too.

"T-Thank you...I love it. I...love it so much and I...love you two so much too."

This had to be the best Christmas he had had in a very long time and they would only get better with his new, little family.

[duskwingmoth]

It's strange; I was introduced to YouTube by my brother, who was introduced by his friend, who was autistic about very specific things. YouTube Poops about Valve games were my point of entry into this strange place that was the user-generated internet -- before that I was barely online at all, and most of that time had been cartoonnetwork dot com lmao -- and that, alongside an extremely local radio/podcast community are the root of my tastes, and my perception of pop culture

IGN? Slate? The New York Times? Entertainment Weekly? Pff

Dreck

The biggest names in my personal periphery during my teen years were Ain't It Cool News and Drudge Report. Which. Wasn't the best, even back then. But it definitely instilled in me an adversarial attitude to anything too "big", too corporate, too clean, too eager to please.

And i wonder, sometimes, where all the merrymakers have gone, in a sense. I know there's Cohost, but it doesn't feel the same. I know there's Neocities, but that's too large a pool of singular constructs. The actual dudes behind those old sites sucked shit and are fully a part of the alt-right pipeline. I want nothing to do with them now

So where is the news site and its forum? Passed like rain over the mountains, into Resetera, where no light or thought exists

[thecatsandthecrone]

The Wheel of the Year: Beltane

Photo de CHUTTERSNAP sur Unsplash  

☽🔮☾🕯🃏🌕🕸✨🍃🍄🧿🌙✩ 🪄📚

May 1st marks Beltane on the wheel of the year (at least, in the northern hemisphere. In the southern one, it is celebrated in the 1st November). This celebration comes right after Ostara and before Litha. Beltane is one of the less well known festivities because other religions, because even if Christianity integrated it into their story they didn't link it to any "religious events" so Beltane stayed a minor festival, known as "May Day" and celebrated in areas of celtic or christian tradition.

Beltane celebrates life, fullness and lushness. What this festival highlights is spring at its peak, right in ists middle, and the impending return of summer. In Ireland and other countries of Celtic tradition this festival celebrates the first of summer ! As such, this festival is a time to make merry, to let loose and enjoy nature's beauty in its fullest and at its most charming ! As it is to be expected the main theme of this festival is exhuberance, excess and fertility. In antiquity, it was customary to partake in different fertility rituals, such as lighting two fires and having your cattle pass through, dances and the traditional May Pole (where girls would hold a ribbon attached to a massive pole in the middle of the field, and then dance around it, braiding the ribbons in different patterns). While most of this traditions are long gone, lighting fires, dancing and merrymaking are still important parts of this festival ! In its origin, Beltane celebrated the day where cattle could be again be brought to pastures, as well as the Earth's natural rythms. In certain traditions such as wicca, this festival is also used to celebrate fertility gods (such as Cernnunos or Belenus) or the moment where the feminine and masculine energies of nature are at its strongest, and at their most attractive ! The name Beltane might come from Celtic, meaning "bright fire", or "the fires of Bel", referring to Belenus. This is a good moment to rejoice and be grateful for the blessings bestowed upon us, to ask nature or any deities we worship to bless us, to enjoy being ourselves, alive in this crazy world and to partake and share joy with our loved ones. Beltane is a moment of excess, of celebration and of sensual pleasures: eating and drinking well, spending a good time with friend and enjoying the wealth of gifts that nature has in store for us ! This festival honours is associated with the maiden aspect of the Goddess (in the shape of a sensual maiden that will soon become a mother). It celebrates different Gods, mostly those related to exhuberance, energy (specially virile energy), fertility and lust: Cernunnos, Belenus, Father Nature, Apollo, Baal... but plenty of feminine godesses linked to fertility, sensuality or motherhood: Mother Nature, Venus, Ceres... Likewise, this day brings up lush, exhuberant and lively associations: plenty of phallic or yonic imagery,the Sun, fires, holy wells or springs, the maypole, flowers, greenery, merrymaking... It is for this reason that handfasting and marriages were traditionally celebrated during this festival as well ! There are plenty of traditions associated with Beltane, but not all of them might be reasonable for the modern witch living in a metropolitan city. For example, you could join a maypole dance if you were so lucky as to find one. You could also light a bonfire if you had the room and the permission of your local council. If you have cattle, definitely take them out to graze. If you have a partner or partners, by all means practice fertility or sensuality rituals as long as you have their consent. Here are some other ways to celebrate that might be more doable to witches that do not live in an Irish cottage in the XVIIth century:

-Feast: While Ostara was a good time for fasting Beltane is a good time for feasting. Today is not the time to count calories ! Enjoy plentiful, good food by yourself or in the company of your loved ones. A picnic under the Sun, next to a river or a barbeque would be particularly fitting ! Some foods particularly associated with Beltane might be any sort of animal products, fruits (particularly those associated with sexuality and sensuality), grains such as oats, wheat or barley, spices (specially hot spices, as they are associated with fire and the Sun) and of course, alcoholic drinks (or their non-alcoholic version if you don't drink). -Dance: Dance has always been associated with sensuality and merrymaking, to the point that certain cultures used to frown upon it. If you want to enjoy Beltane to the max let loose and dance: outside or inside, by yourself or with others, to any kind of music... just dance your heart out and take this moment to truly connect with yourself, your body and enjoy being alive as much as you can ! -"Bonfire": No big bonfire in your area ? No room to make your own ? No problem. Microdose bonfires with a barbeque, or light candles if you can. The fire will still represent and honour the Sun just as much as with a big bonfire ! -Gather flowers: In Celtic tradition it was popular to collect and decorate with yellow flowers, as they were used to represent the Sun. Sunflowers are particularly fitting, but dandelions and narcissus are also very good. You could even make dandelion wine, dandelion lemonade or syrup with the flowers you pick up !

-Wear flower crowns: As Beltane is heavily associated with lushness and fertility flowers are another good image that they link to. Wear flowers in your dress, gather flowers or wear flower crowns to celebrate your own body, sensuality and sexuality. -Fertility or sensuality rituals: Performing rituals is a good way to celebrate this festivity, as it was traditional in antiquity. Of course, fertility, sensuality and sexuality rituals are the most fitting for this season but you can also do rituals honouring nature or honouring the deities related to this festival. -May pole: No maypole where you live ? Not an issue: Create your own with a twig or a lollipop stick, ribbons and perhaps a crystal to top in off. You probably won't be able to dance while braiding it, but you can still jam to some tunes as you do so ! -Prepare a May basket: In antiquity people would often prepare little baskets full of flowers or different goodies for their loved ones and friends. Share the joy and merrymaking by making a little basket filled with flowers and treats, be it for yourself or for your friends. -Decorate your altar: As with every festivity now would be a great time to deck your altar in the colours of the season and include some fitting decorations. If you aren't shy about sexuality, images of the God and Goddess might be good options, and so would be phallic or yonic symbols. Other options might be flowers, crystals, ribbons or objects that represent the Sun.

Colours associated with Beltane: Red, yellow, orange, white, green, gold Crystals associated with Beltane: Garnet, carnelian, tiger's eye Food associated with Beltane: Meat, dairy, eggs, honey, grains, fruits,  alcoholic drinks.

I hope you have enjoyed this post. If you would like me to continue making posts like this please support me so I can continue making them: you can support me by donating here https://ko-fi.com/bunnymatchamochi or by visiting my Etsy store here: https://www.etsy.com/shop/LovenestAtelier?ref=profile_header Reblogs and likes also help ! Thank you so much for reading me !