#why the fuck does it not automatically save ask responses to your drafts

[enbyboiwonder]

No. I was typing up a response to an ask (your fanfic writer questions, @randomidiocyncrazies) and I switched away to grab a link, and the tab reloaded. I was nearly finished and it did not save a draft. Fuck.

[rpbetter]

Reblog Etiquette (and ships)

At this point, we all know about “reblog karma” and “reblogging from source.” Though, I say that...and am questioning it. You should fucking know this by now, but in the event you don’t, let me define that shit for you.

Reblog Karma: the RPC’s oldest attempt at keeping people from clogging notifications and using others as meme resources. Essentially, don’t reblog a meme from a mutual unless you are sending them something from that meme first. Not all blogs practice it, or practice it the same way, please see their rules.

Reblogging from Source: another effort to stop being used as a meme/aesthetics resource. Many RPers would like you to reblog quotes, aesthetics, and memes from their source (original post location or the meme/aesthetics/quotes resource blog they got it from), even if you are sending them a meme. This is especially applicable when not interacting with the RPer.

Okay, that’s out of the way.

There is more to Reblog Etiquette than this!

And, when that etiquette is nonexistent, it almost always deals with a RPer’s ship. Mentioning ship partners and/or tagging ships on a reblog from another RPer, not removing that RPer’s mentions or tags, and even dropping a mention or outright RPing in the comments of another RPer’s reblog.

Don’t reblog from another mun and tag your ship or mention (@) your ship partner(s).

Don’t reblog a post with someone else’s mention still stuck to it.

Don’t reblog a post and leave the previous mun’s tags still in the tags.

Don’t go into the comments on someone’s post and mention your ship partner(s).

Don’t roleplay in the comments of someone else’s post.

None of this is alright, I have no idea what would make anyone think this is appropriate reblog etiquette, but it very much is not. It’s incredibly rude and lazy. Because I know that many people have similar ship aesthetics and so on, I’m not saying you shouldn’t reblog something for your own ships that a mutual has for theirs. (That’s a whole other in depth conversation we’ll have later.)

I’m saying that this is how you should be going about it:

Reblog from the source.

-What if there is no source because it’s deactivated, or there is another reason why I can’t access it? 

Go into the post’s notes. At some point, damn near every post that could be used as an aesthetic, quote, or prompt for a ship (and RP in general) has been reblogged by at least one source blog. Look for RP meme, aesthetic, help, and other resource blog urls. If you cannot find one of those, look for urls that are general resource-style blogs. Personal blogs reblog aesthetics etc. as well, and there are many such resource blogs out there. -If you’re uncomfortable reblogging from a personal, that’s tough shit; I hate to break it to you, but most of your resources came from personal blogs. Deal with it, or don’t reblog anything you can’t find filtered through a RP specific resource.

-- “But this takes time/effort lol I just want to use it for my ship.” Again, tough shit. Sometimes, it does take energy not to be rude and do the right the thing. In all honesty, it’s fairly rare that doing the right thing is effortless, even when it’s something as simple as RP. Grow up.

--- You went through the notes, but there’s no appropriate blog to reblog from, now what?

Just because it’s a rare occurrence doesn’t mean it’s impossible. I know this one isn’t, I’ve had it happen too! My choice was to not reblog it at all, I just sent the link to my ship partner privately instead. If you don’t have that kind of friendship, you really wanted it on the dash, or another reason, you are now left with one option, and you’re not going to like it. Message the mutual you want to reblog from. Politely, explain that you’d like to reblog the post for your ship, and ask if they’re comfortable with it. No guilting, begging, or general, weird ass rudeness. If they decline, accept it just as politely, thank them for their response. If they accept, thank them, and especially if this isn’t a mutual you interact with much, be sure you’re showing them continued support on the dash by reading and liking/commenting on their headcanon posts and other appropriate material. (You should be anyway.)

Remove any mentions present (@’s)

Seriously, this is incredibly rude! Yet, with the typical lack of self-reflection and awareness of others in the RPC here, I see it multiple times a day on my dash. Not just with RP-blog-to-RP-blog interaction either, I also see RPers reblogging from personals and leaving their mentions attached. (I see it the other way around too, but I’m not here to school personal blogs.) For all the excessive emphasis RPers put on appearance, you’d think they’d want to get rid of something that looks this sloppy, but no. Not if it takes one extra second of effort!

-I know that xkit’s editable reblogs tends to break whenever tumblr gives us a new, exciting, hideous, insulting, limitation, I mean update, but come the fuck on. It is also one of the quickest things to regain functionality, so, maybe you should save the reblog to drafts, be following xkit’s blog for updates, and edit it once there has been a patch. If it’s worth it to you, it’s worth a short wait. When it’s working, you can easily remove that mention with editable reblogs.

--If you’re going to use being mobile as an excuse, or if you don’t want to wait on it/don’t use xkit, again, go to the source. And, also again, if that isn’t an option, you can find where it has been reblogged by an appropriate blog at some point in its history, sans mentions. Reblog from there.

Do not reblog someone else’s tags (#)

Some people have their xkit set up to reblog automatically with the previous poster’s tags. While that can be useful in some situations, I can think of, very literally, no situation this is appropriate for an RPer to use. If you have this set up on your personal/resource blog/wtfe and your RP blog is a sideblog (or you are using certain methods of having your browser open to two separate blog accounts where your xkit settings are transferring over), it’s up to you to delete the tags on these posts.

-It takes maybe one full second to click in the tag field and hit your delete button a few times to clear it. Do that. It’s never, ever, appropriate to keep someone’s ship, muse, verse, or other personalized tags attached to a reblog.

--If you are a personal blog reading this somehow, maybe you’re wanting to get into RP, please take note of this. This is one of the many reasons why most RPers will not interact with personals. We don’t like you reblogging an aesthetic post and keeping our tags on it.

In the case of both situations, not only is it rude and lazy, it’s fucking with someone else’s tags and privacy. Most RPers don’t want their content showing up in generally searchable tags, it’s one of the reasons that personalizing tags came about. Furthermore, if I’m on my dash and click a mutual’s custom tag for aesthetics, verses, ships, and so on, it’s now going to come up with instances of those tags on someone else’s blog as well.

Delete the fucking tags if they auto-populate. Don’t use someone else’s custom tags of your own volition either.

“Subverting” reblogs to mention in comments is a hard no, too

-So, you don’t want to reblog the post, but do want to @ your ship partner(s) in it? There’s no way to do that without being rude and strange. To be honest, this is even worse than just reblogging and tagging your ship.

I may not be the OP, but you came onto a post on my blog, one very likely tagged for my ships and/or having my ship partners mentioned on it, and commented on it mentioning your ship partner. It’s every bit as offensive and more so than someone reblogging from me and using it for a ship I’m not a part of. I don’t know what’s worse, when that other mun is a ship partner, casual mutual who doesn’t interact, or a writing partner but not ship partner. It’s all deeply fucked up. No one’s RP blog is here for your use like this!

--You’re also not subverting anything. I think the idea is to be polite or go unnoticed. People seem to lack a basic grasp on how tumblr works; you get notifications on reblogged posts you are not the OP of when someone comments on them just like you get a notif when someone likes it. The only way to genuinely be secretive about this would be to comment on it from the source or a resource blog. They will get the notification.

If you are commenting on, liking, or reblogging a post you see on the dash, the person having reblogged it, putting it there for you to encounter, will be notified of your interaction with it.

---What I’m saying, just in case it isn’t abundantly clear, for the third time now: you’re not being slick. Your mutuals will see that you weirdly @’ed someone in a comment on their reblog. They know.

----The appropriate behavior is to do just as advised in the above points: GO TO THE SOURCE. If no source exists, find an appropriate resource blog in the notes. You may then, and only then, give that mention in a comment.

Frankly, it’s still weird, and I would recommend you just reblog it from the source to interact with it. There is always the option of sending it to the intended party by way of tumblr’s messenger or linking the post in an off tumblr messenger like discord.

I say this because it hasn’t escaped my attention that the only time I have this issue on my own RP blog is when the imagery or text is fucking filthy. As in, Other Mun didn’t want something that sexual, kinky, violent, and so on to be posted to their own blog. You need to grow up if that’s your deal. Like writing smut or violence, if you need to do it in private only, you’re obviously not adult enough to handle the topic.

Keep your roleplay where it belongs; in your inbox and threads

-It’s not appropriate to start up RP in the comments of another RPer’s reblogged ship aesthetic. (Or anything else, this just happens to be the most common.) It’s incredibly odd and offensive to look in your notifications and see that a mutual and their ship partner are flirting, or outright fucking, in the comments of a post you reblogged for your ship.

It’s just as awkward feeling and offensive when someone reblogs the post and begins full-blown RP on it. It’s one thing when it’s a post originating from an RP resource blog, or when it’s kept to something like a mention and a short line that your writing partner can start their original post in inspiration of. But...

--You know how I said above that auto-copying tags thing is one of the reasons why RPers are iffy about personal blogs? Well, this is one of the reasons why personal blogs think RPers are exceedingly weird members of fandom that need to be excluded and devalued. It’s odd, especially if you’ve never encountered RP, to see someone reblogging your quote, moodboard, or other original post and RPing on it.

Listen, we all need to RP some crack and commentary sometimes, but it’s best left in the tags or put into a new post.

---Instead of RPing (not sorry, especially if it is smut) on that post, link the image to show in a new post, and go from there.

Please remember to be polite about artists, including photographers and gifers, when you do this! Tumblr automatically gives the source of imagery when you use a link to display the picture, that’s why I recommended doing that instead of saving, then re-uploading the image as though it is your own. If you’re going to do that, even if it’s just silliness going on, give mention of the artist, photographer’s blog/site, or gifer’s blog in the tag or below the image.

Tumblr is deeply unfriendly to artists of all sorts, don’t be fuel that. When you upload artwork for the sake of RP, again, even if it’s just crack, that’s literally violating what artists ask people not to do; you’re reposting their art without permission and credit.

[winifredsandersonsbitch]

“Why Not Me?”

Spike x Summers!Reader, BTVS

Warnings: angst, character death, cursing, some sexual content

Description: The reader is struggling with their sister’s death and needs a helping hand. Set between the end of S5 and the beginning of S6.

This has been sitting in my drafts for a hot minute while I’ve been working on other stuff. It’s actually one of the first Spike pieces I wrote 🙈 I’m not in love with it, but I’ve been busy with other things lately and I wanted to release some new content, so here you go! I’m currently working on figuring out how to put together a masterlist and link my stories with the read more thing that I see on other fic writers’ pages so things are a little more organized.

Also (last thing, promise), I just wanted to say how much I appreciate the likes and comments you guys leave! @kind-wolf especially has helped motivate me so much in releasing new work, even if I feel it’s not my best ❤️

The first few days are hard. You wouldn’t be able to get yourself out of bed if not for Dawn. Everyone keeps peeking glances at you like you’re broken, like after your mother died but worse.

Infinitely worse, because Buffy and Dawn are your responsibility. You’re the oldest. You’re meant to protect them, to shield them. But all you’ve ever done is watch as your sister saved the world. And now even that has been taken from you.

You keep busy. You can only take so many days off work, trade so many shifts. Soon you have to go back and Dawn has to go to school, unless you want her to be taken from you, too.

Spike watches her for you while you’re at the diner. You’ve shortened your hours so you can sometimes be there with her before she goes to bed, but you’ve still got bills to pay. And you can’t bring up downsizing like you once meant to. Not when the house is the last thing linking the formerly whole Summers family together.

Willow does her best to play therapist, considering how you can’t go to a real one. First of all, they’d probably commit you for telling them your story. Second, you don’t have the strength to let anyone else in. Expanding your world to include more people only means that you have more of them to lose.

You made some mistakes in the first few weeks. You’re not proud of them by any means, but you’re doing your best to own them.

The worst one involved Spike.

One night (or, rather, morning) after your shift was over, you had come home and showered. As usual, you cried for as long as you could justify letting the water run. Then you stepped out and wrapped yourself in a fluffy towel that you almost dropped when you saw him waiting in your room.

“I think we need to have a chat, Summers.”

He patted the bed next to him, just like he had when he tagged along for the first time to your diner shift all those months ago. The gesture made you want to cry again.

“Let me get dressed,” you mumbled. You rummaged through your dresser for a tank top and sweatpants, the only types of clothing besides your uniform that you had been using since the funeral. Then you locked yourself in the bathroom.

You strongly considered crawling out the window, but you were too loud when you tried to pry it open and Spike rapped loudly on the door.

“Don’t even try it, love.”

Resigned, you came out to sprawl on your bed and wait for the lecture.

Spike started in as usual by saying that you weren’t taking care of yourself. Once again, you reminded him that you were a perfectly capable adult who was keeping an entire household running and that you didn’t need him or anyone else questioning you.

“I know you’re capable, that’s not the point—”

“Then what is the point? What right do you have—”

“I’ve been right here beside you the whole time! I’m allowed to have some input—”

“I’m sorry, is your name Spike Summers? No? Then get off my ass about—”

You could see in his eyes that he wanted to shake some sense into you. He thought you were the one being obtuse. But all you were doing, all you had ever tried to do, was to hold everything together.

“Summers,” he growled. The two of you had been inching closer together during your heated argument, your voices raised dangerously, considering Dawn was still asleep. For a moment, you saw a flicker of his other face. Even knowing he wouldn’t hurt you, you gulped. “Stop being so bloody thick about everything. You’re working yourself to death, and who’s going to be here for Dawn if you’re carted off to the hospital?”

Normally, this was the point where the tears would flow against your will, but you only felt frustrated. Then Spike tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and it boiled over.

“Let me take care of you,” he said, and you still don’t know why you did what you did next. Maybe you wanted to push him away like you had been doing with everyone else. Maybe you wanted a distraction. Or maybe you just wanted him.

You kissed him.

It was an automatic reaction, but if you had to guess, you’d say it was probably because you needed to show him that you were fine at taking care of yourself. You were still an independent agent, making your own decisions, however poor they might be. But you didn’t think that was the message he got at all, because it turned needy real quick.

His hand came to the back of your head as he wove his fingers through your hair in a tender gesture, but you didn’t want tender. You wanted the pain to be blocked out. You tried to seal yourself to him, pulling yourself into his lap. You ran your nails over his jaw, his neck, and then his chest, clawing at his shirt. He lifted it halfway, enough for you to see the defined abs that waited beneath, before he pulled away abruptly and dumped you onto the bed.

“We can’t,” he said, panting. “You’re grieving.”

“I’m fine.”

You crawled over to him and slipped off the edge of the bed to press him against the wall, but he held you back.

“You’re sick. It would be taking advantage.”

He knew before the words left his mouth that it was the wrong thing to say.

Your eyes widened and you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, suddenly wanting every trace of him off you. You stepped toward the door backwards, almost tripping over your backpack.

“No, my mom was sick,” you said with your hand on the knob. Then, whipping back around, your face contorted like a Fury: “You’re sick, you know that? You chase after me for months, following me to work, to school, telling me you don’t want to see me hurt myself. You hold me while I’m sleeping and touch me when you think no one’s watching and joke in front of the others about how you’d like to see me naked and then I give you the chance to and what? Has mourning made me so awful to you?”

Spike couldn’t have been more shocked if you slapped him. He kept waiting for your knees to buckle, for you to break down, but you never did. Not in front of the others, not in front of him. Anyone would think you were the goddamn Energizer Bunny, if not for how exhausted you looked.

“Love—”

“Don’t fucking call me that,” you said. “If you aren’t willing to ‘take advantage,’ I’ll find someone who is.”

You didn’t slam the door. Even now, you were mindful of Dawn, of how early it was. Instead, you grabbed your keys from the kitchen countertop and made it as far as the front porch before you folded in on yourself.

Not now, you pleaded, praying to a God you weren’t sure existed. Please, let me get somewhere else first.

But you couldn’t move. You kept seeing Buffy fall over and over again, tearing through the inter-dimensional portal like a silk screen, hitting the concrete hard.

You couldn’t breathe.

It was like you could see her and Dawn up top, before Buffy dived down like some kind of fucking Olympic swimmer. You had been on the ground with the others, but you could see them in that moment. Buffy taking Dawn’s face in her hands as she cried. Playing the hero. Telling your sister how she had to do this and to remember how much she loved you both.

You didn’t see or hear Spike come out on the patio or notice when he pried the keys from your hands. You were too busy sobbing silently to the point where he was worried you might pass out.

“It should have been me,” you said, not to him or yourself, but to whatever God had taken Buffy. Glory, maybe. Someone with more power than you. “I’m the oldest. I should have been there. Bring her back and take me.”

“She was the Slayer,” Spike said softly. He didn’t touch you, just sat a fair distance away and ached. “It had to be her.”

In your crazed state, you thought God was talking back, and he happened to have a British accent. You tried to reason with him.

“No, it wasn’t about that. It was about Summers blood. It could have been me, if I had gotten there in time. If—”

“You wouldn’t have made it up the steps past Glory, past the demon. You didn’t have a chance.”

“But it should have been me!” The words came out as more of a wheeze than anything else. You weren’t taking in enough oxygen to support your crying jag. “I should have been the Slayer. I’m the oldest. Why did you choose her? Was I not strong enough?”

You couldn’t open your eyes fully through all the tears. They swam in front of your vision like you were underwater, turning your car into a coral reef, the grass of the front yard into seaweed.

“Or if I couldn’t be the Slayer or the Key, then I should have been the one to jump. You know it’s true,” you pleaded. “Summers blood. It’s all the same.”

But it wasn’t. Because whatever blood was in Dawn and Buffy contained courage.

Spike didn’t know who you thought you were talking to, but he was worried you were going to knock yourself out on the steps and split your head open, with the way you were wavering back and forth, leaning forward to weep and then throwing your head back to ask why, why, why it hadn’t been you.

Finally, he had to restrain you, scooping you up into his lap and holding you tight to keep you from getting any ideas about taking a dive of your own off the porch. At first, you fought against him, thrashing like a wildcat, but you were too tired to keep it up for long.

“Why not me?” you asked him again. Your voice was muffled against his chest, but he heard you loud and clear. How could he not?

“Because you’re needed here. You’re the only thing keeping everyone sane, lo—” He cut himself off, barely remembering how much the word had upset you earlier. “You protected Buffy as best you could your whole life. And now you need to be here for Dawn.”

“No,” you said, wrestling out of his grip enough to face him. “I mean, why don’t you want me?”

Your eyes were swollen and you had just gotten snot all over his shirt, but in that moment he was so grateful that you were alive that his heart would’ve skipped a beat if it could have. He pulled you close and kissed your forehead, breathing in the smell of your shampoo, reminding himself that you were flesh and blood right before him. You were still here.

“Any other time, sweetheart, it would’ve been you,” he whispered against your cheek. You were going slack in his arms, relaxing like a kitten, unable to keep yourself upright and rigid when you were so completely spent. He could taste your tears. “I always want you. But not like this.”

“What do you—hic—mean?”

This was alright. You were a little out of it still, but you were coherent, and you weren’t trying to hurt yourself anymore. Spike resisted the urge to pull you closer, to feel your heart beat against his chest like it was his own, just to confirm you were here, solid, breathing.

“I want you when I can tell it’s real. That you don’t need someone to take your pain away and that’s it, even though I’d strip right now, right here on the porch, if I thought it would help.”

Spike thought he might get a laugh out of you there, but your eyes were unfocused. Frightening. He lifted you up like you weighed nothing, which wasn’t far from the truth now that you’d all but stopped eating, and carried you back into the house and up the stairs to your bedroom.

“I want you so much it hurts,” he promised you as he peeled back the covers to tuck you in. “Like when I’m starving for blood and there’s no one around.”

He checked your face quickly, thinking his metaphor might’ve been less-than-helpful, but when it remained blank he continued.

“I need you. That means I have to do what’s best for you, and right now that’s not sex.”

He started across the room, but you called out.

“Spike?” You sounded uncertain, fragile. “Will you stay with me? Not for... not for sex.”

“Of course I will, lo— Summers.”

He shed his t-shirt and slipped into the fuzzy bottoms you’d gotten him a few months ago, when things were not quite good but getting back to normal, and cradled you.

He gave it a couple minutes before he tried again. “Summers, you know, if you do want sex in the future and you’re not on the verge of a breakdown, I’m your guy.”

But you were already asleep.

[spotlightsaga]

Kevin Cage of Spotlight Saga presents... A Rewind Review of the final episode of Quarry on Cinemax whose cancellation was just announced yesterday. As you'll see in the language of this article, I personally hold the show in high regard, even including it the Top 5 #BestOf2016 series we ran. Cinemax, who is owned by HBO claims they are revamping the network that is just now gaining a good wave of steam and building a respectable library. The Knick was also a groundbreaking series that recently received the axe from the same network, yet Strike Back that last ran in 2015 is already getting a reboot. What say you, Cinemax? We are incredibly disappointed by your decision to cancel this incredibly thought provoking Crime Drama set in a very real to life 1972 Memphis. Michael D Fuller, executive producer and co-creator of the show (along with (Graham Gordy) is a huge inspiration for me and for 'Spotlight Saga', inspiring me to include a more honest approach to political standpoints, something at the time I was very afraid to use in my writing. The following article was written shorty after the end of Quarry's Legendary 8-Episode run. Going forward, as much as I am frustrated with Cinemax, I think it's important to focus on the positives here and follow & support both Fuller & Gordy in any future projects or endeavors they may have. Thank you, Fuller. Thank you, Gordy. You have earned more than a few lifetime fans. Kevin Cage of Spotlight Saga reviews... Quarry (S01E08) Nuoc Cha Da Mon Airdate: October 28, 2016 (Cinemax) Ratings: Premium Cable/Streaming - Nielsen is Guessing! Score: 10/10 (An Extremely Rare Perfect Score) **************SPOILERS BELOW*************** *Poltical Views do NOT represent Spotlight Saga* Well, I asked for it... Basically begged for it, I even considered taking a day off work to just sit at home and watch it. Now, I've finally watched it, and I feel...changed. 'The Vietnam Scene' let's us peak into the PTSD origins and Mac's time at war, as well as providing a provocative theory on just what we might have been doing over there in the first place... Losing lives on both sides, our veterans returning home to a chorus of boos, met with thick walls of human disdain, and stop signs in every direction they turned. Single Camera, long take shots can be risky. Just look at Daredevil, a show that successfully used them in S1, then overused the same hallmark shots in S2. They simply cannot be your whole show, because one continuous 'sequence shot', particularly those that surround an upsetting action or disturbing sequence linger with the viewer, like the shots themselves linger on the situation at hand. In this case, a raid in Vietnam 🇻🇳 on a village with mainly fisherman, women, and children... Innocent lives lost in a war that in the end meant nothing but death, heartache, and terror. Of course that asshole of a captain commended Mac (Logan Marshall Green) and praised him to The Broker (Peter Mullan) at the end, 'He's a good soldier.' Yup, cuz he does what he's told without hesitation... Like firing the first shot without thinking, snowballing a cascade of death and chaos, topping off the whole experience by throwing a grenade into a covered pit that contained a toddler... A toddler who we are shown blown right out of the pit into fucking pieces. That's one thing that Quarry never does, shies away from violence, from the money shot... And it never feels exploitative, it just feels like that's the reality, a reality that the viewers should not be protected from. And so it goes... The Broker is no vigilante, tho he does give the people that he employs the benefit of small 'in-between' jobs that make them feel like they are doing good in the world. It's a game of chess, and he is Bobby Fischer in his prime, and a patriarch of the 70's... A king of a dirty unferbelly ruled by the almighty dollar and poppy fields as far as the eye can see. The day I wanted to take off work, just so happened to have three or four people at the bar discussing Vietnam. Of course, right? I immediately throw Quarry in the mix and of course, none of them had heard of it... Unsurprising, considering how hard it is just to obtain Cinemax, thank god for Amazon Video now! We discussed the length at which protesters treated the returning war veterans; Picketing, spitting, throwing objects, screaming and shoving homemade signs in their face... As if the soldiers ever had a choice in the matter. You enlist, You're drafted, you're trapped, you're owned, and just like Mac... If you are a good soldier you do what you're told like a goddamn robot, a machine without empathy, and then when you return home you have nothing. PTSD? In '72? Here's a pamphlet. 'Be glad the man has his legs and his arms,' the man at the VA tells Joni (#JodiBalfour) when she desperately seeks help for a man she cannot save herself. So there you have the people in control of our government, sending our brothers, sisters, fathers, and mothers over to fight a pointless war. Then you have the rich men, the patriarchs, who are able to come through and buy a slice of the action... A poppy field... A goldmine just waiting to make the rich man richer. And then you have protesters, mainly uninformed Regular Joes who only see the picture that's painted before them, like the SJW's today that picket and march through our major cities furthering the divide they claim they are trying to stop. Oh yes, that's the truth of the matter, a truth that blind rage and ignorance stop people from seeing. There is something inherently terrifying about the parallels of Vietnam 🇻🇳 to the wars and thousands deployed in countries like Iraq 🇮🇶 Iran 🇮🇷 Afghanistan 🇦🇫 Pakistan 🇵🇰 Kuwait 🇰🇼 Bahrain 🇧🇭 Saudi Arabia 🇸🇦 Syria 🇸🇾 Yemen 🇾🇪 And I could go on and on and on, places we have no business being, places that our country backwardly depends on for oil, or countries that have militias and terrorist organizations just sitting on oil fields holding them captive to prevent the chaos countries like ours and others have caused attempting to police the world and secure access to natural resources, while they themselves use the guns we have directly armed them with to oppress their people and then line the pockets of people like Hillary Clinton's with hundreds of thousands of dollars. No, I am no sympathizer, both sides make me sick. The whole thing makes me sick. Mostly, the human race makes me sick. A long time ago while living in San Francisco, I realized that the most beautiful and pure people are mostly at the bottom sleeping in the street or struggling at a minimum wage job, while the ugliest and ruthless people are at the top inviting a lucky few up to share in a night of debauchery, caressing their insecurities with thoughts of becoming their protégés or possible arm candy while their young and their beauty is still intact. Just last week, less than a month to go in his final term, Obama abolished the 'Wet Foot, Dry Foot' policy, a policy that helped save thousands of Cuban 🇨🇺 lives and helped build the great city of Miami that I call home... This done in the spirit to 'normalize relations with our one-time foe.' While abolishing this policy *COULD* indeed do just that, hidden behind that very controversial and well known policy; Another policy, The Cuban Medical Professional Parole Program, was also nixed. That lesser known policy allowed the opportunity for Cuban Medical Professionals to come to the US through other countries to earn residency, citizenship, and jobs. A sneaky move, one disguised as a way to strengthen the relations between The USA 🇺🇸 & Cuba 🇨🇺. Just one of many examples that not everything in the painting is portrayed as it should be or relaid to the public highlighting the big picture as a whole. This is a man who promised us CHANGE, but the majority of these promises of change were broken. Under the Obama Administration more Whistleblowers were jailed under the Espionage Act of 1917, imprisoned, or forced to seek asylum, like Snowden in Russia 🇷🇺 and of course famous Wikileaks founder, Julian Assange, who is literally living in an Ecuadorian 🇪🇨 Embassy in London 🇬🇧. Then today Obama grants clemency to Transgender Whistleblower Chelsea Manning, shortening her 35 year sentence to end 3 decades early in May of this year, 2017. Why, Obama? A PR move to distract from other last minute changes and to surge an approval rating on the way out? Something to think about, especially when he was so adamant about putting those that expose our government's truths, lies, and nasty cover-ups behind bars or strand them in foreign countries that don't exactly provide the same freedoms. Meanwhile last year was the first year that I was forced to pay taxes, and not just because I'm penalized for seeking affordable medical treatment for cash, and not pumping money into the Insurance Industry, the failure of Obamacare. All of this happening, and a rich white New York female actress named Lena Dunham tells the world that she's never had an abortion, but she wishes she had. WHY?! Meryl Streep uses an acceptance speech to rile up SJW's. And to add insult to injury, she says an art form and sport older than her 50x over, MMA and Combat Arts are not really arts. WHY?! God bless some of Meryl Streep's performances, they are truly cinematic gold, but that doesn't automatically make her the High Queen of all Art, deciding what earns that prestigious label and what does not. I try and promise myself that I will not get political in my reviews, but honestly when I write emotional parallels I seem to get the most responses. And because of great television series like 'Quarry' that most definitely gets my stamp for my list of #BestOf2016 TV Series), they inspire me to put my ideas out there, my life stories, my origins, my secrets, my heartaches, my tales of happiness and tragedy... Because of series like 'Quarry' I am more honest with you than I am with anyone else in my life. It's scary to put these very personal, private, and passionate views and experiences out there. Like I said, the one rule I try to set for myself is try to keep politics (or at least pick and choose my crusades and battles) out of it, and to treat those with opposing opinions with respect and class... But here we have a moving, haunting portrait of political injustice, and it's inspiring. It's hard to stay quiet when there is so much injustice surrounding us, so much ignorance. I have literally seen people I love with all my heart throw away meaningful, lifelong friendships over this sham of an election on both sides. I am not a conservative. I am not a liberal. I am a man who is happy with very little... I have a slice of paradise in a city where I am very much the minority. I'm happy living life one day at a time, living a quiet life and practicing different forms of artistic expression, over the years learning that my gift is worth a bit of money, but still getting the hang of making it the center of my universe. I'm no hired hitman, but I've abused this body with serving, bartending, and even go-go dancing... At one point I was literally working day shifts serving tables in Miami, getting off at 4 or 5pm, then driving to Ft Lauderdale, dancing without my clothes at night until the early morning, trying to catch a few low-paying DJ gigs in between. Like Mac, we all have our demons, demons that many of us will never quite shake. We can defeat them, learn to live as harmoniously as possible with them, or let them destroy us slowly. Quarry is a vivid and honest tale of political injustice, racial divides, struggling human beings just trying to survive in a world where the odds are stacked up against them, a tale of broken men and women, the moments that make us feel alive, the moments that haunt us, a tale of a human being struggling with their sexual identity in a brutally violent and unaccepting world, one that is engraved and hardwired into them, broken egos, and a tale of how people can easily be turned into puppets with the almighty dollar and a simple plant growing from God's green earth. I found it very fitting that before the last sequence of scenes Mac goes to cast his presidential vote. Unfortunately it always comes down to the lesser of two evils... Republicans or Democrats, but both are evil and wicked in their own individual ways. To #VoteLibertarian or Green is unheard of (though this idea is changing and becoming more of a reality now, thank god) and for many years I considered the act 'throwing away' my vote, but with the candidates becoming increasingly hard to differentiate the pros and cons... Maybe it's time that everyone starts voting Libertarian, Green, some sort of other growing Independent Party... Or like Mac, just write in the late, great Otis Redding. My Step-Father has taken to the practice, and he's right... If you can't beat em', don't join 'em, vote for somebody else, ANYONE. Ive been told this is a problem in all countries, so on a worldwide scale I'm not sure if even Hillary Clinton vs Donald Trump was even the hardest decision a voter has had to face... We had it easy, The Philippines 🇵🇭 had to settle for Rodrigo Duterte, a MADMAN who encouraged the people of his country to hunt down and murder people suffering from the disease of addiction. Somethings gotta give, the division I see in our world today frightens me, but most of all it saddens me. For now, here in the US, what's done is done. We must allow things to play out as if the world 🌎 was our television series. Stop the division. Stop the hate, on BOTH sides... And let's take things as I have learned to live, one day at a time. Being unified if things go wrong will be a lot better than being a nation torn apart. Maybe the future will surprise you, maybe it won't... Just hold on to your empathy and everything will be alright. It's the only thing we have left. We have to do better.

[bandit-writes]

The Promise of Sunbeams

This was originally for a kink meme prompt, but as the kink meme has moved I can no longer link to the original.

The gist of it was “What if the human Inquisitor had tranquil parents because human nobles are fucked up.” Well, two years later and an entire playthrough dedicated to this boy, I came up with this. 

If anyone can find the original prompt that would be great! My eyes can’t really parse the new Kink meme very easily so there’s no way I would be able to. 

“When will I get a mark on my forehead, Mama?” Mattie says, sat on the floor amidst his mother’s billowing skirts.

Mama looks up from her stitching, put there by one of the servants, “Never.”

“But you have one, and Papa has one.”

“Yes. We do.”

“Why?”

Mama does not smile. Mama never smiles, “We were mages, and our parents did not want us to be.”

Mattie looks down at himself. Considering his feet, “Will you give me a mark? If I’m a mage?”

Mama does not answer for a long time. “No,” She says, just as Mattie is about to ask again. “I think not.”

Dorian slides into a booth at the serviceable tavern Haven hold within its walls and aims a charming smile at Sera, sat across from him. “So, our dear Herald,” he starts.

“Out with it already,” Sera interrupts, “don’t try to use all of those floofy words on me, I can’t stand it.”

“Or understand it as the case may be,” Dorian muses. Sera wrinkles her nose at him.

“What do you want to know about him?” She says.

“Merely if you know anything about him,” Dorian says, “I’ve come to believe you are the girl to ask if one wants to know about our merry band of outcasts.”

“And you think I have the dirt on Mattie?”

“Let’s just say that I think you’ll know more than me, being as you’ve been around our little bundle of joy for longer than I have had the pleasure to be.”

Sera leans back in her chair. Dorian takes a drink of the utterly foul Fereldan ale the bartender managed to talk him into and raises an eyebrow. The rogue is frowning, biting at her lip. Obviously there is something here then, Dorian isn’t just barking up the wrong tree.

He’d thought so. The normal response to being thrown into an alternate timeline where the world's gone to shit is not stony silence and a face that had been so utterly expressionless it had given Dorian chills. And that’s not even mentioning the dull acceptance of Dorian’s flirting.

“Even if I did know something, what makes you think I’d tell you?”

“Camaraderie among friends?”

Sera snorts, “We aren’t friends!”

“Enemies then,” Dorian amends lightly. He gets a laugh for that, but he also get a shake of Sera’s head, and a roll of her eyes.

“If you’re so interested in him, ask him yourself.” She gets up from the table, done with the conversation, and done with Dorian entirely.

Dorian doesn’t talk to Matthew. Doesn’t have time before the entire world goes to shit. Or at least the part of the world that currently has Dorian in it anyways. It’s really not playing fair when the other party brings a dragon to the field.

Then of course they’re busy hiking through the wilderness to get far enough away from the ruin that was once Haven, and is now the grave of their dear Herald.

They set up camp not too far away, can’t move too far with no directions to go in, and with too many wounded who barely made it this far. Dorian lends his services as a medic for awhile, all he can do unless he wants to be pressed into laundry service. Apparently he’d be good at getting out all the bloodstains, being from Tevinter and all.

Dorian has a feeling that most of the Inquisition is not pleased to make his acquaintance. And the parts of it that are have daggers behind their backs. It’s enough to make a fellow homesick.

His task affords him one advantage though--he’s one of the few who get to see the Herald of Andraste emerge out of a blizzard like one possessed.

Dorian gets one look at Matthew’s face and shudders. Cold blue eyes. Blank face. No exhaustion, no worry, no fear, not even happiness at finally reuniting with the rest of the Inquisition. Simply calm acceptance, before the boy takes one last step and would have fallen flat on his face if it hadn’t been for Cassandra swooping in at the last moment to save him from the ground.

Judging by the other’s expressions, none of them are worried about Maxwell’s lack of emotions. Maybe it’s a southern thing, Dorian muses. But that doesn’t feel right. Especially when he compares Matthew to the Commander, or even to Cassandra. Neither of them give him the chills.

In fact, Matthew makes Dorian think of-- but no. No, it isn’t possible. With the information he has he already knows he’s throwing fire up the wrong tree. For one thing, Matthew doesn’t have a brand on his forehead, and he throws lightning better than Dorian does. He puts that theory out of his mind. It must be something else, that causes that strange blankness that means Dorian can’t read Matthew’s intentions at all.

“How is Skyhold for you, Hellisima?” Dorian hears from his nest in the library. It’s Matthew, judging by the calm even tones that lack almost all intonation.

“Inadequately,” The tranquil says-- Dorian thinks he’s talking to the tranquil anyway, he hadn’t caught her name the first time he had run into her and he hadn’t thought to ask for it after. “I cannot at the present complete my duties to my fullest ability.”

“Do you have any recommendations as to how to improve this state?” Matthew asks.

Dorian resists the urge to crane his neck far enough out of his alcove to see the two parties. Honestly, it’s none of his business. Nor is it even a particularly interesting conversation. Except of course for the fact that it includes Matthew, which automatically makes everything interesting.

He is after all, The Inquisitor.

Dorian tries to focus on his book. He does a bad job of it, all of his attention is still on the conversation happening outside of the stacks. Annoyingly, considering how utterly dull the conversation happens to be.

The tranquil offers suggestions to improve Skyhold, good ones considering how the building is falling apart around everyone's ears. Matthew makes comments, directing who would be in charge of all the minutiae of the requests. In that same, calm measured way of his that drives Dorian up the walls.

Just once he’d like to see Matthew have an emotion.

“How are you being treated?” Matthew asks the tranquil.

“No one is taking advantage of me, and I am free to pursue my studies with minimal interference.”

“Tell me if that changes,” Matthew says.

“I will.”

Judging by the silence afterwards, Dorian presumes the conversation concluded. Good. He needs to get back to his studies, and work out whatever the author of this book was taking to think that fire matrices could be combined in such a way as to produce whatever they were babbling about.

He gets through about a page before the distinct feeling someone is watching him permeates every inch of his being. Dorian snaps his head up to meet the cool gaze of one Matthew Trevelyan, Inquisitor.

Dorian does not make a startled sound, but it’s a close thing. Instead he raises an eyebrow and drawls, “Do you want something, or just here to look?”

“I wanted to know if Skyhold is adequately providing all of your needs.” Matthew says, bland as ever.

Dorian sneers, “And you could gain that knowledge from staring at me?”

“I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Interrupt away, Inquisitor.”

“Mattie.”

Dorian blinks, “What?”

“My name. I respond better to Mattie.”

It’s such an odd way to phrase it, I respond better, like the boy doesn’t care what Dorian calls him.

“Mattie then,” Dorian says, “My needs are fine, save for the complete lack of decent wine and all my clothes are designed for much warmer climates than the top of a mountain in a room that lets in a terrible draft.”

“I could find more clothes for you,” Matthew says.

Dorian smiles thinly, “That won’t be necessary,”

Matthew blinks, obviously in confusion and Dorian resists the urge to sigh, “I will be fine,” he says, “go worry about more important things than my complaints.”

“If that’s what you want of me.”

Matthew turns away, Dorian lets his gaze linger on the man’s body until it disappears out of his field of view. As much as the rest of Matthew makes no sense, Dorian would be the first to admit that the mage has an excellent ass. Even through the awful fashions he insists to wear.

Plaidweave does not go with anything. Especially not green silks. One day, Dorian is going to have to join Vivienne and stage an intervention. And then burn the rest of the clothes. Possibly while cackling. He does have a Tevinter Magister image to keep up, what with Mother Giselle having such firm eyes on him.

“Did you know we’re related?” Dorian says, “Second or third cousins a multitude removed. Don’t you think that’s remarkable?”

Matthew gazes at him. “You looked up my family?”

“Oh just a bit. Thought your last name sounded familiar, that’s all.” Buried in a book, Dorian misses the way Matthew’s expression turns considering. By the time Dorian looks up again the Inquisitor is gone.

PAGE BREAK

His hands are shaking. Even hours later in his alcove his hands still tremor slightly with rage. Dorian refuses to consider the possibility that it’s more than rage doing this. Making his jaw tighten and the words of the dusty tome skip and repeat themselves as his eyes skim over the page.

Damn him. Damn everything.

He turns, giving up on research. He needs a drink, needs in fact several drinks. He almost runs headlong into Matthew, standing in the entrance of the small alcove.

Dorian swears. a horrible oath in Tevene before he manages to bite his tongue and compose himself.

“What do you want?”

Matthew appears to have no reaction to almost being bowled over. Dorian is really starting to hate that poker face of his.

“I thought I should check up on you,” Max says.

“I’m not one of your tranquil friends,” Dorian hisses. Absolutely affronted for reasons he doesn’t care to elaborate on. “I don’t need you to check up on me.”

Matthew tilts his head slightly, like Dorian is a particularly difficult puzzle box given at Midwinter.

“You’re upset.”

“Yes. Well one tends to be when confronted with the very man they wished to never set eyes upon for the rest of their life.”

“I didn’t know it would be your father.”

“And you didn’t think it would be worth mentioning to me that someone from my family would want to talk to me?”

Matthew looks at him with those cold, practically dead eyes. “The Chantry mother said not to.”

“And you trust her?”

“Of course.”

Dorian’s fists clench. His jaw tightens as he fights the urge to grind his teeth. “Then it appears we have reached an impasse, dear Inquisitor.”

Matthew inclines his head. “I’m sorry for upsetting you, Dorian.” The words are mechanical, lacking any type of sincerity. Dorian can’t even glean the false platitude that would normally infect the tone of the words.

He sneers, haughty. “You don’t even know why I’m upset. You have no idea what it’s like to have a family who detests everything about you. To have to look at the man who should love you unconditionally and know that he would betray every moral he has in order to mold you into something you aren’t!”

Matthew’s face, blank at the best of times twists into something resembling an actual human expression before it flatlines again. Dorian thrills with the knowledge that if he pushes hard he can crack what looks like an impassable facade.

“I’m a mage,” Matthew says. “Of course I know what it’s like.” He leaves then. Muttering something or other about another obligation. As is always the Inquisitor’s way, running to and fro around the keep and all its inhabitants. Dorian is left to stare at his back, mouth agape and feeling like a fool. That’s the problem with being in a foreign country; Dorian always forgets that here it’s mages who are at the bottom of the ladder, instead of at the top.

Dorian resolves to leave the man alone. The Inquisitor, Matthew. Obviously the man isn’t interested in bedding him and while Dorian isn’t the best at the whole privacy thing he can work out when his nose isn’t wanted.

It lasts for about all of a week.

Skyhold takes in another group of mage refugees and templar platoon with nowhere else to go. Dorian, up in the rafters of the library can only vaguely ascertain the screaming match that happens when the two groups meet each other. By the time curiosity sends him down the stairs the argument is mostly over, reduced now to silent glares from either side of the courtyard.

At the very center stands Matthew, Cullen, and a templar that Dorian doesn’t recognise. The air around them makes the hair on Dorian’s arms raise when he slinks forwards to if not intervene at least understand what all the fuss is about. The area is saturated with static--the surest sign that a lightning mage is being pushed to the end of their tether. Matthew’s face is as blank as it always is. It is the two non-mages who show any sign of being angry.

“Inquisitor we need all the support we can get.” Cullen is saying in an undertone. “We don’t have the option of just refusing people. Especially after we’ve granted them shelter.”

“You granted them shelter,” Matthew says. “If I had known about this beforehand then there wouldn’t be a problem.” His gaze is firmly fixed on the other templar. Not Cullen.

“It said that all were welcome,” the Templar says. The smile he gives is all teeth, “Now be a good boy and do what you’re told.”

“How about you do what you’re told to for once,” Matthew says. For the first time Dorian hears an undercurrent of emotion there. In every single syllable Matthew oozes with pure hatred. “How about you leave me alone as both the knight commander and first enchanter of Ostwick both ordered you to do? How about you stop chasing me across countries and go back to being the stain upon the makers breeches that you are?”

“Inquisitor!”

“Haven’t you grown a spine. Leadership doesn’t suit you Mattie.”

“Matthew.”

“Is that any way to treat an old friend, Mattie?”

“You aren’t my friend!” Matthew’s voice cracks, and so does his magic. Lightning arcs across his fingers, and then the courtyard, reaching for the templar that still stands, sneering at Matthew.

Cullen curses. He grabs Matthew by the back of his robes, blue light shining from his closed fingers. The lightning stops. Matthew slumps, puppet cut from it’s strings. A smite, Dorian recognises from fighting alongside Cassandra. Even from his safe distance Dorian can feel the smites power pushing at his magic.

“Should have branded you while we all had the chance,” the Templar says. “Then you could have joined mummy and daddy and been a good boy for everyone instead of pretending to be the herald of Andraste. As if any Trevelyan has the chance to make anything of themselves.”

Matthew snarls, struggling to keep upright under Cullen’s hold.

“What?” Dorian says, before he can think better of it.

“You mean you don’t know?” the Templar mocks. “Oh Matthew, how is anyone meant to keep you safe if they don’t know about your little problem?”

“Don’t,” Matthew says. The rest of whatever he says lost as the Templar laughs.

“Matthew Trevelyan should be tranquil,” The Templar announces. Loud enough for the words to carry across the whole of the courtyard. “Your Inquisitor is an emotionally volatile, immature mage who is a danger both to himself and others. The only reason he’s not branded like the rest of the mages in his family is because the Knight Commander of Ostwick gave him to the mage hunters so he could be used as a weapon until he went and ran away. Isn’t that right Matthew?”

Dorian scoffs. “Matthew? Emotionally volatile? Until today I didn’t think the man had any feelings at all! Matthew, surely you can’t let this man slander you like this.”

Matthew’s head bows. His silence all the answer anyone needs.

“Ah,” Dorian says. “I see.”

Matthew shrugs out of Cullen’s lax fingers. For the first time since the fall of Haven he doesn’t stand at his full height. His shoulders hunch in on themselves, hands buried in pockets. He doesn’t meet anyone's gaze.

“Rutherford lock this man in the dungeon. Someone else will have to try him.”

“What is he being tried for?”

Matthew just snorts. “Where would you like me to start?” He asks. The question made rhetorical as he turns on his heel and stalks towards the tavern. Dorian watches him leave. For the second time in as many conversations with Matthew, he feels like an idiot.

Later, Dorian leans across a chessboard and says in an undertone, “Is there something that I don’t know about Matthew?”

Cullen doesn’t bother pretending he doesn’t understand what Dorian is asking. “You know I used to work in Kirkwall before here.”

“Yes, it’s all anyone could talk about for months on end,” Dorian says. “What does this have to do with it?”

“Ostwick is next to Kirkwall. The conditions there aren’t as infamous but they’re by no means pleasant.”

“Like all mage towers south of Tevinter.”

Cullen nods. “In particular Ostwick and other parts of the Free Marches are known for an agreement that the noble families have with the knight commanders. The nobles hand over a lump of gold that goes straight in the templars pockets, and the circle looks after any of the families offspring until a marriage has been set up.”

“As far as I was aware mages can’t marry here.”

“They can’t.”

Dorian tilts his head. “Then how does this agreement work?”

“The same way everything in the circle works.” Cullen’s eyes close. “The Trevelyan family is governed by Matthew’s grandmother, in part because she won’t let anyone else take the title from her, but the real reason is because both her son and daughter in law are tranquil.”

It takes Dorian a moment to work out the sick feeling in his stomach. Revulsion, he finally settles on as Cullen trounces him at chess. Horrified and fascinated revulsion.

“And everyone but me knew about this?” he asks.

“It wasn’t uncommon knowledge in Kirkwall.” Cullen checkmates his king. “And he told the others who didn’t know. It’s why his emotions don’t work the way you expect them to; for most of his life he’s been surrounded by tranquil, and after that the circle treated him as being only slightly better than one.”

“Do I not count as being worthy of being told? Should I be insulted?” Dorian smiles as he says it but he does feel betrayed. “Is it because I’m an evil Magister?”

Cullen looks up at Dorian. “He thought you knew.”

The lightning flickers between Matthews fingers. Purple energy coalesced into a ball about the size of his palm. Matthew throws it into the air, catches it. His room smells like the evening before a storm, rain on the horizon but still only threatening to fall.

Up.

Down.

On his other hand the mark of the breach burns with foreign enchantment. It hurts. A dull pain that promises to get worse before it gets better.

His staff sits in the corner of the room. Dawnstone and dragon bone and runes for frost.

Up.

Down.

Tranquil do not have emotions. They’re incapable of them, as well as of wanting more than the basics. No one cares what happens to a tranquil. Matthew is not tranquil. His emotions rise and fall like tides. Blinding in their ferocity one second the next he barely feels anything at all.

Matthew is angry almost all of the time.

Up.

Down.

He is emotionally volatile, only allowed to exist because of his high amounts of magic. A side product of tranquil pairings; the offspring are more likely to be mages as well. The footnote of Matthew’s existence written in the informal language of a textbook. He had burned the textbook after reading it.

The nobles, already unhappy with him, will demand the brand for him. The mages will be split on the issue; some agreeing that a dangerous mage is better dead, the others crying about the abuses that tranquil suffer.

His inner circle will be similarly split. Sera will be afraid of him, as will Bull. Solas will not understand and Vivienne will misinterpret the results to fit herself. Cassandra will take it as her duty to fell him if his magic goes too far out of control.

Up.

Down.

Blackwall is a mystery, could go one way or the other depending on what he views his duty to be. Dorian, who lives in a world where magic is used from everything from powering colossi to fight the horned invaders to courting gifts will fail to see the issue entirely. Varric will want to write a book.

Cullen will institute a guard and Josephine will agree with him to fend off the angry letters. Leliana will deal with the templar in the dungeon without asking Matthew beforehand. The mages and the Templars will argue with each other before realising that in Skyhold there’s no point, especially when the world might be ending in a few months. Weeks. Days.

Up.

Down.

Matthew is volatile. The Inquisitor is not. The Inquisitor is the one who must lead them all to victory, to fight against Corypheus. To win, to close every breach in the fade with a power that no one else is able to replicate.

Up.

Matthew draws the sunburst on his forehead.

The Inquisitor has no emotions save one: Will to go on.

The ball of lightning fades out of existence, tendrils of magic escaping to the fade.

Matthew closes his eyes, breathes.

Tomorrow he’ll go to the Hinterlands. It’s about time he dealt with that damn goat.