#with the priest the staff and half the congregation inside

[esterigermaine]

Astarion needs so much therapy.

[sirensdxn]

Music

Daily writing challenge day 5: @daily-writing-challenge

Warning: Themes of manipulation 

It all began with a ruler's bite upon his knuckles. The distant ramblings of Cantor Soulek who doubled as the local tutor during off outs. He’d been singled out as pride of Greenbrook’s choir for special lessons every other night. While the children made mudcastles by the river he’d be learning sheet music. There was a half year attempting to teach him piano that ended with bruised fingers and cracked cries. A stint that ended with the boy running hiding out in one of the barrels out back for a rainy evening. Ra’hsen still remembered the chill that night, but the sting of pulled hair and scraped knees on wood was fresher than any storm. The lecture that followed put any scolding before down a level. After all, what would they do if their precious choir boy got sick?

A pretty voice, that’s all he was. . 

They fell for each time. The youthful lad dressed in silver and white with a hood over his head. A guise of humble robes with a weathered staff that sank into the wet road’s much after every step. Mud stained the hem of his robes as fragile eyes stayed glued to the street. Only the flickering lamp in his opposite hand offered any lumination through the night. Till the occasional carriage road on by into the village ahead. Yet, some still offered the lone priest a seat in their overpriced vehicle. Of course unaware of the watchful eyes in the distant fields waiting for the lamp’s flicker to vanish. They’d always inquire of his well being, it was dangerous to be all alone on these gang filled fields. He’d never have to worry now, after all, they’d protect him. Where was he going? Oh, the town next over? They’d be happy to take him. There, as the coach drove past the village did the oh so tired priest lean against the pig. They’d offer him a room, such a generous offer how could he refuse? Graciously he’d nod and offer them a blessing in thanks, it was the least he could do. His voice had grown more mature over the years, but held that youthful pitch. He kept their eye contact as the distance between the two closed. Only for it to be shattered with the sudden shake and carriage drawing to a halt. 

Just another chance for them to be the hero. They’d grab his hand and insist not to worry. Brave eyes as they waited for the guards to tend to whatever nuisance interrupted their impromptu rescue. He’d offer them a skittish smile and curled up besides them, oh so frightened. Next came the familiar pull of the door, a swift but gentle pull of his arm out into another’s old. A jacket draped over his shoulders as he rolled his eyes up his partner. Jack stayed near, always within arms length as the others dealt with the rest. There he cried, pleaded and begged with such accuracy it should have been a crime. Oh, please do not hurt him. Where was his hero? 

Nothing felt better than seeing their reactions. 

It was a hobby. Tucked away in his room, beneath his bed, sat a small journal bound by crimson twine. Inside sat a series of idle ramblings and lyrics that needed years of refining. Each verse held a fear, an ache, or memory from years ago trapped inside ink on a page. Still, no matter how small a treasure might be, its destiny was to be found. The next morning his mentor returned it to its rightful space, tucked between logs in the fireplace. 

You don’t need to create, Darien told him. You only need to read. So he did. He read the books, the scriptures, the psalms, and whatever else he’d find in the cathedral halls. Nose down, ears open, mind focused. Who needed to create when everything was copies of the originals? It’d be better to study them than put any energy into a silly little hobby. Sleepless nights of journaling and doodling turned to study sessions by candle light. A propped up arm with a chin upon his palm. Ink stained fingers skittered across smudged pages leaving short annotations. 

Every morning he joined the choir with a humble song. Each sermon he took his place in the back wearing a pretty face and smiling eyes. Once the preacher stepped aside he walked to the pulpit and held arms out toward the congregation. From youthful song his voice matured into a gentle bellow that filled the pews with joyous praise. There he led those faithful in prayer, as Cantor Soulek had done so many years ago. At least he didn’t have a ruler looming over his fingers anymore. 

Despite the crowds it all felt hollow. 

What was the point of it all? He had taken up scribbling once more in a journal, for studying he insisted. Lyrics, poems, short drabbles of what claimed his mind all torn up and tossed back into the fireplace. Who needed it? Stories? Music? They’d all been written before. So then why did they relish in it? Everyone from children to the aching elderly listened.  Some danced without a care to a beat that, stylistically, never made sense. It went against all the training, the practice, the rules of music. Still the unfamiliar beat appeared and reappeared in his works. In return it fell to ash along with the rest of his pages. They were for no one. So then why did it return?

Once he let the melody flow, let it cover a page without scratching it out. It had to be the way to get it out of the mind. Like an earworm you couldn’t unhear, you had to follow it through. It was an evening of frustration, but an evening of elation. A cauldron of anger and relief settled in his chest. How could he write something so terrible? After all this time could he not write anything better? Had the study of the greats not given him some insight? Still, it felt good to have it off his chest. To have melody out of his head.

Maybe, this once, it didn’t deserve the flame. 

[enkelimagnus]

A Castle in the Forest

Percy x Vex’ahlia, Chapter 13, 3200 words,

A Modern AU, in which Vex is a park ranger taking over the Alabaster Sierras post, and finds much more than she bargained for.

Read on AO3

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

Vex steps out of the temple, Vax by her side, and the light of the day feels wrong. It feels like decades have passed while they discussed what to do about Percival de Rolo, not merely a few hours.

Maybe it’s because the inside of the Lady’s Chamber is as barren as the Zenith is desolate. She gets the minimalist aesthetic that comes with the Lawbearer but she wishes there were some colorful tapestries to at least brighten up the room.

It’s midday, which is the only reason it’s this bright out. It’s Duscar 2nd, the shortest day of the year, and it means especially a lot so far North. There will only be a couple hours more of daylight and whatever work Vex had leftover for the day will have to wait until tomorrow.

Keeper Yennen is the only one of the group that stayed behind. Father Reynal is already halfway through the square, walking towards his temple and the cemetery. The rest of them gather a few feet from the door, looking at each other with the awkwardness of recently-introduced coworkers.

They form quite the motley crew. A cleric of an all-but-forgotten goddess, a barbarian, two half-elf twins, and the only remaining alive and safe member of the ruling family of the city. She’s barely counting in the two aging priests that provide mostly support and won’t be let anywhere near the fiend.

This feels doomed to fail. A small part of Vex tells her regularly that she should run away and leave these people to their own devices, that this doesn’t concern her. They should all be lucky her professional consciousness is stronger than that little survivalist voice.

“Vex?” Pike’s voice resounds, soft and light and Vex looks down at the other woman.

“Yes?”

Pike looks at her with an apologetic smile. “I wanted to apologize. I didn’t know at the time what was happening. I should probably have warned you once I was made aware of the situation…”

Vex shakes her head. “It’s okay, Pike, it wasn’t your responsibility. You have nothing to do with it.”

It was the priests’ responsibility. It should have been them who warned Vex of what the fiend was. But they’d covered it up. They potentially had lost precious time, because they hadn’t let her do her job.

Pike smiles at her. “I wasn’t lying about the… being sent by my goddess thing,” she points out. “I don’t think I would have left Westrunn if that wasn’t for her.”

Vex raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“I have family there. My great-grandpa. And I’m trying to bring some sort of Sarenrae worship back, build a new temple. It’s not super easy, even with this guy,” she points at Grog. Grog smiles at Vex, a smile that would have been scary if Vex hadn’t already seen how soft he was around Pike. “Sarenrae was forgotten a long time ago.”

Vex doesn’t know much about Sarenrae, mostly only what Pike has told her. She nods. “I see. Well I hope either way that it will go well for you. It seems like a good goddess to have a congregation of.”

Pike chuckles. “Yeah, she’s no Betrayer,” she nods. “Alright then. I think Grog and I will go get lunch. Have a good day, and see you at the next meeting.”

Vex bids them goodbye before turning back to her brother, who seems in the middle of a conversation with Cassandra.

“It’s Barren Eve,” Vax is saying when Vex settles next to him. “Are you going to light candles for your family?”

Cassandra seems a little taken aback by that.  “Probably,” she replies after a small moment. “What happened here wasn’t really a war, but it’s close enough.”

Vex crosses her arms. “I understand you don’t want to relive what happened, but I’d really appreciate knowing the background of this entire story. It might give us some idea of where to start looking for the fiend your brother has elected to make a deal with.”

Cassandra observes her for a moment, eyes heavy with horrors Vex can’t even imagine. She feels a little guilty for bringing this up over and over again but she needs to know. She can’t go out of her way to save a De Rolo without knowing why he’s in this situation in the first place.

“I can tell you the story,” Cassandra nods. “However I’d like… some privacy?” She gestures at the open square around them. “And it will be more comfortable somewhere where we can all sit. I can bring you to my home if you’d like.”

That’s a sign of goodwill if Vex has ever seen any. Vax is already acquiescing before Vex opens her mouth to accept. He seems to like her. Maybe it’s that sibling thing. Cassandra isn’t a twin, but she’s a sister.

They quickly start making their way to Cassandra’s home. They are mostly silent while on the road. They don’t have a lot of things to talk about. There’s a lot of heaviness between them. Vex doesn’t really feel like dissipating it just yet, if she’s being honest with herself. It’s petty, but it feels good.

To Vex’s surprise, Cassandra guides them off into an alleyway and behind the Alcove, the shop Vex visited on her very first visit into town. She remembers meeting Keyleth there, with those strange clockwork machines that she now knows to be the work of Percival himself.

Cassandra opens a door at the back of the Alcove’s building. Behind it is a narrow stairwell. Vax closes the door behind himself as they walk up into Cassandra’s home.

It’s an apartment, Vex can only see the first room she steps in, all other doors are closed. It’s tidy, but lived in. There are many books lining shelves against the walls, a lot that looks like textbooks.

There’s a small clockwork machine on one of the shelves. There’s a picture framed on the wall, a family portrait. Vex counts two adults and seven children of various sizes. There are twins in there.

“You had a big family,” Vex points out.

Cassandra nods sadly. “It’s been strange to be alone,” she replies.

Vex feels like an asshole again.

They settle around the light wooden table in the middle of the room. Cassandra serves them some coffee and they let the silence settle around them, heavy and thick. Vex doesn’t know exactly how to start this, how to ask again, so she just sort of waits.

“So… my family,” Cassandra starts, shifting a little. She seems to be getting comfortable for a long tale. “The De Rolos founded Whitestone in the early seventh century. We came from Wildemount, wrecked our ship on the Shearing Channels. The Sun Tree was already there, glowing in the winter, and we settled around it. As time passed, we discovered the whitestone of the Alabaster Sierras had a few properties of interest to spellcasters. It allowed us to develop trade with the home continent.”

Vex didn’t expect the story to start this far back in the past. She expected a retelling of the last few years, perhaps, but this is much closer to a history lesson.

Cassandra pauses and takes a sip of coffee before continuing.

“Wildemount is not like Tal’Dorei or Issylra. Arcane magic is much more developed and studied there than it is here. They have very important arcane societies. One of those societies is called the Cerberus Assembly,” she explains. “They’re a group of mages, maybe the most influential political power on Wildemount. And they had great use for whitestone. That’s how my family eventually came in contact with Archmage Delilah Briarwood, one of the eight archmages of the Cerberus Assembly.”

She swallows hard, her eyes staring at the table. Vex already knows from this look that Delilah Briarwood is going to become one of the main players of this story. She thinks she’s heard the Briarwood name before… or maybe it was Cerberus Assembly. Perhaps her father has met with some of the members of that assembly before, or they’ve come to Syngorn. The elven society is filled with scholars of the arcane.

Cassandra starts talking again, with a voice sounding almost detached from the story.

“They had mostly business relations with her. She was deeply interested in Whitestone’s history, in the Sun Tree and the Alabaster Sierras’ tale of creation during the Calamity. They weren’t great friends, but they knew each other well enough. So when Lord Sylas and Lady Delilah Briarwood came knocking at the doors of the castle, looking for a place to stay as they had been unjustly driven out of the Assembly, my parents believed them.”

Her voice is clouded with bitterness. So that was probably a lie then. Vex swallows. She can feel the tension in the memories building, can feel the dread wrapping around those words. The longer Cassandra talks, the more she fears the climax of it.

“I don’t know what they said that made my parents believe all their stories. I was about 14 at the time, and I wasn’t allowed in the office when those conversations were held,” she swallows. “But the Briarwoods settled in our home with their personal doctor, Anna Ripley, and then their friends trickled into the city. The doctor took great interest in Percival’s studies, growing close to his tutor, Professor Anders. Unbeknownst to all of us, they were plotting to take over.”

Her hand around the cup tightens, the knuckles white with the tension.

“We held a feast for the anniversary of their arrival, exactly one year after they’d found us. They’d become part of the family. We toasted to them. And then, they started murdering us. Sylas Briarwood was actually not a man but an undead creature, and his strength and seeming taste for blood was the end of my mother and father. And then they hunted the rest of the family, as well as the staff. For some reason, they’d decided to keep the youngest of us alive. Percival, the twins, Ludwig and I. I’m guessing the doctor’s fondness for Percy was his saving grace.”  

Cassandra has a soft, bitter chuckle. Vex almost mirrors it. It is strange to think of saving graces when she has seen what Percival has become.

“The details are fuzzy, but somehow I managed to get Percy and I out. We ran through the secret tunnel, the one you probably were in, to freedom. Well… he did,” she looks down again. “They had archers on the wall and they caught me. Percy ran away as I was hit with arrows and… that’s the last time I saw him un-possessed. I think I died there, from being shot through with arrows. Yet, I awakened later on in my very own bed in the castle. They’d cleared out the bodies and styled themselves Lord and Lady of Whitestone, and took me in for… the Gods only know why…”

Pain is now obvious over her face. She’s struggled to keep it in the entire time, but the coldness and detachment she affected before are gone.

“For three years, I was theirs. Eventually, I stopped thinking myself a de Rolo, but rather a Briarwood. They called me their daughter,” she whispers. “The city tried fighting back, but I was playing a game with the rebellion, spying on them for information. I still don’t know if I was doing it of my own volition. But because of me, many of my people died… All their attempts at gaining freedom failed.”

There are tears in her eyes now, her voice is shaking and so are her hands. Vex doesn’t know what to do. She wishes she could comfort her but… She honestly doesn’t believe there is anything she can say that will make any of this better. Cassandra was used and abused by these Briarwoods.

“One day, Percy showed up, with a weapon of his own making, a demon riding his soul and he murdered them all. He murdered the Briarwoods, he murdered Ripley, that he’d loved so much. He murdered his teacher, and the Briarwoods’ friends, and then he turned his gun on me.”

Her breath itches and a sob wracks its way out of her throat.

“His eyes were black, there was this smoke around him, and he wasn’t my brother anymore,” Cassandra sobs. “But he still… he told me to run. He managed to fight the demon and tell me to run and I did. He tried to take a shot at me but missed.”

Run. Please. The man’s voice and his eyes are still carved in Vex’s memory. She can’t imagine what Cassandra must have felt when Vex told her what happened to her, how he let her go but still shot her.

“That’s the last time I saw him,” she leans back against the chair, a bit calmer, as if emptied out of the sorrow for a moment. “Keyleth is the only one who ever gets to go see him. And she can’t tell him where I am. Or he’ll come for me.”

It’s fucking tragic.

Vex’s mind seems to run empty for a long moment. No wonder no one will talk about the massacre. Or the massacres, plural, as it is. There are so many questions that suddenly press to the forefront. Lord Briarwood had been undead with a taste for blood? That’s… almost something out of scary stories for children.

“How long has it been?” Vax asks next to her. He seems to be managing this much better than Vex is.

“About two years?” Cassandra replies. “Something like that. I admit weeks and months seem to blend into each other lately.”

That makes sense. Vex can pretty much say the same about the months of her recovery before she moved to Whitestone. Trying to move on from traumatic events feels like trying to run through jelly. Days repeat themselves until it’s suddenly six months later and you feel just slightly better.

Vex herself isn’t completely out of it. Some days, she barely recognizes herself. She has Vax, and Trinket. What does Cassandra have? A memory, a shadow of the brother she can’t seem to help.

“He taught me all I know about constellations, you know? We’d sneak out onto the high balconies at night and he’d tell me all he’d learned about them in books, before I could read.” She smiles then, bitterness filling her eyes. “I’m never getting him back, am I?”

Vex feels a knot in her throat forming, and this time she can’t stay quiet. Even if the words that come up don’t feel like they fit. She can’t think of any other ones. But she has to say something right? Maybe nothing will ever exactly fit, and it’s either this… almost meaningless platitude or silence.

“We will do our best.” It rings empty, falling flat as Cassandra laughs. “I can’t promise him back, but… we will do what we can.”

“I suppose that has to be enough. If only I had…” She trails off, and it isn’t hard to see where her thoughts have gone.

“Staying wouldn’t have changed anything. You would simply be dead.” Vex doesn’t want to hurt the girl with her bluntness, but she sees her flinch regardless. “It wasn’t your fault. He wasn’t your brother anymore when he came back.”

She looks over at Vax for a half a second, his quiet sad smile that never really reaches his eyes, the comfort he’s so obviously trying to exude, draping his body in the least threatening way, open palms on the table, knowing how to exist in a way that won’t make someone like Cassandra or Vex run away.

He heard what Cassandra said about being trapped. And maybe even more than Vex, he recognized what it meant.

What would she be feeling if Vax had made a deal with a demon to help her get rid of Saundor?

She can’t quite imagine that black smoke around Vax’s golden skin instead of Percy’s much paler one. She can’t imagine it living inside of him. Forcing herself to imagine it makes feel a little nauseous.

“I… know what it’s like for your loved ones to get hurt when they come to save you,” Vex adds after a moment.

The bramble-like arrow shot by Fenthras going through Vax’s shoulder, his face growing paler from the pain of it. He had to get too close to Saundor to stab him but it made him vulnerable. He took the risk anyway. He always took the risks for her.

“If you looked through the file you had on me, then you know a lot about my past. You know I was involved with an Archfey,” Vex whispers. “And you know some of the story of how it ended. But…” She looks down for a second. “Vax had to come and get me. I wouldn’t have made it out by myself. I couldn’t even really think of escaping at the time.”

Vex looks up to meet Cassandra’s eyes. Hopefully she gets why Vex is telling that story. The parallel, if slightly distorted, between Percy and Vax in this situation are easy to see.

“I guess us big brothers tend to be a little reckless when it comes to our younger sisters,” Vax points out with a humorless chuckle.

Vex rolls her eyes. “I’m three minutes younger than you.”

Cassandra’s face cracks in a smile at that.

“Either way,” Vax shrugs. “We really are going to do what we can to make sure this has a happy ending for the both of you. As happy as possible.”

Cassandra takes a sip of her coffee. It’s probably cold now, but Vex understands the need to give oneself countenance. She straightens up a little. “I hope so,” she mutters. “I really do. I don’t want to be the sole heir to Whitestone.”

Vex thinks she can read between those lines. I don’t want to be alone. She gets it. She really does. The past few days have made sure the only person she has is Vax. She wouldn’t want to lose him either.

“If I bump into him again,” Vex starts slowly. “Do you want me to tell him something from you?”

Cassandra’s eyes widen. Vex understands that Percy’s not supposed to know where Cassandra is, but a simple message without location won’t do much harm. It might just help him fight the demon.

For as much as she empathizes with Cassandra and her loneliness, she can’t help but think of Percy too. Two years of nothing but a demon for company. Two years of knowing you might just kill everyone you love.

“Please… If you see him,” Cassandra whispers after a moment. “Tell him I still love him.”

“I can do that,” Vex nods.

Afterwards, it’s hard to find words to end that conversation but they somehow manage. They exchange numbers and Vex makes sure Cassandra’s calls will ring loud and clear no matter what happens or if her phone is on silent. They say goodbye and the twins start their way back to the car.

Vex extends her hand in between them and Vax doesn’t waste a second to take it.

[fideleluc]

      introducing lucien montel, the graduate chair

“ for as that righteous man lived among them day after day, he was tormenting his righteous soul over their lawless deeds that he saw and heard ” (2 peter 2:8)

hey hey! my name’s tays, i use she/her pronouns, and i live in melbourne, australia, and thus the aest (soon to be aedt) timezone. it’s been a little while since i’ve rped, but this group was just utterly irresistible so here we are! if you’re interested in plotting you can hit me up on here or discord (mightay morphin power ranger#9316) without any further ado, here’s luc montel!

stats.

full name: lucien henri montel known as: luc montel age: 25 dob: january 13, 1995 gender: cis male nationality: french religion: roman catholic course: currently studying a masters of social work, graduated a year prior with a bachelor of arts majoring in theology

bio.

( luc’s original bio ended up being i don’t even know how many words long so this is a very much summarised version, but if you have a bit more time on your hands you can read the full thing here! )

luc’s mother first learned she was pregnant not long after she graduated from highschool. she wasn’t sure exactly who the father was, but even if she did, she wouldn’t have told him - all of her friends, likely him included, had a pretty huge falling out near the end of their exams, and she was still too proud to turn to them for help, even after her own father kicked her out once he heard the news. she’d been working hard and saving up for years to get a shot at getting into a good school, something no one else from her area really saw as a likely prospect, but all her savings ended up getting funnelled into hotels and food while she tried to support herself on her own in the city.

the only way she could really pass time was to go for walks, and on these walks she ended up going past a church that seemed to be drawing her in - it was purely by chance that the priest, father pascal, was outside one time and was able to notice her hesitating, long enough for him to actually invite her inside. she had given up on religion after her mother left her and her dad, but still, when she was invited to their next mass, she ended up going - and she never really stopped. the congregation ended up being her entire support system while she was pregnant, getting her a well-paying job doing after school care for a catholic school and helping her find a cheap place to stay. 

luc was born on a chilly january morning, and got baptised a week later. there was no question of whether or not he’d be raised as part of the church - the only time he was able to sit still was when he was listening to father pascal’s sermons, and he took his first steps just outside in the garden. he was taught, essentially, to do good, to be accepting and generous and kind - and he never questioned it. his mother, who’d started on a teaching degree, was careful to teach him about other religions, and though his own devotion to catholicism never wavered, it still fascinated him. 

although he and his mother were better off than she had been only a few years earlier, they didn’t have a ton of money they could give - so they made good on their weekly promises to help the world with their time. luc was especially passionate about it - learning to cook so he could make things for bake sales, riding along with other members of his congregation to help out in food kitchens, doorknocking for any sort of donations people in his neighbourhood would want to give without hesitation or embarrassment. 

even when he got older and his friends had moved on to more entertaining hobbies, he continued on with attending mass and keeping up with his charity work, brushing off his friend’s accusations that he was being forced into it. truly, their own interests mostly bored him - he never really had a long enough attention span for tv or movies, and he couldn’t engage in video games like they could. one thing he could join in on, though, was football - if he wasn’t doing something for the church or indulging in his also newlyfound passion for cooking, he was out on the oval.

when his friends moved on further still to getting girlfriends and drinking, luc, again, couldn’t find himself as engaged in it as they were. though he’d happily drink with them, for the most part, he put his hand up to be the designated driver and was perfectly content staying their lookout when they got close to making scenes in public. he had a few girlfriends in highschool, but the relationships never lasted long - and again, he didn’t mind. at times he’d worry that he was missing out, but it was never a concern that lasted long, especially when he saw how desperately his friends needed someone to shepherd them at times. 

although he’d never been a hugely academic kid in the past, when it came time to think about university, he felt that, out of an obligation to his mother more than anything else, that he had to work just as hard as she had when she was his age to make up for the opportunity she’d missed for his sake. st margaret mary’s hadn’t been a realistic dream, but he’d figured he may as well apply - when he actually got in, with an offer of a scholarship on the side, he was almost tempted to throw it away thanks to his own doubts, but his mother quickly put an end to it. before he knew it, he was heading off across the city to the old building - a theology major. 

despite his devotion to the church, he hadn’t initially planned to join chastity club, if for no other reason that is just seemed a bit extreme for him - but when he came to a meeting out of a mix of boredom and curiosity only to find that something was distinctly wrong, he couldn’t stop it from becoming the major focus of his mind for the next few weeks until he could figure out what was really going on. when he was finally able to piece together the truth, he was conflicted - on the one hand, these were people using his faith to cover up criminal activity, bringing as much shame to the church as the people who twisted the lord’s words into messages of hatred, but on the other, it could be what these people depended on, and to have that taken away from them could be disastrous. instead of being angry like he knew he should’ve been, luc was overcome with a familiar urge to help - and so he did just that. 

he went to another meeting, and before they could say anything, he told them how easy it had been for him to find them out, how if he, someone with no connection to any of them, could discover the truth, then it wouldn’t be long before the staff would be following in his footsteps. he told them that, so long as a cut of any fundraiser went to an actual charity, he’d be happy to give them an actual, believable cover. 

he hadn’t actually thought they’d take him on. before he knew it, though, his actual studies were being pushed to the side in favour of planning, organisation, research - though he was sure to carve out a few hours a week to catch up on his actual work, most of his time was going towards the chastity club, and not just because he wanted to help them. even if it was just a cover to the rest of the club, to him, those cuts he got from the fundraisers were the only thing that mattered - he was doing what he was supposed to be doing, what he was taught to devote himself to all his life. helping people. 

as time went on, the idea of turning in the club became more and more impossible - not only was he actually able to make some wider good come out of it, but truly, the people he was surrounding himself with were like family, even if he had to turn a blind eye to half of what they got up to. he’d convinced himself that turning them in would be a far worse action than letting them stay running, and it’s a belief he’s held onto like a lifeline - but at the same time, he can’t ignore a worry that’s been growing louder and louder in the back of his mind. he never sees the consequences of the dealing. he doesn’t actually know if they’re doing more good than harm. he’s relying solely on faith, the same faith he has in god and that god, he believes, has in him. 

he can only pray it’s well placed.

personality. 

luc is nothing if not passionate. although it may take him a while to make up his mind about getting involved or starting a task, once he does, he’ll put his absolute all into it without turning back. no matter the exact motivation, whether it be his religion, his friends, or just a desire to do something, he works and believes with his entire heart, and once he’s dedicated to something, it’ll be almost impossible to tear him away from it.

since he was a kid, luc has always been generous. whether it’s with his possessions or even just his time, he’s one of those people who’ll throw their jacket around you if you mention it’s just a bit chilly and then refuse to ever take it back no matter how much you insist. the only way his mother eleanor was able to survive when she was pregnant and virtually homeless was through the generosity of what would end up being his parish’s churchgoers, so the first idea luc was ever taught to embrace was the idea of giving, something enforced by both her and the church itself.

part of what makes luc so convincing for the school board is that he’s an unfalteringly polite person. unless he has good reason to be angry at someone, he’ll try to greet everyone with a smile and see them off with a wish for them to have a good day, treating them like a friend even if they’re written in the first pages of his bad books. he’s always willing to listen to someone else chat and support them when they’re feeling down, no matter what mood he’s in or what’s at stake, and his consistently gentle, patient manner make essentially any lie he tells convincing.

although he was never known for his academic prowess, luc has never not been curious. once an idea intrigues him, he’ll do whatever he can to learn more, and rarely feels as if he ever has enough knowledge about the subjects that interest him, still willing to add more or take different perspectives.

luc has never been known for his spontaneity - though he’ll commit with his whole heart once he’d decided to do something, he’s very careful in making those decisions. he’ll often spend nights lying awake contemplating ideas, throwing himself different scenarios and seeing if they change his views, trying to look at things from every possible angle before making a call on something. though something he does may be stupid and may be risky, he’ll only take that risk if he’s absolutely sure it will pay off. his caution even comes through in the way he speaks, each word carefully chosen to keep things as civil as possible.

though luc is known to many as being gentle and polite, usually because he just is, that doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of nothing less than being purely furious. though it usually comes from a place of love and devotion, often in response to some injustice or cruelty and rarely occurring at the drop of a hat, when something does anger him, he has no problem speaking his mind if he feels something could be done about whatever’s happened. he just can’t fathom the idea of people sitting by and letting bad things happen, and couldn’t live with himself if he just sat back and watched while someone got hurt. he has a lot of faith in people, and when people let him down, it cuts him deep.

luc was always a restless child, and that’s something that’s continued into the present day. he doesn’t often make it known - but that’s just because he’s always desperate to find something to occupy his time. whether he’s keeping himself busy by studying, planning a fundraiser, cooking, or even just going for a walk, he can’t just sit still and do nothing. the only exception to this is when he’s learning or listening to something, such as when he’s in class or church, but if he has no interest, all he’ll be focused on is how badly he wants to get up and move around again. he simply can’t relax until something that needs to be done is done.

as sociable and polite he is when in church or running fundraisers, luc is truly independent. as much as he enjoys the company of others, he’s equally comfortable in his own company, and much prefers to go over problems in his own head rather than voice them to someone else. although he’ll passionately speak out to help others, he rarely voices a concern if something has to do with him alone - it’s not that he doesn’t want people to worry, but he just figures he has everything under control as far as he’s concerned. he has no problem working on his own, and despite his own insistence when he gets a chance to assist others, he often refuses help for himself, no matter how big or small the problem is.

headcanons.

luc isn’t too sure how he went from being lucien to just luc when he was a baby, but it’s still what he introduces himself as now.

luc has never once had a moment of doubt about god’s existence, but he doesn’t think he really has much say in what happens on earth - he was taught by his childhood parish’s priest father pascal that humans were given free will because god trusted them, specifically trusted them to do good and take care of one another, and that’s a trust luc has always tried to uphold. even so, he does still think he’s always watching and may be able to give some signs, but he mostly turns towards asking saints when he needs specific help with something.

he still follow’s his mother’s belief that all gods from all religions are just aspect of the same spiritual belief of there being something bigger, and learning about those other religions still fascinates him, hence why he majored in theology when he was still studying for his bachelors - he’s still happy to follow his own god, though.

although he would never force any of his atheist friends to come to church or believe what he does, the idea that anyone would choose to believe there’s nothing over believing there’s something does baffle him somewhat.

he still goes to mass every sunday, but he doesn’t hang around the church as long as he did when he was younger - it’s partly a matter of time, partly a matter of the congregation. they’re lovely people, don’t get him wrong - but even after so many years, it’s still not his parish.  

luc isn’t all that much of a tv or movies person - unless it’s about something he’s interested in, he struggles to sit down for long enough to care about what’s happening even for just an episode, let alone a whole series or film. he may have a comedy or just something light on in the background while he cooks, but he doesn’t go out of his way to watch much.

although he’s studying for a masters in social work and does want to do something to help disadvantaged people in his country, he has genuinely considered becoming a priest.

although he hasn’t played since he was in school, he does still love football - he doesn’t often watch it, but if he gets a chance to go out on the oval, he’ll take it without hesitation.

the only language he’s fluent in is french, but he does know enough english to get by and did try to learn some latin from father pascal for certain bible passages - it didn’t really stick.

even though much of his free time is spent studying or organising the chastity club’s cover, he will still try to take a few hours every so often to go and help out in some soup kitchen or another.

he’s deadly afraid of insects - moths especially freak him out

when he was young, he’d often fall asleep with the sound of his mother’s radio coming through the wall, and still now when he’s struggling to sleep he’ll find some radio stream on his phone and listen to it until he nods off.

as much as he tries, he can’t keep a plant alive - he’s made many attempts to grow his own herbs or fruit trees, but to absolutely no avail.

when he’s studying he’ll chew on the ends of his pens, and if he doesn’t have a pen, he’ll bite at his bottom lip - if one were to look closely, they’d notice a patch of it is faintly scarred.

luc has so, so much love in his heart, but despite his few brief relationships, he’s hardly been able to turn any of that love into romance - not yet, anyway.

as willing as he is to help cover up the chastity club’s true nature to the school board or anyone he feels should be hidden from the truth, he doesn’t go to any of the parties they sell at, and hasn’t ever tried any of the product. it’s just not his thing.

he stayed in student housing until he came back to get his masters, and now rents a small place a short walk from the school - when he was furnishing it, he made sure to get a pull-out couch instead of just a regular one, just in case anyone ever needed a place to crash.

he still has the same copy of the bible he poured over as a kid, though out of fear over how worn it’s gotten he mainly keeps it safely in a drawer of his bedside table.

luc is very optimistic and has a lot of faith in others - though he does think things through thoroughly just in case something can go wrong, and is constantly aware of that possibility, he has a lot of hope on his side.

misc.

pinterest starsign: capricorn sun, gemini moon myers-briggs type: isfj-t enneagram: type 2 (the helper) hogwarts house: hufflepuff alignment: neutral good aesthetics: sun coming through a stained-glass window, rainbow dappled on skin. a voice lost in a chorus. a borrowed coat on a chilly morning. the ever-present smell of something cooking, always making enough for plenty of leftovers. restless legs, restless mind. faith that keeps your heart beating, fury that boils your blood. a tongue bitten so frequently it bleeds. unwavering eye contact, no matter how elaborate the lie. burying your head in the sand. murmured passages from a book with worn pages. doing all you can, but still lying awake, wondering if you could be doing more.  

[nonpareiltactician]

🔮

Memory meme || {Accepting!}

Words: 2028

    There it is– three, clear knocks on the wood of the door that a boy no older than sixteen, and dozens upon dozens of bishops in rows of two, stand behind. There is no going back– his fate is sealed; there is no running from this ceremony now–, and as blue eyes hesitantly trail the mitres of the men before him, he cannot help but feel a sense of dread beginning to pool in the pit of his stomach. These , they are easily twice his age or more– far closer to his lord grandfather’s–, and yet here he is, not yet an adult, at his own installation mass. When Cowen had claimed that he was ready, that it was time to leave the remote church he had been isolated in and travel back home– back to Velthomer–, never did Saias believe that such a large change would be forced upon him without any regard for his own desires. It has all happened so suddenly, and part of the bishop wonders if he is truly ready to assume this position– one appointed to him by the church, yes, but with the influence of his father.     Surely, he is too young to be an archbishop. Surely, they recognise that a child could not possibly–

    The doors open. The grip on his crosier tightens considerably as the first few rows of bishops start to make their way into the church. Perhaps it would not be half as daunting if the young man did not happen to be the only one in this long line of clergymen on his lonesome, however, he is forced to stand on his own in an attempt to separate him from the rest of the group, as though their staggering gap in age could not achieve such a thing with little effort. Even from here, in the narthex, he can see that most of the pews are full, and that hundreds of eyes trail the forms of the men that make their way to the altar with graceful strides, and hands pressed flat together in front of their chests. Each step towards the doors forces his heart to race a little quicker, and for knuckles to turn a white shade of pale, yet when he finally enters the nave, Saias finds himself freezing up on the spot. There are so many gazes affixing themselves to his form, eyeing the child who would, in a few minutes, officially be their new archbishop, and swiftly, the boy decides that their stares are far worse than the seemingly distant one his own father gave during their ‘reunion’.     Unfortunately, there is no going back now.

    He feigns composure, forcing a vacant expression onto pale features, and opts to focus his attention on the robes of the bishops before him in a feeble attempt to calm the nerves that claw their way up Saias’ form. Thankfully, walking inside of a building so extravagant and sacred is not unusual for the boy, for he has spent the last four years living within the walls of an abandoned, neglected church, and so, the familiar air of the building provides the teenager with the slightest bit of comfort. Just make it to the altar, kneel, and sit down at the chair appointed for him– if the boy can do that much, then everything will be fine; he will only have to listen out for his cue to stand, and sit in the throne designated for archbishops as a wordless way of accepting all that will soon be asked of him. At the very least, he is thankful that this ceremony does not require him to do anything aside from being present, unlike his previous ordination.

    Regardless, if it were not for his crosier, the bishop would have found himself without balance as he kneels down on one knee before the altar, and rises once more, for everything about the situation is still so very overwhelming. Even as he takes his seat to left of the ornate piece, the words of a hymn that the young man has long memorised blend together, and become lost amongst the rest of instruments. The heads of those just outside of his focus all fall to form one, multi-coloured blur, making it difficult for blue eyes to search the pews for the two people he would be able to recognise– that is, of course, is a certain one has even bothered to show up. Perhaps, Saias tells himself, being unable to see anyone familiar is a blessing in disguise, for he would surely find out towards the end of his installation when those within the church who wished to pay their respects could approach the boy and congratulate him.

         “–It is with great joy that I welcome all of you to this glorious church for such a historic event today– the installation of the new archbishop of the archdiocese of Velthomer,”

    The title alone is enough to send the young male’s heart straight into the depths of his stomach once more. This is what his grandfather has wanted for so long, and Saias knows that this position shall keep him safe from those who would still seek to hurt him– from his mother’s murderer to that horrible man’s faithful–, but part of him cannot help but feel that he simply is not ready. His gaze continues to dart around from one unknown visage to the next– to the people he would soon be in charge of and guide; the masses that would turn to him in their times of hardship and need–, but any glimpses of red hair or the gentle features of his grandfather does not register in the bishop’s vision. There are simply too many people for him to comb through his eyes alone– maybe it is something that the boy ought to get used to. Perhaps that it one of the drawbacks of ascending to this position– perhaps many names and faces will be lost amongst the crowd, or those his attention must focus itself–

         “–Your Excellency, archbishop Saias,”

    Before such a train of thought could hope to bring itself to a close, he finds himself thrown back into reality, turning his head in the direction of the cardinal’s voice, and offering a mere ghost of a smile in an attempt to show his acknowledgement.

         “We publicly express our confidence that together with this family of faith, you will continue to touch the hearts of countless souls, as you have done already.”

    And with that, the older man’s words fade back into almost unintelligible sounds, though Saias manages to keep his gaze resting on his features for what he knows to be the part of such a long-winded speech aimed directly at him. It is not half as repetitive as the promises he made during his last ordination– of answering questions consisting  of the same beginning with the same, two words, and only ever changing it slightly for the final one–. but it feels twice as unnecessary. He does not need to be complimented, nor reminded of what is expected of him as archbishop– his brothers, the much older men of the same rank, have informed Saias of this so many times before, if only to check that he fully understands what the job entails.

         “Venerable brother, fulfil without delay for the church universal, and provide shepherd for each and every local church, so that the faithful entrusted to you can find in you a prudent leader, a wise teacher and also–”

    Wait– there. Out of the corner of blue eyes, sitting in the front row of pews and amongst other important figures within the duchy, he sees him.

         “–a truly benevolent father.”

    It is a stare as equally cold as it is warm, as full of pride as it is indifferent, that Saias finally notices drilling itself into his visage. He makes the smallest of efforts to toss his own, somewhat vacant, look over in the man’s direction, if only to show that he has seen him, and for a brief moment, the boy swears that he feels red eyes leave his form. At least he had the gall to show up, especially when the young archbishop believes that his own words had an influence on this decision. That much, the boy can be thankful for.     And then, it happens.

        “–Therefore, having accepted the advice of the congregation for bishops, and by our apostolic authority, we appoint you the archbishop of Velthomer, with all the rights and obligations.”

    Finally, after what feels to be an eternity of sitting, Saias nods his head in acknowledgement and rises from the rather uncomfortable, wooden seat– an action that prompts two others to come to his side, and place back upon the boy’s head the mitre given to him such a short time ago. His strides are slow, but not painfully so– just enough to give off the appearance of graceful steps in lieu of the nervous stumbling of a teenage boy thrust into a position too heavy for his shoulders– as he makes his way over to the throne just off to the side of the altar. Once he sits, that will be it– it is a seal of his promise, much like the ring, book, staff and mitre bestowed upon him last time; something that will bind him until Saias wishes to retire, or perishes. He can feel their gazes on the back of his head, burning holes into skull not out of hatred, but instead tension and eagerness– watching what they might only see once in their entire lives. Cowen would never forgive him if he were to object now– he has no choice. He never has.     So, with the aid of the bishops, the boy turns around and sits down.

    Applause fills the heart of the church– an expected part of the ceremony, but one that almost startles the bishop all the same. At the very least, now he does not have to worry about his own safety for a few more years, but at the cost of something the male would later find to be something much more important to his well being. Perhaps it is fitting, to be raised in a place where his childhood had to be partially suppressed for the sake of his father’s image, and then stripped away entirely after his mother’s death. Maybe, Saias thinks, growing up too quickly and forsaking his own emotions is what he deserves, and is truly the only way that the child knows how to live.

    As the roaring dies, handfuls of people begin to stand, all making their way down the isle to congratulate him– both common people and nobility alike–, and he stands once more so that he could meet their gestures with the same sort of respect they show him. Bishops, priests, archbishops, and even the cardinal file in one by one, gently grabbing the sides of his shoulders– something he returns, but in a softer way– and ushering hushed words of praise, welcoming him to something that has no place for a boy so young. Men, women and children bow or kneel, and in turn he offers the former and a the slightest of smiles, but when his gaze lifts, Saias almost feels his heart starting to ache. The glimpses of red hair a few people behind the man in front of him registers, but ultimately pushes itself out of the way as the archbishop’s gaze falls upon his beloved grandfather’s features– his guardian, who offers him the proudest of smiles that he has seen from the elderly man in a while. So many years of being raised in secrecy, studying on his lonesome, has led to this moment, and as the baron repeats the same gesture as he had done with his brothers of the church. Cowen’s words are more hushed for the sake of not raising any sort of questions, but ones that cause for the boy’s throat to close up ever so slightly, and for Saias to feel what he can only believe to be pride.

         He has finally done it. He does not have to hide anymore.

[thefinalgirlspeaks]

The Exorcist (William Friedkin, 1973)

Feminist Horror Film Review by TheFinalGirlSpeaks

“But while the theme of spiritual decline is central to The Exorcist, it is secondary to the film’s exploration of female monstrousness and the inability of the male order to control the woman whose perversity is expressed through her rebellious body.” (Barbara Creed, The Monstrous Feminine, 1993)

On a dark, misty night, lit only by a single streetlamp, a lone priest stands on a deserted pavement, gazing up at the window of a child’s bedroom. This is the iconic image we have all come to associate with The Exorcist (Friedkin, 1973). Except not the image, nor the only character displayed in it, nor the title, are the subject of the film. The Exorcist poster misleads the spectator into believing that they will be watching a film about a tenacious ghost-hunter, rather than a story about a little girl hurled into a terrifying demonic ordeal. This initial misdirection is just the tip of an iceberg of what’s to come. Throughout the film, the female characters are repeatedly pushed into degrading, secondary roles. They loiter in the background, serving either as tools through which the male characters can deal with their troubles, or more often, as the weapons of castration. 

The Corrupted Virgin A virgin woman in a horror film is a precious and coveted tool. She, unlike her harlot friends, has the clarity of mind to get away from her attempted killer. Unburdened by the haze of lust that clogs the brain of the non-virgin, the virgin can see that the killer is more likely to catch her if she runs up the stairs than if she sprints out the door towards her neighbours with the AK-47 and steel shutters. She is coveted by all, including the villain, but entirely unattainable, thanks to her good sense of morality, and her determination to abstain from intercourse until the wedding night. In The Exorcist, our virginal heroine is not the typical prudish, down-to-Earth teen ignoring her pubescent urges, but a girl of just twelve, too young to be thinking of anything other than the pet horse she covets, or picnics by the river. In the first twenty minutes of the film, Regan’s childishness is brought firmly to our attention. She play-fights with her mother, displays naïve ignorance towards the true purpose of an Ouija Board, and even steals actual cookies from the jar. Friedkin deliberately presents Regan as a sweet, pure little girl; in proving her total, girlish innocence, he is able to maximise the horror of her eventual, and horrifying, corruption. The very first shot of Regan is a POV from Chris, her mother, creeping into Regan’s bedroom as she sleeps. The little girl is shown laid in the bed that will later become the scene of the worst horror. Her covers are thrown off her, exposing her small body, in only a nightdress, to the cold night air rushing in through the open window. In Gothic literature, wind penetrating the castle walls is a common trope, an allusion to the oncoming (though rarely explicit) sexual penetration of the Gothic heroine – usually a young, innocent virgin. For Regan to be so openly exposed to the open window in the very first scene we see her, implies her incoming (or perhaps already happening) penetration by whatever demon later makes itself known inside her body. Even the shot itself has nauseating similarities to pornographic ‘POV’ videos, where men secretly approach their young, sleeping female conquests, before defiling them. As Andrew Scahill points out in the excellent essay ‘Demons Are A Girl’s Best Friend’, Regan is often seen wearing a particular shade of blue, “reminiscent of the Virgin Mary but also, perhaps more blasphemously to the secular crowd, Dorothy Gale”. Either way, the purpose of this costume choice is clear: Regan is an innocent, pure, virgin, ready for corruption. Whilst this might be enough for some to find Friedkin’s vision unimaginably grotesque, there are further explorations in his misogyny within the film that I will attempt to unravel.

The Helpless Mother Despite her necessity to the plot, The Helpless Mother is always an infuriating character to watch. She flails her way through the film, usually the only person who - at least at first - can see the horror for what it is. Typically however, she behaves so hysterically in response that she is never believed until it’s too late. In The Exorcist, The Helpless Mother is Chris MacNeil, a beautiful, young actress living with her daughter and a multitude of staff, but – horror of horrors – no husband. Chris is at once presented as the liberally-minded harlot of the film, attracting demonic attention with her sinful determination to go against the grain of heterocentric society. Chris is divorcing her husband, non-discreetly, arguing with him on the phone and cursing him openly to her ‘secretary’, Sharon (more on her later). She leaves her child in Sharon’s care whilst she swans about on a film set, instead of looking after Regan herself. She has short hair (often symbolic of a woman getting a little too independent for her own good – see Rosemary Woodhouse), and has an unsuitably superficial career. Chris MacNeil is, in society’s eyes, enough of a stain on the proper order of things to deserve everything she gets. By choosing to remain man-less, Chris has created a perfect environment for a demon to invade, as without a mighty male presence around, who will fight off the forces of evil threatening the young and vulnerable? The women? – pah! The Helpless Mother is, inherently, unable to protect against the dark force threatening herself and her child. She must, after a long, screechy, but valiant attempt to overcome her womanly limitations, seek help from the nearest available man. Chris’ helplessness is first symbolised by a futile attempt to close Regan’s bedroom window (it is found open multiple times throughout the film), which, as we have previously deduced, is likely letting in more than just a chill. Even in the opening scenes, the house that Chris has provided for herself and her daughter is shown to be sub-standard; she cannot run the house without her servants, cleaners, cooks and other staff, and the seals that should be protecting them from the outside world are easily broken into. Interestingly, and unusually, Chris is not the only helpless mother-figure running about during the drama. Sharon Spencer, who claims to be both Regan’s tutor and Chris’ secretary, matches Chris’ level of incompetence. Both Sharon and Chris wail and run about the house together, each high off of the other’s terror, at a loss for how to handle Regan’s new-found penchance for spewing curse words and bodily fluids, interspersed with crucifix-masturbation. I bring Sharon to the forefront of the viewer’s attention for the simple reason that, at first, she seems totally irrelevant. The Helpless Mother position has already been filled, and she serves no real purpose other than keeping true to the original novel, . However, I propose we view Sharon’s odd, insistent presence from a new perspective. What is the one thing that threatens a heterocentric society more than a single, faithless, liberal mother? A single, faithless, liberal, lesbian mother. Whilst it may not be explicit – and no doubt Friedkin had no interest in dwelling on a dull female-only relationship when he could be exploring the tortured mindset of our male lead – in my view, Sharon and Chris are, for the duration of the film, Regan’s parents. Sharon is conspicuously there, in exactly the place where the mysterious, and absent, ex-husband should be. Sharon cares for Regan, she greets Chris when she arrives home from work, and she is the emotional support Chris seeks after Burke’s death. She lives in the house, with Chris and Regan, and remains there throughout the entire ordeal. Presumably, as a mere ‘secretary’ and ‘tutor’, Sharon would be well within her rights to slip out when the horror gets too much, and claim that battling a Demon does not fall under her job description. Instead, Sharon is just as invested as Chris in Regan’s plight - and why wouldn’t she be? Regan is, essentially, her daughter too. So, The Exorcist gives us not one, but two Helpless Mothers. The only adult, non-elderly women with actual roles, and neither of them possess any depth or  real purpose except warming up the stage for the men.

The Misogynistic Hero Embodying the film’s intrinsic disrespect for women is our male hero, Father Karras. A troubled priest, caught between the torturous realisation of his shaken faith, and caring for his elderly mother. It is clear to me that, due to his current state of inner turmoil, Karras is quite possibly the worst person for the job of expelling a Demon from a young girl’s body.   Due to the forced celibacy of his profession, and worsened by his growing loathing for his burden of a mother, Father Karras is consumed by his hatred for the female sex; it is this hatred, rather than a desire to save Regan from a hellish fate, that drives him. Karras’ mother (hereafter referred to as ‘Mother Karras’) is, presumably, the only woman that Father Karras has ever had any sort of close relationship with. Aside from the women in his congregation, whom he would likely have to remain professionally distant from, he would have no reason, as a Priest, to engage with a woman in any meaningful way. Consequently, for Father Karras, his mother’s words and actions are not just her own; she speaks for herself, and all women.  It is, of course, just as things with Regan are worsening, that Mother Karras is taken, against her will, to a (terrible) psychiatric ward, filled with more decrepit old women, half-mad from their varying stages of dementia. Throughout the film, beginning with the opening Iraq setting, elderly (often cloaked, wisened) women are repeatedly used as symbols of fear. As Barbara Creed points out in her analysis of The Exorcist in ‘The Monstrous Feminine’, “the sense of foreboding seems to be particularly linked to the sinister, robed figures of these women who, in this context, take on the stereotypical features associated with the witch as hag or post-menopausal woman – black dress, hump, wrinkled face, toothless grin.” (Creed, 1993). Aside from this being true of Mother Karras, one could even make the argument that, as the possession reaches its climax, Regan loses her youthful appearance, and becomes haggard, sickly, ugly, her voice deepening, her body twisting in an unnatural, arthritic way.  In the asylum, one of these dementia-riddled ‘hags’ even snatches Father Karras’ Priest collar, thereby stripping him of his purpose. In the next moment, his mother strips him of the only thing he has left, his manhood, by disgustedly chiding him for not being able to afford her proper care. Father Karras is left alone with the consuming guilt of failing his mother in her final days (she dies soon after), and with it, a burning anger towards her for blaming him so unfairly, and in doing so, draining him of his masculinity. With Mother Karras gone, not even graspable in the nightmares in which she haunts him, Father Karras’ fury spreads beyond just her, to the sex she represents: women in general, and specifically one young girl, whose poorly timed possession tale will land her right at his mercy.  Regan Macneil, on the brink of womanhood - and thus, in Karras’ eyes, on the brink of becoming an emasculating witch - is the perfect summation of everything Karras cannot stand. With the Demon’s targeted taunts falling, jarringly, from her young mouth – “your mother sucks cocks in hell!” stands out as a particularly provocative jibe – Regan becomes Karras’ perfect little punching bag. He is even freed of the irritating shackles that might normally prevent a fully-grown man from beating up a twelve-year-old, because wait, she’s not a child, she’s a Demon. 

From a Mulvey perspective, the male gaze here is shockingly twisted. The men in the audience, watching the climactic scenes of this film, are able to place themselves in the shoes of Father Karras (a Priest! He must be on the side of the goodies, right?), and join him in his cathartic expulsion of rage against a little girl.  The pleasure in watching this derives from the liberation of a male desire to beat her back from the edge of pubescence, to keep her as an innocent and controllable child. It is no accident that Regan is on the verge of her climb into adulthood. A 2010 article titled ‘What The Ever-Popular Exorcist Says About Female Sexuality’ states that, “as the film unravels, the text begs the question, ‘Why is there evil in a world God created,’ while the subtext asks, ‘Is there anything more terrifying than a teenage girl?’”.  The answer, for many men, is no. A young girl, realising her female independence, discovering her sexuality, her womanhood, her strength – this is the moment a man wishes, subconsciously, he could crush. In Regan MacNeil, it is acceptable to do so, because the adolescent-like Demon lurking within her is not just an awakening libido and a desire to sulk, wear short skirts, and sneak out after dark. It is, according to the Priests and doctors, a real Demon, one that an everyman, like Father Karras, can use brute force to fight, and to banish for good. 

[writesaboutdragons]

365 Promises of God

Day 147 – I Will Fill the Soul of the Priests With Abundance

Read: Jeremiah 31:7-14

Many years ago, I worked at UPS, unloading trucks. A hot, sweaty job. One of the workers on the belt with me, during a break, was reading a pocket bible. I was happy to see another Christian there, and asked a few questions. He had solid answers and I suggested he consider becoming a pastor. “I already am!” he said brightly.

He pastored a small inner-city church, which could not support him. So he was working there at UPS to make ends meet. The part time schedule there was tailor made for him. He often got off work at nine and went home to work on a sermon. Often, before work, he’d been to the hospital to visit one of his members, or a relative of theirs. I was impressed with his walk, his talk, and his work ethic. I thought that this man was an extreme exception to the rule. But over the years I’ve known pastors in painting, construction, sales, even one crazy guy who drove a school bus. Your kid’s teacher may be a pastor. That dentist who filled your tooth? Yep, could be.

I was shocked to discover recently that nearly 80% of pastors in the US are bivocational. And that figure has been increasing since the 90’s. It seemed to me a telling indicator of how poorly we are supporting the church staff. How could we not pay our pastors a living wage? Is the laborer not worth his hire? Tithing in church has been waning steadily over time, and perhaps that contributes to this. Currently only 5% of U.S. churchgoers tithe. The average giving is $17/wk. Yet US Christians make collectively over $5.2 Trillion. Charitable gift giving has also declined 50% since 1990. Add to this the increasing costs of health care, and the shrinking size of the average congregation, and you set the stage for a perfect storm.

I was prepared to present this as a serious and perhaps insurmountable problem, but an article in Christianity Today from 2017 set me straight. While you as a parishioner should be tithing, and supporting missionaries, giving as the Lord leads, the fact that your pastor is bivocational is not necessarily a problem. There are many positives to this practice.

First, it’s not new. The Apostle Paul, while a traveling missionary, supported himself through the craft of tentmaking. Through the ages, ministers have been from all walks of life, and continued to support themselves while called to serve.

Second, if your pastor is bivocational, he’s not half a pastor. True, he’s not spending his entire week visiting the sick, those in prison, the ones in trouble. But then, we’re called to do that too. It can’t be his burden alone anyway. It’s ours. He cares enough about his flock and his calling to do what he can. But this gives us the privilege of serving alongside him. And that’s a win for Jesus, who wants you on the field, not on the bench.

Third, it frees the pastor from being trapped in a ‘ministry bubble’, where he is not exposed to the world around him. He won’t spend his life like a monk, unaware of the changing direction of the world we as lay people have to deal with lately.

Fourth, It frees the resources of the church to give more to hands-on ministries around them. While we do need to support the man of God, the church is also called, like the first century church, to support the missionary, the orphan, the widow, the hungry, and the needy.

Finally, it also allows the unchurched to interact with someone perhaps stronger in the faith. It provides encouragement that each of us are called to minister, inside and outside the church.

That pastor on the Green Belt at UPS? He witnessed to me every day. Not with his mouth. With his life. I was in a bit of a dark place at that time, and it was people like him that encouraged me to make a change. To get plugged into a church and start making a difference. It’s part of the reason you’re reading this today.

So, is this promise we’ve read about today even for us? To the outside observer, perhaps not. God seemed to be talking to Jeremiah about the priests in Israel. It couldn’t apply today, to pastors who aren’t even fully supported by the church, could it?

Sure it could. The verse makes it clear that the SOUL of the priests would be satisfied with fatness, and God’s people would be satisfied with His goodness. And that’s true in any generation. If you’ve ever served God, whether as a pastor, or a greeter, a nursery worker or a soundman, then you know that God satisfies our soul with His amazing love, to overflowing. And the rest of us? God is satisfying us with His goodness every day. All we have to do is look for it, and when you see it, it will be enough.

Prayer:

Abba, thank you for the love you shower on us, that satisfies our souls and reminds us of your incredible goodness towards us. Lord, help me to share my faith in the place I work unashamedly, today.

[dmsden]

The Sword & Spell Tavern - A Legend of the Shattered Pact

Hullo, gentle readers. My plans for week 3 of each month have changed. I thought I would share with you some of the curious legendarium of my campaign setting, which has been renamed Shards of the Shattered Pact (cool logo coming soon). Each week 3, I will offer something from my own campaign world that you can take as inspiration and import into your own campaign world.

In the great city of Estwald, capital of the Kingdom of Summerlund, Adventurers hold a great fascination to the populace. To the nobles, tales of their adventures offer a bit of escapism. To the common folk, they offer a ray of hope - Adventurers can rise above the station of their birth and rubs elbows with kings, high priests, and arch wizards. And nowhere in Estwald are Adventurers held in higher esteem than at the Sword & Spell, an inn and tavern that caters specifically to Adventurers and their admirers.

Located in the well-heeled Garden District (with prices to match), the Sword & Spell is located on a bridge over one of the city's many canals. Guests can stable horses (and other, more exotic mounts) with the Inn staff, and then knock on main door. The huge half-orc bouncer, Drog, may give them a wary eye, but they'll be let inside soon enough. Past the door, the darkened interior is decorated with trophies, including the weapons of the Gold Dragon Company, a group of Adventurers who either perished or retired following a Pyrrhic victory at the Fortress of Grandor. The three surviving members, Drog, the halfling fighter/rogue Brandoby "Brandy" Quietstreams, and the eladrin wizard, Ilias the Blue, gave shares of the treasures they recovered in Grandor to the relatives of their fallen comrades and decided to open an Inn together.

Although Brandy and Drog run the place on a day-to-day basis (with a lot of help from Brandy's extensive family), Ilias remains the silent partner, only coming down to the Inn of an evening now and then to share old war stories with his friends. He was, however, responsible for the Inn's rather spectacular signage, a continually shifting illusion showing various spell effects under a two-handed sword.

The tavern is famous for several things. It’s house brews are a sour ale called the Beholder’s Kiss, a whiskey called the Orcish Head Butt, and a mead called Golden Treasure. The signature dishes made in the cookhouse include “Stuffed Basilisk Tail” (in reality a chicken breast stuffed with sausage, cornbread, and herb concoction liberally spiced in Halfling style), “Cleric’s Blessing” (a stew made with ox-tails braised in wine), and “Roper Bread” (a garlic and cheese pull-apart bread). With a day’s notice, the tavern’s famous “Remorhaz Cake” is available. This is a hot, rich buttery cake sealed inside a shell of raspberry ice, made possible by a bit of ice magic that Ilias taught Brandy in later years.

Connoisseurs of swampweed know the tavern for the fine varieties of leaf that Brandy keeps in stock. The merry fellow has both a dozen or more types of leaf at any given time, as well as more than a score of elaborately carved pipes. He will gladly lend some plain wooden pipes to those who pay for some leaf.

If you’ve ever heard of a tale of adventure that began in a tavern, the tavern in question may just be the Sword and Spell. Solo Adventurers often come here, hoping to find established companies with a charter or else to find other Adventurers on their own to join forces with. Those seeking Adventurers for a task can find them here. A large task board is hung on one wall, and various cards and documents can be found pinned to it, offering rewards for dangerous services – caravan jobs, treasure hunts, and calls to causes worthy, unworthy, and lost.

In addition to legitimate Adventurers and those who wish to hire them, the Sword and Spell is popular with many others. Adventurer wanna-bes abound, wearing outfits they consider more apt for those of a freebooting nature. Fans of Adventurers often congregate here as well, hoping to catch a glimpse of veteran heroes or up and coming legends. Lawkeepers will sometimes come in to keep an eye on things and make sure they don’t get out of hand. Those eager for news from afar often find a seat here, listening intently to tales of strange lands and dire happenings.

While various fads have come and gone, three traditions hold sway at all times.

1. If a bard comes by, they are offered free room and board for three days, as long as they perform each day on the tavern stage. If they’re bad, however, a lever behind the bar lets Brandy open a trap door on the stage and plunge the unfortunate into the canal below.

2. Anyone can challenge Brandy or Drog for a free drink. As the challenged, they get to decide the contest. Brandy always chooses a knife-tossing competition, and Drog always chooses arm-wrestling. The pair rarely have to give away free drinks, but they tend to be good sports when it becomes necessary.

3. Any adventurer who comes in adds a coin to a large barrel kept in a corner. They have to show what kind of coin they’re putting in, which tends to draw anything from jeers to cheers, depending on what kind of coin they’re putting in. Once a year, a few weeks before New Year’s Eve, the barrel is opened, and Brandy and Drog use the money to buy provisions to make a feast. Everyone who has put in over the year is welcome to attend, and it features free food, free drink, free leaf, and a lot of good-natured, bawdy activity.

There are quietly whispered rumors that Brandy and Drog might be more than just friends and that, even though they ascend to separate rooms by two different stairwells, there is a third, joined room between where they actually sleep. Most do not pry, partly for fear of having their heads smashed in by Drog, and partly for fear of not being allowed back in the place.

In addition to good meals, fine drink, and basic rooms for rent, there are also two "Company Suites" for rent. These expensive accommodations include a common area with several adjoining smaller rooms. A total of eight can sleep comfortably in the various beds, and food and baths are included. These rooms are often a symbol of status among Adventurers in the know, and those who hold them are envied by those who arrive and find them already occupied.

For your campaign, the Sword & Spell could be located in any large city. It's a perfect place to stage adventures from...the ultimate "You all meet in a tavern" locale. Adventures could come from dropped rumors, mysterious patrons, quests that show up on the job boards, or tales told by Brandy around the fireplace. Other Adventurers could become allies or rivals to your players, or they could ridicule someone as a wannabe, only to find that he's the son of a powerful noble or respected cleric. If there were any locale where the "Carousing" between adventures activity could be taken, it would be here.

If you use the Sword & Spell, let me know how it goes. If you want more information on its common inhabitants, you can find its entry in my campaign wiki at https://shatteredpact.obsidianportal.com/wikis/sword-and-spell