#you know what thom said know no shame i will know no fear and put this in the main tag

[apocalypticavolition]

Let's (re)Read The Eye of the World! Chapter 12: Across the Taren

Another day, another chapter of The Wheel of Time. As usual, my reread commentary will be chock full of spoilers, much like a turducken is full of desecrated poultry. Those of you who respect livestock or fear having your first reading (or viewing) experience ruined should go elsewhere, possibly a hippie commune without meat eating or internet.

If anyone is still left (and shame on you for hating birds, btw), we can begin by discussing the chapter icon. This chapter introduces a new one, the yin - except it looks like yang but mirrored - to the Dragon's Fang yang (except it looks like yin but mirrored). Don't know if Jordan intended for each of them to be a little of both or if like every other westerner he just couldn't keep it straight. Anyway, it's the Flame of Tar Valon! Where the Fang stands for male channeling and channelers, the Flame stands for the ladies. In this case, it's a representation of Moiraine's cold pragmatism.

Rand moved stiffly from the ache of the long ride, wondering if there was any way he could walk the rest of the way to Tar Valon.

Rand will eventually walk to Tar Valon, but he'll start a lot closer.

“You must handle it,” Moiraine said in answer to something unheard from Lan. “He will remember too much as it is, and no help for it. If I stand out in his thoughts. . . .”

Odd choice of words there. Were Myrdraal supposed to be mind readers on top of everything else?

Egwene marched along without a word, her back straight and her head high. It was a somewhat painfully hesitant march, to be sure, for she was as unused to riding as the rest. She was getting her adventure, he thought glumly, and as long as it lasted he doubted if she would notice little things like fog or damp or cold.

Rand, I'm pretty sure Egwene is deliberately stiff because she's noticing the inclement weather and she's trying to power through it.

Rand hurriedly copied the Warder’s pose—at least insofar as putting his hand on his sword. He did not think he could achieve that deadly-seeming slouch. They’d probably laugh if I tried.

Not yet Rand, but you'll get there. And note that Lan trusted you to understand what to do if he fiddled with Perrin's stance, but not the other way around. After the hay loft incident, Rand's definitely the one Lan likes the most.

A low, delighted laugh floated from Moiraine. Egwene clapped as if watching a performance at Festival, then stopped and looked abashed, though her mouth twitched with a smile just the same.

Good to know that Egwene is just as stupid as the boys at heart. Shame they didn't give her literally any kind of weapon to join in the showing off how tough they were. Lan, Thom, we all know you have back-up knives, so I am blaming Jordan's sexism for this. Girl needs something in case she gets taken out by Shadowspawn.

Hightower muttered half under his breath, growling for them to keep the horses still and stay to the center, out of the haulers’ way. He shouted at his helpers, chivvying them as they readied the ferry to cross, but the men moved at the same reluctant speed whatever he said, and he was halfhearted about it, often cutting off in mid-shout to hold his torch high and peer into the fog. Finally he stopped shouting altogether and went to the bow, where he stood staring into the mist that covered the river. He did not move until one of the haulers touched his arm; then he jumped, glaring.

There's something delightfully like a horror movie about all of this, as if the draghkar might descend upon them at any moment and they all know that something's out there, even if the Ferry folk don't know what.

With the fog to hide them . . . well, when what they do is hidden, men sometimes deal with strangers in ways they wouldn’t if there were other eyes to see. And the quickest to harm a stranger are the soonest to think a stranger will harm them.

Lan, you're the one who was worried about being robbed so you had everyone show off their mad skills. You also jump from "This dude would sell his mom to Trollocs", to "Can you really see this guy ferrying the Trollocs over for gold?" It's... really the kind of thing that doesn't stand out right now, but keeps you and Moiraine sketchier a lot longer than you should be.

The ferryman hesitated, face pushed forward as if he smelled danger, but at the mention of silver the haulers roused themselves. Some paused to seize a torch, but they all thumped down the ramp before Hightower could open his mouth. With a sullen grimace, the ferryman followed his crew.

Poor Hightower is just clever enough to understand what's up but not capable enough to avert his fate. Moiraine wrecks his shit.

For a moment Hightower stared at the gold, glinting in Lan’s hand in the torchlight, then his shoulders hunched and his eyes darted to the others he had carried across. Made indistinct by the fog, the Emond’s Fielders stood silently. With a frightened, inarticulate cry, the ferryman snatched the coins from Lan, whirled, and ran into the mist. His haulers were only half a step behind him, their torches quickly swallowed as they vanished upriver.

Frankly if it weren't for a mention in a later chapter, I'd assume they were all eaten by Trollocs as soon as the gang was away. The haulers may well have been.

“You all want explanations, but if I explained my every action to you, I would have no time for anything else.”

No Moiraine, if you people talked to each other, you'd have the Dark One sealed up again in seven books instead of fourteen! That said, Jordan uses a good trick in this section: by highlighting one apparent oddity in Moiraine's plan and explaining it, the reader assumes that anything else they might think of might also have a good explanation, especially since most won't know all the rules of the setting yet. Further, it's not hard to infer that Moiraine is making sure that any river crossing done by the Shadow is done slowly - and if you don't infer that, you continue to have reservations about her like the characters are about to.

“You expected us to stop here?” Egwene said in surprise. “It seemed a likely place,” Lan replied. “I like to be prepared, just in case.”

On the way to Emond's Field from Baerlon, Lan set up sixty-two possible nap spots. Only one was discovered, and since it was by a rabbit, the mission remained uncompromised.

“Oh, they can still run. They will run at their fastest, if we let them, right up to the second they drop dead from exhaustion they never even felt. I would rather Moiraine Sedai had not had to do what she did, but it was necessary.”

Good magic has trade-offs, and here's the weave that Moiraine was using's flaw: it affects the horse's awareness but does jack shit about their actual condition. And even that leaves her personally exhausted when she's bragging about how she's literally in the Tower's top ten power users. Since Rand isn't too weary, just stiff, it makes me think he didn't do quite the same thing as her.

“And you really think I can learn?” Egwene asked. Her face shone with eagerness. Rand had never seen her look so beautiful, or so far away from him. “I can become an Aes Sedai?” Rand jumped up, cracking his head against the low roof of logs. Thom Merrilin grabbed his arm, yanking him back down. “Don’t be a fool,” the gleeman murmured. He eyed the women—neither seemed to have noticed—and the look he gave Rand was sympathetic. “It’s beyond you now, boy.”

Unspoken: "Be grateful it's a woman she's found who can channel, and not a man."

I wonder if Thom thinks that the reason Bela isn't tired is because Egwene was channeling. Moiraine wouldn't think this because she would have sensed it, but Thom's got every reason to make that assumption right now - including denial about Rand when he must have ideas about why the Shadowspawn are here.

Men like those of whom the Aes Sedai spoke were rare—he had only heard of three in his whole life, and thank the Light never in the Two Rivers—but the damage they did before the Aes Sedai found them was always bad enough for the news to carry, like the news of wars, or earthquakes that destroyed cities.

I saw recently some Tumblr users questioning this because the Two Rivers is so strong in the power it should be producing male sparkers. Later on Rand or another EF5 POV will reflect on how there were a few dudes who just went weird, so it seems that in the Two Rivers they either get the taint so quick they don't have a chance to be harmful, or they start channeling but can't get the knack and die.

The old blood is strong in Emond’s Field, and the old blood sings.

You all are super heavily inbred. That's literally the only way this makes sense in Jordan's world because there's absolutely no reason for bloodlines to special otherwise.

“Of course not,” Moiraine snapped. “Things do not have the Power, child. Even an angreal is only a tool. This is just a pretty blue stone. But it can give off light. Here.”

There's plenty of ter'angreal that manipulate the Power, so Moiraine's being pretty snippy here. I'll assume she's too tired to consider the bigger picture beyond her lesson; she can't do the usual "lies we tell to elementary schoolers to be replaced by lies we tell to high schoolers" etc. gig because she can't lie.

“Now you are behaving like a foolish village girl. Most who come to Tar Valon must study for many months before they can do what you just did. You may go far. Perhaps even the Amyrlin Seat, one day, if you study hard and work hard.”

F- f- foreshadowing! Everyone's got some now! In exactly twenty months, Egwene will be raised to the Amyrlin Seat. Hopefully it won't take me quite so long to get there even at this rate, and more hopefully Rand stops rooting for his friends to fail because he is not happy about this at all. But we can deal with his unhappiness next time, because this is another chapter finished.

[love-beyond-space-war]

Training Camp

Emile-A239 x Female! Reader

Synopsis: You knew Emile-A239 back in Alpha Company. You didn't think you'd cross paths again after being separated for different missions. Turns out, it's a pleasant yet upsetting surprise to find out just who the new Noble-6 is.

Content Warning: Angst, Fear of love, Fear of death, Death mention.

He had a feeling that name sounded familiar. He was hoping by some odd coincidence it was just someone that also had your name. But no, the new Noble-6 was exactly who he thought it was.

"She can't be here..." Emile mutters to his leader, Carter.

"Why not? She's capable and willing to listen to orders." Carter explained to Emile. "I thought you'd know, she went to the same training camp as us. Is there something you aren't telling me? You two always got along."

"It's nothing-"

The fact you two always got along is what scared him. He didn't want you here because he hated you, he just didn't want you here because he cared for you. If anything happened to you it could jepordize the mission.

"Nice to see you all again." You chime, entering the large tent they set up for a base. "Jun, Carter, Hey Emile."

Emile gives you a dismissive wave, too lost in thought. He couldn't tell if he was happy or concerned that you were a part of Noble Team. Only time would tell if he could overcome his worries....

------

Emile was still a good comrade to you in battle, just like he was when you were both in training. It was a shame when you had to be moved to a new team. You missed your close friend and never expected to see him again.

Then you were alerted to the passing of another Spartan you trained with, Thom. Noble Team was looking for recruits and you fit what they needed. You expected a decent reunion to meeting them again, if any.

Instead you got Emile, the Spartan you were looking forward to seeing the most, ignoring you. Anything outside of the mission was just not important to him. Including conversation from you.

It... saddened you to know he was ignoring you. You'd understand if you did something but from what you could tell you hadn't angered him. He was just indifferent.

"He's just been like that lately. Nothing you can do about it." Jun huffs.

"He'll get back to his old self in time." Carter tried to reassure you.

Yet despite all your attempts to spark a bond between the two of you again, you're met with cold responses.

"Don't you have anything better to do?"

At some point you felt you should just stop trying. He wasn't going to change and you just needed to focus on the mission. It didn't matter, Emile has changed so now you will too.

You never understood his behavior until he saved your ass once during a mission. Such an action that sparked an argument between the two of you. Only then did you get it.

"You should've been more careful!" Emile pulls you aside after the mission was clear in private.

"I was doing what I could, Emile. I just messed up one-"

"Once is enough to get you killed. It only takes once to lose your life." Emile pushes back, cutting you off.

You're silent, surprised by his tone.

"This is exactly why I didn't want you to join. If you got hurt I couldn't live with myself."

"... So that's why."

You step back, giving Emile some distance.

"You were so distant from me because you didn't want to lose me...."

"As a Spartan you already lose a lot, I wanted at least you to be safe."

"Emile, there's no need to worry."

"What makes you say that?"

You cautiously step closer, a hand on his shoulder.

"I'd put myself in danger if it meant I could be beside you."

Emile seemed conflicted by what you said. You say nothing more, only hugging him quickly. You then walk away to continue your duty. No use being more intimate than that in the field.

Falling in love with you was exactly what Emile feared. Yet the longer he was beside you and after hearing what you said...

Perhaps he should make the best of this while he still can?

[writefinch]

The Prince’s Offering, Pt.3 (cn: noncon, “historical” fiction, harems, public use, forced prostitution, other fun things)

The hollow feeling grew stronger, but Davai willed himself to push it down inside him. He heard a high giggle and looked at the serving girl who had draped herself over Karim's shoulders. "Lord Davai, I am Tabitha. Would you like to know how I became a serving girl?"

He felt himself nod in response. His mouth was unnaturally dry, and when he picked up his tea to wet it the cup almost slipped from the sweat on his hands.

"My father was a wealthy merchant, and our family lived on an estate north of Samarra. He traded spices, curatives, dyes and fine rugs, which afforded him much land and coin, and our estate had beautiful gardens of jasmine and crocus flowers. We lived in luxury, until he allowed his hirelings to water down the medicines that Imperial soldiers bought and used."

"He threw himself at the Imperial magistrate and begged for mercy when they began to investigate. He knew his own death was unavoidable, but wished to spare his family from the same fate. The magistrate was not an unfair man, but a cruel rival of my father's was present in the court and paid some sum of coin to sway his opinion.

A strange, dreamy look crossed Tabitha's face. "To save my siblings and a small fraction of the family's wealth, my mother and father and I were taken in shackles to a brothel where the forty-four soldiers who had been sickened by weak medicine awaited us. My father was forced to watch as the soldiers ravished his eldest daughter, one, two and even three at a time, hour after hour for two days and two nights. My mother serviced each man before and after they violated me, ensuring that they were able to perform, as the soldiers mocked my bound father for his deceit and cowardice. They told him his wife and daughter both were braver than he, and that we were more loyal to both our family and the Great Empire, especially its soldiers.

"My father was beheaded after this, and my mother and I were sold into slavery to keep my siblings out of the most wretched poverty. I was sold to a harem, trained for a year in every art of pleasure, and sent here. I have not seen my mother since, and I do not expect I will ever see her again." She giggled again, before sitting back on her heels, resuming Karim's shoulder rub.

Davai sat in stunned shock for a moment, questions and thoughts of horror spawning within him and threatening to spill out. He knew of the depraved justice that heathen rulers could mete out, but had never heard it directly from the spoils of these rulings. He found her very demeanor chilling, for she spoke of such things as a knight might speak of his first year of squiredom. It raised the question of whether subsequent events had been so unpleasant that her capture seemed favourable in comparison, or if her trials had molded her so thoroughly that she had become content with her lot. He was unsure which answer was worse, and felt more perturbed by the moment.

What perturbed him further was the sensation of his stiff cock straining against his stockings. His heart thumped and his mouth felt drier still, and he wondered if the subtle incense pervading the room had some form of exciting effect. He sipped his tea again, subtly pulling the hem of his tunic over his lap as he did.

"Might I ask your thoughts on that?" said Karim.

Davai nodded, and considered his answer very carefully. "It seems a dire punishment," he said, "but the crime, too, was a dire indeed. One wonders how many others would attempt such things if they went unpunished, and some men do not fear death alone."

Karim nodded, seemingly satisfied with this response, and the girl behind Thom spoke up.

"Lord Davai, would you care to know how I became a serving girl?"

Against his better instincts, Davai nodded. The girl stepped forward to sit closer, allowing him to see her properly. She had removed her thin veil and she was beautiful indeed, of Far Eastern stock, her cheeks as red as blood and her skin as white as snow. Her jewelry was bizarrely intricate. Her left arm was clad in a series of silver chains, bracelets, plates and rings that fitted together into a complex metal gauntlet, and under her gauzy top her nipples were clearly pierced.

"My name is Mido, lord, and before I became a serving girl I lived in a city of the Old Eastern Kingdoms before the Great Empire swept them away. The rulers of the city were uncaring and indolent, and rather than pay tribute they had the emissaries beaten and sent away. When the forces of the Emperor surrounded the city, the nobles refused to negotiate. They sealed the gates and dug in for a siege.

"All the food in the city was confiscated and rationed. The punishment for hiding food was death by ice, and the punishment for stealing food was far worse. All of the administrators were corrupt, exchanging food for favour, and in the first winter of the siege many citizens starved. My father was a tailor and his services were well enough needed that we ate on most days, but in the spring he took ill.

"The only food inside the city was reserved for the nobles and their soldiers, so I looked outside. At night I snuck out of the city, stole a hen and her eggs from the Imperial camp, and crept back in. It kept my father alive, and so a few nights later, I did it again. I was more cautious this time; I took scraps and grains and picked wild berries in the dark. I did it a third and a fifth time, and my father soon recovered. On the sixth trip, I was caught.

"The men beat me until I fell, and then beat me until I could not stand. The next morning they displayed me. First, I was stripped naked. My legs were tied at the thighs and ankles to a beam of wood, stretching them out to the side until it felt as if they would pop out of my hips. A beam was placed down my back with my wrists bound behind it, the two beams were fixed together in a cross, and then my captors coated two thick, polished wooden poles in grease.

"They forced one pole inside my womanhood and the other in my rear, and when I screamed from the pain of being split open in such a way, the soldiers urinated in my open mouth. They coated my body in filth and pig-slop, then raised me up on a gigantic wooden ladder that came level to the city walls. I was left for the day like this, alongside a dozen other girls who had been sneaking out in the same manner as I, in front of a banner that told the citizens that their defeat was inevitable, that betrayal and surrender were the only options, and that if their demands were not met, the same fate awaited every woman in the city.

"I saw my father standing on the city walls, looking at me. The shame was too much, and he died of heartbreak. Soon after that the city fell, with most citizens faring better than I, but all of the nobles faring much worse." She looked contemplative, and in the dull light of the parlour her brown eyes were entirely black. "The Imperial army had no use for me after that, and while I was forced to warm the bedrolls of horsemen for some time, they soon sold me on. From there, my story is little different to Tabitha's."

The music of the flute had softened, and Davai could hear the groaning of the wind behind it. In his mind, he could picture nothing but the image of Mido with her legs spread wide as rough men forced a pole inside her, her face contorting in pain. He did not know why his cock was twitching.

"Thank you, Mido," he murmured. Karim was looking at him expectantly. "This... siege warfare is a dark thing, and we know this all too well in Rus and Europe. It does not lend itself to mercy or glory."

Karim nodded. "It is an art that the Great Empire has refined in recent years. A siege that ends quickly and terrifyingly is far preferable to one that draws on for months and leaves a city of walking skeletons in its wake. Not to mention, a city that knows that it cannot resist a siege does not, generally, risk provoking one."

A voice whispered in his ear. "I too have a tale should you wish to hear it, Lord Davai," said Bahar.

His heart pounding, Davai could only nod. He did not flinch as she moved around him, but suppressed a yelp as the serving girl took a seat on his lap. Her buttocks were soft and thick, and she had perched herself just-so that his erection was pressed between them. She wore a subtle perfume but with his face all but nestled in her black hair it filled his nose and clouded his senses. He did not know where to put his hands and so pressed his palms awkwardly onto the cushion until Bahar took his wrists and moved his hands onto her soft belly so that he could hold her from behind.

"My tale is a rather more simple one, lord," she said, wiggling from side to side to get comfortable. "My father was a prince, and when my mother passed he remarried. Neither my father nor my stepmother wished me to have any role in either inheritance or succession, so one night I was dragged from my bed, bound and gagged with rough ropes, and locked inside a chest.

"When the chest was opened, I found myself in the barracks of Imperial soldiers. In lieu of spices and a portion of silver, I had been given over to the Great Empire as part of the yearly tithe. Had my father kept back a fraction more silver for himself, I would have been kept virginial and taken as a wife by an Imperial officer, as that would have been the most valuable use of a young foreign princess. But out of cruelty, they tithed extra, and so the Imperial soldiers did not need my full value."

Bahar kept shifting in her seat in a way that made Davai's cheeks turn pink, for each movement sent a twinge of pleasure through his rod. It crossed his mind that she might be doing it on purpose.

"They took this spare value by using me as a pleasure toy for several months," she continued. "The soldiers drew lots each night to pick whose bed I would warm. I was fed no meals; when they ate I would crawl under the tables and give suck to each man in turn, and if I pleased them they would feed me scraps before I was dragged to the next man. They made a game of how many men could take pleasure from me at once."

She turned around, hair whipping gently over Davai's nose, and looked him square in the eye. "Seven men. Two in my mouth, one in each hand, one in my rear, and two in my cunt."

"Sounds uncomfortable," said Thom, loudly.

Davai glared at him. "Obviously."

"I meant for the men."

Bahar had a faraway look on her face. "Sometimes they would use me as a threat, to shake down local peddlers or to motivate their prostitutes if they went whoring. They would tie me to a stool, gag me with my headscarf after using it as a washcloth, and then a dozen of them would each line up to spill their seed on my face. Whoever they wished to bully would be brought in to see me, and the soldiers would tell them, 'Do as we say, or we will do this to your wives and daughters, or to you.'

"The worst part of that was the boredom, waiting in place on an uncomfortable seat with sticky male essence drying on my face. I still find it difficult to sit comfortably to this day," she said, bearing down on Davai's lap until he felt his cock pressed against something snug and mind-meltingly hot. "It ended in a familiar manner: the soldiers needed coin and so they sold me on. I did not need much training after the hands-on experience they had given me, and becoming a serving girl was a natural fit."

She gave Davai a warm smile, and Davai could only mumble out a thank you. She dismounted his lap with leonine grace, but instead of slinking back behind him, she waited at his side. Her hand remained on his lap. Specifically, her hand remained directly on his stiff cock.

"Oh, Master Karim," said Bahar, her voice soft and guileless, "I believe Lord Davai has felt the effects of our tea!"

Davai tensed up. "What's in the tea?" he said, with no consideration to the impudence of his question. He felt sweat beading on his forehead, his hands were shaking, and his cock was so hard that it tingled with pain.

Karim was unbothered by his tone, and seemed genuinely apologetic. "It is not what is in the tea, but what tea is in it. It is a peculiar blend of leaves that can be concentrated to produce an invigorating tincture, and the dilute tea can induce a similar strength in those unused to it. I am deeply sorry for not informing you beforehand, Lord Davai."

"What do I do?" he blurted out, before blushing at the implication.

"I have a few ideas," grunted Thom, but the other men ignored him. He scowled, then scooped Mido up and onto his lap, which elicited a squeak before she began to nuzzle and rub up against him.

"It will pass soon," Karim told the young lord, "and some wine will speed its passing greatly. Fareeh, summon the cup-bearer would you?"

"Yes, Master," said one of the serving girls.

At the edges of Davai's vision black fuzz grew, shifting out of view when he looked towards it, and persisted until he scrunched shut and opened his eyes. The light of the blue torches flickered in a queer manner, the warmth of the room was stifling, and the low wail of the wind had an almost animalistic edge to it, masked though it was by the flutist's music. He could feel the linen of his tunic clinging to the small of his back from sweat, and wished he could cast it off entirely. He inhaled deeply and tried to calm himself: he had known to be distrustful of his host and his companion, but it was another matter to be distrustful of his own senses.

"If my lord has become agitated, I suggest these cloyingly maudlin tales are the cause. Does every girl in your retinue have such a woefully woeful yarn to weave?" asked Thom, sneering. He pointed to the serving girl Pasha, who sat playing her flute. "Did the Imperials pin down your music girl and stuff her gash and arse with her own instruments?"

Davai's eyes went wide at his companion's near-suicidal rudeness, but when Karim and the serving girls burst out laughing he remembered a detail of Imperial custom: the power of insulting remark was proportional to the stature of the remarker. Thom had no land, no great fortune, and no title that was not a pejorative, and hence was incapable of any insult that fell short of treason.

"If such things found their way into my gash and arse, they were put there of my own accord," replied Pasha. "You know how it is I'm sure, you seem the sort who'd misplace his own tools of trade up his arse if given the chance to do so."

Karim laughed uproariously at this, and even in his state Davai couldn't suppress a small smile. Thom's sneer froze in place, but quickly passed into a smug grin. "So what happened to you then, serving girl?"

She placed down her flute, the sounds of wind sharpening as she did, and said, "When I was one less a score in age, I performed with a playing company in the borderlands of the Near and Far East. Many of our homes had been destroyed by the Great Empire, and we acted many plays detailing the depravity of their deeds and the enormity of their conquests so that all might know this horde of men as the monsters they truly were. One fateful night, an Imperial spy caught wind of our performances..."

Davai grimaced. He knew of a pair of troubadours who had sung slanderous tunes about the Prince of Kiev up and down the land before the prince's men arrested them. A thick tome had been written on the hundred tortures used on the two men and the new songs that were wrought from them, and it was bound with their flayed skin.

"They reacted poorly, I take it?" he said quietly.

Pasha shook her head, beaming. "Not at all, indeed the opposite! They saw our plays as a true and honest reflection of their prowess, and they paid us a handsome stipend to travel out to unconquered lands as harbingers of their terror."

Davai blinked. "You are... no longer with them?"

"We traveled far and wide, and I had a great many adventures with my troupe, but after a year in these parts I grew fond of these Western lands—the coolness of the air, the gentle rains, the crisp apples and the strong black bread." Her expression was one of genuine contentment. "At the same time, I grew tired of the constant travel. I made enquiries, and I joined Master Karim's harem. The conditions are luxurious, and the work is very similar."

"I will admit, the similarities are not wholly apparent to me," said Davai distantly, watching from the corner of his eye as Thom licked Mido's neck and mauled her breasts with his thick, hairy fingers. Pasha laughed, smiling.

"A performer can earn a modest wage through spectacular plays in front of swollen audiences, and a very immodest wage through harlotry with the wealthiest attendees. I assure you, lord, my wage was not a modest one." Her smile turned sultry, and she returned to her flute.

The men listened to the music and were pampered by the girls for a while, talking on topics of little consequence, before Davai asked a question that had been weighing on his mind.

"Sir Karim, I must apologize in advance for revealing my ignorance of Imperial customs, but there is something I do not understand," he said.

"Oh, lord?"

"When we spoke earlier of Justyna," said Davai, averting his eyes from the bound and defeated peasant girl, "you told me that when she is gifted to you, you must receive her as a slave, with all the harshness of training that such a thing requires."

Karim nodded. "Yes, this is correct."

"And when Pasha spoke, she said that she was never taken as a slave or prisoner, and is not a slave or prisoner now. Your harem girls are not all slaves."

"This is correct also."

"Then I am confused and curious: why are you compelled to receive Justyna as a slave, if those who are not slaves may also be serving girls?"

"Assuming, Lord Davai, that you still wish to gift her to us."

"Which the Houses of the Amber Plains do wish to do, yes."

Karim leaned forward, stroked his mustache absentmindedly, and then tented his fingers with a thoughtful expression on his face. "That is a fair question, and a good one," he said. "I believe I can answer it: the circumstance of a girl's joining of the harem must determine the circumstances of her living within it.

"Picture three sowers in a field, one a freeman, one a serf, and one a slave. Their function in the field is identical. A corn of wheat scattered in the furrows by a slave grows all the same as one scattered by a serf, a weed pulled by a serf is no different to a weed pulled by a freeman, and a bushel cut by a freeman weighs no more and no less than the same bushel cut by a slave.

"But their function they each serve to society is quite different. The freeman works to pay taxes to his king, the serf works to benefit his lord, and the slave works to obey. Their reasons for work differ, and hence as lords and masters, the inducements to work must differ with them. Tell me, Lord Davai, if one required a task to be seen to and wished a freeman to do it, how would one motivate him to do so?"

Davai considered the question a moment, then said, "At the base level I would offer coin at the proper rate, but beyond that, a freeman has a chosen vocation which they take pride in and see their craft as a form of virtue. The coin brings the work, but their duty to craft brings the effort, and hence you must appeal to these virtues."

"A fine answer that I am inclined to agree with," said Karim, "for I have seen nobles forget such things and reap the consequences. Permit me a second question: how would you motivate a serf to work?"

This question required far less consideration. "In the simplest form, a lord provides protection in exchange for the serf's work on his land. But if such a relationship is to thrive it must go beyond mere expedience, it must be built from fealty and obligation. The serf must love his lord to be willing to toil his land, to bring the greatest tithes and to be an attentive steward, and yet the lord must also love his serfs to be willing to lay down his life and the life of his knights to protect them from banditry and invasion. In other words, you must appeal to the faith and fealty of a serf."

"That is a straightforward answer, yes." Karim grinned devilishly. "And a slave?"

Davai turned up his palms. "It is not a common institution in these lands, though if you know the answer I would be interested to hear it."

"A slave is given life, and gives obedience," said Karim. "He is forced to work by the prospect of a continued existence: of another meal, another drink of water, and another night's rest, as well as by the pain of the lash. But it is a different matter to work than to obey, and an unruly slave may break his tools and skirt his tasks.

"A slave, then, must know terror. Not the simple fear of the whip's bite, but terror of its inevitability. The master must observe him constantly for some time and ensure that no infraction goes unpunished and no mercy is given. The slave must learn that his master knows his every move and error just the same as Allah knows his every sin and virtue, and indeed the two figures should blend together in his mind. Fear will make a slave work, but only awe will make him obey."

For a moment Davai felt paralysed by the intensity of the man's eyes, but he quickly composed himself. "And if you were to treat a freeman as a serf, or a serf as a freeman, you would squander the best qualities of each and reinforce their worst vices."

"A most adroit assessment, yes."

"And because Justyna has not come here to volunteer willingly and wholeheartedly, she must be treated as one who is entirely recalcitrant."

There was a hint of weariness in Karim's eyes. "Yes, unfortunately. The results of any other method are not preferable to any party, not even to Justyna in the end."

Davai nodded. "I thank you for your insight, Sir Karim."

There was another lull in the conversation. Pasha exchanged her flute for a miniature harp, and in the moments of silence between instruments, Davai felt an oppressive sensation from the room around him, the part of an unsettling dream before you realize you're not awake. The air felt thick in his mouth, the blue torches flickered slickly as their smoke rose up towards the vents, and something seemed subtly off about the way every object in the room looked and moved as if all of reality had become smooth and glassy. On the dais in the background the chair was a bestial skeleton and under the dim light the cast-iron dogs twitched like golems rising from their slumber.

He very much doubted that some lustful excitation was the only symptom of the strange tea, and he doubted that the promised wine would be a simple curative. Bahar's hands traced over his chest and thighs and felt like the sole thing anchoring him to his senses. A deep drive to clutch her like a child at their mother welled within him, but even in his state he was unwilling to abandon his decorum. The music soon returned. soothing something within him, and with a few deep breaths the room largely returned to normal.

A husky, feminine voice made him give a start. "Your wine, Master."

Davai turned to the source of the voice and stared.

This serving girl was waifish in comparison to the other, more voluptuous women that lounged around the parlour, with bony shoulders and slender hips, and probably stood a few inches shorter than Davai. She wore no veil and no gown, her top was a sheer chiffon mantle that barely fell over her shoulders and her skirt was a sash barely a hand's width in length. She had a short, boyish bob of auburn hair, her lips were painted a garish red, her eyelids thick with kohl, and her face carried a slack, euphoric affect that came only from rapturous pleasure or powerful narcotics.

She carried a tray carved from walnut and inlaid with gold, and on that tray were four silver goblets and a quarter-gallon jug of wine. The girl did not carry the tray in her hands, however, which were behind her back. The back of the tray was strapped to a leather belt that wrapped around her skinny stomach, and the front of the tray was suspended by a pair of silver chains sloping down at an angle, like the chains on a drawbridge. Both of these chains connected to thick, heavy piercings that went through the girl's bare nipples.

"Ah, Ihsan, thank you," said Karim as the girl knelt by his side. He tousled her hair, eliciting a delighted squeak as she placed the four goblets on the table. Despite her unfocused eyes and dazed expression she filled up each cup with deep, dark wine without spilling a drop. She placed the jug in the center of the table, detached the serving tray from her nipples to place aside, and sat cross-legged by Karim to provide refills as required. Thom stopped nipping at his serving girl's neck just long enough to notice the wine, and the girl who had poured it. He bumped Mido off his lap and leered at the wine girl.

"I met this one last time did I not, Sir Karim."

"You did indeed sirrah, when she was barely a season into her training. I am sure you can see some changes, and if they are not immediately apparent I'd be delighted for you to inspect her further."

"Well then little Ihsan, let's have a look at you," he growled lecherously, beckoning her forward. A look of genuine worry flickered over her face but passed as she stood up. She yelped when Thom grabbed her slender wrist and began groping and squeezing her.

He made crude remarks about her every feature as inspected her. "Her skin is softer... Bit slimmer on the tummy... By God I might take a bite out of these buttocks... Open your mouth, girl," he ordered, and when she complied he stuck two fingers in her mouth to grab the silver stud in her tongue. She whimpered softly, sticking out her tongue as far as she could to avoid hurting herself. "Oh, now this is new," he murmured. "Do you remember the things you did with your tongue the last time we met? Do you?" He tugged on her piercing to hurry her answer.

"Y-yeth!" she replied, her voice shaking.

Davai watched with contempt and not a little disgust as his companion examined the poor wench like a cow at market. He wished to order him to restrain his base lust, but Karim was watching the whole display with delighted amusement and the liberties that Thom was taking were ones explicitly offered up by him. To hold Thom back would be no different than rejecting Karim's hospitality if not worse, for it would imply gross impropriety on their host's part, so he resigned himself to watching out of the corner of his eye, and sipped the wine. It was rich in flavour and in spirit; he'd drank brandies with less kick than this wine, but the heady vapours of the alcohol dissolved the edges of his anxieties at least.

"What else, what else... Udders filling out nicely, ooh, I love the reins," Thom said, tugging the chains leading to the thick piercings through her nipples, eliciting a moan that could have been pain or pleasure. "Smells good, tastes good—" he took a heady lick of her neck, "—now lets see that cunt of yours."

He reached out to pick up a small clay flask of olive oil from the table, spilled it over his fingers with not a little dripping onto the unthinkably expensive rugs below, and slipped his hand under Ihsan's bottom. She squeaked and threw her head back as his thick fingers probed her crack, pressing her skinny back against his chest, her nipple-chains rattling as she took halting, shuddering breaths.

"Open up your legs and let me in," Thom growled softly. Ihsan did so, opening her knees, spreading her skinny thighs wide, and pushing out her hips.

A glint between her legs caught Davai's eye, an intricate decoration made from thick golden wire. He stared for a moment, and his mouth fell open as he realized what the finely-wrought device was: not jewellery but a cage, a cage that fit around a small pair of testicles and an equally diminutive cock, preventing its wearer from becoming hard.

"Ihsan is a man!" he blurted out.

He felt many sets of eyes on him. Sir Karim and Thom the Brigand appeared confused, and Ihsan was plainly uncomfortable. The other serving girls were staring at him too, and the pair of hands that had been pleasantly massaging him had stopped. He felt a tightness in his chest, and something sharp and icy deeper within him.

Thom and Karim burst out laughing, and laughed uproariously for some time. Several of the serving girls tittered softly before returning to their activities, and Davai felt the pair of hands resume stroking his chest once more. Ihsan had closed their eyes, and was trying to push their ass down onto Thom's fingers. The panic faded, but the confusion and vague sense of dread remained.

"I—Pardon my, I did not wish—" he stuttered.

"I assure you that Ihsan is not a man of any kind," said Karim, grinning.

Davai couldn't stop himself from looking directly at Ihsan's cock, bound up in a golden coil. "But there's an, uh..."

Thom scoffed loudly. "If I met a traveler on the road with this little maiden's chime between their legs," he said, slapping Ihsan's cage and eliciting a pained yelp, "and they claimed that a pathetic endowment such as this gave them claim to manhood, I'd bugger them until they admitted otherwise and sell them on to Karim."

Such callous cruelty and open sodomy turned Davai's stomach, and against his better judgement he turned to his host for counsel. His heart thumped in his throat and his cheeks burned red as he spoke.

"I apologise for," he gave a start, "for my, ah, awkwardness. Sodomy is not a custom I am overly familiar with, and I have been taught by the church that such things are dire sins. You have my most solemn word that I do not intend to cause offence."

Karim waved him off, and did not appear upset in the slightest. "Permit me another question, Lord Davai: sodomy is a sin because it is gravely wrong to lie with another man as one would a woman. It is a grave wrong because we owe our fellow man some degree of respect and dignity, and to push a man to the floor and fuck your seed into him as if he were a mere concubine injures him and degrades you. Is this what you have been taught?"

Davai nodded. "That is the rough shape of it, yes."

"But what makes a man, Lord Davai? A man fights and conquers, a man thinks and creates philosophy from aether, a man shows loyalty to his leader and to those men he leads, a man has strength, a man has honour, and if a man is owed respect and dignity it is on account of his honour, and honour depends on one's ability to defend and uphold it."

Two thick fingers slipped inside Ihsan's ass, and as she babbled with pleasure a line of clear fluid drizzled from the tip of her cock to pool on the corner of the table.

"You see, Lord Davai, it is not easy to truly be a man in the eyes of Allah," Karim said matter-of-factly, "but just about any pretty thing can be turned into a serving girl."

"I do not imagine that a man as tall and broad as you would have to worry unduly about such a fate," said Davai wryly.

Karim gave a sly grin. "Do not be so sure, lord, for I know of men who prefer their serving girls to tower over guests. It is true that I have never feared such a fate befalling me. I do not need to worry, for the same reason a lord like you does not need to fear it."

Something in his tone gave Davai a burst of curiosity. "Oh?"

"What separates the slave from a truly free man, Lord Davai?"

"I would say shackles and the sharp end of a spear," said Davai, "but again, it is a custom I am not intimately familiar with."

Karim grinned broadly at him and swigged his wine. "Your unfamiliarity shows, Lord, for the difference is simple: a free man has honour, shown through his willingness to defend what is his, and a slave has none. Some men appear free but are no more than masterless slaves, and would submit to the first soldier to put a boot on his neck."

Davai steepled his slender fingers. "I can see how lack of honour would make one a slave, but I cannot yet fathom how a store of honour would prevent it."

"Because an honourable man cannot submit to slavery; he will resist until he dies or overpowers his captor."

Davai sucked air in through his teeth. "That's a dear proof indeed."

"Yes, and a man's honour is a dear claim." He lowered his empty goblet to the table, where it was immediately refilled by Tabitha. "It is not so different to this land's own feudal arrangement if you consider it: your serfs do not possess the honour of a noble house, so they willingly pledge fealty to those who will fight and die to protect the land. In the eye of my people, noble blood is only important insofar that it predicts noble honour. Your Western societies are stable because true nobles will choose death over submission."

Davai did not consider himself a man of unparalleled bravery, and knew many nobles who were far more cowardly than he. "A system that runs on such honour is most stable when it is never tested."

“And yet an unproven system atrophies from lack of testing until one strong attempt can push it down entirely; such is the fate that befell the Kingdoms of the Far East and the Caliphates of the Near East.”

Davai nodded and recalled the handful skirmishes he had been party to, despite being nobody's picture of a fighting man. "In Rus and across all of Europe we are sometimes too eager to prove such things, I fear."

Karim nodded in assent, and around the table they returned to drinking—excepting Thom—until the first jug of wine was depleted. Mido put the goblets aside and refilled the teacups, falling onto Davai's lap with blatant premeditation. She apologised profusely to Davai, and turned to Karim."Master, Lord Davai is still suffering from the tea," she said, pouting.

"It is quite alright, I do not—"

"May we extend him the hospitality of relieving his tension?"

Karim turned to Davai, grinning widely. "Of course, my dear girl. Tabitha, attend to me in the same manner if you would.”

From behind, Bahar slipped her hands under and up the front of his tunic and hooked her heels over his crossed legs, parting them slightly. She kissed his neck as her soft fingers caressed his nipples, her jewellery cool against his skin, and before he could say a word Mido was in front of him. He looked into her eyes for a moment, so black and yet so gentle, and she pressed her lips to his. The kiss was a brief one, the taste of rosewater and fresh mint lingering on as she made her way down his chest. His heart thrummed in his throat as her hands reached his stockings.

"D-don't—oh!" His protest dissolved into a weak moan as Bahar nibbled his ear, and it was a protest so bereft of conviction that both girls freely ignored it.

Mido pulled down both his stockings and the linen braies under them, freeing his stiff cock. Davai's stomach curdled with embarrassment, as he had last performed a cursory wash with campfire water and damp rags two days ago and had not bathed properly since he had left his estate. His small thatch of pale blonde pubic hair was matted with sweat and he caught hint of his own musky scent through the incense, but it did not seem to bother Mido, who curled her gauntlet-clad hand around the shaft. It had been a long time since Davai had felt any touch there but his own. His toes curled, and he inhaled sharply.

Without breaking eye contact with him for a moment, Mido lowered her head, planted her lips at the base of his cock, and touched her tongue to the shaft. She dragged her tongue up slowly, leaving a generous coating of saliva on his skin as he twitched and fidgeted, her breath oh-so-warm on every inch of him, moment by moment, until she reached the very tip. With her tongue stuck out, Davai could see she had a similar tongue piercing to Ihsan the wine girl.

She closed her eyes and swallowed his entire length.

Davai cried out softly, and as he did Bahar pinched his nipples and bit down on his neck, turning his cry into a squeak. His hands grabbed at the fabric of the cushion, his hips jolted forwards, and if not for the serving girl holding him tightly from behind he would have fallen backwards. He looked down and saw a pool of soft black hair in his lap hiding Mido's face entirely. He didn't need to see her face to feel her nose nestled in his pubic hair and her tongue sticking out past her bottom lip, lapping at his balls.

"Do not be anxious, Lord," whispered Bahar in his ear. "Mido's talents are unparalleled and only available to a select few, so please, enjoy them. You are in good hands, and mouths."

He could think of nothing to say in response, and looked on dumbly as Mido rose up, her warm, wet mouth rising up his shaft with her lips wrapped tight around him, until only the tip remained inside. She looked up at him, brushing hair out of her face with one hand as her other pumped up-and-down his cock. Her studded tongue slipped under his foreskin and swirled around the head. Davai felt as if all the bones in his body had momentarily turned to aspic, and before he could release another girlish moan, she swallowed his entire length again...

Part 4 here: https://writefinch.tumblr.com/post/642674526881284096/the-princes-offering-pt4

[novamm66]

From Earth to Sky - Chapter Ten

--

Who else is happy it’s Friday! I sure am. It means it is new chapter day!

This chapter was challenging. I tried to write it without giving away some major plot points from my first story Red Sky in the Morning. 

I know that I am giving Bianca a bad time in my story. It’s just how it worked out in my head. 

Enjoy!

--

“Get him killed, and I’ll feed you your own eyeballs, Inquisitor.”

Bianca’s parting shot snapped the last of Kiaya’s restraint, and in a blink, Kiaya had Bianca pinned to the wall. Varric had never seen Kiaya lash out like this before. Her level head was something everyone had come to count on. But there was no sign of it now.

“How dare you.” Kiaya snarled as she pressed her arm against Bianca’s throat. “After this? You think locking this door fixes anything? The damage is done. That stuff has killed hundreds, possibly thousands, and polluted lands for who knows how long. The damage you have done will affect generations. I have already pulled a spike the size of my arm out of Varric’s back, and I am having a lot of trouble not blaming you for it getting there.” Bianca’s eyes flicked to Varric’s briefly, and he nodded, confirming what Kiaya said.

“I,” Bianca shuttered, but Kiaya cut her off.

“I am doing everything in my power to put the demon you let out back in its bottle. But the damage is done, and you are partly responsible for that,” Kiaya growled. “So don’t you dare threaten me. It is my advice,” Kiaya pressed on Bianca’s throat, causing the other woman to wheeze. “That you get as far away from me as quickly as you can before I lose what little sense I have left.”

Kiaya released her hold and backed up, her hands were glowing with power, and the mark was in full form. Bianca shot Varric one more glance before she was gone.

Bianca’s footsteps faded into silence. Dorian coughed. “Well, then.”

“Smudges,” Varric began, but he stopped speaking when Kiaya looked at him. Her fury had not receded. It burned in her eyes and seemed to pulse in the air.

“Let’s get back to camp.” Kiaya’s tone was clipped, controlled, and the group silently followed her out of the cave.

There was no sign of Bianca outside. Kiaya was breathing hard as she glanced around. “Thom, would you mind carrying my gear back to camp?” Without waiting for an answer, Kiaya stripped to her smalls. Then walked to the cliff edge next to the waterfall and dove into the deep pool below.

Varric helped gather up Kiaya’s things while Dorian watched the water. “If you are waiting for her to surface, you may be here a while,” Varric said to the mage.

“I know, I was just contemplating the distasteful idea of going after her,” Dorian answered.

“Best to leave her be,” Thom said as he led the way down the path. “Give her time. Also, I would bet you wouldn’t be quite as successful with that dive, although I would pay some coins to see it.”

Dorian’s vehement denial of anyone every seeing The tension that Kiaya had left behind began to ease as Dorian denied anyone ever seeing him high dive.

Varric spared one more worried glance at the water before hurrying after his two companions. “First round is on me this evening, gents. Let’s get back to camp.”

—

It was late, but Cassandra was still awake. She had trouble falling asleep without Varric beside her now. She was reading in Varric’s moth-eaten desk chair with a blanket over her bare legs.

Cassandra snapped the book closed when she heard his familiar footsteps on the stairs. Varric looked exhausted when he came through the door, but he perked up when he saw her. Cassandra immediately stood and went to him, wrapping her arms around him as his head rested on her chest. His pack hit the floor with a thud before Varric mirrored her position. Cassandra revelled in the feeling of well-being that came from simply holding him.

It lasted until Cassandra was pinched by his armour, and she hissed at the spark of pain. She helped him undo the many buckles that held his kit together, not speaking until the last piece was set aside, and they settled into bed together. Varric rolled his shoulders and stretched. Cassandra combed her fingers through his hair, trying to ease the tension he still held.

“How did it go?” Cassandra asked, and Varric’s answering sigh ghosted across her collar bone.

“Could have been better.” Varric pulled Cassandra tighter into his side. “Could have been worse too, I suppose. We closed the door to the Deep Roads, but it was Bianca that gave Corypheus access. Not intentionally but still.”

“That is not your fault.” Cass fought to sound calm through her anger on Varric’s behalf. “You are not responsible for the actions of others.”

“No, just my own.” Varric sounded defeated. “If Bartrand and I had never organized that expedition, so much would be different.”

Cassandra’s heart ached at the pain in his voice. “No one blames you, Varric.”

“Except myself.” Varric waved away Cass’s protest and changed the subject. “So Smudges finally show her temper. She almost throttled Bianca. It was a near thing.”

“What?” Cassandra sat up in surprise.

“Oh, yes. Smudges has a temper that we have never seen before, and I hope to never see again.” Varric gave her a crooked smile. But Cassandra could see weariness etched in his features. He looked so tired like this venture had taken more out of him than he wanted to let on. Cassandra leaned down and gently kissed him, offering the comfort she couldn’t find the words to express. Cassandra lay down again, nestling her head against Varric’s shoulder, gently kissing the side of his neck. “You should sleep now. You can tell me in the morning. If you want to.”

The candle burned low and went out. Cassandra was almost asleep, lulled by the steady beat of Varric’s heart.

“I’m happy you are here, Cass.” Varric murmured, his voice clouded with sleep.

“Always,” Cassandra said as the pull of the fade took her.

---

Cassandra gripped the stone baluster hard enough that her knuckles ached. She was expected at the Herald’s Rest. But Kiaya’s confession had thrown Cassandra into turmoil. Her shock had led to anger, which had sparked an argument with Varric.

Cassandra was startled when Cullen settled against the wall next to her.

“How long have you known?” Cassandra asked through gritted teeth.

Cullen sighed. “She told me after the battle at Adamant.”

“Fuck!” Cassandra pushed off the wall and paced to the tower and back. “How am I…” Cassandra couldn’t finish her question. She kicked the wall before cursing again.

“I know how you feel.” Cullen waved off her skeptical look. “You feel like everything that has been guiding you is false. That suddenly all the good you wanted to do in this life may be flawed, and you are picking apart every decision, every act. The guidelines you have believed in for so long are suddenly not where you expect them to be.”

“This is starting to sound oddly familiar,” Cassandra said dryly. Cullen was echoing the words she had said to him when she recruited him in Kirkwall.

Cullen grinned at her and continued. “What you have now is an opportunity to form your own guidelines…”

“Build a world that you want to see.” Cassandra finished for him, rolling her eyes. “And I dragged you into this nightmare.”

“Not the way I see it. You were right. We are changing the world by trying to hold it together.”

“How can this not change things?” Cassandra could feel her anger giving way.

“What does it actually change?” Cullen asked.

Cass groaned. “I don’t know. How did you forgive her?”

Cullen was quiet for a moment, watching the sunset colours start to bloom. “I walked away from Kiaya when she told me. At that moment, all I could see was my fears come to life.”

Cassandra gave Cullen a studied look. Shame was apparent on his face. “How far did you get?” She asked.

“A few paces, then I went back.” Cullen answer with a bone-weary sigh. “I remembered who she is and everything that she has done for us, all while carrying a fifteen-year-old secret and hating herself for it.”

Cullen met Cassandra’s eyes. “She the strongest person I know, Cass. Would you want to be judged on what you did fifteen years ago? I certainly don’t. Is there anything you can do to her that is worse than what she does to herself? Kiaya cares for people so much, you have seen it, is that so easily forgotten?”

“No. It’s not.” Cassandra’s anger was fading.

Cullen looked down as the pub door opened, and the sounds of merriment laughter spilled out. “It’s good of Varric to organize a cards night. Kiaya needs to know that she’s not alone.”

“Varric has a good heart,” Cassandra replied.

“So do you,” Cullen said. “And so does Kiaya.”

Cassandra exhaled the last of her anger. She could see worry still on Cullen’s face, and she smiled at her friend. “You can relax. I owe Kiaya my life a few times over, and I know nothing has really changed. It was just so unexpected.”

Cullen relaxed. “I know. I still have moments when I don’t believe it.”

“Alright,” Cassandra smacked her palms down on the stone parapet hard enough to sting. “Now, I really need a drink.”

Cullen laughed. “Me too, but not that stuff that Bull drinks or Kiaya’s Scramble. I need to be able to function tomorrow.”

---

[murroyilodel]

The Art of the Hunchback of Notre Dame: Quasimodo (link) | Esmeralda (link) | Frollo (link) | Phoebus (link) | Clopin (link)

The Misshapen Bell-ringer

The character and his journey from oppression to freedom aroused empathy in many key contributors to the project. Marshall Toomey, the cleanup key for the character and an African-American, asserts, “I’ve lived Quasimodo’s life. I was one of the first people to get bussed in the early 1960s. I got called all kinds of names. I felt so inferior and so ugly. I know what’s in Quasimodo’s heart because of what I’ve been through in my life.” Writer Noni White asserts, “Someone once said that anti-Semitism is a light sleeper. All bigotry is a light sleeper. Because Quasimodo and the [Romani] are outcasts, the story touches a universal theme: Why can’t we see each other as human beings and not judge one another based on looks, beliefs, or race?”

Full write-up behind Read-More

Taking that step forward required the filmmakers to extract the essence of some of literature’s more memorable and sharply etched characters Hugo evokes Quasimodo, for instance, as “a giant broken in pieces and badly reassembled,” with “a huge head sprouting red hair; between the two shoulders an enormous hump, the repercussions of which were evident at the front; a system of thighs and legs so strangely warped that they met only at the knees and looked, from the front, like two scythe-blades joined at the handle; broad feet and monstrous hands.” Still, beneath the surface, “There was a radiance about that somber and unhappy face.”

In the novel Quasimodo may be viewed as a symbol of the unacknowledged evil of his guardian, Claude Frollo, as well as a scapegoat for the fears and superstitions of the medieval populace. Yet the Disney filmmakers saw that behind these misconceptions lay another Quasimodo entirely. Observes concept artist Jean Gillmore, “Quasimodo was limited not so much by his own physical restrictions as by people’s opinions of him. People of that time feared anything out of the ordinary, and Quasimodo embodied those fears, fuelled by the superstitions and dogma of the church. To them something that hideous on the outside must also be hideous inside.”

Rather than dwell solely on the physical qualities of the character, whom Hugo variously describes as “a living chimera,” and “hunchbacked, one-eyed, and lame,” and with a “dome for a back and twisted columns for legs,” the Disney moviemakers chose to dramatize Quasimodo’s internal struggle with the shame, insecurities, and self-loathing Frollo has created in him. Don Hahn, who previously produced Beauty and the Beast and The Lion King before being asked to produce The Hunchback of Notre Dame, views Quasimodo as “an abused child who has to struggle far less with his physical challenges than with the huge oppression of being told by his father figure, Frollo, that he is a monster, a freak unfit to venture out into the world.” Kirk Wise terms the relationship of Quasimodo and Frollo “classically dysfunctional. Frollo constantly reminds Quasimodo of how ugly, how worthless, he is and whenever the poor kid gets his hopes up, Frollo smashes them down. It’s almost like some insidious form of brainwashing that keeps Quasimodo in a trance.”

The moviemakers determined that their Quasimodo should hew close to the age Hugo ascribes to him, about twenty, rather than the fortyish man he appears to be in previous film versions. The choice lends him an innocent appeal. Hugo’s conception that Quasimodo was “vicious in fact because he was anti-social; he was anti-social because he was ugly” evolved in the filmmakers’ minds to a more modern conceit. Gary Trousdale maintains that it was crucial for Quasimodo to not be “malevolent, bitter, and vicious, but a put-upon guy who, beneath his surface appearance and his being emotionally stunted, has a loving heart of gold.” “It’s not so much how much he looks, it’s a really his inner soul trying to break free,” concurs Kirk Wise.

No Disney animated character, from Mickey Mouse to Captain John Smith or from Snow White to Pocahontas, has sprung easily into existence. Few could have presented more challenges than Quasimodo, whose transcendent spirit can be glimpsed only be those willing to see beyond his unconventional outward appearance. Key decisions were required as to how he would look and move, and how great his physical challenges should be. It had been suggested, for instance, that half his face might be deformed, but hidden under a cascade of beautiful hair. The filmmakers vetoed that notion because, as writer Bob Tzudiker put it, “This is a story of someone who must overcome his perception of his own deformity. If we hid his deformity, we’d be avoiding telling the story.” Many of the Studio’s most gifted artists – among them Joe Grant, Burny Mattinson, Ed Gombert, Jean Gillmore, Thom Enriquez, Rick Maki, Geefwee Boedoe, Kevin Harkey, James Baxter, and Rowland Wilson – created prototypical inspirational approaches to the character that ranged from nightmare creatures to singular-looking boys. In the end, a blend of the designs of illustrator Peter DeSeve, whose surrealistic style is perhaps known best from his New Yorker work, and animator James Baxter, best known for his work on Beauty and the Beast and The Lion King, were chosen to balance Hugo’s Quasimodo with Disney’s. From the first moment Quasimodo appears on screen, lovingly urging a hesitant, frightened young pigeon to at last fly free of Notre Dame, the character, as animated by Baxter, appears sympathetic, psychologically battered, winsome, a full-hearted and appealing underdog. “James Baxter’s animation of Quasimodo is so moving, that it’s easy to forget that the performance as created with a pencil and paper,” producer Don Hahn says. “The energy from his animation is something audiences can feel when they look at the screen.”

Baxter designed Quasimodo with a stress on horizontal shapes rather than vertical ones. Says Baxter, “His shape contrasts deliberately with the other major characters, especially Frollo, who is very tall and Gothic. Frollo seems to fit in with the Gothic architecture while Quasi doesn’t.” Despite Quasimodo’s physical appearance, he had to be designed to be very adept and active. “He’s deformed but not disabled,” says Baxter. “His being bent over was a metaphor for his wanting to hide. We wanted him wrapped in on himself, able to bend over and cower in his most oppressed moments.”

The artists of the layout, background and effects departments worked to create an environment for Quasimodo which reflected his character and his moods. Psychologically, the cathedral is, in Baxter’s words, “Quasi’s comfort zone. When he’s on his own or with the gargoyles he’s at ease; it’s very different from when he’s in the square.” Says head of layout Ed Ghertner, “There are places in the belltower where Quasimodo has all these found and manufactured objects and they really tell you a lot about who he is, what his preoccupations are.” As the movie progresses the color and environment change subtly to suggest changes in Quasi’s mood. “Though his environment starts out cold, it becomes warmer when he shows his space to Esmeralda and magical and ethereal when he dreams of heaven’s light,” says head of backgrounds Lisa Keene.

It is through his relationship with another element of the cathedral, the gargoyles Hugo, Victor, and Laverne, that the directors chose to reveal an important aspect of Quasimodo’s character. Voiced by Jason Alexander, Charles Kimbrough, and Mary Wickes, respectively (Jane Withers took on the role of Laverne after Mary Wickes passed away in October 1995), “the gargoyles help us see the warm and funny side of Quasi that shuts down when Frollo’s around,” says Gary Trousdale. “Not only does this add humour and lightness to the film, it shows an aspect of his character you wouldn’t otherwise see, an aspect that he isn’t allowed to express to others.”

The character and his journey from oppression to freedom aroused empathy in many key contributors to the project. Marshall Toomey, the cleanup key for the character and an African-American, asserts, “I’ve lived Quasimodo’s life. I was one of the first people to get bussed in the early 1960s. I got called all kinds of names. I felt so inferior and so ugly. I know what’s in Quasimodo’s heart because of what I’ve been through in my life.” Writer Noni White asserts, “Someone once said that anti-Semitism is a light sleeper. All bigotry is a light sleeper. Because Quasimodo and the [Romani] are outcasts, the story touches a universal theme: Why can’t we see each other as human beings and not judge one another based on looks, beliefs, or race?”

To voice and sing the character, Tom Hulce, an Oscar nominee for his role as Mozart in Amadeus, was, according to coproducer Roy Cohn, “the guy as soon as we heard him sing because he has this wonderful, innocent quality to his voice, yet it still has the kind of power and depth you’d expect from Quasimodo.” Hulce got put to the test on “Out There,” the song written for Quasimodo by composer Alan Menken and lyricist Stephen Schwartz in which the character’s feelings well up, compelling him to express his longing for one sing day amid the throngs he watches from the distant heights of the belltower:

            All my life I wonder how it feels to pass a day,             Not above them,             But part of them…

For Gary Trousdale, the song “defines Quasimodo as a yearning, child-like guy watching life pass him by from the belltower, as frustrated as anyone might be if the Tournament of Roses Parade or Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade passed by your window, but you could never go.” Victor Hugo probably never imagined his malformed, melancholy creation breaking forth into song. Yet, Baxter’s animation, Menken’s melody, and Schwartz’s lyrics speak powerfully of the character’s lonely isolation, oppression, and feeling of being an outsider.