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#story process challenge

bookshelf-in-progress · 3 months

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A Wise Pair of Fools: A Retelling of “The Farmer’s Clever Daughter”

For the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge at @inklings-challenge.

Faith

I wish you could have known my husband when he was a young man. How you would have laughed at him! He was so wonderfully pompous—oh, you’d have no idea unless you’d seen him then. He’s weathered beautifully, but back then, his beauty was bright and new, all bronze and ebony. He tried to pretend he didn’t care for personal appearances, but you could tell he felt his beauty. How could a man not be proud when he looked like one of creation’s freshly polished masterpieces every time he stepped out among his dirty, sweaty peasantry?

But his pride in his face was nothing compared to the pride he felt over his mind. He was clever, even then, and he knew it. He’d grown up with an army of nursemaids to exclaim, “What a clever boy!” over every mildly witty observation he made. He’d been tutored by some of the greatest scholars on the continent, attended the great universities, traveled further than most people think the world extends. He could converse like a native in fifteen living languages and at least three dead ones.

And books! Never a man like him for reading! His library was nothing to what it is now, of course, but he was making a heroic start. Always a book in his hand, written by some dusty old man who never said in plain language what he could dress up in words that brought four times the work to some lucky printer. Every second breath he took came out as a quotation. It fairly baffled his poor servants—I’m certain to this day some of them assume Plato and Socrates were college friends of his.

Well, at any rate, take a man like that—beautiful and over-educated—and make him king over an entire nation—however small—before he turns twenty-five, and you’ve united all earthly blessings into one impossibly arrogant being.

Unfortunately, Alistair’s pomposity didn’t keep him properly aloof in his palace. He’d picked up an idea from one of his old books that he should be like one of the judge-kings of old, walking out among his people to pass judgment on their problems, giving the inferior masses the benefit of all his twenty-four years of wisdom. It’s all right to have a royal patron, but he was so patronizing. Just as if we were all children and he was our benevolent father. It wasn’t strange to see him walking through the markets or looking over the fields—he always managed to look like he floated a step or two above the common ground the rest of us walked on—and we heard stories upon stories of his judgments. He was decisive, opinionated. Always thought he had a better way of doing things. Was always thinking two and ten and twelve steps ahead until a poor man’s head would be spinning from all the ways the king found to see through him. Half the time, I wasn’t sure whether to fear the man or laugh at him. I usually laughed.

So then you can see how the story of the mortar—what do you mean you’ve never heard it? You could hear it ten times a night in any tavern in the country. I tell it myself at least once a week! Everyone in the palace is sick to death of it!

Oh, this is going to be a treat! Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a fresh audience?

It happened like this. It was spring of the year I turned twenty-one. Father plowed up a field that had lain fallow for some years, with some new-fangled deep-cutting plow that our book-learned king had inflicted upon a peasantry that was baffled by his scientific talk. Father was plowing near a river when he uncovered a mortar made of solid gold. You know, a mortar—the thing with the pestle, for grinding things up. Don’t ask me why on earth a goldsmith would make such a thing—the world’s full of men with too much money and not enough sense, and housefuls of servants willing to take too-valuable trinkets off their hands. Someone decades ago had swiped this one and apparently found my father’s farm so good a hiding place that they forgot to come back for it.

Anyhow, my father, like the good tenant he was, understood that as he’d found a treasure on the king’s land, the right thing to do was to give it to the king. He was all aglow with his noble purpose, ready to rush to the palace at first light to do his duty by his liege lord.

I hope you can see the flaw in his plan. A man like Alistair, certain of his own cleverness, careful never to be outwitted by his peasantry? Come to a man like that with a solid gold mortar, and his first question’s going to be…?

That’s right. “Where’s the pestle?”

I tried to tell Father as much, but he—dear, sweet, innocent man—saw only his simple duty and went forth to fulfill it. He trotted into the king’s throne room—it was his public day—all smiles and eagerness.

Alistair took one look at him and saw a peasant tickled to death that he was pulling a fast one on the king—giving up half the king’s rightful treasure in the hopes of keeping the other half and getting a fat reward besides.

Alistair tore into my father—his tongue was much sharper then—taking his argument to pieces until Father half-believed he had hidden away the pestle somewhere, probably after stealing both pieces himself. In his confusion, Father looked even guiltier, and Alistair ordered his guard to drag Father off to the dungeons until they could arrange a proper hearing—and, inevitably, a hanging.

As they dragged him to his doom, my father had the good sense to say one coherent phrase, loud enough for the entire palace to hear. “If only I had listened to my daughter!”

Alistair, for all his brains, hadn’t expected him to say something like that. He had Father brought before him, and questioned him until he learned the whole story of how I’d urged Father to bury the mortar again and not say a word about it, so as to prevent this very scene from occurring.

About five minutes after that, I knocked over a butter churn when four soldiers burst into my father’s farmhouse and demanded I go with them to the castle. I made them clean up the mess, then put on my best dress and did up my hair—in those days, it was thick and golden, and fell to my ankles when unbound—and after traveling to the castle, I went, trembling, up the aisle of the throne room.

Alistair had made an effort that morning to look extra handsome and extra kingly. He still has robes like those, all purple and gold, but the way they set off his black hair and sharp cheekbones that day—I’ve never seen anything like it. He looked half-divine, the spirit of judgment in human form. At the moment, I didn’t feel like laughing at him.

Looming on his throne, he asked me, “Is it true that you advised this man to hide the king’s rightful property from him?” (Alistair hates it when I imitate his voice—but isn’t it a good impression?)

I said yes, it was true, and Alistair asked me why I’d done such a thing, and I said I had known this disaster would result, and he asked how I knew, and I said (and I think it’s quite good), that this is what happens when you have a king who’s too clever to be anything but stupid.

Naturally, Alistair didn’t like that answer a bit, but I’d gotten on a roll, and it was my turn to give him a good tongue-lashing. What kind of king did he think he was, who could look at a man as sweet and honest as my father and suspect him of a crime? Alistair was so busy trying to see hidden lies that he couldn’t see the truth in front of his face. So determined not to be made a fool of that he was making himself into one. If he persisted in suspecting everyone who tried to do him a good turn, no one would be willing to do much of anything for him. And so on and so forth.

You might be surprised at my boldness, but I had come into that room not expecting to leave it without a rope around my neck, so I intended to speak my mind while I had the chance. The strangest thing was that Alistair listened, and as he listened, he lost some of that righteous arrogance until he looked almost human. And the end of it all was that he apologized to me!

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather at that! I didn’t faint, but I came darn close. That arrogant, determined young king, admitting to a simple farmer’s daughter that he’d been wrong?

He did more than admit it—he made amends. He let Father keep the mortar, and then bought it from him at its full value. Then he gifted Father the farm where we lived, making us outright landowners. After the close of the day’s hearings, he even invited us to supper with him, and I found that King Alistair wasn’t a half-bad conversational partner. Some of those books he read sounded almost interesting.

For a year after that, Alistair kept finding excuses to come by the farm. He would check on Father’s progress and baffle him with advice. We ran into each other in the street so often that I began to expect it wasn’t mere chance. We’d talk books, and farming, and sharpen our wits on each other. We’d do wordplay, puzzles, tongue-twisters. A game, but somehow, I always thought, some strange sort of test.

Would you believe, even his proposal was a riddle? Yes, an actual riddle! One spring morning, I came across Alistair on a corner of my father's land, and he got down on one knee, confessed his love for me, and set me a riddle. He had the audacity to look into the face of the woman he loved—me!—and tell me that if I wanted to accept his proposal, I would come to him at his palace, not walking and not riding, not naked and not dressed, not on the road and not off it.

Do you know, I think he actually intended to stump me with it? For all his claim to love me, he looked forward to baffling me! He looked so sure of himself—as if all his book-learning couldn’t be beat by just a bit of common sense.

If I’d really been smart, I suppose I’d have run in the other direction, but, oh, I wanted to beat him so badly. I spent about half a minute solving the riddle and then went off to make my preparations.

The next morning, I came to the castle just like he asked. Neither walking nor riding—I tied myself to the old farm mule and let him half-drag me. Neither on the road nor off it—only one foot dragging in a wheel rut at the end. Neither naked nor dressed—merely wrapped in a fishing net. Oh, don’t look so shocked! There was so much rope around me that you could see less skin than I’m showing now.

If I’d hoped to disappoint Alistair, well, I was disappointed. He radiated joy. I’d never seen him truly smile before that moment—it was incandescent delight. He swept me in his arms, gave me a kiss without a hint of calculation in it, then had me taken off to be properly dressed, and we were married within a week.

It was a wonderful marriage. We got along beautifully—at least until the next time I outwitted him. But I won’t bore you with that story again—

You don’t know that one either? Where have you been hiding yourself?

Oh, I couldn’t possibly tell you that one. Not if it’s your first time. It’s much better the way Alistair tells it.

What time is it?

Perfect! He’s in his library just now. Go there and ask him to tell you the whole thing.

Yes, right now! What are you waiting for?

Alistair

Faith told you all that, did she? And sent you to me for the rest? That woman! It’s just like her! She thinks I have nothing better to do than sit around all day and gossip about our courtship!

Where are you going? I never said I wouldn’t tell the story! Honestly, does no one have brains these days? Sit down!

Yes, yes, anywhere you like. One chair’s as good as another—I built this room for comfort. Do you take tea? I can ring for a tray—the story tends to run long.

Well, I’ll ring for the usual, and you can help yourself to whatever you like.

I’m sure Faith has given you a colorful picture of what I was like as a young man, and she’s not totally inaccurate. I’d had wealth and power and too much education thrown on me far too young, and I thought my blessings made me better than other men. My own father had been the type of man who could be fooled by every silver-tongued charlatan in the land, so I was sensitive and suspicious, determined to never let another man outwit me.

When Faith came to her father’s defense, it was like my entire self came crumbling down. Suddenly, I wasn’t the wise king; I was a cruel and foolish boy—but Faith made me want to be better. That day was the start of my fascination with her, and my courtship started in earnest not long after.

The riddle? Yes, I can see how that would be confusing. Faith tends to skip over the explanations there. A riddle’s an odd proposal, but I thought it was brilliant at the time, and I still think it wasn’t totally wrong-headed. I wasn’t just finding a wife, you see, but a queen. Riddles have a long history in royal courtships. I spent weeks laboring over mine. I had some idea of a symbolic proposal—each element indicating how she’d straddle two worlds to be with me. But more than that, I wanted to see if Faith could move beyond binary thinking—look beyond two opposites to see the third option between. Kings and queens have to do that more often than you’d think…

No, I’m sorry, it is a bit dull, isn’t it? I guess there’s a reason Faith skips over the explanations.

So to return to the point: no matter what Faith tells you, I always intended for her to solve the riddle. I wouldn’t have married her if she hadn’t—but I wouldn’t have asked if I’d had the least doubt she’d succeed. The moment she came up that road was the most ridiculous spectacle you’d ever hope to see, but I had never known such ecstasy. She’d solved every piece of my riddle, in just the way I’d intended. She understood my mind and gained my heart. Oh, it was glorious.

Those first weeks of marriage were glorious, too. You’d think it’d be an adjustment, turning a farmer’s daughter into a queen, but it was like Faith had been born to the role. Manners are just a set of rules, and Faith has a sharp mind for memorization, and it’s not as though we’re a large kingdom or a very formal court. She had a good mind for politics, and was always willing to listen and learn. I was immensely proud of myself for finding and catching the perfect wife.

You’re smarter than I was—you can see where I was going wrong. But back then, I didn’t see a cloud in the sky of our perfect happiness until the storm struck.

It seemed like such a small thing at the time. I was looking over the fields of some nearby villages—farming innovations were my chief interest at the time. There were so many fascinating developments in those days. I’ve an entire shelf full of texts if you’re interested—

The story, yes. My apologies. The offer still stands.

Anyway, I was out in the fields, and it was well past the midday hour. I was starving, and more than a little overheated, so we were on our way to a local inn for a bit of food and rest. Just as I was at my most irritable, these farmers’ wives show up, shrilly demanding judgment in a case of theirs. I’d become known for making those on-the-spot decisions. I’d thought it was an efficient use of government resources—as long as I was out with the people, I could save them the trouble of complicated procedures with the courts—but I’d never regretted taking up the practice as heartily as I did in this moment.

The case was like this: one farmer’s horse had recently given birth, and the foal had wandered away from its mother and onto the neighbor’s property, where it laid down underneath an ox that was at pasture, and the second farmer thought this gave him a right to keep it. There were questions of fences and boundaries and who-owed-who for different trades going back at least a couple of decades—those women were determined to bring every past grievance to light in settling this case.

Well, it didn’t take long for me to lose what little patience I had. I snapped at both women and told them that my decision was that the foal could very well stay where it was.

Not my most reasoned decision, but it wasn’t totally baseless. I had common law going back centuries that supported such a ruling. Possession is nine-tenths of the law and all. It wasn't as though a single foal was worth so much fuss. I went off to my meal and thought that was the end of it.

I’d forgotten all about it by the time I returned to the same village the next week. My man and I were crossing the bridge leading into the town when we found the road covered by a fishing net. An old man sat by the side of the road, shaking and casting the net just as if he were laying it out for a catch.

“What do you think you’re doing, obstructing a public road like this?” I asked him.

The man smiled genially at me and replied, “Fishing, majesty.”

I thought perhaps the man had a touch of sunstroke, so I was really rather kind when I explained to him how impossible it was to catch fish in the roadway.

The man just replied, “It’s no more impossible than an ox giving birth to a foal, majesty.”

He said it like he’d been coached, and it didn’t take long for me to learn that my wife was behind it all. The farmer’s wife who’d lost the foal had come to Faith for help, and my wife had advised the farmer to make the scene I’d described.

Oh, was I livid! Instead of coming to me in private to discuss her concerns about the ruling, Faith had made a public spectacle of me. She encouraged my own subjects to mock me! This was what came of making a farm girl into a queen! She’d live in my house and wear my jewels, and all the time she was laughing up her sleeve at me while she incited my citizens to insurrection! Before long, none of my subjects would respect me. I’d lose my crown, and the kingdom would fall to pieces—

I worked myself into a fine frenzy, thinking such things. At the time, I thought myself perfectly reasonable. I had identified a threat to the kingdom’s stability, and I would deal with it. The moment I came home, I found Faith and declared that the marriage was dissolved. “If you prefer to side with the farmers against your own husband,” I told her, “you can go back to your father’s house and live with them!”

It was quite the tantrum. I’m proud to say I’ve never done anything so shameful since.

To my surprise, Faith took it all silently. None of the fire that she showed in defending her father against me. Faith had this way, back then, where she could look at a man and make him feel like an utter fool. At that moment, she made me feel like a monster. I was already beginning to regret what I was doing, but it was buried under so much anger that I barely realized it, and my pride wouldn’t allow me to back down so easily from another decision.

After I said my piece, Faith quietly asked if she was to leave the palace with nothing.

I couldn’t reverse what I’d decided, but I could soften it a bit.

“You may take one keepsake,” I told her. “Take the one thing you love best from our chambers.”

I thought I was clever to make the stipulation. Knowing Faith, she’d have found some way to move the entire palace and count it as a single item. I had no doubt she’d take the most expensive and inconvenient thing she could, but there was nothing in that set of rooms I couldn’t afford to lose.

Or so I thought. No doubt you’re beginning to see that Faith always gets the upper hand in a battle of wits.

I kept my distance that evening—let myself stew in resentment so I couldn’t regret what I’d done. I kept to my library—not this one, the little one upstairs in our suite—trying to distract myself with all manner of books, and getting frustrated when I found I wanted to share pieces of them with Faith. I was downright relieved when a maid came by with a tea tray. I drank my usual three cups so quickly I barely tasted them—and I passed out atop my desk five minutes later.

Yes, Faith had arranged for the tea—and she’d drugged me!

I came to in the pink light of early dawn, my head feeling like it had been run over by a military caravan. My wits were never as slow as they were that morning. I laid stupidly for what felt like hours, wondering why my bed was so narrow and lumpy, and why the walls of the room were so rough and bare, and why those infernal birds were screaming half an inch from my open window.

By the time I had enough strength to sit up, I could see that I was in the bedroom of a farmer’s cottage. Faith was standing by the window, looking out at the sunrise, wearing the dress she’d worn the first day I met her. Her hair was unbound, tumbling in golden waves all the way to her ankles. My heart leapt at the sight—her hair was one of the wonders of the world in those days, and I was so glad to see her when I felt so ill—until I remembered the events of the previous day, and was too confused and ashamed to have room for any other thoughts or feelings.

“Faith?” I asked. “Why are you here? Where am I?”

“My father’s home,” Faith replied, her eyes downcast—I think it’s the only time in her life she was ever bashful. “You told me I could take the one thing I loved best.”

Can I explain to you how my heart leapt at those words? There had never been a mind or a heart like my wife’s! It was like the moment she’d come to save her father—she made me feel a fool and feel glad for the reminder. I’d made the same mistake both times—let my head get in the way of my heart. She never made that mistake, thank heaven, and it saved us both.

Do you have something you want to add, Faith, darling? Don’t pretend I can’t see you lurking in the stacks and laughing at me! I’ll get as sappy as I like! If you think you can do it better, come out in the open and finish this story properly!

Faith

You tell it so beautifully, my darling fool boy, but if you insist—

I was forever grateful Dinah took that tea to Alistair. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen the loophole in his words—I was so afraid he’d see my ploy coming and stop me. But his wits were so blessedly dull that day. It was like outwitting a child.

When at last he came to, I was terrified. He had cast me out because I’d outwitted him, and now here I was again, thinking another clever trick would make everything well.

Fortunately, Alistair was marvelous—saw my meaning in an instant. Sometimes he can be almost clever.

After that, what’s there to tell? We made up our quarrel, and then some. Alistair brought me back to the palace in high honors—it was wonderful, the way he praised me and took so much blame on himself.

(You were really rather too hard on yourself, darling—I’d done more than enough to make any man rightfully angry. Taking you to Father’s house was my chance to apologize.)

Alistair paid the farmer for the loss of his foal, paid for the mending of the fence that had led to the trouble in the first place, and straightened out the legal tangles that had the neighbors at each others’ throats.

After that, things returned much to the way they’d been before, except that Alistair was careful never to think himself into such troubles again. We’ve gotten older, and I hope wiser, and between our quarrels and our reconciliations, we’ve grown into quite the wise pair of lovestruck fools. Take heed from it, whenever you marry—it’s good to have a clever spouse, but make sure you have one who’s willing to be the fool every once in a while.

Trust me. It works out for the best.

#the bookshelf progresses #fairy tale retellings #inklingschallenge #four loves fairy tale challenge #four loves fairy tale challenge 2024 #the farmer's clever daughter #theme: eros #story: complete #this one was *so much fun*#i was grinning throughout the brainstorming process #faith and alistair just *loved* telling me their story #and especially in the first scenes i kept stopping just because i was having so much fun with the lines #maybe it's horribly boring to read but as a writing exercise it was fantastic #i love these two so much #i haven't had this much fun since writing last year's epistolary story

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lycianlynx · 16 days

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✧ where the delicate stops

assassin mastery drabble.

much has been taken from you.

your fingers knit together when you think about it, trying to keep the memories from falling through your fingers. you would rather die than forget, you think, the wrongs done to you. wrongs are wrongs are wrong, and forgetting means leaving it in the dark to go unseen, unjudged. your roots, your childhood, your home: you are the only one who sees the depths of these losses, in the knowledge the lone bearer.

it was tolerable, once. easy to bury and let be, like a time capsule whispering wishes into the earth. but even mountains erode, even earth breaks. what is a pair of shoulders in the face of that kind of force? those slight things can't bear the thunderclap of the highest order of theft, the pillar which breaks the childs back. the greatest heist, the easiest theft, the most unskilled and the most devastating.

life. it's life. of course it is. kick someone wrong, can't feed a mouth right, slip of the hand. easy as that.

and the way you remember it, it was unceremonious. unskilled. unjust, unfair, unforgivable—embers left in a forest, waste dumped in the water. monsters bearing down on an unarmed man, laughing and jeering. knocking him over like building blocks. blood on the dirt. blood on your garden. blood on those tenuous things you were starting to think about holding close again, for what is sacrifice and bearing all that weight but love?

blood on his robes.

what is sacrifice but love? you love and that's undeniable. you think about burns on your hands from a pot running too hot. you think about a sack of pilfered potatoes slung over your shoulder as you run. you think about plunging the knife in and in and in to make sure that lance doesn't rise again. you think about the saints and wonder if they'd accept a dirty little thief like you, lopsided and bloodstained. does love lead to this?

then why do you still want to love? you don't know. it's selfish. it's grotesque. but even if it's an uneven scale, even if your side is tipped too far down and drenched in sin, you wanted to. you still want to. you want that bright, warm thing you knew love at its best as again, even if you feel ground-down, raw and half-dead in it. o god, why do you keep the faith? why does love lead to this?

o god, is this what happens? is love to suffer and die? is it good to keep the rage, the remorse this close for something like love? is it good for love to be having the shadow of a mourner stand behind you, ready to take your hands and mind? what will that rage make you do? what will that mourner make you do?

in that, you aren't sure you care for what is good anymore. but love is good, isn't it? you need to be good to be loved, don't you? (this thought scares you.)

o god, so give me the bitter cup. it's easier to bear the conflict in silence. easier to bury it and draw that love into anger. easier to draw that love into burdens and memories. easier to do all this than to think of the root of it as love.

so you don't think of it when you draw the blade, the dagger, the notched arrow back. you remember the things taken from you, your roots, your childhood, your home. you think of father. you think of the blood; think in anger of seeing the echo of it elsewhere and find it repulsive. think that all that red's better off on your hands than anyone else's, anyways.

so to the grieving heart, this is right. ceremonious in the skill, fair and just. perfect cut, bulls-eye. clean kill.

really, just look at that. keeled over without a damn sound. noone will find this idiot for days, here.

hah. you've really become the worst kind of thief, haven't you?

#;wc. 674 #;tell me another story | drabble #honestly this backslides a bit into where he was mentally during fe6 #also mf is such an unreliable narrator im gonna beat their ass #chad stop thinking about your family challenge #im a firm chad should never class into assassin ingame truther but at toa i think hes processed his insane grief enough to stomach it now #sorry both their mastery drabbles as of now are this melodramatic but there was NO WAY i was wringing a normal assassin drabble out of them

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devouheir · 6 days

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Me, only halfway through ACOWAR: Lucien's first introduction to Tamlin was when he sought a place in his court after seeing his father unalive Jesminda with his brothers holding him down, making him watch. The final straw was when Lucien gave Beron a reason to hunt him down in the woods, sending his brothers after him with the full intent to kill ( * he's always running from his brother's sharp teeth, their fire in hands, don't stop running don't stop running don't stop running. ) It's a bad habit, it's survival etched in his birthright, and Tamlin was the first to have shown him to stand up for himself, Feyre was the second.

This distinction is important because it never occurred to Lucien that he could bite back, that when prey is forced into a corner, watch how quickly it becomes a predator.

But his brother's blood is still warm on his hands, and it never went away, and here's the moment that he thinks: vengeance doesn't feel great. Not when he had grown up alongside his brothers and thought he'd be fine if he stayed out of their way, he had lagged purposefully behind in lessons so to never show any of them up. The whip scars on his back, deep and embedded, only taught him that it wouldn't do him any good.

You can imagine the horror, the gratitude, and the love Lucien would have for someone like Tamlin. The idea that Tamlin is this powerful monster in Spring, and how Lucien felt next to him for years after because this monster saved him; his autonomy his own, his life in his own hands, a brother for a brother. ( * But blood is always thicker than water, and he wonders if he'll ever stop keeping his brother's names buried deep in him; their judge, jury, executioner. Not even worthy of remembering them when he was brought up to be less than his brothers, and so begins that never-ending loop: I'm sorry it was me, it should've been you at the other end of that knife, why am I still here? )

When Amaranthe took his eye when he entreated for peace, he'd call it a fair exchange. For Tamlin and everything he had given him while being a part of his court, brutally losing his eye and a quarter of his face was only a fraction of what Tamlin did for him.

This makes Tamlin's descent into madness harder and harder to bear when the situation reverts right back to his time in Beron's court, constantly wearing a black eye, a broken arm, and spilling blood from wounds he doesn't mind because Lucien genuinely wants to fight for Tamlin, you think him consistently getting abused would break him but he's had worse. Worse still, Lucien still loves him like a brother. ( * I got thoughts about how this changes when Feyre arrives but that's another meta )

#meta /#lucien vanserra /#The whole mate bond thing kinda jump started him out of his delusions to stay and fight for Tamlin lbrh #I'm honestly gassed that SJ.M DOESN"T touch any more on Lucien's character yet because his origin story is brutal #and in a world of traumatized MC's; he's ok with processing it all on his own; in his own way ofc ofc #Rabbit stop writing brother dynamics and traumatized males challenge

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recurring-polynya · 1 year

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My brain is back on the exact same bullshit that led me to declare Soul Society should have a train, but I suddenly, desperately need to know if Shin'ou students have a winter uniform.

I am honestly split six different ways over this. First of all, is there a standard-issue over-garment of some sort that is permitted when it's cold out? The uniforms have 3/4 sleeves for Pete's sake, and what could be more picturesque than your little students sashaying around campus in sort of matching cloaks?

As far as I know, there were two forms of outerwear in the Edo era: the haori and the hanten. The haori is lighter, longer, and worn by generally fancier people (and originally only men). The hanten is padded and worn by the working class. According to Wikipedia, in the 1910s, a unisex overgarment called a shosei haori became popular among students, but this was also associated with a movement towards western clothing, so I can't really imagine this trend hitting Soul Society*. On the other hand, this is the same period of time that female students started wearing hakama, although they would do so in the high-waisted style, whereas female Shin'ou students wear male-style hakama. (Complete aside, but I also found a reference to a garment called a tombi coat, popular in the early 1900s, that was very Sherlock Holmes-esque, and anyway, I feel in my heart that Byakuya own wore one of these in his delinquent era)

*[(1)There's a picture of a young man dressed as a shosei about 1/3 of the way down this page. (1) the section of this page labeled "Mixing of Japanese and Western fashion" says shosei haori were also worn over western suits. (3) Wikipedia claims they were padded, but I didn't find reference to that elsewhere.]

Back to the topic at hand. I feel like Shin'ou would be more inclined toward haori over hanten, because they want to cultivate an air of culture and exclusivity over practicality (and also they don't want to make it seem like the classrooms aren't adequately heated, which they are not). Does everyone get the same color, or it gender-split again? It might look kind of nice to have a darker shade of blue for the boys and maroon for the girls. They could also be the same color with different color linings, although...brown? I guess? Black or white are both right out, since those are Court Guard colors. Shin'ou surely has a seal. Big seal on the back? ::nods:: Big seal on the back.

The other option, of course, is that no, there is no standardized coat. One possibility is that coats are simply not allowed. Another is that you can wear your own outer garment, at least when you're walking around outside of class. This has the nice advantage of allowing the upper class students to display their wealth and also be warm, since Soul Society very rarely lets an opportunity for class discrimination to go by.

(Does Shin'ou have clubs??? Is it possible that there are haori associated with particular clubs, you know, like a varsity jacket? That would slap. Could they at least have patches?)

As far as we know, actual shinigami don't seem to have any sort of official cold weather gear. There is the time that the leadership of Squads 5 and 10 went up on the roof to watch fireworks together-- they all seem to be be wearing something on the spectrum between scarf and shawl; Matsumoto's is furry because she has taste.

On one hand, this might lend credence to the idea of bring-your-own-coat, but maybe not? Do people in the ghost military have more or less dress-flexibility than students (keeping in mind that even the barkeepers in this town wear shihakushou). Shinigami also seem to be generally free to accessorize, which we don't see much of among students.

Maybe the students just wear scarves? Soul Society seems pretty pro-scarf, generally.

I hope you weren't expecting a conclusion to this post, because I don't have one, and my final answer is going to have more to do with whether I decide I want Renji to be wearing a coat in the fanfic that I am working on or if I want him to suffer, but if anyone else has insights or opinions on this topic, I would love to hear them.

#bleach worldbuilding #did i write this post for the purposes of avoiding writing my fanfic? yes #you have to understand tho that the reason i write fanfic is so i can think about what kinds of coats student shinigami wear #any sort of stories that fall out at the end of this process are merely incidental #hitsugaya buy a smaller scarf challenge you look like lenny kravitz in that thing #as usual i have zero authority on any of this i just like to google and i welcome any more knowledgeable thoughts

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enchantingepics · 2 months

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Story Prompt 78

There lived a group of friends who always seemed to find themselves in the middle of mischief. They were known for their wild antics and their knack for bending the rules just enough to keep life interesting.

One sunny afternoon, as they lounged lazily by the riverbank, one of them spoke up, "You know what? I'm getting tired of playing it safe all the time. There's gotta be more to life than following all these boring rules."

Another friend nodded in agreement, lazily tossing a pebble into the water. "Yeah, I mean, what's the point of being young if we can't have a little fun, right?"

Their conversation sparked a rebellion of sorts among the group. They began to question the status quo and seek out new adventures, much to the dismay of the townsfolk who clung tightly to tradition.

One evening, they stumbled upon an old abandoned mansion on the outskirts of town. Despite the warnings to stay away, they couldn't resist the allure of exploring its mysterious halls.

As they ventured deeper into the mansion, their excitement grew. "This is amazing! Can you imagine what secrets this place holds?" one of them exclaimed, shining a flashlight into the darkness.

But their fun was short-lived when they heard a creaking noise coming from the staircase. "Uh-oh, sounds like someone else is here," whispered another, their heart racing with adrenaline.

Suddenly, a voice echoed through the halls, "Who dares to trespass in my home?" The friends froze, their eyes wide with fear as they realized they were not alone.

Before they could flee, a figure emerged from the shadows – an old man with a stern expression. "I have warned you youngsters time and time again to stay away from here. Now, you must face the consequences of your actions."

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seyaryminamoto · 3 months

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Are there feel good chapters/arcs in the future of Gladiator? The fic has become heavy and it would be nice to have a feel good arc (not possible right now, I know). I'm coping by reading the Return to Shu Jing arct repeatedly. (I just love this arc) (Favourite part of Gladiator hands down).

Sorry for taking a while to respond... admittedly, things are building up to veeeery complicated stuff in the story, as you no doubt expected. There will be lighter things here and there, chapters rather than arcs, I'd say, but there's typically a component of... not-so-nice feeling going on even in the less complicated arcs.

For instance, the arc between 350-355 (Downtime/Building defenses is the name) is kiiiind of the lightest we're getting in a while. Azula's side gets a new somewhat comic relief addition that I think lightened the situation somewhat, Sokka isn't on high tension for a short time and there's important development for some of his companions too. That's probably the lightest thing we're getting until, uh... what I'm writing now? :'D and that's not particularly light anyway but I'm finally on my way to calmer shores. If it helps at all? The final battle's arc is all written and I'm basically working on aftermath things before heading towards closing things up properly...

... When I think about it that way it's kind of insane ngl :')

But yeah, most the easier, lighter, reassuring things will come after where I'm at. So, uh... maybe from like chapter 385 onwards? I'm not sure how long it's going to take me to wrap up the one I'm doing right now, but I think the final 3-4 arcs of the story would definitely count as lighter and less horrifying than everything we've been dealing with so far.

Yeah, I know the tension has been horrible and certain character choices are bound to make everyone want to scream. I've been aware that it's going to get veeeery controversial for a while and not a lot of people are going to be okay with how frustrating some things might be. But as usual... I'm hoping the ultimate shape of the story will eventually make even the worst moments come together into a web of causes, consequences and payoffs that will feel... satisfactory, to some extent? Hopefully, anyway.

... At any rate, I do advise to continue revisiting happier days because that is a good way to get by while the dark times keep getting darker :'D I'd do the same but I was basically making myself write ASAP so I could finally get to the endgame our favorite dorks deserve...

#metallic-lighght #gladiator #part 3 #it has been complicated yes #I admit there's a part of me that wonders if my naysayers who thought I wasn't going to do anything too complicated/challenging #have kept reading and are now screaming at the screen too (?)#... I mean they might have dropped out a while ago #much as they might be enjoying this with popcorn #or saying I'm not doing enough yet :'D #you never know #anyway awful pain is not going to be eternal but I'm currently in the process #of starting those two on the way to healing #if that's reassuring at all #know that better days are in the horizon #just gotta get through the peak chaos and climax of the story...

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canonicallyanxious · 1 year

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"be that as it may."

Dimension 20: A Court of Fey and Flowers | Rue/Hob | 1.9k words

i've been holding onto this take on a ruehob arranged marriage au for a while now with grand (and perhaps misguided lol) ambitions of turning it into a proper fic with, like, a plot or something. idk if they will ever come to fruition, probably not tbqh skdjfnskdfnsd but even if I'm not able to continue with this idea I like this first scene well enough that i wanted to share! The thought process behind this is an arranged marriage au that takes place pre-canon (so well before the Bloom and well before they have the opportunity to meet the other PCs), bringing Captain Hob to the Court of Wonder for at least part of the duration of their engagement. Pls enjoy!

On a beautiful summer evening in a land where it was always summer, the endless sky veiled with sunset-kissed blue and fireflies already dancing high and bright in the gossamer air, you stood in a garden with a half-full wine glass in one hand and your composure tucked carefully in the other. A light breeze rustled through your diaphanous skirts and the distant music settled easily above the rolling chatter, all deeply familiar stimuli to your keenly tuned senses. If you closed your eyes for but a moment, it was almost easy to forget the party sprawled in front of you was ostensibly being held in your honor.

Well. Half in your honor, if you wanted to be pedantic. And a night like this one made you uncharacteristically inclined to it.

Not that you could ever truly forget a thing like that. It settled over your skin like an ill-fitting gown, the vague itch of something that didn’t feel quite right - people’s eyes that lingered on you rather than sliding away, perhaps, or the cool weight of the glass in your hand when usually you were perfectly content to let others enjoy the fruits of the night themselves. Working day and night to pull together an occasion for the ages and stepping deftly to the fringes of it to watch it all unfold, effortless-seeming as a flower in bloom - that was how things usually were, and you liked it that way. Had, in fact, worked very hard for a very long time to make it so.

But there would be no lingering on the fringes tonight. This was true regardless of the things that lived in your little heart. And when it came to living with truths you wouldn’t choose for yourself, you’d had more than a lifetime of practice.

The Blue Fairy glided to a stop in front of you, a crown of tiny stars twinkling merrily on her brow. “My warmest congratulations to you for such a lovely night, Mx. Rue,” she said with a polite incline of her head. “It has been many a moon since the Court has celebrated such a… singular engagement.”

You answered with a practiced smile, and if it was a little stiff, well, no one would blame you after the week you’d had, would they? “Thank you, your Grace,” you said dutifully, and you were careful to keep your expression in place even at how quickly she stepped away after murmuring a brief farewell, just polite enough to scrape by the barest minimum standards of respectability.

Such an interaction probably served as a fair indication of how the rest of the evening might play out. You took a perfunctory sip of your wine, barely tasting it as it went down. The night was young, practically newborn, and a faint headache was already unfurling treacherously between your temples.

From across the lavishly appointed garden Wuvvy caught your eye, and smiled. It was brief, her eyes already darting away toward whatever fire she was probably having to put out in your stead, but she’d always seemed to have a near preternatural sense for the kind of reassurance you needed, and this moment was no exception. A reminder that this, all of this, was not something you would have to bear alone - that was all it took to steady your stance, tension rolling easily off your shoulders. You took another sip of your wine, long and deliberate, and this time it was sweetly fortifying in the back of your throat.

A few more hours, for propriety’s sake. You could do a few more hours. In the grand scheme of an immortal life, a few hours were practically nothing. And then tomorrow - tomorrow, the real work could begin.

There. Standing close to the flowering archway that led to the rest of the gardens, surrounded by a small throng of courtesans he towered easily over and looking loathe to relinquish access to the exit at his back, was the other fey this evening owed its honor to.

He’d been rather studiously avoiding your gaze for the better part of the evening. You didn’t take it personally. If you were the one who’d been swiftly and unceremoniously spirited away to a court far from your home for the sole purpose of saving face, you would probably feel some type of way about it, too. Especially if such a move was accompanied by an engagement you had never asked for to a person you had never met.

But if this whole farce was in service of appearances, it would not do to be seen apart from your betrothed for long, would it?

He didn’t seem particularly surprised when a moment later you moved to his side, nor when you didn’t take his arm. “The Captain must be regaling you with tales of his thrilling exploits,” you said smoothly to the crowd of tittering fairies he’d gathered, careful not to skip a beat, even more so to make it seem effortless. “I can tell from how impressed you all look, as is only right.”

“Not as such,” Captain Hob said, gruff in his countenance. “Hardly thrilling, in any case.”

“Oh, nonsense,” you said warmly, and then to the courtesans: “they don’t hand out medals of courage for just any old act of service, you know. This one was for saving a whole village from near-certain ruin - at great risk to his own life, mind you.”

A chorus of appropriately awed ooh’s and ah’s floated into the night as you pointed at the gleaming badge pinned just above his left breastbone. A minute shift in his stance caused you to glance up, and you were surprised to find his eyes already on you. Your gazes met, for a heartbeat. He looked - taken aback, almost. He blinked.

And then, turning back to his rapt audience with an easy grace that nearly caught you off guard, the moment over so quickly you wondered if you’d imagined the expression on his face -

“Village is overselling it, honestly,” Captain Hob said, lowering his voice in a theatrically confiding whisper. “Everyone knows it was more of a large hamlet.”

After the giggles subsided, you smiled indulgently. “If I may have a word with my fiance,” you said, and deftly drew him away.

One might expect someone of his station to relax at least a bit once out from under the harsh glare of the limelight, but if anything he stood a little straighter now that you were relatively alone, arms folding neatly behind his back as if on instinct.

“Mx. Rue,” he said, low and deep in a way that would have made you lean in to catch the words if you didn’t know any better.

You inclined your head. “Captain.”

He regarded you for a moment. In your line of work, being able to intuit others’ feelings and desires was a skill you’d painstakingly developed over long centuries, at first out of necessity and then out of sheer habit. But it was one that required scrupulous practice, and his was a face you had only first seen a matter of days ago. You could not - should not - begin to guess at the things it might hide.

“You must forgive me my clumsiness, Mx. Rue,” he said, after another beat of silence. His ears twitched. “I’m afraid I do not possess even half your social graces.”

“On the contrary, Captain,” you said lightly. “You clearly didn’t need my help in keeping our guests enthralled. They were already practically speechless by the time I came on the scene, and you must understand how difficult a feat like that is to accomplish in a court such as this.”

There was a low and rumbling sound; you recognized it a second too late as laughter. “Be that as it may,” he said. “Any help willingly given on your part is gladly and wholeheartedly accepted on mine.”

You might have rolled your eyes - subtly, of course - had the words, so formal in their cadence, come from someone else. From him, his voice as even and steadfast as it had been since you’d first appeared at his side, they sounded entirely genuine.

Which was - not something you frequently encountered. Not in a court such as this.

“Of course,” you said, trying for your usual lilting tone of voice. And if it came out a touch softer than you’d anticipated, such a thing was hardly worthy of notice from yourself or anyone else.

“If I may,” he began, and as he trailed off seemed to falter in his resolve, as if in another moment he might attempt to change the subject.

You had never been the kind of fey who let go of things so easily, for better or for worse. “Yes, Captain?”

“How did you know about Muckwurst’s Bluff?” he said, quietly.

His eyes on your eyes, now. New eyes in a new face. And he was from a court you had never stepped foot in, entrenched in a culture you had no familiarity with. You shouldn’t be quick to draw conclusions.

And yet you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was no mystery to be found in that warm, golden gaze. Still as ancient amber.

“Why wouldn’t I?” you said. “You deserve to be known for it.”

You hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Not like that, anyway. As if he was someone you knew, or someone you wanted to know. As if he was a friend - or even someone who could be.

“Ah,” he said.

“Anyway,” you said, pulling your gaze away, “I like to do my research, Captain.”

If you couldn’t see his face, there was no point in reading anything into his silence. You didn’t bother trying.

“Of course,” he said. “I would hate to imply anything but your utmost attention to detail, Mx. Rue.”

Something in his tone made your heart skip a beat, which made the back of your neck prickle almost indignantly. Impossible to say what. It was an unexpected instinct, and perhaps unfair, given the circumstances. Or perhaps not.

Abruptly you decided you were done with this conversation. In a restless fit of impulse, you brought your glass to your mouth and downed the last of your wine. Thankfully there wasn’t much of it left.

“Care for another drink, Captain?” You tilted your empty glass in his direction. “It seems I’m due for a refill of my own.”

Captain Hob wasn’t holding a glass. Stupid, embarrassingly amateurish on your part, really; regardless of what he’d claimed about his social graces the opening you’d left was so appallingly wide that anyone with half a working brain cell would be at full liberty to take offense if they wished to.

And yet. He lowered his eyes, the perfect image of humility, and bowed his head graciously. “Please, don’t feel obligated to linger on my account, Mx. Rue,” he said. “I have no doubt that there are many libations and revelries ahead of us yet.”

There was nothing for it, then, but to take your leave as you’d so desired just a moment prior. “Captain,” you murmured, and turned away.

You had expected - hoped, really - that moving away from him would help you find your balance, return you to your usual level-headed form. But as it turned out, the mere thought of the crowd neatly swallowing him up behind you had rather the opposite effect. Your heart was beating fast and hard, irritatingly enough. Not that that was any cause for real concern. It had been some time since you’d last imbibed fey spirits in earnest. Yes, that must be it.

And maybe that would also explain why your headache was nearly gone. Or maybe it wouldn’t. What did it really matter, in the end?

The night would be over soon enough.

#dimension 20 #a court of fey and flowers #acofaf #ruehob #sarah does writing #phew baby it's been a hot minute since i shared fic #would be nice to get back into the habit. idk if i will be able to get back into it but it would be nice.#actually in the process of revisiting/editing this i think i finally figured out how to make this work story-wise #so we shall see!#writing's been really challenging for the past year or so i won't lie but i do miss it something fierce

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queer-ragnelle · 8 months

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re: the meme about the public being kotrt illiterate...

we know lancelot is "of the lake," & the trio of grail knights, & gawain. they seem like low hanging fruit. but i assure you even those are not well known characters outside literary circles. random people you ask would probably recognize lancelot's name, if you said it, but if you asked who king arthur's champion was or where lancelot grew up, could they answer? i can say that as someone with a dog named "sir percival," it's rare someone knows who that is, let alone galahad or poor bors. now gawain is a funny one bc he is so so popular in arthurian texts across time & languages, yet nobody i worked with knew who he was until dev patel played him in the green knight (2021).

i say this as someone who has been arthuriana blogging for over a decade now. i came here (to my old account) from deviantart bc i was alone in my obsession with gawain/ragnelle over there. popular amongst ourselves though these characters may be, even if we attempt to compensate with what we would assume are "easy" answers, they really aren't.

#i say this also as a novelist who struggled to find beta readers who knew who tf gawain is #that or someone who cared to learn through the process of beta reading #sooooo many people were like giving critique & then saying oh im not the target audience #babe if you are a reader then you are the target audience #yet gawains family tree proved challenging to the people i was finding #without base knowledge or a prior interest in gawain as a character some readers were not willing to invest in the story #admittedly i had exceptionally bad experiences with beta readers but #still even gawain or lancelot are not as obvious as you would think!#my post

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cextra · 1 year

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I haven't been able to draw for weeks because I've been too focused on programming but the other day I did a little zelda link doodle on my personal notes. Here's the rest of the notes I've been taking down I'm really proud of my handwriting in some of these spots. You should've seen my handwriting in school it was terrible terrible unreadable you get a little bit of that in some places here when I'm rushing. Anyway I'm working on a little personal project I'm trying to build a website for artist to upload and share their work but with some twist. I was really inspired but the art fight website and I want to see if I can also contribute to the art or zelda art community in some way. But no promises I'm a terribly slow coder and so this will prob just stay a learning project. It has been sorta fun tho piecing everything together. I've just barely set up a login session system using passport lmao 💀 ☠️ its like 50 lines of code but it took me days to process it in my head. Anyway hopefully more zelda drawings next month idk!!!

#web dev #zelda #node #programming notes #not art #sorta #also ive been checking my notes and tags thx u for all the kind reblog messages ily #also someone wrote some fanfic and tagged me as some inspiration ily youve earned my 2022 person of the year #i wanted to build a site to encourage fan artist and fan fiction writers to combine their process in a similar way #you tagged me to your written story #but i found the technical challenge and the privacy and dmca stuff to be a little too challenging for now but my dream #is to make or find or support a website that allows fan artist and fan writers to synergize their projects and contribute to each other #but idk maybe one day

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alteredphoenix · 9 months

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Thinking about that one YT video that goes in-depth about liminal spaces in video gaming by sorbino, and how people that view them fall into one of two categories: those that are endowed with nostalgia and the sense that they've been there before (regardless as to whether or not they were born in the era those spaces originated from), and those that feel the looming dread and fear and the hint of otherness, that sensation of wrongness that scrapes along the surface of your brain just looking upon them.

I guess I would fall into the first camp, although not so much with the familiarity and nostalgia; it's more like I can relax and put my guard down when I see them. It reminds me how, as silly and goofy some of these places used to look, they at least had heart to them. Not like today, how you'd look at them from your window out of the car you're in and see the buildings that once were colorful and bombastic are now just redesigned to have the same cold, sterile, corporate aesthetic.

(That's a deeper dive I can get into that sort of goes outside of the bounds of this topic, but I think you get where I'm going with it.)

#tbh this was brought on by an idea i had for a story #that incorporates aspects of the '90s aesthetics while maintaining its own fantasy setting #things inspired by the drum 'n' bass and house mix beats that were prevalent in PSX games #and liminal spaces is a feature that's integral to the early era of gaming #but when i read that liminal spaces invoke horror in some ppl #i'm like '...okay how do i incorporate liminal spaces WITHOUT scaring off my readers?'#b/c i want them to have a good time. i don't want to give them a bad time lmao #my 2nd thought was 'how do i incorporate the element of liminal spacing in a written narrative?'#b/c liminal spaces are a visual feature not a written one #idk it's a weird thought to have. but all my thought processes go down a weird rabbit hole #i've been wanting to use this idea for a while. in a NaNoWriMo thing #i think i would have to do some more research & messing around in order to make it work #and nail the landing before i actually get around to writing it #but i always loved messing around with tired yet popular tropes and putting my own spin on them #i can't pass up a good challenge for my spicy writerly brain #liminal spaces #yeah why not i'll tag it. see what you all think

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