#Realme Band Price

[eddiesghxst]

PRICE OF FAME (PART 5/12)

HEHEHE THIS ONES PACKED W LOTS OF... STUFF, ENJOYYYY!!!

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18+ — MINORS DNI

pairing: rockstar!eddie x journalist!reader

summary: eddie doesn't think he hates you anymore and you can't figure out eddie's game

contains: enemies to lovers trope, smoking, drug and alcohol use, sexual themes, masturbation (f), maybe a little kith (hehe), flirting, and eddie being a jealous boy <3

word count: 6.5k

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| series masterlist | -main masterlist- |

The four-day break seems to go by in the blink of an eye, and before you know it, it’s show day again.

As always, everybody is busy and filled with pre-show jitters. Although Eddie and Gareth have yet to speak with one another and resolve their dispute, breakfast is not as tense as last time, and you assume the time away from each other has aided in that realm. But then again, you have an inkling that Eddie is only putting up a nice front for Wayne since it’s his last day in New York.

Eddie is stiff and rigid throughout the morning, taught as a guitar string and vividly battling something he has yet to announce. He’s quiet at breakfast and only speaks when directly addressed, and he doesn’t taunt any back and forth that could transpire between him and Gareth. Jeff’s girlfriend joins the table for the first time, and you sit beside her. 

Naomi is kind and bubbly with tight, curly brown strands that smell of honey and lime whenever she brushes past you. She’s from a small town in Georgia, where she spent most of her life before going off to college and getting a bachelor's in fine arts. She tells you about her most recent projects and showcases and even invites you to attend if you’re ever in town, and you take her number to keep in contact.

Jeff has radiant energy throughout the meal, and you think he and Naomi make a fine couple with how they seem to complete each other.

After breakfast, you make a few calls for work and fill in Anna on your progress. She informs you that they’re working on setting a date for Corroded Coffin’s photoshoot for the magazine and should be in contact with Richie sometime soon. When Anna asks how the trip has been so far, you lie and tell her it’s been seamless and fun. 

You never told Anna about Eddie hating your guts, and you don’t even debate telling her that you’ve somehow stirred the pot between two of the band members or that you kissed the lead singer.

You’re still having a hard time convincing yourself that it was even real.

For a moment, when you woke up this morning, you thought you’d dreamt of kissing Eddie, but no dream ever feels as vivid as that.

You could feel the warmth radiating from Eddie’s body, the coolness of his rings stinging your cheeks when he placed his hands over your jaw to pull you in. The taste and smell of weed mixed in with the worn-down scent of his cologne from the day. And the kiss was so quick, and you were so sleepy you barely had enough time to memorize what his lips felt like or how the feeling of his warm breath against your upper lip sent shivers down your spine.

It left you in a daze for most of the day. Every time you remembered what had happened, your heart raced and the back of your neck heated— and you wanted to ask Eddie what the fuck that was about, but Eddie was nowhere to be found.

After breakfast, Eddie practically falls off the face of the earth. Nobody hears from or sees Eddie, and he doesn’t even show up for rehearsals, which is when Richie becomes suspicious.

“Has anybody fuckin’ seen Eddie, for the love of god?” Richie exclaims. Off to the side, the bass player plucks a deep tune in boredom. Standing center stage, Jeff looks at Richie and shakes his head before glancing at the other two members. Gareth sits behind his drum set, twirling the thick drumsticks between the knuckles of his fingers, lower jaw promptly working a piece of gum as he shrugs. His eye looks better, you note.

And that’s another thing. Gareth has been avoiding you like the plague. You didn’t talk to him much before, but now it’s as if you don’t even exist, and fuck is it making your job more complicated than it already is. How are you supposed to write about Corroded Coffin when half of the said band hates your guts?

Wayne had been spending the day at the hotel, preparing to fly back tomorrow morning, so you doubt he knows where his nephew went. Richie asked an assistant to check if Eddie was being a hermit in his room, but to nobody’s surprise, Eddie wasn’t there either.

By the time 8 o’clock rolls around, the doors to the venue have opened for fans to flood in, and Eddie is still yet to show up. You stand in front of the barricade, a perfect and obstructed view of the stage where you can see everything, including the hustle backstage. 

Wayne has opted for a seat next to the sound booth in the crowd, claiming he’d rather not spend the next few hours standing on his feet, “When you’re older, you’ll understand.” He claimed.

You enjoy the opening act, bopping along and singing to the lyrics you know, and before you know it, the band is leaving, and the clock for Corroded Coffin’s appearance is ticking— still, no word from Eddie.

You’re busy watching the stage crew set up Corroded Coffin’s display when a familiar face approaches you. “How’s the article coming along?”

James, one of the three tour photographers for Corroded Coffin. You sat next to James on day five of breakfast. James is kind, and with your little snippets of conversation, you’ve come to peg him as not exactly what you’d expect. 

James’ skin is littered with tattoos, sleeves up both arms with intricate ink slithering up his neck. You’d ask him how many tattoos he has in total, and he’d confessed that he lost count a long time ago and has now resulted in just throwing out a random number when people ask, to which you laughed.

He has jet-black curly hair that you’ve only seen at breakfast because he likes to slick it back most days, and he has piercings in each ear and one on his right eyebrow. 

He’s a character, James. Intimidating from the outside, but nothing but soft, fluffy teddy bear warmth on the inside. 

“It’s… well, it’s going. I’ve still got a bit of work to do, but so far, so good.” You nod. James smiles and nods, “I’m excited to see the final product. I won’t lie, after we spoke at breakfast, I did a little digging,” he responds. You raise your eyebrows in interest, “Digging?”

“Yeah, you know, looked at some of your past work and whatnot— which, by the way, the piece on the Cocteau Twins was insane,” He exclaims. Your eyes widen, “Really? Not many people talk about that one; I didn’t think it got around.” You laugh.

James tells you about his favorite pieces of yours he read, and he asks questions about each one of them. What your favorite interview was, who were you most excited to write about, and which of your works is your favorite piece so far.

You eventually end up talking about James and his current projects aside from the tour. He tells you about the new exhibit he’s partnering with in downtown LA. It’s an immersive piece, something new in the art world where the audience, for the first time, will get to experience art in a more tangible way. It’s more interactive and fulfilling for those who struggle to grasp the full context behind the art, and James seems more than excited about it when he tells you to stop by if you have the time.

However, before you can respond, the lights in the venue dim, and the crowd roars. 

This has always been your favorite part of a show, that moment when the lights cut off and the arena comes to life with a shared excitement. It’s exhilarating and pulls you to the edge of your seat, no matter how often you’ve seen it.

Through the smoke-filled venue and the dark atmosphere, you can see each of the boys file out onto the stage, Gareth spinning his drumsticks between his knuckles as he steps onto the drum riser while the other two grab their instruments. Three members are on stage, and you remember that Eddie has been missing in action for the entire day.

The crowd grows louder when they see the shadows of the boys on stage, screaming their names and chanting in anticipation. And as he shreds the first chords to the opening song, you worry that Eddie really might’ve skipped out on tonight’s show.

You’re happily mistaken, however, because soon you see another figure step out, and the crowd goes deafeningly loud.

Beside you, James smiles and shakes his head, “Shit never gets old,” he yells over the screams.

And your heart is racing for some reason as you watch the tall figure walk in the darkness, curly mane of hair akin to a halo as he steps up to the mic, electric guitar strapped across his body.

He leans into the mic and says a few words, words you don’t even hear due to how loud the crowd is, but you feel the gruffness and bass of his voice booming through the speakers, and you nearly mistake it for your heartbeat.

Because when the song finally starts and the stage lights go up, you’re at a loss for words.

Eddie is gorgeous, undeniably so; he always has been, and you never thought he wasn’t. The only thing that got in the way of Eddie’s beauty was his shitty attitude towards you. But this… the way Eddie looks tonight— you’re a speechless and wavering mess of mixed feelings.

Tonight, Eddie is beautiful.

His hair is down as usual, curly and healthy strands sitting pretty atop his shoulders, and he’s opted to play the show in nothing but leather pants and his usual boots.

His upper body is on full display, broad shoulders, and muscles flexing with each strum of his guitar, back muscles working overtime as he trashes along to the music. He’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat, tattoo-covered skin glistening beneath the lights, and you want nothing more than to run your hands down his chest and watch the way it smudges beneath your fingertips.

When the second song finishes, Eddie’s chest is heaving as he pauses and looks out into the crowd, scanning the rows with a lopsided, smug grin.

You can hear faint pants leaving his lips as he leans into the mic, jewelry-wrapped fingers hugging the fret of his guitar. He gazes in silence for a moment, listening to the cheers of the crowd that pull the corners of his mouth into a wider grin. And you don’t even notice the rest of the band on stage because all you see and hear is Eddie.

You hold your breath when his eyes find yours, and your knees nearly buckle at the sight of his dark eyes shining beneath smudged, black eyeliner. 

“Fuck,” he breathes with a smile, softly laughing when the crowd screams at his voice, “Do you look good tonight, New York.”

And he’s saying this and looking at you.

He is staring at you like he can see through to your soul, and it makes your head dizzy with a whirlwind of emotions and greedy wishes.

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until Eddie finally looks away from you and into the crowd, “Are you ready to have a good time, New York?”

Eddie has never, in all his years of living, played as well as he did tonight.

He’s not sure what exactly caused this; maybe the fact that Wayne is in the crowd tonight, or perhaps because he’s still pissed with Gareth, or maybe because he can’t stop thinking about kissing you, or probably because he hates the way you and James won’t stop fucking talking to each other.

Eddie doesn’t know why it pisses him off to see you laughing and enjoying the company of James, but it does. It ticks him off to no end, and he can’t help the feeling that brews in his chest when you lean forward to hear James over the music or when James innocently squeezes your bicep to get your attention before he says something.

By the middle of the show, Eddie has had enough. He’s four shots of tequila in, and he’s feeling bold with the crowd's energy, so when his infamous guitar solo in one of the songs comes, he doesn’t stand center stage as usual.

No, Eddie makes sure to walk over and stand right in front of where you and James stand and play his solo like it’s the last time he'll ever play.

It’s a sinful view, and the crowd goes wild, the big screens zooming in on his skilled fingers dancing across the frets, the flexing of his wet torso, the flutter of his lashes when he closes his eyes and tosses his head back. His lips are slick and parted in ecstasy from the adrenaline high. 

And Eddie can feel your eyes on him. Can feel the heat of your gaze burning through every inch of his body, rolling over every movement he makes and taking him in like he’s a prized possession in a museum. He thrives off of it, and he plays harder.

When his solo ends, Eddie doesn’t bother looking at the crowd or James or his band; no, Eddie only looks at you, making sure you understand what he’s trying to say through his eyes. And for a moment, Eddie wishes James would turn the camera away from him and capture your beauty instead— because you look like an angel under red lights.

Eddie has only allowed himself small moments to appreciate the sight of you, but now, he is greedy with the upper hand he has. He takes in every piece of you; your hair, your eyes, your lips, the delicate necklace kissing the skin of your collarbones— and Eddie wants to run his tongue up the side of your neck and hear you whimper for him. Wants to dig his teeth into your skin until you keen and whine and beg him for more more more. 

The skirt you’re wearing, god, it’s fucking short, and Eddie imagines the way your skin would feel beneath his fingers, pressing into the fat of your thighs and marveling when the skin gives way to the pressure. Hot and messy fingerprints all around your hips and ribs. Teeth bearing marks across your stomach and chest. Eddie is dizzy with lust and need, and he feels like a fucking animal writhing and waiting to pounce.

Greedy, greedy, greedy.

He wants it all.

The rest of the show goes back and forth like that. Eddie catches glimpses of you and James talking and takes it upon himself to direct your attention back to the stage— back to him. Near the end, James finally focuses on his fucking job and busies himself with taking pictures instead of flirting with you, and Eddie walks off the stage feeling satisfied.

The band does their meet and greet backstage and signs a few autographs before they can do their usual post-show rituals: drinking, playing games, and making plans to go out.

Despite his love for post-show rituals, Eddie wants nothing to do with it tonight because he can only focus on you. 

You’re standing with James and a stage crew member, talking about something Eddie could care less about, given how he cuts into the conversation, “Can we talk?”

Your eyes are wide and bright when you turn to him, shocked by Eddie’s ability to even acknowledge you, and Eddie thinks about last night and how your lips felt against his. “Um… talk?”

Eddie’s still high on post-show energy, and he doesn’t like that James is standing so close to you, so he takes a leap of faith and wraps a hand around your wrist, gently tugging with a short nod, not even waiting for an answer before he turns and drags you out of the green room. 

He doesn’t know at what point his fingers traveled down your wrist to slip between your warm and gentle fingers, but he becomes hyper-aware of it as soon as you both step out into the hallway, the slam of the door echoing behind you, “Eddie, where are you taking me?”

Eddie glances back at you, fingers subconsciously squeezing yours, “Dressing room. I wanna do the interview.” He answers.

You halt at his response, heels digging into the cement floor and tugging Eddie back, “What?”

The heat of your palm is burning through Eddie’s skin, and he’s not sure if he’ll be able to stop himself from what he wants to do if he continues touching you, so he lets go. “The interview.”

You shake your head and squeeze your eyes, “No, I heard you, but… I mean,” you pause, “why? And why now? This can’t wait until—“

“Look, if you don’t want to do it now, that’s fine, but I’m not doing it any other time.” He doesn’t wait for an answer before turning around and continuing to walk towards his dressing room.

You silently watch for a moment, clearly confused by the sudden change of heart, but you nod either way and follow after him.

Eddie hardly pays any mind to you when you walk in behind him, busying himself with walking over to the bar cart and pouring himself a glass of the first bottle he sees. Glancing over his shoulder, Eddie notices you awkwardly standing near the door and snickers. “You can take a seat, sweetheart; I didn’t bring you here to, like… chew you out or something.” He jokes.

He makes you a glass despite not asking, and when he turns around, you’re now seated on the light brown couch in the middle of the room, hands fiddling in your lap as you silently wait for Eddie.

He sits on the opposite side of the couch and places the second glass on the coffee table, wordlessly nudging it toward you before leaning back in the seat and taking a long sip.

“Where’s your cute little journal?”

You’re confused.

You don’t understand the game Eddie is playing, and it’s driving you insane the longer you look at him, leaned back against the plush couch, smug smirk kissing the rim of his glass as he takes a slow sip, brown, hazy eyes glazing over your nervous figure. The sheer button-down top he now wears is fully unbuttoned to reveal his sweat-glistening torso, leather pants hug his thighs, snug and tauntingly, the button popped open and zipper pulled down to show the sinful sight of a trail of hair that leads to places you’ve been trying so desperately not to imagine. You don’t mean to stare, and you catch yourself when he shifts his hips upward to get more comfortable, the sight of his lower stomach flexing and tattoos coming alive on his skin sending shivers up your spine.

You clear your throat and turn to grab your journal out of your bag. You haven’t had the time to buy a new journal after you ruined the binds by tearing out those pages for Eddie, so you must handle the remaining structure carefully.

You take a deep breath and flip to a clean page, clicking your pen once before glancing at Eddie, “Okay, I guess we’ll… start.”

Eddie smirks, and you want nothing more than to wipe it away.

You open your mouth to ask your first question, but Eddie cuts you off, “I have a proposition,” he begins.

You look at Eddie, blinking once and thinking over if you want to indulge in whatever trick this is. You relent, “Okay?”

Eddie smiles triumphantly and leans forward to put his glass on the table, yours still untouched. He grabs the pack of cigarettes lying to the side, picking a single stick and grabbing the lighter before leaning back onto the couch, lighting the cigarette before shifting to face you. He drapes an arm across the back of the sofa, blowing out a cloud of smoke before speaking, “I get to ask you questions as well. Like a trade-off, for each question you ask, I also get to ask one.”

And it’s not as bad as you’d thought, really. Knowing Eddie, you had expected him to propose a game involving stripping or drinking of some sort, and you had prepared to immediately shut him down— but this, you can settle for this.

So, you shrug, “Okay. We can do that.”

Eddie hums in delight, taking another drag of the burning stick and nodding for you to begin.

“Okay,” you sigh, shifting to get more comfortable. In the distance, you can hear the chaos of backstage rituals happening, and you fight through the noise to focus. “We’ll start light. What made you choose music?”

Eddie twiddles the cigarette between his fingers, silently thinking, “I don’t know. I grew up with music, never went a day without it, so, in a way, I guess you could say music chose me.” He responds.

You nod, “What are some of your first memories with music?”

Eddie smiles and gazes up at the ceiling, and you watch as he seems to wander down a road of memories. “When I was younger,” he begins, “before my mom died, I remember waking up and going to the kitchen to watch her cook breakfast,” he pauses as if trying to see through the fog of time to explain it clearly.

“And she had this small green radio that sat on the window sill, and she would play all of her tapes; The Mamas and Papas, Jefferson Airplane, Sam and Dave— you know… hippie shit.” He says. “I knew Surrealistic Pillow like the back of my hand by the time I could talk, I swear.” He jokes, smiling when you softly laugh. He looks at you, a glint flashing in his eyes, and you can tell the memory brings him a joy he misses. 

And you find yourself thinking back to a few days ago, when you were walking beside Wayne with Richie and Eddie a few paces back. You remember what Wayne had told you then; you remember the tone in his voice and the careful thought he’d used behind each sentence.

“Give him time,” Wayne softly says. You glance over your shoulder and catch a glimpse of Eddie and Richie sharing a cigarette. You turn back to Wayne when he adds, “You’re a nice girl, and Eddie… Eddie doesn’t know what to do with nice.”

You dig your teeth into the inside of your cheek, chest tightening at the pained gaze in his eyes when he speaks, “He hasn’t had much of that in his life.”

“I know you don’t owe it to him, but just give him some time… he’ll come around.”

Eddie glances at your empty page before gazing back into your eyes, “You gonna write something down? I’m not repeating any of this, just so you know.”

You nod, snapping out of your daze to begin writing. Eddie patiently waits as you jot down your thoughts and conversation, burning through his cigarette and watching your every move.

You look back at him when you finish, and fight the urge to shy away when you realize he hasn’t looked away from you this entire time. “Um, okay, tell me about—” “I believe I get to ask two questions now.” Eddie cuts in with a smirk.

“Oh,” you pause, “Yeah, okay. Go ahead.”

Eddie ashes his cigarette and grabs his drink again, “When did you start writing?”

And Eddie keeps surprising you. For some reason, you thought Eddie would ask something dumb, inappropriate, or condescending— nothing of this matter. You didn’t think Eddie was interested in actually learning something about you.

You sigh as you think, “Well, the first time I ever wrote for myself was around middle school; I had a diary.” You respond, and Eddie’s eyebrows raise in interest, “It was lilac with a gold lock on the pages, and I carried the key around on my necklace because I was so afraid someone would get ahold of it.” You shake your head as Eddie laughs.

“Now, what in god’s name was little middle school Birdie writing about in her secret diary?” Eddie pries.

You scoff, “Like I’d ever tell you that.” You roll your eyes, and Eddie makes a sound of protest, “Come on, it can’t be that bad.” He pokes. You raise an eyebrow and glance at Eddie, “You’d be surprised by what goes through the mind of a twelve-year-old girl on the precipice of puberty. I’m taking those pages to the grave.”

Eddie laughs loudly at that, head tossing back with the action. You find it beautiful, the way his neck stretches and his skin molds against his bones— kissable and enticing.

“Okay, well, aside from your secretive diary. What made you choose this,” Eddie nods towards the journal in your lap.

You hum and purse your lips in thought, “I’ve always loved writing. I loved reading too, still do, and I tried writing fiction, but there’s something about writing people’s stories that just… feels good.” You respond.

“I know how easy it is to become misunderstood in this industry, so I want to hear the truth and help the audience see things from a clearer perspective. I want to help create an understanding if that makes sense.”

Eddie nods, eyes soft and smiling within his gaze. “That’s neat.” He comments, and you smile.

He sips his drink before speaking, “So, how did you end up writing for Rolling Stone Magazine?”

You laugh, “A shit ton of groveling, I’ll tell you that.”

You reach forward and pick up your drink for the first time, taking a sip before speaking, “I’d been trying to get an interview for the longest time, and then I finally just gave up for a while, but then my friend saw an opening a few months later and sent in one of my writings and… I guess they liked it enough to hire me,” You shrug.

“But,” you hold up a finger, “I spent a good year just running errands and shit for the managers; it was awful,” you admit. “So, how’d you end up with the big guys?” Eddie asks.

“Well, I wrote a hell of a paper and blew their fuckin’ minds.” You jokingly say, smirking over the rim of your glass as you take a sip. Eddie softly laughs and takes a sip of his drink as you place yours back down on the table in exchange for picking up your pen.

“My turn,” You remind him.

He nods, and you glance at your journal, thinking about what you want to ask next. “I know in the past you’ve mentioned that you don’t particularly release songs about your life, but you rather opt to tell stories within your music,” you mention, and Eddie nods in confirmation. 

“What’s the reasoning behind that?”

It’s a slightly more in-depth question, and Eddie has to take a few moments of silent pondering before he answers. “Well, for starters, I’ve always considered myself more of a storyteller. I like to create different scenarios and characters and find ways to bring them to life,” He begins.

You quietly jot down notes as you listen to him speak, “When I was in high school, I got really into Dungeons and Dragons, and I still love the game, but I guess you could say it stems from that— the storytelling aspect, I mean.” 

“But as for why I don’t release more personal songs… I don’t know; I guess I just like to keep a part of my life private to some degree. However, that doesn’t mean these made-up characters and scenarios I sing about aren’t in some way correlated to me,” He hints, and you nod in understanding.

“That’s neat.” You copy his words from earlier, and you both smile.

You and Eddie go back and forth with questions for a bit, touching base with topics like childhood, friendships, current projects, and such. It’s nice to have a decent conversation with Eddie, and for a moment you forget that you’re even doing your job because interviewing Eddie feels like any normal conversation you’d have— lighthearted, smooth, and innocent. Until—

“Alright, my turn. This one’s good,” Eddie starts.

You’re both two glasses in, and your cheeks feel warm from the drinks as you gesture for Eddie to go on. Eddie gazes at you and studies you briefly before speaking, “What’s going on with you and James?”

You blink in confusion, “James?” You question. Eddie nods, “Yeah, James. The photographer.” Eddie explains.

Your face twists in slight confusion as Eddie sips his drink, “What about him?” You ask.

Eddie laughs, “What’s up with you two? Are you guys together or something?”

And there it is. The game that Eddie’s been playing all along, revealed in all its true nature. 

Your eyebrows furrow in defense, annoyed with the sudden shift in demeanor, “Is that any of your business?” You question, and Eddie laughs, tapping his ring against the glass of his drink with a soft clink, “Sweetheart, it’s my business if I’m cutting the check.” He snickers.

You narrow your gaze at him, clearly irritated with his words. You don’t know why you ever gave him the chance. Eddie has only ever shown you his true colors, and he’s, more than once, told you that he doesn’t take you or your profession seriously. This has reminded you so.

“You don’t pay me,” you snap, “And I doubt you’ve even touched a check in the last three years.”

Eddie smirks, amused by your sudden frustration, “Maybe you have a point,” he relents, “But you still haven’t answered my question.” He points out.

You roll your eyes, “Why do you care, Eddie?”

Eddie shrugs, “I’m curious.” He smugly answers. 

“I don’t ask you who you’re fucking, do I?” A lousy attempt at dodging the question.

Eddie shrugs again, “You could if you want to, I don’t mind. I bet you’ve been curious to know anyway, haven’t you?” He replies.

You don’t like the way that makes your insides squirm with heat.

And you could tell him the truth. You could tell him the simple and honest answer that, no, nothing is going on between you and James. But as you look at Eddie sitting across the couch, you can’t find a single reason why Eddie should even care or why he should have the satisfaction of an answer. “Ask something else.” You say.

Eddie doesn’t waste a second to spit out his next question, “Did you like the kiss?”

“A different question.” “Those are my questions, princess.”

God, you don’t even know why you’re putting up with this. You could easily just get up and leave, but you hate to give Eddie any room for thinking he’s won whatever stupid battle this is. 

You shut your journal, refusing to stay another minute, going back and forth with Eddie. You stand and grab your bag, shoving your journal in before looking at Eddie and finally answering his original question, “No, nothing is going on between me and James.” You admit. And you think Eddie will leave it at that, but you're sadly mistaken.

“And the kiss?” He asks.

“What about it?” Your composure is beginning to falter and your frustration is seeping into your tone. Eddie’s eyes glint with mischief, gaze never leaving your fidgety frame as he speaks, “Did you like it?”

“No.”

A lie. A terrible one that Eddie can see right through.

You begin making your way to the door, but Eddie catches you before you can even lay a finger on the handle, turning you around to face him when he speaks, “You’re a shit liar.” He points out.

And he’s so close you can barely think straight with his overwhelming presence. You find your footing through the haze, gazing into Eddie’s eyes when you speak, “Did you ask me to come in here so you can answer my questions, or did you just want to waste my time?”

Eddie is silent for a long moment, eyes dancing between your wide and sharp gaze, darting down to your lips, the tip of his pink tongue darting out to lightly lick across his bottom lip. You can smell the smoke on his breath, reaching out to mix with your liquor-coated exhales.

“Did you like the kiss?”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Eddie has you cornered now, pressed against a wall so tight you have no choice but to admit defeat, moving forward to press your lips against his liquor-slicked lips.

It’s hasty. Messy, greedy, drunk, and needy, and it rids your mind of all rational thought as Eddie presses himself against you. 

Eddie kisses you like it’s the last chance he’ll ever get, pressing into you so close you’d think he’s trying to jump into your skin. And the taste of Eddie is addicting.

You crave for more, and you’re hesitant to push, but Eddie understands the second he feels your tongue lick against your lips. He takes it upon himself to push his tongue into the warm, wet cavern of your mouth, and you happily let him. All clear thinking has gone out the window at this point, and you let your bag slink off your shoulder to plot onto the floor, busying yourself with sinking your fingers into the curly strands of his hair and gently tugging at the root. Eddie moans against your lips, and you pant, your brain going dizzy at the heavenly sound.

Eddie’s hands are eager and hungry as they rest against your hips, sneaking up your torso to squeeze and grab at your skin. And he hates the fact that there are so many layers of clothes between you, and he wants them gone.

His hand travels down the side of your body and digs into the thick of your thigh, dipping lower to catch the back of your knee and hitch your leg around his waist. You keen, pitching your hips forward into Eddie’s, and he moans, greedily squeezing your skin and gliding up your leg. Cool rings send shivers up your spine when he slips under the hem of your denim skirt and kneads the fat of your ass.

If breathing weren’t a necessity, you would kiss Eddie forever, but your lungs burn with the lack of air, so you find yourself pulling away with a wet gasp, “I—“ Eddie presses a kiss to your lips, cutting you off before you can speak and you whine, fingers moving to dig into the soft material of his open shirt, “Eddie, I can’t… I can’t breathe, I gotta breathe,” You pant.

Eddie laughs, and you smile as he trails his kisses down to your neck, licking against the base of your throat before sinking his teeth into the skin. You moan, whiney and loud in Eddie’s ear and he hums in appreciation, grumbling into the skin of your neck as he speaks, “I wanna fuck you.”

His teeth scrape against your pulse, and you gasp, head dropping back against the wall with a soft thud as your nails dig into the skin of Eddie’s shoulder. “What?” You hazily blink.

Eddie moves back to see you, lust-ridden eyes darting all over your face. And he looks so pretty, hair messy, shirt skewed against his lean frame, lips swollen and pink from kissing, and you want him. You want him to a dangerous degree.

He kisses you, muttering his words against your lips as he squeezes your hips and pulls you closer, “I wanna fuck you.” Eddie repeats.

You pant, opening your mouth against his and preparing to speak, but you’re interrupted by the door opening, the two of you jumping at the sudden intrusion, your hand swiftly shoving at Eddie’s body to push him away. 

And you think you might die because who better to walk in on you and Eddie practically devouring one another than fucking Jeff.

“Oh, shit, uh,” Jeff looks the other way as soon as he sees you and Eddie. You hastily pick up your bag and tug your skirt back down to a modest length from where it had ridden up to your hips.

You and Eddie are still breathing heavily from your extremities, and Eddie— fucking Eddie; he snickers when Jeff glances back at him and makes a lazy attempt at holding back a laugh. Your face and neck heat up in embarrassment as you shift in your spot, wanting nothing more than the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

“The car is here, man, let’s go,” Jeff snickers before leaving.

And truthfully, you don’t currently have the confidence to look Eddie in the eye and register what’s just happened between you two. So, you grip the strap of your bag and flee before Eddie can say or do anything.

You’re not sure how that happened, and you’re not sure why it makes your stomach twist in a way that makes you blush, but you like it. 

And you can’t believe yourself.

You can’t believe that you spent the entire drive to the hotel thinking about how Eddie’s hands felt on your body, his lips against the skin of your neck, or how you could feel him pressed against your thigh, begging to be touched.

When you shower, you try to ignore the throbbing ache between your legs when you think of those words Eddie whispered to you. You try to ignore it as you get ready for bed and ignore the toe-curling sensation of the cool hotel sheets brushing against your hardened nipples when you slip into bed. You try so hard; you really do.

But you can’t help it when you begin imagining how Eddie’s hands would feel across your chest, the light and rough feeling of his calloused fingers ghosting over your nipples to watch as you writhe beneath him. 

Fuck, you really try to ignore it.

But you can’t. It’s annoying, the way Eddie clouds your mind. And you feel like a bitch in heat when the only thing running through your mind and body is the burning desire to cum. And if you stuff your hands between your thighs and bring yourself to cum to the idea of Eddie and the feeling of him pressed against you with your name on his tongue, who’s to judge you but yourself?

Because despite everything your mind is telling you, you can’t help but find yourself wanting Eddie.

But all of that flies out the window the following day.

You’d decided to order breakfast to your room, and the hotel sends the daily newspaper with each meal, and you like to read it while sipping on a hot cup of coffee on your terrace. However, when you see the newsletter cover, you’re not sure you have much of an appetite for coffee.

A picture of Eddie from last night with a familiar red-headed girl wrapped around his arm and a caption that makes your stomach twist in knots. The caption, ‘Corroded Coffin lead singer, Eddie Munson, new girlfriend debut!” in bold and italicized letters.

And you don’t know why, but your stomach sinks. You should’ve known better.

————

part six

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a/n: HIII YOU MADE IT TO THE END!! i know i said there would be drama drama in this part BUT it started getting too long for my liking, SOOO THE REAL DRAMA WILL COMMENCE IN PART 6 HEHE. THANK YOU FOR READING, AND AS ALWAYS, I LOVE TO HEAR YOUR THOUGHTS SO PLS LMK IN THE COMMENTS OR REBLOGS HOW YOU FEELLL <3

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cutie lil taglist: @mastermindmiko @whataboutbibi @ryanmxrie @ihatepeanutss @tlclick73 @motherfckerrr @emxxblog @jesssssmaybankk @eddiesguitarskills @bibieddiesgf @chloe-6123 @micheledawn1975 @demxnicprxncess @emma77645 @sidthedollface2

@mvnsonslvt @s-u-t @hereforshmut @mmunson86 @welcometohellsock @lma1986 @birdsinmywalls @animechick555 @sheneedsrocknroll92 @spideydreams00 @lorosette @prestinalove @sirensleepingsoundly

#WHEWWW #LETS GET IT #PLS DONT HATE ME #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie x reader #stranger things fanfic #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson au #rockstar!eddie munson #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie x y/n #eddie munson smut #eddie x you #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson headcanon #eddie x fem!reader #stranger things au #rockstar!eddie x reader #rockstar!eddie smut #rockstar!eddie x journalist!reader #journalist!reader

[ghouljams]

And of course, Witch does notice him. She probably kind of hates him at first for always disrupting her prayers with his languid, confident footsteps as he enters her house under the guise of asking for a very specific remedy. She hates the way her stomach twists every time she sees his rugged face. She hates the way her mind goes blank for a second when his soft, yet commanding voice echoes in her ears.

And she despises how she can’t help but silently gush at every single one of his gifts. How she always puts them in places she just knows she will always see them, and how comforting their sight is. How she feels her gaze soften even just a little bit when he breathes a sigh of relief as she bandages his wounds an massages his sore muscles. How her shoulders suddenly feel heavy with worry every time he tells her he is about to leave for another expedition, barely managing to steel her voice when she tells him to come back in one piece (after all, it’s always a nightmare to rummage through the heavy northern snow to find the ingredients needed to take care of big injuries). How she immediately goes to ask the Gods to watch over him, her hands clutching the necklace he once gifted her.

And, most of all, she loathes the way she loves him, her mind distracting her with many thoughts of him when she has to tend to her duties. She is down bad, and he is too. It’s only a matter of time before they both crumble in each other’s arms under the delectable tension these feelings weave in between them.

Just a little headcanon. Mii is inspired. We love characters who can fit in multiple AUs.

Mii do you wanna just take over for me because holy shit. I literally sat up and rolled my shoulders let's fucking go, I gotta write some fic, I'm inspired but I don't think I can match that because GOD. The mutual pining.

There are small things you do to prepare for men to come home. There are big things too, of course, you bind winds with your staff, you ask the gods for protection, you bless the wives with their husband's safe return. But the small things... You change out the furs you wear, return the silky pelts to their usual hanging place so you don't seem too fond of the man that gifted them. The same with your buckles, your brooches, your necklace. You twist a thin silver band around your finger, like a branch from a willow tree it always strikes you as too delicate to come from a viking. There's no filigree to it, not stones, no patterns, it's simple and well loved.

You do these small things because you loathe the man they represent. He's a distraction from your duties, he clouds your judgement, pulls the spirits from you. He watches you with such bare affection in his eyes that you wonder how it would be to be his wife. How it would feel to wake up every morning to those hands cradling you. Only to have him leave you, the same way he always does.

The gods whisper to you as you sit in front of their alter. Dissonant, clouded by the spirits that guard their realm. Chills wrack your body, your mind far away, drifting through the different planes searching for some new prophecy or vision that might keep your man somewhere closer. (They come to you in dreams, and tell you of new lands, new people, force you on to the elders and tell them to send out a party. You'll never be free of this awful wanting.)

The spirits pull your head back, arch your back painfully to look at the intruder in your temple. "You're always in such a rush to get back here," They tell him, voices overlapping, "is she really so special to you?"

"Of course," Price breathes, his shoulders heaving to compensate for his run to the temple from the shore. His feet carrying his heavy body to stand behind you, what are a few steps when you're at the end of them? He watches as you jerk forward and spit henbane seeds from your mouth, coughing and sucking in breaths to shake the trance. He crouches, his hands reaching for your shaking form. Völva don't live long if there's no one to care for them. It's the spirits, the elders say, no living creature can hold the dead without joining them a little each time.

Your fingers scrape the floor, nails digging into the wood and furs that surround the alter. Hands touch your back, familiar enough to make you shiver and tip your head to look at the man you always send so far away from you.

"Welcome back," He tells you, his voice so soft it feels like a blow. You look away from him, fix your eyes on the carved wood of Freyja's statue.

"I should be telling you that."

Price hums, his hands leave you. It's freezing without their warmth. You're frozen without his warmth, doomed to this until it takes you the way it takes every völva. Stuck, until Hel calls you home. You hate this man, you shouldn't love him the way you do. He shouldn't entertain your affections the way he does. He shouldn't encourage them.

"I brought you something." His furs rustle behind you as you collect yourself. You hear the leather cord of a pouch open and you sit up with a sigh. When he doesn't follow up or press anything into your hands you turn to ask him what he's brought. He presses a berry against your lips and like a fool you take it. It's a slightly bitter burst on your tongue, crushed gently by your teeth into something almost sweet. You eye the pouch in his hands, the bright red and orange berries inside. You feel yourself soften a little, smiling when you meet his affectionate stare.

"Rowan berries," You half ask, your voice feels lighter, gentler, "Thank you." It sticks like a knife in his chest. Something so simple makes you look at him like that, like coming home. Gods what he wouldn't do for you.

He's never seen you use any of his other gifts, doesn't even know if you've kept them. Price had thought something edible would go over well, easier to make sure you were satisfied with it. You reach for another berry out of the bag, the thin strip of silver around your finger glinting in the firelight. His ring. The first thing he'd gifted you, when he'd been overcome by the need to have any foothold in your life. You look up at him through your lashes, pop another red berry in your mouth with a questioning hum.

"Are you alright?" You ask, deft fingers reaching to inspect him, "You're not injured are you?" The concern in your voice might kill a weaker man, surely no one can hold up under your care. Not when you look at them like that.

"No," Price chokes out, gritting his teeth as your fingers brush his skin, "No injuries to report, we've got a healer now so-"

"You don't need me?" You smile when you say it, like a joke, but there's sorrow in your eyes. Price can't stop himself from cupping your face, your soft skin under his rough hand is intoxicating. It makes his heart clench painfully. Can't you see he's trying to ease your burden? Are you truly so wrapped up in völva that you've lost sight of any other value you might have?

"What would I do without you sweetheart?" He whispers. There's a pain in your eyes he can't name. It hurts to see you turn away from his hand. To see you smooth your hands over your dress as you stand, offer him your hand to help him up. You smile, some mask closing off your eyes from him.

"Well, we might as well go and greet the men," You pull on your duties like a well worn cloak, more völva than person when you pluck your staff from the ground, "do our jobs for the elders."

It's a reminder to both of you. The spirits aren't the only ones that keep their eyes on you. Price nods, and follows you out of the temple, pressing the pouch into your hands as he goes.

#I know I said there's no magic in the viking au #but völva!reader/Witch can have a little spooky magic #as a treat #cod x reader #x reader #cod x oc #x oc #oc: witch #captain john price #john price #captain john price x reader #john price x oc #john price x reader #john price mw2 #captain price cod #captain price mw2 #captain price #captain price x reader #captain price x oc #f!reader #original female character #price x witch #they're so down bad for each other #absolutely heartbreaking these two dumbasses can't talk to each other about their feelings #viking!price #viking au #völva!witch

[yeyinde]

YES the smoking kink is developing... im asthmatic but im also a whore so id give anything to sit on price's lap while he smokes his cigar. idk if you do smuts BUT mmmm imagine c*ckw*rming him, sitting all nice and pretty for him, him calling you a good [insert nickname here] or "sweet little pet, behaving so well for me" abdvsvdhisb my brain is short-circuiting there is only daddy price thots

"Good girl—," it's a coarse purr slurred around the end of his cigar, billowing with satisfaction. Dark, rich. The euphonious praise makes you shiver. "—bein' so good for me, ain't you, mm?"

⇾word count: 2,2k

⇾warnings: cockwarming, mentions of smut; dom!Price; breeding kink; feelings resolution (kinda)

⇾notes: i'm back on my soft Price agenda.

There is a dull throb in your body—the twinge of a low-grade fever—that simmers in your marrow. You feel like a massive contusion: worn and sore, tender. It’s not entirely dissimilar to an elastic band pulled too far, stretched too taut; it slips, skin smarting where it strikes. The burn makes you mewl into the soft, damp heat pressed beneath your cheek. The rich scent of oakmoss and cedar fills your nose, settling heavily in your lungs. 

You find comfort in the charred sycamore and sweat that trickle down your throat. 

Lashes flutter in a futile effort to blink away the milky cobwebs that spool over your eyes and shroud the world in moondust, but each blink feels like an offering to Hypnos. It keeps you in that equinox of sleep and wakefulness: a borderland between two states. 

You blink again, lashes connecting like a lock and key. An anchor. 

It feels like a battle to open them, but you do when the land beneath you ripples. Rumbles. The movements of tectonic plates; the aftershocks jar you into cognisance. 

Your heavy eyes lift. The world is condensed into a blurry varicoloured smear of wry burnt umber curls, blotchy peach and pink flesh dusted with topaz freckles, and the hazy edge of a white collar.  

It takes you a moment to shake off the tendrils of Hypno's grip, and then you’re back—back, but not quite. You exist in a hazy realm of understanding. A strange purgatory where you last remember searing heat, and pressure, and—

Being battered by the thick of his cock, wrenched around like a rag doll as he planted his feet on the floor, and canted his hips into your quivering body. It is all a murky bog of bliss and euphoria. Gentle words. The grind of him digging into the plug of your womb, the searing heat when his mouth latched onto your pulse point. The molten bloom in your cunt when he came, filling you up. 

Resting your head on his chest—eyes mercury and head fuzzy; somnolence leaking over you like slow-rolling molasses. Just for a minute, you slurred out, basking in that liquid pleasure that spooled inside you. Just a minute. 

It all lingers in a gossamer of pleasure that bleeds over your thoughts.

And now:

Cognisance returns in a slow drizzle of familiarity. 

Rough skin grazing yours. Thumb brushing the aching knob of your hips where he dug his fingers into the soft give of your flesh, rutting into you like a man starved. The deep, even breaths that crackle in your ear; the rise and fall of his chest. The warmth of his body. The heavy scent of him permeates around you—amber, cured spruce wood, burning tobacco leaves, and smoke. 

The sizzle of burning tobacco leaves. Charred ashes. The scent of his cigar clots in the humid air.

Your head pounds from the explosion of endorphins that ripped through each synapse until they were liquid, and brimming with bliss; your body buzzing as each and every nerve pulsed with the deluge of dopamine. The crash of it leaves you feeling windswept, and conquered. 

A low hum resounds through your chest, the echo of it reverberating through your ribcage. The hand slides from your hips, resting heavily on the small of your back. Coarse hair ticking your nose. The rustle of paper sounds somewhere in the distance—clearer, now, that the world has stopped spinning. 

An elastic band stretches, and stretches, and—

Pressure. Tacky warmth. A fullness that perches on the equilibrium of familiar and foreign.

—snaps back. 

You mewl at the liquid fire in your veins, and the too-full feeling inside of you. 

"Shush, shush." His beard grazes your cheek when he lowers his chin to your ear, voice thick and full of smoke, drenched in nicotine. "Easy, love. Sleepin' beauty back with me, eh?"

You huff into his neck, throat thick with his taste and barren of words. Bone dry, your tongue slips out, drags over your kiss-bruised lips, accidentally catching the iodine on his skin. Balmy sweat. The sea in autumn. You press your mouth to his pulse, feverish for the familiar taste, and eager for more. Teeth scrape across his skin, suckling in the ambrosiac tang of him until it floods your mouth.

He rumbles again, a throaty trill that makes your core throb. Another inhale around his cigar; a crutch, you think, to stem the want.

Price pulls it away, arm brushing over your back. You can see the smoke rise out of the corner of your eye. It's clutched between his thumb and forefinger, dangling over the armrest.

"Start that again, and I'll end up throwin' my back out." He husks, warm hand dragging up the length of your spine until he cups the back of your leaden head. "Ain't as young as I was." 

The heat of his voice, the way the smoky roll makes your belly flutter, brings awareness to that strange sensation inside of you. Your sore muscles clench around the thick of it— 

"Fuckin' hell—!" His head falls back, tipping against the back of the seat. The groan that slips out is stretched taut and frayed. 

Your thighs flex, shifting. You feel the sticky mess pooling in his lap, glueing the coarse hair dusting over his thighs to the back of your legs, under your ass. It leaks out around the plug of his softening cock. 

He's still inside of you. 

It ricochets through you, rippling down your spine. 

The sensation of it sits in a strange haze of pleasure; it feels good to have him inside you like this, but without the normal movement, the grind of him against your walls—brassbound, thick—it feels foreign. Different. A dip into too much. The pressure of him sitting there, still stretching your walls taut, makes you keen in your throat. 

"Ah—John—"

“I got you,” he says, etching small circles over your spine, head tilting to nuzzle his chin over your crown. Soothing. Calming. "I want you like this," he murmurs, throat clicking when he swallows. "Want you sat on my cock—just like this—while I finish up here. Can you do that for me?"

You huff, breath pluming over the skin of his neck until goosebumps form. It's strange, and too much, and—

"It's okay," he rasps, cock thickening with each of your exploratory wiggles. His hand slides down your back, settling you with a soft noise. "Easy, now. Just take it, yeah? Keep me inside of you like this. All my cum inside of your cunt."

He burrows his head into your neck, beard scratching over your raw skin. It makes you moan, makes you flutter around him, pulsing like a heartbeat. His words are nirvana in your veins; a bludgeon to your core.

"Might even take hold, eh? Filled you up—nice and deep—and now it's gonna stay here, mm? Gonna—fuck—gonna get you—"

He bites the word off with a growl when you moan, muscles spasming around him. More cum leaks out of the tight seal.

He groans again. A purr imbued with smoke. "You want that, don't you? Want to be good for me, mm? Just like this."

You swallow down the briny taste of him on your tongue, lashes fluttering. Heat pools in your belly. 

Just like this. Just like—

You’ve never considered keeping him inside of you after he was finished, sat pretty and fucked stupid on his cock, but it ignites a fever under your skin. There is something intimate about it that makes your heart prickle, and your breath quicken. You shift, burrowing deeper into his hold. It's easy to find comfort on his lap, in his arms. You exhale deeply through your nose, breath ghosting through the coarse scruff on his neck. 

It's a strange feeling being completely bare, stuffed to the brim with him. Your thighs are tacky from his spend slowly leaking out around the bulk of him as he moves in his chair, finding his own comfort. 

His gaze slides to you when he brings the cigar to his mouth, eyes pitched low and liquid in the soft, jaundiced light of the lamp on his desk, waiting. The spark of ochre, bright vermillion, as he inhales catches in the sapphire pools. Magna in shades of blue. Mercury congeals on the rim.

He looks good with a cigar dangling from his teeth.

"Alright?" He murmurs around the thick of it, soft and velour—eyes brimming with something thick, syrupy sweet. 

It surprises you sometimes that this man who's often nursing tea to soothe the rawness in his throat after howling himself mute on the battlefield can speak so gingerly. Growling whispers; pinched commands barked out in rasps are one thing, but this—

Soft curls of smoke seep into the aether. Mild and molten. Liquid fire.

The fact that this adamantine man speaks to you, only you, in abated whispers, as if he's softening himself, scourging the grit from his throat after years of screaming himself raw, sneaking his father's cigars in his youth, and down glasses of scotch as if it was water makes something rear within you. 

It clots inside your pericardium: a mass of affection, cloying and full. 

He wants this. You can see it in the dichotomy of blue that fixes itself on you, firm and unyielding. He wants it, but he won't take it. He won't make you stay here if you don't want to. You feel him inside of you, and the contrast juxtaposition between earlier when he was seated just as deep, in this very position, to now, when the room is bathed in ochre, and thick with the scent of sex and sweat and stale tobacco, is worlds apart. Different. But—

It's somehow more intimate than when he'd sat over his knee, and slapped the cheeks of your ass until it was bright red and blistering. Or when he perched you on the edge of his desk, growling out commands when you adjusted, trying to stem the sting when you sat, and buried his face between your thighs, drenching his beard in your slick. 

Him, inside of you like this feels—

Natural. Domestic. 

You flush, heart thudding as the bloom of—

Affection. And something else, something you bite into pieces, chewing between your molars until it's ground down into ash, masticated before it can be spoken aloud. Unutterable words not meant for the brisk and brutal physicality of your relationship, and yet. 

It's there. Lingering. 

Your head swims. You drop your forehead to his chest, greedily soaking in the warmth that bleeds through his still-damp shirt. His heart thuds in your ear, crown pressed beneath his chin when you turn. 

Price waits for a moment, eyes still burrowing down at you, searching for any flicker of discomfort. Always the dutiful leader even when he's buried to the hilt inside of you. At your soft, breathy sigh, he turns away from you. Clears his throat of the smoke, thumb cresting over the knobs on your spine. 

"Good girl—," it's a coarse purr slurred around the end of his cigar, billowing with satisfaction. Dark, rich. The euphonious praise makes you shiver. "—bein' so good for me, ain't you, mm?"

"Yes," it's tremulous, brittle. The breathy whisper makes his pulse quicken. His nostrils flare. His brows tick, waiting. Expectant. And you flush, words thick and soporific when you utter them:

"Yes, daddy."

He groans, throbbing inside of you. The cigar wobbles, teetering dangerously between his lax mouth. He rights it, biting into it with a snarl. "Bloody hell…" 

He doesn't act on it. His eyes crest, lidded and full of smouldering want, but he lets it rest, lets the flame simmer. It's not about that right now. Not yet. Not when there is a small fell of paperwork on the desk behind you, and sleep beckons you, spits poison in the crest of your eyes, glossy and lachrymose until your eyes grow fuzzy, thick with exhaustion. 

His weighted gaze lifts when you melt in his embrace, settled, secure. Just where he wants you. Needs you. 

Price reaches for the paper, trading it for the cigar. His gaze oscillates between the report in his hands—unspeakable evils in underbellies unknown—and the soft way you muzzle into his chest. You can feel his eyes on you. A pendulum. It makes you smile, heart singing. 

When he eases in his seat, eyes drifting back to his work, low hum and murmurs falling from his lips as he loses himself in the ugliness of the world, you press your lips to the tender beat of his pulse and whisper those unutterable words into the smoke-drenched warmth of his chest. 

His breath catches, a shallow exhale. His hand stills. Body tenses. 

Your lashes flutter when you open your eyes, meeting his liquid gaze.

His shoulders sag. You hear the rising crescendo of his heart when he presses his lips to your crown. He clears his throat again. His thumb brushes your spine, slower this time. Reverent.

Charred, husking words, the colour smoke seeping from the end of his lit cigar, spill from his lips, tender, softer, than ever before. 

#this was really fun to write ngl #soft price is my new favourite thing ever #i also listened to nothing but lana while writing him #so i guess i should tag that as a mood #captain john price #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #john price #john price cod #john price x reader #john price x you #call of duty modern warfare

[songofsaraneth]

Since we have so many wonderful new members of the Realm of the Elderlings fandom here the last few months, here is a reminder that the band Within Temptation has a song inspired by one FitzChivalry Farseer and that is NOT an exaggeration, they literally wrote it about him/the books

lyrics below cut!

The child without a name grew up to be the hand To watch you, to shield you or kill on demand The choice he'd made he could not comprehend His blood a grim secret they had to command

He's torn between his honor and the true love of his life He prayed for both but was denied

So many dreams were broken and so much was sacrificed Was it worth the ones we loved and had to leave behind? So many years have past, who are the noble and the wise? Will all our sins be justified?

The curse of his powers tormented his life Obeying the crown was a sinister price His soul was tortured by love and by pain He surely would flee but the oath made him stay

He's torn between his honor and the true love of his life He prayed for both but was denied

So many dreams were broken and so much was sacrificed Was it worth the ones we loved and had to leave behind? So many years have past, who are the noble and the wise? Will all our sins be justified?

Please forgive me for the sorrow, for leaving you in fear For the dreams we had to silence, that's all they'll ever be Still I'll be the hand that serves you Though you'll not see that it is me

So many dreams were broken and so much was sacrificed Was it worth the ones we loved and had to leave behind? So many years have past, who are the noble and the wise? Will all our sins be justified?

#realm of the elderlings #fitzchivalry farseer #i dont think we bring it up much but i laugh every time i remember... our pathetic blorbo he inspires so many to song and art #within temptation #hand of sorrow #ramblings #Youtube #was just reading robbin hobbs old reddit AMA again and having REVELATIONS. REVELATIONS I TELL YOU. and found the link to this again lol #did you know before any of the f&tf trilogy came out hobb said in that AMA: #''an exchange of genetic material is possible among/between species that are in very close contact with one another'' #WE DIDNT EVEN KNOW ABOUT BEE YET BUT SHE FULLY SAID THAT... #(about whites and dragons and maulkin/the sea serpent who could see the future) #god im going insane

[dailyadventureprompts]

Dungeon:  The Rot of the Jaw

The long abandoned remnants of a spelljamming warship have come to rest in a sunken cavern, leaking all manner of alien oddness into the wilds that has now begun to reach up to the party’s homeland. Though the potential savlage from this ship is great so too is the danger lurking within, both in the form of the ship’s ancient defences and the secret they have stayed online to protect.

Hooks:

Under the protection and benefit of the crown, an esoteric group of monks in the high hills are known for keeping an artifact known as “the verdant bed” a sarcophagus like device rumoured to be able to cure any illness. Known for charging exorbitant prices for access to the bed, the monks have recently closed their doors to even the most giving of petitioners, leaving a wealthy merchant and his increasingly ill husband in a lurch. Desperate for answers if not solutions, the merchant is willing to pay the party to sneak into the abbey and discover what the monks are hiding.

Something, as it turns out, is deathly wrong with the bed. Where once it sapped away sickness leaving behind only a coating of crumbling green lichen on those it healed, the bed now overflows with a russet mold that is slowly overtaking the abbey and all within. Worse yet, the mold is producing crude huamnoid fungus monsters that seem mindlessly intent on feeding more people to the bed and spreading thier blight. The monks have them barricaded to a specific section of the abbey for now, but give it to the heroes to blunder in and unleash the mould upon the populace.  

The bed is but one of many wondrous devices Scattered about the realm are wondrous devices scattered around the realm with uncertain origins: magical cannons that can shoot dragons out of the sky, person sized fabric cocoons that can send a dreaming individual’s perceptions to far off places in just a blink, all held by covetous hands. To find a means of repairing the bed, its up to the players ( and some helpful archives staff) to research where these devices came from, and to discover that their source is deep underground in some forboding place called “ the hollow”

Background: Though it exists in a sorry state today, the vessel known as the Mandible of Hydax (crude translation) was once a force to be reckoned with, its living stone hull quarried from the body of a fossilized god, bristling with weapons under the direction of a gith warlord who was the terror of the astral sea

Hydax was just as fearsome as her ship, a self styled “tyrant for hire”, she, her mercenary crew, and her warship would contract out for any body of extradimensional oligarchs who didn’t have the strength to put a boot to the neck of their lessers, breaking strikes, defeating rebellions, and ensuring the peasants kept doing their job. This was until Hydax was hired to go after who she and her superiors thought was merely a unusually fucked up spellcaster but was in fact a Kaorti, an emissary of the far realm possessed of terrifying, reality warping powers.   Hydax managed to get her quarry in a cage, and was just in the process of finding a nice void rift to throw the bastard into when the Kaotri ripped them from the astral sea, overriding the ship’s spelljamming helm and throwing them at the nearest material plane ( the party’s home) with enough force to bury the ship beneath the skin of the world like shrapnel. 

Challenges & Complications:

The subterranean path required to reach the Mandible are a hazard unto themselves, with many requiring perilous detours to avoid cave ins and other geological instabilities caused by the ship’s impact. The inhabitants are likewise dangerous, including more than one band of cave-things wielding weapons salvaged from the gith crew or the Mandible itself.

Hydax’s ship contains all manner of wonders and dangers, raging from an arsenal of unearthly weapons and other memorabilia to an archive of (centuries out of date) information regarding the goings on of many alien worlds. Perhaps most valuable of all is the ship’s spelljamming helm, which could be refitted into a new vessel to allow the party to explore the stars. Removing it however may trigger any number of defences, ranging from malfunctioning constructs to a curse from the long dead captain, wraith against any who would loot her prized ship.

The Kaorti, for its part, is still stuck within its cage at the heart of the ship, unable to break the seals that hold it there trapped and undying. It has instead flung its consciousness out into the surrounding caves, directing the unwitting inhabitants to act as its guards and search witlessly for a means to free it.  The party will be better tools by far, and the ghostly presence of the aberrant mage will pretend to be a malfunctioning ship AI, seeming to help them with their goal while leading them to free it.

#dungeon #cave #undead #spelljammer #stealth #theif #Merchant #patron #Cleric #aberration #kaorti #far realm #astral #treasure hunt #seeking healing #dnd #dungeons and dragons #d&d #5e

[jackoshadows]

Listening to the AFfC and ADwD audiobooks and it just hit me in the face with my unconscious biases.

Asoiaf ramblings under the cut...

The Jaime AFfC chapters just reinforced my dislike of the character - I saw no redemption, just a Lannister helping the loathsome Freys and his own house/family strengthen their stranglehold on the Riverlands. From doing nothing about poor Jeyne Poole being send North to marry Ramsay Bolton to threatening Stark allies in the Riverlands, Jaime is only concerned about the Lannisters coming out on top.

Jaime keeps making excuses for his support of the Freys being in direct opposition to his oaths to Catelyn by using the literal meaning of not fighting with a sword. All the while threatening to trebuchet Edmure's baby, taking Catelyn's family as hostages and even adding more guards when they are being transported so that there is no chance of escape or anyone freeing them. It's especially galling because for me the Freys are such loathsome cockroaches while poor Edmure has all my sympathy.

Which is why I am 100% for Ladystoneheart wrecking havoc in the Riverlands. Everytime there is a mention of the wolves or a band of outlaws taking down Lannister allies in the Jaime POV chapters it makes me so excited for the Freys/Lannisters getting utter wrecked!

If LSH wants to hang Jaime Lannister for crimes committed, I am here for it! I can understand where Brienne is coming from considering he saved her from unimaginable horror and yet the man deserves to hang.

And then I was listening to ADwD, and there's Jon's chapter of letting the Wildlings through the Wall after negotiation with Tormund and it struck me that as far as the Freefolk are concerned, Jon Snow is really not a nice guy is he?

The hostages went first—one hundred boys between the ages of eight and sixteen. “Your blood price, Lord Crow,” Tormund declared. “I hope the wailing o’ their poor mothers don’t haunt your dreams at night.” Some of the boys were led to the gate by a mother or a father, others by older siblings. More came alone. Fourteen and fifteen-year-old boys were almost men, and did not want to be seen clinging to a woman’s skirts. Two stewards counted the boys as they went by, noting each name on long sheepskin scrolls. A third collected their valuables for the toll and wrote that down as well. The boys were going to a place that none had ever been before, to serve an order that had been the enemy of their kith and kin for thousands of years, yet Jon saw no tears, heard no wailing mothers. These are winter’s people, he reminded himself. Tears freeze upon your cheeks where they come from. Not a single hostage balked or tried to slink away when his turn came to enter that gloomy tunnel. Almost all the boys were thin, some past the point of gauntness, with spindly shanks and arms like twigs. - Jon, ADwD

And this is where GRRM's oft mentioned quote comes into the play -

The villain is the hero of the other side, as sometimes said. That doesn’t mean that it’s all morally relative. That doesn’t mean that all things are equally good and evil. I think there is good and there is evil in the world, but I regard the struggle between good and evil as being waged within the individual human heart. ------ I’ve been always very impressed by Homer and his Iliad, especially the scene of the fight between Achilles and Hector. Who is the hero and who is the villain? That’s the power of the story and I wanted something similar to my books. The hero of one side is the villain of the other side. - GRRM

I sympathize with the Tullys and the Starks because we get their POV chapters and have spend time with them and are strongly pro Stark, pro Tully etc. And yet we get no such POV for the Freefolk even though characters like Mance Rayder are righteous in their goals, are shut off from the rest of the realm with a Wall and are only trying to survive.

Davos is often celebrated as being a voice of the Smallfolk despite supporting someone like Stannis Baratheon and yet I feel like Mance Rayder is where that praise should ideally go to. His freefolk parents killed by the NW, raised by the NW, experiencing first hand their bigotry and truly trying to help his people by gathering them together and getting to safety on the other side of the Wall. Like literally this should have been Jon Snow when defending the Wall against the Freefolk getting through...

And this is also why I dislike the double standards when it comes to Jon and Dany, both of noble houses, both their arcs as leaders having parallels in it's complexity and nuance - they both make morally grey and ruthless decisions and yet it's only Daenerys who is often called out on hers. Jon Snow's arc would be as much of a 'white savior' arc as Dany's and the only reason it isn't deemed as such is because of GRRM's orientalization of Essos. And that's a flaw of the writer, not the character.

#asoiaf ramblings while listening to AFfC and ADwD

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: Jon XI (Chapter 53)

Apologies for using Karsi as a placeholder. Val wasn't relevant enough to be on the show.

He was not a tall man, Tormund Giantsbane, but the gods had given him a broad chest and massive belly. Mance Rayder had named him Tormund Horn-Blower for the power of his lungs, and was wont to say that Tormund could laugh the snow off mountaintops. In his wroth, his bellows reminded Jon of a mammoth trumpeting.

[...]

Finally, as the shadows of the afternoon grew long outside the tent, Tormund Giantsbane—Tall-Talker, Horn-Blower, and Breaker of Ice, Tormund Thunderfist, Husband to Bears, Mead-King of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods and Father of Hosts—thrust out his hand. "Done then, and may the gods forgive me. There's a hundred mothers never will, I know."

Are we being baited? We're being baited, aren't we?

"If you refuse," Mance Rayder said, "Tormund Giantsbane will sound the Horn of Winter three days hence, at dawn." - Jon X, ASOS

+.+.+

Jon clasped the offered hand. The words of his oath rang through his head. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. And for him a new refrain: I am the guard who opened the gates and let the foe march through. He would have given much and more to know that he was doing the right thing. But he had gone too far to turn back.

This is the price of peace, I pay it willingly. If I look back, I am lost. - Daenerys VIII, ADWD

+.+.+

"Gold for gruel, and boys … a cruel price. Whatever happened to that sweet lad I knew?"

They made him lord commander. "A fair bargain leaves both sides unhappy, I've heard it said. Three days?"

"If I live that long. Some o' my own will spit on me when they hear these terms." Tormund released Jon's hand. "Your crows will grumble too, if I know them. And I ought to. I have killed more o' you black buggers than I can count."

This week on Foils,

Jon negotiates an uneasy peace with those uncivilized, barbaric wildlings.

I hope he doesn't start sulking, and decide to burn everyone alive.

+.+.+

The wildling pulled off the band from his left arm and tossed it at Jon, then did the same with its twin upon his right. "Your first payment. Had those from my father and him from his. Now they're yours, you thieving black bastard."

The armbands were old gold, solid and heavy, engraved with the ancient runes of the First Men. Tormund Giantsbane had worn them as long as Jon had known him; they had seemed as much a part of him as his beard. "The Braavosi will melt these down for the gold. That seems a shame. Perhaps you ought to keep them."

"No. I'll not have it said that Tormund Thunderfist made the free folk give up their treasures whilst he kept his own."

Speaking of being baited, I continue to be distracted by the ancient runes.

+.+.+

Grief twisted Tormund's face. "Dormund was cut down in the battle for the Wall, and him still half a boy. One o' your king's knights did for him, some bastard all in grey steel with moths upon his shield. I saw the cut, but my boy was dead before I reached him. And Torwynd … it was the cold claimed him. Always sickly, that one. He just up and died one night. The worst o' it, before we ever knew he'd died he rose pale with them blue eyes. Had to see to him m'self. That was hard, Jon." Tears shone in his eyes. 

Richard Horpe is with Stannis, I don't think anything is brewing.

+.+.+

"Dawn, then. Three days from now. The boys first."

"I heard you the first ten times, crow. A man'd think there was no trust between us." He spat. "Boys first, aye. Mammoths go the long way round. You make sure Eastwatch expects them. I'll make sure there's no fighting, nor rushing at your bloody gate. Nice and orderly we'll be, ducklings in a row. And me the mother duck. Har!" Tormund led Jon from his tent.

The mammoths are all at Eastwatch. Pray for Eastwatch.

If the Others do attack Eastwatch, you have a nice little parallel with Daenerys, who's about to go to war with the elephants.

+.+.+

He [Hareth] and Leathers were the only men Jon had brought with him to the parley; any more might have been seen as a sign of fear, and twenty men would have been of no more use than two if Tormund had been intent on blood.

Bruh, you have to create the illusion you're including others in your decision-making process. Even Tywin Lannister did that.

+.+.+

Ghost was the only protection Jon needed; the direwolf could sniff out foes, even those who hid their enmity behind smiles.

Ghost would have followed as well, but as the wolf came padding after them, Jon grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and wrestled him back inside. Borroq might be amongst those gathering at the Shieldhall. The last thing he needed just now was his wolf savaging the skinchanger's boar. - Jon XIII, ADWD

+.+.+

From above came the sudden sound of wings. Mormont's raven flapped from a limb of an old oak to perch upon Jon's saddle. "Corn," it cried. "Corn, corn, corn."

"Did you follow me as well?" Jon reached to shoo the bird away but ended up stroking its feathers. The raven cocked its eye at him. "Snow," it muttered, bobbing its head knowingly. 

Eye, singular.

That ain't no blood raven, that's a Bran raven.

+.+.+

Then Ghost emerged from between two trees, with Val beside him.

They look as though they belong together. Val was clad all in white; white woolen breeches tucked into high boots of bleached white leather, white bearskin cloak pinned at the shoulder with a carved weirwood face, white tunic with bone fastenings. Her breath was white as well … but her eyes were blue, her long braid the color of dark honey, her cheeks flushed red from the cold. It had been a long while since Jon Snow had seen a sight so lovely.

"Have you been trying to steal my wolf?" he asked her.

"Why not? If every woman had a direwolf, men would be much sweeter. Even crows."

Wait a second.

WAIT A SECOND.

What happened ... to Cool Girl's ... grey eyes?

Why ... at this moment ... have they turned ... blue?

Val looked at him with pale grey eyes. - Jon X, ASOS

x

They had crowned her with a simple circlet of dark bronze, yet she looked more regal in bronze than Stannis did in gold. Her eyes were grey and fearless, unflinching. - Jon III, ADWD

See? Grey. She's shapeshifting again.

Something tells me that's not a continuity error.

She was as fair as he'd remembered, slender, full-breasted, graceful even at rest, with high sharp cheekbones and a thick braid of honey-colored hair that fell to her waist. - Jon X, ASOS

x

Her breath was white as well … but her eyes were blue - Jon XI, ADWD

Something weird is going on here, but I can't quite put my finger on it.

Worse, she was beautiful. - Arya I, AGOT

x

"Your bosom will be as lovely as the queen's," the old woman said as she looped her string around Sansa's chest. "You should not hide it so." - Sansa II, ASOS

x

"I had heard that Lord Littlefinger's daughter was fair of face and full of grace, but no one ever told me that she was a thief." - Alayne I, TWOW

x

Sansa had gotten their mother's fine high cheekbones - Arya I, AGOT

x

"OH, SWEET SHE WAS, AND PURE, AND FAIR! THE MAID WITH HONEY IN HER HAIR!" - Sansa I, ASOS

x

✨✨✨ Petyr studied her eyes, as if seeing them for the first time. "You have your mother's eyes. Honest eyes, and innocent. Blue as a sunlit sea. When you are a little older, many a man will drown in those eyes." - Sansa I, AFFC ✨✨✨

+.+.+

Then Ghost emerged from between two trees, with Val beside him.

They look as though they belong together. Val was clad all in white; white woolen breeches tucked into high boots of bleached white leather, white bearskin cloak pinned at the shoulder with a carved weirwood face, white tunic with bone fastenings. Her breath was white as well … but her eyes were blue, her long braid the color of dark honey, her cheeks flushed red from the cold. It had been a long while since Jon Snow had seen a sight so lovely.

"Have you been trying to steal my wolf?" he asked her.

"Why not? If every woman had a direwolf, men would be much sweeter. Even crows."

It's a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.

Two pairs of hose for her legs, boots that laced up to her knees, heavy leather gloves, and finally a hooded cloak of soft white fox fur.

[...]

He smiled. "I wish you could see yourself, my lady. You are so beautiful. You're crusted over with snow like some little bear cub, but your face is flushed and you can scarcely breathe. How long have you been out here? You must be very cold. Let me warm you, Sansa. - Sansa VII, ASOS

+.+.+

Then Ghost emerged from between two trees, with Val beside him.

They look as though they belong together. Val was clad all in white; white woolen breeches tucked into high boots of bleached white leather, white bearskin cloak pinned at the shoulder with a carved weirwood face, white tunic with bone fastenings. Her breath was white as well … but her eyes were blue, her long braid the color of dark honey, her cheeks flushed red from the cold. It had been a long while since Jon Snow had seen a sight so lovely.

"Have you been trying to steal my wolf?" he asked her.

"Why not? If every woman had a direwolf, men would be much sweeter. Even crows."

It's always there, the truth. We just need to look for it.

"I had heard that Lord Littlefinger's daughter was fair of face and full of grace, but no one ever told me that she was a thief."

"You wrong me, ser. I am no thief!"

Ser Roland placed his hand over his heart. "Then how do you explain this hole in my chest, from where you stole my heart?" - Alayne I, TWOW

+.+.+

Then Ghost emerged from between two trees, with Val beside him.

They look as though they belong together. Val was clad all in white; white woolen breeches tucked into high boots of bleached white leather, white bearskin cloak pinned at the shoulder with a carved weirwood face, white tunic with bone fastenings. Her breath was white as well … but her eyes were blue, her long braid the color of dark honey, her cheeks flushed red from the cold. It had been a long while since Jon Snow had seen a sight so lovely.

"Have you been trying to steal my wolf?" he asked her.

"Why not? If every woman had a direwolf, men would be much sweeter. Even crows."

Why, it's almost as if this "character" (I use that term loosely) is a plot device, who only exists to remind us of other people.

The light of the half-moon turned Val's honey-blond hair a pale silver and left her cheeks as white as snow. She took a deep breath. "The air tastes sweet."

"My tongue is too numb to tell. All I can taste is cold." - Jon VIII, ADWD

Pale silver? Bad. ❌

Dark honey, blue-eyed? Good. ✅

Okay, I'm done.

+.+.+

What had that oaf Axell Florent said of Val? "A nubile girl, not hard to look upon. Good hips, good breasts, well made for whelping children."

+.+.+

All true enough, but the wildling woman was so much more. 

If you have any critical thinking skills whatsoever, this should have prompted nothing more than a laugh.

The joke is he doesn't know anything about Val. The reader doesn't know anything about Val. Val is a blank page dressed in white.

+.+.+

She had proved that by finding Tormund where seasoned rangers of the Watch had failed. She may not be a princess, but she would make a worthy wife for any lord.

Again, the appropriate response is to laugh.

Val would make a dreadful wife for any noble, and the author's going to demonstrate why.

I weep for people who can't see what's going on here.

Sansa was a lady at three, always so courteous and eager to please. - Catelyn VII, ACOK

x

She is good at this, he thought, as he watched her tell Lord Gyles that his cough was sounding better, compliment Elinor Tyrell on her gown, and question Jalabhar Xho about wedding customs in the Summer Isles. His cousin Ser Lancel had been brought down by Ser Kevan, the first time he'd left his sickbed since the battle. He looks ghastly. Lancel's hair had turned white and brittle, and he was thin as a stick. Without his father beside him holding him up, he would surely have collapsed. Yet when Sansa praised his valor and said how good it was to see him getting strong again, both Lancel and Ser Kevan beamed. She would have made Joffrey a good queen and a better wife if he'd had the sense to love her. He wondered if his nephew was capable of loving anyone. - Tyrion VIII, ASOS

A poor substitute for the real thing.

King Stannis had plans for Val, he knew; she was the mortar with which he meant to seal the peace between the northmen and the free folk. - Samwell I, AFFC

x

Our alliances in the south may be as solid as Casterly Rock, but there remains the north to win, and the key to the north is Sansa Stark. - Tyrion III, ASOS

Always has been, always will be.

She may not be a princess

Wait for it.

WAIT FOR IT.

+.+.+

But that bridge had been burned a long time ago, and Jon himself had thrown the torch. "Toregg is welcome to her," he announced. "I took a vow."

That's kind of a dick thing to say right in front of her, lol.

+.+.+

"She won't mind. Will you, girl?"

Val patted the long bone knife on her hip. "Lord Crow is welcome to steal into my bed any night he dares. Once he's been gelded, keeping those vows will come much easier for him."

HA HA she's so cool.

+.+.+

As Jon scratched Ghost behind the ear, Toregg brought up Val's horse for her. She still rode the grey garron that Mully had given her the day she left the Wall, a shaggy, stunted thing blind in one eye. As she turned it toward the Wall, she asked, "How fares the little monster?"

+.+.+

"Freedom of the castle you shall have, but I regret to say you must remain a captive. I can promise that you will not be troubled by unwanted visitors, however. My own men guard Hardin's Tower, not the queen's. And Wun Wun sleeps in the entry hall."

Sansa hovered by the door, for once unguarded. The queen had given her freedom of the castle as a reward for being good, yet even so, she was escorted everywhere she went. - Sansa V, AGOT

Shoutout to @please-dot!

+.+.+

Jon saw signs of sickness too. That disquieted him more than he could say. If Tormund's band were starved and sick, what of the thousands who had followed Mother Mole to Hardhome? Cotter Pyke should reach them soon. If the winds were kind, his fleet might well be on its way back to Eastwatch even now, with as many of the free folk as he could cram aboard.

Jon lets the sick pass the Wall.

Now I'm wondering what the author's personal stance was on Daenerys keeping the sick out of Meereen. I didn't think she had much of a choice, but perhaps George disagrees.

+.+.+

"How did you fare with Tormund?" asked Val.

"Ask me a year from now. The hard part still awaits me. The part where I convince mine own to eat this meal I've cooked for them. None of them are going to like the taste, I fear."

"Let me help."

"You have. You brought me Tormund."

"I can do more."

Why not? thought Jon. They are all convinced she is a princess. Val looked the part and rode as if she had been born on horseback. A warrior princess, he decided, not some willowy creature who sits up in a tower, brushing her hair and waiting for some knight to rescue her.

There it is, in all its glory.

A real authentic warrior princess.

Controversial, but I agree with him.

Val is nothing like that other princess in the story.

+.+.+

Why not? thought Jon. They are all convinced she is a princess. Val looked the part and rode as if she had been born on horseback. A warrior princess, he decided, not some willowy creature who sits up in a tower, brushing her hair and waiting for some knight to rescue her.

I'm not finished.

In case Jon's own thoughts weren't enough,

Val is no princess, though. I told him that half a hundred times. - Jon VIII, ADWD

George has basically confirmed Jon is projecting all over this girl.

However, in my own defense, I should note that Dalla was not a "warrior woman" per se. She was from a warrior culture, yes; one that gave women the right, but not the obligation, to be fighters. Ygritte was a warrior woman, as was (most conspicuously) the fearsome Harma Dogshead. Dalla and Val were not. - George R. R. Martin

She is no warrior, she is no princess, and she damn well sure isn't the mortar to the north.

As for Jon's thoughts on willowy creatures in towers,

He knew nothing of his mother; Eddard Stark would not talk of her. Yet he dreamed of her at times, so often that he could almost see her face. In his dreams, she was beautiful, and highborn, and her eyes were kind. - Jon III, AGOT

x

The mare whickered softly as Jon Snow tightened the cinch. "Easy, sweet lady," he said in a soft voice, quieting her with a touch. - Jon IX, AGOT

x

He was not a man you'd expect to speak of maids and wedding nights. So far as Jon knew, Qhorin had spent his whole life in the Watch. Did he ever love a maid or have a wedding? He could not ask. Instead he fanned the fire. When the blaze was all acrackle, he peeled off his stiff gloves to warm his hands, and sighed, wondering if ever a kiss had felt as good. - Jon VIII, ACOK

x

Sometimes she sang in a low husky voice that stirred him. And sometimes by the cookfire when she sat hugging her knees with the flames waking echoes in her red hair, and looked at him, just smiling . . . well, that stirred some things as well. - Jon II, ASOS

x

If I could show her Winterfell . . . give her a flower from the glass gardens, feast her in the Great Hall, and show her the stone kings on their thrones. We could bathe in the hot pools, and love beneath the heart tree while the old gods watched over us. - Jon V, ASOS

x

"Then I'd push him in a stream or throw a bucket o' water on him. Anyhow, men shouldn't smell sweet like flowers."

"What's wrong with flowers?" - Jon V, ASOS

x

For a time he dreamed that Ygritte was with him, tending him with gentle hands. - Jon VI, ASOS

x

He watched the child nurse at Gilly's breast, and then he watched Jon watch. Jon is smiling. A sad smile, still, but definitely a smile of sorts. Sam was glad to see it. It is the first time I've seen him smile since I got back. - Samwell IV, ASOS

x

A snowflake danced upon the air. Then another. Dance with me, Jon Snow, he thought. You'll dance with me anon. - Jon XII, ADWD

I might take it more seriously if he wasn't such a willowy boy.

+.+.+

"I must inform the queen of this agreement," he said. "You are welcome to come meet her, if you can find it in yourself to bend a knee." It would never do to offend Her Grace before he even opened his mouth.

"May I laugh when I kneel?"

"You may not. This is no game. A river of blood runs between our peoples, old and deep and red. Stannis Baratheon is one of the few who favors admitting wildlings to the realm. I need his queen's support for what I've done."

Val's playful smile died. "You have my word, Lord Snow. I will be a proper wildling princess for your queen."

Oh boy, I can't wait to see how well princess emissary does.

Teach him, author. Show him what happens to 11-year-old girls boys who romanticize pretty princes princesses they don't know.

+.+.+

She is not my queen, he might have said. If truth be told, the day of her departure cannot come too fast for me. And if the gods are good, she will take Melisandre with her.

I know this is about Selyse, but.

+.+.+

"If it please m'lord, the lads were wondering. Will it be peace, m'lord? Or blood and iron?"

"Peace," Jon Snow replied. "Three days hence, Tormund Giantsbane will lead his people through the Wall. As friends, not foes. Some may even swell our ranks, as brothers. It will be for us to make them welcome. Now back to your duties." 

This, plus the conflict between Daenerys and Yunkai being (temporarily) resolved by a peace deal, is another strong indicator the Others will not be stopped with swords or magic.

+.+.+

Bring parchment, quills, and a pot of maester's black to my chambers. Then summon Marsh, Yarwyck, Septon Cellador, Clydas." Cellador would be half-drunk, and Clydas was a poor substitute for a real maester, but they were what he had. Till Sam returns. 

Poor substitutes everywhere you look! What happened to getting more maesters?

"If you ask the Citadel for more maesters . . ."

"I mean to. We'll have need of every one. Aemon Targaryen is not so easily replaced, however." - Jon II, ADWD

Looks like the author is going to pretend it doesn't take years to become a maester. Who needs a 5 year gap?

+.+.+

He turned to Val. "My lady. With me, if you please."

"The crow commands, the captive must obey." Her tone was playful. 

x

They made their way toward the King's Tower, along fresh-shoveled pathways between mounds of dirty snow. "I have heard it said that your queen has a great dark beard."

Jon knew he should not smile, but he did.

x

Commanding them was Ser Patrek of King's Mountain, clad in his knightly raiment of white and blue and silver, his cloak a spatter of five-pointed stars. When presented to Val, the knight sank to one knee to kiss her glove. "You are even lovelier than I was told, princess," he declared. "The queen has told me much and more of your beauty."

"How odd, when she has never seen me." Val patted Ser Patrek on the head. "Up with you now, ser kneeler. Up, up." She sounded as if she were talking to a dog.

It was all that Jon could do not to laugh. 

+.+.+

When presented to Val, the knight sank to one knee to kiss her glove. "You are even lovelier than I was told, princess," he declared. "The queen has told me much and more of your beauty."

"How odd, when she has never seen me."

Not to be outdone, the pimply knight hopped up and said, "Ser Ossifer speaks truly, you are the most beautiful maid in all the Seven Kingdoms." It might have been a sweeter courtesy had he not addressed it to her chest.

"And have you seen all those maids yourself, ser?" Alayne asked him. "You are young to be so widely travelled." - Alayne I, TWOW

Shoutout to @please-dot!

+.+.+

They found Her Grace sewing by the fire, whilst her fool danced about to music only he could hear, the cowbells on his antlers clanging. "The crow, the crow," Patchface cried when he saw Jon. "Under the sea the crows are white as snow, I know, I know, oh, oh, oh."

If under the sea is still code for death, then I believe that's more evidence of Jon warging inside Ghost.

+.+.+

There was no sign of Lady Melisandre. For that much Jon was grateful. 

Lol.

+.+.+

"Your Grace." He took a knee. Val did likewise.

Wow, impressive. Let's see your curtsy, princess blue-blood.

+.+.+

"Are you the wildling princess?" Shireen asked Val.

"Some call me that," said Val. "My sister was wife to Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall. She died giving him a son."

I'm sorry, don't the kneelers call you that?

+.+.+

"I'm a princess too," Shireen announced, "but I never had a sister. I used to have a cousin once, before he sailed away. He was just a bastard, but I liked him."

"Honestly, Shireen," her mother said. "I am sure the lord commander did not come to hear about Robert's by-blows. Patchface, be a good fool and take the princess to her room."

The bells on his hat rang. "Away, away," the fool sang. "Come with me beneath the sea, away, away, away." He took the little princess by one hand and drew her from the room, skipping.

Hey, princess Sansa has a bastard cousin she's fond of too.

Please don't take Shireen beneath the sea. Please?

+.+.+

Jon said, "Your Grace, the leader of the free folk has agreed to my terms."

Queen Selyse gave the tiniest of nods. "It was ever my lord husband's wish to grant sanctuary to these savage peoples. So long as they keep the king's peace and the king's laws, they are welcome in our realm." She pursed her lips. "I am told they have more giants with them."

Yes, that was definitely something Stannis genuinely cared about.

Melisandre nodded solemnly, as if she had taken his words to heart, but this Weeper did not matter. None of his free folk mattered. They were a lost people, a doomed people, destined to vanish from the earth, as the children of the forest had vanished. - Melisandre I, ADWD

+.+.+

She pursed her lips. "I am told they have more giants with them." Val answered. "Almost two hundred of them, Your Grace. And more than eighty mammoths."

The queen shuddered. "Dreadful creatures." Jon could not tell if she was speaking of the mammoths or the giants. "Though such beasts might be useful to my lord husband in his battles."

There's two hundred giants, and eighty mammoths?

Probably not for long.

"Though such beasts might be useful to my lord husband in his battles."

I hate these people.

+.+.+

Selyse sniffed. "If you say so. No doubt you know about such things. Where do you mean to settle these wildlings? Surely Mole's Town is not large enough to contain … how many are they?" "Four thousand, Your Grace. They will help us garrison our abandoned castles, the better to defend the Wall."

Numbers update! Four thousand wildlings are passing the Wall.

Most of them are not fighting men, and won't factor into the battle for Winterfell.

+.+.+

"I see you have considered all this carefully, Lord Snow. I am sure King Stannis will be pleased when he returns triumphant from his battle."

Lol, k.

You know what I would do if I triumphantly won back Winterfell, and secured a kingdom to my cause?

Burn my daughter alive to celebrate.

+.+.+

"Of course," the queen went on, "the wildlings must first acknowledge Stannis as their king and R'hllor as their god."

And here we are, face-to-face in the narrow passage. "Your Grace, forgive me. Those were not the terms that we agreed to."

The queen's face hardened. "A grievous oversight." What faint traces of warmth her voice had held vanished all at once.

Don't worry, Jon's a seasoned veteran when it comes to tense matters like this. He's got this under contr-

+.+.+

"Free folk do not kneel," Val told her.

"Then they must be knelt," the queen declared.

"Do that, Your Grace, and we will rise again at the first chance," Val promised. "Rise with blades in hand."

The queen's lips tightened, and her chin gave a small quiver. "You are insolent. I suppose that is only to be expected of a wildling. We must find you a husband who can teach you courtesy." 

Damn, you fucking suck at this, princess diplomacy.

+.+.+

"Your Grace." Jon knelt again. This time Val did not join him. "I am sorry my actions have displeased you. I did as I thought best. Do I have your leave to go?"

I would have liked to see him reflect on what a dumbass princess fumble is, but I understand I can't have everything.

Or maybe I can ...

+.+.+

Once outside and well away from the queen's men, Val gave vent to her wroth. "You lied about her beard. That one has more hair on her chin than I have between my legs. And the daughter … her face …"

"Greyscale."

"The grey death is what we call it."

"It is not always mortal in children."

"North of the Wall it is. Hemlock is a sure cure, but a pillow or a blade will work as well. If I had given birth to that poor child, I would have given her the gift of mercy long ago."

Oh no, what's happening? Say it ain't so, princess filicide.

Surely you wouldn't kill your own child if it was unnecessary.

The curse was oft seen in children, especially in damp, cold climes. The afflicted flesh stiffened, calcified, and cracked, though the dwarf had read that greyscale's progress could be stayed by limes, mustard poultices, and scalding-hot baths (the maesters said) or by prayer, sacrifice, and fasting (the septons insisted). Then the disease passed, leaving its young victims disfigured but alive. Maesters and septons alike agreed that children marked by greyscale could never be touched by the rarer mortal form of the affliction, nor by its terrible swift cousin, the grey plague. - Tyrion V, ADWD

You should keep going, princess merciful. Nothing turns Jon on more than talk of killing kids.

+.+.+

This was a Val that Jon had never seen before. "Princess Shireen is the queen's only child."

A little too much wildling in that wildling, huh?

You've never seen any part of Val before, you banana.

+.+.+

"I pity both of them. The child is not clean."

DON'T STOP GEORGE. LEARN HIM.

+.+.+

"If Stannis wins his war, Shireen will stand as heir to the Iron Throne."

"Then I pity your Seven Kingdoms."

+.+.+

"The maesters say greyscale is not—"

"The maesters may believe what they wish. Ask a woods witch if you would know the truth. The grey death sleeps, only to wake again. The child is not clean!"

"She seems a sweet girl. You cannot know—"

"I can. You know nothing, Jon Snow." Val seized his arm. "I want the monster out of there. Him and his wet nurses. You cannot leave them in that same tower as the dead girl."

Jon shook her hand away. "She is not dead."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

+.+.+

"She is. Her mother cannot see it. Nor you, it seems. Yet death is there." She walked away from him, stopped, turned back. "I brought you Tormund Giantsbane. Bring me my monster."

Bring princess maternal the monster. She's great with children.

Death is certainly there for Shireen, but not for the reasons Val believes.

While we're on the topic of mercy killing kids, would you like to know who you're supposed to be thinking about while this conversation is taking place? ("Then I pity your Seven Kingdoms.")

"He could end his torment," Jaime said. "I would, if it were my son. It would be a mercy." - Tyrion I, AGOT

x

"Oh, don't be absurd." Cersei closed the window. "Yes, I hoped the boy would die. So did you. Even Robert thought that would have been for the best. 'We kill our horses when they break a leg, and our dogs when they go blind, but we are too weak to give the same mercy to crippled children,' he told me. He was blind himself at the time, from drink." - Jaime IX, ASOS

Yeah, this girl is totally Jon's happy ending.

+.+.+

"If I can, I will."

"Do. You owe me a debt, Jon Snow."

Jon watched her stride away. She is wrong. She must be wrong. Greyscale is not so deadly as she claims, not in children.

Shireen is fine, she's had greyscale for 11 years now.

Let's wait and see if that not deadly disease is used to justify a horrific act.

Ask a woods witch if you would know the truth. The grey death sleeps, only to wake again.

+.+.+

At four hundred feet the wind had teeth, and tore at his black cloak so it slapped noisily at the iron bars. At seven hundred it cut right through him. The Wall is mine, Jon reminded himself as the winchmen were swinging in the cage, for two more days, at least.

Close. It's yours for about another week, then you can say goodbye.

+.+.+

Both wore woolen hoods pulled down over their heads, so nothing could be seen of their faces but their eyes, but he knew Ty by the tangled rope of greasy black hair falling down his back and Owen by the sausage stuffed into the scabbard at his hip. He might have known them anyway, just by the way they stood. A good lord must know his men, his father had once told him and Robb, back at Winterfell.

I wish you'd do a better job at knowing Bowen Marsh.

+.+.+

Jon walked to the edge of the Wall and gazed down upon the killing ground where Mance Rayder's host had died. He wondered where Mance was now. Did he ever find you, little sister? Or were you just a ploy he used so I would set him free?

We're still trying to figure that one out, Jon.

+.+.+

It had been so long since he had last seen Arya. What would she look like now? Would he even know her? Arya Underfoot. Her face was always dirty. Would she still have that little sword he'd had Mikken forge for her? Stick them with the pointy end, he'd told her. Wisdom for her wedding night if half of what he heard of Ramsay Snow was true. Bring her home, Mance. I saved your son from Melisandre, and now I am about to save four thousand of your free folk. You owe me this one little girl.

Arya Stark, still very much a child in the eyes of Jon Snow.

Unrelated, but did you know Shireen and Arya are the exact same age? I bet Jon knows.

+.+.+

Jon Snow flexed the fingers of his sword hand, remembering all he'd lost. Sam, you sweet fat fool, you played me a cruel jape when you made me lord commander. A lord commander has no friends.

+.+.+

Jon pointed at the lights of their campfires. "There they are. Four thousand, Tormund claims."

"Three thousand, I make them, by the fires." Bowen Marsh lived for counts and measures. "More than twice that number at Hardhome with the woods witch, we are told. And Ser Denys writes of great camps in the mountains beyond the Shadow Tower …"

Scratch that, three thousand wildings are passing the Wall. More than six thousand are at Hardhome.

Many more are in the mountains beyond the Shadow Tower. Do we know what's happening at the Shadow Tower?

+.+.+

Jon did not deny it. "Tormund says the Weeper means to try the Bridge of Skulls again."

The Old Pomegranate touched his scar. He had gotten it defending the Bridge of Skulls the last time the Weeping Man had tried to cut his way across the Gorge. "Surely the lord commander cannot mean to allow that … that demon through as well?"

"Not gladly." Jon had not forgotten the heads the Weeping Man had left him, with bloody holes where their eyes had been. Black Jack Bulwer, Hairy Hal, Garth Greyfeather. I cannot avenge them, but I will not forget their names. "But yes, my lord, him as well. We cannot pick and choose amongst the free folk, saying this one may pass, this one may not. Peace means peace for all."

[...]

"How many rangers has the Weeper killed?" asked Othell Yarwyck. "How many women has he raped or killed or stolen?"

"Three of mine own ilk," said Old Flint. "And he blinds the girls he does not take."

Similar to Daenerys and her peace deal, Jon's forced to swallow an especially difficult pill.

I'm not smart enough to tell you what should have happened.

+.+.+

"You need not trust a man to use him." Else how could I make use of all of you? "We need the Weeper, and others like him. Who knows the wild better than a wildling? Who knows our foes better than a man who has fought them?"

That's kind of unfair. They haven't done anything. Yet.

+.+.+

"Brothers should not squabble," Septon Cellador said. "Let us kneel and pray to the Crone to light our way to wisdom."

George mocking "thoughts and prayers" before it became a thing.

+.+.+

"Lord Snow," said The Norrey, "where do you mean to put these wildlings o' yours? Not on my lands, I hope."

"Aye," declared Old Flint. "You want them in the Gift, that's your folly, but see they don't wander off or I'll send you back their heads. Winter is nigh, I want no more mouths to feed."

I think it was paramount he involve these two in the negotiations.

The Night's Watch relies on the support of noble houses, especially northern houses.

+.+.+

"The wildlings will remain upon the Wall," Jon assured them. "Most will be housed in one of our abandoned castles." The Watch now had garrisons at Icemark, Long Barrow, Sable Hall, Greyguard, and Deep Lake, all badly undermanned, but ten castles still stood empty and abandoned. "Men with wives and children, all orphan girls and any orphan boys below the age of ten, old women, widowed mothers, any woman who does not care to fight. The spearwives we'll send to Long Barrow to join their sisters, single men to the other forts we've reopened. Those who take the black will remain here, or be posted to Eastwatch or the Shadow Tower. Tormund will take Oakenshield as his seat, to keep him close at hand."

Tormund Oakenshield. Can someone tell me if Thorin Oakenshield ever blows a horn?

I'm not sure these castles survive the Wall falling. They have to go somewhere else.

You want them in the Gift, that's your folly

+.+.+

Bowen Marsh sighed. "If they do not slay us with their swords, they will do so with their mouths. Pray, how does the lord commander propose to feed Tormund and his thousands?"

Jon had anticipated that question. "Through Eastwatch. We will bring in food by ship, as much as might be required. From the riverlands and the stormlands and the Vale of Arryn, from Dorne and the Reach, across the narrow sea from the Free Cities."

"And this food will be paid for … how, if I may ask?"

With gold, from the Iron Bank of Braavos, Jon might have replied. Instead he said, "I have agreed that the free folk may keep their furs and pelts. They will need those for warmth when winter comes. All other wealth they must surrender. Gold and silver, amber, gemstones, carvings, anything of value. We will ship it all across the narrow sea to be sold in the Free Cities."

"All the wealth o' the wildlings," said The Norrey. "That should buy you a bushel o' barleycorn. Two bushels, might be."

SAY THAT. TELL THEM.

Like, almost every insurrection happens because of food scarcity in this series. Please tell them you have money to buy food.

+.+.+

"Lord Commander, why not demand that the wildlings give up their arms as well?" asked Clydas.

Leathers laughed at that. "You want the free folk to fight beside you against the common foe. How are we to do that without arms? Would you have us throw snowballs at the wights? Or will you give us sticks to hit them with?"

The arms most wildlings carry are little more than sticks, thought Jon. 

SAY THE QUIET PART OUT LOUD.

+.+.+

"Tormund has given me his oath. He will serve with us until the spring. The Weeper and their other captains will swear the same or we will not let them pass."

Old Flint shook his head. "They will betray us."

"The Weeper's word is worthless," said Othell Yarwyck.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't think we get another update on the Weeper in this book. I don't think he's passed the Wall.

+.+.+

"The gods of the North, since before this Wall was raised," said Jon. "Those are the gods that Tormund swore by. He will keep his word. I know him, as I knew Mance Rayder. I marched with them for a time, you may recall."

"I had not forgotten," said the Lord Steward.

No, thought Jon, I did not think you had.

What possessed him to bring that up?

+.+.+

"It is not their children who concern us. We fear the fathers, not the sons."

"As do I. So I insisted upon hostages." I am not the trusting fool you take me for … nor am I half wildling, no matter what you believe. "One hundred boys between the ages of eight and sixteen. A son from each of their chiefs and captains, the rest chosen by lot. The boys will serve as pages and squires, freeing our own men for other duties. Some may choose to take the black one day. Queerer things have happened. The rest will stand hostage for the loyalty of their sires."

The northmen glanced at one another. "Hostages," mused The Norrey. "Tormund has agreed to this?"

It was that, or watch his people die. "My blood price, he called it," said Jon Snow, "but he will pay."

Maybe lead with this next time.

Can't say I'm a big fan of child hostages.

We're going to hope this doesn't go to hell once Jon's killed. If I had to guess, I'd say the Meereen hostages both sides hold are in a lot greater danger.

+.+.+

"None but them whose sires displeased the Kings o' Winter," said The Norrey. "Those came home shorter by a head. So you tell me, boy … if these wildling friends o' yours prove false, do you have the belly to do what needs be done?"

Ask Janos Slynt. "Tormund Giantsbane knows better than to try me. I may seem a green boy in your eyes, Lord Norrey, but I am still a son of Eddard Stark."

Janos Slynt wasn't an innocent child, tough guy.

+.+.+

Marsh flushed a deeper shade of red. "The lord commander must pardon my bluntness, but I have no softer way to say this. What you propose is nothing less than treason. For eight thousand years the men of the Night's Watch have stood upon the Wall and fought these wildlings. Now you mean to let them pass, to shelter them in our castles, to feed them and clothe them and teach them how to fight. Lord Snow, must I remind you? You swore an oath."

"I know what I swore." Jon said the words. "I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. Were those the same words you said when you took your vows?"

"They were. As the lord commander knows."

"Are you certain that I have not forgotten some? The ones about the king and his laws, and how we must defend every foot of his land and cling to each ruined castle? How does that part go?" Jon waited for an answer. None came. "I am the shield that guards the realms of men. Those are the words. So tell me, my lord—what are these wildlings, if not men?"

Bowen Marsh opened his mouth. No words came out. A flush crept up his neck.

That's a great point, but I wouldn't have been so sassy about it.

To be fair, I know what happens.

+.+.+

Outside the day was bright and cloudless. The sun had returned to the sky after a fortnight's absence, and to the south the Wall rose blue-white and glittering. There was a saying Jon had heard from the older men at Castle Black: the Wall has more moods than Mad King Aerys, they'd say, or sometimes, the Wall has more moods than a woman. On cloudy days it looked to be white rock. On moonless nights it was as black as coal. In snowstorms it seemed carved of snow. But on days like this, there was no mistaking it for anything but ice. On days like this the Wall shimmered bright as a septon's crystal, every crack and crevasse limned by sunlight, as frozen rainbows danced and died behind translucent ripples. On days like this the Wall was beautiful.

x

Jon Snow turned away. The last light of the sun had begun to fade. He watched the cracks along the Wall go from red to grey to black, from streaks of fire to rivers of black ice. Down below, Lady Melisandre would be lighting her nightfire and chanting, Lord of Light, defend us, for the night is dark and full of terrors.

The beginning and end of the chapter. The Wall is doing symbolism again.

+.+.+

"Winter is coming," Jon said at last, breaking the awkward silence, "and with it the white walkers. The Wall is where we stop them. The Wall was made to stop them … but the Wall must be manned. This discussion is at an end. We have much to do before the gate is opened. Tormund and his people will need to be fed and clothed and housed. Some are sick and will need nursing. Those will fall to you, Clydas. Save as many as you can."

[...]

"Lord Bowen, you shall collect the tolls. The gold and silver, the amber, the torques and armbands and necklaces. Sort it all, count it, see that it reaches Eastwatch safely."

"Yes, Lord Snow," said Bowen Marsh.

And Jon thought, "Ice," she said, "and daggers in the dark. Blood frozen red and hard, and naked steel." His sword hand flexed. The wind was rising.

What's the point of remembering those words if you're not going to do anything about it?

Final thoughts:

Often imitated, never duplicated.

That's what happens when you expect a cheap knockoff to do the job of a real princess.

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #adwd #jon xi #winter of walloping val

[pico-digital-studios]

Into, Across and Beyond!: Where it Began / One More Chance

Sonic.OMT: You see, dear hedgehog, I was unleashed by your foolish scientist nemesis Robotnik. He wanted me to destroy anyone that stands in my way. He wanted to take Mobius for his own, but because I was bored of following his orders, I double-crossed him! The foolish egg he was, a snivelling coward as I put him through the same torment as the rest of your buddies… he is NOTHING compared to me. You see, Sonic Maurice Hedgehog, me and you... we are like Yin and Yang... I'm just your dark side! We should team up and destroy all that stand in our way! Join me, Sonic the Hedgehog... JoIn Me…

Sonic: Sorry, but no deal! You messed with my friends, AND the lives of the innocent players before! Well that ends today! Prepare to be exterminated!

Sonic.OMT: Foolish hedgehog! Don't you know who you're messing with? I am the Outbreak Malware Threat, a true GOD!

Sonic: I've managed to neutralise a god before, Dark Gaia, and you can bet your behind I can neutralise you too! So BRING IT ON!!!

Time to tell you the story of where this tale began.

Remember Sonic.OMT? The Outbreak Malware Threat? Well, he was one a mass terroriser of the world in which our story takes place around. It had been three months running since he had started sending many of Mobius's inhabitants into endless loops of gruesome torment.

After that amount of time, however, this universe's Sonic, who I'll be referring to as "OMT!Sonic" from here on out, had enough of it and raced through the entity's realm to face him down personally. The thing is, during the titular conflict, OMT was just too tough for OMT!Sonic to face down alone, but there was a way to break this unfair streak OMT had been using for a while.

During the battle, OMT!Sonic shattered a special orb responsible for keeping his companions stuck in these endless loops, and thanks to this deed, it led to the blue blur getting some much-needed backup. LOTS of it, in fact. His friends, OMT!Robotnik and his fleet, all the little critters that had been wronged, the human players who fell victim to OMT... everyone. The creature couldn't even believe his eyes seeing this.

After his reunions with OMT!Tails and OMT!Amy, alongside a stern scolding of OMT!Robotnik's decision to let OMT run amok in their world, OMT!Sonic decided their focus would be to get to the Master Emerald to halt this tyranny once and for all. Once they got there, however, OMT!Sally and OMT!Tails were thrown out of the central tower, with OMT!Sonic mortally wounded in the process.

With enough strength, however, he grabbed onto the Master Emerald whilst OMT was supercharging himself, thus leading to the final fight between Super Sonic and Sonic.OMT's final form. During the fight, however, the wounds sustained prior did not heal, and Sonic was burning up fast. With luck and enough time, however, he was able to finally silence the Threat and ensure he was no longer a threat to the universe.

However, this victory carried a price. OMT!Sonic was too horribly injured after powering down to continue living, though his friends still could live on. And to him, that was all that mattered. A memorial was held for the blue blur, and in spirit, he gave OMT!Tails the responsibility to keep his legacy going strong and protect Mobius in his steed.

And a year later, whilst OMT!Tails continues to get to grips with his promotion from sidekick to hero, that is where the story begins...

Tomorrow will be when I post some sprite images showcasing the main crews of my story; the Blur Gang, a bunch of multidimensional heroes banded together through different means, and the Quill Society, another bunch there to protect the very fabric of the Sonic/SEGA multiverse.

Sprite credits: OMT!Sonic sprite by CartoonsAnimate22 Sonic.OMT sprite by mtallic

#sonic the hedgehog #sonic exe #sonic au #sth au #spider verse #spider man #sth #sonic oc

[libratalks]

The Resurgence of CDs: the "forgotten format" remembered by me

I know what you're thinking. There is no rebirth of CDs, Isha.

The facts tell us that they have been dying a slow death since their peak in the 2000s, suffering a 97% drop in sales revenue back in 2020. It fails to be a viable commercial format due to performing terribly in sales' data, with only a 1.1% increase in the US during 2021. No one is buying CDs, and those who are, well they just don't matter in the grand scheme of things for a few reasons. There are various sources of media that say otherwise, yet Damon Krukowski boldly states that one of the reasons why journalists have been penning articles regarding "the resurgence of CDs" is because there is a sense of false consciousness attached: it is an attempt by the industry to substitute the interests of the rich for one's own; to distract music consumers from facing the deeper problems within music distribution, such as a supposed booming economy in the music industry despite there being a great income inequality. To which I say, true, but un(?)fortunately, our minds do not resort to that aspect of the resurgence of CDs immediately. I mean, really, when I came across a sticker-peeled, used copy of Alanis Morissette's Jagged Little Pill in the snug CD section of my temporary hometown's Oxfam (I was in Bath during my second year of university), I was hardly thinking of the effects of CD sales in the music industry. What I was thinking about was the excitement I felt in the pit of my stomach to be eight years old again, sat on my bedroom floor, wanting to scream the lyrics to Ironic whilst dancing around my stereo. If there is a resurgence of CDs, it is thanks to my generation: Gen-Z.

Perhaps one of Krukowski's faults is that he is building his conclusions based on CD sales from corporate stores, not independent stores that sell pre-owned copies. An hour ago, I was stood in a place named Record Collector in Sheffield, a whole store dedicated to collecting CDs along with artist memorabilia, such as tour posters and band autobiographies. There are also places such as Oxfam and Truck Store in Oxford where pre-owned copies of various CDs are sold at cheap prices ranging from 99p to £5. These stores are where the heart of CD-love lies. It's the accessibility with personal ownership that is comforting, along with the affordable pricing in contrast with vinyl prices. This reason for CD appreciation has always been evident, yet the introduction of MP3 files and the quick accessibility to downloads back in the 2000s is one of the murderers of the CD craze. Once there was a rise in MP3 players being sold, CD sales nearly halved between 2000 and 2007. Despite this, various artists and music fans remain defending CDs against MP3 players due to MP3 files becoming compressed when downloaded, affecting the audio quality of the song. With CDs, the audio is never compressed nor tweaked in any way. Yes, you could also just encode your MP3 files at a higher bit rate, but that leads me to my next favourite thing about CDs.

THE CREATIVITY IS UNMATCHED. I have always been a visual learner of some sort, falling in love with aesthetics that are carefully crafted in front of me for my own enjoyment. It's why I adore films over books, possess a keen eye and attention to detail when it comes to their direction and fashion, and it is also why I love CDs in the way that I do. I mean, I have a whole Instagram page dedicated to the craftsmanship that artists have demonstrated through their CDs. I own a growing collection, ranging from artists like Hole and Radiohead, along with Avril Lavigne and Alanis Morissette. All CDs I own are bought based on two things: how much I love the music and how much I adore the artwork. This creativity that artists can build on introduces a realm of sentimentality for when a music consumer witnesses time taken to produce a delicate work of art, where thorough thought has been given to which photos will be used for the cover - what colour scheme we are aiming for in terms of the album's aesthetic - which font should be used for the title and should it be the same for the lyrical pages in the booklet? - these are intricate details that an artist recognises and appreciates, no matter what. With so much love and care given to a piece of work that you have crafted, not always alone but with a team, you can't help but feel a sense of inspiration along with appreciation for the beauty of it all - allowing you to feel a strong connection with the artist. With that, no other music format could even compare to the liberation of creativity that CDs possess.

If there's anything you're going to take from me and my ranting, please let it be this: close your eyes, think of an album, or a song, or an artist that you can't help but feel a strong connection to, and buy one of their CDs. Go through the cover booklet, consume and appreciate each framing of text on each page - ask yourself why they chose to use that font or that colour - have the music playing at the same time and read through each page that consists of their lyrics... Let yourself be completely enamoured by the artist's choices of creativity and build your critical thinking in terms of what could be going on inside their minds.

You'll find yourself tapping into a whole new aspect of consuming music, especially in terms of appreciating visual individuality and the liberation that comes with it. All these feelings... thank you, CDs.

#early 2000s #2000s #y2k #00s #blog entry 5. #cds #music cds #alanis morissette #compact disc

[rumbelleshowdown]

Author: Home Alone

Prompts: Dancing in the rain. “You could have died.” Gossips.

Group: A

-

Believing in Monsters

The vivid scent of damp greenery lingers in the air, as the Dark One’s eyes stay transfixed on the dancing beauty before him.

The rain grows stronger flattening the green dress against the slim length of her form. He smiles as she tilts her head up towards the heavens, twirling around with her arms wide open. He watches the bittersweet journey of the rain drops as they fall from her face, caressing down the silky pale skin of her neck and onto her bosom.  His lust for her thrums deep in his chest like a heartbeat.

His clawed fingers itch to wrap around her tiny waist and pull her flush against him allowing their bodies to sway together under the moon’s tears. For 300 years he has roamed these lands, with a constant accounting of every deal, of every desperate soul he has encountered, and yet in this moment with her, his ever-surging mind goes still.

He swallows back the dryness in his throat, as her expressive blue eyes lay upon him.

“I love the rain. You know the clerics say that rain not only cleanses the land but our very soul.”

 “Clerics are nothing but foolish tyrants that hide behind a mask of holy righteousness,” he mutters, instantly regretting his loose tongue. If there was any mercy left in this world her long overdue rejection of him would be quick. Closing his eyes, he awaits her scorn, but it never comes. Opening his eyes, he is surprised to find her now sitting before him, her delicate fingers reaching out to tuck a strand of his all too curly wet hair behind his ear.

“And what do you believe in Rumpelstiltskin?”

Her eyes hold no judgement, only a genuine spark of curiosity.

After so many centuries of witnessing humanity’s wars and greed there is only one belief that has ever held true.

“Cause and consequence,” he whispers.

He is amazed at the look of understanding staring back at him, as he tries hard to quell the urge to taste the rain on her lips. He pretends not to see her look of disappointment as he pulls back suggesting she should return to the dryness of the castle.

An anguished cry rings out into the air as she reaches for her shoes. His startled arms bolt around her, his eyes scurry over her frame, landing on two small puncture wounds gracing her right hand.  His frenzied eyes search for the culprit, landing upon a small black and orange band slithering out of her shoe. With a snap of his fingers the snake is no more.

“Rumple,” the distress in her voice sends a terrifying shiver deep into his bones.

 He will not let this be the sunset of her existence. Pulling out the dagger from his boot, he quickly slits his palm top to bottom, placing it on top of her wound. The magic crackles inside him, as his body absorbs every drop of toxin, before his world goes black.

X

It has taken every bit of her strength to coax Rumpelstiltskin to his feet as he clings to her steadying force. She’s grateful that Avonlea had not yet torn down the dilapidated barn on the northern realm, as it is the nearest shelter they can stumble to. The weight of him sinks heavier into her side, as she practically drags his body the last few yards placing him against the rotting structure out of the rain.

She protectively sits by his side, wishing she had some way to ease his discomfort but knows that she must wait for the magic that exists somewhere deep inside of him to act. His slumber is restless, and she is unsure if it’s the price of his magic or some older buried secrets that lay far beneath the surface.

A murmur of voices startles her, as she scrambles to her feet, peering out a small hole in the wall.  No one should be out here, and yet two guards cackle in the distance.

“No, no I swear,” the larger guard boasts his face red with laughter. “Gaston just pulled it out and relieved himself right there on the beggar’s boots.”

The shorter guard snorts in amusement taking a swig from a shared flask.

The gossip of Gaston’s cruelty comes as no surprise to Belle. Reading in secluded corners of the castle, her ears often stumble upon whispers of Gaston’s exploits. Her nails dig into the wood beam as the guards continue their drunken chatter. It was infuriating that her father viewed Rumpelstiltskin as a monster and Gaston a paragon of virtue, when nothing was further from the truth.

Eventually the flask as well as their conversation runs dry, and she lets out a sigh of relief as they leave, none the wiser to her presence.    

Another hour of worry passes before Rumpelstiltskin bolts upright gasping for air stolen from his dreams. She reaches out immediately wrapping her arms around him as his breath grows steady. He pulls back from her, his eyes filled with uncertainty.

“Belle? Are you alright, are you okay?”

“Yes,” she nods, grasping for him. “Are you?”

The corner of his mouth twitches as he pulls his hand from her touch.

“Of course, I am dearie,” he rises uncomfortably to his feet, his eyes darting everywhere but her. “Immortality and all.”

His clipped tone strikes a raw nerve within her, as she glares at him in silence.

“Well today has been interesting, but I have more pressing matters to attend to,” his arms rise in a flourish to leave.

“Wait,” she cries her mind racing for some concrete reason for his harsh change of demeanor.

He stops abruptly, his pose rigid, but as his eyes finally meet her own his features fall into utter devastation.

“You could have died!” he shouts in anguish as every hint of color drains from his face. “You should never have been out there with me. It was a sign, Belle. Darkness follows me everywhere.” He shakes his head unsteadily. “I will not let you bear the consequence for a monster’s love. You are better off without me; you must believe that.”

Looking at him, she does not see a vessel of darkness, but the dark gentle eyes of a man, a scared man. He was pulling away, willing to halt this relationship to protect her from himself. How could she convince him that he was saving her from the mundane life planned for her since birth?

“Do you know what I believe in Rumpelstiltskin?”

 He gazes at her for several agonizing moments, before exhaling a quivering sigh. “What do you believe Belle?”

She straightens her spine in bravery, taking a step forward.

“I believe that when you find something worth fighting for you never give up.”

His eyes glisten with unshed tears as she stands before him.

“And I believe you are worth the fight.”

 Mustering the last of her courage she voices the words that both excite and terrify her.  

“And I believe that I love you Rumpelstiltskin.”

She brings her lips to his in a soft gentle kiss, which he deepens causing a searing fire to stir in her belly. All too soon the kiss ends as he pulls her into his arms clinging to her not just as a lover but as his savior, confessing his undying love and devotion.

She knows others will not comprehend their love, but she feels no regret. If loving this monster is a sin, she will seek no atonement. 

-

#rumbelle showdown #rumbelle fic #round two #Home Alone

[quickscaleup]

Best Ecommerce Website Designing Company in Patna

The website design is a really important tool for creating an appealing website that attracts users and customers. These ecommerce website designs represent your product, and what you are selling.

Thus, you need to make sure your website is relevant to the services you’re providing and can make a lasting impression.

Now, being said that, are you looking for some inspiration for your website designs? If yes, you’ve stumbled into the perfect solution, the website designing company in Patna, Quick Scaleup is your one-way stop. 

Ecommerce website designs 

The best ecommerce website design examples are those that can benefit you in boosting your sales and communicating with the brand and products. Some of the ecommerce website examples are the following,

Theseus is an online shoe store that promises customers the best online shopping experience. It has options such as shopping and return policy and even gives the users the opportunity to pay in installments.

Welly is a band aid campaign and website supplying catchy, funky, and aesthetic band aids. Children die for such cute band-aids and it comes with cute packaging too.  

Hebe’s website is mind blowing in terms of beauty. Its photography stands out compared to other websites. The high-quality photos ensure grabbing the customer’s attention and increasing the sales. 

Now, the ecommerce website examples in India are 

Amazon tops the ecommerce website list considering it is one of the country’s best ecommerce players since it rolled out in 2013. It has grown its market by covering everything from groceries to toys to furniture. 

Flipkart comes second on the list, always competing with Amazon in terms of quality and prices. It was founded in 2007, and is now acquired by Walmart. 

Meesho is a social commerce platform wherein the small business or merchants can deal with the users directly showcasing their products. 

Myntra is the one-stop online fashion destination that supplies with all the brands like Mango, H&M, Chemistry, Allen Solly etc. Myntra was acquired by Walmart making it a live commerce site with a lot of Indians depending on the site. 

OLX has products from cars to electronic goods and even real estate. People can buy or sell on this website according to their preferences. 

Snapdeal was a sinking company ready to be acquired by Flipkart in 2017. But, they did the needful surviving the takeover, and now focuses on products for fashion and home and personal care. 

Jio Mart is an online player that launched in 2020. It became known quickly in over 200 cities in India. 

Shopsy is a social commerce platform launched by flipkart. It’s a marketplace selling jewelry, grocery and home goods. 

Realme store is an online shopping site of the chinese smartphone brand realme. It even sells other electronic accessories.  

Mi store is another chinese smartphone brand Xiaomi selling mobile phones and other products. 

FirstCry is India’s shopping platform for baby products such as diapers, tous, cribs etc. Everything that can be termed a baby is being sold by them. 

Top 10 ecommerce websites 

The best ecommerce website design 2023 comprises of the following ecommerce website list and companies like 

Amazon tops as the world's best retailer and website designs. 

Ebay is the best marketplace with all the best features and products available. 

Aliexpress is the site offering the funkiest and catchy products with cheap prices. 

Walmart consists of an unlimited supply of organic products.

Wildberries is a popular Russian site known for clothes and household products. 

Ozon is like Russia’s Amazon, offering all kinds of products. 

Flipkart is an Indian ecommerce site dealing with all products like clothes, furniture, electronic devices. 

Samsung is the world's leader when it comes to electronics.

Etsy is another one of the popular sites specializing in handmade, vintage and unique goods. 

Rakuten is another one of the ecommerce sites dealing with cashback programmes.

The ecommerce website design templates that work well with any kind of website design such as apparel, fashion, jewelry or other ecommerce products. These templates create responsive, flexible and retainable online stores. Following is the list of best ecommerce website templates 

Pillowmart can be used for business purposes.

Capitalshop for fashion and accessories.

Fashi’s templates are available for fashion 

The Coza store is for business and ecommerce. 

eCommerce websites are the people’s go to sites for business and online shopping. People don’t like going around comparing products from shop to shop.

For such individuals, these websites are a piece of heaven.

To make sure that your website designs and products are appealing enough to the customers, you can take help from the website designing company, Quick Scaleup.

They have one of the best services available tailored to your customer’s needs.

#Best ecommerce website design examples #best ecommerce website design 2023 #top 10 e-commerce websites #ecommerce website design templates #e-commerce websites list #e-commerce website design #ecommerce website examples #e-commerce website examples in india

[vacantgodling]

you already know who the fuck i'm slamming in here with i'm a predictable ass creature of habit i swear i know more of your bbs but it's comfort character hours atm lmao lemme see if i can give you some rant-worthy ones

8 + 17 for toph

18 + 22 for amon

33 + 48 for hya

AHHH KORBIEEE THANK YOU 🥺🥺🥺

TOPH

8: Favorite indulgence and feelings surrounding indulging

toph has no qualms about the concept of indulgence and encourages it mostly in others, though the ways he does it for himself seem almost “lackluster”. his biggest indulgence is mint flavored things bc he’s an absolute glutton with them LMAO. he also sleeps A Lot even though he literally doesn’t need sleep (being a demon and all) so it’s literally sleep for the sake of doing it which is Peak Indulgence lol. he just likes being cozy fr.

17: Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dress

so toph’s style is in the realm of like… “pretty grunge” ig LOL it’s got tenants of the avant garde, pretty, gothic elements of visual kei/aesthetic alt with the ripped and more chaotic look of grunge. these are some examples of what he dresses like:

he also tends to wear nail polish, heavy eyeliner, and obviously has piercings/tattoos so it just gives him an overall very alternative pff style. which yknow, makes sense being the front man of a metal band so 😂

i guess some of his dress rituals is that he never wears the color green even though green is his favorite color (i’ve drawn him in green before but yknow He doesn’t wear it) because he considers green a sacred/lucky color and he doesn’t want to taint it by wearing it. it’s kinda weird but he’s allowed to be superstitious pff. he also tends to do make up, accessories, and hair first since they all take the longest.

AMON

18: Favorite beverage?

honestly, anything sweet and expensive. he doesn’t think money makes food taste better but he sure does enjoy it more if he knows it’s exorbently priced and someone else is paying for it. it’s less to do with the flavor and more to do with the flex of having hya buy it for him LMAO.

22: Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?

it really says a lot about him but he’d probably end up ripping it up 💀 he’s a distracted destroyer, so any loose threads or seams or paper, in this instance, he’ll pull at or rip when he’s just vibing. there’s something satisfying about it to him lol.

HYA

33: Concept of home and family?

horrible, terrible, rancid, not worth mentioning. he has no trust for family and no love of it (aloe is a VERY heavy exception but aloe is an angel, how could you hate him?). realistically he distrusts family more than he distrusts a stranger because family, in most cases, knows you AND has something to gain from fucking you over, and it’s been illustrated to him time and time again that family doesn’t mean shit :))) (there is mostly tagetes to blame for this however, he doesn’t get along with iberis, narci and laven for a REASON—tho laven he does become more amiable towards by the time her book ends). ALSO parents???? sham. mix authority and entitlement AND family?? he’s not about it like at all. has zero faith in it whatsoever.

edit;; i forgot to talk about home. he has a very… lackluster concept of home tbh, which all relates to above. he’s never truly felt safe in anything but his own skin which is why how he dresses is in part expression, but also in part defense mechanism for him. being able to buy his own home later in life (aka after paramour) definitely helps him feel more comfortable in it, but he sort of forces himself to be a modicum of relaxed anywhere—or he essentially just bullies his way into people leaving him and the space he’s in alone.

48: If this person were to get into a fist fight, what is their fighting style like?

hya’s a bruiser i’ll tell you that. he Really doesn’t prefer to physically fight because he thinks it’s brutish, a waste of time, and if someone fucks up his appearance he’s going to be whatever level is Beyond Infuriated. but… he is a man that very much talks with his fists. in another life where he wasn’t so pompous (looking at you slum aus), he would absolutely be a force to reckon with. even in canon, he can lay someone out with one good hook because he’s not really about finesse or torture—it’s all the skill points in power baby and he will Lay You Out.

but i have to reiterate, esp in canon, he’s Really not in the vibe to put his hands on people unless he’s positive they won’t reciprocate (amon is a good example lol. he’s punched amon confirmed once and as i write who knows? maybe more).

#THANKKKK #s: lukewarm rejection #s: paramour

[ash-and-books]

Rating: 4/5

Book Blurb: A stern captain meets his witchy match in this captivating first fantasy romance novel in the Crimson Sails series from Katee Robert, the New York Times bestselling author of the TikTok smash-hit Neon Gods.

Evelyn is a witch with a perfect storm of impulses: terrible taste in bed partners, sticky fingers, and a lust for danger. After she steals from her vampire ex and falls through a portal to another realm, she’s fished out of the waters by a band of seafarers and their telekinetic captain. She’s immediately given a choice—join their ship’s crew or die.

Bowen has no memory of his life before he became one of the Cŵn Annwn. He and his band of pirates are bound by vow to patrol through Threshold, the magical sea in between realms, keeping the portals to other worlds safe. When he rescues Evelyn, he doesn’t expect to be attracted to the unflappably brassy pickpocket. The longer he spends in her presence, the more he begins to question if his heart is the next thing she’ll steal.

But as tension heats up between Bowen and Evelyn, the danger at sea escalates as well. Because Evelyn has no intention of keeping her vows to the Cŵn Annwn, and if she betrays the crew, both she and Bowen will pay the ultimate price....

Review:

She's a witch and a thief and he's the pirate captain who's heart she's stolen. Evelyn is a witch with terrible taste in bed partners, a penchant for stealing, and a love of danger. While leaving her latest ex, a vampire from a powerful family, she steals some jewels and falls through a portal to another realm... only to be rescued by a band of seafarers and their telekinetic captain who gives her two choices: join the crew or die... and it looks like she's joining the crew. Bowen is one of the Cŵn Annwn, he's the captain of a band of pirates who are bound by vow to patrol through Threshold, the magical sea in between realms. When he rescues Evelyn he never expects himself to get attached to this beautiful brassy pickpocket. Yet the longer they spend together the more the chemistry between them is undeniable. Bowen and Evelyn both want different things, she wants nothing more than to escape while he wants to uphold the rules.... yet fate seems to have other ideas for them. This is the first book in the series and I can't wait to see where the next book goes! Bowen and Evelyn make a cute couple and they have great chemistry. The pirate fantasy adventure aspect of this book was a lot of fun and I can't wait to see where the next book goes!!

*Spoiler: Bowen and Evelyn fall in love, Bowen's crew abandon him and Evelyn's vampire ex tracks them down and demands they help her get her treasure back. Bowen, Evelyn and Lizzie all decide to team up to get back Lizzie's treasure and find Bowen's ship again.*

*Thanks Netgalley and Berkley Publishing Group, Berkley for sending me an arc in exchange for an honest review*

#book review #bookish #hunt on dark waters #katee roberts

[talenlee]

MTG: Hating Lord Of The Rings

I can’t seem to put words on paper that aren’t about this, so here. Let me exorcise this foul spirit that haunts me. I am deeply, abidingly sick of everything to do with Lord of the Rings, and actively hateful towards the Lord Of The Rings magic set that I want to see fail. Again.

In 2023, Magic: The Gathering released a new Universes Beyond product into Modern, with the set Something Something Lord Of The Rings. It’s a totally new kind of product, in that it’s the first time a universes beyond product of this scale was made and put into the Modern format. It’s also not a totally new kind of product, because it is once again, a thing where the official Magic: The Gathering game system of systems is used to instead show off the aesthetics, lore and concepts of another universe, a tradition that started off with Secret Lair Drop Series: The Walking Dead a 2020 release that introduced five cards to vintage and legacy and was largely decided, at the time, to be something of a bad idea.

Not by me, I like Universes Beyond, especially when it brings Universes Within.

I was pretty heartless about this printing because it was printing cards that probably weren’t a big deal into a format already priced so preposterously there’s no point complaining about the onramp into it. Yeah Legacy is a fun looking format, I love looking at it on Magic: The Gathering Online, but it’s also a format where Volcanic Island, a land you need four of in the #1 deck for the past forever, runs at around $700 for the cheapest version and you need four of them and that’s where the deck’s price starts and by the time this article goes out it will be more. Legacy is history’s sewer of Magic: The Gathering and if you like it, and you want to play it, it’s great, I love it too, but arguments about its health are fundamentally meaningless.

And also, it’s five cards, and the best of them have almost nothing to do with the game at large. One of them is a pretty strong Human Lord, one of them is a pretty interesting piece of equipment, but both of those things have been outmoded and neither is that big a deal in the first place in a world where people can attack with Emrakul, The Aeon’s Turn on turn two.

Point is, I didn’t care about The Walking Dead cards being introduced. I did not care. Bear in mind: I did not like The Walking Dead as a franchise. I think it’s quite stupid. I think everything that’s been communicated about the kind of media it is is tiresome and boring and only interesting if you’ve never read anything of its type before. Antipathy towards the source material already existed for me, but I did not care about the introduction of the cards and certainly not enough to hate them.

Okay.

It isn’t enough to just dislike the source material though. I already disliked Forgotten Realmsing: Gathering Magics, where the Magic tools were brought to bear on twenty year old memes of Go For The Eyes, Boo. I didn’t like the way that it turned the story space of the Forgotten Realms — a world that I hate — into a flattened band of things that could interact like Owlbears killing Dragons, and I didn’t like that it forced the characters of the Forgotten Realms into prominence — because a lot of them are cat-piss men, with all the charm of the OCs of wannabe date rapists.

And they did it again!

It’s hard to grapple with this feeling, because the thing is, I know I’ve been unhappy with Magic: The Gathering for years, but at no point does that unhappiness translate to a disinterest in following the product. I don’t like Urza. I think that Urza, a eugenecist who relies on being the smartest person in the room and whose edgy solutions against omnicidal threats, presents a sort of worst kind of Edgy Nerdboy archetype, and I think he needs to be left in Magic’s history, in the past, where we can stop acting as if he was a good or engaging character. Give us distance, let us forget him, let him stop fucking mattering.

In May 2022, Magic The Gathering released Streets of New Capenna, a set I liked, which took us to somewhere new. Okay, yes, the plot wound up being tied into the Phyrexians, but okay, fine, whatever, the set was still able to present as a foreground element something new that wasn’t tied, endlessly, back to Magic’s inability to stop huffing its own farts. The next release was Commander Legends: Battle for Baldur’s Gate (hated it), then Dominaria United: This Time It’s More Fucking Dominaria (hated it), The Brother’s War: Remember Urza, Everyone? (hated it), Phyrexia: All Will Be One (hated it), and Phyrexia: March of the Machine (hated it). This means it’s been a non-stop content churn from a system that promises endless novelty and regularly refreshing content so that you always have something fun and cool to engage with, and it has been a year of non-stop release of things I hate.

But my reaction to all of those things was: Oh well, something better is coming along, something else will happen, something that interests me might come up next. Who knows, I’ll look at the next thing.

The next thing was Lord of The Ringering.

There are too many axes for me to hate Lord Of The Gathering.

First, there’s the core text it venerates. Lord of The Rings just isn’t a very good book and it’s just not a very good movie. I read it in high school and never read it again because I didn’t like it. It was partly poisoned by dint of my having already read all the Narnia books, I guess, because it meant turgid self-important traumatised Anglicanism glanced off me. I’d also played videogames and read books with fantasy cultures like elves and dwarves in them, cultures which had interesting ideas and varied cultural outlooks. Particularly, I’d read Discworld books, and when you have these vibrant explored cultures with different mythical connections to them, Lord of The Rings is a lot like licking Catholic prayerbooks looking for personality. Like, one of the big gags in the first part of The Hobbit is about how interchangeable the personalities of a bunch of dwarves are!

And okay, yes, it’s very important that without Tolkein, we would never have had anyone to codify the myth of the Dwarf as a stubby Jewish jerk who loves money and can’t go to heaven, or an elf as the whitest people in the world who get extra special heaven and isn’t it sad that the culture of the world is fading. It’s some people’s first discovery of an outcast prince roaming the land under a secret identity, but Narnia had one of them, and his name was Corin and he punched a bear.

Simply put, Lord of the Rings is classic literature, and much like classic medicine, has a lot of bad to go with whatever respect you want to put on its name.

It doesn’t mesh well with Magic: The Gathering, of course; there’s a message in Lord of the Rings about how power will corrupt and ruin you (unless you’re a good king, which means you’ll do a good job and everything will be fine, so good job we have a good king in reserve), which means it’s a great fit for Magic: The Gathering where one of the five philosophical outlooks is about how yes, it’s worth it to do that and there’s a fundamental nobility in recognising your own independence and gathering power to support that is a reasonable way to live your life.

Also, and not to sound like a big blousy feminist boy here, but this is a set with 120 legendary cards, which between all of them depict ten women. Those ten women, by the way, include one of Samwise Gamgee’s children mentioned in a postscript, a bit part healer who shares an anecdote with Gandalf, Aragon’s dead mom, Tom Bombadil’s wife, the mean aunt in Bag End and Shelob, a fucking spider, so I’m giving partial credit there. Oh and I guess you can count the Watcher in The Water as the single nonbinary character in the story.

Also, y’know, the movie Arwen who did the tiny bit of stuff she did in that movie was controversial at the time, because she doesn’t do much in the books. She was fighting for a pittance! And I get it, it’s hard to present women characters because there just aren’t many in this book and that’s probably a problem and a reason to do something different.

But nope, you gotta care about the book and the text! Because a bunch of the flavour in this set is just ‘here is a quote from this book’ and if you don’t recognise it from the time and place it shows up, then what the fuck does it communicate? It’s all just saying Hey, remember this thing you like?

This is Family Guy The Gathering.

But then there’s just little pet peeves. Like white got remand in this set. I wanted that. Why’s it fucking here? It would have been a perfect simple, approachable core set card! We got an inevitable appearance of Do White Thing, Draw A Card, The Card, in The Gaffer. We have another example of a Extra Game System introduced in the form of the Ring Tempting You, which encourages you to keep getting tempted and nothing bad ever happens to you. The rules change to Amass are fine I guess, but now they’re colour-locked, and a second change to them is less likely! Oh oh and Orcish Bowmasters, who are absolutely absurdly powerful and now mean that I’ll probably never not be dealing with this set in casual games because why wouldn’t you run that card if you want any of what it’s offering.

Oh well, we’re getting Wilds of Eldraine. I like Eldraine. It’s a world with some interesting potential that was overshadowed by shitheads. It’s got cool fairy story vibes and it got us our first round of Food token mechanics. That’s cool.

Then after that, we’re getting Universes Beyond: Doctor Fucking Who.

Christ, the nerds that pay for this game have shit taste.

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

#Games #Magic:TheGathering

#Games #Magic: The Gathering

[dysrope]

The Price of Freedom

[Turn 6: (5+3)+(6+1)=15]

As Erland saw the mortals being created to populate the lands and seas and skies above, he felt the underworld, too, should be home to new peoples, and so he set to work. However, this work, the making of independent intelligent life, was unlike anything he had ever done before and so he first tried his hand at modifying that of another.

[create subrace: 15-4=11]

The wandering Ataila had long ago found Aelmd, the great opening to the underworld, and explored it with great curiosity. But the lack of light and air had always kept their visits short. But Erland had always kept a watchful eye on his gatehouse, and he knew there where some among them who were keen to explore further, if only they had the means. And so, he sent his messengers to nine Ataila bands, and bade them come to his mountain, and hear his offer.

Though the Ataila were apprehensive, knowing only little of Erland, and his starless realm, they each decided spurning the invitation of a God to be unwise, and made their way to Aelmd. When they thus arrived at the edge of the underworld, they made camp and waited, and once all nine groups had gathered, Erlands rumbling voice spoke to them from the jaws of the earth.

He offered them an alternative to their starbound existance; knowledge of the deep powers of earth and fire, and bodies that required no sustenance, and a world beneath the surface to explore and rule.

The Ataila said that they were eager to see more of this underworld, and that they had always pursued knowledge, but asked what he meant with new bodies - and what would happen to their old bodies, exactly?

And Erland told them that to free themselves from the need for light and air, he could teach them to remake their bodies; to make them stronger, hardier, and eternal.

Many of the Ataila were appalled at this - losing the bodies gifted to them by Velarië seemed too steep a price to pay for access to the underworld, when there was an entire world above to experience too. But many were still intrigued, for these were the ones who had always longed to see the world that lay below, and to them the promise of strong new bodies that could carry them there did not sound so bad a trade.

And so the nine bands split into two, those who refused the offer, and those who agreed to it, and angry words were exchanged between them before the first group left that night. Those who remained, Erland taught the secrets he had promised, showing them how to build a furnace as hot as Erland's breath, how to make a body that can hold a soul and burn it so it becomes harder than steel, and finally how to permanently transfer one's soul into it.

The first to dare this was Turunja, who had always been the most daring explorer among them. The process was harrowing, but everything, but everything Erland had promised held true, and when the others saw the power of Turunja's new body they eagerly followed. Once they had all shaped bodies into their preferred forms, and transferred into them, they reckoned they were not truly Ataila anymore, and named themselves Kautaila - the Free Spirits, for they felt they had freed themselves from all limitations formerly put upon them.

And they entered the maw of Aelmd, and explored the wonders of the realm of Omeara, and visited the halls of Erland as honored guests, and took great joy in their freedom. But as the years passed, the Kautaila eventually started noticing three things they had not at first anticipated.

First, as they no longer needed starlight, they were no longer capable of truly feeling it, and the pleasure of a starry night was lost upon them. They could walk all lands over and under the earth, and even beneath the sea and on the Moon, but they could not feed on the light of the stars, and as time passed they missed the feeling of that ever more.

Second, they no longer grew. Their souls were bound to bodies that were eternal, and eternally unchanging. Worse, since they could not draw on the power of the stars, their souls too were constant, and they could not grow - nor could they reproduce, since their souls and eternally bound to the burnt clay, even had they been willing to part with lifeforce they would never get back. This meant the only new Kautaila would come from Ataila seeking them out and asking for their secrets.

And this was the third surprise, because most Ataila now shunned them. As the tales of how they had sacrificed their connection to the stars for the sake of an accursed underworld Ataila were never meant to see, their former kin thought them bearers of bad luck, and an eternal risk of luring away young and reckless Ataila to eternal damnation.

Thus the Kautaila found themselves isolated, and spend much of their lives in the underworld, to spare themselves of the sight of the stars, and the children of their former families, and other reminders of what they had lost.

Not to say that the Kautaila are a sad people: they take all the joy and wonder they can from the life they have paid so much for, and though they all spend much time wandering to see new things, they also have the strong sense of community that only those shunned by others can have, and at decennial gatherings at the mouth of Aelmd, they celebrate their existance and initiate the few Ataila who are curious and bold enough to come and learn the secrets of remaking themselves. But they do still keenly feel the loss of their original bodies, and make sure that each new Kautai fully understands the cost before they make the decision.

The Kautaila are always going to be very few compared to the other inhabitants of the world, but though their bodies may be damaged (and in the worst case immobilized) they can never die and slowly grow in numbers over the centuries. They also can grow in wisdom, if not in spiritual strength, and their elders have immense experience, having visited every corner of the world at one time or another. Their bodies are static, but crafteed entirely according to their own design, so some deviate quite a bit from the "standard Ataila body", and might have extra limbs, or very specialized forms - but most are careful to make a body they will be happy to live out eternity in.

Though they spend much time on their own, they generally respect the first generation, and especially Turunja, who became the Lawspeaker of all Kautaila and holds court at the decennial gatherings, to resolve any disputes. Some in the first generation resent Erland for tricking them, but the younger ones tend to view him more favourably as a patron and almost all come to him as guests once or more during their lives.

#world 02547 diegesis

[cyril-meysson]

audio mastering: Why digital?

When I started mastering, I chose to work with digital tools and still work that way today. There are a number of reasons for that choice, which I'll gladly explain here in more detail since some artists, bands or labels are often curious about it.

Experimentation and DIY

The artists/bands I work with almost exclusively come from a DIY ethos. As such, they almost always lie on the unconventional side of things: unusual music genres, aesthetic choices, recording techniques, recording spaces, mixing tools, ... There's no doubt that a band recording in state-of-the-art facilities in a well-established genre will benefit from the subtle colour and depth that analog gear can impart to a master, as it's often the missing piece that will turn a collection of songs into an album -one of the main purposes of mastering to me. But for a DIY production, what prevents that cohesiveness is usually too much colour [1]. With that starting point, I have then to identify what constitutes the core of the work in order to present it in the best possible manner, and digital tools are almost always the best candidates for that kind of surgical work.

The needs of the music

'Classic' mastering gear will always include, at minimum, an equalizer and a compressor. But what happens when you're working with music that doesn't inherently need to be dynamically compressed? Whether it's harsh noise, drone or any other kind of music where transients (or percussive sounds, if you prefer) do not need to be tamed in any way. I know the obvious answer would be not to use a compressor even if you have one... but why have one at all, if you almost never need it? And as far as equalizers are concerned, it's worth remembering that the first parametric EQs tried to offer the most linear behaviour possible (i.e. with the least distortion) [2]. In this case, what could be better than well-coded digital implementations?

DSP and linearity

Digital processing tools have made an incredible leap forward in terms of reliability, quality and fidelity in the last decades. While linear processing (gain, EQ, ...) has always been -by nature- in favour of digital, some non-linear processors from teams like Tokyo Dawn Labs or Tone Projects (to name a few) could even outperform their analog counterparts. Others simply could not exist in analog form. And because these tools are digital in nature, one don't need to rely on any magic to improve anything, but on the technical capabilities of the operator and their ability to identify the aesthetic goals of the artists.

A/D & D/A conversion

Speaking of digital and analog, it is worth mentioning that any conversion from one to the other is far from being effectless. In fact, even state-of-the-art converters will exhibit audible effects when using a simple interconnect cable in their loops. It is true that any operator's tasteful processing choices will have a much more profound effect than this, but remembering that my main obstacle is too much colour, it makes sense for me to avoid this altogether.

Prices

It's no secret that quality gear comes at a price, which is reflected on the final service charge. Analog mastering has one (fully justified from higher retail and maintenance costs, amongst other things) because it requires a high level of technical excellence. And with many processors, that level of excellence can be achieved for much less with digital implementations. To keep mastering affordable for anyone, from any background, I chose to stay in that realm.

Personal preferences

While I sure love to tweak knobs, see LEDs glow and needles move, I know myself well enough to choose what best suits to my working habits and preferences. As an artist, I would be frustrated if I couldn't easily ask for enough listening time or potential revisions on a mastering job. Others like to work with their clients in the same room to avoid revisions and artists changing their minds at the last minute. Thus, it's important to choose a workflow that matches the way you like to do things, and the way you'd like things to go if you were the client yourself.

End results

There's no doubt that the "analog vs. digital" debate still stirs up some controversy and radical opinions in the audio community. Of course, the fact many people still engage in it shows that some things need to be clarified a bit. Linearity, data encoding, bit depth and many others concepts are still difficult to grasp and therefore generate many misconceptions. Having said that, it is sometimes useful to step back of our own perception and admit that the way we work always have less influence than the first note or the first sound recorded. In the end, it's just a matter of choosing the type of tools and workflow that suits us best.

Although this article is far from complete, I hope it will give anyone interested in this issue enough insight. Happy listening!

[1] Be it analog or digital distortions, frequencies build-ups, resonances, gear oddities, … [2] Meaning of system linearity in audio production

#audio mastering #mastering #analog #digital #dsp #music #tokyo dawn labs #tone projects #diy