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rumblelibrary · 3 years

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The Diary of Doctor Laszlo Kreizler

Chapter 1

Synopsis: Alienist’s notes are private, sometimes gruesome, secrets of others and of himself.Those pages belongs to secrecy and decadence, have a glimpse to this world made of drafts, notes, accidents and reflections. Or maybe it is you the only person that should ever reach for it.

While you read this imagine Laszlo mostly at the end of his day, scraping the ideas and the thoughts, adjusting previous notes with additions, closing the day behind himself with a couple of sentences while sitting in his evening robe, a good glass of whiskey and his glasses bridged almost at the tip of his nose. Or maybe imagine yourself, you sneaky thing, reach for it from a far shelf.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: listen, this is the set of ideas and confessions of a man living in the 1890’s. Most of them will be outdated, rough, even deprecating in some analysis of the roles of men, women and social status, religion, etc.So be prepared, my point is to make Laszlo reflect upon those topics, but to be as faithful as I can to his time. Mention of death, mutilation, self harm and a minor depiction of a fight. Psychologically troubled young children ahead! Author’s note: I am a nerd for a good Victorian novel and a sexy Alienist.I have always been charmed by Laszlo’s mind and inner conflicts. So I took the chance and tried to have a run into that rollercoaster. The story is placed between season 1 and season 2.

Diary belonging to Dr. Laszlo Kreizler. This is a professional book of annotations over medical treatments of an alienist toward his patients. Do not disclose and send it back to the address if found: Kreizler’s Institute, xxxxxx, New York City (NY) L.K.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, Illustrated Natural History of the Animal Kingdom (c1859). Contributed for digitization by University Library, University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign.

Schiller in his “Die Weltweisen” wrote: So long as philosophy keeps together the structure of the Universe so long does it maintain the world’s machinery by hunger and love. From the philosopher point of view sexual life takes a subordinate position in human’s life, from recent studies pushed by European philosophers, everything is about sexuality and its development. I like to think of the experience of being an alienist as the process of Queen Penelope that, while waiting for her husband Ulysses return, undoes her craftwork every night. I undo the fabulous constructs of people’s beliefs to go back to the rough sketch that stands at the beginning of their loss, their complex, their pain. Maybe that’s why working with children is so motivating and fascinating. They can be saved and yet, I am well aware, some of those sketches already traced in their young lives equal to scars that not even the most advanced theories could cure. But I can sooth them. I can prevent them the torment, the anguish, the recollection at night of those monsters. I feel like a poet would be a better alienist than a philosopher, but I have got no poetry nor philosophy in my veins, but the cold experience of the razor blade judgment of Life itself.

Today I observed a fight among the children at the Institute. Age range between 10 and 12. Boys. The fight was over the possession of a side of the playground, the territory of a pack of youngsters formed under the name of Steven. Peculiar lad, coming from a military background finds comfort in replicating the schemes he lived in his family. He takes the role of the Father/Captain of the team and subjects children that come from a similar background story, but do not posses his same attitude to the command. All quiet on the front, until the space he declared is own spot got affected by the presence of others. Intruders. I knowingly let the events unfold to see how Steven would react to his challenged authority. His reaction was, at first, worded, a sketch, a stage-play of an action he witnessed over and over, and he knew the part so well that some of the contending kids lowered their stance against him. Among considering to mildly intervene into this pyramid scheme of authority, another boy, Jan, calls himself on the role of the educator and hero of the masses and proceeds to unfold a wild and well assessed punch on the newly declared dictator face. Balance is established again. No need for me to arbitrate, once more the laws of nature seem to apply to children as in a state of nature.

Meet John Moore over lunch. His job at the newspaper is picking up, he is charmed by the spirits and the wits that he finds in his shared office with all the other writers. He mentions many, goes on and on over qualities and troubles, gossips and tendencies, and even little scandals here and there. To be aware of all those details gives me no interest, but to see a dear friend so invested clearly gives me something to pick up. To consider also the amount of details and the way he describes this or that member of the journal, I can do a small exercise of analysis. It is almost too easy because John is painfully genuine, even some of the kids at the institute would beat him hands down in a battle of lies. The more he likes somebody, the more he goes on about all the details and the characteristics, often letting aside the physical appearance. When he doesn’t like somebody he has a couple of adjectives for the wits and around four or five for the physical aspects that usually indulge on some repulsive idiosyncrasies. John is a man that painfully fits in the storyline of The Picture of Dorian Gray: to him physical beauty is spiritual beauty and, of course, the other way around. This part of him surely intrigues me, makes me want to tease more from him. But, as a friend, it concerns me as John is way too prone to purposelessly decide that somebody with good eyes is also a good human being, which is a very romantic and admirably naive way of judging matters. I noticed some names that keep repeating in his narration. I dread that it is synonymous of a soon encounter from my side with the objects of his admiration. Fetiches, I dare to say, that I will have to annihilate before they sediment into his mind, perpetuating a narration that soon sees John being mislead by others.

Reserved: Tickets for the Eroica, Symphony n. 3 by Ludwig van Beethoven. Thursday evening.

Note on the show: the first movement lacked the pathos needed to begin with, I am not sure that the guest orchestra really managed to portray the wider emotional ground needed to withstand the whole representation. As the evening progressed there were some outstanding performances by the cellists. Still not approving the choice of reprising the early quick finale movement against the lengthy set of variations and fugue that we are used to in presence of the Eroica. Underwhelming the performance of the horn and oboe, vital in the comprehension of the genius of Beethoven.

Niki is a new addition of the Institute, quite old for the standards. He is already 16, he will leave when summer ends to some expensive college his family meant him to stay. His parents expect me to make him “normal” in the time we are allowed together. He is Austrian and I let him act it out like I don’t understand German for the first week of hist stay until today. I believe I hit his pride, which is good, in the moment I answered back to one of his sneaky comments. Now he knows. He is not safe from me, he doesn’t like it. The young man has a tendency to danger, risky tasks and edgy situations. In his mother’s own words “Niki is not afraid of anything”. The phrase didn’t raise any excitement in the father, rather some sort of painful acceptance that is role as the alpha male of the house is probably not only being challenged, but already diminished, if not abolished. I have taken in consideration that Niki will break himself a bone or two in the process of the therapy, probably out of the spite of boredom or rebellion. It took him less than few days to turn himself into an outcast among the outcasts, which only drives me closer to analyse the complexity of his narcissistic wall of self defence. I gave him a physical challenge to lift a certain weight, he is a pretty skinny one, he didn’t like the challenge, but I am sure he will take it. He is a brainy guy, he hates to be questioned on unfamiliar ground. He won’t sleep at night thinking about it. A challenge, in this first phase, can only bring me closer to the ease of his pains. To continue the observation.

It is a sad privilege of medicine, in particular the one I practice, to be able to witness the weaknesses of the human nature and the reverse side of life. Nevertheless, I oblige this same privilege of the study as life moves into shades of darkness. To be aware of it gives more solace to my soul than to be victim of patiently waiting for the inevitable unfolding of the events. To be able to understand more about psychology would bring more comfort and elevation to any human being, the times might not be there yet, but eventually something will move into the direction of a more wholesome approach.

Dinner meeting with Sara Howard, at the restaurant Jardin Des Cygnes, 7 pm sharp. Do not expect to reach the dessert. Do not know if John will be participating due to undeniable tension among the two and the fatal despise of John over French cuisine.

The case that Sara unfolded tonight to my ears feels more and more like pulled out from some gothic book or from the mind of a Roman historian that needed to justify the godly origins of an Emperor. One killing, apparently random, a very constructed iconography over the body. Signs and insults, shapes and drawings. Is this a work of art? Does the killer wants his victim to be his Mona Lisa? His David? I am charmed and destabilised. If this was a murder like any other, then why to spend so much time into it? Based on the description the act of killing itself was quick: a sharp cut over the throat, almost like not wanting to ruin too much the surface to use as base for, what? I keep rerunning those symbols over and over as Sara described them to me, my mind is flooded with the designs of greek philosophers that needed to explain themselves why the sky is above our head and never collapses on us. Hilarious how, no matter the science advancement, in the mind of many the sky stands inevitably overt their shoulders, suffocates them, brings them to a death of the soul and not of the body. Is all this graphic charade indeed only a form to scream for attention? To stress the eyes of an unaware viewer? It seems ridiculously elaborate, a scream for attention would be quick, it would be like guided by instinct, not reasoning, craftwork. Any man with a knife can paint in blood red the walls of a room and that’s asking for attention. That is the primal howl: look at me! I am here! But this one. I don’t know yet.

Spent the early morning reading anew my copy of The Metamorphosis by Ovid. Didn’t touch it in a long time and I got bedazzled by the world of terrible sensuality, anger and selfishness of those gods and mortals. I think back at all the deviances and weaknesses of human kind and I try to relate it to all of those humanoid figures. Niki would be a minotaur, the lonesome son left in the labyrinth and his strive for success is his bull’s head. Or maybe a centaur, because of his wits and strategic thinking. I might keep up the process, maybe this is the way to understand my patients better, to understand the killer better. Must remember not to romanticise it. Greek gods were probably the first form of self indulging of a society that needed gods to be forgiving and allowing favours and punishments, but only in exchange of sacrifices. But the sacrifice never comes from the God’s will, but from the will of the man that perpetuates the act of killing. To sacrifice someone or something is the sadistic response to a lack of love deeply inherited in human mind that becomes neurotic. Is the killer giving the God of his own neurosis a body to feast upon?

I talked with Jan this morning. The young boy is about 10, but he acts like a full grown adult. I could easily asses that’s the reason why he could challenge Steven in that fight. Two children mimicking adults situations they know too well. Jan is son of an industrial man, but he is also son of the dialectics of the industrial revolution. He sounds like he swallowed some of those books about working class rights and communism, probably pushed by a resentful surrounding (mother?uncle? the midwife?) over the social role of his father. As much as incredibly smart and lectured, Jan lost most of his early occasions in life by spending a considerable amount of time using his fists. The anger ever present in the young boy always surprises me, he seems to be holding a power, a strength of a full grown man in those tiny arms. Nevertheless, he is already the tallest of the group. He is surely an idealist, which makes him also tragically fragile. His strength mixed with his heart of gold can make him the best of the heroes or the worst of the villains. He apologised for the fight, he specified how he didn’t like the sound of Steven’s voice, more than the sound, the level of pitch. I can’t stand somebody shouting orders, I just don’t listen anymore. He is so mature even about his own feelings, almost a gentleman in his chivalry toward the weaker children, honest with his open heart and resentful against any form of injustice. I am not spared by his ways, he would come at me whenever he feels like I was being partial over some of the kids, his sense of justice blinds him and transform a perfectly balanced boy into a ranging animal.

Ordered book, to be delivered around tomorrow evening: Introduction à la méthode de Léonard de Vinci by Paul Valéry. Suddenly feeling myself as a gross ignorant in art themes. I always regarded myself aware of the artistic personalities and tendencies of present and past, but this new amount of perceptions over the human figure and the human body leads me to document myself more. I could ask John for advice, but he wouldn’t take things at matter that seriously. I can almost hear him say how I can make gruesome a pleasant topic such as art. I should probably wait to see the body to push any further aesthetic study, but I find myself not being able to stop. I reckon, I can allow myself a vice or two.

Today I saw the body of the killed man, courtesy of the Isaacson's. To be fair, I had underestimated it. In Sara’s descriptions, probably due to her more analytic mind, all the charm of the representation got lost in favour of a less cryptic and reasonable understanding of the act. Sara got what some alienists will call a masculine mind, which I don’t perfectly agree on. If I apply that same approach John would be a very feminine mind, all wrapped up in romanticising even the ugliest. I guess that dividing the world in “fragile and gentle” and “strong and powerful” is just easier to explain the fluctuation of something that doesn’t need a real name or a category like human inclinations on thoughts. I got a feverish sense of patience by looking at the body. Each symbol traced with sapient slowness, dense of the time that the killer spent with the body. That is a work of hours, he had time and meaning. He had resources and was able to spend not less than the time he needed to reach, a vision? An ideal? A message? Is it the message meant to be understood? Am I supposed to unravel it or it is maybe just the way the killer communicates within himself? And if I do decifrate the code, will that bring me closer to him? Or to his next victim?

Reminder: ask John to replicate all the symbols on the bodies in the correct measure and order. It might be needed some hard convincing. Addition: scheduled meeting, his house, 3 pm.

It wasn’t a day like any other when I met you. Or maybe it was, and that’s why I got so struck by it and now I am here playing it over and over through what my memory clung on so desperately. In my own experience, life was often similar to swimming in a lake. Those rich, dense lakes in the north of (illegible cancelled word) were my father used to bring us during summer. I still feel the pull, the draw down toward the abyss. It ashamed me, in a way, the fear that such a simple feeling aroused in my young mind, unaware nevertheless, that such a feeling would follow me through all my existence. It was a prophecy and, like most of the prophecies, was a riddle. I cradle in my heart the charm of those days, the mindless happiness. The foolish feeling of freedom. Little I knew that freedom would be taken away from me that soon, that the body that used to navigate me over the dense waters, helping me to fight the haul toward the unknown, would become my own cage. That day. Today. The day where I met you, the day I was afloat. The child gasping for air felt the wrench become a gentle push and now he is floating on his back over the scary waters of reality and malice. It gave me relief and it gave me terror, because since that very moment I knew that I would never be able to move on from the sight of you. From the feeling of your eyes lingering on me. From the smile you so easily shone upon me. From the whiff of imported perfume that hit me when you turned on side exploding that swan like neck. And nothing, not even my stern look, could dim that wave of hope that your sole presence washed over me. The abyss roars, calls me to a home of damnation and terror and curses my name and yet you repeated that hell-bound name of mine after me and I felt safe.

John told me so much about you, it feels like I have always known you.

The rope is gone from my neck, the guillotine won’t fall on me, I am spared, I am free.

I have read your latest article, I am thrilled to help with the case.

I am in disbelief.

Your voice.

Dr. Kreizler

How dare you? How dare you to come into my life, to appear, like a vision, mystical, in a way I despised at University when all those theology students talked about the divine. In this very moment I can’t recollect much of what you said, something about the case, about going with John at the obituary. It feels confusing, I feel overstimulated, my memory fails me, I am not sure anymore. I write these few lines and it is passed the hour of the witches and I wish, I demand, to never see you again, because life should never grant hope to a condemned man.

#dr laszlo kreizler #dr laszlo kreizler imagine #dr laszlo kreizler x reader #dr laszlo kreizler x you #laszlo kreizler #laszlo kreizler headcanons #laszlo kreizler x reader #the alienist fanfic #victorian age #v writes #the diary of doctor laszlo kreizler

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thecaffeinebookwarrior · 4 years

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The Importance of Antiheroes

By Brooksie C. Fontaine (me) and Sara R. McKearney

Few tropes are as ubiquitous as that of the hero. He takes the form of Superman, ethically and non-lethally thwarting Lex Luthor. Of Luke Skywalker, gazing wistfully at twin suns and waiting for his adventure to begin. In pre-Eastwood era films, a white Stetson made the law-abiding hero easily distinguishable from his black-hatted antagonists. He is Harry Potter, Jon Snow, T’Challa, Simba. He is of many incarnations, he is virtually inescapable, and he serves a necessary function: he reminds us of what we can achieve, and that regardless of circumstance, we can choose to be good. We need our heroes, and always will.

But equally vital to the life-blood of any culture is his more nebulous and difficult to define counterpart: the antihero. Whereas the hero is defined, more or less, by his morality and exceptionalism, the antihero doesn’t cleanly meet these criteria. Where the hero tends to be confident and self-assured, the antihero may have justifiable insecurities. While the hero has faith in the goodness of humanity, the anthero knows from experience how vile humans can be. While the hero typically respects and adheres to authority figures and social norms, the antihero may rail against them for any number of reasons. While the hero always embraces good and rejects evil, the antihero may do either. And though the hero might always be buff, physically capable, and mentally astute, the antihero may be average or below. The antihero scoffs at the obligation to be perfect, and our culture's demand for martyrdom. And somehow, he is at least as timeless and enduring as his sparklingly heroic peers.

Which begs the question: where did the antihero come from, and why do we need him?

The Birth of the Anti-Hero:

It is worth noting that many of the oldest and most enduring heroes would now be considered antiheroes. The Greek Heracles was driven to madness, murdered his family, and upon recovering had to complete a series of tasks to atone for his actions. Theseus, son of Poseidon and slayer of the Minotaur, straight-up abandoned the woman who helped him do it. And we all know what happened to Oedipus, whose life was so messed up he got a complex named after him.

And this isn’t just limited to Ancient Greece: before he became a god, the Mesoamerican Quetzalcoatl committed suicide after drunkenly sleeping with his sister. The Mesopotamian Gilgamesh – arguably the first hero in literature – began his journey as a slovenly, hedonistic tyrant. Shakespearian heroes were denoted with an equal number of gifts and flaws – the cunning but paranoid Hamlet, the honorable but gullible Othello, the humble but power-hungry MacBeth – which were just as likely to lead to their downfall as to their apotheosis.

There’s probably a definitive cause for our current definition of hero as someone who’s squeaky clean: censorship. With the birth of television and film as we know it, it was, for a time, illegal to depict criminals as protagonists, and law enforcement as antagonists. The perceived morality of mainstream cinema was also strictly monitored, limiting what could be portrayed. Bonnie and Clyde, The Good the Bad and the Ugly, Scarface, The Godfather, Goodfellas, and countless other cinematic staples prove that such policies did not endure, but these censorship laws divorced us, culturally, from the moral complexity of our most resonant heroes.

Perhaps because of the nature of the medium, literature arguably has never been as infatuated with moral purity as its early cinematic and T.V. counterparts. From the Byronic male love interests of the Bronte sisters, to “Doctor” Frankenstein (that little college dropout never got a PhD), to Dorian Grey, to Anna Karenina, to Scarlett O’Hara, to Holden Caulfield, literature seems to thrive on morally and emotionally complex individuals and situations. Superman punching a villain and saving Lois Lane is compelling television, but doesn’t make for a particularly thought-provoking read.

It is also worth noting, however, that what we now consider to be universal moral standards were once met with controversy: Superman’s story and real name – Kal El – are distinctly Jewish, in which his doomed parents were forced to send him to an uncertain future in a foreign culture. Captain America punching Nazis now seems like a no-brainer, but at the time it was not a popular opinion, and earned his Jewish creators a great deal of controversy. So in a manner of speaking, some of the most morally upstanding heroes are also antiheroes, in that they defied society’s rules.

This brings us to our concluding point: that anti-heroes can be morally good. The complex and sometimes tragic heroes of old, and today’s antiheroes, are not necessarily immoral, but must often make difficult choices, compromises, and sacrifices. They are flawed, fallible, and can sometimes lead to their own downfall. But sometimes, they triumph, and we can cheer them for it. This is what makes their stories so powerful, so relatable, and so necessary to the fabric of our culture. So without further ado, let’s have a look at some of pop-culture’s most interesting antiheroes, and what makes them so damn compelling.

Note: For the purposes of this essay, we will only be looking at male antiheroes. Because the hero’s journey is traditionally so male-oriented, different standards of subversiveness, morality, and heroism apply to female protagonists, and the antiheroine deserves an article all her own.

Antiheroes show us the negative effects of systematic inequalities (and what they can do to gifted people.)

As demonstrated by: Tommy Shelby from Peaky Blinders.

Why he could be a hero: He’s incredibly charismatic, intelligent, and courageous. He deeply cares for his loved ones, has a strict code of honor, reacts violently to the mistreatment of innocents, and demonstrates surprisingly high levels of empathy.

Why he’s an antihero: He also happens to be a ruthless, incredibly violent crime lord who regularly slashes out his enemies’ eyes.

What he can teach us: From the moment Tommy Shelby makes his entrance, it becomes apparent that Peaky Blinders will not unfold like the archetypical crime drama. Evocative of the outlaw mythos of the Old West, Tommy rides across a smoky, industrialized landscape. He is immaculately dressed, bareback, on a magnificent black horse. A rogue element, his presence carries immediate power, causing pedestrians to hurriedly clear a path. You get the sense that he does not conform to this time or era, nor does he abide by the rules of society.

The ONLY acceptable way to introduce a protagonist.

Set in the decades between World War I and II, Peaky Blinders differentiates itself from its peers, not just because of its distinctive, almost Shakespearian style of storytelling, powerful visual style, and use of contemporary music, but also in the manner in which it shows that society provokes the very criminality it attempts to vanquish. Moreover, it dedicates time to demonstrating why this form of criminality is sometimes the only option for success in an unfair system. When the law wants to keep you relegated to the station in which you were born, success almost inevitably means breaking the rules. Tommy is considered one of the most influential characters of the decade because of the manner in which he embodies this phenomenon, and the reason why antiheroes pervade folklore across the decades.

Peaky Blinders engenders a unique level of empathy within its first episodes, in which we are not just immersed in the glamour of the gangster lifestyle, but we understand the background that provoked it. Tommy, who grew up impoverished and discriminated against due to his “didicoy” Romany background, volunteered to fight for his country, and went to war as a highly intelligent, empathetic young man. He returned with the knowledge that the country he had served had essentially used him and others like him as canon fodder, with no regard for their lives, well-being, or future. Such veterans were often looked down upon or disregarded by a society eager to forget the war. Having served as a tunneler – regarded to be the worst possible position in a war already beset by unprecedented brutality – Tommy’s constant proximity to death not only destroyed his faith in authority, but also his fear of mortality. This absence of fear and deference, coupled with his incredible intelligence, ambition, ruthlessness, and strategic abilities, makes him a dangerous weapon, now pointed at the very society that constructed him to begin with.

It is also difficult to critique Tommy’s criminality, when we take into account that society would have completely stifled him if he had abided by its rules. As someone of Romany heritage, he was raised in abject poverty, and never would have been admitted into situations of higher social class. Even at his most powerful, we see the disdain his colleagues have at being obligated to treat him as an equal. In one particularly powerful scene, he begins shoveling horse manure, explaining that, “I’m reminding myself of what I’d be if I wasn’t who I am.” If he hadn’t left behind society’s rules, his brilliant mind would be occupied only with cleaning stables.

However, the necessity of criminality isn’t depicted as positive: it is one of the greatest tragedies of the narrative that society does not naturally reward the most intelligent or gifted, but instead rewards those born into positions of unjust privilege, and those who are willing to break the rules with intelligence and ruthlessness. Each year, the trauma of killing, nearly being killed, and losing loved ones makes Tommy’s PTSD increasingly worse, to the point at which he regularly contemplates suicide. Cillian Murphy has remarked that Tommy gets little enjoyment out of his wealth and power, doing what he does only for his family and “because he can.” Steven Knight cites the philosophy of Francis Bacon as a driving force behind Tommy’s psychology: “Since it’s all so meaningless, we might as well be extraordinary.”

This is further complicated when it becomes apparent that the upper class he’s worked so arduously to join is not only ruthlessly exclusionary, but also more corrupt than he’s ever been. There are no easy answers, no easy to pinpoint sources of societal or personal issues, no easy divisibility of positive and negative. This duality is something embraced by the narrative, and embodied by its protagonist. An intriguingly androgynous figure, Tommy emulated the strength and tenacity of the women in his life, particularly his mother; however, he also internalized her application of violence, even laughing about how she used to beat him with a frying pan. His family is his greatest source of strength and his greatest weakness, often exploited by his enemies who realize they cannot fall back on his fear of mortality. He feels emotions more strongly than the other characters, and ironically must numb himself to the world around him in order to cope with it.

However, all hope is not lost. Creator Steven Knight has stated that his hope is ultimately to redeem Tommy, so by the show’s end he is “a good man doing good things.” There are already whispers of what this may look like: as an MP, Tommy cares for Birmingham and its citizens far more than any “legitimate” politicians, meeting with them personally to ensure their needs are met; as of last season, he attempted a Sinatra-style assassination of a rising fascist simply because it was the right thing to do. “Goodness” is an option in the world of Peaky Blinders; the only question is what form it will take on a landscape plagued by corruption at every turn.

Regardless of what form his “redemption” might take, it’s negligible that Tommy will ever meet all the criteria of an archetypal hero as we understand it today. He is far more evocative of the heroes of Ancient Greece, of the Old West, of the Golden Age of Piracy, of Feudal Japan – ferocious, magnitudinous figures who move and make the earth turn with them, who navigate the ever-changing landscapes of society and refuse to abide by its rules, simultaneously destructive and life-affirming. And that’s what makes him so damn compelling.

Who needs traditional morality, when you look this damn good?

Other examples:

Alfie Solomons from Peaky Blinders. Tommy’s friend and sometimes mortal enemy, the two develop an intriguing, almost romantic connection due to their shared experiences of oppression and powerful intellects. Steven Knight has referred to Alfie as “the only person Tommy can really talk to,” possibly because he is Tommy’s only intellectual equal, resulting in a strange form of spiritual matrimony between the two.

Omar Little from The Wire, an oftentimes tender and compassionate man who cares deeply for his loved ones, and does his best to promote morality and idealism in a society which offers him few viable methods of doing so. He may rob drug dealers at gunpoint, but he also refuses to harm innocents, dislikes swearing, and views his actions as a method of decreasing crime in the area.

Chiron from Moonlight, a sensitive and empathetic young man who became a drug dealer because society had provided him with virtually no other options for self-sustenance. The same could be said for Chiron’s mentor and father figure, Juan, a kind and nurturing man who is also a drug dealer.

To a lesser extent, Tony from The Sopranos, and other fictional Italian American gangsters. The Sopranos often negotiates the roots of mob culture as a response to inequalities, while also holding its characters accountable for their actions by pointing out that Tony and his ilk are now rich and privileged and face little systematic discrimination.

Walter White from Breaking Bad – an underpaid, chronically disrespected teacher who has to work two jobs and still can’t afford to pay for medical treatment. More on him on the next page.

Antiheroes show us how we can be the villains.

As demonstrated by: Walter White from Breaking Bad.

Why he could be a hero: He’s a brilliant, underappreciated chemist whose work contributed to the winning of a Nobel Prize. He’s also forging his own path in the face of incredible adversity, and attempting to provide for his family in the event of his death.

Why he’s an antihero: In his pre-meth days, Walt failed to meet the exceptionalism associated with heroes, as a moral but socially passive underachiever living an unremarkable life. At the end of his transformation, he is exceptional at what he does, but has completely lost his moral standards.

What he can teach us: G.K. Chesterton wrote, “Fairy tales do not tell children that the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.” Following this analogy, it is equally important that our stories show us we, ourselves, can be the dragon. Or the villain, to be more specific, because being a dragon sounds strangely awesome.

Walter White of Breaking Bad is a paragon of antiheroism for a reason: he subverts almost every traditional aspect of heroism. From the opening shots of Walt careening along in an RV, clad in tighty whities and a gas mask, we recognize that he is neither physically capable, nor competent in the manner we’ve come to expect from our heroes. He is not especially conventionally attractive, nor are women particularly drawn to him. He does not excel at his career or garner respect. As the series progresses, Walt does develop the competence, confidence, courage, and resilience we expect of heroes, but he is no longer the moral protagonist: he is self-motivated, vindictive, and callous. And somehow, he still remains identifiable, which is integral to his efficacy.

But let us return to the beginning of the series, and talk about how, exactly, Walt subverts our expectations from the get-go. Walt is the epitome of an everyman: he’s fifty years old, middle class, passive, and worried about identifiable problems – his health, his bills, his physically disabled son, and his unborn baby. Whereas Tommy Shelby’s angelic looks, courage, and intellect subvert our preconceptions about what a criminal can be, Walt’s initial unremarkability subverts our preconceptions about who can be a criminal. The hook of the series is the idea that a man so chronically average could make and distribute meth.

Just because an audience is hooked by a concept, however, does not mean that they’ll necessarily continue watching. Breaking Bad could have easily veered into ludicrosity, if it weren’t for another important factor: character. Walt is immediately and intensely relatable, and he somehow retains our empathy for the entirety of the series, even at his least forgivable.

When we first meet Walt, his talents are underappreciated, he’s overqualified for his menial jobs, chronically disrespected by everyone around him, underpaid, and trapped in a joyless, passionless life in which the highlight of his day is a halfhearted handjob from his distracted wife. And to top it all off? He has terminal lung cancer. Happy birthday, Walt.

We root for him for the same reason we root for Dumbo, Rudolph, Harry Potter: he’s an underdog. The odds are stacked against him, and we want to see him triumph. Which is why it’s cathartic, for us and for Walt, when he finally finds a profession in which he can excel – even if that profession is the ability to manufacture incredibly high-quality meth. His former student Jesse Pinkman – a character so interesting that there’s a genuine risk he’ll hijack this essay – appreciates his skill, and this early appreciation is what makes his relationship with Jesse feel so much more genuine than Walt’s relationship with his family, even as their dynamic becomes increasingly unhealthy and Walt uses Jesse to bolster his meth business and his ego. This deeply dysfunctional but heartfelt father-son connection is Walt’s tether to humanity as he becomes increasingly inhumane, while also demonstrating his descent from morality. It has been pointed out that one can gauge how far-gone Walt is from his moral ideals by how much Jesse is suffering.

But to return to the initial point, it is imperative that we first empathize with Walt in order to adequately understand his descent. Aside from the fact that almost all characters are more interesting if the audience can or wants to empathize with them, Walt’s relatability makes it easy to understand our own potential for toxic and destructive behaviors. We are the protagonist of our own story, but we aren’t necessarily its hero.

Similarly, we understand how easily we can justify destructive actions, and how quickly reasonable feelings of anger and injustice swerve into self-indulgent vindication and entitlement. Walt claims to be cooking meth to provide for his family, and this may be partially true; but he also denies financial help from his rich friends out of spite, and admits later to his wife Skylar that he primarily did it for himself because he was good at it and “it made (him) feel alive.”

This also forces us to examine our preconceptions, and essentially do Walt’s introspections for him: whereas Peaky Blinders emphasize the fact that Tommy and his family would never have been able to achieve prosperity by obeying society’s laws, Walt feels jilted out of success he was promised by a meritocratic system that doesn’t currently exist. He has essentially achieved our current understanding of the American dream – a house with a pool, a beautiful wife and family, an honest job – but it left him unable to provide for his wife and children or even pay for his cancer treatment. He’s also unhappy and alienated from his passions and fellow human beings. With this in mind, it’s understandable – if absurd – that the only way he can attain genuine happiness and excel is through becoming a meth cook. In this way, Breaking Bad is both a scathing critique of our current society, and a haunting reminder that there’s not as much standing between ourselves and villainy as we might like to believe.

So are we all slaves to this system of entitlement and resentment, of shattered and unfulfilling dreams? No, because Breaking Bad provides us with an intriguing and vital counterpoint: Jesse Pinkman. Whereas Walt was bolstered with promises that he was gifted and had a bright future ahead of him, Jesse was assured by every authority figure in his life that he would never amount to anything. However, Jesse proves himself skilled at what he’s passionate about: art, carpentry, and of course, cooking meth. Whereas Walt perpetually rationalizes and shirks responsibility, Jesse compulsively takes responsibility, even for things that weren’t his fault. Whereas Walt found it increasingly acceptable to endanger or harm bystanders, Jesse continuously worked to protect innocents – especially children – from getting hurt. Though Jesse suffered immensely throughout the course of the show – and the subsequent movie, El Camino – the creators say that he successfully made it to Alaska and started a carpentry business. Some theorists have supposed that Jesse might be a Jesus allegory – a carpenter who suffers for the sins of others. Regardless of whether this is true, it is interesting, and amusing to imagine Jesus using the word “bitch” so often. Though he didn’t get the instant gratification of immediate success that Walt got, he was able to carve (no pun intended – carpentry, you know) a place for himself in the world.

Jesse isn’t a perfect person, but he reminds us that improving ourselves and creating a better life is an option, even if Walt’s rise to power was more initially thrilling. So take heart: there’s a bit of Heisenberg in all of us, but there’s also a bit of Jesse Pinkman.

The savior we all need, but don’t deserve.

Other examples:

Bojack from Bojack Horseman. Like Walt, the audience can’t help but empathize with Bojack, understand his decision-making, and even see ourselves in him. However, the narrative ruthlessly demonstrates the consequences of his actions, and shows us how negatively his selfishness and self-destructive qualities impact others.

Again, Tony Soprano. Tony, even at his very worst, is easy to like and empathize with. Despite his position as a mafia Godfather, he’s unfailingly human. Which makes the destruction caused by his actions all the more resonant.

Antiheroes emphasize the absurdity of contemporary culture (and how we must operate in it.)

As demonstrated by: Marty Byrde from Ozark.

Why he could be a hero: He’s a loving father who ultimately just wants to provide for and ensure the safety of his family. He’s also fiercely intelligent, with excellent negotiative, interpersonal, and strategic skills that allows him to talk his way out of almost any situation without the use of violence.

Why he’s an antihero: He launders money for a ruthless drug cartel, and has no issue dipping his toes into various illegal activities.

Why he’s compelling: Marty is an antihero of the modern era. He has a remarkable ability to talk his way into or out of any situation, and he’s also a master of using a pre-constructed system of rules and privileges to his benefit.

In the very first episode, he goes from literally selling the American Dream, to avoiding murder at the hands of a ruthless drug cartel by planning to launder money for them in the titular Ozarks. Despite his long history of dabbling in illegality, Marty has no firearms – a questionable choice for someone on the run from violent drug kingpins, but a testament to his ability to rely on his oratory skills and nothing else. He doesn’t hesitate to engage an apparently violent group of hillbillies to request the return of his stolen cash, because he knows he can talk them into giving it back to him. The only time he engages other characters in physical violence, he immediately gets pummeled, because physical altercation has never been his form of currency. Not that he’s subjected to physical violence particularly often, either: Marty is a master of the corporate landscape, which makes him a master of the criminal landscape. He is brilliant at avoiding the consequences of his actions.

It’s easy to like and admire Marty for his cleverness, for being able to escape from apparently impermeable situations with words as his only weapon. He’s got a reassuring, dad-ly sort of charisma that immediately endears the viewer, and offers respite from the seemingly endless threats coming from every direction. He unquestionably loves his family, including his adulterous wife. As such, it’s easy to forget that Marty is being exploited by the same system that exploits all of us: crony capitalism. The polar opposite of meritocratic capitalism – in which success is based on hard work, ingenuity, and, hence the name, merit – crony capitalism benefits only the conglomerates that plague the global landscape like cancerous warts, siphoning money off of workers and natural capital, keeping them indentured with basic necessities and the idle promise of success.

Marty isn’t benefiting from his hard work in the Ozarks. Everything he makes goes right back to the drug cartel who continuously threatens the life of him and his family. He is rewarded for his efforts with a picturesque house, a boat, and the appearance of success, but he is not allowed to keep the fruits of his labor. Marty may be an expert at navigating the corporate and criminal landscape, but it still exploits him. In this manner, Marty embodies both the American business, the American worker, and a sort of inversion of the American dream.

In this same manner, Marty, the other characters, and even the Ozarks themselves embody the modern dissonance between appearance and reality. Marty’s family looks like something you’d respect to see on a Christmas card from your DILF-y, successful coworker, but it’s bubbling with dysfunctionality. His wife is cheating on him with a much-older man, and instead of confronting her about it, he first hired a private investigator and then spent weeks rewatching the footage, paralyzed with options and debating what to do. The problem somewhat solves itself when his wife’s lover is unceremoniously murdered by the cartel, and Wendy and Marty are driven into a sort of matrimonial business partnership motivated by the shared interest of protecting their children, but this also further demonstrates how corporate even their family dealings have become. His children, though precocious, are forced to contend with age-inappropriate levels of responsibility and the trauma of sudden relocation, juxtaposed with a childhood of complete privilege up until this point.

Conversely, the shadow of the Byrde family is arguably the Langmores. Precocious teenagers Ruth and Wyatt can initially be shrugged off as local hillbillies and budding con-artists, but much like the Shelby family of the Peaky Blinders, they prove to be extremely intelligent individuals suffering beneath a society that doesn’t care about their stifled potential. Systemic poverty is a bushfire that spreads from one generation to the next, stoked by the prejudices of authority figures and abusive parental figures who refuse to embrace change out of a misguided sense of class-loyalty.

Almost every other character we meet eventually inverts our expectations of them: from the folksy, salt-of-the-earth farmers who grow poppies for opium and murder more remorselessly than the cartel itself, to the cookie-cutter FBI agent whose behavior becomes increasingly volatile and chaotic, to the heroin-filled Bibles handed out by an unknowing preacher, to the secrets hidden by the lake itself, every detail conveys corruption hidden behind a postcard-pretty picture of tranquility and success.

Marty’s awareness of this illusion, and what lurks behind it, is perhaps the greatest subversion of all. Marty knows that the world of appearance and the world of reality coexist, and he was blessed with a natural talent for navigating within the two. Like Walter White, Marty makes us question our assumptions about who a criminal can be – despite the fact that many successful, attractive, middle-aged family men launder money and juggle criminal activities, it’s still jarring to witness, which tells us something about how image informs our understanding of reality. Socially privileged, white-collar criminals simply have more control over how they’re portrayed than an inner-city gang, or impoverished teenagers. However, unlike Walt, Marty’s criminal activities are not any kind of middle-aged catharsis: they’re a way of life, firmly ingrained in the corporate landscape. They were present long before he arrived on the scene, and he knows it. He just has to navigate them.

Just like our shining, messianic heroes can teach us about truth, justice, and the American way, so too does each antihero have something to teach us: they teach us that society doesn’t reward those who follow its instructions, nor does it often provide an avenue of morality. Even if you live a life devoid of apparent sin, every privilege is paid for by someone else’s sacrifice. But the best antiheroes are not beacons of nihilism – they show us the beauty that can emerge from even the ugliest of situations. Peaky Blinders is, at its core, a love story between Tommy Shelby and the family he crawled out of his grave for, just as Breaking Bad is ultimately a deeply dysfunctional tale of a father figure and son. Ozark, like its predecessors, is about family – the only authenticity in a society that operates on deception, illusion, and corruption. They teach us that even in the worst times and situations, love can compel us, redeem us, bind us closer together. Only then can we face the dragons of life, and feel just a bit more heroic.

Other examples:

Don Draper from Mad Men. A similarly Shakespearian figure for the modern era, Don is a man who appears to have everything – perfect looks, a beautiful wife and children, a prestigious job. He could have stepped out of an ad for the American Dream. And yet, he feels disconnected from his life, isolated from others by the very societal rules he, as a member of the ad agency, helps to propagate. It helps that he’s literally leading a borrowed life, inherited from the stolen identity of his deceased fellow soldier, and was actually an impoverished, illegitimate farmboy whose childhood abuse permanently damaged his ability to form relationships. The Hopper-esque alienation evoked by the world of Mad Men really deserves an essay all it’s own, and his wife Betty – whose Stepford-level mask of cheerful subservience hides seething unhappiness and unfulfilled potential – is a particularly intriguing figure to explore. Maybe in my next essay, on the importance of the antiheroine.

#my writing tips #writing tips #tommy shelby #peaky blinders #walter white #breaking bad #jesse pinkman #bojack horseman #don draper #writing advice #antihero #the types of antiheroes #long post for ts

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maythedreadwolfbreakyou · 4 years

Text

Character Profile

NAME: Ghilina Lavellan

NICKNAME: Ghili (Gill-lee)

AGE: 30 at start of Inquisition

SPECIES: Elf

GENDER: Female

ORIENTATION: Sapiosexual

INTERESTS, HOBBIES, PASTIMES: Ghilina's prowess with magic classifies her strongly as a Mage. Even so, she holds an interest in rogue talents and skills. Because of this, you will often find Ghilina at the end of the day venting frustrations of the day with every arrow loosed from her bow.

Ghilina also has creative interests, such as self expression through dance (think modern and lyrical meets ballet) and music. She cannot play an instrument to save her life, in fact many musicians go out of their way to keep their instruments from her reach. However, Ghilina does enjoy singing elven folk songs and lullabies to an audience of none.

SPECIALIZATION: Rift Mage. Ghilina always had an interest and fascination with the Fade and the spirits that swelled there ever since she was young. When that fascination came to light among members of her clan, they feared for her safety and sternly discouraged her interest. They told tales of demons masquerading as friendly spirits in the hopes of encouraging her to agree to possession. The normalized superstition and fear pressures Ghilina into agreeing to stifle any interest in the Fade she had. She had all but forgotten her fascination when she met Solas, who rekindled it anew. That fascination gave way to her study of Fade magic with the help of her trainer and Solas.

BODY TYPE: Lithe, willowy spoon (pear) shaped figure.

EYES: Icy blue

HAIR: Long, wavy, raven-black hair

SKIN: Fair, milky white

HEIGHT: 167 cm (5'6")

COMPANIONS: Cassandra and Blackwall have saved Ghilina's hide more times than she would care to count. Whether it be from a surprise flank attack, or a charging shield wielder. Thank goodness for her Fadestep ability.

Dorian quickly became Ghilina's closest friend within the Inquisition. She trusts him implicitly, and as such he often accompanies her outside Skyhold. Iron Bull also tends to accompany them, as Ghilina enjoys his company and unique yet unimposing views.

Varric she enjoys around for his stories and his wit, while Cole she enjoys to have around for the insights he offers and the swift knife in the dark that protects her from harm.

The only companions that typically remain at Skyhold, with the exception of extenuating circumstances, are Vivienne and Sera. Vivienne is enjoyable when she is discussing nobility scandals, etiquette, and fashion. However, Ghilina has found on more than one occasion Vivienne's very conservative views on Mage rights and the Chantry have been at odds with her more progressive ones.

For a similar reason, Sera tends to stay within the confines of Skyhold, terrorizing the nobility, due to her rather offensive and unapologetic views of elves and elven culture.

COLOURS: White, Lavender, Black

SMELLS: The wet earth after a fresh rain, lilacs, cedar

FRUITS: She loves the sweet tart of Rivaini peaches, and the spiced baked apples of Antiva. Strawberries grown in Fereldan's Hinterlands are also very sweet and juicy.

DRINKS: Not much of a drinker at all. Sometimes socially.

ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES: If there is anything that doesn't taste strongly of alcohol, or has a sweet taste to it, Ghilina will drink it on the off chance she decides to do so.

SMOKES: Not applicable.

BAD HABITS: biting her lip when thinking, strumming her fingers when waiting impatiently, and fidgeting with or picking at whatever is in her hands of she is nervous or anxious.

GOOD HABITS: proper hygiene maintenance, up early each morning, goes for a morning walk along the ramparts (greets the soldiers along the way), and mostly keeps a healthy diet.

What do they say about themselves?

Eyes blue and piercing like the frigid bite of a plunge into a frozen lake peered back at you from beneath long, dark lashes; a rather thick tome cradled in her lap. Those twin pools of winter made your heart thud inside your chest. You wondered, momentarily, if this was how the canary feels before a cat.

All around were shelves of musty tomes waiting to be read, their fading gilded titles illuminated in the dancing torchlight. Tomes with tattered spines lay stacked unevenly amidst scattered parchment upon a time-worn table at her side.

Her eyes closed, brow knotted as a frustrated sigh passed her bow-shaped lips. The tome in her lap slammed shut with an echoing thud before it was gingerly rested upon the table's surface beside her.

The simple white gown she donned complimented her lithe figure, glistening in the torchlight with her movements. Silk, perhaps? Her hands gripped the armrest edges as she leaned into her high-backed chair. A leg gracefully swept beneath the other until they rested askew, interwoven at the ankles with one another.

Her eyes met yours then, and not only did she meet your gaze, she held it there. Pinned. And as your heart continued to thrum in your chest, you realized then that this woman who was lovely yet appeared so frail, was in fact a spider sitting patiently upon her web. Never to be underestimated. Though she may be beautiful, she was equally as deadly. Only a fool would overlook such knowledge.

As you debated internally with yourself whether to feel awed or intimidated, her gaze lowered from yours to the floor before she spoke, "What I have to say of myself may no longer apply. The young Dalish woman I was before, the woman who stumbled out of a rift, she became who I am for a role she didn't ask for."

Her voice was soft and sad as her fingertips thoughtlessly touched the bare flesh of her cheek. But when she looked up at you, hand fallen away, she was beaming, "Though looking back, if I could never go back to who I was before, I believe I could make peace with that."

Smile still playing upon her lips, she picked up her book from the table and opened it to the page she had last left it.

So this was a post I found while browsing the tags on @honeypeabrain 's blog. It looked like fun and I could think of many on this side of Solavellan Hell who would enjoy this. So...

Tagging || @waterwhisp-rivergoblin @wayward-lavellan @modernagesomniari @dreamerlavellan @dreadwollf @calwyne @my-solavellan-hell @sopml @solaspls @riazures @river-goddess-sionann @lavellanpls @wepepe-draws @ar-lath-ma-vhenan

And anyone else who wants to participate. No pressure if you don't. If you have done this before, please disregard. If you don't want to be tagged, let me know.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dragon age oc #oc stuff #my ocs #oc profile #tag game #tag you're it #female inquisitor #inquisitor lavellan #inquisitor

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talesfromthefade · 6 years

Note

For DWC: OH! ❤ “That’s not mistletoe, it’s holly.” May I request Pavellan?! (I'm super excited about this prompt, like an idiot, because mistaking holly for mistletoe is like my biggest seasonal pet peeve...) ❤

Thank you so much for the request! ^_^ That’s definitely a pet peeve of mine too, and I always love to write about my baby June.

June Lavellan x Dorian Pavus, for @dadrunkwriting

“It’s the Vallaslin, isn’t it,” June sighs shaking his head, collapsing into the chair across the table from the dwarf just inside the great hall.

“Something troubling you, Stag,” Varric asks, carefully setting down his pen and shifting his papers out of the way to turn his attention to the elf. June smiles slightly at the nickname and shakes his head again. It really isn’t a big deal, he supposes. Ordinarily, he’d just ignore it, brush it off as yet another one of those times where the nuances of social interactions are escaping him, or he’s being too sensitive about the whole thing, except…

“If they’re going to go around calling me ‘the Herald of Andraste,’ doesn’t it follow that I would celebrate, or at least be aware of Chantry-based holidays,” June gripes. “Why does everyone seem to think they need to educate me,” the elf asks as the dwarf chuckles shaking his head. “I didn’t find the Dalish until I was nearly 18. The feast and gifts in the Alienage weren’t quite as opulent as the rest of the city, but I know what Satinalia is. I’ve missed it, actually,” June admits reflectively. “The clan didn’t really celebrate it. I haven’t since…” Since his mother had died, June thinks, though he doesn’t seem to need to finish the thought for the dwarf to fill in the blanks. Varric nods, reaching cautiously across the table to place briefly place a hand on his arm with a sympathetic half-smile.

“How did you celebrate it?”

“The same as most people, I suppose,” June shrugs, feeling a bit sheepish complaining. It isn’t as though there aren’t plenty of other more pressing concerns. Truth be told, he's not really expected it to affect him so, except, of course, it was easy to forget and not to miss the holiday, and he and his mother’s silly traditions with the Dalish for whom Satinalia was simply another day, a Shem holiday. “My mother tried to teach me how to bake and cook for it for a few years, but I’m afraid I never showed much aptitude for it. I lacked the dedication to apply myself, I suppose,” he admits with a slight frown. A part of him wishes now that he’d tried harder, if only so that he might have had one more thing of his mother’s to keep with him.

“What was your favorite dish,” Varric prompts, deftly steering the conversation around the potential emotional caltrops. He’s always admired that. The way the dwarf manages to make conversation with him seem easy, pleasurable. Nothing like the confusing and exhausting chore it is with so many others. Varric can always be counted upon to speak his mind or hold his tongue. He doesn’t say anything he doesn’t mean. And if he lies, well it’s generally just exaggeration, for the best effect of a story. June, a lover and collector of stories himself, can appreciate and respect that.

“She used to make these cookies with pumpkin,” June recalls with a smile, almost smelling them as the memory comes flooding back to him. “Little pieces of chocolate sprinkled in too, when we could find and afford it. I always ate too many of them, but they were delicious.”

“Sounds like it,” Varric nods with a smile.

“The Vhenadahl used to sprout some Mistletoe every year,” he recalls with a slight chuckle. “It might have choked the tree eventually if left unchecked, but you’d never have guessed it. Some of them gave that silly weed more reverence than the tree of the people. They’d climb as high as they could, or dared to pick some and hang it in all the doors. The kissing plant.”

Varric shakes his head, laughing. “Kirkwallers were crazy for the stuff too. Daisy and a couple of the other elves from the Alienage started selling it. Earn a little extra coin for them.”

“Wish we’d thought of that,” June smiles, shaking his head, completely missing Dorian who had been making his way into the hall behind him and suddenly paused to listen in, before quickly turning and heading back the way he came. A kissing plant? They had such a thing here in the South? Scout Harding, she would have to know more about it, wouldn’t she? Maybe have some? Or that new requisition officer? Maker, what was his name again?

…

June frowns slightly, following after Josephine, only vaguely registering her words about a prisoner who is awaiting his judgment. He supposes it was foolish to hope that he might have even a small reprieve from the duties of being the Inquisitor for the holiday. Equally disappointing, he’s not seen Dorian all day. The Altus had still been there beside him when he woke that morning but departed shortly after the elf woke with an all-too-fleeting kiss and muttered excuses and apologies. The mage has responsibilities, he knows. Tasks that he has appointed himself, or is uniquely qualified for, efforts to impress upon the rest of the Inquisition and Thedas at large that not all Tevinters are terrible or moments away from summoning demons or stealing souls with blood magic. Still… he’s missed him, traveling the last week without his company and usual witty commentary, retiring to a tent that’s suddenly entirely too big, hadn’t been the same. Varric joins them at the large wooden doors, which the elf registers for the first time are closed.

Shouts and cheers echo throughout the hall as the doors swing open to reveal a long table laden with food and drink, and surrounded by his advisors and companions who raise their glasses in his direction, beckoning him to join them. The usual Inquisition heraldry has been temporarily replaced with drapes of red, green, silver and gold velvets from Ferelden, and glittering glass floating baubles from Orlais. A tiny wisp of light whose magical signature he recognizes dances just above his head, more of them floating about the room’s high ceilings, no doubt the source of Cullen’s slight discomfort as Leliana laughs pouring him another drink. He’s never seen anything like it, and yet… there’s just enough of everything he remembers and once loved for it to feel… comforting, familiar.

And at the center of it all, perched on the throne with shining eyes and a grin, is Dorian. Confident none of his companions will begrudge him visiting with each of them later, he crosses the room to his lover in a few long strides.

“Happy Satinalia, Amatus,” Dorian smiles warmly.

“Vhenan,” June whispers. “Did you do this?”

“I may have recruited some help,” the mage admits, uncharacteristically modest. “Unless of course, you really like it, in which case, absolutely. All me,” Dorian teases. Ah, that’s more like it, the elf thinks with a soft chuckle and a shake of his head.

“And the reason you’re over here, rather than over there with everyone else?”

“Strategy,” Dorian replies, eyes twinkling. “I’ve hidden the best wine back here,” he gestures behind the throne with a smirk. “And I was waiting for you. Look up.”

June does, examining the throne, which upon closer inspection has been draped over with some ribbons and greenery. Based on the Antivan woman’s smile when the surprise was revealed, June is relatively certain that the prisoner awaiting judgment was simply a ruse, but it would be… interesting to have the mighty Inquisitor judge someone in such a seat. That, however, doesn’t really explain why Dorian seems so excited about it, turning his attention back to the mage with a confused expression. Dorian’s smile falters slightly, suddenly recalculating his course of action.

“The kissing plant,” Dorian offers looking up and gesturing to the greenery that lines the seat, no longer quite so confident as he had been a few moments before, and June laughs in dawning comprehension, shaking his head.

“Uh, no. Not quite,” he replies with a smile at Dorian. “They don’t have Mistletoe in Tevinter, do they?”

“No,” Dorian frowns, looking frustrated. “So, what is this then?”

“Holly,” June smiles softly, plucking a small sprig and bringing it down to twirl admiringly between his fingers. “Pretty. It is often used to decorate for Satinalia,” he adds sympathetically. One couldn’t really be picky about which plants and blooms they used. Whatever was able to survive and thrive the cold of Winter had to do. “Dorian,” the elf continues, drawing the other’s gaze back up to him. “Thank you,” he nods. “This is… it’s wonderful,” he assures him, tucking the sprig of Holly thoughtfully behind one ear with a small smile. “But, you know, if it’s a kiss you wanted, all you had to do was ask,” June offers, smiling wider still as he leans over, tugging Dorian up to his feet to pull him into a kiss. “Happy Satinalia, Dorian.”

#dadrunkwriting #pavellan #dorian pavus #lavellan #dragon age: inquisition #da:i #dragon age #tales:june #june lavellan #ladylike-foxes

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crimsonrevolt · 7 years

Photo

Congratulations Bret you’ve been accepted to Crimson Revolt as Arabella Figg!

↳ please refer to our character checklist

Ahhh Bret!! You have no idea how incredibly happy I was to see this application in our submit. That you wanted to come back as Arabella was an absolute highlight to my day and obviously we’re thrilled to have you back! You take a character who could so easily be overlooked or stereotyped and bring her to life in all her complexities and insecurities -- and that spark of strength that makes her invaluable to the Order and to the roleplay itself. Arabella is such a beautiful character who I never paid much attention to until you made me fall in love with her, and I can’t wait to see you explore her journey in the war further! *your faceclaim change to whichever one of those three you want has been accepted!

sapplication beneath the cut; tw: mentions of death (in para sample)

OUT OF CHARACTER

INTRODUCTION

Bret, 25, EST. She/Her pronouns.

ACTIVITY

7/10. I disappeared off the face of the planet for about a week and a half for very, very personal reasons. So much was leading up to that time so I’m glad it’s over. Everything is now under control, and my search for a new job as a result has given me a lot of free time. I’m not attending school for a while, either, so I’ll be around often in the evenings.

TRIGGERS

*removed for privacy

HOW DID YOU FIND US?

I was around for a very long time and I don’t really remember how I got here. A member told me about it before it opened, I think?

WHAT HARRY POTTER CHARACTER DO YOU IDENTIFY WITH MOST?

Bellatrix Black, honestly. I don’t really know why but I remember reading the books when she was introduced and just thinking, “She’s this incredible, psychopathic character that needs more backstory.” I don’t necessarily feel that I connect with her on a personal level, but I had so many feelings for her that it led me to roleplaying, etc. When I was younger Bellatrix was the sort of character I loved because she wasn’t just evil, she was absolutely insane. And her whole family was mentioned to be so as well. That was interesting to me.

ANYTHING ELSE?

I feel guilty as hell for just leaving without saying anything. I’ll forever be sorry but now that I have my muse and my time managed, I’m gonna apply to see if you guys will give me a second chance! (And if you won’t, I will never take it personally!!!!)

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER

Arabella Figg

FACE CLAIM

Tatiana Maslany, Chyler Leigh, or Gemma Arterton.

REASON FOR CHOSEN CHARACTER

I cannot stop thinking about Arabella Figg. I will never be able to stop thinking about the Squib who fought for equality on the front lines with as much strength as any witch could muster. There is a reason that she was allowed to be a part of the Order with zero magical abilities, and I think that is because she brought something new to the table. She is tireless, enduring, and strong. Though the war has been pressing a firm hand to her chest, Arabella has pushed back with just as much force. There is much on the line for her, and it isn’t just her life. It’s her freedom to be who she is, to bring a child up in the world, to watch her friends thrive and succeed without fear. If she gave up she’d be losing a chance at equality for others like her. And that’s not something Arabella Figg can knowingly do.

This is a character that I cannot easily forget. I want more of a chance to explore her background, her future, her friendships, and her romances. Even through nights of pouring over books and records, or training in Muggle defense, or even having a pint at the bar, she is endlessly devoted. To friends, to war efforts, to family - Arabella has always, and will always, be there to lend a hand. But being a Squib comes with its own drawbacks, of which she has trouble forgetting. She will never be able to wield such power despite daydreams and wishes. And while her closest friends have assured her that they don’t care what her backgrounds are, Arabella cannot help but wonder if there’s a spark of pity in their eyes. But that’s just another piece of her life that I want to explore, to see whether she ever overcomes the discrimination and her own self-doubt, or not.

PREFERRED SHIPS // CHARACTER SEXUALITY // GENDER & PRONOUNS

Arabella/Chemistry, lesbian, she/her.

From the time she was fifteen, Arabella knew she was a lesbian. It was a feeling she had pushed away from childhood brought out by a hidden kiss at a small party. The kiss changed her life, and not because it was good. It was all clumsy lips, awkward giggles, and eventual apologies - but it brought something to life. A beacon of sunlight in an otherwise dimly lit place. A moment of self awareness as she stared at a girl just as confused as she was, both questioning their own desires, and neither able to come to terms. It took her over ten years to fully understand who she was, and to realize that the world was slower to catch up.

While her friends know of her sexuality, she keeps the rest of the world far away from the truth. She is already a Squib and Arabella fears that being an outed lesbian will further her isolation in both of the worlds that she loves dearly. But she isn’t ashamed of her sexuality in the slightest, in fact she’s grown to become fond of her adulthood and desires. It took too long of a time to admit it to herself but now that she has, Arabella is finally content.

CREATE ONE (OR MORE!) OF THE FOLLOWING FOR YOUR CHARACTER:

headcanons.

x. Arabella Figg has hated breakfast since she was a little girl, but not because of the food itself. If it is before eleven in the morning, she cannot roll out from under a pile of cats and faux fur blankets, or slip into a robe and think of coffee, eggs, and toast. In fact, if she is woken up before her usual time, she is massively feisty and becomes rather inconsolable. Unless, of course, you were to kiss her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks, and then her lips: that’s the only way to coax her out earlier than intended. And since she rarely finds herself with a bed partner, Arabella is free to be as lazy as she wants and cooks up what should have been morning food, in the afternoon instead. This only serves to push her lunch and dinner back several hours, and is why she stays up so late at night. Not that she minds, of course, because she can sleep until noon without a worry in the world.

x. Dorian had been her best friend for eight years before they married. It came as a last resort, when Arabella began feeling pressures to prove her heterosexuality to those who questioned it. He was there when she asked, and around for three years before their unusual relationship began to unravel. If he hadn’t gotten sick, she believes they would still be living under their facade. But his resulting anger, the divorce, and his death came as almost a blessing - guilty as she is to admit it - to her sexual freedom.

x. Her first kneazle was old and fat, but he followed her around as closely as any dog. It was through her love for him that she adopted two more, and then a third, and then began breeding. She quit her temp job in London and made the decision to sell her litters of kittens across the country. They were inexpensive, so long as she ensured their safety, and it paid for the cottage she now lives in. Arabella always has at least two litters going at a time.

IN CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE

♔ If you were able to invent one spell, potion, or charm, what would it do, what would you use it for or how would you use it? Feel free to name it:

“You’re giving me a lot of power here. I mean, it’s obvious that I would want to invent a potion to give myself magical abilities. All Squibs, actually. But I could also end the war, or cure all diseases, or even take away all magic! This is too much responsibility. I-I’m sorry, I don’t think I can answer this.”

♔ You have to venture deep into the Forbidden Forest one night. Pick one other character and one object (muggle or magical), besides your wand, that you’d want with you:

“Hmm…I’ve never seen the Forbidden Forest. I’ve heard terrible stories…ghost stories, basically. Things that went bump in the night and jumped out of the shadows. I’d never willingly go. But, alright, I’d bring a flashlight. I can’t magic so I’d want that, at least. Then I’d bring Molly Weasley, or someone like her. Strong, resourceful, protective…I’d feel safest around her.”

♔ What kinds of decisions are the most difficult for you to make?

“Quick, emergency ones. I’m no good under pressure. Sometimes I…I talk in circles until I can get out of whatever situation I’m in, but it rarely works anymore. I’m just not as…resourceful as I want to be. I need to learn if I’m ever going to live through this war.”

♔ What is one thing you would never want said about you?

“That I’m filthy, or anything lesser than any other human being walking this planet. I’m a Squib, that’s all. There’s nothing wrong with me. So why do others get to judge my blood, or my abilities, or w-whatever? I’m a human. And a Squib. And they have no reason to say anything.”

WRITING SAMPLE

You’re not a witch, Arabella.” The words cut like a knife across her rapidly beating heart, and her arms flew up instinctively to press against her chest, as if that might protect her from the verbal blows. It felt like she had been gutted from her twisted abdomen to the center of her throat, and all that spilled out was her courage and her strength. Her lips parted but only the whistle of air punctured the tense silence between them. How could there be anything left to say when he had ruined their relationship in just five words? How could she trust anyone after this man hurt her so deeply, shattered her bones like they were meant to be broken, and left her soul to wither? “Stop pretending to yourself.”

“Shut up.” She whispered, blinking away the heat of tears before they were able to fall. If there was one thing she didn’t want, it was for him to see her cry. They seemed to do this dance more often now that they had been married for too long with no love, no lust, no nothing. He disliked everything she was trying to do, and she disliked everything about him. But they had liked each other once, right? She remembered they had been good friends and when she had proposed the idea of marriage to hide her sexuality, he was eager to oblige. Sometimes she thought he was homosexual, too, but never wanted to ask.

And now they were fighting all the time, and they didn’t even have a relationship to back it up. She couldn’t divorce him, and he was growing sicker every day, and she was so afraid of being left alone that sometimes she thought this sham of a marriage was worth it. But then he said those words, the words she knew to be true but didn’t want to admit, and she could feel her body crushing under the weight of emotional pain. How could he be so cruel when she just wanted to help? Was it because he was a wizard who chose not to practice? Was it because he had that choice?

“What?” He asked, lips turning into a thin line. “I’m not trying to hurt you, I just want you to see your disadvantage-“

“Shut. Up!” The words erupted from her mouth before she could stop them, louder and stronger than she thought possible, and Arabella felt her entire world reforming with the sound. Dorian was just another man trying to put her down, he wasn’t a woman she loved, and he wasn’t a friend she cared for anymore. Friends didn’t speak to others like that. “You shut your goddamn mouth. I’m twice a witch than I am a muggle, alright? I deserve that title more than the kids who went to Hogwarts. More than you.” She backed away, her hands curling into fists as they lowered to her side.

“You don’t have a choice in the matter.” He was so fucking calm, she wanted to scream.

“I know who I am, okay? I’m a squib, I know that, but I make enough contributions to the magical world than I ever would as a fucking accountant or whatever you want me to do. You don’t get to make my choices for me. Only I get a say in how I live my life.” He opened his mouth, but she didn’t allow him to speak. “We shouldn’t have married, Dorian. I hid who I was for years because I thought it would make my life easier, but it hasn’t. You’ve ruined me. I despise that about you.”

“I know you do.” Silence. He broke eye contact and looked at the ground, the tension of the air growing heavier with his words. “I’m dying, Bella.”

“No.” She hissed, pushing past him to open their front door. “You don’t get to turn this around. Go, be with your parents, but get the fuck out of my house. I don’t want to see you right now. Maybe never again, because I will never forgive you for what you’ve done to me. Or who you’ve become.” The guilt was thick as it settled over her chest, but Arabella stood beside the door with all the courage she could muster. Dorian shuffled to it and stared at her, hoping for eye contact, waiting. “Just go.” She murmured, the tears heavy as they ran down her face, and he didn’t respond as he walked out of sight.

It was the last time she saw him before he died.

#accepted app

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