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dollarbin · 7 months

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Dollar Bin #11:

Graham Nash's Wild Tales

Graham Nash is the Malvolio of the Dollar Bin. In case Shakespeare's 12th Night is not instantly at your fingertips, here's the run down: Nash/Malvolio spends his existence/the play looking down on all the drunk David Crosbys/Sir Tobys around him. He thinks he's an equal to the geniuses about him (Joni Mitchell is his Viola; Neil Young his Feste) and he's a competitor with the biggest dope in history (Stephen Stills, of course / the Duke Orsino).

Malvolio winds up cross-gartered in yellow tights, sure he's the star of the play. In actuality he's the laughing stock.

Malvolio = Nash. Check them out.

But Wild Tales has more potential than anything else in Nash's oeuvre. Here's a list of why this album should not suck:

The cover photo, taken by the omnipresent Joel Bernstein, gives us hope that this is a concept record about Middle Earth with Nash playing the role of Tom Bombadil's willowy, spaced out neighbor. Look, he even has a book about Ents!

2. The back cover's art is by Joni Mitchell. She must have, inexplicably, still liked Nash on some level. And she sings on one track. Surely, this album cannot suck!

3. Ben Keith is all over this record. Keith is, of course, central to the Fellowship of the Young. He, Briggs, Poncho, Whitten and Nils helped Neil sneak in and out of Mordor time and time again. If Ben Keith plays on a Dollar Bin record, buy it.

4. Joe Yankee plays on this record. (That's Neil Young's nom de plume in the early 70's. Soon Neil would settle on Bernard Shakey instead.) Again, how can this record not be good?

5. This record is from 73. In 71, when Nash put out his first solo record, Nash had reason to think we all wanted to see him in the yellow tights. Deja Vu was fresh, Mitchell had recently tolerated him as a boyfriend and he was the only relatively handsome guy in the world's biggest band. Just check them out.

Listed left to right, there they are in 71: Neil looks like he forgot to do his middle school math homework yet again and teacher will be mad; Greg Reeves looks like he refuses to do any homework, ever; he is working up a mustache instead; Crosby stands before them all proudly, the assistant middle school Gym coach the girls all know to avoid; Stills is a mouth-breather repeating a grade: he wants to do the homework, but knows not how; Dallas Taylor still eats paste.

And then there's Nash behind them all: in 71 Graham clearly thought he was a studly chick-magnet, ready to date multiple high school cheerleaders and make them all cry; plus when he sings "very, very, very fine house" it sounds like he's actually wearing yellow tights, prancing about, praising Jove. Listening to solo music by the guy in 71 seems like a bad idea.

But by 73 Nash should have gained a little perspective. CSN&Y were toast, Mitchell and Young were making timeless music without him and even Stills refused to put his own name on Nash's records (he's listed as Harry Halex on Wild Tales: Stephen Stills not only sucks, he also can't think up fun or even pronounceable fake names. Let me suggest one for you Stephen: Richard Stroker; his friends call him Dick).

And so Nash should have approached Wild Tales like it was his Gettysburg: it was time to charge the enemy screaming, bayonet out. Nash had everything to lose, everything to gain.

Instead, the album is... okay. Side 1 starts with strong promise: Young's rhythm section regulars Johnny Barbata and Tim Drummond lay down a muddy vibe while David Lindley impersonates Neil nicely. Please inform my wife that Lindley's recent look is my new one:

The problem, frankly, is Nash's voice. He always wants us to believe Wild Tales are about to be told but he always sings like he's hawking Cinnamon Toast Crunch during Saturday morning cartoon hour. Stop sounding happy Graham! We hauled this out of the Dollar Bin because we want Acid, Booze and Ass, Needles, Guns and Grass. We do not want laughs.

Prison Song is a highlight, though. The melody swings, Lindley provides swashbuckling mandolin fills and, while I'm not convinced that all the pot dealers then in prison were assuaged by the knowledge that Graham felt for them deeply, I can get behind this song.

But Side 1 ends with two tracks that show what we are missing out on. When Ben Keith wasn't making this record in 73 he was installing street signs in Neil Young's Ditch, making Tonight's the Night. There are echoes of that effervescent vibe in the Nash songs You'll Never Be the Same and, especially, And So it Goes. Young is credited with acoustic piano on the later song, an instrument he plays plenty of on Tonight. And I'm gonna argue right here that Neil plays the electric rhythm guitar as well on this song; if it's not him, it's Ben Keith. And so, musically, the track is a big deal compared to everything else on this record.

But then there's the chorus:

Well there's one thing to try,

Everybody knows.

Music gets you high,

Everybody grows.

And so it goes.

First of all, no one wants to think about Graham sporting a boner during this, or any, song. So that growing line has got to go.

Secondly, listen to the chorus's vocals, and this song sounds like I'm Waiting For My Man rewritten as a Subway commercial. It's now entitled I'm Waiting For My Ham.

Jonathan Richman, who I love, knows better than to try to cover Leonard Cohen. I know not to attend an open casting call for SI's Swimsuit Edition.

But Nash has no idea. He thinks he can rock a two piece; he thinks he is Leonard Cohen. No wonder Neil pretends to be Joe Yankee on the credits.

youtube

The album's second side is dull and unmemorable. Joni Mitchell clearly fell asleep while waiting to be cued for her paltry vocals on Another Sleep Song. She sounds disinterested at best.

Last Spring Nash foisted himself back into our consciousness. Stories appeared in the New Yorker, NPR, all over. After Crosby's death, Nash basically insisted that Crosby's last words had been "you're my hero Graham" or something along those lines. In actuality, Crosby's thoughts on Nash for the last decade had been, basically, you ruined my life; eat a sweet one.

At the same time, Nash made a pathetic effort to jump start SN&Y by praising Stills and claiming that Crosby forgave Young at the end. In fact, Crosby had told Neil more than a few times to eat a whole bunch of sweet ones. But no dice Graham: Neil responded to Nash's press push by reuniting with Stills for a benefit show and not inviting Nash. Man, that's low, Neil. Stephen Stills sucks.

Finally, Nash gloried in those same interviews about his love life. After 40 years of marital bliss, he'd recently dumped his wife and took up with a woman younger than most of his kids. The dude is 81, six months younger than my dad.

Someone get me a woody Allen sized bucket. I'm about to throw up; it seems I drank too many Wild Tales.

#stephen stills still sucks #graham nash #neil young #david crosby #malvolio #ents #tom bombadil #Youtube

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clarasteam · 2 months

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catching up

I was tagged by @theletteraesc ❤️

Last song: You Fascinate Me So, sung by Mabel Mercer, from my Flambable playlist

Currently watching: a lot of Father Brown episodes

Three ships: Grant/Strange, Kurt Weill's My Ship ("and of jam and spice there's a paradise in the hold"), Flambeau/Felicia/Monty

Favourite colour: purple? I am bad at colours

Currently reading: @owl-by-night's lovely Father Brown OT3 fic, To Catch a Thief (see ship category above)

Currently consuming: last thing eaten = raspberries and vanilla ice-cream; last thing drunk = rose, lemon verbena and lemon balm tea

First ship: idk - Orsino/Viola|Cesario?

Place of birth: a suburban hospital, so my papers say

Current location: at my kitchen table, comme d'habitude

Last movie: A Canterbury Tale by Powell and Pressburger, AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Currently working on: surviving my current state of exhaustion and grief; holding on to whatever moments of joy I can; showing up when I absolutely have to

tagging @owl-by-night @expo63 @idlesuperstar @moonwest @codswalloping if any of you would like to play and haven't done it already

#meme #personal

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wordpainterpixie · 11 months

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*when asked about their earlier confession of love*

Maria: Yeah, I like you. You're welcome.

Antonio: If you don't like me like that, I totally get it-

Viola: *has a panic attack* What confession?

Feste: *winks* I know, baby. You like me too.

Orsino: Yeah, and? Are you going to date me or not? *attempts to pose seductively and falls over*

Toby: It was a dare. (It wasn't.)

Sebastian: It was a dare. (It was.)

Olivia: OMG, somebody actually listens to me! Oh, happy day... *kisses whoever it was on the lips*

Fabian: *not looking up from his book* I was probably drunk.

#twelfth night #incorrect quotes #fabian #fabian twelfth night #maria twelfth night #sir toby belch #viola #olivia twelfth night #duke orsino #feste #antonio twelfth night #sebastian twelfth night

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moonsugar-and-spice · 2 years

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Azulaang

And for Dragon Age maybe Meredith x Orsino or Morrigan x Alistair for that good ol mage templar dynamic

Or surprise me

I went with the first for Azulaang and I'll save the second for another time (it's a good one; Morristair my beloved).

🌧️24: "We should stop talking, people might start to think I like you."

Send me a prompt and a pairing.

Azula turned the old bronze comb over in her hand, running a thumb along the familiar jade embellishment in the shaft. It was the first time she had stood before this mirror since returning to the palace, its proud gold frame climbing the wall of her chambers. Abstractly it called to mind the gilded trim framing the curtained door of the palanquin that had brought her here not two weeks ago.

“Why?”

The first word that had been spoken as she’d sat in the jostling quiet next to Zuko, the asylum shrinking in the distance. The healers had formally pronounced her fit to be discharged, and Azula had been momentarily stunned when it was he who had arrived to pick her up.

Not a servant sent at the Fire Lord’s command.

Zuko, himself.

Why. What an absurdly small question, she mused now, to hold the tumble of thoughts and feelings and more questions stuffed into it.

“Is there somewhere else you were thinking you’d go?” he had responded, and Azula would have accepted that as answer enough. She would have figured something out — she always would — but it had all happened so fast, and if she were honest, Azula wasn’t sure in that moment where she might have gone.

But then, Zuko had said, “I wanted you to come home. It’s where you belong.”

Home.

The mirror’s face she had shattered on her last night here, a lifetime ago, had been repaired sometime during her absence. Her mother, Ursa, used to sit her down at this mirror with this same comb. If Azula concentrated hard enough, she could almost smell the perfumed oils she used to favor, jasmine and sandalwood and orange blossom. Could almost feel her mother’s gentle touch, combing her hair a hundred times smooth, even as she’d griped and jerked away.

“I love you, Azula.”

Words she had never been able to receive, then. Love was something you had to earn, and she would never manage to compete with Zuko to win it. She wouldn’t even try. He was her perfect child, and she was her father’s.

Azula watched her reflection lift the comb languidly to her hair, but stopped short, her gaze snagging on a deep, brittle crack in the bronze along its once-perfect, polished edge. When had that happened? She didn’t remember it being there before.

The old her would have tossed the thing away with a sneer, ordered it replaced just as quickly with something newer and shinier. Something perfect.

Now, she was struck by the odd sort of beauty in her hand. The imperfections all resolving together to create a piece of art with character and history, unique unto itself, and despite it all, or perhaps even on account of, she found she admired it all the more.

For fourteen years of her life, Azula had believed that if she only tried hard enough, if she could be perfect enough, if she never failed or lost or made a mistake in any way, she could earn her father’s love. The last time she had seen him, Ozai had named her Fire Lord — an honorific she now knew had been as empty as his affection for her, a way to leave her behind — that star-crossed night when he had been power-drunk and endeavored to burn the Earth Kingdom to a cinder.

And for all her years of effort and grueling training and silent desperation, in the end, the worst had come to pass. She had failed. She had lost that fated Agni Kai to Zuko. And there was not a single soul in the royal court, or the city, or her father still in his cold iron cell, who did not know of how she lost and came apart that night.

In the days and weeks after, bitter and numb and stewing in the seclusion of her personal safety room, Azula had sworn she would never let anyone see her cry again. People saw tears and they stopped seeing you, stopped seeing the armor you wore, stopped listening to your words, your expression, or anything you might have to say. It made no difference whether the tears were frightened or frustrated, angry or sad. All they saw was a fragile girl crying.

Tears burned behind her eyes now, threatening to fall. The comb’s teeth scraped gently against her scalp as she ran it through her hair, wincing a little as she hit a tangle and smoothed it out. Azula breathed in slow and deep, watching her chest rise and fall in the mirror, the line between her brows melting away on the exhale.

For perhaps the hundredth time in recent days, Azula found herself turning her brother’s words around in her head, this way and that, like a sculpture, trying to catch every subtle detail, every hidden nuance.

“I wanted you to come home. It’s where you belong.”

Some buried part of her stirred, whispering that she had mistaken his meaning, that he hadn’t really meant it.

But Azula had long since stopped trying to earn anyone’s love or approval. She had already unraveled, had already hit rock bottom, and everyone knew it, so what was the point? Fourteen years of striving, and her father’s love had turned to dust the moment she’d slipped. She was done trying to be anything for anyone other than herself.

The thing with Zuko though, she had come to understand, was that she never had to be any of those things. In spite of all her wrongs and flaws and failures, in spite of having done nothing to deserve it and for reasons she couldn’t understand, Zuko loved her anyway.

It had been Zuko — weak, lucky-to-be-born Zuko — who never gave up on her. The one who saw her through years of therapy and reconditioning and growth to come out the other side, and never once made her feel ashamed or abandoned or not enough.

Something cracked inside her, a soft, hitching breath.

The tears spilled over then, cleansing and hot. She didn’t try to stop them.

What would she say if she were to face her father now, to stand tall and look him in the eyes with tear-stained cheeks? She wanted to tell him that a true phoenix does not rise amid the flames, wild and fierce, but only in the cold, dark nothing that comes after. Born from its own ashes, forged through hellfire and suffering, through its own unmaking, to become something else, something better and stronger and resilient.

She straightened, sniffed, and set the comb down on the table with a tick, giving only a cursory wipe to her eyes and face. There was no such thing as perfect. Only beautiful versions of brokenness.

The halls were still relatively quiet, pale light leaking in through the windows with morning’s muted chorus, drifting just at the edge of hearing. It had become her favorite time of day during her stay in the asylum, that bird-soaked hour before sunrise. She had spent many mornings roaming the gated garden, or seated at its window on drizzly mornings. The flowers always looked a shade brighter in the rain, the birds always singing louder.

Funny, how for so long defeat had echoed like a door slammed shut, a resounding end to her life and all that she was. What might have become of her, if Zuko had never risked treason to do what was right, if Katara hadn’t been at the Agni Kai that night to save him, and without knowing it, Azula, too? If the Avatar had not beaten the odds to bring an end to the Fire Nation’s tyranny and Ozai’s power-hungry ambition?

How she had loathed the Avatar, back then, for his part in the ruin of it all.

Now, gratitude expanded in her chest, filling her near to aching.

“A closed door might be an ending, but it’s also a beginning,” he’d said during their first accidental encounter upon her return, “a different way forward. A death, and a rebirth.”

Azula couldn’t quite say why she had opened up to him in the first place. Her mouth had let the words escape before she could stop them, but she never found herself wishing to take them back. It was comfortable with him. Odd for her to make a connection so quickly, to give her trust so easily, tentative though it was. There was something in the way he smiled, a genuineness, a softness of spirit so unlike her own. When she talked, he listened like he was absorbing her words, as if there was nothing more important in the world at that moment.

“The monks used to say our stories don’t have one beginning or one end, but that each moment is a microcosm of beginnings and endings all knitting together, crossing each other, breaking apart. One closed door, the end of one chapter, is simply the beginning of the next.”

She had watched him, sifting his expressions, and glimpsed the boy in his face, the one who had lost everything and everyone he had loved. The one she had killed that night in the catacombs. The thought still made her wince. Was resilience something he was born with, or had he, too, learned how to nurture it?

Aang, he had been insisting she call him. She hadn’t yet, if only for the reward of his banter and that tenacious smile, the one that carved a dimple into one cheek.

“Well, well…”

Azula’s steps faltered with a soft breath of amusement. Really, it should have come as a surprise. After all, once was an accident; twice, maybe even three times, a coincidence. But four, five? It was almost comical now, which was why it no longer surprised her. Azula had come to expect, maybe even hope for, these unintended rendezvous.

She turned smoothly on her heel and felt a contented tug at the corner of her mouth as he approached.

“Hello, Avatar.”

“Hello, Princess,” he replied, coming to stop in his weightless way before her. Azula’s eyes flicked down.

Thin plumes of steam curled up from a pair of teacups, one in each of his hands. Her eyes returned to Aang’s with an arch of a brow to catch a hint of that dimple showing as his lips quirked.

“Tea?” he offered, holding one out to her.

Reflexively, she accepted it, the porcelain pleasantly warm against her palms. Azula fixed him with a look of wry incredulity. “There is no way you could have known I’d be walking this hall at this very time.”

“Who says I made it for you?” shrugged Aang, the corners of his eyes kissing slightly. “I made two cups in case I ran into someone who looked like they could use one. Just so happens here you are.”

The steam bore an inviting aroma she knew well, fruity and woodsy with honeyed notes.

“Hmm. Well, the day I turn down a cup of oolong is the day the assassins have succeeded and replaced me with an imposter, so…” She took a sip, savoring the velvety smooth richness on her tongue and the sweet-bitter aftertaste. “Thank you.”

They strolled aimlessly together, and for a little while neither spoke, the halls beginning to fill with the rustles of a palace waking.

“They wouldn’t fool me, by the way,” he said at length, and Azula looked up at him. He had grown over the years, nearly a head taller than she was now. “I’d be able to tell.”

“What?”

“The real you from a counterfeit.”

It took her by surprise, his words as much as the color rising softly in his cheeks. Azula ducked her head to take a long sip of the tea, locking eyes fleetingly with a servant passing by. The woman’s gaze skated to the floor, but not fast enough to hide the twinkle still bleeding through her expression.

“You know, we really should stop talking,” said Azula once the servant had gone, dragging Aang’s eyes askance to meet hers. “People might start to think I like you.”

The words rang hollow though, and she made no effort to mask the telling tilt of her lips.

“Oh?” he responded, taking the bait. “Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but…” Aang leaned closer with an exaggerated grimace, mock-whispering the rest as they went. “I’m pretty sure people already suspect that I like you.”

It was her turn to blush, the rush of heat having little to do with the temperature of her drink. Azula feigned solemnity in spite of the butterflies rousing sleepily in her stomach.

“How unfortunate. We should definitely stop talking then. Already halfway there, we can’t have that.”

“Yeah. I hate to say it, but I think we might be fighting an uphill battle around here. Maybe it would all be easier if you just admitted you do like me.”

“You think so?” The gold rim of her teacup winked in a shaft of light as they passed a window. “Maybe you should go first.”

“That seems kind of weird, but, okay…” There was a subtle gleam to his expression as he took a breath, making a show of composing himself, and finally said, “I think you like me, Azula.”

She scoffed, opening her mouth with some retort when he cut in, “Now it’s your turn.”

“Fine. I think you like me, Avatar.”

Shaking his head good-humoredly, he let his gaze wander ahead of them down the hall. “You don’t have to keep calling me that. You’ve had all these years to learn my name—”

“Names are for people you like.”

He glanced back at her, and she bit her lip, a poor attempt to hide her enjoyment, and for the briefest of moments, just an instant, his grey eyes were drawn down, alighting on her lips. One of those butterflies seemed to escape her stomach, fluttering dizzily in her chest, and she looked away.

“Fair,” Aang conceded with a shrug of his head. “And what if I said, hypothetically, that the rumors are true. That maybe I do like you.”

“I suppose, hypothetically, I might respond that for a bald, attention-whoring, goody-goody monk… maybe you’re okay, too.”

The morning’s rays had saturated to a rich amber, igniting the crimson halls wherever it touched, and the lopsided grin that broke across his face rendered it pale by comparison. She couldn’t help the echo of it that dawned on her own face.

“Coming from you that might be the nicest compliment I’ve ever received. I’ll be sure to keep that one right here,” he said, placing a palm flat over his heart.

Their languorous steps eased, and when Aang came to a stop, Azula turned to face him. The oolong in her cup had begun to cool and she warmed it again, watching the feather of steam rise to dance over it.

“So,” was all he said at first, shifting his weight.

“So,” she returned in kind.

“Here we are again.”

“It does seem as if our paths are determined to keep crossing.”

“Some people might call that fate,” ventured Aang.

“I call it living in the same palace.”

Murmurous laughter trickled toward them, quieting to a hush as a trio of servants rounded the corner, bowing humbly before vanishing through an adjacent hall.

“So, I’ve been thinking,” Aang continued. “People already assume the worst, and we keep bumping into each other. Maybe we might as well, I don’t know… hang out. Like, officially. Since, you know, that’s what everyone expects anyway.”

The thought had wandered into her own mind a handful of times, though of course she didn’t say that.

“I suppose there is no sense in trying to dissuade the ones who’ve already made up their minds. What do you imagine two people who don’t like each other might do together?”

“Hmm…” His mouth pulled to the side in thought. “A Kuai ball duel?”

She replied with a soft, flippant snort. “Sure, if losing is your idea of fun. I’m undefeated, you know, Kuai ball reigning champion.”

“Oh, but you’ve never competed against the Avatar.” His voice retained the buoyancy she knew, but there was a spirited edge to it, of someone equally sure of their own skill. “Should we put that record to the test?”

It was the sanest kind of madness, this unlooked-for attraction between them.

Azula straightened, lifted her chin, and smiled with an almost defiant kind of joy.

#prompt ask #azulaang #azula #aang #atla fanfiction #haven't written either of these character much #and never written this pairing #not sure it's my best but it was a fun challenge and change of pace #this ended up being half azulaang and half post-canon #post-years of therapy #making-it-out-of-the-asylum-with-the-support-of-those-who-truly-love-her azula character study #because i think she deserves it #i also just realized there has been mention of a mirror in all three of these prompt fics so far 😅😅#not sure what that means or says about me at the moment #but… probably something #written prompts #thanks for the ask!#writebecauseyoucannotbreathe #moonsugar writes

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idolbound · 1 year

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@magicbound and I truly peaked when we wrote this thread where Orsino is drunk and has a fight with Meredith, and she winds up breaking his nose.

#OOC.#[ for those of y'all who are New; we bonded over hating the fact ppl ship them together LMAO ]#[besties from pure hateration ]#[ i'm reading this like a bed time story and wow.... ]#magicbound

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thebookworm0001 · 2 years

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Summary: Ellana and Varric discuss Merrill.

Varric: Violet, you’ve read Tale of the Champion. Ellana: I have. I’m still not clear on why Orsino decided to turn into… whatever that was. Varric: Neither am I. Anyway, I wanted to ask what you thought of Daisy’s mirror. Ellana: The eluvian? We don’t have much knowledge of them, besides their use as some sort of communication device. Whatever mechanism or magic made them work has been lost to us. I can’t blame her for wanting to restore it. Varric: Even though she was using a demon to do it? Ellana: I can’t say I don’t see why she did it. Her clan abandoned her. In the end, how different is a deal with a demon from a deal with anyone else? At least with a demon you know their true nature and can prepare. With a person, you have no choice but to hope they’re true to their word. [If Solas is in the party] Solas: A very pragmatic view. Varric: If you say so, Chuckles. All I know is that messing with this Fade crap always makes things go to shit. [Otherwise] Varric: You sound like Chuckles. What is it about the Fade that makes mages abandon common sense? Ellana: It’s the lyrium poisoning. One draught of it and we all go mad, didn’t you know? Varric: Now that would explain things.

Ellana: You know, I met Clan Sabrae. Varric: Daisy’s clan? No shit. Was it before or after everything went to hell? Ellana: Both, actually. There was an Arlathvhen a few years before the Blight, then after what happened in Kirkwall a few of us brought some halla to them so they wouldn’t be caught up in the fallout. Varric: I imagine they were pretty grateful for that. There was talk of an Exalted March. Ellana: They certainly weren’t keen to stay any longer than they had to.

Varric: So, Arlathvhens. Daisy mentioned her clan couldn’t get to the last one due to the whole halla situation. I couldn’t quite understand why she wanted to go so badly in the first place. Ellana: It’s a chance to see as many of the People at one time as possible. We share stories and lore, lost knowledge and magic that we’ve recovered. It’s family, old and new, coming together before we part for another decade. Varric: See, that’s what I don’t get. It sounds like the worst kind of family reunion. Sure, you share stories, but then your uncle gets drunk and ruins the whole evening and suddenly everyone’s fighting over who said what about grandma’s cooking. Ellana: Maybe so, but it doesn’t mean it's not worth doing. Ellana: All the times bar fights broke out at the Hanged Man, all the days when your friends bickered so much you thought you’d kill them yourself - could you have lived with yourself if you hadn’t gone back?

[After encountering Mythal in the Fade] Ellana: Asha’bellanar. You met her. Varric: Yeah. She hopped out of an amulet she’d asked Hawke to take up this mountain. Got attacked by some dead elves first though. Actual dead elves, not supposed-to-be-dead elves. Turns out I have to specify that now. Ellana: What did she say? Varric: The witch? Mostly cryptic shit. Nothing that made any real sense. Even Daisy wasn’t quite sure what to make of her. Guess that makes sense if she’s claiming to be an ancient elven god. Ellana: Do you think- Could you get a letter to her? Merrill, I mean. I think we have a lot to talk about. Varric: Sure, kid. Not a problem.

#ellana lavellan #varric thetras #lavellan #dragon age #then she put pen to paper #my writing #there's also a new chapter before this but 2/3 of the banter is stuff y'all have seen before #and is also angsty as shit #this is slightly lighter fare

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mothmanbelothed · 1 year

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every song feels like heartbreak

and every word like love

it’s cliche to say love drunk

but i just can’t get enough

and it’s stupid to say soulmates

but even worse to say star crossed lovers

this isn’t Shakespeare

and you’re not Romeo or Orsino

i’ll never be Viola or Juliet

and we can’t be us, just yet

#mlm #gay #ftm mlm #gay mlm #gay yearning #mlm concept #mlm yearning #poetry #gay poetry #mlm poem

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beansprouts · 1 year

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some tidbits about Oliver Hawke

(in honor of finishing my second run-through of DA2 yesterday)

character theme is Pieces of the People We Love by The Rapture: Oli, even more than my other DA protagonists, is defined and shaped by his people and how he protects them. He loves every single one of his companions in some kind of way.

This makes him a delightful foil to Varric: both are centrist determined-to-see-the-good-in-everyone types, but whereas Varric is an observant commentator who prefers to tut wittily on the sidelines, Oliver is a caretaker who inserts himself into conflict to try to diplomacy his way out of everything. The blue Hawke narrative can be seen as an ultimate deconstruction of this sort of selfless hero who believes compromise is always possible. Dragon Age 2 is a tragedy in every sense.

Oliver is definitively an archer. He started hunting wild fowl on his farm in Lothering with his dog Dane when he was a boy. His aversion to conflict and determination to see everything peacefully manifests in his preference for ranged weaponry, and every time the game ended a cutscene with him wielding a dagger (since he is technically a rogue), I was thrust out of immersion, lol.

After the events of Dragon Age 2, he sets up an Archery Guild in Kirkwall. He, Sebastian, and Charade meet up to discuss tactics and fletch arrows in friendly company, and Varric uses it as a sort of tax shelter. The activities of the guild cement a reputation for the bow as folklore’s weapon of choice for heroes in the Free Marches.

In my second playthrough I’ve adopted the fanon practice of shaping Hawke’s experience over the long time stretches of the narrative: so Oliver flees Lothering with short hair and some stubble, grows some sideburns over the course of his first few years, starts wearing red paint on his face after besting Corypheus, and finally grows a full beard after becoming the Champion of Kirkwall.

While in the Vimmark Mountains, he broke his nose and spent the entire confrontation with Corypheus with his face covered in his own blood. This was painful and kind of embarassing, darkly ironic considering how much Hawke’s blood represents power in Legacy. So after this experience, he dabs red face paint on his face as a reminder.

Hawke is good at talking compromises out of people (most obvious in the blue-hawke-only ability to get Orsino and Meredith to stop fighting at the beginning of Act 3) and he has great diplomacy skills. But his charisma does not at all extend to his personal life. Love alone is not enough-- sometimes being a big-hearted awkward bisexual with a tendency for polyamory can only cause more heartbreak in the long run. I may or may not have projected this onto him from myself, rather too much for my own comfort

He and Fenris fell deeply for each other. They are two awkward men with big hearts who would lay down their lives in a heartbeat to protect the other. Thank you Kirkw(all) mod for letting Oliver fall in love with others too while he patiently waited for Fenris to be ready for romance between acts 2 and 3.

Merrill is in love with Oliver, and they slept together once (rivalmanced), but he wouldn’t say he loved her because he was too conflicted about her blood magic, which caused her to run off, leaving them both broken-hearted.

Oliver and Anders have a lot of unresolved sexual tension. It didn’t manifest in-game (even with a rivalry, all of Anders’s romance is extremely high commitment) but I headcanon that they have made out a few times while drunk.

Among others, I also headcanon Oliver hooking up with Isabela’s friend Martin the smuggler and the templar recruit Margitte. Ultimately, though, he is a romantic at heart, and finds more fulfilment from long-term romantic commitments than short-term sexual encounters.

Canonically, Hawke keeps a journal, which Varric reads for material when immortalizing him through his biography. Oliver Hawke has also gotten in the habit of keeping death notebooks: all of the information he can find on the people he has had to kill, as a form of recompense to them but also as a reminder that their lives have meaning and he should never resort to violence unless absolutely necessary. The practice started with an ongoing diary he keeps addressed to Carver, whose death he still blames himself for. If Oliver wasn’t already thoroughly broken by the end of the game, having to write Anders’s death notebook would have cracked his heart like a walnut.

#dragon age #da2 spoilers #spoilers #blue hawke #Oliver Hawke

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orsino-the-enchanter · 3 years

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"🍸 Admit it. You have a cat fetish."

(from @carnal-malefactor , too lazy to log out and in, sorry 😂)

Send 🍸+ a question and my muse will answer while drunk.

“The things I hear coming from your mouth sometimes make me wonder why I still hang around with you. What, from the bottom of my heart, the fuck, Uldred?!”

#orsino speaks #orsino answers #carnal-malefactor #rp #drunk orsino #don't mind him #he needs a bit of alcohol to remember he's from ansburg and start swearing

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rusted-pipe-of-wisdom · 3 years

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"it's just a hug, it won't kill you" not sure which suicidal fool but saying it to Meredith.

oh I know though! thanks, this is one hell of a warmup :D

tw: drug addiction

---

Do you want to know how it feels?

Wake up with the worst hangover in your life. You’re past your prime. Reality booms and echoes and burns every time it touches your nerves. Your throat is so dry you could scrape it off like bark. Every time you blink your eyes pang with maddening itch, and you rub them until they tear. You’re hot. You’re freezing. Your shirt is a whip that stings your back. Every time you bend over the plucked wings of your scapulae threaten to burst through your skin, like you’re some fucked-up version of the Maker’s cherubs. Except your limbs put on a thousand pounds each all of a sudden and you can scarcely run, let alone fly.

Still curious?

Stick your head into an empty pot and bang on it until all you can hear is this faint ringing, like the buzzing of a stray mosquito - except you can never catch the bloody thing. This is the sound you’ll be hearing instead of the voices of your subordinates. Every written line is entwined with the vibrating trajectory of its strings. Stuff your ears full of wet sand - this is the rustle of parchment on your desk, amplified tenfold. There is a lot of parchment. Enough to wipe the asses of the Viscount’s entire court.

Now, put on your armor. Say your prayers.

And go do your job.

It’s not really surprising that the creaking of the heavy door behind her back drowns in thunder as her fist meets the dark oaken tabletop. The ground quakes. Walls shudder. The sound resonates deep within the corridor, way past the visitor, and all around them. She shuts her eyes and prays that it’s enough. That they change their mind. That they flee.

They don’t. He doesn’t.

Because she knows him by the sound of his footsteps, the steady, gentle gait - like a gracious animal. And it’s he alone who won’t run from her no matter the threat. At times, she hates him for it. At times, it is a blessing.

“Paperwork not agreeing with you, Knight-Commander?”

She turns and squints just enough to take in the silhouette wrapped in a black mantle, the thin regal features of his face and the silvery shimmer in his hair. The migraine pulses under her brow like a singular heart. It takes effort not to growl wordlessly at him in response.

“What do you want, Enchanter?”

He stops. Arm’s length away, as always. Public or private, they have always held it - the unspoken code of... what? Respect? caution? disgust?..

“I’ve brought the register of required literature for this year...” he slides the folder across the desk and pulls his hand away just in time to avoid hers, “...and several requests for transfer. Which you will overturn.”

“If you are so certain I’ll overturn them, why bother bringing them up at all?..”

She clutches his request before it touches the tabletop. Clings to it with a strange sense of wariness, like he’s handed her a burning match or a living snake. It’s neither, though. Just a small note. While she’s reading, he circles her desk and perches on its edge, carefree, long slender legs crossed and arms folded. He regards the box that lies open before her. The spoon. The spigot. The empty vial.

“How much?”

Her eyes shift from the paper to the box, questioning.

“Can’t wait for my replacement? I fear I might disappoint you, then.”

“Won’t be the first time.”

She slams his note down and again the room quavers. Whenever she looks at him it feels like her eyes are bleeding. There is musing, indifference in his voice. It fools no one. Not her, definitely.

“Why do you need to do this to yourself?..”

“Why does your kind keep forcing me to do it?”

“I wish it was my hand forcing you. So that I could stop it.”

Oh how she wishes he was the one splayed before her on that tabletop, not these useless papers, so that she could crack his skull with her bare hands. How she longs to gouge his tongue from that fragile cage of a throat. Why does he keep tormenting her, why won’t he ever leave? Maybe her eyes are bleeding.

“Will that be all, mage?”

He straightens up, once again at the loathsome distance. Maybe one day he’ll know his place. Or perhaps she will end him sooner.

As he passes by the crooked totem of her body, the fold of his mantle coils up and caresses her shoulder. She could plate herself up in ten suits of armor and it wouldn’t be enough to block out the pain.

Then, suddenly, it’s not just the mantle anymore.

The flash of instinct braces her for a backstab. There are prayers to say, or maybe just the memories - she finds the two hardly different these days. But the surge of magic she feels through her sharpened senses is but her very own. He’s calm.

“Come now, ser Stannard,” he says. “It’s just a hug. It won’t kill you.”

---

@dadrunkwriting

#dragon age #dadwc #drunk writing #dragon age fanfiction #meredith stannard #orsino #idk i did a thing #meredith & orsino #don't like shipping them but the unhealthy bromance is *chefs kiss*#tw drug addiction

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the-red-and-the-scornful · 2 years

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RDO Orsino, going through his usual existential crisis, even at a moonshine party.

#mun's rdo playthrough #orsino has only one expression and that is doom and gloom #even when drunk out of his mind

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enchantingloverebel · 3 years

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its time: my twelfth night but its vampires post

first of all I want to say thank you for all the nice things you guys have been saying!! I'm very new to tumblr, and it's been so nice to be in a space where people are so excited and supportive of my wacky ideas. so thank you. be prepared because this post is long and rambling, so you should probably get a snack or something. on to the vampires!

CHARACTER INTERPRETATIONS + TEXTUAL SUPPORT

VIOLA is shipwrecked on the craggy seaside of illyria, and is very much a human. hearing of this mysterious count and countess situation, (both olivia and orsino are called count/countess throughout the script which is SATSIFYING.) they set off disguised as cesario to assist duke orsino in his love efforts to olivia. Viola does not learn of their vampirism until the end.

SHIP CAPTAIN is there with viola after the shipwreck and plays the classic role of frightened villagerTM. when asked about who olivia is, he replies: "a virtuous maid, the daughter of a count..." I would direct this so it sounds like he almost says vampire..... then catches himself and defers to virtuous as to not spread rumors or cause trouble. also her dad was a COUNT. a count!!! satisfying text interpretation.

OLIVIA is in mourning for her brother and father both killed by vampire hunters, (this will come back later,) and is shutting herself away from all company in her vampire castle. cesario is very entrancing to oliva not only because they are physically attractive, but its painfully obvious that they are a human. and that's very interesting to vampire olivia I think.

ORSINO is also a vampire, and lives in the neighboring castle. in the beginning, the music he declares is the food of love? someone playing the organ full vamp style. I am not beyond it. this production is built on camp so what do you expect??? this humanness of cesario also intrigues orsino. when orsino asks cesario about how old the person they're in love with is, cesario responds with "about your years my lord." and orsino responds with "too old by heaven!" get it? becuase vampires are immortal? anyway.

SIR TOBY is constantly drunk off of blood. his first entrance he lugs on a nearly drained body with him and heaves it off stage after taking one final drawn out sip. he is very cold about this and occasionally has a corpse just draped in his arms and will use it as a prop or a puppet as comedic effect. this corpse will preferably be played by a very limp actor.

SIR ANDREW is the human companion to sir toby who keeps him around for entertainment, and enforces sir Toby's idea that humans are dull things that can be used as toys, which he does later in the show forcing andrew and cesario to fight.

MARIA who is also a vampire, albeit a lower class one than olivia. she is a bit protective of olivia at first from cesario, this rando human. and while she isnt necessarily a fan of humans, she dislikes toby's brash disregard for human beings.

MALVOLIO is an human servant, think along the lines of an igor type (I'm not sure how this would be shown in terms of character design, but I would want it to be more along the lines of eccentric scientist rather than the sort of hunchback character because I find that those portrayals can be pretty distasteful, and I want to make sure this production handles things correctly.) he is in love with olivia and wants to be turned into a vampire by her, and he wants to before he starts getting too old. when he comes to olivia to tell her of cesario at the door, she asks "what manner of man is he?" and malvolio replies with "why, of mankind." in this production, this is meant quite literally. later yells at sir toby for partying at "late hours of the night" and "disturbing" olivia when we all know hes the odd one out in terms of sleep schedule as he isnt a vampire. later when he is being made fun of and basically mentally tortured, it is because the others see him as human and therefore something that is okay to toy with. he would be in the castle's dungeon for the sir topas bit.

FESTE is a vampire who has been around a long time, too old for gender and also too old for everyone's bullshit. but they like to join the chaos just for entertainment purposes. a lot of the songs feste sings have to do with death. like when feste sings to orsino, the song has lyrics talking about being "killed" the refusal of a lover. it's all about unrequited love that results in an active choice of death (rather than natural death which for vampires is pretty easily avoid.) also they sing with sir toby a little ditty in which sir toby sings the line "but I will never die" and feste replies with "sir toby there you lie" and to me that sounds like a reference to being undead. (unbeknownst to sir andrew who is also present for that lil song)

SEBASTIAN is very clueless to all this vampire stuff despite the obvious clues. I dont have much for him really.

ANTONIO is a vampire hunter who is part of the group of vampire hunters who KILLED OLIVAS FATHER AND BROTHER. and that is why it's dangerous for him to go to illyria. when antonio has his scene with sebastian, I imagine them in their shared bedroom, antonio messing with a trunk of belongings like stakes and knives etc.

so in the end I think both viola and sebastian would get turned by orsino and olivia respectively. preferably I would want this production to be gayer, but doing all the mental gymnastics to make this work for vampires has kind of tapped me out. anyway, I am aware that there are probably a few logistical issues with this in terms of plot holes and stuff, but it was never meant to be a perfect production. it's entertaining to me and a few people on tumblr at the very least. thanks for reading this far and feel free to add your ideas or your voice to the convo.

#shakespeare #vampires #vampire #twelfth night #macbeth #hamlet #midsummer nights dream #director #directing #theatre #literature

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