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incarnateirony · 4 years

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15.07 Thoughts

1. Y’all know I’ve been very opinionated about certain things, but my inbox has been such a perpetual onslaught that I haven’t had time to really *sit and genuinely write*

2. This is premised 100% off of an expansion on a beautiful post by @heliodean (x) -- or more, I would say that heliodean already wrote most of what I would begin to say, and very elegantly about the text, subtext, representation, visibility, canonicity, but that all as a simple underline to the growth evidenced by Dean. 2b. That is to say, that while the queer text is itself indivisible from the original text, I would like to expand on a few points that are also character-specific, and I didn’t want to kidnap a representation-leaning post to discuss only phantasmally attached affairs.

So again, @heliodean‘s post is an absolute must-read, but building aside on the discussion of Dean’s growth as expressed in the episode, I wanted to focus on some personal John-facing issues.

While helio mentioned Lee’s last advent of Dean being when he idolized John Winchester, which is very true, but I think several of their engagements -- including, yes, the queer narrative but not dependent on it -- are hugely reflecting.

Even if we take, in example, Dean, ass slaps, waitresses and Lee -- a common discussion point is for example that despite open flirtation, Dean dismisses her like she brought his burger over too well done, implicitly. She was there, literally while they talked about double dogging someone down, and despite ass slaps and flirts and posturing, she just kind of vanished into the aether, a thought to neither of them.

How this attaches to the John related issues actually requires dropping a level deeper, when you realize that while the implication is itself surface level text, the words hang instead in old canons, just reflecting at the surface; the sense of history being tangible between them is there for a reason. Even if you took the most heteronormative read on how to double-dick down an ungendered individual, that we hetly decide was female, and that the balls never touched or whatever because *big gay panic* the choice to literally bring that to center discussion after Dean implicitly seemed to forget it ever existed, or act like he didn’t want to talk about it until being charmed by the memory in particular.

Or perhaps, more realistically in the subtext to the *actual text* as expository line everybody is spinning circles on -- quite simply, there were triplets and there was a woman shared between them, but she wasn’t what he remembered. As far as Dean was concerned, there was one woman and, very quite-down-to-point, one man has was sharing. The fact that he happened to have trimmings of a spare woman as a commentary didn’t even plink his memory. *Holy shit*

-- (and let’s be real, MOST OF THIS WAS IN DIRECT TEXT TOO. The only “subtext” is the most liminal understanding that words connect to each other and sentences are usually related to the discussion at hand, but that’s about what people call subtext these days. Dean literally forgot and had to be reminded. I guess “subtext” is applying the working adult brain to figure out how the FUCK you forget who you were putting your dick in. The tryst itself, the bizarre things Dean forgot, these are all... well, text. And the rest is so narrowly subtext that someone missing it out of genuine ignorance and not petty malice and active choice/reconfiguration is pretty much contingent on someone literally not thinking at all)

I’m not gonna heavily debate textuality in this post because at this point, fandom dialogue is a helium inflated parody of itself on most of that, but like I really? Don’t give a shit? How someone tries to move the goalposts around? Seriously grab that whole scene at the table front to back, and then the stage, and show that to some random straight guy you know that doesn’t even watch the show. I’m going to tell you 99.9999% right now the first thing to come out of their mouth is “That’s fuckin gay” or some variation of it into various fields of PC-facing culture. The hilarity of trying to run defense lines for them at this point is somewhere out in orbit in Alpha Centauri, bitching about a whole other solar system of shit.

But taking back to that -- that waitress, that woman that just evaporated. That was a different time. That’s when Dean wanted fodder between him and anyone else he had a deep connection with. That’s when Dean *did* womanize. Did bury himself in skin.

And frankly that’s a Dean that hasn’t existed for a long time while fandom has sat in general denial about it, or the canonicity or *sets off carousel music*

(My mood every time a young bright eyed LGBT warrior thinks they’re doing a service by dismissing, deleting or denying low-visibility LGBT text)

Mutual ass slaps and vigorous bisexual reactions be damned, Lee’s adoration OF John was even brought into text, be it the solemn vigil he held up in his service, or his textual “I’m you” to Dean, and everything old Dean might have become if things hadn’t dramatically shifted gears in his life; but something the *here* and *now* is trying to make him become.

Reaching into the alchemical stuff again, be it Silver And Gold, or Nothing Gold Can Stay, or Golden Time, or now, the monster that spits out fake gold as long as you feed it, and stop caring. The thing Chuck is trying to make them. The things -- the people -- the building treasures in their life of Eileen, and Castiel, and yes, lost several episodes but not forgotten, Jack and Mary; Eileen treasure found anew, Cas a treasure lost that took the last light of his family, and Jack and Mary’s shadows, with him.

The force that broke their chain, the force that was first ready to face authority, because this was not a new battle to him; it had just been given new meaning, many years ago, when he first faced Dean. Dean echoes the broken despair Cas once saw life as from angelic roost, and Cas stands instead for every lesson Humanity taught him, and continues the fight, and walks away from a toxic vortex of destruction drilled and doubled down on by Chuck’s purposeful machinations -- machinations Dean convinced him to break from long ago, but the man that the angel fell for is not who he is now; the fire he gained from Mary went out in her death into the dark and obsessive and introverted blackened side of John Winchester, not the one that, taking his wife’s hand, disappeared into gold.

(Don’t even get me started on the recurrence of this exact shot in Dabb’s SPN, we’ll end up in a whole other aside.)

“Nothing Gold Can Stay.” This is the lesson Chuck has been trying to force down their throats alongside murder suicide. It is our target subversion, but--

This episode fundamentally *exists* to just *put Dean Winchester’s growth into perspective*. Be that textually affirmative bisexuality (regardless of if it’s visible enough for everyone’s taste, which I hold in bizarre levels of wtf question/suspicion), or about the boy of vices and basically casual misogyny and grim habit that has grown into a man that -- while he may remember it fondly with crinkles in the corner of his eyes, he doesn’t flit it to whatever filler is in the seats between them, but to that old “friend” that, you know. *jazz hands*

About his fight with resignation that has griefed him since his first demon deal, and of self worth, and of what he has learned, and of what he will deep down never let anyone take away, even if he’s made to question it.

(Dabb on 14.13 Lebanon and the lessons imbued)

This episode??? Like??? Jeremy Adams didn’t blow me out of the water. I jettisoned somewhere into another galaxy or some shit. Here I am holding tentative resignation about how bad the new (presumed) straight white male author on crew is gonna do while looking at history, but giving benefit of the doubt, making a few jokes??? And then it’s like HELLO YES ALL OF THIS SHIT RIGHT HERE. WHAT KIND OF FIRST EPISODE BLACK MAGIC? THAT WAS A BOBO LEVEL FIRST EPISODE.

Oh my god.

I mean, I’m sure we all saw it coming, like deadass you all know I’m not a genius for saying and expecting -- Dean, lessons learned and remorseful from these last few misadventures, coming in to want to talk to Cas, who has had no such giving and keeps his focus on the target, outside of his perceivably crumbled relationship. Like, expecting this is about as simple as expecting them to fight monsters, or Sam and Dean disagreeing over a method/plan.

But as unsurprising as it is, it held weight and value, after the episode -- as given in my addition to the original referenced link -- spent its entire time framing loss of best friends, empty space, the ramifications of turning one’s back, and knowing gold when you have it and what’s worth fighting for.

Now, to fall back to touching on the textuality topic: I thank 15.07 for the display of performative absurdity. It’s not the first episode to rip open and expose fandom’s dirty underbelly and intersectional marginalization forces wearing an LGBT Activism Suit -- 14.03 also did so loudly by Bobo (eg read: “The Problem with Dreamhunter” [A post that points out what people will accept for canonization when there isn't a rival ship or excessive projection of antis specific to a ship which is *SPOILER ALERT* nowhere near what everyone pretends is needed when they want to argue just to argue and some intersectional WLW vs MLM issues]) -- but it was the first to approach it directly with Dean, much less so textually.

The ridiculous redefinition of words, of “what *I* think canon means” whipped completely out of fandom generated buzz and no dictionary on the face of the planet -- the demands, and the active erasure of existing LGBT text because it wasn’t *visible enough* -- really does show a seedy side of fandom that wears a nice Representation Warrior dress sometimes, but betrays a series of issues:

Most points boil down to “I won’t acknowledge any text unless it is loud enough to argue down any idiot I ever meet”, putting the focus not on representative resonance and value of quality of text, but on personal vindication for raw argumentation. A world where trolls and their personal agendas have actually taken *greater importance* to people than the representative text, and is an absolutely abysmal motivation or bottom line for any discussion and yes, if you recoiled and feel ashamed or called out about that, rather than patching over your pride and doubling down, maybe skim the reblog tags bisexual people have left on my several dozen posts about the damages of them being actively deleted is doing.

If you care about representation, you’ll think about that. Even if it’s not the loudly visible version of representation you *want*, it is what it is, and well--it is. Pretty simply. There is no perfect fantasy world where everybody understands and wants the thing you do. And I’m not just talking about LGBT rep. I’m talking about the people you pretend to need to argue gay canon with still being absolutely flummoxed by canon itself, like them saying “family don’t end with blood” and “found family” are “fanon concepts”. People that are confused where demons go when they die. People that rebuke literally many-times textualized non-gay things just to suit their personal agenda. And shockingly, they have a personal agenda about the gay content too.

I’m talking about straight pairings like mulder and scully that got no romo’ed around even after they kissed and got pregnant and the whole nine, because bawww that’s not what the show is about so *allow me to build elaborate theories that make no sense and pretend they have standing in canon equal to the straightforward read*.

Cuz that’s where we’re at right now. Our fandom is just particularly bonky, and has been allowed to go so far off the edge of the map and away from center GA-resonant discussion that the bog standard antis have literally come up with body-mutilating necrophilia as an answer to avoid the gay, and somehow... *shruuuuug?* people act like these people not only are of equal worth but like... deserve... any consideration long term? Which is when we lean into the next point on MOTIVATION.

So ask at what point arguing with tinhats beat out your actual interest in representation and LGBT rights and media issues. Ask at what point you surrendered your focus on feeling resonant with a character that has been textually acknowledged, and traded that for implying you suddenly can’t relate to the character until he performs [X] exact function, exactly how you want, and when you want. Hell, I have even gotten an anon that literally said they would have acknowledged it if SPN had given them what they want when they wanted-- so basically, too late, not enough.

That’s not how text works. Whether the text came ten years ago or now, the text is the text. Your personal fulfillment aside, text is text. And I highly urge people to stop demanding tokenism above demographic-targeted representative types (eg bisexual, raised in the 80s in a patriarchal/power/grit based society and its own associated dogmas, fairly masculine identity, and so on) or demanding characters perform as if they were from another demographic (be it age or gender) because that’s your demographic.

Once you start removing elements of the represented demographics (LGBT, male, age, origin, etc) and wanting it to perform by way of *your* demographic’s behaviors or base line needs/wants, that’s when we’ve left representation. That’s when we’re demanding tokenization. And when you’re demanding tokenization to win internet fights with people who don’t even believe what they say, you have long left the representation wheelhouse. That’s what we call troll wars.

Do not let LGBT media representation be kidnapped into troll wars. Do not let content be degraded or removed just to engage in troll wars. And if you want to engage in troll wars, and you value the arguments more than the discussion *of* representation intersectional issues, and methods, and all around it -- then just... stop. Stop saying you want representation. Don’t.

I’m tired.

#supernatural #spn #meta #my meta #pagan life #gold #alchemy #hermeticism #jeremy adams #15.07 #dean winchester #mine

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treatian · 4 years

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The Chronicles of the Dark One: The Dark Curse

Chapter 70: A Significant Milestone

"Well…that went well. Just as you'd planned!"

"I don't know what you're talking about…" Regina sneered.

Sure, she didn't. Ever since that long-ago day that a near encounter with a stranger at a bar had nearly taken Regina and her future from him, he'd been sure to pay close attention to her activities, especially when the King was away. He was particularly vigilant now that the King had begun to leave Snow White behind, so she could learn to rule as Queen. All alone with Regina, the watchful eye was necessary. He'd thought that Regina had been frustrated before, when the King had simply left her alone, but now that Snow White stayed with her during these times, sat in the Great Hall by her side, watching her give orders to peasants and solving problems her husband never gave her credit for, his girl was starting to become a woman. Her anger and fury grew time after time. And on this time, as soon as the King had gone, he'd made note of one trip Regina had taken by magic, to meet a criminal in the woods. They called him "Dead Eye". And it just so happened, immediately after this meeting, that Dead Eye had invaded Regina's Kingdom. While her husband was away, she and Snow White had been left to deal with the problem.

He'd watched it all play out through crystal ball, cauldron, and mirror as Regina's attempt at making a power play, getting the Kingdom to see her as the rightful ruler and not just someone keeping the seat warm until her husband died, failed miserably. He'd known it would from the start, even without his powers of foresight.

He had to give her credit; her plan had been simple enough. Bring a terrible bandit into the Kingdom, create pressure Snow White couldn't handle, which would lead to failure and a very public humiliation for her step-daughter. At that point, she would sweep in, save the Kingdom somehow herself, and publicly comfort Snow White so the Kingdom would see her as their Queen and Snow White as nothing more than the next monarch who was still not ready to take the throne. No one would be any wiser as to the fact that it was their Queen that had brought the trouble in the first place. Except, of course, he who heard and saw everything.

"It was a good plan you came up with," he commented to a frustrated Regina who had just stormed into her bedroom after everything had failed. "It had decent goals, an untraceable source, and easy to remember lines. There was of course just one thing you neglected to account for?"

"And what was that?" she questioned rolling her eyes. "Please, enlighten me! Tell me where I went wrong!" The tone of her voice suggested that was anything but a begging plea, still, he did like to rub people's noses in their mistakes, especially those who called themselves his students.

"You failed to account for the determination of your step-daughter," he sneered. "Among other things…"

There were other mistakes that she'd made of course, but none bigger than that one. Snow White had been humiliated at the beginning and scared and frustrated as well, she'd wanted desperately to reach out to her father, but instead Regina had insisted she handle it. It was ironic, if she'd allowed her step-daughter to do what she'd wanted to in the first place and call on her Dear Papa for help, or instead just stepped in right then, her plan might actually have worked. Instead, she'd let Snow go, she'd let that teenage girl make friends with some boy or other who taught her archery, and after paying the robber not to kill the girl lest she become a martyr, the pair had faced off. Snow White had protected her people, and now they saw her in higher esteem than they had before. It practically had the people wishing Regina would die just so they could call her Queen.

Regina's lips turned red and hard as she made a face at him. "That girl! That miserable excuse for a Princess! She outwitted me!"

"Oh no!" he corrected quickly, getting to his feet. "One has to know who their true enemy is to outwit them. What she did was to overpower you with…love!" he stated in a high girlish voice putting his hands over his heart as if it could feel any more than Cora's could at the moment.

"Love!"

"Love is far more powerful than you realize, Regina. Capable of just as much and sometimes even much more than hate. There are a number of things one must account for in plans such as these. Timing, the temperament of the victim, and one must never fear backup plans. But most importantly of all, you must account for the relationship between the victim and the motivation you are using. Snow White, daughter of the King, loves her Kingdom as though they were her very children. If you had a mother that loved you, you'd know that parents will lay down their lives and sacrifice everything for their spawn. That was where you went wrong, which suggests, oddly enough that you don't know your own enemy. Strange considering she lives in the next tower."

"And now all the Kingdom looks up to her like she's perfect!" she suddenly burst out. "I'm the Queen; she's the Nothing, nothing but a princess! She's not as perfect as they all think she is! They just don't see it. They respect her more than me!"

"Of course they do! She's the treasure of the Kingdom! Who are you but the woman who replaced her mother?! You are here to keep the throne warm until she's ready to ascend. Jealousy is natural."

"What I feel for her it's not…it's not jealousy."

"Something more then…perhaps something a bit stronger…anger, maybe?"

"I hate her!" she shouted unexpectedly with rage that assured him she'd finally crossed into a place with Snow that he could work with. "Hate." She'd never used a word like that before, not in his presence. "Hate" was exactly what he'd wanted from the beginning, but this was only the start. Today Snow White, tomorrow the Kingdom, and from there...the realm.

"Hate is a very powerful emotion, dearie."

"But it's true! I hate her! I think I have nearly since the day I met her, ever since Daniel…"

"Ever since dear Daniel passed away."

"Well, it was her that did it! I told her not to tell my mother and she just…she told! Like it was nothing, like I was nothing!"

"To her…you were…"

"Are you here to cheer me up? If so then you're doing a lousy job of it!" she roared before storming out to her balcony. He smiled. No. He hadn't come to cheer her up. He hadn't come for a lesson or to find out what happened. He'd come because part of him was proud. Whether she knew it or not, she'd taken a step in the right direction for him today. Regina had plotted. For the first time, she'd wanted something and used her power and her wealth to try and take it for herself. The results had been disastrous, but the way she'd gone about it suggested something he was very pleased with. Her animosity and jealousy toward her step-daughter were growing. She was taking steps to ruin her. Steps that would one day lead toward a curse. He'd come to gloat today because he was proud of her. She'd grown a spine. And it was a spinney one indeed.

"So…what do you intend to do next, Regina?" he questioned, letting himself appear on the balcony before her so that he could rest his back on the castle wall.

Kill her. That answer was written plain as day on Regina's face. It was in the tightening of her fists, the way her knuckles shone white against the moonlight.

But there was an indent in her cheek like she was biting it and a muscle that twitched in her jaw that suggested she didn't want to open her mouth to say the words. That was good in a way. He didn't want the Queen to kill her step-daughter. He needed the hate that she had for her to exceed death, to want to make Snow White suffer, to make the entire realm suffer! But this was a one step at a time operation. First, he had to get her to the point that she was ready to kill her and then offer that more appealing option.

"Nothing," she finally huffed over her shoulder. "There's nothing I can do."

"Nothing?" he pressed.

"Haven't you been listening?!" she cried, turning toward him. "Haven't you been watching in your creepy little way?! I just tried! I tried to change things. I tried to get them to see her for what she is and turn the tables. It backfired!"

"Tried?!" he laughed. "That was a rather poor attempt if I do say so myself!"

"I tried," she snapped. "I'm sorry if we can't all come up with plans as grand as the Dark One!"

He bit back a laugh as she went back inside her room. He was getting to her. That was perfect. It was what he needed to get her to take this to a new level. She was ready to move forward with everything; with her magic, her plans, and her future, she just didn't know it yet. He needed her to know it.

"You failed," he stated appearing in front of her so that she stumbled when she came to an abrupt stop. "What is it that you want Regina…not what you intend, what is it that you want."

"I want…I want her to die for what she did to Daniel."

"Good goal. Short, sweet, easy to remember. It does of course lack a proper plan."

"So teach me! Teach me…how to kill her! Teach me how to finally take the revenge I should have taken long ago-a life for a life. If I can't earn their respect with her around, then I'll take it when they've no princess to fawn over! A spell, a potion, a curse…there must be something that you can give to me that will destroy her, that will end this…this pain…this suffering!"

"Well, of course, I do…but I don't really think you want to use it."

"And why wouldn't I?"

"Well, because then you'd be no better than you were the day your dear mother took a trip through the looking glass. Make no mistake of this, Regina, you've not been nearly as careful or discreet as you think you have. Their perfectly healthy and lovely Princess suddenly takes ill and dies or is found one day in her room with her life snuffed out…they'll look to you. Perhaps not right away, but they'll eventually make the proper conclusions."

"I can be miles away from here before they come from me! I can live on the run!"

"Perhaps but what then of your dear father. Oh!" he piqued as her face fell with sudden understanding and sadness. "Didn't think of that, did you? A rather half-baked plan indeed."

"Then it's true," she whimpered, slapping her hands against her thighs and falling into a seat. "There is truly nothing I can do. I'm trapped here in this miserable life until...until the day I die."

"Oh, now I didn't say that, did I?"

"But you just said-"

"What you need to do, Regina is think bigger and smarter. You need to plan wiser. You need to open your mind for a long game, not a short one. You failed because your attempt was only half thought through. You tried to control what you couldn't control and your plan backfired. You were so caught up on the way you saw things in your head you were unable to adjust to what was right before you."

"I don't even know what that means! What are you talking about? Why are you here if you can't help me?!"

"I'm beginning to ask myself the same question," he reflected. Regina was smart, but he was coming to find that in her anger, she could be one of two things. Abrupt and foolish. Or thoughtful and conniving. He needed her to be the second above all else. "I am good for more than the occasional magic lesson, dearie. It means that death is too good for her. Death is final; it's peaceful. Do you really think she deserves that after all she's cost you?"

"Without a doubt!" she growled.

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep his disappointment to himself. It was progress, but still a wrong answer.

#Rumbelle #Rumple #Rumpelstiltskin #Dark One #Regina #Evil Queen #Snow White #ouat #ouat fanfiction #fanfiction

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suntiger745 · 4 years

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More Skyrim characters

Because a dozen is hardly enough. First up, Hillevi Titanborn, decendant of Lyris Titanborn. She doesn’t quite have her ancestor’s towering height, but she’s quite tall nonetheless.

She was traveling as a caravan guard from Windhelm to Dawnstar when the caravan was ambushed. Fortunately for the bandits, she was asleep at the time, and a shelf fell over and knocked her unconscious, so the bandits survived. When she woke up she made her way to the nearby lodge of the Vigilants of Stendarr to recuperate. Mostly from almost getting frostbite. To her surprise her little cousin was there and she insisted in coming along, being a healer and seeing the lump in Hillevi’s head. Now she has some unlucky bandits to find to avenge her friends in the caravan, and get the stolen goods back.

Alexstrasza, the Lifebinder

The mother of dragons and leader of the red dragonflight on Azeroth, as well as a champion of the Nexus, found her day getting a lot weirder when she suddenly woke up in a different world. She found out it had other dragons, but that they were by and large assholes who needed a good whack on the head and to be taught some manners.

Amar Goldhand A soldier in the Imperial Legion, having served honorably for six years he is a veteran of many fights and prides himself on his martial skill and his discipline. He isn’t entirely happy to have been assigned to guard a diplomat from Cyrodiil called Lady Jaina, but he will follow orders. So far, it has been nothing but traveling to the major holds and asking a lot of questions. Although there has also been three attempts at the Lady’s life, so there’s some excitement to be had.

Nylari

Being a force user that doesn’t follow neither the Jedi nor the Sith code can be a troublesome life. Especially when you are stuck on a backwater planet with savages who doesn’t have any space ports, or even ship repair shops, to fix your broken ship. They *do* have “magic” and huge lizards that breathes fire and ice though, just to make life that more interesting. Fortunately, it’s usually nothing a lightsaber can’t solve.

Vegard Allerian Vegard was quite satisfied with his life. He was a vigilant of Stendarr, keeping the people of Skyrim safe from daedra, vampires and werewolves, and the occasional bandit. Then he stumbled onto a Thalmor plot of some kind, with a very scary Thalmor nutcase that killed one of his own subordinates for not being good enough. That scary bastard was after a princess, and the gods having fun with his fate soon after had him meet the princess in question, who claimed to be around 500 years old and the daughter of Pelagius the Mad. He would have considered it a joke, if not for the bounty hunters and Thalmor agents doing their damndest to capture her. And now he’s part of the whole mess, willing or not.

Amelie Lyene

A bounty hunter, and a highly efficient one, Amelie was from High Rock, a daughter of renowned hunters and trappers. She had decided to hunt men and mer instead of animals after she found a telvanni, or possibly dwemer, helmet artifact that helped her aim and enhanced her sight eight-fold. After that, animals, even many dangerous ones, wasn’t much of a challenge anymore. The only issue she had was that the helmet gave her strange dreams of another world, which were as fantastic as they were disturbing. It was too useful to get rid of though, so she bore the dreams as the price she had to pay to be one of the best in the business.

Arvid the Fox

A humble son of farmers in Rorikstead, Arvid loved the tales his parents and travellers at the inn told on long winter nights, and like his friend Erik he dreamed of becoming a renowned hero one day. Being more lean and quick rather than big and strong he reluctantly put aside his early hopes of wearing heavy armor and wielding a big axe, instead focusing on learning the bow. He did have a talent for hunting, and one of the old hunters in the village took him under his wing and trained the boy. Being the young fool that he was, Arvid soon thought that he had all the skills and knowledge he would need to become a great hero and set off in the middle of the night one day, before his parents woke up. His first foray into a tomb turned out a lot more scary than he had imagined, but he did manage to prevail, and resolved to be more careful in the future.

Katarina Weaver

Another person with a humble beginning, Katarina was the daughter of two weavers in Solitude. Like Arvid, Erik and many other young people in Skyrim, she too longed for more than the mundane life she had as she grew up. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how you see things, she had a spark of ambition that caught the eye of a visitor that was a bit more than met the eye. An elegant lady passing through their store one day told the girl to meet her at the Winking Skeever that night for a bit of talk, a drink and perhaps a way to see the world. After a few drinks, the lady thought the inn was a bit too noisy and crowded and suggested that they go outside where it was more quiet. In an alley near the inn, the lady then fed on, and turned, Katarina. Kept asleep until the disease had run its course, the young weaver awoke to find herself elsewhere, in an unknown house and with a terrible thirst.

And so her life as a vampire began.

Shania

When you main talent is being a good organizer and fashion designer, of course you get picked to become part of the Thalmor “mission” to root out Talos worship in Skyrim. Being an unusual mer in many ways, Shania was rather cross at being picked for the job of ambassador administrator. She had the skill for the job they assigned her, but no desire to perform that duty whatsoever. Her talents were underutilized and frankly wasted if she said so herself.

Fortunately, on a trip to Markarth to discuss things with their senior agent there, she was approached by a sister of Dibella who recognized the small symbol she wore on her armband. The two got to talking and soon had a plan to allow Shania to pursue her interest of running a brothel and designing exotic fashion rather than organizing reports, contacts and design agent uniforms with hidden pockets.

It took some smooth and fast talking with the ambassador, but soon after her return to the embassy Shania had her new duty assigned to her: Field inspector for the Thalmor agents in Skyrim. Finally free to move around as she wished, barring some arguments with drunken nords who took her for a Thalmor of the stuck-up variety, she soon contacted one of the more classy brothels to begin her work, showing up in an outfi of her own design to impress the owner. It worked, and she got hired to help designing outfits, finding new talent and organize events and security for the brothel. It involved a fair bit of travel, but the work was much more stimulating and exciting than her work for the Thalmor.

#Skyrim #mods #Elder Scrolls #ESO #RPG #OC #characters #so many characters #this isn't even all of them #TESV #TES V #Lyris

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thefreckledone · 5 years

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Satori (Between the Lines) - Part 13

Sakura furrows her brow, watching Mizuki-sensei intently as he holds up a large leaf. She’s poised to take notes as needed, ignoring the scoffs that come from some of the less academically inclined students. To be fair, few of her classmates match Sakura’s passion for academics. Just because they will not be tested on the theory behind this technique does not mean it is unimportant.

“Over the next few days we will begin to access your chakra,” Mizuki says. “Now, we are just accessing chakra at this point; we will not even contemplate channeling it until next month.” His smile firms into a scowl as he stares them all down, trying to impress upon them the importance of these rules. Even though some of the clan children have received training in chakra manipulation, they were always under vigilant supervision from their parents. Mizuki alone could not supervise thirty children attempting to wield their chakra. His frown fades to a smile as they all nod. “I thought we could end today with a small demonstration of what we’ll be working on for the next month. When we start manipulating chakra, your first task will be to push your chakra into a leaf.”

Mizuki makes an exaggerated flourish to the leaf in his hand. A couple of the children giggle and his smile widens. “Now, what you will be doing is burning away the center of the leaf with pure chakra and keeping that chakra there, not allowing it to spread elsewhere.” Mizuki draws on his chakra, enacting his words.

There is a smattering of gasps and clapping, mainly from civilian-born children. The clan children are jaded to such simple feats of chakra, but there is awe in the faces of the civilian children. Mizuki feels a slight pang of nostalgia, remembering his own joy when he was introduced to chakra. Where has that magic gone for him?

He shakes himself of these errant thoughts, looking over his students. “Can anyone tell me why we complete this task? What does it help build?”

Most of the students shuffle a bit, breaking off eye contact in hopes of not being called on. Sakura, an exemplary student as always, meets his gaze and smiles eagerly. Mizuki doesn’t fight the urge to return the smile, nodding at her. “Sakura?”

“These exercises will help build our chakra control,” Sakura says. “Developing chakra control will help us when it comes to putting chakra into the jutsus we do. It’ll also help keep us from injuring our chakra coils as we practice.”

“Exactly right, Sakura,” Mizuki replies. “Chakra control is foundational to every ninjutsu you will perform if you become shinobi. An individual with smaller chakra reserves may very well beat someone with greater reserves because they have better chakra control. Your ability to control your chakra and employ it to your will may be the deciding factor in the survival of you and your unit.” He pauses, voice gentling. “I’m not trying to scare you; I only wish to impress upon you the importance of these sometimes tedious exercises. They’re needed to perform the awesome ninjutsus you see shinobi perform. And that’ll be it for today! Uzuki-san will start proctoring the afternoon spars in fifteen minutes.”

Most of the students scramble to their feet and scamper outside, but Sakura lingers. Mizuki greets her kindly, well-used to Sakura staying after lessons to ask questions. Once, he believed she stayed afterwards out of a reluctance to attend to the more physical side of Academy training. He has seen her vast improvement in that area over the past few months and yet still she stays, excited to speak with him one-on-one.

Mizuki truly doesn’t mind it. All of the Academy instructors play favorites. It’s a behavior that isn’t frowned upon; after all, the entire infrastructure of Konoha’s shinobi world relies upon it. What else but nepotism would have the succession of Hokage determined based on familial or mentorship bond? So Suzume dotes upon the Hyuga students who come through, Daikoku sings the praises of the Uchiha, Iruka shows a soft spot for the Uzumaki brat, and Mizuki?

Well, Mizuki is civilian-born and civilian-bred; he doesn’t care to kowtow to any of the clan children that he teaches. The clans have done nothing for him but prevent him from rising among the shinobi ranks. His refusal to attach himself to any of the clans has garnered him no favors.

So Mizuki’s favorite student is Sakura. Her intelligence, her curiosity, and her dedication seem a reflection to him of the boy he once was. And Mizuki would prefer to keep her spirit from being crushed by the system if at all possible. Loathe as he is admit it, her friendship with Shino is wise, even though he doubts there is any calculation to it. Of all of the clans, the Aburame clan is the most decent, though that is not saying much.

“May I help you, Sakura?” he asks.

“Maybe,” Sakura replies, fingers fidgeting but back straight. Her parents have taught her well in regards to her posture. “During my field experience assignment I received a bit of chakra control training. I was wondering if there are any books I could read on additional techniques. I checked the library, but all of the books for chakra manipulation are restricted access to genin and above only.”

Mizuki rubs his chin, pondering her question. “I’m afraid the Academy doesn’t have any reading material available to your age group, Sakura-chan. There is a fear regarding damaged chakra coils. Have you asked Shino? He may be able to lend you a book from the Aburame clan’s library.”

Sakura’s nose crinkles. “We looked through the available books at his house; everything related to chakra control is specific to hive hosts. Ino offered too, but the chakra control in her family scrolls concerns uses related to the mind.” Sakura’s face falls a bit. “I can’t do any of those exercises.”

I’m not a clan child, lingers unspoken but understood between them.

Again, Mizuki marvels at the discrepancies between civilian and clan children. The Academy, in theory, should put all of the students on equal playing ground by the time they graduate. The students should become rounded, prepared individuals, ready to be genin. And yet everything is set up to the clan children’s advantage, from the spars where they can practice their family techniques to the focused attentions given by Academy teachers. The basic repertoire of ninjutsus and fundamental skills learned at the Academy are nice, but the implicit understanding is that the knowledge gained from the Academy is not enough. Clan children receive ample supplemental training at home, both in secret techniques, clan-specific jutsus, and practical knowledge passed on by family members. Civilian-raised children?

Well, they earn the privilege of acting as fodder on missions. Or, if they manage to scrape by, they can make it to the illustrious rank of chunin.

“I’m not allowed to pass any of the books on to you,” Mizuki says, words coating his tongue bitterly. “However, we can get some practice in over these next few months, depending on how you progress.”

It is a paltry platitude, nowhere near what he would like to offer her, but Sakura stares up at him as if he offered her the world.

“Thank you Mizuki-sensei!” Sakura says, throwing herself at his legs in a hug before darting away.

Mizuki watches her go, smile slowly falling away. One day, sooner more likely than later, Konoha will snuff out the bright spark that makes Sakura Sakura. And Mizuki knows there is little he can do to prevent it.

Ibiki pens out a summary to his most recent interrogation session, a scowl stretching his scars. The Kumo nin was recalcitrant and unruly, unsurprising truthfully, but something about him stuck with Ibiki. Maybe it was his soft spoken tone, gentle, but firm in his convictions even as Ibiki systematically tries to break him to pieces. Maybe it’s the fact that his eyes were the same shade of brown as Idate’s. Hell, maybe it’s the fact that Ibiki is running on two hours of sleep for the past thirty-seven hours.

Still, something about this prisoner clings to him, refusing to let go.

Ibiki startles at the rasp of paper in the corner of his office and he looks up, suddenly remembering Sakura’s presence. Her attention is focused on the large book she’s holding, something about agriculture in the Land of Tea or some other drivel. He’s never seen anyone as voracious a reader as Sakura is; Ibiki thinks that she would be happy to read about grass growing.

Hell, that’s probably what she’s reading about right now.

Only Sakura.

Ibiki scrubs a hand over his jaw, the bristles of his unshaven face prickling against his hand. The tightness of his scowl eases as he watches her, utterly absorbed in her reading. Such single-minded focus won’t serve her well in the field, where she’ll have to maintain multiple domains of attention, but, for now, it’s alright. Something in his chest warms as he realizes the absolute trust Sakura has in him, to so willingly relax in his presence like this.

If someone had told him a year ago that an Academy student would feel so comfortable around him, he would’ve laughed in their face before dragging them before one of the Yamanaka to assess if they were a plant. After all, no one felt comfortable around him; in what world would an Academy student?

And yet, despite all of the odds, Haruno Sakura has wormed her way into his life. He knows that she was intimidated when they first met, his loud, abrasive nature making her uneasy. But she shed those fears quickly, offering him simple kindnesses that fell by the wayside long ago for him. When was the last time someone gave him a guileless smile? Brought him a homemade lunch? He thinks it was sometime before Idate disappeared, before Ibiki made chūnin and was slated for the role of commanding officer of T&I.

Ibiki stares down unseeingly at his hands.

It’s been a long time since he’s felt human.

Sometimes, it feels like the blood will never be washed clean.

He scrutinizes his hands intensely, hearing for a moment the screams of the Kumo nin in his mind. His hands are spotless; he wore his thick gloves during the session and fastidiously cleaned up thereafter.

Still, it doesn’t prevent the creeping, crawling sensation of iron coating and flaking off his skin.

Ibiki shakes his head roughly, scrambling that train of thought.

He doesn’t have a clue as to why Sakura likes him or why she chooses to stick around. He knows he isn’t good company; his social life is nonexistent outside of interactions with some of the more unstable members of the Intelligence Division. But he’ll do what he can to encourage her to stay. He knows that he’s unworthy of her kindness and friendship, but he’ll accept whatever scraps she offers. Ibiki may be forever bloodstained, but he doesn’t mind.

He’ll be better able to protect Sakura that way.

Less morals to hinder him, after all.

“What are you nerds doing in here?” Anko asks, popping in unannounced as is her wont.

Sakura nearly jumps clear out of her skin, but Ibiki merely sighs, shaking his head. “We’re working, Anko. A task you are entirely unfamiliar with.”

Anko’s eyes take on a manic gleam as she sizes him up, but Ibiki just watches her in turn. He’s just as unhinged and dangerous as she is, only in a different way. Anko smirks, mania easing in her eyes, as if she knows his thoughts.

“The work I do is much more fun, old man,” Anko taunts.

“I’m three years older,” Ibiki says.

“And a helluva a lot uglier,” Anko snipes back.

Ibiki snorts, choosing not to rise to her verbal jabs. Anko’s attention shifts beyond him to Sakura, who sits quietly with her book closed in her lap.

“How are you doing, kid?” she asks, smirk softening into almost verging on a smile.

“I’m well,” Sakura replies. “And you, Anko-san?”

“Doing fine,” Anko says, flapping a hand to dismiss Sakura’s concern.

“Oh!” Sakura perks up, rustling through her bag. She pulls out a small, wrapped package. “I have something for you, Anko-san.”

“You do?” Anko asks, true surprise flitting across her features before her expression settles to apathy.

Sakura jumps to her feet and rushes toward Anko, offering the package to her. Anko takes it and opens it with deft, eager fingers. “Dango?” Anko asks, pulling out one of the sweets.

Sakura nods enthusiastically. “Sarasa-san bought me some from a nearby vendor for helping her out with some of the detailing on this leather bag commission she was working on. She needed my help because I have tinier fingers for the fine details.” Sakura raises her hands, wiggling said fingers. “And the vendor gave me a lot so I thought you might like some too!”

Ibiki notices the way Anko’s lips start to curl into a secret smile before she firms them, keeping her expression neutral. Still, her hands betray her as she gently, reverently, takes a stick of dango and presses it to her lips. “So you help in a leather shop?”

Sakura lights up and begins to speak about the various projects she’s assisted on in the merchant district. Most of the jargon flies over Ibiki’s head, but he enjoys the clear enthusiasm Sakura has for the topic, her eyes sparkling and hands gesticulating wildly.

Anko’s eyes cut to him and she tilts her head slightly, eyes narrowing.

He nods in turn.

No matter their differences, no matter Anko’s general dislike of him, they are united in this.

Sakura is an important person to both of them.

And Ibiki thinks there is very little they would not do for her sake.

Sakura curls her toes in the grass, luxuriating in the heat of the ground beneath her and the sun above. It has been a long day and her body aches with the satisfaction of the all-out spars she participated in, leaving her exhausted. Her eyes slip shut as she enjoys the simple pleasure of relaxing.

Truthfully, she is a bit frustrated. Though Sakura knows that she made the right move in withdrawing from apprenticeship with Shikaku, her progress in learning ciphers has slowed. If she were honest with herself, her learning has outright stalled. She does not regret her decision to cut ties with Shikaku, but she hadn’t realized the true dirth in cipher knowledge. No one else has that knowledge or, if they do, they do not care to share it with an Academy student.

Sakura purses her lips, pulling up a bit of grass. She’s gotten complacent, used to being handed the knowledge as she asks for it. Not too long ago she was finding work arounds to get basic shinobi knowledge before she entered the Academy. She just needs to get creative again.

Grass falls on her face and Sakura startles upright, sneezing. Eyes smarting, she meets Celadine’s passive gaze.

“Are you well?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” Sakura says, rubbing at her nose. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching you,” he replies.

“Right,” Sakura huffs, shaking her head. “Your superior didn’t pull you off detail when the news got around?”

Celandine cocks his head.

Sakura flings herself back down onto her back, staring up at the sky. “I’m no longer the apprentice of Nara Shikaku.”

Celandine remains silent for a long moment and Sakura turns her attention to him. “It matters not. You are still interesting.”

“To you or to your superior?”

“Both,” Celandine says.

“Huh,” Sakura mutters.

She doesn’t think that she should enjoy his company as much as she does. He’s undoubtedly odd, his mannerisms flat and restrained. He holds himself a lot like some of the high-level shinobi that she catches glimpses of sometimes; though she’s never seen one as young as Celandine. Sakura knows that all of her friends-Torune especially-would be against her continued association with him if they knew.

But they don’t know.

Sakura pats the ground beside her. Celandine just stares at her and she clears her throat, offering him a tentative smile. “Sit down with me if you like.”

Celandine takes the seat with a sublime sense of grace that Sakura doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to accomplish, no matter her years of training. She takes a moment to feel envious before refocusing.

“I’ve been meaning to ask; are you allowed to speak with me? It doesn’t exactly seem like the best idea as your target.”

Celandine’s eyes slant away from her, a strange lilt to his lips. “I received no orders regarding not speaking to you.”

Sakura cannot keep herself from laughing at that, rolling onto her side as she does so. Celandine watches her quietly, his chest feeling light. They spend several long moments like this until Sakura manages to calm herself.

“I see you enjoy bending the rules to fit your needs,” Sakura says. “I can understand that.”

“Your clothing is green,” Celandine says blandly.

Sakura looks down at herself, groaning at the sight of grass stains across the bright yellow fabric of her shirt. “Otou-sama won’t be pleased,” Sakura says as she gingerly pats the stains. “Looks like otou-sama and I will be doing the washing early this week.”

“Your father washes the clothes? Why not hire someone else for that task?” Celandine asks.

“Otou-sama likes to do it himself when he’s in the village; he says it’s relaxing,” Sakura replies. “I like helping him. We go down to the river to wash and usually eat our lunches afterwards.”

“Aren’t there more important things that both of you need to do?”

It’s a question that Mebuki asks Kizashi often as well. So, Sakura draws on her father’s steadfast reply, “What’s more important than spending time with family?”

Celandine falls silent and, from the slight furrow of his brow, Sakura can tell he’s pondering something. She plucks out several pieces of grass, eying them for quality. She chooses the greenest and plumpest among them, cupping it between her hands and pressing her thumbs up against her mouth. Glancing askance at Celandine, she grins when she realizes that he is still contemplating something.

Sakura blows hard into her hands and ensuing sound tramples the quiet between them. She notices with glee the way that Celandine jumps, turning a doleful look on her.

“What are you doing?” Celandine asks.

“Playing a grass whistle,” Sakura says, grin widening. “Well, more like a grass trumpet.”

“How do you do it?” he asks, peering down at her hands with interest.

Sakura’s grin softens at the spark of interest in her eyes and she opens her hands, placing the blade of grass into his. “Here,” she says, cupping his hands around it. “Let me show you.”

#my fic #satori (between the lines)#sakura haruno #mizuki #anko mitarashi #ibiki morino #sai #celandine #sakura has a wide variety of allies #not that she necessarily knows it

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noahxsweetwine · 6 years

Text

mistletoe

(no one sent this prompt I just wrote it bc I’m igyts trash. Also, I’m not a writer so this is probably bad asfflkajskl)

Jude Age 14

I hate mistletoe.

Given my trademark infatuation with the superstitious, most assume mistletoe is one of my good omens. In fact, Grandma Sweetwine’s Bible makes no mention of the spiky sprig, so I am left to turn to traditional ancient lore to find meaning in it.

The Druids believed mistletoe was a magical cure for every ailment. On the eve of their new year, they gathered it from oak trees, careful to not let it touch the ground. Then they hung it over their doorways and made it into drinks to take advantage of its fortuitous properties.

Mistletoe is actually poisonous. What’s more, it’s parasitic. It invades the soil around another plant’s roots and seeps the life out of it in order to live. The Druids were trying to cure one poison with another.

The more well-known connotation seems ridiculous to me. It’s as if we ignore the obvious danger of the plant for its seemingly harmless and beautiful appearance. (Better not walk under the mistletoe unless you want to smooch someone! What a joke.) Even if I did, the boycott is under full effect. They say if a woman is not kissed under the mistletoe at all during the season, she is destined to stay single for a year. That’s absolutely fine with me.

Some well-intentioned (or possibly mischievously-intentioned) CSA students thought it was a great idea to line the halls with the offending parasite. I’ve managed to mostly avoid it, but I have to check before I walk through doorways. (This isn’t too much extra effort: doorways are an auspicious liminal space anyway, so I’ve always been careful. Depending on who you ask, walking through an entryway backwards can be good or bad luck. Though, most things are either good luck or bad luck depending on who you ask.)

Once, though, I was in a rush to get to Anatomy (the science requirement for CSA students - it’s meant to be more tailored towards aspiring artists. I like it better than traditional science classes, but they still haven’t taught me what I really want to know. How can your twin brother’s beautiful brain suddenly stop communicating with his body? Why does my heart still feel pain when I’m hurt if emotions are controlled by the mind? What happens to the human body when it’s run through with a car?) In my haste, I didn’t look up before entering, and ended up nearly colliding with Caleb Cartwright (art-is-truth, I-have-no-filter Caleb Cartwright). I only dropped my pencil, but when I bent down to pick it up, there was snickering from within the classroom.

“Mistletoe,” one boy with purple hair pointed out. He looked immensely pleased with himself, despite the fact that he had spinach stuck in his teeth. “Wouldn’t want to defy tradition, would you, CJ?”

I gritted my teeth. In fact, I did not subscribe to every superstition out there, I wanted to say. I borrowed from what I saw fit, but Grandma Sweetwine’s Bible was my only obligation. Instead of saying anything, however, I pushed past Caleb, who looked like he couldn’t care less, honestly.

“No offense,” started Randy Brown. “But you look red as a tomato, CJ.”

I probably did. I willed my body to cease its vasodilation (a word I learned in Anatomy. See, education is not wasted on me.) The CSA kids aren’t nearly as malicious as those at my old school, but they often don’t have the tact (or the desire, maybe) to keep themselves from saying whatever came to mind. I wondered how Noah was surviving at the normal high school.

The bell rang, and I took my usual seat next to Fish. (Most CSA teachers changed the seating arrangements regularly to “promote evolving artistic collaboration,” but Anatomy was different because it involved lab partners.) Fish was staring intently at a Rubik’s cube she was holding in her hand. I wondered when she had gotten it, as I’d never seen her with it before.

I snap out of the memory. The mistletoe has started disappearing over the past few weeks, but I keep up my constant vigilance. I spot a sprig laying on the door frame leading to the art wing.

They say if mistletoe is allowed to touch the ground, disaster is sure to follow.

I flick the mistletoe off the door frame. I’m Calamity Jude, after all. Disaster seems to follow me anyway.

Jude Age 16

Maybe the Druids were right.

I keep finding bits of mistletoe in the hood of my jacket. Maybe it’s the work of my fellow CSA students, but I can’t imagine what reasons they would have for that and I doubt they would keep up the prank for five days in a row. More likely, it’s one (or both) of my matriarchal specters who is responsible. If it was meant to frustrate me, it’s probably Mom. If it’s supposed to...encourage me, or get me in the “holiday spirit,” it’s probably Grandma.

The French called mistletoe the “specter’s wand” and thought that its holder would have the power to see and communicate with ghosts. (I’ve never needed help with that.)

Regardless of the planter’s intention, the mistletoe has brought me good luck for once. Or that’s the way it appears.

Guillermo has agreed to mentor me, and English Guy (whose name is OSCORE!) is...certainly something. I keep having to remind myself of the boycott. Yesterday he tried to return the orange to me, telling me that “satsumas” are traditionally given as gifts around Christmastime in his home country.

My mind keeps drifting back to my last class before break: Thematic and Symbolic Art History. The lesson of the day was about, of all things, mistletoe. Or, at least, it was mistletoe-inspired. We learned the history and controversy surrounding works depicting the act of kissing. As in, The Kiss. All three versions: Klimt, Brancusi, Rodin. I wish Guillermo’s works had been included, now.

Guillermo is introducing me to his methods of teaching. I thought Oscar’s modeling would be a one-time thing, but apparently I need a lot of practice in portraiture if I’m going to ever sculpt my mother. I’ve drawn Oscar a lot now. His face is practically seared into the back of my mind. (Does it violate the boycott if I’m thankful his face is so nice to look at?)

Some ancient peoples believed that mistletoe had the power to open all locks. (Do hearts count as locks?)

Am I stupid to dream?

Jude Age 18

I’ve warmed to the mistletoe idea over the years.

It might have something to do with the fact that Noah is currently enthusiastically hanging mistletoe around the houseboat. Like the boat’s name, his sudden interest in the superstition, statistically my area of expertise, is a mystery. (Or maybe not: he only started decorating after Dad and I extracted a promise from him that the kissing rule would not be under effect. I doubt he’ll tell that to Brian, however, when he comes back from vacation tomorrow.) The anniversary of Mom’s death seems to loom less ominously than in previous years.

My wary appreciation, however, doesn’t entirely stem from my brother’s antics.

Christmas isn’t really a big thing in the Sweetwine family. When we were little, Noah and I made sandmen instead of snowmen, and our gingerbread houses were definitely not indicators of our level of artistic potential (at least, I hope not). But now the only tradition we have is ordering pizza and staying inside to watch movies, which happens year-round (especially the pizza part when Noah has anything to say about it).

I can appreciate the sentiment of the holiday, though. Renewal. Gratitude. Family.

Love.

I’m sick of losing soulmates. I’ve lost too many, especially in winter. Grandma. Mom (and Dad, for a while, around the same time). Zephyr.

At first, I thought the best way to heal was to cut out all possibility of love in my life. It seemed to be working for Noah. Hence, the boycott.

That went out the window as soon as I met Oscar and Guillermo. “I’m not okay,” Guillermo had said. “I’m not okay either,” I wanted to reply.

When I became Guillermo’s student, I felt like I was healing, through art and through Oscar. But over time, I realized Oscar had his own problems and we tended to amplify one another’s issues rather than resolve them. Being reciprocally “not okay” wasn’t an automatic path to a relationship. The inevitable breakup was mutual (if we were ever even in a relationship). It was nowhere close to being as messy as it could have been.

The whole Oscar thing should have made me more bitter about love. But it was more of a learning experience, really. A person can’t fix you. You can’t fix someone else. And too much of anything can kill you, as my toxicologist father often points out.

Mistletoe is the same way. It’s a parasitic species, yeah, and that shouldn’t be overlooked. Too much, and it seeps the life out of the forest. But in the right amounts, it has its place.

There was Zephyr. There was Oscar. There will be other chances. But for now, I’m content to have all ten fingers to draw and paint and sculpt with, a father and a brother to depend on in this rocking boat of a family, and the resolution to stop avoiding mistletoe as I walk through doorways.

When I think of mistletoe (and when I think of many things), Grandma Sweetwine’s words come to me:

Quick, make a wish. Take a (second or third or fourth) chance. Remake the world.

(Not confident I got the timeline right but just go with it. I know NoahandJude’s birthday is a bit before winter break, Jude met Oscar and Guillermo during winter break, and Diana died during a winter break....merry christmas/happy holidays!!)

(source for the lore)

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