#oh and after all that bloodshed and terror and death and destruction

[lem0nademouth]

the venn diagram of people who glorify + romanticize the IRA and people who call Hamas “freedom fighters” is nearly a perfect circle

#i am Irish and Jewish #and it astounds me to no end #how literally everyone can find it in them to justify reckless violence #as long as its against people they’ve arbitrarily decided are evil #random Jews & Israelis are not Benjamin Netanyahu #just like #random Protestants & Brits are not the Prime Minister or the monarchy #and if we’re really being technical abt it #Israel are the Catholics of this analogy #the IRA is closer to the IDF but i digress #oh and after all that bloodshed and terror and death and destruction #still no United Ireland 🙃 #and I am a capital R Republican #but we will never get there with indiscriminate violence

[1piece-for-you]

𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐭 — 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

[𝐀𝐒𝐊] - 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨😊𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲 — 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐀𝐒𝐋... 𝐂𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐄𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐊𝐢𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫?🙏🏼 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐬𝐬𝐬

[𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄] - 𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐣𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐀𝐒𝐋! 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐊𝐢𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫. 𝐇𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲, 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲. 

━━ 𝐄𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐊𝐢𝐝𝐝

— In the eyes of the public, Kidd is indisputably an uncontrollable savage; a menace that is shrouded in death and terror. He stands with an unwavering form that spits ichor and acid towards every authoritarian, barbarian, and civilian in his path, and his crew proudly shares the same sentiments as their captain, for they are just as ravenous and power-hungry as Kidd.

— And as his lover, a sense of pride thrums beneath your skin whenever you read headlines detailing the Kid Pirate’s most recent bloodshed. It is a thrilling sensation, knowing that Kidd possesses such monstrous strength, yet he treats you so wonderfully gentle with the right degree of roughness. 

— The strong grasp Kidd has on you are both enthralling and welcomed. The implication of being kept in his hardened arms with no escape never ceases to send biting tingles down the curve of your spine. His possessive behavior towards you is no secret; the mad scowl resembling that of hellhounds were enough to signal to all the unworthy individuals that you were undoubtedly claimed by him.

— Though selfish mannerism is befitting for the walking explosive that is Eustass Captain Kidd, the word jealousy never did quite seem to belong in his vocabulary. 

— And you were inclined to believe such a notion; Kidd is incredibly brazen with his earthly desires and greed for treasures he deems worthy of belonging in his collection. There never existed a reason for him to be jealous since the planets were constantly aligned in his favor. Whatever his target was, it will inevitably end up in his clutches.

— But the truth is, that attitude was only retained until you stepped into Kidd’s life. All the people he held in his bed before were for cheap, fleeting pleasure, and the materialistic goods in his possession are nothing more than replaceable, inanimate objects. You do not, nor ever will, belong in either of those categories; you are too precious to be labeled as anything other than Kidd’s treasured lover. 

— And so, after officializing your relationship, an unforeseen development was occurring within Kidd’s psyche. In the open air, where his sharp eyes take notice of the lingering gazes and judging stares your presence attracts, a newfound threat looms behind him. The sickly green claws of jealousy ropes around his neck, clawing at his throat to shout threats of murder towards any and all of your pursuers. 

— He would never admit it, but the slumbering insecurity buried deep in his metallic heart had finally awoken, rearing its ugly head whenever jealousy seeps into the cracks of his frame. 

— While you are considerate of Kidd’s feelings and would genuinely never wish for him to feel even the slightest bit of distress, your more sadistic side is a little too tempted to garner this reaction out of him. And as destructive as his rampages could be, which hinders the livelihood of both the innocent and Kid Pirates themselves, the entertainment you derive from them is intoxicating.

— There is plenty to notice of Kidd’s hostile behavior during his jealous outbreaks; the prominent veins throbbing on his neck, the faded white on the knuckles of his clenched fists, the feral eyes of a beast that craves red to be spilled. It is these same details that made Kidd so alluring in the first place.

— The most notable event of Kidd lashing out was when journalists for the News Coos had sought you out for an exclusive interview on your boyfriend. It was during one of those rare occasions when you had the privilege of self-isolation whenever visiting a relatively secluded island. Being asked to an interview was certainly a strange occurrence, but otherwise, you gladly accepted their invitation, just for the pure enjoyment you would receive when Kidd learns of this; it was sure to be a spectacle. 

— And oh, how right you were. You would even dare to compare the next morning of cotton candy and yellow rays to a night of vivid, scattered fireworks. The imaginary sparks that flew from the grinding of his teeth and the vicious glare that was scorching the newspaper to char as he traced the front headlines; the sight alone had undoubtedly left you high on cloud nine. A shame that Kidd did not share your view on the matter. The article was entirely laced with inflated lies and pompous descriptions courtesy of you, which the journalists easily lapped up, but those details were not what pressed Kidd’s gears.

— The picture accompanying the interview was none other than one of you; a quaint, charming photo that encapsulated your smile. It seemed that the editors deemed photos of Kidd to be both unnecessary and tasteless; he is a renowned pirate, his fiery red and crazed snarl is engraved into everyone’s mind. And so, that day’s newspaper had essentially settled you in the limelight. For that, he was livid beyond the orbit; he was furiously seething. You were swarmed with harmless threats, stuttered quibbles, and poorly disguised compliments for nearly a week.

— “How can you interact with these nobodies?” “If you wanted to talk about me, then I’m right here to listen, you know!” “Why would you let someone take a picture of you? Now the world will see how-! They’ll know about your existence!” “How dare you look so- look so damn cute!” - How brazen of you, to find a riled up Eustass Kidd be your guilty pleasure.

— But you know his limits, as any lover should when it concerns their partners, and to calm down that brute of yours, you resort to the two most effective methods; hushed whispers of sweet honey and melting wax, or close contact of bodies with not even a hairsbreadth of space in between. 

—But really, it never matters what you do, Kidd is always happy to indulge your needs and his own, especially if it rids that grotesque, sliver of doubt that nips at his mind as he drowns himself in the nectar of ecstasy. As long as you remain by his side and in his embrace, he will be content, and the same goes for you.

━━ 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫

— Killer is a dangerous man. He is the manifestation of dreading silence and disguisable malice; his mere presence of which that is both suffocating and daunting never ceases to send his foes onto trembling knees. It is honestly a shame that people allow his estranged mask to cloud their better judgment and underestimate his true strength, for they would be no different from mindless sheep wandering into the wolf’s den.  

— But perhaps there is some delight to be found in the fact that the masses remain ignorant of Killer’s more feral side, which lies beneath his metal veil of mystery and obscurity. Though, the real pleasure of it all truly descends upon your core when you are graciously given the chance to witness him succumb to the boiling heat of jealousy.

— Killer may be the level-headed one of the crew, with his silent bravado and hardened resolution, but that simply means he is more capable of hiding his true intentions. In a sort of absurdly humorous way, Killer could be compared to the infamous Pandora’s box; dare yourself to probe the enigma and be rewarded the gift of miserable consequences. 

— Typically, it would be an utter chore to garner any sort of instinctual response laced in ire from Killer; his patience and composure do rarely snap, but then again, it may be due to the iron pride he latches onto that refuses to falter in the face of his enemies. Well, whatever the incentive is, Killer effortlessly deflects and counters any shunning whims and mockery throttled his way, no matter the level of triviality in the situation. 

— And yet, when those supposedly trifling incidences drag you into its cesspool of festering problems, a rivulet of frigid panic whirls within him. There was something so prolifically revolting about heeding his lover involved in such situations, and that bitter inkling only deepens when he finds some weak nobodies casting empty promises and vapid flirts at you. The confinement in his chest would be too tight, suffocating his velvet rope in endless unease; it was impossible for him to ignore it, to ignore the desire to show you were his. 

— Now, Killer will never act out so intrusively at a scale that would cause you discomfort; he greatly respects your boundaries and privacy, shown through his timid head tilts and hovering hands as he waits for your confirmation to coddle you in tender intimacy. But sometimes, Killer’s need for a release from the thrumming tension and frustration distorts his reasoning, whether in the form of cloaked malice or blatant aggression. 

—  If it is the former, Killer would quietly come in between you and the other party with feigned formalities and subtle contact. His bold assertions range from small doting to shameless proximity; a brush of his bronze skin against your own warmth, a possessive embrace around your waist to pull you back against his steel frame, a shift of view to his mask, where you knew that Killer was riddling you with all his passion and reverence through his masked gaze.

— Ah, even the smallest of his grazes has your mind muddled in pink sugar.

— But as much as his fervid touches leave you teeming in a swirl of rousing electricity, there was no denying that the sparking sensation utterly surges when he follows up with a more assertive approach. And oh my, how his killing intent permeates the atmosphere when he is edged on by the crawling eyesore of your flatterer laying their sullied claws on your petaled features.

— Really now, just who did those specks of grime think they were, to project themselves upon you so invasively? Slamming an object down may be enough to scare off your contriving admirers, but the temptation to simply utilize his raw, brute power to ensure they never awake from their slumber was just too much of a rush for him to reject. However, Killer is more civilized when it pertains to social settings, so brawls prompted by him are not a common affair; but you could still list the numerous times he punched somebody for more warranted reasons, especially when they unmindfully slip themselves into your space by force.

— But the part that swoons your heart into torrid oblivion are the aftermaths of any of his invidious turmoils, when your ever so reserved giant, who can be reduced to melted chocolate and thawed hearts with a touch of your own, returns to you with a shameful expression. Through the veneer for his unmerited insecurity, you could vividly picture the confliction swimming in the depths of his cerulean eyes. 

— As unreasonable as it may sound, Killer is entangled in the firm belief that you had this sparkling image of him where he is this reposeful, yet formidable pirate who also happens to be the ideal boyfriend. It is this same notion that spurs Killer to play the role of a perfect lover; the unfortunate product of his childhood, where he spent years in hiding out of self-doubt. And so, when he finds himself reacting senselessly violent towards a mundane situation, fueled by nothing more than petty feelings, he is inclined to believe that he somehow has broken your trust.

— So it is in your best interest that you remind him of just how perfect he already was, how you adore his qualities, his potential, and his flaws; Killer does so much to deserve that melodic reassurance. Imagine, the radiant blissfulness that would cocoon his being once your comforting voice sends honey swirling through his body. And besides, his possessive arrays are enticing performances, because everything Killer does for you was just so profoundly romantic, even with the couple splashes of crimson here and there.

— Of course, there are other traits of Killer’s for you to wholly cherish him for other than the ones that lean towards his violent streak, but how can you gloss over such displays of ferocity without proper appreciation? He deserves at least some slick pressure poured in with unbridled love and infinite urges, from the top of his crown to the underside of his jagged jawline; perhaps even lower if you are ever so daring.

#one piece headcanon #op headcanon #one piece headcanons #op headcanons #kid x reader #killer x reader #eustass kid #killer

[sweet-bryaxis]

The Queens

"Hybern hunts you because of what you took from the cauldron. The queens want you dead for vengeance - for robbing them of immortality." (ACOWAR)

"The other queens won't go into the cauldron for terror of the same happening now. And the youngest one... Oh, you should hear how she talks, Nesta Archeron. The things she wants to do to you when Hybern is done..." (ACOWAR)

"Nesta's eyes shot right to his face. She spoke quietly to me, to all of us, even as she held Cassian's gaze as if he were the only one in the room. "By the end of this war, I want them dead. The king, the queens- all of them. Promise me you'll kill them all (...)" (ACOWAR)

"But perhaps more pressing," I went on, jabbing a finger on the sprawling continent, "is the fact that the human queens have not returned to their own territories. They linger in that joint palace of theirs. “ (ACOFAS)

Well, after all these little hints throughout the books I'm not really surprised that the queens will play a big role in the upcoming book ;)

From ACOWAR we know that the queens sold Vassa to Koschei, who is one of the death gods and the brother of the Weaver and the Bone Carver. 

“ They are death-gods, girl,” the Carver hissed. “You are immortal—or long-lived enough to seem that way. But my siblings and I … We are different. And the two of them … Stronger. So much stronger than I ever was” 

So maybe that will be the new alliance tha queens made. I imagine that an old and once-powerful Death God like Koschei, who collects women on his lake, would be very interested in Nesta and her powers that she stole from the cauldron.

"What if I tell you what the rock and darkness and sea beyond whispered to me, Lord of Bloodshed? How they shuddered in fear, on that island across the sea. How they trembled when she emerged. She took something—something precious. She ripped it out with her teeth.” (ACOWAR)

Another little theory of mine is, that during the book at some point, the queens will try to abduct or kill Nesta while Cassian is away in some other camp to deal with the Illyrian rebellion. And here's why: The Illyrians are afraid of Nesta and don't want her around them since they fear that she is a witch. Due to this, she will probably stay somewhere where she is isolated from them. 

“Is she a witch.” I opened my mouth, but Nesta said flatly, “Yes.” And I watched as nine full-grown, weathered Illyrian warlords flinched. “She may act like one sometimes,” Cassian clarified, “but no—she is High Fae.” “She is no more High Fae than we are,” Devlon countered.” (ACOWAR)

And even if they notice the attack, I doubt that the Illyrians would protect Nesta especially if Cassian is not there. Because not only do they fear her but she is also the High Lady's sister and Rhysands SIL, who they blame for the deaths of their warriors and loved ones. So what better way to get revenge on the Inner Circle.  

  “They train and train as warriors, and yet when they don’t come home, their families make us into villains for sending them to war?” “Their families have lost something irreplaceable,” I said carefully. (ACOFAS)

It wouldn't be all too surprising if they don't come to Nesta's help when the queens come for her (Not that she would need help since she probably will be able to kick their asses with her death magic (or new fighting abilities... ) ).

(Also, imagine all the angst *.* Cassian feeling Nesta's terror through the bond while he is miles away in another camp. He flys as fast as he can and arrives only to find the camp in absolute chaos and Nesta nowhere in sight. The sheer panic and rage because they took his mate. But then he sees her amits all the destruction. A mighty, vengeful, queen. She turns and no one knows who moves first but they reach for each other. They kiss. Argh, my heart! (please can someone write a fic about this, pretty please!))

#acosf #nessian #nesta archeron #cassian #a court of silver flames #acowar #sarah j maas

[slightly-radical-universe]

Indaba, My Children- Review

Indaba, My Children, is a book that compels you to reimagine Africa ,it’s history and the origins of the black man. No- he is not the missing link between ape and humanity ,as previously suggested by “respectable” men of science. Throughout the book, the author emphasizes that little is known about the Black man’s culture ,customs, traditions and religion. This can be attributed to all the strict laws which govern the  accessibility , dissemination and acquisition of knowledge in Africa. Very few wise men and women are chosen as “Custodians of tribal history”. These individuals are then tasked with the grave responsibility of being guardians and repositories of all of Africa’s secrets and wonderful mysteries. 

Custodians of Tribal History are sown to secrecy through intense rituals and blood oaths. They are never to reveal some of the sacred wisdom which has now been passed down to them- to the average Tom, Dick and Sipho. “Vey little knowledge is passed on to common people and nothing is ever disclosed to strangers” (p.654). The author believes that  this impeccable shroud of secrecy surrounding Indigenous African Knowledge  is a major contributing factor to inequality and to the racism that has caused much havoc and heartache in the past. He believes that if there were a better understanding between black and white, much bloodshed could’ve been avoided. (He uses Dingana and the death of Piet Retief to illustrate this point). Credo Mutwa, therefore implores the white man to exterminate his ignorance and arrogance and for once learn and understand the black man for what he truly is- How he thinks , the beliefs and philosophies that guide his thinking, his actions and much more. “The African can only be understood in terms of the strange workings of his own mind and those who do not appreciate this may as well refrain from studying the African” (p.655).

Indaba, My Children is thus an attempt to paint a portrait of Africa that the world has never seen before. To demystify the notion that the black man of Africa is a Kaffir- (“ A man without a soul , an unbeliever and a person who can never see the paradise of Allah” - Arab definition as detailed in p.656  ) who has contributed nothing to the advancement and development of humanity at large. This is achieved by taking the reader on a captivating and thrilling adventure through the annals of time. From the very beginning of time when a great nothingness engulfed the earth. To the very first goddess , Ninavanhu-Ma who created the very stars, mountains and oceans and then went on to give birth the human race. We get a glimpse of tribal life in precolonial Africa - the good the great and the not so good. 

Women play a very significant role in this great piece of literature. Throughout the story we have many great heroines and rounded female characters. Women can be seen in positions of leadership ,as chieftains and emperors. They are presented as wise , strong and authoritative. There is a synergy and cooperative spirit that governs the men and women. Force and violence against the female body are extremely frowned upon and even punishable by death. Women can therefore practice autonomy over their own bodies and even choose to turn down suitors and marriage proposals. 

Tribal law  governs the people and absolutely no one is above it. For the preservation of all the laws, customs and traditions of the tribes- everyone must obey all the laws that have been clearly  set out. The laws are very strict and they pertain to matters such as- Behavior,  rituals , adultery, sex before marriage, theft , murder , abortion ,rape and overall conduct. There are about one hundred such laws and they often contradict those which have been superimposed on Africans by foreigners. When a law is broken a suitable punishment is carried out by the “Tribal avengers”. The punishments are very crude and unforgiving, they are the grimmest part of life pre-colonial life. According to Tribal Law, anyone under 25 years of age is still considered a child and is strictly forbidden to marry or to partake in any form of sexual activities. Failure to adhere to this law is punishable by death. 

Polygamy is shown as a normal part of life. Most men take more than two wife's and chiefs really have no limit. The author states that : “ A fallacy dear to many people is that polygamy is practiced as a sign of wealth and prestige” (p. xviii). He cautions that that is very far from the truth. According to the coveted high Tribal Law “ A  man must have no relations with his wife during her periods of menstruation or during the entire period while she breastfeeds a baby... Opposition to polygamy encourages extensive immorality and  destruction of Bantu family life and traditions. p.633” . It is believed that the males semen poisons the baby's  milk. Thus polygamy is crucial in these situations, it ensures that these sacred laws will not be broken. It is also worthy to note that polygamy is not only practiced by males. Yes, a female who goes up the ranks and becomes chieftainess , gets a whopping three husbands all to herself! To top it off , she has to ask for their hand in marriage! 

Hair plays a very important symbolism. The “sicolo” hairstyle is worn by married women, usually of royal blood. Different tribes can be identified by their unique hairstyles. “The Strange Ones” are said to have “hair that looks as yellow as corn” and they are identified by their strangely silky , long and shiny hair. The Arabs or  “The Feared Ones” are identified as having “fuzzy hair and long beards”.

Slavery , something that was almost alien to Africans , becomes very rampant shortly after the arrival of the first ship. Life as we know it takes a horrid and bitter turn. Suddenly , human beings are sold and traded off like cattle. Fear and terror reign supreme and it seems that the very gods have turned their backs on the black man and woman of Africa. Men and women are made to fight and slaughter each other as a very eccentric and sadistic means of entertainment for the Strange Ones. Human beings are farmed and breed like pigs, to ensure an overflow of good quality slaves. At times, just for fun or experimentation. This dark period in the history of Africa, make the harsh punishments under Tribal Law seem very merciful and humane. The Strange Ones had traditions that were very macabre and blood-chilling. For instance, when their emperors died, he was buried along with his living wife and half of his slaves!  There is also mention of traitor tribes, who betrayed the black race by banding together with the Strange Ones as well as the slave-raiding Arabi and sold off millions of African men and women to save their own backs. And also for gaining wealth and favors from the straight-haired foreigners. 

Christianity is first introduced by the arrival of the  “Potugeesa” in page 521. It is a completely foreign and alien concept and only symbolized by the statuette carried by the foreigners. “ ...ten more of the aliens emerged from the forest led by the one wearing a dark-brown  robe reaching to his ankles. He was carrying a staff on the top of which was a bronze statuette of a man of some race, nailed to a cross of wood by his hands and feet ”. Africans lived a life in harmony with nature and were guided by their gods , and various traditions and customs. They could discern right from wrong and governed themselves accordingly.

Vusamazulu Mutwa breaks his sacral oath of silence as a high witchdoctor and chosen custodian as a last and desperate attempt to save the dying knowledge and customs of his people. “Why are we expected to abandon our way of life- our culture and traditions- and suddenly adopt others which are extremely strange to us? p.691 ” . In fear of Africa being turned into “a soul-less carbon copy” of her colonizers, Mutwa bears it all. “Oh! my indolent and gullible Africa- the superior aliens glibly talk of bringing “the light of civilization” to your shores. And yet the only civilization they can bring is one infected with physical,  moral and spiritual decay p.691”. Mutwa, believes that by bringing forth Africa's not-yet- forgotten past , we can weave a better understanding and corporation between Black and White, and dispel blatant mistruths and strongly held beliefs such as the one published in the Sunday Times “...The White man is superior to the Black, because apart from a few crude drawings in crude caves, nothing cultural, scientific and social has ever been achieved by a black...” (E. Morris,  Johannesburg, on August, 1962 ).

Indaba My Children is truly a work of genius. Its written in a compelling and enchanting style that is on a league of it’s own. The reader is thoroughly entertained and goes through a whirlwind of emotions ranging from amazement , pity , fear and anger to name a few. “A person  who is not familiar to Africa and its people might find it difficult to understand this story, let alone read between the lines p.529” It does not follow the “classic”, western three-act structure of story-telling and the perspective of the story-teller jumps back and forth between the main characters, the author and even animals! Parts of the story are told from the point of view of the animals. This draws the reader in the mind of these beasts and it is a powerful way of showing that animals have a mind and consciousness of their own. It also signifies the sacred relationship between the pre-colonial African and the animals in his environment. This story is said to be “...a strange mixture of historical fact and legendary fantasy, a strange mixture of truth and nonsense”. This story is not intended only as a means of entertainment, but is also educational in that it is said to embody tribal history and law. It is written in a way that it can be enjoyed by both old and young. 

#indabamychildren #credomutwa #book review

[arofili]

The Second Kinslaying

for @feanorianweek, day 5: Curufin. this fic is my headcanons for how the Second Kinslaying went down. this is a dream/flashback from chapter 4 of a longer fic about the Feanorians’ rebirth, but it stands on its own and i’m quite proud of it so i wanted to share it again!!

CW: canonical character death, graphic depictions of violence

~

Maedhros tells them to hold back as long as they can. Curufin tries to listen, but he is so full of anger; the Oath pushes him forward...

They are met by a line of guards—marchwardens summoned home to protect Menegroth from attack. They are not enough, not without Melian's protection. Maedhros orders not to kill them unless they must. Curufin tries to obey, he truly does, but the first marchwarden cuts down one of his warriors and he sees red. Before he knows it, he has killed again.

It's never easy. Looking into the glassy eyes of another elf, their blood on your hands, their fae drained away... Your own fae is tattered at the edges, bleeding out its light. Curufin isn't just tattered, he's shredded into pieces.

Caranthir charges forward, wreaking a path of destruction. He screams Dior's name, taunting him, goading him to come out and fight. "Or are you content to let your people die for you?" he cries. Curufin is too caught up in the battle to feel anything other than a brief pang of fear for his brother. Caranthir fights alone: it is his way, has always been his way.

Maedhros and Maglor are together, bellowing commands to their warriors, trying to keep the bloodshed to a minimum. Maglor weaves between Maedhros' swordstrokes, dancing in a rhythm only he can hear. He is preparing for something, Curufin knows. Something powerful. Maedhros stands tall, defending. He cuts down only those who come for him, never seeking out an opponent. He doesn't have to: he is the leader, the eldest, the fiery beacon burning through the gaping wounds in his fae. He is the target.

The twins are hidden in the trees. They and their archers rain arrows upon the warriors; the strategy is not as effective as it would have been in their own lands. The marchwardens know their home too well, and clamber up the branches to fight them closer.

He and Celegorm are back to back, working together as they always have. They are better as a unit, fiercer and sharper and faster. United with his brother, Curufin is unstoppable. Celegorm is wildness, he is cleverness. Together they are a force to be reckoned with.

The carnage outside the throne room is sickening, even to Curufin. He wades in blood, widening his stance so he does not slip; he watches less experienced fighters trip over the bodies of their fallen kin. When one marchwarden falters in such a blunder, Curufin lunges, splitting him open from groin to gullet.

At last they see Dior. He is radiant, glowing like a Calaquendi, but all seven Fëanorians can see at once that he has hidden the Silmaril. It may still be on his person, or it may be elsewhere—where is it? where is it? where is it?

Caranthir screams and rushes forward into the throne room. He babbles some nonsense about a Maia's bastard, coming completely unhinged. Curufin exchanges one look with Celegorm, and they hurry to their brother's aid.

They can't get close enough. Behind him, Curufin can hear Maglor's voice raised in a song of power, and the earth trembles—the walls outside the throne room collapse. They are trapped inside. The fighting intensifies; Curufin and Celegorm protect Caranthir's back, holding back anyone who tries to assault him in his march to Dior, but they cannot reach him.

"What is he doing?" Celegorm bellows. "This is madness! He'll be killed!"

Caranthir has cast down his shield. He holds a blade in either hand, and he leaps toward Dior, who catches those twin blades with his own curved sword.

Madness. Yes, that was the right word. Caranthir had gone mad, heedless of his many wounds, completely berserk. Celegorm cried out to him, but Curufin knew it wouldn't work. Caranthir was too far gone inside his own mind.

"NO!" Celegorm shouts, and Curufin can't find words, can't find air, can't find meaning—

Dior's blade has sliced through Caranthir's armor, through his skin, through his belly, straight through to the other side of his body.

Caranthir goes still, staring into Dior's gleaming eyes. "Kinslayer," he says through a mouthful of blood, before he falls limp, Dior's blade sliding out of him.

Fool. A damn fool, that's what he was. Curufin's hot tears blind him as he rushes forward, heedless of who he's killing as he fights his way to his brother's body. Celegorm roars, and he's no singer like Maglor, but the sound sends a wave of force throughout the throne room. Every elf tumbles to the ground—only Curufin, standing in his shadow, keeps his footing. He darts forward, slicing throats, slitting wrists, stealing life from all those around him. He isn't sure if all his own warriors had already fallen, or if he had killed them all too, but by the time he regains control of himself, only he, Celegorm, and Dior are standing.

"You know," Celegorm growls as he advances on the murderous king, "if you had surrendered and given us the Silmaril, we would have spared you. Even if we'd already started fighting. But now?" He lunges forward, nicking Dior on the arm before his blow is deflected. "Now, I don't care what you do. I'm going to fucking disembowl you."

"Oh, yes," Curufin hisses, mirroring his brother as the duel begins in earnest. "You killed our brother. I am going to enjoy your suffering, Dior Eluchíl."

(The worst thing, Curufin thinks later, after it is all over, is that it is absolutely true. He never took pleasure in murder, despite what the stories may have said. He accepted it as part of the Oath they had sworn and didn't waste time obsessing over the guilt—not the way Nelyo did—but he never liked it. But this time...)

This time, he relishes every second of Dior's pain and fear. He draws it out, longer than he needs to, balancing Celegorm's impatient fury. Dior knows he's losing, but he holds his own against the two most fearsome warriors left living in Beleriand. He must have known this day would come, must have been raised in fear of the Fëanorians.

Well, good, Curufin thinks as he cuts one of Dior's sleeves off, then the other, grinning as Dior gasps from the pain of the shallow grazes on his arms. He deserves every second of terror, for what he had done to Caranthir.

"Shall we finish him, brother?" he asks Celegorm.

"I think we shall," Celegorm growls. He raises his sword for one final, heaving blow—

And Dior, faster than Curufin thought anyone could be, twists away from Curufin and drives his blade right into Celegorm's chest.

Celegorm finishes his movement, thrown off balance by the deadly wound but still managing to slice open Dior's stomach. His guts spill across his body with an acidic stench that rises to Curufin's nostrils, but he barely notices as Celegorm heaves his last breath and falls, glassy-eyed, to the blood-drenched floor.

Dior tumbles to the ground, groaning horribly, his sword clattering out of his hand. Curufin turns away from him, kneeling beside Celegorm's body, howling his grief. He feels as if half his soul has been torn from him. Celegorm is dead.

Curufin rises, trembling. He casts aside his own blade and picks up Dior's sword, advancing on his fallen foe.

"Where is it?" he hisses. "The Silmaril! Where is it?"

Dior laughs, an awful, guttural sound. "You'll never get it," he rasps. "Never. Not even—" he coughs, choking on his own blood— "not even if you slaughter everyone in Doriath. You'll never find it."

Curufin's rage is controlled, precise. He has honed it over his entire life like he would any other weapon, and even now he does not lose that control.

"My brother was always true to his word," he says softly, almost conversationally. "He promised to disembowl you." Curufin prods the mass of putrid guts spilling out of Dior's stomach, chuckling. "And he did it. I, however, am a known liar. I said I would enjoy your death. Now I am not so sure. Perhaps I will let you lie here until the rats come to feast upon you. I should let you bleed out, long and slow. You are going to die, you know."

Fear flickers in Dior's eyes. Curufin smiles.

"Yes, I think I'll do that," he says. "Let you go at your own pace. That will delay the inevitable."

"You..." Dior rasps, but Curufin cuts him off.

"Ah ah ah," he tuts. "Talking only makes it worse."

He shifts as if to turn around, letting Dior think he's gotten off the hook, that perhaps there may some way his Ainur blood could stitch him back together. He sees Dior relax slightly out of the corner of his eye.

Then he spins back around, shoving Dior's own blade down his throat until he chokes on it, bursting through his esophagus and pinning him to the floor. Dior screams, as much as a dying man with a sword through his throat can scream, and the awful noise causes a thrill of sadistic joy in the pit of Curufin's stomach.

The scream trails off into a hideous gurgle, and Curufin's shoulders slump. Grief at last overtakes him, and he shakes as sobs rack his body. Caranthir is dead. Celegorm is dead. Dior is dead, also, but the Silmaril is not on his body. Unless the others have discovered it, this horror is all in vain...

The others. Maedhros, Maglor, Amrod, Amras. He must tell them what had happened. He must be the one to deliver the heartbreaking news that two of them had fallen. He must—

"Oh," he says softly as he feels cold steel run through his back and watches as a sword slides through his belly. He is dizzy all of a sudden, though his rhaw has gone numb and all sense of pain is dulled.

Curufin topples backward, falling on the hilt of the sword, the weight of his body pushing the blade deeper into his torso. He looks up, mouth hanging open in surprise, to see a slight and silvery figure hovering above him, her bloodstained hands clasped over her mouth in horror. Nimloth has taken vengeance for her husband.

He locks eyes with her. He is barely aware of what he whispers in his dying breath, but she hears it, the echo of Caranthir's last accusation:

"Kinslayer."

~

[read more about Curvo’s thoughts “after it is all over” in ATATYA, the fic i pulled this snippet from! and please, please leave a comment if you enjoy!]

#feanorianweek #curufin #caranthir #celegorm #silmarillion #dior #nimloth #silm #my writing #tefain nin #atatya #the second kinslaying #second kinslaying

[thecursedvaultchild]

The Aftermath

What happens after the Battle of Hogwarts.

Timmy's Last, A Promise (by @hogwartsmysterystory ), and Talbott's Revenge all occur before this. Your Father's Eyes Part 3 (also by @hogwartsmysterystory ) is after this.

MCs in here are Lau King @slytherin-puffskein , Lith Thorne @slytherinliththorne , Jason Novak @death-or-sleep , Chloe Travers, Kaina Malin @zuulosdovah , Skylar Morningstar @angrynar , Ethren Whitecross @hogwartsmysterystory

---

She was exhausted. It ran through her tongue through her arms through her legs. It was like having the Jelly-Legs Curse cast through her whole being. Or maybe someone had Vanished all her bones. Her body was battered and bruised, she was probably bleeding somewhere. Her clothes were so torn up it looked like she had just fought death. The thought made her set her jaw grimly. She had fought death. And Death Eaters.

The Auror dragged herself through the castle. They had won, thank Merlin for Harry Potter, but here was the aftermath. Blood stained across the stone floor, wailing echoed through the halls, bodies were strewn about. So many of them were children. Her heart ached at the sight. She knew there'd be those that died. She pitied them. And in a way, envied them. Dying is easy, living is harder. She knew it all too well.

Familiar faces passed her sight. Liz Tuttle helping the centaurs find their wounded, face streaked with tears. Barnaby Lee helping Lau King to the Great Hall. She swore she'd kill those that had hurt him one day. Lith Thorne stood to the side, more silent than she'd ever been at school. She swore she'd make her laugh again one day. Jason Novak with his glasses shattered, helping carrying a body. She swore she'd get him to tease her about her fashion sense one day. Chloe Travers, blood stained across her hands as she ripped masks off corpses. She swore they'd drink and share secrets late into the night again one day. Anyone who claimed Slytherins were cowards didn't know what it was like to look at an approaching danger that might have family amongst the enemy and decide whether to fight them or choose to live another day and help others.

She also saw others from different Houses. Some she hadn't seen in years. A group of redheads gathered around a stretcher. She'd leave the Weasleys alone in their grief for now. A blonde woman passing out potions with a wavering smile. She'd hug Penny soon. Twins, one with short hair and one with long hair, were comforting shocked students. She'd speak to the Khanna twins later.

Talbott. Where was Talbott? She hadn't seen him since he went after… She clutched her side tighter, fingers curling into the cloth. She hoped he was alive. Oh mercy, she hoped with all her heart he was alive and she wasn't yet again left all alone in this dreary world.

With no direction to go back in the mass of destruction, she wandered into the courtyard. Her blood still ran cold remembering how just hours ago Voldemort had stood there across the way, claiming victory and killing Harry Potter himself. Now there was no definite line as dead and living on both sides were mingled without. One group in particular vaguely caught her eye. A solemn man black-haired with white streaks, a short blonde fidgeting with her wand, a woman with a long and wild mane cradling a man with caramel hair...

"ETHREN!" She knelt beside him, gripping his shoulder and shaking him. "Merlin no… he can't be dead. He can't be!"

The blonde woman, Kaina, was it? Right, his fellow Gryffindor. They were friends and in the Order together but it'd been so long, she'd nearly forgotten. The healer looked on helplessly. She must have tried everything she could… but no one can stop death. Not even Skylar could, with his connection to the dead. She could only see the grief in his eyes but otherwise he was stock still.

She looked up at the sobbing, wild witch. She grabbed her robes and shoved her wand in her face. "Did you do this, Snyde? Did you kill him?! Answer me, you witch!"

The Death Eater struggled only a little. "NO! I DIDN'T! Why would I kill him, Charn?! I was trying to save him… and then the idiot saved me…" Tears streaked across her pale face. Summer let go, sitting back on her feet. He was gone…

"Merula. What happened?"

The other woman collapsed into her arms, shoulders heaving, grip tight. It was just like the time after the Cursed Portrait Vault and the tough Slytherin had woken her up with her sobbing. Summer held her. She listened as she heard everything that happened. From the night she had visited Ethren to the battle just fought to the—

"Charn! I have a child! Please… my son… Our son. They'll throw me into Azkaban and, and…" The broken witch hissed to the other one who was just as shattered.

She simply rubbed her back soothingly, ignoring the pain and anger bubbling within her.

Skylar's gaze narrowed. "The Aurors won't get to you, Snyde. I'll hide you."

"They already have."

They looked up to see Talbott, dried blood streaking down his face. His eyes were dark. "Charn already has you." 

Summer felt the guilt that only Talbott could make her feel  She should've been doing her job as an Auror hunting down Death Eaters after the battle. 

"There won't be anymore bloodshed tonight. But you will be going to Azkaban, Snyde." He glared at Skylar. "And nothing will change that."

Merula looked defeated. "I give myself up." Her voice was flat and dull. She let go of Summer as if she hadn't been clinging onto her former rival for comfort and gently brushed Ethren's hair out of his face.

Swallowing back more tears, Summer reached up for her husband's hand and took it. His grip was tight and almost bone-breaking. She didn't know what it meant and she's not sure she wanted to know. But he's alive. And that's all that matters. She pressed her lips firmly against his calloused palm, closing the promise he gave her. He slowly closed his fingers back around hers once she removed her head. His hand was shaking. He too stared at his decreased friend. Ethren had broken his curse… only to die saving his lover.

They stayed there for a long few moments. She had lost so much. It didn't seem… well, it didn't seem fair she had to lose this idiot too. But fair or not, he was dead. 

And after standing there for a while, Talbott pulled her up to her feet and she numbly obeyed, leaning against him. "I'm came back, like I promised you." His breath was hot in her ear. "Now we have work to do. We can succumb to grief later, when Death Eaters and werewolves aren't on the loose, still terrorizing innocents. I'll take Snyde to the Astronomy Tower. You do what you can."

She looked at him, searching his tired gaze. Her thumb rubbed against the blood on his cheek, getting it off. And she kissed him. Fierce and hard with so much unsaid in it. But Talbott and her always had that knowing of what was left unsaid. He pulled her close to him.

It was all too short and he was letting her go, gently pushing her aside and yanking Snyde to her feet. He had no sympathy for Death Eaters.

"Let's go, Snyde."

She offered no protest and let the justice-driven Auror lead her away.

A child… She had whispered, voice desperate. Her rambling was so fast and low-spoken, Summer wasn't sure anyone else had heard. Her child. His child. She looked down at her close friend. His teal eyes were still open. She hoped the child had his father's eyes.

And she got up and left the courtyard. Leaving Ethren Whitecross behind. Skylar followed, slipping his arm around her shoulders. 

Her gaze once more swept the destruction. The battle had been won. Voldemort was dead. But the wounds it left would take a long time—and more than a few bottles of firewhiskey—to heal.

Fin.

#hogwarts mystery #battle of hogwarts #HERE'S MORE ANGST #I'M GONNA CRY #summer charn #talbott winger #ethren whitecross #merula snyde #skylar morningstar #lith thorne #lau king #jason novak #chloe travers #drakaina malin #liz tuttle #penny haywood #rowan khanna #barnaby lee #alaire whitecross #hphm #FEELS TRAIN WOOT WOOT #ALL ABOARD #angst but hope at the end

[diveronarpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with HUGO KIM, who is TWENTY-NINE years old. He is often called HELENUS by the CAPULETS and works as their SOLDIER. He uses HE/HIM pronouns.

TW; DRUGS, DEATH

He came from nothing, quite literally. His father came to Italy with nothing but the clothes on his back, four euros in his pocket, and his wife’s hand held tightly in his lap. And from that nothing, he built and EMPIRE. Not the sort one would think, not one to be gawked at or fiercely envied, but the kind a hard-working man loved to call his own. A restaurant that soon became his pride and joy, his two sons, Albert and Hugo, growing up in diapers behind the counter and emerging young men in the kitchen. Always looking up to his older brother, Hugo modeled his entire WORLD around him, only to be disappointed every time he had to work one of his shifts, or cover for him with his parents when he didn’t come home at curfew. But no matter what Albert did, Hugo always found a way to love him even more. He wrote him off as just a wildcard, someone who lived to grab life by the heart, seize every opportunity, and take as many risks as possible. And he didn’t mind being the one to pick up the slack, in fact, he LOVED it. Home is always where the heart is, and Hugo’s lied with his family and God, above all else.

It was only natural that he took to charity like his mother, spending what little free time he could conjure to devote himself to the CHURCH. Hugo walked in her footsteps, starting from the ground up as he sat behind the booth at food drives and collected clothes for the homeless. But what others would call tiresome work, hopeless and a waste of energy, he could only smile at. For helping is what brought him true happiness. Cracking open his chest had become second nature, offering up his HEART the only thing he was confident enough to do. Generosity flowed through his veins the same way heroin flowed through Albert’s, and while one was by the grace of God, the other was the work of the Devil. Of that his parents were positive, each and every time they brought over Father Salvatore to speak with his older brother. As if divine intervention was all he needed, to let Jesus into his life as his Lord andSAVIOR. But what Hugo knew were the harsh realities of the world outside their doors, the hurt and pain his mother and father close their eyes to. It couldn’t happen to their children; it wouldn’t. Not after all they’d poured into giving them a better life than the one they had.

It wasn’t long before altar boy turned Sunday school teacher entered the SEMINARY, but as is His will, Hugo accepted it had always meant to work out this way. He was a soothing voice through the violence and terror that shrouded Verona. A wise and soft man, gentle enough to counteract the heinous deeds of his older brother. But God had always favored Abel’s SACRIFICE, hadn’t he? Cain never stood a chance. The bang sounds at a quarter to three in the morning, waking Hugo from a dead sleep. Panic and adrenaline force him from his bed, rushing toward the sound he thinks was a gunshot. His suspicions are confirmed as he rounds the corner into the living room to find Albert, who he hasn’t seen in three years—not since he stole the cash from his wallet, the keys to his car and took off in the night—being held at the scruff by some thug in a leather jacket. His mother’s lifeless body rests atop the hardwood, BLOOD beginning to pool beneath her. He’s next, the stranger grunts and points the barrel at his father. Unless you give us the money, right now. He shouts and shoves his older brother to the floor, laughing as his head smashes into the dining room table leg. In this moment, the world slows down. Time grows still as Hugo watches his entire life crumble, the home his parents built sullied in a matter of seconds, splattered in the viscera of his brother’s SINS. And it is then he decides what must be done, that this cancerous tumor Albert calls purpose and being needs to be removed once and for all. Intruder now distracted by lighting a cigarette, he sets his gun atop the kitchen table, and Hugo sees his chance. In two strides, his finger is on the trigger, the still-warm barrel pointed at his brother’s forehead. BANG. It seems as though his parents had been right all along, all his brother truly needed was divine intervention, Hugo just hadn’t seen he would need to be the deliverance.

I’ll work off his debt. That was all it took, five little words and he was theirs. The easiest decision is no decision at all, and that’s what joining the Capulets was. Set in stone by the actions of the brother he killed, or rather put out of his MISERY, but he’d surely pay for it. In blood, sweat, and tears, all his own. His hands became a thing to be feared, a weapon to use when the truth needed extracting or a body needed burying, but each Sunday morning he was there. Perched atop the altar in his golden robes, a SERMON on the tip of his tongue. Lead them, they told him when the sun was high and His song was on their lips. And he does so with such benevolence, as if God as entered him for but a brief thirty minutes, with nothing but grace and absolution pouring from Hugo as he preaches. They flock and he guides them, a SHEPHERD to Cosimo Capulet’s people. Bury ‘em with the others, they ordered by the cover of night, stars glimmering overhead as a thud hit the dusty ground. Sweat gathered along his brow and dread filled his chest, but Hugo did as he was told. He picked up the shovel and served his penance as any good, little Catholic boy would. Paying no mind to the fact it was he who had beaten the man to death.

ROMAN MONTAGUE: Curiosity. Such delicacy must be handled with care, no? So he wonders how the heir fares coddled in the bosom of bloodshed and brutality, and yet manages to be so exquisitely tender. It was but a glance, but a kind word offered in a moment of weakness on Hugo’s part, but he has been eternally grateful ever since. He knows not Roman’s sins, but would listen with a bent knee and a keen ear if ever given the chance. If ever allotted the opportunity to get to know him further, to deepen this likeness he feels for the Prince of Verona. It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? Hugo’s passion for the inexplicable, his downright yearning for its approval and its warm embrace. The Montague is everything unexplained, everything unexplored, and Hugo wants nothing more than to chart a course, however sinful or full of betrayal such a journey may be. Enter a curious Capulet and a gentle Montague.

HALCYON SANTOS: False deity. She’s his guiding light, the only reason he’s made it this far. He trusts her words more than anyone’s, more than perhaps even Cosimo’s, though that wouldn’t be too unbelievable considering all the things that man has made him do. But Halcyon understands him, feels the same white light in her heart for Him, and what’s more, he thinks he can see it. That light, shining through her eyes every time he dares to steal a glance. Sometimes he’s afraid to look, though, worried if he does, it’ll swallow him whole. So he listens, he does what he’s told. Holy water spills from her divine tongue, and though she asks for blood—always more blood, more bullets, more death—he’s always happy to oblige. To follow orders from such a saint is a blessing in his eyes. But all gods devour, don’t they? They feed on their worshipper’s sacrifice like a dog takes to a bone, and Hugo can’t help but wonder when she’ll devour him, too.

MIKAEL FALCO & EASTON CRAVEN: Brothers-in-arms. They terrify him, the both of ‘em. For entirely different reasons, of course. Hugo can see the dark path Macbeth walks hand-in-hand with his Lady, bound together by a halo of thorns, and he can only imagine the destruction that is to follow. He knows what it means to be lost, to feel abandoned and forgotten by Him—even Hugo has lost his way every now and then—but the path with which Mikael aligns himself causes a knot to form in the pit of his stomach. Edmund is something else, a creature of chaos and ruination. They whisper bastard in his direction, but Hugo knows what that word truly means. The kind of man such shame elicits, and such a thing is oh, so dangerous. Something to be watched and carefully guarded. But the leash just keeps getting longer, doesn’t it? He’s given an infinite amount of slack, allowed to behave as unabashedly as he wishes. But no matter how hard Easton tries to shed that seven letter word, all Hugo can see is him earning it time and time again.

LAWRENCE VERNON: Confessor. It was a week ago, half-past one in the dark Cathedral, when he shed his sins in Hugo’s confessional. The liquor on his breath was no mask, there wasn’t one thick enough to hide the voice so clear in his ear, though his face was obscured by thin wooden mesh. Hugo knew him to bleed just as he, however opposite his allegiance was, though it seemed he sinned tenfold. Years of abhorrent crimes, sins against father, sister, and lover spilled from his lips between sobs, and though at times incoherent, Lawrence laid his soul bare. If he didn’t know any better, Hugo could have sworn that was the plan all along. Anyone who knew him worth his salt, knew Father Kim to be a good and honest man, trusted among his congregation, and surely such a revered priest wouldn’t break a sacred oath. They are bound to one another one now, tied together by the loose strings of a drunken confession, and to use his words as ammunition would shatter the good name Hugo has built for himself in this house of God. But desperate times always call for desperate measures, don’t they?

Hugo is portrayed by STEVEN YEUN and was written by SIDNEY. He is currently OPEN.

#steven yeun fc #rp #rpg #bio rpg #lsrp #lsrpg #m #cap #hugo kim #helenus #o #om

[rumpusgoat]

Psalm 51

1 Have mercy on me, O God,

   according to your unfailing love; according to your great compassion    blot out my transgressions. 2 Wash away all my iniquity    and cleanse me from my sin.

3 For I know my transgressions,    and my sin is always before me. 4 Against you, you only, have I sinned    and done what is evil in your sight; so you are right in your verdict    and justified when you judge. 5 Surely I was sinful at birth,    sinful from the time my mother conceived me. 6 Yet you desired faithfulness even in the womb;    you taught me wisdom in that secret place.

7 Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean;    wash me, and I will be whiter than snow. 8 Let me hear joy and gladness;    let the bones you have crushed rejoice. 9 Hide your face from my sins    and blot out all my iniquity.

10 Create in me a pure heart, O God,    and renew a steadfast spirit within me. 11 Do not cast me from your presence    or take your Holy Spirit from me. 12 Restore to me the joy of your salvation    and grant me a willing spirit, to sustain me.

13 Then I will teach transgressors your ways,    so that sinners will turn back to you. 14 Deliver me from the guilt of bloodshed, O God,    you who are God my Savior,    and my tongue will sing of your righteousness. 15 Open my lips, Lord,    and my mouth will declare your praise. 16 You do not delight in sacrifice, or I would bring it;    you do not take pleasure in burnt offerings. 17 My sacrifice, O God, is[b] a broken spirit;    a broken and contrite heart    you, God, will not despise.

18 May it please you to prosper Zion,    to build up the walls of Jerusalem. 19 Then you will delight in the sacrifices of the righteous,    in burnt offerings offered whole;    then bulls will be offered on your altar.

Psalm 52

1 Why do you boast of evil, you mighty hero?    Why do you boast all day long,    you who are a disgrace in the eyes of God? 2 You who practice deceit,    your tongue plots destruction;    it is like a sharpened razor. 3 You love evil rather than good,    falsehood rather than speaking the truth.[e] 4 You love every harmful word,    you deceitful tongue!

5 Surely God will bring you down to everlasting ruin:    He will snatch you up and pluck you from your tent;    he will uproot you from the land of the living. 6 The righteous will see and fear;    they will laugh at you, saying, 7 “Here now is the man    who did not make God his stronghold but trusted in his great wealth    and grew strong by destroying others!”

8 But I am like an olive tree    flourishing in the house of God; I trust in God’s unfailing love    for ever and ever. 9 For what you have done I will always praise you    in the presence of your faithful people. And I will hope in your name,    for your name is good.

Psalm 53

1 The fool says in his heart,    “There is no God.” They are corrupt, and their ways are vile;    there is no one who does good.

2 God looks down from heaven    on all mankind to see if there are any who understand,    any who seek God. 3 Everyone has turned away, all have become corrupt;    there is no one who does good,    not even one.

4 Do all these evildoers know nothing?

They devour my people as though eating bread;    they never call on God. 5 But there they are, overwhelmed with dread,    where there was nothing to dread. God scattered the bones of those who attacked you;    you put them to shame, for God despised them.

6 Oh, that salvation for Israel would come out of Zion!    When God restores his people,    let Jacob rejoice and Israel be glad!

Psalm 54

1 Save me, O God, by your name;    vindicate me by your might. 2 Hear my prayer, O God;    listen to the words of my mouth.

3 Arrogant foes are attacking me;    ruthless people are trying to kill me—    people without regard for God.[k]

4 Surely God is my help;    the Lord is the one who sustains me.

5 Let evil recoil on those who slander me;    in your faithfulness destroy them.

6 I will sacrifice a freewill offering to you;    I will praise your name, Lord, for it is good. 7 You have delivered me from all my troubles,    and my eyes have looked in triumph on my foes.

Psalm 55

1 Listen to my prayer, O God,    do not ignore my plea; 2    hear me and answer me. My thoughts trouble me and I am distraught 3    because of what my enemy is saying,    because of the threats of the wicked; for they bring down suffering on me    and assail me in their anger.

4 My heart is in anguish within me;    the terrors of death have fallen on me. 5 Fear and trembling have beset me;    horror has overwhelmed me. 6 I said, “Oh, that I had the wings of a dove!    I would fly away and be at rest. 7 I would flee far away    and stay in the desert;[n] 8 I would hurry to my place of shelter,    far from the tempest and storm.”

9 Lord, confuse the wicked, confound their words,    for I see violence and strife in the city. 10 Day and night they prowl about on its walls;    malice and abuse are within it. 11 Destructive forces are at work in the city;    threats and lies never leave its streets.

12 If an enemy were insulting me,    I could endure it; if a foe were rising against me,    I could hide. 13 But it is you, a man like myself,    my companion, my close friend, 14 with whom I once enjoyed sweet fellowship    at the house of God, as we walked about    among the worshipers.

15 Let death take my enemies by surprise;    let them go down alive to the realm of the dead,    for evil finds lodging among them.

16 As for me, I call to God,    and the Lord saves me. 17 Evening, morning and noon    I cry out in distress,    and he hears my voice. 18 He rescues me unharmed    from the battle waged against me,    even though many oppose me. 19 God, who is enthroned from of old,    who does not change— he will hear them and humble them,    because they have no fear of God.

20 My companion attacks his friends;    he violates his covenant. 21 His talk is smooth as butter,    yet war is in his heart; his words are more soothing than oil,    yet they are drawn swords.

22 Cast your cares on the Lord    and he will sustain you; he will never let    the righteous be shaken. 23 But you, God, will bring down the wicked    into the pit of decay; the bloodthirsty and deceitful    will not live out half their days.

But as for me, I trust in you.

Psalm 56

1 Be merciful to me, my God,    for my enemies are in hot pursuit;    all day long they press their attack. 2 My adversaries pursue me all day long;    in their pride many are attacking me.

3 When I am afraid, I put my trust in you. 4    In God, whose word I praise— in God I trust and am not afraid.    What can mere mortals do to me?

5 All day long they twist my words;    all their schemes are for my ruin. 6 They conspire, they lurk,    they watch my steps,    hoping to take my life. 7 Because of their wickedness do not[q] let them escape;    in your anger, God, bring the nations down.

8 Record my misery;    list my tears on your scroll[r]—    are they not in your record? 9 Then my enemies will turn back    when I call for help.    By this I will know that God is for me.

10 In God, whose word I praise,    in the Lord, whose word I praise— 11 in God I trust and am not afraid.    What can man do to me?

12 I am under vows to you, my God;    I will present my thank offerings to you. 13 For you have delivered me from death    and my feet from stumbling, that I may walk before God    in the light of life.

Psalm 57

1 Have mercy on me, my God, have mercy on me,    for in you I take refuge. I will take refuge in the shadow of your wings    until the disaster has passed.

2 I cry out to God Most High,    to God, who vindicates me. 3 He sends from heaven and saves me,    rebuking those who hotly pursue me—[u]    God sends forth his love and his faithfulness.

4 I am in the midst of lions;    I am forced to dwell among ravenous beasts— men whose teeth are spears and arrows,    whose tongues are sharp swords.

5 Be exalted, O God, above the heavens;    let your glory be over all the earth.

6 They spread a net for my feet—    I was bowed down in distress. They dug a pit in my path—    but they have fallen into it themselves.

7 My heart, O God, is steadfast,    my heart is steadfast;    I will sing and make music. 8 Awake, my soul!    Awake, harp and lyre!    I will awaken the dawn.

9 I will praise you, Lord, among the nations;    I will sing of you among the peoples. 10 For great is your love, reaching to the heavens;    your faithfulness reaches to the skies.

11 Be exalted, O God, above the heavens;    let your glory be over all the earth.

Psalm 58

1 Do you rulers indeed speak justly?    Do you judge people with equity? 2 No, in your heart you devise injustice,    and your hands mete out violence on the earth.

3 Even from birth the wicked go astray;    from the womb they are wayward, spreading lies. 4 Their venom is like the venom of a snake,    like that of a cobra that has stopped its ears, 5 that will not heed the tune of the charmer,    however skillful the enchanter may be.

6 Break the teeth in their mouths, O God;    Lord, tear out the fangs of those lions! 7 Let them vanish like water that flows away;    when they draw the bow, let their arrows fall short. 8 May they be like a slug that melts away as it moves along,    like a stillborn child that never sees the sun.

9 Before your pots can feel the heat of the thorns—    whether they be green or dry—the wicked will be swept away.[x] 10 The righteous will be glad when they are avenged,    when they dip their feet in the blood of the wicked. 11 Then people will say,    “Surely the righteous still are rewarded;    surely there is a God who judges the earth.”

Psalm 59

1 Deliver me from my enemies, O God;    be my fortress against those who are attacking me. 2 Deliver me from evildoers    and save me from those who are after my blood.

3 See how they lie in wait for me!    Fierce men conspire against me    for no offense or sin of mine, Lord. 4 I have done no wrong, yet they are ready to attack me.    Arise to help me; look on my plight! 5 You, Lord God Almighty,    you who are the God of Israel, rouse yourself to punish all the nations;    show no mercy to wicked traitors.[aa]

6 They return at evening,    snarling like dogs,    and prowl about the city. 7 See what they spew from their mouths—    the words from their lips are sharp as swords,    and they think, “Who can hear us?” 8 But you laugh at them, Lord;    you scoff at all those nations.

9 You are my strength, I watch for you;    you, God, are my fortress, 10    my God on whom I can rely.

God will go before me    and will let me gloat over those who slander me. 11 But do not kill them, Lord our shield,[ab]    or my people will forget. In your might uproot them    and bring them down. 12 For the sins of their mouths,    for the words of their lips,    let them be caught in their pride. For the curses and lies they utter, 13    consume them in your wrath,    consume them till they are no more. Then it will be known to the ends of the earth    that God rules over Jacob.

14 They return at evening,    snarling like dogs,    and prowl about the city. 15 They wander about for food    and howl if not satisfied. 16 But I will sing of your strength,    in the morning I will sing of your love; for you are my fortress,    my refuge in times of trouble.

17 You are my strength, I sing praise to you;    you, God, are my fortress,    my God on whom I can rely.

#more than one way to pray for someone

[sinrau]

In front of a brick building northwest of downtown, on a day when the nation’s gaze again fixed on this once-strong factory city, Justin Blake declared that President Trump must be defeated as he stood over the spot where a police officer shot his nephew in the back seven times.

“We don’t have any words for the orange man,” Blake said of Trump as he spoke to a crowd of more than 100 people — most of them Black — who had come for a block party complete with barbecue and bounce house. “All I ask is he keep his disrespect, his foul language far away…. Our president hasn’t been a unifier.”

Two and a half miles away, a different scene unfolded in uptown Kenosha, as the president’s supporters lined up behind barricades in anticipation of his arrival, waving American flags and hoping to catch a glimpse of his motorcade.

Sue Wells, a 57-year-old retired cleaner and factory worker, came with her daughter and her 5-year-old grandson. She signed a petition to recall the state’s Democratic governor and disparaged the racial justice movement as she stood by the historic Danish Brotherhood Lodge, which had burned to rubble during recent protests.

“If you’re so for Black Lives Matter, why are you destroying their community?” said Wells, a white Kenosha resident. The protesters, she said, don’t “understand how it is dividing us.”

Trump’s visit to Kenosha on Tuesday, where he toured downtown and met with business owners, law enforcement and elected representatives, lasted all but two hours. Yet it drew out the raw passions and divides of this town — and the nation — where debates over racism, policing and protest are colliding ahead of an election many fear will only bring more rancor.

“Reckless far-left politicians continue to push the destructive message that our nation and law enforcement are oppressive or racist,” Trump said after he landed here. “They’ll throw out any word that comes to them. Actually, we should show far greater support for our law enforcement.”

Conflicting images played out across Kenosha, which like Minneapolis and Portland, Ore., before it, bore the burden of a nation’s multiplying troubles in a narrative that featured a polarizing president, parents fearful of more bloodshed and members of right-wing groups, including the Proud Boys.

Police stand near a burning Department of Corrections building during protests Aug. 24 in Kenosha, Wis.

In Blake’s neighborhood, stereos blasted the “Cupid Shuffle” as groups danced in the street, some wearing shirts that said “BLAK: Black Lives Activists of Kenosha” and others calling for justice for Blake’s nephew, Jacob, who was left paralyzed. Volunteers lined up to register voters and offered free COVID-19 testing.

A few blocks northwest, dozens in red Make America Great Again hats cheered for the president’s motorcade before he spoke with local officials at Mary D. Bradford High School. Trump did not mention the Blake name, and when a reporter asked about protesters’ concerns about racism, the president said that was “the opposite subject” of what he wanted to discuss. He wanted to talk about the violence that has struck cities and left buildings torched.

“I keep hearing about peaceful protests. I hear it about everything, and then I come into an area like this, and I see the town is burned down,” Trump said. He said protests were really “acts of domestic terror” and “anti-American riots.” While much of Kenosha is on alert with boarded-up stores visible well into the suburbs, actual damage is limited to a small stretch of its urban core.

The president said he rejected a chance to speak with Jacob Blake’s mother, Julia Jackson, after learning she wanted lawyers present.

Benjamin Crump, a family lawyer, confirmed the account. “If the call had occurred, Ms. Jackson was prepared to ask President Trump to watch the video of Mr. Blake’s shooting and to do what she has asked all of America to do — examine your heart,” he said.

The police shooting of Jacob Blake and subsequent shootings in which 17-year-old Kyle Rittenhouse now faces murder charges in the deaths of two protesters have further split this crucial swing state. Trump won by a small margin four years ago in both Kenosha County and Wisconsin. Democrats hope this year that former Vice President Joe Biden will instead make gains.

Trump is pushing a “law and order” theme and is against the Black Lives Matter movement. Biden, who has spoken to the Blake family, has blamed the president for stoking violence among far-right and militia groups that have increasingly clashed with those protesting against police brutality.

Trump said Kenosha “would have been burned to the ground by now” if not for the intervention of the National Guard, which he claimed was his doing. The Wisconsin National Guard, however, has been in the city for more than a week at the request of Democratic Gov. Tony Evers, and federal law enforcement and National Guard troops from several other states joined later last week.

In a statement Tuesday, Biden called Trump’s time in Wisconsin “self-centered divisiveness accompanied by zero solutions.”

“Trump failed once again to meet the moment, refusing to utter the words that Wisconsinites and Americans across the country needed to hear today from the president: a condemnation of violence of all kinds, no matter who commits it,” a reference to Trump’s defense earlier this week of Rittenhouse, who he said was defending himself.

If plans went as some locals, including the governor, mayor and county executive had hoped, Trump would not have landed in this city of 100,000, halfway between Milwaukee and Chicago. The Democratic mayor, John Antaramian, said it would “be better had [Trump] waited.” Seven of the county’s 23 supervisors, however, wrote a letter saying they wanted the president’s “leadership in this time of crisis.”

David Swartz, 56, protests President Trump’s visit to Kenosha, Wis., on Tuesday.

At the Danish Brotherhood Lodge, several members spent Tuesday combing the ruins for relics, including their 110-year-old registry. They were glad to hear the president was touring damaged areas of their historic neighborhood, which has undergone gentrification over the years and is now dotted with small businesses.

“He’s drawing attention to this area instead of sweeping it under the rug and saying ‘Oh, poor protesters,’” said Joe Vaughn, 58, a retired ironworker who serves as the lodge’s treasurer.

Among those scouring the wreckage were Bryan Bernhardt, 52, and his 27-year-old son. Bernhardt’s grandfather helped found the lodge, where he and Bernhardt’s late father later served as presidents. Bernhardt said he was glad to see Trump and the National Guard in Kenosha, but was worried violence would rise again.

“Minneapolis is still going through it, Seattle, Portland,” he said. “Everyone feels for the family. Does change need to be made? Probably. Let’s get all the facts first.”

A few streets away, David Swartz, 56, said he turned out to protest Trump’s use of his town as a campaign stop. Swartz, a union electrician laid off during the COVID-19 pandemic, attended recent demonstrations in support of the Black Lives Matter movement, “because nobody deserves seven bullets in the back.” But he said he has brothers in the local electricians union who support Trump.

“He’s dividing the country, dividing people, pitting them against each other,” said Swartz, wearing his IBEW Local 127 jacket as he carried his sign on a street corner.

Kenosha has been under curfew since last week because of protests and riots after police shot Blake, 29, on Aug. 23 after officers showed up to a northwestern neighborhood in response to a 911 call about a domestic dispute.

Rittenhouse, the teen from Illinois, is charged with two murders on the night of Aug. 25 near protest sites. Rittenhouse, who carried a semiautomatic rifle and said he was protecting local businesses, fled the scene — in plain sight of police — and was arrested the next day in Lake County, Ill. Like Trump, his lawyers said he acted in self-defense.

For Porche Bennett, a 31-year-old native Kenoshian who attended the block party on the street where police shot Jacob Blake, not enough is being done to bring police to justice.

“We want the officer charged and fired,” said Bennett, who is Black and co-founded the group Black Lives Activists of Kenosha that has helped organize recent protests. “We do not want violence. What we want is justice for Jacob Blake and his family.”

U.S. Rep. Gwen Moore (D-Wis.) joins Justin Blake, uncle of Jacob Blake, during a community gathering at the site of Jacob’s shooting Tuesday.

As the party wound down, a few hundred protesters marched around the Kenosha County Courthouse. National Guard troops stood watch over the fenced-in site. In this open-carry state, a handful of armed protesters, both those in support of and against the president, appeared. Small groups with members of right-wing movements, including the Proud Boys, were also present.

Protest leaders urged crowds to disperse before the 7 p.m. curfew, fearing things could quickly go wrong.

“Jacob Blake’s family really doesn’t want people out,” said KeJuan Goldsmith, 19, a University of Wisconsin-Green Bay sophomore from nearby Racine. “All it takes is one cop triggered.”

Times staff writer Eli Stokols in Washington contributed to this report.

Trump’s Kenosha visit exposes U.S. divides over race and policing ahead of November vote

#IFTTT #WordPress

[praeliumrp]

It had been a week since the election of Helena Rosier to Senior Undersecretary, the people were looking forward to peace and prosperity and the months ahead at the end of which they’d choose a new Minister for Magic. Having one piece of the puzzle made everyone feel better, safer, more prepared for what was to come. The fear and uncertainty had begun to dissipate as a relative calm fell over Wizarding England. War seemed a far off concept, something of the (recent) past, not the sort of thing that creeps up on the innocent, unsuspecting and safe in the arms of the natural world order. It was this moment the blow came, as if from behind, no one saw it coming. Oh, but they should have.

Emmeline Vance was a formidable woman, she was a weapon forged from sorrow and pain and it was her intent to eradicate half breeds and their kin from the face of the earth. This was not the mask she presented in polite society, not with the cruelty and fire she felt running through her veins as her plan fell into place, perfect and deadly. The blood moon, the blue moon, two in one. If it had been the normal sort of thing it was meant to be everyone would have been fine. 

St. Mungos had set up a staging area for those citizens afflicted, the ones who wanted wolfsbane, the ones who wished to be kept safe. But Emmeline knew better, those creatures didn’t want safety, they wanted bloodshed and carnage and destruction, and oh she was going to give it to them. With the help of her own followers, those Opposition fanatics she had learned to put to good use, they had tampered with the hospital’s supply of wolfsbane, rendering the potion useless. Within hours of sunset the place would be overrun. Though they had prepared a fine cage for the beasts the locks were somehow broken, not by magic but sheer strength it seemed, those docile beasts breaking free of their restraints and filling the night with howling and screams.

But that wasn’t the only area of disaster, oh no, Emmeline couldn’t risk it not being horrific enough. She and her followers had been taking people from the street, innocent wixen, those too poor or too unimportant, those that wouldn’t be missed and turning them. One werewolf became twelve, became fifty-three and suddenly she had a bloodthirsty and uncontrollable army. They filled these poor souls with hate, tormenting them until they were nothing but the feral beasts they harbored and setting them loose on quiet suburban neighborhoods as the blue blood moon rose high in the night sky. 

By sunrise the mist was filled with the scent of blood. Emmeline woke sound in her bed at home, filled with the knowledge she had damned Remus Lupin and his little Uprising, full to the brim with a smug superiority. It did not occur to her that she had, by her own hand and choice, slain innocents; innocents like her own mother. That she had afflicted dozens more with a curse. It did not occur to her that she was more a beast than any of them. She rose to flick on the news to see chaos, fires raging, mothers crying and the snarling of a werewolf on a badly shot camera phone. 

Remus Lupin woke naked in his cage, one sturdily built, magicked, well guarded by his friends who all looked terror stricken and pale, news stations on every available monitor, phones ringing in every pocket. He got dressed quickly and began to understand the horrors that had befallen London while he slept as a wolf in a cage. If he did not find himself dead or in Azkaban by lunch he would be lucky and his campaign had all but crumbled. Many in the Uprising had abandoned the castle and the rumours that Remus himself had ordered the strikes, orchestrated the attacks, swirled in the air as he collapsed to the stone floor.

Rodolphus Lestrange was shaken awake by his brother, pulling a sweater over his ragged locks as Rabastan turned on the enormous screen he had in his bedroom, the sun barely sneaking between the curtains. Mass panic ensued and Rodolphus quickly abandoned the sweater for a shower and a suit. Rabastan was already dressed and Evan was waiting at the ministry when they arrived, they had to make a statement immediately but no one could find Severus Snape. 

Alecto Carrow stirred, her murky green eyes slitting open to unfamiliar surroundings. For a moment she panicked but she placed herself as quickly, Severus Snape’s basement, the cage he had built holding up, though she credited the Wolfsbane he’d supplied her with with half the credit. She was naked and didn’t blush as she saw him in the room, dressing in the clothes he had provided. Outside she heard emergency sirens begin to wail and fear ripped through her, had they been caught?

Helena Rosier sat in a dark exam room, Ted Tonks’s arms wrapped around her heaving shoulders. Both of them were red with trauma, both of them working that night. It was supposed to have been Helena’s last shift. The girl was full of grief and anger, not sure which one to allow out, they were both too tired to distinguish emotions for too long. Loved ones hadn’t been called and Ted’s mind drifted to Regulus as Helena whispered his name, sending a text that wasn’t going through, the towers overloaded with desperate calls to loved ones. 

If not already awake with the horror, everyone rose that morning to a new world, one where werewolves could destroy cul de sacs and rip apart soccer moms, where howling caused grown men to wet themselves and St. Mungos, hit harder than anywhere else, reeked of blood.

.

.

.

this is our full moon event. We realize the blue blood moon was the 31st but we wanted an event surrounding it. This event took place over the night of the full moon. It will begin friday as soon as it is published and will end monday @pm est. 

1. Please please tag threads appropriately, this event is rather dark and involves heavy themes of violence so please tag everything and use read mores as necessary. 

2. Threads may begin with the sun setting for the full moon, they can take place during the evening, the night, the morning and day after. As there is a lot of confusion in events like these we encourage your character to be somewhere odd, especially if they rushed to help. 

3. Alecto Carrow was locked up and had no involvement, neither did Remus Lupin as his friends can vouch that he was also locked up the entire time. 

4. the use of npcs is allowed and encouraged

5. communications the morning after the full moon are down, so texts won’t send, calls won’t connect. The old fashioned way is barely working with many owls spooked and many people too distraught to send a patronus with a message. Apparition has been suspended for the time being and floo networks are closed. (Severus Snape, Rodolphus Lestrange or Evan Rosier may make this announcement).

6. NO ONE knows about Emmeline’s involvement, not even Rodolphus and no one even suspects. The followers she involved and people she turned are, at current, npcs and may be used by Emmeline for plotting and other purposes for this event. 

7. The world at large believes Remus Lupin is at fault, there will be consequences. Many members of the Uprising are also under suspicion and warrants should be issued by the authorities by sunrise. This does not include double agents such as Helena Rosier and Evan Rosier. If your character is Uprising and thinks they would have been outside Hogwarts they can logically have been arrested. Rodolphus Lestrange would surely like them all brought in for questioning.

8. The werewolves involved in the attack have either been captured and put in azkaban without trial or killed on sight, per the orders of the wizengamot. Only Helena can officially challenge this authority at this point.

9. The death toll continues to rise as the sun does, no one has an exact account but it is believed to be near 1237 by eight am the morning after.

10. Participation in this event is optional! WE understood not all members may want or be able to partake and that is okay! However, previous threads should be wrapped up as this event changes the course of the rp and sets the stage for war. 

11. Please tag starters and self paras with #FULLMOON18

#prpevent #violence tw #blood tw #blood mention tw #carnage tw

[moonlightmancer]

I’m like, trying not to freak out super hard so I’m gonna rant about Ozian and vague about his backstory buckle UP kiddos

Ozian is, at his core, a really selfless and caring person. He’s always been that way, even when he was a little kid (prior to the Piano Incident, he was always thinking about ways to make Unwin happy), and even after years of abuse and terror he still did things that, in the Bahltair house, were dangerous, just to make the people he lived with happier. He was nervous, yes, but he was compassionate and only had the most base of fears as far as self-preservation went (and to be fair, there were a lot of punishments that would’ve extended to other members of the staff as well that he was afraid of. It wasn’t just a “uh oh I might get in trouble!” Kind of deal. Everyone could’ve gotten in trouble).

Contrast with current Ozian. He’s still got those instincts, but he’s spent years applying them differently, and his ideals make him think certain actions are more compassionate or selfless than they are from a chaotic, neutral, or good point of view rather than his lawful and evil one. He still shines in moments—throwing himself between Brort and the owlbear, holding Betty’s hand in the Pale Halls and asking her favorite food, the bunk bed talk with Atreus. But he is fundamentally changed now, and it would be so difficult to get him somewhere else. Something very important about him is that he follows Rolterra’s doctrine to the letter. He interprets it in his own way, yes, and that interpretation is definitely different (and certainly more inclusive) than other Rolterrans, but...he is determined to stick to those values.

A great example of that is how he thinks of the “all people should/will unite under Her banner before the world ends” doctrine. He extends “people” to way more than just typical humanoids. Lots of folk think werewolves and stuff aren’t people. He disagrees. Bugbears, fae, fiends, elementals even. He wants to create a Rolterran community that welcomes anyone who follows Her, not just humans and half elves and dwarves and gnomes, etc. He thinks that’s narrow minded. He thinks he used to be narrow minded! Hell, he didn’t even believe in Rolterra until after he died in her rebellion. AFTER. He had to actually deadass talk to her before he thought anything of her beyond “she makes me nervous”.

Basically he met god, got revived, and immediately thought “I owe this woman everything”. He thought his life should be in service, trying to pay back every single day what she thought his life was worth. His life was worth fancy clothes and a masterwork weapon and new powers he couldn’t understand for the longest time. Him, a slave and a bastard, a nine year old chef de partie, a casualty of a failed rebellion. He was worth the effort to Rolterra. Shouldn’t all of his effort, for the rest of his life, be hers? Be the world’s to take, and use, and even spit back out at him? Didn’t he know how to take it, really, after years of pain and suffering at the hands of Unwin? It was like pre-training. Teaching him how to use magic and fight properly was easy. He got back up every time he got hit because what did it matter? His body is covered in scars from so many different things. He knows every kind of agony. Of course he’ll bleed for Rolterra. He’ll bleed for anyone he deems worthy, and honestly, that’s the whole party at this point. He missed having friends.

He’ll bleed for no real reason, actually! That’s an interesting point—he dresses like he does so he knows who’s hostile towards the Bahltairs and who isn’t. The ones who aren’t are the real enemies. People like Daniela and Jakon. They’re the people who know what’s happening in places like Frost Hallows and the elven empire and other secluded areas and they turn a blind eye. They smile and nod and mutter about how terrible Unwin is to have at parties, he always causes a scene, but they laugh. They don’t get angry. They don’t try to help. That’s why he doesn’t get mad when someone throws a rock at him or a thief tells him off for carrying the house sigil in the form of a ring. He feels like it is deserved, after all, he could’ve been a trueborn son in another world. Grown up just like Unwin. Maybe worse, even, a real vile creature capable of unspeakable atrocities. Imagine for me, perhaps, how Ozian may have turned out if his drive and his passion were directed elsewhere. Conquering Arcenciel. Turning the whole country into a facist dictatorship, making slavery legal, taking anything he wanted whenever he wanted it and being proud to say it. If he had nightmares, that’s what they would be. Being a worse monster than Unwin would haunt his every night. It haunts him enough as it is during the day. He’s really, really happy he didn’t inherit the draconic bloodline.

He thinks like Unwin sometimes, and his physical disgust response is so powerful sometimes I literally roll to see if he looks like he’s going to be sick. His first response upon finding out that Unwin remarried and his wife was pregnant was “I could take her, and the kid, and say to him what he said to me before he killed my real family. I could rip them to pieces while he watched, helpless, and it would be the greatest sight I’ve ever seen. I could harm and heal them for hours. I could make him beg me to stop.” And then he realized how deeply fucked up that was, and almost had to get up from the table and ask Jakon to excuse him while he had a panic attack. He knows how horrible it is. But it keeps creeping back into his mind. Honestly? He hasn’t decided if he’s going to do it anyway or not. He doesn’t know, if given the chance, if he would do it.

Unwin would do it. Unwin might even do worse. But Ozian tries so hard every day to do things differently, peacefully, without bloodshed or lies. The fact he has some of Unwin’s hateful, vengeful nature is something he can’t stand.

But what is the point of this rant? It’s that he has an incredible capacity for selflessness, and within it, there is a level of self destruction. He has a few spells that are really, really not healthy for ANYONE when they are cast (hint: he hasn’t used bloodbath yet but soon. Soon.) but he won’t hesitate to use them if he sees a strategic advantage in it. Ozian would walk forward along a spear if it meant he’d be able to strangle the enemy holding it. He’d shield one of his friends from a rain of arrows if it meant they didn’t have to know what he knows about life and death. He’s not haunted by death, like Abidyl is, but rather, he’s the ghost. He wants to cling to people’s lives and keep them going. He wants Rolterra to tell him he’s done well, because it means his blood is still worth something.

He cooks and watches over everyone and listens when they talk and yes, he’s evil, he has done and will continue to do terrible things that he thinks are perfectly reasonable or morally right (cough all of Redmill cough), but he feels everything in such intensity it’s almost impossible for him to get it out.

Abidyl’s relationship with her goddess and dying is an analysis for another time, but, yeah, that’s Oz. He thinks he’s a punching bag. He doesn’t care. He really doesn’t care anymore.

#ozian #man this was a really good distraction from the dread of living for abt 20 minutes

[ruleandruinrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, GLORIA!

You have been accepted for the role of SVETLANA GAVRIKOVA. Admin Bree: I knew when I first wrote her that Svetlana, with all her ruthlessness and fanaticism and ambition, would be a tough nut to crack, but Gloria, you handled her with ease. From the “what drew you” section to your headcanons and extras, you brought her to life in ways even I hadn’t imagined, and I knew, when I finished reading, that there was simply no other decision to make. Your para sample was chilling, and I hope it sets a precedent for what we can expect from you and Svetlana on the dash. Well done! You have 24 HOURS to send in your account. Also, remember to look at the CHECKLIST. Welcome to Ravka!

OUT OF CHARACTER

ALIAS: Gloria

PREFERRED PRONOUNS: She/her

AGE: 21

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: With summer here I have a lot more free time I can dedicate to roleplaying, but I will obviously get busy from time to time. I can promise to pop online and do my replies every second day at least. On a scale from 1 to 10, I would say a solid 7.

CURRENT/PAST ACCOUNTS: I have several, but here’s an example X.

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER: Svetlana Gavrikova

Svetlana (  Светлана )          ↳ Russian          ↳ light, world

Svetlana for all the light in the world, soft and sweet, represents everything her parents ever wanted her to be. See, they didn’t want their little girl to have to suffer from need for anything, for jealousy and wrath to bloom in her heart – and they didn’t know until it was too late. How could they? Svetlana was kind to them, always, until the last second they laid eyes on her. She saw how hard her father was trying to give everything to her and how her mother turned the littlest to the most, she saw them and loved them even though they could never understand her. She could not disappoint them by reveling her poisonous mind, could she? She did not want them to know that the wolf inside her swallowed the lamb, they saw her as, in whole.

Yalena (  Елена )

        ↳ Russian         ↳ torch, corposant

Yalenka, ptichka, my little bird, her parents used to call her. She remembers, or rather, has these faint, spiderweb-like shreds of memories about the way she was before. Before the war. Before the ruination. Before her mouth was full of sharp teeth, hungry for destruction, hungry for blood and flesh and death. She remembers her pretty, pretty dresses, adorning her slender figure as she ran through fields of flower and tall grass. She remembers how her heart filled up with joy at the smell of daisies and freshly baked bread and new books. And she remembers, the faintest of them all, so very distantly as if it wasn’t even her, the forgiving, kind nature of her being. It is strange, truly, she thinks, how she doesn’t recognizes herself in those memories. Not her voice, not her words, not even her own face. 

Gavrikova (  Гаврикова )        ↳ Russian        ↳ spiritual, intuition

They came from long generations of merchants, spreading out around the whole of Ravka. A big family, strong and proud and influential in their own way. She’s been told she has so many cousins around Ravka and even on the other side of all the borders, she couldn’t even count them. Their name was known, perhaps not to nobility or royalty, but to the people depending on their cargo and those living on their lands. And yet, when Svetlana was taken to join the First Army, there was nothing to be done, no begging, no amount of silver and gold could prevent them from pushing her towards the front line of the war. She didn’t mind, even then, there was already something blooming in the deepest, most hidden corners of her heart. A thirst for something new, the unknown terrors of bloodshed, everything her parents tried to protect her from, in the past sixteen years, so desperately. Now, when someone hears the name Gavrikova, they do not think of merchants. They think of a woman with hair like flame and claws of iron, a woman with a heart made of ash and thunder and ruination. 

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER? 

Oh my gosh, from the second I read her teaser, I was in love. She was something I’ve been looking for in a female character for quite some time now, always wanted to experience someone who’s untouched by feminine machinations and breaks through the burdens in front of her like a bull. She makes me excited, proud and sad at the same time because even though her story cannot be called stereotypically tragic, I can see the girl she once was being so foreign, so distant to who she is today. Loosing herself ( or perhaps finding her true self ) carries a kind of beautiful tragedy. To me, Svetlana is the embodiment of a storm and I don’t want her to die down, to be tamed, ever. If she has to go one day though, I want her to leave unimaginable destruction after herself, I want her name to sound like a curse for years and years after she’s gone, I want her to be remembered as chaos itself. 

Her brash hunger for ambition, her untamed thirst for the blood of her enemies, the way she does not want to limit herself in any way, nor does she let herself be held back by anything or anyone.  She is the kind of character I would usually be interested in, I’ve always liked strong females that have straight goals and aspirations, who know what they want and have fire in their personalities. Svetlana is especially unique in to me because she doesn’t handle things in a stereotypical feminine way, she doesn’t try to manipulate people, to charm her way into others hearts and get her way like that. She is strong and fierce and she has no interest in pleasing people with her behavior, she simply doesn’t care how others perceive her (unless it comes to the Darkling’s approval, of course). I love Svetlana because she has so much possibilities and yet sometimes the way she sees things could be the biggest burden in her way. I want to give her the chance to see that clawing her own, violent way to the top might not be the only one, or that perhaps it’s not even what her heart really yearns for. A girl made of fire and lightening and everything frightening, she still has weaknesses, weaknesses that could be her downfall so very easily, no matter how much she believes she is invincible. She needs to face those weaknesses, accept them and battle her own self to be able to conquer the world the way she desires.

WHAT FUTURE PLOT IDEAS DID YOU HAVE IN MIND? 

carnal flower / bloody rose: I want to see her interact with the Darkling, for sure. She is not blind, she can see his obvious ignorance towards her achievements and it not only angers her but motivates her to do more. She is going to prove it to him that she’s exceptional in every way he can imagine and she doesn’t care that he thinks he’s seen hundreds of her kind before and will see hundreds after her. There is only one Svetlana Gavrikova and she will make him see, make him understand. He doesn’t scare her, not really, he makes her burn inside with this dark desire for approval, for recognition, the thought of him makes the beast in her scream and claw at her inside manically. She will show him, she will and when she does, he’ll understand why they all fear her.

three mile island / one way road: I cannot wait to see the dynamic between Svetlana, Adrik and Fyodor. They seem like such an interesting trio with their hunger for destruction, their devotion to the Darkling and the way nobody can stand in their way. I am entirely fascinated by Svetlana’s relationship to them both separately and the three of them together as well and I know that no matter what, they will raise hell in the most exquisite way. I want to see them go on missions for the Darkling, I want to see them interact in a casual setting, see them training together or just simply watch their story unfold side by side.

you smell like love / taste like ash: There is a kind of hatred in her heart towards the Sun Summoner she didn’t know she was capable of feeling anymore. It’s not only fed by the jealous rage for occupying all of her sovereign’s attention, but there is something in her … something she cannot quite put a finger on, something that drives her up the wall like nothing else. Perhaps, Svetlana thinks, there is a part of her, a part long lost and forgotten that is awoken by Gemma, a part untainted by death and dust and ruination, a part she thought she’s lost the second she first slit a man’s throat. She does not miss that part of her and she does not want to be reminded of it’s existence. I want to see her punish Gemma for something she thinks she caused, to see her with bloody eyes and a foaming mouth at the height of her very worst.

WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO HAVE YOUR CHARACTER DIE?: Absolutely, if the plot requires it I am all in to give a twist to things by saying goodbye to her.

IN DEPTH

IN CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE(S): 

I.

tw: gore

This is the closest she’ll ever get to being in love. She looks down at her fingers, tainted by the sticky, warm, crimson life force of the corpse she’s still sitting on. Mesmerized, still so endlessly fascinated. 

This is the closest she’ll ever get to being in love, she thinks, this feeling, this thrill that presses the air out of her lungs, this excitement that makes her heart beat fast like she’s been running. She won’t find anything else completing her this way, like two parts of a puzzle, fitting together so precisely, so perfectly. Her eyes close for a moment only and a sigh of pure ecstasy falls past her brims as pale digits dig into the still fresh wound. She feels the flesh under her fingertips, the artery still filled with blood and for a fickle moment she thinks there is pulse too. Mesmerized.

This is the closest she’ll ever get to being in love. She raises her hand to her mouth, eyes still shut close, brims open hesitantly and she’s tasting it. Warm and rusty and full. It tastes like victory, tastes like power.

This is the closest she’ll ever get to being in love. She stands up, long hair falling onto her shoulders as she walks to her horse, she can feel eyes on following her every move. Tries to imagine how she might look, with blood smeared across her face, a rare, content smile taking over her countenance.

This is the closest she’ll ever get to being in love. And no one will ever understand.

ll.

She remembers the first time she saw him. Tall and dark and intimidating. Tall and dark and intimidating and so, so deliciously unknown. He moved as a shadow among the others and Svetlana watched him with wary eyes for years. She’s watched him move around the king and queen like he was above them, but in a way it was only visible to the most perceptive eyes. She’s watched him be feared and admired by the Grisha and the people of Ravka equally. She’s watched him from far for so long, the first time she’s been right in front of him, for a mere second only, but she thought she already knew him.

And then he raised those cold, dark eyes at her and she knew, she was wrong. She didn’t know him, she never will. But he knows her. He knows the deepest, darkest corners of her mind like it was his own. She felt stripped from all her secrets, all her pride, left naked in her most vulnerable. It was only a second, that’s all he’s given her of his time, but Svetlana felt as he’s taken a part of her with him. A part he hasn’t given back still. A part she feels she needs to earn back.

Pale digits press into the arm of the girl, Sun Summoner, they say, fingertips leaving a mark after themselves. She leads her through the hallways of the Little Palace, expression unreadable but there is pride shining in her eyes. They enter the oval shaped room and there he is, sitting in his mahogany chair. Tall and dark and intimidating. And Svetlana waits, waits for him to look at her, for one second only, to give her back that missing part. He doesn’t. All his attention is focused on the the pale femme beside her.

She’s angry. She could scream. She could kill. She wants to kill. Kill her, kill him, kill them all. Is this how jealousy feels like then? Is this the poison she’ll end up choking on?

CHARACTER HEADCANONS: 

When she was seven, she accidentally cut her thigh with a butcher knife. It left a long scar from her left knee to the middle of her thigh and although she’s gotten a significant number of other scars through her service in the First Army and as an Opricniki, it is her favorite to this day. When she’s frustrated and alone, she often runs the tips of her fingers over the silky skin of the now healed wound.

Although she’s stripped herself off of most believed signifiers of feminity, she wears her crimson red lipstick like war paint. It has a dramatic effect with her porcelain skin, fire hair and charcoal Oprechniki uniform. She’s been called beautiful before as she crosses the dimly lit hallways of the Little Palace, but she’s been called terrifying so much more.

She much prefers using knifes or her bare hands, when it comes to battle, to guns. It’s more personal, the way the blade plunges into another’s flesh, the way she can feel it under her fingertips: heartbeat slow, slow, slow down until it’s no more.

Svetlana usually sleeps on her side or on her stomach with one hand under the pillow, fingers wrapped around a knife. She likes having a lot of pillows in her bed, she’s been told that as a child she always fell asleep arranging them in some kind of order only known to her. She is also a very light sleeper, always on alert, always ready to protect herself from whatever danger.

She doesn’t mind the taste of blood, be it her own or someone else’s. Of course, she will not go around sinking her teeth into people, but during battle it often happens she gets hit on the face and her lips start bleeding or perhaps an opponent’s life force finds it’s way into her mouth.

Her favorite fruit is pomegranate. She used to read a lot about Greek mythology and the story of Persephone and Hades has always been oddly endearing to her, the whole concept all so poetic and beautiful.

You could call her a health craze in a way, she is practically obsessed with her physical health, except when it comes to smoking. She is obviously in shape as it is required of her, she trains almost every moment of her free time and stays away from everything that could be bad for her body.

It might be strange, but Svetlana loves flowers, red ones in particular, roses and tulips and poppies. 

Svetlana enjoys physical pain to a certain point, it gives her a kind of thrill she cannot even experience when taking another life either. It reminds her of her own mortality, it fills her lungs with fire and excitement. She would never hurt herself on purpose, it is not her style, but she definitely doesn’t mind getting a wound or two during battles.

She finds fountains strangely beautiful, they calm her down. There is something in the soft sound of water paddling and the precise little statues that mesmerize her.

Svetlana knew she was interested in human anatomy ever since her brother’s gruesome accident. The blood and flesh and guts never intimidated her, she’s always wanted to learn how everything worked. Perhaps, in another life, when her hunger for ruination was less prominent, she would have been a healer of some kind.

She has no love for the Grisha and yet ever since she was chosen as one of the Darkling’s private guard, she has a new found fascination with them. She doesn’t go unnecessarily close, doesn’t interact with them if she doesn’t have to but she is perceptive and she learns more and more about them every day.

EXTRAS: Here’s the Pinterest board I made for her: X

PERSONALITY:

                              ‘   She was born of fire, of unhampered desire; strong as stone. She’s as lovely as the ash that coats the devils tongue   ’

USUAL MOOD: Svetlana seems unapproachable at all times. Svetlana is unapproachable at all times. It often seems as if it is impossible to catch her in the right time, she can be seen in the midst of sharing private jokes with Adrik or Fyodor one moment and the next she is pure ice, cutting into everyone that dares to disturb her. There are woman you could feel the coldness of a corpse coming off of them, there is nothing and no one that can reach deep and hard enough to touch her. She doesn’t take offense very easily but does not allow people to speak to her disrespectfully, to Svetlana, it’s a matter of demanding the rightful treatment attached to her title. She is temperamental and unpredictable and it’s almost impossible to read her mood –– although it’s safe to guess she won’t be all sunshine and smiles no matter when you try to interact with her. 

CLOTHING STYLE: She remembers especially enjoying the color peach once and those flimsy, soft materials her dresses and gloves were made of. They were nothing compared to what the nobility in Os Alta wears, but they were exquisite among the ragged clothes of peasants and soldiers. Now, she wears the charcoal uniform of the Oprichniki with more pride than anything else. She earned her place among them, she was picked from hundreds of thousands of soldiers, she was chosen and she won’t let anyone forget it even for a second.

HABITS: lip biting, gritting teeth, running fingers through hair, clicking tongue, frowning

POSTURE: Always straight, confident and demanding respect, she’s been compared to a cheetah both in the way she moves and the way she fights. She is a good soldier, disciplined and strong and the way she carries herself represents all they fear her for. Svetlana stands, sits and walks in an impeccable manner, it’s something he didn’t have to learn or try hard to achieve, it comes naturally to her. 

VOICE: Her voice is a bit deeper than people expect it to be from looking at her. It gets a bit raspy in the early mornings ( most likely a side effect of all the cigarettes she is so fond of smoking ) but that disappears once she shakes off sleep. Her words always have an edge to them, she doesn’t necessarily have to raise her voice for that –– and although she does not back off from a loud argument, those turn physical with her rather quickly..

SOCIAL SKILLS: Generally speaking, she could be probably good with people, but again, she doesn’t like or care for most of them very much, if at all. She is exceptional in finding people’s weak spots, is incredibly observing, but generally, she is not very good in social situations. She knows how to be civil and how to sell herself, of course, but it doesn’t mean she is on the top of her game all the time. Comforting someone, making them feel better about something seems almost impossible to Svetlana, if she tries, she usually only makes it worse and so she tries to avoid situations where her empathy ( or the lack of it, rather ) is being put to work. She doesn’t care for being liked, only recognized for her achievements and so she finds no reason to try and be on her best behavior.

FAMILY:

FATHER: Vladim Gavrikova ( 58 ) –– She remembers watching him, saying goodbye to him every morning before he sat up on his carriage, leaving to go to the fair or visit nearby cities to sell their merchandise or occasionally get together for some kvas with other merchants and village people. He’s always treated her so kindly, so gently, like she was the softest of flower petals of the most beautiful rose in the garden. Sometimes, rarely when she thinks of him, Svetlana believes the devotion her father had towards her, towards giving her everything she could possibly need, would still impress her. But then she remembers, if her father knew her now, if he saw that her Yalenka, ptichka, his little bird is the most dangerous of all the predators, perhaps he would be repulsed by her.

MOTHER: Olesya Gavrikova ( 55 ) –– Her mother was kind too, but differently. In a hesitant way, kind yet always kept an arm lengthy distance between them. As a child, it was hard for Svetlana to understand, to wrap her mind around why her mother didn’t tuck her to bed every night with tears of love in her eyes or why she with warily, like she was afraid she could disappear any moment. Did she hate her because it wasn’t her dying instead of Pyotr? Was she blaming her? No, Svetlana realized later one, she was just broken. Broken by the loss of her son, by the possibility of loosing her daughter too. And so when she was taken to the First Army, the last thing she remembers of her childhood home, the picture still lives vividly in her mind, even after ten years, her mother was on her knees. She didn’t cry, but her mouth opened up in horror, the kind of horror Svetlana never saw again, no matter how much cruelty she saw or cause. Her mother face said “here it is, here goes another part of my soul”.

SIBLING(S): Pyotr Gavrikova ( deceased ) –– They were born seven minutes apart, together from the moment they opened their eyes for the very first time, Their relationship was just like every other sibling relationship, they bickered and fought and made up and were there for each other, always. And yet when he fell, fell under the carriage at the summer fair in the village, Svetlana didn’t feel as if she’s lost a part of herself. She watched his skull crack open under the pressure of the wheel of the carriage, blood, blood, blood and brain and all she felt was fascination. Perhaps that was the first time she knew, knew she was different somehow. That’s when they started whispering behind her back “cold girl, doesn’t even mourn the loss of her brother”. But she did mourn, on her own, strange way, she did. Not with tears and sadness like her parents, not with forcing loneliness on herself, but my remembering him. Remembering him every waking moment of her life, remembering right until one day she didn’t anymore.

OTHER(S): N/A

PET(S): Svetlana is currently not capable for taking responsibility for another living creature.

PHYSICAL TRAITS

EYE COLOUR: baby blue

HAIR COLOUR: red

HEIGHT: 5"10’

BODY BUILD: slender, lean, athletic

GLASSES/CONTACTS: N/A

TATTOOS + PIERCINGS: N/A 

NOTABLE PHYSICAL TRAITS: Her red hair and charcoal uniform.

PERSONALITY

STAR SIGN: aries

TEMPERAMENT: choleric

VIRTUES: persistent, resourceful, ambitious, rational, adaptive, loyal, perceptive

VICES: bloody thirsty, easily bored, moody, vengeful, cruel, impatient, temperamental

ALIGNMENT: lawful evil

birthdate:

April 5th

She came into the world with a head full of crimson hair and a scream that let the whole neighborhood know that indeed, Svetlana Gavrikova was born. Her mother always told her that giving birth to her was surprisingly easy, much easier than she though but she was scared, terrified of what would happen. See, Olesya was tired, so tired after giving birth to her brother only minutes ago and she thought exhaustion will take her before she can deliver the second child. But then she saw it, the little face of her baby boy, the desperate crying of his voice and she loved him. She loved him more than she though she could love anything in the world and then she knew she has to fight for that other child, still in her belly, struggling for life. So she pushed and screamed in pain and there Svetlana was. They wanted their children to be healthy and perfect. And she was. She was.

The most significant Aries traits in Calla’s personality:

                +  passionate  +  independent  +  determined

                 -  impatient  -  impatient  -  opinionated

gender identity & pronouns — Svetlana identifies as cis female and it’s not something that occupies her mind too much. The thought of being viewed as an object or weak, to be treated with less respect just because of her gender makes her terribly angry. If anything, women are the future and she intends to show that to the whole world and every single person who tried to shut her up about it. Perhaps if she was born in a different age when girls were generally viewed more equal, she would be lacking some aspects of her brash personality. She had to work twice as hard to show them all how capable she was. Capable to be in the First Army, capable to be a warrior, capable to be chosen among the best.

sexuality & romantic preference — Sex and romance takes up very minimal place among her interests, therefor she identifies as asexual. She views it as such a small, insignificant part of life, a distraction, nothing but a burden between her and her goals. The whole concept of love itself seems too mundane, too simple to her to take a real interest in it. Of course, from time to time, she does take interest in someone in her own, strange way but it’s always short lived and brutal. Svetlana doesn’t exactly have a preference, she simply appreciates beauty. The problem with any kind of yearning for another awakening in her is that she despises rejection. She appreciates beauty, she does but her thirst to taint it, to destroy it is much stronger. She will leave you behind shattered and ruined, no matter if you agreed to play her game or not.

Some quotes that remind me of Svetlana:

“I’d call her a storm, or tornado, but they are destruction without purpose. Her? She look’ll you in the eye as she tears you open, just to see how much you’ll bleed.“

“She was born of fire, of unhampered desire; strong as stone. She’s as lovely as the ash that coats the devils tongue.”

“She was ice cold to the bone, but I swear, she burned like rum on fire.”

“I love death. I love the way it buzzes in my ear; the way it sends love letters to my ribs. I love the beckon, the chase. The destruction of frailty, a splice of honey-bone. Death teases me with divine morbidity. And do i answer?“

“Her sincerity was so bruising that people sometimes confused it with eccentricity. She always—but always—did what she wanted, and when she wanted. Without asking anyone for permission. It was a strong feature of her character.”

“She wanted a storm to match her rage.“

“You think I’m not a goddess? Try me. This is a torch song. Touch me and you’ll burn.”

“She lifts a wand of mascara, leans into the mirror, weaves threads of liquid onyx between her thick eyelashes.she sets it down, selects a brush, and her cheekbones glow sharp after. Has she used highlight, or dusted them in mercury? She uncaps her lipstick, stains her lips sanguine, and blows a kiss. Rose petaled, ruby-red, coated in bold vermillion; blood that has dried.”

“She’s a mess of gorgeous chaos and you can see it in her eyes.“

“Maybe some women aren’t meant to be tamed. Maybe they just need to run free until they find someone just as wild to run with them.”

“She’s the girl ablaze; her kiss burns like whiskey, her touch trails fire, her eyes burn brighter than city light. She’s the girl ablaze; who flames like the sun, the moon and stars. She will ignite.”

“How fine you look when dressed in rage.”

“Girl has a matchstick mouth. / Girl with wounds burning loud & easy through her. / Girl says the ache is gone, then breaks mother’s chinaware. / Girl wanted to see other things fall apart, too.”

“She was not soft. She smelled like cigarettes, leather, and ground black coffee. And when you inhaled, she burned your lungs the way that made you want to do it again.”

“Her soul is filled with silent scars, they reek indifference.”

ANYTHING ELSE? 

I loved writing this application and following the process you were making this rpg happen. Good luck with acceptances !

#raraccepted #accepted: svetlana

[preserving-ferretbrain]

No Exit from Fantasyland

by Alasdair Czyrnyj

Monday, 22 February 2010Alasdair tries to come to grips with the Fencer Trilogy~

Before I begin, I have a confession. Up until a few years ago, I had never read anything of that great amorphous genre of fantasy. It was a matter of bad timing, really. I spent most of the pre-teenage years most sensible people spend reading children's fantasy reading Star Trek tie-ins, and the years after that saw me shifting through classic science fiction and history in rapid succession. By the time I started to get serious about revisiting fantasy I'd hit university, meaning that my choice of fantasy has tended to fall in line with my other literary interests. When people talk of fantasy, my mind hearkens to the glacial machinescapes of Ian R. MacLeod, the Marxist surrealism of China Miéville, the savage deconstructions of Michael Swanwick, the humanist comedy of Terry Pratchett, even the bureaucratic terror of Franz Kafka.

And K. J. Parker.

K. J. Parker is something of an odd duck. She's been writing for over a decade now, though she's only gained any recognition in the last couple of years. Her output tends to be fairly modest; normally a new book a year, with no short stories or other external writing. We don't even know who she is; "K. J. Parker" is a pseudonym, and about the only things anyone knows about her is that she's a woman, she hails from a farming family in Vermont, she likes history and skilled trades, and she's married to a solicitor in southern England.

So, what it is about Parker's work that merits serious critical attention? What would compel me, a reader who normally avoids trilogies like grim death, to work my way through her entire bibliography in the space of a year?

In short, it is because she writes fantasy the way no one else does. And it is

horrifying

.

Here, I'll explain what I mean.

Colours in the Steel, or How to Besiege a Late-Medieval Metropolis in One Easy Lesson

Parker's first work, the Fencer Trilogy, has something of a misleading format. While there are three books that describe the journey of a particular group of characters, it doesn't really

read

as a trilogy. Each book is set in a completely different location from its predecessors, and each is separated from the previous book by an interval of several years. The books also ignore the classic conventions of genre by redefining the relationship the characters have with their world. Rather than commanding their narratives and acting as the centers of the universe, the characters of the

Fencer

books are forever bound to the material and economic forces that drive their world, where success is determined by a comprehension of these forces which, due to human nature, can never be total.

To understand this world, we are given the mopey (if initially sympathetic) character of Bardas Loredan, ex-farmer, ex-soldier, fencer, bowyer, and occasional general as a guide. We meet Bardas in

Colours in the Steel

(1998), working as duelist at law (a profession, surprisingly enough, that Parker renders as plausible, or at least as logically illogical) in the Constantinople-flavored Triple City of Perimadeia. Like all great cities, Perimadeia has its enemies, chief among them Temrai, leader of the plainspeople whom Perimadeia has traditionally dealt with through the time-honored strategy of butcher-and-bolt. A modernizer in the style of Peter the Great, Temrai has traveled incognito to Perimadeia to school himself in the construction of heavy machinery, so that his people may devise the weapons they need to bring down the Triple City once and for all.

While this sounds like a fairly generic setup for a fantasy novel, Parker's prose gives the story a unique bent. While most authors would bring their worlds to life through architectural tours and history lessons, Parker builds her world with machinery. Through all three books, great care is lavished on the step-by-step forging and assembly of material goods. In the course of reading the

Fencer

books, a reader will learn how to forge a sword, how a water wheel works, how to assemble a trebuchet, how to assemble a bow, and how to subject armor to destructive testing. While this would normally read as mere authorial self-indulgence, it is a credit to Parker that these passages serve to drive the story. After reading page after page of construction, the reader begins to reinterpret the story appropriately, reading the plot not as a simple clash of personalities, but as a conflict between great, grinding forces made up of millions of people, animated by a single goal, and fueled by the prosaic things we take for granted in our world. Rather than magic or the feudal privilege, Parker's world operates by economics, political struggle, logistics, and, ultimately, by conflict. While Perimadeian culture is kept somewhat murky, by watching how its inhabitants use and interpret their machines, we see how Perimadeia operates and how its citizens interpret the world.

This is not to say that there is no magic in the books. Indeed, one of the main plotlines of the trilogy concerns the operation of magic. Early on in

Colours,

a young woman approaches Patriarch Alexius, the chief lecturer at Perimadeia's magical college, asking that he place a curse on Bardas Loredan to punish him for his role in "murdering" her uncle during a duel. After applying the curse, Alexius spends the rest of the story trying to undo it, revealing a hidden truth about magic:

no one knows how it works

. Despite studying it for decades, Alexius does not understand anything about its operation, as he freely admits. Even Parker's description is hard to puzzle out; it appears to operate on a sort of system of universal balance dubbed "The Principle," and it can be used to alter key decisions through precognitive visions, though it's never made clear if the visions are prophecies or simply hallucinations. Oh, and they might be manipulated by someone none of the characters know about.

The book builds slowly for the first half, with Bardas drifting from job to job, Alexius trying to figure out just what he did, and Temrai transforming his nation into a mechanically-competent band of semi-settled tribespeople. At the halfway mark, Temrai's people approach the gates of Perimadeia, and a great siege begins. The depiction of the siege is one of the high points of the novel, and one of the areas where Parker's writing shines. The whole enterprise is gloriously messy. There's uncomprehending denial on the part of the Perimadeians, skirmishes that devolve into rugby scrums, artillery duels that don't accomplish much, illogical politics, and even a decent secret weapon. Despite his dislike of the military life, Bardas is conscripted into the defense of Perimadeia, managing to fight the plainspeople to a draw.

At this point, the book explodes.

Throughout the book, there are references to an unnamed bald, bearded figure who seems to have a hand in every major development of the book, acting as an advisor to Temrai and haunting Alexius' visions. In the final hundred pages of the book, a name is finally put to the face: Gorgas Loredan, estranged brother to Bardas. However, as he explains to Alexius in a somewhat out-of-place monologue, his motives are simple. It turns out that years ago, he, Bardas, and the rest of their family were all living on the farm off on the island of Mesoge. However, after an unfortunate incident in which Gorgas pimped out his older sister to two visiting noblemen, only to kill them, his sister (failed), his father, and Bardas (failed again) when the latter two caught them in the act, Gorgas fled home, while Bardas left later to join the Perimadeian army. However, what's past is prologue, and all he wants to do is reconcile with his brother.

Then he opens the gates of the city.

It's shocking. It's totally unexpected. It seems like Parker is cheating. At yet, as the city falls and the cast flees, it doesn't seem like a cheat. Perhaps there's more going on than meets the eye. Maybe the next book will have some answers.

The Belly of the Bow, or Bank Vs. University: Blood on the Ledger

As

The Belly of the Bow

(1999) opens, there is a bit of a shock. Two years have passed between books. The action has shifted to the environs of the late city of Perimadeia, specifically to the island of Scona, the peninsula of Shastel, and an island-based trading community know as "the Island." Fortunately, most of the characters from the first book have escaped the fall of their city to make new lives for themselves.

Once again, war dominates the novel, but it is a rather odd type of war. The cause, it seems, is philanthropy. Some time ago, a great charity and center of learning based with the august title of "The Grand Foundation of Charity and Contemplation" started a homestead program in Shastel that, due to a misunderstanding of basic economics, ended up creating a peninsula of indentured peasants. After a civil war or two, the Foundation became a regional political player, only to be undercut by a new bank on the island of Scona, which buys out tenant farmers and offers loans at less ruinous interest rates. However, since this is the days before the World Trade Organization, the two groups are forced to resolve their differences in the only civilized way: by cross-border raids against recalcitrant debtors.

The bank, incidentally, is named the Loredan Bank, after its founder, Director Niessa Loredan, and with sergeant-at-arms Gorgas Loreadan handling the management of the day-to-day bloodshed.

While

Belly of the Bow

departs from the setting of the previous book, it uses the opportunity to examine the dynamics of the Loredan family. In a genre that has gleefully abused the concept of rape for the purposes of titillation or for ill-advised stabs at profundity, Niessa Loredan is a welcome change of pace. In the years after her experience (and her hounding out of the family at the hands of Bardas and her other brothers), Niessa has remolded herself into a vicious utilitarian, focused solely on securing her bank's future. It is through Niessa that magic makes a return to the story, becoming in her hands an instrument in which the will can directly manipulate the future, with no consequences worth considering. (Alexius is conscripted by Niessa into this precognitive war effort, with the result being a sort of magical war between the two polities that may or may not be affecting the actual war.) Overall, while a functional human being, Niessa still endures her past, neither capable nor all that interested in escaping it.

Bardas, meanwhile, continues to wander. He spends most of the book setting himself up as a bowyer (i.e. Guy Who Makes The Bows Archers Use) in a secluded hut on Scona, quietly pretending that his livelihood isn't dependent on his siblings' charity. After that illusion proves impossible to sustain, he escapes and returns to the family farm in the Mesoge, to the two brothers who never left. What follows is a rather heartrending sequence, as the three attack each other with waves of mutual recrimination and deflected self-loathing. In the end, Bardas is spirited back to Scona, a man with no home.

The real driving force in

The Belly of the Bow

however, is Gorgas. In the initial pages, Gorgas appears as having truly reformed, becoming a beloved general and a family man to boot. However, there is something off about his character. Gorgas routinely moves heaven and earth for Niessa and Bardas, despite the indifference of the former and the outright hostility of the latter, while remaining curiously detached from his own family. Indeed, as the book progresses, Gorgas becomes a terrifying figure, not so much for his actions but for his outlook on the world. For Gorgas, the entire point of his life is to make restitution for his crime and reunite his family. Unfortunately, that's the only purpose to his life. For Gorgas, opening the city gates for an enemy army or assassinating complete strangers or riling an island into a futile rebellion is justified, for it is always the Loredans against the world. What's past is in the past, but family is forever, even if the family no longer exists.

As the Loredan family disintegrates, the greater gears of war and money grind on. The war between Scona and Shastel continues. Scona wins a great victory against a Shastel raiding party, dooming itself to eventual defeat at the hands of the Foundation. Scona is invaded. Battles repeat themselves. Meanwhile, Bardas discovers Gorgas' role in the fall of Perimadeia and his twin motivations (wipe out the Loredan Bank's bad debts, and get Bardas back with the family), and proceeds to do something so horrific that it will forever destroy Gorgas' love for him. It doesn't work. The book closes as the first did, with the main cast fleeing the fall of Scona across the waves.

The Proof House, or Things Are Smashed Apart

Just as the appearance of Gorgas drastically altered the end of

Colours in the Steel

, so too does

The Proof House

(2000) drastically alter the course of the

Fencer

story with the introduction of the Empire. This great polity was never mentioned in the previous two books, apparently being landlocked out of sight and out of mind. However, with the fall of the city of Ap'Escatoy (a joyful accident care of Bardas Loredan, working the saps for three years since the end of the last book), the Empire now has a western coastline.

In many ways,

The Proof House

is the grimmest of the three books. The tale it tells is one of imperial conquest and consolidation. In the previous book, much care was lavished on the depiction of the various societies that inhabit the waters around Perimadeia: the bibliophile factionalists of Shastel, the easy-going disorder of Scona, the frivolous horse-trading Islanders, even the backwater dullards of the Mesoge. However, in

The Proof House

, it's suddenly revealed that this great, varied world exist in a space no bigger than the Aegean, and that it is all fated to be consumed by a great foreign power, not out of malice, but just because imperial expansion is what they do, and that's that.

This process of absorption and assimilation is illuminated through two main plotlines. After spending his new promotion at useless assignment at an imperial proof-house (a place where plate armor is made and tested to destruction), Bardas is given honorary command over an Imperial army sent to drive Temrai's semi-settled people out of the old Perimadeian hinterland. After the Imperial commander is killed, Bardas takes command, returning, for a while, to the one place where his skills were put to constructive use. The second plot thread concerns the fate of the Island at the hands of the Empire. The whole affair starts out as a sort of comedy, with the merchants of the Island essentially selling the Empire a fleet, never realizing that the Empire might decide to not give them back. Events soon spiral out of control, and comedy fades to annexation, rebellion, incompetence, and death.

As the center fails, mere anarchy is loosed upon the world. In the early chapters, many of the characters are in magic-based communication with Alexius whom, it is quickly revealed, died between books. Figures seen in the dreamscape grow increasingly blurred, claiming to be students from the future watching a critical turning point in the past. Eventually it appears that the voices are none other than the voice of the Principle itself, which is not so much a force of magic as a metaphysical avatar of entropy itself. As for Gorgas, free of Niessa's control and set up as king of the Mesoge, the time has come to reunite the Loredan clan by every means necessary. By the end of the book, cities have been stormed, beloved secondary characters have been drawn and quartered, the future is nothing but boots on human faces, and Bardas Loredan has, in essence, been condemned to hell.

So, What Is It?

One of the main problems any reader will have the

Fencer

trilogy in trying to fit it into some sort of rubric from which it can be judged. Using the Romantic framework of classic fantasy is out of the question, and "dark" fantasy is more of a marketing contrivance than a useful critical tool. In her 2008 work

Rhetorics of Fantasy

, Farah Mendlesohn described the trilogy as an "immersive fantasy," a fantasy story that (to vastly oversimplify), is set in a coherent self-contained world within which the characters inhabit and critique. For the longest time, I had tended to think of these books (and Parker's work as a whole) as materialist fantasies; stories not set in our world but which obey all of its physical and sociological parameters. All these terms are helpful in describing the

Fencer

books, but they don't really tell the whole story.

In the end, perhaps the best way to look at the

Fencer

trilogy, and K. J. Parker's work as a whole, is as absurdist fantasy. To crudely simplify something I cribbed from Wikipedia, absurdism is a branch of existentialism which holds that the universe does not hold any fundamental meaning pertaining to the individual, though individuals can construct their own meanings if they so choose. For the characters in the

Fencer

trilogy, life is deeply absurd. Their world is one bound by great impersonal material forces with individuals can only influence intermittently, assuming they even recognize what those forces and when those critical turning points occur. There are no deities, literal or otherwise; aside from the plainspeople, the peoples of the

Fencer

books are overwhelming atheistic. Furthermore, because the world is bound by material systems of infinite number and complexity, there is no safe haven. Everyone's action affects someone else, with the end result being that the vast majority of mankind is nothing but grist for the mill of history. Even when decisions are made, they are often made by people who are under the grip of some illogical idea, or who simply don't understand the implications of their choices. This point is driven home in the second book, where an argument over a reprisal against Scona swells from a small reprisal raid to an invasion on the scale of Operation Barbarossa all so one faction of the Shastel elite can one-up the other. It's hilarious and horrible at the same time.

The

Fencer

Trilogy does not make sense. Intentionally. And that is why it is brilliant.

Is It Worth It?

Compared to Parker's later books, the

Fencer

trilogy is very much a first work. While the description is evocative, the sudden twists are suitably shocking, and the jokes are funny (Yes, there are jokes. Can't have an absurdist novel without a good joke or two.), the books do have a uneven feel to them, as if too many ideas are being assembled into a framework that can't quite hold them. While the characters are interesting and sympathetic, at times they seem to be reduced to mere viewpoints, rather than being individuals caught in the grip of great external forces. There is also far more "down time" than in Parker's other books, with scenes just designed to just worldbuild rather than worldbuild and drive the story. In the end, while I would recommend it, I would suggest that newcomers to Parker start with the later

Engineer

Trilogy, which covers many of the same themes with a far more efficient mechanism.

Also, after you finish the

Fencer

Trilogy, you may feel the need to drown yourself in a nearby lake. This is normal. Just wait a few hours and it will pass.

Oh, and:

Fantasy Rape Watch

Women raped: 1 Women mind-raped: 1, maybe Number of women who suffer from their experiences: 1 (it's hard to tell just what happened with that second one. 'Course, that's probably the point.)

Themes:

Fantasy Rape Watch

,

Books

,

Sci-fi / Fantasy

~

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~Comments (

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Arthur B

at 17:28 on 2010-02-22This review is awesome, but I'm wondering whether Parker's philosophy is as unique in fantasy as you imply. The

Vlad Taltos

series by Steve Brust has always had a good line in the sort of materialism/absurdism and social/economic critique you talk about here. There's some bits of Erikson's Malazan series which seem informed by a "no meaning but what we impose ourselves" philosophy, and Jack Vance's books are almost all characterised by peculiar social constructs, raw economics and greed, and the necessity of people to find their own way in a world that doesn't make sense to them.

I will be looking into the

Engineer

trilogy though, if you feel it's genuinely better than the

Fencer

books. Does it need much knowledge of the earlier series to fully appreciate?

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Andy G

at 20:43 on 2010-02-22Dare I also mention Ursula le Guin again? ;)

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Arthur B

at 23:01 on 2010-02-22LeGuin is always worth a mention...

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Alasdair Czyrnyj

at 00:02 on 2010-02-23Well, as I said Arthur, I'm still feeling my way around the fantasy genre (hell, I read literary criticism, for cripes sake), so my idea of "generic fantasy" is still a collection of broad stereotypes I've picked up from people bitching on the Internet. Still, I would say that Parker has a gift for taking those elements you mentioned above and making them as these great, terrible things that will consume all in the end.

As for which books to start, I'm biased towards the

Engineer

books because they're the ones I started with, and they're the ones I had the easiest time trying to figure out (Having a decent amount of sustained online criticism helped a bit too). Fortunately, all of her trilogies and her recent singletons are set in completely seperate worlds, so there's no risk of missing anything wherever you start.

Still, I would recommed waiting before you get to her

Scavenger

books. They're one of those trilogies you have to read twice just to figure out what the heck was going on.

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Wardog

at 09:18 on 2010-02-23I read The Colours in the Steel and quite liked it ... but I had really trouble shifting from that to The Belly of the Bow. I think it was more a question of my expectations than the books though - this article inspires me to revisit and re-evaluate.

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Alasdair Czyrnyj

at 21:06 on 2010-08-08Random K. J. Parker news!

If there's anyone out there who wants to sample her writing, she recently did a short story for Subterranean Press' seasonal magazine, which they have thoughtfully posted on their website.

http://subterraneanpress.com/index.php/magazine/summer-2010/fiction-amor-vincit-omnia-by-k-j-parker/

She's also got another short story out in a sword and sorcery anthology,

of all things

, and

a new book

coming out next winter.

#Ferretbrain #Alasdair Czyrnyj #Fencer Trilogy #K. J. Parker #Fantasy Rape Watch