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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

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Polyphonic

Chapter 3 ao3 (alt: tumblr pt 1, pt 2)

Lan Qiren wanted to speak to Wei Wuxian about everything they needed to do, but it would have to wait: the moment they arrived, they were immediately swept up into the political mess that Jin Zixun’s ill-fated ambush had caused.

Jin Guangshan was there in the blink of an eye, despite normally taking his time in seeing anyone, and Lan Qiren didn’t like the way he started making excuses for his nephew’s behavior from the very start. It was to a certain degree understandable, as everyone would first incline towards defending their family, but the haste with which Jin Guangshan sought to sweep it all under the rug was disconcerting, and Lan Qiren thought it was almost suggestive of some level of premeditation. Even more distasteful, however, was how he sought to twist the entire event into being yet another reason Wei Wuxian ought to surrender the Stygian Tiger Seal to the Jin sect: for his own good, of course, in order to avoid being made into a target on account of the disdain of the cultivation world –

“Sect Leader Jin, your words are in poor taste,” Lan Qiren said sharply.

He could hear Jiang Cheng, who ought to be defending Wei Wuxian and was trying his stuttering best to do so, starting to waver; the boy had a pleasant rippling melody by nature, forced into a fierce allegro by his parents’ endless disputes and his later tragedies, and the weak foundation meant that he was too easily buffeted by uncertainty and doubt, as Jin Guangshan undoubtedly knew.

“Let us not speak in abstraction,” he continued. “It was your sect, your nephew, who launched this particular ambush. You ought to be making a formal apology to Wei Wuxian and thinking of reparations to repair the injury to your sect’s reputation, not acting like a thief complaining to the magistrate that his victim failed to hand over his property quickly enough to prevent violence!”

Jin Guangshan’s eyes narrowed in irritation, though he fought to keep the expression off his face as if it could disguise the swell of bitter rotten music that accompanied him wherever he went. “Teacher Lan,” he said, striving for composed and charming but mostly coming off as stiff and wooden. “Come now, I must be misunderstanding you. Surely you are not accusing me of being a thief.”

Historically, as Jin Guangshan well knew, this was when Lan Qiren backed down, mindful of his position as interim sect leader – his sect granted him much of the responsibility but not the full measure of power that typically accorded with the title, and he was conscious, always, that his role was to ensure there was something preserved for his nephews to inherit.

Perhaps Jin Guangshan had forgotten that Lan Qiren was no longer interim sect leader.

“I am describing the facts as I see them,” he said icily, straightening his back and levelling his best teacher’s glare, refined by years of troublesome students. “And they are this: by the agreement of the cultivation world and through his own powers, Wei Wuxian was inviolate and unbothered as long as he remained in the Burial Mounds. Despite this, he willingly chose to emerge in response to an invitation issued by your sect, only to be attacked by your sect – and when he comes to you for justice, rather than grant it to him, you suggest that he hand over his most prized possession to prevent any similar attacks in the future. Unfamiliarity may require me to consult my sect’s texts to be sure, Sect Leader Jin, but only to determine if I should be calling it extortion, blackmail, or outright thievery!”

“Teacher Lan!” one of the smaller sect leaders gasped, even as Jin Guangshan went utterly florid with rage. “You’re not suggesting that Jin-gongzi was involved in the ambush!”

Lan Qiren had been Jin Zixuan’s teacher and knew him well – he had been a shy, introverted boy whose awkwardness came off as aloofness, and would never have done anything like this. Even less so would Lan Qiren suspect such a thing of the man who had been steadied by war and responsibility into an adult with a firm moral foundation.

“No,” he said, and met Jin Guangshan’s eyes directly. “I believe Jin-gongzi’s invitation to have been wholly sincere.”

For a moment, Lan Qiren thought Jin Guangshan was actually going to strike him, his aura lashing out violently like a clash of cymbals, discordant and biting, and he braced himself, but in the last moment etiquette prevailed and Jin Guangshan refrained, although his fists were clenched so tightly that his veins stood out from the backs of his hands.

That was when Wei Wuxian opened his mouth.

Lan Qiren silenced him with the muting spell before he could get out a single syllable.

Jiang Cheng sent him a thankful glance and cleared his throat. “This is a serious matter,” he said. “It requires a full investigation; we won’t be able to solve it all talking now. Both Wei Wuxian and Teacher Lan have traveled a long way – I have no doubt that they need some time to rest and refresh themselves.”

A convenient way to stop anyone from starting a fight, and implicitly excusing Lan Qiren’s rudeness as a mere symptom of exhaustion, resolving the whole thing without losing any more face for anyone. The Jiang sect’s boy was picking up this whole politics business quite well, the poor child.

“I concur,” Jin Guangshan said, recovering a little of his poise. “There are rooms ready for you both.”

Lan Qiren inclined his head as well. “An excellent idea,” he said, and then, because he could now, added, “We can discuss reparations for the ambush later.”

“And what about the curse?” Jin Zixun hissed, clearly done with holding his tongue the way everyone had been so obviously instructing him with their eyes. “Am I to simply suffer while that criminal walks free and unharmed?”

“When I said there would be an investigation, I meant it!” Jiang Cheng snapped. “I doubt your curse is so advanced that it can’t wait another day, and if it is, then you should have brought it up earlier!”

“Why you –“

“Sect Leader Jiang has spoken,” Jin Zixuan interrupted, his voice hard. “Zixun, don’t forget that you must also answer to me as to what you did to my guest in my name without my permission. I think it might benefit you to ‘rest and refresh’ as well. One of the servants can take you to see a doctor.”

Jin Guangshan seemed on the verge of objecting, but Jin Zixuan seemed not to get the hint, already turning his face away.

“In the meantime,” he said, saluting politely, “Sect Leader Jiang, Wei-gongzi, would you come with me? A-Li is waiting to see you both.”

Lan Qiren allowed himself to be whisked off in a different direction to settle down, which in all honesty he did need to do. He hadn’t flown such a distance in years, had been in better health when he’d done so, and he had been tired even before all this excitement; some rest would do wonders for him, even if it did make him feel a bit like he’d become a doddering old man or an invalid. Before he could settle down, though, he heard a sound approaching – a little uneven, sometimes too fast, sometimes too slow – and despite the fact that Jin Guangyao had never been anything but polite to him, he felt his back tense up at the reminder of why he was here in the first place.

“Honored teacher,” Jin Guangyao said, smiling and saluting deeply – more than he should, really, given that Lan Qiren was neither a sect leader nor had ever been his teacher. “Welcome to Jinlin Tower. I regret that your arrival was marred by such unpleasantness, and hope that the remainder of your visit is calmer.”

It’s not Jin Guangyao’s fault that Lan Xichen likes him, Lan Qiren reminded himself. Your suspicions, and your family’s terrible luck at love, are your own burdens to bear. They should not be put onto others.

He nodded to Jin Guangyao.

“It would be good to see a peaceable resolution to today’s events,” he said neutrally. “I appreciate that you have come to check on me personally. It is truly going above and beyond the call of duty.”

“Your nephew is my sworn brother, Teacher Lan. How could I fail to honor you as my elder?” Jin Guangyao said smoothly. “Let me know if there’s anything we can do to make you more comfortable.”

“A bath before dinner would be nice. Has my nephew arrived yet?” Lan Qiren privately hoped that he hadn’t, and was relieved when Jin Guangyao shook his head, confirming it. “Let me know when he does.”

“Of course,” Jin Guangyao said, and saluted again. “I’ll inform the servants; a bath will be made ready for you by afternoon.”

The moment Jin Guangyao left the room, Lan Qiren traced the pattern along the hem of his robes that shook off the dust of the road, returning them to being as clean and pristine as always – not a long-term solution to laundry, but very effective in the short-run, and one that he’d only refrained from doing earlier in order to drive home the point regarding how he had also been victimized by Jin Zixun’s ambush.

It was a profound relief to be clean again.

Once he could no longer hear Jin Guangyao’s familiar chords, he relaxed, which unfortunately these days meant coughing. He rubbed his chest when he was done, sighing, and settled down with his guqin to start playing a little, hoping to ease his nerves. Lan Xichen would be on his way already, he knew, and would probably move even faster once he got word regarding Lan Qiren’s presence. He’d made rather a lot of trouble for his nephew…

The door slammed open, and only years of experience with troublesome children, along with the warning echo of a song free and clear, full of shining righteousness, allowed Lan Qiren to remain unmoved by the cacophonous crash.

“So I have questions,” Wei Wuxian said. “Many, many questions, and I’m going to want answers to…uh, are you all right?”

Lan Qiren ignored Wei Wuxian’s rush, finishing the stanza he was playing and letting his hands still over the guqin. “Sit, and I will answer your questions to the best of my ability.”

Wei Wuxian closed the door behind him and put up a talisman for privacy, like the ones they used to use during the war, before coming to sit across the table from Lan Qiren. He was frowning. “Honored Teacher Lan, your lips are red,” he said cautiously. “Were you coughing up blood just now?”

“An old injury from the war,” Lan Qiren said, unable to resist recalling the memory of Wen Xu’s wild smirk as he’d deliberately smashed his ribs into pieces, grinding his palm against Lan Qiren’s chest to force the broken pieces to pierce his lungs. Nie Mingjue had executed Wen Xu only a few months later, a matter that had greatly eased his nightmares…truly Lan Qiren had to get to the bottom of this mystery as soon as possible; once Lan Xichen’s name was cleared, he could focus on trying to devise a solution to cleanse Nie Mingjue of the spiritual poison. “It can be aggravated by excess choler. Do not concern yourself about it.”

Wei Wuxian looked like he was concerning himself about it. “But you nearly –” Lan Qiren glared until he dropped the volume of his voice significantly. “You nearly got into a fight with dozens of cultivators back at the Qiongqi Path on my behalf! Wouldn’t that have aggravated it even worse than just getting angry?”

“Much worse,” Lan Qiren agreed peaceably. “My talents in battle are not especially notable, although better with the guqin than the sword. Regardless, the effort expended would almost certainly result in a severe backlash later.”

Wei Wuxian gaped at him. “Then why did you do it?”

“Was there an alternative?”

Wei Wuxian’s mouth opened and closed a few more times.

“How are your shijie and shizi?” Lan Qiren asked when it appeared that Wei Wuxian was not going to force any words out of his mouth any time soon. He folded his hands together in an appropriate manner – he, at least, knew his etiquette, and would continue to model it in the hope that Wei Wuxian might one day catch a hint. “Well, I trust?”

“Uh, yeah, they’re great. Jin Ling is perfect, shijie is wonderful, the peacock doesn’t deserve either of them, though he’s gotten better, I guess,” Wei Wuxian said, then shook his head as if to clear it. “And I wouldn’t have been able to see either of them if not for you.”

Personally, Lan Qiren didn’t think one Jin Zixun and any number of his friends would actually be able to stop Wei Wuxian, preplanned ambush or no, so he just hummed noncommittally. “You said you had questions?”

“Yeah, and now I have even more,” Wei Wuxian grumbled, but he seemed to settle down a little. “Let’s start with the fact that you said you needed help on a musical issue, but that it is also somehow an attempted murder. What’s that about?”

Lan Qiren grimaced. “Serve tea,” he instructed Wei Wuxian, and waited until he was midway through the process – and thus not staring straight at Lan Qiren – to start talking. “I have reason to believe that Nie Mingjue has been poisoned with spiritual poison.”

Wei Wuxian nearly spilled the tea, but managed to stop himself in time. “Chifeng-zun? Impossible!” Then he frowned. “I’d heard his temper was getting far worse, of late. Just mentions of it in passing…you think it’s because of that?”

“It may be. The Nie sect is prone to encountering qi deviations; a spiritual poison, especially one that specifically targets choleric feelings such as irritation and rage, would be particularly insidious when aimed against them. Should he die, everyone might be inclined to assume that the cause was hereditary rather than external.”

“A perfect murder. What type of poison?” Wei Wuxian’s eyebrows went up. “Wait – you think – musical poison?”

“My sect is renowned for using musical cultivation as healing techniques,” Lan Qiren pointed out, not sure why it seemed to come as such a shock to Wei Wuxian. “Antidotes grow alongside poisons, and all that can heal can also hurt – anyway, isn’t what you do a type of musical cultivation as well?”

“Good point,” Wei Wuxian said ruefully. “All right, that makes sense. That definitely seems like a real problem…but why do you need my help?”

“My health is poor, and I do not know what such an investigation will require,” Lan Qiren said. “And I cannot ask anyone in my sect to assist me.”

“Why not?”

“Because the primary suspect,” Lan Qiren said heavily, “is Xichen.”

Wei Wuxian stared.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a few long moments of blank gawping. “Please forgive me, honored teacher, but I think I misheard you. Are you saying that you think Zewu-jun is poisoning Chifeng-zun?”

“I hope dearly that he is not, of course,” Lan Qiren said. “In fact, part of the reason for my desire to investigate privately is to assist in clearing him of suspicion –”

“No, no, hold on, don’t move on just yet,” Wei Wuxian said, holding up his hands. “You think Zewu-jun – Lan Xichen! – might be capable of poisoning his sworn brother and, as far as I know, best friend? Your nephew?”

“Yes.”

“You really think he’s capable of something like that?”

“I have done my best to raise him to be the sort of man who would not be,” Lan Qiren said, and thought suddenly of his own brother – their father had treasured him, cared for him, valued him above all else. Would he have ever imagined that he would do what he had done and end up living out his life in seclusion, only to die pointlessly at the hands of the Wen sect? “And yet, who’s to say?”

“Uh, me? All the cultivation world? It’s Zewu-jun! He’s one of the most upright people I’ve ever met! You might as well suspect Lan Zhan – you don’t, do you?”

“No,” Lan Qiren said. He appreciated the righteous crescendo in Wei Wuxian’s voice, particularly when Lan Wangji was mentioned – unfortunate as it might be to find that Lan Wangji’s seemingly hopeless affection might actually be requited, since it remained a terrible idea – but it was a little inconvenient at the moment. “But equally I cannot burden him with the duty to suspect his brother. It would only hurt him.”

Wei Wuxian quieted down at that. “I can see that,” he said, grimacing. “But…why would you suspect Zewu-jun?”

“The evidence is – suggestive.” Lan Qiren shook his head. “To be clear, while I will of course value the truth above all else, I am not looking for evidence of Lan Xichen’s guilt. I am hoping to exculpate him.”

Wei Wuxian leaned forward, now frowning in earnest. “All right,” he said. “I still don’t really believe it, but other people might, and that’s bad enough. Even unfounded rumors can make for real trouble. Tell me what you know about it.”

“My nephew has been helping Nie Mingjue to ease the symptoms of his familial tendency towards qi deviations by playing him one of the strongest and most secret Lan sect healing songs,” Lan Qiren explained. “The spiritual poison I have observed in Nie Mingjue’s body is precisely a variation on that healing song – only instead of the pure version, which is designed to calm and heal disrupted qi, it is intermixed with another song that deliberately encourages spiritual turmoil.”

“All right. I suppose playing for Chifeng-zun gives Zewu-jun opportunity, but that doesn’t mean he’s the only one who could’ve applied the poison song.”

“The Song of Turmoil is a rare import, hidden away in one of sect’s forbidden books. Only very few people have access to that part of our collection.”

Wei Wuxian arched his eyebrows. “And yet you can immediately recognize it?”

“I enjoy studying obscure musical texts as an aid in composition,” Lan Qiren said, mild censure in his voice. “Would you dare claim you do not do the same?”

“…fine, fine, good point.” Wei Wuxian waved his hand. “Okay, fine…still, I’m not convinced. Even if the only source of the song is the Lan sect’s library, there was a lot of chaos these past few years. Someone else could have picked it up, couldn’t they?”

“It’s possible,” Lan Qiren admitted. “Unfortunately, the tune had the same starts and stops that are characteristic of Xichen’s playing.”

As a musical cultivator, even Wei Wuxian had to concede that the unique quirks of playing style were difficult, although not impossible, to replicate, and moreover that one would have to wonder why anyone else would bother doing so, especially in a spiritual poison they presumably hoped would go entirely undetected. He rubbed his forehead, clearly thinking it over. “So, wait, are you saying you heard this musical poison getting played? Were you affected by it? Why didn’t you interrupt in order to stop it or to find out who was responsible?”

Lan Qiren shook his head. “I did not hear the playing, only the effects.”

Wei Wuxian frowned. “I don’t understand. If you didn’t hear it get played, how do you know that the playing had Zewu-jun’s idiosyncratic characteristics?”

“I’m very familiar with how Xichen plays. How would I not notice it? Even if I only heard it intermixed with Nie Mingjue’s own base tone, the sound is distinctive enough to recognize.”

Wei Wuxian was staring at him, looking blank again. A moment later his brow furrowed as if he’d just had a thought that seemed strange to him. He said, “Honored teacher, a question. When I said I wasn’t the one who cast the curse on Jin Zixun, you said that the person who cast it played the guqin, not the flute. I’d been wondering…how did you know that?”

“The curse has the sound of a breaking guqin string, which does not accord with Jin Zixun’s own music,” Lan Qiren explained. “The person who cast it was moderately powerful and very well-trained, although this represents an overreach on their part. I think it is likely that they incurred a backlash due to the casting –”

“You just heard it?” Wei Wuxian interrupted. It was rather rude, but Lan Qiren supposed he’d signed up for that. “You just looked at him and heard the curse that had been placed on him?”

Lan Qiren nodded.

“You can hear what people’s spiritual energy sounds like?” Wei Wuxian was growing pale.

“Not spiritual energy directly,” Lan Qiren said, a little puzzled by what seemed like an outsized reaction. Not only was Wei Wuxian’s face pale, his fists clenched, but his song, normally so free and clear, had become suppressed, tense, tightly strung. “More in the nature of the sound of a person’s spirit itself. Your Ghost General, for instance; he has a very gentle melody, very soft, but the underlying base is harsh, jagged, thick with resentment, less playing than dying – he needs to learn to marry those two parts of his spirit together, or else he’ll have trouble finding peace. That’s why I offered to take him as a student.”

“What about me?” Wei Wuxian asked. He was almost vibrating with the need to know. “What about my music? Has it – changed?”

“It’s gotten a little more sober, which is not uncommon with tragedy,” Lan Qiren said, and felt as though he were on the edge of some terrible revelation. “But no, fundamentally you remain the same person you always were.”

Wei Wuxian exhaled, hard. A trill of relief.

“Something happened that made you think it would change,” Lan Qiren deduced, reaching up to stroke his beard thoughtfully. He watched as Wei Wuxian’s eyes flickered one way, then another. “Wei Wuxian.”

Wei Wuxian looked at him.

“Are you unwilling to return to orthodox cultivation – or unable?”

There was a world of difference between the two: one was arrogance, relentless and unrestrained, looking down at the truths the cultivators of the world and their ancestors had worked so hard to unearth, the other merely a depressing practicality – who wouldn’t choose to cultivate something if the alternative was nothing at all?

And yet…how could it be?

And why would Wei Wuxian be so terrified of letting others discover it?

“That’s none of your business,” Wei Wuxian said, teeth set in a bitter smile that was more of a grimace than anything else. “I agreed to help you, Honored Teacher, but my business is my own.”

“But –”

“Another question,” Wei Wuxian said. “Different subject: I know you don’t lie, and earlier you said…what you said. So tell me, what Lan sect girl has her heart so set on me that you decided to come tell me in person that I wasn’t allowed marry her?”

Lan Qiren blinked. “I only meant to advise you that it was a poor match for you both; it was not meant as an insult to you,” he objected, a little offended. “If you and Wangji insist, I will not stand in your way.”

He shook his head and sighed a little, regretful; he would not pursue the matter Wei Wuxian was hiding any further. He wanted to help, curiosity itching at him, but Wei Wuxian was right – it was none of his business.

“As long as your reliance on demonic cultivation does not impede your assistance in my investigation, I will not bring it up again,” he concluded. “How do you propose we begin?”

“…Lan Zhan?”

Lan Qiren frowned. “I already explained to you why I do not wish to involve Wangji, and that I do not suspect him. Why would we start with him?”

“Not for the investigation,” Wei Wuxian exclaimed, his face bright red. “About the – marriage!”

#mdzs #lan qiren #wei wuxian #jin guangshan #jin zixuan #jin guangyao #my fic #my fics #polyphonic

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goldenkamuyhunting · 3 years

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Tell me if I'm being crazy here but I was just wondering if you feel like the Ogata in the anime is an inaccurate representation of the Ogata we get in the manga? And if you feel the same as me why may that be? I really can't nail it but it's bothering me watching him in it. Like they missed the point of his character.

Well...

...in itself all the characters are inaccurately represented in the anime.

There are some problems that come with the anime adaptation:

- the first is not really a fault of who creates the anime, merely a consequence of the anime being a different medium. As a result some things can’t be delivered in the same way as the manga.

For example this is one of the spread pages in which Noda plays with the contrast between what happens in one half and what happens in the other half.

On one side we’ve Sugimoto and Asirpa eating warm food together, safe and happy, on the other we’ve Ogata being shown alone (although we know there’s people around him) about to freeze to death and in a poor shape.

You can’t just get the same effect on the anime.

We see a similar trick also used in a scene that seems to foreshadow the ‘cat alliance’. In this three panel we see Edogai’s cat and then, below his panel, two panel showing Wildcat Ogata and Tiget Kiroranke exchanging a nod as they turn at the same time.

You just can’t get the same effect in the anime but the anime didn’t even made an effort as it didn’t show the cat falling on the ground (or better, it’ll show it but later on) but just Ogata first and Kiro after, both clearly looking at Hijikata without turning, Ogata’s expression different from the original (change of expressions is a point in which I’ll dig later).

...and the same goes for other ‘manga only’ ways to show things. For example the manga can use a swirling shade to imply that Ogata is actually in turmoil despite looking calm on the outside.

The anime wouldn’t be able to do such thing without making the draws looking weird. Of course some anime would find different ways to drive home the same concept (from a certain music to moving the whole swirling to the background or things like that)... but Geno tends to miss those details.

Anyway this might seems minor, many believe they don’t notice this sort of details... but actually most of those details are meant to pass below your conscious radar, and give you a determinate feeling without you quite realizing it. They shape the background of your opinion on the characters or of their relations or of the themes of the story.

- another problem is something for which the adaptation can be partly blamed and it’s the matter of cutting scenes. We should probably split the anime adaptation into the three series because they had different fates.

A premise. Out of late anime series have started being created for being 12 episodes series for commercial reasons. I won’t get into details on the why but this affected GK as all its series are 12 episodes and, to fit all the amount they decided to fit in 12 episodes, cutting scenes was mandatory in many cases. You just wouldn’t manage to put everything in them.

Plus, many anime series aren’t created to cover the whole storyline but just a part of it, using the anime series merely as a way to promote the manga (and likely, originally GK was planned to be a mere 12 episodes series).

Now, in GK case...

The first series adapted most of the story. There were however some relevant cuts that affected the series, the main one being how they completely removed Umeko from the plot something that hugely affected Sugimoto’s characterization but also, will come to bite back in future series with the result it’ll affect Sugimoto and Asirpa. Another notable cut was the Barato arc. They recovered it in the OAD, but if you don’t watch the OAD but just the anime, you’ve a great hole in the plot development. If the series has stopped at 12 episodes and had been merely a promotional mean for the story it wouldn’t have been a big deal but we know ultimately it continued. I would also say in some points it felt a bit rushed... but again, it could have worked for a promotional series... while it feels pretty bad for an ongoing one.

The second series was... a mess. It cuts left and right without really paying care to connect well the various parts of the story. Parts of the cuts had a reason to be, as some scenes seemed hard to transpose in an anime (think Anehata), others though were just cut so that they would fit in the 12 episodes quota all the plot that was missing to cover the story up till Abashiri, when the series would have benefitted greatly if they had stopped sooner instead than making a mad rush for Abashiri that translated in a cutting fest. They then recovered the Shiraishi arc, the giant snake arc, the boss Wakayama arc, the Anehata arc in 3 OAD (but we still miss the Lighting bandit arc and the fake Ainu arc), but it’s worth to mention some of whose OAD clearly weren’t planned, as they can’t connect anymore with the series which cut them in such a way they can’t be reinserted anymore.

The third series tried again adapting everything except the Sekiya arc and the Koito past arc. Overall though, despite those two cuts, they tried to adapt the most they could and at a decent pace, which allows the third series to come out as the best of the 3.

Result of this all?

The characterization of most of the characters, especially if you watch only the anime series without the OAD (or with the OAD but not placed in the order in which the manga storyline would have placed them), suffers of a lot of cuts that are instead important for their development.

Ogata is, of course, among the ones affected.

Some cuts are small, for example here we see him explaining that he’s not just randomly escaping, but that he has assested the situation and a retreat was the smartest thing he could do.

The same goes here, with Ogata again analyzing the situation and planning countermeasures as well as taking care of their weaknesses (warning Nikaidou to hide his binoculars).

And the same goes here

Ogata is even capable to point out that Hijikata’s plan might suceed at first but not in the long run, which shows a capacity of analysis of the big picture.

Plot wise this kind of cuts are meaningless, they don’t change the story but, character wise, they rob Ogata of one of his main characteristics, observing a situation, analyzing it and being fast to come up with a valid course of action.

You’ll find many cuts through the anime series and they touch various aspects of each character.

Sometimes those cuts affected lines exchanged between characters so that the relationships felt different because some things were just left unsaid.

Other cuts affected the boxes explaining things, for example in the anime we aren’t told why Ogata eats snow but we’re supposed to figure out on our own, or how the bear could sneak up without Ogata and Nikaidou noticing or how Ogata learnt during the war that he had to avoid hitting vital parts to slow his pursuers down and so on.

Then there are the HUGE cuts, the one I mentioned before, that involved plot threads (Umeko) or entire arcs, or had arcs placed in OAD that not everyone saw or that don’t well connect with the anime.

The Barato Arc and the Anehata arc both involved Ogata significantly, so not seeing the OAD affects the understanding of the character.

The fake Ainu arc being cut stripped Ogata of a lot of scenes, among which Sugimoto’s stubborn refusal of Ogata’s logical theory (those Ainu are fake) as well as didn’t show how Ogata saved Sugimoto’s life by shooting to a fake Ainu who was about to kill Sugimoto, returning Sugimoto’s favour (Sugimoto saved him while they were in Edogai’s house).

The Lighting bandit arc in the manga worked well to tie with the fact Ogata was a child born from parents who didn’t love each other. The anime kept Ogata’s backstory (and animated it mostly rather well) but it felt less strong since it lacked the frame of the Lighting bandit arc... and the worst part is we lost this bit.

The constant cutting of Umeko from the plot ended up causing the scene in which Sugimoto replied to Asirpa he was searching the gold to take care of a friend’s widow and Ogata pointed out how that widow was the woman Sugimoto loved and also realized how Asirpa was crushing for Sugimoto. The lack of this bit affects how we read the whole scene on the ice in Karafuto.

The fact the anime decided to skip the Anehata arc, changed the reunion between Ogata and Tanigaki making Ogata’s reaction to the death of Tamai and Co and to the discovery of how they actually died weaker and even deprived us of Sugimoto’s recurring ‘don’t trust Ogata’ to Asirpa who instead trust him, affecting how the relations were presented. This cause the relationship between Sugimoto and Ogata to look much better than it was.

Also, they removed Ogata’s presence once they were in the blind bandits house. He entered in it with Sugimoto but then the anime decided to have him disappear and left Sugi to handle it all when in the manga Ogata was there to help.

- another HUGE problem are the transposition choices. The biggest fault of the first series is to tend to present the character from a distance or from behind, hardly showing us their expressions. The Japanese voice actors (sorry I hadn’t tried out the dubs), expecially Tsuda Kenjiro, Ogata’s voice actor, do try their best but sometimes you just need to see the faces to get a feeling of what they’re feelings.

Look at this manga scene in which we see Ogata’s expression trice.

Do you know what they showed us in the anime? This.

Basically the anime put entirely on Tsuda Kenjiro the burden of delivering to the viewers Ogata’s displeased and suspicious feelings. Only Tsuda Kenjiro was instructed on keeping Ogata mostly toneless so, while he’s still an awesome actor and there are differences in his performance that give out what Ogata is feeling, they don’t come out as obvious as the visual of the manga, especially to a not Japanese viewer. It’s not a choice to keep Ogata mysterious, it’s a specific problem of the 1st anime series which does it with many, many characters, Sugimoto and Asirpa included because drawing and recycling such a scene takes less effort than animating all the panels that were in the manga.

It’s a problem mostly of the first series though, as the two following series were more expression friendly but... but the expressions they showed in all three series were often different from the ones used in the manga. Look at how in this scene Ogata is serious, I’ll say worried in the manga since his face is shadowed and as he understands something might be up but he has no idea what he is, but he clearly doesn’t like this development...

...while he grins in the anime, his face well light as if he’s having the best day of his life.

Then when he’s proudly showing off what he knows in the manga he smiles...

while in the anime he feels down.

Smiling with his eyes raised...

...versus not smiling with his eyes lowered.

...and so on and I don’t even know why they felt the need to change the various characters’ expressions (yeah, it’s not just an Ogata’s problem) as there’s simply no reason to do it.

On an interesting note the anime chose to expand some fighting scenes. Ogata’s first fight with Sugimoto is longer, as Ogata manages to swing his bayonet a little before ending up on the ground (which is detrimental of Sugimoto who’s WAY more amazing of a fighter than him as Sugimoto can fight on par with Gansoku and Ushiyama) and felt the need to stretch the confrontation with Tsukishima too.

In the manga Tsukishima just kicks Ogata, Ogata notices Tsukishima is taking then gun and then tosses himself behind the stuffed people as he was still in that room. In the anime Ogata is in the room with the stuffed bear instead. Tsukishima kicks him behind it but then Ogata manages to spring out the room and go hid behind the stuffed people in the other room.

On another note, when in Edogai’s house Ogata is being beaten up by a soldier in the manga it’s shown he’s trying to protect himself with his arms while in the anime he seems to remain there completely still... and the anime put a sudden focus on Ogata’s eyes to switch at Sugimoto attacking the soldier and, at the same time pushing him away from Ogata, as if Ogata knew that he wouldn’t die there because Sugimoto was there to cover up for him, where in the manga there’s no emphasis on Ogata’s eyes and the two scenes are cut by how one has to turn page... plus Sugimoto hit the soldier so that he fell above Ogata so it’s clear Ogata wouldn’t have managed to glimpse Sugimoto.

- Lastly yes, they missed the point of many of his interactions. For example the anime makers said they believed since Ogata’s mom kept on making the anglerfish nabe, it was because Ogata liked it, a sign she liked her son... when, according to the story, she kept on making it because it was his father’s favourite dish and she had gotten mad. In Karafuto they downplayed Asirpa’s efforts to have Ogata say citatap and hinna and completely missed how Ogata was allucinating her as Yuusaku...

(I mean in this scene is pretty obvious there’s a parallel between the two so I’m not sure how the anime missed it)

...and the anime seems to put more focus on how the lynx and Ogata’s tracks superimposed than on how Ogata is now walking on a different path from the lynx... just to list some of the things that came to my mind.

For more I’ve a couple of tags in which I compared the episode transposition and the manga one in details or a little more vaguely.

So, long story short, anime Ogata can’t help but give a different impression compared to manga Ogata.

He misses part of his story, his interactions are different, his expressions are changed, scenes that were meant to deliver certain things aren’t there so of course he seems another person.

It’s not done specifically to him though, as everyone suffered about this.

The anime, in his attempt to make the story simple and more... ‘shonen’ friendly has taken away much of the grey concepts for a more black and white picture which influenced also how situations were presented.

But well, while I’m not satisfied, part of this is done to market the show to a wider audience so it’s kind of a forced choice.

(On a sidenote it’s worth to remember that the anime adapt the volume version of the story which differs from the mangazine version in some relevant points. So not all the changes are completely made up by the anime.)

I hope it helps. Thank you for your ask!

#Golden Kamuy #Ogata Hyakunosuke #Golden Kamuy Manga vs Anime #Golden Kamuy Episode #Ask

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southboundhqarchive · 5 years

Photo

MEET LENNOX,

FULL NAME › Lennox “Len” Milø Holm AGE › thirty eight GENDER › Cis male (He/Him/His) FROM › Blythe, California RESIDENCY › Laguna Street (Midtown) OCCUPATION › Sheriff’s Deputy at the Amen County Sheriff’s Department NOW PLAYING › I’ll Be Good by Jaymes Young

BIOGRAPHY,

trigger warnings: blood, injury references, death

There was nothing quite as sure in the world as the fact that Petyr and Isabella Holm loved each other beyond the stars and back, and so in turn did everyone they met. It was difficult you see, for a young couple from a little village back across the Atlantic to manage living in the new promised land of America. Money was low near constantly, and no matter how hard Petyr worked they always only ever made ends meet. But everyone was friendly, everyone adored the gentle-faced man and his comely wife, always willing to lend a hand here or there to keep them afloat - for surely they didn’t deserve the low hand life had dealt them. Kindness begets kindness. They told sweet Isabella that her face belonged on the big screen, that her way with words and emotion near guaranteed her a place among the elite of California. So she went, and she auditioned, and she strove her hardest in small part after small part - never quite landing the big roles, but always landing something wherever she set her heart. It was enough, for a long time. It was enough. Petyr’s side business was not-quite-booming, and his wife could maintain her travel to and from the main city for her work and they were happy with their lot. Very happy. Made only happier still by the arrival of their newborn son, who charmed every single one of the glowing couple’s friends with just a glance.

With the good looks of his mother and the quiet countenance of his father, Lennox Holm added new life to the simple apartment complex his family called home. So enthralled with everything he could see and touch and feel from the moment he could conceive complex thought, Len was a balm against the ever present underlying monetary stress his parents fought ever harder. An extra mouth to feed pushed things, but they never let it show. They laughed and loved and raised him as best they could - made sure baby Lennox understood his heritage more than anything. He grew, fast and strong, with foreign words falling from his tongue as easily as the English his friends spoke. No one gave it second thought, California was the state of high hopes and peoples from every walk of life. As he aged, learnt ever more about his ancestry, questions bubbled up and up and up. Why did he hear nothing from his great aunts, his uncles, his cousins? All these years and they had nothing new from relatives left behind in their homelands - the sharp sting of disappointment echoed in the pointed absence. And it hurt to know he’d never see them, or learn family secrets passed between generations, the joys and hardships long won by ancestors.

But concern for that soon faded in the face of bigger upset. Their lives had never been exactly frivolous, scraped and saved for every small luxury they can afford beyond the bare minimum of food and water and power and shelter. Lennox never asked for more, quiet and content in the frugal way of life his parents meeked out for him. And it was, for the most part, a lie. Barely into his childhood and oblivious to the fact that his father’s door-to-door business was failing, that his mother’s parts were becoming few and far between and the constant cost of travel into the big city and back to their little apartment in Blythe, well - they were on a rapid path to destitution. Eventually Isabella gave up her acting career, retreated back home and simply spent her waking hours doting upon her bright young boy and fretting over the next bill. Oh they did as all parents do, kept Lennox far from the harsh reality they faced with each red-letter and apologetic but firm notice from the landlord. Eventually, it took its toll.

The Holms had always been a prime example of a marriage gone right, they loved each other deeply and tenderly, with nary an argument beyond what was deemed healthy at the time. They looked out for the other, Petyr cooked when Isabella was too tired from her commute or her auditions to even consider doing so, and she did odd jobs around the house whenever she had an off week between shoots. They shared all burdens, but the sheer weight of their encroaching poverty made that warm bond between them snap. The nights became a screaming match behind closed doors, muffled only enough to keep their neighbours from the brunt of it. Lennox spent these hours curled on his bed, legs tucked under chin and hands forced over his ears. He stopped crying after the first month. He stopped feeling afraid after six. He stopped caring by the time their issues drew the attention of their friends and new-family, culminating in the snap decision by his father that it was time to give up on California, move to a cheaper state, find better lines of work. So - they packed up what little they’d gathered over the years, stacking sentimental treasures in with what remained of trinkets saved from Sweden all those years ago. They had no destination in mind, truly, only to drive and see where the road took them, letting fate dictate perhaps. (His parents would say, years down the line in their last few weeks; Boot Hill chose us, Boot Hill was perfect. Lennox, many a time, would disagree with the latter.)

They spent a month on the road, all in all, dipping from motel to motel with increasingly worse living conditions, until one day it came. The sign. A half crumpled leaflet stuck by days old maple syrup to the plastic veneer of a table in a roadside diner. Boot Hill, it proclaimed; affordable apartments. That enough sparked interest in sensible Petyr. Their funds weren’t drastic quite yet, but for these prices? A lucky find indeed. And on the back, smeared but still legible through the leftover food, Isabella saw her own sign. Advertisements. So many, with such reasonable pay and oh, the kicker. Drama teacher needed at Boot Hill High. Surely it wasn’t a coincidence that the family would find such a perfect opportunity. They paid their bill, and asked the middle-aged waitress where they could find this veritable paradise and gave her the rest of their change.

Boot Hill as it turned out, was a quaint little town with all the rustic charm of an old western like the ones Isabella would sometimes star in. (Lennox could feel how weird it was even then; an observant child with old eyes). It was refreshing, the chance for them to start again on their American dream and perhaps this time it would stick. With her previous experience, it took but one simple interview for his mother to gain the position, and many a student claimed her to be their favorite. Old Mrs Holm, they’d say, what a breath of fresh air. She thrived, and after a year of feeling tense, of watching her grow more timid and withdrawn, mouth a stern line, Isabella smiled once more. His father became a little adrift at this new pace of life, unsure of his place within the town until a chance conversation at the bar one night led to a comfortable position at the local market. His history with sales made him ever so useful after all. So the Holms were content with their new life. Happy. Oblivious. Lennox was not.

While it is true that Boot Hill was near idyllic with it’s friendly neighbourhoods and simple lifestyles, there was something just ever so slightly off. A trick of the light at the corner of the eye, the vague sense of something watching when there was truly nothing there. An underlying tension that most were ignorant to, but Lennox saw it as only a child could. It was simple at first, and his parents merely thought it childish fantasy when he relayed to them that dear Mr Jameson down the road walked the same path to and from his front door everyday, that his smile was identical, that it is always 7am on the dot and not a second later, that he dropped his keys mere inches from his car at the same second, in the same way, everyday. Odd, they would say, but he is an old man and his hands must be weak, do stop staring at the man Lennox. (He did, but only because one day Mr Jameson looked up from his keys and met his gaze; there was something in that look that left him with nightmares the next week).

There was always something just slightly wrong with Boot Hill, but as Lennox’s schooling progressed and baby fat trimmed down into a lanky pre-teen body, he had bigger things to worry about than the strange cicadas outside his window at night. He’d never stood out, never wanted to, but he was bright and attentive and considerate; something his teachers had always appreciated back in Blythe and it was no different here. A new town, but the same routines. School would be the same no matter where in the world you went, he thought. But he made friends all the same, ones who found his foreign accent, however soft, to be fascinating. That took the time to learn his past, as well as make plans to be in his future - afternoons spent by the pool during the summer and bbqs during the autumn nights. He wasn’t the actress’ son, nor that nice salesman’s boy. He was simply him, and that made all the difference. Popularity of course, came with some drawbacks eventually as they aged. (But he’d never wanted to go with them that night; not really).

The girls grew more attentive as time progressed and Lennox knew he was handsome, that there was something pleasing in the way his features sat - he was his mother’s son, and oh his manner. Softly spoken, a gentle smile as he said his thank yous and pleases, a picture perfect gentleman just as his father had raised him to be. Lennox had never cared for it back in Blythe, but there was something nice to being liked; that his friends would ask advice before a big test, or invite him for games at their homes for the weekend. There was never a sense that he didn’t belong. (Boot Hill never let people feel that way, he found). So really, he had no reason to act out, as he saw others of his peers sometimes do. Late night fights and want for rebellion from their stifling families, from the sheer pressure of being good. Nothing he could relate to, really. But then, he’d not quite found his place within the school just yet. (That would come later). But he was fine with how things went, his grades were above average and his teachers were pleased and his parents doted upon him ever more now that they could. Now the weight of the secrets they bore were gone. And, there hadn’t been an argument in years. It was paradise.

High school was a whole other beast that consumed something deep inside Lennox, something he’d never quite known had been there. Popularity became the be all and end all, finding your place in the steady flow of bodies now raging with irritating hormones, where behaviour spiked in all manner of ways. Many friends grew apart, most of his childhood ones finding different paths and though it was upsetting to become once again another face among the tide of teenagers, it was also once again… freeing. Now he towered over most of his peers, attention grabbing in a completely different way, his teachers grew interested in some of his hidden talents. (That’s all he was in the crux of it; a pair of legs that didn’t stop). Track. The freedom of running, feet pounding again and again and again over coloured tarmac and oh, the heady sense of power hidden beneath his skin. Lennox finally felt as though he could breathe. He rose through the ranks, competed and won over and over in every challenge they threw at him. It was strange and exhilarating and heady and once again Isabella sat her son down and said, this is paradise.

And that was where things became wrong again. At night something moved behind his house just shy of his window, a scratch scratch scratch against the wall and a shadow playing across the house opposite. Lennox looked. (There was nothing there; no matter how fast he went to the window, no matter how long he stayed, waiting, watching). A howl. The same howl, pitched low and deep. The same howl, every night, at precisely 3am. Lennox listened, he saw the oddities that his friends would laugh at him for. That his parents scolded him for. And all those childhood dreams, the nightmares, well perhaps they weren’t dreams at all. He started a journal, wrote down whatever he witnessed and kept it hidden in the folds of his mattress. Eventually it became a habit, and one he hardly noticed he kept. Lennox never could fathom how his parents didn’t see it, the callous almost irate way they shrugged his concerns away but then - Boot Hill citizens never did see. (And then it happened; and they no longer cared what he thought).

Track meets were a tradition, afternoons spent training and finding better ways to conserve their stamina for the long stretches of tarmac beneath the soles of their shoes. Evenings spent with flavoured soda, and eventually alcohol flavoured with just a hint of the sugar-rich drinks. Teenage boys growing rowdy and jeering dares at each other in the pale light of dusk. Dares none of them ever refused. Some got tiny cuts from idiotic stunts pulled to make their friends laugh, or draw attention from the small collection of girls that flocked to the parties once the coach was gone. (Boys will be boys, they say). Lennox managed to avoid these sessions most nights, getting free with simple dares near the beginning and keeping that perfect level of quiet - assessing what to say and when to shift and where to stand to keep the steadily drunker attention away from himself. But one night, just the one, he felt a loosening in his chest and thought - why not? What’s the worst that could happen? (A lot).

They cajoled him into a car, the driver only just sober enough to get them out into the deserted parts of Boot Hill without killing them all. He swerved around animals no one could see, and Lennox felt unease build, but then alcohol did strange things to the mind did it not. Eerie howls followed them, growing closer and further on an uneven loop that had them laughing. (Lennox regrets getting in the car). The caves a a dark smudge beyond the headlights when they screeched to a stop half an hour later, a pack of drunk teens high on the prospect of a new level of danger. They’d been warned not to go there, many times. But that only makes the desire to go there ever sweeter, when it’s forbidden. The caves are cold despite the summer air sticking the shirts to their backs and Lennox is told what he must do. Go inside and wait out the screams rumored to echo there at night. Pride had never been an issue before, but something in him wanted to prove himself. (They think it was the tequila). Lighter flame at his right and the giggled whispers of his friends at his back and of course he went in, sure that the rumors were truly rumors. It was dark and damp and cold and the cave roof was uncomfortably low the further he went in, until he could no longer hear the teens outside nor the rumble of the engine they’d left idling. It was fine. Until a soft breeze hit the flame, that bit at his fingers so sharply he dropped it and was left standing in pitch darkness. No amount of fumbling found the cool metal of the lighter and Lennox felt panic creep in. There was something in there with him, he was so sure of it. He called out, and nothing answered him. (But there was breathing, he could hear the air breathing).

Someone came in after him, the more sober friend who’d driven them there, an ounce of common sense left in the dredges of his mind. It was so dark, they had no light between them, and Lennox felt real fear that night. The other boy did reach him, could hear Lennox calling out as if he were right next to him and reached out confidently. Lennox heard the other boy’s yell. He felt the hot splash on his wrist all the way up to his shoulder, metallic and heavy and very obviously blood. (He doesn’t remember how they got out; only the red and blue flash of lights in the corner of his eye). The Holms stopped the track career the following day. And Lennox let them. The boy didn’t die, but there was no chance of him ever running again. An old bear trap, the sheriff said, left behind in the cave to trap coyotes. It was a miracle Lennox missed it, they said. His parents stopped looking at him with such open adoration after that, and he learned to heed warnings.

School ended with little affair, and with little celebration because they all knew he wouldn’t be going anywhere. Not now his parents had slowly reached an age to which care was needed. They’d had him old, you see. A heart attack claimed his mother in his twenties, when he’d been home and unsure where to go with his prospects. He’d cried for the first time in a decade then, as he watched them lower her into the ground with his father silent beside him. Petyr grew ever frailer, but he had one last piece of advice before memories began to muddle in his mind. (Hard-working, clever, observant Lennox; go atone for that boy’s life). It took another few months before the elder Holm was too frail to stay at home, moved into what passed for care in the little town of Boot Hill. And Lennox found his place again, afresh.

For years he served as simple dogsbody and general officer at the sheriff’s station, answering calls for hooligans destroying property, or elderly women needing help with their homes. He learn the filing system as well as the back of his hand, he’d joke when the deputy asked how he fared. He’d not reached the lofty heights his mother had once hoped for him, but something about police work sat right with him. A hum to his bones that said, yes. (Things were still odd in Boot Hill; and where better to observe them than with the sheriff). The progress was slow, but Lennox was a determined sort, never shirking duty, never bemoaning what they had dealt him for the day and he was rewarded ever so slowly. (Promotion, they said one day, years down the line). Yes, he said, in return.

Twenty nine, and the youngest deputy they’d had for a while and oh it kept his mind busy from the looming gulf about to strike. Petyr Holm was not a well man, had looked ever sadder as the years went by after the loss of his sweet Isabella. He never forgot her, and those who still spoke to the man always felt a sense of admiration for the strength of love the Holm’s had had for one another. His father passed in his sleep, clutching a small photo of Isabella. Lennox very much wanted to leave the town, now he had nothing to hold him back, no lingering duty to his family who’d loved him and supported him all those years. But then something always came up, derailed his well made plans to leave. His car battery spewing acid, paperwork piling so high on his desk he could hardly see, responsibility passed down by the sheriff himself to keep him working ever harder. And he stopped thinking it was weird.

His journal sits under his mattress in his new apartment, untouched since his father’s passing. Pages worn, and unread for years.

❝ a mess of blistering wax burns - the harsh reality of broken bones. ❞

CENSUS,

FACECLAIM › Alexander Skarsgard AUTHOR › Fen

#alexander skarsgard #rp #rpg #town rp #oc rp #{ all. }#{ local. }#{ m. }#{ over thirty. }#{ fen. }#death tw

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