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jessamine-rose · 1 month

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⋆˚♱ଘ Requiem for the Damned ଓ♱˚⋆

*holds head in hands* Idk why Dottore keeps haunting me with writing inspo. And for this idea to manifest just before Holy Week….fuck it, I hope you all enjoy the blasphemous tale of Priest! Dottore x Demon! Darling _:(´ཀ`」 ∠):

Tw:: yandere, violence, death, religious abuse, dubcon, mention of nsfw, MINORS DNI

Note:: fictional depictions of religion

♡ 2.7k words under the cut ♡

♡ Despite your status as a wandering demon, you have no place in human cognizance. Rather, you conceal yourself from mortal eyes in favor of close observations and whispered temptations. Humans, from your perspective, are interesting creatures—they are ambitious, easily influenced by spiritual beings, capable of both good and evil.

♡ And what better example than the one who summoned you on a starry night? Such rituals are not uncommon amongst heretics, but most only succeed in invoking the contempt of their fellow humans. And few would invoke your name, much less commit sacrilege within the walls of the Church.

♡ You sense danger immediately upon your appearance. Within the summoning circle, you take note of your sigil perfectly illustrated in blood against marble. Beyond it, what alarms you is not your sacred surroundings nor the fresh corpse mixed with your offerings of books and fruit. It is the figure standing over you, cloaked in moonlight, gazing at you with eyes the color of hellfire.

“My ritual is a success. Welcome to my humble church, o noble demon…or would you rather be addressed by your epithet? ______, Fallen Seraph, the Seeker of Forbidden Knowledge.”

♡ A glimpse into his soul is all it takes to strike fear into your heart. Within Hell, there are rumors of a small village in Sumeru. Its people are nothing of note, a congregation of simpletons whose lives revolve around the beliefs of their Church. The lone exception is the main priest, Father Zandik, better known as Il Dottore.

♡ The stories, passed through human voices, speak of a child ostracized for his unconventional beliefs and his interest in the macabre. Branded a madman, he was placed in the care of the Church elders who corrected his ways of thinking. Once he became of age, Zandik was given the choice to move out of the rectory or to remain as a priest; he chose the latter of his own volition.

♡ Since his ordination, Zandik has proved himself to be an exceptional priest. He educates the masses, reviews theological texts, performs exorcisms, and provides religious counsel for the doubtful. He even serves as the town’s doctor, fully gaining the acceptance of his community.

♡ The rumors don’t stop there. For Il Dottore earned his title by performing miracles. It is he who guides the people into religious ecstasy, he who cures the sick from mysterious curses, he who blesses the weak into “enhanced humans.” There are already whispers that once Dottore’s mortality catches up with him, he will surely be canonized as the Patron Saint of Doctors and Miracles.

♡ But spiritual beings such as yourself know the truth. That Dottore is neither a kind priest nor a devout believer, that his days in the Church only magnified his heretical inclinations. Disillusioned with God, Zandik decided to turn His religious sanctuary into his own laboratory, one where he could fulfill his lust for knowledge through a mask of holiness.

♡ He manipulates the people with false teachings. He triggers religious ecstasy with drugged incense. He singles out devotees to “test their faith” during the quiet hours of the Church. And what the town perceives as curses and miracles are actually scientific experiments in which Dottore plays god.

♡ It’s too late to escape. No matter your divine powers, nothing prepares you for Dottore’s traps. The incantations, the barrier of the summoning circle, an aura so holy yet sinister that it couldn’t possibly come from ordinary religious objects—all you can do is fall to your knees and beg for his mercy, all the while he watches you with a confident smile.

♡ His intentions are like that of any human: He summoned you to form a contract. In exchange for his soul, he demands your knowledge, your resources, your full servitude for so long as he roams the mortal plane. Your hesitation only triggers another wave of scorching pain, followed by panic as Dottore grips your horn and forces you to face him.

“Make no mistake, ______. The mere fact of your divinity does not make you indestructible. In exchange for your cooperation, you will bear witness to experiments of the same magnitude as God’s creations. What say you?”

♡ You have no other choice. And that is how, in the sanctity of the Church, you make a deal with the human named Zandik. Once the pact has been forged, Dottore admires the bright sigil on his chest, plucks a few feathers from your wings, and disables the summoning circle so you can leave. Thus begins your personal hell.

♡ It is easy for you to answer Dottore’s questions about the divine. The horror lies in assisting him in experiments, responding to his summons no matter the inconvenience, allowing him to extract your blood, tears, and feathers. No, what’s most humiliating is when he uses your body for his “research,” bending you over the altar and bringing you to physical ecstasy against your will.

♡ At this point, you don’t know who to pray to. One night, Dottore shows you a secret room in his laboratory. As soon as he lights the lamps, your eyes take in numerous bodies and skeletons of a different classification from his usual victims. The extra bones jutting from the scapulas, the amputated wings, the halos pinned to the walls, the holy aura you’d felt from his religious objects…instantly, Dottore’s powers make sense.

“This is my first specimen. She was my guardian angel…no, I jest. She was a mere messenger who implored me to repent for my sins. From her words, I deduced it had been within Heaven’s capacity to save me during my youth—and yet God only sent an angel to me after my first act of blasphemy.”

The angels…how many has he killed? Not even during your fall from Heaven did you feel such primal fear for your life. But you cannot scream—you have long been trained to resist fight and flight. All you can do is listen to Dottore’s explanation, watch as he approaches a pure white skeleton and wraps his hands around its fractured hyoid bone.

He gives you a calm smile. “Luckily, her body provided me with indispensable resources for my experiments and my procurement of her brethren. I believe her name was Sohreh.”

♡ Just when you think it can’t get any worse, Dottore points at the far corner of the room to reveal a space dedicated to demons. Four dead bodies, their causes of death vividly described. Horns, wings, and other body parts amputated in exchange for lives spared after exorcisms. And when Dottore returns to your side, tracing the wound from where he broke off your horn, you can only tremble and acquiesce to a checkup. It grows back fully by the end of the year.

♡ He has his moments of vulnerability, however. Perhaps it is due to your nature as a demon, a creature which represents evil, that Dottore does not hide his heart from you. Once, after his usual confessions—he always makes up trivial sins—he remains in the confessionary until his fellow priest has left. Then he goes to the altar and summons you.

♡ What catches you off-guard is not his lack of greetings. Rather, it’s the way he pulls you close to his body, lips ghosting the curve of your ear. There, in the heart of the Church, he whispers to you every sin he has ever committed. Despite his normal tone of voice, his words have never betrayed a language so guiltless, so sincere, so human.

♡ He asks how much of his madness is to blame on the influence of demons, or if he had been born wicked. He asks if humans were truly given the mental faculties to withstand temptation regardless of their circumstances. He asks if the same can be said for spiritual beings, questioning why former angels like you were also created with the capacity to sin. He even asks if praying for a demon can offer them any hope of salvation.

♡ It takes you a while to answer his questions. It’s just like him to put your emotions in disarray, to make you feel pity for the very cause of your current suffering. Against your nature, you wonder if there is still a chance for Zandik, if he can somehow repent or find a way to save himself from your contract and all of his sins. Even if it is too late, He has always been more forgiving to humans than angels.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨

“Do you know why I became a demon, Zandik?”

Your question is what prompts Zandik to pull away from you, though his touch lingers. His gaze, as always, is unfathomable; you can never discern what hides within those pools of crimson.

“No, I do not. Few demonological texts allude to your existence, and only the Lesser Key of Deshret cites your previous status as an angel of the highest ranking. I have made theories in relation to your epithets but I respect all possibilities. Now what would you, as the primary source, reveal to me?”

Now it is your turn to confess.

“Seraphim are the closest to God but for that reason, we are the most distant from His creations. Everything we know of the world is derived only from what He tells us, not our own insights. And so I defied His Word and ate the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge, committing the same sin which condemned all of humanity.”

The tip of your upper wing brushes against Zandik’s face, while your middle wings encircle his body in a loose hug. As for your lower wings…they are nothing but twin scars covered in short feathers. After your descent, it seemed like a rational decision to chop them off, broken as they were. It helped that your wings had just outgrown their original purpose.

For once, you barely flinch at the sensation of his touch against your scars. Many times, Zandik has inquired about the loss of your lower wings and even asked if he could have them. They still remain in Hell, tucked away in a corner of your home, eyes forever closed.

It takes a few seconds for him to respond. “Do you ever regret your decision?”

You shrug. “It was difficult at first, naturally. Many of my eyes were blinded—yes, that is why I rarely open the ones on my wings—but those which still function have seen so many wonderful sights up-close. Neither must I cover my face with my remaining wings. And despite being what your kind and my former brethren would dub a monster…I’m happier now.”

“I see, I see.” His curiosity appears far from sated, however, a sentiment you can empathize with. “As I thought, God is incomprehensible. For Him to deny even His greatest creation of salvation…it confirms that there are limits to the forgiveness of that which humans call a ‘loving god.’ Thank you for sharing this knowledge with me.”

And just as quickly as he initiated his confession, Zandik steps out of your grasp and dismisses you. But you make no haste, silently watching him after you “leave.”

His expression is thoughtful. A gloved hand touches his chest, right above your sigil.

Such an interesting creature.

Honestly, you don’t know what to make of your feelings for this human. Much as you despise his cruel treatment towards you, he never fails to capture your interest with his experiments and philosophies. Whenever he speaks of God, you wonder if a small part of him still desires to be saved. But that will never be.

Zandik preaches salvation with the knowledge that he will never receive it. For the Church never taught him how to love.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨

♡ Il Dottore never became the Patron Saint of Doctors and Miracles. Neither did he have a funeral mass befitting of a priest, nor a peaceful death from natural causes. Instead, he died young, laicized, once again denounced as a heretic by his community.

♡ You don’t know how his crimes were exposed, and why now. Perhaps it is God’s punishment for him, a blessing for his victims, or both. Either way, Dottore paid for his sins on a sunny day, burned at the stake before a disdainful crowd. Not long after his heart stopped beating, his belongings were thrown into the fire—research, tools, anything which carried his memory.

♡ You never left his side. After his last rites, led by an elderly bishop who condemned Zandik as he did in the past, you sat next to him and offered a final conversation. He didn’t express any fear nor sadness in regards to his imminent death, merely stating it a pity that his achievements could never be appreciated in his town.

♡ …He did ask if there is any chance of meeting again in Hell, but you reminded him that the punishment of sinners is out of your jurisdiction. Plus, it’s better that way—you have no desire to avenge yourself, and you’d rather not witness Zandik’s suffering for all eternity. You can only imagine the severity of his punishment, what more if he is assigned to one of the demons he exorcized.

♡ During his execution, you stood at the front of the crowd. You kept your eyes trained on him, for so long as his scarlet orbs remained open, whispering the prayers for the dead on his behalf. While a part of you felt liberated, another was mournful. You hope your last words to Zandik gave him solace in his final moments.

“Rest now, Zandik. God may never forgive your sins, but I shall.”

♡ And thus ends the life of Il Dottore. In the following days, the Church is purged of its holy, sinister aura, mainly because they discarded the religious objects tainted with angel remains. You continue your usual obligations as a wandering demon, but the humans you observe pale in comparison to your companion of many years.

♡ Not long after, you return to Hell for your other divine duties. As soon as you appear in your abode, however, something feels off. The sinister aura, the offering of books and fruit, your lower wings gone from their original place… The answer comes in the form of a hand grabbing you by the horn, pulling you backwards, twisting your body to meet a familiar gaze the color of hearth-fire. Only, this time, those eyes are brimming with pure joy, paired with a genuine smile.

♡ Apparently, Dottore’s soul did end up in Hell but not in the way you expected. In a proud voice, he explains that the Devil gave him a special fate. Whether it was due to vacant positions or everyone’s fear of the infamous “Demon-Killer,” you’ll never know. What Dottore does confirm is that as the demon bound to him via contract, you have to take responsibility and act as his companion in Hell.

“Rather than subject me to eternal suffering, the Devil believed that my talents would prove useful for the punishments of my fellow sinners. How wonderful is it for my achievements to be recognized in Hell? …Oh? I didn’t predict such a physical reaction from you. All of your eyes are wide open, and you seem to be on the verge of fainting.”

♡ You don’t know if you want to laugh or cry. To think your personal hell has been extended to eternity—are your sins enough to warrant such a fate?! But after confirming your misfortune, all you can do is sigh and tend to Zandik. He looks exactly the same, with the exception of a few burn scars on his body. And judging by the familiar black feathers on his person, he seems eager to discard his former religious attire along with his mask of faith.

♡ And when Zandik unfastens his scorched cassock, he takes your hand and places it on his unburned chest, right above your sigil. It glows vibrantly, brighter than any light you laid eyes on in Heaven. And beneath the flesh, you can feel his heart beating in sync with yours.

“Tell me, ______, do I still appear human to you?”

“You already know my answer to that question. But fine, I’ll admit it: Yes, you always have.”

♡

Note:: Church AU is still on my “will not write” list. I only wrote this because I specifically like Priest! Dottore and Angel! Capitano. Please do not send me any Church AU asks/ requests involving other characters or dynamics.

At long last, I am free from Priesttore…thank you to everyone. To my readers, to my fellow Dottore simps, to my mutuals who indulged my tortured DMs after midnight, to the artist whose fan art inspired this idea to begin with. May you all have a lovely day╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

Tag a Dottore enjoyer!! @leftdestiny-posts @beloved-blaiddyd @mochinon-yah @diodellet @lcveaesop @oofasleep @bye-bye-sunbird @yandere-romanticaa @boundinparchment @harmonysanreads @teabutmakeitazure @yandere-wishes @yanmaresu @nicebonescomrades @nimandu @lesanyanyas @moarar

#il dottore #dottore #dottore x reader #yandere dottore x reader #yandere dottore #yandere fatui harbingers #fatui x reader #genshin x reader #yandere genshin #tw: yandere #tw: dark #tw: blood #tw: death #tw: violence #tw: dubcon #spicy warning #mdni #g/n reader #jessamine-writing

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360iris · 1 year

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falling in love (with a feeling) | poly!prongsfoot x reader | mafia!au

“My mother taught me that the only way to get over a man is to get under another one.” Percilla said with a devious, lopsided smirk. An hour and a half ago, she’d all but pushed her way into your apartment, making a strategic beeline towards your closet, hauling a pink duffle bag half her size over her arm.

“Of course, she didn’t take different gender preferences into account back then, and she wasn’t exactly a saint in those years either. But ignoring the way she freezes up now, acting like it’s hard business to recall what I see as pivotal moments of her influence on me as a child- I found that it works like a charm!”

She was an almost comical mass of multiple moving parts. Running a comb through your hair one moment, rifling through your drawers and pressing various articles of clothing into your hands the next.

A little black dress, smoky eye, and glossed lips with loose hair and you were deemed ready. ‘Keep it simple and any interested parties will do the rest!’ She’d remarked proudly. Throwing the last of her things back into the oversized bag before setting it in the corner of your bathroom, grabbing her purse and walking to the door with a purpose; the Lyft ride had already been waiting for three whole minutes by then.

But rooms full of inebriated, horny strangers had never been your style, and people you don’t know pose unwarranted dangers while sleeping with them foretold even more. So without a single intention to follow her plan to the last bulletin, you decide to simply enjoy what you could and head home with your conscience intact.

Though instead of her usual stomping grounds, she’d brought you to the more expensive side of town. An A-list club which was guaranteed to house the most well off socialites in the city. The name very faintly registering even if you couldn’t place where, or in what context exactly it had been mentioned.

“Marauder’s Map? Perc, I’ve never been here before. And I definitely don’t have the cash for more than two drinks.” You’d said feeling quite apprehensive but sticking close behind her nonetheless; following even as she exited the car cutting the entire line of waiting patrons and blaring the bright screen of her phone in the bouncer’s face.

Much to your surprise, the towering man does not berate the two of you. Instead his mouth purses to the side, a thick brow arching quizzically as he grimly asks, “And the phrase is?”

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

Then, without any hassle or need for lengthy explanations, you’re both allowed inside. Granted a smooth entry as she grabs ahold of your hand, expertly guiding you through groups of people like a woman on a mission.

“I haven’t told you,” She speaks in a secretive tone, linking an arm with yours and slowing her stride as she scans the room, and the countless faces it holds, with a discerning eye. “But, I met a guy. He’s rich, like Will Smith or Jay Z and Beyoncé building-generational-fucking-wealth rich. And he’s gorgeous, of course. That has to be a given, no matter the amount of money he has.”

“And you have, or you're actively trying to sleep with him?” You ask, studying her perfectly pretty face with her highlighted blonde hair, overlined eyes and sateen lips- fully thinking that she was just stunning, and crazy, enough to pull off bagging some nameless, New York City billionaire socialite.

She stops walking and turns to you with raised brows like you’re missing something that’s right in front of your face.

“No, you dummy.” She laughs and it’s an airy but fond kind of sound. One that peppers your cheeks with soft puffs of air before jovially filling the space around you. “I’m trying to marry him.”

Oh, you think. Eyebrows lifting before you're the one that’s letting out a quiet laugh.

She doesn’t like that however, releasing your arm and allowing it to slap back down to your side as her lips morph into a displeased frown.

“Perc, I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just shocked, is all.” You say immediately after, attempting to do quick and precise damage control. “I mean, you’re younger than me and twenty just seems like an awfully young age to literally tie yourself to someone else. Let alone some guy with as much affluence and cash to throw as you say he has.”

“He’s not just some guy, like I found him at a 7/11 and decided he was the one. He’s one of the most well-known men in the state, not to mention the entire country. And you not being ready when you were my age does not automatically dictate the rest of the world’s timeline. I know what I want, and I will not be laydoned with someone else’s insecurities.” The words slip past her lips like water from a tap and you stand there stunned and quiet; blinking at her, as you think she might as well have just slapped you clean in the face, and saved you the mental gymnastics.

“‘Cilla!” A voice calls out from behind her, ripping the two of you out of the tense space you’d found yourself sunken in.

When the man comes into view, he wraps an overly familiar arm over her shoulders and there's a stark height difference compared to either of you. A few integral inches which make it so that he has to subtly bend his neck to properly look her in the eyes.

His sleek, raven black hair tucked behind one ear as the opposing side curtains his face like flowing silk, caressing his cheeks and resting at his shoulders.

Black slacks with a matching dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleek boots fitted on his feet. Thin, gold chains glint around his neck in the dim light as the open space reveals a multitude of tattoos, the ink continuing down his exposed forearms where the sleeves have been rolled up. He is gorgeous, a true Samson, and you decide then and there, that you hate him. Or, at the very least, feel inconvenienced by him in more ways than one.

“Sirius,” Percilla greets with a warm smile, her mood considerably dampened but seemingly willing herself to perk back up as she reminds herself of the main objective.

“Comment allez-vous? I’m glad you could make it.” He asks before immediately defeating the purpose of speaking, his middle and index finger gently coaxing her jaw so that her neck turns further to face him, making you stand witness to the way his lips interlock with her own.

It ends just as quickly as it was initiated before those steely blue eyes are turning on you and the effect is borderline frightful. His attention makes your skin feel clammy and as though your body is burning at a temperature of 105, and you’re certain that regardless of how needlessly overdramatic the word is, you’re certain that you hate him.

“And who is this?” He asks, oddly refusing to break eye contact with you.

“My friend, the one I told you about? You might not remember.” She answers and you internally blanche.

“No, no. I remember now!” He laughs as he‘s reminded of whatever god awful event or memory she’d previously recounted to him, extending his free hand towards you. “Sirius Black. It’s nice to finally put a name to a face. Ravi de faire votre connaissance.”

You stare blankly at the larger, outstretched fingers, look back up at him and force your lips to contort into a thin-mouthed smile, “Enchantée.”

Turning to Percilla with the same false glee, you jerk your head towards the bar with a curt, “Don’t let me keep you, I’ll be at the bar.” Before giving him one final smile and departing.

Sliding over a bar stool, you stare at the bartender, aware of the fact that there’s plenty of other people who’ve either ordered or are waiting to order- but after a solid four minutes pass, you’re certain the asshole is purposefully ignoring you.

“Malcolm.” A low voice chimes above your head and with a quick glance you find that Sirius has slipped in alongside you with ease, the bartender nearly breaking his neck with the speed at which he turns in your direction before clearing the distance in two and half steps.

“Now what would you like, dear?” The handsome bastard asks, tilting his head towards you like he could wait all night for an answer. All of his attention and focus circled in on you.

The sexist bartender looks at him, while he looks at you and you peer back with furrowed brows and pursed, glossy lips.

‘Well, at least I can finally order.’ You inwardly grumble, letting out a sigh before breathing out an answer, “Brandy Old-Fashioned, washed with lemon-lime soda. Three cherries, please.”

Sirius continues to lean against the bar on one elbow, legs crossed at the ankles as he looks down at you, his eyes slightly narrowed with the faintest smirk turning up the corners of his mouth as he slowly nods, turns and orders as well. “The usual. Both are on me, Malcolm.”

“Coming right up, sir.” The younger man replies before making quick, but precise work of it as though someone lit a fire under his ass.

“You own the place.” You quietly remark, looking up at him as a shot glass is presented in front of him with a soft clank, an even mix of ginger ale and whiskey.

“Partially. One-fourth, split evenly.” He answers, smirking like a human Cheshire Cat.

Your drink arrives, precisely how you asked for it and Sirius gives the boy a curt nod, signaling for him to return to assisting other waiting customers. And maybe it’s the slow way you sip from the glass, biting into a maraschino cherry tentatively, or just the look in your eye, but his mouth switches to a smile as he throws back the shot, emptying it in a single gulp and deftly wetting his lips.

“You’re the style consultant.” He says appraisingly, perhaps verbally jogging his memory. “The one who works in the luxury suit shop, doing fittings and resizing slacks.”

You silently nod, eyeing him suspiciously with furrowed brows. “Yeah.”

“‘Cilla mentioned you a few nights back, said you wouldn’t tell her everything that was going on but she suspected it was taking a toll- that you were stressed.” His eyes were narrowed, a rye smile gracing his lips as he spoke. “She thought a night out would do some good, take your mind off things.”

“Did she?” You ask rhetorically, voice dry.

“Yeah.” He nods, “And is it?”

“What?”

“Is it helping distract you?” He prods, as if it’s any of his business, or concern.

Downing the last of your drink, the ice tinkles melodically as you set it back down. “No. It hasn’t.”

Coping with the ending of a three year long relationship was one thing. You could learn to do the mundane activities alone again, could get over how isolating it felt to crawl into bed and know there was no one to join you.

Giving up your apartment, figuring out an entirely new living arrangement and shifting money around so that rent and bills could be covered by a job that hadn’t been intended to carry all of that responsibility was another.

Pinching pennies and having to choose between budgeting or enjoying yourself had a way of slowly draining the life out of you until all that was left were irrational anxieties, fears and feelings of hopelessness. You didn’t want to talk about it because you had to live with the reality of the situation every second of the day and you hardly expected someone younger than you to be able to help much, so naturally Percilla wouldn’t know the full story.

“I figured as much.” He agrees, tapping the bar and smiling down at you as you all but glare back. “You've had a drink, why don’t you head home? I’ll keep an eye on Percilla, make sure she doesn’t get into too much trouble this time around- and send her back to her flat in one piece with a story to tell.”

“Though for you, rest will do you more good than standing around in those high heels will.” He jests cheekily, looking particularly pleased at the way you glower at his poking remark but before you can reply, he’s shooting a wink at you and walking away; his dark form dissolving between the throngs of people.

part II

#mafia!marauders #mafia au #sirius black x reader #the marauders x reader #the marauders #prongsfoot #sirius black imagine #sirius black #sirius black x reader x james potter #poly marauders #hp blurb #hp #harry potter blurb #harry potter #marauders era #harry potter imagine

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talonabraxas · 25 days

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It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye. --Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Beloved Omega Heart Talon Abraxas

May God open the eyes of your heart, shedding His divine light. The angelic realm, which contains the potential of future creation, incorporeal existences, the meaning of all and everything to come, and divine power, is the element from which the visible world is created and, therefore the material world is under the influence and domination of the angelic realm. The movement, the sound, the voice, the ability to speak, to eat and to drink is not from the existences themselves in the visible, material world. They all pass through the invisible world of the angelic realm.We think that we see with our eyes. The information, the influences of perception, are due to our senses—while the real influence, the meaning of things, the power behind what sees and what is seen, can be reached neither by the senses, nor by deduction and analysis, comparison, contrasts, and associations made through intellectual theories. The invisible world can only be penetrated by the eye and the mind of the heart. Indeed, the reality of this visible also can only be seen by the mind and eye of the heart. --Secret Path of the Heart

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elegantduelliste · 3 months

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Epistles of Saints & Sinners

Chapter Summary:

The companions deal with a hag and Tav makes a hard decision.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Story Summary:

When Astarion meets the humble bard, Tav, he soon finds out he's the only one between them that knows they are bound as soulmates through their marks. Deciding it's more trouble than its worth, he refuses to tell her along the course of their journey across Faerûn.

But, unbeknownst to him and their companions, Tav is harboring a gruesome secret that she only thought was nothing more than a traumatized period in her life.

As they both come to face to face with their pasts and presents, will they choose to move forward or let it consume them?

Healing isn’t linear—after all.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Chapter 13: End

Ao3

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Main Page & Chapter List

Word Count: 5.1k

Pairing: Astarion x female bard Tav

CW: Language, Blood & Violence, Trauma, Act 1 Spoilers

Hag song was HEAVILY influenced by 'Hey Girl' sung by Lady Gaga and Florence Welch

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They say that the heart is a heavy burden. Undead, an infernal engine, a mortal organ. They can all carry the same weight. And when you have had nothing to care for it for so long, It’s like a fucking chokehold the moment even a single jab of sweet honey infects it.

— Karlach, scrawled thoughts on a torn page from one of Gale’s books

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

A devil’s servant was near: looming by her side, whispering a litany of canticles, bidding for her to wake.

The swordswoman awoke in a foreign room with paint peeling off the walls, like the droves of oppressed women by the men that promised to be their caretakers forevermore.

As Tav’s view unblurred, she noticed a priest passively swinging a thurible, releasing an unnatural pitch black colored smoke. The incense smelled of corrupted boils made to summon eldritch visitors.

And then pain. Her body felt like it had been tossed around in a rocky undertow. Each nerve ending aflame. Bruised. Defiled.

Her dried tongue attempted to coat itself in saliva as she tried to speak. “Wh—”

“Saer, she is awake,” the priest clad in a plain gold and black robe spoke aloud.

A figure was at the foot of the bed she laid in, clasping his hands together. “Fantastic!”

Algos.

She tried to move, pushing her weight on her elbows, but the soreness that shot through her was unbearable. Tav cried out roughly, falling back onto the pillow beneath her head.

“Careful my love, you’ve undergone a change—quite literally—overnight,” the rasp of his lilted tone seemed to slice through the curls of smoke filling the room. “Priest, grant me a moment with her.”

The pious stranger nodded, leaving the room as Algos approached her bedside, his boots clinking heavily across the wood floor.

Tav hysterically searched her surroundings for any indication of where they may be. She studied a singular dusty window with beams of sunlight straining to shine through. Then, the rotted floor, clearly missing a few boards. But, when she finally looked at the sheets and comforter thrown haphazardly onto her body—sullied in possible blood stains—she froze.

Placing a hand on her forehead while she was distracted, he smiled down at her. She flinched, breaking out into a cold sweat.

“Please…where…”

“Shush now. You’ll need all the rest you can get, that is, if you can even survive through the day.”

She peered up at him in horror, tears stinging in her widened ducts. Panic and the sensation to writhe under his touch set in. “What’s going—?”

His dark eyes bore into her, slowly narrowing into something cruel and unknown. “Isn’t love grand, Birdie?” The strength of his grip found her chin and he held it firmly, lowering himself to place a cold peck on her lips. “10 years I have loved you and finally you granted me the purest gift of your devotion to me.”

Tav gasped, pacifying any movements in her aching pulsating muscles. “Gift? I don’t…understand.”

Algos released her, taking a step backwards. He gestured dramatically towards her covers. “Now, unfortunately, I have already had to part with it; but know that it provided me with exactly what I needed. Anyways, I shan’t babble on about such negotiations, but maybe you should have a look for yourself?”

She grazed the stitched hem of the blankets covering her and steadily lifted them from her bare figure. Her tempest eyes traveled down the mounds of her breasts then to her torso and legs. She violently trembled in fear. “Algos, what have…have…you done…?”

He snapped his fingers in thought. “Ah, there is one more thing I must attend to.” He turned to leave, waving a quick goodbye. “If you’re still alive by the time I return, I believe that will have earned you a proper explanation, don’t you?”

Tav dropped her coverings and reached out towards him, screaming hoarsely over and over again in torment. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! ALGOS! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Why did she kill for him?

Gale had warned her about Astarion. About the webs he would tangle her in. Spread out ornately on patterns of silken fibers as the tightrope artist approached her from each strand that represented his life. Even should the bough upholding his intricate designs begin to shake, she would remain: a votive offering for every shade of his light, his dark, his gray.

Guilt. The self-condemnation for her turning him away whilst the skeletons he housed took his hand to dance with them. His cross to bear: inscribed on their left over bones. The beasts within that fed on him as his soul still cowered in fear. An unyoked expression—the disconnect—on his face as he pushed his sex into her over and over again was a familiar reflection she had seen of herself before. That she still saw during the erosion of her body clashing against her past.

Had she made the right decision bidding him to leave?

Then, there was a moment between the aftermath of the confrontation with the hunter and these troubling thoughts, that both Tav and Astarion regarded one another in uncomfortable silence. Briefly, a bout of regret flickered behind those mesmeric garnets when his gaze traveled down to the area he bit the previous evening, hidden behind the stays of her corset.

”Why?” The spawn mouthed, anchoring his jaw tautly.

“Because you—”

Tav furrowed her brow concentrating on his question. He wasn’t asking why she had decided to run to his—their—aid, no, he wanted to know why she decided to come after what he did to her. How she could still bear to look upon this rabid self that stood before her after his teeth enacted a sacrilegious communion in the name of Cazador Szarr.

The answer vacillated through Tav while the crimson from Gandrel’s death wept from her gloved hands into a trinket of a puddle. She had run to her crew half-dressed, hearing their desperate crows during her midday training. And the moment she saw the vampire entangled in the vine spell, she knew her impulsive arrow would whistle through the breeze to pierce the hunter’s flesh to shield him.

Her stomach churned as she watched the waves of Astarion’s coif falling forward, while he bent over to search the man’s corpse. “Are you certain he was one of Cazador’s?”

“Well, he was, “ he smirked outturning the deceased’s pockets, discovering little more than a bag of gold and lint. “I have history with them; the Gur were responsible for nearly murdering me the night I was turned into a spawn. Only Cazador would know to send one now to capture me. I’m sure he found it quite humorous.”

“Whew-weeee! You sure know how to make an entrance!” Karlach flung the rest of the vines she cut in half off to the side, beaming at Tav. “Either way, the problem is taken care of, yea? Comrades have to take care of each other, but hopefully this won’t come back to bite us in the arse later on.” She pointed towards Astarion with a long fingernail. “Don’t get any ideas.”

He shrugged at her, tying the coin bag to his belt. The dagger in his hand slid across Gandrel’s shirt, wiping it clean of blood and debris as he continued squatting near his lifeless body.

Tav ignored Karlach, conflicted over her own earlier actions. “Astarion, are you absolutely sure?” She peered down at him, pondering which collusions were quietly branching off inside his mind for him to answer her with.

Her thoughts were suddenly addled with the urge to seek forgiveness from the gods for the unimaginable deadly sin she committed that staggered on the lines of her ward for Astarion and wrath itself. She wanted to believe him. Believe that the possibility was charitable enough that Gandrel worked for Cazador and would have trafficked him back to the city. She wanted to place her faith in him that somewhere inside his tortured existence that his intentions were, at the very least, mottled enough with the concept of “good.”

He stood upwards, readjusting his armor. “You don’t trust my word? He was a Gur. Why should it matter?”

Tav shook her head. “This isn’t only about trusting your word: it’s about trusting your decisions. This, “ she motioned around at the tiny ponds of blood and viscera decorating the ground. ”impacts more than just your impulses now. The volition of your path, Karlach, Wyll, our acquaintances, me—it impacts it all.”

Astarion murdered for her once; Priestess Gut at the goblin camp. The debt of her life owed was just repaid in kind. The Madonna with her slender rapier, piercing through the qualms of her own heart for a man who’s humanity was dangling from rafters above layers of stained glass.

Why did it matter? She wasn’t keeping score. Helping those in need came without questions. Tav had ended lives for others without another thought. To save. To defend. But the difference—the bloody difference—was that it never involved a personal attachment for someone like Astarion. If she cut down an innocent man for him on his false instinct, then she…

Astarion crossed his arms haughtily. Even with ichor splattered on his fair features, he was still lethally gorgeous. “My dear, mayhaps you need to be reminded that it was not I that asked for anyone’s help with tearful pleas. By your own resolve, you are here now.”

Hey,” Wyll spoke up softly, failing to grasp their attention.

“But, Astarion, you knew we wouldn’t let you face Gandrel alone,” the bard unwaveringly replied. She pulled at the lengths of her dark ashen brown locks, winding them up into a messy hair bun. “Look,” she started with a hairpin in her mouth. “I’m only trying try to point out that not every Gur you meet is a horrible person to blame for what happened to you before you were turned. And that if we’re to get involved, it’s something to consider in the future.”

“Oh, please! Why defend those vagrant cutthroats? I think it’s only understandable that I do, in fact, get to blame them.” He hesitantly inched towards her as if she would crumble the very second he was within reach of her.

Tav rested her hand on the hilt of her blade sheathed at her side. She concentrated on his shallow breathing, watching his features alter several times. He was patently unnerved.

The pallored elf’s hands landed onto his hips. He leaned in towards her with barbs on his tongue. “Sending that hunter was a blatant message to show the power Cazador still has over me. Have you any real clue as to how strong he really is, Tav? The abilities he possesses? He could turn into mist, sneak into our camp in the dead of night, and strangle us all before we even opened our eyes.”

With a sudden jerk in her voice, she ground her boots into the mud to tower her posture. “Astarion, please—”

Astarion stepped further in, halting only feet away. Vexation and anguish masking his vision. He roughly pulled down the collar of his shirt, revealing his two jagged fang scars on the right side of his neck. Faded in color, but not in memory. “And if death isn’t enough—not to fret! You could be chosen to serve as his newest slave and live eternally as a meaningless vessel in the body you once knew,” he spat.

This was not the first time the womanly elf had laid her eyes on these scars—she saw them nearly everyday—but it was the first time watching him directly acknowledge them. Two petite bursts of whitish fireworks healed over. His master’s hallmark for legacy.

The intensity of his emotions viciously hid themselves in her heartstrings, like stubborn grit underneath fingernails. She placed a flat hand over her left breast. “Be-inway, Astarion. Be-inway, I hear you,” she quietly sing-songed.

He leaned back away from her, viewing her in one of his usual repertoire of reactions. “Would you reevaluate having that look broadcasted on your face when we disagree for once?! Those wretched huthammur. Gods below,” he blurted in frustration, glaring away from her eyes.

“Enough! Quell this before I kick both of you into the Chionthar river!” Wyll shouted abruptly. Fixing his stony eye on Tav, he moved in between them to act as a volunteer mediator. “You two quarrel more than bloody Shadowheart and Lae’zel.”

“What’s done is done,” he continued, the balm of his voice sweeping into the air. “If we are to believe Cazador hired this man, as Astarion said, then we need to believe that he knows our location. Our fanged friend is right: anything related to the vampire lord—short of himself—could strike at any moment. If the Gur’s death was indeed a mistake, then we’ll atone at the pyre during our final rites.”

“I always knew I could count on Wyll’s sensibility whilst you fiddle around with your own concerns,” the vampire fluffed out his hair, chiding Tav with a prissy titter.

Instead of her typical reactions caked in silence or offering challenges for him to consider, she simply spread out her arms to bow, catching his smug guise flipping into incredulity. “As you wish—your highness.”

“‘ey! Maybe we could save the melodrama for later?” Karlach horned in, breaking the subtle silence. She scratched the side of her cheek looking back and forth between all three of her companions suspended in pose. “Ethel’s teahouse isn’t far from here. She heard all the commotion and came to check it out. Said we are invited into her home as a reward for taking care of that monster hunter once you two were done bickering.”

Tav and Astarion sheepishly stared at each other past the warlock. Past the barbarian. Past their surroundings. Unmoving. Unblinking. Unorthodox beliefs in opposition gliding across paralleled strings.

He broke their quietude first. “I swear, if this demented crone only offers us tea and biscuits, I’m going to throw myself into the…urm, well, not the sun anymore. Anyways, shall we?” Astarion offered, extending his arm out in front of him, ushering Tav and Wyll along.

Tavelle, Tavelle, with her burnished battle symphonies surrounded by Astarion’s flags of scarlet, had taken another risk allowing herself to further interlock their lives together by having the stench of this stranger’s death on her hands. But, she knew it was for a reason she resonated with. A kindredness in once belonging to those that subjugated them with relational bonds affixing themselves as an addiction to the love and misery they provided.

So, why did she kill for Astarion?

Because she knew this would be the only chance he’d ever get to possibly escape for good.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

“Tav, keep singing! It’s working,” Wyll yelled at her, preparing an ‘Arms of Hadar’ conjugation. “Almost ready!”

The group had fought off the hag’s illusions until they were able to single out her monstrous corporeal form. As Mayrina bawled from a cage suspended over a fathomless pit, Tav combined a hasty doggerel alongside her ‘Vicious Mockery’ cantrip—adequately causing serious damage to the witch's ears.

It was the first time Astarion heard Tav’s voice since they entered Ethel’s residence. Clipped and off-kilter to her usual songs, he could sense she had dipped her thoughts into a place she would not allow any to follow by the unusual strum of her pulse.

♫Hey hag, what will you do? After we scorch that litter in your hair. Hey hag, have you any clue? Your illusions do not scare.

Hey hag, the bargains made, Around that brew you stir. Curses, scry, changing weather, Your end is on the way.

Hey hag, hey hag. Where’s your coven to save you? Hey hag, hey hag. It’s time to perish away.

Hey hag, hey hag. Hey hag, hey hag. It’s your end today. But, know that we gut you. Please know that, Please know that, we gut you.♫

Near the end of the last verse, Tav faltered; disrupted by the locusts of her ruminations, swarming to devour the fields of her concentration. The perfect momentum for the hag to take.

Auntie Ethel managed to steel her resolve long enough through the misstep to cast a bladed gust of wind, slicing open Tav’s forearm. She wheezily wailed at the bard, “You..rude…little…cunt!”

Thrown off balance, she fell to one knee, clutching her lute tightly.

Astarion ran to the ledge of the pit. He watched as Ethel started dragging her wart covered body in Tav’s direction. “Get up, damn you! Wyll, we’re going to need that spell!”

Karlach roared, charging forward. “YOU FUCKING BITCH! YOU’RE GOING TO BURN!”

“Karlach, no! You and Astarion need to save Mayrina and the baby,” Tav commanded, lifting her head at them to heavily take in gulps of breath.

Hells, not this drab self-sacrificing shit again, he reprimanded inside his mind.

“You idiot! Have you noticed that you have acquired a rather nasty gash? One more distraction and the hag will have sliced bard for breakfast! That woman made her choice,” Astarion grumbled loudly over the wide chasm, pointing towards the cage. “She was going to trade her own—“

Tav willed herself to stand. He could see her blood surfacing on the wound causing a desperate pang in his stomach he fought back.

“I KNOW,” she hollered back, seemingly conflicted by her next choice of words. “Trust me—I know.” Her tone became a diffused strain, showcasing that compassion she carried on her sleeve. “We don’t have time to argue, but life can be fucked up Astarion and sometimes we make ignorant choices when we are suffering. She may not deserve it, but let her have a second chance to choose to do right.”

A second chance.

Second chances were not allowed where he once resided. Second chances were unforgivable acts considered an intentional rebellion against Cazador’s commandments. Second chances meant having a spawn’s mouth gagged with foul-tasting fruit until their cries for mercy ceased. Second chances were for the weak and imperfect.

Second chances didn’t exist for Astarion because first chances lacked possibilities and dreams.

And those ideals were more dangerous to his master than allowing his children to ever turn into full-fledged vampires.

But, he was not at the Crimson Palace. He was not under Cazador’s command. And he very much did not want to deal with the repercussions that impossible elven bard would administer should he refuse.

He deeply exhaled, turning his head to view the barbarian over his shoulder. “Fire girl?”

“Yea, fangs?”

“How much weight do you think you can lift with your axe?”

She knowingly smirked, “Enough to give a boost to a handsome vampire.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere with me,” he grinned coquettishly. A red gaze briskly found its way back in Tav’s direction as he removed a dagger from his hip. “Songbird, if you slump over, please remember: I told you so.”

Astarion heard her chuckling echoing off the cave's walls as he walked towards the tiefling. She angled her axe towards the ground, allowing him to secure his footing on the weapon’s steel.

“Any ideas on how you’ll get back down?”

He unbuckled the side of his chest armor and fumbled around inside a concealed pocket. “Ah, there we are! I was going to make trade with it—seeing as it looked fairly rare—but I can always borrow another one from Gale when the time comes.”

Karlach eyed the ‘Scroll of Dimension Door’ dangling betwixt his fingertips like a horse’s carrot. “You stole that from Gale? He’s going to be quite unhappy when he finds out.”

Astarion pursed his lips, shoving the scroll back into its cubby space. “Well, the only way he’ll find out is if you decide to tell him.” Crouching down slightly in preparation to jump, he fisted the hilt of his dagger with both hands. “Besides, it’s not as if Gale was going to use it anytime soon. The man seems to have taken up the hobby of hoarding all means of magical properties since he joined us. I can assure you, it won’t be missed.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Whatever you say, fangs. Ready?”

He nodded. “Do it.”

And up he flew as Karlach hurled him towards the cage with her oversized weapon, forcing the airflow upwards. Astarion shot through the moving air and shoved his blade into a thick branch fastened around the gargantuan bones making up the small prison. With a strong grip, he pulled himself up enough for his foot to gain traction on a piece of wooden board that served as a floor base in the cage.

He swung his body into the cage, bowing quickly at his waist. “Darling, your hero has arrived! Forgive me, but let’s not tarry, eh?”

Mayrina backed away from him in a fright. “Ah! Who are you? Go away!”

Astarion tutted in disbelief, wagging a finger at her. “Oh, no no no! I did not sign up this. We have to go—now!”

The woman held out the length of her arms while he steadily paced himself further into the cage. “Get back! Or I’ll…I’ll…”

“Or you’ll scream? You’ve already been gracing us with your screeching vocal chords in that regard,” the vampire sneered. “Now if you’ll pardon my ungentlemanly conduct, I am going to have to use force in this annoying rescue or else that bard down there will have my pretty head on her rapier.”

Sidestepping her, he deftly situated himself to cuff her wrists in one hand and artfully plucked the teleporting scroll from behind his armor. He recited the script written in a mystical hand while imagining a safe location close by. A bright hazy mist enveloped both him and Mayrina, as the scroll disintegrated into sparkling particles.

The flash and crackles of energy following their reappearance behind Karlach, was enough to distract the hag from her continued pursuit of Tav.

The songstress cried out, rapier postured to thrust forward, “Wyll, now!”

Black tentacles slithered around the warlock’s body, writhing to satisfy a dark and ancient hunger. Arcane circles surfaced around him in shades of seafoam green, matching the bright glow of the castor’s eyes. “Morē!”

The arms shot out, capturing Ethel in their grasp. Limb after limb: disjointed, pulled apart, and infected with necrosis. Until, her putrid body had been thoroughly feasted upon and fell with a vibrating rumble to the ground.

Wyll staggered back, resting against his quarterstaff. “It worked. She’s dead.”

Mayrina scurried around the edge of the bottomless hole, holding the heaviness of her stomach in tears. She fisted her golden coils when she reached Ethel’s deceased form. “What have you done?! You’ve ruined everything!”

Tav approached her cautiously, an unreadable gaze transfixed on the woman’s rotund stomach. Her sleeve had been torn during her incurred injury, tattered shreds hanging loosely off her arm. “No more bargains,” she flatly imparted.

“All I wanted was my husband—my Connor—back! I can’t bear to live without him,” she sobbed loudly, wet droplets streaming down her dirty face. “Ethel promised to raise my baby properly, but you’ve gone and—“

Astarion quietly trailed after Mayrina upon stealthy heels. When Tav’s frame came into view, he noticed chunks of her hair had fallen out of place, cemented to the sweat soaked nape of her neck. The sight of the clean cut on her arm, now bathed in her own blood, caused his mouth to ache.

But, what caught him off guard was her heart. If not for the faint swell of her chest when she inhaled a breath, he would have thought she were as dead as him: it was virtually muted in its beats.

The bard shook her head. “This was not your final option. You simply choose to ignore all the others out of desperation before settling on this one.”

Mayrina fell into Tav’s arms, clamoring for hope through a squeaky raw throat. “Help me! You must know someone. I’ll do anything! Please bring him back. Bring Connor back! His coffin is outside. We could leave now; it isn’t too late—“

She remained stone-faced as she allowed the pitiful human to twist her shirt. “Listen to me carefully because I will not repeat myself: this is the last time you can play so frivolously with life and death. Another miracle will not mysteriously save you from your decisions. We can help bury your husband, but that’s all.”

Tav untied a satchel filled with coin and held it out to her. “Take this. It’ll help get you back on your feet for a while. There’s shelters in Baldur’s Gate that help young mothers out—it may be worth it to consider seeking them out.”

Mayrina shoved herself away from the bard. “Didn’t you listen to a single word I said?! I want my husband back! You don’t know anything about what I’m going through right now or how much it hurts. I don’t need your damned money! If you can’t help me, then I’ll find someone that can.”

Swiftly drifting forward like a waterfowl skirting above the water to land, Tav roughly hooked the crook of her inner elbow. “You cannot forsake yourself or this babe. You must protect what is yours at all costs. Do you understand?” She assertively snarled. “Do not squander this opportunity, for you will not get another. Take the money and leave Mayrina. I will NOT say it again.”

Astarion had never witnessed such unconstrained passion in her eyes before. A swirling hurricane that pushed and pushed and pushed, until it was created out of her warm and calm reservoir. There were numerous personality quirks he had prescribed to the bard, but this withdrawn frigidity in her actions were ones he did not foresee.

Mayrina was in shock. Wide-eyed. Petrified. She made eye contact with Astarion, pleading with him out of swollen sockets to convince his partner to remove her grip.

“Darling, you’re bleeding,” the vampire mentioned gently, endeavoring to gain her notice towards the dripping deluge of blood from her forearm.

She did not respond, continuing to stare at Mayrina and the growth filling out her womb.

Protected by the lady of her heart lochs, her secrets were thrown far into the depths of her wading marrow. “You shall not know them,” she exclaimed, “Because they are wrought with uncontested sorrow.”

Until, a rush of trembling drums flooded behind her ribs and Astarion could hear each rhythmic clench of her valves opening and closing. Emotions refusing to still.

He squeezed her shoulder, articulating her full name in a low pitch. “Tavelle?”

Tav released Mayrina from her hold, looking at the pale elf from the side of her peripherals, not giving him her full attention. “Hmm? Yes, sorry. Astarion do you want to—?”

He nodded at her, lifting her forearm to his mouth to greedily review her cut. Heavenly puffs of air exited onto her skin as he sweetly plunged his tongue in between the broken flesh, tasting every drop of lush fluid. He languidly swiped his tongue in long strides up to her wrist, pressing chaste cool pecks in gratitude along the way.

But, Tav was completely despondent to him: never once wincing or flitting her view back in his direction. Never once blushing or rousing his name from her rosy lips. Never once politely asking him to stop the mania of his hunger for her blood.

Still, Astarion persistently licked, and licked, and licked at the wound that never did seem to close.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

The day ended with burying Mayrina’s husband in a shallow grave.

Tav’s nails caught the inside of Astarion’s wrist, lightly scratching translucent skin, as their two companions strode ahead to the camp nearby. He could hear the resounding ravines inside the bard’s arteries filling with a festering apprehension.

He turned to face her, drooping curls attacked by the humidity, following suit.

Her expression had returned to its usual state of demurred humbleness. The whites of her eyes were more luminous than the surface of the moon. Shiny and waning beneath gibbous lids. “Speak with me?”

It was almost difficult to believe that this was the same woman from earlier that held an unholy union between her indignation and goodwill. With her tongue as her sword and her weathervane perception, she professed her creeds uncovering a sliver of her inner self.

Yet, he could not outpace the pictured sight of her inanimate body pressed into his side as he succumbed to the metallic taste on her arm.

Where had she gone at that moment?

What had she been thinking about?

Who had she been thinking of?

The spawn arched a refined eyebrow, clearing his throat with uncertainty. “Yes?”

She crossed her damaged arm against her chest, casually holding onto the bicep of her other one, inspecting him under softened brown lashes. “What you did for Mayrina and her unborn baby today…I realize it may not have been something you’d typically do, but please know, I appreciate the kindness you demonstrated.”

“Kindness? No, no, my sweet. What I did was purely to avoid having to deal with another tiff between us—as we are so prone to do,” he commented with slight rebuff. “You know we may have condemned that child to unhappiness in relation to his mother’s catastrophic life, don’t you?”

Tav hummed, avoiding the garnets of his blistering gaze. He noticed her fingers digging into the upper portion of her arm uncomfortably.

“You didn't ask to speak with me privately to thank me, did you?” Astarion questioned, feeling a dip in his stomach.

“A part of me did,” she murmured delicately through guarded partially opened lips.

The rest of the words would not escape her mouth. Trapped in the netting of her lyrical throat. She blinked up at him, heartbeat soaring away. Finger pads now skimming to touch the forbidden area he had bitten, as if to remind her of what she needed to do.

He shook his head firmly. “No, Tav. Say it.”

The door to her was closing. Her melodies that beckoned dormant blooms to bend towards the moonlight, the source of his aegis and crimson nourishment, would soon be gone. And he was still miles away from her doorway, slashing through the abstracts of their pasts.

He felt ill.

Tenderly, she laced the ends of her finger joints with his without accord. Her ardor blanketing his undead chill: a solace and a curse.

Astarion refused to suffer for her sympathies or careful considerations. For her fucking tears now veiling her eyes. For the pity she would shower him with, again and again and again.

“Say it.”

The sun setting from the west, wove together golds and purples to cast upon their silhouettes as a final goodbye. A dying day for their last sighs.

And then, her fingers slipped back out of his hand.

“Astarion, I don’t think we should be distracted anymore. Whatever this was between us—I want it to end.”

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Notes:

Elvish Words

Tav: Be-inway = wake

Astarion: Huthammur = storm clouds

36 notes · View notes

thefirstknife · 1 year

Note

Since a lot of people have been talking about possible antisemitism and racism in Bungie's writing I wanted to add something that always bothered me.

I think that Saint-14 as a character is at least influenced by some pretty anti Slavic stereotypes. He's the only major character of Slavic origin (accent) and he just so happen to embody the stereotype of "Slavic brute". He's strong and kills hordes of enemies not showing almost any remorse. And the Season of the Splicer even managed make it worse! Even when he's portrayed as having some deeper thoughts and agency he's still constructed as being unable to be subtle with his words (despise speaking English)

I really like Saint as a character but it's unpleasant to see that he's clearly created as a stereotype

I respectfully disagree. I've seen this line of thinking around A LOT, especially during Splicer, and I don't understand where it comes from outside of people being unable to treat non-native English speakers right. Source: I am Slavic. Not American with Slavic heritage, I am a Slavic person living in a Slavic country and English is not my native language.

Saint is as far away from a brute as possible. Ever since he's settled down in the City, he is dedicated to protecting, not attacking. He feeds birds and sings songs with the children of the City. He dedicated his time to learn to bake cookies for the Eliksni and was considerate to find a recipe that is specifically for Eliksni. He fights when he has to, but has largely settled down and would rather plough fields and plug holes in the wall than fight. He is incredibly emotional and emotionally intelligent and understanding. He is aware of his own and other people's emotions and he's open about it unapologetically.

He is so non-aggressive to the point of many in the community, including big lore youtubers, wishing for Osiris to DIE, just so they can see Saint being angry and aggressive enough to go on another bloody rampage. Because Saint is too tame for them. Too passive, too peaceful. Where is he a brute right now?

Saint has been "brutish" before Season of Dawn, because we never saw him anywhere outside of a couple of lines. He essentially didn't exist as a character until Season of Dawn and the only thing we knew about him was that he was a legendary Titan who went on a crusade against the Eliksni and killed many of them. That's definitely brutish!

When we met him in Dawn, we met him in the middle of his crusade, at the time where he lost countless innocent people to Eliksni in the middle of the horrible conditions of the Dark Age. He is... rough, and angry. Reasonably. He just got to Mercury to save civilians and he lost them and he almost died. He thinks in black and white terms; Eliksni bad, humans good. He is harsh and lost.

But, that's when we find him in a bad position and when he's yelling on comms because he's under fire. He also speaks in broken English and with an accent. People are prejudiced when they hear it and immediately assume less subtlety and less eloquence. That's not on Bungie. That's on the prejudiced audience.

In written text, he speaks perfectly fine. Observe this and this. The issue arises when he speaks out loud (with an accent) or when he's talking to friends casually or when he's making jokes. I don't know why people expect him to speak like he's giving a speech at all times. He can speak perfectly fine, but for non-native speakers, that can be exhausting. He is allowed to drop the eloquence in a more relaxed situation.

Pointing out Splicer is incredibly strange to me because in Splicer he made the biggest possible turning point when he was confronted with how other people see him as a brute. The cutscene where Mithrax tells a story about how the Eliksni view him as a monster shook him to his core. He has been on a path of redemption ever since and dedicated his time to gently protecting Eliksni. He even started learning their language and culture.

I would understand saying that Saint started off as a brute, because he did. But Bungie pulled the biggest flip of a switch on us when they showed us that Saint is actually a huge softie, a gentle man who was pushed to war only to protect, someone who lives for peace and quiet. He is good-natured, trusting, perceptive, kind and empathic.

How is this man a brute (this is just a small selection of his idle lines):

Food reserves are dwindling. New land must be ploughed. I can do this! / Everyone is so accommodating, I- I will think of ways to give back to them. / Shaxx, ugh. Glory is for the selfish. We fight to end the fighting. / To hear the children laughing. This is the peace we fight for. / The city breathes, ships flow through its veins. There is life here, and it is thriving. / I walked the City walls, plugged holes. Every small act brings us closer to peace. / The Traveller teaches us in these quiet moments. We are not defined by our scars. / The Light does not make us heroes, friend. Power is only good when it is used for good. / I am glad to see birds still nest in these old walls. / This life can take its toll. Come to me if you need to talk. / Yesterday, a child came to me. He carried a painted shield of paper. I turned to him and he threw the shield at my head! A young Titan, I love it! [laughing]

Saint-14 is the gentlest man in the whole damn setting. Bungie said "fuck toxic masculinity in particular" when they decided to treat us to a Saint so kind that people in-universe are surprised to learn that's THE Saint-14, the one who fought at Six Fronts and led a crusade against Eliksni. Eva's assessment of this:

"That's right," he said, spreading a little more birdseed. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Eva."

We sat a little longer together, watching the pigeons and the clouds, before I finally had to excuse myself to go back to my work.

As I said, I'd heard the legend of Saint-14 before. Many legends of remarkable Guardians make them seem like mythical figures, so far removed from anything the civilians of the City will ever see or experience. The legendary Saint-14 does not seem that way to me at all.

In fact, I think he is a very nice young man.

Saint is deeply ashamed and regretful of his violent past. Because he DID have a violent past, much like pretty much every Lightbearer. Saint and Shaxx discuss this, as well as Shaxx and Mithrax. But as much as he fought and as powerful he is, Saint does NOT enjoy war or fighting. He endures it because he knows that sometimes you must take up arms to protect those who can't protect themselves, but if he had the option to be sure that the City will stay safe without his aid, he would hang up his armour forever.

I've talked a lot about how much I appreciate that Bungie took a big powerful manly man who went on rampaging crusade before and presented him to us as a gentle and kind person who loves children and birds, who prefers domestic tasks over war and who is deeply emotional and thrives on kindness. It's quite strange to see people saying that he's a "Slavic brute stereotype." He is literally the opposite of it.

If there are specific instances in lore that someone thinks are stereotypical and brutish, I would love to see them so I can address them in context. I'm also not sure what "subtle with his words" means exactly, but if there are examples of this that you'd like addressed, I'm happy to investigate. Bungie is obviously not perfect so there could be instances where they messed up, though I can't currently recall any in regards to Saint and the fact that he's Slavic.

#destiny 2 #saint-14 #long post #ask #bungie is in general really good with their portrayal of men. saint zavala and shaxx are all very good depictions of men who are gentle #even shaxx who can be highly aggressive is overall incredibly good to people and emotional #in which other game would a pvp vendor yell how he's going to marry every guardian unapologetically #or reminisce about his fallen friend and contemplate about his past mistakes #pretty much all characters like this are multifaceted and well-developed

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d10nsaint · 1 year

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❝RED CHRYSANTHEMUM ❞

—fluff with Gamin Yoon

Saint speaks; This feels like the only time i can actually be called dionsaint, because literally no fluff comes on my blog anymore , just hcs bcs why not

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

･｡ ⁺ ✦ — Every moment with Gamin to you is a precious one. One so precious that you cherish and savor every last moment of it.

᯽ You love telling him about the things you notice about him, from how he smiles when talking with his mother and uncle, or talking about his friends in the Study Group.

᯽You both dont really go on things people would call dates, but rather just small outings. A coffee shop or a study room is what you two opt for.

᯽He makes memos & keeps dates of everything that happens in your relationship, from the day you first shared a meal, to your anniversary, down to when you both met eachothers parents.

᯽You frequently see his mom, willingly or not. She always wants to see you, make sure you’re eating well, doing good in school, and being a good example for her son.

᯽His uncle on the other hand is very weird out by the fact that you’re both so normal. You both have never drank, never been under the influence, or driven without an adult present. He says that you both should be out and about breaking laws.

᯽The study group cringes whenever they see you both together. Theres no nicknames or anything, but just pure adoration whenever you both are together <3

#gamin yoon x reader #gamin yoon #manhwa #saintspeaks #leigewrites #manhwa x reader #x reader #study group manhwa #study group gamin #study group x reader #study group

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ruiniel · 5 months

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Vodou symbolism in Castlevania Nocturne

Vodou developed among Afro-Haitian communities amid the Atlantic slave trade of the 16th to 19th centuries. Its structure arose from the blending of the traditional religions of those enslaved West and Central Africans, among them Yoruba, Fon, and Kongo, who had been brought to the island of Hispaniola. There, it absorbed influences from the culture of the French colonialists who controlled the colony of Saint-Domingue, most notably Roman Catholicism but also Freemasonry. Many Vodouists were involved in the Haitian Revolution of 1791 to 1801 which overthrew the French colonial government, abolished slavery, and transformed Saint-Domingue into the republic of Haiti.

At the heart of Vodou are the symbols known as vèvè. These cosmograms are intricate drawings made with cornmeal, coffee, or flour, and they serve as the visual representation of the spirits and deities (known as lwa, also called loa or loi) honored in Vodou. Each vèvè corresponds to a specific spirit, and invoking them involves drawing the corresponding symbol on the ground. This is often performed by an initiate who has learned the technique and is an essential part of Vodou rituals and ceremonies.

Let's look at some of the symbolism shown in Nocturne.

1. Agwe Arroyo or Agwe Tawoyo/Agwe 'Woyo - "Agwe of the Streams"

Captain of Immamou, the ship that carries the dead to the afterlife. He cries salt-water tears for the departed. He assisted the souls of those that suffered crimes against humanity during the trans-Atlantic slave trade. Agwe is called to calm the waves of the sea or ensure happy sailing, but mainly he is worshipped by those who fish and whose life depends on the life in the waters. People under his protection will never drown and water will never harm them.

2. Kouzen Zaka, or Azaka

The patron lwa of farmers, but he is also known as a lwa travay, a work lwa. Kouzen Zaka, represented by this vèvè, is the guardian of the fields in Haitian Vodou. The drawing of his symbol showcases elements of agricultural activity, including the earth, machete, sickle, hoe. Zaka is closely tied to work and is revered by farmers and those who rely on agriculture for their livelihood.

3. Erzulie Dantò or Ezilí Dantor

The main lwa of the Petwo lwa family in Haitian Vodou. She is a powerful and protective mother figure, often depicted holding a knife, symbolizes justice and will forcefully fight to protect her children, who are her loyal followers. She is a single mother, a Haitian peasant who is fiercely independent and takes care of her own, a strong protector of women and children.

4. Legba: The Guardian of the Gates

Papa Legba, the first spirit to manifest during a Vodou ceremony, holds a special place in the Vodou Pantheon in Haiti. His vèvè symbolizes his role as the barrier between the two worlds, with two perpendicular axes and his cane. Known as a trickster Loa, he usually appears as an old man on a crutch or with a cane, wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat and smoking a pipe, or drinking dark rum. The dog is sacred to him. He carries a sack on a strap across one shoulder from which he dispenses destiny. He is believed to speak all human languages. In Haiti, he is the great elocutioner: Legba facilitates communication, speech, and understanding. During Vodou ceremonies he opens the spiritual gateway that separates the Loas from our physical world.

In addition, Papa Legba is the guardian of portals, doors, and crossroads. His role is critical in any Vodou ritual, as he's the one who grants access to the other Loas and allows them to manifest themselves during the ceremony.

What we hear Annette chant in the series is 'Papa Legba: Ouvè Baryè'a' (Papa Legba: Open the Gate).

There's a lot more to dive into, but this was a summary.

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st-dionysus · 8 months

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sorry if I'm misreading something here, did you indicate that witchers *like trans men* are valued for their masculine prowess at combat? because I bust some ass trying to get the fellas to come to the gym or the gun range or to the self defense club with me and it's almost fruitless. if your experience is different I'd love to know your secret lol

Eh. It's more like trans men are expected by cis women and in lesbian or otherwise queerfem spaces to be The Protector. We're supposed to be nonthreatening men until a Woman Or Femme is in need of rescuing - then we're supposed to be super macho and self-sacraficing and use our "male power/privilege" to step in and be the one who takes the literal physical hits. We have to be the chivalrous butch, the man who won't let anyone hurt you but will leave the second danger is gone and go back to standing against the wall and being silent.

And then you have other nations where trans men are in the draft, now that we're men -- we can be used as a weapon and a shield and another expendable asset, but we reap none of the frail benefits of the patriarchy that are allegedly granted because of the dangers that men are required to face.

The witchers are a group of men expected to put their lives on the line, to defend "The Weak" then get told to leave because they're weird, mutilated, scary, and inhuman. It feels a little close to home. Especially after having been a bouncer at a lesbian bar.

#saint speaks #saint speaks under the influence #answers #geralt z rivii #geralt of rivia #book geralt #game geralt #trans geralt #trans witcher #witcher #lambert #vesemir #eskel #fandom #transandrophobia

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saeist · 1 year

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SHARE THE DRUNK HCS AND BLURBS PLZ IM BEGGING (totally not drunk rn too 😍)

random drunk headcanons of various bllk characters:

sae – face and neck gets really red. like almost the color of his hair. still doesn’t talk much even when drunk although he occasionally cracks a joke here and there but no one gets it cuz they think he’s serious

isagi – clumsy as fuck once the alcohol hits. man is stumbling and falling around everywhere + he hiccups

rin – lightweight. give him a can of beer and hes out. also an emotional drunk. mainly talks and babbles about sae and you know its time to go home when he starts covering his face cuz hes crying (about sae)

oliver – the drunk uncle kind of drunk. can drink like a sailor but with every pint he finishes he gets louder and louder til he’s full on yelling (he thinks hes just speaking normally), also the one who proposes to everyone that they should get a drink. sings a lot too while under the influence (he’s bad at it sad to say…)

karasu – the philosophical when drunk. literally starts a whole debate about anything and still continues to assess people but more upfront now. will literally air out all the problems you seem to have with just a cold hard stare for about 5 minutes. becomes the group’s therapist

nagi – knocked out just after one sip. doesn’t drink, doesn’t want to drink, got forced by reo to go with them and now he’s sleeping soundly at the edge of the couch. (he’s the guy that everyone thinks got shitfaced drunk thats why he passed out but no)

reo – the dd or the designated driver. also pays for everyone’s drinks + anything the guys break at the club/bar/karaoke/etc. can handle liquor like a boss he is. ends up drinking one on one with one the last man standing guys since everyone is now literally shit faced drunk (usually its karasu) and opts to buy the hardest whiskey the club/bar/karaoke/etc. has to offer just to “unwind” no reo, you just have money and liver of gold

bachira – the one that ends up breaking something/s because he got the zoomies from drinking too much

chigiri – drinks cocktails like long islands, etc. cuz he’s chigiri

aryu – also only drinks cocktails OR wine 🍷 #styl

tokimitsu – got peer pressured (by otoya) into drinking a lot and is now a babbling mess

otoya – talks a lot of shit for someone who’s also another lightweight. initiates the drinking games that caused 75% of the group to blackout from drinking a lil too much. tried to invite girls in but got blocked by kunigami

kunigami – drinks only a little cuz he’s that one saint that looks over the group when everyone is wasted. bless up kunigami 🙏

shidou – the first one to get shitfaced blackout drunk. like actually. the moment they arrive at the venue, he orders the hardest thing on the menu and downs it in one go. (otoya instigates saying “bet you cant drink that shit in a minute and shidou goes BET) also the one breaking tables with bachira because they were playing the floor is lava and you know how that went… also makes fun of rin for crying about sae (“pussy!” -shidou 2k23)

kurona – sits at the corner drinking his own cup and eventually does get a lil tipsy. you can tell with how he repeats words more frequently and how he mispronounces them

hiori – the gunner aka the one who pours the drinks to everyone. also can take liquor like a man! liver of steel i tell you that. they cannot escape hiori when it’s someone’s turn to drink like .. he will deadass follow you around with your cup if its your turn like… nothing will stop my man hiori! will also give you a side eye if you pass this round . but that’s just him

yukimiya – doesn’t want to drink but is forced to drink since hiori keeps following him around. is a little lightweight since he doesn’t drink at all. also gets free drinks from random strangers because they think he’s hot (mostly from the ladies with their numbers under the cup) is the one that got side eyed by hiori since he passed this round.. again

#this was fun #you have (1) new message!#from: unknown sender #bllk imagines #blue lock imagines #bllk headcanons #blue lock headcanons

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plague-of-insomnia · 1 year

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Vatican Miracle Examiner Vocab: Chapter 1

100+ vocab terms from Ch 1, Vol 1 of the 5-part manga series.

Mostly Catholic terms in Japanese and unique usage related to the series.

This list is not exhaustive. I focused on terms that would be unfamiliar (or unfamiliar as used in this series), and/or directly relate to Catholic terminology in Japanese.

I list part of speech, pronunciation, and simple definitions. I have not included additional of these if they are not relevant to this series.

Character names will have titles where applicable and those will be in brackets to minimize confusion; titles will be listed under general vocab as well.

At the end of the list I’ll have a few sources for some of the more obscure terms in case you want to read more or get better context.

As of now I have things listed in the order in which they appear, roughly, in the manga.

Note: This will be a long post since it’s the first chapter in the series and 31 pages long.

~#~

Character Names/Places

Note: I’ve chosen to spell names close to the katakana spellings; keep in mind some may be transcribed with slightly different spellings (like Joseph instead of Josef).

平賀•ヨゼフ•庚 [神父] - Hiraga, Josef Kou [Father], Franciscan order

ロベルト•ニコラス[神父] - Roberto, Nicholas [Father], Franciscan order

良太 - Ryota (Josef’s younger brother)

サウロ[大司教] - Saul [Archbishop] , Franciscan order

ニコラス[枢機卿] - Nicholas [Cardinal], secretary of the Dicastery for the Causes of the Saints (also potentially the head of the miracle examiners), also known as “the prefect (of the Curia)” in English

ドンナ•ドロレス - Donna Dolores, a nun from St Rosario Church

[大天使]ミカエル - [Archangel] Michael

[聖]ペテ - [Saint] Peter

パウロ[大司教] - [Archbishop] Paul, Dominican order

アントニウス[神父] - [Father] Antonius

セントロザリオ教会 - St Rosario Church, a church in South America where Josef & Roberto are sent to investigate

バチカソ市国 - Vatican City, the City state of the Vatican

Other Vocab

奇跡、きせき (n; の adj) miracle

常識、じょうしき (n) common sense, common knowledge, common practice

科学、かがく (n) science

説明、せつめい (n, する v; trans v) explanation, account, caption, legend, description

不可思議、ふかしぎ (な adj; n; yojijukugo) mystery, miracle, something inexplicable, unfathomable

現象、げんしょう (n) phenomenon

神、かみ (n) God, divinity

御業、みわざ (n) the works (of the gods)

真偽、しんぎ (n) veracity, authenticity

確かめる、たしかめる (Ichidan v; trans v) to ascertain, to check, to make sure

神父、しんぷ (n) Catholic priest [Note: this is the term used when speaking to someone , like “Father” So-and-So, as opposed to a general word for priest, 司祭, which you don’t use when speaking TO someone but rather about them.]

害、がい (n) evil influence

礼服、れいふく (n) cassock, vestments, etc

暗号、あんごう (n; のadj) code, cipher, password

解読、かいどく (n; するv; trans v) deciphering, decoding

聖年、せいねん (n) holy year, jubilee [see additional notes below]

大聖年、だいせいねん (n) the Great Jubilee (of 2000)

聖堂、せいどう (n) church

バチカン (n) (the) Vatican

市国、しこく (n) city state (as in the Vatican)

宗教、しゅつきょう (n) religion, faith

ブラザー(n) brother (as in, a monk or priest)

天使、てんし (n;のadj) Angel

悪魔、あくま (n) devil, demon, the Devil (Satan)

骨肉腫、こつにくしゅ (n) osteosarcoma

治療費、ちりょうひ (n) cost of medical treatment

ルルドの泉、いすみ (n) Fountain of Lourdes, aka home of “Lourdes Water” in France

奇跡調査官、きせきちょうさかん (n) miracle examiner

調査、ちょうさ (n; するv; trans v) investigation, examination

聖痕現象、スティグマータ (n) stigmata (phenomenon)

未知、みち (のadj; n) the unknown

知れる、しれる (ichidan v; intrans v) to become known; to be discovered; to be known; to be understood

舞い込む、まいこむ (godan v む ending; intrans v) to happen unexpectedly

大司教、だいしきょう (n) archbishop

キリスト (n) (Jesus) Christ

聖書、せいしょ (n) Bible, scriptures, holy writ

黙示録、もくしろく (n) book of revelation; the apocalypse

悪魔が書いた魔法書 - literally, “magic writing written by the devil” [see additional notes below]

古文書、こもんじょ (n) historical document, ancient manuscripts

断片、だんぺん (n) fragment

読む、よむ (godan v, む ending; trans v) to decipher, to read, to recite (a sutra, prayer)

原文、げんぶん (n) original text

会、かい (n; n suffix) meeting, assembly, conference, clerical order

イエズス会 (n) society of Jesus, aka Jesuit order

ドミニコ会 (n) Dominican order

フランシスコ会 (n) Franciscan order (which Josef and Roberto belong to)

派閥 (n; のadj) faction; used in the manga as in orders of priests

破門、はもん (n; するv; のadj) excommunication

枢機卿、すうききょう (n) Cardinal (title)

執行部、しっこうぶ (n) leadership (for example, the Roman Curia, that is the administration of the Vatican)

列聖、れっせい (n; するv) canonization (of a Saint)

列聖省長官、れっせいしょうちょうかん (n) literally, “canonization ministry secretary”; I believe this is intended to refer to the Secretary/Director of the Dicastery of the Causes of Saints; a position in the Vatican overseeing things related to canonization [see additional notes]

祈り、いのり (n) prayer

申請書、しんせいしょ(n) Written application

申請、しんせい (n; ��る v; trans v) application, petition, request

教会、しょうかい (n) church, congregation

修道女、しゅうどうじょ (n) nun

大天使、だいてんし (n) archangel

神の子、かみのこ (n) son of God (Jesus Christ); child of God (Christian)

処女懐胎、しょじょかいたい (n) virgin birth, such as Mary with Jesus (immaculate conception)

受胎、じゅたい (n; するv; intrans v) conception

聖母、せいぼ (n) Virgin Mary; holy mother

カソリック (n) Catholic, Catholicism, Catholic Church [note there are a couple diff katakana spellings of this word, but this one is used in VME]

受肉、じゅにく(n) (Christ’s) incarnation (as Jesus of Nazareth)

降臨、こうりん (n; するv) descent to earth (of a god); advent; epiphany

罪、つみ (n; なadj; のadj) sin

永遠、えいえん (n; なadj) eternity; immortality

贖う、あがなう (godan v, う ending; trans v) to atone for

最後の審判、さいごのしんぱん (n) judgment day; final judgment (religious sense)

聖、せい (n) Saint (may also be written with katakana, as in 「セント」, like “St Rosario’s Church”

ローム (n) Rome

司教、しきょう (n) bishop (catholic)

代理人、だいりにん (n) proxy, representative

存在意義、ぞんざいいぎ (n) raison d'être, reason for existing

冒涜、ぼうとく (n; するv) blasphemy, sacrilege, desecration

主、しゅ (n) the Lord (God)

カルト (n) cult

教徒、しょうと (n) believer, adherent

法王、ほうおう (n) Pope; aka ローム法王

司祭、しさい (n; のadj) a priest [do not confuse with 神父, the title of “Father”]

大罪、たいざい、(n) mortal sin, grave sin

契約、けいやく (n; するv; trans v) covenant, contract, pact [as in a deal with the devil]

最高責任者、さいこうせきにんしゃ (n) chief executive [such as, of the Vatican Bank]

教皇庁、きょうこうちょう(n) the Curia, the administration of the Vatican

地位、ちい (n) position, such as within the Vatican hierarchy, or in line to be a papal candidate

潜り込む、もぐりこみ (Godan v, む ending; intrans v) to go undercover, to infiltrate

マリア (n) (the Virgin) Mary [sometimes seen as 聖母マリア]

聖母子 (n) Virgin and Child, Mary & Baby Jesus

全知全能、ぜんちぜんのう (n; のadj; yojijukugo) omnipotence and omniscient, all powerful and all knowing

救世主、きゅうせいしゅ (n) savior, the messiah, Jesus Christ (the messiah, savior)

背徳、はいとく (n) immorality, corruption, lapse of virtue

堕落、だらく (n; するv) depravity, degradation, corruption

偶像、ぐうぞう (n) idol, image, statue

天罰、てんぼつ (n) divine punishment, wrath of God, judgment of heaven

主よ、しゅよ (なadj; n) Lord, head (of a group)

信仰、しんこう (n;するv; trans v) (religious) faith, belief

印、しるし (n) a sign

聖所、せいじゅ (n) sanctuary, inner sanctum

邪悪、じゃあく (なadj;n) wicked, evil

~#~

Additional Notes

Holy year, 聖年 ; Great Jubilee, 大聖年

“Devil’s book,” 悪魔が書いた魔法書

I did a lot of searching trying to figure out what book, specifically, was meant here, and came up with 2 possibilities:

the Gigas Codex, ギガス写本 or 悪魔の聖書, a book that is not held by the Vatican but was supposedly written with magical assistance from Satan himself;

the Grand Grimoire, 大奥義書 or 大いなる教書, not written by Satan but that is held by the Vatican.

It’s possibly intended to be vague, but the exact phrasing here is different than used for either of these actual books and I couldn’t find any other possible real option. Note the anime does call a book “the devil’s book” and describe it as a “Bible written by the devil” but it doesn’t seem to really be a reference to Gigas, so maybe it’s intended to be a fictional book inspired by these real texts for the purposes of the story.

Secretary of Dicastery of the Causes of Saints - 列聖省長官

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dicastery_for_the_Causes_of_Saints

~#~

As always, I’m human and make mistakes. If you find anything feel free to let me know.

#vatican miracle examiner #bachikan kiseki chousakan #japanese langblr #japanese vocab #バチカン奇跡調査官 #日野杏寿 #hindou anju #english translation #poi translation #langblr #decided not to put this behind a paywall after all #still undecided on the translation itself #or may do first one free and later chapters

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homomenhommes · 4 months

Text

THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … January 6

1367 – Richard II of England (d.1400), born Prince Richard of Bordeaux was the second, but only surviving child, of Edward, Prince of Wales (also known as the Black Prince and the eldest son and heir of King Edward III) and his wife, in Bordeaux, Gascony, where the Black Prince was serving at the time. At the age of four, Richard became second in line to the throne upon the death of his elder brother, Edward of Angouleme, and heir apparent when his father, the Black Prince, died five years later (1376). Richard was dubbed a Knight of the Garter by his grandfather only months before the old king died on June 21, 1377. With the death of Edward III, Richard ascended the throne as King Richard II at the young age of ten.

Richard was deemed fit to govern and a series of councils were set up to conduct business in the king's name for the next three years. When the first of these councils met, not only was John of Gaunt, Richard's powreful uncle left out, but also the king's other remaining uncles, Edmund of Langley and Thomas of Woodstock, the Earls of Cambridge and Buckingham respectively. But although John of Gaunt had no official title in Richard's government, he was to remain a leading and influential political figure for nearly the entire reign, though he and the king would not be without their differences.

The young Richard managed to weather a number of crises, including the Peasant's Revolt at the ripe old age of 14. During the following years, the king gradually came of age and moved closer to reaching his majority reign. It was also during this period that he began to come under the influence of a small group of courtiers that were to greedily consume all of his attentions. This group consisted of three primary figures: Sir Simon Burley, the king's tutor since he was a young child; Michael de la Pole, the king's chancellor and Earl of Suffolk after 1385; and Robert de Vere, Earl of Oxford, whom Richard would ultimately upgrade to Marquis and, soon after, Duke of Ireland.

Richard's close friendship to DeVere was disagreeable to the political establishment. This displeasure was exacerbated by the earl's elevation to the new title of Duke of Ireland in 1386. The chronicler Thomas Walsingham suggested the relationship between the king and DeVere was of a homosexual nature, possibly due to a resentment Walsingham had toward the king.

On top of this, it was also wondered whether Richard was a homosexual since he never bore any children. When thinking of the reign of Richard II, it is difficult not to compare it with that of his great-grandfather, Edward II (another supposed homosexual). Like Edward, Richard had difficulty making decisions for himself and came to be dependent on a small group of favorites for advice, usually bad advice, to run the realm.

This reliance on favorites turned the nobility against him, and he was eventually deposed by Henry IV, and died in captivity in 1400.

1412 – Joan Of Arc, Roman Catholic Saint and national heroine of France (this is a legendary date) (d.1431); Joan wore men's clothing between her departure from Vaucouleurs and her abjuration at Rouen. This raised theological questions in her own era and raised other questions in the twentieth century. The technical reason for her execution was a biblical clothing law. The nullification trial reversed the conviction in part because the condemnation proceeding had failed to consider the doctrinal exceptions to that stricture.

Doctrinally speaking, she was safe to disguise herself as a page during a journey through enemy territory and she was safe to wear armor during battle. The Chronique de la Pucelle states that it deterred molestation while she was camped in the field. Clergy who testified at her rehabilitation trial affirmed that she continued to wear male clothing in prison to deter molestation and rape. Preservation of chastity was another justifiable reason for cross-dressing: her apparel would have slowed an assailant, and men would be less likely to think of her as a sex object in any case.

She referred the court to the Poitiers inquiry when questioned on the matter during her condemnation trial. The Poitiers record no longer survives but circumstances indicate the Poitiers clerics approved her practice. In other words, she had a mission to do a man's work so it was fitting that she dress the part. She also kept her hair cut short through her military campaigns and while in prison. Her supporters, such as the theologian Jean Gerson, defended her hairstyle, as did Inquisitor Brehal during the Rehabilitation trial.

Because Joan wore men's clothes and armor, scholars have speculated about her gender identity and sexuality. Did Joan wear male apparel because she was transgendered? Or did she do so in order to be taken seriously by the men whose support she needed to carry out the orders given by her visions? Was Joan a lesbian or bisexual, if those English terms may be applicable to a French woman living almost six hundred years ago? What relationship did her gender expression have with her sexuality? What about Joan's emphasis throughout her life on her virginity?

It is difficult adequately to address these personal issues based on the historical evidence that we now possess. It is clear, however, that Joan's cross-dressing was a significant part of her life, and that as a cross-dressed warrior and military leader she was venerated by French royalty, soldiery, and peasantry alike.

1854 – English fictional detective, born; What!? Sherlock Holmes? Why include the famous, hawk-nosed detective, a figment of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's fertile imagination? Why? Because almost no one realizes that Sherlock Holmes, whom his creator almost named "Sherinford," was Gay.

He was, of course, the first consulting detective, a vocation he followed for 23 years. In January 1881, he was looking for someone to share his new digs at 221B Baker Street, and there being no personal ads in the Village Voice or The Advocate (remember those?) in those days, a friend introduced him to Dr. John H. Watson.

Before agreeing to share the flat, the two men, immediately attracted to one another, listed their respective character deficiencies. Holmes admitted to smoking a smelly pipe, although he didn't mention that he was a frequent user of cocaine. Watson owned up to a peculiar habit of leaving his bed at odd hours of the night.

"I have another set of vices," he admitted, but, then, so did Sherlock. The two became friends and roommates for the rest of their lives. For the sordid details of the famous marriage of true minds that followed, read Rex Stout's astonishing "Watson Was Woman," in which the famous creator of Nero Wolfe (himself hardly a paragon of butch studliness) reveals that Watson and Holmes were the most extraordinary Gay team in sleuthing history.

In 1971, The Traveller's Companion, Inc., an affiliate of Olympia Press, published a book based on the assumption that Holmes and Watson were lovers: The Sexual Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Claiming to be from a newly-discovered secret cache of John Watson's papers, the book retells, very erotically, some of the original stories. It is hard-core gay porn at its best!

1961 – Bill Hayes is an American non-fiction writer and photographer. He has written four books – Sleep Demons, Five Quarts, The Anatomist, and Insomniac City – and has produced one book of photography, How New York Breaks Your Heart. His freelance writing has appeared in a number of periodicals, most notably The New York Times.

Hayes was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota, the fifth of six children, five of them girls. He remains close with his sisters. His mother Jean was an artist; his father John a military man who had lost an eye as a paratrooper in the Korean War. When Bill was three, the family moved to Spokane, Washington, where his father bought a Coca-Cola bottling plant. His mother opened an art school, where Hayes learned to develop and print film. Hayes was close with his maternal grandmother, Helen, from the age of eleven until he left home for college. In high school, Hayes was drawn to the writing of Joan Didion. Hayes attended Santa Clara University in California.

Hayes knew he was gay at a young age, though he had relationships with women in high school and college. He came out at age 24, and considers his orientation to be a core part of his identity.

Hayes' father never accepted him as a gay man and did not maintain a relationship with him, but when John Hayes developed dementia, he came to believe Bill was an old Army friend, and spoke with him warmly. Bill's mother also suffered with dementia until her death in 2011.

Hayes lived in San Francisco for many years, where he worked at the San Francisco AIDS Foundation. His partner of sixteen years was HIV-positive. In 2009, Hayes moved to New York City, where he had a relationship with neurologist and writer Oliver Sacks, until the latter's death in 2015. Hayes' experiences in New York and his six-year relationship with Sacks are the subject of his book Insomniac City.

Hayes has described his adult life as "colored by death" – the deaths he dealt with in his AIDS Foundation work, the sudden death of his longtime partner in San Francisco, and later the death of his partner Oliver Sacks.

1968 – Today is the birthday of the Hungarian politician Gábor Szetey. Szetey is the former Secretary of State for Human Resources, a role he held since July 2006. He is a member of the Hungarian Socialist Party.

Szetey publicly declared that he was gay at the opening night of Budapest's Gay and Lesbian Film Festival, on July 6, 2007. He is the first LGBT member of government in Hungary, and the second politician to come out, after Klára Ungár. Szetey's coming out came at the end of a speech on equality and tolerance:

"When we can be proud of being Hungarian, Romanian, Jewish, Catholic, Gay or Straight... If we can be proud of our differences, we will be proud of our similarities. I believe in God. And I believe that all men and women have the right to love and be loved. Everywhere. Love has no party preference. Neither does happiness or choosing a partner. So: I am Szetey Gábor . I am European, and Hungarian. I believe in God, love, freedom, and equality. I am the Human Resources Secretary of State of the Government of the Republic of Hungary. Economist and HR director. Partner, friend, sometimes rival. And I am Gay."

!n the audience was Klára Dobrev, the wife of Prime Minister Ferenc Gyurcsány, as well as four other members of the Hungarian cabinet. The Prime Minister supported Szetey on his blog and called for public debate about same-sex relationships in Hungary. Hungary currently recognises same-sex registered partnerships. After the coming out of Mr. Szetey, the Parliament adopted the Registered Civil Union Act, which came into force 1 January 2009.

In a subsequent interview, Szetey declared:

"There is a small but vocal group of right-wing extremists which is intent on offending everyone... According to a survey, 51 percent of the respondents thought my speech was courageous and that it would improve the situation for homosexuals. It's strange that the conservatives, who attach such great importance to neighboring states giving their Hungarian minorities equal rights, couldn't care less about equal rights in their own country."

1976 – Today's the birthday of child actor Danny Pintauro. Pintauro played Jonathan Bower, son of Angela Bower in the series 'Who's the Boss' from 1984 till 1992. He was born as Daniel John Pintauro in Milltown, New Yersey, USA. Pintauro studied English and drama at Stanford University.

Pintauro first appeared on the television soap opera As the World Turns as the original Paul Ryan and in the film Cujo, but he came to prominence on the television series Who's the Boss?. After the conclusion of that series, he was less frequently cast. Pintauro went on to act in stage productions like The Velocity of Gary and Mommie Queerest. He also worked as a Tupperware sales representative and as of 2013, he was managing a restaurant in Las Vegas.

In 1997, in an interview with the National Enquirer tabloid, Pintauro declared that he is gay.

Pintauro (R) with husband Wil Tabares

In April 2013 he was engaged to his boyfriend, Wil Tabares, and they married in April 2014.

In 2015, Pintauro revealed in an interview with Oprah Winfrey that he has been HIV positive since 2003. He also disclosed that he had previously been addicted to methamphetamine.

2015 – Florida recognizes same-sex marriages.

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conjuremanj · 1 year

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The Seven African Powers & Who They Really Are.

The Seven African Powers are a common spiritual force that people petition within Santeria but there is a common misconception that's been going around about who they are and how they function. If you visit any botanica (spiritual shop) you’ll find candles that look like the image above claiming to be 7 African Powers candle. Along with other spiritual supplies that claim the same thing.

Who are these powers is the question:

The image above shows a collection of seven different saints: Our Lady of Mercy, The Virgin of Regla, Our Lady of Charity of Cobre, Saint Barbara, Saint Joseph of Arimathea, Saint John the Baptist, and Jesus on the Cross in the center. Under each saint image is the name of one of the Orishas. The name Olofi is under the image of Jesus. The images of saint are linked together with a metal chain along with 7 of Ogun’s tools hanging from the bottom.

Because of the image to the right, most people mistakenly think that the Seven African Powers are the orishas: Elegua, Ogun, Orula, Chango, Oshun, Yemaya and Obatala. But how did this come about?

Who really are the Seven African Powers if they aren’t the Orishas? Can anyone work with the Seven African Powers or is it limited to initiates of Santeria practice only?

The Syncretization Of The Orishas:

With the individual Catholic saints isn’t that unusual but the grouping of these particular Orishas together is what makes it unique. Well Santerismo developed out of Puerto Rican Espiritismo (Spiritualism) blended with Orisha worship outside of a Lucumí practice. In Santerismo it is common for spiritualist mediums to become possessed by Catholic saints referring to themselves by the names of the Orishas. Santerismo took its roots in the Puerto Rican community in New York City in the 1950’s.

Santerismo is NOT Santeria:(Lucumí/Lukumi). Santerismo is a spiritualist tradition open to revelation while Santeria is an initiatory religion.

But the spiritualists in Santerismo didn’t understand the difference and they assumed they were the Orishas. The images of seven Catholic saints put together in a manner dedicated to the Seven African Powers but that didn’t come about until the 1970’s and 80’s and the Espiritismo tradition’s influences.

Who the Seven African Powers Really Are:

They are Spirit Guides they are spirits of the dead from the seven different African tribes that were brought to Cuba.

When a person speaks of the Seven African Powers they refer to a group of 7 different spirits, one from each of the following tribes: Yoruba, Congo, Takua, Kissi, Calabari, Arará, and Mandika. A person who has a connection with the Seven African Powers will have one spirit guide from each of these tribes unique to him. The importance of the drum as a tool to call down the Orishas.

The Seven African Powers are called upon for help with spiritual evolution, overcoming obstacles, and personal power. Anyone can petition the Seven African Powers as they are spirit guides and everyone, initiated or not, have access to spirits of the dead for their guidance. (They can be petitioned by lighting vigil candles that are of 7 colors, or using 7 different candles of different colors.) It is also traditional to tie strips of cloth or handkerchiefs of seven different colors in a bundle. By whirling this bundle of loose multicolored cloth in the air over your head, as you call the Seven African Powers and petition them for help. Can can also work with your own spirit guides as well.

#Spiritual #7 African Powers #Santeria #Spirit guides #Cuba #7 potenencia africanas

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saintadeline · 1 year

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Here’s a little text (would barely qualify as an essay) about saint Adeline and sister Adella and their parallels :) excuse the way it looks I’m really not feeling like making it read like a proper essay but either way it’s something I have a lot of thoughts about. Also talks about oedon and kos a bit as well as obvioulsy blood saints as a whole.

The parallels between adeline and adella is something ive written about many times before, but i thought it would be interesting to see how much that train of thought has evolved since the last few times.

Both being the only known blood saints that we get to speak to, they’ve already got a lot in common by simply juxtaposing them in their role. It is mentionned adeline was one of the very first of their kind, which along with her relationship to maria helps us situate her in the vague timeline of events. thus it seems this practice started “with her” and has carried on throughout the years, perhaps perfected until now. not much is explicitly stated about blood saints and the meaning of this title, but we can theorize a few things. firstly, we know saints are chosen for their potential as vessels before actively undergoing some kind of blood treatment, i usually take their “merit as vessels” to be akin to choosing them for their blood type (O), since their blood needs to be universally compatible with all followers and hunters of the church. however, more factors may very much play into this as the worldbuilding of bloodborne puts a lot of attention in showing how blood differs, from “tainted” villagers close to beasthood, to pure enlightened kin (interestingly, adeline’s blood vial is much clearer than adella’s. this could be due to taking the blood directly from her arm, but since it is also clearer than arianna’s, who we see directly drawing it, i believe it is a nod to her state of almost ascension, kin having transparent fluid as blood). thus there is a possibility the healing church seeks an inherent ability to be swayed by the will of great ones. indeed, our two blood saints have had that very thing happen to them, in perfectly opposite ways; adeline ascends through contact with a great one, most likely kos, and adella succumbs to blooddrunkenness under oedon’s influence. There is more however to this, as oedon itself is said to be found in blood; it is formless and exists only in voice, but blood is said to be seen as its essence and thus inherently linked to it. oedon’s worshippers are described as “inadvertent”, more haunted by it than worshipping it, and adella is no exception. perhaps her predisposition to being swayed to the will of great ones is what drew oedon to her, as well as her indoctrination to the church’s propaganda against vilebloods; indeed, oedon seeks precious blood and seems to be particularly fond of the cainhurst bloodline: all oedon runes are mechanically based on increasing your means of using quicksilver, said to be imbued in blood and linked to the bloodtinge stat. Cainhurst descendants and vilebloods all have greatly increased bloodtinge, leading to their control over it. what is worth noting in this is that quicksilver is actually mercury, so vilebloods would have “naturally” high levels of mercury poisoning in their system, what oedon seems to be seeking and what its runes turn into bullets. interestingly, high mercury levels in a person leads to pregnancy complications and endangers the life of children, often leading to their death before or soon after birth, which can be linked to many things, oedon’s interest in it, arianna bearing its child despite being a cainhurst descendant, as well as annalise’s obsession with birthing her child of blood, which she requires other hunters’ blood in order to do. i am of the opinion that by branding “followers”, oedon is overseeing their blood itself, seeking the perfect kind it needs to reproduce. however, those who did not meet its requirements end up falling prey to that growing desire to seek that very same blood subconsciously, which led adella to killing arianna.

To go back on a previous statement, most sources of mercury poisoning in humans can be traced to fish and seafood consumption; infime traces of mercury, occurring naturally or though man made waste, finds its way up the ocean’s food chain, resulting in very high concentrations in bigger fish and predators. for instance, whales are one of the biggest sources of mercury ingestion, which we can link to the fishing hamlet itself and in particular kos. mercury accumulates in particular in viscera, and kos’ beaching after the endless farming of phantasms and parasites by the hamlet may have parallels to this, as well as the fishing hamlet’s transformation. the fishing hamlet is actually quite reminiscent of the minamata case, in the 1950s, where a fisherman village was slowly consumed by a strange and somewhat offputting disease, until it was found out to be caused by mercury poisoning from consumption of the local fish after a local factory dumped waste in the ocean. i’ve also found one of the primary sources of oxidized mercury finding itself in the ocean to be incinerators, and as we know, yharnam is quite familiar with that practice, hemwick being a town sized crematorium right on the coast. it is also worth of note that mercury poisoning in fish leads to several issues in their systems, specifically reproductive, which once again can be linked to kos in some way and her inability to have successful offspring, as any great one. in this way, it almost seems like oedon seeking mercury would be an affront or rivalry to kos, but there is no way of knowing anything more of this, as well as the fact that great ones may not even have the same concepts of hostility as humans. either way, it places them both at opposite ends of a spectrum, and with them come their worshippers, adella and adeline.

Adella and Adeline are regional variants of the same name, often seen as stemming from old german “adal”, meaning “noble”. it could very well be a coincidence or a simple nod on the writers’ part, however there is also an interesting theory i’d like to posit. the timeline in bloodborne is quite confusing, events of the old hunters might have happened 3 years ago just as they might have been a century before the game starts. if we were to assume adeline lived decades before adella, it would be quite possible that adella was indeed named after her. i do not think adeline was ever viewed a success as a research hall experiment, since she would have died or been sent to the nightmare before ever getting to the same heights we see her as, the nightmare’s proximity to kos helping her ascension, however her blood vial’s item description mentions that she was the first success as a blood saint, and looking at how important blood saints are to the church’s entire basis, it is quite possible that this elevated her to rank of actual Saint after her death, almost a martyr to the research hall, dying for scientific advancements which resulted over the years as what we know as the celestial emmissaries. my only other argument for this idea of sainthood is another theory of mine, which is in no way perfectly “canon” but one i quite appreciate, that the blood starved beasts are blood saints. it would make quite a lot of sense for a blood saint to turn into a beast starved for blood, its entire skin flailed like a punishment or a means to draw blood. there is in old yharnam a dead blood starved beast hung above the ground in a church, in a position quite reminiscent of the way scourge beasts are crucified in central yharnam: its arms are extended and it is held by the wrists by ropes, but its entire body is torn to shreds, suggesting a bloodletting, perhaps to get rid of impure beast blood, yes, but also perhaps as a way to drink of their blood, worshippers enraptured by the idea of blood and turning on their saint, its hung position almost reminiscent of worship, the way beast patients stand under and stare at it in a pool of its blood.

Blood saints have a complicated position in the church, they are essentially the face of the healing church for commoners and simple worshippers, being the church’s link to the people, acting as nuns and vessels for blood healing, therefore it is not unlinkely that they are seen as holy and an extension of the vicars by yharnamites. however, it seems they are treated quite terribly by the church itself, said to be “groomed” as saints, perhaps psychologically as well as their treatment for worthy blood healing. indeed, both adella and adeline seem to have a lot in common in terms of personal issues, they both suffer from extreme self doubt and have this idea that they are lower, not worthy of any attention given to them. it manifest in two very separate ways for them; as they are terrified of the idea of the hunter leaving them, adella grows an unhealthy obsession for them and becomes terribly jealous of anyone else they interact with, trying her best to feel useful to them while harboring hatred to the point that odeon’s influence on her made her act out on her inner feelings and kill the object of her jealousy (although church feelings and propaganda on cainhurst also played a major role in this.) whereas adeline panics and tries to constantly assure the hunter that she can be of help, practically begging them to stay and not leave her. we can assume these behaviors are not a coincidence and are brought on by their healing church “training”, forcing them to see themselves as lesser in order to control them more easily. indeed, if blood saints were to feel pride and ego as the commonfolk worshipped them, who’s to say how easily the church would still have a grasp over them. i would consider adella to be a very recent blood saint, freshly out of her “training” (thus why she is called Sister rather than Saint. but this could also be linked to the theory of Adeline having genuine Sainthood).

Something interesting as well is that the only person adeline feels more comfortable with is someone she met long before becoming a saint, lady maria, a cainhurst noble she possibly met before cainhurst even happened to be considered impure, thus she has not been swayed by the church’s disdain of them (which was most likely brought upon for purely political reasons rather than a genuine idea of purity as they would like to enforce). adeline and adella’s very own timelines and storylines are perfect parallels to each other; bloodborne seems to follow the old theory of humanism, in which man is created as neutral by god and through its actions, may fall down to the depths and become beast-like, or climb up and ascend as godlike, posing beasts and gods are opposite ends of humanity’s spectrum. in this way, adeline and adella both start on the same path, but adella is swayed by the church and oedon, sent to a state considered as the closest thing to beasthood, before inevitably dying, whereas adeline stayed true to her failing sense of self and ended up ascending to kin, granted an audience with kos and branded a rune, the highest possible honor, before succumbing as well. in that way, they are almost a study of how the context in which you evolve and live influences you as a person and the path you take, even if it was heavily swayed by great ones in ths scenario. however, did their paths simply diverge because great ones took an interest in them, or did the great ones touch them because of the way they were predisposed to be in the first place. i’d be more inclined to believe the latter, like i said earlier, i believe saints to be more easily prone to celestial influence, and the paths they were already on is what drove those gods to them, even if it was a simple passing-by of oedon that made adella falter, rather than adeline’s most genuine contact with kos.

#bloodborne #i had a writing tag but i forgor again #i love writing the same things over and over about adeline and adella #i probably forgot a ton of stuff i wanted to say but it wrote this in like two hours so maybe ill add on later

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