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lofi-bunni · 2 years

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EE!Yuu prologue brainrot

Damn it I keep going >:((

I need to wait this phase out-

Or I can keep going til I get bored…Sounds good

The idea of Yuu coming from the Epithet Erased world and having the epithet of ! PIN ! They can suspend things- basically freezing it in time. If they pin too many things then the ability starts to fail and things will start falling. (I explained it more in depth in the last post)

Yuu is kinda unmotivated here. Still a nice person though!

• When they see Grim for the first time they think their dreaming

• When they inevitably figure out it’s not a dream they kinda just ..accept it

• They’ve seen a lot weirder than a floating cat

• mainly a cat with a gun when stopping by at a certain old town

• They kinda just internalize it and accept it

• When Grim tries to take off the robe Yuu pins him in place and kinda just moves him to the side

• Like a cartoon gag when the character just kinda slides the clinging person off mid-air

• Crowley tells them to not do that too much lest they Overblot

• “Tf is that???”

• Crowley is confused and asks them how many times they can do that trick

• Yuu explains they can however many times they like. It just kinda tires them out and the ability will start to get sloppy if they pin too much at once

• Crowley starts mumbling to himself going on about how “this is unorthodox” and how “If this gets out-” *more mumbling*

• Decides to deal with it later and just get them to the ceremony room.

• Yuu just kinda goes along with it to see where this leads

• “I sense no magical power from this one.”

• Instead of: Soundless. Colorless. Etc. It calls Yuu “Unmoving, Slothful, Shapeless. I cannot pin this person down…” *Yuu snickers* “Therefore, no dorm would be appropriate.”

• Crowley is confused..didn’t he just see them do magic??

• When Grim lights everything on fire (namely Kalim) Yuu waits to see how this goes

• Yuu snickers at the Dorm heads dialogue.

• Leona’s: “Too much effort. Do it yourself.” is a MOOD to Yuu

• See’s Kalim’s still on fire so they decide to help out and freeze it. They snap their fingers then the fire stops moving.

• no one really notices in the HEAT ;)) of the moment as the fire is put out pretty fast by Jamil who is too busy worrying about Kalim

• When Azul and Riddle start chasing grim Yuu decides to kinda trail behind to see how this goes

• They see the two struggle for a little bit before getting sick of the noise and snapping their fingers. That gets everyone’s attention as well as the fact that the weasel froze mid fire blast

• Yuu walks over to Grim. Their footsteps loud in the silent hall. They pick up the frozen monster, the fire blast kinda going out in the process. Then proceed to shake him like a ketchup bottle

• They turn back to look at Crowley. “This isn’t mine..”

• Crowley is tired and just decides to take the MC home

• “There is no place in this world where this soul belongs. None.” Yuu winces

• “Where do you hail from?” “I’m from…Jazz city. Near the museum that was recently broken into.”

• “Seeing as I remember the ride here I’m probably from a different dimension..”

“You don’t seem too surprised?”

“Eh. Nothing out of the ordinary-”

“I..I see”

• Honestly speaking Yuu’s less annoyed by Crowley and more tired out by him and his “I’m so gracious” rambles

• When grim shows back up their like

😮->😐->😞

• Throws a bucket to the holes and pins them in place

• It won’t last long but it’ll be enough

• Not surprised at all by the ghosts. More so curious

• watches the cat struggle for a hot minute

• Then just pins the ghosts in place for Grim to hit

• Yuu says to Crowley that “ Without Grim’s fire I couldn’t have exterminated the ghosts.”

• Friendship built

• Cleanup? Sure whatever. A little pissed at the lack of responsibility

• Listens to the stories about the Seven like they used to listen to fairytales

• Not really surprised by Aces seemingly new: nasty personality, but their sure as hell annoyed by it

• Grim calls for help with Ace but Yuu’s not feeling it. They just kinda stand back. They think the trouble won’t extend to them

• It’s assumed their magic-less or at least really bad at it since the nature of their magic wasn’t witnessed up close nor explained to anyone but the bird man. So Ace is still a dick

• Yuu let’s deuce handle Ace with the cauldron since their a little tired from using their epithet non-stop since they got here

• They didn’t think Deuce would launch Ace towards Grim so…oops

• They pinned some of the chandelier debris before it could hit anyone. At the expense of a few fallen buckets back at ramshackle

• As Peter Parker said, When you can do the things that I can, but you don't, and then the bad things happen, they happen because of you. …because of Yuu

• Welp I guess they’re helping out

• Yuu can’t stand their bickering over whose fault it is. To them it’s on all of them.

• The monster actually manages to get a real surprised face out of Yuu

• Yuu pins the monsters arms before it’s can hurt Deuce. They continue to try to pin it while they attack it but they’re having a hard time on account of its size and power. So they’re narrowly stopping it for a second or two.

• This is when the reveal of them having “magic” comes to the adeuce duo

• Though they don’t really have time to react

• When they get out of the mine they ask Yuu how they could preform such concentrated magic without a mage stone

• Another world yada yada, it’s kinda boring to them honestly. Not to the adeuce duo though..they’re shocked and kinda curious about the logistics of a word being connected to someone’s soul

• no time though since Ace and Deuce have some bickering to get to!

• Yuu kinda cracks and yells for the first time since coming to this world

• Yuu gets some food they packed in their system and takes a small breather before telling them the plan

• it’s a pretty simple plan.. except Yuu pins it’s feet to the ground so it really feels the fire tornado

• For the “battle lines” right before the fight with the dwarf monster Yuu goes, “I’ll stop you for good-” pretty corny but I think it’s cute

• Yuu sees the problem with Grim eating the black Magestones from a mile away…whatever

• The ghosts Camera can photograph parts of the soul too so when it takes a picture of Yuu you can kinda see some pins around them lining their figure like a doll thumbtacked to a wall

• Yuu goes to sleep that night apathetic. Their happy they made new friends but something’s just don’t feel right. The fact that they can’t go home, Grim eating the stone, the monster in general, the ghosts, and the wet floor with buckets littered all over it. All these stresses do nothing but put them in a bad mood. Though it’s not that different from home. They use their tried and true method of repressing and dealing with it later. They can finally go to sleep.

Damn it it’s so long it’s stressing me out- I’m basically using this account as a library for head cannons. So this was gonna rot away in the notes app but…I have to many notes having this in there would stress me out.

#twst wonderland #twisted wonderland #twst au #twst yuu #twst mc #twst grim #twst ace #twst deuce #EE!Yuu #AAAAAA #AU HELL #Too long #brainrot #oh no #i’m sorry

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wardencommanderrodimiss · 1 year

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Hey Roddy. Do you take Chrobin prompts during Nanorimo? My brain is feeling a little wingfic, so. "Everyone has wings, but they aren't always out. Chrom asks Robin to unfurl hers after Southtown, and she has six." ...It's fine if you don't want to. I just, y'know. *Waves hands* Them.

Honestly, my NaNo performance this year is absolutely atrocious and I'm using it mostly as trying to get myself to get up and write again - which is to say I would write literally anything and count it for NaNo right now. Anyway I was casually chewing on this thought for like two days before I suddenly figured out an angle to come at it from that made me really want to write it...which ironically produces a story where the single scene you have pictured cannot happen.

----

Chrom has never met someone who doesn’t have wings; that doesn’t mean he’s never met someone whose wings he’s never seen. It’s polite to keep them folded out of the way so as to not bump into people in the streets or take up too much space in the barracks; it’s a fashion in Ylisstol to wear cloaks with hoods or cowls that obscure all but the largest wings into shapeless fabric. Of the Shepherds, Ricken in particular wears mages’ robes to hide the fluffy fledgling down that marks his age, and Sumia says that fabric over her wings keeps her mindful of what she’s doing with them and stops her from absentmindedly knocking them into things - most of the time, anyway.

So the stranger unconscious in the fields with no memory might be a notable oddity for all of the aforementioned reasons, the baggy hooded coat does not stand out as a peculiarity.

Her name is Robin. Like the birds.

The masked swordsman, Marth - swordswoman - whatever - has dark, glossy blue-feathered wings. She fights with them spread, like a goose flapping and screeching to drive away a threat. Like an eagle swooping low, coming in for the kill.

But when the assassins are dead and Emmeryn is safe, Chrom runs after the masked prophet to thank her, offer her anything in thanks, and he finds her with her wings folded to her back, small, like a sparrow, alone in the dark.

Taguel don’t have wings. This makes sense to Chrom, and the fact that Panne prominently displays her winglessness by not wearing any draped clothing across her back - or even much clothing at all, really - is still only one of her second or third most eye-catching traits.

Absolutely mortified as he is about walking in on Robin in the bath, and trying for both their sakes to put any sights he may have seen out of his memory forever, it takes until the next day, looking at her across a map as they discuss strategy, to realize something.

He is pretty damn sure that she didn’t have wings.

Manakete, unlike taguel, have wings in their human form. Manakete, unlike humans, have not a feather on their body; Nowi’s wings are leathery, like a bat, like a wyvern, like her dragon form.

Flying is difficult enough simply carrying the weight of one’s own body. Adding armor and weapons, even moreso. Wyverns and pegasi remain invaluable companions off and on the battlefield for such reason (even if Ylisse doesn’t have any corps of wyvern riders). A careful rider with a strong bond with their steed should only have to use their own wings to slow their fall if they are extremely unlucky.

Phila and her knights are unlucky, and the Risen archers keep firing even as they fall.

And Gangrel laughs. Gangrel stands holding a pike, upon which are impaled a pair of severed wings. Even from a distance, Chrom knows those tan speckled feathers. He’d know them even if, next to him, Lissa’s wings weren’t patterned the same.

Emm falls. And Chrom flies, forgetting the archers, forgetting everything except the need to save her, but she falls faster than he can fly and arrows fly faster than he does. He barely notices the first two tearing through his wings, but by the third, Basilio is in the air with him pulling him back to earth. Robin clings to Lissa, holding her to the ground, holding her face against her shoulder, stopping her from following and from seeing.

But Chrom gets a last glimpse of his older sister before Basilio drags him away.

In Ferox they plan; their rescue failed, but they will not fail to topple Gangrel from his throne. Chrom has the faith of his Shepherds, the might and support of the khans, and Robin’s tactical guidance. He has Emmeryn’s dream for peace.

But they do not march for Plegia yet. And when Chrom closes his eyes he has the memory of Emm’s body lying broken on the sand and stone and the bloody stumps of her dismembered wings protruding from her back.

Sleep is hard to come by.

He finds Robin still in the war room, pouring over maps and markers. “Didn’t Flavia and Basilio say that we would start determining the specifics of our strategy in the morning?” he asks, even though he suspects that in the dark and in the silence, Robin hears Lissa’s scream the way Chrom watches Emm fall.

Robin starts at the sound of his voice and she reaches immediately for her coat, draped over one of the chairs instead of her shoulders. Then she looks back up at him and when their eyes meet, Chrom thinks of the promise that she made to him, that she would stand at his side and help him be worthy of Emmeryn’s legacy. Her fist slowly unclenches from the fabric and her hand moves back to the markers on the table, but her eyes linger on Chrom’s for a little longer. “I need to have at least some idea of strategies to suggest,” she says, turning her attention back to the map.

Without her coat, when she leans across the table to grab a book from the other side, her lack of wings is obvious. Her shirt, cut low in the front and back, exposes her shoulders and some of her back; he can’t help but notice the lack of even the stubs of wings amputated, or even any scars that could indicate a complete removal.

“You can say something, if you like,” she says, paging through her book. Her words could indicate a challenge she intends to bite back on - he remembers that unfortunate conversation about whether or not she could be termed a “lady” - but now, lately, with all of this weight they carry, he doubts it.

“You probably don’t even remember, do you?” he asks.

“I don’t,” she affirms, and that is the end of their discussion of that matter.

The dust settles over the scent of sweat and sand and singed feathers. Chrom steps on a reddish-brown plume that might have fallen from Gangrel’s wings. Robin stands at the crest of a hill, looking up at the carrion birds circling over the battlefield, ready to alight upon the corpses and add their feathers to the mix. Her expression is one he’s not seen worn on her face before and it’s hard to place. Wistful?

Chrom has a lot that he wants to say to her, but the first words out of his mouth, with a flap of his still-bandaged left wing, is, “Once I’m healed, I can take you to see Ylisse from up there.”

“I think I’d like that,” she says.

Most children are born without even a bump of what will develop into their wings. They usually start to emerge at the same time as a baby’s first teeth.

Robin wonders if her daughter will inherit her condition.

She wonders if she will know by the time she comes back from war.

Validar, the new king of Plegia, looks identical to the leader of the assassins who attacked Emmeryn in Ylisstol.

The hierophant of the Grimleal looks almost identical to Robin but for her wings; three on each side, long and thin with feathers of such a rich black that they appear purple in the light.

Little lady Marth has a sword identical to Chrom’s and a Brand in her eye identical to that of baby Lucina’s. Little lady Marth is Lucina, no longer a baby, from a time yet to be, and the story belies belief but is too outrageous to possibly be false. The beautiful warrior who stands before her is Robin and Chrom’s daughter, and how could she be anyone else, when she looks so much like her father, her hair, her eyes, her wings with blue feathers darker than Chrom’s, almost black in the moonlight. Robin smooths down a few of her rumpled feathers.

“I’ve been wondering if you would have them,” Robin murmurs, “or if you would be like me. I’ve wondered if it might be hard for you.”

“You have?” Lucina asks. “I would have been okay, because you were okay, and you’re my mother.” She blinks fiercely and presses the back of her hand to her mouth. “Mother… you have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

Without heavy weapons or armor, mages would, in theory, be better suited to flying under their own power during combat. Like a divine storm of lashing winds, raging flames, and crackling lightning from above - but archers are an even greater threat to unarmored mages than they are to armored pegasus and rider. And magic, Lucina has been informed by Laurent, takes a great deal of concentration and conscious thought; add to that the focus required to remain airborne and steady enough to properly aim a spell, and the exposed position it puts oneself in, and the disadvantages outweigh the advantages. Cynthia agreed, saying that she would only be carting a tome around in the air if her pegasus was carrying her; Morgan attempted to train himself as a “flying tactician-magician” for two days, during which he shot nearly all of their companions with lightning. He acquiesced that it was indeed incredibly hard to aim while flying.

Gods, Lucina misses them all so much. She thinks of them as she tries to comb dirt and ashes out of her wings. They took care of each other, the way she sees their parents do now; anyone who needs help preening their wings will find it. Even from Nowi or Panne. Even for Henry, who only so recently fell in with the Shepherds. Just as even Severa and Gerome relented quickly to assistance. They took care of each other.

The memory of their companionship hurts worse now that she is no longer alone.

“Do you need help, sweetheart?” Robin asks, and Lucina, contorted as she is trying to reach the base of her wings, nods.

“I wasn’t sure when you learned how to care for wings,” Lucina admits once her mother has seated herself behind her. “If it was before or after mine came in.”

Robin hums. After a few minutes she asks, “Do you know if I ever knew the reason why I don’t have wings?”

Lucina shakes her head, then says, “Not that I knew. I asked you when I was young and you just said that people are all different; some have Brands and some have wings and some don’t, just like some people are dragons and some are rabbits.”

“That sounds like I didn’t know why,” Robin says.

“Or maybe I was too young for the real answer,” Lucina says. “I was still rather young when…”

She doesn’t want to finish the thought, but she knows her mother knows how that sentence ends, regardless.

Morgan has black-feathered wings. He runs to hug Robin when he sees her, but with his arms around her shoulders he freezes for a moment before he fully leans into the embrace. Like for an instant he was confused. Like something he expected wasn’t there.

When Validar orders Robin to seize the Fire Emblem from Chrom and give it to him, she does so; her body acts against her mind as a splitting pain fills her head and sears across her back. Even after regaining control of herself, the pain persists, through their flight from the castle back to the safety of their army.

And that pain is still nothing compared to the horror of what she has done, and the thought of what else she could be ordered to do.

The sunset bleeds orange over the Plegian fields. At the outskirts of their camp, Lucina watches Robin shake off her coat to find, sprouting from between her shoulder blades, six wings.

“Mother?” Lucina asks. “Could I have a word?”

Robin turns. Her eyes are wet with pain but she pulls a smile onto her face for her daughter. “Of course.”

Her purple-black fathers are matted with blood, wet and scraggly the way a chick comes out of the egg. But even now, Lucina knows those wings. She saw them on a monster looming over her kingdom as it burned it to the ground.

It is easier to raise her sword when she sees such a plain sign of the Fell Dragon whose vessel Robin will become. She knows what she has to do.

Her resolve is still not strong enough.

The hierophant, Grima, does not set her feet upon the ground. She hangs in the air with the lazy flap of her wings; it seems as natural to her as breathing.

Robin has never left the ground under her own power.

“You refuse my gifts at every turn,” Grima says. “Grounded by your own will, when you could choose godhood. But if you won’t claim your birthright, I will take what has been laid out for you instead.”

They are the same, Robin and Grima, the tactician and the hierophant, and the wings on their backs cast the same shadows as the Fell Dragon’s do on the ground far below.

They are the same, and that is the key to the Fell Dragon’s undoing.

Robin dissolves into the air, and Grima’s bones sink into the ground.

Chrom finds her again, no longer a stranger, unconscious in the fields, with no brand on her hand and no wings on her back.

#the many paragraphs throughout this which i devote to worldbuilding is an example of how i approach some of these 'staple' fandom AUs #i can't just like. say they have wings now and go with it. i have to dissect how it would work #like re: pegasus knights and combat and everything i'm like 'well i have to pick this apart before i get back into the chrobin'#i started writing a soulmate au prompt set in my pokemon verse #the 'you see in black and white until you meet your soulmate and then you can see colors' variant #and literally the second paragraph i went on a tangent about 'regular' colorblindness #which was both in character for my first narrator and another example of the angle my brain comes in from #i HAVE to overthink it. this is just who i am as a person.

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e-wills-afterhours · 2 years

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Vetrnaetr, Chapter 5

Chapters 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

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Hiccup folded his arms beneath his cloak. His hands still tingled with Heather's touch, and he hid them away as to not tempt her further. He drummed his fingertips against his ribs.

"I never would have expected to see you here, of all places," he said.

Heather laughed. "I know, right? I mean, I'm hardly dressed for the occasion."

She held up the hem of her cloak where it was dirty and worn. Her eyes then wandered over the rich fur that lined Hiccup's attire: in his hood, beneath his finely tooled bracers, and draped over his shoulders, pinned in place with beautiful silver ornamentation.

He was self-conscious of how he must look to her, showing off his wealth like every other jarl on the damned island. He was posturing at his father's behest—everyone was posturing. Hiccup was a walking testament of his father's pride. On Berk, there was no need to flaunt who he was. Parading around robed in his birthright was a foreign concept back home. Even in his holiday best, he was never trying to impress anyone.

"I'm surprised they even let us disembark," Heather joked, "but even our chief is welcome here. Any tribute it good tribute, I guess. It is Vetrnaetr."

Hiccup frowned. "That still doesn't explain what you're doing here." He shook his head, realizing how brusque that sounded. "I-I mean, it's just strange, running into you like this—here—after all this time."

"My father is the coxswain," Heather answered with a shrug. "I insisted he let me come along. He was hesitant at first. 'Helgafell is no place for a young lady,' he said. But I'm pretty persistent."

Hiccup recalled that defiant stare flashing back at him from atop Stormfly, as he and his friends chased her down.

"Yeah. I, uh…I remember."

Heather shrugged. "Besides, there are other women here," she said.

Hiccup winced.

True, there were female merchants, but they were older and few and far between. The völva and the thralls were the only women on Helgafell of comparable age—but that was not saying much to help her case. She did not have that mystic air to inspire respect and trepidation. To the more established jarls, Heather was a short notch above a thrall girl.

"I still don't understand. Why?" Hiccup pressed.

Heather smiled, and it was bright among their cold, dead surroundings. "Isn't the allure of politics and mystery enough?" When Hiccup furrowed his brow at her, she sighed. Her breath escaped in a long, steady cloud. "Oh, right. You probably live this stuff. Of course. I suppose it's all rather dull and monotonous to you."

"I wouldn't say that, exactly. This is my first time here."

"Oh! In that case..." She was suddenly one step too close. "We should explore this place. Together."

"I…I, uh..." Hiccup leaned back. He could count the snowflakes on her lashes. "That's awfully tempting, Heather, but I…I'm just going to stay put." He cleared his throat and nodded toward Erling's tent. "Waiting on my dad, so…"

Heather clicked her tongue. She seemed genuinely disappointed. "Oh, well. I'm sure I'll see you around, then?"

"Yeah. Definitely."

She departed with a smirk and a wink in a strange "see you later" combination that had him feeling anxious and guilty. He glanced around, though nobody was watching. Nobody cared. But the voice—the same one that had delighted in Heather's hug and her presence just moments ago—was now berating him, that two-faced son of a bitch.

Hiccup sighed, tilting his head up to the dreary sky above. In the shapeless clouds, he could almost see Astrid's face.

He wondered what she was doing; if it was as miserable on Berk as it was on Helgafell—but at least she would have the comforts of home. As much as he envied her, with home and hearth to warm her, and a dragon to fly and keep her company, he could not say he necessarily wanted to be back by her side just yet. The thought of her disappointment and nagging made his stomach clench. He loved her—he did—but "love" and "like" did not have to coexist at the same time, it seemed. He would wager she was just about as tired of him.

When had they grown so stale? Was this how love was: you fall madly for someone, but once the butterflies die and routine sets in, what once was so appealing about them became unflatteringly human? He had always put Astrid on a pedestal—that was his first mistake—so could he really hold it against her for being on the same level ground as he was? On the other hand, she seemed content to hold him accountable for the unforgivable crime of being himself. He could stand to be furious at her for a while longer.

Thoughts of her left his passion tepid, and there was a time he never would have believed it was possible. Boyhood fantasies were delicate bubbles punctured by the unyielding passage of the seasons. Maturity was a cold and unfeeling bastard. Hiccup had not known a single child to survive it; wide-eyed innocence died to make way for cynicism in a gradual, albeit irreversible process.

He stared down at the ground, cold and barren beneath the dusting of snow. He thought of home and Toothless, how much he missed his dragon; and how going home was not the solution to his woes. Vetrnaetr was coming, and his days spent freezing to death on Helgafell were just the beginning. The voyage back would be filled with more talk of politics and festival planning, no doubt. As soon as his feet hit the docks, he would be the junior chief, fully actualized.

He was torn between wanting to leave the pitiful spit of land he was on and wanting to avoid Berk until the holidays ended; and until he and Astrid reached some kind understanding. Perhaps he could persuade his father to meander the karve around the archipelago for a few weeks more?

"Hiccup," his father called for him, emerging from Earl Erling's tent.

He had that significant look about him, warning Hiccup to brace for a lecture. Earl Erling was at the flap of his tent, leering at Hiccup as his father guided him away by a firm hand on his back.

"Did everything go alright in there?" Hiccup asked, feeling Erling's stare boring into his back.

"Aye. It's settled. We will provide three longships for thirty percent of their returns."

"Oh, 'returns'? That's a very diplomatic way of saying plunder."

Stoick stopped in his tracks with an exasperated sigh. If Hiccup had a piece of silver for every time he heard that sound, he could probably buy Helgafell and all the people on it.

His father turned to him, stern. "Hiccup—this is the way of the world. You don't have to like it, but you do have to play it."

"And what about the innocent lives lost in foreign lands because of our contribution to Erling's campaigns? Are they playing the game too?" Hiccup asked, scowling.

He could not believe his father was so callous. This was not the man his tribesmen admired—or was Hiccup the only one ignorant to the unpleasant realities of ruling?

Instead of anger or frustration, Stoick considered him with pity.

"You are an idealist, son," he said. "To be the chief, you must become a realist."

Hiccup scoffed. "Well, I know I'm really disgusted by a tribe of dragon-eating—"

"You were to marry his daughter, remember? We've discussed this."

Hiccup's face fell. He could not recall—when had they spoken of it? Maybe he was scattered brained lately, and Astrid's smug grin flashed in his mind at the thought. He felt a bit ill, with just a twinge of embarrassment. If what his father said was true, Earl Elring's palpable dislike of him made sense.

His throat was dry, but he managed to un-stick his tongue to blurt out, "What?"

"His daughter, Hertha. When you and Astrid grew apart, and you told me you were agreeable to a politically arranged marriage, I wrote to Erling. He's been looking for a suitor for his youngest daughter, Hertha. A marriage between Berk and the Vandals would have been mutually beneficial. Through their campaigns, we would have access to land and resource beyond what Berk could acquire by less aggressive means. They have a substantial amount of livestock—some acquired by war, others by their own merit—which would make our winters easier."

"And they would have our financial backing, and our various craftsmen at their disposal."

"The Vandals would make a powerful ally."

"Are they not already?"

Two large hands gripped Hiccup's shoulders, making him feel especially diminutive.

Stoick said, "You must remember, Hiccup: there is a fine line between ally and enemy. Keep your enemies on a short rope, and your allies, even shorter."

Hiccup frowned, the weight of his father's words washing over him. The more pearls of chiefly wisdom his father dropped, the less prepared for leadership he felt: the politics, posturing, and duplicity—he was not sure he had it in him to juggle the uglier side of ruling. He tried to squash it down, lest he consider too much of the future all at once and feel nauseous.

"Come," his father said, guiding him along again with an insistent hand. "It's been a long trip, and we should get a good night's sleep before tomorrow's events."

Hiccup nodded and let his father to steer him back to their campsite. He had not committed the lay of the land to memory; he was lost in a sea of tents and barely contained aggression. They would try to sleep beneath layers of furs with their own tent drawn closed, but the sting of the frigid wind chill would cut through anything. Hiccup doubted his sleep would be restful.

-------

Astrid flopped down on the dying grass. She watched the bloated clouds float by; they were the indecisive kind, unsure when to burst and shower the world below with freezing rain or continue on their way. A couple of droplets hit her face, making her wince, but she was unmotivated to do anything about it. Maybe being caught in a deluge would be refreshing enough to rouse her from the dreary fog she seemed to be living in. The cold soil beneath her was not doing her any favors, seeping through her knitted layers: cloak and tunic, and the intimate linens beneath. All the warmth had gone from Berk.

Stormfly crooned, peering down at her with concern. The dragon was too close, filling her rider's vision with two large, scaly nostrils.

Astrid grinned. "Not very flattering." She reached up and patted the Nadder on the snout.

Stormfly huffed, assaulting Astrid with a hot gust of dragon breath, then settled down on the grass like a mother hen watching over her chick. Astrid wrinkled her nose, smoothing out her fluttered bangs; but she was appreciative of the way her Nadder curled up beside her.

Dragons were warm creatures, as if the fire they spat raged perpetually in their bellies—until lately. Stormfly's internal blaze had seemed to diminish. A plaintive edge tainted just about everything she did, and Astrid could relate. Both of their companions were gone—but at least Toothless seemed to care about Stormfly as much as a dragon could express friendship.

Astrid was envious. Dragon relationships were so uncomplicated. They felt either camaraderie or enmity, the instinct to mate or biologic incompatibility. Dragon interactions were so polarized. Simplistic. Basic. Their behavior was only nuanced once humans entered their social sphere and hierarchies with all their messy thoughts and emotions, which dragons could not quite understand. How confusing and unnecessary Norse culture must seem to Stormfly and Toothless; yet they abided all the same.

Stormfly sighed, forlorn—if a dragon even could feel that emotion. Astrid's own heart was reflected back at her through her dragon's doleful eyes.

"I know, girl," she said. "Trust me; I know."

"Know what?"

Astrid flinched, rolling on to her knees reaching for her axe, getting tangled up in her cloak; but Stormfly was unperturbed, calming the anxious jolt in her gut. Taking a moment to collect herself, she realized Ruffnut was walking toward her with her usual indifference. The Zippleback broach she had pilfered was displayed brazenly, pinning her fraying winter cloak in place.

"You're jumpy," Ruffnut observed. "Who'd you think I was?" A teasing grin spread across her thin face. "Hiccup?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Astrid grumbled. She stood, dusting the grass and damp earth from her leggings, then pulled her woolen hood over her head; the wind was picking up, and the occasional sprinkle had become a light drizzle. "You just startled me; and a warrior is already prepared for a fight."

Ruffnut rolled her eyes. "Yeah. Okay. I didn't mean to interrupt your sulking."

"Who's sulking?"

The other blonde considered Astrid with a skeptical glance. Ruffnut was so adept at spinning her own lies and half-truths that she could see through others'.

Astrid shook her head, holding up her hands to concede the point.

"Oh, never mind. What are you doing out here anyway?" She withdrew her hands into the warmth of her cloak again; the changing of the seasons was misery.

"It was his idea," Ruffnut jerked her head toward the tree line where her dragon stood, and Astrid could just barely make out Tuffnut crouched down among the underbrush. "The most potent dragon nip grows on this side of the mountain. We're collecting as much as we can before winter hits—really hits."

Astrid nodded. "To keep Barf and Belch happy when it's too cold fly."

Ruffnut looked puzzled. "Who said it's for Barf and Belch?"

Astrid mouth felt agape, and she only had a moment to contemplate her friend's response before Ruffnut added, "Hey. Do you really need to come so far up here to pout? You're becoming scarce around the village. People are noticing, you know?"

Astrid felt a sudden, profound stab of annoyance. "This again? Oh, my gods, why does anyone care what I do?"

She did not even have to be present, actively making a mess of things, for her tribesmen to find some juicy tidbit hanging on the gossip vine. Why did she even try anymore? If that was going to be the way of it, why did her parents even insist she try; what had them so convinced she could change things now, when all of Berk seemed content to paint her the Fallen Golden Child? Either she hung around the village and heard whispers of her two-timing, sordid ways, or she sought refuge on another part of the island leaving the busybodies to speculate why she was being so reclusive. She could not win, and the village could not get enough.

"It's because you had to set yourself up as a model citizen when you were like, six? Now you're acting different—and people on this island hate different." Ruffnut nodded at their dragons as a reminder, and Astrid cursed her friend's unexpected wisdom.

She was dating Hiccup, so she was no stranger to different and unconventional; and the shortsighted way Berk viewed both in the past and in the present. Somehow it stung more that Ruffnut was the one to point it out to her. She had forgotten.

"I thought, once the war ended, the pressure on me would lift some. Instead, it's gotten worse—a different kind of pressure, from all kinds of new expectations," she sighed, gesticulating in a manner she had picked up from stolen hours with Hiccup.

She was a shieldmaiden of repute, but a dismal bride and housekeeper. With peace upon their island and their dragons, she had lost value as one and gained it as another. No one had bothered to inform her of this except in retrospect.

"It's because you Hoffersons are never satisfied with where you're at," Ruffnut replied; her hands on her hips caused her cloak to bow out oddly. "You always need put yourselves out there. Take it from me, underachieving is a gift. I don't have to strive to achieve because no one expects it! Then, when I actually do accomplish anything, everyone's so surprised." She laughed, "If you could only see your faces…"

"Playing the fool is not my thing."

Ruffnut smirked. "Well, you're not doing a very good job of playing your part right now."

"And what part is that?"

"Uh, the future chief's future wife? Duh?"

Astrid was taken aback. For the second time, someone threw out the idea of a possible marriage to Hiccup like it was not a huge, life-changing step; as if it was something people did as easily as picking out their clothes for the day.

She sputtered. "What—?"

"Oh, come on. You don't just 'date' the Heir Of Berk."

Astrid felt her insides twist. She had not considered anything with Hiccup beyond their immediate day-to-day need for one another. Perhaps, deep down, she had known what the expectation was—as did Hiccup. The prospect of marriage was so daunting, so neither one of them had dared touch on the matter.

"Yes, I—that's not—I still don't understand what you mean by 'part'," Astrid deflected.

Ruffnut clicked her tongue. "Well, not being moody and reclusive, for one thing—acting like you're still love-drunk for Hiccup, for another."

"I do love Hiccup."

Ruffnut groaned. "Look, I don't care, but the village does—you know that, and I know that. The first time, with Stefnir, your love life was just gossip-of-the-day. Now, everyone's invested because Hiccup's invested. No one cares if his heart gets broken. They just care if you're likable, since you'll be the next chief's wife."

Astrid's brow knitted. "I'm not likeable?"

She glanced at Stormfly who perked up, seemingly in support, though dragons were biased.

Ruffnut shifted from one foot to the other with a noncommittal, "Ehhhh…"

"So then why are you hanging around, if I'm so unlikable?"

From the trees, Tuffnut called out, waving furiously, "Ruffnut! Take a look at this mushroom! It looks just like my di—!"

Ruffnut twitched her head in his direction. "That's why. Lack of options," But she was grinning and Astrid couldn't help but crack one of her own. Ruffnut added, "We're friends. We've always been friends. I don't want to see you make a mess of things. That's my job." She placed a hand on Astrid' shoulder. "So, how are you going to fix this?"

"You sound like me right now."

"Having a bossy, pushy friend like you, I've learned a few things."

Astrid's gaze fell, and she was quiet for a moment. She picked at her fingernails to stall for time. When the pause became too awkward to bear, she said, "I…I wrote to him."

Ruffnut winced. "Uh-oh. A good letter or a bad letter?" When Astrid did not reply, she swore, "Odin's balls!"

A defensive surge rippled through Astrid. She was tired of being judged and scrutinized. Even though Ruffnut was coming from a place of concern and caring, it was unfair that friendships were not immune to the same unpleasantness she endured in the village by nearly everyone else. She had no refuge. No matter where she went or who she spoke to, her feelings and actions were picked apart and criticized.

She snapped, "If you're such a wealth of relationship advice, how come you don't have a steady boyfriend?"

"Because I don't want one," Ruffnut replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. She was unfazed by Astrid's insults—by very few insults, actually. "Now, I suppose if you wrote another letter, like, right this second, and used another Terrible Terror—"

Astrid sighed, shaking her head. "It's too risky. I only wrote to Hiccup because Sneaky could get the job done. Any other Terror could be caught and killed. I'd never forgive myself; and neither would Hiccup, for that matter."

"Well, that's the pits. Guess you'll have to wait until he gets back."

"It'll have to be after the festival. He's going to be busy helping Chief Stoick run the thing."

"That's a few days for him to sit around and think about how much you piss him off. Sucks to be you."

"Thanks," Astrid said flatly. "You're not telling me anything I don't already know."

"At least Helgafell isn't far. Hiccup will be back soon, and who knows, maybe you can steal a moment with him and work things out?"

"I doubt it. The sooner this is all over, the better."

Ruffnut opened her mouth to respond, but whatever she was going to say was cut off by a distant high-pitched scream echoing over Berk's highlands. Both young women looked up to see a Night Fury gliding by, shaky and uncoordinated. Clearly, Fishlegs was not used to Toothless's particular mechanics of flight, nor his speed.

"I know a certain dragon who probably agrees with you," Ruffnut muttered, and Astrid could only scowl.

------------

Hiccup sat cross-legged on his bed, turning a foreign pendant over in his hands. The trinket had caught his eye as he killed time browsing the stalls near the Hooligan campsite. He had bartered away a fine fox pelt for it, neglecting to mention the animals were in abundance on Berk, so its value was negligible. His father gave him a bit of an allowance to spend as he saw fit, and perhaps a single piece of jewelry was a questionable purchase—but he had kept circling back for it, no matter how many times he tried to convince himself it was an impulse buy.

The sun set, plunging the small island in darkness, but campfires and torches lit up the night. The Hooligan oarsmen were gathered outside their tents, drinking and laughing. Mead would keep them warm. They kept the fire burning bright enough that Hiccup could examine the pendant in the sliver of light filtering into his tent.

He held it up, squinting as its grooves and ridges were illuminated. It bore a dragon, albeit carved by someone with only a passable understanding of metalworking. He was not sure what kind of dragon it was—if there were different dragons in a place called East Anglia. Surely, there must be.

On the back of the pendant was a single phrase in Anglo-Saxon: a language in which he was passably fluent; collecting foreign writings on dragons from Trader Johann has its benefits. It read, roughly translated, "Death From Above."

The hypocrisy was not lost on him: he had bought a piece of jewelry seized in a raid on foreign shores. He had tried to return it the moment the vendor had told him where it came from, but all transactions were final. So, there he was, holding a pendant of some kind that had been procured through violence and bloodshed. Indirectly, he was supporting war and murder. He hated himself for it, and he hated himself for not being more upset about it. His short time on Helgafell seemed to be rubbing off on him with the ugliest stains.

He turned the pendant again, cocking his head to the side. "Does this dragon have four wings?" he murmured to no one. There were repeated lines along the two prominent wings, too deep to be scratches of clumsy tools. He traced them with his fingertips. "That's strange…"

He could not recall any species he knew of with four wings. New lands would undoubtedly bring new dragons as more trade routes opened up and borders expanded through aggressive conquest. But something as unusual as a four-winged dragon was sure to have traveled on the winds of myth and rumors by now. Even on Berk, they heard tale of bearded, serpentine dragons in lands far to the East, well past the borders of the maps he knew; and merchants protected their trade routes and secrets.

He was so enthralled with the unusual dragon image, that he did not hear the crunching snow outside.

"Hiccup." His father threw open the tent, startling him to the point he fumbled the pendant onto his blankets. Leaving no room for debate, Stoick said, "It's time to go."

Hiccup extricated himself from his bed, throwing on his cloak and all his finery. When he was impressive enough, he joined his father out in the light snowfall, trying not to look miserable about it.

They had not gotten more than a few paces from their tent, one of their crewmen towing their sacrificial sheep behind them, before Stoick started with another lecture. Hiccup was out of patience for it.

"The Dísablót is an important event—"

"I know," he interrupted, earning him a disapproving sidelong glance.

"As the next chief, you will have to—"

Hiccup turned his head away to roll his eyes. "I know."

He had a far better memory than his father gave him credit for, and he was reminded of his future religious duties all the way from Berk to Helgafell; he did not need a review. Every year, he would sail to the island, bringing an offering to sacrifice so his people would be blessed by these spirits he was not entirely sure he believed in. For all of the praying and blood spilled for the Disir, they had failed to protect Berk from 300 years of dragons' fire and death. What reason did he have to believe his people had finally gained their favor? He supposed his future presence there was just another heavy and enduring "tradition"; he was beginning to hate the word. Each new duty and responsibility spawned from observance of old ways and old beliefs that were fading from relevance, was just another link in his chains: the shackles of ruling.

The walk to the Dísablót felt like another walk to the public execution of his youth.

The temple stood out ahead of them, adorned with torches and beckoning the chieftains forward with a deep bellow from a horn. All around them, various animals cried and bleated, as if they sensed the unpleasant fate awaiting them. Berk's sheep pulled against his rope, and Hiccup felt sorry for it in a way he had not for the livestock dragons carried off over the years. That was nature's brutal way. Ritualistic sacrifice, however, seemed cruel and needless.

Hiccup did not know what to except as all significant parties gathered into the temple. The völva awaited them, some holding bowls and one—who appeared to be the head shaman—holding a ceremonial dagger. They had painted runes on their skin with blood—but from where, he could not guess. Around camp the bizarre women seemed almost whimsical. Now, in the low light and harsh shadows, they were terrifying. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and the air was charged with a palpable energy: something ancient and terrible. The völva chanted, and the torches and sconces appeared to flicker in time with their words. It was surreal, and he felt like he had entered into a fever dream.

The head völva spoke, but he was not really listening. She was speaking in riddles and verse; and he was more preoccupied in the mental tally of just how many different tribes were present. From the relative modesty of dress, he determined which chieftain represented Heather's tribe; but she was not among the crowd, much to his disappointment.

An unsettling otherworldliness befell the room. The völva appeared to straddle the line between mortal and immortal planes more than before. They moved with a supernatural grace, collecting the first offering: a large, well-groomed pig.

The völva began to chant with increasing volume and fervor; and the pig was guided into a submissive posture, lying on its side. With a few short words, blessing the animal and beseeching the spirits for their favor, the head völva rose the ceremonial dagger high in the air for all to see. A few men in the crowd whispered words of reverence. The firelight glinting off the blade made it appear aflame. Then, without hesitation, the head völva plunged the dagger into the pig's heart. The animal did not make a sound, bewitched. The light from its eyes simply faded as the völva removed the dagger and let its blood run onto the floor.

"Dad…" Hiccup whispered.

"Not here, son," Stoick warned.

"But this is—"

"Your heritage. Our culture. Our beliefs."

"Not my—"

Stoick clapped him on his bad shoulder with a heavy, authoritative hand, squeezing a little. Hiccup grimaced and his knees almost gave out.

"Not here," he hissed. "Enough."

The blood from the pig was collected into bowls by the assisting völva. The chieftain for the associated tribe stepped forward with his family. The völva dipped their fingers into the bowls, painting runes on them with pig blood. From there, the chieftain and his family stepped over to a blazing altar adorned with symbols of the Disir. They prayed, together and individually, beseeching these enigmatic beings for their favor and protection from the coming year. While they knelt, the völva poured what remained of the pig's blood into the pit of burning coals at the base of the fire. The flames crackled and swelled.

Hiccup swore he felt the air ripple, heard whispers on the wind; and the fire at the altar roared with great ferocity.

The next tribe—the Vandals—offered a juvenile yak, which met the same brutal death as the pig before it, the carcass since dragged off to gods knew where. Earl Erling stepped forward alone to pray.

"What am I supposed to gain from this, exactly?" Hiccup whispered to his father.

"Watch. Learn," Stoick muttered.

As each sacrifice was made, and each time blood was offered to the fire, Hiccup glanced around at the crowd. Few coxswains and oarsmen were among them, but these men of lower status were the most reverent of the crowd. They seemed captivated by the ritual, and shone with appreciation for their respective chieftains, praying on their behalf. These common men believed in the mysticism and so they needed the social hierarchy: willing chiefs who would offer up sacrifices and beseech the divine for their people. This was how a leader gave back; this was where love and loyalty could be forged; where a chief could gain confidence in his men and they, in him. All of the ritualistic sacrifice was just one bid for a tribe's fealty. Birthright guaranteed no favor among one's people.

Then, it was their turn. Hiccup tried not to flinch as their sheep met its death. A couple of oarsmen had accompanied them to the temple to assist with the animal and to watch. Although they stood in the back, Hiccup felt their rapt attention as the völva approached with their bowls of blood. He swallowed hard and kept his face placid as runes were drawn on his face, warm and sticky—offensively so.

His dad ushered him toward the altar and Hiccup took no objection to just observing as his father prayed, both of them on their knees. Regardless of what Stoick the Vast believed, his ardent murmurs were genuine. Maybe the atmosphere had enticed him toward mysticism for a night; or maybe he was hedging his bets. If he was not expected to pray allowed, Hiccup believed he could feign enough reverence and sincerity to get by when it was his turn.

To his relief, their time at the altar was short. He tried not to rise too quickly, though the völva on either side of the altar stared through him, eyes distant, with enigmatic smiles that he was not sure meant him well.

As they returned to the crowd, his raised his arm to wipe the blood from his face, but his father quickly grasped his wrist. A stern shake of his head condemned Hiccup to a bloody face for the rest of the ritual.

A few more tribes followed after them with their sacrifices: sheep, cattle, pigs—even a horse, just to make a real statement. But the final tribe to submit their offering was the most bold. Their sacrifice was a dragon. A Gronckle.

Hiccup felt his insides lurch. He grabbed his father's cloak.

"Dad. Dad, I can't do this. I can't watch this," he hissed urgently.

The Gronckle was in chains with a crudely fashioned muzzle for convenience, not comfort. The beast struggled against its bonds, but the head völva worked her magic on it. Even a mighty dragon could not repel her. The beast submitted, breathing slow, with the occasional twitch of its legs against its bonds. The chieftain responsible was smug.

"You will," Stoick demanded—though Hiccup saw the same discomfort reflected in his father's eyes.

"But—"

"If you care about Berk, about our dragons, you will say nothing, and you will watch."

Hiccup furrowed his brow. How would watching a dragon be slaughtered help Berk? He swallowed hard and fought the reflex to help the Gronckle; he fought the urge to turn away, at the very least.

Stoick directed a furtive nod to the room, and Hiccup scanned the faces of the other chieftains. He was not the most subtle individual, and his distress had been obvious; he was collecting whispers and reproachful stares. More than his own men, he needed the future allegiance of other these chieftains. And all at once, the weight of the game he played pressed down upon him.

The head völva stabbed the Gronckle, and Hiccup struggled through the nausea and the heartache, watching the life drain from such a magnificent animal.

He resolved he would never tell Fishlegs.

#httyd fanfic #hiccstrid #hiccstrid fic #httyd fanfiction #affairs au #this is the very last chapter that I had to edit #everything from this point on will be completely fresh #help me

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hellofastudysession · 2 years

Text

[I.D. 1: Frisk (from Undertale), Ghost (from Hollow Knight), and Stanley (from The Stanley Parable). Frisk is a small, fat child with warm brown skin, a dark red-brown afro, and a blue sweater with pink stripes. Ghost is a small child with a square, two-horned white skull for a head, wearing a silvery robe and holding a large nail as a sword. Stanley here is a paper-flat stick figure man, with peach skin and a gray nose and ears, a hollow masklike face with ripples radiating from it, a beige-yellow button-up shirt, and shapeless gray legs. All of them have large, round black eyes.

Ghost is standing on Frisk's head while Frisk watches them, and is rapidly whacking Stanley's face with their nail. Stanley, leaning forward to be at eye level with Ghost, seems unharmed, and is happily pointing out the back of his head, where Ghost's own horns are.

Text left of Frisk and Ghost in the style of Undertale's flavor text reads, "You sense there's something annoying in the nearby vicinity... it's only you three, though, so probably nothing...?" Annoying is in yellow.

Text left of Stanley reads, "Out loud, Stanley admired the child's horns; yet, unheeding of this, it continued striking at him as though he were a button, or a line of dialogue they were struggling to write. The lower child, too, seemed to see it unnecessary to aid him. Clearly, it was futile to continue to connect with this stranger, and Stanley was doomed to a life of peripheral loneliness. Not that he realized this. If anything, h". End I.D. 1]

[I.D. 2: More drawings of Frisk, Ghost, Stanley, and now Kris (from Deltarune). Kris is very similar to Frisk in appearance, but a teenager; they usually have a shadow over their eyes, and wear a desaturated green hoodie with a yellow stripe and a brown hood, and brown patchy pants.

Drawings described from top, left to right: A fullbody of Stanley facing the viewer, next to a silhouette of a Stanley-like figure that's blacked out and labeled "spoilers", and also has "fuck this" written next to it with an arrow.

Scribble of Kris against black holding a knife to the sky, determined yet tired; text under them reads, "Oh, Kris. That's your name, right? I don't mean to be a cruel host, but you're in for quite a disappointment. What kind of story would let itself be interrupted, interfered with? Not this story, that's for sure.

The words "kris falls into the backrooms". Kris and Stanley looking at a fern; Stanley looks mildly delighted, and Kris is looking straight at the camera, deadpan. Text in the style of UTDR flavor text above them reads, "It's a fern. There's not much to say about it. There is no reason to look at this. You see no reason to continue standing here. Stop. Stop looking at the fern. There is nothing here for you. Stanley seems enamored with the fern. You wonder if this is why everyone left. Smells like dry fern."

"Now, if you'll put the knife down, we can go on with going up to Stanley's boss' office, and then the both of you will be able to escape, don't you understand? I'm trying to help you leave.

"And you're leaving. With that knife. Alright, sure. Let's see where this thread goes."

Continuing with image descriptions: Ghost's face with a bubbling agender flag under it, Frisk's contented face with a looping yarnlike nonbinary flag under them, Kris looking up at both of them and smiling with "they/them" written in transgender flag colors under them, and a tiny Stanley waving a straight ally flag.

Lineless, tiny pixel sprite of Kris holding a pencil as though it's a sword, in battle; the Red Soul floats at an angle to the left of their head. Above them are the words, "> CHECK. The Stanley Parable Ultra Deluxe, t [...] expanded re-ima [...] the critically [...] award win [...]".

Frisk falling asleep against Kris in a gray sunbeam; Kris is expressionless, but has a hand around them. Frisk and Ghost's canon sprites next to each other. Ghost looking down at themself as though surprised; they are now wearing a green-blue striped sweater sized to them and black pants, and text next to them with round dream spirographs floating about reads "...green..."

Kris and Ghost looking into a mirror with Ghost wearing said sweater; Kris has one black eye open to look down at them, and flavor text next to them reads, "(It's admiring its horns.)" Ghost looking up at Frisk; Frisk is smiling proudly and holding an enormous sword with little effort. Under the sword is the final drawing, Ghost and Frisk and Stanley in a line; Stanley looks down at Frisk, curious, and Frisk solemnly shakes his hand. They are also holding Ghost's hand. End I.D. 2]

silent

#personal #described #Have I Mentioned I Care For Silent Video Game Protags With All My Heart ok surely i have #for all my complaining stanley was so fun to design #and all this was so fun to draw

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elfyourmother · 2 years

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34. What is their body type? How tall are they? Do they like their body? 💜🌷

Gisele’s tall and plus-sized with a rather classic hourglass shape; she takes after her grandmother in that respect, who was literally nicknamed “The Gilded Hourglass” as a courtesan in Orlais. If I had to pick one I’d say plus size model Precious Lee is the closest irl to her size/shape. But her tits are massive and so are her booty and thighs. And as thicc as she is, she’s got a lot of muscle from Red Maging and swinging zweihanders and now scythes around has started to give her arms like Angela Bassett had back in the day.

She was always capital T-Thicc (in the actual way, not in the white fandom “pencil instead of a toothpick” kind of way lmao) but has not always been tall. The lore explanation is that Dragon Age elves are canonically quite short, but Gisele was short even by those standards because she was sick and malnourished as a child (she filled out once she began eating regularly in the Circle, but her growth was permanently stunted) and when Hydaelyn brought her to Source after her death on the Seventh, she was reborn to a new body that was deliberately as close to her old one as was possible there. So Hydaelyn made her the same dark complexion, same curvy shape, same eyes and hair, and made her an Elezen, the Source’s equivalent to elves. Because her height was part of her self-image, she made her short (why she was rolled as min height).

But Gisele hasn’t always liked her body; as she likes to put it, “when one blooms lusher and sooner than the other flowers, there grows much envy in the garden”. Puberty was hell and the only reason she liked the otherwise boring apprentice robes they were forced to wear in the Circle is because they were rather shapeless and hid her body to a degree. Her peers still mocked her though, and called her all kinds of slattern and whore etc because of her boobs, and some of the meaner apprentices liked to stuff towels under the back of their robes to make fun of her ass. The communal bathing setup was really rough on her and she tried to go in there very early when it was relatively empty. But she became very withdrawn as a result of all this, and only focused on her studies.

Really it was her mentor Vivienne’s profound influence on her that helped Gisele get out of her shell and learn to feel confident in herself. That, and discovering how much she liked sex and the pleasure her body could give her and others. Gisele figured if they were going to call her a slut regardless of what she did or didn’t do, she might as well have fun and do what she wanted. So she’s been proud of her looks ever since, to the point of vanity. And those memories + the difficult time she had finding clothes in the markets of Ul’dah were the very reason she learned to be a Weaver. She had to tailor and modify off the rack clothes so often she just decided to design her own. The rest is history but that’s why Atelier Surana is militant about being size inclusive.

Cutting because I get into ooc stuff under the cut and a lot of venting.

On the meta level, I admit to feeling like a bit of an outlier because of Gisele’s size. Even among folk who do use the dark arts her thicc size is not at all common. There is a lot of snobbery against thicc ladies because of the perception that everyone who has one is just some gross horny/hentai addled cishet dude, but some of it is just garden variety fatphobia and body shaming disguised in feminist rhetoric. But even though I’m built like a vanilla f!Elezen for the most part (except down below), the lack of body diversity for female characters is just extremely frustrating to me and the primary reason I use the dark arts that isn’t the even more tragic lack of naturally curly/Afro-textured hairstyles.

Then there’s the abysmal way the tall female races are treated in the fandom. Femroes are fetishized, Viera are always shrunk to min height, and Elezen are straight up invisible. I’m used to tall female characters not being treated especially well in fandoms but FFXIV is entirely on a whole other level of disgusting gender essentialism and misogyny, that I legit haven’t ever seen this bad. It is rampant in the gpose community to the point I actually have to look for poses in very short sessions because I legitimately get triggered sometimes with my body issues. And it’s all actually made me downright militant; it’s why as much as I love Viera!Gisele I could never do that permanently. That and I just genuinely love f!Elezen, they’re beautiful and their graceful mannerisms suit her so well.

But FFXIV fandom ruined the size/height difference trope for me and I am absolutely not exaggerating when I say that. I have spoken a lot about my self-esteem issues around my height and being in fandom has absolutely made it worse, because fandom mirrors society’s misogynistic treatment of tall women & femmes (and I very much mean femmes of all agab here not “women & diet women”. How many feminine AMAB ocs have you seen who are tall and broad shouldered rather than tiny cat boys and now bunnies? For fellow maleficars, many femme gear m*ds for m! chars are made using anything bigger than Type 2?)

The comparative lack of chromatic representation when it comes to WoL/NPC shipping is bad enough on its own, but when you combine that with the sheer ubiquitousness of teeny tiny women + the overwhelming majority of popularly shipped NPCs being super tall men it adds up to a lot of content that I just can’t relate to, and that can actively hurt me if I’m in an especially vulnerable headspace. It reminds me of how tall men irl have absolutely never given me the time of day much less viewed me as a potential romantic partner. (In my long dating history I have had exactly two bfs my height of 5’10” or taller, and neither relationship lasted very long) Fandom very much mirrors. I have seen so much talk of ~smol~ female characters being “the perfect height” for various faves of mine that I ship with my decidedly not ~smol~ character. When any sort of tall female characters are actually thirsted after, it’s always in a fetishy Amazon Chaser kind of context. All they are wanted for and portrayed as doing is throwing their (much smaller) partners around, aggressively pegging dudes, etc. They are always super aggro tops. They don’t ever get to be treated softly or with gentleness and they don’t ever get to be submissive or bottoms. They’re assumed to be dommes by default and if they’re not, well, it does not compute at all. I cannot explain how triggering this is as a tall femme who is very much a sub and bottom. And all of this is before the racial element (there are days when I simply cannot tank, despite enjoying the role, because I just can’t tolerate seeing my tall Black girl getting beat on by monsters to protect tiny hyperfeminine white women).

That’s one of the reasons why this last time I used a fantasia to switch Gisele back to Elezen after another bunny stint, I adjusted her to be Ysayle’s height instead of min height, so 50 on the slider. Gisele being as short as she was in her original DA incarnation was as much about my insecurities at the time as it was the limited character design. Gisele has always been a wish fulfillment OC for me and at the time, her being that short was a desperate sort wish fulfillment. But that’s not where I’m at now in my life ten years on. My issues persist and likely always will, but my way of coping now is militant pushback instead, and no matter how lonely it feels sometimes I think it’s ultimately healthier for me.

So Gisele is tall, and as dainty and feminine as she wants to be, literally taking up space. Her body shape is not one I share but her being thick and curvy makes me happy and if that means gpose where her size is obvious (from scaling or upscaled outfits) gets less notes and reblogs then so be it.

#warning I do a lot of spewing about my height issues in this answer #fatphobia cw #body image cw #just in case #gisele surana #dandelionofthanatos #ask bisho

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worldismyne · 1 year

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I Do (Chapter 4)

Summary: Finn’s mother is fed up with Harv’s family being seemingly immune to her attempts to curse their family. So, if magic alone can’t make them miserable, maybe her son can stir up enough chaos to ruin their happily ever after?

Anything to stop that peasant’s stupid wedding.

(AU Fic: Finn is 18, Harv is 19)

Pairing: Harv x Finn

Rating: T (Suggestive) [I thought I could handle M, but I can't sorry]

Series: Warrior U

AN: Thank you @bluepingpong for betaing ♡

Ao3 link

Finn was sitting in his lounge chair on the back patio of his gothic home, drinking from blue bottles like it was nobody's business. Because it was nobody's business that he may have drank a love potion by accident and it was nobody's business that the first antidote hadn't worked. It was definitely nobody's business that he was mixing elixirs and still feeling sorry for himself despite using multiple types of anti-love potions, amnesia spells, and alcohol. So he shouldn't feel the need to be outside hiding from his own nosey mother who'd want to know why he came up empty handed again. Not that she would punish him for failing or anything; she'd just want to find out what's wrong and fix it.

That was worse for some reason.

He had set a few plans in motion to fix this whole wedding situation. Not because he was desperate or anything, that would be ridiculous, laughable even. The quicker he took care of the situation, the happier everyone would be. It really was in everyone's best interest that Harv be single for the foreseeable future. Finn took another swing of the vile combination of potions.

Still nothing.

At least the garden looked nice this time of year.

"Why are you doing this?" That sounded like Harv's voice! Finn sat up and stared at the bottle in shock, maybe he shouldn't be experimenting when he was upset. "Over here?" Finn looked up and there was the warrior standing in his yard. Any joy Finn could have gained was swallowed by embarrassment when he remembered he was in his 'pity me' robe. How could he ever hope Harv to take him seriously when he saw him wearing this tatty old thing that was shapeless and swallowed him like a blanket? He looked up; mother would be able to see him from her window.

"Come closer."

"Oh no, I'm not falling for that again." Harv shook his head.

"Just like- two, maybe three steps; just get into the shadow of the building before somebody sees you!" Finn let out a sigh of relief after Harv begrudgingly took a few steps closer. "Now then," Finn relaxed a little, trying to maintain some scrap of decorum, "what was it you wanted to ask me about?"

"I have tried to be kind about this, but I've been clear. I'm going to marry Audrey." Finn flinched. "What you did went against my wishes and put yourself in danger. So, before things escalate any further, just tell me what you did exactly."

"...exactly?" Finn played with the cap on his bottle. "You wouldn't believe me, even if I told you."

"Try me."

"I'm a witch, sort of." Finn declared with as much pride as he could muster, considering he spent most of his life trying to be a bard.

"I know." Harv looked up at the pink plaster bricks, a monument to the obvious. "That's how I was able to find you. My whole family knows where you live. Including, oh I don't know, my ex-witch hunter dad." Was that what started this all? His whole life his mother had been desperate to make the little goat farm crumble under her feet, Finn hadn't given much thought to what the initial cause was. After all, this was the woman that cursed someone to have bad hair for putting pickles in her salad. He could tell Harv was frustrated. Quite frankly, he was a little frustrated with their circumstances too.

"You knew who I was?" At any point, Harv could have accused him of casting some kind of spell or exposed him to the town, but he didn't. He treated Finn like anyone else. "When did you figure it out?"

"I've known the whole time." Harv said. "You didn't even try to hide who you were." Finn set down his bottle and crossed his arms in defiance.

"I did too! I spent a lot of time crafting a disguise spell that would make me look like your ideal paramour, but it didn't- Oh." Harv already knew of him before they met. Maybe it had been in passing or through hearsay, but Harv was fully aware of Finn's existence. "It didn't need to change anything to suit your tastes." That's why the spell barely changed anything; Harv's type happened to include deviant witches if the flush to his cheeks was any confirmation. "You really don't mind?" He twirled the tie to his robe around his fingers in aimless patterns. "I've been trying to avoid using magic, but if it's something you'd prefer..." Harv turned an even deeper shade of red.

"For the last time, that's not the issue Finn." Harv sighed. "In the past if I had thought, for a second, that you would have had a sincere interest towards me; maybe it'd be a different story. But I've made a promise to Audrey and I plan to see it through. Now, what did you do?" Finn twisted the robe tie so tight his hands turned white. He looked down at his lap.

"I'm sure your brother's already told you about the bribe." Finn could feel Harv's irritation at him grow. "The tailor's guild, I gave them instructions to leave needles in the corset of the bridal gown to delay the procession. Any food served that's a brilliant red you should stay clear of; it could make you sick. There's also flash paper in the bouquet, it makes things catch on fire if it gets close to light. I may have also hinted to a few ladies in the, erm, red light district there'd be a huge gathering of people tomorrow." With each confession, Finn winced. There was no other word for it now, he was desperate, and it showed. All he could do is hope Harv didn't utterly despise him afterward. "If I can't ruin the wedding, Mother's going to try to kill your precious Audrey, so you're welcome." The wedding was in less than twenty-four hours, maybe enough time to undo all the little strings Finn pulled, but hopefully not. Hopefully Harv would see this was the lesser of two evils and just let it go.

"Anything else?" Harv's tone was cold as ice.

"Don't get married." Finn finally looked at him. The once kind warrior, now defensive in his stance, his arms crossed tight across his chest looking away with a steely scowl. Finn thought he didn't have a part of his heart left to break, but he felt it now. "Not because of me or mother; but for yourself. I've read about families that will annul a marriage if there isn't a child in time." Finn's voice was gentle, but still Harv bristled at his words. "And when I told Audrey about... us, she didn't mind in the slightest. She'll probably expect the same from you. If you're going to force yourself to get married out of convenience, it should at least be with someone who'll care for you."

"Audrey cares for people in her own way." That was the hollowest reasoning Finn had ever heard, but he was already on thin ice and he knew it. Still, he couldn't help himself.

"So do I." Harv turned away and left without another word.

-v-

Harv had been raised on cautionary tales his entire life. It had seemed his father wanted to prepare him for every possible trick in the book that any evil doer might try in an attempt to do harm to his sons. The heroes in those stories had always been steadfast in their virtues, strong enough to fight any battle and just as kind. His favorites had always been the stories where the hero was tempted to leave the quest. Regardless of how much the hero longed for a simpler life, or whatever alternative he was offered, he'd always see through the facade and make the right choice.

Though now, Harv wondered, if what drew him to these stories was the lack of blame shown to the victims in these scenarios. Yes, obviously praise was awarded to the hero who could pull through, but it was never their fault for getting swept away. How could they not when they were being offered everything they ever wanted.

Real life wasn't so cut and dry, even if his father seemed to think otherwise.

Five years prior, he had faced a similar test. Surrounded by a lavish lifestyle, in a role he wasn't suited for, told to wait until someone would come to his aid. Each time he almost woke up, he'd catch a glimpse of a blonde-haired figure between the rows of mirrors and found himself trying to catch their attention instead of escaping; it nearly killed him. If Audrey hadn't found his body when she did, he very well would have died. Even then, half mad from asphyxiation, his proposal was for some phantom from an illusion; not the woman bringing him back from the brink of death. He had failed the test in every way possible. All punctuated by the fact that Audrey, bless her heart, vowed to keep his secrets and did so without judgment.

It wasn't until he came home that night, battered and bruised, that his father told him the truth. Their family was constantly being targeted by the town witch; a cunning, vindictive, and relentless sorceress that would stop at nothing until her family was more powerful than the crown itself. They were almost mythic in nature, an albino woman who never seemed to age and her blonde siren-like child; they were people to be feared not enchanted by.

It didn't help, that as he got older, rumors would trickle down from the palace about young men getting ensnared by the witch's next of kin and his tricks. Not just any young men either. The kingdom's strongest knight was deceived by a series of lavender scented letters he thought had come from the princess. A world-renowned bard, found his new muse had warped all of his love songs into mourning covers of themselves with a bitter rejection. If memory served correctly, his mandolin was broken in front of the court along with his heart. Any young man who had everything to lose might find themselves the target of the illusive witch's son. Just as he had as a child, Harv found himself fascinated with these stories. How people could find themselves losing their way over the echo of a person, not even a single physical touch. It certainly made him feel less ashamed of his past errors.

Finn never put himself in a position that left him vulnerable during these little games of his. He'd pose as a lover reaching out from across the seas, or an opera singer, or any number of untouchable roles that kept him at an arm's distance. He played the part of a theoretical love, never close enough to share a dance with someone, let alone hold or kiss. All theatrics culminating in a climax of humiliation and chaos. Or so the stories would go. It was easy to say, in those scenarios, he wouldn't fall for the same trick twice.

Maybe that's why Finn had felt the need to approach him in person, to put them in a position where physical touch was inevitable. It wasn't because he was special, no, he was just wiser to their tricks then the average nobleman. He couldn't let himself destroy everything again just for the hope that this time, the figure behind the mirrors would turn around and look at him. Chasing after Finn almost killed him before; it didn't matter that the tables had turned, or that Finn never approached him as someone else, or that he hadn't lied to Harv once when asked a direct question. At the end of the day, no matter how much he yearned for Finn's attention to be genuine, it had to be a trick.

He dumped the last of the candied fruit into the trash, apples, he should have noticed earlier. His mother was still hard at work searching for needles in the bridal dress, ever the optimist, cheering each time they got another 'free' needle. If all these attempts at sabotage were real, the chances Audrey's life would be endangered should the ceremony take place seemed equally likely.

"Maybe we should delay the wedding." Harv said.

"And give her more time to prepare!? Absolutely not!" Roland threw the bouquet into the hearth, a surge of flame followed. "This family has never backed down because of that witch's threats, and we won't start now!"

"But Audrey..."

"We have two generations of soldiers in attendance." Roland laughed. "You think one woman stands a chance against two armies?" He pondered for a moment. "Clo, we did say bring your own sword on the invitations, didn't we?"

"Of course." Clover hummed. "There! All prickle free." She stood up and stretched out her back. "We've done all that we can; there's no use worrying now you two. We have a big day tomorrow and everyone needs their rest." Harv watched helplessly as they shuffled off to bed. That nauseous feeling was back tenfold. They weren't listening to him, they didn't want to hear the wedding might be a bad idea, didn't want to hear that Harv was wanting to do something else in light of the witch's involvement. He had no choice in the matter.

He numbly walked to his little room at the side of the house, the second night he'd spend in it. Everything was exactly the same, the walls were barren, and the hearth was full of ash. His nightshirt was folded up next to his jacket on the bed where they had been this morning. It all felt so empty now that he was here alone. On his own, he could pretend someone warm was wrapped up in his arms instead of a cold pillow. That the faint smell of lavender was radiating off of someone's skin instead of lingering on his clothes and the sheets. Who was he even trying to kid, he only knew one person that bothered to scent themselves with expensive oils, and it didn't suit anyone else.

He had held strong in the face of temptation, but it felt so much like losing. He hoped Audrey would be forgiving and wordlessly understanding if lavender never entered the house again. He didn't know how to explain why it made him want to cut his heart out with a knife. As the night soldiered on, Harv finally slipped into a dreamless slumber.

#Warrior u #HarvFinn #little finnharv things #WU Fanfic Archive

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mediocremisterm · 9 months

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The Party has a Bathhouse Episode

Yep, you read that right! After escaping the previous safe house the party and survivors make their way towards Bjorn’s bathhouse, a surprisingly well maintained bathhouse on the inner edges of the city. When entered it was, just as surprisingly, almost pristine if not a tad dusty and a handful of mildewy towels. Setting up a temporary base in the main lobby, the party split to investigate and look around the building better. A very smart idea.

First group was made of Oliver, Emre, and Hawk as they split to look into the private washrooms the building had, finding, very conveniently, three rooms in the hall. Not to break Tumbrl’s rules, but I will say without a single hint of hesitation Emre started to strip while entering a private room by himself and started a proper bath. This note caught Hawk’s attention, calling it out after a while to find that he was actually kind of late to punch. He’s a quarter ginger, what do you expect from a Tabaxi. Thankfully, the idea was forgotten as soon as he found a wardrobe in another washroom filled with luxury robes, of which the three yoinked for themselves after the bathhouse moment had passed. They were amazing.

Aakran and Verther was the next group, going into the VIP and staff areas to investigate for anything that could be useful or helpful. Ultimately, this search for good things was broken up as the two started to get a bit aggressive with each other, screaming at each other at a level everyone else in the building could hear. Specifically their argument revolved around their differing views and beliefs on ‘The Cycle’, or what they see as how life is meant to play out, and the reasoning for their different beliefs came out to be seen as Verther believed that The Cycle was not real and easily broken, while Aakran saw it as important for the supporting the forces of nature. Of course, these were all put on the back burner after a while when they decided that finishing the current job was more important than their normal, petty arguments.

During their arguments, the trio in the private baths took bets on who was going to kill each other first. That’s not important, just a note.

Finally moving to the last group of Josiah and Otto who remained with the survivors in the main room keeping a sort of watch and sort of hanging around for the most part. Eventually realizing where exactly they were, Otto had taken a step away to the communal washroom in order to rehydrate some. It’s important for a Tortle to stay hydrated! As it is with you, too. Get a water or something. On his way back to the main room Otto had passed a strange door that something he couldn’t explain made him feel strange, leading him to take a - rather light - bench and put in front of the door, which later came to be rather useless as the door was a pull from the opposite side. He’s trying.

When the group met back up, some still irritated from a fight, some in very fanciful robes, and some having just vibed for a fair bit, the party had to go into working around the main room to try and keep it safe as they chose to stay for the night. The actual night, not the weird Broodmother caused darkness. Maybe, it’s impossible to tell. Either way, everyone had a rather boring night and the time that they woke up, a plan was formed.

Investigating the bad vibes door showed that it had went down into the tunnels, just like the wizard tower meaning a potential way to the Broodmother. As the party began their way down into the tunnels they were instantly called back by hearing the screams of the survivors in the main room. Rushing back the party sees a group of four strangely shapeless Skinwalkers that had broken in, either through the barricade or through one of the drains, but it didn’t matter. Right now, there was a fight coming up, and initiative is rolled... for the next session!

#dungeons and dragons #dnd #roots of treachery

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kujakumai · 2 years

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Shadi in 90% of appearances: Pretty standard white or off-white shapeless robe, some nice earrings maybe, nothing special

Shadi in Capmon: Okay so I got the knee-high gladiator sandals with the matching belt and the solid gold armbands and short flutter sleeves, and you know what I’m feeling fancy tonight so I’m putting on the pauldrons, that’s right, pauldrons, you heard me, get the good hoops I have to stunt on everyone in this mysterious haunted pyramid

#diva watch your siblings dad's going OUT tonight #he's got an OUTFIT #guest starring alexander the great

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marzipanandminutiae · 3 years

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i think you've said this at different points over time, but why do you dislike the aesthetic and the social standards of the 1920s? obv i'm not trying to be disrespectful lol everyone's entitled to their own aesthetic preferences but like why the 20s specifically?

So, the social mores I dislike most are the attitude of being too Modern and Careless(TM) for deep emotions. Sort of a collective derision towards most of the 19th and early 20th centuries, too, and not for the sociopolitical reasons I'd understand. Obviously those were far from universal- you also get some incredibly deep and meaningful art in the '20s (the poetry of the Harlem Renaissance, to name just one example). But the fact that those attitudes were so popular puts me off.

The other thing I hate is that it's held up as the era when women Threw Off The Shackles Of Victorian/Edwardian Oppression And Were Liberated. Because like. While many women did gain the right to vote in the US and UK at that time, and attitudes were slowly shifting on women's rights in general...earlier eras weren't a total hellscape of constant misogynistic oppression where no woman was ever happy or fulfilled, and the '20s weren't a paradise of perfect gender equality.

Also. The women's fashion. Just the polar opposite of everything I love. Shapeless low-waisted dresses, much simpler designs re: cut and trimmings, everyone embracing a version of the bob that really flatters very few people, hats that make you look like a sad dog (don't ask me how; that's just what that brow-covering-hat look makes me think of), shorter skirts...

I'm not saying there's NOTHING to admire about feminine fashions of the era. Some of the robes de style and longer evening gowns are very nice, and interesting things were being done with insets of sheer or beaded fabric. But on the whole, it's just totally repugnant to a Victorian fashion addict like me.

And some people really enjoy acting like 1920s women's fashion was Good and Feminist and everything before it was Bad and Repressive. It was the freedom of choice to cut your hair short, or wear pants in some very specific situations, or put on visible makeup that represented progress- not the actual trends themselves.

(For the record, they did NOT get rid of corsets. They switched largely to elasticated girdles- which, unlike corsets of earlier eras, were pure shapewear with no practical support function that I know of. Hell, those were even still called corsets for a long time! Look at the advertisements, people!)

As you say, though, everyone's entitled to their opinions. If anyone reading this loves 1920s aesthetics, live your best life and embrace them!

#ask #anon

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jenniferstolzer · 3 years

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Babylon 5 rewatch Episode 2.22: The Fall of Night

Babylon 5 is at the center of not one but three conflicts as John Sheridan agrees to shelter a wounded Narn cruiser. The Centauri don’t like this. Earth doesn’t like this. The Shadows don’t like this. But Sheridan has a strong moral compass and what he doesn’t like is how much the institutions around him are willing to sacrifice in the name of forging some kind of cursory peace.

Things I liked about The Fall of Nighit

1, Lennier and Vir’s friendship. If you ask me Vir, could be friends with literally anyone. He’s such an understanding soul. Lennier is by nature a little judgey. More closed off. So when they sit down next to each other and discover how much they have in common both of them look at each other like “hello what” and automatically agree to meet again. But even this exchange is done almost like spies meeting and I don’t think we stop to think about that very often. These are the attaches of two ambassadors for two of the most powerful races in the galaxy… they could very well be exchanging state secrets instead of expressing solidarity for their equally frustrating jobs.

2, The Centauri are apparently willing to put their ships on autopilot and black out from g forces if it means when they come to they’ll be in a better firing position. This seems extremely reckless and VERY Centauri. It is the spacebattle equivalent of the hair. Big. Flashy. Not well thought through.

3, In the wake of the mass driver bombing, Sheridan gives Londo an opportunity to speak and Londo is like “NOPE” and jets before he says something that’s going to get him and his whole race in more trouble than they already are. Garibaldi then reads Londo like a literal book, delivering one of my favorite analyses of the character. Everyone thought Londo was a clown, indulging in opulence, going into debt at the casino, drinking himself to a stupor in public, but Garibaldi was his friend and knows that Londo’s not dumb, he’s actually very smart and his mind moves really fast. His error is in his judgment and priorities and he’s currently in waters he did not expect to tread. He’s scared, and he’s going to keep darting in and out of cover until he feels like he has a handle on things or he gets picked off by a hunter, whichever comes first. Also a very classic JMS line “He’s a pain in the butt, but he’s our pain in the butt.” Hunt for that or similar lines in other JMS stuff, he loves that line.

4, The ache of watching McCarthysim at work is very effective. Zach knows the guys he’s ratting on don’t deserve to be ratted on and even says so. “They’re just fooling around” but we can tell by the level of interest and tone of the Nightwatch captian’s voice that they’re gonna get blackballed. Zach can’t deny that they said what they said, but can tell that ratting them out is the wrong thing to do. In the end he relents with a bunch of qualifications but the Nightwatch doesn’t want qualifications. They want names. Thank you for your service.

5, I love that the guy there to ally with the Centauri is from the Ministry of Peace. So poignant. They’ll get peace all right, by paying off the aggressors.

6, When the Narn ship was coming under threat by the Centauri warship, Sheridan opened a line to Londo just to spit in his face and hang up. It was amazing. Also during this crisis, Sheridan whips out a law book to smack the Nightwatch guy back in his hole. Sinclair would be proud.

7, Watching B5 come under attack is so emotionally stirring. Even on a rewatch, I don’t want to see it hurt.

8, We have arrived! The scene where Kosh reveals himself. I love that G’Kar is hiding in the plants – like he’s not a huge gecko man who people are going to notice. I also love how plaintiff his voice is, thinking if he speaks on Sheridan’s behalf it’ll help him in the political shitshow he’s currently in. I mean he’s issuing this apology for helping a Narn ship and G’Kar is very very very grateful for that. Also B5 blew up a Centauri warship so he’s pretty grateful for that too, I mean come on… I like that B5 has like a standard subway system in the middle of it and that they let the Puppet Friends ride. I miss the puppet friends. I love that the rotational gravity system means there’s a weightless portion in the center of hydroponics and that we used that to our advantage in this story. Also the vorlons in their native form play on the perception of the lesser races. They are light beings, and humans see them as angels. The rest of the races see them as prophets or gods, but none of these perceptions are perfect. We see wings and white robes and think Angel, but Kosh didn’t appear like a rennaissance painting. He’s got a butterfly look to him, too. The face he wears is a facsimile of a human not an exact human. He’s not perfect, we’re just in awe. Love that.

9 And finally a lot has been said about why Londo doesn’t see anything when Kosh appears. He’s been touched by the Shadows, so he can’t be converted by the Vorlons b/c we’re playing a game of Othello today I guess. Maybe because he doesn’t actually believe in his pantheon of gods so he doesn’t have any deities to witness. Maybe he’s lying because what he saw was his own greed and vanity. The general consensus is the first – that he’s incapable of seeing the light because he’s in the dark. For a fresh take on it, let’s look at the Vorlons through this lens. Kosh said before that if he revealed himself everyone would know him… I take this as being a side effect of being Vorlon. Vorlons are a feeling not an image. Like Magenta. Magenta’s not a real color, it exists on the color wheel because something has to connect red and purple on the color spectrum… but the spectrum of visible light is actually a straight line. The wavelengths for red and purple are far from touching, but our brains can perceive when they’re both present, so Magenta occurs. It’s imaginary, but we see it for real with our eyes. That’s Vorlons. Perhaps Londo saw a shapeless light thing in the sky, perhaps that’s what Vorlons really are… or perhaps they have no visible representation at all until they hit our brains. Our eyeballs behold something, but our brains have to construct it out of pieces. When the rest of the galaxy looked at Kosh they used the color wheel to construct him, but Londo was only given the wavelengths. He saw nothing, because nothing was there to see. I really wish there was another Centauri there to be like “I saw the goddess Li welcoming me to her arms!” and Londo’s over there like “I’m the problem” instead of not really answering that question. Maybe it’s answered in season 3, I don’t know. Did Vir see anyone up there? He must have been on break.

What I like Less about 22

1, So here’s where I’m going to talk about Keffer. I know the origin story…. that he was an unwelcome addition to the cast added per network request, but who the hell is he other than that? I think its remarkable how he slips right out of my head the minute he is off camera. We know he’s a pilot, that he was close to Carlos (whose story/death you may recall I was laughing at in a previous episode because its significance ALSO came out of nowhere), and that he made friends with the GROPOS grunts (who we incidentally learned to care about enough in that one episode that we were sad when they died…. Awkward considering Keffer’s contribution to this episode…) Honestly the most interesting thing about him is that he’s got an old-timey fighter pilot scarf he wears and he believes in ghosts and I bet you all forgot about the ghosts. Honestly, the most interesting thing about Keffer is how he’s a lesson in how not to write an interesting character – and no shade on JMS for that, I know he did it on purpose. Significant things happening to a character does not automatically make them a strong character. Keffer experienced loss, came face to face with the shadows, got in fights… a lot of stuff happened to him, but he was almost always the only named character in those scenes. We cared about the GROPOS because they cared about each other and we responded to that. Keffer was there to play cabbage head and ask questions. He’s not tight with any of our main cast who we’ve had tons more time to grow attached to, and dies for plot reasons without leaving an impact with his loss. Heck, you can see the value of interpersonal relationships on character development in action when the show used a shoehorn to try and force some in in context to Carlos a second and a half before he died. We had him drinking at the bar with command staff suddenly, we had him die as a result of a flight mission Sheridan was part of to make Sheridan feel guilty about it. Everyone was standing around going like “No, Not Ramirez” and if you recall on my previous episode writeup I was LAUGHING at how tortured this sudden human connection was. Keffer could have been made interesting. Follow me on this.

My treatment on how to make Keffer interesting:

Let’s say Keffer was introduced as an old friend of one of our characters – Fraknlin let’s say. He was a friend from the Minbari War days that helped him sneak behind enemy lines. Perhaps he was complicit in the covering up and destruction of Franklin’s notes on Minbari anatomy. As a result, the two hang out in medbay sometimes, talking about old times and comparing the current war to the one they fought together. We learn that Keffer has a fire for justice. Hates bullies. Sees the strong as absolute defenders of the weak and that any stronger race picking on a weaker one is a bigger coward than the unvierse can hold. Then when Carlos gets killed by the ghost he starts researching what it could be. Kosh and Delenn tell him to stay out of it. The audience assumes he’s going to uncover something and bring Franklin and other characters into Delenn and Sheridan’s confidence about the shadows through curiosity and honor, but we’re learning through the episodes that the Shadows are IMMENSELY powerful and have no patience for flies. When he breaks off from his squad to go have a looksee at what he suspects led to his personal friend Carlos’s death, we know this is going to kill him. He ignores the warnings of those who have more awareness and dies to bring back evidence of the Shadows to the station. Sheridan recognizes how Keffer’s curiosity and sense of judgment led to recklessness, something Sheridan himself is prone to. He vows not to let Keffer die in vain, but also states that the proof he got has changed everything… and that Sheridan would have done the same. Killing your men in the name of a mission is never the goal but there’s a line everyone crosses when the safety of the universe is at stake and sometimes things are worth dying for. Franklin walks into medbay, casts a look to the counter where Keffer used to sit all those nights, and turns away.

But that’s not what happen. Keffer’s dead now and I don’t miss him. Glad he emailed the Shadows to ISN five nanoseconds before he died.

Babylon 5 is now the last best hope for victory because sometimes peace is another word for surrender and because secrets have a way of getting out. On to season 3!

#Babylon 5 #babylon 5 rewatch #season 2 #episode 22 #babylon 5 spoilers #art #jenstoart #kosh #john sheridan

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blossomoranges · 3 years

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Crossmarch and Mirai's Search For The Silver Fox

hi everyone! this was part of the @ikesennw‘s secret santa, written for @mitsushide from me. the fic focuses on her character, Mirai, facing her first Christmas in Azuchi posing as a princess of the Nakamura clan. in truth, she’s an undercover agent for the Crimson Lotus, an organisation of women looking to bring down the feudal warlords, and an all-around badass. also, local himbo Yukimura makes a cameo.

read her fabulous series beneath a night sky, vast & wide for more context!

word count: 1550

pairing: hints of mirai/mitsuhide

Winter had come to Azuchi on swift wings, bringing a chill to the air and a coating of frost on the ground. But this year, the season was different. The Oda’s support of the Western traders had brought a new influx of foreigners to the gates of the town, and with them came stories of strange cultures and traditions. ‘Christmas’, as it came to be known, was a winter festival celebrated by many of these people - a time of feasting and gift giving and togetherness. Nobunaga Oda, with his endless fascination for anything new, had announced a holiday for the citizens of his provinces.

Mirai wasn’t sure what to think of all this. A day off for all the hard-working people of Azuchi was a step in the right direction, but it could just be one of Nobunaga’s passing fancies. There was no guarantee that this festival would become a tradition. Plus, she could barely pronounce the name. Christ-moss? Clip-mass? Whatever.

And just how was she meant to look for openings to rid the land of these warlords when the castle was flooded with people preparing for a banquet?

Ever since she’d arrived in Owari under the Nakamura banner and the guise of a sickly princess, she’d made sure to document the routines of the six key warlords, but they’d seemingly scattered to the winds. Mirai had caught a glimpse of Masamune Date cooking up a storm in the kitchens, the door to Ieyasu Tokugawa’s office had been barred from the inside, and Mitsuhide Akechi… was nowhere to be found. According to Honoka, he’d last been seen heading out to the town centre. She can’t say that trying to track him down is a wise thing to do - princesses don’t usually go around tailing people. But the sheer volume of people stocking up on winter goods and preparing for this strange festival provided safety in numbers and a golden opportunity to see what the kitsune was getting up to.

So here she is, standing at the edge of a crowded marketplace, attempting to track a man who’d perfected his disappearing act and to blend in all the while.

If she wasn’t so experienced, she would never be able to find him. She cleared her mind and focused on the smells, sounds, and sights of the market, and kept pushing forward. Out of the corner of her eye, Mirai sees a swirl of teal and ivory. The chase is on.

He’s a worthy opponent. Mitsuhide ducks, dodges, and weaves through the town with the grace of a heron, while Mirai follows in his tread, slinking just out of sight. She can’t survey him from the rooftops (damn these unwieldy kimono skirts), so she darts into one of the many alleyways to stay out of sight. Their pattern of fox and mouse holds, right until the kitsune stops in his tracks at the very edges of the market, turning to examine a stall surrounded by trinkets and charms. Mirai is a tad surprised - he didn’t seem the type to enjoy frivolity, or anything uninvolved with torture for that matter.

His exchange with the shopkeeper lasts mere moments before he’s off again, out of sight and drifting away like a spirit with questionable taste in clothes. Thus comes an end to her fruitless chase. She needs to head back to the castle soon, anyway. After he had overcome his initial animosity, Hideyoshi seemed convinced that Mirai might drop dead from a cold as soon as the sun sank below the horizon. There was a slim chance he’d be too busy to notice her disappearance, preparing for the banquet and worshipping the ground Nobunaga walked upon, but it wouldn’t do to be questioned.

The road back to the castle gates was so much more boring without a target to prey upon. The crowds had dissipated a bit as it neared sundown, though some citizens milled about, browsing and discussing the coming winter. The winds were even more chilly, but she kept a measured pace.

There was something glinting in the last rays of the day. Mirai inclined her head towards the source, a blanket laid out with accessories much like the ones that had caught Mitsuhide’s attention. She was in no rush to return to the castle - regardless of the festivities, it was just another night of endless posturing and waiting for openings to strike. Looking at pretty things might suit her disguise.

She crouched to examine the wares, her eyes drifting over the kanzashi, hairpins, and obi charms. Aha! There was the culprit. A group of silver animals hung upon cords were caught in the light and a tiny fox curled up against its tail rocked gently at the forefront.

“You gonna buy anything? I’m about to close up,” came a rough, unrefined voice.

Mirai barely spared a glance for the man before responding in a cool tone.

“I am just admiring your wares, sir.”

“Well, admire them quicker! I’ve been busy all day with this… Crossmarch nonsense the Oda are putting on. I swear, all you girls are like this.”

He must have been blessed by the gods, because if Mirai didn’t want to blow her cover, she’d have attacked by now. Her newfound acquaintance was dressed head-to-toe in scarlet and his head, clearly empty, was crowned by a mop of brown hair. He also seemed to be the world’s worst spy - six golden coins were emblazoned on his chest, marking him as one of the Sanada. She grasped for the little fox she’d been examining, tucked it into her pouch, and chucked a few coins onto the blanket. Not the best use of Rui’s funds, but needs must when playing a princess.

“Good night, merchant. You may want to use those funds to buy a new kimono. One that’s less conspicuous.”

She glided away from the blanket, taking careful steps, only half-listening to the spluttered retorts of the merchant-warrior.

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The moon peeks out from behind the heavy clouds to cast her light over the courtyard, lighting it up in splendour, and Azuchi’s newest princess watches in turn. She had broken out in shivers from the frigid air long ago, but the stillness provided a balm for her mind. The banquet had been so loud. The further away she was from crowds of rowdy men, the better - at least Mirai can be herself here under the moon’s watchful gaze.

The day wasn’t entirely a loss: she’d learnt the layout of the town, confirmed the presence of enemy forces, and managed to find a fox - just not the one she’d set out to catch. Her charm was threaded onto her obi cord, but Mitsuhide was still shrouded in mystery.

With his wit, guile, and access to information, Japan could be his. So what was his motivation for following a distasteful man like Nobunaga?

The moon slips away at the same moment she feels that something, or someone, lurking in the dark behind her. She’ll have to feign surprise if the presence behind her decides to declare itself, but her thoughts race - everyone has the same primal response to shapeless beings in the dark. Kaede’s words echo across time in her thoughts.

‘You are a warrior, but don’t forget the frightened girl that you were. Your past exists within you, dear Mirai. Use that fear to spur on the strength that will always rest in you.’

The words bring a pang to her heart, but she cannot say whether it is fear or pain or grief. She forces herself to breathe.

“Hello, little mouse.”

She casts an upward glance at the voice’s source. With his white robes shrouded in the pale moonlight, the man could pass for a ghost.

“Good evening, Lord Akechi.”

“Oh, do call me Mitsuhide.” His crescent moon smile is wickedly sharp.

“Mitsuhide, then.”

They remain in silence for a few moments.

“Why is our darling princess out here? You’re missing all the festivities.”

“I prefer quieter company. Everyone in the banquet hall is awfully loud for my tastes.”

“I see. You must be tired from your excursion into town, as well. Such a busy day,” he tuts.

Had he spotted her trailing after him? No matter. There was a challenge in his voice and she would not rise to it.

“I haven’t had much chance to explore. I had missed seeing new places and people, after being ill for so long.”

“No need to defend yourself, little mouse. I merely noticed your fetching new charm.” He gestured to the sleeping fox in the centre of her obi.

The kitsune brought something out of his robes and set it beside her, as his other hand rested upon her head. It was a battle for Mirai to resist raising her hackles at him.

“A Christmas present for you. I heard you like this particular bird. Good night, little princess.”

Then Mitsuhide was gone, disappearing down the corridor and leaving silence in his wake.

The only trace he had left was a bronze statue that fit neatly in her palm. A little quail. Was this a trick or some bizarre act of kindness, or did he really just like seeing her puzzled expression? The mystery surrounding him had grown. Mirai hoped she would get her answers soon, but they would not come on Christmas night.

#ikesen #ikemen sengoku #ikesennw #ikesen oc #my writing #lots of love to em because her characters are FAB

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picascribit · 3 years

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Just a little something to amuse myself this evening.

May 1969

"... And that's the snitch! What a catch by Carrow! Slytherin wins, 220 to 130!"

Cheers rose from around the stadium, but in the Gryffindor section, the air was filled with groans and muffled curses. Arthur Weasley slumped back in his seat with a sigh. At least it was over. His house was out of the running for the Quidditch Cup that year.

Arthur hunched his shoulders as he left the stands and made his way down the rickety wooden steps, ignoring the glares of his housemates. He knew that many of them regarded him with suspicion, and it did not help that his brother was probably the worst Seeker in Gryffindor history.

"Enjoy the match, Weasley?" drawled a voice as Arthur exited into the sunlight.

He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness. Sun glinted off blond hair and from stormy grey eyes.

"Piss off, Malfoy," Arthur said without heat.

Lucius Malfoy ignored the insult. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think someone had paid off your brother to lose the match on purpose. But he really is just that pathetic, isn't he?"

"Why don't you switch houses and try out for the team, if you think you can do better?"

Lucius snorted. "I could hardly do worse. But Gryffindor is the house of muggle-lovers and fools, and I'm neither."

"And Slytherin is the house of arrogant wankers, so I guess the Sorting Hat knew what it was doing," Arthur shot back, the corner of his mouth twitching.

A grin split Lucius's pale, pointed face, and he gave Arthur a familiar punch in the shoulder. "I guess it's a good thing we didn't bet any money on the match."

"I may be a muggle-lover, but I'm not a fool," said Arthur, an answering grin tugging at his lips.

"Not usually," agreed Lucius with a smile that warmed Arthur's insides.

They slouched companionably against the wall of the stadium as their fellow students streamed past.

"What've you got on for the rest of the day? Lucius asked.

Arthur inclined his head toward the exit of the Gryffindor team's locker room. "I'm going to wait for Bilius, and walk back with him. Then it's revision until supper."

"Work, work, work," said Lucius, shaking his head. "Seems like it's all you want to do anymore."

"OWLs are only three weeks away," Arthur reminded him. "It'll be the same for you, next year."

"I suppose."

A second year Gryffindor gave them a sidelong look as she hurried past.

"What are you looking at, mudblood?" Lucius called after her.

Arthur winced. "I wish you wouldn't use that word, Malfoy."

"It's just a word," said Lucius. "You didn't used to be so sensitive."

"Yeah, well ..." Arthur scuffed the toe of his shoe in the dirt. "With the way things are right now, I just feel like we shouldn't be putting more bad feeling out into the world, if we can help it. It doesn't hurt to be a little kinder to people."

"Who said anything about people?" Lucius chuckled. "I was talking about mud- oh, all right, muggleborns." He rolled his eyes. "I dunno what you're worried about, Weasley. Nothing is going to happen. And even if it did, you and I will be all right. We've got each other's backs, yeah?" He gave Arthur a friendly dig in the ribs with his elbow.

"Yeah," agreed Arthur, ears turning pink.

"You just want to stay friendly with the muggleborns so that they'll keep lending you their magazines," Lucius teased. "I don't get the appeal. The pictures don't even move."

"I just find muggle fashions are interesting," said Arthur, embarrassed. "I like to see what they're wearing."

Lucius grinned. "You mean you like to see the short skirts the girls are wearing."

Arthur's blush deepened. He did like that, but he also liked the tight trousers the men wore.

"You should get out of here," he told Lucius. "The team will be out in a minute, and they won't be happy to see you hanging about."

"You mean they won't be happy to see you hanging about with me," said Lucius with a smirk. "Oh, all right. Will I see you at supper?"

"Of course."

Lucius gave him a careless wave and set out up the path to Hogwarts castle. Arthur watched him go, wondering what his friend would look like in a pair of tight-fitting muggle trousers. The shapeless black school robes they all wore left much to the imagination.

"Hey, Arthur," said a glum voice from behind him.

Arthur pushed away the mental image and turned around. "Hey, Bilius. I was just waiting for you."

"See?" said Marlene McKinnon, the Gryffindor Quidditch captain, stepping out of the doorway behind Bilius and patting him sympathetically on the shoulder. "I told you not everyone in Gryffindor hated you."

The rest of the team emerged looking dejected, and as if they did not share Marlene's optimism regarding Bilius's popularity.

"It was a good match," Arthur assured them. "Right up until the end. Who catches the snitch is always kind of a roll of the dice isn't it? You just got unlucky this time."

"And every other match this season," grumbled Gertrude Brown, a Chaser.

"Arthur's right," said Marlene. "Bilius is a fine Seeker. We've all seen how well he performs during practice."

Bilius looked down at his toes. "It's different when everyone's watching and shouting. Especially when we're up against Slytherin."

"I know," said Marlene. "You get in your own head. We'll just have to work on that next time. Er ... next year, I suppose."

"C'mon," said Arthur heartily, slinging an arm around his brother's shoulders. "Let's go to lunch. You'll feel better after you've had something to eat."

#arthur weasley #lucius malfoy #pica's fanfic #arthur weasley and the broken betrothal #arthur is bisexual af

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megashadowdragon · 3 years

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It has been called many things- the unwalkable disease, gutta (drop), podagra, arthritis of the rich, and the disease of kings (which sounded suitably dramatic for a title).

But we more commonly call it gout.

Doran Martell suffers from an advanced stage of gout, perhaps even exaggerated, since he has had his movement restricted to such a degree that nearly all motion is difficult without severe pain. (I'm not a doctor so, I can't say for certain)

Gout as a Facet of Doran's Character

We know that Doran is in constant pain, that it prevents sleep, and he finds no hope in medical treatment curing his disease.

The prince turned his chair laboriously to face her. Though he was but two-and-fifty, Doran Martell seemed much older. His body was soft and shapeless beneath his linen robes, and his legs were hard to look upon. The gout had swollen and reddened his joints grotesquely; his left knee was an apple, his right a melon, and his toes had turned to dark red grapes, so ripe it seemed as though a touch would burst them. Even the weight of a coverlet could make him shudder, though he bore the pain without complaint.

For comparison here is a testimony from a patient with gout in a single leg:

"The patient goes to bed and sleeps quietly until about two in the morning when he is awakened by a pain which usually seizes the great toe, but sometimes the heel, the calf of the leg or the ankle. The pain resembles that of a dislocated bone ... and this is immediately succeeded by a chillness, shivering and a slight fever ... the pain ..., which is mild in the beginning ..., grows gradually more violent every hour ... so exquisitely painful as not to endure the weight of the clothes nor the shaking of the room from a person walking briskly therein."

That is what Doran endures each day, constantly. Even the weight of a sheet would make the man shudder.

It is no wonder to me that he loves watching the little children splash and laugh and play in the Water Gardens. I imagine each glance must be bittersweet- imaging a time when he could run and splash with the other children, or watching Oberyn and Elia do the same. Knowing that now, his mobility, his autonomy has been taken from him, just as his siblings have been taken, leaving him unable to move, and unable to act.

Doran must be quite aware of how the children view him, and he takes special care to put them at ease, even at his own increased pain.

Then nought would do but he must say farewell to several of the children who had become especial favorites... Doran kept a splendid Myrish blanket over his legs as he spoke with them, to spare the young ones the sight of his swollen, bandaged joints

That splendid Myrish blanket sounds heavy with adornment (or even fabric) knowing that even a light coverlet's pressure pained him before this must be agony. It is my opinion that this blanket is as much for Prince Doran as it is for the children. He invites many children to the Water Gardens, a virtual safe haven free from class differences, a near oasis, the Prince entertains them, and it seems he must speak with them and come to know many of them. So much so, that he must say good bye.

Prince Doran carefully guards his image, this is part of the reason they left Sunspear nearly two years ago- he was getting sicker and needed to retreat from the whispers that filled the Shadow City. In the Water Garden's he is better able to project strength and wellness- his people clearly are unaware of how far his gout has progressed.

That this performance also extends to the children speaks to some form of painful self awareness on Doran's part- he doesn't want to expose his legs and upset them. I think he also doesn't want to see the children's faces and face their questions if they saw his legs.

Mobility and Autonomy

Something as simple as walking, is a thing we often take for granted. Doran can't get up to pour a glass of water, he needs help sitting up each day, he cannot support his weight enough to stand. It's paralyzing, it shrinks your perspective down to minute motions where every move is weighed by how much pain it will cause.

I think we can see this same restriction in his political moves as well- a painful reflection of his limited physical autonomy.

Hotah slid his longaxe into its sling across his back and gathered the prince into his arms, tenderly so as not to jar his swollen joints. Even so, Doran Martell bit back a gasp of pain... Hotah bore him up the long stone steps of the Tower of the Sun, to the great round chamber beneath the dome

The Prince of Dorne had to be carried from his seat, in the arms of his guard, up the steps of a tower to his bedroom. For a man in such a medieval martial society, that frames its conceptions of strength over acts of physical strength and war, which scorns physical disability, this must be a humiliating experience.

A Thimble of Poppy

It's after this day of bad news, of constant increasing pain, that we finally see a true crack in Doran Martell's armor. First the letter, which brought news of his brother's death, then his nieces repeated threats and calls for war (Obara, Nymeria, and Tyene), and humiliation from each we see him ask for a thimble of milk of the poppy. I'm not certain why, but these words (even after watching Maester Caelotte worry over possible poisoning) were very sad to read.

Doran has reached a wall, a point where he doesn't care anymore about keeping a clear head and frame of mind. He just wants relief, that constant spike in every joint, to be muted and fade to the background for a while.

Treatment

It seems that his gout has grown quite worse in the last few years:

Two years ago, when they had left Sunspear for the peace and isolation of the Water Gardens, Prince Doran’s gout had not been half so bad. In those days he had still walked, albeit slowly, leaning on a stick and grimacing with every step

Although gout has been treated in our own history for more than 2,000 years, it does not appear that the more advanced medicine of westeros (compared to our medieval history) has developed even basic treatments.

Since the time of Hippocrates we have known that gout was linked to lifestyle, and since Galen we've known that there are genetic factors associated with its development. For both of these periods gout was treated with a flower called the Autumn crocus- a powerful purgative (colchicine) was derived from it.

Strangely, there doesn't appear to be much help for it in westeros.

Maester Caleotte remained behind. “My prince?” the little round man asked. “Do your legs hurt?” The prince smiled faintly. “Is the sun hot?” “Shall I fetch a draught for the pain?” “No. I need my wits about me

In my opinion, this implies that the treatment automatically given is milk of the poppy. A pain reliever which would impair Doran's judgement- and milk of the poppy seems to fit (barring a more specific remedy we haven't heard of).

We also have reference to:

the maester helped Doran Martell to bathe and bandaged up his swollen joints in linen wraps soaked with soothing lotions

Although, I don't expect Hotah to be knowledgeable about the exact methods the maester uses to treat Doran- Hotah is in the third best position to know how the Prince is being treated (after Maester Caelotte, and Doran himself).

Lifestyle

Doran does not appear to have been given treatment options regarding his lifestyle.

A serving man brought him a bowl of purple olives, with flatbread, cheese, and chickpea paste. He ate a bit of it, and drank a cup of the sweet, heavy strongwine that he loved. When it was empty, he filled it once again.

This is, perhaps, the worst dinner Doran could have eaten in regards to his gout. Yet, it also is terribly mundane (by which I mean- likely a meal consumed regularly and not an indulgence). It is a staple meal- flatbread, cheese, and hummus. Simple, and certainly not King's Landing fare. But it is loaded with sugar, salt, and alcohol. All things which make gout worse- much worse.

We have another example:

He had decided to break his fast before he went, with a blood orange and a plate of gull’s eggs diced with bits of ham and fiery peppers

This is just as bad- sugar and meat- another food which exasperates his condition. One of the first lifestyle changes used as treatment was the elimination of alcohol, sweet foods from the diet.

It doesn't appear that Doran is remaining sick with gout to raise his popularity (as it was in our own history)

Gout (Everyone's Doing it These Days)

"The common cold is well named – but the gout seems instantly to raise the patient's social status", and to another in Punch in 1964, "In keeping with the spirit of more democratic times, gout is becoming less upper-class and is now open to all ... It is ridiculous that a man should be barred from enjoying gout because he went to the wrong school."

Nor does it appear that the gout is being used to ward off other more serious diseases (the gout seems extremely concerning)

In earlier times, attacks of gout were also seen as a prophylactic against more serious diseases. According to the writer Horace Walpole, gout "prevents other illnesses and prolongs life ... could I cure that gout, should not I have a fever, a palsy, or an apoplexy?"

My Takeaway:

I took a course on the intersection of disease, medicine, and history a while ago as a fun class- after reading this chapter again (Hotah I AFFC) I don't find him boring or lackluster anymore. If anything, Doran is incredibly human, and extremely relatable once you break him down.

He lives very much inside his own mind, I imagine wherever he is, Doran is always in the Water Garden's in his own head, seeing himself, Elia, and Oberyn shouting and splashing, as they were never able in childhood.

(Note: This is all said in the context of this one chapter, I haven't reread the next in the Dorne storyline yet.)

comments : I am not a medical student, so probably take my words with a grain of salt. Based on the source I listed below, it’s very universally known that sweets, alcohol, and meat (even sugar from fruit) exacerbate gout. The “drops” (Uric acid that builds into crystals in joints) is worsened by large amounts of sugar. (Like in the strongwine that Doran enjoys)Cherries do have sugar, not as much as other fruit, but I think they might have been referring to a combination of cherries and allopurinol which is used to reduce the amount of uric acid.Some older treatments of gout (that originated in the 19th c) basically attempted to purge the body of uric acid through urine. To my knowledge they use other methods today, but it must have been at least mildly effective (I remember reading about negative effects of such purgative treatment- so I’m not entirely sure).

#asoiaf #A Song of Ice and Fire #doran martell #asoiaf meta

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