The monkey chatters sharply. Marisa glares. Hateful creatures, both of them, she thinks, like broken mirrors only capable of showing the worst parts. Their worst parts have grown wild in isolation, clashing all the time.
Following an impulse, she holds his gaze, then sinks to her knees, leans forward – then, after a moment of consideration, growls. Her upper lip curls to show teeth. Vocal cords strain dangerously. A menacing grumble is rolling somewhere so deep in her throat she didn't know a sound like that could be produced.
Her daemon drops to all fours and mirrors the note, prowling toward her. Golden fur on his neck bristles, he even paws at the ground a couple of times as if aiming for a blow. He wouldn't dare, and neither would she, but both feel rabid for wanting to. Snarling, they inch the distance between them and stare at each other, face to face – repulsive, repulsed, and ugly.
Marisa x daemon + exiled together, in wait of a trial after Edward's death.
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His Dark Materials Masterpost
Because as we know, the tumblr tagging system is shockingly bad, to the point where searching word for word tags on my page do not, in fact, return all items that are tagged with those exact words, I thought it would be a good idea to make a master post for the His Dark Materials content that I have put out, and pining it to the top of my blog. Ngl i was surprised when collating this how much there was, and even then I've only included things i think people would actually want to read. There's a lot here that I'm quite proud of and so would prefer it not to be lost to eeby deeby.
Fic:
The post that became a longer fic on Ao3
I am not there. I do not sleep. On Ao3
Artwork from my Northern Lights illustration project
I've given a link here to a post that should have working links to all the other images on the series
And here collected into smaller views and includes my Subtle Knife design
Mrs Coulter analysis:
Miscasting the Golden Monkey
TV series Mrs Coulter is not book Mrs Coulter (and that's okay)
Is she a witch? (Adding to someone else's theorising)
TV series general posting:
Alamo gulch scene
Women with a good work ethic
World building/theorising/meta:
Daemons and stage performances
Alethiometer reading
Was Yambe-Akka originally just a Witch's personified death?
Can daemons have venom?
Daemons that change over their life cycle
Could Asriel's photos have been developed with rose oil from the secret commonwealth?
Additions to others' posts:
Daemons fighting of their attackers in Bolvanger
Mispronouncing Iorek's name
Lord Asriel's age and complaining about hair again
Things that are normal to include for Daemons in Lyra's world
(This link features both my current screen name and my old one, sake-chan) Naming the golden monkey and analysis
Theorising about the abyss
Book suggestion of Mrs Coulter being separated from her Daemon
Inconvenient daemons
Complaining about Pullman's vague rewriting:
Asriel HAS BLACK HAIR??
He gave April an extra day???
Why would Mr Coulter recognise blonde Lyra as the child of black haired Asriel??
Meme jokes:
Sometimes a family...
Will: What in the Jesus Chris was that??
Lyra: WHAT IN THE JESUS CHRIST WAS THAT??
This sh*t is bananas let's be honest
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Marisa x daemon via random excerpts from my writing, because I'm going feral over them yet again
The monkey is staring at her. She knows that stare very well. The feeling of it, rather: a tingling at the back of her neck following her around the library. A rustle of careful steps overhead. Beady eyes shining in the dark. Like a twisted game of hide-and-seek all children play with their daemons, only he’s the one both hiding from her – and seeking. Oh, how he seeks her.
Marisa makes it exactly till the second door on the right and has a split second of pride to enjoy, when punishment comes. A brutal tug. She sways, clawing at the doorknob. In the library, her other part presses itself against the wall and growls in pain, scratching at the wooden panels. Ancient instincts yank their hearts back to the safety of blissful togetherness, but ancient instincts have never fought Marisa Coulter and her daemon before.
[...] Without seeing him, Marisa knows exactly how heavy the risings of his chest are, how sweaty the forehead; how clenched the teeth, threatening to crush from the force. How terrified, and pained, and longing he is. She’s all that too, but someone has to be stronger.
She has to physically drag herself forward.
His fur breaks scarce sunlight into a ripple of glints across the wall. He is beautiful, audience-ready, except when Marisa looks, the golden elegance crumbles to reveal the same dirt-coated creature, always hissing and snarling around. They walk down the corridor together. The care placed in keeping the distance might have reminded somebody with a keen eye of a crowded room where every soul treads just as carefully, stepping and flying around paws, hands, tails and shoulders, avoiding the forbidden contact to the best of their ability. Between two beings joined since birth, it looks oddly repugnant. Unnatural, one might say.
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