How do you imagine Levan/Revan/ Mallenoa's husband?
Appearance, personality etc.
Revaan/Laverne/whatever-his-name-is's title sort of implies that he might be from a fantasy-Eastern country (they've established that in Twstland, 竜 = Eastern-style dragons, andドラゴン = Western-style dragons). and that's about as much as we know right now about...anything in regards to what he might look like. so I've been trying very hard not to form too much of a mental picture of him, because I'm still hoping we'll get to see him (or at least a silhouette)! ergo, in my head, he kind of looks like this:
so handsome. surely Malenoa fell in love at first glance.
I do think the funniest thing about what we've learned so far is that Malleus being kind of quiet and reserved and dignified...absolutely did not come from the Draconias. and he sure as heck did not learn it from Lilia. so he probably got a lot of that from his dad! the vibe I get from how Lilia talks about him is that he could be a bit of a prim little fancyboy sometimes, but was (mostly) willing to go along with his wife's zany antics out of love. he sounds sweet, honestly! I'm sorry he (maybe) died. :(
my favorite thing about Mal's parents is that Malenoa and Lilia's dynamic was "long-suffering guard and princess who has long been the cause of said suffering":
but then they would happily join forces in order to gang up on Revaan:
tl;dr Revaan was the straightman in Malenoa and Lilia's comedy act until it all ended horribly whoops
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So I noticed something in Harrow the Ninth. In chapter two, when John is trying to console Harrow over having lost Gideon, he puts his hands on her shoulders, and he says "Gideon Nav did not die for nothing."
Harrow feels "a hot whistle of pain run down
[her] temporal bone," which is, we know now, Harrow having a stroke as her skull alters her brain so that she hears him say 'Ortus Nigenad' instead. And she replies to him in kind, using Ortus' name. So the interesting bit is John's reaction, look:
He had his hands on her shoulders the whole time. Physical touch negates lyctoral blindness, and she had a stroke while he was touching her. That look on his face. Is he working out an emotionally taxing anagram, or is he taking a good look at her and working out what the hell just happened? Then he says Gideon's name again, like he's running a test, and Harrow has another stroke. That's exactly the same test Mercy performed to figure out what Harrow did to her brain in chapter twenty-nine.
He knows. He's known about the lobotomy since chapter two. He thinks she did it to forget her grief and guilt, and he thinks he understands.
Which means when he 'notices' the lobotomy in this scene:
He's not really noticing it for the first time at all. He's calling attention to it. He's just told Harrow that she didn't open the Tomb, that she's wrong about the events of her own life, and then he deliberately 'discovers' and points out her brain damage to seal the deal.
John Gaius uses: Gaslight! It's super effective.
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pluvi begging you to expand on gojo not wanting what happened to his mother to happen to you 🙏
warnings: it’s all a dream so nothing is real aside from the flashback stuff but pregnancy as horror, (sewing) needles, implied gore/eye trauma, implied child harm, gojo is messed up yo!!! and its bc of his mama!!!
he dreams about her.
it’s an odd thing, really. gojo isn’t much of a dreamer—not much of a sleeper, all things considered, but it’s difficult not to give in when you drag him to bed and curl up in his arms. the soft rise and fall of your chest, the steady thump of your heart, the sound of your breath; it soothes him into slumber.
and he dreams about her. she was always young. he’s older now than she ever got to be. frail, thin; borderline skeletal, robes hanging from her body like webbing. she sits in a chair facing a window, swathed in moonlight, the silver of her embroidery needle glinting with each stab. her face is veiled. her stomach is swollen with child.
she doesn’t turn to him, but she beckons without noise. his feet take him easily to her, and he kneels at her side as she sets aside the embroidery hoop to let him place his head on her knees.
her hand is cold as it threads through his hair. it’s gentle, at first. then harsher a moment later. she grips firm, tugs him up by those electric white threads, stares down at him through all that elaborate lace.
he imagines she’s weeping beneath it. his mother never wept before him, but she was pretty in the aftermath, eyes puffy and pink and shining. they were a cold kind of loving when they regarded him. she must have been beautiful once, elegant and lithe and willowy, cruel like the heartless sea and sharp like a brilliant diamond, but whatever was there is long gone. he thinks all sons must empty their mothers, bleed them dry from within, because his was always a shell.
she trails her hand down the side of his face, and he turns into the palm and closes his eyes, and she is silent as she sets down her embroidery to lift her veil. she is silent and hollow and eidolic as her fingers brush down his jaw and tilt his head up to look at her.
but it’s your face that he sees when he opens his eyes.
it’s your hand against his cheek, your eyes pink and puffy and pretty, your stomach bulging by his own doing. it’s your fingers that pluck up the needle, still attached to a thread of brilliant cerulean, and raise it to his eye.
his mother never was able to pierce him with that needle. she stopped herself, each and every time, dropping it and tugging him close in shame. she never doted, never was kind, but she never did manage to harm him.
you do. he lets you. it’s only fair. whatever thing is in your stomach can’t be human—whether god or demon what does it matter, at the end of the day—and didn’t he put it in you himself? if his mother never got the satisfaction of spilling his blood, shouldn’t you?
but he wakes just as the tip pierces his iris, and you hold him in your lap, eyes wide with concern and not puffy from weeping, and you hold no child within you. your hands thread through his hair and they’re warm, your lips plush when you bend to press a kiss to his brow.
he turns inward to press his face into your (empty, blissfully vacant) abdomen. the wetness he leaves there, falling from his so very coveted eyes, is colorless.
he thinks it ought to be brilliant crimson.
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So I’m having a thought.
I’m almost to Lemuria now, and one of the things that’s struck me about arc 4 so far is how quiet it is. There’s so many places where I click on something and there’s no narration, even though it feels like there should be. I know why, obviously. Grandmother Raven retired to the Husk with Spider, the Wizard is on their own.
I just wonder how that feels for them!
You spend your very traumatic formative years with a literal goddess on your shoulder, and then suddenly that’s just gone. You’re completely on your own, stuck with a very important universe preserving job at a really tender age! If you graduate Ravenwood at 18 like most assume, that makes the Wizard in their early 20’s ish by arc 4. And as someone who is currently 21,
Yikes
If I, a player on the other side of the fourth wall feels the loss of Raven this much, just imagine how the Wizard feels!
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One thing I hate about tone indicators is that people tend to get mad at you for not using them and they just don’t seem to be able to just ask for clarification anymore. Like, because it’s seen as an accessibility tool (it isn’t)(it requires learning a laundry list of acronyms)(a lot of the acronyms like /s and /srs etc. look like one another)(it’s very internetty appearance can also be very confusing) people seem to think you’re being intentionally mean when they misinterpreted something you said. Being misinterpreted also fucking sucks! And asking for clarification if you think you didn’t get something is way better! And I can’t psychically predict when something I say can be misinterpreted! Just! Ask!!!!!
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