#a post i wanted to make about the festival too eloquently
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pictures from the annual maintenance of the great mosque of djenné in djenné, mali. the mosque was first built in the 13th century but the current structure dates to 1907.
it (like much of the rest of djenné) is built with sun-baked earth bricks, and its smooth look comes from a coating of plaster applied over it. weather erodes the walls slowly over time, so a new coating of mud and plaster is required to be applied to it every year. the maintenance is also an annual festival which djennéans take part in.
#mali#architecture#worship#muslim#nmenam#my posts#didnt really know how to include the style the mosque is built in most likely being a result of french imperialism on#a post i wanted to make about the festival too eloquently#hopefully that link on ''1907'' is sufficient
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austin and camryn ^^
yayyyy I knew you were going to send this one to me so I didn't send it to you on purpose bc I felt that you'd be equally as compelled to complete it and I could not afford you the opportunity to show me up
how did they meet?
oh I really don't remember what's been discussed. I'm sure you have an amazing headcanon about it. but lets just play in this space for a moment. I think most easy situation i can see them in is a social setting where they weren't so much introduced as they were just kind of hanging out adjacently, whether one of them was a friend of a friend of the other or it was two separate groups that ended up intermingling bc they were occupying the same space. i'm picturing a bar with a sand pit in the back, big stone fireplace and wires of bulb lights strung overhead. Austin was in one Adirondack chair and Camryn was perched on the arm of someone else's, they took note of each other but it wasn't anything too concentrated. they didn't exchange numbers that night, but someone in their group must have because they ended up in each other's orbit for the next few weeks and months. if I had to guess, i'd say Camryn took an interest in austin first. of course he thought she was beautiful, but I don't think he was motivated to make any major moves when they met. he was probably a decent amount of time out from ending things with piper for good and had resigned to sparse, tepid text exchanges with his singular bumble date post-break up
who is the bigger romantic openly? secretly?
hmm so I don't entirely know. unfortunately my brain does not respond to direct prompting and engages only with what it wants to. and here I just feel like emphasizing that austin's way of showing up is flowers. holidays, special occasions, good news, bad news. there's a bouquet for everything. he isn't particularly eloquent and I think he probably misses cues a lot but I think he has an unwavering commitment to making sure the vases in the house are always full and that's the way that he communicates hey i'm here and I care about you and I want you to know that
who is more likely to send cutesy texts to the other?
neither but its because they prioritize phone calls to exchange information or even just say hi I'm thinking of you and I love you and I think they split initiating those more or less equally. I think this is rooted in Austin not being much for technology but works really well for the sincere nature of the love that I think they share
whose family do they celebrate more holidays with?
austin's and I don't think that's entirely due to the bias that results from him and his siblings being like. a thing before partners were added and families were expanded. I think I've kind of started to conceptualize the Hannas as like way more codependent(?) or at least involved than I probably would have ever imagined them to be I think partially out of concern for stephen when they were younger/without children like hey lets make sure dad is good but I also just see Rory and Austin being fairly decent friends running in similar social circles and only growing more in that direction and then Aubrey being so touched by like how easily she is accepted by her siblings when she does become a parent (which for whatever reason I see happening a little bit after Austin and Rory begin to have children) when they're all engaging with each other in that capacity which I just think is really nice
do they have any personal holiday traditions together?
i feel like christmas cookies have to go soooo hard at their house, no? Camryn makes a massive batch of sugar cookies with festive cookie cutters and then she mixes all of the frosting and sets out the sprinkles and they decorate them. they could mail them out or give them to delivery drivers or take them to school or whatever. I think they'd pretty naturally fall into hosting roles for the major food-based holidays like thanksgiving. I'd love to see them maybe take a camping trip once a year or so with marley's kids, maybe for labor day weekend or something. we know they are booked and busy with the Lancasters for the fourth of july, so.
if they get married, what was the wedding vibe?
so again just roll with this. but I feel like a sexy like midnight beachy vibe could be where its at for them. I don't know if there's a particular term for this sort of thing. coastal gatsby almost. i'm thinking beach with like cool sand and moonlight on the ocean and the beautiful brittle beach grasses and like feathery pampas but also like lux gold and maybe marble and something like navy blue for the wedding party. does this make sense. I feel like the beach is just so natural and lends well to the person Austin is but I think despite how down-to-earth camryn is I guess I just see her as like sexy and indulgent somehow
how did they decide what to name their child(ren)?
see I wholeheartedly believe their names are perfect for them as a couple and also for Austin independently but he would have never arrived at any of that on his own. so it had to have been all camryn. I like to think she pitches them and has already kind of decided because and austin turns them over in his mind until they become real for him and once they click they're perfect. I love that their first names are all the same amount of syllables, I love that the girls names are feminine but not too frilly and the boys names are very boyish but like fun?, and I think Austin would like the same thing about them. me Courtney with the broken brain loves the way maisyn bridges the guys and the girls and how her name kind of carves out her unique role in the family. thats Austin's little pal
#ehh I was so inspired til I wasn't anymore and then I backspaced half of the questions#also the answer I lost will never see the light of day
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Oh, this rank has... checks script ...the line.
Rank 6, or a crumb of Naoto background is spared.
In my rank 2 post, I mentioned I had some personal beef with the Shirogane estate being in Inaba, and this is one of the moments.
Naoto makes a big deal about finding the card in her mailbox, but the estate was robbed. If the estate was located in Inaba, it wouldn't make much sense for Naoto to be so surprised that the phantom thief who robbed her house knew where she is currently. That's like a negative IQ level move.
Of course, there are moments in the main game script that contradict this, such as Naoto stating she promised her grandfather she'd go home right away when you first see her at Yasogami, and at the culture festival's conclusion where she, rather excitedly, says that if she's staying at the inn, she should call her grandfather and let him know. Both of these could suggest the estate is in Inaba, but since this is about her Social Link, we're not going to debate this.
As she notes, the mysterious man must have a reason for giving Yu the card. The choices are the same again. Picking "Because I look reliable." or "Because I looked useless." prompts Naoto to laugh heartily.
The second one... well.
With that out of the way, we see the next riddle of the phantom thief has to offer, which reads:
When the banks close, the fruit tree grows. By the large seven at the third is the spot I chose.
It sounds like complete gibberish, but luckily, the game doesn't require Yu to actually solve it because that's Naoto's problem. Regardless of what you pick, Naoto finds the answer; however, the third option ("The numbers are important.") is the best one.
As Naoto so eloquently says:
When you find the item, the watch, Naoto has a whole speech ready.
The item in the previous rank, the detective badge, didn't do anything besides show the great dedication and desire Naoto had to step into a detective's shoes. This watch feels more like spy gear than it does detective, but Naoto is a private investigator, her dungeon looks like a secret agent base and.... she probably watched too much Conan as a kid. Regardless of what influenced her to make this, Naoto is pretty talented at fiddling around with machines and creating her own things.
Her liking robots and having a secret base in the trees had influences on her dungeon, with berserk form of Shadow Naoto being a robot and well, the Secret Base.
Besides the fascinating character dump, we get Naoto wishing she were a guy. And this is one of the lines that gets people to throw a fit and you know what I'm talking about.
I'm not going to talk about that. I'm going to analyze this while keeping in mind what Atlus intended for her character.
Naoto says this after Yu and friends beat her Shadow: "What I should yearn for...No, what I must strive for isn't to become a man. It's to accept myself for who I really am..."
From this admission, Naoto knew she never wanted to be a man. However, a lack of women in the detective world and strict gender roles, just to name two, made it hard for her to stand up and ignore what society sad. When you look at Naoto disguising herself as a man, she is conforming to what society expects.
Not everyone plays the silly PQ game, but in one of the strolls, Naoto has this to say:
Although she knew that trying to fit into expectations was silly, she ended up forcing herself into a box.
But what about Naoto's mom? She was a cool detective lady, right? Doesn't she count as a role model?
Yes, obviously, but she's also fucking dead and while you can find inspiration from someone's memory, nothing's better than being able to talk to your role model and lean on them for support. If Naoto wanted advice from her mom, she can't ask that because she's fucking dead. That, and we aren't given any info on Naoto's parents. Was Naoto's mom respected on her own, or was she just seen as an accessory to Naoto's dad? Naoto can look up to her grandfather as a role model (and it's obvious she does), but he can't exactly give her the same kind of advice her mom could have.
I know I must have linked this video a bajillion times by now, but I still think it's relevant, even though it was made in 2018. Since I don't live in Japan, things may have improved since this video was made, but if the game originally came out in 2008 and the year this was set in was 2011, I think the video is telling that the problems happening in 2008 were happening in 2018. Watching this is great, but ain't nobody got time for that. So I'll just say that imagine achieving so much, only to have people downplay it just because you're a woman. While Naoto's arc focused more on sexism in the workplace, it's sort of hard to just focus on that, when it's..... everywhere.
When Naoto wishes she were born a man, she doesn't really wish to be a man. Like she says in literally the next line, being a guy would allow her to pursue what she wanted (a detective) without hearing any remarks or critiques or but find a job more suited for women. It doesn't indicate that she genuinely wanted to be a guy.
Unfortunately for me, I'm not done with the worm can because there's one more thing to talk about, and that's the romance flag.
You see, Naoto is special and you need a certain phrase to trigger her romance route. Failing to select this option means you don't get to romance her, even if you do the second romance flag.
Right after Naoto says that, Yu has three choices. Can you guess which one triggers a romance flag?
If you said the second one, you're fucking WRONG BABY IT'S THE FIRST ONE!
Atlus has a track record of high highs and low lows, this line is probably garbage and doesn't make sense. However, perhaps, maybe???, somehow????, there was a reason for "I'm glad you're a girl." to be the romance flag.
It could just be typical Atlus putting that option there to waifu-ify Naoto. However, for this next bit of analysis, I am being generous and assuming that Atlus had a reason that WASN'T waifu-ifying Naoto just because.
When you pick 2 or 3, Naoto reacts accordingly:
The third option has an 'it is what it is' vibe, and it doesn't do shit to make her feel better.
However, even if you choose the second one, Naoto still smiles sadly, much like the third option. Perhaps Naoto is sad because of society had the attitude Yu displayed in that option, she wouldn't be so miserable and is reflecting on a more optimistic world.
However, this line doesn't really solve her problem. She's known for a while that her gender doesn't matter when it comes to anything. It's just what society has a problem with it.
However, it's not what she wants to hear.
She knows Yu thinks it's silly, but to her, this is easy for him to say. He hasn't been in her shoes, doesn't know her struggles and hasn't experienced any hardships because of his gender. He can say that gender doesn't matter, but if he wanted to be a detective, nobody would complain because he's a man.
It's not as if nobody understands her and the effect gender roles have, it's just that in this particular context, this isn’t what she wanted to hear.
In the first one, it's uh.....
Yeah, there's nothing deep in here.
But if I'm being very, very generous, this is a clunky way of saying "I'm glad you're you". What makes Naoto who she is... is herself and nothing can change that. With this, Yu is able to say that there is good in being who she is, even though she can't see it yet. More importantly, he appreciates her as she is. And seeing someone other than her grandfather or Yakushiji, even her dead parents, say that to her, makes something in her mind click, that she's worth something, even though she doesn't correctly hit all the "acceptable" boxes society has laid out
okay fuck I can't anymore but tl;dr it might have be an awkward "i'm glad you're you" thing.
Anyway, Naoto realizes she was being an embarrassment again and changes the subject to asking about Yu. IIRC, she's the only IT social link who asks about Yu.
Considering how it's very obvious she had no friends growing up, this can be seen as an effort on her part to reach out and form bonds. It's difficult with the rest of the team, but with Yu, something just clicks.
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Chaos ensues at Silverstone
Well, well, well, isn't this an interesting weekend?
We start the race week off with racism going off the charts, following with petty and miserable comments of some along with the well-thought and elaborated response of others, and topped with some crazy fun going around.
I wanted to write about the press conference yesterday, but I honestly wasn't feeling it. Seeing Lewis be so eloquent and displaying such a well-thought response and then seeing Lando's and Max's comments honestly made me wanna hurl. So I chose to leave there before it gives me a headache.
Before going into anything else, this is my messy weekend, I'll be going to Bilbao tomorrow right after work, where I hope I can at least catch FP3 and with any luck even Quali, to see Metallica live on Sunday. I'll miss the race entirely because I know myself and, instead of going half-way through the festival and save myself some back pain, I'll go first thing as they open the gates of hell, so I'll watch the race on Monday at some point probably or after the concert if I don't die first, and then I'll post about it in the process of coming back to the lowest circle of hell.
Let's start by saying that I've watched the video of Daniel smacking Lando in the face with that ball so many times that it's starting to heal my soul, if I even have one in the first place. I still laugh about it, it's hilarious. I needed it this week, honestly. Absolute gold.
Obviously, I've seen Charlos cheating too on the same game, so it was pretty fun to watch. Those guys are truly amusing, such idiots, they warm my heart. Chaotic energy is what I'm running on these days.
Another exciting news is that supposedly, F1 have cut ties with Bernie Ecclestone due to Pro-Putin statements. So, they can cut ties with the former boss and owner of the sport for that, but they can't do anything about racist fucks? Interesting, Very interesting.
Now onto the fun stuff. Yes, meaningless FP1 and FP2. Today was a slow day at the office so I curled up into a corner and watch all of it. We had a rainy session, although for what I expected, the track dried out fairly quickly, or started to at least. Nothing truly interesting happened, at least from my perspective that is.
However, I hated every second of it thanks to my dear friends at DAZN Spain. Jesus, will these people ever shut their mouths? I loath them, seriously. Mocking everything, especially when it came to Lewis, their favorite target. Mocking the "Still I rise" motto and saying out loud that they wanted him to suffer finally, mocking his back pain saying it was all lies, that he was making everything related to the bouncing up.
They even started going on about the whole Nelson Piquet situation by saying that it was unacceptable that he said those things, and then the but came. BUT he shouldn't have been banned from the paddock, so many people said things like that before and even worse and those people are still going around the paddock nowadays, and a very long etcetera. I'm gonna quote Benjen Stark (I've recently re-watched GOT so don't mind me): "Nothing someone says after the word "but" really counts". Yep, that's it. Fucking ridiculous. I hate people like this and in this country there are way too many.
In FP2 Verstappen had some kind of issue that he shouted about on the radio several times. Can't he have those issues or any others during the races? I stopped paying attention shortly after this, but nothing ever happened, it was plain boring. But I have hopes for Quali, it's Silverstone after all.
I'm in desperate need of sleep now soooooo I might or might not leave it here without proofreading it first 😬
Peace out!
#f1#formula 1#mercedes amg f1#scuderia ferrari#aston martin racing#haas f1 team#mclaren f1 racing#alfa romeo racing#alpine f1 team#scuderia alpha tauri#williams racing#sir lewis hamilton#George Russell#Charles Leclerc#Carlos saint jr#sebastian vettel#lance stroll#mick schumacher#kevin Magnussen#daniel ricciardo#lando norris#zhou guanyu#valtteri bottas#esteban ocon#fernando Alonso#pierre gasly#yuki tsunoda#alex albon#nicholas latifi#british gp 2022
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Daryl April 1966- May 2021 a year - anniversary post x
It’s one year since Daryl and I touched ,parented, planned or looked forward, or simply said we loved each other. Fucking hell it seems so long ago but also like yesturday. I miss him more than ever ! He is not a memory nor is his death something I yet accept.
I know for the sake of my family and friends I must find a life without him. I must find a safe haven through my mourning process. Mourning is the driving force that makes the journey of grief move forward. It’s not easy. Tolsteoy once said “he did not know where he ended and she began." Daryl and I used to talk about this and both felt so at one. Daz probably was my sole mate I think we were destined to be together for eternity however our destiny didn’t indulge us in this. Dazzerman and I always felt we were each other's missing half. Daz was the mirror to my soul. He wanted me be happy and succeed and I, in turn, wanted him to live and do the same. We were seen as united. We felt safe in our love and we allowed each other to function and be happy. We were inseparable companions for 33 years enjoying our daily rituals and we desperately wanted to grow old together .We both felt privileged to have shared such a rare intimacy and kindness toward each other .We were truly soulmates. Daz said this so eloquently even 3 days before he died. I have read much about grief and they say to lose a parent is to lose the past and to lose a child is to lose the future. To lose a spouse, is to lose the present. I feel something irreplaceably valuable has been stolen from me. I have lost my present with the death of Daryl and the grief is still dreadfully painful. Part of me has been torn away and I am at times unable to find an equilibrium or know how to move forward without crashing. I do at times. It is the most heart-wrenching experience and obviously I have questioned whether I wanted to go on. The dilemma of losing a part of you is that your relationship has been abruptly severed, and you are left to sift through the emotional debris and extract your self from your missing coupledom. I am trying my hardest and on this year’s anniversary of course I find my grief is intense because its a product of my love. Daryl and I were so lucky to have shared at least his whole adult lifetime together. We were lucky and I need to stop feeling pitiful. After Daz died, I felt that my whole was diminished to half. My "other half," my "better half," was suddenly gone and part of something attached to me died too. The couple that we were, was completely gone.I have to decide if my life is half empty or half full.Those who have read this blog know Daryl would say I had the glass empty whilst his was full ! ( reality his was always empty ready to be filled !!!). I mourn the couple we were and I am insecure in my decisions. My confidence was never great and I feel inadequate to face the future but I know I have to find my way and I will in time. If I can honour Daryl some way on this anniversary it is to live for him. I have lost my unconditional best friend and partner who shared my confidences and my feelings. I am still bereft and I flailed around for many months in insecurity and self-doubt. But I am not so removed from Daryl and his views. He wanted me change my attitude to his death as he faced it. God he was brave and thankful. He wanted me to look toward a new beginning. I am not there but I see through his eyes pride in our kids and his family who are living. Daz would be smiling. Daz would be raising a glass of red to it all. Daz would be proud of me going to a festival on the anniversary of his death with friends . I will try to find joy and see the best in the world he loved. Its fucking hard but to honour Daz I will continue to work on healing from the inside out. It’s a journey Daz and I am going forward for you my sole mate and we all miss you. You gave us so much and your light will forever shine - Tracey Dugdale Close xx
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I came running to ask for Diluc wedding night HCs for modern day.
If it seems relevant, I'll be relying on the general modern day hcs I wrote for Diluc semi-recently to guide this, so if folks wanna check that out, it's right heya
((There's actually not that much that departs from the in-game canon here now that I'm finished and looking back at it haha whoop))
Diluc x GN Reader
Modern AU - wedding night headcanons
SFW (nsfw below the cut)
- Okay, first of all, Diluc in a suit. I don't even know how to elaborate on this point, just, think about it for a second. Especially since, given his dignified bearing and that he comes from money, you can be sure it will be expertly tailored.
- As for the ceremony itself, he's likely to let you guide how you'd like the day to go, save for a few key details that he feels no reservations expressing his preferences about. Though these preferences are basically all in service of the two of you being able to enjoy the day as something special for the two of you. He wants a scenic, but very private location, and a small, intimate reception- though he's not shy about spending an undisclosed amount of money to make that reception as tastefully elegant as can be. Something like a rooftop garden in the city would suit him well.
- Throughout the night, he's plenty polite and amicable with guests, as only mutual friends and family (or "family," as it were) would be invited to begin with, but there's never any mistake that his focus is entirely on you. He habitually keeps a hand at your lower back or an arm around you through most of the evening, and will even make a brief but eloquently spoken toast to you, gazing warmly and steadfastly into your eyes as he speaks. He'll finish his toast by bringing your hand to his lips, without a shred of embarrassment or hesitation- exceptionally notable, since Diluc is generally not one for PDA.
- Well into the evening, you're both blissfully happy but terribly exhausted, so if you're amenable, Diluc will excuse you both from the festivities before it gets very late. Though, he'd fully anticipated that some of your rowdier friends would wish to continue their revelry late into the night, and so he'd reserved the venue well into the early morning ahead of time for their enjoyment. He doesn't wish to draw attention to this point, but you can tell in the subdued smile he wears that he's genuinely enjoying seeing those closest to him enjoying themselves so freely. And for once, he doesn't feel the need to sigh or roll his eyes at the less-sober among them.
- Diluc actually strikes me as the type to have your flight booked for the honeymoon scheduled to depart the very day after the wedding for some private but extravagant location. Of course, he's more than willing to take you absolutely anywhere in the world you'd like to go- no price tag is too high and no journey is too far. Few things make his heart flutter more than the idea of experiencing somewhere new and far away with only you by his side, now as his one and only spouse.
NSFW 18+ v
- When Diluc excuses the two of you from the celebrations a little bit on the earlier side, you understand wanting some space and some rest- but still, you cast him a questioning glance. He surprises you by showing a hint of an uncharacteristic smirk, then leaning close to whisper to you, "You will have to forgive me if I'm a little selfish with you tonight, my love." The low tenor of his voice makes it perfectly clear what he has in mind, and you suddenly find yourself eager for some time alone as well.
- The hotel suite is luxurious and romantically lit, with a breathtaking view over the sparkling cityscape from floor-to-ceiling windows- but Diluc's gaze is fixed solely on you. He cradles your face in his hands and kisses you deeply, his tongue moving slowly and sensually with yours until your knees feel weak. His touch is tender, but hungry- his desire for you obvious as he gradually helps you out of your lovely wedding attire. Diluc doesn't say much (he's generally not very talkative in bed to begin with), but there's something intense in his eyes, and you can feel his heart pounding when your hands run over his muscled chest.
- Listen, I know we already touched on this, but seriously- Diluc in a suit. The sight of him discarding the jacket and loosening the tie and buttons with the city light accenting his face and inch by inch of his body- ugh. It's too much- really classic "serious wealthy business man about to absolutely ravage you" material.
- Once you've both thoroughly enjoyed undressing together, periodically pausing for him to press your body to the window and kiss you breathless, or for you to run your hands over his toned torso, taking in the irresistible sight of him half-dressed- Diluc guides you to the bed at last. His fingers lace with yours, and he takes a moment to observe you bare on the bed beneath him. Finally, with his voice low and husky, he says what's been on his mind all night, "I never dared to think that I would be so fortunate. It's... almost overwhelming to think that you're truly mine."
- Diluc is always a thorough and generous lover, but tonight, he's somehow taken it to a new level. You won't have a single chance to catch your breath- his lips and tongue travel down your throat and chest, the center of your stomach, your inner thighs- everywhere. All the while, his hands caress you and hold you close as though he resents the smallest inch of distance between your bodies. The heat and friction are positively dizzying, and by the time you finally feel the stiff head of his cock pushing into you, you nearly cum from the feeling of him entering you alone. Gasping his name, your head tilts back on the pillow and your body arches up to him, and he holds you close, whispers your name worshipfully, and begins to slowly thrust into you.
- He kisses you far more than usual tonight. Not a moment goes by that he isn't either pressing his lips to yours, or nuzzling against your neck, marking your skin with passionate little love-bites. All the while, his hips roll against you, your bodies falling into a natural, erotic rhythm, until he's fucking you so nice and deep that your breath catches with every pass. When he feels you tighten and squeeze around him with your climax, he can't hold back any longer. His head dips down beside yours, fiery red hair tickling your cheek and his breath tickling your ear as he whispers his love to you and his own climax begins to take him.
- He'll pamper you as much as you let him for the rest of the evening- that said, it has been a long day, and you have a plane to catch the next day, so it won't be a terribly late night. Although, as an added "post-wedding-night" bonus, you can bet that Diluc will reserve a private jet for at least part of your travels, and he is more than happy to use the privacy to indulge one another several times over~
#diluc#diluc genshin impact#diluc x reader#genshin impact#genshin smut#genshin impact x reader#x reader#diluc smut#diluc headcanons#modern au#genshin impact headcanons
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Wow, this analysis of the last episode of Helluva Boss went way further that I wanted…
« Blitzo is in love with Stolas !!! »
What.
Hell no.
No no no no.
Did we watch the same show ?
Even since the pilot we know the « relationship » between them is an arrangement more than a love story. I mean, Blitzo doesn’t swoon about Stolas, doesn’t think about Stolas and only talks about Stolas when he remembers he needs the book, he freaking spent some time with him only because he was paid (you know… when he went to Loo Loo Land ?). He shows more compassion towards Moxxie (while treating him like sh*t) than towards Stolas, for Satan’s sake he went to the Harvest Moon Festival only because Millie’s family was there.
Did you see Blitzo’s face when Striker aimed at Stolas ? And then the F*CKING TERROR ON HIS FACE WHEN STRIKER AIMED AT MOXXIE ??? Blitzo was ready to tear an arm appart with his own teeth. But for Stolas ? Meh.
So no, Blitzo isn’t in love with Stolas.
And episode 6 proved that.
DISCLAIMER : The following post is nothing against Stolitz shippers obviously, especially because both characters are great and badass but I really think their feelings aren't synchronized and therefore their relationship isn't completely healthy. They could have a nice one... but not yet. And most importantly, the hallucination scene isn’t about Stolas. Let me explain why I believe that.
« Did you see the golden feathers that put Blitzo back to himself ? »
Oh you mean the golden feathers that turned into chains and that Stolas took to bring Blitzo to his feet ?
Yeah, I saw them.
Of course I saw them.
This is exactly what I expected how Blitzo sees his « relationship » with Stolas, this is exactly the thing that proves that I was right all along.
Blitzo doesn’t love Stolas, he is only with him because he has to.
And with what happened before the stair scene, I know now why.
Blitzo feels like trash, still feels like trash, maybe because of his older relationships, probably because he is from the lowest of the low (working in a circus, then a little bit higher when dating a pop star…).
Did we watch the same show ?
The show that talks a lot about inequality between castes, the show that talks a lot about how difficult it was for Blitzo to make his own company, made from scratch ???
Striker, IN THE PREVIOUS EPISODE, made an entire statement about how Blitzo is underestimated and Blitzo felt it. He was very close to accept to go with him… but he needed to protect his « easiest lanky ticket to Earth ».
Stolas is just a tool for Blitzo to get what he wants. At first, I thought it was because he is searching for something in Earth (and uses the missions as a distraction). But now, I think it’s about something more important : power. Stolas’ feathers have nothing to do with his « transformation », it just shows that Blitzo wears a mask, a costume, a cleaner suit to pretend he isn’t like trash, that he wasn’t trash, that he will not go back to trash.
Whatever it takes.
« Yeah but the figures that are fanning Stolas in such a caring way… »
You mean more like slaves ?
Again, castes, stairs, chains, fanning ? You see a metaphor of love, I see a metaphor of slavery. That’s really disturbing. This is a representation of how Blitzo feels towards Stolas and gosh I’m so worried about him, and them. This is about power.
« But he is climbing towards him ! He wants him ! »
No. He doesn’t want to go to Stolas. He wants to climb those stairs. He wants to go higher. He wants to stay away from the trash. This is about power.
« But the chains… »
I hate those chains.
This is about power.
This is about power.
THIS IS ABOUT POWER.
« No. I think this is about fear. I think he fears to be rejected, so he bound himself to someone, but he also fears of commitment… »
…
Fears of commitment ?
Blitzo ?
What the hell ?
Are we talking about the boss who is not afraid to show (not say, but SHOW) how deeply he cares about his employees ? Are we talking about the demon who adopted Loona and says to everyone that he loves his daughter ? Are we talking about the Blitzo who shares his passions everywhere even on Instagram ? You think someone who is afraid to be rejected would be afraid to commit ? He knows how to express his feelings, he even lies to make the ones he loves happy (yes, I’m talking about Moxxie’s taste in music, duh).
And he does talk about his relationship with Stolas, but do you remember how he calls it ? A transaction.
The book in exchange of passionate fornication.
Nothing more, nothing less.
When people says that Stolas is his boyfriend, Blitzo denies it because he doesn’t want to be seen as just a lover, just a partner, he doesn’t want to have an image of a demon who had success because he is lucky an higher being felt in love with him.
No.
He planned that.
He organized that. He slept with Stolas to stole the book, he still sleeps with Stolas FOR the book.
That demon has ambition that is not related to love.
« Have you even listened to what Blitzo’s subconscience said ? »
… Actually no, not really.
I’m sorry.
English isn’t my native language so it was harder than usual to understand ‘Moxxie’ gibberish (also, I was tripping balls listening to Brandon Rogers playing everyone voices).
I started this all post while not considering what was said, I only listened to my guts which twisted while watching Blitzo being chained because of Stolas.
I’m sorry. I may be wrong…
… But I never believed Blitzo loved Stolas and I won’t start now.
So how can I explain how what is showed and what is saying are related ?
Maybe because Blitzo is scared to be put on a pedestal in his friends minds whereas what he is doing with Stolas isn’t completely right. But he must do it for a reason. Like I said, that demon has ambition.
This is about power.
I think Blitzo has a goal in mind (which he wasn’t able to obtain alone, like Robot Beetlejuice said), a goal he will gain by sacrificing the respect his friends have for him.
You know… whatever it takes.
I think he knows he will disappoint them so he wants to enjoy his remaining time with them while not getting too close to them so the fall won’t be that hard.
« So you agree ? Blitzo is in love with Stolas but can’t make it real. »
Still no.
For all the reason I said before, Blitzo doesn’t seem attached to Stolas. It’s not that he hates him but he doesn’t really care that much.
« Or he pretends he doesn’t care, after all Moxxie said… »
Yes.
Moxxie.
Wait a second.
It started with Moxxie.
This entire scene isn’t about Stolas and Blitzo relationship, it’s about Blitzo and Moxxie.
« I’m torturing you in your own hallucination. »
(Yep, I have access to the dialogues, you can’t stop me now.)
You are right, it shows Blitzo’s fear : his fear not be a good friend to Moxxie. How could he ? His past relationships were garbage, even recently he hired someone how wasn’t trustworthy, and he’s currently having an affair with someone he doesn’t really like.
I said earlier that the golden feathers put Blitzo into a clean costume, a disguise no one is supposed to see through.
Except that Moxxie does.
Moxxie knew all along that Blitzo is only pretending, Moxxie is more hurt when Blitzo isn’t honest with him than when Blitzo says awful comments to him.
Moxxie sees Blitzo with the broken heart on Blitzo’s forehead, exactly like how Blitzo sees himself.
Do they talk to each other while tripping ? Do they listen to each other ? Do they only hear what they want to hear ?
Because their thoughts are way too synchronized (Moxxie talking about how Blitzo pushes everyone away, Blitzo being at the top of some stairs…).
Maybe they do talk to each other and then have their own perception of this conversation in their minds :
Blitzo feeling it like accusations that burn his skin like golden feathers who shut him up and chain him and blind him so he will have to abandon everything he is and loves to obtain his goal, Moxxie believing it like their relationship can go higher and evolve and be fine and equal finally.
OH, AND THERE’S SOMETHING MORE : I know there is a theory about Moxxie being a fallen royalty and I think this episode showed that if it’s true, Blitzo knows, with how in his hallucination Moxxie eloquently talked and then transformed into a princess while climbing the stairs (without needing Stolas’ feathers).
Maybe that’s also why Blitzo doesn’t think he is worthy to be friend with Moxxie. And why he is angry at him : because he is jealous, Moxxie gave up everything Blitzo wanted for unknown reason (but probably for Millie, why annoys Blitzo even more not to mention that while Moxxie gave up power for an healthy relationship, Blitzo is craving for power by using an unhealthy one).
« Okay, let’s say that the hallucinations were about Moxxie and Blitzo. But… But THE KISS ! »
Oh yeah the kiss, let’s talk about that !
When Stolas goes to kiss Blitzo, our favorite demon pulls the king’s hair so it won’t happen and… Gosh he doesn’t want to be kissed by Stolas, does he ? I’m sorry but, no, this doesn’t feel right. I may not be an expert about romance but… what ?
This is about power.
Blitzo doesn’t hate having sex with Stolas, I mean, he thinks the role-plays are weird but he goes with it, and I think that’s because during the role-play he is always the one who dominates the other.
Just like with the kiss. The kiss happened only because Blitzo made it so.
It makes sense, those role-plays : Blitzo wants to forget he isn’t the one with power (which is why he made that sad face when he sees Stolas on his throne or when Stolas saves them because he is so strong and Blitzo maybe feel sad that he isn’t strong enough to protect his group, that he still needs the help of someone he knows will ask for compensation after ?), and Stolas wants to forget he is the one with power (and forget that his favorite imp probably doesn’t love him back so he lets him do whatever he wants to do to him and maybe he will fell in love ?).
Anyway.
I feel… No, I’m sure this all dream sequence is more about the power people have on Blitzo.
And power shouldn’t have something to do with love.
Maybe one day Stolas and Blitzo will put aside their differences, the huge gap between them, maybe they will realize that their ranks have a big impact on their relationship and THEN have a real, romantic, healthy one.
But for now seeing Stolas and Blitzo together is heartbreaking for me because one of them feels forced while the other is completely in love.
#helluva boss#stolas#blitzo#analysis#truth seekers#spoilers#moxxie#i'm the one seeking the truth right here#gosh what i am doing#going deep for an animated show#now i hope i'm right#the lore is hell
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WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT TECHNOBLADE (or A Narrative Analysis of the Dream SMP Doomsday Event) - Script
Heyo! Per request I am posting the script to my video of the same name here on tumblr. I must warn you that just reading the script will probably not give you the full experience, so I would encourage you to watch the video (linked above).
There might also still be a lot of grammatical errors in the text, because I don’t proofread.
Okay, so! I don’t want this to turn into a reaction channel OR a Dream SMP channel for that matter! I am planning on doing a big dumb, way too long analysis video on the Dream SMP which will – at my current pace – come out in five years. I am already way too late on this one.
Spoiler Alert for the Doomsday Event that took place on the 6th of January in the Dream SMP. Surely the worst thing to take place on the 6th of January 2021 … I’m sorry, what’s this about the Capitol?
In case you don’t watch the SMP and need context: The Dream SMP is a Minecraft Multiplayer Server, that, throughout the last year, has transformed from a normal Let’s Play to an ongoing new-media series streamed by multiple high-profile streamers such as Dream, TommyInnit or Technoblade. It comes complete with script – by which I mean loose bullet points – and story events. It has attracted a large fanbase specifically invested in the story and less so in the actual gameplay content. Like I said before, I will probably do a big video on the Dream SMP at some point in the future.
The storyline is long and complicated and trying to explain it all would take up the majority of the video and there are other channels who have already done a much better job than I could ever hope to do, so give them a watch. I’ll try to summarize all that is pertinent to what I will talk about in this video.
Okay, let’s speedrun this summary. Cue the music!
Major Players here are TommyInnit, a founder of the independent nation of L’Manburg, Technoblade, an anarchist who was deep in conflict with L’Manburg, Tubbo, Tommy’s best friend and current president of L’Manburg, and Dream, the ruler of the Kingdom of the Dream SMP (even though he is not the king, but we’re not going to get into that right now). Tommy had in the past been exiled by Tubbo for endangering L’Manburg’s shaky peace with the Dream SMP. Tommy had then teamed up with Technoblade, who was hellbent on destroying L’Manberg after some prior altercations – more on that later.
Tommy and Tubbo came into conflict during a festival set-up to celebrate the friendship between L’Manburg and the Dream SMP. After punching out their feelings, Tommy came to the realization that his friendship with Tubbo was more important than his vendetta against Dream and those who exiled him. Techno took that change of heart badly and teamed up with Dream to destroy L’Manburg … and that’s exactly what happened.
Techno and Dream, with little to no opposition, obliterated L’Manburg with no hope for recovery leaving its inhabitants stranded hopeless and alone.
… And that’s what you missed on Dream SMP!
Okay. So, usually I just put whatever thought slime drips out of my mouth hole into your subscription box. But then I asked myself: “Am I not taking this a largely improvised nonsense story from a bunch of 16–24-year-olds a little too seriously?”. And then I remembered. I’m a pretentious bitch. I made an 18-minute video explaining why the popular commentary YouTuber memeulous is secretly the time travelling Anti-Christ, REASON HAS NO SWAY OVER ME!
So, like the English Major drop-out that I am, I will present you with two theses, which I will then combine into one … supratheses! That word doesn’t exist, I just coined it, it’s mine! I am very smart!
[I know words, I have the best words!]
Thesis #1: The Fandom focuses too much on Character Analysis in Favour of Narrative Analysis
The Dream SMP is truly something special. It is uniquely singular in how it tells a story of this scope through its chosen medium. While there is an overarching script that lays out the plot points of the future, each of the 30+ streamers on the SMP are their own cameraman, director, writer and actor. You cannot watch “the Dream SMP” – if you attempted that, you would be 80 by the time you caught up to the Doomsday Event. You have to choose whom to watch. You have to choose your focal point character.
Because by the way the story is told and consumed – aka in such a compartmentalized fashion; you watch one streamer and get one character’s perspective – it has sort-of unintentionally conditioned fans to look at the SMP and its characters less as one coherent story with messages and themes and more as sports teams they can root for. You’re Team Techno or Team Tubbo or Team Tommy or Team JackManifoldTV (formerly known as Thunder1408) and every other side is in the wrong! It’s like Twilight for a decade old children’s game about virtual Lego!
Okay, I’m exaggerating, but the amount of discourse perpetuated by and revolving around so-called “apologists” – a terrible term that unfortunately has caught on – is really not something that I think is good for how we interact with the story of the Dream SMP.
The Dream SMP is discussed a lot on character-based level, which is, like I said before, hugely advantaged by the way the story is consumed by its audience. With traditional, visual media such as film for example, the audience can be made more aware of what messages the narrative might try to communicate on a narrative level without the need for an explicit narrator to tell you the moral.
As an example, in a movie you could have a smash-cut from the Butcher Army’s discussions about neutralizing the danger Technoblade poses to Techno being nice around villagers or taking care of animals. This would communicate on an extradiegetic level, that the Butcher Army is in the wrong with their assumptions. Alternatively, you could contrast Techno’s declarations that power corrupts and that Tubbo’s administration is cruel with Tubbo choosing not to punish Ranboo for his association with Techno – thus the narrative would communicate that Techno’s view of Tubbo and by extension the government is one-sided and not true to reality.
Stuff like that helps the viewer understanding a story holistically and manages to communicate stuff like themes and morals without having to solely rely on in-character logic and argumentation, which, as Ghostbur put it so eloquently, is comprised of a bunch of unreliable narrators.
Character analysis is great if we want dive deep, if we really want to give a character flavour and understand their motivations. It helps make the universe feel like it is alive, like it’s real. But – and this might be a shocker for you – it’s not real. It’s written. It is construction – and as such, in its construction, it has messages and themes and morals, intentionally or unintentionally.
By being so focused on specific characters and their individual journeys, viewpoints and motivation we really run the risk of not looking at the bigger picture and fail to see what the overarching narrative is actually communicating. And we may also fail to understand how characters might or might not fit into the overarching narrative.
Speaking of which …
Thesis #2: Technoblade experiences very little Meaningfultm Thematic Conflict
Okay, let’s talk about Technoblade. I’m sure I’m not going to get any hate for this one.
I want to preface by saying that I don’t watch Technoblade’s streams; I catch up though clip channels and summaries. I’m mainly watching Tommy, Tubbo and Quackity – which is honestly already more than I can handle – but I want to be clear that while I’ll try to be as even-handed as possible – like I explained previously – the way I consumed the storylines will undoubtedly leave me with some bias.
Also, needless to say, I’m talking about the character Technoblade, not the actual content creator, unless I specifically say so. That should be obvious.
Now, I’m not doing a Technoblade character analysis, because that would be hypocritical of me – seeing how I just bitched about the overwhelming amounts of character analyses in the fandom – but I’ll try my best to summarize what is necessary.
Technoblade’s interesting in that he is a very static character – at least inwardly – he doesn’t change much. He is very steadfast in his beliefs and ideals and has very little introspection. He doesn’t question himself; he doesn’t waver, he is never in a bind about whether what he’s doing is right or wrong. He is very much a parallel to early TommyInnit – who, of course, famously said “I’m always in the right”.
And I want to emphasize that I mean this in no way as a critique of Techno’s character. A static character provides a nice contrast to more dynamic characters and can balance them out. It can also be utilised by the writing as a character flaw – which is what I hope content creator Techno is going for.
Like Techno doesn’t have a lot of empathy in the sense that he is particularly skilled at or interested in trying to see the viewpoints of others. There is never an attempt to reconcile, for example, the goal of the Pogtopians to reclaim L’Manberg and install another administration with his desire for an anarchist society. This is also compounded with his overreliance on violence as the only tactic for conflict resolution – Techno has a whole thesis statement about violence being the only universal language. I’m sure you’ve heard the quote.
And lastly, what really drives this all over the edge, is his all-or-nothing approach when dealing with the enemy – he is not so much eye for an eye as he is – to use another biblical example – you make fun of me for being bald and I’ll sic two bears on you that maul and kill you and 41 other children.
There’s also the open and completely unacknowledged hypocrisy of a self-described anarchist working together with a man that installs and dethrones Kings with his every whim – someone who – and I cannot stress this enough – hits about every box when it comes to the definition of tyrant.
So, what I’m saying is that Technoblade is the Dream SMP equivalent of Dick Chenney. C’mon you know it’s true! He will bomb that freedom into your country whether you want him to or not. That’s some cogent political commentary in the year 2021.
Okay, so now that I’ve outlined his character, what kind of conflicts does Technoblade face. Well, it’s mostly physical or external. He fights a lot whether it’s against Quackity or Sapnap or bodying Karl Jacobs five times in a row. And – with the exception of maybe Sapnap – none of it is challenging. Technoblade is the best PvP-Player on the server – there really isn’t much tension to be had from a purely physical fight.
So, how are these fights supplemented emotionally. Well, internally there is not a lot going on. As I said before, Technoblade isn’t really an introspective character. Even during his shouting match with Tommy there’s not a sense that Technoblade is wavering or unsure of himself in the way that Tommy is. He exposits that one of the reasons, he acts like he does is that he feels dehumanized; that people only use him like a weapon and then discard or even try to neutralize him once he’s no longer useful.
But that is not something that Technoblade has to grapple with – it’s not conflict for him, it’s more conflict for Tommy. Technoblade is self-assured in that he’s a person and not a weapon – it’s almost like there was a character arc there, where Technoblade self-actualizes and breaks away from the people that want to use him. But we didn’t see any of it. Technoblade unleashes the withers; then he goes into retirement because he wants to be, I suppose, and then he returns to violence as a reaction to the Butcher Army. There is a story of vengeance here, but not any conflict about being used. There is never a point where we see Technoblade come to this realization or comes to assert himself.
In season 1 there’s never a push from Pogtopia where the narrative frames them as exploiting Technoblade. He fights with them of his own volition, he gives them weapons and armour of his own volition. Nobody pressured Techno into procuring their inventory for the fight. And in Season 2, he’s the one to approach Tommy about their potential partnership – he is in the position of power here, explicitly not Tommy.
Like, I’m sorry, if this ruffles some feathers, but I really don’t see this arc where Technoblade is being used. There’s a story of misunderstanding and maybe co-dependency – but not of dehumanization. This entire line of thought seems to solely reference that moment, where Tommy says to Sapnap “I have the blade” during one of their wars – which, to base an entire emotional arc around that without any further set-up, is, and I’m sorry to say that, incredibly flimsy.
Okay, so we covered physical and emotional conflict? But what about conflict on the narrative level? Well, that leads me to my suprathesis …
Suprathesis: The Narrative is Unclear on how it treats Technoblade … and that’s Not Good.
Here’s a Hot Take: The narrative of Season 1 treats Technoblade way less sympathetically than that of season 2.
Let me explain. The narrative of Season 1 revolves mostly around Wilbur and Tommy. The emotional fulcrum of the overall narrative is Wilbur’s rise and fall from Grace – and Tommy succeeding him as symbol of L’Manberg’s “special”-ness. Now I will talk about all that more in detail, when I talk about Season 1 of the Dream SMP. So, you’ll just have to go with me on this one for now.
Technoblade, by contrast, doesn’t really have much going on thematically in Season 1. He mostly exists as a sort-of utilitarian character – he is an accessory to make story beats happen. Like him executing Tubbo doesn’t open up any sort of thematic conflict involving him – on a character level it sets up antipathy between him and Tommy and it grants us some insight into how he operates with his violence speech – but on a larger-scale narrative level it really just shows how far Wilbur and Tommy have drifted apart in how they react to the event.
His biggest contribution is during the Season 1 finale, but even there he plays second fiddle to Wilbur. Not just because Wilbur does way more destruction with his explosion than Techno does with his Withers, but also because Wilbur had an emotional and thematic climax to his arc and by extension the entire storyline. Like Techno’s is a cool moment and very epic visual but in terms of thematic relevance, his Theseus-speech is really more set-up for Season 2.
And Season 1 is very unambiguous about L’Manberg being good and Tommy’s ideals ultimately being morally justified – I mean, they have a whole speech about it in the end and it was built-up throughout the entire Season – Techno is cast in a … less than sympathetic light. He is, if not a villain, then definitely an antagonist.
But with Season 2 the narrative is either uninterested in or not very clear on exploring Technoblade’s flaws.
Like ask yourselves: is Technoblade’s character ever consciously challenged by the narrative? Are his actions ultimately shown to not be in the right? Are his beliefs about government and power ever called into question? Are the negative consequences that his actions cause ever shown to be larger than the “good” he does?
I think what exemplifies this the most is how the Butcher Army event played out on December 16th. Now, during that event, the Butcher Army, which was comprised of Tubbo, Quackity, Fundy and Ranboo, managed to apprehend Technoblade, who at that point was living the quiet retirement life, and tried to have him publicly executed – without trial.
Now, smarter people than me have pointed out that the Butcher Army had a bevy of in-character reasons that can justify or explain their actions. And that’s definitely interesting, but as I said before, I want to get away from that and look into how the Butcher Army is treated on a narrative level. Because this is one of the few instances where the otherwise grey-loving Season 2 has some very clear narrative intent when it comes to morality.
The Butcher Army is very deliberately framed as almost cartoonishly corrupt and violent. They very forcefully investigate Philza, mock him and then put him under house arrest – and there’s just no remorse in the script even from normally sympathetic characters like Tubbo.
Compare and contrast with the Tommy-exile scene, which is also an act of moral ambiguity and is treated as such. And things get even worse once the Army arrives at Technoblade’s abode and attack him after he softly tells them that he has left that live behind him. They then proceed to take his horse hostage, mock him and execute him without fair trial – and I haven’t seen it but from live commentary I gathered that Techno really played up the whole softie-schtick before the Butcher Army arrived. I mean, before the big Technoblade vs Quackity fight, Quackity had whole villain monologue for Christ’s sake.
And even afterwards, the Butcher Army really plays up the corrupt angle with Tubbo proposing a festival as a guise to publicly execute someone. And again, I know that on an intradiegetic there’s nuances and it’s not really comparable to the Red Festival, but in combination with what the audience has seen up until that point and with how much it feeds into the already established themes of history repeating itself and becoming like your predecessors, it really does not paint a pretty picture of the Tubbo administration.
You can feel the heavy hand of the script on your shoulder, which is a feat seeing how – as discussed before – that’s not something that can be easily accomplished in this medium.
And that is what I mean when I say that Technoblade is not really challenged by the script and is in this case even emboldened by it. Because after this whole ordeal the thought of Technoblade taking revenge by destroying L’Manberg doesn’t seem like such an extreme response to the viewer – even though in my opinion, it is.
As of right now it is too early to say how the narrative will judge Technoblade’s actions in the future. Will they be framed as extreme but ultimately justified or perpetuating a cycle of ever-escalating vengeance? Will we ever see a government that’s not just at best misguided and at worst completely awful?
Ultimately, I believe and hope that Technoblade will be challenged by the narrative, mostly because a character that cannot, believably, be physically challenged, who doesn’t have any meaningful internal conflict about what he’s doing; and who does come out on the other side having everything he always believed in be proven completely in the right by the narrative, would be incredibly boring. Not just to watch but also to play as.
As it stands now, if the destruction Techno, Phil and Dream inflicted upon L’Manburg is framed as ultimately in the right, I would find it personally a distasteful message to send. I would ultimately say that the “correct” way to counter corruption in government is to completely obliterate the entire country. Like we’re not talking simply disbanding the government – that’s not what Doomsday was – we’re talking complete and utter annihilation. And that would be cynical and depressing. Like, call me a big softie, but even bothsidesing this argument would be bad.
Like, I’m not calling for Technoblade to be transformed into or treated a monster like Dream. But I personally feel like the narrative needs to acknowledge that the Doomsday was something that was taken way too far and that it ultimately brought more harm than good. And Technoblade needs to held accountable by someone who is not a cartoonishly corrupt government-official or who is in conflict with him anyway, like Tommy.
I thought Philza or Ranboo could do that but seeing how their storylines are progressing I don’t believe that will be the case. But who knows, maybe Captain Puffy will come through for us. We stan a Queen.
Conclusion
So, yeah, I made this entire video just to air out my grievances with how one-sided the mode of analysis is in the fandom, because no person actually involved with the production of Dream SMP will ever see this.
But after everything I am cautiously optimistic, that content creator Technoblade knows what he’s doing. He has talked in the past about how his character is a bad guy and he loves his Greek myths. After all what’s more Greek myth than hybris being rewarded with punishment? [Technoblade never dies] That bodes well for him.
Also, this isn’t the video I promised at the end of the last one!
#dream smp#dsmp analysis#dsmpblr#dreamsmp#c!technoblade critical#dream smp analysis#dsmp#dream smp doomsday#dream smp season 2#l'manberg#l'manburg#lmanberg#lmanburg#tubbo#dsmp tubbo#quackity#dsmp quackity#butcher army#tommyinnit#dsmp tommyinnit#dream#dreamwastaken#dsmp dream#dsmp tommy#lucem ferto scripts
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Sunlight Over Me (No Matter What I Do)
Originally posted here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27618575
Massive thanks to @dontatkiwi for helping me edit this.
Enjoy!
——————
Dream gave him black armor that glistened in the moonlight. Schlatt, for as strong as he was, swayed under the weight. The heat. Dream’s words sounded funny, as if he was speaking to him through water, form shifting like a verdant mirage. They stood in a grey stone tower, staring down at the world. Schlatt leaned against the balcony. The sun slowly inched up over the horizon, golden beams burning his eyes. Manburg sprawled out below them in all of its glory, the podium still decorated for the festival. Birds chirped and called for their mates, flapping from tree to tree. The air smelled fresh and cold, a gentle breeze carrying the smell of the sea. It would be a beautiful day, an even more beautiful night once the war was over. Schlatt sighed.
They wanted him to fight, didn’t they? Even though he had everything to lose. Wait, he didn’t. He’d already lost everyone, except for Fundy and Manburg. Now that was his everything, all he had to live and die for. How lonely. But still, he would fight. He was big and strong and so was his heart, and everything would be fixed soon. Schlatt reached into his pocket and pulled out a flask. He drank slowly. It did nothing to satiate his thirst. If anything, the burn of the alcohol made him feel thirstier than he’d ever been before. His mouth opened, then he shut it hard enough to make his tongue bleed. Quackity’s name died on his lips. His tongue throbbed from the pain, but it was worth it to keep that name out of his mouth. He didn’t need a weakling around him. He never needed anyone. He could win wars with the smallest gestures, he could topple towers with his whiskey scented breath. The rapid pounding of his heart was a war drum. He took another swig, washing away the iron taste of blood.
Quackity had had the audacity to look at him with tears in his eyes before scampering away. The White House was ugly as shit and deserved to be taken down, so something beautiful could grow in its place. But Quackity just couldn’t understand that. They fought. Schlatt didn’t remember what he said, just that Quackity shot him and left in fear. Quackity was a deer. A deer. His darling little fawn. Deer. With big black eyes and terror coursing through his veins. And Schlatt was a wolf, a predator, an emperor. He was stronger than everyone. Cowards, all of them.
“All of you are fucking cowards.” He muttered. Dream turned his head, giving him a masked glare. Schlatt flipped him off, and laughed. He slumped against the tower wall, metal clanging against stone. No knives would be put into his back. Not tonight. Not by a deer or a man in a box or anyone else.
Dream wouldn’t talk to him. They weren’t friends, they didn’t even trust one another, but the end justified the means. They could at least agree on that. If Dream was his second in command, they’d at least get shit done. But when he and Quackity worked together…
It was good at first. Quackity was easy to sway to his side with a simple talk. They drank wine before going to bed, a glass for each of them, and Schlatt would always pick on Quackity for stirring a bit of honey to negate the bitterness. Things felt less foggy back then, and he could spend a whole day without drink. Then Quackity wanted them to marry. Quackity wanted so much, but couldn’t read the room for shit, couldn’t see what needed to be done for Manburg to prosper. He never knew what was needed. Soon a glass for each of them turned to half a glass for Quackity and three for himself. After Quackity left, three glasses turned into downing close to the entire bottle before collapsing into bed, cold and alone. His room was filled with empty bottles.
An arrow flew at the tower. It impaled itself in the stone. He didn’t even flinch. The people around him erupted into action, knocking arrows and shouting about holding the tower. It needed to be held. He took his helmet off, sweat dripping down his face. He ran his fingers through his unkempt hair. A matted portion right by the base of his left horn stopped his fingers in their tracks. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bathed or combed his hair. Surely his horns would look horrid, too, crusted with dirt, and his goat like ears were probably matted, too. He laughed quietly, wiping the sweat off his face.
God it was so fucking hot. The sun was so gold, so glorious, and hung heavily in the sky. It felt like an omen. A swarm of people ran to the tower all wearing the same armor, chest plates and helms that made them look like a flock of black flies. He took a drink from his flask, fire burning his throat. He couldn’t remember what the hell he’d put in it. Alcohol, and some of his other favorite things.
Dream grabbed his arm. It hurt. He shouted something that Schlatt couldn’t hear. But Dream looked away and jumped from the tower. Of course, Schlatt followed, stumbling over the balcony, toppling head first down, down, down, his body landing with a splash in a bit of water. The sun was high in the sky— where had that time gone? He crawled from the murky water, kicking his boots off into the fields. They landed in a half grown patch of wheat, resting in the rich farmland. He felt so hot. The sun, the sun, the glorious sun, pummeled him with heat.
Lucky for him, his grip on his flask didn’t waver when he fell. He guzzled from the flask and staggered to his feet, shoes squelching in the black earth. The people shot at one another. Arrows hailed down from the high balcony of the tower. Some went up, too. Fireworks crackled, thick, sulfuric smoke filling the air. He walked away from the tower.
This wasn’t his fault, it couldn’t be. It was Wilbur’s. Fucking Wilbur, that sanctimonious bastard with all of his grand ideas of victory and freedom. Just because he was pretty and eloquent didn’t mean he was a good leader. Wilbur was a warmonger, an idealist. So the logical thing was to banish him. Yet he still decided to start a war against him, his presidency, the peace he had made. All he wanted was to bring peace, where had the peace gone? He’d done all he could. Gotten rid of all the evil bits, all the useless bits. The weak parts. He’d scorched the land down to the soil, new things would grow.
Fireworks crackled nearby. He unclasped his netherite leggings, letting them fall to the ground. His chestplate went too, both of them striking the earth with a satisfying thud. Someone shot at someone. Someone was screaming. Every firework blast made his head throb, the shouts piercing his head like a knife. He drank again, stumbling forward. The grass looked so green. Manburg looked so beautiful, decorated for the festival. He closed his eyes. Tubbo had so much potential, it’s a shame he couldn’t see past the short term. It’s a real shame.
When he opened them, he was standing before the ocean, sinking into the sand. He stared out at it. The air smelled like salt. Waves pounded the beach, as if the tide was at war with the earth he stood on. But the waves had made the beach, and the earth was nothing but a place for him to mold as he pleased. A high pitched noise came from nowhere. He kicked at the sand. He took a swig from his flask, the alcohol sloshing around until the last drop went down his throat. He dipped it into the raging waves. Water sounded so nice, especially the ocean, glimmering like diamonds in the bright sunlight. He’d been drinking. And yet, he still felt so, so thirsty. With one hand he tilted it up into his mouth, with the other he loosened his tie. The sharp taste of salty water hit his tongue, and he gagged at how cold it was. Still, he swallowed. God. Where was he?
Manburg. His Manburg. With raging oceans and deep forests and supple farmland. He had made it so, so wonderful. Washed the bugs from the nation, but now they returned like a swarm of locusts. His heart felt like it would explode. Everything around him was so blurry and too bright, the heat was driving him crazy. It had to be the sun. So thirsty. The salt tasted bad. Bad things were fine, they made you stronger. And if there was one thing he was, it was strong. He had to be, or they’d eat him alive, and leave his bones to bleach in the sun.
The world around him felt blurry, the world shifting. Like a mirage, almost, ears ringing. He stumbled over something. Darkness fell around him.
When he opened his eyes, there was a wooden floor beneath him, and more bottles. He finally was free of the horrible sun, and surrounded by bottles of drink, a perfect combination. Looking around, he noticed the dirt walls and the hole in the ceiling, and realized that he was in his little hideout, where he would go in the day to hide. Of course, there was alcohol. He poured the salt water onto the floor, picked up a bottle, and sipped from it. Whatever was in the bottle was strong, almost tasting like a protein shake, nice and refreshing. Wonderful. He drank. Maybe after all this blew over, he and Fundy could work out together. And he could work things out with Quackity. It would all be fine. Of course they’d have to spruce Manburg up a little, take down the ragged, unorganized buildings, and build from the ground up. Then he and Quackity would be married in winter and be one another’s warmth. Come springtime, they’d watch Manburg grow. Together.
No, that wouldn’t happen. He was weak. Quackity was weak.
He gracelessly lowered himself to the floor, legs shaking like a baby deers. Once sitting, he pulled out a lighter and a cigar. He flicked his thumb on the lighter once, twice, then took a long draw of the cigar. It did nothing to calm him. Someone poked their head in. Then they ran away. He took another draw of his cigar, hands shaking. Then, he drank again. Draw, drink. Draw, drink. His heart banged against his ribcage. His heart was a war drum. Once all this was done it would all be back to normal. There would be peace, he could rest, and be at peace. He’d go back to being president. And everyone would kneel to him and he’d celebrate be happy even without the alcohol and the drugs.
Happiness. Peace.
A flood of noise rushed into the place he was hidden. He tilted the bottle up, licking around the glass rim before letting it pour down his throat, trying to chase the high. It burned his throat like bile, but had a sickly sweet aftertaste.
Someone touched him.
“Schlatt, what are you doing?” A warm, familiar voice said. Schlatt frowned, squinting at the source of the noise.
“...Wilbur?” He slurred. He looked around, eyes finally focusing on Wilbur. His coat and scarf were tattered, stained with soot and blood. So many people were around him. Dream, Tommy, Purpled, Tubbo, and Wilbur. Everything smelled like gunpowder and iron. They stared at him. Their eyes burned like the sun. He chuckled.
“What are you doing?” Wilbur repeated. Schlatt looked around frantically, a smile blossoming on his face.
“What the hell? Is this a surprise birthday party?”
He knew it wasn’t. As if anyone would care enough to celebrate his life. He took another long drink of whatever was in the bottle, emptying it, and picking another one up from the floor. It burned his throat in a wonderful, familiar way. Wilbur shouted at him, but that damn high pitched noise made his words incomprehensible, making his ears twitch frantically. The drink was good at least. A protein shake, maybe. With creatine, probably, something that would make him big and strong, untouchable, unhurtable, hammer curls, his head spun. He tried to catch his breath, taking deep, even breaths. He counted, trying to calm himself. The voices around him picked up but he couldn’t discern one from another, it was simply a cacophony, a horrifying sight, and he couldn’t breathe.
People around him talked. He finished the bottle, and dropped it, then took another bottle from within his jacket. He tilted his head back, taking a long drink. Up, in the sky, no, standing on the roof—
“Fundy?” He screamed, “Fundy what are you doing here!?!”
“Schlatt, are you fucking drunk,” Fundy deadpanned.
“Fundy are you— “
Fundy dropped down from the roof, right in front of him. His fur was matted in places with blood and dirt. He’d been fighting. The one person he thought he could trust. Staring at him. Big black blank eyes. Like a deer, a deer in fox clothes.
“You BITCH!” Schlatt howled. He lashed out at Fundy with the bottle. Who’d lift with him now? Fucking bitch.
“Schlatt, you fucked up the country, you fucked up everything! You had a dream and I followed it and you brought it downhill.”
Schlatt drank. He didn’t want to hear it. His heart wouldn’t stop violently hammering against his ribs. His arm hurt.
“You ruined it!” Fundy continued, “you ruined everything we had!”
Maybe the shake had something in it. Was he talking? His skin felt wrong. Too hot. The sun crawled through the windows. It crept through the ceiling.
“I thought you were something,” Fundy shouted.
Schlatt glared at him.
“Oh my fucking God. Yeah, I am something, I’m what you’re not, Fundy.”
His cigar had burnt out. He needed another puff to stop his hands from shaking. With quivering hands, he flicked the lighter. No flame came out. He’d need more butane. He flicked the lighter again, and a tiny flame lept out. There we go. He lit his cigar, taking a long, deep pull. The world around him was spinning, like a little carnival ride.
“What am I not?” Fundy barked. Schlatt breathed acrid, grey smoke into his face.
“I’m a man,” Schlatt hissed.
Everyone gasped. Wilbur went up in his face. His mouth moved, but the words that came out didn’t make sense. He slammed the bottle into Wilbur, over and over, until Fundy came back into his eyesight. He broke the bottle against his armor. So many people were shouting. Someone had a sword— he had a sword? Rage took over. He slashed it at Fundy. Chased him. Then stumbled back. If he was speaking, he couldn’t tell. Thought and words had all blended into one. What the hell was in the drink?
He didn’t care. He grabbed a new bottle and chugged.
Something sharp pressed against his forehead. His eyes fluttered, before finally focusing onto whoever was in front of him. Blond hair, blue eyes— Tubbo? No. Tommy. Tommy held a crossbow up to his head. A twinge of fear made his heart lurch in his chest. Was he going to kill him? Don’t, don’t. He stared at the crossbow.
“Victory or death,” Wilbur exclaimed, so proud. He would’ve been a shit President. Schlatt couldn’t help but give a small chuckle. This was his country. His. Nobody else knew his plans to rebuild, and they’d all fail. They weren’t as strong as him.
“You know if I die, this country goes down with me.”
“No it doesn’t, Schlatt,” Tommy said, voice calm and level. Schlatt laughed, and drank. He swallowed down the liquid. Right there in front of him stood Quackity. Sunglasses hid those doe eyes from him. His heart felt like a clenched fist. It hurt.
“I had everybody turn on me,” he said darkly, “in my time of need, everybody left. You left.”
His fist connected with Quackity’s face before he could even think. Quackity stumbled back. More words stumbled from his mouth, but he didn’t know what he was saying anymore. He wanted to collapse. He wanted to not have to be strong anymore. His breath caught in his chest. He couldn’t breathe.
“You made a mistake, you made the biggest mistake by not taking me—“
“You’re pathetic, Schlatt!” Fundy crowed.
“This is your fault and your fault only,” someone else said. They weren’t wrong. He’d fucked up over and over.
Schlatt just mumbled and cried out whatever he thought. His body was separated from his mind. He didn’t know what he was saying. Bad, bad, everything was bad and doomed, oh god.
Tommy pressed the crossbow against his chest. He coughed. The breath left his body. Oh god they were going to kill him. Under the bright sun. The sun. People were talking. Too many people were talking, voices mingling with the ringing in his ears, a horrifying symphony. He wheezed. Something was burning. Toast? Wilbur looked at him. Said something. He drank. That had to help. Nothing could help. Something was happening.
He didn’t feel good. One last puff. Had to help. Had to get him stronger. Didn’t feel good. His heartbeat crescendoed. So many people were looking at him but they wouldn’t help, they wouldn’t help, were they just going to watch? It hurt, it hurt so bad, why wouldn’t they help him?
The pain in his chest made him crumble. His head hit the hard floor. A weak gasp escaped him, and his empty eyes gazed up through the hole in the ceiling.
The sun stared down at his body.
#mcyt#dream smp#jschlatt#Wilbur Soot#myct fanfic#tw death#Fundy#itsfundy#quackity#tw drugs#dreamwastaken
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Chapter 19 - Golden Gowns and Eventful Evenings
I have no excuse, so I will just post this and run
Jaskier and Geralt attend the banquet in Goldfurt together.
prologue | previous | next
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Being the biggest city between Yspaden and Mirt, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that Goldfurt exceeded any and all expectations Jaskier might have had before returning after his twenty-year absence. Being governed by his brother-in-law, Janina’s husband no less, it shouldn’t come as a surprise either that they exceeded them in the wrong direction.
Truth be told, he did not remember a lot about the city from his pre-Oxenfurt days. Of course, they had been obligated to visit the banquet every year, both as neighbours as well as the family of the future Countess, but Jaskier had been barely thirteen the last time he had attended the festivities. The only thing he remembered from that visit was his short-lived infatuation with one of Goldfurt’s squires. It had promptly ended when said squire had basically wiped the floor with him in the training yard during their one and only interaction.
After that unpleasantness he had gladly given a rather wide berth to the city and the castle at its centre. Jaskier had even managed to forestall the unhappy reunion for another year due to a cough at the most convenient of times.
This year, however, there was no excuse in the world that would have made it appropriate for him to stay away. Not with his title, not with his renewed betrothal to Lady Alina. Not with the two newest additions to his household, he was supposed to parade around like a pair of exotic animals.
Jaskier ground his teeth as he tugged at the sleeves of his shirt. ‘Melitele’s tits, I’d gladly attend the dinner if I could leave Ciri and Geralt in Lettenhove,’ he thought bitterly. But that would not only be a grievous insult, it would also rouse more suspicion and rumours than they already did. ‘Best hide them in plain sight.’ And if something unforeseeable were to happen, they could also make a quick escape.
Due to these unforeseen developments, the lack of information had posed quite an obstacle. If there was one particular lesson the twenty years with Geralt had taught him, then it was that ignorance in the face of danger could be fatal. And while one might assume, that a witcher’s lifestyle was much more deadly than a Viscounts, Jaskier would gladly go and fight a dozen ghouls with nothing but his lute, instead of entering the vipers’ nest that was Goldfurt.
Extensive reconnaissance—consisting of squeezing as much information as possible out of his three sisters—had revealed that he might actually have better chance with the ghouls. The silk doublet his servant buttoned up would do little against daggers in the dark or libations laced with poison. Not that he expected his kin and kinfolk-to-be to try and murder him at a dinner party, of course. He expected them to have some decorum at least.
Still, he had entered the city knowing fully well that he was anathema to at least half a dozen invited guests, not least of all their host. On the other hand, which relative of his wife was not anathema to Filip Firkalt? None of them, that was which. It had been one of the primary sources of their entertainment in the past days.
It was no secret that while he and his sisters nursed a precarious love-hate-relationship, the loving aspect was completely lost on the in-laws. The source of that animosity, of course, lay in the title he now bore. The moment his disappearance after his graduation from Oxenfurt had become public knowledge, both of his brothers-in-law had begun vying for what was rightfully his, Kerton with his heir even more so than childless Goldfurt. The fact that he had returned to rob them of what they had already considered theirs, was just another strain on their relationship.
Another of the lessons Geralt had imparted to him, was the importance of a plan. So, not only had the four Pankratz siblings spent their evenings mocking the stupidities they had been forced to endure by the hands of the men in their lives the past two decades, they had also conspired how best to pay them back within the confines of propriety. Two of them, at least. Janina and her blood-tear mourning garb had only been the appetiser for the main course that was to be served at the banquet tonight.
Or rather, it should have been. For the first vital life lesson he had learned on the Path was that every plan, no matter how good or bad, immediately went to shit upon the first contact with the opponents. Theirs had been no exception to the rule. The memory still made him clench his fist in anger. The disrespect shown to him and his sisters by not riding out to greet them was one thing. But he should have punched Goldfurt in the face when he first had called Geralt a dog. ‘Right then and there, castle peace be damned.’
“M’lord?” the attendant fussing over his cuffs called his attention with a meek voice. “Begging your pardon, but you have to let go of that fist, m’lord.”
“Oh,” he replied dumbfounded as his eyes travelled down to the rings he was holding in his hands. “Of course.” Slowly, he uncurled his tightly clenched fingers, while she slipped the signet ring as well as the embellished buttercup ring in place.
Jaskier stared blankly at his mirror image, fighting the urge to smile at the sight of him clad in Lettenhove ochre and muted autumnal colours. It would be the last time to dress for such an occasion before winter undoubtedly would settle in but a few days. He would be in need of a level head as much as a stoic façade for this evening. No matter how much he wanted to shout out his delight over his delivery from the straightjacket that had been his mourning garb. He wouldn’t have a lute to do so anyways, so there was no point in it.
In any way, there was no bard required this evening. He needed to be the Viscount de Lettenhove instead, protecting all those who had sought shelter at his home and hearth for the winter. ‘Geralt chief among them all.’ The witcher had protected him for nigh twenty years of his life, after all. After all these years of watching helplessly as villagers, nobles, and innkeepers had made Geralt’s life miserable, he was finally in a position to repay him. And it was high time that he did so.
“Will that be everything, m’lord?” the servant asked with a coy smile.
“Yes.”
He bowed obediently, still lingering. “Shall I be waiting for your return?”
Jaskier spared him a short considerate glance. He was quite an attractive fellow, although far too young. “Best not,” he answered, doing his best to keep the contempt from dripping into his voice. It wasn’t directed at the servant anyways. “It will be rather late, I’ll wager.” He certainly wasn’t desperate enough to take a man to ben who might not be offering his companionship for his own volition but because of ill-directed instructions he’d received.
Besides, he had a witcher to get to. The servant bolted from the room and Jaskier quickly followed, but not before grabbing the bundle on his bed.
His witcher had been billeted at a ridiculous distance to Jaskier’s own rooms in quarters which found themselves in a distressingly poor state. Well, nothing in Goldfurt Castle classified as ‘poor’ exactly, but in comparison to the usually upheld standard, it was scarcely better than the rug on the floor he’d been offered at first. The unfairness of it all made his blood boil.
Geralt, on the other hand, remained as unfazed as Jaskier was accustomed to. He had even kept him from running back to make good on his first impulse to bestow their host with a bloody nose. Instead, he had praised the quarters and assured him that he would be just fine, before ushering him out.
‘Maybe,’ a treacherous voice in the back of his head hissed, ‘he’s even glad to get away from you.’
Jaskier gnawed on his lower lip. He couldn’t even fault Geralt for that. His own welcome for his oldest friend had been anything but warm and he was well aware of the coldness freezing the air between them. ‘He still hasn’t apologised,’ he reminded himself. ‘Stubborn mule.’ Instead, Geralt had hurt him even more, albeit unknowingly so. Not that that made it hurt any less.
The same door that had slammed shut behind his back a few days prior blocked the path before him now. Jaskier didn’t allow himself a second thought and swung it open. “Ger—” He was with one foot over the threshold already, when he suddenly remembered and the fear of finding Geralt in bed with Marin stole his voice.
“My lord?”
He appeared to be in luck. Geralt was alone in the chamber. And nearly naked. The only strip of fabric on his person was a towel slung low around his hips and the shirt in his hands, his hair still damp from a bath.
“Uhm,” he said eloquently, while he desperately tried to get his thoughts into order. Unfortunately, he did not manage before his mouth started talking without any cerebral input: “You’re not wearing that,” he blurted of all things.
No ‘Good evening, Geralt’, or ‘How are you enjoying your stay, Geralt?’, or even ‘Fuck, why can’t we go back to how it was before, I’m slowly losing my mind, Geralt.’
No, it was 'You're not wearing that.'
If ever there was a moment for the skies to part and the gods to strike him down with a well-placed bolt of lightning, this was certainly is, right before 'You don't want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting.' What was it about the witcher that made him so exceptionally stupid? Whatever it was, if the gods could hurry up and erase his existence from this earth, Jaskier would be much obliged, thank you very much.
Unfortunately, nothing happened.
Nothing of that sort, at least, because something happened and that was Geralt slowly glancing down at the towel and up at Jaskier again to deadpan: "I wasn't going to."
"Good," Jaskier's mouth ambled on.
He had to hand it to Geralt, the fact that he didn't so much as raise his eyebrows before moving to put on the shirt was undoubtedly one of his greatest displays of discipline so far.
"You're not going to wear that, either," Jaskier continued, slowly regaining control of his words again.
“Why not?” he asked, his voice impossibly honest. As if there was nothing wrong with the black shirt and breeches, he had worn on the day they’d arrived.
“Because,” he quipped and tossed him the bag he was carrying, “you’re not going as a witcher tonight. This is my brother-in-law’s banquet; we have a reputation to uphold. You're my friend and anyone who knows me, which is everyone here, is well aware that the only way my friend is dressed in anything but the finest clothing would be over my dead body. I'd never allow you to stand out for your tastelessness and considering that you don't appear to have a fashion sense for yourself, I'll gladly provide you with assistance."
"Hmm." Geralt cleared his throat and said: "I need to change if you want me to wear that." He flourished the expensive clothes in his hand.
"Right." Jaskier took a breath to steady himself. But somehow, his feet didn't move.
He raised his gaze with an amused expression on his face. "You need to leave the room, my lord, unle-" The expression on his face changed rapidly as if he was just realising what he was saying.
The barbed retort was already on the tip of his tongue: 'Why, Geralt, are you offering I stay to watch?' But the image of him and Marin kissing was much too present in his mind as it was, so Jaskier bit his lip to keep it from escaping. 'He's not mine to keep,' he reminded himself. 'Never has been, never will be.' "Right," he forced out and turned around, "I'll wait for you in the hallway." He wasn't sure either of them would survive the dinner otherwise.
Jaskier did his best to keep from fidgeting and pacing while he waited outside, which was no easy feat considering the nervousness and hum of energy building within him. Normally, he wasn’t prone to fits of anxiousness. Tonight, however, there was so much that could go wrong, so much that would ruin everything, so much—
Mercifully, the spiral of dread was interrupted by the quiet lock of a door behind him, accompanied by Geralt politely clearing his throat.
“Finally!” Jaskier meant to say as he turned on his heel. What got out was more of a garble: "Hngh." Geralt looked... dashing. There was no other word for it, truly. Well other than 'otherworldly beautiful and I can't decide whether the outfit choice was the best or worst idea I had in a long time and shit, I really should have taken that into consideration; he's not yours to keep, Jaskier, get it together, gods damnit!'
Yeah, dashing was much easier than that. Blue suited him, but Jaskier had already known that. He had chosen the outfit for their last ball together as well, after all. But in contrast to that disastrous outfit, the witcher wore clothes that actually fit him, instead of too small things Jaskier had pulled out of his bag. And on top of that, the witcher had the audacity to smirk. "You approve, my lord?"
"I do," Jaskier managed without embarrassing himself further. "We should go," he decreed. "The Count and Countess will make their appearance soon; it is considered terribly impolite to arrive after them."
"And you're only aiming for impolite?" Geralt teased.
Jaskier frowned and quickly looked down to hide a smile. It was true, most of the meticulous planning by him and his sisters prior to this visit had been to be as impolite as possible while still operating within the socially acceptable norms. Janina and her blood-tear mourning garb had been only the beginning of what would undoubtedly come to a head this evening.
Judging by the quiet snort beside him, he wasn’t quick enough. “Geralt,” he spoke up a few moments later.
“My lord?”
He grimaced slightly. “You probably shouldn’t call me that tonight. It would only… raise suspicion.”
The witcher frowned deeply. “And what should I call you then?”
“Julian,” he said simply. “That’s my name, you know.”
“I thought you resented that name.”
‘I do,’ he thought. “I mustn’t,” he answered and continued on into the dining hall. A large part of the nigh two hundred guests had already arrived and heated the room up nicely, in spite of the freezing temperatures outside. A plethora of voices filled his ears, the kind of pleasant buzz that usually promised an eager crowd Jaskier could sail upon. But he couldn't, so now the mix was irritating, fraying his nerves. And it smelt. Not quite enough to actually stink, but that would come soon enough with the fragrances mixing with sweat and food.
All of the sudden, Jaskier pitied Geralt. He knew the witcher had much finer senses than he did and if he was nearly overwhelmed-
A nigh unnoticeable touch at his elbow made him whip around. He stared directly at Geralt's face. "Are you alright?" the witcher asked quietly, concern etched onto every fibre of his body.
"Quite," Jaskier answered stiffly, letting his eyes sweep over the crowd until he spotted Ciri and Józefa at a table directly beneath the dais. “Let us join my lovely sister and cousin, shall we?” the Viscount announced with a bright smile frozen on his face as he crossed the threshold, a gentle hand on Geralt’s elbow to ensure he would follow.
There was no announcement, no herald making their arrival known, yet at least half a dozen heads turned their direction immediately. A hushed whisper spread through the ballroom with each of their footfalls, like ripples on a still lake during a rain shower that turned into a thunderstorm. A few moments passed, none of the attendants quite sure how to react—Julian Pankratz’ return had been surprising to all, disconcerting to most, and relieving to none.
Then: “Julian Pankratz!” a booming voice cut through the backdrop of murmurs, the crowd parting to let the speaker through. “I didn’t think you’d have the guts to show your face here.”
Jaskier’s lips curled into a true smile for but a moment when he recognised him. “Dawid,” he greeted his former friend, wincing slightly when he pounded on his shoulder, “I wouldn’t have if I had known you’d be here.”
The knight laughed at that, slung an arm around his shoulders and pulled him along. After that it was as if a wall had broken down. The journey to their places was torturously slow, continuously interrupted by former friends and lovers, now married and introducing their heirs, enemies and strangers, who sought to curry favours, or just regular attendants who just wanted an excuse to gawk at him.
They had almost made it, the end of their table already in touching distance, when another petitioner approached. It was a young boy, a squire, Jaskier guessed, dressed in Goldfurt’s livery, who bowed deeply. “My lord, my lord Goldfurt sends his regrets for the unfortunate seating situation,” the boy said with a wavering voice. “I am to let you know that there unfortunately is not enough space to accommodate all of your family as well as your witcher.”
Jaskier did not have to look up at the half-empty dais to know it was a blatant lie. “Unfortunate indeed,” he replied curtly.
“However, his lordship asked me to inform you that you yourself are welcome to join him at the high table, as are the two maidens who share his blood. And that you may rest assured, my lord, the witcher will enjoy himself just fine where he is.”
"I thank you kindly," Jaskier answered primly. "If you would do me the favour of relaying a message to her ladyship, now? Tell my sister, what is good enough for my witcher is good enough for me. I do not wish to add any additional strain to our familial relationship than there already is with our presence, which is why I am sure I will enjoy the festivities just as well down here as up there."
The boy stared up at him with wide eyes. "Lady Goldfurt," impressed upon him again. "If possible, in the presence of Lady Kerton." He nodded hastily and disappeared.
When Jaskier turned around with a sigh he was met with Geralt's dark expression. "What?"
"Do you think it advisable-"
He waved his hand around tiredly, continuing his path to Józefa and Ciri. Fuck, he was exhausted already and the banquet hadn't even started yet. "Do not worry about my wisdom, Geralt, I know more about these affairs than you do."
"It's not your wisdom or intelligence I question, I know you have both aplenty. It's your foresight. I do not know you to be a patient man."
"And I am not, but luckily it is not of the essence in this case. I am aware we tread on unfamiliar territory for you, but I grew up here. I am well aware of how far I, Julian of Lettenhove, can go before truly insulting someone. Lucky for us both, it is much farther that either you, Geralt of Rivia, or I, Jaskier the bard, could hope to. If anything, it will reflect poorly on our host to deny me my designated place over such a petty squabble. It will earn us sympathies!"
"What will earn us sympathies?" Ciri's eager voice asked.
"The fact that you will have to make do with this entirely new place for you, cublet, that is not at the side of the host of such a lavish gathering,” Jaskier replied and bowed with a flourish, taking her hand to kiss her knuckles. She giggled. “Madam, what a joy it is to see you. Truly, you are the jewel that crowns this evening; your beauty outshines the rising sun after a moonless night.”
“Thank you, Lord Lettenhove,” she answered with a perfect curtsy, during which the skirts of her dress flared out. Lettenhove ochre, just like his doublet, he noticed, and her dark hair plaited in an updo that must have taken hours to complete. It left no doubts as to where she belonged. She glanced up at him with a malicious glint in her eyes. "Do you know the best part?" she whispered.
He leaned down to her. "Tell me."
"The skirts are so wide, I could still gut a man in it."
Jaskier blinked in surprise; it was the quiet chuckle form Geralt that got him to finally break into laughter. "And what a good thing that is," he assured her.
"Fiona," Józefa chided softly. "I told you not to say that in nice company."
“Of course, cousin,” Ciri replied with a mischievous grin, “I would never.”
"Thank you," he said, rolling his eyes and winked at Ciri. He couldn't stop the feeling of pride welling up within him, but at least he could stop himself from hugging her by approaching his sister and kissing her hand as well. "You, madam, are just as dazzling as our young cousin. I fear I shall be blinded after this night, surrounded by so much beauty."
Behind him he heard Geralt whisper to Ciri: "What answer?"
"I just insulted him politely," Ciri answered just as hushed, evidently very proud himself.
Józefa huffed and crossed her arms under her chest. She was wearing an expensive red robe with orange embroidery and primroses etched on the edge. "You are a woeful waffler, brother. But you look good, too. Nice and proper."
"Nice and proper indeed," Jaskier replied and straightened his impeccable doublet. "You think I can fool them into thinking I am just as much of a stuck-up prick as my father was and as they are?"
"Hmm," she hummed and cast a quick glance around. "I think you already have. Maybe yell at a few servants or refuse to speak to any of the ladies if the topic is not their beauty if you really want to drive the point home."
He nodded thoughtfully. "Working on it, sister dearest. I'm working on it." He clapped his hands and smiled brightly. "Well, let's get comfortable, shall we?" he chirped and pulled the chair back for his sister and Ciri in turn.
When he turned to Geralt and quirked a curious eyebrow when he still found him standing. The witcher looked back and forth between Jaskier and his two wards before shrugging. Geralt pulled back his seat with the mockery of a bow.
He huffed a quiet laugh. "Thank you, my friend," Jaskier said with a subtle touch to Geralt's shoulder as he sat down.
"You're welcome. Julian," he said, as if he was probing out the taste of the unfamiliar name in his lips. A moment later he grimaced, as if it was particularly disgusting.
Jaskier was almost about to tease him about him when the great doors opened and Lord Goldfurt walked in with Janina on his arm. His sister looked magnificent, if he dared say so himself. While she usually didn't indulge in the luxuries that her advantageous marriage granted her, Jaskier was sure that she was wearing the most luxurious dress she had donned since her wedding. It was in dark and subdued tones, almost dark enough to count as mourning, that screamed "Lettenhove" at the same time.
Jaskier smirked. It had been a brilliant idea on Justyna's part.
The unhappy pair stopped before the dais, Janina stone-faced and Filip with a smile that fooled no-one. "My dear friends," he greeted them, "I am overjoyed that I am able to greet all of you once again at the beginning of this new year. May it bring prosperity and health for all of us. Especially my estranged brother-in-law, Julian Pankratz who has finally ascended to his rightful place as Lord Lettenhove. It's an honour and a pleasure to finally host the famous Pankratz siblings again. A shame that you are missing one of your matching set. What do you say, Julian? A toast of the famous poet!"
Jaskier rose from his seat to the thundering applause and bowed exaggeratedly. Somehow, this was the most calming thing he had done in months. "Thank you, thank you," he placated. " I fear neither honour nor pleasure are the words our hosts usually describe us with." It roused a laugh from the crowd. "But, for the sake of this tradition, we will behave.
"I am thrilled, though I am entirely undeserving of the praise. Here's to my sisters, who are more beautiful than a bouquet of larkspurs. To the Count of Goldfurt, our gracious host. It is my utmost joy to finally be reunited with my family and my home. To Redania! And to his beautiful lady wife, my sister, Janina of Lettenhove."
He could practically feel the temperature drop in the hall as soon as he had uttered the last words, all eyes trained on Goldfurt to see how he might react. He practically didn't react at all, besides begrudgingly raising his goblet to his mouth and taking the tiniest of sips. "To home," he agreed reluctantly, "and my lady wife."
Janina, on the other hand, barely contained her grin and drank a big gulp. "To home," she said as well and the toast echoed through the hall, slowly reciprocated by all of the guests. The toasts were mixed with murmurs of confusion that died as soon as the food started to appear.
The banquet itself was a dreary affair as noble banquets often were, especially if the people at your table were of the quiet sort. And what was Geralt if not the quietest of them all?
Still, Jaskier delighted in pointing out the Counts, Barons and knights to Ciri. Between Józefa and himself they managed not only to call up old history lessons of their neighbours and their connections to Lettenhove, but also a fair share of gossip as the first course was served: fish. Oh, and what fish it was. Platters upon platters of smoked cod was passed in front of them, along with roast pike and fat carps in beer sauce, accompanied with little pastries of perch, trout, and salmon.
It was good. No, divine even. Not as good as Ana's cooking at home, but that was hard to beat. Apart from that it might be the best food he'd eaten in years.
"Did you know," Józefa stage-whispered and leaned over to him, "that three years ago Goldfurt's aunt was found in flagrante with Dergetten's elder sister?"
Jaskier gasped, pretending to be scandalised. "You're kidding. That old bag?"
"What's in flagrante?" Ciri wanted to know and Geralt choked on his food. "Jaskier, what's it mean?"
"Umm," he felt his cheeks grow hot. "You know what? Geralt will gladly explain that to you." The witcher shot him a mean glare that betrayed that, no, he absolutely would not. At this point he decided that it was best to change the topic. "Do you see that old knight over there?" he asked and discreetly pointed at the table across the dance floor from them. "He's supposed to be a dragon slayer."
Geralt snorted disbelievingly, and Jaskier shrugged. "Oh, we all know he's a liar. He's got the dragon's wings hanging in his hall, I've seen them. If you ask me, it's a bat he killed. And not even an especially large one."
Ciri giggled at that and Jaskier happily continued to dish out child-appropriate rumours as the next round of dishes for them to choose from was paraded around. It was poultry next, roast chickens, chicken pastries, scalloped chickens. But also, a dozen herons, little carrot-nests with fieldfares, and truffled capon. And all along the wine flowed freely. Est-Est was brought out by the barrel, as well as dry reds, sweet whites and even the odd sparkling wine in between. Normally, Jaskier would have indulged happily, but he had the feeling that he should keep a clear head for the evening. Besides, he had monitor Ciri's alcohol intake, who readily charmed the servants into slipping another sip into her watered-down wine.
They had just advanced to the main courses—fourteen suckling pigs, two dozen roast veal, eight whole boars, a handful of oxen, with thick gravy, cooked and fried and braised roots and an overabundance of cabbages. White cabbages, red cabbages, pickled cabbage, cabbage salad—oh, how he missed Toussaint in the winter—when some puffed-up peacock playing at being a poet swaggered onto the dance floor. Jaskier huffed and crossed his arms, pointedly ignoring Geralt's bemused stares. 'The bardlet isn't even good,' Jaskier noted and forced himself to stop listening, else he might work himself into a rage over the blatant display of negative talent, that's what it was—
Geralt relieved a servant of her pitcher to refill both their goblets. Upon seeing Jaskier's questioning expression he shrugged. "Might make it more bearable for both of us," he explained and nudged the cup towards him. "This night I won't suffer sober."
He laughed hoarsely and clinked their cups together before taking a large gulp. "To sobriety, then."
"To banquets," Geralt added and glanced over to Ciri, "and no more surprises."
"What are you two talking about?" she wanted to know.
"The last banquet we attended together," Jaskier answered, steadfastly trying to ignore how his heart hurt at the thought. "It's where... we met your mother."
"Oh." She perked up at that, although her eyes seemed to grow sadder. "Was it... was it similar?"
"No," Jaskier said, just as Geralt replied: "Yes."
They blinked at each other for a moment before looking away. Jaskier tried to ignore the curious look Ciri gave him before she was distracted by Józefa again, the gods bless her soul. He was sure the little princess wasn't listening anymore and he was even more sure that Geralt was well aware of it, when the witcher growled: "The music was better."
"Excuse me?" he squeaked. Quickly, he cleared his throat. "Excuse me?" he asked again
He leaned over to him and Jaskier eyed him warily. "The bard's shit," he hissed. "Can't even carry a simple tune."
Well. That wasn't untrue. But hearing it from Geralt made him nearly spit out his wine. "You think all bards are shit," he responded as soon as he had recovered from his coughing fit.
"Bull-fucking-shit," Geralt growled. "I like your singing well enough."
He raised an incredulous eyebrow. "You called my singing a fillingless pie."
He shrugged. "And I still think that's true. Tasty crust," he impaled a piece of pie on his fork, "no filling." He pointed his fork at Jaskier. "Pretty voice, empty lyrics."
"Oh, so you think I have a pretty voice?" the words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. "Anything else about me that appeals to your artistic eye?"
"Hmm," Geralt answered and raked his eyes over Jaskier's body before quickly hiding his smile behind his goblet. Not quickly enough, though. His cheeks grew hot with the blush and he frowned darkly.
'Stop it,' he commanded himself. 'No use reading meanings into something where nothing's there.' He drained his water glass. He was is desperate need of a clear head, for he was quite aware that the heat coursing through his body was not merely caused by the many people getting drunk in the room.
At least he could distract himself with dessert being served: sweet pumpkin pies and baked, stuffed apples, red berry groats and oat biscuits with honey and cinnamon. Jaskier was quick enough to snatch the cup of mulled wine out of Ciri's hands, but could hardly protest the platter laden with all different kinds of sweets—not when his plate didn't look any different.
He passed the goblet he had just salvaged over to Geralt, who just scoffed. "Oh, now he's ripping off your songs," the witcher grumbled. "Ridiculous."
Jaskier sighed. "Let him." He knew there were enough impostors; he had stopped caring years ago.
"He's not even getting the lyrics right."
"I thought they were empty anyways," he remarked and popped a biscuit into his mouth.
"Not the point."
"Jaskier," Ciri interrupted them, "they're starting to dance."
He frowned as he saw Goldfurt leading Janina onto the dance floor to signify the end of the dinner. He sighed as he caught Lady Alina's eye on the other side of the hall. No doubt he would be expected to share at least one dance with his betrothed, for propriety's sake.
"I suppose you should join them, Julian," Geralt quipped and crossed his arms as they watched Justyna and Damian join them on the dance floor.
"I suppose I should."
"Well?"
He rolled his eyes. "Maybe later. For the moment, allow me to abuse your presence to hide from my duties." He watched his two sisters dance when another thought hit him: "Wait, how do you know that the lyrics are wrong?"
Jaskier could've sworn he saw a blush creep up Geralt's cheeks as the witcher grumbled something unintelligible and hid behind his tankard again.
"Geralt of Rivia," Jaskier gasped indignantly, "are you trying to tell me, you memorised my songs?"
"Don't flatter yourself."
“I—” Jaskier began, only to be interrupted by Józefa: “Julian,” she called his attention. “I believe you should honour the Lady Alina with a dance.”
“Fine,” he ground out and rose to his feet. “I believe I have to surrender you to my sister’s care for a while, so I fear our conversation will have to come to a close for the moment.”
“Pity,” the witcher grumbled and leaned back in his seat, obviously not finding it a pity at all.
Jaskier laughed as if he had just told a joke. “Do try to enjoy yourself, my friend.” He winked, though his heart sank. “I’ll be back.”
He wasn’t quite sure if he should be relieved or not to leave the witcher and his sour mood behind, though he was sure that his own mood grew worse with every step. Eyes and whispers clung to him all along the way, although he pretended not to hear.
He couldn’t deny them their right to gossip; they were landed gentry after all, what else were they supposed to do with their pitiable lives? He’d just prefer that gossip to be limited to him and not the newest two additions to his household.
He had been hesitant, at first, to bring both of them to Goldfurt. Truly the last thing on earth they needed was more attention on Lettenhove. But after some long talks with Józefa they had come to the conclusion that there were rumours anyways. Not bringing the two of them along would look even more conspicuous.
In the end, he wasn’t the one who found his betrothed, for she beat him to the chase. “Lord Lettenhove,” she called for his attention.
“Lady Alina,” he did little to mask his surprise. “You’re just the one I was looking for.”
“Were you now?” She raised her eyebrows. “No doubt for the same reasons as I do.”
“And which might those be?”
“To satisfy my brother’s demands that we socialise, of course,” she replied and raised her fan to hide her exaggerated yawn. “Is there not a question you should ask me?”
Jaskier bowed gracefully. "May I have this dance, my lady?"
“You may.” She barely even bothered with a curtsy before she let herself be led to the centre of the dance floor. The spent about half of the dance in icy silence, before Lady Alina finally spoke up: “So, are the rumours true then?”
“Rumours?” he feigned ignorance.
She snorted. “Do not insult me, Lettenhove. We both know that you are well aware what I am talking about.”
Of course, he knew. The whole society talked about nothing else but Fiona Nowak’s parents. There was a myriad of different stories where she came from and why she was in Lettenhove now, many of which he and Józefa had planted themselves. The most wide-spread, however, was the only one that he had actually tried to extinguish: “If you want to pretend, you’re more stupid than you actually are, fine. Let me be frank, my lord. Is young Miss Nowak your bastard daughter?”
He locked his jaw. “Those rumours are none that I encouraged,” he answered curtly.
“That does not answer my question.”
“And yet it is the only answer I will give on that matter,” he insisted. He had no wish to discuss the matter any further, so he was not quite sure what made him continue talking: “Though it is true that she is very dear to me, as is her safety. I would do anything to keep her safe.”
“How admirable,” she responded drily. “Though again, I would have thought the cleverness of your sisters runs in the family. I am disappointed to see that it doesn’t.”
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Ouch.’ Were he a man easily slighted, he would have taken offence. In reality, though, he was only impressed. “Are you well acquainted with them, my lady?”
“With some better than others. Did you know that I spent a few years in Nowigrad?”
He tensed up and she laughed.
“Of course, you did. You avoided the city like the plague back then.” Lady Alina smiled politely. “Well, Jolanta sends her regards.”
He frowned. She had never told him that she knew his former fiancée.
“She also lets you know that another friend of yours is growing restless with… this.” She made a vague gesture at the gossiping nobles around them.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I could not say, my lord, I am but the messenger.” The music stopped and she stepped back from him immediately. “I believe we have satisfied our duties. Good night, my lord.”
Even after leaving his fiancée in the arms of another, the dancing did not stop. Instead of his feet tracing patterns over the floor, his words took over as he found himself getting sucked deeper and deeper into the deadly dance of deception that was so popular with all nobles. Whenever he spun, trying to step off the dance floor of politics he found himself in the slippery grasp of yet another opponent. Chief among them, of course, were his sisters.
"Despicable old bag," Janina hissed, still eyeing the dowager Baroness he had rescued her from. "She's rotten to the bone."
"A Dergetten through and through," he agreed. "Józefa told me she’s the reason Lady Zibold came down with that horrible stomach sickness two years ago."
"Really, Julek?" She rolled her eyes. "You, churning the rumour mill?"
He shrugged. He had never claimed to be above these petty squabbles; he was landed gentry, after all, what else was he supposed to do with his pitiable life?
He spun away from her, soon to be embraced by another lady. All the while he danced, he could hear the rumours continue to spread like wildfire.
“Did you hear Lettenhove had the witcher bring his bastard to his keep?” he heard one nobleman whisper.
“She’s supposed to be the daughter of some whore,” another quipped.
“Don’t be a fool, Alma, she’s the Countess de Stael’s daughter; remember how she retreated to a temple for a few months a decade ago?”
“No, she has elf blood in her veins, it’s why he hid her.”
On and on the whispers went and Jaskier couldn’t help but roll his eyes at them. Not a single one of them got even close to the truth. He supposed he had to be grateful for that and he couldn’t resist the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when he saw her. She was hand in hand with Daria, sweeping over the dance floor and disturbing this dancing couples in the process.
He spun a web of lies to evade a landed knight’s curious questions and found himself on the dancefloor again within the blink of an eye, Justyna in his arms.
"I am glad to see her so joyous," he said with a fond smile as Ciri and Daria swept past them again, nearly knocking Janina and Goldfurt over in the process. "Both of them." His smile widened even more when he saw her keeping her husband from reprimanding them. 'You can't hide from me, Janka,' he thought triumphantly, 'she's gotten to you just as much as to the rest of us.'
Justyna hummed her approval. "She's a sullen child, is she not? I feared she might faint during our first meeting."
Jaskier sighed. "She's been through a lot, Konwalia. She's seen so many bad things, worse than anything you or me can imagine, and she's just a child."
He stepped away to bow to her as she spun away from him. When he pulled her close again, she averted her gaze. "Maybe I didn't give you enough credit. Maybe you might be able to understand."
“Maybe I might be,” he agreed cautiously. “Where’s Julek, by the way? I don’t think I’ve seen him in hours.”
"He's— Miss Nina put him to bed. He was... not feeling well."
"He's a quiet boy."
"He is. Easily overwhelmed, too. He doesn't smile a lot either. He's a good boy, though," she assured him quickly.
"That I do not doubt," he said and smiled. She didn't return it. "Justyna?" Her gaze flickered away nervously as she tugged on her sleeve. It was a bad habit their father had beaten out of her even before he'd left. It worried him. “You—I am aware that you think me unable to comprehend your worries, and maybe you are right and I am. However, I hope that you would still confide in me after all these years. If there is anything short of murder and treason within my power to help you and yours, I will do it, without hesitation.”
She kept silent for a few more moments, looking uneasy. "It's Damian," she told him quietly. "He believes him a changeling."
He huffed disbelievingly. “A changeling?”
“Yes,” she confirmed. “That’s what he settled for after accusing me of adultery first. He does not believe that a son of his could be this—”
“Inadequate?” Jaskier offered, well-acquainted with that particular paternal sentiment.
“He is not what he wants his son to be. Not courageous, not knightly enough, while Daria is—not enough of a boy to be precisely that.”
“And isn’t that a familiar tune?” Jaskier sighed quietly. “I am sorry your son takes this much after his namesake.”
“I am not.” She raised her chin defiantly. “For I love his namesake, just as I love my son.”
“I am glad to hear that.” The song ended and they both took a step backwards. Jaskier reached down and gently lifted her knuckles to his lips. “Worry not, my lady. For the time being, you are guests in Lettenhove, protected by my castle peace. And I happen to be quite fond of cowards, monsters, and inadequate children.”
Her expression softened. “I know you are. Thank you, Jaskier.”
He squeezed her hand briefly, before excusing himself, in desperate need of a drink—and a conversation with a certain witcher, he believed. The ballroom floor was as dangerous a terrain as it had been the whole evening, but Jaskier deftly dodged those who threatened to converse with him before collapsing in the chair next to Geralt. "Finally," he sighed and gladly took the goblet his witcher handed him.
“Did you have fun, Julian?” Geralt asked him and Jaskier raised an incredulous eyebrow.
“Did I look like I was having fun?” he countered.
“I am sure there was quite a number of attendants you managed to fool.” The unspoken ‘but not me’ hang heavy in the air between them and for a moment he allowed himself to bask in the familiarity of that. Jaskier closed his eyes, the noise and smell and lights draining away with every heartbeat until he could pretend it was just the two of them in a lonely clearing, sharing a skin of sour wine. Just them, just friends, just a witcher and his bard.
The illusion was sundered all too soon by a voice they had suffered all too long for one evening already. "Good sirs, might I persuade you to make a request?” Jaskier opened his eyes again and found himself staring into the young and bright-eyed face of a bard whose hopes and dreams were surely about to be crushed. The boy smiled widely and bowed. “Along with a bit of constructive criticism, mayhaps?"
Jaskier exchanged a quick glance with Geralt and, slowly and deliberately, set down his goblet as he waited for the answer he knew would come: "You changed the lyrics," Geralt stated, "not for the better."
"And how would you know?" the bardling asked with too much enthusiasm and tilted his head to the side. He gave them both a thorough look before gasping with excitement. "Oh, I know who you are! You're the witcher, Geralt of Rivia. And you-" He turned to Jaskier and his eyes grew wide. "Master Jaskier!" He bowed deeply. "It's an honour to meet you, truly it is. I have studied all of your work, sir, I am one of your greatest admirers."
He did his best to hide his pained expression with a smile. "I fear I do not go by that name anymore. I am old and weary; it is time for the new generation to get a chance. Viscount Lettenhove, if you please."
“Of course, my lord. And, if I may be so bold: wise words, wise words indeed,” the bard preened, too caught up in his speech to notice Geralt’s elbow landing in Jaskier’s ribcage or the wheeze that escaped him at that. "Might I humbly request a piece of advice of you? It would honour me greatly, no matter—”
"You may," he interrupted him and shot a glance at Geralt. "Stop singing other people's songs."
"But-"
"Don't interrupt him," Geralt growled.
“Thank you, my witcher,” Jaskier said and twirled his goblet in his hand. “See, young man, here’s the issue: you may be a bard, might even call yourself a strolling minstrel, and yet you are living off another’s hard work. I do not begrudge you for it; repeating songs you have heard certainly is a way to make your living. Mind you, however, that a poet, a troubadour, a veritable minstrel is, first and foremost, an artist.”
“But—” the bardling laughed nervously. “But I do not paint pictures.”
“Evidently,” Geralt grumbled just as Jaskier asked: “Don’t you?” He sighed and took a sip. “I certainly did. My experiences were my canvas, my emotions my paints, my aching heart my brush. Which is why I cannot sing the songs of another. How can you aspire to give a true performance, pour your heart and soul into it, if you don't even know what you're singing? You're still young, so go out into the world while you still have the chance. See if you don't find something that's worth singing about."
"How will I know that I have found such a thing?"
"Oh,” he stared into his goblet, “you will."
"But what is it? Will my heart stop when I spot it? Will—Will I lay my life on the line for it? Is it something worth dying for?"
"No," Jaskier said softly, "your life will stop, that much is true; but it isn't something that ends so much as something that begins. You will know when you have found something worth singing about, when you find something worth living for."
Next to him, his witcher choked on his wine.
#my writing#of witchers bards and broken hearts#OWBABH#geraskier#geralt of rivia#jaskier#julian alfred pankratz#geraskier fanfiction#the witcher fanfiction#geraltxjaskier#geralt/jaskier#cirilla of cintra
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RWBY Character Analysis: Pietro and Penny Polendina
Up until now I’ve been keeping quiet about my opinions on the newest volume, in no small part because my personal life has been one absurd setback after another, and I haven’t had the energy to engage in fandom meta. If you do want to know what my current opinion of RWBY is, go over to @itsclydebitches blog, search through her #rwby-recaps tag, and read every single one. At this point, her metas are basically an itemized list of all my grievances with the show. I highly recommend you check ’em out.
Or, if you don’t feel like reading several hours’ worth of recaps, then go find a sheet of paper, give yourself a papercut, and then squeeze a lemon into it. That should give you an accurate impression of my feelings.
In truth, I have a lot to say about the show, particularly how I think CRWBY has mishandled the plot, characters, tone, and intended message of their series. And while I enjoy dissecting RWBY with what amounts to mad scientist levels of glee, I think plenty of other folks have already discussed V7′s and V8′s various issues in greater depth and with far more eloquence. Any contribution I could theoretically make at this point would be somewhat redundant.
That being said, I’d like to talk about something that’s been bothering me for a while, which (to my knowledge) no one else in the fandom has brought up. (And feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.)
Today’s topic of concern is Pietro Polendina, and his relationship with Penny.
And because I’m absolutely certain this post is going to be controversial and summon anonymous armchair critics to fill my inbox with sweary claptrap, I may as well just come out and say it:
Pietro Polendina, as he’s currently portrayed in the show, is an inherently abusive parental figure.
Let me take a second to clarify that I don’t think it was RWBY’s intention to portray Pietro that way. Much like other aspects of the show, a lot of nuance is often lost when discussing the difference between intention versus implementation, or telling versus showing. It’s what happens when a writer tries to characterize a person one way, but in execution portrays them in an entirely different light. Compounding this problem is what feels like a series of rather myopic writing decisions that started as early as Volume 2, concerning Penny’s sense of agency, and how the canon would bear out the implications of an autonomous being grappling with her identity. It’s infuriating that the show has spent seven seasons staunchly refusing to ask any sort of ethical questions surrounding her existence, only to then—with minimal setup—give us Pietro’s “heartfelt” emotional breakdown when he has to choose between “saving” Penny or “sacrificing” her for the greater good.
Yeah, no thanks.
If we want to talk about why this moment read as hollow and insincere, we need to first make sure everyone’s on the same page.
Spoilers for V8.E5 - “Amity.” Let’s not waste any time.
In light of the newest episode and its—shall we say—questionable implications, I figured now was the best time to bring it up while the thoughts were still fresh in my mind. (Because nothing generates momentum quite like frothing-at-the-mouth rage.)
The first time we’re told anything about Pietro, it comes from an exchange between Penny and Ruby. From V2.E2 - “A Minor Hiccup.”
Penny: I've never been to another kingdom before. My father asked me not to venture out too far, but... You have to understand, my father loves me very much. He just worries a lot.
Ruby: Believe me, I know the feeling. But why not let us know you were okay?
Penny: I…was asked not to talk to you. Or Weiss. Or Blake. Or Yang. Anybody, really.
Ruby: Was your dad that upset?
Penny: No, it wasn’t my father.
The scene immediately diverts our attention to a public unveiling of the AK-200. A hologram of James Ironwood is presenting this newest model of Atlesian Knight to a crowd of enthusiastic spectators, along with the Atlesian Paladin, a piloted mech. During the demonstration, James informs his audience that Atlas’ military created them with the intent of removing people from the battlefield and mitigating casualties (presumably against Grimm).
Penny is quickly spotted by several soldiers, and flees. Ruby follows, and in the process the two are nearly hit by a truck. Penny’s display of strength draws a crowd and prompts her to retreat into an alley, where Ruby learns that Penny isn’t “a real girl.”
This scene continues in the next episode, “Painting the Town…”
Penny: Most girls are born, but I was made. I’m the world’s first synthetic person capable of generating an Aura. [Averts her gaze.] I’m not real…
After Ruby assures her that no, you don’t have to be organic in order to have personhood, Penny proceeds to hug her with slightly more force than necessary.
Ruby: [Muffled noise of pain.] I can see why your father would want to protect such a delicate flower!
Penny: [Releases Ruby.] Oh, he’s very sweet! My father’s the one that built me! I’m sure you would love him.
Ruby: Wow. He built you all by himself?
Penny: Well, almost! He had some help from Mr. Ironwood.
Ruby: The general? Wait, is that why those soldiers were after you?
Penny: They like to protect me, too!
Ruby: They don't think you can protect yourself?
Penny: They're not sure if I'm ready yet. One day, it will be my job to save the world, but I still have a lot left to learn. That's why my father let me come to the Vytal Festival. I want to see what it's like in the rest of the world, and test myself in the Tournament.
Their conversation is interrupted by the sound of the approaching soldiers from earlier. Despite Ruby’s protests, Penny proceeds to yeet her into the nearby dumpster, all while reassuring her that it’s to keep Ruby out of trouble, not her. When the soldiers arrive, they ask her if she’s okay, then proceed to lightly scold her for causing a scene. Penny’s told that her father “isn’t going to be happy about this,” and is then politely asked (not ordered; asked) to let them escort her back.
Let’s take a second to break down these events.
When these two episodes first aired, the wording and visuals (“No, it wasn’t my father,” followed by the cutaway to James unveiling the automatons) implied that James was the one forbidding her from interacting with other people. It’s supposed to make you think that James is being restrictive and harsh, while Pietro is meant as a foil—the sweet, but cautious father figure. But here’s the thing: both of these depictions are inaccurate, and frankly, Penny’s the one at fault here. Penny blew her cover within minutes of interacting with Ruby—a scenario that Penny was responsible for because she was sneaking off without permission. Penny is a classified, top-secret military project, as made clear by the fact that she begs Ruby to not say anything to anyone. Penny is in full acknowledgement that her existence, if made public, could cause massive issues for her (something that she’s clearly experienced before, if her line, “You’re taking this extraordinarily well,” is anything to go by).
But here’s the thing—keeping Penny on a short leash wasn’t a unilateral decision made by James. That was Pietro’s choice as well. “My father asked me not to venture out too far,” “Your father isn’t going to be happy about this”—as much as this scene is desperately trying to put the onus on James for Penny’s truant behavior, Pietro canonically shares that blame. And Penny (to some extent) is in recognition of the fact that she did something wrong.
Back in Volumes 1 – 3, before the series butchered James’ characterization, these moments were meant as pretty clever examples of foreshadowing and subverting the controlling-military-general trope. This scene is meant to illustrate that yes, Penny is craving social interaction outside of military personnel as a consequence of being hidden, but that hiding her is also a necessity. It’s a complicated situation with no easy answer, but it’s also something of a necessary evil (as Penny’s close call with the truck and her disclosing that intel to Ruby are anything to go by).
Let’s skip ahead to Volume 7, shortly after Watts tampered with the drone footage and framed her for several deaths. In V7.E7 - “Worst Case Scenario,” a newscaster informs us that people in Atlas and Mantle want Penny to be deactivated, despite James’ insistence that the footage was doctored and Penny didn’t go on a killing spree. The public’s unfavorable opinion of Penny—a sentiment that Jacques of all people embodies when he brings it up in V7.E8—reinforces V2’s assessment of why keeping her secret was necessary. Not only is her existence controversial because Aura research is still taboo, but people are afraid that a mechanical person with military-grade hardware could be hacked and weaponized against them. (Something which Volume 8 actually validates when James has Watts take control of her in the most recent episode.)
But I digress.
We’re taken to Pietro’s lab, where Penny is hooked up to some sort of recharge/docking station. Ruby, Weiss, and Maria look on in concern while the machine is uploading the visual data from her systems. There’s one part of their conversation I want to focus on in particular:
Pietro: When the general first challenged us to find the next breakthrough in defense technology, most of my colleagues pursued more obvious choices. I was one of the few who believed in looking inward for inspiration.
Ruby: You wanted a protector with a soul.
Pietro: I did. And when General Ironwood saw her, he did too. Much to my surprise, the Penny Project was chosen over all the other proposals.
Allow me to break down their conversation so we can fully appreciate what he’s actually saying.
The Penny Project was picked as the candidate for the next breakthrough in defense technology.
Pietro wanted a protector with a SOUL.
In RWBY, Aura and souls are one of the defining characteristics of personhood. Personhood is central to Penny’s identity and internal conflict (particularly when we consider that she’s based on Pinocchio). That’s why Penny accepts Ruby’s reassurances that she’s a real person. That’s why she wants to have emotional connections with others.
What makes that revelation disturbing is when you realize that Pietro knowingly created a child soldier.
Look, there’s no getting around this. Pietro fully admits that he wanted to create a person—a human being—a fucking child—as a "defense technology” to throw at the Grimm (and by extension, Salem). Everything, from the language he uses, to the mere fact that he entered Penny in the Vytal Tournament as a proving ground where she could “test [her]self,” tells us that he either didn’t consider or didn’t care about the implications behind his proposal.
When you break it all down, this is what we end up with:
“Hey, I have an idea: Why don’t we make a person, cram as many weapons as we can fit into that person, and then inform her every day for the rest of her life that she was built for the sole purpose of fighting monsters, just so we don’t have to risk the lives of others. Let’s then take away anything remotely resembling autonomy, minimize her interactions with people, and basically indoctrinate her into thinking that this is something she wants for herself. Oh, and in case she starts to raise objections, remind her that I donated part of my soul to her. If we make her feel guilty about this generous sacrifice I made so she could have the privilege of existing, she won’t question our motives. Next, let’s give her a taste of freedom by having her fight in a gladiatorial blood sport so that we can prove our child soldier is an effective killer. And then, after she’s brutally murdered on international television, we can rebuild her and assign her to protecting an entire city that’s inherently prejudiced against her, all while I brood in my lab about how sad I am.”
Holy fuck. Watts might be a morally bankrupt asshole, but at least his proposal didn’t hinge on manufacturing state-of-the-art living weapons. They should have just gone with his idea.
(Which, hilariously enough, they did. Watts is the inventor of the Paladins—Paladins which, I’ll remind you, were invented so the army could remove people from the battlefield. You know, people. Kind of like what Penny is.)
Do you see why this entire scene might have pissed me off? Even if the show didn’t intend for any of this to be the case, when you think critically about the circumstances there’s no denying the tacit implications.
To reiterate, V8.E5 is the episode where Pietro says, and I quote:
“I don’t care about the big picture! I care about my daughter! I lost you before. Are you asking me to go through that again? No. I want the chance to watch you live your life.”
Oh, yeah? And what life is that? The one where she’s supposed to kill Grimm and literally nothing else? You do realize that she died specifically because you made her for the purpose of fighting, right?
No one, literally no one, was holding a gun to Pietro’s head and telling him that he had to build a living weapon. That was his idea. He chose to do that.
Remember when Cinder said, “I don’t serve anyone! And you wouldn’t either, if you weren’t built that way.” She…basically has a point. Penny has never been given the option to explore the world in a capacity where she wasn’t charged with defending it by her father. We know she doesn’t have many friends, courtesy of Ironwood dissuading her against it in V7. But I’m left with the troubling realization that the show (and the fandom), in their crusade to vilify James, are ignoring the fact that Pietro is also complicit in this behavior by virtue of being her creator. If we condemn the man that prevents Penny from having relationships, then what will we do to the man who forced her into that existence in the first place?
Being her “father” has given him a free pass to overlook the ethics of having a child who was created with a pre-planned purpose. How the hell did the show intend for Pietro to reconcile “I want you to live your life” with “I created you so you’d spend your life defending the world”? It viscerally reminds me of the sort of narcissistic parents who have kids because they want to pass on the family name, or continue their bloodline, or have live-in caregivers when they get older, only on a larger and much more horrific scale. And that’s fucked up.
Now, I’m not saying I’m against having a conflict like this in the show. In fact, I’d love to have a character who has to grapple with her own humanity while questioning the environment she grew up in. Penny is a character who is extremely fascinating because of all the potential she represents—a young woman who through a chance encounter befriends a group of strangers, and over time, is exposed to freedoms and friendships she was previously denied. Slowly, she begins to unlearn the mindset she was indoctrinated with, and starts to petition for agency and autonomy. Pietro is forced to confront the fact that what he did was traumatic and cruel, and that his love for her doesn’t erase the harm he unintentionally subjected her to, nor does it change the fact that he knowingly burdened a person with a responsibility she never consented to. There’s a wealth of character growth and narrative payoff buried here, but like most things in RWBY, it was either underdeveloped or not thought through all the way.
The wholesome father-daughter relationship the show wants Pietro and Penny to have is fundamentally contradicted by the nature of her existence, and the fact that no one (besides the villains) calls attention to it. I’d love for them to have that sort of dynamic, but the show had to do more to earn it. Instead, it’ll forever be another item on RWBY’s ever-growing list of disappointments—
Because Pietro’s remorse is more artificial than Penny could ever hope to be.
#rwby#rwby volume 8#rwby spoilers#rwby thought dump#my posts#i speak#rwby meta#pietro polendina#penny polendina#james ironwood#arthur watts#ruby rose#rwby worldbuilding#rwde
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@abyssmalice posted a letter:
(On some very fancy paper, with two types of handwriting; the majority, though, is written in a messy, childish tone - )
Dear Ded Moroz,
I heard my big brother became your helper! How did that happen? Did he lose a bet to you? But since my brother is helping you now, do I get extra gifts for being his little sister? Even if I'm technically from another world
If I can have extra gifts, then the first thing I'd like to get is a whole mountain of cake! The second thing is a year-long vacation. I also want a third gift but I can't think of one. Weird. So surprise me! In a good way. Otherwise I'll hunt you down and put spiders in your bed, how would like that huh.
Older Me is looking at me with that look in her eye now, so I'll stop here. Don't forget my presents okay.
Sincerely,
Tonia
(in a more eloquent hand - )
P.S.: My apologies, Ajax. If I had known she would take my little jest about you sending letters to Ded Moroz seriously, I would have urged her to write something more polite. It's a bit too late now, I suppose.
Take care, and don't run yourself too ragged trying to fulfill our little sister's outrageous requests. You also have to enjoy the season festivities, alright?
Event: Voices Carried Across the Tundra
Ajax chuckles as he reads the letter by candlelight, envisioning the scene of his sisters from an alternate world writing their parts of the letter. Raising his cup to his lips, he sips at his tea as he contemplates his response.
With a resolute nod of his head, the young man places the letter at the top of his desk, returns his cup to the wood, and prepares his writing supplies. Reaching for the nicest quill he owns, Ajax begins to write two separate letters:
Dearest Tonia Agafonova,
Thank you very much for your requests, and I find myself also greatly surprised you managed to reach me as opposed to your universe's counterpart of myself. Regardless, I can only complete one of your requests to remain fair with the rest of the children writing letters to me. I can only do so much in the time leading up to the holidays and I do hope you can understand..
As for your present, I have arranged with Freyja for you to recieve a maximum of three candy or chocolate apples a day from the 7th until the 31st of January. Now don't let me catch you asking for a toothbrush next year, young lady!
Sincerely,
Ded Moroz
Dearest Tonia Agapova,
You have nothing to worry about dearest sister (besides the fact I promised our baby sister three candy or chocolate apples a day throughout the month of January, though I have included a nod that she needs to brush her teeth so I hope that more than makes up for it).
If you would like, I can send you a box of homemade Snezhnayan chocolates. I believe it has been quite some time since you last visited home
but I hope the treats taste just as good as you remember.
Please take good care of yourself and I hope you'll allow me to visit on occasion.
Love,
Ajax Rybakov Alexeivich
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A/N: For the @bnhamoonsunzine! I wanted to do something soft after the festival arc.
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Sprawled on the ground, Kaminari woke up to a pounding in his head and a stiff back. He lay still, staring at the cloudy night sky, feeling an unfamiliar weight across his waist. His sides were warm. This was not his bed. Actually, this was not a bed at all, this was the sandy beach and it was a big mistake to sleep like this. Looking to his left, he groaned as he saw Izuku’s feet next to him. That would mean…Kaminari looked down and groaned again. Kirishima’s arm was hanging limply over his waist, his friend lying spread out as though to cover the most space. Maybe it was a manly thing in his eyes but it was a disappointment in Kaminari’s.
Slowly, he slowly examined his surroundings. Lying prone around him were the rest of his classmates: some on the chairs, some on the ground like him. A handful had managed to make it back to tents the teachers had set up. Around them were streamers, plastic cups, and cake crumbs, the remnants of their afterparty. After having the world’s best culture fair, with the most rocking band, they’d all celebrated. And maybe over-celebrated—Kaminari had never seen Iida loosen up and dance like he had and he wasn’t sure if he ever wanted to see it again.
He wasn’t sure how they managed to convince the teachers to let them have a beach party. Maybe it was because it was November and no one was there anyways. Or maybe they needed a break too; they’d been cooped up inside of their school for so long. Either way, he was glad to finally take a break from it all: the villains, the fights, the homework. Kaminari closed his eyes, listening to the waves as they gently lapped the shore.
Now that he was thinking about it, he was thirsty. And hot. Definitely hot, his friends were like heaters next to him. Carefully, he picked up Kirishima’s hand and tossed it off. Fortunately, the big lug was as dense in his sleep as he was awake and just mumbled something unintelligible as he rolled over. Kaminari sighed with relief. So far so good. Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet. Now he just had to make it through the obstacle course of his friends and he could find something in the cooler. Hell, he could even sleep in his sleeping bag after this; the sky above didn’t look like it was going to be day anytime soon.
As he lowered his eyes, he noticed a figure further down the beach, by the pier: Jirou’s. Forgetting all about his thirst, he quietly wandered toward her, carefully dodging his classmates and the trash they’d left behind. Despite it being November, the air was still warm. A breeze ruffled through his hair, carrying with it the quiet notes of Jirou’s guitar. Now that he was closer, he could see her holding her instrument, strumming it every now and then as she cleaned it and tightened the strings. Padding over, he asked, “You really love that, huh?”
“Wha—?” Immediately, Jirou’s earjacks tangled around his feet and he tripped. He cried as he hit the wooden pier and she looked at him in surprise. “Oh, it’s you—don’t surprise me like that!”
“I wasn’t trying to,” he groaned, rubbing his chin as he sat up. Hopefully, nothing was bleeding. “You should have been paying more attention.”
“And you should have reacted quicker,” Jirou snapped back, her ears red. No doubt it was embarrassment for what had just happened. She’d never been one for apologizing, a trait she shared with Bakugou. “What’re you doing here?”
“I saw you.” Kaminari sat down near her, looking curiously at her guitar. It was a different one than the one they’d used for the band, a big wooden one that didn’t look anything at all like that electric monster. Faintly, he remembered her bringing it down for the party. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“I dunno, just felt like playing something. And I wanted to clean it up from all the soda you kept splashing on it.” Jirou patted the guitar, smiling.
“You had to do that all the way here?” he asked, raising a brow. The only thing the pier had going for it was the lamp posts behind him, bathing them both in a pool of light. While there wasn’t much sand here, there was a little. If there was one guarantee about sand, it was this: it got everywhere. “What about your tent?”
“…right. I could have done it there.” Jirou slapped her forehead. She started to stand up. “I’ll go, don’t want to wake anyone else up.”
Immediately, he latched onto her wrist, preventing her from getting up. When she looked at him, perplexed, he shook his head, letting go of her arm. “You didn’t wake me. And it’s nice here. So, stay?”
It was the least eloquent he’d felt his whole life but she stayed put anyways. “It is nice out,” she agreed. That was Jirou-nese for ‘I want to stay’. He was starting to get a read on her, get a hang of the strange ways she acted.
“You were great today.” Crossed his arms behind his head, leaning back into it. “I can’t believe you can play so many instruments and sing—you should be in a band or something.”
“Or something,” she echoed, going back to adjusting her guitar. Her eyes remained strained on the knobs even as she answered. “My parents are musicians, actually.”
“Really?” Then again, considering her bedroom, he could believe it. Either that or she was a music nut. Or both. Definitely both.
“Yeah, but I want to do something more…heroic. Help more people.” Jirou strummed her guitar again, her lithe fingers dancing on the chords. “I can always sing after.”
If he had that much talent and a chance at a cushy life, would he have made the same decision? Probably not. Half of the reason he came here was because he didn’t really have any other plans. “That’s amazing.”
Looking embarrassed, Jirou shook her head. “Not really.”
She always did that. Putting herself down, acting like her talents were nothing—it was one thing to be humble, it was another to pretend she had no skills whatsoever. Kaminari frowned. “Don’t.”
“Don’t?” She blinked, staring at him blankly.
“You always make it sound like it’s no big deal, but it is.” He moved, ignoring her surprised intake of air as he sat next to her. Leaning close, he glared. “Take credit for what you do. It’s amazing. You’re amazing. Stop pretending otherwise.”
“I…” She swallowed, scooching back a smidge. “I guess you’re right.” Tucking her hair behind her ear, she grinned. “I am good at music.”
“Yeah, you are!” He agreed, smiling broadly back. “You’re amazing, good at music, heroic—”
“Alright, alright, I get it!” She laughed, embarrassed.
“And cute,” he added with a wink.
Jirou glared at him, flushing. “Ok, enough with the teasing.”
He wasn’t. The blush on her cheeks only made her cuter, but Kaminari had enough wits about him to know better than to say that. She’d probably punch him and he didn’t want to ruin the mood. Glancing at her guitar, he changed the topic. “So you don’t only play rock?”
Eyeing him suspiciously, she nodded. “Yeah. I like rock the best but my parents taught me different styles and how to mix them.”
“So you’re like a DJ?” he guessed.
Her withering glare told him otherwise. “No, that’s a different skill entirely.” When he fell silent with a sheepish look, she sighed. “It’s more like…uh, how’s this.”
Jirou started strumming her guitar, a familiar sound he recognized as Born to be Wild. Only…only different. Maybe it was the guitar itself, the strings softening the sound. Occasionally the notes didn’t sound quite right, like Jirou had tweaked them, plucking them from the song and rearranging them. It became a song he knew and didn’t know. After playing half the song, she stopped and looked at him, her eyes shining. “See?”
If she had been cute before, she was downright beautiful now. Kaminari swallowed, barely able to nod. His neck felt hot, his palms sweaty, and just like the song, he felt different. Like she’d plucked his emotions and rearranged them. Now he was the one who couldn’t look at her. “Do you know any others?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Her eyes drifted off him and he breathed in relief as she focused on her guitar. Still excited, she jumped from song to song, rearranging melodies as easy as counting to three. “What about this one?”
Kaminari looked up at the stars, listening. His eyes started to slide shut. It was strange, despite them being rock songs, they felt like a lullaby. Head heavy, he started to lean to the side. Falling on Jirou’s shoulder, he felt her stiffen before sighing. Exasperated, he was sure, but hopefully there was some fondness in it too.
Hopefully.
She said something unintelligible and he was asleep before she switched songs.
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Hi hi! I just wanted to ask how often you update your fic! I’m really excited to start reading it, as I love stories over 100k and I am just so happy to find something so eloquently written! I am not looking forward to not having any more chapters to read, but I am a patient person! I just wanted to know what your schedule is like and if it is anywhere near the end? :)
Hiya :D So this is a bit complicated for me to answer. Not because of you, but because of how I'm working on Finding the Four-Eyed Samurai.
The short answer is, it generally takes me 1 month to complete a chapter. Chapters are around 10,000 - 20,000 words and usually require a lot of research, whether historical, atmospheric or simply going back and rewatching scenes from the anime that are referenced or alluded to.
But...since April 2020, I have posted 9 new chapters, a one-shot, and rewrote Chapters 13-19. So that's...17 chapters in 10 months?
I've also just finish rewriting Chapters 8 and 9 but can't post them yet. So that's...19?
*sweating* That's a lot more than one a month.
Basically, now, I write...A LOT. Every day, when I can. Whether it's actually writing, or researching, or planning. The thing is, my updates before 2020 were not nearly that fast... And this is where the problem lies in answering about my updates.
The earliest chapters were written 9 years ago when I was a young teen. And they are not written good. I probably have lost so many readers who read those chapters and immediately backed out. I'm still surprised so many people decided to trudge through it, to see my writing grow through the years. (It still needs work even now but...)
As of now, I will not be posting Chapter 46 until all the early chapters are rewritten. This will take me a couple more months. And then, they will all be posted together. Now, when i say "rewrite", I don't mean I'm just revising for typos, and rewording sentences to sound better. I mean I'm literally OVERHAULING the plot of Chapters 1-12. The only things that have generally stayed the same is Mugen and Fuu's dialogue. (So don't worry about losing out on a favorite interaction! Those don't change.)
To give you some context of these "OVERHAULS", I'll talk about the rewrite of the "ghost arc" of Chapters 10 and 11.
Original on the Website now (posted when I was 14): Chapter 10-11. Just two chapters and around 10,000 words total.. Complete fluff, in which Mugen and Fuu get stuck in the rain and stay at an abandoned manor that may just be haunted. That's it... No plot, no other characters, just fun Mugen x Fuu interactions.
Revision to be Posted in May, 2021: Four Chapters now spanning 8-11, totaling around 50,000 words. (five times as long as the original). Yes, Mugen and Fuu get stuck in the rain again. Yes, Mugen and Fuu stay in a haunted manor again. However, this time, there's plot relevance that makes it feel more like a Samurai Champloo "episode". Not just fluff.
-During Obon Festival in Edo, they meet with a Shugendo Buddhist monk named Taikan in a temple graveyard, when Fuu is paying her Obon respects to Shinsuke (who died in Edo in the anime Ep 7.) This monk is heading to Bancho, Edo to perform an "exorcism" on a Hatamoto samurai's wife with strange behavior. The manor is infested with black worms which are believed to be associated with this "demon" or "ghost". Because Mugen and Fuu are starving, and have no place to sleep in the coming downpour, Taikan offers to bring them along to become servants to the manor's owner: Aoyama, and his "possessed" wife Chouka. It becomes a sort of mystery/horror arc in finding out what is causing the bizarre incidences in the house, still full of Mugenx Fuu interactions too, of course. (Even more than before actually!) But it also gives some references to real history, and a more meaningful reason for the chapter's existence and the characters' growth.
That is just one example! The Kokoro and the Yakuza arc, and Mugen and Fuu remeeting also need to be heavily rewritten too!
Now, for your very last question... Is the story anywhere near it's end?
Finding the Four Eyed Samurai is planned to span 60 total chapters. After revisions, I will be back to writing the new Chapter 46. One posted every month, likely starting in July 2021. So that leaves only 15 chapters left. It seems like a lot... (which it is, considering that's roughly over 150k words left to write) However, in context to the whole story...that's only 1/4th left to go. I already have the rest of their journey plotted out...And, it's strangely sad for me to think about. Hm...After revisions and all chapters, FTFES might just be around 800k words??? Um???
But yes! UM.
I highly recommend waiting until May to read the early chapters, when they are all rewritten. However, if you've already managed to get past the first 12 chapters, then thank you so much for trudging through that... And I hope you will still go back and read the new revisions when they're posted in May or June. I put a lot of work into them, just as much as writing all-new chapters.
Thank you so much for the questions, and for your interest in my Fanfic!!! It means so much to me, and just inspired me to go into writing mode today :D
May I ask if you have already started reading it yet? And if you have, what chapter are you on?
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"greek-Bros: The Return of an Old Enemy"
Chapter 6: The Matters of Merriment 2: Electric Boogaloo on Ice with Avengence and this time it's personal
After two uneventful days in the main village on Delphi, the Delphians started to become restless for nightly events. An unfortunate thing about Delphians was their habitual nature to plan than participate in the festivities; day time was usually a day of relaxation, contemplating on one's self, and occasionally a daytime festival... however most of their main events happen during the late evening until the sun rises. No matter the intensity of these nighttime escapes, it was always a constant event for Delphians. Now that the Dionysia was cancelled for a week, with no nighttime events allowed until the week is over, some folks began to become restless. Some citizens would walk around at night past curfew, curious to catch a glimpse of what could possibly be ruining the week for them, some resorted to the reasonable indoor house party, and some would "work" the night away doing crafts, making art or generally keeping themselves busy. Twas on the third day, where the complaints were being made.
On the third morning, Dionysus was busy in his vineyard, collecting some of the grapes he's been waiting for to make some wine with as usual. Three members of the "Party Republic" of Delphi where walking up to the vineyard, hoping to have an audience with Dionysus. He could see them walking up the hill, knowing very well what they were going to ask of him. He groaned but his equally discontent feelings of waiting for the week to be over, but he had to do what he had to do.
"Hey dudes, how's it going?" he casually greeted. He placed his grape basket down, "so ugh, what brings up here, I have some wine I was planning on opening up.", He was hoping that he would avoid the situation with wine, but he had a feeling that it wouldn't work this time around.
One of the "Party Republic" members, a satyr, stepped forward as if he was going say something eloquently important, "My great devine dude, no offense....buuuuut this waiting....ugh....kinda sucks.", he bluntly stated. "Can we just....I don't know....have night parties again?.....the rest of the guys and I are kinda bored.....I know it's not hot out but we kinda just want to let out some vibes at night", he continued. The satyrs on Delphi usually are more active and motivated at night, with a lack of motivation and lack of willingness to sleep at night, they've burned through all the day time activity they could think of.
Another member, a nymph, spoke out next. "Look, not to question this "animal" problem, buuuut me and girls haven't seen shit. We chill everywhere and we have no idea why you're stressing Dionysus, plus...well...let's be real, day time sex isn't AS fun as when you do it at night...it just hits differently youkno?" gesturing with her hands and hips with the utmost sass.
The third representative, a human farmer, felt a little unhappy at the satyr and nymph. He felt their reasons to continue nighttime events weren't as important as his reason. "Alec....Catia...It's not just about fun and fornicating. Some of us work to make your funtime frolic even happen. My Lord, some of the farmers are doing fine and losing a sheep or two isn't really a problem, you see with no body taking our stuff in bulk....and let's be real here the trade ships stopped coming to Delphi a week before Dionysia...we just don't want to waste anything.", he pleaded. Being the representative of mortals and workers on Delphi, he reasoned the abundance of food on the island wouldn't go to waste if the Dionysia wasn't canceled for the week. The farmers have already given food items to the needy of Delphi, and the trade boats that always arrive twice a week have stopped due to the recent attacks, in fear of having whatever has been attacking Grecians stowaway on the boats.
Dionysus felt his mood go from confident with his plan of reassuring them that they didn't need to complain...to feeling the pressure of wanting to at least help the residence in some way, after all, it was his job to make sure there is harmony in his brand of chaos.
"Well......there....could be...some...thing we can do....." He lied, he had no idea what to do. He knows that if Ariadne found out he broke his promise about letting people roam around at night for the week, he would definitely be in the cat house it. Yet, he had a very splendid idea....he still wanted that joust. "Hmmm.....how about this......we hold....a fake Olympic competition?" He perposed.
The representatives all looked at each other in confusion. How was a false Olympic games going to help bring back nightly parties they all wondered.
"Think about it, most of Delphi's best and boldest compete in this pretend version of the Olympic games. No flairs, no frills, just simple messing around and play fighting! Plenty of food will be provided, and everyone gets to participate. Pluuus......" He gestures for the representatives to get closer. The three lean in closer to hear. "....we...can have a joust. Between yours truly....and the god of war himself....all this....just before curfew too. So...by the time everyone goes home... you'll be too tired to want to do anything afterwards." He purposed.
Although the "Party Republic" wasn't too satisfied with the idea but in a way it may suffice, it would solve the issue of boredom on Delphi and the food surplus. Athletes do need the nutrition, and some excitement would make use of everyone's surplus of time as well. The three representatives huddle together, talking amongst themselves about the idea. After what was a few seconds, the three had come to a decision. "Yeah, we're cool with it my dude.", Alec said with a thumbs up. The other two nodded their heads in agreement.
Dionysus was relieved for the moment until he realized he needed his wife's approval. He completely forgot about Ariadne's say in the matter. "Ugh yes awesome! Now one quick second.", he turned around and ran off to the winery shead in front of the vineyard where Ariadne was also making wine peacefully....until she had been given the news that there was going to be mock-Olympic games in their own backyard and all after the promise to make sure no one would get hurt by ANY thing.
The representatives stood there waiting for Dionysus to comeback, hoping the sounds of the married couple loudly arguing about the situation would still mean they could still go on with the plans. After several minutes, Dionysus comes back with a content smile, soaked in crushed grape pulp and wearing the bucket said grape pulps had came from. "Good news! We can have the fake Olympic games as long as we fallow curfew..... Bad news is, I will be sleeping with the leopards until the end of Dionysia....is if anyone needs me in the next few days, I shall be hanging out with Conny and the other kitties at the south veranda....also please....tell NO ONE of this....." he pointed at the bucket. Dionysus and Ariadne came to an agreement but only through the fact if anything happened, Dionysus would be entirely responsible for the situation.
The next day, the preparations for the "Dionysian Games" had started bright and early. The obstacle course was being set up, the track was being laid and the 'games' themselves were being constructed. A small committee of Delphi's finest had formulated several half-baked versions of the original Olympic games. The only new event was the one event everyone woke up early for, The Divine Joust. An epic challenge between Dionysus and Ares. Of whom which....still needed to be invited.and informed about this.
In the distance, just in a small thicket of forest, a young curious pup, watches with wonder as to what could the strange, mostly hairless and ugly wolf-folk be doing. Putting up wooden posts, wrapping things in colorful cloths on top of things, just running around doing tasks the pup found terribly pointless. The little pup has been having the time of its life since it had left home. Things were about to get more exciting now something new is happening.
End of Chpr6
#greek mythology#greek gods#greek bros#greek-Bros#greek bros: the return of an old enemy#Chpr 6#dionysus#Ariadne#hellenistic#blood of zeus
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2020
The best possible solution is that four year periods are those that introduce us to the highest likelihood of finding a pattern or a rhythm that will carry us through the next four years. Time is indivisible just as well as it is, and that leads to some patterns being more easily visible than others. Was it 2016 when I found community in a crowd, when I saw the warmth at the top of the tree in a wave of sound, when I saw you in another. These are far too cheesy responses but I am losing my mind.
It return to you from afar. I think the last time I made a post was then, 2016, after a music festival, and I tried to clear my mind from it. It was hope, it was strong and memorable and powerful. It was worth archiving, and I love dredging up the past but not usually archiving. Now I return because of an older theme still; the woman.
I’m going to stop being eloquent. Nobody who hasn’t turned into a RayBan-selling bot is reading this. And I have to get it out quick because I’m having awful fantasies and they are breaking me. The last four years were the most involved of my life and I’m just going to focus on a girl? I finished an album and survived the first wave of a pandemic and it’s about her?
No, it’s about me mostly. Not knowing how to feel. The classic kindness or not, is she interested in being more than friends. This started differently than most, I went on a few dates with her and then she decided things were platonic. So we went platonic. But it’s been a while and we have spent a fair deal of time together and she has really started to either become really herself or I otherwise noticed and gained a deeper sense of who she is, regardless I think about her often and it turned into her being at my house and spending time with her just warmed my heart. Her smile disarmed, I had to ask her to repeat what she was saying because I had lost my attention due to a particularly loud thought. And I started thinking I should let her know how I feel. That must be the right move.
But I left town (man this was Thursday night she came over and I’m up thinking about her on Saturday night fuckkkk) and decided not to text her, and now she’s inviting me to dinner at her place on Tuesday night and saying double reasonable stuff like “come as soon as you are done” and we will have dinner/Netflix/moving and stare at the ceiling.
Several different artistic things I thought of today (thanks to the muse of the day, Adrianne Lenker). We both share the same view of the ceiling ever night. How about those golden bugs in that video? Must watch more Office, Planet Earth. Umm what about being more true to my interests? What about making my house a home? I just zoned out and then started reading this like it was an article and thought “wow that sounds familiar” but alas, it was me. This is prose.
I’m high for the first time in a while. I want her!!!! I want her as a friend like I found her to be the last couple times we hung out. I want her like I wanted her to be the mother of my children in the loud thought I had. I want her in the sense that I want to think of the same ceiling as her when she says ‘staring at the ceiling’. Man I want that one frequently. But the worst part is, well, one of the two worst parts, is that when she is present again, she’s more than my imagination gave her credit for. It’s a bit much to have to deal with a situation where I don’t want to make her uncomfortable in her home by telling her how I feel (let alone acknowledging that I don’t know why I feel that way), nor do I want to assume anything, so it’s likely just going to be a dinner and a movie where I can’t turn off my brain! When I was with her last time I could turn off my brain. I felt comfortable. I did have a reasonable thought. And I had a good time without worrying about her too much.
Maybe it will be fine. Maybe it will be everything I’ve ever wanted, all in one night. Want to hear the worst daydream I had? We piece things together slowly, one tense moment after another, until we finally submit to the full extent of our opposing passions and sacrifice ourselves to our worthy opponents while the American election rumbles on in the background.
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