hi GT!
Lionheart had me the moment you kicked it off with “it’s a nice day to start again.” Might i ask why you chose that particular line?
And, if you havent already answered to this emoji:
❄️
P.s: you have my eternal gratitude for creating the most brilliant piece of writing i’ll ever read. I shout about it from the rooftops, share it on my socials, requested my spouse to read it so we may discuss it together (in lieu of a present for my 30th birthday), et cetera.
I see from your URL you are a fellow lad of taste.
There's a couple things going on in the epigraph for Book 1. On one level, it's a lyric from the first muggle song I picture Draco listening to on his walkman at the end of the book, so there's a cute full-circle thing there. The second layer is the theme of change and redemption, which, in Lionheart, doesn't so much come from major moments or self-sacrifice, but from the slow, grueling, everyday work of living, and living better. It's a nice day to start again because every day is. You always have the opportunity to start making better choices, no matter what lies behind you. That's the thesis of any Draco redemption arc, right? You have to imagine that he could have chosen to be better.
And then thirdly, there's the audacity of doing a full Hogwarts canon rewrite, a good 30 years after the original books came out, millions upon millions of words of fanfic later, and basically asking everyone to read the same story they did the first time around, only different. So it's a kind of winking entreaty. It's saying to readers, many of whom are understandably wary of doing it over, zeroing out the characters to starting positions, and starting from the beginning with 11-year-olds all over again. It's going: "hey. That was fun, right? Why not do it again?"
30 notes
·
View notes
Braindumping about Silco and Vi, because these two are such fantastic narrative foils for each other—and, in the same breath, completely cut from the same cloth.
I keep wishing they had more scenes together, another square-off, something to put them head-to-head—because there's so much potential for them to counteract the layers of each other.
At the root of it all, Vander's looming between them, this monolith of a presence that ties their pasts together. But above that, still, we have Jinx—who not only is their driving tension, but their greatest possibility for reconnection.
Here, we have Vander's daughter—someone who, for all intents and purposes, has become what he wanted, but who has also been someone he saw too much of himself in; who he did his best to reshape, instead of enable, and who put him on a pedestal, and truly saw him as hers, more than perhaps anyone (except, well, Silco).
Vi treasured Vander, fully looked up to him as her father—and losing him shattered her. In between all the layers of it, there's this underlying thread in his actions towards her, a tension that just sits with her through Act 1—Do as I say, not as I do (or, rather, as I did).
Here, we also have Vander's partner—someone who knew him before, knew what he was, what he resented, and what he became, instead; and who bears the scars of what all their fallout grew to be. Someone who holds the memory of him tangibly, in multiple respects, as though it is something he physically cannot sever: Vander's knife, the Drop—and even, in some ways, Jinx.
Silco is still clinging to the idea of Vander, throughout the entire series. To the potential in their reunion at the cannery; to the reassurance of what he knew him to be (I knew you still had it in you; Vander wasn't the man you thought he was); to this need he has to still speak to him, even after everything.
But Vi was raised with the burden of being the eldest; being the one most capable of providing protection—and, as a consequence, with the burden of responsibility.
She's not only a sister to Jinx. She's a guardian to her—and in many respects, a stand-in mother. And Silco, as a surrogate father, is standing right in the middle of that. A roadblock between "Powder," as Vi knows her sister as, and "Jinx," as Silco knows his daughter to be.
Right at the forefront, we have so much conflict here. Vi is so similar to Vander, to the point that she is nearly his spirit incarnate—so much so that having her resurface from a presumed grave just sets fuel to fire for a vendetta Silco has never been able to snuff out.
But beneath that—far beneath that—they have so much in common. Vi's headstrong rebuttals in Act 1 about going against Piltover and striking them down, about being made to feel lesser her whole life and needing to fight against it, just sings with Silco's anger in the cannery (You'd die for the cause, but you won't fight for one?).
These are two kindred spirits, two revolutionaries willing to do anything for their city and those they love, and who aren't afraid to fight for it. Who want to fight for it.
But trapped between it all, we have Jinx. Someone Vi is not willing to sacrifice (i.e., her memory of Powder), and who Silco, by the end of the series, isn't willing to sacrifice, either (i.e., his loyalty to Jinx).
Vi, of course, could never fathom Silco being a father to Powder (how could she, after he is the reason Vander was taken from her?)—and looks for justifications for her hatred, in everything he does.
But the unfortunate truth of the matter is that for all Vander cherished and nurtured Vi as a vision of himself—so has Silco, to Jinx. He sees himself in her. He has empowered her, cherished her. He is so incredibly tender with her, in his own ways. And—for all his absolute faults, his skewed morals, his tunnel-visioned zealousy to achieve Zaun—he is a good father to Jinx, just as Vander was a good father to Vi.
The question I keep finding myself mulling over, though, is whether these two could find elements of that, once again, in each other.
There are so many things Silco isn't—not only in Vander's shadow, but simply in the character that he is. He doesn't come in swinging; he plots, he strategizes, he fights with words. He isn't a warm presence, or a jovial one; he's chilling, he's dry, he's distanced. There are countless contradictions one can draw between the two of them—and so many layers one can tease apart, on how their opposites attracted each other, how they worked (a balance that will no longer ever be).
But there are so many things Silco is. He's critical, he's fiercely rational, he knows how to weave a crowd around his finger with a single intonation. He admires the outcasts, the scrappers, those that have dredged through society to claw for what they can. He surrounds himself with them—and he operates alongside them, as an equal as much as an usurper.
He's a flavor of parenthood Vi didn't receive, but could have—the one that would have validated her need to fight; who would have taught her that strength comes in numbers, not in one's single ability to protect; who would have seen her snarkiness, her quick wit on her feet, and taught her to use it to her leverage.
The tragedy of the whole series is that Jinx needs them both to have balance in her life—to keep the tether of her child self and her trauma from splitting her apart at the seams—yet for Silco and Vi, as the narrative destines them for (and as it destined Silco and Vander for), any semblance of a connection between them is doomed for destruction.
There's too much they hold fiercely to themselves, in their own traumas, that they cannot set down—even for the sake of Jinx's needs. They are equally selfish, in that way. They want the version of Vander that they are not willing to let go of; and they want the version of Jinx that they know her to be.
But they could change. They could.
Silco did, by the end. Chose his daughter, his legacy, over the cause, over his vision of progress. And Vi did, too. Chose "peace," chose to set down the gauntlets, chose politics (and—arguably—complacency, in the same way Vander did) as the path forward.
But what if they set it all down, for Jinx? What if they became what she needed, on both sides? A father who sees her, nurtures her, like Vander saw and nurtured Vi—and a sister who loves and protects her, like Vi loved and protected Powder; who could learn, maybe, to love and protect "Jinx," too?
And maybe—just maybe—Silco and Vi could learn to appreciate each other, for all their surface hatreds. Find mentorship, find balance again, in each other. And through it, Vi could learn that protection, responsibility, isn't the only quality to strive for. That even she can be nurtured again, too.
109 notes
·
View notes
Something I've been thinking about a lot lately is the importance that mechanics and external factors have in understanding actual play, but how it's also really important to understand that the instant one leaves actual play as a medium, even if you are adapting the same story, you need to leave that behind.
I think the easiest example would be Scanlan's 9th level Counterspell. In the context of D&D 5e, we understand the following simply from the word "Nine": it is his highest spell slot; he only has one per day; and he has just expended an incredibly valuable and powerful resource that means he cannot use any spells that require it.
In an eventual adaptation, however, this is meaningless. That doesn't mean you can't depict something with a similar emotional weight and meaning; it's just that it will need to be portrayed differently (perhaps as an expendable scroll). The idea of "this is both very necessary to do and very powerful, and also is an immense trade-off" is what's important but the mechanics of it will necessarily fall away when you're no longer bound by mechanics. If you're adapting actual play or writing fic about it? You do need to have some degree of treating magic as a limited resource per day and staying true to broad abilities, but the idea of spell slots is "how can we provide limits to this storytelling system so that it is also a fun game" and the idea is that if you are looking at the story, and not the game, no one is saying "I have no more spell slots"; they're saying "I'm drained and need to rest before I can do more magic other than the most basic things."
(Note - this is fine in-game though. Like, yeah, ideally, no one would shout INSIGHT CHECK and would instead bring it up narratively but also...this is a dumb hill to die on, and I will die on a lot of hills. It is in fact fine while playing the game to acknowledge that you have spell slots and would like to make an investigation check instead of saying "I can do...some magic but not a lot, and I look more closely at the carvings on the wall.")
I think what also trips people up is that DMs in combat are limited by the rules of combat, but outside of combat, they really aren't. To give an example here, Ludinus casts a spell on Kadija that isn't clearly Feeblemind - she clearly has been reverted to the mindset of a young child or similar, but mechanically doesn't act as though she is INT 1, CHA 1. It has similar vibes but isn't quite the same.
This is totally fine and only the most stick-up-their ass pedant would fuss about it. It's a homebrew spell. It's a magical effect for a monster stat block. It is completely okay that it's not exactly a match for a spell that exists. The point is that it fits the broad logic of how magical effects work in the world (a targeted save that she fails; curable) and furthers the story. (Another example is Caleb's backstory re: Vergesson, or Veth being turned into a goblin; ultimately, it doesn't matter exactly what happened as long as we get the gist, because they both fit into, for lack of a better term, the vibe of the magic).
One last related thing is that metagaming in the sense of like, actively trying to twist the scenario to your advantage based on information you as a player know and your character would not is bad (eg: if you know a certain monster is vulnerable to a certain damage type but your character has never encountered it, and you use something extremely atypical for you to leverage this? not great); but I also think fear of metagaming kind of goes too far at times, and stepping back and remembering this is a narrative and not just a rule set helps here. To give an example here: Fearne and FCG hadn't met Caleb and Beau, but as eventually was actually discussed at the table, they still do know that Ludinus and Otohan = bad guys and so it's valid to say "hmmm, freeing their prisoners is like, not a bad idea if only for the chaos." Your character might not know the characters in-game, and they certainly don't know them out of game, but I think a lot of people overcorrect and you don't need to.
This is tbh another case in which I would recommend D&D Court from NADDPod, because they do handle a lot of metagaming-related cases where people are getting far too obsessive. The fact is there is a lot of metagaming happening anyway. If your players seem upset you stop even if the characters wouldn't likely be upset. The famous Sam Smorkel joke works specifically because, on some level, no normal person would speak to Sam Smorkel first, and your players are doing it because they have medium awareness. Metagaming is constant, perfect immersion is rare, and keep an eye out for it but usually metagaming that does cross the line is pretty egregious and the rest is overly concerned.
104 notes
·
View notes