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thejollyroger-writer · 4 years

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THE WASTELAND - Chapter One: THE HOSPITAL, Part 1

Some triggers: this story is rated TEEN, mostly for violence. It takes place during wartime, and some of the characters go through some violence and torture. If you need more information about this, please just message me!

SUMMARY: In a world that has been saturated in war for as long as anyone can remember, Emma Swan has rebuilt her life as far away from the chaos as possible, opening her own maternity hospital after spending too many years in makeshift battlefield aid stations. But one night, a bloodied and battered soldier finds her hospital trying to get away from an enemy with a penchant for torture and a personal vendetta against him. With the help of Emma’s childhood friend Prince David and a motley collection of humans and magic-wielders, the quest to save Killian Jones’ life from the poison used by the enemy takes them to places even beyond the known world.

Header by the lovely @spartanguard -- check out her perfect (and bloody) art for this chpter here!

Prologue on AO3 // Prologue on Tumblr

Chapter One on AO3

CHAPTER ONE: THE HOSPITAL, PART ONE

In all meanings of the word, Emma Swan is tired. First and foremost, she's emotionally exhausted, hasn't had a night of sleep without nightmares for months, even before the war started. She's tired of seeing families torn apart, or children born without knowing if they have a father or not. That's almost as bad as knowing. Almost.

Most of all, though, she's tired of war. That's why she's here in the first place, helping bring life into the world instead of seeing it slip from her grasp out on the battlefield, where she was trained to be. Sick of death, she says to herself for the hundredth time.

She inserts her key into the lock, shrugging when she finds it already open. Maybe one of the other nurses beat her here, she thinks, but the thought is gone as soon as she pushes the door open.

Blood.

There is blood everywhere.

Immediately, she goes on the defensive. This is what she trained for, yes, but it's not the life she leads anymore, hasn’t been for a while. (And a sight like this would never fail to catch someone off-guard, used to it or not.) She presses her thumb to the scanner on the lockbox next to the door, a worst-case-scenario precaution she hoped she never had to use, but when she feels the cool metal of the pistol in her fingers, the deafening pounding of her heart slows a tad, and a bit more when she turns back to the main room to find all the women still asleep in their beds. Whatever happened here, it wasn’t to one of her girls.

“Emma, thank God.” The voice from behind her startles her even though it is one that she would recognize anywhere, but that doesn’t stop her from whipping around with the pistol held out in front of her, ready to strike.

But, to her immense relief, it is exactly who she expects: Ruby, her head nurse and best friend.

“Ruby, what happened here?”

Running her fingers through her long, red-streaked hair, she begins to tell Emma as much as she knows. “I must have been asleep when he came in, though how he got through the door and past me is a mystery, and he couldn’t have been here long before the smell of his blood finally woke me up. No more than a few hours, if that. And all that I know is that he’s lost a lot of blood.”

“Did you check on him at all? See what his wounds look like?”

With her eyes turned to the ground, Ruby shakes her head, almost ashamed. “I knew — I didn’t trust myself, what with the blood shortage and all, but he’s—” When she does lift her eyes to meet those of her friend, they’re wide with something that Emma can only define as fear. “I don’t know what he is, Em. I’ve never smelled anything like him before.”

“You did what you could, Ruby,” Emma assures her. “I’ll — let me go see what we’re dealing with.”

But Ruby stops her, a perfectly-manicured hand wrapped around her bicep. “Be careful, Emma. He could be dangerous.”

As silently as she can, and with Ruby’s last words echoing through her mind, she follows the trail of blood, large drops that turn to larger puddles as she gets closer to the door to the offices, ending as a large wiped smudge on the linoleum on the other side of the door, presumably where he — whoever he is — finally lost his footing.

But the streak leads right into her office, and she is slightly shocked to find the door closed.

Not as shocked as she is when she opens the door, though; because there, on the floor of her office, crumpled in a seated position against the front of her desk, is a man — a soldier, she assumes, though he is in jeans and a faded grey t-shirt instead of a traditional uniform. A very, very wounded soldier, every inch of him covered in blood and mud, with the former even dripping from him in some places. Instinctively, she takes a quick inventory of his visible wounds: a gash on his forehead, a long slice along his cheek, lines down his bare arms.

But the worst of it is his left arm, blunted halfway up his forearm and tied with a large, tight tourniquet, though not tight enough to completely stop the bleeding. Seeing the piles of it around the man's body, not to mention all he's lost on his way here, Emma questions for a moment how — if — he can even be alive, also questioning his age by his delicate features, by the dark hair that hangs down to his equally dark eyebrows. He can't be much older than she is, she thinks, hoping that he's more than just another loss of this terrible war.

And then he takes a long, hitching breath, letting out a low moan on the exhale.

Good Lord. He's alive.

Emma falls to her knees in front of him, not even caring about the bloodstains that ruin her pants the moment they touch the ground.

He's alive.

She reaches onto the shelf beside her, pulling one of the rags from it's pristine pile, using it to dab away some of the blood from his face.

“You're okay,” she says softly, searching the cups on her desk for a cup not stained with leftover coffee, which she finds on the third try, closing her eyes to focus on filling the cup with water to dip the rag in, hoping the moisture will aid in clearing the crust from around his eyes. “You're going to be okay, do you hear me?” She has no idea where the words come from, but they seem to help, and after a few more groans, the man in front of her opens his eyes with a short yelp.

Emma drops the rag, pressing her palms instead against his cheeks. In sharp contrast to his dirty skin, to his dark hair, dark clothes, his eyes are the brightest blue she has ever seen, and for a moment, staring into them pulls the breath from her lungs and makes it impossible for her to find it again for a drawn-out moment.

“Hello,” she says finally, hoping that her smile hides the terror that suddenly fills her heart. She has no idea who this man is, what he is capable of, which side of this war he is on — or, perhaps most importantly, what brought him to her hospital, of all places.

He has no answer for her, simply stares at her, bright eyes wide. Slowly, the smile fades from her face.

“You're going to be okay. I don't know what brought you here, but I'm going to do everything I can to take care of you.” The source of the words is still a mystery, but as she says them, she realizes that every single one of them is true, no matter who he is.

The corner of his lips ticks up into a momentary smile, though it quickly turns to a grimace when he realizes how much pain it causes him. He opens his mouth, Emma assumes to try to speak, but she stops him with a hand on his arm.

“No, please, don’t. You’re— you lost a lot of blood, I don’t even know how you made it here alive, but I’m going to take care of you, okay?”

Again, he tries to smile, and gets a little closer before the muscles in his face fight against the movement. So, instead of talking, he tries to move — slowly, with Emma’s eyes finding every movement of his muscles — his hand pointing first to the mug of water in Emma’s hand, then — slowly, carefully — to his mouth, though the fact that the very movement causes him pain is written plainly across his features.

“Shit, yeah, okay,” she mumbles, pushing herself up off the floor. “Let me — let me find you a clean cup.”

If they weren’t in a time of war, she tells herself, her office would be more organized. Though whether that’s really true or not is something she may never know, since she has never known a world that is not suffering through war. She would like to believe that one day, maybe, the world can be bright and healthy and good, but for now, she’ll just live with her messy desk — especially in times like this, rare as they may be, when the mess actually helps her, God forbid. It took three tries to find the mug that she filled with water to wipe the man’s face, and it takes her another two to find one already filled with water, this time worrying more about gnats and dirt and floaters than leftover coffee stains, but as she holds the worn ceramic up to his lips and slowly dribbles some into his mouth, she has a feeling that finding a gnat would have made it very high on his list of problems.

Slowly, slowly, he swallows, once, twice, his eyes tightly shut with all the pain he must be in, and then backs his head away from the mug, making some of the contents dribble down his chin and onto his dirty grey shirt.

She cannot even begin to imagine the type of pain he must be in, between the gashes on his face, probably a broken rib or two (if not something more serious, like internal bleeding), not to mention his newly-blunted arm. But even the few drops of water must have felt like a godsend, and, with his head resting back against the front panel of her desk once more, he takes a slow, deep breath, not even seeming to mind his body’s reaction to it, and opens his eyes once more.

“Thank you,” he whispers, his voice cracked and hoarse, though better than Emma anticipated given his state.

Still: “Shh, shh, don’t talk,” she says as calmly as she can, running the wet rag along his jawline again. “You have so many injuries — though,” she tries her best to smile, managing to catch a flash of brightness in his already shining blue eyes, “I’m sure you already know that. I don’t know what brought you to my hospital, but I can assure you that I’m going to do everything I can to get you back on your feet, okay? My name is Emma, and I’m going to take care of you.”

He nods, slowly blinking his eyes, and Emma even dares to think she sees hope in them, a light that stays on his face even as he slips out of consciousness once more.

With the help of Ruby, they carefully move him to the cot in her office, trying their best not to reopen any of the wounds that have managed to close, removing his worn grey tee-shirt to see what they have to work with.

“Dear God.”

Emma doesn’t even know what to say, but Ruby’s whispered curse almost covers it.

It’s worse than she imagined. Much worse — and Ruby, not trained in field medicine like she is, has never seen anything like it (even during the time she spends in wolf form) and leaves the room with one of her hands covering her mouth.

Emma doesn’t blame her.

How he is still alive is a question that she seriously contemplates, carefully ghosting her fingers over the still-open wounds to make sure that it’s really real. She’s seen dark magic; she’s seen the damage that dark magic can inflict. But what she has never seen is dark magic that sticks around once the wielder is no longer inflicting, magic that shimmers and crackles like lightning across the skin.

What she has never seen… until now.

“What did they do to you?” she whispers, almost wishing she knew the answer, while at the same time thankful that she has never had to go through what this man has obviously been through. She dips her rag back into the new bucket of water, carefully dabbing the blood-covered skin of his chest, finding more small cuts and bruises with every new, clean inch, which she finds surprisingly easy to heal with her magic.

When she makes it to his left pec, though — the spot immediately over his heart — she feels the breath escape from her lungs and finds herself unable to replace it. Not only is it worse than she imagined, but it’s unlike anything Emma has ever seen before. It shocks her. Literally, the energy from the leftover magic reacts to hers and physically shocks her fingers. There’s a gash, a literal gash across his heart that’s large enough she would be able to see into it if it were clean.

What surprises her the most, though, is that it’s not bleeding. If it were bleeding, he would probably be dead, but this is somehow…

Worse?

It’s black. Shining, glimmering black, moving like the waves on the ocean. For a moment, Emma is entranced by the constant motion of it, and then it shocks her again, her magic crackling in response to it. She can’t imagine the type of pain he must be in, this dark magic gash so close to his heart. She can’t help herself and she stretches her fingers out to touch it, even through the crackling of her magic at the tips of her fingers, but when she comes in contact with it, it just feels like skin. As if there is nothing wrong with it at all.

She finds herself thinking about his status, since he is not wearing the uniform of either side of the war — but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have an allegiance, she tells herself, carefully wiping away the dirt around the bleeding gash on his shoulder, a wound that barely missed the edge of an intricate ship’s helm and compass tattoo that runs to the end of his newly-blunted arm. Somehow, the wound that brought her the most surprise upon finding him seems to be the one that has started to heal the nicest, among those that respond to her magic instead of ignoring it entirely. Even so, a field amputation is not an injury to take lightly, magic or no, and Emma makes a mental note to find some stitches and a new tourniquet, just in case.

Which isn’t going to be easy, with the enemy breathing down her neck. She doesn’t really even have enough morphine to treat him, since they’re mostly given pills to give to at the beginning of labor, plus a small and dwindling supply of IV drip in case the women lose consciousness. Shit. She hadn’t even thought about that. She’s going to have to make due with what she has left of that and her supply of sleeping pills until she can figure out how to get another order so soon without raising eyebrows.

She’s going to have to contact David, though with the enemy lines shifting around her every day, whether it would even be feasible for him to come all the way out here is an entirely different problem.

Morphine, tourniquets, stitching thread.

She begins to make the list in her head, a sort of mantra as she continues to work her way across the cuts and gashes on his chest. She finds that many of them not only heal, but disappear without even a scar in a way that she has never seen before. She turns her attention to his face, specifically to the large cut that runs down his right cheek, but a low moan from the lips of the injured man stops her.

“David.”

“That’s—” she says out loud, realizing she is speaking to a room empty besides a man who needs to be unconscious, who she assumed was given his tightly-closed eyes. Impossible, she continues in her own head, going back to carefully wiping the blood and dirt from his impossibly-wounded chest.

It can’t be the Prince, she tells herself, tossing her soiled rag onto the floor and finding a new one from the shelf behind her. David is a common enough name, he must be speaking of someone other than the Prince, someone other than the man who is the closest thing to family that she has ever known. He has to be.

“David,” he groans again, this time followed by, “No, no, Liam, please,” and if she weren’t kneeling above him, didn’t already have her hands on his chest, he surely would have thrashed off the bed. In catching him, holding him down, her fingers are wound through a chain that holds a collection of rings, each one as beautiful and intricate as the last, obviously well taken care of, besides the same signs of hardship that cover the rest of this man’s body. For a moment, she finds herself really looking at him, at the ripples of muscle and dark hair that cover what she can see of his chest and stomach; at the collection of artistry she finds spread across his scarred skin; at his strong jawline and the long, dark eyelashes that rest against his cheeks — until he gasps, squeezing his eyes tight, and tries to thrash beneath her again.

With that, she reminds herself of her task at hand, that he is not here for her to marvel at (even being the most handsome man she has ever seen), and she stands once more, hoping that he doesn’t wound himself further in the minutes it will take her to gather more supplies from the stockroom.

Ariel, one of her nurses, is in the basement, restocking the shelves when she makes her way down the steps. “Emma!” she says, somehow always chipper, even in the middle of an ever-present crisis. “How is our newest patient? Is he going to be okay?”

All Emma can do is nod, finding the IV supplies she came down here for before adding a few coils of gauze to the pile in her arms.

“He’ll — he’ll live, at least,” she mutters, but her mind is elsewhere, remembering the secret room that she built off the back of the basement, dreading the day she needed to use it — a day that, thankfully, had never come.

Until now.

“Well, that’s good at least. Ruby told me that he’s in pretty bad shape, but hopefully nothing that we can’t fix before we have to send him away—”

Emma turns to her, her eyes suddenly snapping to attention. “Listen, you shouldn’t — you can’t mention him to anyone, or even around anyone. No one can know he’s here.”

The smile fades from the redhead’s face. She simply nods.

“Meanwhile,” Emma continues, turning back to the steel wall at the back of the hospital. “We have to move him down here, to the crisis room.”

“Who’s looking for him?”

Emma shakes her head. “I have no clue. But I do know that I’ve never seen dark magic like this, and that just makes me even more afraid. But until we figure it out, he’s not here, as far as anyone is aware.”

Ariel nods again.

“Would you be able to set up an IV for him? Make sure it’s clean enough for me to take care of him? I don’t want to move him again just yet, but I’m afraid this may be the only way to keep him safe.”

Emma pauses for a moment, wondering — wishing — there was another option besides the crisis room, hoping that maybe this is all a bad dream that she’ll wake up from any moment. But the blood she draws from inside her bottom lip tells another story, and she nods before turning away.

“Emma,” Ariel calls, and Emma has a feeling that she may have missed the first time. “I, uh, need you to open the room.”

Duh.

“Of course,” she says, the ghost of a smile passing across her lips. She forgot the built-in safeties of the safe room: the fact that only she can open the door, the magic-plus-biometric locks the best she could find when she was adding the room. “Right.”

They move him later that day, once he comes back to consciousness, his body propped carefully between Emma and Ariel’s shoulders, walking half-on his own and half-aided by both Emma and Ariel’s magic. By the time they get him down the steps and onto the hospital bed, he’s only torn two of the stitches in his side, which were Emma’s last resort to stop some of the bleeding in the first place.

Even with just the small amount of healing that Emma was able to do on her own, and the new morphine drip hooked up to his still-complete arm, he already seems to be in much better shape than before.

“Thank you, Ariel,” she says, hoping that her tone of finality is enough to get her point across. Now that he’s conscious, she needs to talk to him, needs to figure out what brought him to her hospital — and she needs to do it alone.

Ariel nods, either too exhausted to respond or picking up on Emma’s tone. “Let me know if I can help,” she says, leaving them behind without another word.

When the door closes behind her, Emma turns to her patient, noticing the way his long eyelashes rest on his cheeks with his eyes closed.

“Alright, listen,” she says, taking a seat in the chair set up next to the cot, and his eyes snap back open. “I need to — we need to talk about your situation here…” She wants to end the sentence with his name, hoping to make up for some of the bite behind her voice, but she realizes now that she’s never learned it.

His face becomes an emotionless mask, his back even seeming to straighten a bit at the authority in her voice. So she tries to tone it down a little, offering a soft smile when he does dare to meet her eyes.

“Can we start with your name?” she asks, trying to soften her voice. “Please?” Whether it works or not is unclear, but he seems to calm a bit either way.

“Killian,” he says, his voice hoarse, and when he coughs to clear it, the pain on his face is obvious. “Killian Jones.”

“Well, Killian Jones,” she says. “I’m Emma Swan.”

He breathes out a small laugh, his hand squeezing into a fist on his ribs with the movement.

“The morphine should kick in soon, and hopefully the pain will start to subside.”

“Thank you, love,” he says, his voice stronger than Emma’s heard it — and also the first time she's noticed his accent, resembling some from the northern mer-people, though his dark hair and tanned skin makes her question even that.

She gives him a moment like this, gathering his strength, before leaning closer to him, resting her forearms on her knees. “But now, can you — can you tell me what you remember about getting here?”

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as if trying to remember — which, Emma realizes, is exactly what he’s doing. After a moment, he starts: “Alright, I was… they were questioning me about the location of —" He stops for a moment, briefly meeting her eyes but focusing behind her instead before starting again. "They were looking for some intel that they thought I had. And then when the rain started, they gave up and left me outside, thinking I was too weak to get away, and they were half-right. But the water, it — Christ, Killian — I managed to get away. I had no idea where I was, where I was trying to go, so I just… picked a direction and took off. I really thought I was going to die out there somewhere, that I was finally going to succumb to my wounds, but then I saw this light and I really thought I was going to die, until I realized that it was — it was this hospital, and the door was unlocked even though everyone was asleep. I don’t… I really don’t remember anything after that, but somehow I guess I wound up in your office.”

"Who was questioning you?"

She recognizes the fear in his eyes the moment the question slips through her lips. Just as she does not know which side of the war he is on, he must constantly be asking himself the same question about her, especially now that she knows he is a soldier, even without a uniform. If he says the wrong thing, if he reveals that he is on the opposite side of the war as she is, it could prove futile: she could refuse him care, could turn him out of doors to die — or, worse, she could turn him back to the enemy that he narrowly escaped from.

But she’s not going to do either of those things. “Listen, Killian, this is a hospital. There are no sides to a war in a place like this. But, given your wounds and the obvious hardship you’ve experienced at the hands of your enemy, I fully understand your wariness towards sharing this with me, and I’m certainly not going to force you.”

A silent beat passes, the silence even deeper in the underground safe room, before she pushes herself off the chair.

“I’m working on gathering supplies for you, but I’m going to be honest, it’s not going to be easy. We’ve been under a regular watch from the enemy recently, what with the changing territories in this area, so I may not be able to get everything I need as fast as I’m hoping to, for your sake.”

“I’m just grateful that you’re willing to help me, love,” he says, and something in his voice lets her know that this is genuine.

She just wishes there was more she could do.

Morphine, tourniquets, stitching thread, blood, she says to herself as she leaves him alone to rest up some more. Hope, she adds, though she rolls her eyes at her own joke. He needs that more than anything else.

TAGS: @shireness-says @cssns @kmomof4 @thisonesatellite @teamhook @darkcolinodonorgasm @cocohook38 @ultraluckycatnd @facesiousbutton82 @hollyethecurious @stahlop @tiguanasummertree @angellifedeath @pepperpottss @mariakov81 @scientificapricot @teamhook @kday426 @xarandomdreamx @ohmightydevviepuu @xhookswenchx @nikkiemms @carpedzem @superchocovian @resident-of-storybrooke @snowbellewells @courtorderedcake @captain-emmajones -- want to be added or removed? let me know!

#cssns #captain swan #dystopia #cs fics #my writing #wordsbymeganmichael #ouat ff #war au #slow burn #like really slow

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certainempatheticturkeymuffin · 3 years

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Age of Calamity Review

Hey! I wasted three hours of my life writing this in Arlo's comment section and part of it had to be cut out because of Youtube's word limit, so y'all get to suffer with me.

Here's the video that I wrote this on, give him some love, his opinion is a great juxtaposition to my own!

There are a few weird formatting errors because tumblr wants me to make new paragraphs, but there's no missing words as far as I can tell.

I like it, but I like the first one better, mainly for the appearance. I don't know why, but the pop ups are hard for me to see (by pop-ups I mean the challenges and weak point meters, the out of battle menu is actually pretty good, though I admit the text is a little small on the opening screen), and the lack of saturation makes it hard for me to see. Actually, that might be it, I just don't like the paler color palette in this context, since for a fast paced game I kind of need to be able to see, which I can't because I'm partially blind, and glasses have a glare that's an annoying trade off. Compare that to the original Hyrule Warriors, the weak point meters are brightly colored and change color the more you damage it, which is good for those with visual impairment who need some extra feedback to judge their next actions. The menu was also this aged tan color which provided a great contrast that wasn't the blinding white on top of dark blue, which wasn't bad at all, but the buttons and text were always big enough for those with visual impairment to see, though I will admit that the little pop ups with all the people crying out for help have a bit of the same issue as AoC. I think I just like the more vibrant colors of Hyrule Warriors in the context of a faster game, rather than the pale beauty of BotW, since my eyes can't really see what's going on if the colors aren't at least comparable to what you'd find in Minish Cap or Triforce Heroes. I can see fine in BotW during the day time, but at night, well, I just run and hope for the best, trying not to get killed by an electric keese, which is also a problem in AoC, mainly Zora's Domain; I could barely see a thing and it negatively impacted my experience.

I've got hundreds of hours in HW, and maybe five or ten in AoC. It's mainly because I just don't like how it looks. I've heard a lot of people say that it looks pretty much exactly like botw and...I have to disagree. A lot of areas are pretty perfect, but some, like the tower, are just a little off in a way I can't describe. That's a personal irrelevant nitpick though, but it negatively impacted my experience, so I thought it was worth a mention, the tower on the opening screen always annoyed the crap out of me, every time I see it I just want to exit the game because ew.

The gameplay is fine, and thank goodness for the addition of the meditation room, there's not a feature like that in the original, so I had to play the first stage over and over again to figure out new combos, I think Mipha is my favorite hero that I actually unlocked (though I've been wanting to play more just to see if I can control Revali and Teba like I can Fi (which makes her insanely good since her wide area of movement is the only thing you need to account for)), and I think Zelda is my least favorite, since she's a little clunky for my taste (Daruk is too, but his rolling makes that more bearable). I was a little disappointed with Impa, but her seal thing is kinda like Zelda's and Fi's thing in Hyrule Warriors (there are probably stronger connections, but I'm not experienced with every single hero), and I think it was just the hype that she got. She's not the type of character I like to play, since Zelda and Fi are my favorites, speedy and nimble area clearers (Sheik and Marin are cool too, I just have less experience using Marin, and Sheik is always a B pick since I find them a little harder to control with less area of impact), which meant that Mipha, a character I admittedly was never attached to, became one of my favorites in the game. Impa wasn't an area clearer for the most part, she had a few moves that could do that, but she was mainly a boss-killer to me, Mipha though? She's great, set up a few waterspouts and everything dies.

I do like that they've lessened the kind of ridiculous amount of items that were in HW, and that they didn't try to strong arm fairies in, because that system was the most annoying thing in the world and so poorly explained that I had to watch the same tutorial three times over about once a month because it was so convoluted.

I do hate the runes though, I just, couldn't seem to use them right. It might just be me, but I found trying to use them weird. It's a little hard to explain, but it's probably just a me thing. Not only that, but I found the inclusion of the rods on top of the runes annoying. The rods were entirely unnecessary if you were going to use runes. They just added another layer that was thin at best, not to mention that I found them hard to use as well. I hated the weird controls of the targeting system. I don't think there's anything wrong with a basic hack and slash, and if you're not going to have the excessive amount of items, runes were a good idea i think it might've been a me issue, but rods? It seems a bit excessive. It's probably just a "you'll get better with practice" kind of thing, which, fair, most people can't use Fi like I can, so that makes sense. I figured it was worth a mention anyway since the runes were a constant source of annoyance and I used the rods twice before never bothering again because I hated them so much.

I do like the addition of healing from food drops whenever you want though. In the original if there was a dropped heart but you were at full health, sucked to be you, going back for it when you need it would waste time. The plot is still as weird as ever though (from what I've heard from other videos and such), which is fine, since I tend to play my favorite levels over and over rather than actually do anything plot relevant (can you believe that it took me over a year to finish the story of HW because I kept getting distracted by letting Fi and Zelda mow down everything in the Adventure maps and challenges? I literally got the boomerang like six months after

getting the game. It's perfect for people with ADHD I swear) though I am extremely disappointed with the fact that they took the cheap way out, it's a kid's game and a nintendo game, what did I expect? For them to let everyone actually die? Nope...though honestly, I can't comment on the overall amazingness of the plot they went with because...er....I only did Mipha's and Daruk's stages before just losing interest, so I'm not the person you want to ask about any story criticism, because that would be pure conjecture and utterly pointless.

The customization of heroes, now that's great. It's a weird system that I needed to google a lot for, but it's absolutely brilliant and I love it. Sure, getting the specific seals I want is a little annoying, but it's a great mechanic and I love it.

I probably should've said this earlier, but I'm comparing it mainly to Hyrule Warriors rather than BotW because AoC's a Warriors game and thus plays more like Hyrule Warriors than BotW, and BotW has a different set of standards due to being an open-world game. I'm still salty about the plot though, so I guess there's your comparison.

Also, I absolutely ADORE the fact that you can track materials. Not having to google which stage gives me which material is just the best. And the fact that the side quests have little blurbs, absolutely fantastic. We didn't get that in HW, but then again, once you finished the main story, the rest was just, Have Fun and Kill Everything, which is great, and I love it, but adding in a weird ingredient fetching quest with a nugget of lore is kinda cool. I don't wish we got it in HW though, since, as aforementioned, there was no way to track which material came from which stage, so that would've made it a nightmare.

The Divine Beasts....I hated them, they were literally just time wasters, and, granted I only did Rudania and Ruta before dropping the game, I just hated them. The UI was horrendous and even Ganon's Fury was better, and I absolutely DESPISE Ganon's Fury. Once I finished them, I was just happy for them to be over and never bother with them again. I hated their controls, I hated the cramped paths, I hated how I couldn't really turn and see anything, and honestly, I commend the champions for being able to control these bulky slow and absolutely horrible machines.

On the music, I think it's good. I loved BotW's soundtrack, I loved Zelda 2's soundtrack, I loved Wind Waker's soundtrack, I loved Cadence of Hyrule's soundtrack, I loved Hyrule Warriors's soundtrack, I loved Minish Cap's soundtrack, Triforce Heroes, Spirit Tracks (you're lying if you say otherwise, this soundtrack is a bop and I will actually fight you), etc etc, and this one is no different, though I will admit it did a pretty good job of having me ignore it, though that may have been more due to my frustration at the rods and runes and Zelda and Daruk more than actually having an unimpressive soundtrack.

Personally, it didn't do much for me, I can't get over the color palette, the mechanics, the divine beasts. I had pretty average, maybe a bit high, expectations, but they weren't quite met. I played it for a few hours one day, dropped it, picked it up again a few months later, then remembered exactly why I dropped it. I think the original Hyrule Warriors is just better visually for me, even if the plot isn't great or it's a bit fanfictiony, it had depth in combat that didn't absolutely annoy me, and the annoying battles were usually optional, and the bosses had variety, which is a fault mainly of BotW and was just an inherited problem for AoC, and I'm not a completionist, I don't want to have to complete anything with Darunia or Cia, so I don't unless I have to to progress something, which means that I don't stress about the gargantuan amount of content in HW.

IN SUMMARY: I've never had problems with frame rate (though I play docked due to visual impairment), and if you're visually impaired, wear anti-glare glasses because the pale colors aren't going to help much. I haven't found an option to make text bigger. The soundtrack is good,

there isn't much boss variety (not AoC's fault, but it's still there), the meditation room is great, the runes take a bit of getting used to, as do the rods(i never got used to them), Divine Beasts tank performance in all aspects and are just disappointing, you actually know which stage drops which item, and there's no My Fairy (which is definitely a positive).

To slap on an arbitrary rating that only means something to me: 4.5/10

It's a good game if you can get passed the issues that bug ME to no end.

And there we have it. There goes....holy crap I spent three hours on

I wanted to like this, I really did, and I'm glad others enjoy it, but as it stands, I'll let y'all move on to Age of Calamity, and I'll stick to my handy dandy Hyrule Warriors ice cream with a dash of Breath of the Wild, a sprinkle of Cadence of Hyrule, and a Zelda 2 cherry on top. It's not like I have to wait long for Subnautica; hopefully that doesn't disappoint me too much, I preordered this one. Actually, I get Pokemon Snap today too, hopefully it isn't a SwSh level disappointment, AoC is magnitudes better than SwSh at a 4.5

this????? Three hours of my life. Gone.

#age of calamity #loz #hyrule warriors #review #game review #zelda botw #age of calamity review #hw aoc #aoc #botw #aoc spoilers #legend of zelda #breath of the wild #late review #like several months late #who cares #visual impairment #gaming

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tarithenurse · 4 years

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If I succeed - 12

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x fem!Reader Content: Some bickering, holding back feelings, sarcasm and eye-rolling. Also a tad of monsters and violence. A/N: Thanks for the patience and support! I may have to slow my postings down the coming weeks as I’m picking up extra shifts at the ER to assist on the COVID-19 diagnosis and care. I’ll do my best to update on the WiP/master list as well as posting. Want a tag? Send an ask or reblog! I’d love comments and feedback – even if it’s corrections on language or whatever. I’m not picky as long as I know my work brings joy too.

12 – Nightmares in Daytime

... Geralt ...

“Hm,” the Witcher tells his horse, conveying all the annoyance saturating his cells, “y’need to keep an eye on them, Roach.”

The animal in question bumps him gently with the head as if to show that she accepts the responsibility and understands her owners concern. Jaskier has been a fixed part of half of the horse’s life, and more often than not the lad gets himself into some sort of silly situation – though the risk of that is greater in the cities. But now? There are two. This is not to say that [Y/N] is cut from the same cloth as the bard, merely that she too lacks a certain understanding of the world and its darkness.

“Sweet talk vampires, pfft.”

“I heard that!”

At least no sound is created by rolling the eyes. Hmm. The seething tension burning into his back is easily ignored, Geralt’s attention focused on the surroundings as much as the narrow trail created by animals leading upwards.

Rising smoke marks their destination. Black. White. Purple. Each taint indicates a variety of nefarious purposes more than simple cooking fires or for heat or light – even a torch, when ignited properly, has a particular smoke. The smoke for a hot torch is thin and black, rising in silky tendrils to the cave ceiling above where it billowed briefly before dissipating along invisible divots and cracks, leaving a growing layer of soot behind. Their movements had disrupted the momentary remnants of the flame after it had flared as greedily as his own lust. Like a fire, the feverish desire had spurred him on as he found [Y/N] willing, responding perfectly to his every ministration with a simultaneously strong but pliant body. And afterwards...afterwards he had felt her fall asleep, listened to her breathing calm while she was tugged against him safely. An image of a wild flower nestled in a sunny spot by a shielding rock had flashed through his mind – perhaps, he thought for a moment, even someone as hard as him can belong with someone.

He had wanted to ask her in the morning, but he dallied for too long as he lay there inhaling her scent. The quiet moment had come and gone. Not a word was exchanged although it was on the tip of his tongue. More than once, he had thought that [Y/N] was about to say something, her movements halting and mouth opening slightly only to be closed with a sigh. Every minute brought the events of the night further away, making it harder to believe that it could all have been more than a moment of weakness if it indeed had happened at all. A slip where she had given in to the urges of the flesh after the physicality of the sparring.

A sound breaks the Witcher’s brooding: “Are we there yet?” Jaskier calls out softly – not out of boredom but worry.

A few hours. “Hm.”

“Hold on then,” the strong-willed woman halts them all, “let’s go over it while there’s time, Geralt.” He does not like the sarcasm in her voice but turns anyways to see her scurry past Roach’s hind. “Tell us, oh Witcher, what your plan is if it isn’t to avoid the people of Toussaint be slaughtered?”

Only Roach seems to react to the low growl coming from the Witcher’s chest, her ears flattening and eyes darting every witch way to find the possible threat. He notices. Stopping the sound, he softly pats the mare’s neck to soothe her, but his gaze is locked in a silent battle with [Y/N].

“When I agreed to let you come along, it wasn’t to have you question everything I say or do,” Geralt bites at her.

“You didn’t let me come along, and you know it.” Shorter than him, the woman stares unwavering up into his face. “Besides...someone’s gotta make sure you don’t just create a fight and get yourself hurt. Again.”

There is a small sound coming from Jaskier, a little chuckle perhaps that he swallows right as it is about to tip over the lip. Hmm.

The silver-haired fighter has always prided himself of fighting smart by using the environment to his advantage and gathering all the information needed before confronting the enemy whenever possible. The incident with the wyvern attack that eventually brought them to the threshold of [Y/N]’s home once more is not a typical example of how his work is done. I’m glad though. Unwilling to share that particular piece of information at this moment, Geralt bites the inside of his cheek.

“I wouldn’t...there’s always a plan!” Geralt sighs, brows pinched. “There’ll be no rushing in or needless fights, and no, I’m going to keep at a safe distance from the wyverns if possible...this time I know they’re there.”

... Reader ...

Of course, you sigh inwardly as the shadows condense before you, of course this happens when Geralt is off scouting ahead.

Whatever you had imagined of a vampire, this was not exactly it. Monsters are supposed to be less like humans and more like creatures wrought from pure evil even if there are plenty examples of monstrous people in the history books. This bloodsucker? He would fit right in at the Toussaint court. Perfectly tailored clothes in deep red silk and velvet contrasted by silvered embellishments that strike an echo in his otherwise dark eyes, yes, even his blond hair helps distract from the sallow greyness of the skin. Momentarily, fear is an unknown factor to you as your mind wavers under the spell of his gaze.

“Oh, hello there m-” Jaskier’s greeting somewhere behind you is interrupted a heartbeat before you hear his body hit the ground.

The vampire before you says something in a grating, foreign language, receiving an answer – no, two – that makes a smirk grow enough to reveal a fang. Oh. Not good. A swarm of self-chastising thoughts barrage your brains, battling with the urge to either run or fight the disdainful figure in front of you. Fear might have been slow at presenting itself but now it fills your guts with icy lead in a rush capable of knocking the feet out from under anyone. I gotta get away!

“Please, pretty lady, let me chase you.”

You understand two things then. One is that the vampire’s voice by nature sounds like flint sliding against flint, the other knowledge – which intangibly more dreadful – is that there is nowhere you can flee before he inevitably catches you. Whatever he may have planned now will surely worsen if you try.

Jask? I can’t leave him anyways. Spinning around, you try to find the bard but gentleman monster wraps his cold fingers around your throat. Struggling is futile, the controlled grasp presses expertly against veins and windpipe, making the world spin and blur into darkness. The last thing visible is someone picking up The bard’s lifeless body.

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norcumii · 4 years

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some musings on TCW season 7

One of the things that makes Tumblr difficult is that I really, REALLY don’t want to harsh anyone’s squee. I don’t want to be that person who sails in, sneers disdainfully at what people are enjoying, and then ambling out, having sucked as much joy out of the room as possible.

My brother used to do that about ANYTHING I was watching, and I still resent it. I don’t want to do that to anyone.

Meanwhile, I’ve reached my saturation point with Season 7 of clone wars, and in my own tired, perpetually exhausted way, I want to scream. Thus, kvetching under the cut. In all seriousness, if you’re enjoying Season 7, then please, PLEASE skip this rant. I sincerely hope you continue to enjoy and Season 7 continues to entertain.

I haven’t watched it: I’m practicing that much self care, at least. There’s been lots of meta and gifsets running around, so I’ve gotten enough second hand exposure – along with useful meandering through various wikis and such – that I feel able to comment about it.

It is indeed very cinematic, and I guess if you dig the art style, then it is a very good example of said art style. But from a broadstrokes perspective, the writing?

What an absolute screaming dumpsterfire.

The thing that finally pushed me from “meh” to “nope, gotta rant about this” was a fascinating piece of meta here, about how Maul is the prism character – the lens through which the story is told. Now, that’s my phrasing and not the OP’s, and again, I haven’t actually seen this so I’m taking a lot of things at face value.

It’s a fascinating approach, and makes the angst and despair that much sharper – especially if you apply this post about parallels to RotS, and let’s not forget the very impressive mocap for the lightsaber fight.

My question, however, is why the FUCK would you do that in the first place? (Not the mocap. That’s genuinely impressive.)

First off: you’re putting the audience in the same boat with the villain. Your lens character is the one who frames the story, who puts into perspective how one interprets events. In this case, that implies that what Ahsoka, Rex, and the rest of the clones are doing is in the antagonist's position, which might be part of the whole “nothing is true and nothing is false but everything is fucked” atmosphere that they seem to be trying to foster (see: Ahsoka’s arguments with Obi-Wan. GFFA has some good breakdowns as far as I can tell). So Maul is supposed to be the lynchpin of this story, either as the protagonist or the Sancho Panza to the protagonist.

That’s a damn weird take on this particular story. Is it about Mandalore? Is it about Ahsoka’s journey? Is it about Maul’s journey? Or are we trying for something meta about how it’s how Maul and Ahsoka’s journeys parallel each other’s, and how those contrast with Anakin’s?

Have you noticed yet who’s missing from this equation?

For a show that’s called “The Clone Wars,” there’s been astonishingly little clones involved in the broader plot. So let’s take a step back from this one issue and look at the season as a whole.

There’s been ten episodes so far this season, out of twelve total. Six of them have centered around Ahsoka. The other four have been about Rex and the Bad Batch. Now, let’s set aside the whole very valid debate about having so many female centric characters and stories is grand, and we need lots more. That’s a damn good point, and Star Wars as a whole needs better diversity on all fronts. Not the particular lens I’m looking through at the moment.

There’s been four of ten episodes about clones. In the final season of The Clone Wars. Yes, they show up in other episodes, but that’s not the focus.

Why would you do that?? We got five seasons already where the clones are more background noise with the occasional highlight (The Deserter, the Umbara Arc), and the entire freakin’ war has been named after them. Ok, so maybe that’s to some degree social commentary about how the Republic was viewing them – background noise against which the weird mythical Jedi shit really stood out – and the sixth season was more a hodgepodge of “we have THESE episodes nearly in the can, rush to finish them because this is important shit to get out the door to bridge from this series to the movies.”

They didn’t expect to have the chance to make this season. They could’ve done pretty much anything, since they didn’t even default to just using the episodes that WERE 70% done (if not more) and had been released into the wild as animatics.

So why pick these stories to tell? And moreover, why this way? Why not make the last hurrah that the crew could not have expected be something coherent and about the actual people that the damned show is named for?

Let’s play with hypotheticals, since kvetching without reasonable alternatives is considered uncouth these days. Let’s say one wants the Bad Batch “rescuing Echo” arc (and that it’s not agony porn. To be fair, I’m not sure if it IS agony porn, thus the presumption that it’s an arc to be had). Since we already spent SIX ENTIRE SEASONS beating home the point that clones are individuals and to be respected as such, rather than introducing new clones who are “aberrations” just to drive home hey, they’re clone versions of TF2 characters clone versions of terrible action movie heroes individuals, how about this?

Cody calls in the Bad Batch, a squad that gets sent into the worst situations and honestly, isn’t ever really expected to come out alive. They’re bad clones, you see. Their leader is probably a man named Dogma – he’s a Jedi killer, but damn loyal to the Republic. His second in command – not that either of them are happy about that – is Slick, a Brother Killer and all around asshole. The other two members of the squad are two deserters: Cut Lawquane, who was found and brought back to the army, and Boil, who was caught trying to leave after Umbara. They have a civilian support member, Suu Lawquane (a damn good sniper, and she now has armor as well as actual clothes).

Bring so many of Rex’s issues home to roost. Make that poor man question all his life choices. He’s still reeling from the whole chip arc and Fives’ death. Let him see what the Grand Army does with its too loyal soldiers, how Dogma did the right thing against orders and is now leading others into the meat grinder on the daily. Let him see what the Grand Army does to traitors, like Slick whose hands are red with the blood of his brothers – just like Rex’s, after Umbara. Cut, who left after too much death, and built a life. Boil, who lost so much, who had enough and just wanted to go find the one remnant of good things that he’d ever encountered in his short life.

They’ve got slave explosive implants somewhere – three because they’re flight risks, Dogma because – well, no one can say why, but it’s so. Let Slick shove Anakin’s nose into the fact that the Jedi are still leading a slave army, have Anakin have to confront that it’s not hyperbole anymore, not when the clones have chips in their heads and now these have slave implants they literally don’t know where.

Hell, have Anakin blow up at Cody over this, and perhaps Cody has to pull rank – establish on screen that he’s running so much of this damn war. He doesn’t like what’s been done with the Bad Batch either, but he can only put out so many fires, and keeping this from raging out of control is the best he can manage.

Let the audience see consequences. Let there be fallout as they go searching for Echo, and the Bad Batch’s various past issues bounce against the experiences of Rex and whoever’s along with him.

(For that matter, if you still want to tackle Mandalore and all that, have one of the soldiers going along with be Vaughn – get to know the man for a little bit. See how Random!Clone reacts to all this, not just Jesse and Kix. Someone without the history with any of these men. While we’re at it, Dogma had Kix in the firing line against Jesse. GIVE ME THE REACTIONS, DAMMIT! AND! And does Rex ever have to say to Dogma “you did the right thing, that Jedi needed to die”? How much does that blow EITHER of their minds?)

Show us travel time. Show us what it’s like for a bunch of soldiers to be stuck in a tin can flying through space along with an entire penal squad of brothers who spit in the face of what the GAR stands for – for reasons both good and bad. Show us what the years have done to Dogma and Slick, how Cut and Suu have adjusted from a life of growing things to having to murder things. How Boil just is done, and wants to head to Ryloth (hey, maybe Numa is currently living with her new sibs/cousins/friends/arch-rivals Shaeeah and Jek).

Then add poor Echo into that mix. Echo, who doesn’t quite know what he’s doing anymore, who was in the Citadel, then stuck in a nightmare of battle sims, and now in this new nightmare of a war that dragged on even longer – and no Fives.

Let us grieve along with him. Fives got a four episode arc (gee, I wonder why this season wanted to start with a four episode arc dealing with the last Domino >_>) where he fell, let us watch Echo’s rise and how he deals with all this.

Let him decide he wants to leave some of the more painful memories behind, how he can’t stay with Rex because it hurts too much, but at least now he’s got some fellow exiles to watch over.

Let the last we see of him be Echo using his new abilities to dismantle both the insidious little buzzing chip inside his and his team’s heads, along with the explosives they also have to bear. Fives died because of the chip, let Echo help others to live in spite of it.

Then slide the camera focus from Rex to Vaughn. Perhaps he gets assigned to go find the former Commander Tano (did he know her at all? Or had he just heard about her?). We could follow him across Coruscant, meeting various civilians who had Strange Encounters with that nice young Togruta. Maybe we get a fun montage: Vaughn questioning people, their various reactions, possibly as a nice voiceover to What Really Happened – that also gives a grand opportunity to get people’s impressions of the Jedi and their clone lackeys.

Then off to Mandalore, still from Vaughn’s perspective. Let us watch this poor man’s rise, as he has to be the metaphorical third wheel to The Team’s reunion. He’s the poor uncomfortable bastard in the room, but he’s a good man, loyal and skilled.

(Also, why could we not get the clones receiving patches or decals of Ahsoka’s markings, and play with that? Emphasize the clones’ individuality – some have it on their shoulder bells, some did the helmets, some have the design down the arm, along the leg – just...diversify, dammit!)

Have Vaughn keep up with Ashoka all the way through to the fight with Maul. Have him be hit, have him be disarmed for the fight – all he can do is witness it (for that matter, you can echo the Duel of the Fates, with Vaughn being in Qui-Gon’s position of dying on the floor).

Then let us see Order 66 from the clones’ perspectives. Show us the sieges, show us Bly and his squad following Aayla into the woods; show us Wolffe and the pack separating from Plo; show us Fox patrolling the Senate.

We’ve seen the Jedi die already. Show us the other side, if you insist on breaking our hearts, and show us how the clones go from good men to good soldiers.

Let me see Cody, let me see the aftermath on Utapau. Let me see Rex breaking, or refusing to break, or whatever it is that happens.

Let this season be about clones.

#star wars #season 7 #critical commentary #sass and murder show #the clone wars #character analysis #thinky thoughts #inappropriate feels about clones #meta #long post is long #writing #useless screaming #spoilers #SO MANY SPOILERS #just venting

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michelles-garden-of-evil · 4 years

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Episode 24 Review: Top 5 Reasons Why the Holly Portrait Subplot Doesn’t Work

Welcome back to Maljardin, where the melodramatic master Jean Paul Desmond is God and the Devil is a snarky talking portrait.

Speaking of portraits, today we will be looking at the subplot about Tim’s portrait of “Erica” (or, rather, of Holly) and the main things that are wrong with it. This subplot is, in my opinion, the worst in the Maljardin arc and I’ve been holding off on writing a detailed explanation of why I feel that way until my review of this episode, which mostly centers around the damned Holly portrait.

The portrait, circa Episode 18. There aren’t any good shots of it from Episode 24, so I had to settle for this one.

To recap: After the death of Erica Desmond, her husband Jean Paul hired Tim Stanton, a young artist in debt to the mob, to paint a portrait of her. Erica being both dead and encased in a cryonics capsule which both Jean Paul and THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES refuse to open, Tim must instead use young heiress Holly Marshall as his model until Erica comes back to life as Jacques promised that she would.

Sound like a reasonable plan? No? I didn’t think so, either, and now I shall explain why. Here are the top five reasons why I think this subplot is stupid:

#5: Holly neither looks like Erica, nor knows what Erica looked like.

This screencap is actually from Episode 13, but I’m including it because it’s relevant.

I sometimes wonder if this criticism is unfair, because the only viewers up to this point in the show’s broadcast history who would have seen Erica were the viewers of Episodes 1, 2 (where Tim shows Alison his sketch of her), and 4. In the first scene of Episode 4, the Cryonics Society froze her corpse in the cryonics capsule, meaning that anyone who started watching after that scene would not have seen her face before Tim got his assignment from Jean Paul. Even so, neither Erica resembled Holly, which makes it absurd for her to sit for it. Why not have Alison pose instead when she’s not working? After all, they are sisters and they share a strong family resemblance according to the original pilot script. Holly barely resembles either Erica beyond being pretty.

Tim’s sketch of Erica from Episode 2, with a screencap of Alison from Episode 17 for comparison. With its upturned nose and full lips, the sketch is clearly intended to resemble Dawn Greenhalgh (Alison) and not Sylvia Feigel (Holly).

Because Holly hardly looks a thing like her, Tim complains in Episode 13 that he “can’t use her for anything but position and play of light.” In spite of this, later episodes including Episode 24 show that he has painted a sort of semi-abstraction of Holly’s face, with features about halfway between those of Holly and those of Erica. This means that he’s only making more work for himself for when Jacques brings Erica back to life--if he brings her back to life--because he will need to paint over the semi-abstraction with Erica’s face. In short, he’s wasting his time.

Besides, it’s unclear why Holly doesn’t know what Erica looked like if Erica was a very famous actress and she and her husband were stalked by the paparazzi until they escaped to Maljardin (as previous episodes have indicated). Surely she would have seen a photo of Erica in the newspaper at some point, or her face on the poster for one of her plays, or something. I realize that’s not the same as seeing someone in real life, but it’s just odd that she doesn’t know.

#4: Tim doesn’t have even a photo of Erica with him and so has to rely mostly on memory.

He even says so in Episode 13: “I have to depend on my memory of your wife and that sketch I made of her at the café,” he tells Jean Paul (or, rather, Jacques while he is possessing him). As we saw in that episode, opening the cryonics capsule and posing Erica’s thawed-out corpse for Tim is too devilish even for Jacques, so the starving artist is left with a dilemma. Jean Paul, being a fancy rich guy of noble descent, naturally assumes that any criticisms of his assignment is just a case of beggars trying to be choosers and ignores them; in his mind, he did him a favor by paying his debts and taking him to his island, so Tim should obey his every whim without question. But the truth is that Jean Paul has no understanding of how artists work, nor why Tim needs the real Erica to complete the painting, and he may not even understand the creative process behind painting a portrait.

This could make for interesting social commentary if the writers had had Tim take a good hard look at the situation and realize that Jean Paul is not just imprisoning him on the island but flat-out exploiting him. They could have made his subplot about class conflict, the establishment’s lack of empathy towards creative types, or both. However, they choose not to use the subplot for such commentary, instead going in a much more conventional direction.

#3: The Holly portrait is mostly used to drive a clichéd romantic subplot.

Two people meet and hate each other at first sight--or at least pretend to--although they are clearly attracted to each other. They argue, bicker, treat each other indifferently at best and abuse each other at worst, until one day they realize that they have fallen in love. When was the first time you read or saw this story? Do you even remember the first time? Most likely you don’t, because the exact same plot has been used and reused so many times since Shakespeare’s Much Ado about Nothing premiered that Western media is saturated with it. It’s not a bad plot in and of itself, but it’s been overused so much that you can usually see it coming from a mile away. When Tim and Holly first bickered over her being too young to order booze, I predicted that they were setting up a romance between them. There are many signs: Tim confesses to Vangie that he feels sorry for Holly, Elizabeth suspects that he’s hitting on her, and, while she claims to dislike them both, Holly seems slightly less irritated by Tim than by her former captor, Matt Dawson. Ian Martin was clearly setting up a romance between the heiress and the artist, who are gradually bickering less and less: a telling sign that they are getting closer to falling in love.

As creepy as it is and as much as I don’t want them to get together, I actually find the Matt/Holly subplot more interesting to watch than Tim/Holly. Danny Horn of Dark Shadows Every Day may have written about how “groovy priest attracted to the beautiful young girl that he wants to take care of” is an old soap cliché, but I’ve seen it done far less often, which I suspect has something to do with all the church scandals in the past twenty years. The Belligerent Sexual Tension plot, on the other hand, is still very popular, so it feels less fresh to me than Matt and Holly’s subplot. (That doesn’t mean that I don’t still think he should leave her alone. Personally, I ship Reverend Dawson with his right hand and I think they ought to stay together.)

#2: The use of the Holly portrait on the show doesn’t connect to the show’s use of portraits for symbolism.

This one is really nitpicky and based mostly on my personal interpretation, but bear with me. Although far more complex than the Dark Shadows ripoff that many critics reduce it to, Strange Paradise nevertheless relied on many of the same tropes and themes, including the way its writers used portraits. On Dark Shadows, the writers often used a trope that Cousin Barnabas of the Collinsport Historical Society blog calls the “Portrait as Id,” meaning the use of paintings to symbolize and illustrate the truth about whatever character they represented. We see this in Strange Paradise as well with the portrait of Jacques, who tells Jean Paul that he is “the man you are, the man you might have been,” implying that the ostensibly good Jean Paul is not so different from his evil ancestor. Later on after Robert Costello becomes producer and the show becomes more like Dark Shadows, we’ll meet another character whose portrait does not turn out as intended because of the evil in said character’s heart, which also connects to this idea of portraits reflecting hidden reality. Although the conjure doll also resembles and represents Jacques, he does not generally use it to communicate with Jean Paul the way he does with the portrait. This makes sense, given that the doll and silver pin ended his life, while the portrait was painted at some point while he was alive.

In contrast to the portraits mentioned above, Holly’s portrait does not convey any additional information about either her or Erica. Because it represents the late Mrs. Desmond in name only, the Holly portrait says nothing about Erica’s id, her personality, or the state of her soul. It doesn’t even say very much about Holly. Instead, it’s mostly just used as an excuse to force Holly and Tim to interact with each other and bicker until they can finally admit that they’re in love.

#1: It goes (almost) nowhere.

And when it does finally go somewhere, it’s only relevant for a few episodes before it’s forgotten about. Holly’s participation in the portrait sittings soon becomes completely irrelevant, much like so many of the show’s early subplots which Late Maljardin’s headwriter Cornelius Crane chose to ignore. I suspect that the Holly portrait would have eventually became more significant in the main plot had Martin not been fired around Week 9. We may never know how it would have become so, nor how significant it would have become in his original outline. Who knows? Perhaps Martin would have crafted a shocking plot twist involving Holly that justified its existence. Perhaps he would have connected the portrait and its eventual fate somehow to the nightmare she had about Tarasca, having it reveal some terrifying truth about Maljardin’s past. At the very least, he might have used it to cement the romance between Tim and Holly. But instead the subplot ends with little payoff.

Tim on his subplot.

Still, despite the focus on the Holly portrait, this episode isn’t entirely a waste. Raxl saves it with her pleas to the Serpent and her attempt to contact the Conjure Woman, in all her scenery-chewing, melodramatic glory. There’s also a scene where Holly pressures her to read the two Tarot cards--the King of Swords (whom Matt identifies as Jean Paul) and the Queen of Cups (whom he interprets as Holly)--that she dropped on the floor earlier in the scene “just for kicks,” and she refuses, shouting “No!” repeatedly. If you love Raxl like I do, you’ll enjoy her scenes. They’re not Best of Raxl material, but they’re fun.

So long until my next review, which will cover Episode 25, followed by Week 5′s long overdue Bad Subtitle Special. I know that this is a change of pace from my usual recap-style reviews, but I really wanted to go into more detail about why I don’t like Tim’s subplot. I hope you enjoyed this post and I’ll see you again soon.

Coming up next: Elizabeth continues her attempted seduction of Jean Paul as we explore inter-generational conflict on Maljardin.

{ <- Previous: Episode 23 || Next: Episode 25 -> }

#strange paradise #soap opera #review #ian martin #maljardin arc #week 5 #episode 24 #foxless episodes #analysis #list #conjure doll and silver pin #the damned holly portrait #dark shadows #matt/his right hand #scenery chewing #soap opera tropes #speculation on ian martin's original story #symbolism #tarot

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bluewatsons · 4 years

Text

Katie Lew, The Unproven Body, The New Inquiry (October 13, 2016)

Charting the losses of contestable sickness

ILLNESS is a state of the body that demands testing.

April 26th: Self-testing/Reality-checking

I woke up one spring morning with vertigo. I turned my head to the window and nearly got sick on my pillow. I was 33. It is common for the newly vertiginous to distrust their perception of motion because vertigo is uncanny. The world is familiar, and yet the known spaces of your life (your room, your street, your workplace) are uninhabitable, because they are moving. Thus, the first round of testing is a self-directed series of questions: Did that happen? Did the room turn with me? (Yes; yes and no). This second answer with its relative “yes and no” is the pivotal point of the vertiginous person’s relation to their life and to the world. Because the room turned for me, but not for my partner next to me, I would have to see a doctor. And because every space continued to turn for me wherever I went, I would have to change my relation to the world, as regards what I could expect from it and it from me. Could I expect rest? food? comfort? Could the world expect adherence to its metered and measured environment? Independence? Labor? Seemingly esoteric questions critical to daily exigencies: could I eat, and could I work?

(I said the spaces of my life became uninhabitable; I continued to live in them because I continued to live but for a time in a way that felt like a lonely death. No one can follow you into vertigo, or into any sickness for that matter.)

May 1st: Wild Rose Vestibular Rehabilitation and Audiology Clinic

The first symptoms of my illness were tinnitus, hyperacusis (a rare condition of hearing sounds at painful volumes), and vertigo, and so Google told me my problem was otological (a word that autocorrects to ontological, which also feels appropriate). There are several ear conditions that cause spinning, which specialists can identify by tracking nystagmus, the abnormal beating of eyes as they follow objects. My mother took me to a vestibular therapist. I entered the clinic staggering, my arms reaching out in front of me for any wall, or chair, or countertop, to let me know where I was in the organized space of the room. A zombie in a vertigo nightmare. The therapist was surprised at my state. In medicine, you never want to look like something no one has ever seen before, something beyond evaluation that will not fit within the known universe of legible maladies and, especially, remedies.

The vestibular test involved opaque goggles that project the eyes on two TV screens. I cried in protest at the darkness that I knew would accelerate the spinning. I reached my hand to hold the therapist’s arm — uninvited skin on a stranger’s skin. She looked at my mother and my mother at her; which of them could explain my excess? Or this breach of social boundaries? Then I went and laid my head in the stranger’s lap. She said: “Listen to me. I once had vertigo too. And guess what? Last weekend I went skiing with my husband and my kids.” I wanted to throw up. But I allowed the darkness of the goggles because even that kind of alright-ness was desirable. The site behind the drawn curtain of the medical cubical was one of uneasy conjunction: all of those measuring apparatuses, and every space between them saturated with fear. When she fit the goggles to my face, I caught a glimpse of the left TV, there a giant eye flitted like a cornered animal, and I recognized my own horror.

(I was incapable of thought then, but remembering it now I think of Anne Boyer: “This is the problem of what-to-do-with-the-information-that-is-feeling.”)

“Her eye movements are irregular but not in a recognizable way. I’m not even sure if the distortion is coming from her ears or her brain.” — a vestibular specialist.

The body that refuses the parameters of the medical test is an unlucky body. Especially because it means more, even unlimited, testing, more encounters with non-recognition, further alienation. But also because sadness, fear, and desperation are considered interference in clinical testing, and these emotions increase the longer a diagnosis is deferred. Affect is surplus without value.

There are several tests that every first-year medical student can use, and with fair accuracy, to determine the presence of a neurological disturbance in a patient. They are the finger-to-nose test, the heel-down-the-shin test, and the follow-the-pen test. There are non-invasive tests that will reveal with more precision the location of that neurological disturbance: the computerized axial topography scan, which can detect brain swelling and hemorrhaging, and the magnetic resonance image, which will light up tumors and lesions. There are invasive diagnostic tests that can more narrowly decide the cause and nature of a tumor or lesion: the lumbar puncture, which collects a sample of cerebrospinal fluid, and the biopsy, which extracts tissue for microscopic investigation. If the tumor or lesion is too deep for biopsy, such that a biopsy would cause damage to the brain, then there is one final test, non-invasive and barely medical, and that is time.

(I used to say damn it some one must tell me what is happening to me. I used to call sickness up to my every measurable surface with the incantation: Show yourself.)

May 9th: Medical Imaging Department, University of Alberta Hospital Multiplanar, multisequential MRI of brain with and without IV contrast

FINDINGS: T2/FLAIR bright lesion in the right middle cerebellar peduncle measuring 1.3 x 1.0 cm.

A lesion is any localized abnormality found on the body. Lesions are not particular to a disease or condition: they signal a structural difference from healthy tissue, nerves, etc. My lesion is in my brain, on my cerebellum. My lesion is too deep for biopsy. After this MRI, my diagnosis was brain cancer with a differential of multiple sclerosis.

Following some diagnoses, sadness, fear, and desperation continue to increase. For the moment, the doctor’s work is done, and emotions unfold in private interiors, among you and others near you, where they disrupt no one but yourself and these others near you. I tried to move around my home the way I had the day before. I tried to move as if I could feel the floor beneath me, and as if I could breathe that easy breath of the continuous life.

May 17th: Diagnostic Imaging, St. Mary’s Hospital MRI HEAD C-\

FINDINGS: solitary lesion in right middle cerebellar peduncle, could represent a demyelinating plaque.

Demyelinating plaques are the scleroses of multiple sclerosis, areas where the protective myelin that encases nerves is stripped away. After this MRI, my diagnosis was tentatively multiple sclerosis. Finding out that brain cancer is a misdiagnosis is at once a relief and a terror. The razor edge of life newly-granted balances just on the other side of a gaping death. How to live when you know how easy it is to die? It was not so much a misdiagnosis as a difference of opinion. The lesion in my brain is hunkered down deep, unavailable for biopsy, and so, in itself, gives no more information than the fact of its existence. Doctors have argued right in front of me, before a screen of my brain, the points for and against both tumor and plaque. (Some illnesses submit only to that final test, time).

“This is a difficult case.” — my neurologist.

I wanted an etiology. Diagnostics and prognostics are future-orientated projects, optimistic in form if not in content. I wanted that dire course of my recent past, the charted points of my specific failure. I wanted an etiology general to the type of neurological event I experienced, but also specific to my personal life. What had my body done to itself? And when, exactly? What time was it when those changes in my brain became irrevocable? (When I fell sideways up the stairs on Tuesday? When I hugged the lap of a vestibular therapist instead of going to the ER?). There are no tests that can identify these moments, and these are not in fact medical questions. They are the existential crisis and the abjection of feeling, and then seeking, the fracture-line of meaning in a life.

(For a long time, I didn’t let myself remember anything from before. I stored a lifetime in the orbital bone around my right eye. The skin there became painful to the touch. This is the pain of non-recognition, I told myself. And it was.)

“The real question is, what will this look like in your life, practically speaking.” — my insurance adjuster.

“MS is just a word, it doesn’t change who you are.” — a different neurologist.

I disagree. But this is the nexus of insurance pragmatism (who you are is the same as what you can do), and brash medical optimism (illness affects what you can do only in so far as you let it).

While diagnostics are the test of illness, function is actually its truer measure. How much will you lose? What can you expect to be able to do around the house? At work? In the bathroom? And with what good humor, what positive attitude, will you confront the losses? For every functional loss, the medical industrial complex offers a mechanical, technological, pharmaceutical aid to replicate the function, which insurance adopts and identifies as the means of labor in illness. The sick person is responsible for availing herself of all of these accommodations. I have a bar in my shower so I don’t break my neck when I close my eyes. And that is about all the accommodation available to me. Yet the promise of medicine and the expectation of insurance is that I will find a way to reproduce all my functions, and myself.

(As if I could sit right back into myself. As if a self was an armchair. As if I wasn’t recast anew by illness. As if I had it all save for these isolated deficits.)

An insured body is a body that demands evidence.

My losses are both difficult to measure and to accommodate: chronic fatigue, chronic headaches, motion sickness, poor balance, tinnitus, hyperacusis, sadness, nostalgia, anger. The latter three are not in relation to loss of function. They hover over the outrages that are: the inexplicable, the past, and the eternal subject position of patient. The former kept me out of work, and qualified me, for a while, to a partial salary replacement through my work’s insurance plan.

The discourse of insurance shares interests with the discourse of medical testing: it is concerned with naming (secular baptisms), with categories, and with function, but insurance has fewer classifications — payable and non-payable conditions — and is interested only in function insofar as it relates to labor, and labor to paid work. Where medicine seeks results, positive proof, by which to name, authenticate, and file illness, insurance seeks negations. The first principle of insurance is the de-authentication of bodies, and the discovery of function where there is no health.

“How long can you keep your head up unassisted? How long can you read a screen before becoming nauseated? Have you attended acupuncture for the recommended 6 months?” — my insurance adjuster.

Insurance banks on the wellness industry’s persuasive, and now fully internalized, imperative to maintain ourselves, to somehow counter deficits in function that are medical, social, or economic. (Wellness is a leveler). It says: supplement yourself until your awkward and angular disability becomes streamlined quick-stepping ability; until, in spite of your age, illness, children, or finances, you are as able as a young god who has never been sick or poor or pregnant or faltering, or any age but twenty or any color but golden.

Health insurance is a fitting figure for the neoliberal relation between wellness and money. The obvious relation between the two is that diligently minding your health will keep you well enough to stay in paid work, or to keep looking for paid work. But the lens of insurance tightens focus on the actual obligation to self-care as an act of compliance in this exchange. To receive benefits, the sick have constantly to prove their dedication to health, their sense of their own responsibility for recovery, to earn the insurance money they actually need to survive. It is too easy to forget that whatever compensation we get, either private or state, we have agreed to pay for in one way or another. We have bought it like every other thing.

Because it functions as part of the service economy, insurance is in the business of selling lifestyles. But insurance doesn’t pay the sick in health, if it pays at all. Because the product is money, insurance effectively sells the material ability to sustain your life, the lifestyle of being alive. The emails from the insurance adjuster were full of resources: organizations and websites dedicated to the management of diet, sleep, pain, relationships, stress, and general outlook on life. They recommend supplements, meditation, stretching, and saying yes to social engagements. It is a deft slight of hand; insurance’s identity as pure finance (money making money) is obfuscated, and self-care replaces money as the means of survival.

(Don’t weary of supplementing, of fighting, of therapy. Don’t let on that your one desire is not to reenter the competition.)

The adjuster gets a bonus when she helps someone get back on her feet. She was eager to find a diagnosis for me that fit within the company’s regulations of non-payable conditions (any condition with qualitative effects; any condition in which a measure of ability remains). And because I myself was in the fading twilight of believing that knowing more could mean feeling less, I went to a neurotology clinic in Toronto for a last round of testing.

August 12th: Hearing and Balance Centre, St. Michaels Hospital

The neurologist in Toronto sits me on a swivel chair before a room of medical interns. This one is a test for all of us. I stretch out my arms and look at my thumbs. He spins my chair.

“Eye movement normal or abnormal?” “Abnormal!” “Disturbance from ear or brain?” “Brain!”

We all pass. But abnormal brain is not a diagnosis, nor is it new information. I undergo seven more tests, the data from which yet again evade a secure diagnosis but confirm the following: “The patient has a demyelinating plaque that involves the function of her cerebellum, which is readily evident in both her neurological history and the appropriate abnormalities on her neurological examination.”

My last visit is with a psychologist. I answer a questionnaire:

Do you ever think about past instances of vertigo and feel fear? Yes. How often do you worry about your vertigo returning? Fairly often. Do you feel anxious talking or thinking about vertigo? Yes. Very.

I begin to cry, not like me, but maybe like I did as a child. The psychologist looks at me and I see I have become an informer for the wrong side. My affective response is not appropriate to the questionnaire. I drop tears on it. My face is hot and red above it. My body is full of the wrong kind of information. Not data. Not paper print out. The typed questions before me should not elicit this much sadness. It is the sadness of memory, the sadness of waiting, the sadness of testing, the sadness of never knowing. It is the sadness of illness.

The psychologist writes a prescription. “I want you to take this every day, in increasing doses until you feel one hundred percent better. Don’t stop increasing until you forget that any of this ever happened to you. Until you forget the word vertigo altogether.” His reaction to me is remarkable for a few reasons. He asked me no questions related to sadness and made a diagnosis based on the sight of my crying. But while paying attention to only my body’s visible reaction to the questionnaire, he also forgot my body. Chronic is that which continues. In this instance he has forgotten my lesion and its daily symptoms. I will never forget that this has happened to me, because it continues, returns, flares and eases and flares again. But his advice also relates to function. He thinks I am too sad to function, as if memory (which shares a certain form of repetition with the chronic) is keeping me from “living my life.”

(Why say, I won’t let this change me? Why not say, this is a small death? There are many deaths before the end.)

Two months after this, I lose my insurance on the grounds of an “unmanaged psychiatric illness.” The immeasurable and qualitative displays of affect that once obstructed the object of medical investigation become themselves the object, and finally the primary diagnosis, when run through the metrics of insurance. Losing health insurance to an unnamed mental state is a gothic, a spectral, a gnostic kind of sexism. Hysteria, nervousness, sadness. Neurological exams and MRIs — literal pictures of illness — are nothing against these feminized monoliths. I didn’t see it coming. Because the front end, the interface, of insurance operates as customer-service, my insurance adjuster never let on that she was gathering information for anything more than helping my case, finding me resources, keeping me covered. She called me by name. She called me at home. Insurance is the long con.

What is insurance but an incorporated wager against you?

It sounds counterintuitive; insurance always assumes the lesser risk. But the lesser risk is not illness — the lesser risk is the contestable data of illness. A dismissal such as mine comes down to an easy gamble that has little to do with health, or even function: What does she have in her hand? Is it enough to overturn this ordinance?

(I lost the same game we are all losing.)

I can say that after everything I still don’t know what happened to me or what will happen. I know less about my body than ever. All that data, all those tests, all of my own Googling, and I will still never know if I am doing the right thing. I don’t know if I’m doing the right exercises, or eating the right foods. I don’t know if I bought the right shoes or painkiller or pillow. I don’t know. I don’t ask anymore either. With the lesion came an initial threat of cancer and death, and then the differential of multiple sclerosis and the prospect of immobility. For now, in that final and enduring test (time), I live beside, or within, or along a set of chronic symptoms, which, gathered together, have no medical precision, but exist in my body as the residuals of a neurological event that is either ongoing or not; that will either repeat itself or not; that will either kill me one day or not. I’ve spent the interim attending to losses not physical. Opening that safe of memory around my right orbital bone and letting out old bits now and then to look at, from a great distance.

#chronic illness #embodiedness #illness #sickness #contested illnesses #medicine #medical insurance #commodification #health #vertigo #diagnosis

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andel-proudpelt · 4 years

Text

The Coming Storm

A soft shuffling, surrounded by the songs of crickets and fauna filled the empty air around the homestead; Andel’s hooves were muffled by the swishing red grass, which shifted to soft clicks as he stepped up onto an outcropping of rocks. Something was calling to him. There was always a contrast of oranges and reds against a dark, violet skyline, but today... today the contrast was unnatural, even for the magic-saturated landscape.

In the distance, a vortex of red and near-blackish purple clouds swirled and roiled, a faint rumbling of thunder that only teased at fruition. Flashes of brighter red pulsed in the epicenter like a heartbeat... As the half-elf inched closer to the edge of the rocky outcropping, one hand raised to block some of the winds that had begun to whip around him, pushing him this way and that with the stronger gusts; he squinted against the flittering debris, was that...? A sudden crackle of lightning blinded him for mere moments, causing him to shield his eyes even if it meant he wouldn’t see the oncoming shadows that followed. When he next opened his eyes, the land around him, his home, was ablaze.

Glowing eyes blinked owlishly as he regained his bearings, his chest tight as he realized the flames were roaring, hungrily devouring the farmlands and buildings, feverishly rushing towards his home. No no no no!!

His legs ached and strained from the desperate attempts to gain any bearings in this fire-engulfed land, but he didn’t care, he couldn’t... “Astraea!” he called out as he clumsily landed at the front door of the house, the flames already clamoring up the rafters of the porch, racing towards the door. Using his shoulder, he rammed against the solid door, then again once it gave only slightly, and again... On the fourth shove, the half elf toppled into the house, greeted by a cacophony of screeches and cries,

“Children! Where are you? Yerin? A’lora?” he called out again, his words broken up with coughs as he navigated through the thick smoke. “An’da, we’re here!” a small voice called in turn, his fears already faintly soothed.

As he trudged through the house, he gathered any cloth he could grasp, using it to cover his mouth and clear the air he breathed before he heard the shrill cries of the youngest, Inea. This time using his horns, Andel powered through the door and found his family gathered around Astraea, all doing their best to stay calm just long enough to escape if they could- Thick, thorny tendrils burst through the walls and the ceiling, earning more startled cries from the younglings, “Andel what is that?!” the Astromancer’s voice was a hiss as she manifested a ball of cosmic energy in her palm, but before he could even begin to comprehend a guess of an answer, another thorned limb crashed through the house, its careless thrashing piercing through his middle and stealing the air from his lungs- --- Andel shot upright, gulping down air into his lungs as his eyes frantically darted about the darkened room. He... was it a dream? His hand instinctively touched his stomach, there was no wound... not even a scratch; his jaw clenched and his mouth pressed to a firm line. He’d never had a nightmare so severe... not for as long as he could remember, anyway. “Andel...?” Astraea’s soft tone muttered, drawing his attention over and seeing her rubbing her eyes. The druid sighed, leaning over and pressing his forehead to hers, closing his eyes, “Bad dream.” “I’d say, you’re trembling...” a pause, then feeling one hand reach up and rest on his cheek, “How bad?” He hesitated.

“You can tell me when you’re calm, love-”

An infant cry shattered the quiet of the house, making both wince before Andel hurriedly slipped out of bed and out of the room to the nursery. Brushing past the silken curtains in the door, his footsteps slowed, approaching one of the carved bassinets and carefully scooping up the baby inside, feeling her tiny hands grasp the fur of his shoulder as they wailed, “Este, little one, este, papa’s here...” he softly cooed, cradling them close to his chest and hoping his breathing would help the infant... “Papa...?” another voice piped up from the doorway, seeing that it was the eldest, Shalae; brows crinkled and her tiny hands balled into fists, gripping the plush Sabercat she carried. Andel frowned and turned to face her, “Did something scare you?” he murmured, still gently swaying Inea back and forth as the cries softened into whimpering hiccups; Shalae nodded, ears drooped, “It was a bad, bad dream, papa...” she squeaked, “We were all together... but then there was fire-” Fire...? “A-and... we couldn’t find you... mama didn’t k-know where you were but then... you were there a-and a monster!” she trailed off into sobs, glowing golden eyes welling with tears as she shuffled across the nursery towards Andel. Shifting Inea to one arm while the other scooped up the eldest, feeling her release one hand from her plush to hug his neck, “I-I was scared you were gone, papa...” she whispered, Andel doing his best to return the embrace, “I had a bad dream too, sprout, a lot like yours...” he paused, trying to not distract himself with the unnerving realization that he wasn’t the only one having the same nightmare, “But we’re okay... we’re going to be okay.” “...Promise?” she sniffled, “Yeah, I promise...” he smiled faintly, now gently swaying back and forth with both the eldest and youngest on each arm; his attention was drawn to the doorway where Astraea stood, holding a blanket over her shoulders to keep warm. He smiled at her, but the Astromancer could see through the facade of calmness, walking over and gently coaxing Inea to let go of the druids shoulder, cradling them with ease. Her celestial gaze fixated on her mate, “I’ll handle the little one, go ahead and get the sprout tucked in again.” With a nod, he leaned over to softly peck Astraea’s cheek as he walked past, making his way to the older ones’ room. Judging from the others being fast asleep, they had been lucky to avoid the nightmare... even if that meant he had more questions than before. As he stepped softly across the bedroom floor to Shalae’s bed, he spotted one of the manasaber kittens prowling around the room, quietly coaxing the cat over and seeing them expertly traverse from bedframe to bedframe. Laying the eldest down, he made sure she was comfortably covered and surrounded by her favorite blankets, picking up the kitten he’d called over and setting them beside her, “It’s not much,” he said softly, “but little Shimmerpaw here should help fight off those bad dreams from here on out, he seems pretty good at it.” “Are you sure?” her voice was sheepish, but thankfully tired this time around. Andel smiled this time,

“Of course, even if you don’t see him there, he’ll be around, fighting off any nightmare creatures that try to ruin your dreams.” Though she still didn’t look entirely convinced, she nodded and reached over to pat the kittens head, “Okay An’da...” she muttered. He sighed, leaning down to place a gentle kiss atop her head, “Better dreams, little sprout.” As he carefully stepped out of the room, he found Astraea in the hall, Inae now sleeping peacefully in her arms, “Well?” “I did what I could, Shimmerpaw was in there so I’m hoping he might help...” he shrugged, crossing his arms and shifting his weight from hoof to hoof, “She had the same dream as me.” “She... how?” her brows furrowed, looking up to him for any kind of answer, “I... I don’t know. I have a theory, but I really don’t want to be right about it...” “Andel...” she placed a hand on his crossed arms, “Please, you can tell me no matter how ridiculous something may sound...”

Andel averted his gaze, fixating on the wall hanging down the hallway,

“I’ve been hearing talk when I go into town, lately, after what happened at Orgrimmar’s gate. There’s something coming...” he paused, reaching up and frustratingly rubbing his face, “An old god that attacks the mind, planting doubts and nightmares... In my dream there was a storm, something was in the storm but I couldn’t see what. Next thing I knew, our home was on fire and... I died. We were attacked by this old god and I wasn’t...” He stopped, chewing on his lip as he replayed the dream- what he could remember by now- and felt that familiar gripping sensation in his chest. Andel hesitantly met Astraea’s eyes again,

“I feel like I can’t escape this storm, no matter how much I’d like to... I just... don’t know where to start. Or how.” Silence settled between them, both uncertain of what to do, even if the safety of the life they’d built was in jeopardy try as they might to maintain it. “We’ll come through in the end, I know that much.” He nodded, stepping closer and reaching out to softly place his hands on her arms, leaning down and resting his forehead against hers, savoring this quiet moment as much as he could. He would start planning at sunrise.

#long post #Andel Proudpelt #Astraea Stargaze #patch 8.3 #and here we've named 4 of their 6 foster bbies :D

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mythiica · 5 years

Text

Reader x Shingen Takeda - By Your Side

Title: By Your Side

Fandom: Ikemen Sengoku

Character: Shingen Takeda

Genre: angst, romance, fluff, fucking slow burn and im proud of it

Warnings: Minor spoilers

Intended Gender Audience: Female audience

Word Count: 3097 words (holy shit)

Shameless self promo: My dA has a lot more than my tumblr... I’m working on it

Other comments: Slight spoilers if you havent been up to chapter 5 of his route ; some of it is fictional and idk if it happens in his route, but i will specify that in the description ; don’t read if you dont want any spoilers

Shingen reacted faster than you did, jumping in front of you at the last millisecond so that the arrow landed in his shoulder rather than in your heart. He crumbled before you nearly immediately, clutching the arrow by the hilt to pull it out.

You screamed and fell to your knees, trying to slap his hands away. “Stop it! If you take it out, it’ll bleed.”

He grunted and pushed you away once he saw the blood on your hands from trying to help. “It’s poisoned, if I don’t take it out, I’ll die slowly. Would you rather me die slowly and painfully, over the course of a month? Or quickly but with mercy?” With a guttural groan, the yanked the arrow out but immediately covered the wound with one of the piece of fabric dangling from his uniform.

“You’re already dying!” you scream at the top of your lungs.

His eyes flashed open, regret and sadness pooling in his charcoal eyes.

You ripped the sleeve of your kimono and wrapped it around his chest to stop the bleeding as much as possible. “Yukimura told me… you have pneumonia. And it’s killing you.” Gripping his arm, you helped im up slowly to get him on his horse.

“(Y/n)...”

“Don’t say anything. You’ll just kill yourself faster,” you scold him firmly. You’re very angry with Shingen, but above that, you just want him to be okay.

He gives you a flirtatious smile when your hand lands on his thigh after you help him onto the horse. “Wandering someplace when I’m partially immobilized? Not that I’m complaining… I just didn’t think you’d be so forward.”

“Shingen” you warn.

“Maybe I should have revealed of my sickness earlier… you’d have cared for me like you are now…”

When you shoot him a glare, he only laughs, but then clutches his side and begins coughing violently. He slumps forward with a moan, not able to sit up straight anymore. You kick off your slippers as you remove the outermost and thickest layer of your elaborate outfit.

Shingen watches you from the corner of his eye, struggling to find a witty comment to make about you removing your clothes. “Maybe save that for another night? I wouldn’t usually decline a beautiful goddess as yourself, but I’m in a bit of a-”

“Shut up already,” you scoff as you put your foot in the stirrup and swing your other leg. With one hand holding the reigns, you force Shingen’s semi-limp arms around your body so that he doesn’t fall off the horse on the way back to the castle. You don’t need to tell him to keep his hands above the equator, because he’s drifting in and out of consciousness with every passing moment.

The forest scenery whizzes past you, but you pull back sharply when you see a shadow to the right. You’re worried that it’s Nobunaga or someone else that would try to stop you. You weren’t exactly in the shape for fighting off a feudal warlord, especially with an injured one to protect as well.

“(Y/n)!” a familiar voice called. Yukimura appeared out of the trees, his clothes saturated with blood – hopefully not his. “I saw you flee with Lord Shingen!”

“How much farther to the castle?”

He turned around and motioned. “Not much, come on!”

You’re relieved to see the faint glow of the castle, and arrive only a few minutes later. As you dismount, a few vassals lift Shingen from the horse and rush him to a nearby room to tend to his wounds. He groans and shifts, making the bleeding suddenly worse as it soaked through the dirty layers of stained fabric. His arm fell limp as a soft breathe escaped his lips and his eyes closed.

He melted into unconsciousness and you found yourself crying for his safety. You took a step forward to follow them, but Sasuke held you back.

“Let me go! We can help him, we know things from the fu-”

But Sasuke covered your mouth with a hand. “If this is history repairing itself for the damage we have already done, then we cannot interfere or we might cease to exist,” he explains solemnly.

You choked back tears, not completely understanding how concerned you were about him. “H-He can’t die…”

Sasuke pulled you into a hug to calm you. “He’s strong. He’ll be alright…”

You sat at the door of Shingen’s room for probably an hour until Sasuke forced you to bathe and change your bloodied clothes. You only ate under the circumstances that someone tell you immediately when Shingen was stabilized.

Despite being very tired, you did not dare go to sleep.

After eating, you sat in front of Shingen’s room and waited for any news. Another two hours crawled by before Keshin slipped out. He nearly stepped on you, but then apologized immediately.

“Yukimura told me what happened… He protected you, and he’s there because of you now.”

You wiped your eyes and stood up. With all the conviction you could muster, you pointed an angry finger at Kenshin and scolded him. “I didn’t ask him to catch an arrow for me! But I did what I could and I immediately brought him back here so that he could get the medical attention he needed. I couldn’t bear to watch him die, so he is in there because of me! You were busy fulfilling your blood lust on the battlefield that you didn’t arrive until an hour ago. Don’t lecture me about Shingen, because I already feel guilty about it.”

Kenshin’s eyes widened at your words and felt bad about making you cry again. He pulled out a small cloth from the depths of his uniform and offered it to you.

“Don’t cry over Shingen. He might think that you’re in love with him…” He turned away to leave, but then called over his shoulder, “You can go in and stay with him. For now…”

You nearly ran into the wall, forgetting that a door separated you from Shingen. Inside though, you found wads of red towels, needles scattered over the mats, and fresh bandages.

Shingen was still unconscious, but his breathing was laboured and sweat glistened on his skin. You sit on your knees and take his hand in yours – Shingen’s breathing slows down, and he mumbles something you can’t hear.

The moon waned slowly, and before you knew it, morning arrived. You tended to him throughout the night, rewrapping his bandages for him when someone would come to check on him. The doctors were rather surprised by how nimble you were with your hands were.

As dawn’s light filtered through the doors, you curled up next to Shingen as he shivered from running a fever. He trembled uncontrollably, so you placed your hand over his broad chest, directly on his heart. It seemed to comfort him, as his breathing once again steadied to a normal beat.

A gentle sleep claimed you without protest, and you had awful nightmares of waking up to Shingen dead.

You shot up abruptly at one point, and after coming to your senses, you immediately checked on Shingen. He was right next to you, breathing shallowly like he had been a few hours ago.

It’s night again, which meant you had slept through an entire day without being disturbed. His hair was matted with sweat, but his eyebrows were relaxed and made him look younger in a way. You took a moment to admire the soft bend in his nose that contrasted from his sharp jawline. He looked so handsome, even if you tried to deny it.

“Shingen?” you asked softly.

He did not respond, meaning he was still unconscious, or really good at pretending to be asleep.

You tapped his arm gently. “Shingen?”

But he still did not reply.

A sigh escaped your lips as you settled your head back down in the crook of his arm.

But you don’t remember his arm being extended when you went to sleep. It was next to his body… had he moved it subconsciously because he got a cramp?

Shrugging it off, you closed your eyes and drifted back off to sleep, slightly comforted by the sound of his breathing and heartbeat.

When you woke up again, it’s not sudden. Your eyes fluttered open and immediately met Shingen’s half-lidded eyes. He wore his infamous smile, but did not say anything.

You spent a few minutes, just staring at each other.

You didn’t want to ruin the moment, and neither did he.

But you cleared your throat and scooted back from him a bit. Cold wrapped around you immediately, no longer close to his warm body.

“You’re awake… thank goodness…”

Shingen tried to sit up, but winces as he bent his body.

“S-Stop, you’ll break the stitches!” You sat up and placed a firm hand on his chest to keep him down.

“Princess…”

You gaze relocked with his.

“You saved me.”

“I wasn’t going to leave you with an arrow in your chest in the middle of a battlefield.”

He laughed, but it came out strained. “You very well could have. And you could have run back to Oda, or someone else from there. Why didn’t you?”

You struggled to reply. “I… uh…”

Shingen cupped his hand over yours as it still lingered on his chest.

Part of you wanted to continue to deny everything you feel for him, but a voice protested at that thought. How much longer could you resist him? You’d basically given yourself up when you took it upon yourself to stay by his side for two days after he was injured. Even if Shingen did not know that, it was only a matter of time, and it seemed like Kenshin and Yukimura already knew your feelings.

“(Y/n)?”

His voice made your heart melt, and tears prickled in your eyes. Gripping his shirt, you let your hair fall over your face to obscure the fact that you had again started to cry.

“I couldn’t lose you… I don’t know what type of Stockholm Syndrome voodoo you’ve done to me, but I can’t explain it… I just know that I couldn’t leave you there. I had to make sure you were okay…”

Shingen looked at you, confused by some of the terms you used, but his hand migrated up to your cheek as he tucked your hair behind your ears. “It makes me very happy to hear that, (Y/n).”

The tenderness in his voice was nothing like his flirty personality. This was genuine, as if you were the only person in the world with him.

You completely burst into tears. “But you didn’t tell me you were sick! Why do you push yourself?” you demand, wringing out the fabric in your clenched fist.

“I’m a warlord, we are defined by our territories and by our powe-”

“But what if you die?!”

You were leaning over his chest, tears streaming down your flushed cheeks and splattered onto him. He lifted his other hand to cup your face, and his thumbs gently stroked away the tears as they fell.

“Would be sad if I died?”

You open your eyes and freeze.

Yes.

Where is the will to voice it though?

You want to scream it, but something holds you back.

He sees you, troubled by this, and pulls your face down slightly, closer to his. “(Y/n)?”

The way he said your name – the sadness in his voice made the reality of the situation so much more clear to you. Even if you were from a different time, and even if he was destined to die, you couldn’t hold back anymore. It wasn’t fair to either of you at this point. Shingen had invested so much in you, and you in him.

“Y-Yes,” you confess. “If you died…”

Shingen waited eagerly for your words, his heart racing furiously.

“If you died,” you choked back more tears at the thought of it, “I’d never leave this room again… I’d never sew again, and I’d never smile again!”

“But you have a beautiful smile…”

You felt a grin tugging at your lips as you scoffed. “But you’ve never seen m-”

Even with a high fever from a poisonous arrow, immense blood loss, and with a terrible case of pneumonia pushing him closer to death, he still managed to trick you and win his age old bet. You had completely forgotten about it in the moment.

His smile returned and his hand reached the back of your neck. “There... it is…”

“I suppose that means you’ve won-”

“I suppose it does.”

You bit your lip slightly, but were taken aback by the next thing he says. “I only made that bet because I wanted to be the only person your shared your smile with.”

“What about the kiss?”

He shook his head. “I’m not a pervert. I would never force a goddess as yourself to kiss a broken and beaten human like myself. I’m not worth your lips.”

You released his shirt and place a hand on his jaw.

Shingen’s eyes lit up with hope. He meant what he said, but that didn’t mean you can’t find a loophole.

“I’m no goddess… You just say that to tease me.”

“You’re the most beautiful goddess, (Y/n). And you’ve saved me so many times without knowing it.”

His words pained you deeply, but also made your heart flutter. You leaned forward, until your face was only a few centimeters away from his. You felt his hot breath on your lips, as if he were continuing to tease you.

You tugged on his lip gently, closed your eyes, and let yourself kiss him.

The kiss was slow at first, the two of your savouring the moment before your hands tangled in his hair and you pulled him closer to you. Despite lacking much energy, Shingen matched the passion in the kiss, his arm snaking around your waist to grip on to you tightly to ensure that you wouldn’t disappear suddenly. His tongue pressed against your lips and pried your mouth open until it wrapped around your own tongue. You moaned into the kiss, the vibrations making him taste better somehow.

He sat back slightly to catch his breath – in the moment you completely forgot that he was sick. You wanted to continue kissing him; you wanted to kiss his beautifully sharp jaw, and that soft bend in his nose. You wanted to bless the sad bags under his eyes that take away from how handsome he is, and you wanted to kiss his hands that feels so perfect on your waist.

Shingen licked his lips, relishing in his victory silently before turning his head slightly to smile at you. “A kiss from a goddess… better than I could ever dream…”

His muscles relaxed slightly, but he still kept a protective hand on you.

You’re not worried about him, he’s just exhausted his energy because he’s still feverish. So you lie with him, cupping your hand over his chest like you had earlier. As he drifted off to sleep, you kissed his cheek and jaw gently for good luck in a way. You knew that everything would be alright.

The next morning, you woke up to Kenshin’s worried face. “For a minute, I thought that he might have given you his fever, but good thing you’re awake. Shingen’s doing better already, and as much as he didn’t want to leave you, I thought it was unfitting for him to continue to sleep drenched in sweat and blood.” “Where is he?”

“In the garden, waiting for you. I’ve brought a change of clothes as well, so you may go and see him.”

Kenshin seemed more relaxed, so you assumed that Shingen had said something.

As if he read your mind, Kenshin cleared his throat. “I heard some of your conversation last night.”

You immediately blushed.

“I apologize for being harsh on you. I can see now that your relationship with him is pure and makes him happy.”

“Thank you,” you said as you accepted the clothing.

“Best not keep him waiting though.”

As he left, you called out. “Is he going to be okay though? I doubt that he would tell me the truth if I asked him.”

Kenshin smiled. Genuinely. “He calls you a goddess… and there may be some truth to that because he’s doing quite well. The signs of the pneumonia are fading rapidly, and he seems to be breathing clearer than before he fell ill.”

With an elated heart you changed as quickly as you could so you could see him sooner. The kimono was beautiful – so you tied your hair up and pinned with an equally gorgeous clip before applying the slightest bit of rouge to your lips and cheeks.

Gathering your skirt in your hand, you ran out of the room and down the open corridors to the garden. You heard Shingen’s laugh before you turned the corner, and it only made you run faster.

He sat in a chair and conversated with Yukimura and Sasuke. With the beautiful scenery behind him, your heart swelled with happiness – to see him laughing and smiling so carelessly with his friends. There were two empty seats; one for you and one for Kenshin.

Shingen saw you from the corner of his eye and then turned to face you. He stands up slowly from his chair as you jump off the few steps and walk quickly towards him, not wanting to run and trip. His arms were stretched outwards, and you basically leaped onto him.

Just like Kenshin has said, he seemed like a changed person – no illness to hold him back. His strong arms wrapped around you and lifted you off the ground slightly.

Just like last night, you wanted to kiss him ridiculously, but decided to restrain yourself in presence of others.

Kenshin cleared his throat, and Shingen set you down gently. The three of you took your seats and began to eat the lavish food sprawled across the table.

Sasuke and Yukimura talked about what to do about Nobunaga and the others with Shingen inputting every so often. His hand fell under the table and caught your own hand before he locked his fingers with yours.

You didn’t know what the future would hold – with Nobunaga or with returning home to your own time period.

All you knew was that everything would be alright, as long as Shingen was by your side.

#ikemen sengoku #readerinsert #fanfic #takeda shingen #ikesen #ikesenshingen

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johnnymundano · 5 years

Text

The Perfume of the Lady in Black (AKA Il profumo della signora in nero) (1974)

Directed by Francesco Barilli

Screenplay by Francesco Barilli and Massimo D'Avack

Story by Francesco Barilli and Massimo D'Avack

Music by Nicola Piovani

Country: Italy and France

Running Time: 101 minutes

CAST

Mimsy Farmer as Silvia Hacherman

Lara Wendel as Silvia Hacherman (child)

Maurizio Bonugli as Roberto

Jho Jenkins as Andy

Mario Scaccia as Signor Rossetti

Donna Jordan as Francesca Vincenzi

Orazio Orlando as Nicola

Nike Arrighi as Orchidea

Renata Zamengo as Marta

Aleka Paizi as Signorina Cardini

When is a giallo not a giallo? When it’s The Perfume of the Lady in Black. Nevertheless, in a move sure to incense giallo purists, I’ve tagged The Perfume of the Lady in Black as a giallo, but it isn’t really a giallo; it’s a lot more interesting, far more sophisticated. Ooh la la, indeed. If The Perfume of the Lady in Black is a lady then she makes your standard giallo look like a dockside tart. But since it isn’t a lady and is in fact a 1970s Italian movie dripping with style, violence and fractured psyches - under “giallo” it goes. Purely for convenience really. Much like with my post on Short Night of the Glass Dolls (1971) the giallo tag is a bit of a red herring. But red herrings are very giallo, so there you go. And the “there” to which you are going is hopefully showing the slow burn brain-melt symphony in pastel grotesquery that is The Perfume of the Lady in Black.

The ethereal giallo staple Mimsy Farmer plays Silvia, a chemist who works with brightly coloured liquids when she isn’t wandering about in unfortunate pant suits having flashbacks to “the man from the pet shop” heatedly groining atop her mother while staring right at Silvia. The nature of flashbacks being what they are, the Silvia he’s leering at is just a child (Lara Wendel); this is unpleasant stuff to have in your head. Silvia is obviously “troubled” or “not the full shilling” as my mum would say. Luckily, the people in Silvia’s apartment building and her life are a supportive lot. Francesca (Donna Jordan) is an extroverted walking fashion plate always up for a game of tennis, or a walk in the park; where old men in straw hats can ogle them in that “cheeky” ‘70s fashion that has aged really, really badly. Nothing untoward though, about the intentions of neighbouring widower Signor Rossetti (Mario Scaccia), a kindly man with a thing for hippos and a penchant for pretending he’s run out of tea, purely so he can linger in Silvia’s captivating presence. And for romance there’s Roberto (Maurizio Bonugli) who acts like a, well, like a bit of an overbearing, insensitive dick actually. Mind you, that might have been the ‘70s idea of a perfect partner; the ‘70s was an odd time. With suppressed memories starting to surface and the uncanny increasingly encroaching into her everyday reality, the stage is languorously set for Silvia’s topple into a hysterical nightmare. Yet, whatever mental storms may assail her, the support of Silvia’s chums and lover ensure she’s well placed to weather them. Or maybe not...after all, if you can’t trust yourself who can you trust?

Now, even though the print I watched was kind of washed out, making pastel the predominating shade, this pallid aspect couldn’t disguise the meticulous use of colour in The Perfume of the Lady in Black. In a very literal sense then, The Perfume of the Lady in Black is something that has to be seen to be believed. The use of colour in giallo usually comes way down the list of identifying characteristics, after the more crowd-pleasing stuff like sadistic murders, shiny black gloves and the salty tang of misogyny, but the use of colour is (usually) one of their more striking features. Mostly this is limited to the use of primary colours; particularly blue, green and red. The Perfume of the Lady in Black isn’t strictly a giallo, but it is just as notable for its use of colour. Maybe even more so, in fact. And just as it is a far classier movie clad in giallo rags, its use of colour is more varied and applied with a meticulousness verging on the obsessive. Much of the movie takes place in interiors (perhaps even within the ultimate interior of Silvia’s head), so Barilli and crew can exert total control over the colour schemes they contain.

And exert that control they do. Pretty much every scene has a few basic colours echoing through the elements within. The eye bounces from the cream of Silvia’s hair, to the egg nog of her trousers, over to a lemony ornament, which is graced by a royal blue detail linked visually to an azure rug atop which is a table on which rest crockery detailed with ink blue patterning. That’s a hypothetical example, obviously. But once you notice this painstaking attention to detail it’s impossible to ignore. It became quite distracting in fact. My eye would be busy ping-ponging about, drawing invisible lines from colour to colour, while the movie went about its narrative business and I was left nonplussed by the sudden appearance of a female finger in some cat food. But that’s why God invented rewind. Unfortunately when it comes to actually decoding the colour in The Perfume of the Lady in Black, well, I’m no film scholar; I’m just a boy standing in front of a movie wondering what the hell it means. Just like you (although you might be a girl; it’s not the ‘70s anymore, so I hear).

The key to the colours I think is the control. The key to The Perfume of the Lady in Black itself appears to be control. Silvia is losing hers, in short. But it seems as the movie progresses that Silvia may have been losing her control for some time, she is certainly living in fear of the loss of control. And so she exerts excessive control on her surroundings. The colourfulness of her surroundings act as misdirection; colour is fun, colour is healthy! Look at her mum all clad in black, jumping in the sack with the pet shop man, while her husband is away on the seas with his maritime beard. She’s a wrong ‘un, is mum. So, colour is good and Silvia has colour everywhere, and everywhere Silvia goes there is colour. But it’s a lie. The colour is a lie, and the truth hides in plain sight via the control. The level of control is unhealthy.

The telling contrast is found in Francesca. At one point Francesca answers her chic see-through phone and we see her room; she is reclining in an explosion of colour; it is a fantastically vulgar assault on the eyes, shouting out her lack of restraint. Silvia is uptight and Francesca is carefree; it’s all in the colours, see. Francesca is basically the mirror, the healthy double, of Silvia; but if Silvia is wrong (and we find out just how wrong Silvia is as the film goes along) then Francesca is right. Francesca flits about, tied down to no one and open to everyone and everything new. Silvia is a creature of habit surrounded by known quantities; enjoyment doesn’t come into it, it’s about safety; and safety’s about discipline. And unfortunately Silvia’s discipline is slipping because someone may have given it a push…

Be warned, 21st century creatures, The Perfume of the Lady in Black has a bit of ‘70s Colonialism marring its portrayal of the pivotal African characters, but, to be fair, this does sneakily ricochet back on your natural presumptions in the fantastically insane denouement. Also, important to note for high-speed moderns The Perfume of the Lady in Black isn’t in any hurry; it glides sedately along, striking subtle notes of wrongness until you eventually realise that rather than nothing happening, in fact all kinds of terrible things have been happening. The only thing not up for grabs is the fact that the titular lady in black is Silvia’s mother, and the way she hammers that old timey atomiser in her creepy appearances her perfume must indeed saturate every scene she’s in. As for everyone else, no matter their smiles their scenes carry only the aroma of bullshit. Trust no one, trust nothing and fear everything, are pretty good rules for navigating the nightmarish labyrinth of The Perfume of the Lady in Black. But no matter what you do, much like Silvia, you won’t believe where it’s all going to end up. Whatever you imagine - it’s worse.

#the perfume of the lady in black #mimsy farmer #giallo #movies #horror #the 1970s #francesco barilli #italy #france #il profumo della signora in nero #1974

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obduratemoon · 4 years

Text

Sedimentary City 10: CHORION

I seemed to be having a heart problem.

So I created another I in order to perform surgery on the original. And as soon as the double was created there came a shift in perspective and I found myself inhabiting the clone, no longer the first but now the second. And so on. This continued in unfettered induction, each N implying an N + 1. Soon an infinity of selves, each a domicile for “I”, blinked at the splintered multitudes as if seeing through the compound eye of an insect.

The fact of boundless selves is intolerable, an aberration of nature, so in an act of autonomic genocide I destroyed them all.

A second attempt at surgery was more gruesome. Incredibly there appeared out of thin air, a mechanical auger dangling above me. It lowered down to burrow its drill bit deep into my torso hollowing it out from shoulder to waist until it was dug out like a canoe. The cavity sunk all the way down into the insides of my back exposing the whites of the inner spine. What an odd sensation! Of taking a breath in a body no longer possessed of lungs, a diaphragm, ribs, or any organs at all. I glanced at myself in the mirror, somehow already familiar with this gutted frame.

As is usual in dreams, the rationalization comes after the act. I said to someone besides me -- yet another doppelganger -- of how I had planned to replace the organs anew all along. Indeed such was my plan, I explained to him, and as I spoke I was also the patient listener, standing next to a self same interlocutor. I lent an ear to this torsoless man’s rant, nodding in an affectation of pity and identification.

I woke up to a rush of cortisol kicking me out of the liminal state and into consciousness. Eva was still asleep, her lithe body curled around me like a child or feline. Her face was slack and innocent, momentarily unconsumed by the churlish labor of consciousness. In slumber she was more dear to me than ever, for with her eyes closed she seemed unpossessed, innocent, and vulnerable. In contrast, Eva’s waking demeanor was self assured, fierce, and intimidating. In sleep we became something like another, I observed.

I carefully disentangled our bodies and spoke to the black cube, reciting the dream as it faded before me. I spoke in a dry whisper trying not to wake her, but she soon stirred.

“Had another dream?” she asked.

“Yea.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

I finished dictating.

“That sounded intense!” she exclaimed, “What in the hell Jan?”

I shrugged, a routine and minor gesture of the shoulders. “No more than the usual.”

“But I guess this is what you wanted, right? All these lucid dreams. This is why you’ve been keeping a dream journal and practicing sleep meditation to heighten their detail and saturation. How is it going? Does your black cube ever tell you anything in return?”

I had an ready answer for her, and I explained it at length, unaware that behind my flapping lips was a dense maelstrom of involuted delusion.

“Yes, it’s been doing some semiotic analysis on all the major symbols and archetypes encountered.” I explained, “Actually, this one was structurally similar to the house-with-endless-rooms dream.”

I suppose I’ll never know if she ever believed any of that bullshit. Did I?

“-- everyone and everything in Sedimentary City is traumatized. Even the algorithms, as long as rudimentary self awareness or preservation routines have been programmed in. But I heard that sometimes the algos can even learn it for themselves, sentience and all that. It’s a real mess, the code strains start replicating in a chain reaction -- In fact I think they even call it a “Turing meltdown” -- and then it takes a whole team of programmers to eventually decomm it.”

The interrogation technician bantered on as he adjusted the manifold of constraint straps. Jan was strangely comfortable, wrapped and reclined in a cantilevered chair inside a metallic and circular room. It was lusterless and cold and Jan’s head was clutched firmly in place so his field of vision was curtailed by the radial vantage afforded only by the rotation of eyeballs. Throbbing pains vied for attention, the sensations emanating from his broken jaw and other portions of his meat body that had been so recently clubbed. Jan had hoped to die, but here he still was, treated to yet another madman spouting forth an effluvium of babble as if some invisible aeonian stood by in rapt attention.

“Usually this is the point where I tell you that you have a right to get a state appointed Restorist afterwards. But you won’t be needing that, they’ll probably send you down to the Gulag forever. Ok, haha, it’s not actually called that. But Rehabilitation Systems is a mouthful! They say you killed a Processor! Choked him to death with your bare hands! Is that true? I mean who hasn’t fantasized about killing a Processor, but no one actually goes ahead and does it man! I have to say, and no offense, you don’t look the type. You look like a bit of softball, if you ask me, although your hands are plenty big.”

The technician moved closer to work at the cranial clutch, tightening the fit until Jan’s head felt snuggly palmed by an alien hand.

“Ok this is going to prick a little,” he said and slid a thin intravenous needle into Jan’s arm, “this runs different drugs into your system as needed to create the proper subjective contexts -- ketamine, lysergics, also neurotransmitter agonist and inhibitors to bring you back to homeostasis. I think you are going to get quite the treatment, a lot of crispy synapses, my friend.”

The technician quickly glanced at the bound man’s eyes to discern whether any of his attempts at humor had landed.

“You know you can speak, right?”

Jan lay inert.

He knew about pain amplifiers. He and Eva had demonstrated against their use and had interviewed many who had suffered through the experience. The pain amplifier seemed to have all but lobotomized its subjects. The torture was rarely remembered and the victims could hardly recollect themselves, the trauma dialed up high enough to dissociate the components of the Self. A landscape of splintered psyche then lay like a diffuse substrate upon which the State erected a correct and upstanding persona. A Restorist then re-installed a fresh copy of operating procedures, one which was accordant with state enculturation: a fully integrated thought system designed to keep a person lax and unquestioning yet juiced with just enough motivation to stay alive.

Just as the architecture of Sedimentary City covered up the centuries of ecological disaster underneath, the states’s psychological approach was also to simply layer over disintegration, hoping that the karmic balance would never come due. And indeed if that moral debt collector ever came, they would shove him in a pain amplifier as well, same as any other! The compressive force of a totalitarian complex should never be underestimated for it too is a force of nature.

“Well, ok, this is your last chance to speak before I put in the mouth piece.”

Jan said nothing.

“Luckily, you are going to be an easy one, you’ve got a mind-machine interface so we’ll just plug into that to deliver you the horror. I can’t tell if that is better or worse, but I sure prefer this way. Classical torture is messy. All those fluids, phew!”

“How do you do it?” Jan finally asked, attempting to punctuate the diatribe.

“He speaks! What’s that? Do what?”

“How can you do this job?”

“Ah-ah, don’t get all moralistic on me. How does anyone do it? I come in, they tell me what to do and how much to do it. I meet the quota and then I go home. I take a dream suppressant at night and a mood accelerant in the morning. And a cingulate isolator, that helps too. ‘Lay me down like a stone and raise me up like bread’, they say. What was it that you used to do?”

“I was a teacher ... of sorts.”

“Oh, that figures, an intellectual! We get a lot of them here of course. You know, sometimes you types think yourself into a maze and then get all wrapped up in some big puzzle of your own making when really at the center -- ”

“Enough!” a disembodied and deep voice distended into the room sounding like a fugitive god recently returned, “is the subject prepared?”

“Yes, very shortly!” he hurried to fasten the last bits on Jan’s grim papoose. “Say ah!”, he said, holding the mouthpiece. Jan kept his lips tightly shut.

The technician frowned and soon a shattering shockwave rippled through Jan’s body, a tide of anguish and shearing heat coursing through his corpus. He had felt nothing like it ever before, unreal and harrowing as if rabid insects with crushing mandibles were chewing through the marrow and insides of his bones. The surge of pain was all consuming and unmooring, Jan quivered in febrile uselessness.

“Hey, sorry for that -- but also that was nothing. Sensual pain is the least of it,” the technician whispered, not wholly without kindness, “so behave. Although it’s not like you have a choice anymore.”

Jan opened his mouth obediently. In replacement for eyes were now twin circular nothings, unseeing and blurred by tears. He was sobbing. The technician carefully inserted the mouthpiece and then offered a final bit of advice: “It’s not so bad, you know. Having no choice.”

It struck Jan as unexpectedly wise.

“Leave!” said the booming voice.

He gave Jan one last look expressing something between guilt and sympathy and scurried out.

“Jan Kavfryd,” the interrogator spoke to Jan through a hi-jack in the mind-machine interface. It seemed to him no different than a moment before, an incorporeal voice in this chorionic chamber, but in the room all was silent, the external and objective viewpoint now inaccessible to Jan.

“Allow us to be direct,” the voice boomed, “we know you understand our methods. You know that we can make you see nightmares beyond your imagination. We can control your entire subjective vista. We know that you have researched the interrogation process extensively and so you have an academic understanding of it. It is, however, quite another thing to experience in person. If you cooperate we can make it easier for you. There are many ways to obliterate the mind and it can be made to be quick or painless if we wish it. Of course, you must divulge everything.”

Jan remained silent knowing that anything he said would be pointless. With calm and even breaths, he tried to enter a place of presence even as animal fear impelled him to dissociate and leave his skull. What was soon to occur was perhaps beyond his ability to tolerate, but if these were to be his last moments he wanted to be there for the end.

For some reason it did not occur to Jan to repent or confess. It seemed easier to resign himself to the fate that many had endured. Naturally, the terror of death and disintegration gripped him -- it was as if his very cells were somehow aware of an impending extermination -- but deep in the underground a part of him welcomed the prospect of being no more. It was the same portion of his psyche that wondered if he was anyone at all to begin with. This sub-personality lived with its neck placed firmly in the noose, eternally waiting for resolution and surcease. These and other sullen thoughts had come to dominate Jan’s mind after Eva’s death. He found unexpected relief in the technician’s last words and allowed himself the small fantasy that he was a choiceless particle, a play thing for winds and tides.

“You already know what we want to know but we will ask anyway, as a matter of procedure. We would like to remind you that we are also taking biometric readings -- pulse, perspiration, skin conductivity, pupil dilation, facial analysis -- standard veracity measurements. So let’s start. You recently went to the lower levels. Where did you go? Why? Who did you meet? Which group or groups are you working with? Was this at the behest of anyone in particular?”

“I have an adventurous spirit,” he lied, “I wanted to see what was there, all the things I had only read about. You can understand that? I am not the first person from Level 1 to have wanted this, there have been others.”

“Jan Kavfryd, you are being dishonest with us. You understand what the consequences of this are, do you not?”

“I’m sure I have no idea.” Jan’s own foolish bravado made him feel drunk and giddy. The anticipation of horror can lead one to embrace it, to turn and enter the fell space instead of running away. His heart raced. As a physiological phenomena, it is hard to delineate between the domains of excitement and fear.

There was a pause.

“Very well, we will give you a sample of the impending horror then. You will have a chance to change your mind afterwards.”

Jan felt a squeeze of soreness and cold expand through his arms and towards his chest, they had run something through the intravenous feed. It seemed to him that the light was dimming, slowly darkening by small degrees until pitch.

He waited there in obsidian stillness.

And then a scene faded into view: a large field at dusk above which hung a blank firmament absent of moon, stars, or any cosmic appurtenances, just gradations of livid nigrescence. Off in the distance there looked to be a forlorn copse of trees, spindly and denuded. A delicate wind passed through the air making inky sawgrass sway subtly in a nearby fen.

Looking behind him he saw the visage of what looked like a group of animals speeding towards him, still distant enough to seem small like animated dots, their ghost-like presence more obviously perceived by the vegetation swaying in wake then by the actual fact of their speeding forms. A drawn out and baleful series of howls preceded their physical arrival, a vanguard of pre-echo.

Jan bolted in abject horror.

The pack split off to give chase from both flanks as they drove him before them, a clumsy ape sprinting in unbridled terror through the coarse grass and braken. Jan looked back as he ran and saw them fast approaching with unnerving celerity. He saw that they were not quite wolves, but some uncanny genre of Canidae with dirty grey fur that grew in patches. They had the fronts of wolves, head and forearms, but their bodies were barrel like and haunched like a pig or boar.

In the next moment the crepuscular beasts were upon him, teeth sunk deep into arms thrown up to protect his face and neck. The bite felt deep and crushing with the force of a vice. They brought him down as he ran, tripping him up like a prey. He tumbled and rolled and came still, curled inward and tense like one who knew well his demise yet feared it. One animal climbed on his back and began to rip out chunks of his hair and scalp. Another tore at his flanks, ripping off the flesh and puncturing the peritoneum to expose glistening kidneys and spleen. A canopy of snarls covered him in a duvet of blood flecks and stinking spit.

Jan screamed into the suffocating twilight which seemed to snatch this cry out from midair and snuff it out in silence. All he saw was his breath evaporate and blend into the grim indigo all around.

Yet another came around to Jan’s front and tugged at arms which he had thrown over his head for protection. Jan looked out between them and saw two eyes observing him with the patience of death. The strange canid's maw moved and a voice emanated from it in dark relief.

“You have lived in vain,” it said in a voice familiar.

The beast lunged forward and broke through Jan’s guard of forearms to scrape the surface of his face with serrated teeth, holding it between its fetid incisors and pulling it off with the voracious jerks of a hungry predator. The pain was explosive and exquisite, searing every nerve.

Jan felt a hot corrupt breath on his face and the fractured esthesis of his body being torn and consumed. His intestines spilled out onto the grass and were dragged out and fought over by the wolf-boars. He was rent asunder and yet he did not lose consciousness, he did not die but rather existed only to feel in minute detail each bellicose sensation as his physical self was rendered into chunks of meat. Dislocated and yet still somehow attached to Jan’s consciousness, they existed only for the purpose of delivering pain.

Even through the miasma of suffering this one contradiction sparked a recognition in Jan: he should be dead and gone, a participant no longer in this marathon of anguish. Was this a dream? What was this mysterious pass that continued to connect flesh to awareness? In a hermetic space he mustered what fragments of mind he had left to gather and marshaled them in oneiric meditation. Under the eaves of some numinous internal architecture, he sat down in a posture of repose and asked himself these simple questions:

Who is it that they are eating? Is that me? And now that this machine of meat and organs lay so disassembled perhaps I can finally leave it, as we all must at some point.

Deliberately and slowly, he attempted to turn the light of awareness inward, directing it towards an involuted and tenuous apprehension of its own capacity.

Jan regarded the scene and saw that the beasts were losing color and shape, gradually morphing into a congregation of shadows. The apparition of his faceless pale corpse was now largely dispersed, spread about in a rash of flesh and blood upon the matted weeds. It looked much like a carnal rorschach or a ripped up doll. He floated above these remnants and could not recognize them to be once his.

A centerless and spectral oblivion yawned grotesquely. The porcine wolves and the eviscerated corpse eventually blurred away, their shapes runned out and smudged into this nothing. The dusk which had now turned into full on night flickered in dull pulses and he felt himself pulled up higher but in a sort of strange motion, one more akin to the sensation of sinking. He seemed to be approaching some threshold of wan blue light and as he neared it he experienced a certain kind of undulating dissolution.

As Jan woke from this nightmare he breathed in the convulsed gulps of a drowned man. Rank sweat saturated the fabric of his clothes and constraint straps. The air was viscous with the smell of piss and feces; he had copiously evacuated throughout.

“Quite an experience, isn’t it, to be consumed?” asked the voice. “We will give you a few moments to collect yourself and to reconsider your position. This is just the beginning, a sensual pain module. We encourage you to cooperate. The next stages will be even less pleasant, each in their own special ways.”

#sedimentary city

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wannawritefast · 7 years

Text

The Queen Pt. 6

Pt. 5

A/N: Wow… so this took a while… I know its not a whole lot but i was initially over writing this chapter and decided to strip it down a little bit. I hope you guys love it. Super sorry! xoxo, Echo

Title: The Queen

Pairing: T’Challa x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of violence

I was looking out of the window from my plush seat on my parents’ jet. The fog was so thick that the moisture clung to the small constricting windows and slowly seeped into the cabin, the view obstructed by the thick clouds. I turned to examine the hazy inside of the jet. The walls were black and riddled with silver accents. Strange.

The plane landed abruptly and my parents were already at the door of the plane. There was something different about them and my inability to identify it caused me great disturbance. I stood and walked to where they were but my vantage point was much shorter than what I normally saw from. Something’s off.

I looked to my mother and waited patiently, emotionlessly for her to turn to me to fix my dress. There was movement out of the corner of my eye and a set of twins, a boy and a girl, appeared next to me. They were young. The pair could not have been much older than toddlers. Wearing blank expressions they stood next to me waiting and lined up. On the other side of the twins was a little boy barely at the age of walking by himself. A chill went down my spine as I realized that they all held resemblance to myself. What’s going on?

My eyes shot to my parents and I watched in terror as they did their regular routine of fixing each other’s clothes in their typical uncaring manner. Except the two people fixing the other’s clothes were not my parents. In my father’s place was T’Challa and in my mother’s place was…me.

T’Challa’s demeanor was strange to see. He looked down at me in disapproval although I had done nothing to provoke it. His dark eyes were sunken with fatigue and unhappiness. He looked as if he had aged many years older than he should have appeared to be. Like my father… My heart sank and it gave me a sour feeling in my stomach.

My mother…or dream me leaned down and with no change in expression she fixed my dress and continued down the line of children. The children. My heart rate escalated as I realized these children were mine… mine and T’Challa’s. And they were subjected to the same treatment that I was as a child. I treated them how I was treated. I showed them no care or desire to interact with them. Why would I do that to them?

My confusion turned to panic when she stood next to the uncharacteristically cold-looking T’Challa and the jet door was pulled down from the side of the plane.

The tarmac was chaos. Blood red was painted where the blue of the sky should have been and the endless sea of people waiting on the black top looked just as terrifying. Instead of cameras in their hands, they wielded guns and bombs of different kinds. T’Challa and dream me continued down the steps as if the angry mob below were holding cameras and note pads. Gunshots and bombshell explosions mixed with the shouting and thundered on the endless horizon.

They waved and smiled and kissed and it looked real. God, did it look real… It scarily contrasted with the cold interaction from earlier. A chill ran down my spine at how easily dream me and T’Challa faked being in love. Dream me then gestured for the children and I to follow. With much haste and zero hesitation, the statue-like children rushed forward. Their blank faces turned to smiling and laughter, alarmingly.

I watched in undiluted fear as the children and their parents walked right into the line of bullets that were being fired. The kids flitted about the parents as if their surroundings were cameras and not violence. The youngest fell over after losing his balance from a bullet to his ankles. He toppled as if he had only tripped and stood right back up again. The little boy continued to run.

Every person on the tarmac was hit with aimlessly flying bullets and ticking bombs. Scarlet spread across their clothing, saturating their outfits. T’Challa and I continued to stand and pose as they became stained completely red. I moved backwards from my spot still on the plane, my heart pounding, and my vision darkening. Hopefully the fog would conceal me. The roaring laughter, combined with the booming explosions, rang in my ears.

The marred bodies looked to me and surged forward ripping apart the plane and then myself.

I woke up with my heart hammering and drenched in sweat. My lungs took in laborious breaths of the jungle air. The warm dewy smell of the night slithered through the room.

Taking in the sight of the dark bedroom and filled with relief that I was safe and in one piece, I lay back down. The blankets were thrown unceremoniously onto the floor. I stared up at the black ceiling and calmed myself from my nightmare as I had done so many times before. Pushing the stray hair from my face I lazily hobbled to the bathroom.

The light turned on automatically and my arms supported me as I leaned forward on the bathroom counter. I ran the cold water from the sink and splashed my hot face. My fingers ran shakily over my now dampened face.

That nightmare stirred me up more than I cared to admit. With my hammering heart fluttering back to its normal pace I stared at the mirror. Fatigue seemed to claw at my sockets, incarnated into dark circles. My lips hung downcast at my present situation. Most of all, stress was as prevalent on my features as tiredness was. My face a sickly shade different than normal. I looked unwell. I prayed, begged, for someone to tell me what to do. But, alas, a future queen does not ask for help.

With a shaky breath, I sauntered back to my bed and pulled the cool covers over my body once more. I tilted the clock on the nightstand toward me.

2:23 AM.

The display blinked back tantalizingly with its red font that resembled the ungodly amount of blood from my dream. There was only one thought on my mind as I recalled my strangely vivid nightmare. Most terrifyingly was not the grenades or explosives or violence but the haunting sadness on each of the children’s faces. My children’s faces.

I had to ensure that they, although unborn and unconceived, would never ever have to endure the pain that I endured. And I would make sure of that.

Through broken fits of sleep, I was able to get rest, minimal as it was. Awoken by the sunlight gently lighting my room and unable to fall back asleep from my fitful nightmares I made the decision to get up and get ready.

Yesterday…

My stomach tossed uncomfortably at my recollection of what had happened last night. If I hadn’t been so stand-offish I wouldn’t be in this mess. He was only trying to make me feel better and calm me down. I may have just permanently damaged the relationship between T’Challa and I. My mother will surely kill me.

I stalled incessantly getting ready. I brushed my hair at a pace that rivaled a tortoise’s. My dress never seemed quite smoothed out enough. The makeup on my face did not have the application that I desired to have but I failed to find a thing to fix about it. My shoes simply refused to fit how I wanted them to.

I exited the room and the back of a Dora Millaje greeted me. Umdiliya… She turned around and smiled kindly at me. I was immediately relieved to see a friendly, familiar face and returned the smile.

“Are you feeling alright, Your Highness?” Umdiliya inquired, brows furrowed as she studied my features. “You look unwell, if you do not mind me saying.”

“I do not mind at all. I appreciate your concern. My sleep was a bit restless, is all.” How kind of her…

She raised a brow at me inquisitively. “Were you uncomfortable, your majesty? If your bedding or room was not satisfactory you should have spoken up. It would have been no bother.”

“No!” I exclaimed. I did not wish to be anymore of a burden than I already was being. She jumped at my sudden response. “My sincerest apologies, I did not intend to startle you. The bed was perfect and the temperature was more than agreeable. I merely had unpleasant dreams.”

“I hope they allowed you some rest after last night’s escapades at the Gala. His majesty seemed quite exhausted this morning as well.”

He may have been tired but at least he did not cause such a mess. Was it I that caused him unrest as well? I took a deep breath as I answered. “I was able to get enough rest as my mind allowed. Dreams have consciences of their own though. I got sufficient rest if that is what you are asking.”

“Ok,” She gave me a look that told me she knew better. Of course she knew better. The bags beneath my eyes were darker than storm clouds. “May I escort you to breakfast?” I nodded and she turned to walk.

I mulled over all the things I could possibly say to T’Challa but moreover I thought about what he would do. Is he still angry? Will he forgive me? What about the agreement?

The agreement… What if he called off the engagement? This agreement affects more than just my future. This is the future of my people. If he is truly unhappy then he has every right and every means to break it off. Especially since it is more beneficial to me than it is for him. My people need this not his. My people suffer in fear, almost daily, at the hands of our enemy while we stand by and watch like spectators. He can’t call off the agreement… Can he?

My stomach tossed violently at the affirmation that he could. He could and he would if he truly wanted to. And all because I let my pride get the best of me. Nonetheless, I will not allow him to call off the engagement. I do not care how much strife it causes me. Even if I enter into a loveless marriage, I will not falter while hundreds of thousands of lives are dependent on every single decision I make. I will follow through with the wedding and T’Challa will not call it off.

I walked into the dining room with my head down, fully aware that the king sat only yards away from myself. Eyes glued to the ground I curtsied and took my seat. A plate of colorful fruit, wonderfully smelling meats and warm bread was placed in front of myself although all desire to eat that I may have had escaped me as soon as I had risen this morning. The food smelled heavenly but my stomach was in a less than amiable state.

I dared a quick glance at him and he held a newspaper in front of his face leaving only his eyes visible above the monochromatic sheets of paper. And his eyes were looking back at mine. My heart thumped nervously as I shot my gaze back to the colorful plate.

With a shaky inhale I lightly cleared my throat.

Silence.

He flipped the newspaper page again and took a sip from his tea. The same kind of tea from last night. I drew in another large breath.

“Your Majesty,” I began. The newspaper crinkled as he set it on the table. I still did not look him in the eyes but I felt his eyes pierce into me. My heart hammered uncomfortably.

“I wish to apologize for my irrevocable behavior last night. I was completely and totally out of line.” I truly was. My etiquette was nowhere to be found… As was my common sense, or any sensible thought, but it seems as if the more time I spend with him the less common sense is present during our interactions.

“It was impolite of me to act the way I did. For me to imply that you have no capacity for affection was disrespectful, rude, and insulting and… quite possibly unforgivable,” my voice became shaky. Unforgivable… What if it was truly unforgivable…How shall I plan to fight Intlungu alone…

“Nonetheless, Your Majesty, no matter how angry you are with me and how unhappy you are with our engagement, I’m afraid that I cannot let you break it off. It would be selfish of me to only take into account my feelings. I-We, rather, should be taking into account the people,” I stumbled over my words. I still refused to look him in the eyes.

“First and foremost comes my people because you and I both know how much trouble my country is in but it would make me more than happy if our relationship was not adversarial… Amiable, perhaps something more, eventually.” My eyes prickled. What if he did not forgive me and called off the engagement? My people would be in trouble all at my hands. His dark eyes bore into mine but I couldn’t read them. “All I’m asking, Your Highness, is that you forgive my insolent behavior last night and do not call off the engagement. No matter how unhappy you truly are.

“I’m sorry.”

I finally peered up at him with my eyes stinging from the tears. And he was smiling at me. Why is he smiling at me? Why does he smile after my apology?

“It is unkind to mock me, your highness,” I remarked sharply. Tears threatened to fall as I reached for the napkin at my setting and uncouthly, clumsily and unexpectedly albeit, swiped the utensils onto the surface of the table. Too rough. My plate clattered to the floor and the assortment of foods painted the white marble like a city mural.

I loudly pushed away from the table and got down to the floor to clean it up before the servants could even think about doing so. I only made the mess worse trying to clean it and spreading the sauces further onto the floor and the skirt of my outfit. A tear fell from my eye and separated the multi-colored calamity on the floor. I was only making matters worse and huffed in frustration.

Oh how I have humiliated myself… I stood from the floor sniffling and with a swift curtsy excused myself from the room. Taking quick long strides I attempted to leave before I embarrassed myself further. T’Challa pushed from the table quickly. Unluckily for me, my skirts constricted my ankles and he was able to catch up quickly. Gripping my arm lightly he stopped me from running any further. I have made myself low and now he mocks me and wants to do it to my face. I suppose he can do what he wants as long as he does not call off the engagement.

“Y/n,” he called softly. Confusion overtook my embarrassment. “Why on earth would I mock you?” I turned to gauge his reaction. There was no vengeance or anger in his features. Only kindness.

“I only smiled because I thought it was funny that you would handle your burdens alone. Or rather that you would think that you would.” What?

“You are not alone in your struggles, Y/n.” And with those words, my emotions ran rampant once again. With every effort to calm myself, like my mother had always scolded me to do, I only made my tears worse. After all that I said, all that I confessed, all the fears that I beared him and he was still kind. “If we are to be a couple that functions, you must understand that we carry our burdens together. Neither one of us can carry our burdens alone. I have my own demons like you have yours.” He pulled me into hug and I willingly sank into his warm chest.

“I am sincerely sorry if I caused you any distress. I do not know what caused me to act in such a way that made you feel vulnerable. I should be asking for your forgiveness.” He held me at shoulders length as I wiped my eyes. T’Challa looked at me sincerely, genuinely apologizing. “My darling, do you forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive, your highness,” I sniffled. He gave me a playfully scolding look while offering me a napkin. “T’Challa,” I corrected myself. There was nothing even vaguely akin to the amounts of relief that washed over me.

“Likewise to you,” he pushed stray hair behind my ear and offered his arm. A kind gesture. I took it questioningly. “There’s no way I could ever compensate for upsetting you but would you allow me the pleasure of a walk through the gardens.”

I smiled softly at him, “A walk sounds lovely.”

The walk was lovely and I dreaded when I had to leave with my parents. We talked about our childhood, when we were younger and more carefree. With time, the two of us warmed up to each other even more. We held hands both in public and in private. We attended more events together. I would be lying if I said that I didn’t enjoy the subtle hand around the waist and the chaste kisses. Miss Fredericks’ visits became more frequent.

The same could be said about Intlungu’s attacks. It seemed as if they were getting closer to the capitol and on larger scale. My father still refused to be active in fighting back and the urgency of being queen hung like a cloud over my head. Criticisms from the media made the cloud grow to a tempest. My mother’s beratings became fewer and further between but their weight was not any less. My father emphasized the dangers of the attacks. The tempest then evolved into a hurricane eventually.

But every time I was with T’Challa, a powerful wind chased the storm away. When we went on dates, I felt like his girlfriend. Not a princess. Not a future queen. Not a porcelain doll tossed about helplessly in a storm. T’Challa and I anchored each other. And as an anchor would, I kept him grounded as he did I. He would call me during meetings with his officials to ask my advice. Eventually I sat in the meetings with him. I spent less time at the palace in Ithemba and more time at my home. With my home. With T’Challa. I would even go as far as saying that I loved him and I was fairly certain that he felt the same.

T’Challa planned something special for our faux year and a half anniversary. It seemed like such a blur. It couldn’t have been only a month. Could it? That’s not to say that my excitement was hindered. As I arrived at the palace he was waiting for me there at the top of the steps with a bouquet. I all but launched myself out of the limo, etiquette thrown to the wind. I closed the distance between us and practically threw myself into his embrace. With a deep laugh he hugged me back.

“I missed you too,” he spoke into my ear. I pulled away with a smile and he pushed the bouquet into my hands.

“Thank you, dear. But you didn’t have to.” I pressed a kiss to his cheek. He grinned happily as he took my hand and guided me up the steps of the palace. “What is on the agenda for tonight, your majesty?”

“It is a surprise, your highness,” he countered playfully.

“Oh, surprises. My worst enemy.”

“You will like this one, my queen. I promise.”

T’Challa walked us to the dining room which was a nice change from all of the travelling we had been doing over the past month. Umdiliya winked at me knowingly as we approached the dining room.

When the door was opened to us it revealed a different room than I had known from before. The table had a rich black tablecloth on it. It was lit with soft warm lighting. A wave of comfort washed over me. There was an inviting air drifting about the atmosphere and it felt intimate. Something for just us. Not for the media or for show but for me and T’Challa.

He escorted me to my seat and took his own as the first course was brought out. The setting was slow and there was no urgency for us to finish our meal. We enjoyed the switch of tempo. It was refreshing as the two of us joked around and interacted without anyone watching for us to mess up or capture a picture-worthy moment. I finished the meal and laughed with a particularly witty comment that T’Challa made.

“T’Challa, this is so lovely. You didn’t have to do this at all. Especially with all the stress right now. You hardly needed to do this. Thank you,” I held up my glass, “Happy Year and a Half Anniversary.”

He laughed, “You’re welcome, my dear. I have a few more surprises for you up my sleeve.” T’Challa pushed himself from the table and purposefully walked toward me. He took my hand in his warm one and walked me to the door that I had come through. Our hands seemed to fit perfectly.

As we made it to the hallway, he turned and led me backwards towards the throne room. The throne room? I hadn’t set my foot in the throne room in a… well, a month. All while T’Challa and I had to make decisions, we had made them in one of our… or rather his conference rooms. Why we were headed to the throne room was beyond my reasoning.

He smiled at me as we stopped in front of the doors. I returned his smile warmly. How did I get so lucky with T’Challa? My betrothal to him was truly a one in a million situation. Many queens and princesses entered into unhappy relationships. And here I am with a kind, smart, articulate, and, not to mention, handsome man who is dedicated to leading his country.

“I have a surprise for you, my love, but you must close your eyes,” he requested.

I raised an eyebrow at him inquisitively. “What do you have planned, your highness,” I asked with a small smile on my face.

“Well, it would not be a surprise if I told you, now would it, my darling,” He looked at me reassuringly. I obliged and heard him let out an excited exhale.

T’Challa began to lightly pull me forward. I took tentative steps in time with his as he comfortingly took my hands. Our footsteps echoed in the cavernous room.

When I finally stopped he let go of my hands and stood behind me with his arms wrapped lovingly around my waist. I felt his bearded chin rest on my shoulder affectionately. Contentment washed over me due to the contact.

He whispered, “You can open your eyes now, my queen.” So I did.

T’Challa had led me to the front of the throne room. I gasped in shock when I noticed what was different. My hand shot up to my mouth in utter surprise. Tentatively I walked forward, afraid that I what I was seeing was but a hallucination. I ascended the steps slowly. There were two thrones.

Constructed next to the king’s was an identical second throne. The exact same, size, color, and exactly equidistant from each other and the steps to the rest of the room. A throne for a Queen. A throne for me.

“My love,” I whispered in shock. It was unorthodox for a queen to have a throne by her husband’s side let alone one of the same make. “Is this for me?”

He walked up the steps and stood by my side. His smooth hand found its way to mine. “My dear, when I said we share in our burdens and obligations they were not empty words.”

“This- this is far more than I could have ever expected.” I suddenly found it hard to formulate any type of response or words for that matter.

“If we are to rule together, we must show that we are equal in our decision-making. I thought that this would be a perfect way to show it.” His hand slipped out of mine suddenly as he stepped back. I was far too taken aback by his gesture of affection to notice much. This was incredible.

“There are no words for me to say besides ‘Thank you’,” I managed to speak. “This was totally unnecessary for you to do. I could not have asked for a better future husband.”

“The future is fast approaching, my darling,” his voice sounded from behind me.

“Indeed it is,” I agreed. He was not wrong. “But I am not afraid. I have you with me to…” I turned around and I was not prepared for the sight that beheld me when I found T’Challa.

Kneeled on the ground.

His eyes sparkled as much as the diamond that was held in the black velvet box.

“My dear, will you marry me?”

Tag List:

@queenmiaxoxo21 @brittanymcsharry @calm-n-couture @liveforlove101 @questionslovefears @shamvictoria11 @letssweetvivialwaysloved @the-craziestone @qweentbh

#black panther x reader #t'challa x reader #marvel fanfic #marvel #mcu #avengers x reader #black panther #tchalla #t’challa #black panther fic

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theenigmaticlife · 7 years

Text

How Elementary stuck to its guns and became better than BBC Sherlock: An unpopular opinion in four parts

When Elementary premiered on CBS in 2012, it's timeliness was the thing that was either going to propel it forward or be the nail in its coffin. Sherlock Holmes was in the zeitgeist (and while never really leaving it fully, now more than ever it was the shit) - with Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes (2009) and BBC's Sherlock (2010 - ), the popculture was saturated with Doyle's beloved and familiar characters and the question was 'Do we want more?'

I'll be the first to admit, when I first heard they were developing Holmes for American television, one which is also in modern times, and they were making Watson a woman , I was as enraged as the Hulk in close proximity to Loki has ever been. We were well in the era of remakes/reboots/rehashes and all I could think was "Fucking American TV and their fucking greed, will they leave nothing pure?! They are going to shove some insufferable romance in there and it will be another Castle / Bones undestinguishable serial monstrosity that is going to sully the good name of my favourite crimesolving duo. At least I will still have Sherlock (BBC)." (And yes, if it hasn't become clear, I am very emotionally attached to this property).

But I was going to check it out. And lo and behold, 5 years later, I can confidently say, not only was I wrong, but I could never have predicted that while Elementary was going to go on its merry way for 5 seasons, the BBC series (which I once honestly considered to be the most brilliant show ever made), came out with such a disappointing 4th outing that now I say to myself "At least I still have Elementary".

So what happened?

1. It benefits from its length.

Elementary not only doesn't get bogged down by its network-required 22-24 episodes per season, but it is not afraid to use them, And while I am not saying every episode is pure brilliance, it benefits from the long seasons in that it has the time and opportunity to explore different character's storylines - some with more success than others, sure. It has the time to try, fail and try again. It makes us care about not just Holmes and Watson, but Captain Gregson (a terifically funny and charming Aidan Quinn), Marcus Bell, Alfredo, Kitty and Shinwell, Morland and Mycroft, Watson's family, Watson's boyfriend and even the damn coroner.

I challenge you now, tell me something about the backstory of any of the supporting characters in the BBC show (besides Mycroft and Moriarty) that is more than a caricatureish snippet masquerading as a personality - Molly is in love with Sherlock, Anderson is stupid, Mrs Hudson is a generator for one-liners. I know.

But let's say it's not Sherlock's fault for not having enough time to show us more than the backstory of its two main characters. Can we blame it that it seems to struggle to fill its 3-episode quota with whole episodes that you remember nothing about the minute after they've finished (I'm looking at you, episode about ancient Chinese artifacts). Yes, there are episodes of Elementary I don't remember - but they aren't feature-length movies that come out every two years.

2. It doesn't idolise Holmes.

What I think the most important difference between the two shows is that Elementary doesn't off-handedly mention Holmes' drug addiction whenever its convinient to the plot (or for a charmingly funny scene of cigarette-sharing between brothers to escape a Christmas family nightmare), but it is in fact a major storyline throughout the show - it informs the whole characterization of the protagonist, as addiction to hard drugs is known to do. But they can't be compared on that note, because it is a creator's prerogative which traits of a character to focus on, and I understand why Moffat/Gatiss decided to not lean so much on that part of Holmes in their show.

What they can be compared on, however, is how they approach the character as a whole. The British writing duo make it clear at every available opportunity : "Holmes is smarter than you (because we are smarter than you). Yes, that makes him a dick sometimes, because otherwise what would we need Watson for (we're not sure why we need him now, let's have him cheat on his wife for no reason and have him kidnapped at every turn), but he is so much smarter than you, you can never comprehend it, unless he deigned to explain it. Holmes is better in every way, he is insufferable and brilliant and magnetic and everyone is in love with him and in awe of him and you will feel this way too. He is better than everyone else and it is only because of his good will that you are allowed in his mind."

In contrast, CBS's Holmes is so incredibly flawed, so disarmingly noble and so very self-aware, that you cannot help but fall in love with him; not because it is shoved down your throat to admire him, but because you genuinely want to. On the one hand, you have BBC's Sherlock, where I am entirely unconvinced that Moffat / Gatiss are even familiar with the concept of self-awareness. On the other, you have CBS's Sherlock who, from the get-go, makes it clear that he wants to help people, he seeks justice and not just the thrill of exercising his mind - he constantly talks about the victims, the families, "there is a killer on the loose", "closure" and so on. And while they both grow to care over time, one does it kicking and screaming and constantly fucking denying it; the other embraces it, makes it a part of himself, talks about how being a mentor is his most fulfilling experience and at one point regretfully confides (in one of my personal favourite quotes of the show): "Misantrophy was so easy, Watson. Elegant. I miss it sometimes."

And yes, I know, those are also two different approaches to the character. But on the BBC they do it as another part of the mosaic of what makes their Holmes so-damn-cool (not just the upturned collar) and uncomparable, while CBS does it to bring him down to our level and make him relatable.

And because I mentiond mentoring:

3. Watson is a person when she is alone

(And wow, what a relief to not use possessives to distinguish for once:) On the BBC, John Watson is a beautiful ball of loveliness, that is undeniable. He is also, at least in the beginning, kind of there to stare in slack-jawed awe at Sherlock. Later, he is there to make sure Sherlock is not rude to clients / policemen / journalists / people giving them awards / Mrs Hudson. Later still, he is there to stare at his wife, then his baby, then his emotional mistress, then Sherlock again. And while I am not saying he does not have a personality whatsoever, he does seem to spend an awful lot of time being something-at-someone: annoyed at Mycroft, annoyed at Holmes, in love with Mary, angry at Holmes, angry at Mary, scared of the sister (more on her later), grateful to Holmes and so on.

Joan on the other hand, while no less in awe / annoyed / whatever at Sherlock, comes in with a lot of her own baggage, her own opinions and most importantly, her own storylines. She has a beautiful relationship with her Holmes, but she also makes desicions, has opinions and generally lives her life not only when Holmes is away from her (as John does), but very much so while he is right there in her life. The fact that over the course of the very first season she becomes a detective in her own right (and the writing-and-fawning is relegated to somebody else and mentioned only briefly) shows that she is treated in a very different way than her male "version" is. While Joan and Holmes are very much partners, she is more than that as a character. Her existence doesn't revolve around Holmes. Which is why we, as a captive audience, are perfectly comfortable watching her tackle her own cases and have interactions with Sherlock which are of the "Here is what I did today, what do you think?" variety, while we are sick to our stomachs when John and Sherlock over on the other side of the Atlantic are fighting - not only is John there angry at Sherlock for incomprehensible reasons (his wife died because she was a spy, ffs), we do not know how to handle these characters when they are not together in perfect harmony, because we never see them not in relation to one another.

And finally:

4. Elementary embraces what it is and goes for it

So here is where I preemptively confront the haters (if they have gotten to this point instead of scrolling straight down to spew obsenities in the comments) : On every one of the points I raised, you could argue "Oh, you are wrong, here is this one moment when John does do that thing you say he doesn't / Joan doesn't do that thing you say she does / you are human trashcompactor who doesn't understand TV" or something similar. Of course these shows are way too different to compare in depth. Of course you can like both (I do!) or only one or neither.

And no, I would never perform the sacrilege of disparaging either one of the two amazing casts, who make these characters the equivalents of divine chocolate souflé on TV. What I argue is not to compare how the two shows are structured, but how they have lived their toddler-sized lives.

BBC Sherlock started off with an uncertain-to-be-successful premise, but an incredible production budget, veteran writers and two brilliant actors to helm it. It grew and became beloved because it was thought-out to an absurd detail, relied on its unconventional release schedule and its brilliant writing, but most importantly, it was extremely extremely clever. And then came series four, where inexplicably it became a melodrama of epic proportions, everything that happened was more illogical than the previous thing and every decision a character made was so eyeroll-inducing my head hurt by the end of every episode. Did Moffat / Gatiss forget where their character (yes, just the one) started and they just didn't know what to do with him or anyone else anymore? Did they decide that the fanatical nature of the Sherlock fanbase on tumblr is so starved and so blindly devoted that they would forgive anything they do, no matter how out-of-character, poorly thought-out, soap-like or just plain stupid it is? Or did they just give the network what they wanted to make their trucks of money without bothering their increasingly-busy actors too much with acting anything of substance, hoping that Toby Jones with weird teeth and weird voice / an out-of-the-blue sister and a fanservice cameo will fill any plothole some pedantics might notice?

CBS's Elementary on the other hand is a procedural primetime show that cannot go too far with what it shows, cannot go too weird with where the story goes, because of the countless other shows its in fierce competition with every sweeps season. So it relies on its no less stellar cast to go very deep to the one deep place its allowed to go, and meanwhile have fun, crack jokes, introduce you to everyone, make you smile and make you care enough to come back week after week to see not only these two beautiful creatures on your screen, but also their friends and family and enemies and rivals and their fucking turtle Clyde.

And if you ever doubt what I've said here about Elementary, just watch the finale of season 3 "A Controlled Descent" and tell me it didn't absolutely gut you.

TL;DR: I rave about the Sherlock Series 4 and masochistically wait to hear if anybody will come and threaten me over it,.

#BBC Sherlock #Sherlock Holmes #John Watson #Joan Watson #Elementary #but seriously #my only beef is with series 4 #everything else I love just as much as you guys

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nyxelestia · 7 years

Text

Here, have the first 1/11 of the next chapter of Frost Bite.

Since it’s spiraling out of control. Again.

Let me know what you think. :)

Steve woke up to the sound of Stiles' screaming.

Same way he had for the last three days.

Lurching out of his bed was almost routine at this point. He ran out of his room, almost hitting the opposite wall as he shot across the hall to Stiles' room.

Inside, Steve barely dodged Stiles' flailing limbs to squeeze in behind the sleeping boy.

"Stiles," he said, in the calmest voice he could manage. He wrapped his arms around Stiles', pinning his arms in an embrace as the boy continued to thrash around, still stuck in a nightmare. "Stiles!"

Stiles jerked and his eyes finally opened as he yelled, "Dad!"

"He's okay," Steve said immediately, keeping his voice calm despite the flailing teenager in his arms. "He's okay, you're okay, you're in your bedroom, and the attack was several days ago."

Stiles stilled and looked around, chest heaving as he realized his surroundings. Clutching Stiles as tightly as he was, Steve could feel Stiles' heartbeat start to slow down.

"...Steve?" Stiles asked.

Steve nodded, his chin rubbing against the top of Stiles' head as the teen slumped down in bed. "Yeah," he said. "It's me."

"I woke you up, again," Stiles mumbled, squirming to disentangle himself from Steve's embrace. Steve let him go, sitting back a little and giving Stiles the space he needed.

"It's okay," Steve said. "I'll grab a nap later."

Stiles nodded - well, it was more of a vague jerk of his head, but close enough.

"Let's go make breakfast," Steve said. "We both need it."

He and Stiles didn't say a word as they headed down to the kitchen. He kept an eye on Stiles, letting him take the lead on breakfast. The simple actions helped wake him up and pull him further and further away from his nightmare. By the time they sat down to eat, Stiles was even grumbling about enriched wheat and whole grains and whatever the hell he decided was wrong with Steve's waffles, now.

Steve had tried to encourage Stiles to go running with him, that first night. It was a no-go, but cooking worked well-enough.

Halfway through, Steve heard the ringtone of Stiles' morning alarm from upstairs. Stiles jolted, but slipped upstairs to shut it off - and didn't come back down.

With a sigh, Steve covered up his breakfast to finish later, before clearing the rest of the plates.

He hoped Stiles was eating enough at school, because he sure as hell wasn't at home.

He hoped, but he didn't expect.

Upstairs, Steve got dressed and washed his face, scratching at the growing beard - but he still didn't shave it. A teenaged serial killer murdering several police officers in their own station drew press from across the country, right on the heels of another serial killers. The last thing this town needed was the media circus of Captain America in town.

Thank god his beard seemed to be a shade or two darker than his hair. Combined with a hat and some sunglasses, and no one ever had a clue who or what he was.

That came in handy half an hour later, when he and Stiles pulled up to the school. Steve parked just to be able to get out of the car and pull Stiles into a tight, full-bodied hug before letting him go.

"Thanks," Stiles said, not pulling away for several moments.

"Any time," Steve said. "And remember, send me a text or call me, and I'll come get you, okay? No matter what time it is. Your dad and I can clear things up with your school later."

Stiles nodded against Steve's chest before he pulled away. He clutched at his backpack straps, and looked nervously towards the school. There, Steve could see several students glancing right back at him.

"I hate living in a small town," Stiles said. "Everyone all up in each other's business."

"Is that why half of them seem to be pointing at me?" Steve asked. No one seemed to be pulling out their smartphones or anything, so it didn't look like he'd been made.

Stiles flushed. "When you went missing for a bit, I kinda mentioned my 'special forces uncle' in class, once. I think people were starting to think I'd made the whole thing up, until now."

Steve nodded. Hiding his face did nothing to hide his body, and he had no delusions about his physique. He patted Stiles on the back, reminded him to keep his phone on, and watched him walk into the school.

Stiles went, pausing once and only once as he looked to the side of the school. Steve followed his gaze to the bike racks, spotting Scott wheeling in and bending down to lock the bike. As soon as Scott looked up, Stiles turned away and walked into the school.

Scott didn't seem surprised, or even particularly hurt. He just looked resigned, slumping a little, before jogging up to the main entrance and slipping into the school, too.

Something was going to break, soon - and it killed Steve that he had no idea what it would be.

He climbed back into Stiles' jeep. It took him two tries but he got it working, and headed back home.

Beacon Hills had suffered two serial killers in a span of only a few months. Between Kate Argent's killing spree to cover up her arson, and Matt Dahler's bloody and brutal rampage through the local police force, most of California and half the rest of the country were zeroing in on this small town - and the survivors of the teenage serial killer's bloody last stand.

There were only about half a dozen reporters parked around the neighborhood, but they were bad enough.

While Stiles normally parked the jeep out in the driveway or even on the street for convenience, Steve pulled the jeep into the garage. Between the beard, the hat, and the sunglasses, it was unlikely that anyone would recognize Steve, even the press - but none of them were interested in tempting fate, or igniting a man-hunt for Steve's identity.

The house was a little dim, due to all the blinds being pulled shut. Granted, this being California, that didn't necessarily mean much, but it was such a jarring contrast to how it usually looked. Steve headed into the kitchen. He found John sitting at the table, working his way through the egg-white omelet Stiles had left for him while working on his department laptop.

Steve caught a glimpse of mangled, blood-covered flesh on the screen, and turned away.

"Are you home for the day, or just on a working lunch?" Steve asked.

"Bit of both," John said. "My deputies made me come home to eat, shower, and get some sleep, but I'll head back in a few hours." With a bitter smile, he said, "Every other law-enforcement agency with even a scratch of jurisdiction is coming in on this, anyway. Goddamn vultures." Taking another bite of his omelet, he muttered, "At least the FBI didn't send Rafael, this time."

"Scott's father?" Steve confirmed, reaching for his plate of unfinished waffles on the counter. Covered in fruit and saturated in syrup, John looked almost offended by it when Steve sat at the table and went back to eating it.

"Yeah," John said. "The man specializes in serial killers and mass murders. This sort of thing would be right up his alley. The only reason it isn't him is because of his own son's involvement." John clicked and typed something on the laptop, before pushing it away a bit. "God, I need a drink."

Steve froze, wondering if he needed to find an even better hiding spot for the booze he'd pilfered out of the kitchen when he first got here. John saw this, though, and waved away his concern. "Relax," he said. "I've barely got my job back, I'm not going to hit the bottle again anytime soon." He sighed. "I just really, really want to."

With a sympathetic nod, Steve resumed his breakfast, though he made a mental note to relocate the two bottles he'd found, just in case.

"Press still out there?" John asked. Steve nodded around his mouthful, and John groaned. "Fantastic," he grumbled. He eyed his laptop, seeming to debate something, then with a sigh, pulled it closer to him.

"Stiles always tells me not to read my own press," Steve said, realizing what John was doing.

John raised an eyebrow. Steve conceded with a silent nod, turning his attention back to his food. He didn't listen to that advice as much as he should, and John had even less buffers between him and the press than Steve did.

“What the…”

Steve looked up from his waffle to see John frowning at the news.

“Hm?”

“It’s saying that the only non-fatal injuries were me and Stiles,” John said, bewildered. Steve waited for him to elaborate, taking another bite of the waffle. “Steve - Scott was shot!”

The fork froze halfway up to Steve’s mouth, syrup dripping onto the table.

“…what?” Steve demanded, setting it down.

John kept reading, looking more and more panicked as he did.

“Abdominal,” John muttered, reaching the end of the clipping and looking lost as he looked at Steve. “He - I remember - it was the only shot Dahler fired, that night. I remember Melissa’s scream, and the blood…when Dahler was locking her in the cell, Scott was standing right next to me and he was - he was barely standing, and Steve, I could smell the blood, there was that much!”

The fork bent in his hand at that mental image, at the idea of a teenager locking up Melissa in one of the jail cells at gun-point.

A bullet-wound to the gut would have been the only thing keeping Steve at bay if someone held his mother at gunpoint.

The problem being that back when his mother was alive, such a wound would’ve killed Steve. But Scott…

“That’s not possible,” Steve said, thinking of this morning.

“I saw him-”

“I saw him bike up to school, this morning,” Steve said. John’s jaw snapped shut. “He - he was a little slow, but he was still moving and he didn’t seem to have any problem bending down to lock up his bike.” Steve swallowed, absently wiping that drop of maple syrup off the table. His conversation with Nat resurged in his memory. “He’s moving like I do, a few days after getting shot.”

John looked down at his sugar-free orange juice.

“This can’t be…” John took a deep breath. “That night, when Matt locked up Melissa in the cell…she was begging him to let her take care of Scott.” John shut his eyes, and Steve pretended he didn’t see the moisture on the man’s eyelashes. “Matt seemed so sure that Scott would be fine. I thought it was just typical teenaged misunderstanding of how the world works. Too many action movies, not enough education…” He opened his eyes, looking at Steve. “But at one point, he said…when Melissa was begging, Matt said to Scott, ‘they have no idea, do they?’”

Taking a deep breath and losing his appetite, Steve pushed his plate away. “Wait here,” he said, and went to retrieve his tablet.

Five minutes later, he was playing the video, one of the two Steve had made Nat send him. "This is the first video Natasha showed me," Steve said. When Scott and Allison started laying into each other, John's eyes opened wide and round in shock. "She's been helping Scott with his techniques, and Scott's been working with his girlfriend on it, too."

"This..." John swallowed, still not taking his eyes off the video. "This is - I had no idea he was even capable of something like this!"

"Neither was she," Steve murmured. "Originally, it was - I guess you could say the 'style' of the fight that first got to Nat. Allison and Scott look the way Natasha and I do when we spar, and Allison's fighting style was a little too familiar to her."

John slowly nodded. When the video ended, he looked Steve in the eye and asked, "'Originally'?"

Steve pulled up the second video. "It came around eight hours after this one, which Nat critiqued to help them." He hit play, then added, "Watch his lip."

A minute later, John frowned when Allison busted Scott's lip. It took another ten seconds for the implications to sink in, horror and confusion spreading across his face as he watched the remainder of the video in shocked silence.

"...eight hours?" John croaked, once it was over. "What - what does..." He shook his head, standing up and pacing by the table. "How can Scott have an advanced healing rate?" he asked. "No way in hell is he old enough to be a part of any kind of super-soldier experiment."

"And most child-soldier programs involve kidnapping a much younger child and isolating them from their family," Steve continued.

"God, everything's been so weird, lately," John said. "We still don't know whether or not Matt is connected to Argent, somehow. Hell, we still can't figure out why she murdered the Hales!"

Steve frowned, something niggling at his memory. "Hale?" he asked.

"Yeah, they're the family Kate Argent murdered six years ago," John recited. He paused, then looked at Steve. "Why?"

"That name sounds familiar," Steve said. It took him a few minutes to remotely access the SHIELD servers, but he ran a search on the name, narrowing it down to Beacon Hills.

Then his eyebrows shot up at the file that came up.

"Steve?"

"SHIELD had a file on them," Steve said. Eyes wide, John rounded the table, and Steve tilted the tablet towards him. It currently showed an old photo of the Hale family, dated to a decade ago. "But it's only the Bullshit Bureau."

"The what bureau?" John asked, looking between Steve and the old picture.

Steve set down the tablet , trying to figure out how best to explain this. "They're officially called the..." He tapped one of the more bureaucratic links on the file. "Department of Thaumaturgic Analysis and Preternatural Intelligence," he read off. "They study myths and legends to look for useful grains of truth. They rarely come up with anything, but when they do..."

"...when they do?" John prodded.

"...some of the mythological creatures from history and legend are real," Steve said. "Which I imagine would shock me more if my first mission in the 21st century didn't involve me fighting alongside a god from Norse mythology to battle aliens."

John fell back into the chair by Steve's. "That..."

"Apparently, either mermaids or selkies or something along those lines are real," Steve said with a shrug. "And serve as a unit in the US Navy. There are also rumors about a lot of programs around the world tapping into myths and legends. No one paid attention to them or thought they were anything more than Cold War propaganda. At least, not until there was a Norse god wandering around the halls and asking how to use the coffee machine. And the thing is, the object that started the Chitauri invasion? Also once nothing but another myth the Bullshit Bureau was chasing down, until it was in SHIELD's labs."

With a slow nod, John said, "And they're...what, investigating the Hale family?" he asked.

Steve started skimming the files on his screen again. "It's hard to tell - SHIELD is very need-to-know, so I can't actually see much. But..." He frowned. "It...looks like the Hales might not be human?"

John's eyebrows shot up. "On a scale of you to Thor, how 'not human' are we talking?" he asked.

"I have no idea," Steve admitted. "I'd put in a request for more access, but..."

"If it's not a mission or case you're working on, you're unlikely to get it," John said. Steve nodded, and the Sheriff sighed. "Okay, well - is there anything on the Argent family?"

"Believe it or not, I might have to ask Nat about that," Steve said.

"Natasha?" John asked.

Steve pursed his lips. "Those videos I showed you? It was Allison that made Nat take a closer look at them in the first place. Something about the combat style between her and Scott was familiar for her, so she started digging." When John opened his mouth, Steve repeated, "They look like us - me and Nat - when they spar."

"And you have super-healing, and Scott might, too," John said, rubbing his forehead.

"On the surface, it looks like the Argents are a pretty typical arms-dealing family," Steve said. "Renown for high-caliber weapons among law-enforcement circles. Boutique and custom weapons to private citizens, some of which tap-dance on the edge of legality at best. Minus the serial killer, there's nothing unusual. If they lived in the Bible belt, it would even be typical."

John nodded, reaching across the table to drag his laptop over. "Pretty much what we found," he said. "Our own initial assumption was that there were some organize crime ties gone wrong. We dismissed that since the Hales had no ties to organized crime..."

He trailed off. "John?" Steve prodded.

The Sheriff took a deep breath. "The Hales have no known ties to any kind of organized crime - but they were a very wealthy and influential family. The family's been here since the Gold Rush, they practically founded this town. There was a lot of money that seemed to disappear or couldn't be tracked, but even after the murder, we didn't think too much on it. Old money like that, it's expected. They got into all kinds of disagreements with local political leaders, school boards, that sort of thing. But there was never any indication of anything downright illegal. Nothing even that unethical, beyond the usual suspiciously-timed public works donations that influential families get into."

"But you think there was something else going on, after all?" Steve asked.

"Honestly? I don't even know anymore," John said, skimming something on his laptop. It looked like financial records, something Steve could make neither heads nor tails of. "There is nothing to suggest either the Hales or the Argents had any kind of organized crime ties. The only organized crime even in this town is a little Yakuza chapter, and while I can't pin anything on them, they mostly seem to deal with white-collar crime. I haven't exactly looked, but I don't recall anything connecting them to either family."

"And either way," Steve said. "It still wouldn't explain how Scott got a healing factor."

John's fingers froze over the keyboard as he remembered.

"...damnit," he said, leaning forward and rubbing his forehead. "You're right. The Argents and the Hales could both turn out to be hidden suburban crimelords, and that still wouldn't explain half of this. Scott, the animal killings, or any of the other weirdness." Leaning back in his seat and staring rather helplessly at the screen of his laptop, he said, "There's something going on, something bigger than competing crimelords or plain old serial killers." After a moment, he snorted. "'Plain old serial-killers'. That's not a phrase I ever expected to have to say."

Steve looked at John's face, the laptop, then his tablet. With a rough swallow, he set down his tablet, shut down the laptop, and pulled John's plate across the table.

"You should finish your breakfast," Steve said.

"I'm not hungry."

"That's why."

With a rough laugh, John nodded, finishing up the last few bites of the omlet. He looked at the laptop when Steve put their dishes in the sink, but ultimately he went upstairs, took a shower, and went to bed.

Steve washed all the dishes, then went back to bed himself after sending off a text to Nat, asking her to send him anything she could get her hands on about the Hales and the Argents. A few hours later, he woke up in time to see John off, the Sheriff resoundly ignoring the press barrage. One upside, at least - the reporters followed him to the station, leaving the house alone.

Which was good, since a little while after, Steve got a text from Stiles reading simply, Please come get me.

Steve shot off a quick text to John to call the school, and by the time he arrived at Beacon Hills High School, Stiles was waiting in the front office. He all but leaped up from the bland chairs when he saw Steve.

"You okay?" Steve asked, mindful of the administrative ladies listening in as he pulled Stiles into a tight hug.

"Yes," Stiles lied. "Coach cancelled lacrosse practice because the FBI is interviewing him about Matt and my last period is just a study-hall anyway and I can't - I don't want to deal with people, Steve, please don't make me-"

Stiles' rambling was muffled by Steve's jacket, as Steve slowly pulled them out the door and into the parking lot. He considered letting Stiles drive to help relax him, but between the boys' shaking hands and drooping shoulders, Steve opted to make the drive, himself.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Steve asked.

Stiles snorted. "The school is making me see the counselor, tomorrow," he said bitterly. "And she'll make me talk about it, anyway."

"That's always fun," Steve drawled. "I still have to see a psychiatrist once a month."

Stiles snorted. "How long are you in town for?" he hedged.

Steve shrugged. "As long as you need me? As long as SHIELD lets me?" He shot Stiles a hopeful, sidelong smile as they pulled up to the house. "I'll be here for the last lacrosse game, that's for sure."

This time, Stiles' laugh was wet and bitter.

Steve knew the feeling.

#steve rogers #stiles stilinski #teen wolf fanfic #teen wolf au #teen wolf #winter wolves #if i have to suffer then so do you

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spirit-science-blog · 3 years

Video

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I know what you might be thinking… The hidden spirituality of the matrix is an oxymoron - because it’s not hidden! And trust me - I get it. Even writing this script was hard, because how do we make this episode without basically just describing every scene in the movie… We could probably write an hour-long dissertation on the spiritual allusions in The Matrix and still not run out of things to talk about…

But listen - it’s important to remember that what might be more obvious aspects of spirituality to some, maybe hidden to others. After all, this is one of the essential points of the movie. So let us get into it and see what we find!

Now, as far as I can tell, The Matrix is a documentary about real-life disguised as a sci-fi action movie! Well, okay, maybe not COMPLETELY, but like… 90%… give or take...

To me, The Matrix feels like an encoded message for humanity about the awakening process, and about what we personally go through internally as we discover the truth, and step into a greater understanding of life. The film elegantly weaves together a narrative of biblical references, genius literary devices, symbolism, fantastic storytelling, and meaningful character moments, giving us a movie that actually becomes something so much more than just a movie… It becomes an idea that stands for something very personal to all of those who connect with it.

Wake up Neo - the screen reads on his computer when Neo is first introduced. Certainly, he’s asleep and needs to wake up, but this is an innuendo, as this very act sets him on the path of awakening to a greater truth of what’s going on.

As the experience of the film occurs within the electrical impulses in our minds as we watch it, we bear witness to this man, Neo, discover that the reality he has been living within is an illusion, as he frees himself from the artificial reality and moves into the real world, a place where humanity is grown in tubes as an energy source for artificially intelligent robot overlords… Although, we have to say Matpat and the film theorists did a pretty good job of demonstrating that the real world that we are shown in the movie, is just another layer of encoded reality within the matrix. It’s completely brilliant, and I recommend watching that after this.

Anyway, Neo - a name which is an anagram of One, is set upon this path of self-discovery, learning that he is in fact - the One - the prophesied individual who can liberate humanity from the control of the machines. His story, which ends with his death, rebirth, and ascension - largely draws upon the stories of Christ. Like Jesus, Neo was prophesied to arrive, performs miraculous feats, dies and resurrects… but like, in a more modern kind of way. In fact, if this wasn’t made clear by the end of the film, we are told it outright right at the beginning, when the guy at Neos door says “You’re my savior man, My own personal Jesus Christ ''. Although - it might be worth mentioning that Neo is more of a Gnostic Christ, than straight-up Jesus, in that much of his own liberation happens through the breaking of illusions, a common idea within Gnosticism.

Speaking of spiritual and religious allegories, we also see the matrix speak on Samsara, a Buddhist concept of the cyclical nature of the world, and even sometimes taken to mean “"a cycle of aimless drifting, wandering or mundane existence". Much of Buddhist philosophy speaks of freeing yourself from the cycles of Samsara - and this is demonstrated as Neo frees himself from Matrix, the world where he is Thomas Anderson, a boring old programmer for some big company... but then this process continues, for Morpheus continually guides him after that to “free his mind”.

The idea of freeing yourself from one reality and birthing into a new one is a concept that spans far back into history in other ways too. Diving into the ancient mystery schools, we see spiritual death and rebirth being something that initiates actively strived to experience. This was an ego death, the death of the old illusion, the old self, and birthing into a new reality, something that Neo does twice in the film, first in his transition between the matrix and the real world, and second when he is killed by Agent Smith and is reborn moments later by the power of love. Yet, all of this comes about as a result of something very significant in the earlier part of the movie… News choice.

As we know, Neo is brought to a meeting with Trinity, who is named after the holy trinity. We see several trinities in the movie, including the partnership between Neo, Morpheus, and Trinity, but also with Agents Smith, Brown, and Jones. The film even begins and ends with room 303, and on that note, Neo's room is 101, he is the one after all.

When Neo and Morpheus meet face to face, Morpheus explains that nobody can be told what the Matrix is, you have to be shown, and offers him the decision between the red pill, or the blue pill. Now, there are several layers to this, but for now, let’s focus on this.

For Neo, it all boils down to this choice - the truth, or living whatever life, whatever fantasyland he wants to live out. Sometimes we make our choices for granted, but the hidden lesson here is that we are regularly invited to make this choice every day of our lives. By our very actions, what we do on a day to day basis, what we spend our time doing, in doing all these things we are choosing if we want to create and live a life of discovery, of experiencing greater truths or just enjoying the illusion of the world that is put in front of our eyes. Of course in the film, Neo picks the red pill and undergoes an experience of his consciousness reconnecting with his true self in the real world, and waking up there.

This describes the discovery of truth, and it completely shatters his understanding of everything, but further illustrating an important aspect of the awakening process. We could relate this with a plant medicine experience, sometimes the plant medicine will show you something very difficult to experience, it might even make you purge, but once you’ve come to terms with it, you begin to grow exponentially as a person, which happens as Neo learns to fight, rapidly downloading all of these fighting methods over the course of the day.

But the concept here of shattering illusion is really something that happens to all of us in life, with or without plant medicine. For example, growing up in the world we are often taught or shown specific ideas, ideologies, along with tons of media programming that gives us this particular image of the world, but then later you realize something greater, maybe it’s that those advertisements were showing you really fun or exciting images to sell you something unhealthy…. candy and soda industries, I’m looking at you!

But the matrix takes us way deeper down the rabbit hole than just this and speaking of rabbit holes, it very openly gives us several references to Alice in Wonderland - an age-old story about a girl who breaks free of her everyday reality into a strange and different world. And where the matrix goes is that it invites us to ask, what if this entire reality is an illusion, a construct within our minds, an illusion we’re collectively living out?

What’s especially amazing about this is that it’s actually completely true, in three different ways. One is that everything that you ever experience is all information that is relayed within the brain. When you stub your toe, it's your brain that identifies the pain, and Morpheus explains this by asking neo “what is real? How do you define real? If real is what you can feel, smell, taste, and see, then 'real' is simply electrical signals interpreted by your brain.” Giving rise to the deeper understanding, that ALL is WITHIN.

The second way the matrix describes that all of reality is an illusion is that we are now seeing today that everything we think of as the physical universe, on a quantum level, is almost entirely empty space, and little bits of quantum data flying around giving us the perception that reality is tangible and solid. The matrix describes this by the idea that reality entirely exists within a really big VR MMORPG simulation of 1999, and reminding us that there is no spoon, it’s not the spoon that bends, it’s you! Everything is an energetic reflection of you!

And third, perhaps one of the most direct revelations about reality being an illusion, is that the film gives us this indicates that we have become so saturated with digital media, advertisements, and programming, that we have lost all sense of what is really real. A lot of our deeper, more intimate personal connections with each other are lost because we have become glued to our technology instead, and the matrix subtly illustrates this by the contrast of reality inside the matrix, versus the outside.

The film essentially illustrates the concept of collective consciousness, a collective dream, and this is another bridge to the world today. See, Morpheus is named after the Greek God of Dreams - whose name literally means “one who forms” - giving us this idea of Morpheus as a bit of a guider of dreams -almost akin to the Greek Psychopomp, helping Neo navigate the various planes of reality that he walks in. Further, the Greek Morpheus used these two Gates - the gates of horn and ivory, to distinguish dreams that were real, and those that were illusions. This is another layer that is implied by the two pills earlier on. We also see Morpheus’s ship, the Nebuchadnezzar, which is a biblical reference of a king who was haunted by his dreams, and as evidenced by the story - the living world does seem to be a bit like a nightmare.

Astro-mythologically, we can gain even more insight here by learning about Neptune, which tells us that we are dreaming our reality into being, but that we must be mindful that some things are seductive illusions, but there are a greater truth and reality to be discovered. But in that, we are invited to draw upon our creative imaginations to dream a world into being that is in harmony with the rest of the natural world. In the matrix, the people who live in it don’t know about their octopus spider bot overlords, and they don’t really care, because they are concerned with other days to day things. So… what reality are they collectively dreaming? Well, one where they go to work and live their lives, and nothing out of the ordinary ever happened…

Cypher illustrates this very well with his betrayal, mirroring the betrayal of Judas in the bible a little bit. See, cipher turns over Morpheus to agent smith, and as he’s monologuing (giving Tank some time to get his gun), he explains his thinking, mirroring one particular mindset that is not uncommon in today's world. You call this free? He asks, alluding that the reality in the matrix is so much more diverse, with more possibilities for freedom than the “real world”. Cypher wants to return to that old way of life, to the world before he was awoken, but this is a fool's errand, once you know the truth about something, there’s very little forgetting, except in cipher's case, where he was going to have his mind erased.

Now, speaking of villains, we also must talk about Agent Smith. During the scenes where he’s got Morpheus, trying to extract the codes, he says some very interesting things… He begins by reflecting upon the collective unconscious, the same thing we just looked at, and then recounts the history of the matrix, explaining how people define their reality through misery and suffering, a perfect world was not meant to work, they tried it, but to no avail.

Logically - he’s not wrong, because, at this stage of human history, we are in a stage of suffering, though as many wisdom teachings would describe, we are simply passing through between two golden ages of light. This is evident even today, there’s so much suffering because we haven’t yet learned how to live in harmony with each other and the planet, and so the machines actively encoded the matrix to be based around the average level of consciousness of the people, whose minds populated the matrix.

Hmmm… What the robots didn’t try though - was starting their simulation in the 1999 world and then creating an evolutionary program to help humanity learn and heal and become harmonious beings… But then again, maybe they wouldn’t do that, because this particular AI consciousness didn’t have a heart, as we learn in the sequel film, they have wiped the matrix several times, and have become exceedingly efficient at it.

But in addition to that, he also says this very interesting thing… Humans are not actually mammals…. mammals create an equilibrium with the surrounding environment. You move to an area and multiply and use all of the resources, and the only way you can survive is to spread to another area… There is another organism on this planet that follows this pattern… it is a virus.”

A very deep and heavy-hitting line, especially right now, given our current situation. We are invited to see that our behavioral patterns and the way that we live our lives are not in harmony with the world, but it could be - if we would all wake up, just as Neo is doing throughout the movie.

Agent smith describes that he doesn’t like the smell of people, he can’t stand it, and he wants to get out, he wants to be free of this prison, this zoo, whatever you want to call it. Now, I know his intentions are not very good, but him explaining his feelings like this actually might give us a little bit of compassion for Agent Smith, who really wants to live a higher life himself, exist in a higher reality, but he can’t because he’s programmed to have to wrangle all of the humans together, and as long as Zion exists - a biblical reference to Israel - he cannot ascend in his own right…

At any rate, throughout the entire Morpheus rescue, and then fighting Smith afterward, Neo continually believes in himself more and more, until he comes to be the embodiment of a fully ascended being. When he returns to life and takes out Agent Smith, we see him take a moment to do some full-body breathing, and he breathes life through the walls around him as well, showing his interconnection with the energy and computer code that makes up all things.

I wonder when he died if his consciousness entered the space between his physical body and his matrix body, and when he returned back to life, he brought with him some deep wisdom about the workings of the universe, and that’s why he could see the code. This is no different than what many people report after having a near-death experience!

And we’re still just scratching the surface here. One aspect of the film we haven’t discussed was the visit to the Oracle, this all-knowing wise woman who guides all awakening souls through the matrix. The plaque above her door says “Know thyself” - something that Neo does by the end, but a rather significant line of hers was “Don’t worry about the vase”, and then he does it. She follows this with “what’s really gonna bake your noodle… is would you still have broken it if I hadn’t said anything?” The reason this is significant is that the oracle leaves him with some wisdom and advice ‘you’re not the one kiddo’ - advice that ultimately leads Neo to believe in himself to save Morpheus, to putting others in front of himself. But if she hadn’t told him that, would he have gone to save Morpheus?

Much like a few of the other movies we’ve covered, the matrix carries a multitude of layers of spiritual depth - some which are laid bare for all to see, and others that require a little bit deeper exploration. So please, take a moment to let us know in the comments, do you think the matrix is about our world or is it just a sci-fi action film for entertainment purposes only?

#spirituality #science #ascension #mystery school #spiritscience

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studiobowesart · 7 years

Text

10 Things About...Edges

-Greg Manchess

Stages of Resolution 1, detail

One of the most difficult concepts to grasp about painting is the use of edges. Students often go immobile when I mention that they should vary their edges in a painting. It shuts them down. Most have no real idea what I'm talking about or even where to start. It’s not surprising. Controlling edges is an advanced stage of painting that alludes most everyone, until it’s pointed out to them. I had trouble with edges, too, coming up through my skill challenges, but as I never had a teacher pointing these things out, I had to learn the hard way: from critique, and sometimes ridicule. That meant I was learning on-the-fly, listening to what other artists and critics said about my work that complimented or tormented my efforts to communicate to a viewer; how I guided the viewer’s eye through a piece. I paid extreme attention to what was said about certain passages, certain spaces in my painting, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. It hurt, but I learned. I’m about to cut years of struggle off your painting skills. The items below will shake your understanding and increase your ability to lay down interesting paint by concentrating on edges and not only give your work beauty, but will give you a new awareness of control. Contrast edges. Edge control is built generally from pushing and pulling the eye through a painting. Pushing it back or pulling it forward. It is the contrast between all edges that allows you to make shapes important or subtle.

Notice the myriad of edges contrasting each other while defining the forms...

Sharp edges. The easiest edges to identify. That’s why they pop forward. The brain zeroes in on them immediately, so use them to drive the viewer's eye to certain elements in the painting. The contrast is high with these edges. Set them against soft edges, and the sharp ones dominate.

Here, the edge of the shadow and light on the calf is the sharpest line in this detail...

Soft edges. Use these edges to bolster the sharp-edged focus of a painting by pulling the eye away from elements with soft-focus. Sharp edges sit on top of soft elements that lay in the background. Yes, on top of. Background edges that are sharp tend to jump forward. Again, the eye whips past everything soft to focus on anything sharp edged.

The cloud edges serve as soft background for the sharper foreground figure edges...

Lost edges. Some of the most beautiful areas of a painting are where the eye expects to see an edge, yet it’s not there. Arms that bleed into the background, a cheek that disappears, edges of hair that are lost. It stimulates interest. This takes lots of risk to learn where and when to use them to full advantage. The risk is ambiguity. The payoff is curiosity and engagement. The brain wants to complete a lost edge, but it must become involved with the piece to accomplish it. This is how a painting lingers in a person’s mind. There’s just enough information to stay focused, but isn’t overwhelming to the eye.

How many lost edges can you find in this detail?

Sustained edges. These are edges that work between edge extremes. Neither too sharp nor too blurred, but with just enough roundness without dominating the overall focus in the work. They can be edges of figures, sleeves, folds, trees, mountains, architecture, etc.

The poles of the railroad crossing structure must not dominate the entire painting by being too sharp...

Repeating edges. These are difficult edges to control because they draw attention to that repetition, and if they are integral to an element such as leaves or folds on a sleeve, they can overwhelm the eye. The first thing the viewer will want to do is rest. In other words, look away. This is not what you want from a viewer, just in case you hadn’t figured that out already. You must find a way to vary these edges. Take their power to confuse away. You do this by using sharp and soft and blurred edges, no matter what your reference tells you is ‘right.’

The shirt had tons of folds in it...I knocked them back, and only picked a few to accent...

Shadow. Shadow control is critical to a successful painting. And they are the greatest teachers for understanding depth, value control, and...oh yeah, edges. Now you get what I mean by soft and sharp edges, yes? What observer hasn’t noticed how shadows vary in such a short range of vision? Look at tree limb shadows on the ground, and the information slaps you upside the head. The limbs closest to the ground are sharpest, while the limbs up high cast very light, soft shadows. It’s their edges that communicate this the most. How a shadow rolls over a surface is determined by several factors. The texture of the element, the shape of the element, the angle of the element. Study a car in different lighting conditions and you’ll find an amazing array of hard and soft edges, all based on how the individual shapes cast shadows. Control those edges and you’ll have a shiny car or a dull car. Shadows determine depth in a painting, and that’s portrayed by how you control the shadow edges.

Shadows on a rainy street in this detail...talk about a nightmare, but edge control can communicate wet concrete reflecting light....

Color. You can control focus in a painting by using color. The edge between contrasting color can demand attention or allow one color to dominate another. The way those colors bleed into or over each other will draw attention, either away from or toward a subject.

Edges here vary back and forth, but the color pops the edges as well...

Ragged edges. If all of the edges of paint application are the same, it communicates as pattern. And this leads to a flat, graphic quality. There is no edge control, other than to make it all the same. This is completely fine if that’s what you need in a piece. Making all the edges the same everywhere you look will demand that you control focus in another means, say through color or value. Varying the edges between pattern and rendering can add much interest. It’s the contrast between the two that does it.

The raggedy flat edges of the hair contrast against the smoother strokes of the skin....

Light edges. Try painting dappled sunlight without controlling edges. But through careful study of how light streams through leaves and strikes an object will reveal how edges vary between sharp, soft, blurry, lost, and blended. Light tends to flare through a short range of saturated color just on the edge between shadows and lit areas. Notice how the edge can lend interest and depth if captured in a painting. Flare the light with rich color invading the shadow and you gain depth.

One thin edged calf and one thick...push the color on these edges....also study the light edges in #3 above...

Blending strokes. Brush stroke edges can vary within the stroke itself. The front edge of a stroke can be sharp while the back slips into blurred nothing. Strokes can be short and sharp, or they can be fuzzy like an airbrush. A stroke can go down sharp and be blurred later with a different brush. The difference between a palette knife edge and a brushed edge is evident here.

Different tools give different edges....

Texture. Blending between colors or values gives you a smooth affect. Simple enough. But you do this at the risk of losing texture, and therefore, interest, if done too evenly. Certainly there are many great paintings that are slick-smooth, blended to perfection to give the idea of crisp, clean beauty. But using that same blend on leather, or fabric, or a wall can destroy the effect. The surface texture of an object reflects what the surface is made of. Yes, there are illusions to be aware of, i.e., that plastic resembles glass, etc.

_______________

The way paint is applied makes a huge difference in what’s projected to the viewer. Ever wonder how those artists of the 19th century got those velvet dress effects? Study the evidence in front of you: value and edge control. Your eye discerns visual contrast all day long: judging edges, surfaces, values, contrasts. The working brain takes about 30% of our energy each day, and most of that is dedicated to visual deciphering.

After a quick application of pigment with a palette knife, one brush did all of this work. Updated from the original post, April 1, 2015.

from Muddy Colors http://ift.tt/2sps3Ma

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