#so emile was 9 at that point
Note
Also, one more for the night, but also 3 Hopes most impressive thing is how they recontextualize so much in 3 Houses with one character. Monica is literally “What if Hubert gushed even more unhealthily about Edelgard.” In the Black Eagles route, it is revealed that Jeritza leading the class to Monica was no accident, it was a plan to save her. Monica has been a friend and ally of Edelgard’s for a while before the events of the game.
Okay so in all fairness, I've been really curious about Monica and her role in this whole thing so I'm fascinated to hear more about this (if somewhat confused about it because it kind of raises questions about Three Houses for me)
(spoilers for Monica below)
As something of an intro note, I found Monica's familiarity with Jeritza to be really jarring in the demo: my understanding from Three Houses had been that Jeritza was only put into position at Garreg Mach as the weapons instructor shortly before Edelgard's term, so he wouldn't have been there for Monica's at all and she therefore shouldn't be familiar with him. I don't think there's an actual, official timeline for the whole chain of events taking us through the fall of the House of Bartels to Jeritza entering Edelgard's service to his coming to Garreg Mach, so I'm really hazy on it...but if he actually was at Garreg Mach during Monica's term, and therefore familiar with her as a close friend of Edelgard's...well, given his general loyalty to the Black Eagles house and his physical strength and fitness compared to other plants like Solon, who is an archetypal mage, it makes him the most likely suspect for Monica's abduction -- meaning the Death Knight is potentially responsible for the likely death of one of Edelgard's friends in Three Houses.
The idea that Monica and Edelgard were actually close also strikes me as really weird given that Edelgard has been so isolated for so long thanks to first the Insurrection of the Seven that took her to Faerghus, then Agarthan experiments that she was dragged into immediately upon her return. Her one true ally (Hubert, sworn into her service when she was very young) presents himself as being ostensibly on the Agarthan side with her; and even Jeritza, who swears his fealty to Edelgard, is entrenched in the Agarthan organization through his role as the Death Knight. Monica somehow being able to attach herself to Edelgard more obsessively than even Hubert without having any awareness of the Agarthans...really stretches my suspension of disbelief.
Now I will admit that Kronya specifically taking Monica's form to torment and spite Edelgard is absolutely chilling and really paints the Agarthans (and Kronya especially) as deeply cruel beings. But there's one major continuity issue here: in Three Houses, people who remember Monica explicitly state that her personality has undergone a massive change when she returns with Flayn. They write it off as her means of coping with the kidnapping, but we know following the events of Chapter 9/10 that it's because she's actually been replaced by an Agarthan. So I guess herein lies the question: is Monica's personality and behavior demonstrably different in Three Hopes compared to Kronya's impersonation of her in Three Houses?
#answered#anonymous#fire emblem warriors: three hopes#fewth spoilers#fire emblem: three houses#jeritza#monica#i've been trying to do timeline math here#to try and get this to make any kind of sense#because we know emile was born in 1158#and mercedes left house bartels with her mom in 1167#so emile was 9 at that point#edelgard didn't come back from faerghus until 1174#(emile would have been 16)#and then she probably spent a few years underground#enduring the crest experiments#so let's generously say emile was 18-19 when house bartels fell#that would put it around the time of the tragedy of duscur#so 1176#4 years before edelgard and dimitri head to garreg mach#then they need to create a new identity for him#attach him to house hrym#orchestrate that whole appointment as weapons instructor#i just can't really buy easily that edelgard and monica were close#let alone that jeritza was a teacher long before edelgard's term#which takes place in 1180#seriously though if edelgard and monica were close#and jeritza did have a hand in her kidnapping#potentially on edelgard's personal orders#if it really was a show of loyalty
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Of All The Stars in The Sky | 16 | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw
Summary | War looks different from high above in the sky. But when Bradley finds himself on the ground, far behind enemy lines, it becomes a race against the clock to get out. And try not to look back at what he’s leaving behind.
Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)
Warnings |Mature content | 18+ only[WWII AU] swearing, war, violence, death, explicit smut
Words | 9.1k
Index | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17
Library
Chapter 16 - The End of The World
That summer of 1943 that you spent with your parents will be the last light before the long and dark night that follows. The war is going badly — for your occupiers, that is. The Allies have taken Sicily, and the Soviets have booked a major victory at Kursk. News coming in is sporadic, the censors working overtime to downplay military setbacks, but rumors persist. The pincer is closing from the south and east; they whisper: Stalin’s Red Army will punch through the Eastern front after winter, and the Allies will be crossing the Alps.
More tangential proof of how the war is going is how more and more men disappear from public life — Hitler must be getting desperate, drafting reinforcements from the traitorous country that assassinated his right-hand man. And where the men disappear, women take their place.
Registered as unemployed, you received a summons in the late fall of 1943 to report for labor in support of the war effort. At the outskirts of the capital, a car factory has been converted to produce army trucks — massive 3-ton personnel carriers. Every morning, when the sun is barely up, you get on a bus with about fifty other women of all ages, all dressed in the same drab, dirty blue coveralls. The only splash of color in the early morning twilight is the scarves everyone ties around their head to protect their hair.
Your nimble fingers earn you a position wiring the dashboard and ignition systems; your once soft hands and manicured nails are definitely a thing of the past now. Your fingertips start forming blisters and calluses from twisting the copper wires into place; your nails are chipped and broken, caked in dirt and thick black grease. The harsh degreaser soap cracks the skin on your palms, leaving them sore — the cold winter air stinging the raw skin.
You haven’t heard from anyone in the resistance since your last encounter with Jan — he probably reported you as compromised to Emil, and everyone has been steering clear of you since then. Rationally, you know it’s not personal. But in your heart, you cannot help but be bitter: after all you’ve done, after all the risks you have taken, you end up on the assembly line building trucks for the enemy. And not a peep from your comrades.
But you don’t need them, you think sourly. You took your first steps into resistance activities by yourself, stealing food stamps here and there to help the people you knew. It grew from there, but it wasn’t until late 1941 that you actually got in contact with the resistance proper and your activities were scaled up. And now that you’re on your own again, you’ll just do what you always did: as much as you possibly can.
The factory is run tightly. Hawk-eyed supervisors check every aspect on the line, writing up workers for faults, deficiencies, and mistakes. They are supported by the armed guards — young boys with large guns and on an even larger power trip — that patrol the grounds and the factory floor and gleefully punish poor performance.
Poking and prodding, trying to find cracks in the system, you knew you’d push the envelope too far at some point. It’s a risk you’re willing to take — you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you didn’t at least try. So you experiment: wiping sand on the fine gears behind the fuel gauge, making the cursor stick. It’s simple and subtle enough not to get noticed during inspection. The first time you get caught, it’s for cross-wiring to the headlights with the windscreen wipers — which, in terms of sabotage, is mostly harmless, at most an inconvenience. A warning and compulsory study of the manual is all you get. But you know you probably overstepped when you get caught not tightening the contact cables in the ignition system, which would cause them to fall out sooner rather than later, stalling the whole machine.
“With me, missy,” Your supervisor sneers, her red-painted lips twisted into a scowl, knuckles whitening as she clutches her clipboard. It hasn’t escaped your notice how your supervisor has dressed quite nicely daily: makeup, well-fitted dresses, nylons.
“It was a mistake,” You lie, defending yourself. “It’s cold, and my fingers-”
You don’t finish your sentence as the supervisor grabs you by the collar of your coveralls and pulls you out of the factory hall. “Are you insane?” She hisses. “Sabotage is treason.”
“They’re going to kill us anyway,” You choke out, stumbling after her.
Harshly pushing you out the factory door into the snowy courtyard, she stares after you, coiled with anger. “I’ll take my chances,” She spits after you. “Stay there until I come get you!” She adds, yelling.
Folding your arms, you shuffle your feet in an attempt to get warm. It’s still early in the day, and it’s freezing cold. Your breath is coming out in puffs of opaque smoke, and within a minute, you are shivering. Opportunistic bitch, you seethe.
You nearly scream out when you are suddenly doused in ice-cold water, your sopping coveralls now so cold it’s practically burning on your skin. From the boyish laughter behind you, you know these are the guards, joking in German — there’s nothing you can do.
You stand frozen in place, the cold water trickling from your wet hair down your spine — it’s like you’ve just run a marathon; you struggle to catch your breath, thoughts running through your head in a blind panic. Finally, you sink into a squat, your legs almost giving out from under you — you need to hunker down, tucking your hands under your arms, desperately trying to preserve your core temperature. You are shivering so hard it’s making your stomach hurt, like your intestines themselves are violently shivering too.
It’s impossible to say how long you sit there. You notice it starts snowing again, but you can’t feel it. It’s like you’re frozen into place, your insides still quaking. The snowflakes stick to your lashes, making your lids heavy and your movements even more sluggish. It feels like your blood flow has slowed down to a crawl. You want to cry from pain, from humiliation. From anger. But your tears are frozen solid with the rest of your body.
When you are forcefully pulled up back onto your feet, no sound makes it out of your mouth. Your lungs hurt — your throat is so dry it’s numb. Whatever sound of pain or protest you try to make only comes out as a puff of air past your ice-cold lips. Your legs are stiff and barely cooperating, but the supervisor, who is holding you by your arm, nails digging through the layers of freezing fabric, doesn’t stop pulling until she shoves you down by the coal furnace near the offices.
The moment she lets go of you, your legs immediately give out again — your knees skid over the concrete floor. The warm air is like relentless pinpricks on your skin.
“Let this be a lesson for you and everyone that has any ideas,” She hisses at you venomously, grabbing your chin to force you to look up. “Warm up and return to your place on the line.”
It’s a lesson, alright.
Next time, you won’t get caught.
The winter of 1943 into 1944 is long, and the cough you’ve developed doesn’t disappear until late spring. Miraculously, you never really got sick after your punishment besides the persistent coughing, but as your grief wanes, a wave of new anger emerges in you. You never wished ill, hurt, or even death on specific people — your ultimate goal was always freedom. But now you find a macabre kind of glee as you sprinkle sand on the fuel gauge and fray the cables in the ignition.
I hope your truck stalls as you run. I hope you run out of fuel. I hope it kills you.
When you catch sight of the supervisor, you smile sweetly at her. You’ll get yours too, you think.
At night, you sit with your ear pressed against the radio, listening to the BBC news on the lowest possible volume, running Bradley’s bracelet between your fingers like rosary beads. You are desperate for any news of the advance. Southern Italy is so far away — is Bradley there now? The reports say the fighting is heavy; progress comes at great cost. You stopped being scared for yourself, but the more you are scared for Bradley. Alone in the dark apartment, tears roll down your tired face.
Talking during work is forbidden, but on break, huddled together in the corner of the factory courtyard, whispered rumors swirl out of the earshot of supervisors and guards. When one of the armed guards passes, everyone dissolves in a fit of giggles, not from nerves but as a carefully honed defense mechanism. The bored guards don’t bother with women’s gossip.
Soon, rumors and gossip are the only things to go around: rations are tightening, and more and more is getting diverted to the war effort. Cigarettes get passed around after a single puff, soup becomes more water than anything else, and you even resort to sharing mugs of ersatz coffee. The less there is, the more you care for each other. During breaks, you brush each other’s hair, braiding it or pinning it into curls. Sometimes, someone procures some hand cream, and you take turns massaging it into each other’s sore hands. It establishes a strange sense of normalcy in a world that steadily feels like it’s in free fall.
***
Every key Bradley touches on the creaky piano seems to be the wrong one. He can hear the melody so clearly in his head, but when he tries to play it or even just hum or whistle it, it’s like he cannot find the right tone. It sounds off.
He can remember the moment so clearly: the starry spring night along the river bank, the melody floating down from the open window. Flexing his hand, he can almost feel your fingers threaded through his, your body pressed against his as you followed his lead. Just like he tries to remember the melody, Bradley tries to remember your smile.
He knows he remembers, but he just can’t recall it. When Bradley tries, he is unsure if he remembers you correctly. It’s like it all happened in a dream, and he remembers shapes and colors, but the more he tries to grasp the details, the vaguer they become.
It’s January 1944, and the last six months have been one frustration after another for Bradley. At least he’s no longer grounded, but he hasn’t felt like himself since returning to England. It’s like Bradley woke up, and reality wrapped around him like a coat he had outgrown — constricting his movements, leaving him uncomfortable in his own skin. He can forget that only when he flies, at least for a moment.
Except it’s making him forget everything, he desperately wants to hold onto.
“I thought I’d find you here, Rooster,”
Bradley sighs lightly before turning to the voice. Mav stands at the door opening, in his crisp dress uniform, an easy grin on his face. As he saunters into the empty pub, a gust of cold air follows him from outside.
“Long time no see,” Mav continues as he pulls out a chair, still grinning, plopping himself down across from Bradley.
“Yeah, good to you again, Mav,” Bradley responds neutrally as he closes the lid on the piano, slowly turning around to face Mav. “How are Penny and Amelia?” He asks conversationally.
For a moment, the older man’s looks soften, his cocky grin faltering. “Good, good,” He nods. “Amelia sent you a letter to thank you for the postcards. Did you get it?”
“I’m not sure; it might have gotten lost in the mail,” Bradley replies vaguely. It’s probably somewhere in the packet of unread mail piling up in Bradley’s footlocker. Writing letters has been a chore because he cannot talk about what he wants to. The censor would not allow it, so putting pen to paper and pretending that everything is just okay is something Bradley rarely can summon the energy for.
He feels guilty. He knows this makes him a terrible friend, and he cannot explain why he can’t just write a short message home.
Mav just nods but doesn’t reply. An uneasy silence falls between the two men. They haven’t seen each other in a good two years, since before Bradley went on detachment to the UK. For a while, Bradley thought it would do them good — the distance would soften the sharp edges of their fraught relationship a bit more. Maybe he put too much stock in it.
“So,” Bradley starts, tone forcefully light. “What brings you here, Mav?”
“Mass mobilization,” Mav shrugs in response. “You know that something big is afoot.”
“I meant here,” Bradley’s voice is a little bit sharper as he gestures around him vaguely. He ignores the jab of guilt in his gut. “In this empty pub.”
“Oh, yes-” Mav pulls an envelope from this heavy woolen navy coat. “You are getting recalled to the US Navy Fleet.”
Bradley reaches out and plucks the envelope from Mav’s outstretched hand. He scans the letter's contents — he’s due to report at Navy command for the European theater in five days. There’s nothing odd about the order in the larger scheme of things.
“Why are you the one delivering it?” Bradley looks at Mav, eyes tight. Is he getting picked up like a small child?
Mav’s eyes widen for a split second, before his easy grin returns. “Wouldn’t want to get this lost in the mail,”
Another moment of silence.
“And I have shore leave, so I thought…” Mav trails off, face suddenly serious. He looks at Bradley intently, who meets his gaze almost defiantly. “I wanted to check in on you. See you are doing okay.” Mav adds levelly. Bradley sighs.
“I’m fine,” He replies softly. Even to his own ears, it sounds like a lie.
“So I thought…” Mav starts again.
“It’s funny,” Bradley cuts in, unable to stop himself. The burden of guilt is weighing him down — leaving you behind, failing his friends and family, forgetting — so he lashes out. From guilt. From shame. From pain. He wants to pretend it makes him feel better. “It’s really funny how you always tell me not to think, and yet that’s all you seem to do.”
Mav stares at him, face neutral, unimpressed. The lack of reaction is making Bradley angrier. “So you thought — you thought what? That you know better? That you know what I need?”
“Calm down, lieutenant,” Mav simply replies, suddenly and simply pulling rank, effectively ending the conversation. Knuckles white, Bradley grits his teeth. Deep breaths.
Mav gets up, dusting himself off, not a tremor of anger in his movement. He is the picture of calm, not sparing him a single look. Bradley stands up automatically, as he would for any ranking officer.
“Something is in the works,” Mav simply says. “Something big — bigger than we’ve ever seen.”
Finally, he meets Bradley’s eye again. Mav’s expression betrays little, but his eyes are full of hurt. “I th- I had hoped we could make amends,”
Before it’s too late.
Bradley nods — the guilt now like a stone around his neck. No one knows what is happening, only that ship upon ship of American armed forces is being unloaded and stationed in England. There are whispers of an attack on a scale never seen before. A landing. A suicide mission.
“I trust no one in the air more than you, Mav,” Bradley finally admits, the last of the frustration finally ebbing away. Why does he keep getting so angry? “It’ll be an honor to fly with you again.”
Mav cracks a smile — a genuine one. “Thank you, Bradley, and welcome back to the fleet.”
Bradley chuckles, but inside, he knows he’s not ready. Forgiveness is more difficult than a few words.
But does it really matter?
In the end, when he will inevitably fly to his death, the very fate Mav tried to shield him from — will it matter?
“How long are you staying, Mav?” He asks instead, grabbing his coat. “Enough time for a drink or two?”
***
It’s dark in the small, crowded room. You sit on the floor, packed in like sardines. The bare bulb that had been burning in a harsh yellow light earlier spluttered before softly popping out of life. The noises from the outside are disorientating — you hear screaming and yelling, doors slamming and shots. You have your arms around a girl younger than you, softly stroking your fingers over her hairline as she cries into your shoulder. Somewhere in the distance, you hear the whine of Stukas as they fly towards the capital. You think.
The thing is, you haven’t been allowed to leave the factory for over a week now. After the news broke that Berlin had fallen and the Führer was dead, all the guards, the young boys with rifles too big for them, went into a blind panic. They locked the gates, screaming orders, pointing their surely loaded guns at the sacred factory workers.
Since then, you’ve been sleeping on the hard concrete floor as the next shift picked up. You suppose you should be happy it’s May, so the floor is not so cold anymore.
The winter of 1944 into 1945 had been the harshest you’ve seen in years: it was bitingly cold, rations were lower than they’ve ever been, and there was no bread, milk, or flour. Soup was more water than anything else, more potato peel than vegetable. Even if you still had extra ration books, they wouldn’t do you any good — there simply wasn’t anything to trade them for. Gas and coal became a rarity, turning the city into an unforgiving ice-cold hellscape. You had never been so cold for so long in your life.
The ugly blue coveralls were increasingly ill-fitting, hanging off your frame awkwardly.
It shouldn’t have brought you joy, but as production was being pushed into overdrive, supervisors were forced to join the line, leaving behind their clipboards and clean clothes. More shifts were added, the factory now roaring day and night — sometimes shifts were scheduled in such quick succession there was no time to go home. You would huddle up with the other girls in the corner of the factory on the cold floor (because god forbid you’d use the now-empty offices), so exhausted you couldn’t even hear the noises of the line anymore.
The guards were getting rotated out quickly, replaced by seemingly younger and younger boys — some almost dwarfed by the rifle on their back; their too-large uniforms make it look like they're playing dress-up.
In the end, this also meant that since winter, all regulations were out the door — no more clipboards, no more testing before the trucks as they joined the motor pool, ready to be distributed over the rapidly approaching front. It made sabotage a lot easier: the majority of trucks that rolled off the line in your factory were faulty in one way or another. Knowing looks were exchanged: nuts and bolts were not fully tightened, hoses were not fully screwed in, and contacts were not fully connected.
Everyone is doing their own part — their own small resistance. There was no discussion; there was no structure or organization. Just a hope that every little bit helps bring the war to an earlier end as the Allies and Soviets are approaching.
You hear gunshots now — the wave of terror that moves through the room is almost physical, as everyone recoils as one. You tighten your arms around the girl as she chokes out a sob.
“Shhh, it’s okay, sweetie,” You console her softly despite wanting to cry yourself. You’ve been cut off from the world, and there’s no guessing what has been happening since the fall of Berlin. Are the Allies here?
Naively, your heart feels a little bit lighter at the thought. Far from any sea or ocean, Bradley wouldn’t be there, but — and you hate yourself for hoping it so fiercely — maybe you could ask someone to contact him? Tell you where to send a letter. If only to find out that he is still alive. To let him know you are still alive.
That you are waiting.
In the dark room, shaking from fear, the small fantasy brings you comfort.
More shots ring out — you hear shouting, but you cannot make out what language through the thick concrete walls of the factory. When the heavy door suddenly rattles violently, like someone is trying to force it open, the room suddenly erupts in a flurry of chaotic and panicked movements; the air is pierced by crying and screaming. Everyone is scrambling up, trying to get away from the door. In the crush, you fall back, awkwardly wedged between bodies—the girl you had been holding before has disappeared in the darkness. The door rattles again; it sounds like someone is trying to break it down.
More screaming, the mass of people moves back even more. It’s getting hard to breathe and the uncomfortable angle of your body—upper body leaned back, feet barely touching the ground—makes it hard to push back. It’s getting hot.
The door explodes open—the last oxygen is pushed from your lungs—light streams into the room. You aren’t sure if the spots in your vision are from the sudden blinding brightness or it’s your consciousness slipping. Just when you think you’ll lose grasp, eyes fluttering closed, the bodies disperse. Stumbling forward, you follow the flow of the crowd out the door. All the noise seems far away as you try to catch your breath.
A tall figure is motioning sternly at the door opening, commanding everyone to come out. You do your best to keep pace with the rest, coughing dryly, trying to keep yourself from tripping over your own feet.
Hurrying out the door, tearing up from the bright May sunshine stinging your eyes, you’re stopped dead in your tracks by someone calling out your name.
“Anya? - Anya!”
You haven’t heard that voice in so long, for a moment, you are confused. You should know who that is. Turning toward the voice, eyes still struggling to focus — your breath stocks mid-cough.
“Emil!” You choke out. It’s been almost two years now since you last saw him. Blinking, you stare at him — he’s dressed in his pre-war military uniform, looking more clean-cut than you have ever seen him, two rifles slung over his back. It’s making you acutely aware you are standing there in dirty coveralls and messy hair after sleeping on the floor for the past week.
He pulls you into a hug, clapping his hand a little too hard on your shoulder, rattling your skeleton.
“I’m so glad you made it,” He admits.
“I’m glad to see you well,” You reply with a smile. “What’s the occasion?” You motion to his uniform as you pull away, awkwardly straightening your coveralls as if that would hide the grease stains.
Emil smiles at you — and it’s probably the most genuine smile you’ve ever seen on him. “We’re liberating the city.”
“I want to fight too.” The words are out of your mouth before you fully realize the implication — but you are determined.
“I didn’t expect anything less from you,” Emil laughs, not in an unfriendly way, but in the way a big brother humors his younger sibling. “And I could use your help right away.”
A dizzying amount has happened since the fall of Berlin, since you’ve been locked away in the factory — the Allies under Patton are crossing the border into Bohemia, while the Soviets have punched through the eastern defensive line at the Dukla pass. The Wehrmacht and SS are retreating from the oncoming fronts on both sides — which is, unfortunately, driving them straight into the valley of central Bohemia and straight into Prague.
“We will not allow them to have their last stand here,” Emil concludes as you follow him through the motor pool. You nod fiercely. If the Nazis are allowed to build a final stronghold here, the Allies and Soviets will not hesitate to raze the entire city to the ground if it will end the war.
“But first, we need trucks,” He states, looking around pensively. “Unfortunately, the guards were probably warned of the government army mutiny in the city, and they’ve gotten rid of all the keys.”
“You need mechanics first,” You cut him off. “Most of these trucks were sabotaged in one way or another.” You add sheepishly. Emil shakes his head, laughing.
“Again, I wouldn’t expect anything less from you in a factory where they had the misfortune of putting you to work.”
“How many do you need?” You get straight to business. “I can put together teams to check the trucks and-”
“And how will we start them, Anya?”
“Lucky for you,” You frown, trying not to sound arrogant as you pull the cabin door of the truck open. “I’m quite the expert on ignition systems now.”
Clambering in, you waste no time ramming the heel of your boot repeatedly into the metal plating under the steering wheel. The ongoing shortages of almost everything meant that the overall quality of factory parts had decreased. The screws are weak — you’ve turned so many of them just but simply trying to affix the plating, you know that a few well-placed kicks will shake them right out of their holes.
Emil has climbed up the steps and is looking at you skeptically. But you are right; at the fourth kick, the metal plate practically pops out of place. Prying it away with your fingers, the small screws scatter over the cabin floor. Now for the best part. Reaching into the hollow under the steering wheel, you gently tug at the contact cables. One comes out so easily; you know it would have probably disconnected at the first large bump in the road. The other one needs a little bit more cajoling before it releases from the ignition.
Triumphantly, you show the two cables to Emil, stepping on the clutch as you twist the exposed copper ends together. The truck roars to life.
“So, how many did you need?” You reiterate lightly. Emil claps you on your back as he laughs again. You cough uncomfortably. Spending several years traveling in partisan groups has robbed Emil of some of his gentler habits.
You have a renewed energy as you pull out your toolbox and direct the women who decided to stay, check over any trucks in the motor pool and ready them for rollout. You work until your fingers bleed — but it doesn’t matter. Liberation is close, and you're determined to speed up the process in any way you can.
It’s late afternoon as the last of the trucks rolls out from the motor pool. Emil climbs into the cabin; you are hot on his heels.
“What’s next?” You ask almost breathlessly, so wired in anticipation you can barely feel the pain in your hands and the tiredness prickling behind your eyes. Emil smiles down at you from the passenger seat, as you balance on the bottom step of the truck cabin.
“Go home, Anya,” He tells you, in that same borderline patronizing voice that a big brother would use for their annoying sibling.
“I want to help,” You defend yourself. Haven’t you proven again and again that you are capable enough? Why are you being sent home like some small child? “I can help.”
“Go home, eat, and rest up,” Emil re-iterates, undisturbed by your acerbic tone. The truck rumbles impatiently. “When you are ready, come find me.”
You deflate a little. “Find you where?”
“Do you remember where old Vineyard Street is?”
“Of course I do!” You bite out, almost offended. It’s one of the main streets on the eastern side of town, leading from the river valley over the large hill and ending somewhere on the far outskirts of the metro area. It was renamed to Schweiner Street at the start of the occupation, like so many streets, but you never forgot.
“Then I’ll see you there!” He grins, hand on the door, slowly pulling it close. You jump back onto the ground.
“Wait!” You call out over the roaring engine sound. “Where on Vinyard Street?”
The longest fucking street in the city, half of it steeply uphill.
“You’ll know it when you see it!”
Fuck. As the trucks roll away, the energy leaves you, too. Dragging your heavy feet, you finally start getting ready to get home.
You’ll know when you see it? Fucking riddles are the last thing you need now.
***
It’s pitch dark when you finally reach the bottom of Vineyard Street. A warm shower, hot gruel, and fitful sleep strangely make for the best few hours you’ve had in weeks. Dressed in fresh clothes, hands buried deep in the pockets of your increasingly threadbare green wool coat, you keep your gaze down.
It’s chilly for a night in early May when the sun takes all the warmth with it as soon as it goes down. But you can smell the blooms in the air, and the first lilacs are dotting the streets in happy colors. There are no stars in the sky; only an occasional flicker of the moon peeks out between the heavy clouds rolling by.
It’s eerily quiet. The streets lights are off, and most buildings are dark. The whole city looks like this. As a precaution, you have been moving through side streets, keeping out of sight from patrols. Small groups of people are moving through the dark — you can’t tell if they are friend or foe, so you’re not staying around to find out.
There is a strange buzz in the air. It has you on edge.
Before leaving home, you emptied the old cardboard box you had wedged deep behind the heavy wooden armoire in your bedroom. It’s where you kept everything you never wanted anyone to find: the old fake identities, your gun, and Bradley’s identification bracelet. The cold metal of the gun presses uncomfortably against the small of your back.
Ironically, what feels even stranger is the foreign weight of Bradley’s bracelet on your wrist. You’ve never worn it before — it was always tucked in your pocket or twisted around your fingers. It feels odd as it’s a bit big on you, almost sagging down your hand. But more than anything, it feels right. There’s a reason you still have it; there’s a reason you put it on tonight. If anything, it makes you feel less alone as you make your way through the darkness, preparing for the battle ahead.
The road ahead of you goes up at a steep angle. From your vantage point at the bottom of the hill, the street disappears into the darkness before you. It’s eerie, like you are looking at a ghost town. Not a single light is on as far as you can see, the buildings flanking the road looming.
You’ll know it when you see it.
As you trudge up the street, you can’t help but feel hesitant. See what? What are you on the lookout for? What if you miss it?
You hear the faint echo of voices. It stops you dead in your tracks, heart beating frantically. Hands sweaty, you can fumble open your coat, reaching back for the gun tucked in your waistband. Back flat against the wall, you edge up the street.
You can’t see over the top of the road, where it flattens out for about a block before it the way pitches up at a severe angle again. But the flicker of lights, reflected in the dark windows around you, catches your eye. Someone or something is just over the edge.
Holding your breath, afraid to make the smallest sound, you shuffle up the sidewalk. The light becomes brighter, growing from small sparks reflected in the dark windows, to a soft flickering glow cast on the walls. You hear the echo of whispers. It’s hard to pinpoint where they are coming from, the sound strangely, hauntingly, bouncing down the barren street. Craning your neck, trying to peer up, catch a glimpse of some movement at the top of the road. The closer you get, the more you expect to see over the bend, see where the voices and lights are coming from.
But there is just darkness. If it weren’t for the surrounding buildings, you’d be sure the way up was simply vanishing in never-ending darkness. Your hands are shaking, fingers gripping the gun tightly. The more you try to calm yourself down, the harder the tremors become. The strange sense of impending terror has been creeping up on you with every step, slowly completely devouring you, until your breath is stocking in your throat, your chest is tight, and your legs feel like they are filled with jello.
You can’t stop the small whimper escaping your lips. You have to keep going. Standing on an unlit street, by yourself, with a gun in your hand in the middle of the night, is bound to get you into trouble. You have to trust that you will find Emil.
Willing your legs forward, almost tripping as your ankle gives out as you put weight on it, but it doesn’t deter you. If anything, it makes you angry enough to keep going.
It’s only another minute before you reach the top of the road, and it’s like a bubble pops and you’re stepping into a completely different world.
The cobblestone street is dug up, the stones built high in three-line deep barricades — cars, trams, and furniture are haphazardly piled between the cobblestones. The whispers are clear now, yet as unintelligible as before — there is no one source of light, just flashes of lanterns between the barricades.
You are stunned. For sure, there is no way you could have missed that, but of all the things you were expecting to find — this, whatever this is, wasn’t it. Even after years of living under occupation, bombings, and soldiers marching down the street, Bradley; you feel wholly unprepared for walking into, well, a battlefield.
Aimlessly standing before the first barricade, eyes wide, you only belatedly notice you are starting down the barrel of a rifle perched just over the top of the pile of stones.
Shit.
“I - I,” The words barely make it out of your mouth between the shaky breaths. You put your hands up more by instinct than by rational purpose. Bradley’s bracelet is heavy on your wrist.
“Get down!” A voice hisses from behind the barricade. You practically fall to the ground, your knees buckling. Breaking your ungraceful movement downward with your hands, the gun you have been holding all this time clatters loudly against the stones. A few moments of silence pass before a hand, holding a burning cigarette between the fingers as the only source of light, beacons you with a simple wave.
“Stay low!” The voice hisses again. You scramble, clumsily cramming the gun in your coat pocket, before crawling on hands and knees to a lower spot in the barricade. Just when you start crawling over, someone grabs you by the arm and pulls you over forcefully. You yelp as you vault over the pile of rocks, landing on your elbow.
“I almost thought you wouldn’t make it, Anya,” Emil grins at you, a lit cigarette loosely hanging from his lips. His uniform still looks crisp but has a vague whiff of mothballs. Rubbing your elbow, you sit up, frowning.
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” You deadpan, trying to save some of your dignity. Looking around, there are a lot more people than you anticipated. Now that you are inside the barricade, small groups of people are crouched down, huddled together. You realize that the flickering ghostly lights you have seen are matches lighting cigarettes.
Keeping low, you follow Emil to the far end of the barricade.
“Did you sleep before you came here?” He asks, shrugging the rifle off his shoulder and sitting down, leaning against the smooth wooden surface of a dinner table jammed into the barricade as structural support.
“A couple of hours,” You reply, still glancing around, trying to understand what is happening around you.
“Good,” Emil yawns as he hands you the rifle before making himself comfortable. “You’re on night watch.”
Hesitantly, you reach for the rifle. You notice Emil’s eyes flash towards your wrist as you grab it from him. A little bit too fast, you pull the rifle from his hands, covertly trying to pull the sleeve of your coat further over your wrist before he can ask.
You’ve done nothing wrong. You have nothing to be ashamed of. It’s your business and yours alone, you think tersely. So why are you so afraid of getting questioned?
Mercifully, Emil has already pulled his cap over his eyes.
Before you manage to settle, trying to find a comfortable spot while leaning into the high barricade, rifle aimed over the top, you hear soft snoring.
Peering into the darkness over the river valley, distressingly few lights spread throughout the city; these are the last moments of peace and quiet you will know for a long time.
Before the sun comes up, someone comes to relieve you from the watch. Emil is still fast asleep. Handing the rifle on, you huddle beside Emil, burrowing in your coat.
You don’t feel tired at all, you think. You are wired with anticipation. This is it. This is the last stand.
Freedom or death.
Your body catches up before your brain does — you don’t know how long you have been asleep. It could have been a catnap or hours. Whatever it is, it wasn’t enough. Your eyes feel so heavy. So much so it’s a struggle to open them. You sigh tiredly. Around you, voices are chattering — you can’t really hear what they are saying, just the shape of words and sounds that reach your ears.
When you realize that you won’t fall asleep again, your brain finally starts up, and you become much more aware of your surroundings. There’s something heavy on your head, pulled over your eyes. Lazily shrugging it off, you blink heavily against the sun, still bleary-eyed.
“Anya, are you awake?” Emil materializes next to you, crouched down. He deftly picks up his cover from your lap, where it fell, neatly setting it on his head again. Did he put that on your head to shield your eyes from the morning sun?
As aloof as Emil always has been, awkward in friendly gestures, he is kind.
However, following Emil as a shadow is Jan. He’s hard to miss, but you didn’t notice him last night. You look at him pointedly, daring him to say something. He meets your gaze shortly before huffing and turning away. Emil doesn’t notice, or isn’t interested in noticing, as he unfolds a map in front of you.
The battle is beginning.
***
You are running. The ground is shaking under your feet; you’ve never felt something like it. Things you are pretty sure shouldn't move, like whole buildings, are quaking. The sound of the artillery shells tearing through stone and flesh is deafening, but somehow, your heavy breathing is louder than anything else in your head.
As a shell hits so close, you almost skid down the stairs you’re running up, as it turns the whole world into jello for a moment—the paper map of the city in your pocket crinkles as your hip collides with the wall. Between the explosions and screams, it’s such a mundane sound it sticks out. You clutch onto the railing for dear life.
Is it possible to be so scared you just stop being scared?
You are not sure if you’re feeling anything right now.
All you can think about is that you need to get to the roof. High up on the hill, you and several others were sent sprinting up the road, looking for an even higher vantage point to see where the guns are. You hesitate to really think why some doors to buildings are open: the windows smashed, the facades charred. The silence, the complete lack of human sound in the buildings, is far more chilling than the hellfire raining down on you.
It’s quiet now.
You wait for almost half a minute, frozen on the stairs you almost slipped down, hands still around the railing so tightly your knuckles have turned white. The explosions don’t return.
They may be recalculating their trajectory, picking new targets.
You scramble up, not even bothering to dust yourself off. Part of you wants to start running again to get to the top of the building as fast as possible. But your gut tells you to tiptoe, not betray your position.
Trust your gut.
It has gotten you this far.
Threading lightly in your heavy boots, holding your breath intermittently as you make your way up the next two flights of stairs. Outside, it’s still quiet; you can even hear the birds twitter in the trees again — it’s completely surreal.
But then you hear it. At first, so softly, you think you must be imagining it. There is no one here. But it sounds like a voice. Not like someone in conversation but someone dictating — flat inflection, clipped tones.
You tiptoe up the next flight of stairs. On the landing, you see one apartment door open. Someone is here — no one should be here. This is dangerous. Should you be scared? But try as you might, you can’t really recall the feeling: the icy grip on your heart, the knot in your stomach. Is it because you haven’t felt anything but fear in the past few days? Is it just part of you now?
You pull out your gun with a calmness you hardly thought you could possess in a moment like this. Carefully, you click the safety off. The soft click echoes through the hall, but the voice drones on undeterred.
Creeping past the entry door, the house you enter is in disarray. Whoever lived here fled — afraid of the Nazis feeling from the east, afraid of the Soviets following them or the Allies closing the pincer from the west. Who knows.
People spent the war in many ways. Someone was always going to lose. Those who chose to support the Nazi regime are already being rounded up—those who flee run west. The Americans are kinder captors than the Russians, they say.
A small twinge in your soul. Will the Allies beat the Red Army to Bohemia? Could it be that…
You bury the thought as you move deeper into the apartment.
Now is not the time for dreaming.
You hold the gun pointed at the ground — grip firm, not frantic. Breathing steady, not panicked.
The voice becomes louder. The door between you and the voice is slightly ajar, muffling the sound. It’s definitely a man’s voice. And he’s speaking… German?
You falter for a moment, coming to a standstill in the hallway.
What are you about to walk in on? A scout? A spy? A group left behind?
Holding your breath for a moment, you close your eyes. Focus.
You can only hear one voice — that much you are sure about. But as you listen, that is not what stands out. It’s that low buzz, the crackle of static. It’s a sound so etched into your mind you are almost surprised you didn’t hear it earlier.
You’re only hearing one voice because whoever is in there is relaying something through radio in German.
With the tip of your boot, you gently push the door open. The hinges whine softly. You slink through the opening.
It looks like a bomb went off in the sitting room. The floor is covered in books and broken glass. The windows are wide open, the curtains billowing into the room. And there, by the window, crouched between the chaos, is a figure dictating coordinates he is reading from a map.
Suddenly, it all makes sense, but you also don’t understand anything about what you see.
Glass breaks under your boot.
Jan turns around, eyes wide. Within a fraction of a second, his face turns red, like a kid that had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
That moment might have been less than a second; it might have been ten. You don’t know. You can’t feel. You can’t think.
You just raise your arm, pointing your gun at his head.
Not a single tremor in your aim. Not a hitch in your breathing. You squeeze the trigger.
The recoil is the only thing you feel. Jan slumps against the wall, the radio still buzzing. Blood gushes from this head, quickly pooling around his lifeless body.
Methodically, like it’s just your physical form going through the motions, you simply brush past the body, turning off the radio and wrenching the Nazi map Jan had been holding.
Every barricade on the hill is marked on it. Jan had been calling in the positions of the uprising strongholds to the artillery battery on the other bank.
Your blood should run cold. You should be angry. One of your own.
Instead, you tear off the tricolor resistance armband off Jan’s arm. He’s not one of you. He will not be remembered as one of you.
When you return to the barricade Emil is commanding, he’s waiting for you already. Wordlessly, you hand him Jan’s map and armband. Emil doesn’t say anything — he just looks at you. At first, you think it’s with pity. When he claps his hand on your shoulder a little too forcefully, somewhat awkwardly, you realize it isn’t pity in his eyes. It’s sympathy.
Someone hands you tea in a chipped enamel mug. Sitting down on an upturned apple crate, the enamel too hot against your fingers, you catch sight of Bradley’s bracelet on your wrist. In just a few days, the weight has become so familiar, such a constant, you almost forgot it’s there.
Your stomach twists. It’s the first thing you’ve really felt in hours. Bradley was the first person you ever pointed a gun at. It’s very vivid in your mind how much your hands shook, how breathing in the icy mountain weather hurt your lungs, and how the terror coursed through every fiber of your body.
You felt so much, you felt so deeply then.
It’s strange. Alien. You know it happened to you but in a different lifetime. It’s like you’re fragmented. The you who was a student wasn’t the you who met Bradley. The you who said goodbye to Bradley wasn’t the you who sabotaged trucks. The you that has killed… you’re not even sure if there’s anything left of you, really.
In the hours and days to follow, you barely get the time to ponder the changes in yourself when the world is rapidly changing around you. A world born from flames and blood. The artillery batteries pound resistance positions and soon get support from the air. The high whine of Stukas, in broad daylight, rain bullets and incendiary bombs down on the city. The plumes of smoke obscure the sky. The smell of fire, burning houses, fabric… bodies, permeates.
When a breeze picks up, you think, you hope you can still smell lilacs. Just to assure yourself that the putrid smell of burnt rubber, scorched flesh, and hair has not settled in your nose permanently.
“Why aren’t the Allies coming to help?” A young man, his old uniform jacket dirty, sleeves slightly too short, peers out of the broken cellar window into the street as a sortie passes low overhead. Emil, after days of fighting, is not looking as crisp anymore — streaks of dirt cover his face, his uniform dusty, tired look in his eyes. “After all we’ve done -” The young man turns angrily. “Where is the RAF?”
You don’t bother looking up; instead, you inspect your dirty fingertips and broken nails. Idly, you wonder if your hands will ever be clean again. Mindlessly, you tug on your coat sleeve — the seam is fraying — gently brushing your calloused fingertips across Bradley’s nameplate. Every ridge and divot of his embossed name and the insignia are a comfort, a constant. Every time you remember to feel the weight on your wrist, your heart skips a beat — it’s still there, it’s still real. It’s your final tether to him. Your final tether to you.
“The weather over the channel still hasn’t cleared up,” Emil finally replies, voice monotone.
“And the Americans are stopped at the demarcation line in the west,” You add, closing your eyes and leaning your head back against the bare cellar wall. When you first heard that Patton’s army crossed the border and liberated the city of Pilsen, you were so sure it was only hours until they’d make it into Prague.
That was two days ago.
“And we are stuck here, in hellfire, no air support, and cut off from supply lines by an entire Army Group and the SS,” The young man spits. “We are left to die while the Red Army takes its sweet time — they skipped liberating us to get to Berlin first, and now we’re the last defense for every Nazi in Europe!”
“To fight is to die, soldier,” Emil intones mildly, in that same bored tone as he plays with his lighter. “You knew that, and yet you picked up a gun.”
Silence falls in the cellar. Outside, the explosions rumble, sending tremors through the ground. You are not scared of dying. If you ever were, then you can’t even really remember anymore. Fear, anger, happiness, you know what they are, you know you’ve felt them, but now it’s like a thick fog has taken its place. All you feel is kind of nauseous, tired, and the chill from the wall behind you.
Before you know it, you are back on your feet, clambering into a truck, tearing down the hill toward Resistance HQ in the old town. Someone dumps a glug of clear alcohol over your hands, in a vain attempt to clean them. You wince as you desperately wipe down your hands with a rag, the alcohol penetrating every crack and cut in your skin. There is no running water anymore. This will have to do.
The uprising is only a few days old, but the horrors you’ve witnessed are more than you have seen in the years of occupation. The carcasses of burned-out residential buildings barely stop smoking before a new salvo of artillery lands. Bodies — fighters, civilians, enemies, limbs — litter the street. Fireballs light up the night sky so brightly it almost looks like daytime in a terrifying, incredible display. The smell is unbelievable.
A jumped-up schoolgirl playing at war.
Maybe there was more truth in that than you’d like to admit.
However, you don’t have time to dwell on it as the truck finally comes to a violent halt. In the first few seconds, you barely recognize where you are. It’s like walking into a wasteland that was once the old town. You used to walk down this street every day, from the tram to class. The town hall, which was used as the HQ for the uprising, is… no there anymore. The air is thick with smoke and dust. The ground is strangely hot, and everything is cast in a strange orange glow from the surrounding fires.
Pulling a rag from your pocket, you tie it around your face. It does little against the smell, but it at least stops some dust and smoke from choking you completely. After that, you move on autopilot.
Save whom can be saved.
Note who didn’t make it.
Get out before the Luftwaffe returns.
Your heart is beating a mile a minute, adrenaline coursing through your veins. But you aren’t scared, focusing only on your task: pushing away rubble, helping victims up, trying to stop the bleeding on a too-deep leg wound, grunting in exertion as you push the stretcher with the man above your head so he can get pulled into the back to the truck—a flash.
You blink, disorientated. Colorful spots fill your vision.
Turning, you try to find the source of it in the chaos and the smoke. More flashes. Finally, your sight refocuses — someone is taking pictures. Through all the noise, you hear it clear as day.
“Let’s go; we need to get out of here.”
It’s an American.
Your feet start walking before your brain catches up. The man is walking quickly to another truck with a Red Cross. The Red Cross is here? Your breathing is rapid now. You need to talk to them. You have no idea what you will tell the photographer, but you need to speak to him.
You pick up your pace. The Red Cross photographer is disappearing quickly through the smoke.
“Wait!” You yell out, pulling the rag from your face. He is already climbing into the truck cabin. “Hey! Wait!” You yell louder, more desperately.
He looks over his shoulder, straight at you. It looks like the Red Cross photographer waits for you to catch up for a moment, but then he slams the truck door shut. You break out into a sprint, almost reaching the truck before it tears away.
“Fuck you!” You scream, tears suddenly stinging in your eyes. Breathing heavily, you stay behind, seething, on the torn-up street, watching the Red Cross truck disappear in the mess of the medieval maze of the old town.
The desperate anger is the first thing you have felt in days. It’s overwhelming. Suffocating.
Distracting.
It’s only when someone almost knocks you over as they run past you in a mad dash, it’s like you wake up from the wash of madness that had you rooted in place.
A high-pitched whistle pierces the air, closing in on you at frighting speed.
You run, scrambling over the broken pieces of stone, slipping over pools of blood.
Don’t look back.
The truck with the wounded is behind you.
Don’t look back.
You need to get out of here, find any place to hide.
Don’t look back.
It must be a mere second before impact now; the whistle of the bomb is so loud your eardrums scream along with it.
In a fatal moment, you turn your head.
A sea of flames melts the truck from sight. The pressure wave, so hot your mouth is drier than cotton on the first breath, is powerful it lifts your feet from the ground and carries you up like a feather in the wind.
“I’m flying,” Is all your brain manages to conjure up in the split second, almost with a sense of wonder and joy, before your body is flung against a wall. Crashing to the ground, you lose consciousness as fire rains down on you.
note | good news: war is almost over. bad news: everything else
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South Grastea, Annotated (and the geography for why the Halidom is a prospective attacker's worst nightmare)
So, even if we got some info on geography for Grastea, keeping track of where exactly everything is can be tricky. Thus, I made a small, crude map to help give an idea of where the 'big' locations are, story-wise! Hopefully it helps any fic-writer out there who might want to have an easy consult for where stuff is.
Thus, Euden's path in the main campaign is as follows, as represented by this even cruder drawing wherein black lines are like ch 1-4, blue 5-9, yellow 10-14, purple 15 (the filled in white circle is 'start' in Sol Alberia, filled-in black circle is 'end' of South Grastea shenanigans at the border:
Some of these are guesses (Chanzelia to Clave Loy'elune and Clave Loy'elune to Murgia Village, ex) but others are evidenced or shown outright, like Euden's path from Sol Alberia to the Mistholt forest.
Still a terrible map, but it does show how Euden was bouncing everywhere. The early chapters do make a lot of sense: he approached the Halidom through its southern forest route, then left to leave through Myriage lake to approach Sol Alberia from the north, then got turned around and fled to Mt. Adolla. Guess Euden was lucky when deciding to then flee to the Halidom instead of running to nearby Leonidas for help, though!
Oh, and I also kinda have figured out the vaugeries of how the Halidom is even approachable, because it was kinda confusing as to how people could access it from the west if it only has that main drawbridge in its near-island position.
Long story short, it is still effectively an island, with the only 'permanent' bridge being the stone bridge from the southeast, but even that has a drawbridge they could pull. However, the Halidom does have a wooden rope bridge that goes to the west.
This can be better seen on my own picture (which also shows how the Halidom on the map would change depending on how far you've developed the Halidom!):
From a near distance, it looks like so:
This is where it becomes funny in the Blood That Binds, wherein most the family split up to try and bait the replica Alberius from all sides. Leonidas is to the north, Valyx the south, Chelle to the west, and Emile (and Phares) to the east.
But, as we can see, the only true feasible routes to march any decently-sized force through is the west and the south. Any other route would require a lot of swimming and then mountain-climbing to scale the rocky walls, which is not recommended to keep an energetic and safe force.
Thus, replica Alberius and his brutish strength decides to strike west, north, east, and then south. If I had to guess, Leonidas was put to the north to either be a one-man army himself by being able to fly over the lake separating him from the Halidom, or as a stealth source of reinforcements to either Emile or more likely Chelle to hopefully catch Alberius off-guard.
But Emile? Emile was likely put to the east just to keep him out of the action. And they still didn't trust him to lead that force well enough in case something did happen that they plunked Phares there to babysit!
Interestingly, the Halidom's layout has unique implications for the tunnel system that exists. We know it goes from outside the castle into it (and specifically into Euden's room at one point), but from where does the other side emerge? Is it still on the island, or is it a long long journey to the under the water surrounding the Halidom and under that, followed by a long climb up? We can see some more tunnels in the Halidom map in game, so who knows.
We also see Halidom strategy come into play for Gala Leif's story.
As we can see, it's technically possible to get very creative and 'make a route' from the east, likely in the form of a long bridge to span the gap between the island and the mainland. This, however, is still a very unconventional and dangerous endeavor (defenders just need to break the bridge), characteristic of Harle, and likely not a recommended warfare strategy if one dreams of attacking the Halidom.
Honestly, though, it's a phenomenal position defensively. The biggest risk would be a siege because of the easily cut-off routes in and out, but even that is mitigated by the presence of flying dragons that could carry food as well as its own mini-forest on the island they could cultivate and sustain a small force with. Its likely water supply also is hard to disrupt, being an absolutely massive lake surrounding it and entering via a waterfall, which would be hard to stop or poison entirely.
Last but not least, the weather is also favorable to defenders who know the land well, as Chelle explains in the Blood That Binds:
The water surrounding the Halidom, combined with its temperature swings from day to night, causes thick fog that a defender could utilize (even if it's not magically thick as it was in the very beginning). Yes, in this case, it's the offense taking use of it, but the replica Alberius, possessing Alberius' memories, had a 'defenders' knowledge that the rest of the family wouldn't know as well since Euden as the only current firsthand source of nitty-gritty details for how the Halidom works defensively had not shown up.
It really does sound like a nightmare for an invader. It's no wonder Euden is able to defend it with such a small standing force, and quite likely a bit part in why so many left him alone in the early stages; the time and resources it would require to truly root him out would be disproportionate.
So...yeah. There's a bit about Southern Alberian geography and why the Halidom is a defensive monster!
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I finished reading Demian so
TOP TEN EMIL SINCLAIR AND MAX DEMIAN GAYBOY MOMENTS
#10: Sinclair develops a crush on Demian’s mom, who looks like Demian if she was a milf. I had to add this one because it’s important context for later
#9: Both Sinclair and Demian (and some other people) have an invisible “sign” on their forehead that I’m not going to explain in full because it’s really in-depth and this post is a joke but when these two first met, Demian saw that Sinclair had that sign, and he proceeded to go home to his mom and say “I NEED to be that boy’s friend”
#8: “My longing for Max Demian overwhelmed me again.”
#7: Sinclair goes to see Demian and comes across him exercising with no shirt on and Sinclair just kinda stands there in awe admiring how handsome his muscles are. Yes he really uses the word “handsome”
#6: Sinclair repeatedly has nightmares about being physically tortured by Kromer but one time it was Demian doing it instead of Kromer and Sinclair enjoyed it to the point of ecstasy (yes he really uses the word “ecstasy”)
#5: As soon as Sinclair finds himself being super lonely in life he writes a note to Demian about how he can’t go on alone and needs his help. He doesn’t end up sending it and instead recites it as a prayer constantly
#4: Sinclair tries to paint a portrait of a girl he had a crush on but he zones out big time while he’s painting and after he’s done he realizes he accidentally painted Demian’s face instead
#3: “I relished the sound of Demian’s voice. It still had its familiar ring; the same old beautiful certainty and calm had all their old power over me. Now all was well. I had found him.”
#2: Sinclair sees a weird bird in a dream and paints it, then sends the painting to Demian on impulse. He later sees that Demian has it hung up in his house and in that moment Sinclair feels like his entire life has been fulfilled
#1: Demian summons Sinclair through ✨magic✨(it’s related to the “sign”, don’t worry about it) specifically to give him a kiss on the lips. This is not an exaggeration. That’s literally what happened. It was on the last two pages too. Demian says the kiss is from his mom to Sinclair buuuuut
#demian#emil sinclair#lit#me post#this is mostly a shitpost but#the entire book is sinclair's coming of age story#he's grappling with and reexamining his feelings constantly#which includes his romantic/sexual feelings#despite being a book about sinclair written by sinclair#it's titled demian#lcb bookshelf#demian 1919
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Thanks for the tag @illarian-rambling!
Wip Questionnaire (Grayguard Edition!)
Rules: answer as few or as many as you'd like!
1. What was the first part of your wip that you created?
The earliest concept in Grayguard is probably the Hellenistic kingdom of Cloria and its Oracle Queen, also the elemental mineral Oriche. Those two have been recycled through at least three scrapped stories before I put it in Grayguard.
2. If your story was a TV show, what would the theme song/intro be?
The story is set into four acts, sooo
Act 1: Hollow Knight from the Hollow Knight OST
Act 2: Blue Desire (from Blazblue Chronophantasma)
Act 3: Iconoclast by KOTOKO
Act 4: Kuroi Uta from Drakengard 3
3. Who are your favourite characters you've made? Why?
Not to be too spoilery (since Grayguard will be on AO3 at some point) But other than Emil and Lisa, a certain shapeshifter that appears in act 2 and an antagonist of Act 3, one is an absolute blast to write, the other is the best villain I’ve written in my opinion.
4. What other pieces of media do you think would share a fan base for your story?
Probably Aurora fans and Zelda: BOTW/TOTK fans.
5. What has been your biggest struggle with your wip?
Honestly I’ve been mashing some plotlines together to make it run smoother because I CANNOT cram that many plot lines into a single act.
6. Are there any animals in your story? Talk about them!
Chaos creatures aplenty, including Dragons, Watchers (eldritch Gorgons), Chimera (a result of creatures fusing their Chaos energy to melt into one being) also plenty of plain animals except really big with a few weird details (Deers with crystal horns, Bears with rock spikes all over their body, etc) there’s also giant sea serpents that are sort of like traditional Chinese dragons.
7. How do your characters get around? (ex: trains, horses, cars, dragons, etc.)
Walking, so much fucking walking. If they have a horse that doesn’t die from an ambush (which happens all the time) It sort of helps the journey. Though they get on a giant robot homunculus with a whole city on it at one point so that speeds the journey up for a few weeks.
8. What part of your wip are you working on rn?
Currently editing the hell out of Act 1, I have a few chapters of Act 2 but it’s not free from my wrath either.
9. What aspects (tropes, maybe?) of your wip do you think will draw people in?
In terms of tropes, fallen heroes, found family, chosen one (who’s avoiding it at every turn) fallen civilizations, and magic robots.
Other than that, I hope it’s the characters that draw people in. It’s very character driven even if the worldbuilding and magic is thoroughly detailed. They’re fun as hell to write about and I love mixing and matching their dynamics to see who loves or hates each other.
10. What are your hopes for your wip?
that people like it lol, that’s about it.
I’ll tag @deanwax and whoever else wants to join!
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| A M É L I E |
[ Category: Zareans ]
| This is probably the proudest ref I've ever fucking drawn tbh... I had to re-draw this lovely gal cuz her current re-design was a little off to me, and drawing her bust was absolutely fun so yeah that's happening... Anyways this is Amélie, or "Beaut" which is her celebrity name cuz she is in fact, a celebrity..
Also this would've been at least a month or two since I finished this when I do the mass post some time later.. So even though I'm proud of this now, wonder if that'll hold up til a couple months later when I get to the post spam..
Anyways- Amélie is another one of those old OCs of mine who's gone through massive changes, especially from when she was a fan character of another fandom I was semi into a few years ago... This is her now and honest to god, she's absolutely beautiful and I swear if anybody dares gives this post shit. I will massacre everyone and laugh while I do.
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
INFO
Name: Amélie
Species: Zarean
General Personality: Funny, outgoing, supportive, forgetful, self conscious, posh, vocally talented
Height: 15ft
Relationship Status: Single
Extra Info:
"Beaut the Beautiful" is her stage name she randomly made on a whim in a sudden panic for a 'label' one day, it's kind of just stuck with her since
She is known for a variety of skills and talents within the species; Singing, dancing, acting mainly in pantomimes, fashion model, online influencer, all sorts. And despite seemingly extroverted and overall social, she actually deals with a lot of social anxiety; So she has to do all sorts of breathing and mental exercises just to get out there
She came out trans to her family roughly when she was in her teens, although her family had somewhat mixed reactions, in the end they supported her and her goals. She was officially "herself" when she got famous
Growing up she starred and took part in many things; Talent shows, school plays, all kinds of after school activities and clubs along with other events and such town. So she really has quite the experience in a lot of fields, she worked hard to where she wanted to be
She actually worked retail and working part time in a library while she was juggling career driven events and such
She stylizes, sometimes even crafts her own outfits, wigs and occasionally even the events she hosts in like concerts and such. She also has a personal assistant who is totally not her best friend she met in college
She never acknowledges her dead name or anything with the only exception being her grandmother before she passed (Emile was her grandfather's name)
+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +
And that's it for her again, re-doing her ref was a good idea tbh because I'm really happy with how I drew Beaut here, definitely catches her type of likliness better than the previous "re-designs" I did of hers on separate occasions throughout the years I've been drawing and re-designing all my OCs... Would hope I keep at it for a long time but I feel that somehow isn't going to work forever.. I genuinely thought at one point that I'd get all my OCs fully re-done, sorted and all along with their worlds and whatnot then I can work with what I got there..
But I've noticed now that the whole of the Zarean species specifically, which I was working on off and on for like 9 or so years now, has to now be re-done completely cuz the lore was kinda all over the place without reasoning and that it just felt.. Wrong..
So yeah... I'll probably be dead by the time I actually finish any of this, I probably won't have started by the time I end up on my death bed tbh..
Especially when loads of my OCs haven't really been touched since like... Before I completely ditched DA a couple years ago.......... Oh well....-
. Amélie, Art © Me . DON’T RE-POST .
#MASTER-K0HGA#Ary / Kohga Chronicles#Ary / Kohga OCs and Works#Beaut#Amélie#Female#Trans#M to F#Zarean#Zareans#Planet Zaria#Species#Personal Species Project#Fandomless#Original Character#OC#My OC#My Art#My Character#Re-post#My art re-posted#Yeah after I at least get most of my OCs specifically related to this species out the way then I'll start properly introducing them here to#Technically re-introducing them if I was still on DA since that's where I explained and talked about the majority of the lore there but it'#kinda gone now and don't really wanna use most of it since it's very outdated and very dumb... Like I'll re-read everything that I've got#and work with what can still be used so I'll work with that.. But the rest will obviously be scrapped entirely as it's not really useful no#needed much for these guys... A lot of it was very unimportant so yeah... And again yeah#This will be posted in like a month or two cuz I wanna get all this done for a mass post at some point since I won't really be online much#Fan art will be included with the bulk too even if it won't be much of it ofc.. So don't expect loads I expect my OCs to get the limelight#here....... Anyways...
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Higurashi: Curse Killing Chapter 9
The chapter picks up right after the last one. Some of the kids are still cleaning up Satoko's puke.
We've had a few instances in the previous arcs where we could say other people were possessed by demons to enact Oyashiro-sama's curse. Whenever they started acting strange, Keiichi questioned if they really were Rena or Mion.
And in this arc, Keiichi is the one being possessed. The extensive use of dark shading, black empty space, and darkened speech bubbles is an aspect of what the mind and perspective of one possessed by a demon is.
And of course Rena asked if he really is Keiichi Maebara. Whoever is possessed doesn't act like themselves.
We got some info that implies that Satoshi may have actually murdered his aunt and fled to escape arrest. But Mion points out some inconsistencies with that idea. The giant teddy bear Satoshi had supposedly been saving up for Satoko was bought on the same day he vanished. So he wouldn't have the money to leave.
It's almost as if he bought it and then disappeared on the way home.
At the very least, Keiichi now thinks he's fulfilling Satoshi's duty as Satoko's older brother because Satoshi isn't able to fulfill that role rather than because he refuses to.
And during Keiichi and Mion's call, Mion mentioned how she hasn't kept her promise to Satoshi, how she's neglected Satoko, and how she doesn't want that responsibility. It kinda makes the argument she had with Keiichi in chapter 6 seem less a matter of her being unable to take Satoko in and more a refusal to.
The ladder moment in Cotton Drifting implied Mion has some deep hatred for Satoko and with the new context, we can infer it has to do with Satoshi being driven to the brink by having to protect her from his aunt. And now we have this scene revealing that she essentially chose to abandon Satoko because of Satoshi's disappearance.
We're on the third arc and we're finally getting some Keiichi backstory. He was a generally average student but could excel when his classwork was in a from that interested him or felt relevant to his life.
And while he enjoyed the praise and the sense of greatness, it didn't last long. And the everything between that point and him moving to Hinamizawa was summarized as "A lot happened".
I want to go on a side-discussion about German Psychiatrist Emil Kraepelin (1856 - 1926) just because the teacher from Keiichi's flashback mentioned the Kraepelin analysis. I did a few quick wiki searches and some short reads on his works and theories hoping to find what the Kraepelin analysis is and tests for. But I didn't find anything.
But I did find out that Kraepelin was a pioneer in psychology and the founder of modern psychiatry. He looked into how the physical condition leads to disorders and was the first to differentiate schizophrenia (which he called dementia praecox) from manic depressive disorder.
So based on what his research was focused on, it makes me think that the analysis Keiichi was given implies he might have some form of mild schizophrenia.
The grave he dug is way too shallow.
It's wide enough to lay an adult body in, but it needs to be at least another 2 feet deep. If it rains, a good amount of the loosened soil can get washed away and as the body decomposes, it can build up gases that cause it to swell, further pushing against the loosened soil. Plus, the smell when the body decomposes can leak out and attract scavengers that will dig it up.
That last line...
back
Spoiler Discussion
So about that chat Keiichi and Mion had...
That is actually Shion. I can say this for sure because she was the one who spoke to Satoshi in the Eye-Opening arc when he asked "Mion" to take Satoko to the Cotton Drifting festival, but there are some little hints at the start of the call. "Mion" doesn't recognize Keiichi over the phone and only confirms she's "Mion" when Keiichi gives his name. She's also a bit startled when she realizes it's Keiichi and he thinks he's speaking with Mion.
Shion is the one who hates Satoko and didn't keep the promise to care for her when Satoshi is gone. Mion was genuine when she said she couldn't take Satoko into her care nor order a hit on Teppei as part of the curse.
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Rovanperä revels on wet Estonian stages
Once again (as is becoming common this season) young Finnish driver Kalle Rovanperä gave his fellow WRC contenders a master class in driving on this weekend’s Rally Estonia. Despite starting first on the road and coping with unfavourable driving conditions initially Rovanperä was able to forge ahead when the stages became wet and treacherous. When grip was at a minimum Rovanperä’s talent appeared at a maximum as he took huge chinks of time out of his closest rivals.
Elfyn Evans has been holding the young Finn back until the first muddy stages were encountered and then the Welshman had to give best to Rovanperä who is fast becoming another remarkable flying Finn. Behind Evan Ott Tänak brought his Hyundai home in third, never able to challenge the leading Toyotas but comfortably in front of his Belgian teammate Thierry Neuville. Neither Hyundai had a trouble-free run, minor niggles hampering outright speed (an issue that has affected Hyundai for more than just this season).
Takamoto Katsuta took fifth overall; the young Japanese driver beating fellow Toyota driver Esapekka Lappi whilst Adrian Fourmaux was top placed Ford driver in seventh overall (a good result for Fourmaux but another disappointing rally for Ford).
WRC2 winner Andreas Mikkelsen claimed eight overall in his Skoda Fabia Evo; bagging an impressive haul of powerstage points on the way. Next up (and second in the WRC2 class) was Teemu Suninen who finished the final stage on two cylinders in his Hyundai i20 N whilst the top ten was rounded out by the third WRC2 car home, Emil Lindolm. Lindholm never recovered from time lost with an early puncture so was reasonably pleased to make it two TOK Sport Skodas in the top 10.
Rovanperä now holds an 82 point lead over Neuville with just six remaining rounds of the 2022 championship.
1. K. ROVANPERÄ & J. HALTTUNEN - Toyota GR Yaris Rally1
2. E. EVANS & S. MARTIN - Toyota GR Yaris Rally1
3. O. TÄNAK & M. JÄRVEOJA Hyundai i20 N Rally1
4. T. NEUVILLE & M. WYDAEGHE Hyundai i20 N Rally1
5. T. KATSUTA & A. JOHNSTON Toyota GR Yaris Rally1
6. E. LAPPI & J. FERM Toyota GR Yaris Rally1
7. A. FOURMAUX & A. CORIA Ford Puma Rally1
8. A. MIKKELSEN & T. ERIKSEN Skoda Fabia Evo WRC2
9. T. SUNINEN & M. MARKKULA Hyundai i20 N WRC2
10. E. LINDHOLM & R. HÄMÄLÄINEN Skoda Fabia Evo WRC2
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Hi! Hope you don't mind OC questions? "Elfboy" is responsible for what city to be in ruins (upheaval, city in shamble etc)? Is he a dragonborn or..? Also, do you have some sort of TES OC recap post somewhere?
I want nothing BUT to be asked about my OCs tbqh 🥺💕
Unfortunately I don't have a lot of organized information about most my tES OCs because a lot of them are new (Lily, "elfboy"), only just getting fleshed out (Autumn, Summer) or Yorick. I DO have a whole blog dedicated to my actual Dragonborn though when I dubiously used to be able to rp. I deleted the threads I had but there's still other shit on there (Though his about/timeline are desktop only and I need to rewrite some bits plus some of the older shit is no longer canon because he's a decade old OC.) > DINOKHINDJUN
Basic concept behind the chaos elfboy "caused" is:
You know how a large part of Ulfric's Stormcloak movement is dependent on racist Nords who don't like elves specifically? Then you have your jarl who wants to crown himself High King repeatedly fail to produce or name an heir* and then suddenly they drag out a half dunmer bastard child? Like oh our Nord leader has laid with elves and has one in his home now as his son. Probably leaves a bad taste in their mouths.
Then on the opposite side you got the Grey Quarter who isn't happy because of the whole Ulfric's men showing up on a Dunmer woman's doorstep only for her to immolate herself and try and immolate her child** and wtf did you DO to make that happen? (esp considering Dunmer are naturally fire resistant) The whole situation is just very suspect.
None of which is helped by elfboy just being kind of a weird kid that makes him seem a little cursed. Doesn't talk to anyone but himself when he's alone for awhile and there's just some other weird shit which is generally because he's a demiprince.
**not her actual child. elfboy was given to her for safe keeping by her patron, HoK mantled Sheogorath (Tuveri) who put forth one of those classic Virtue Quests in front of Ulfric which he failed and 9 months later you got a demiprince. The fire was not intended. That just happened.
*[Tuveri cackling in the distance]
The Upheaval™ is just the tension between the nords and dunmer of Windhelm hitting a boiling point because Tuveri spilling oil over the city. Thus Elfboy's "Would it kill you to praise the things I've done on purpose and not the things that just happened around me?"
Also so we can stop calling him elfboy (I'm sorry. I'm just bad at naming OCs.) The names I'm bouncing around rn are Yngve, Erkki, Emil, and Rune.
#long post#elfboy tbn#I don't want to tag this as anything else because I don't want to be a bother but hhhh#Yngve Stormcloak
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Dev's (C)Leo Biases,
Or,
A Comprehensive History of How Leonidas Became Nearly Everyone's Object of Thirst
So, among the Dragalia Lost team, it was rather well known that they admitted to a strong Cleo bias.
It's pretty easy to see, in anything from Cleo's early spate of alts, like Dragonyule and Summer in quick succession, to the utterly random unique outfits they flaunted in ch.9 that you can just tell they drew for funsies but really liked them and wanted to put them in the game despite it serving no real purpose...
The dev team just really, really loved Cleo and drawing her. But after they apparently used up their Cleo allowance to make Gala Cleo probably the single strongest character in the game at the time, they cooled it down a bit.
However, as much as they were apparently thirsting over Cleo, I would joke that somewhere along the way, some part of the dev team, feeling desperate now that the yearly Cleo Allowance was running dry as they prepared to release Gala Cleo, decided to find a new fixation to quench their addiction.
And since Cleo was off-limits, they turned to the next best thing: crossing out the C in Cleo to find their newest substitute Dev Thirst character.
That's right, we're talking about the one and only Leonidas.
Leonidas had kinda just melded into the background with the rest of the siblings at this point to my observations. Sure, he was a campaign antagonist. People weren't particularly clamoring for him in particular over the other siblings, though. Honestly, I'd wager Emile was more popular at this stage, even in a 'love to hate' sense, just because we'd already seen him so much.
But then, it started. Whether it was art like this being posted on their twitter just a few scant months before G!Cleo's debut...
...They just seemed to have a certain edge in artworks featuring Mr. Curry in a way to make one squint and tilt your head sideways.
For instance:
It's one of those cases where you just kinda get a feeling the artist(s) found x attractive in a way that simultaneously still can give you a moment of self-doubt if that's not just you projecting because there's no blatantly obvious signs, you know? Whether it's something about the posing, or angles, whatever it is, I got this air increasingly whenever they put out any Leonidas art.
Thankfully, they decided to put me out of my misery and just flat out make what's likely the single most suggestive wyrmprint (or honestly art piece in general since Dragalia was thankfully very very very tame) starring none other than, you guessed it, Leonidas.
(Secret Cygames/Nintendo conversation, probably: "As you can see, it's vitally important that we draw this character in a speedo with sparkles around him." Nintendo: "...I'll allow it. This time.")
Even if he puts on some more clothes in the refined version, we're still back to that air I mentioned, as the shot focuses almost entirely on him instead of the wildly popular Chelle or his pet panther (which, yes, seemed to be an actual pet of his):
Even the Ilia-damned funny chibi comics got in on this thirst train as it went on and made quite possibly the raunchiest joke in the entire 400+ comic run featuring Leonidas, even if the exact same joke didn't make the translation overseas, however they tried. You can see a brief breakdown of that in THIS post.
Not content to restrict it to art and comics, Leonidas also dropped this line that is permanently engraved into my mind with just how shocking it was to see anything of this caliber in Dragalia, in his baby brother's story to boot!
At this point, I could no longer deny it: the devs and artists had collectively acquired a new fixation to satiate their once insatiable Cleo appetite in the form of Mr. Currymeister. (Don't worry about Emile there, he's just drowning, he does that all the time in waist-high water)
And this attitude even extends to in-universe, too! People increasingly fawned over the first prince, who very much was filling in the role of 'this prince you know vs. his hotter and more competent elder brother', as virtually represented by my expert skills in Microsoft Paint artistry as such:
Naturally, there was only so much time before the people IRL could succumb to Leonidas Fever (and no, this time we're not talking about all the people who were so devoted to this dude to effectively set themselves into a fatal, firey, steroid-filled death!) at this unrelenting onslaught.
It was hard not to see comments such as these that started pouring in (and yes, all of these were just about Leonidas exclusively):
(I'll attribute the misspelling to being overcome with Leonidas Fever, a grave illness indeed!)
(Another serious symptom: the decline of any self-preservation instinct around Leonidas, who is indeed Very Dangerous and Will Kill You!)
Ahem. You get the picture. Thus concludes the slow, insidious buildup from just another sibling for Euden to probably commit a whoopsie-daisy fratricide in the future to one of the fandom's favorite menaces, all carefully plotted-out by the collective efforts of devs who were the first to succumb to the sickness...Right?
This concludes my professional historical report on this very serious issue that I suspect lingers to this day. The Fever has but been put into remission; it has not faded yet.
Extra:
So a long time ago I commented that some of the royal family seemed to have pointier teeth than normal, which I speculated because they deliberated giving a bit more 'draconic' traits to define dragonblood, and I didn't realize how pervasive this was until I saw Emile's model there. Look at his fang!
...
...How did I forget the weapon skin of Leo's gun is additionally named "Royal Dominator"?
#The royal family truly robbed the bank with their genetics. Magic powers. Sharp-looking as a whole...and they have been for 300 years+!#dragalia lost#dragalia#leonidas#He's strong. He's handsome. He's a fantastic chef. He's had cat ears put on him in a comic.#the People were to put it bluntly Screwed or so I would reckon in my comprehensive study of#'why the heck are you guys thirsting over xyz character NOW?'#...Also a very formal scientific field.#I'm additionally glad in the end that Leo bore the brunt of this#Since at least he's likely 25+. A disappointingly high amount of media can't even manage that!
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I had been putting off watching the last episodes. But I finally did and SPOILER ALERT!
OMG! I have so many things to say.
1. I LOVE how all the heroes from the specials came together it was 🤌 but my question is WHERE THE HECK WAS FELIX?!! I love him and I really wanted him to have a big role in the finale and he was NOWHERE like not even a scene of him helping defeat the... Hawkmoth's minions?!? I forgot what they are called.
2. GO DAMNIT I NEEDED CHAT NOIR!! PLEASE! It's the god damn FINALE, the boss fight, the final battle and CHAT NOIR JUST MISSES IT TRAPPED IN AN ASYLUM!?!
3. That brings me to my other point. GABRIEL REALLY LOCKED HIS SON IN AN INSANE ASYLUM?!?! WHAT THE HELL😭
4. I am kinda confused and concerned... Like now Gabriel is looked upon as a hero, nobody knows what happened except Marinette. But what about Natalie and Felix. Natalie probably would just want to forget it and Felix knows Gabriel was Hawkmoth but I think he would also let it all be for Adrien's happiness and so he can spend time happily with Kagami. He's smart and he probably figured out what happened.
4. Senti-being?!? What about that? Felix and Kagami are happy and have accepted it but Adrien still has no idea. Marinette isn't even remotely seen thinking about it or discussing it as to what it could mean. I mean great she's accepted it but like...bro deserves to know but at the same time it makes sense for him to not know.
5. Back to the 3rd point. So like Kagami's mom is just there now? Will she like team up with Lila or is she just gonna sweep it under the rug like nothing happened 😭. Nobody knows so like ???
6. CHAT NOIR!! Still mad about it. Don't get me wrong I liked everything and i understand it makes sense for him to not be there with what happened in the finale with Gabriel and everything probably better for him he wasn't but like?!?! It's Miraculous Ladybug and CHAT NOIR.
I don't like how he just accepts it and doesn't even think about it. Chat noir was a way for him to be free and now that he has Marinette he doesn't care as much about his other persona. He doesn't mind if he isn't needed, he just accepts it and doesn't think about it because chat noir doesn't plays as big of a role in his life as it used to be.
( This is getting too long I'll talk about this separately because I have a lot to say)
7. Lila- freaking- Rossi. Die die die die die die. God damn it we finally got rid of her. *Deep breath* 😤😮💨 I really think this time she'll use a different strategy though. As much as I hate her she isn't stupid. If she's as smart as she's seen to be by the writer she won't do the same thing again. She'll either be a minor character in the background who observes Marinette from afar and only be seen a couple of times when she helps Marinette with something or they have a brief conversation OR she'll go the opposite direction as the last time. ( Imma talk more about this separately)
8. Ooooh and Felix being a part of their superhero team. I love that. I really wanted him to have that mysterious superhero helper that only comes when it's really necessary kinda vibe but I don't hate it. And I still think he can and will be like that.
9. It seems like the actual reality of Adrien being a senti-being hasn't dawned on her yet. Like she knows but she's pushing it back and not thinking about it and I think in the next season we'll see her just ignoring it so she doesn't have to think about what to do or if she should tell Adrien. Maybe she'll have a breakdown or sorts.
10. CAN PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE GET MORE FELIX. But like Felix with Marinette/ Ladybug. He's smart and they could do so much together. I really want him to have a big role in the story because he's just a great character with everything and it's going to be sad seeing him go to waste. AND MORE BONDING BETWEEN FELIX AND ADRIEN!!!
11. EMILE!!! I know she's back and I love that but I really NEED to see her have a good relationship with Marinette and same with Natalie. Natalie already likes Marinette so Emile is bound to as well. I love Natalie so much!! I need more of her but I'll be fine with her just enjoying her life in the background and not having more of a mess to deal with later. I think she deserves some rest cause 5 whole seasons of...whatever the heck that was with Gabriel and his villian era ( it wasn't a phase) and Adrien and then being paralyzed because of Hawky and then LITERALLY DYING!?!
Edit: I'm stupid pretty sure that was Amelie not Emilie 😭
That's all for today thanks for coming to my ted talk. I'll rant expand on the chat noir and other things separately.
#ml season 5#season 5 spoiler#season 5 finale#finale spoilers#mlb finale spoilers#miraculous#mlb#chat noir#ship#ladybug#adrien#marinette#ladybug and chat noir#chat#ladynoir
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5, 9, and/or 25 for the writer asks, please! 💜🐝
5) character you were most surprised to end up writing.
Hmmmmm. ^^;; admittedly it's been a bit since I've been acitvely writing (trying to get back into it this year) so with older fics I'm probably more surprised to have written Emile Picani or Character Thomas.
Going through my wips though I do have a fic concept written in the DCMK verse that focuses on various Black Org members as the povs for the story. An odd choice for me to choose a shadowy villain's perspective all things considered. But I do like telling stories from various points of view so *shrugs*
9) what, if anything, do you do for inspiration?
^^;; I can find inspiration from most anywhere. Music, Dreams, Books, Shows, Real Life Events, Posts on the internet..... Currently though my various thought concepts (that I need to write down at some point) are inspired by....idk plot points that aren't fully expanded upon in cannon episodes? Or "What if" scenarios.
Since I've been having fun with coming up with ideas for the DPXDC fandom (haven't yet written any unforunately) it's also a lot of inspiration from seeing posts from other fans where I either go "I want to write that!" or go "That's cool BUT WHAT IF I DID IT THIS WAY?!"
25) copy/paste a few sentences or a short paragraph that you’re particularly proud of
This is from a Sanders Sides Area 51 prompt that I've been working on for years now (yay multichapter fics that refuse to finish themselves) and happened to look at again today, but I do enjoy a bit of the world building here. ^^;;
Emile pulled off his glasses, setting them on the desk as he practically collapsed into his chair, resting his head in his hands. “That...well...that went.” He muttered, running his fingers through his hair, messing it up from the stiff style he’d put it in for the camera.
Sure, as a kid, he’d dreamt of the opportunity to be on screen, but he’d imagined it as the main character for a kid’s TV show. Not as--as a government liaison. Now thousands if not millions of people had seen his face. Seen him basically threaten them. Seen--
A cool hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing it as a soft thunk sounded on the table, the whiff of hot chocolate hitting Emile’s senses a second later. “Gurl, ya did just fine.”
“It was awful.” Emile mumbled, peering up through his fingers as Remy pulled away, unable to hide a fond smile as his guard shrugged off his jacket, letting out a small sigh of relief as eight slender long limbs, similar to spider legs, spread out from his back.
It had taken nearly a year for Remy to grow comfortable enough around Emile to show him this side of himself once they’d been paired up on the base.
He’d been okay with waiting though. Emile was well aware that not all of the people he encountered here at Groom Lake were as human as they appeared. But he hadn’t forced the matter. He knew from his college days and later his brief, very brief, six month career as a therapist, that it was best to let people talk about themselves at their own pace.
Thanks for the ask!!! ^^;; <3
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soultember list
1: Ezel/reader - See colour for the first time when you meet, fades away when they die
2: Blackthorn - Reincarnation, yeah i want to write about death deity heath, sue me.
3: Mors Caeli - Timer that counts down until they meet.
4: Katseiji - First words spoken to one another.
5: Spiced Maple - Red String, but different from the other fic i wrote lol?
6: Su/reader - Special Song, you and your soulmate share a special melody known only to the both of you, and it gets louder/clearer the closer you are to them.
7: Knight Time - you can't see the color that your soulmate has in their eyes til you meet them
8: Frozen Shadow - Each others’ last words (to one another)
9: Artisan/Reader - Everything you draw on yourself appears on your soulmate.
10: Kevin Kaslana/reader - Being able to taste the same thing
11: Iceheart’s Aria - Can hear your soulmate’s voice in your head
12: Nightsky - Your soulmate’s injuries appear on you.
13: Ambros Twins - Everyone has life points/years left in their life, and people can give their soulmates their own life points/years if they’re lacking
14: Frozen Heart - Only your soulmate can kill you.
15: Emil/reader - You will keep looping your life until you meet your soulmate.
16: Severed Pasts - After death, you become your soulmate’s guardian angel
17: Doctor’s Orders - Cellphones between soulmates are in the same condition (cracked screens are in the same places)
18: Flying Colours - Everyone has heterochromia, one eye is your natural colour the other is your soulmate’s natural colour. Once you meet all eyes return to natural colour.
19: Whiskers! - Have the same heart beat
20: Prayers of the Godless - Being next to soulmate heals injuries
21: Of Blood & Wine - Same marking on each other’s skin (a rose)
22: Sunrise Lovers - If you’re having a good/bad day, your soulmate will have the same amount of good/bad day.
23: Sulien/reader - Share temperature babyyy
24: Ohm/reader - When you get sick, so does your soulmate
25: Decord/reader - When someone touches your soulmate, you can feel it mirrored on your skin.
26: Moonlight Shard - soulmates share a symbol unique to them
27: (HOTV)Sirin/reader - Whatever your soulmate eats, you get a craving for it.
28: Dawnlit Ice - Can meet soulmate any time in a shared mind space
29: Galin/reader - Temperature gets hotter the nearer they are, colder when they are further away
30: Honoré/reader - Instead of removing flower petals for “loves me, loves me not” the flower petals dictate whether you’ll meet in this lifetime (“meet me, meet me not”) and it’s forever accurate.
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I posted 67 times in 2022
31 posts created (46%)
36 posts reblogged (54%)
Blogs I reblogged the most:
@autistic-lalli
@endearingsalt
@immobilis-et-tacita
@nerdofspades
@queererdisaster
I tagged 61 of my posts in 2022
Only 9% of my posts had no tags
#sssscomic - 34 posts
#stand still stay silent - 32 posts
#my shit - 23 posts
#onni hotakainen - 17 posts
#lalli hotakainen - 15 posts
#emil västerström - 12 posts
#sssshitposting - 9 posts
#ask - 7 posts
#emilalli - 7 posts
#meta - 6 posts
Longest Tag: 93 characters
#i'm just reblogging my own post because i'm having feelings about them and also about iceland
My Top Posts in 2022:
#5
See the full post
36 notes - Posted October 3, 2022
#4
Hi! I've been really curious about a specific section of the first adventure. I'm not sure if it's been covered already, but do you remember the part where Lalli overextended himself and had to rest for several days? The crew was really worried about him but when Lalli woke up nobody paid him any mind. He even had a little dream sequence showing how subconsciously Lalli wanted them to show concern. Would you please analyze that, I think it would be really interesting and I'd super appreciate it! Thank you
Oh my sweet anon, I would love to analyze this scene for you. It’s very long, so the rest is under the cut.
I have no idea how long this post is going to be as I write this, so we’re going to just go through this whole sequence of action from the beginning. I'm also going to try something new of citing page numbers! Probably because I have a deep destructive craving to be in school again.
First of all, Lalli’s autism is pretty important to understanding his perspective here (it always is, but, you know.) So check out my 30daysofautisticlalli tag if you haven’t already.
Lalli scouts a route for the tank, then promptly goes to sleep in the front of the tank (at Tuuri’s insistence.) He’s been working all night, he just wants to go to sleep, and now Tuuri’s trying to talk to him and making him sleep where he’s not comfortable. And, oh! Now he's motion sick as well (374).
Then, he gets woken up to find out there was something wrong with his path he scouted (381). This is important for two reasons:
One, Lalli made a mistake.
Two, something changed unexpectedly.
On the first point, Lalli relies on his competence. (If you’re into enneagram, thinking of a 5w4 will be useful here.) Lalli is good at what he does. He is independent. When you’re good, you survive. When you’re independent, you don’t need people, and you don’t get hurt. When you’re good, you stay under the radar. Lalli and Onni feed into one another in this way—Onni wants Lalli to be good so that Lalli can be safe from the world, and Lalli wants to be good to at least keep Onni off his back, if not to impress him.
And here he is, facing down a mistake.
He’s tired. He’s cold. He’s failed. And now Tuuri is yelling at him, and everyone is staring (382).
(We’ll come back to this.)
The unexpected change also plays into this. Change, even expected change, can be difficult for autistic individuals. For me, it feels like a massive turning of a ship—a huge movement that takes a long time and a lot of effort. So when Lalli is faced with the snowdrift, it’s a huge shift in his mental direction. His day doesn’t consist of sleeping and occasionally clarifying directions. And now he has to figure out what he should expect.
But, before he can figure it out—
He’s tired. He’s cold. He’s failed. There’s been sudden change. And Tuuri is yelling at him while everyone stares.
Lalli has a meltdown/shutdown.
I explain it more in this post, so I won’t go into detail here.
The rest of the crew is mildly distressed, I would say, disappointed perhaps. Moderately inconvenienced. But this situation is not as upsetting to them as it is to Lalli.
Notably, Sigrun comments that “We just have to accept today as a failure” (383). And how does Lalli respond?
He speaks directly to Sigrun and says, “I don’t fail.” He recognized one word in Norwegian, and it was failure (384).
He doesn’t fail. He’s not done. He’s not done working. This isn’t the end.
Failure means putting people in danger. Failure means drawing extra attention. Failure means not being good enough.
Lalli doesn’t fail.
When Lalli decides to go out scouting again, Tuuri knows he’s putting himself in unnecessary danger. She snapped at him, but she backs off pretty quick as soon as he decides to go (384).
Sigrun fully supports him going. On the one hand, this seems like poor leadership on Sigrun’s part. Lalli has absolutely overworked himself, and pressing on in adverse weather on top of that doesn’t seem wise. On the other hand, I suspect that this is a testament to her trust in Lalli—she knows he knows how to do his job well. If he couldn’t do his job well, she expects him to say something.
We get Lalli’s flashback now. And this really solidifies why Lalli is so determined to not fail.
“We’re not allowed to make mistakes, not under any circumstances! Grandma made one mistake, and see where that got us.” (390)
Failure brings catastrophe.
Failure brings grief.
Failure kills people.
See the full post
53 notes - Posted March 14, 2022
#3
every friend group should have
a himbo
a mean bisexual
See the full post
61 notes - Posted October 4, 2022
#2
74 notes - Posted March 5, 2022
My #1 post of 2022
110 notes - Posted March 5, 2022
Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →
#tumblr2022#year in review#my 2022 tumblr year in review#your tumblr year in review#lighter year for posting#but boy did we have some slam dunks#miss live slug reaction that was a good time#long post
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My ocs you simp for but I rank them by how living with them is like;
Ohm: 9/10. He's great to live with. He's got a nice routine that's easy to get used to. He cooks, cleans, does the laundry. You even have a lovely view of the waterfall. So long as you're okay with the smell of books and the occasional stranger popping in in the middle of the night for healing, He's wonderful. One point off for said waking up in the middle of the night for him to heal someone though. He also isn't always there, in trips to Liyue or more rarely, the other nations. But nonetheless, good time. He also owns his house so.
Farkas: 7/10. He'll sometimes forget to do the garbage or the dishes with how busy work makes him. But he's attentive nonetheless, does his chores when he remembers, makes dinner or brings dinner home on his nights to do so. He never stays out all night, he will eventually come home, even if it's late. And once he is home his attention is solely on you. His apartment is surprisingly nice, cozy, you don't have an issue with weird neighbours or noise. He only loses points really for sometimes coming home when you're asleep and leaving before you're awake. And the uh forgetfulness and the fact he fucking sheds. He's a dog.
Honoré: 6.6/10. Do you have a partner living with you?? Who knows. Rarely home. Always working. His apartment is small, too. And you don't get a signal in the bathroom either. But he makes sure the kitchen is always stocked, the bills are all paid for, you have access to every streaming service you could want. He's relatively messy though, a downside but he tries to clean up after himself. Though he never let's you throw out his "tinker tools" as he calls the random bits of tech and wiring and prongs laying around. When he is home though, he's also the type to pay attention solely to you. And he's a snuggler..
Emil: I'm sorry he's like a 3/10 the man doesn't even have a house. With him you're camping in various locations or staying in inns. He'd honestly rank as high as Ohm if yall actually LIVED somewhere but his inability or rather, fear, of settling down impacts this a lot. For a man you would think had a maid growing up, Emil is quite cleanly at least. His tent clean and organized, his sheets cleaned frequently. He can't cook but he always pays. And sure maybe camping in some freaky ass woods sometimes gets to you, his arms are always safe and comfortable. You never have to fear not being protected.
~🍁
sorry, i'm not really interested in living with anyone other than tianwu :/ i cld never love anyone more than him, yk
#.....;;;;;;;#<- crying because i'm in love with tianwu#≋. whispers from the sea#≋. jellyfish#≋. 🍁 anon
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T: The New York Times Style Magazine, February 9, 2012
For some reason, Lana Del Rey and her sultry songs drive some people nuts.
CURVACEOUS AND PRETTY IN A DRESS, she brims with catchy songs, all a bit retro, ironic and modern. Without straying too far off the pop grid, she’s the perfect antidote to Rihanna-Gaga overload — dare we say, a skinnier Adele, a more stable Amy Winehouse? Since posting “Video Games” to YouTube last summer, she’s amassed tens of millions of hits, sold out concerts to fashion’s who’s who and now, finally, has released her long-awaited album, which is currently No. 2 on the Billboard Top 200 in America, and No. 1 in Britain, Germany, Ireland, Switzerland and Austria. If you were going to manufacture a star for this moment, you’d manufacture her. Some people believe that’s precisely what happened.
Sitting in her producer’s Chelsea studio in jeans and an oversize sweater, smoking Pall Mall Blues that share space — in a beat-up snakeskin bag — with an old Tennessee Williams paperback, Lana Del Rey tries to shrug off the suggestion that her father bought her success, that her face went under the knife, that she is some sort of industry creation, all accusations floating around the Internet. It’s absurd or maybe flattering, but despite her laugh and smile, it hurts.
“I mean, I met everyone who is anyone in the music industry over the last six years and I was unsignable,” she says. “That’s what I was told by everyone. I would play my songs, explain what I was trying to do, and I’d get, ‘You know who’s No. 1 in 13 countries right now? Kesha.’ ”
There’s a formula for a pop song and a prescribed length for radio. Nothing Del Rey’s written obeys either. “ ‘Video Games’ was a four-and-a-half-minute ballad,” she says. “No instruments on it. It was too dark, too personal, too risky, not commercial. It wasn’t pop until it was on the radio.” And even “Born to Die” — her first big video — was, with its double chorus that never lifts, described to her as “another monotonous depressing song.”
For an hour, Del Rey and her producer Emile Haynie play songs from the album. She points out jazzy idiosyncrasies, quirky lyrics and favorite melodies. Sometimes she sings; often she gets up and dances. The last song they put on is “National Anthem”:
Red, white, blue’s in the skies
Summer’s in the air and
Baby, heaven’s in your eyes
I’m your national anthem
…
I sing the national anthem,
While I’m standing,
Over your body
…
Money is the anthem
God you’re so handsome
It may not be her most lyrically complex song, but it feels emblematic. As she did in the “Born to Die” video (in which she wraps her body in an American flag), she equates her sexuality to the national anthem. And she knowingly conflates love with material success. It feels like a wink at the listener. The Twitter generation loves a wink.
There’s also more than a little of Miley Cyrus’s “Party in the USA” in the song. Both you could play alone dancing in your bedroom, sing along to in your convertible with the top down or (it might surprise Cyrus’s Disney producers) find yourself gyrating to at an illegal warehouse rave. Whereas Cyrus’s song is a bland pop confection that somehow wound up cool, Del Rey’s track comes from someplace dark thematically and unstructured musically and ends up with pop appeal.
I explain my theory to Del Rey, in a roundabout way, and she nods, sings a bit of “Party in the USA” and ponders the matter for a few moments. “I really like that chorus,” she says. “I love an interesting melody.”
Haynie is more direct. “That’s the beauty of it,” he says. “That’s kind of the magic. She is supercool. The songs are as cool as it gets, sonically and aesthetically. But it’s like, ‘Wait a minute, this could resonate with the world.’ She started underground, small and kind of tight-knit, but some of these recordings are like, ‘Wow.’ I mean, that’s what I heard when I listened. It’s cool and it’s dark, but I thought, This could be big, you know?”
***
We head to a 10th Avenue Italian restaurant that her publicist has chosen. It feels tacky. “Do you want to just get a coffee across the street, and sit on a stoop? It’s not too cold?” she asks. I agree, though it is in fact too cold.
At the pizza place she orders a large coffee with no sugar, lots of milk. The server spots the old Tennessee Williams paperback in her purse, which sparks a conversation about 1950s movies and Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra.
Then he asks, “Are you two a couple?” and looks at me and says: “Today is your lucky day. I wish I was lucky like you.”
The presumption doesn’t stop him from flirting with Del Rey. “Big cup for you,” he says, handing her her coffee. “Just a little kiss for me.”
Del Rey laughs and hits him right back with: “Sure. Just a little kiss. Where do you want it?”
There was no kiss, but the subject of Del Rey’s mouth is an irresistible one. So, sitting on the steps of a 25th Street brownstone, I ask the seemingly preposterous question. “It’s fine,” she assures me. “They’re real lips, I mean. In real life my lips don’t look that big. I think because I cartoonized the footage of myself in the video for ‘Video Games’ things look exaggerated.”
If that video is to blame for a pernicious rumor, it is also to blame for putting her on the map. What it didn’t do was get her a record deal. Not until Fearne Cotton, a BBC D.J., stumbled across it and played it on Radio 1 last June. Suddenly the world was calling.
“I was struck by the wonderful combination of spine-tingling video footage, her haunting voice and the simplicity of the song,” Cotton wrote in an e-mail. “I watched it about five or six times in a row and became slightly fixated with it. The lyrics then started to really stand out and it became my song of last summer. … I had been waiting for a song like this.”
Hers is the typical experience. But falling in love with a video or a studio recording can set unrealistic expectations for Del Rey’s live performances. Look for her to break it down Nicki Minaj-style and you’ll be disappointed. Her turn on “Saturday Night Live” in January was widely criticized. She told me presciently about her anxiety beforehand: “I’m not by nature a showstopper. I love to write and play songs, but onstage, all these things come into play. I’m always saying to myself, Don’t mess up. Don’t mess up.”
Del Rey is a small-town girl. She grew up Elizabeth Grant in Lake Placid, N.Y., neither rich nor poor. She remembers as a kid asking herself cheesy meaning-of-life questions and thinking she was really special for doing so. Then, in high school, she took a philosophy class and realized she was like everyone else. While a philosophy major at Fordham University, she started finagling gigs in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, and the East Village. At 19 a small indie label signed her as Lizzy Grant for $10,000. “It was amazing. I got my own place to live. I lived on that money, finished school. At that point I envisioned having a very nice career touring small clubs, continuing my studies in philosophy and volunteering,” she tells me. “It’s actually the same vision I have today. I have a serious life here. I have a really big family. You know, I’m needed here.”
Needed by whom? She hints at family, which makes sense given the darker, psychosexual context of many of her songs.
What about love and loss, the other dark note in her oeuvre? “I felt the same way for a really long time, and then I met someone who I guess I fell in love with,” she says. “I just didn’t know I could feel differently. That time with him became sort of a place that I fell back to in my memory.”
And the breakup? “Well, I mean, the breakup is a part of it in the way that in the midst of loss you try to still look towards the light and not fall to pieces or do self-destructive things.”
She grows quiet, looks at her watch. It’s getting late. She admits that she doesn’t have an important industry meeting, as her publicist told me, but has to baby-sit for a friend.
Before she goes, I ask her where she lives. She’s looking to buy a place, but for now is in Williamsburg. “Staying with my ex-boyfriend,” she says nonchalantly, then bursts into nervous laughter and admits, “I live on his couch.”
I give her a look like, You just told me all that about falling in love and breaking up and you’re on the dude’s couch?
She pins it on the touring, letting out another embarrassed laugh. “Because no, I’m busy though!”
Originally published on nytimes.com with the headline A Star Is Born (and Scorned), and in abridged form in the February 19, 2012 issue of T: The New York Times Style Magazine.
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