#so everyone thinks its hopeless only to see a character arrive out of the burning rubble | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

If you dial 1-866-584-6757, you can leave an audio post for your followers.

#so everyone thinks its hopeless only to see a character arrive out of the burning rubble

comfyswitcherblanketfort · 3 years

Text

Grunge-Metal Geralt

Hi, im fucking trash for the idea of Geralt being the front man for a Five Finger Death Punch type band and my brain wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it. This music genre is my bread and butter and I think Geralt’s repressed but highly emotional ass would fit right in. Yes im using another Hozier song, no i dont wanna hear anything about it. I’m a basic bitch and ive made my peace with it

Warnings: i honestly have no idea, its a little horny, little emotional, but theres no actual character interaction?, its at a concert venue? idk yall.

_________________________

Jaskier was… out of his comfort zone.

It’s not that he didn’t like the grunge-metal music, he just hadn’t listened to much and he was not used to the energy. People were yelling and screaming and the opener hadn’t even come on yet. He didn’t feel unsafe, far from it. Several people had checked to see if he was okay, seeing as he was the only person in the entire arena wearing a sweater that wasn't ripped or faded to hell. It was just a far cry from the shows he was used to.

He played folky-blues. This was nothing like his shows.

When the lights went down the crowd was deafening, all moving as one to rush the front of the floor, not giving a single fuck about tickets.

The openers were exciting, and Jaskier was surprised by some of the concepts and messages behind the music. It wasn’t what he’d expected at all and he found himself searching them up on Spotify to listen later.

Then came The Witchers.

Eskel and Lambert made their energetic entrance, followed by Aiden calmly walking to his drums and sitting as if he were walking into a college class. But Geralt was nowhere in sight. The one person Jaskier had actually come to see.

He’d seen a video clip from a previous concert where they covered one of his songs, and he was praying they’d do it again. It was lovely in a haunting-almost-threatening way, and the expression in Geralt’s posture alone was enthralling. He had to see it live.

But Geralt was still absent as the band started to build a song. First Aiden with the beat, then Eskel’s bass, then Lambert with a melody on his electric guitar. It built and built and built to a fever pitch, taking the crowd with it. People were already jumping and screeching. Jaskier had to stand on his seat to see the stage clearly.

Geralt’s voice echoed through the venue, low and closer to a growl than singing, but he was still nowhere to be seen.

Jaskier thought he’d been prepared, but his whole body was covered in goosebumps. He briefly wondered if this was what his friends were feeling when they listened to ASMR.

Geralt remained hidden for the whole first verse, getting the crowd even more excited than Jaskier thought possible, only for the band to go completely silent for a whole measure. When the crowd's screams reached their absolute loudest, Geralt dropped from on top of one of the jumbotrons, landing on one of the horse-sized speakers before launching into the chorus.

Oh fuck, he was even more beautiful in person.

He was… well he was a beast of a man. Jaskier really didn’t have another word for the way his muscles bulged and how lithe and powerful he looked springing from the speaker to join his bandmates on the main stage. His thighs filled out his black, tattered jeans and there were clear faded spots where his muscles strained the fabric too often. The thin black tank he wore did nothing but pretend the man was semi-modest. It was so tight, the only thing left up to the imagination was tan lines and the color of his nipple piercings.

Jaskier was most entranced by his long, white, wavy hair falling past his shoulders. As the show continued and he started to sweat, a lot, it got curlier and curlier at the root. Jaskier wanted to give him a mask and some curl cream, but only after a, uhm, rough night of getting to know each other. He’d heard rumors about Geralt from hitting arenas not long after they’d left. He was quite sure they’d have a great time.

As he focused on the lyrics more and more, he was more inclined to want to wrap Geralt up in a hug and worship every part of him until he felt whole again.

Either he’d been shown the shitty side of the genre, or The Witchers were exceptions to the rule of content. Jaskier was almost moved to tears a few different times.

Finally, about an hour into Jaskier mindlessly feasting his eyes on the front man, Geralt leapt onto another speaker and sat down, breathing hard and grinning from ear to ear.

“You still with us?”

The unholy screech from the crowd left no doubt they were just as excited, if not more so, than when they’d arrived.

“Good! Good..” he trailed off, chuckling as he lowered the mic to take a breath, “We’re gonna slow it down for a minute,” he leaned forward and held the mic away as Eskel shouted something up at him to which he laughed and flipped him off.

“As I was saying, we’re gonna yearn for a minute or two and do a cover. Song by Jaskier called ‘Talk’.”

The crowd lost their shit again, various pride flags popping up throughout the stands.

Geralt chuckled and raised his combat boot, showing off the bi flag colored treads, earning another round of screams. If this is what the grunge-metal scene was like, Jaskier had been missing out his entire life. Sure his fans were sweet and supportive and loving when he’d come out. But this was electric and feral and completely addictive.

Lambert struck the opening chord to Jaskier’s song and the crowd settled to a gentle hum, setting the tone immediately, as if they all knew exactly what was coming.

Geralt closed his eyes as he tapped his thigh with one finger, keeping time before his rumbling baritone hit Jaskier like a freight train.

“I’d be the voice that urged Orpheus when her body was found…”

Jaskier could have collapsed right there. He knew he was staring like a lovesick idiot, but hell, everyone around him was too. When the chorus hit and Eskel came in with a heavy bass line he nearly fell off his chair. Geralt’s intensity raised with the addition of the backup but he didn’t move. He stayed seated, swaying slightly, with his eyes closed as he crooned out the words Jaskier had sobbed as he wrote, broken hearted and miserable.

It was surreal.

Sure he’d seen other covers. Sure they’d been lovely. But he wanted to listen to this and only this as he fell asleep for the rest of his life. He’d never play it again if he could only hear it one more time.

After the last verse Lambert launched into a guitar solo while Geralt jumped off the speaker and meandered to the center of the stage to slot his mic back in it’s stand. He gripped it like a lifeline when Lambert held one last note for as long as his instrument would allow and only started singing the last chorus when it was almost silent.

“I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things I would do

So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you

I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things we could do

So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you”

His expression looked hopeless and utterly desperate as he crooned out the last two lines. He let his hair fall to cover his face and Jaskier could just barely hear his panting breath over the sound system as the crowd exploded. Geralt tipped his head back and took two deep breaths before straightening up and getting on with the show but Jaskier was stuck.

He was vaguely aware of someone taking a picture of him, but he really couldn’t care less. The fact that Geralt moved right on to a song called ‘Burn Motherfucker Burn’ didn’t matter either.

Jaskier jumped down from his arena seat, whipping out his phone and sending the band a tweet, because apparently that’s what musicians did now?

“Record it. Please. It’s either that or sing me to sleep every night. You choose.”

He stayed for the rest of the show and walked to his car in a haze. Before he backed out of his spot he checked his phone like always and his heart nearly stopped at the two top notifications.

One public reply: “Both? -G”

And one direct message: “If you’re still here and want to grab a drink, I’m just backstage.”

908 notes · View notes

attractive-nuisance-esq · 3 years

Text

Here’s the thing: After 15x18 - after Castiel’s confession - I will be devastatingly heartbroken with any ending less than a full, explicitly romantic relationship between him and Dean.

Let’s be clear: If they hadn’t had Cas confess, I wouldn’t be terrified about what they’re going to give to us on Thursday night. We’d all made our peace with Destiel never going canon. We never, ever in a million years expected to actually get it. All of us shippers were content to live with what we got on screen, determined to see it live on in our fanfiction, with faith in the fandom to tell the story of Dean and Castiel. We were fine. We were excited! The ending of any show is a momentous occasion, but the ending of this one? With this fandom family? After this long? No matter what happened, it was going to be something we’d cherish forever.

Instead, in the third-to-last episode of all time, Supernatural gave us a confession of love from one of its most beloved characters to the hero of the story. And we all lost our minds. Quite rightfully! We never, ever thought it would happen - no matter how much sub there has been in the text over the last 12 years. You know why? Because of Disney.

We’re used to the Disney version of LGBTQ representation. The kind where about a month before a movie comes out, we see a flurry of articles published about how there will be a “gay character” in it - somehow always for the first time. And the character is always gay; nobody cares enough to draw any distinctions within the community. All of human sexuality that isn’t purely straight is purely gay. *cue the eyerolls* And maybe the first time we got a little excited. (Probably not, but go with me here for a sec.) Maybe for Beauty and the Beast, we thought, “Oh, LeFou was kind of a fun character in the cartoon version. Maybe it’ll be cool to see him have a crush!” But always and inevitably, the “representation” is one of two equally hurtful things: 1) the character’s sexuality is bluntly on display, but it’s a source of ridicule for the person, and the audience is encouraged to laugh at it “with” the character (o hai, LeFou); or 2) the scene is less than two seconds long, or the character is unnamed, or the circumstances of the “representation” are such that they can easily be cut from the project for foreign audiences or swept under the rug in the minds of viewers who’d rather not admit that queer people exist (what up, Star Wars and Endgame?).

And that shit really fucking hurts. We’re told to shut up and be grateful, even enthusiastic that mainstream fiction media noticed we’re here at all. But we’re never main characters. Our stories are never told. This part of our identity is not only left unexplored; it is so exploited for woke points as to be made the single most defining thing about us. It’s offensive, over and over again, to have us included solely because of how we are different.

It fucking hurts.

Things are changing, slowly. We’re starting to get some deeper, three-dimensional representation in television and film. It’s not all starting out in 2005 on the same network that brought us 7th Heaven anymore. My niece is 14-years-old and out, and she will never remember a time when she had to scour the Internet to see queer versions of her favorite characters; she just has them. But all of us adults, well... chances are, our journeys have the potential to look a lot like Dean’s. We didn’t get to come out in high school. We didn’t let our younger selves think too hard about what we knew in our hearts would make us happy. It took us longer to arrive at a place of security and safety in order to be able to admit to ourselves and others who we are. Hell, the whole damn process of recognizing human sexuality is fluid might have taken us years!

Us queer adults - the ones who have been watching and loving Supernatural for longer than its younger audience - can now taste the possibility of seeing something that probably looks a lot like our very own romantic and personal experiences in Dean Winchester. We’ve been celebrating bi!Dean for years on our own, picking up the crumbs the writers give us and clutching them tightly, because what a gift it would be to see this good man, this hero as one of our own! And now... we’re so close to actually seeing it. On screen. For real and for sure.

These last two weeks have been incredibly difficult. We’re ecstatic! Wildly so! What other kind of reaction would we have to the writers allowing Castiel to admit these feelings we’ve all thought would only ever exist in our heads? But we are equally anxious, wary, and - quite frankly - battling hopelessness. Supernatural doesn’t have a great track record with these things. Everyone on Tumblr - even those that don’t watch this show - is well aware that this one is the master of queerbaiting. And then there’s Disney banging around in our skulls, a psychological trauma sounding again like an alarm. We’ve been burned so many times before, by other mainstream media and by Supernatural itself. It feels crazy to hope. I don’t know how many times I’ve watched the confession scene; I still can’t believe it’s real. A male-shaped main character said “I love you” to another male-shaped main character. It can’t be cut out and ignored, or brushed aside as platonic. It wasn’t a joke at the expense of queerness. It happened. It was big, and it was right there.

And now we are so, so close. Fuck.

That’s why if Supernatural doesn’t follow through and give us Dean and Cas unequivocally in love in the final 42 minutes of this beautiful, ridiculous, wonderful, preposterous, absolutely WILD show, it’ll just completely fucking break me. It will be the worst kind of tease, the deepest cut buried in the briniest salt. If they hadn’t given us Castiel’s confession, we’d have no expectations. But they did. And now, if they don’t deliver after all that’s been said and done...

...it will utterly shatter my fragile little bisexual heart into a million fucking pieces.

680 notes · View notes

nincompoopydoo · 3 years

Text

PAIRING, BAGELS, REPEAT

— HYMN OF THE LOVESICK ; PART 5 / ?

( gif from this beautiful gifset by @knightwayne )

PAIRING: Bruce Wayne x reader

WORD COUNT: 2k

SUMMARY: Alfred definitely knows something about Bruce that you’re not willing to think about and Bruce has an epiphany that changes the way he sees you.

A/N: Guess who forgot which day pbr is usually posted? This idiot here. God, I’m sorry and this chapter can be boring. Next chapter will have a lot more going on, I promise. Also, this might end in the next chapter or two. Enjoy, folks.

WARNINGS: Kinda dramatic because I’m dramatic.

MASTERLIST ; MASTERPOST

Driving through the Wayne estate gives you a sense of much-needed peace. The never-ending tunnel with walls of identical colossal pine trees as you faintly hum to Aretha Franklin over the low whirring of the running engine. It’s a quarter to noon, and the sun doesn’t seem to shine in the city of Gotham—clouds of grey constantly shield its optimum shine, only to ever allow rays to seep through the gaps in the moving Autumn wind. You don’t mind it and you never did, growing up in the city left clouds unnoticed to you unless it signified the arrival of a thunderstorm. Weather and nature are the least of your concerns but you would appreciate it now and then.

The tunnel of trees comes to an end as a clearing of extensive fields emerges into view. What is left of the Wayne Manor still stands with ostentation, despite its skeleton along with its dignity rotting away to be eventually consumed by mother nature herself. There’s a sense of eeriness to it; you find it odd how a building could seem so alive at times, like it's watching you, despite its apparent decay.

You turn your head away and focus on the road.

A glance at your hand on the wheel, you’re reminded of last night, when his hands held yours—it burns at the mere thought of his gentle touch. And the drive home, silent with the occasional glances and small smiles. You recall how the passing streetlights cascade hues of orange on his wearied expression and how his eyes were bright when they flit to your figure in the passenger seat for just a moment. Something must have changed between the two of you, but you can’t quite tell what. Maybe it’s your undying love for Bruce. Maybe he feels the same way. You snort to yourself, alone in your car, one can only dream but it doesn’t mean they all come true. Bruce may love but he doesn’t commit. You can’t commit too. Now, you’re starting to believe you’ve been lying to yourself.

The glasshouse comes into view as you steer around the bending road and into the driveway. It contradicts everything the manor was but only shared its sense of glory. You like the glasshouse, less deafening and structured with the purpose of bareness and vulnerability but its dark furnishings keep it grounded and secure. Its sense of balance tricks your mind into thinking you’re stable. His car is still around, parked by the porch but you don’t see him, ambling around the household.

Switching off the ignition, you snatch the paper bag from the passenger seat and clamber out of the car. Darker clouds begin rolling from afar, your hair flying in the strong wind. A storm is coming, you’re sure of it. One of the rare times it rains during the season. You dread the thought of having to drive back into the city and across Westward Bridge. Driving over bridges built over the water in the rain scares the heck out of you.

As you swing the car door to a close, you hear the shuffling of feet amongst leaves behind you. Alfred, with a barrel of chopped wood—stocking up for the winter. There’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes albeit startled by your sudden presence. He mentions your name with endearment; you greet him with a small smile. You always liked Alfred. You enjoyed his company.

“What a pleasant surprise seeing you here,” he says, pushing the barrel aside as he nears you. “I’m afraid you just missed Bruce. He left for Metropolis an hour ago—duty calls.”

You nod, ignoring the clench in your heart. He hadn’t told you anything but frankly, you weren’t expecting him to anyway.

“Well, I just came by to drop off this,” You lift the paper bag, swaying it a little within your grasp. “As a thank you gift, you know.” Alfred smiles at this, gestures towards the house in a beckoning manner. “Come on in, I’ll make you some tea.” Before you could even protest, he’s gently guiding you to the door by the shoulder. It’s hard to say no to Alfred, especially when he offers tea.

Your mind wonders as you watch the drizzle of rain form ripples in the lake. You sit on a chair with a contemporary structure to it; it digs into your lower back, due to your bad posture. Uncomfortable but nice-looking and great armrests. Contradicts everything a chair should be. Alfred emerges from the kitchen with a black ceramic mug in hand, steam from the brewed tea lingering above it. He holds an identical mug, for himself. With two hands, you clasp onto the mug with acceptance, a radiant appreciative smile upon your lips. “Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth.” Alfred shoots you a look of disdain, “I’ve told you many times, Alfred is fine.” Taking a sip, you shake your head, a smile still lingering. “No way. I have too much respect for you to call you by your first name.” Alfred mirrors you, settling for the chair to your right, swiftly sliding the scatter of papers to the corner of the table. You find it easy to fall into a natural conversation with the older man—the two of you are mutuals after all of a certain billionaire. Yet, Alfred is more of a father figure, having practically raised Bruce and you, well, it’s complicated. It always is. You don’t know where you stand in his life, and you're not sure if you want to know.

“Anyway, where have you been? I haven’t seen you in weeks.” It’s true. The usual sight of the butler sauntering around the glasshouse or somewhere in the Wayne Estate was absent during the last two weeks. Alfred is always around, his disappearance was glaring, impossible to go unnoticed.

He shifts in his seat, placing his mug on the table, teaspoon moving with a soft clang. “I was visiting family back in England. I appreciate that you have noticed my absence,” An eyebrow raises, your laugh comes out more like a huff. “Always, Mr. Pennyworth.”

Family. Mother. Dinner—you remember the dinner with your mother on Sunday night, and you’re the host. The host hasn't decided on the menu for tomorrow’s meal. Oh God, it’s tomorrow. Procrastination is your friend but your family’s expectations for you aren't. If you pop enough wine bottles, maybe she'll be too drunk to be disappointed by the end of the night.

And the wedding. The mere thought makes you sick. You don’t want to bring a date, but you don’t want to be alone. Weddings, love, couples—it makes you tick. It’s a glaring reminder of how your love life is an absolute disaster and your inability to maintain relationships. It’s hopeless, you’ll die a spinster and everyone lives happily ever after.

“Are you alright?”

It’s funny how those three words have been the most frequent words you would hear from those around you. You appreciate the concern, really, but you can’t help but feel there’s a stronger and deeper meaning to those words. It’s a question of assurance, a reality check, and a realization that you might be broken. Everyone is broken—in their own ways.

Although you seem reserved to some people, your tendency to open up about your issues to those close to you contradicts that though you instantly regret it. Especially when people tell you to change. You hate change. It’s terrifying.

You pause, suddenly feeling...fidgety. Yet, in the words of Bruce: In Alfred, you trust.

Remember, keep it light. You don’t want to haul all this luggage of yours onto an aging man. He’s already got Bruce’s luggage.

“My cousin’s getting married in two weeks and,” you sigh, he listens intently. “And as pathetic as this sounds, I really don’t want to go to it alone.”

Your words are direct, straightforward and you sound like a whiny teenager or the main character in a Wattpad story but truth be told, there’s an underlying meaning to it and you know, Alfred knows it. You just don’t want to admit it.

He takes a beat, assessing your sentence like he’s a therapist, wanting to select his words carefully. “Well, I don’t think you’re pathetic. It’s...understandable,” he flashes you a pointed look and you find yourself straightening your back. “Why don’t you ask Bruce?”

Your brain must have short-circuited at that moment.

Oh, hell no. Not in a million years.

You’re shaking your head, laughing nervously. “No, no. No. Never. I couldn’t possibly ask him to do that. He’s already done so much for me—”

“You’ve done a lot for him too.”

A pause, words stuck in your throat. You just look at Alfred through confused eyes. You’re not sure what that means. He’s staring at you with a knowing look. You sigh, shaking your head in denial once more. “No, that’s...that’s not true.”

It’s almost infuriating how stubborn you can be sometimes that it’s even irritating yourself. You’re staring at your fingers, playing with the tag attached to the teabag by a thread. As far as you’re concerned, Bruce is...the greatest friend you’ve ever had. Through thick and thin, he’s been there for you. He’s always there. It’s partly the reason why you have fallen for him in the first place. Hard. He’s easy to love when he wears his heart on his sleeve. It’s rare but it’s beautiful. You almost feel ashamed to be allowed to see him in that light.

“Bruce will do just about anything for you,” Alfred says calmly as he watches you avoid eye contact. “And I know, you’ll do the same for him.” You throw your eyes at the older man as he cops you a look. Your heart is beating so fast, so thunderous, you hear it in your ears. He’s right and you know it. That accidental kiss to your forehead on the night you asked him to come for the play comes back to mind in a flash. It feels like a mark on your forehead, it feels like it’s burning.

“Would you like a scone with that?” He’s pointing to your tea and with that, he’s off to the kitchen once more, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

It’s late—a quarter to four in the morning. He spends most of his nights in the Batcave, hidden away from all the sounds and tumult of the world, shrouded in the darkness as the light of the computer screen cascades on his tired eyes. He ambles through the glasshouse, weary feet against hardwood floors, body begging to lay on grey sheets though he dreads a vacant bed.

He strains his eyes peering into the gloom when he perceives a paper bag, sitting idly on the table by the window. Nearing it, there’s a yellow post-it note stuck onto the bag and under the gentle light from the moon that reflects against the lake, he can make out words written on it.

It’s from you.

Thanks for coming to the play. I would have bought you something else, but I’m really broke. Sorry. I owe you one.

A drawn heart follows it. It’s tiny. His chest feels warm.

He should have recognized the paper bag because inside, there are four bagels. Four Asiago bagels. He laughs, it comes out more like a puff of hot air, feeling the warmth that resides in his chest spreading throughout his body.

Then, it hits him like a bullet to the heart. The impact is strong, powerful. Your impact on him is strong, powerful. There’s no mystery to his feelings for you but at this moment, he’s completely certain. For the first time in life.

He loves you.

Bruce staggers into the chair, hand carding back the strands of his hair. He can’t keep doing this to you. Whatever the hell is going on. Your friendship, the...stupid agreement. He wants none of it because it feels like he’s constantly going around in circles.

But what do you really want, Bruce?

TAGLIST

@raineeace

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #batman #batman x reader #bruce wayne imagine #batman imagine #bruce wayne x you #batman x you #alfred pennyworth #justice league

68 notes · View notes

hydra-collector · 4 years

Text

in love

AO3

Ship: Intrulogical, background Royality

Characters: Logan Sanders, Remus Sanders, Virgil Sanders

TW: depression, mild panic, kissing, mild self-harm

Words: 2407

Summary: Logan is in love. But he’s not nearly ready to admit it.

"...and I mean I know we talk about it a lot, but what do you think Pavlov-"

"Remus?" Logan set his pen down from his notebook.

"Hm?"

"What does it feel like when Thomas is in love?"

Remus let his hands sink to his lap as Logan stared at his notes, almost embarrassed to ask such a question.

-rapid heartbeat

-flushed cheeks

-warmth in chest

"Well, you've been around when it happened, haven't you?"

Logan fidgeted, tapping his pen on the paper. "Well, yes, but it doesn't really affect me."

Remus laughed, grinning at the logical side. Logan blushed in embarrassment, looking at Remus.

"What's so funny?"

"How the hell would you not experience something that affects all of us?"

Logan looked back down. Remus was right. That was stupid.

Remus's face softened, and he placed his hand on Logan's for a short moment. "I mean, all of us have our own stuff. Patton gets really giddy and happy, whoever the guy is ends up being the only thing he talks about. Roman and he get really lovey-dovey, especially when my brother starts doing big romantic gestures for him. Virgil's panicking half the time, and the other half he's really chill since Thomas really likes the guy and is comforted by him. Janus is either deciding how bad or good the guy is gonna be for Thomas or trying to get him to simp. I get really gushy and obsessive and horny, and usually help with the flirting. And you... you're such a dork."

"What?"

"Not as in whale penis. You act like a complete fool, fumbling over your words and losing coherency at the slightest bit of affection Thomas gets. You'll try to come up with the best plans to seduce him or go through all the logical outcomes, but really you're just a dumbass gay. You're completely hopeless."

Logan shifted on the bed, drilling a hole in his notebook with his stare. "Well, that's not good."

"But it is! You're so dorky and lovable, sometimes I think the guy might like Thomas better if he was you. You mess up your words, or blush like he just confessed to you, or smile lovingly whenever he talks, or start noting down everything he likes to research it, and you get more affectionate with us, even if it's just a high five or leaning on someone's shoulder. You become such a dork, and you're absolutely adorable."

Logan couldn't control the heat on his cheeks, unable or unwilling to write down any more of his findings.

"I- um- well,"

Fumbling over your words.

Logan tensed up, offering only a small nod before bolting out of the room. He could vaguely process Remus's voice calling his name, but the only thing he could think about was the pounding in his chest and the flush on his cheeks.

He ripped up and burned the notebook when he arrived in his room.

Logan laid his head on the desk, close to crying. But he didn’t cry. So he was fine.

He heard footsteps entering the room, and a hand on his back. He tensed up before relaxing, and the hand patted his head a few times until he turned it.

“You good?” Virgil asked.

Logan stared at him. “I’m fine.”

Virgil pulled up the stool he kept by his desk, sitting down so he could be at level with Logan. “You’ve been acting different lately.”

Logan put his head back towards the wood. “I said I’m fine.”

“C’mon, you’ve been acting like a total dork. Staring off into space in a daydream, forgetting to do your work, even forgetting your facts when you get flustered about someone asking you about it."

Logan was tense, his nails digging into one arm. Virgil placed a hand on his shoulder, and he leaned into it, grateful for the affection.

“Hey, do you not like it when we talk about that stuff?”

Logan sighed. “I’m not incompetent.”

Virgil rubbed his hand comfortingly across Logan’s back. “Okay. I’ll tell the others to stop joking about it.”

Logan leaned towards him slightly, and he adjusted his chair to give his friend a side-hug. Virgil started messing with his hair, eliciting the tiniest of grins from Logan as he swatted Virgil’s hand away.

“There we go. There’s a smile from our favorite nerd.”

The residual smile stayed on his face as he turned his head towards Virgil.

“So who is it?”

Logan froze. He knew there was a blush creeping up on his face, and he hated that. Virgil was still grinning at him.

“No- no one.”

“It’s gotta be someone. You’re acting like a buffoon with how lovestruck you are.”

“I- I’m not!”

“I can see it, c’mon, admit it.”

Logan’s heart rate was increasing as he dug his nails into his skin, turning his head to the desk again. “I- please, I’m not-”

“Logan, I can still see you blushing. You’re a lovestruck fool.”

No, no, no, no no-

“Virgil-”

“Come on- ”

“ Will you shut up?!? ”

He took a deep breath, pressing his head against the wood hard. There were deep nail indents in his arms, and his back was tense and stiff.

“I’m sorry, Virgil, that was… unnecessary.” He had to force the words out.

“...Sorry, Logan.”

“Thank you. I’d appreciate it if you would leave.”

He heard the chair move back to its position, and Virgil’s footsteps recede. Logan let the tension fall from his shoulders, and it felt as if there were tears pricking at his eyes. But he didn’t cry.

He stayed there for a long while, thinking about the list he would need to make to fix his friends’ view of him.

“Hey nerd!”

Remus’s voice, his lovely, comforting voice, entered the room.

“You look like you’re dead. Or dying. You’re too stressed.”

Remus placed his hands on Logan’s shoulders, apparently in an attempt to massage them. God damn Remus’s knowledge of anatomy.

It felt nice.

He ran over his plan in his head, not crying. Not anywhere near crying. There couldn’t be tears in his eyes, because it didn’t matter. He didn’t care.

“Leave.”

Remus’s hands retracted, and Logan could feel droplets of water fall onto his arms. He held back the chokes and sobs with everything he had.

“Oh. Okay.”

The pained sound of Remus’s voice only caused more tears to fall. He wanted to go crawling back to his footsteps. He heard them getting faster as they left, and his chest was shot with pain when he heard a sob, one single, awful sob as Remus headed into the hallway.

Logan couldn’t hold back the rest of his tears, the sobs that escaped his throat. He should’ve never started talking to Remus in the first place.

He should’ve never let himself care.

Logan avoided Remus at all costs. He’d nearly run whenever he saw him in the room, make up excuses if Remus said his name, even though his heart jumped whenever he heard it. Remus must hate him at this point. And you can only love someone who hates you so much.

This would eventually go away.

He missed Remus. He missed his big smile, his ranting voice, his quiet voice, his touch. He so desperately wanted to hug him, say it was all a lie, his avoidance, and be friends again. He wanted to hear the “I love you,” whether it was platonic or… not.

But he couldn’t.

Because when he would go back, he’d fall harder. And maybe it was a fear of rejection, maybe it was his serious persona, but maybe…

He didn’t deserve it.

Logan had been in his room all day. He stayed in his room most days, everyone was getting worried about him. Patton kept trying to convince him to come to dinners, but those were with Remus, so he ate in his room. Janus kept telling him it wasn’t healthy, but it wasn’t like he wasn’t showering. Virgil noticeably avoided him occasionally, but for the most part vocalized his fear that there was something really wrong. Logan wasn’t sure how bad to judge his situation. Roman tried to either force him out or guilt trip him into hanging out with them. He knew they were just trying to help, but it was quite irritating.

Remus…

Remus, at least in the beginning, would come in, say a sentence or two, asking Logan if he wanted to talk. When he didn’t get a response, when Logan paused his typing to force tears back into his eyes. Remus’s voice was so small and soft, so anxious and hurt.

And it was Logan’s fault.

He laid on his bed, staring at the ceiling. This felt pointless, all the work he was doing. He was just tired, and hurt, and he hurt other people, and he was useless. He wanted Remus to come in with his new idea or fact, use Logan’s chest and stomach as a soft pillow or table for his messy papers.

But that was a stupid desire.

“Logan.”

He turned his head vaguely towards the door, where an annoyed looking Virgil stood. He awaited Virgil’s continuation, as he wasn’t going to prompt it himself.

Virgil trudged over to the bed, grabbing Logan’s arm and pulling him off of it.

“Hey!” Logan scrambled not to fall on the floor, to no avail.

“You’re depressed, come on.”

“I’m not-”

“Logan, I really don’t wanna have this argument. We’re worried about you. Remus is worried about you. And we’re worried about Remus, and you should be too.”

Logan adjusted his position to sit against the bed. “Remus doesn’t care about me.”

Virgil snorted, joining him on the floor. “You really think that?”

Logan continued staring at the floor.

“He’s head over heels for you, L. And now he thinks you hate him.”

Logan curled in on himself a little, tensing.

“Why are you so keen on avoiding him anyway?”

Logan considered his response for a moment. On one hand, he didn’t want Virgil to laugh at him. On the other… he didn’t want Remus to keep getting hurt.

“...I love him.”

“Well, yeah, but why’s that making you avoid him?”

“I…”

Maybe he didn’t even really know.

“I’m not supposed to feel. I don’t want to. And Remus, well… he makes me feel a lot of things. Things I don’t understand.”

He took a glance towards Virgil, who had turned his head towards the ceiling.

“Yeah. I don’t think anybody really does. I sure don’t. Roman and Patton make it look so easy, but it took a long time for them to get there. You remember, right? How Patton got so flustered he couldn’t even talk around Roman. And then he’d just choose his target to gush about Roman to.”

“It’s just… Remus told me that when Thomas is in love, I get really stupid and unorganized, and then you said that, and… if being good enough for Thomas involves-”

“ What ?”

Virgil’s tone sounded aggressive, and Logan turned to look at him anxiously. “Did I-”

“Logan, you’re already good enough for Thomas. You don’t need to be completely emotionless. Plus, logic often relies on how Thomas feels. Sure, Thomas might be a little more awkward than usual, but there’s nothing wrong with that. And if you tell Remus how you feel, it’ll rid you of the negative effects on Thomas faster than repressing your emotions and staying in your room until you’re completely depressed.

“Plus, if you don’t tell him, I will.”

“Virgil!”

“He’s been crying for the past three days, Logan.”

Logan sighed, leaning against Virgil and closing his eyes. “Thanks.”

Virgil wrapped his arm around him. “Now get the hell out of your room.”

Logan took a deep breath, trying to calm himself before heading to Remus’s room. It wasn’t too far down the hall from his own. His heart beat fast as he knocked on the dark green door, covered in scratches and unidentifiable fluids.

He heard a soft sound come from inside, something that put a pang of pain in his heart. He got no response other than muffled cries.

“...Remus?”

The sound immediately stopped.

Remus opened the door to reveal his disheveled look. Messy hair, red eyes, and a costume that looked like he’d tried to rip it up.

“Are you- do-”

“I’m sorry.”

Remus hesitated, staring into Logan’s eyes.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

Logan held a hand out, desperately hoping Remus would take it.

He did.

“I never… I never should have made you feel like I hated you. It’s… it’s torture to hear you feeling negatively at all.”

Remus was crying, a wavering smile growing unsteadily on his face. He came closer, letting go of Logan’s hand and reaching his arms out in a huglike motion. Logan accepted it, shoving himself towards Remus’s half extended arms. He held on, tight, pushing his fingers through Remus’s hair, eyes shut tight.

“I- I should’ve helped you, L. I knew you were having a hard time, and I ignored it. And- and maybe you wouldn’t have felt so bad, this is- this is my fault-”

Logan held on tighter. “No. No it’s not. It’s not your fault that I was an asshole and avoided you and made you think I hate you, especially because… I don’t. At all.”

Logan took a deep breath. “I love you. Romantically. And I’m finished with telling myself I can’t be.”

Remus dug his head into Logan’s chest, a grin spreading on his face. He started laughing, almost, or perhaps he was just crying. “I love you too.”

Logan smiled, stroking Remus’s hair as he placed a kiss to his head. Remus leaned back, his addictive touch gone from all but Logan’s hands. He was led properly inside Remus’s room, and the door was shut so Remus could lean up to kiss him.

It was surprising at first, but as he relaxed into it, pressing back. He wrapped his arms around Remus’s waist, pulling him closer, holding him tighter. The beating of his heart couldn’t be ignored if he tried.

Finally, and reluctantly, they broke. Remus put his head in Logan’s chest again, a content smile on his face. Logan loosened his grip, relaxing into the hug.

“We’ll have to try that again sometime,” Logan mumbled into Remus’s hair.

Remus placed a small kiss between Logan’s shoulder and neck, the closest spot he could reach.

“Well… is there any problem with doing it again now?”

252 notes · View notes

typewriterghcst · 3 years

Text

Title: mother, forget me

Fandom: Kung Fu Panda

Characters: Shen, Soothsayer

Summary: He’s lived his life in a burning house, and now he is wasting away inside it. Why should he be at all surprised that she would fight the flames to traverse back into it in order to rescue him? At this rate, though, perhaps they’re simply burning to ash together.

Notes: whispers kind of an affectionate maybe Send Off written for @infini-tree regarding our Shen and Soothsayer muses, since we’ve both sorta halfway-ish moved into different fandoms and don’t write together very often anymore `~`

So of course this is based on the main verse on my Shen blog, where he Somehow survives the end of his canon and starts hiding out at the Soothsayer’s home like a particularly deviant NEET

I’ve long enjoyed our interactions, and even if we don’t write together again, I’ll still think back fondly on those interactions, ha. So. Just sort of a gift, then!

+++

Shen forgets he is no longer a skittish, sullen teenager sometimes, though he isn’t certain how. There’s an aching stiffness in his bones that has followed him into his miraculous second chance survival which had never assailed him back then. He lives now in a dream world where time stands still at inopportune and awkward moments, only to pass in an instant when he blinks. He doesn’t know how long he’s lingered here. He can not force himself to think of the future; it’s like futilely plucking at a minuscule piece of shell in the egg white.

Yet unlike those dream worlds he remembers from his childhood, he is not alone this time. No, he has become someone’s burden again, and he might relish in that newfound purpose were it not for who it is that has undertaken the burden.

The Soothsayer joins him at the window, once, and leaves a thin jacket of her own thrown across his shoulders, and it’s then he realizes he isn’t sure who has imprisoned who.

It’s then, also, he thinks he should leave.

+++

Quite often he will find himself reluctant to ask those questions he so dearly covets answers for, simply out of a fear that those same answers shall prove ultimately devastating. Tonight, his courage refuses to falter.

"Did you know?" Shen asks his old caretaker (a position she's rather wordlessly slipped back into, though he will not dwell on the similarities now). "Did you know I'd do it?"

"I knew you had the potential to travel down a very dark path," she eventually answers with a measured cadence, and Shen fills in the blanks that she hadn't foreseen just how much darkness that path had had the capacity for.

+++

He had tried to promise himself once, in a fleeting, blinding instant of childish fury, the source of which has been long obscured by time.

He had tried to promise himself that anyone who tried to harm her would meet with an agonizing fate, and he had taken a certain amount of comfort and pleasure in imagining just how he might make good on that promise.

He thinks of it nowadays sometimes when she leaves early in the morning, when he pretends to sleep so she doesn’t know he knows he wasn’t the only one unable to sleep through the night.

(They are both such prideful creatures.)

He thinks about how he is in a far more convenient position to keep his word now, how he would not hesitate, and he wonders if that is perhaps the closest he will ever come to real love.

+++

What will he do, he wonders sometimes against his will, when she is gone? He has but one friend left in the wide, blue world, and being a creature quite comfortably accustomed to a literal army of supporters kept in line with fear, the instability inherent in this new status quo is perhaps more distressing than even he realizes.

Shen spies the Soothsayer drifting off at her table as she works once or twice, and it lights in him a difficult to define, frenzied knot of half-emotions. He makes mention of her fatigue once. Her response, he assumes, is to put more effort into keeping up her composure in his presence, as he doesn’t catch her dozing again.

It isn't fair, it isn't fair, and sometimes he's so frustrated by what he’s managed to do how things have ended up that he can't stand it. It's then, again, that he thinks he should leave.

+++

He doesn't know her story. Somehow in all their years together, interrupted as they've been, she has never been compelled to share it with him. It's fine that way. It's the way it ought to be, he supposes.

Yet, every now and again, he will glimpse some shared similarity, some shared response to a petty trauma, and for the first time find himself musing on what other familiarities might linger in their pasts.

+++

Even now, the memory will so often come back to him, unwanted, unprompted. Pulling himself up over a balustrade in a clumsy attempt to see over it, to catch a faraway glimpse of Mother, needling curiosity and awe always tempered so expertly by the lingering haze of unbelonging.

For so long he has recalled this moment as one of solitude and numb resentment, but like a buoyant balloon eventually resurfacing after being shoved under bathwater, he remembers the Soothsayer calling to him from down the hall, and how he'd so eagerly abandoned his hiding spot to bound to her side. She had smiled at him, had asked what it was which had captured his attention so thoroughly.

And something rises in him, then, a sharp stab of remorse so powerful it aches in a way he’d never thought possible.

If only. If only.

+++

Too often she approaches his occasional fleeting tantrums with nothing more than mutely exasperated resignation, her hooves folded neatly on the top of her cane as she surveys the petty devastation he's left behind— an upended side table, scattered incense and old, singed bowls now lying in disarray.

"Was it unworthy of me?" She eventually asks flatly, and Shen barks out a harsh laugh despite himself.

“Yes,” he says, with an unhinged lightness he hasn’t felt in decades. “It should be better. It should be ornately and ostentatiously decorated and well-constructed enough to last literal dynasties. Then it’d be a worthy addition to your meager collection of furniture.”

There she smiles at him, familiarly, a half-crooked one that speaks to decade’s worth of dealing with his childish temper. He’d seen it, too, all that time ago, in the feverish and sleep-deprived days of his biggest scheme, but at the time it’d only infuriated him, made him feel intrinsically small. Here, now, the sight of it elicits a wash of comfort to come over him, and tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

He laughs, but the sound is thick with emotion, and he flees shortly after.

+++

"I should leave."

He speaks it into existence with all the strength of a flickering candle, hoping it might pass by unnoticed, perhaps. Yet like a candle in a darkened room, this hushed murmur's reach in the silence of the midnight stillness betrays him.

The clatter of the Soothsayer’s pestle somewhere across the expanse between them tells him she’s heard him. When she speaks, it’s soft but reluctant.

“...Where will you go?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to leave.”

“But I should.”

She doesn’t respond to that, but he can feel that she wants to. He can imagine her when he closes his eyes, searching desperately for something to make this all alright. To make it work for the best. Something that makes it not so hopeless. But she’s smart, he knows. She’ll come to the same conclusion. If she hasn’t already.

Somewhere, there comes that same memory of running to her side, taking her outstretched hoof in his wing, already starting in on some inane factoid he’d picked up in his studies that day, eager to share with her his discoveries.

"I-I'm sorry."

It slips away from him without his approval, before he has a chance to stifle and drown it with any kind of success, and it comes out as a broken whisper. His vision as he stares out the window has started swimming. Some part of him wishes it was because he has begun breathing his last breaths.

Even now, he remains selfish and weak— were he truly so sorry, he thinks, he would have simply disappeared from her life in the night, with only a letter to explain his thoughts; he would have vanished just as unceremoniously as he had arrived, and left her in peace.

But he had done that once, he remembers abruptly.

I thought you died. It comes back to him in pieces.

And now he knows what he is apologizing for. There’s no one left to blame it all on. There is only him. And now for the first time does he feel so thoroughly where he has ruined himself with his own hands only to have pointed the bloodied finger outward to everyone else.

This is a mistake which can not be mended, and he’s known it all along.

Somewhere in the midst of it all he’s aware of a ginger touch to his wing. It’s the Soothsayer, looking up at him with an expression he finds quite difficult to interpret— the furrowed brow of regret, of heartache, but the quirk of hesitant hopefulness. When she speaks, her voice is just as frustratingly troublesome for him to comprehend, soft and sad and vastly unfitting for the words she has decided upon.

“...I’ve wanted to hear you say that for a long time.”

“It’s not enough—” Shen starts, and he can already hear the beginnings of his old hysteria rising in his protest, can feel his age-old pessimism awakening, but the gentle shake of her head in apparent, paradoxical agreement prompts him to hold his tongue.

“No. It’s not.” Then, more firmly, with a tenacity he finds quite startling in its unexpected familiarity, “But it’s a beginning we can work with.”

#kung fu panda #idk if this is a normal thing people do i'm so sorry if this is Really Weird 9^9;;#the soothsayer and shen will probably Hurt me forever so i had to write something fjjfkd;a #i listened to iron and wine's upward over the mountain like way too much while writing this

37 notes · View notes

katerix · 3 years

Text

(How old is New Vegas? And it’s still my fav part! I feel like I need more Raul content even after all these years🥺)

Drink with the living dead

Characters: Raul Tejada x Reader Summary: Courier and her companion returned to New Vegas after a long wandering to get a drink and gamble, but faced serious inhospitality. Six was not ready to leave her friend behind, so they changed their plans. Warnings: - Words: 2781

***

It was almost half past midday, when a dusty dirty road to New Vegas welcomed the wanderers with just another sandstorm without any declaration of war. Courier’s mirror aviator sunglasses could hardly stand that gusts of winds, so she decided to hide it in the pocket of her jacket until the better times. Six and her ghoul-companion were on foot for nearly five hours, and now the hightower of «Lucky 38» looked huge in contradiction from its look an hour ago.

It was not their first visit to New Vegas, but every time she saw a glowing and sparkling casino’s signs, she was bringing up the idea of going there and wasting an evening gambling and drinking. Just like everyone does. The fact that she spent here some time, passing all the entertaining places by, met with Mr. House and performed several missions for NCR ambassador, but still never took a break to try some of those things, these poor fellows from all Mojave wasteland were arriving for - was a crime by its definition.

Coddling this thought, Courier continued to trudge the nasty weather, until they walked up to the Northern gates of Freeside.

- What’s the plan when we reach Strip, boss? - asked Raul, shaking his dull-green jumpsuit down: it all was full of pervasive grains of sand, as well as the girl’s clothes.

- At first I wanna visit the «Lucky 38» apartment and change the outfit, then go to the bar and win big in the kazino!

- Perfect plan, chief, ironclad like my revolver. - the ghoul was sarcastic as usual, but didn’t evince any sight of disagreement.

When she turned around to continue movement, he added: “Wait, amigo, there's a tuft of straw stuck under your collar.” - and carefully extracted an annoying piece of flora, stuck to during the storm.

“Gracias!” - Six smiled widely and made a fast gesture of gratitude with her hand. Without wasting time, they passed heavy metallic gates.

Freeside met companions with a funky, stinking smell. She still couldn't get used to it. Dusty air seemed to mar the cityscape: it looked much pale and lighter than from the outside. Just fifteen minutes and they’ll reach the destination. The picture couldn’t be called unusual for this time of the day in this part of town: one or two shabby hobos against the dingy walls, kids in wrecked clothes playing a tag-game in the area of the «Mick & Ralph's», random citizens with roving glances, sneaking around, wasting their time in an idle attempts to figure out how to spend their life in this Dump. On the other hand, there are many places where people live even worse: take a look at Westside, for instance.

«What a hopeless sight, - thought the girl. - Hope the Followers are really able to do something about this in the future».

- Something on your mind, boss? - it felt like nothing could hide from Raul’s inquisitive look.

- Just thinking. I find this picture quite dismal, like there’s no tomorrow, and humanity is still doomed. Like there’s no chance to restore life, as it was before.

- When we are on the road again, I’ll tell you about the Football Cup in Mexico, if you like to hear another one “before the Bomb” story. - he obviously picked up on her mood and decided to cheer up the girl, carefully diverting the theme.

- I do. Have you attended it?

- Sure thing. That was a big day. We drove to the capital to see it with our own eyes.

- Sounds pretty good! Let’s not ruin the intrigue.

- You asked.

They passed a small cross-road, which didn't have to be called like that anymore, as it was just one of the ghosts of the past with it’s burned skeletons of cars, left here motionless as evidence of human lost ambitions. The air in this part of the town was stale, despite the fact that they were in the streets, the smell of some broiling meat and spoiled vegetables was sticky like an ant's nectar. Sudden wild cryings and shouts were heard from the nearest dead end.

One glance was enough to understand that the Kings had cornered swashers, their prey, who were too fucked up and all-fired sure of themselves to attack the town’s main showrunners just a couple of minutes ago. And the Courier was not going to do anything about that: she herself was nearly butchered by one of them, shown up from nowhere. If it was not her loyal companion who dealt with it with one precise shot, she, probably, would be dead by now.

It took more than ten minutes to cover the distance between the East and Strip gates - right now there was no reason to hurry. As they got closer, the protectrons took up their positions immediately. One of them articulated “Move along” with a familiar metallic cold of lifeless voice of his, when companions were passing by.

“Never liked these guys. They are like slow mines: you never know what they do the next second.” - grunted out the Courier, as two of them found themselves on the first line of the Strip between “Lucky 38” and “Gomorrah”.

“Hey, so who is an old one here?” - the ghoul chuckled in response.

She went ahead, so he could never see how her lips slightly bended in a ready-to-laugh smile.

***

Presidential luxe met nomads with a deep, wrapping silence of a broad, gloomy space. This was definitely not the place a person could wish to stay in: walls with, once being gorgeous - now - greasy dark-wine wallpapers were giving an oppressive feeling. Six was happy that they didn’t have to stay here for long. Only to sleep or change the outfit maybe.

She got near to the wardrobe in her room, where the majority of things, accumulated during the long travels, were stored. Took out two dresses, went to the guest-room with a billiards. Raul was civilly waiting for her there.

- What you think? Which one?

He raised up his head, looked from under the sunglasses for several seconds, examining, and answered in a casual tone:

- It’s really up to you, boss. - made a pause, then added, like a little confused: - But I like the pink one. Might look graceful.

- Great! Exactly the one I wanted to pick.

The ghoul just gave her a hesitant nod, wondering if she noticed that detail. Courier went back to her sleeping-room and returned after some minutes, informing: “Ready to go! The next stop is “Ultra-Luxe”, yee-haw!”

***

After a while they were in the street again. All they needed was just to reach the second line of the Strip and pass a hundred meters to the “Ultra-Luxe”. Lots of NCR soldiers were hanging around, goofing off, as long as they had a chance, and indulging in lust in the nearest private clubs. Nothing unexpectable. When they passed by a small group of drunk, barely balancing on their feet big guys, Six suddenly heard a hushed voice from behind her back, addressing his teammates. “Do they let ghouls on the Strip now? Perfect, let’s make it a spooky ghost-town.”

“Yeah. That’s why civilization will start floating away again. Our attempts are meaningless.”

Only just Courier wanted to turn around and shout out something to those sons of a b or event take out a gun and shoot beneath their feet, Raul caught her arm:

- Hey, hey, calm down, that’s okay. NCRs are many here, you know, even for a dashing rider like you, boss. Even with me backing you up. From behind the farthest stone.

- But we can’t simply swallow that shit, Raul!

He just spreaded his hands:

- Fine, then go shoot them and be killed by protectrones because of two drunk idiots. Very helpful, chief. I’ll stay all alone, without my beloved companion but with a protected pride. Thank’s.

Six stood still for some seconds and nodded after that.

- Fine. Whatever.

Then merely continued walking in the direction of the cazino. The ghoul hesitated for a bit. He understood that she was acting out of good intentions and she just wanted to protect her partner, as she was the one who had a right of speech here. And that made his heart melt and he was silently praising her for that, because nobody seemed to do anything like that for him in a while. But picking a fight with these dummies, who fill the streets of Strip like water fills the canyon, was not wise.

“Sorry for that, Niña. I really appreciate what you do. I just don’t want you to get in trouble because of me. You don’t notice, but there are often lots of sidelong looks and hardly heard whisperings along the way. I'm used to it and don’t want it to affect you.” - he tried to lighten things up.

The girl turned her head a bit just for him to see her glance softening.

- Let’s just reach the bar and relax.

***

An unexpected trouble struck them further - black line has not ended yet. Courier already picked her place at the bar desk in the distant hall and ordered a glass of whiskey, when a bartendress leaned over and said in a low tone:

“I’m sorry, but here, in “Ultra-Luxe”, we serve only the citizens and guests of the Strip. I’m able to bring a drink only for you, ma’m.”

That was the last drop of her patience. The girl slowly raised her head at the bartendress, ready to blow up, and responded:

- Are you fucking kidding me?

- That’s the rule. I don’t need problems. You can ask any guard or another worker.

She bowed her head and gave a fast hidden glance at her ghoul-companion. He was sitting there next to her and looking straight at his arms crossed on the desk, like he had nothing to do with it. But he, of course, heard every word. His eyes weren't moving, just a finger was slightly knocking the air, producing a rhythm he alone knew. Six couldn’t even imagine what her friend might feel at the moments like that. An anger came upon her.

“Are you all that scumbags here? Keep your drinks for acceptable ones. Ma’m.” - the girl said, getting up from her barstool and heading towards the exit.

Raul stood up without a word and, as he always did, followed Courier. He had mixed emotions. On the one hand he was glad they left that place and that Six is such a kind and loyal partner, but on the other hand he felt a little guilty for himself. After all, it was him who was the reason for such inhospitality in some kind of place. Even now she couldn’t get what she wished for so hard. Her idea of “winning big” in the kazino seemed to be falling apart, as together they won’t be even let to the gambling table. And she, obviously, won’t leave him in the street and have fun on her own, and an old ghoul didn’t want to be a ball and chain.

- Boss? Are you sure we need to leave? Maybe you’d better stay there? And I’d wait for you somewhere else or go back to “Lucky 38”. Fresh air won’t do any harm for my old lungs.

- What are you even talking about? You know, even the best drink worth nothing, if there’s no one to share it with.

- You have a heart of gold, chiff. - these words came fast, in an undertone, as if he was embarrassed, - Well, I saw a small sign in Freeside. I believe we’ve never been in that part of the city before.

- Hope it’s not an «Atomic Wrangler».

- Nope.

- Great! You lead. They passed the ruins, generously spread all over the suburbs, while every their step sounded louder thanks to trash, small pieces of brick and other rubbish. The sun was already going down and the heat was getting less intense.

Finally they reached a small inconspicuous wooden door. Only a little sign next to it represented that place as a bar.

As they entered, nothing changed. There was not much to be changed. There were no crowds of gamblers, no fancy casino machines and no shiny-polished bar desk. Bartender was a man in old ragged clothes, probably in his late fifties. He was slowly wiping cut glasses with a gray dusty piece of fabric full of holes.

When the companions stepped in the room he just looked up at them without raising up his head and got back to his plain, simple activity. There were not many customers besides the two of them. A woman was sleeping on the table in the far corner - her head rested on her arms while her shoulders were calmly going up and down. Another guest settled down at the edge of the bar desk.

“Fancy,” - giggled the girl.

“Ah, let’s get down. Ladies first.” - Raul just waved his hand.

Six made a few steps in the direction of the bar desk and sat down, Raul followed her.

“Barman! Two beers, please”. - she laid some bottle caps in front of him.

The barkeeper took them and then put two opened bottles onto the surface.

“Bon appetit.”

Courier took her bottle up and clinked it loudly with Rauls one. His soft non-blinking sight of half closed eyes was locked on hers, while he made a sip. His heart always went pop when it felt like there were just two of them in the world, though he never showed that.

Raul looked around and suddenly his eyes stopped on a guitar lurked behind the racks.

“Hey, can I…?”

The barman followed ghoul’s gaze and shrugged his shoulders: “This piece of wood? Be my guest.”

In the next second he was on his feet. The courier raised her eyebrows as she almost forgot if she saw him that agile. Raul approached the metal shelves, put aside some garbage and waste paper, then carefully extracted the instrument and blew away the dust.

Six and the bartender were watching him closely. The ghoul got back to his chair, sat down crossing his legs to position the guitar more comfortably. Then pulled the first string to check out the tuning. It was no surprise that it was out of tune, so the next minute Raul spent trying to fix the instrument.

When everything, as he thought, was ready, he played a couple of notes in fingerstyle to flex some life back into his fingers. After nearly 200 years the skill was obviously weakened.

“I didn’t know that you could play the guitar.” - said the girl.

“Sure you didn’t. I never told about that.” - he looked back at her with a little smirk, - “What was the point if there were no music instruments left anyway?”

He laid his right arm down on the body of the guitar, fingers on the cracked wooden surface, and took a deep breath.

At first Courier could hardly hear or see the slightest movement of ghoul's fingers on strings, but soon the sound became more clear. She was sitting there with a bottle in her hand, unable to look away from her companion.

The sound of slow mexican melody floated across the room, filling every corner of the room with itself. The windows were closed with wooden boards from the outside, so the sunlight was trickling down through narrow gaps between them. Warm light was leaving gold-yellow lines on the walls, tables and the bardesk where the Courier and Raul were sitting. She could even see the tiniest specks of dust freeze in the air. The ghouls face was half hidden by a shadow and the sunbeams were highlighting one of his eyes which now looked like a beautiful transparent crystal and his hands all covered with veins and partially with thin skin.

The whole space imbued with peace and calm, even the impenetrable bartender set his glass aside and leaned his head on the hand, listening to the sensual music.

They travelled together for a while now, but never before had Six seen him the way she did now. Something new was arising in her soul.

“Hey chief,” - Raul closed his eyes and slightly threw back his head grinning a little, fingers still dancing over the strings. - ”You’re the best friend and partner one could ever wish for, you know. Thank you for always being on my side.”

“Raul, I’ll never leave my partner in crime behind!” - she chuckled as she felt like something pinned her heart.

The ghoul continued playing the tune without opening his eyes. A grin turned into a soft smile and the feeling of joy span all over him for the first time in a while.

“I’m following you to the world’s end, boss.”

Also, here’s a link to this fanfic on my AO3 (gif is mine \ use credits if repost)

#fallout #fallout nv #fanfic #fallout new vegas #raul tejada #fanfiction #one shot #fallout x reader #fallout imagine #raul tejada x reader #my fanfiction #my edit #fallout nv fic

70 notes · View notes

mangolover · 3 years

Text

Can Blood Piece Broken Glass Back Together? - Ikesen Kenshin angst fanfiction

Title: Can Blood Piece Broken Glass Back Together?

Fandom: Ikemen Sengoku / Ikesen

Pairing: Kenshin X F!MC

Genre: Angst

Warnings: This fanfiction includes sensetive themes like: suicide, mental illness, depression, self harm, blood and excesive drinking, Please proceed with caution!

Spoilers: There are some spoilers here, one of them being really important for Kenshin’s character development and to better understand him.

Word Count: 1700+

Description: F!MC has been feeling depressed and suicidal lately and Kenshin isolated her due to his jealousy problems, leaving her with no other option to escape her darkness, but taking her own life and breaking his fragile heart.

Enjoy!

It was hard to face life these days... It wasn’t the first time she had felt like giving up. Even before she travelled 500 years back into the past and found the love of her life, those thoughts were like an annoying guest to her, coming and going as they wished. Back in the future it was alright, times were much more peaceful and she could go to any of her friends or to her family, sometimes even seeking professional help. But now… Now her family wasn’t even born and her friends were mostly his enemies, enemies of the one person she was ready to call her own world, Kenshin Uesugi, the man who had imprisoned her heart, body and destiny.

Nothing particularly bad happened, she just woke up one day and felt… empty. It haunted her from when she was a teen, ever since she lost herself because she wasn’t like other girls on Instagram... She didn’t know how to express her emotions, that was one thing she always struggled with. And being with Kenshin didn’t help her with that.

Kenshin had his own demons that haunted his mind. They left his dreams after she had helped him, but he was still helping himself and couldn’t help her. That’s why she was really happy when she had a chance to see Shingen and Yukimura. Shingen was wiser and older and dealing with his own demons so he could always spare some advice or lend a hearing ear which was helpful to her. She could barely go anywhere alone to scream and release every damned emotion she felt, so she’d find her antidote in her friend Yukimura. Yuki would always bring a smile to her face and to that she was very grateful.

But that bugged Kenshin. He was sickly jealous and didn’t want them to hear her beautiful voice, to smell her beautiful scent, to fell her warm embrace as they hugged her to make her feel better, but he couldn’t be there for her. He was a busy warlord with many enemies. So, the only way to stop those haunting voices in his head was to cut them off. He asked his once arch enemy and his vassal to never show up again or there will be a problem. Shingen understood the hidden motive behind his threatening request, he was painfully aware of his demons and didn’t want his friend that he cared about so deeply going down that damned spiral of self-destruction again. So they retreated back to their own land, silently apologizing to her in their heads.

With no one there for her anymore, a new wave of hopelessness washed over her leaving her in even worse state, but like a sign from any gods there are, Sasuke, her buddy from the future, was there with her. He was a busy man, after all he was Kenshin’s employee, his own ninja, but he could always find the time for her, because she was the reason he endured all those four long years of ninja training, only hoping to meet her again and be able to help her. And even if their plans have changed, they were still in this together. Sasuke would listen to her and help her, even whrn she was at her lower points, when she was too close to the rock bottom, he would be with her. He could see her pale face and how much skinner she had become in the last months compared to a year ago when she first arrived in this time period. She didn’t eat properly, she didn’t sleep enough and those thoughts, anxiety and stress were eating her from inside out, she even left her job as the seamstress and decided to sit out her days on the veranda, looking out at the miserable garden that was once full of beautiful flowers with prickly thorns that made her bleed and hurt Kenshin.

Kenshin was once again hurt by her relationship with Sasuke and he didn’t hesitate to pull his trusty sword Himetsuru-Ichimonji on him. He cared for Sasuke, deeply, but he couldn’t shut those horrible, distorted voices in his head that were growing louder by second, telling him the curse and blessing that followed him. He could not be harmed and killed in battle, but everyone around him that he cared and loved ended up getting hurt or dying out of his reach to help them. It was eating him inside out, leaving behind only a shell of a man he once was or could be and a glass heart in his chest, hard to break, but once broken, hardly put together again, slowly killing him…

Sasuke was forbidden from seeing or touching her, only if she was in immediate danger and Kenshin wasn’t there to run to her aid. That broke her, leaving her with barely any hope, not strong enough to outshine the darkness in her mind and soul anymore. With all her loved ones now abandoning her or being forbidden to see her due to the side she chose, she was almost completely alone. There was one last chance to stop it all, to prevent the turmoil that was coming.

She had been alone for a week now, looking for a way to punish herself for being so weak without hurting Kenshin. She looked at that dagger she received from Oda forces before she departed from them in case she ever needed to save herself. ‘Should I do it?’ was her thought as she stared at its blade, pressing it to her fingertip, testing it’s sharpness. It could easily slash someone’s throat in an instant without much pressure applied, she was sure of that as she almost cut her finger and dealt another punch to Kenshin’s still fragile heart. Healing process was never going to be easy, if she wasn’t aware of that before, she was now. She just hoped it would be quicker, but she knew better than to rush him and risk all the progress, all the baby steps they made, going down the drain…

She snapped out of it when she heard the footsteps down the hall, announcing the early return of her healing lover. She frantically hid the dagger. Making sure she doesn’t cut herself, for the sake of both of their sanity. He greeted her as he slid open the door, shutting it behind him when he saw her face with a plastered smile. She is glad he was home in one piece, but she couldn’t find a way to really smile again. Kenshin must’ve been tired because he sat on the futon waiting for her to come and cuddle with him, but she was holding herself back. Maybe she should just talk to him about her demons, he promised to protect her all his life after all. ‘Yeah, I should just talk to him, I love him. He deserves to know what’s going on.’ However when she saw that beautiful true smile on his face when he hugged her, placing an affectionate kiss on top of her head, she lost all her courage to tell him and risk losing this happy Kenshin she loved so much more than his sad side.

That proved to be a fatal mistake on her part.

She couldn’t fight her monsters when it was too dark for her to see ahead anymore. The last light of hope extinguished its flame and left her completely alone and lost, this time with no resort to turn to. The antidote was now useless, nothing could save her. She was too far gone. She finally broke.

She was standing in the middle of her room, finally wearing the kimono she sewed last night using the fabric the Oda clan sent her, the fabric Kenshin would rip off her and burn out of his jealous rage. She wrote him a letter, explaining her thoughts in the best way she could and begging him to not blame himself. This time, it was completely her mistake because the only one getting hurt was him. She took a deep breath and muttered an apology under her breath before she slit her wrist, deep, causing her blood to splatter everywhere, quickly leaving her body. Sasuke was worried about her and he finally found some time to meet her with Kenshin being occupied hunting down some bandits in town. He silently slid into her room and saw a horrifying sight…

There she was, wobbling on her legs, losing conciseness by seconds, he froze to the spot, only to see her holding a bloody dagger with a pained smile on her face. He had to act quickly, he ran to her side, tying a piece of fabric around her wrist doing anything to try and stop the bleeding and, in an instant, he was out in the hallway, running towards the medic’s room, begging her to keep her eyes open and stay with him, he couldn’t lose her when he could’ve helped her. After dropping her of there he practically fell backwards down on to the floor, still covered in her blood and running his hands through his hair, drowning in unbearable guilt. His usually stoic expression was now painted with hurt.

Vassals learned about this and Kenshin was soon brought back to his castle, demons running wild in his mind. ‘What the hell was she thinking? How could I let that happen? Why was fate punishing mr once again, wasn’t the first time enough?? Wasn’t Isehime enough of a punishment for me??!’

But nothing could bring Isehime back… He is the one responsible for her death… He failed to protect his first love from himself and his damned curse that still kept him alive, only to torture him more…

Few hours passed that felt like they were years, he couldn’t bring himself to go to her side now, not when she was still ragging her war, fighting, the only question was to die or to survive. She may thought this was the best way to hurt him, one quick and hard punch to that glass in his chest, but it was the worst torture he could imagine. She was still visible, dying out of his reach. He sat at the veranda where she spent so many nights with her demons, downing bottles of sake, one after the another, and poured himself another cup, the one brewed in Azuchi, one he shared with her. Now it lost its special taste all of a sudden, causing him to push it off the table and shatter into millions of pieces, just like his heart when the final blow was finally delivered… One of those shards from his heart must've flew and stuck in her wrist, deepening the cut and therefore preventing the blood from stopping...

But, sadly, blood can’t piece broken glass back together…

The end.

#kenshin uesugi fanfic #ikemen sengoku #ikesen fanfic #ikemen sengoku fanfiction #ikemen sengoku fanfic #ikesen #ikesen angst #ikemen sengoku angst #ikemen sengoku angst fanfiction #ikemen sengoku angst fanfic #ikesen kenshin #ikemen sengoku kenshin #🥭

41 notes · View notes

im-up-to-shenanigans · 4 years

Text

Snow

Read on ao3

Read on fanfiction.net

Summary: Adrien has a revelation.

Rating: K+

Characters: Adrien Agreste | Cat Noir, Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Plagg, Sabine

Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Cat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug

~*~*~*~

A/N: Inspired from the song No One Else from The Great Comet of 1812.

~*~*~*~

It was snowing outside when he realized what was happening. In the midst of all the homework he had to do and all the midterms he had to study for, it just hit him like a ton of bricks.

He couldn’t get Marinette out of his mind. He drew her name in the margins of his paper when thinking over a really hard math problem. He kept rereading his literature over and over again because he couldn’t get bluebell eyes, light freckles, and the color pink out of his head. He tried practicing his piano, but the melody of her voice drowned out the melody of the keys.

What is wrong with me?

Trying to distract himself with Ultimate Mecha Strike didn’t work either. He couldn’t help but reminded of Marinette’s skills at the game. And then the memory of their hand meeting twice as they reached for a controller came to the forefront of his thoughts and would not leave.

Pressing pause on his game, he gazed out the window to the gently falling snow. Maybe a run around Paris will clear my mind.

Looking around his room, he found his kwami plundering the fridge. "Hey, Plagg, we're going out."

He barely let the kwami have any time to respond before transforming. Soon enough, a hero dressed in all black was bounding across the snow-covered rooftops. There were flakes in his wild blond hair, and his cheeks were red from the exercise and the chill. He didn’t know where he was going until he found himself across the street from a familiar bakery.

He pulled up short when he saw that the bedroom on the top floor was dark. She's probably asleep. Pushing down the sudden surge of disappointment, Cat Noir took off again.

This time, he ended up at the Eiffel Tower. The bright lights reflecting off the snow lit up his already joyful heart, and he felt the sudden urge to laugh and smile. He’d never felt such happiness as this. He felt like he was floating on air, like nothing could bring him down. The laughter and chatter he heard from people down below added to his lightheartedness, and he simply couldn’t wipe the smile off his face.

He spotted André the ice cream man not too far from the tower. I could go for some ice cream. I wonder if Marinette’s gotten sweethearts' ice cream with someone before. A sudden rush of jealousy burst forth, startling him to no end. Where had that come from?

Shrugging it off (he wasn’t about to let one sour thought dampen his cheerful mood), Cat hastened over to the jolly ice cream man. "Hello, André."

The man smiled at him. "Cat Noir! Good to see you! Would you like some ice cream on this lovely night?"

The hero nodded and grinned. "Yes please!"

It wasn’t until he was already bounding away and enjoying his frozen treat that he really noticed the colors. Instead of his regular red spots that he was used to, there was light pink. Light pink, with both a dark blue and a light blue. Just like Marinette.

He nearly fell off the roof he was on. Staring at his cone, with the snow falling around him, he finally figured it out. "I'm in love with Marinette." It was so soft, the wind whisked away for no one else to ever hear.

"I'm in love with Marinette." It was louder this time, and he couldn’t fight off the grin on his face.

"I’m in love with Marinette." A light laugh bubbled up from his chest.

It made so much sense. She was so amazing. She was sweet, kind, brave, and never afraid to stand up for herself or others. He wondered why he hadn’t figured it out sooner.

He was in love with the most amazing girl in the world, and angel in the midst of humans, gracing everyone with her presence and her smile that could light up a room.

With a lovesick grin on his face, Cat Noir raced home.

He detransformed as soon as his feet hit the floor. His ice cream was long gone, but his smile remained. He flopped down on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

"What's got you in hopeless romantic mode?" Plagg floated into his line of sight.

Adrien's grin got wider. "Marinette. I’m in love with her."

He expected a few reactions from his kwami. Teasing, rolling eyes, groaning. What he wasn’t expecting was for Plagg whoop triumphantly. "Finally!"

Adrien frowned, giving his kwami a quizzical look. "What do you mean finally?"

Plagg snickered. "I’ve been trying to make you realize you loved Pigtails for ages!”

Adrien shook his head. "Whatever, Plagg." He sat up and stared out the window once more. The snow had stopped falling by now, and the moon was out, full, and shining brightly, casting a glow over the sleeping city. It was, in a word, magical. He sighed and put his head in his hands. "She’s just so wonderful. How did I never realize before?"

Now, Plagg groaned. "Are you gonna be like this all night?" When he didn’t receive an answer, the kwami looked up from his camembert, only to find his Chosen gazing softly out the window with a lovesick grin on his face. "Oh brother."

~*~*~*~

After a night if no sleep (How could he possibly sleep? The night was beautiful, and he was in love!), Adrien practically skipped down the stairs into the dining room, scarfed down his breakfast, and raced out the door, his light blue scarf trailing behind him.

He was more excited to go to school today than he had been in a long time. Of course, he was always excited, but now he couldn’t wait to go and see Marinette and here her laugh and her cute stammering and see her pretty blush and her cute freckles and why aren’t we there yet?

He stepped out of the car, only barely remembering to thank his driver and looked over at the bakery. There were still a few minutes left before school started, and he suddenly had a great idea. Doing a quick scan to make sure Marinette hadn’t arrived yet (she hadn’t), he quickly crossed the street and entered the bakery.

Immediately, the smell of all sorts of baked goodies and treats flooding his senses, the warmth of the small business warming him from the chill outside. Sabine met his gaze from over the counter. The surprise that crossed her features was soon replaced with a warm smile and a knowing gaze. "Good morning, Adrien! How are you?"

Adrien smiled politely. "I’m doing well, Mrs. Dupain-Cheng. I’m looking for Marinette."

"Oh, I’m sure she’ll be right down." Sabine turned and called up the stairs. "Marinette! You have a friend here who wants to see you!" She turned back around and winked.

"Coming, Maman!" Thuds filled the small bakery, the sounds of someone rushing down a flight or two of stairs, and soon enough Marinette emerged all bundled up in her winter gear. Adrien had to hold back the urge to say "aww."

Marinette looked up from where she was pulling on her mittens to meet his gaze. She faltered and tripped. Adrien leapt forward in time to catch her from falling to the ground.

"Thanks, A-Adrien." She stuttered, the blush he loved already starting to color her cheeks. "What are you doing here?”

This time it was his turn to blush as he realized how close she was, heat flooding his cheeks and making his face burn. He let go of her and put a little bit of distance between them (but not too much, of course). "W-well, I thought it might be nice to walk you to school today." He nervously smiled at her. "I-is that okay?" His hand crept up to rub at the back of his neck unbidden.

Marinette looked at him with her jaw practically on the floor and her eyes wide. She blinked and stammered and started waving her hands around, "Y-y-you? W-walk me? To fool? Scoot? School?"

Man, she’s adorable. "Yeah...”

Marinette stared for a moment more before suddenly jolting and nodding rapidly. "Yes! That’s definitely okay! I love you! I mean- I’d love for you to walk me to school!"

He chuckled and held out his arm for her. She giggled and out her arm through his, and the exited the bakery, both bidding farewell to Sabine. The snow had resumed its light fall while Adrien had been in the bakery, and in the short walk to the school, Marinette’s hair was dusted in white. He suddenly stopped walking in front of the steps leading up to the entrance of school.

"Hey, Marinette?"

She looked up at him. Her eyelashes has snowflakes gently sticking to them, and the red of her cheeks brought out the blue of her eyes all the more. How can one person be this cute? It’s not fair!

"Y-yeah?"

"Umm, I know this sounds kinda sudden, but-" he took a shaky breath. "Last night, I realized I, uh, like you. A lot." He tore his his eyes from her gaze and fixed them on his feet. "Would you, maybe, be willing to go out with me sometime?" He glanced up at her through his lashes.

She looked star-struck. "You like me?" She grinned at his nod. "I’d love to go out with you."

His head snapped up. "Wait, really? You would?"

She giggled and nodded. "I've been in love with you ever since you gave me your umbrella."

Now, it was Adrien's turn to be star-struck. "Wow. That's... wow." He smiled. "So, that’s a definite 'yes', then?"

Marinette grinned. "That’s a definite 'yes.'" Both of them couldn’t wipe the grins off their faces as they walked into the classroom hand in hand, of course starting a ruckus when everyone noticed.

And if, after their first date, Marinette happened to have that very same umbrella with her, and if they happened to be outside in the falling snow with it open over their heads, and if they happened to share their first kiss under that fateful umbrella in the snow, then well...

That was nobody’s business but their own.

#miraculous ladybug #ml #adrien agreste #chat noir #marinette dupain cheng #adrienette #plagg #sabine dupain cheng #my work #my fanfic #my ml fanfic #ml fanfic #miraculous fanfic #miraculous ladybug fanfic

15 notes · View notes

mobius-prime · 4 years

Text

253. Sonic the Hedgehog #184

Chaos Angel

Writer: Ian Flynn Pencils: Tracy Yardley! Colors: Jason Jensen

As Enerjak and Super Sonic take off to begin their epic duel for the fate of the world, their clash causes an explosive beam of light to shine so brightly it's seen as far away as Albion (which, if you'll recall, is located somewhere around the area of modern-day England, whereas we're currently closer to New York), which Nicole barely raises the New Mobotropolis shield in time to deflect. Super Sonic snaps Enerjak's staff, and when Enerjak blasts him with a wave of deadly energy in response, he casually reminds him that in his Super form, he's totally invulnerable, making this essentially a stalemate battle between two living gods. Below, Julie-Su is shocked that Sonic survived the blast, but Locke is grumpy and hopeless, saying again that Sonic should have let him kill Enerjak with the Brotherhood's weapon while they had the chance.

It's amazing how clueless and callous Locke is here. I mean, I expected nothing more from him, really, especially given that he has yet to reach the point of redemption that he did in the M25YL timeline on his deathbed, but still, he doesn't even seem to show a single ounce of remorse that this is what his son has become. As the battle rages on, the Destructix watch from somewhere else on the island, and decide they definitely don't want to get caught up in it (which, really, I can't blame them).

Scourge reveals his supercharged warp ring, with enough energy to warp them to another zone entirely, and when Fiona expresses some doubt about leaving Mobius he merely reminds her that the ongoing battle is a battle for the fate of the world, and it's better for them to take their chances elsewhere. She decides to tag along for some "fun," which is after all the reason she left Sonic for Scourge, while Super Sonic continues to try to beat some sense into Enerjak above. He manages to get a yell of "crunch time" from him, giving him hope that his plan to bring Knuckles back is working, but it's not fast enough, making him worry. Julie-Su and Archimedes teleport to the Master Emerald's shrine, which has mysteriously been transported from the Chaos Chamber to become a small island floating in its own right at the edge of Angel Island (it's literally not explained at all how this happened, but I'm assuming it's Ian's creative license to once again make the world of the comics conform to that of the games a little more). They confront Finitevus, who merely states that even if he wanted to stop this, he couldn't by now, as the hex he put on the Master Emerald totally enslaved Knuckles' mind when he tried to tap into its power. He's uncertain about why the hex didn't affect Sonic when he transformed, but is mostly unconcerned, as his plans are proceeding regardless.

Finitevus, I don't think you understand one bit what actual heroes are like. Julie-Su and Archimedes immediately start arguing over which one of them will die in order to bring Knuckles back, with a baffled Finitevus looking on. Locke then rounds the corner, having arrived unseen, and announces that he, in fact, will sacrifice himself, finally regretting what he has brought on Knuckles with his actions in trying to protect him from the devastated future he foresaw. Finitevus, enraged, leaps forward to attack the three of them in an attempt to stop them, but Archimedes grabs onto him and poofs him away, leaving Julie-Su and Locke momentarily alone. Locke sadly looks down at Julie-Su, and explains that for all their extreme methods, in the end the Brotherhood really did love every single member, and only ever wanted the best for Knuckles. Julie-Su begins to cry as Locke takes his place atop the emerald, and begins reciting Tikal's prayer one last time.

Okay, I'm just gonna say it. As much as I genuinely liked Locke's deathbed scene in M25YL, I think this is a much better version of his death, narratively. It's also ten times more heartbreaking. The last time Knuckles ever spoke to his father, Locke hit him with a thinly-veiled threat to his family's safety, and Knuckles punched the screen and screamed at him in response. And now, without a chance to ever apologize or say goodbye, Locke is gone, having sacrificed his life to save his son. I have never doubted for a moment that Locke truly does love Knuckles and has always done everything with the best of intentions, which is precisely why I always felt he would make a better villain than a hero. The Sonic series, as much as I love it, is sorely lacking in three-dimensional villains, with most being either like Eggman - wanting to conquer the world - or Finitevus - wanting to watch it burn. Locke, as I've gone over before, would have been a fantastic antagonist. I think it very true that the best villains are the ones we can relate to in some way. Loving your child and wanting the best for them is very relatable to many people, and permanently messing up your child because of trying to do the best for them is a very real fear for the majority of parents. And Locke realizing this at the end of his life and then giving up said life for the sole purpose of undoing everything he helped to cause is the logical narrative conclusion of this character arc. Because of this, I think Ian ultimately writes Locke much better than did Kenders, despite Locke being based on Kenders' father (which is why I kind of feel bad even saying this, but eh, I've already made the argument that he should have been a villain, I don't think I can make it much worse from here). And as sad as this is, it just gets worse as Knuckles regains his right mind and returns to the ground, asking Julie-Su where his father is. Julie-Su merely starts sobbing and babbling incoherently about how she couldn't stop him, and just as horrible understanding begins to dawn on Knuckles, Finitevus returns through a warp ring, incensed that Locke stopped his plans after all. He yells that with his luck, Knuckles will even remember his time as Enerjak, to which Knuckles furiously replies that he remembers -

An exit fitting for one such as Finitevus. Julie-Su tentatively says that they should head back down to New Mobotropolis to let everyone know that the day's been saved, but Knuckles curtly cuts him off, refusing and claiming that as the last living Guardian of Angel Island, he's never leaving this island again, and he'll guard the Master Emerald alone for the rest of his life. And thus, we've finally come full circle. Knuckles started out as the lone Guardian of the island with no one else to help him, and now he's become such once again. Come on though, man, for real - your father sacrificed himself so you could have your own life free of the destiny he's forced on you, don't immediately try to isolate yourself!

Anything

Writer: Ian Flynn Pencils: Tracy Yardley! Colors: Stingray Grafik Wurks

Well, there's still one loose end we have yet to tie up - namely, the fate of the Dark Legion. While those who were happy to be free of their cybernetic trappings were transported to Albion, those who regret losing them have remained with Lien-Da, who now seeks the help of a mysterious figure to get her people's way of life back. Her speech is actually quite fascinating, because for basically the first time we actually get to see what a lifelong member of the Legion thinks of their own history, without immediately being made out to be a cackling evildoer. Turns out… their position is kind of reasonable.

I mean, I did just go over why Locke, and thus by extension the Brotherhood, are not really good people. I don't think they're evil - misguided, more like - but it's clear that in the end, extremism was the name of the game on both sides of the technology debate, and if anything both sides have only gotten more extreme over the past several hundred years. Ultimately, while the Dark Legion has absolutely employed some really messed up methods in their pursuit of their goals, their actual ideology is not unreasonable at all. In the end, they really were just a group of people who didn't want to tacitly accept being thrown back to the stone age by their government, and rebelled when said government - a literal theocracy, if you'll recall - created an entire goddamn task force operating outside of the normal legal system to try to drag them all into a world without technology regardless. I mean, literally, think about it right now - if your government, after a bad incident with one scientist going nuts and trying to seize power, in response decided to ban all technology and mandate that everyone had to regress back to a medieval lifestyle, how many of you reading this, right now, would just accept it and give everything up? And how many more of you would say "No way in hell is this okay" and join a revolution? Use technology in secret, rebel, fight for your right to live life as a modern human being with modern comforts? The Legion was twisted over time into a force that fought for all the wrong reasons, looking for power instead of freedom, but in the end, they were more wronged than anyone else in this whole debate, and absolutely had a right to be angry over the way they were mistreated.

Lien-Da, treacherous nature aside, clearly does believe in her people's way of life, and so she crafts a deal with her mysterious contact - if he makes her the Grandmaster of the Legion, a title which she feels she deserves after watching her late brother and the decrepit Dimitri take the reins before her, she'll join his cause and have her soldiers act as his new ground forces since his were destroyed by Enerjak. Gee, I wonder who this mysterious figure could be? Ah, what the hell am I acting all coy for, it's Eggman, naturally, and he's more than happy to accept this deal. However, to Lien-Da's incredulous disappointment, the position of Grandmaster has already been filled - by none other than Dimitri! Yeah, Eggman's given him some upgrades, turning his dreadlocks into bizarre tentacle-like appendages sticking out from his head bubble. Aw, yeah, Eggman, no need to give him a proper body or anything like that, just give him hair tentacles, it'll be fiiine!

#nala reads archie sonic preboot #archie sonic #archie sonic preboot #sonic the hedgehog #sth 184 #writer: ian flynn #pencils: tracy yardley #colors: jason jensen #colors: aimee r ray #colors: joshua d ray

19 notes · View notes

aboveallarescuer · 4 years

Text

Dany’s problems and actions in her conquest of the three cities

As I was rereading ASOIAF, I made it my goal to compile all* the book passages demonstrating either certain key attributes of Daenerys Targaryen (e.g. that she's compassionate and empathetic) or aspects of hers that are usually overblown (e.g. that she's violent and ambitious). Doing such a task may seem exaggerated, but I'd argue it's not, for many, many misconceptions about Dany have become widespread in light of the show's final season's events (and even before).

It must be acknowledged that it can be tricky to reference, say, ADWD passages to counter-argument how she was depicted in season eight (which allegedly follows ADOS events). Dany will have had plenty of character development in the span of two books. However, whatever happens to Dany in the next two books, I would argue that there is more than enough material to conclude that her show counterpart was made to fall for flaws that she (for the most part) never had and actions that she (for the most part) would never take.

Another objection to the purpose of these lists is that Game of Thrones is different from A Song of Ice and Fire and should be analyzed on its own, which is a fair point. However, the show is also an adaptation of these books, which begs the questions: why did they change Dany's character? Why did they overfocus on negative traits of hers or depicted them as negative when they weren't supposed to be or gave her negative traits that were never hers to begin with? Another fact that undermines the show=/=books argument is that most people think that the show's ending will be the books', albeit only in broad strokes and in different circumstances. As a result, people's perception of Dany is inevitably influenced by the show, which is a shame.

I hope these lists can be useful for whoever wants to find book passages to defend Dany's character in analysis or even conversations.

*Well, at least all the passages that I could find.

Also, people may interpret certain passages differently and then come up with a different collection of passages, so I'm not arguing that this list is completely objective (nor that there could ever be one).

Also, some passages have been cut short according to whether they were, IMO, relevant to the specific topic of the list they're in, so the context surrounding them may not always be clear (always read the books!). Many of them appear in different lists, sometimes fully cited, sometimes not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To justify the existence of this list ... Well, look at the examples of this other list. They justify this one too, lol.

NOTE: This list was tricky to make compared to this one or this one. Originally, it was going to be divided into a list about the problems Dany is facing and another about the actions she took to solve them. However, unlike in ADWD, it is not as clear-and-cut in ASOS.

Take, for example, ASOS Dany II, when Dany arrives in Astapor and negotiates with Kraznys the purchase of the Unsullied. It is easy to say that that's what she did, but there is no single passage that sums it up. Instead, there are lots of descriptions about the Plaza of Pride and exposition about Old Ghis and the Unsullied's training, with the latter being key to understanding why Dany decides to rebel. What do I add? I decided that more is better than less in this particular case.

ASOS Dany IV also informs a lot through dialogue - the assessment of Yunkai's military forces, Dany's meetings with the sellsword captains, Dany's military plan - and so it would be hard to parse out the problem itself from the solution she takes.

I did manage to separate Dany's problems and actions from the advice she receives, though that often overlaps as well.

This is a long-winded way of saying that this list will be bigger than it should for only covering six chapters.

Dany’s problems and the actions she took

ASOS Daenerys I

“These are Illyrio’s ships, Illyrio’s captains, Illyrio’s sailors ... and Strong Belwas and Arstan are his men as well, not yours.”

“Magister Illyrio has protected me in the past. Strong Belwas says that he wept when he heard my brother was dead.”

“Yes,” said Mormont, “but did he weep for Viserys, or for the plans he had made with him?”

“His plans need not change. Magister Illyrio is a friend to House Targaryen, and wealthy ...”

“He was not born wealthy. In the world as I have seen it, no man grows rich by kindness. The warlocks said the second treason would be for gold. What does Illyrio Mopatis love more than gold?”

“His skin.” Across the cabin Drogon stirred restlessly, steam rising from his snout. “Mirri Maz Duur betrayed me. I burned her for it.”

“Mirri Maz Duur was in your power. In Pentos, you shall be in Illyrio’s power. It is not the same. I know the magister as well as you. He is a devious man, and clever—”

“I need clever men about me if I am to win the Iron Throne.”

Ser Jorah snorted. “That wineseller who tried to poison you was a clever man as well. Clever men hatch ambitious schemes.”

Dany drew her legs up beneath the blanket. “You will protect me. You, and my bloodriders.”

“Four men? Khaleesi, you believe you know Illyrio Mopatis, very well. Yet you insist on surrounding yourself with men you do not know, like this puffed-up eunuch and the world’s oldest squire. Take a lesson from Pyat Pree and Xaro Xhoan Daxos.”

He means well, Dany reminded herself. He does all he does for love. “It seems to me that a queen who trusts no one is as foolish as a queen who trusts everyone. Every man I take into my service is a risk, I understand that, but how am I to win the Seven Kingdoms without such risks? Am I to conquer Westeros with one exile knight and three Dothraki bloodriders?”

His jaw set stubbornly. “Your path is dangerous, I will not deny that. But if you blindly trust in every liar and schemer who crosses it, you will end as your brothers did.”

His obstinacy made her angry. He treats me like some child. “Strong Belwas could not scheme his way to breakfast. And what lies has Arstan Whitebeard told me?”

“He is not what he pretends to be. He speaks to you more boldly than any squire would dare.”

“He spoke frankly at my command. He knew my brother.”

“A great many men knew your brother. Your Grace, in Westeros the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard sits on the small council, and serves the king with his wits as well as his steel. If I am the first of your Queensguard, I pray you, hear me out. I have a plan to put to you.”

“What plan? Tell me.” 

“Illyrio Mopatis wants you back in Pentos, under his roof. Very well, go to him ... but in your own time, and not alone. Let us see how loyal and obedient these new subjects of yours truly are. Command Groleo to change course for Slaver’s Bay.”

Dany was not certain she liked the sound of that at all. Everything she’d ever heard of the flesh marts in the great slave cities of Yunkai, Meereen, and Astapor was dire and frightening. “What is there for me in Slaver’s Bay?”

“An army,” said Ser Jorah. “If Strong Belwas is so much to your liking you can buy hundreds more like him out of the fighting pits of Meereen ... but it is Astapor I’d set my sails for. In Astapor you can buy Unsullied.”

“The slaves in the spiked bronze hats?” Dany had seen Unsullied guards in the Free Cities, posted at the gates of magisters, archons, and dynasts. “Why should I want Unsullied? They don’t even ride horses, and most of them are fat.”

“The Unsullied you may have seen in Pentos and Myr were household guards. That’s soft service, and eunuchs tend to plumpness in any case. Food is the only vice allowed them. To judge all Unsullied by a few old household slaves is like judging all squires by Arstan Whitebeard, Your Grace. Do you know the tale of the Three Thousand of Qohor?”

“No.” The coverlet slipped off Dany’s shoulder, and she tugged it back into place.

“It was four hundred years ago or more, when the Dothraki first rode out of the east, sacking and burning every town and city in their path. The khal who led them was named Temmo. His khalasar was not so big as Drogo’s, but it was big enough. Fifty thousand, at the least. Half of them braided warriors with bells ringing in their hair.

“The Qohorik knew he was coming. They strengthened their walls, doubled the size of their own guard, and hired two free companies besides, the Bright Banners and the Second Sons. And almost as an afterthought, they sent a man to Astapor to buy three thousand Unsullied. It was a long march back to Qohor, however, and as they approached they saw the smoke and dust and heard the distant din of battle.

“By the time the Unsullied reached the city the sun had set. Crows and wolves were feasting beneath the walls on what remained of the Qohorik heavy horse. The Bright Banners and Second Sons had fled, as sellswords are wont to do in the face of hopeless odds. With dark falling, the Dothraki had retired to their own camps to drink and dance and feast, but none doubted that they would return on the morrow to smash the city gates, storm the walls, and rape, loot, and slave as they pleased.

“But when dawn broke and Temmo and his bloodriders led their khalasar out of camp, they found three thousand Unsullied drawn up before the gates with the Black Goat standard flying over their heads. So small a force could easily have been flanked, but you know Dothraki. These were men on foot, and men on foot are fit only to be ridden down.

“The Dothraki charged. The Unsullied locked their shields, lowered their spears, and stood firm. Against twenty thousand screamers with bells in their hair, they stood firm.

“Eighteen times the Dothraki charged, and broke themselves on those shields and spears like waves on a rocky shore. Thrice Temmo sent his archers wheeling past and arrows fell like rain upon the Three Thousand, but the Unsullied merely lifted their shields above their heads until the squall had passed. In the end only six hundred of them remained ... but more than twelve thousand Dothraki lay dead upon that field, including Khal Temmo, his bloodriders, his kos, and all his sons. On the morning of the fourth day, the new khal led the survivors past the city gates in a stately procession. One by one, each man cut off his braid and threw it down before the feet of the Three Thousand.

“Since that day, the city guard of Qohor has been made up solely of Unsullied, every one of whom carries a tall spear from which hangs a braid of human hair.

“That is what you will find in Astapor, Your Grace. Put ashore there, and continue on to Pentos overland. It will take longer, yes ... but when you break bread with Magister Illyrio, you will have a thousand swords behind you, not just four.”

There is wisdom in this, yes, Dany thought, but ... “How am I to buy a thousand slave soldiers? All I have of value is the crown the Tourmaline Brotherhood gave me.”

“Dragons will be as great a wonder in Astapor as they were in Qarth. It may be that the slavers will shower you with gifts, as the Qartheen did. If not ... these ships carry more than your Dothraki and their horses. They took on trade goods at Qarth, I’ve been through the holds and seen for myself. Bolts of silk and bales of tiger skin, amber and jade carvings, saffron, myrrh ... slaves are cheap, Your Grace. Tiger skins are costly.”

“Those are Illyrio’s tiger skins,” she objected. “And Illyrio is a friend to House Targaryen.” “All the more reason not to steal his goods.” “What use are wealthy friends if they will not put their wealth at your disposal, my queen? If Magister Illyrio would deny you, he is only Xaro Xhoan Daxos with four chins. And if he is sincere in his devotion to your cause, he will not begrudge you three shiploads of trade goods. What better use for his tiger skins than to buy you the beginnings of an army?”

That’s true. Dany felt a rising excitement. “There will be dangers on such a long march ...”

“There are dangers at sea as well. Corsairs and pirates hunt the southern route, and north of Valyria the Smoking Sea is demon- haunted. The next storm could sink or scatter us, a kraken could pull us under ... or we might find ourselves becalmed again, and die of thirst as we wait for the wind to rise. A march will have different dangers, my queen, but none greater.”

“What if Captain Groleo refuses to change course, though? And Arstan, Strong Belwas, what will they do?”

Ser Jorah stood. “Perhaps it’s time you found that out.”

“Yes,” she decided. “I’ll do it!”

ASOS Daenerys II

“Tell the Westerosi whore to lower her eyes,” the slaver Kraznys mo Nakloz complained to the slave girl who spoke for him. “I deal in meat, not metal. The bronze is not for sale. Tell her to look at the soldiers. Even the dim purple eyes of a sunset savage can see how magnificent my creatures are, surely.”

Kraznys’s High Valyrian was twisted and thickened by the characteristic growl of Ghis, and flavored here and there with words of slaver argot. Dany understood him well enough, but she smiled and looked blankly at the slave girl, as if wondering what he might have said.

‘The Good Master Kraznys asks, are they not magnificent?” The girl spoke the Common Tongue well, for one who had never been to Westeros. No older than ten, she had the round flat face, dusky skin, and golden eyes of Naath. The Peaceful People, her folk were called. All agreed that they made the best slaves.

“They might be adequate to my needs,” Dany answered. It had been Ser Jorah’s suggestion that she speak only Dothraki and the Common Tongue while in Astapor. My bear is more clever than he looks. “Tell me of their training.”

“The Westerosi woman is pleased with them, but speaks no praise, to keep the price down,” the translator told her master. “She wishes to know how they were trained.”

Kraznys mo Nakloz bobbed his head. He smelled as if he’d bathed in raspberries, this slaver, and his jutting red-black beard glistened with oil. He has larger breasts than I do, Dany reflected. She could see them through the thin sea-green silk of the gold- fringed tokar he wound about his body and over one shoulder. His left hand held the tokar in place as he walked, while his right clasped a short leather whip. “Are all Westerosi pigs so ignorant?” he complained. “All the world knows that the Unsullied are masters of spear and shield and shortsword.” He gave Dany a broad smile. “Tell her what she would know, slave, and be quick about it. The day is hot.”

That much at least is no lie. A matched pair of slave girls stood behind them, holding a striped silk awning over their heads, but even in the shade Dany felt light-headed, and Kraznys was perspiring freely. The Plaza of Pride had been baking in the sun since dawn. Even through the thickness of her sandals, she could feel the warmth of the red bricks underfoot. Waves of heat rose off them shimmering to make the stepped pyramids of Astapor around the plaza seem half a dream.

If the Unsullied felt the heat, however, they gave no hint of it. They could be made of brick themselves, the way they stand there. A thousand had been marched out of their barracks for her inspection; drawn up in ten ranks of one hundred before the fountain and its great bronze harpy, they stood stiffly at attention, their stony eyes fixed straight ahead. They wore nought but white linen clouts knotted about their loins, and conical bronze helms topped with a sharpened spike a foot tall. Kraznys had commanded them to lay down their spears and shields, and doff their swordbelts and quilted tunics, so the Queen of Westeros might better inspect the lean hardness of their bodies.

“They are chosen young, for size and speed and strength,” the slave told her. “They begin their training at five. Every day they train from dawn to dusk, until they have mastered the shortsword, the shield, and the three spears. The training is most rigorous, Your Grace. Only one boy in three survives it. This is well known. Among the Unsullied it is said that on the day they win their spiked cap, the worst is done with, for no duty that will ever fall to them could be as hard as their training.”

Kraznys mo Nakloz supposedly spoke no word of the Common Tongue, but he bobbed his head as he listened, and from time to time gave the slave girl a poke with the end of his lash. “Tell her that these have been standing here for a day and a night, with no food nor water. Tell her that they will stand until they drop if I should command it, and when nine hundred and ninety-nine have collapsed to die upon the bricks, the last will stand there still, and never move until his own death claims him. Such is their courage. Tell her that.”

“I call that madness, not courage,” said Arstan Whitebeard, when the solemn little scribe was done. He tapped the end of his hardwood staff against the bricks, tap tap, as if to tell his displeasure. The old man had not wanted to sail to Astapor; nor did he favor buying this slave army. A queen should hear all sides before reaching a decision. That was why Dany had brought him with her to the Plaza of Pride, not to keep her safe. Her bloodriders would do that well enough. Ser Jorah Mormont she had left aboard Balerion to guard her people and her dragons. Much against her inclination, she had locked the dragons belowdecks. It was too dangerous to let them fly freely over the city; the world was all too full of men who would gladly kill them for no better reason than to name themselves dragonslayer.

“What did the smelly old man say?” the slaver demanded of his translator. When she told him, he smiled and said, “Inform the savages that we call this obedience. Others may be stronger or quicker or larger than the Unsullied. Some few may even equal their skill with sword and spear and shield. But nowhere between the seas will you ever find any more obedient.”

“Sheep are obedient,” said Arstan when the words had been translated. He had some Valyrian as well, though not so much as Dany, but like her he was feigning ignorance.

Kraznys mo Nakloz showed his big white teeth when that was rendered back to him. “A word from me and these sheep would spill his stinking old bowels on the bricks,” he said, “but do not say that. Tell them that these creatures are more dogs than sheep. Do they eat dogs or horse in these Seven Kingdoms?”

“They prefer pigs and cows, your worship.”

“Beef. Pfag. Food for unwashed savages.”

Ignoring them all, Dany walked slowly down the line of slave soldiers. The girls followed close behind with the silk awning, to keep her in the shade, but the thousand men before her enjoyed no such protection. More than half had the copper skins and almond eyes of Dothraki and Lhazerene, but she saw men of the Free Cities in the ranks as well, along with pale Qartheen, ebon-faced Summer Islanders, and others whose origins she could not guess. And some had skins of the same amber hue as Kraznys mo Nakloz, and the bristly red-black hair that marked the ancient folk of Ghis, who named themselves the harpy’s sons. They sell even their own kind. It should not have surprised her. The Dothraki did the same, when khalasar met khalasar in the sea of grass.

Some of the soldiers were tall and some were short. They ranged in age from fourteen to twenty, she judged. Their cheeks were smooth, and their eyes all the same, be they black or brown or blue or grey or amber. They are like one man, Dany thought, until she remembered that they were no men at all. The Unsullied were eunuchs, every one of them. “Why do you cut them?” she asked Kraznys through the slave girl. “Whole men are stronger than eunuchs, I have always heard.”

“A eunuch who is cut young will never have the brute strength of one of your Westerosi knights, this is true,” said Kraznys mo Nakloz when the question was put to him. “A bull is strong as well, but bulls die every day in the fighting pits. A girl of nine killed one not three days past in Jothiel’s Pit. The Unsullied have something better than strength, tell her. They have discipline. We fight in the fashion of the Old Empire, yes. They are the lockstep legions of Old Ghis come again, absolutely obedient, absolutely loyal, and utterly without fear.”

Dany listened patiently to the translation. “Even the bravest men fear death and maiming,” Arstan said when the girl was done.

Kraznys smiled again when he heard that. “Tell the old man that he smells of piss, and needs a stick to hold him up.”

“Truly, your worship?”

He poked her with his lash. “No, not truly, are you a girl or a goat, to ask such folly? Say that Unsullied are not men. Say that death means nothing to them, and maiming less than nothing.” He stopped before a thickset man who had the look of Lhazar about him and brought his whip up sharply, laying a line of blood across one copper cheek. The eunuch blinked, and stood there, bleeding. “Would you like another?” asked Kraznys.

“If it please your worship.”

It was hard to pretend not to understand. Dany laid a hand on Kraznys’s arm before he could raise the whip again. “Tell the Good Master that I see how strong his Unsullied are, and how bravely they suffer pain.”

Kraznys chuckled when he heard her words in Valyrian. “Tell this ignorant whore of a westerner that courage has nothing to do with it.”

“The Good Master says that was not courage, Your Grace.”

“Tell her to open those slut’s eyes of hers.” “He begs you attend this carefully, Your Grace.”

Kraznys moved to the next eunuch in line, a towering youth with the blue eyes and flaxen hair of Lys. “Your sword,” he said. The eunuch knelt, unsheathed the blade, and offered it up hilt first. It was a shortsword, made more for stabbing than for slashing, but the edge looked razor-sharp. “Stand,” Kraznys commanded.

“Your worship.” The eunuch stood, and Kraznys mo Nakloz slid the sword slowly up his torso, leaving a thin red line across his belly and between his ribs. Then he jabbed the swordpoint in beneath a wide pink nipple and began to work it back and forth.

“What is he doing?” Dany demanded of the girl, as the blood ran down the man’s chest.

“Tell the cow to stop her bleating,” said Kraznys, without waiting for the translation. “This will do him no great harm. Men have no need of nipples, eunuchs even less so.” The nipple hung by a thread of skin. He slashed, and sent it tumbling to the bricks, leaving behind a round red eye copiously weeping blood. The eunuch did not move, until Kraznys offered him back his sword, hilt first. “Here, I’m done with you.”

“This one is pleased to have served you.”

Kraznys turned back to Dany. “They feel no pain, you see.”

“How can that be?” she demanded through the scribe.

“The wine of courage,” was the answer he gave her. “It is no true wine at all, but made from deadly nightshade, bloodfly larva, black lotus root, and many secret things. They drink it with every meal from the day they are cut, and with each passing year feel less and less. It makes them fearless in battle. Nor can they be tortured. Tell the savage her secrets are safe with the Unsullied. She may set them to guard her councils and even her bedchamber, and never a worry as to what they might overhear.

“In Yunkai and Meereen, eunuchs are often made by removing a boy’s testicles, but leaving the penis. Such a creature is infertile, yet often still capable of erection. Only trouble can come of this. We remove the penis as well, leaving nothing. The Unsullied are the purest creatures on the earth.” He gave Dany and Arstan another of his broad white smiles. “I have heard that in the Sunset Kingdoms men take solemn vows to keep chaste and father no children, but live only for their duty. Is it not so?”

“It is,” Arstan said, when the question was put. “There are many such orders. The maesters of the Citadel, the septons and septas who serve the Seven, the silent sisters of the dead, the Kingsguard and the Night’s Watch ...”

“Poor things,” growled the slaver, after the translation. “Men were not made to live thus. Their days are a torment of temptation, any fool must see, and no doubt most succumb to their baser selves. Not so our Unsullied. They are wed to their swords in a way that your Sworn Brothers cannot hope to match. No woman can ever tempt them, nor any man.”

His girl conveyed the essence of his speech, more politely. “There are other ways to tempt men, besides the flesh,” Arstan Whitebeard objected, when she was done.

“Men, yes, but not Unsullied. Plunder interests them no more than rape. They own nothing but their weapons. We do not even permit them names.”

“No names?” Dany frowned at the little scribe. “Can that be what the Good Master said? They have no names?”

“It is so, Your Grace.”

Kraznys stopped in front of a Ghiscari who might have been his taller fitter brother, and flicked his lash at a small bronze disk on the swordbelt at his feet. “There is his name. Ask the whore of Westeros whether she can read Ghiscari glyphs.” When Dany admitted that she could not, the slaver turned to the Unsullied. “What is your name?” he demanded.

“This one’s name is Red Flea, your worship.”

The girl repeated their exchange in the Common Tongue. “And yesterday, what was it?”

“Black Rat, your worship.”

“The day before?”

“Brown Flea, your worship.”

“Before that?”

“This one does not recall, your worship. Blue Toad, perhaps. Or Blue Worm.”

“Tell her all their names are such,” Kraznys commanded the girl. “It reminds them that by themselves they are vermin. The name disks are thrown in an empty cask at duty’s end, and each dawn plucked up again at random.”

“More madness,” said Arstan, when he heard. “How can any man possibly remember a new name every day?”

“Those who cannot are culled in training, along with those who cannot run all day in full pack, scale a mountain in the black of night, walk across a bed of coals, or slay an infant.”

Dany’s mouth surely twisted at that. Did he see, or is he blind as well as cruel? She turned away quickly, trying to keep her face a mask until she heard the translation. Only then did she allow herself to say, “Whose infants do they slay?”

“To win his spiked cap, an Unsullied must go to the slave marts with a silver mark, find some wailing newborn, and kill it before its mother’s eyes. In this way, we make certain that there is no weakness left in them.”

She was feeling faint. The heat, she tried to tell herself. “You take a babe from its mother’s arms, kill it as she watches, and pay for her pain with a silver coin?”

When the translation was made for him, Kraznys mo Nakloz laughed aloud. “What a soft mewling fool this one is. Tell the whore of Westeros that the mark is for the child’s owner, not the mother. The Unsullied are not permitted to steal.” He tapped his whip against his leg. “Tell her that few ever fail that test. The dogs are harder for them, it must be said. We give each boy a puppy on the day that he is cut. At the end of the first year, he is required to strangle it. Any who cannot are killed, and fed to the surviving dogs. It makes for a good strong lesson, we find.”

Arstan Whitebeard tapped the end of his staff on the bricks as he listened to that. Tap tap tap. Slow and steady. Tap tap tap. Dany saw him turn his eyes away, as if he could not bear to look at Kraznys any longer.

“The Good Master has said that these eunuchs cannot be tempted with coin or flesh,” Dany told the girl, “but if some enemy of mine should offer them freedom for betraying me ...”

“They would kill him out of hand and bring her his head, tell her that,” the slaver answered. “Other slaves may steal and hoard up silver in hopes of buying freedom, but an Unsullied would not take it if the little mare offered it as a gift. They have no life outside their duty. They are soldiers, and that is all.”

“It is soldiers I need,” Dany admitted.

“Tell her it is well she came to Astapor, then. Ask her how large an army she wishes to buy.”

“How many Unsullied do you have to sell?”

“Eight thousand fully trained and available at present. We sell them only by the unit, she should know. By the thousand or the century. Once we sold by the ten, as household guards, but that proved unsound. Ten is too few. They mingle with other slaves, even freemen, and forget who and what they are.” Kraznys waited for that to be rendered in the Common Tongue, and then continued. “This beggar queen must understand, such wonders do not come cheaply. In Yunkai and Meereen, slave swordsmen can be had for less than the price of their swords, but Unsullied are the finest foot in all the world, and each represents many years of training. Tell her they are like Valyrian steel, folded over and over and hammered for years on end, until they are stronger and more resilient than any metal on earth.”

“I know of Valyrian steel,” said Dany. “Ask the Good Master if the Unsullied have their own officers.”

“You must set your own officers over them. We train them to obey, not to think. If it is wits she wants, let her buy scribes.”

“And their gear?”

“Sword, shield, spear, sandals, and quilted tunic are included,” said Kraznys. “And the spiked caps, to be sure. They will wear such armor as you wish, but you must provide it.”

Dany could think of no other questions. She looked at Arstan. “You have lived long in the world, Whitebeard. Now that you have seen them, what do you say?”

“I say no, Your Grace,” the old man answered at once. 

“Why?” she asked. “Speak freely.” Dany thought she knew what he would say, but she wanted the slave girl to hear, so Kraznys mo Nakloz might hear later.

“My queen,” said Arstan, “there have been no slaves in the Seven Kingdoms for thousands of years. The old gods and the new alike hold slavery to be an abomination. Evil. If you should land in Westeros at the head of a slave army, many good men will oppose you for no other reason than that. You will do great harm to your cause, and to the honor of your House.”

“Yet I must have some army,” Dany said. “The boy Joffrey will not give me the Iron Throne for asking politely.”

“When the day comes that you raise your banners, half of Westeros will be with you,” Whitebeard promised. “Your brother Rhaegar is still remembered, with great love.”

“And my father?” Dany said.

The old man hesitated before saying, “King Aerys is also remembered. He gave the realm many years of peace. Your Grace, you have no need of slaves. Magister Illyrio can keep you safe while your dragons grow, and send secret envoys across the narrow sea on your behalf, to sound out the high lords for your cause.”

“Those same high lords who abandoned my father to the Kingslayer and bent the knee to Robert the Usurper?”

“Even those who bent their knees may yearn in their hearts for the return of the dragons.”

“May,” said Dany. That was such a slippery word, may. In any language. She turned back to Kraznys mo Nakloz and his slave girl. “I must consider carefully.”

The slaver shrugged. “Tell her to consider quickly. There are many other buyers. Only three days past I showed these same Unsullied to a corsair king who hopes to buy them all.”

“The corsair wanted only a hundred, your worship,” Dany heard the slave girl say.

He poked her with the end of the whip. “Corsairs are all liars. He’ll buy them all. Tell her that, girl.”

Dany knew she would take more than a hundred, if she took any at all. “Remind your Good Master of who I am. Remind him that I am Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of Dragons, the Unburnt, trueborn queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. My blood is the blood of Aegon the Conqueror, and of old Valyria before him.”

Yet her words did not move the plump perfumed slaver, even when rendered in his own ugly tongue. “Old Ghis ruled an empire when the Valyrians were still fucking sheep,” he growled at the poor little scribe, “and we are the sons of the harpy.” He gave a shrug. “My tongue is wasted wagging at women. East or west, it makes no matter, they cannot decide until they have been pampered and flattered and stuffed with sweetmeats. Well, if this is my fate, so be it. Tell the whore that if she requires a guide to our sweet city, Kraznys mo Nakloz will gladly serve her ... and service her as well, if she is more woman than she looks.”

“Good Master Kraznys would be most pleased to show you Astapor while you ponder, Your Grace,” the translator said.

“I will feed her jellied dog brains, and a fine rich stew of red octopus and unborn puppy.” He wiped his lips.

“Many delicious dishes can be had here, he says.”

“Tell her how pretty the pyramids are at night,” the slaver growled. “Tell her I will lick honey off her breasts, or allow her to lick honey off mine if she prefers.”

“Astapor is most beautiful at dusk, Your Grace,” said the slave girl. “The Good Masters light silk lanterns on every terrace, so all the pyramids glow with colored lights. Pleasure barges ply the Worm, playing soft music and calling at the little islands for food and wine and other delights.”

“Ask her if she wishes to view our fighting pits,” Kraznys added. “Douquor’s Pit has a fine folly scheduled for the evening. A bear and three small boys. One boy will be rolled in honey, one in blood, and one in rotting fish, and she may wager on which the bear will eat first.”

Tap tap tap, Dany heard. Arstan Whitebeard’s face was still, but his staff beat out his rage. Tap tap tap. She made herself smile. “I have my own bear on Balerion,” she told the translator, “and he may well eat me if I do not return to him.”

“See,” said Kraznys when her words were translated. “It is not the woman who decides, it is this man she runs to. As ever!”

“Thank the Good Master for his patient kindness,” Dany said, “and tell him that I will think on all I learned here.” She gave her arm to Arstan Whitebeard, to lead her back across the plaza to her litter. Aggo and Jhogo fell in to either side of them, walking with the bowlegged swagger all the horselords affected when forced to dismount and stride the earth like common mortals.

Dany climbed into her litter frowning, and beckoned Arstan to climb in beside her. A man as old as him should not be walking in such heat. She did not close the curtains as they got under way. With the sun beating down so fiercely on this city of red brick, every stray breeze was to be cherished, even if it did come with a swirl of fine red dust. Besides, I need to see.

Astapor was a queer city, even to the eyes of one who had walked within the House of Dust and bathed in the Womb of the World beneath the Mother of Mountains. All the streets were made of the same red brick that had paved the plaza. So too were the stepped pyramids, the deep-dug fighting pits with their rings of descending seats, the sulfurous fountains and gloomy wine caves, and the ancient walls that encircled them. So many bricks, she thought, and so old and crumbling. Their fine red dust was everywhere, dancing down the gutters at each gust of wind. Small wonder so many Astapori women veiled their faces; the brick dust stung the eyes worse than sand.

“Make way!” Jhogo shouted as he rode before her litter. “Make way for the Mother of Dragons!” But when he uncoiled the great silverhandled whip that Dany had given him, and made to crack it in the air, she leaned out and told him nay. “Not in this place, blood of my blood,” she said, in his own tongue. “These bricks have heard too much of the sound of whips.”

The streets had been largely deserted when they had set out from the port that morning, and scarcely seemed more crowded now. An elephant lumbered past with a latticework litter on its back. A naked boy with peeling skin sat in a dry brick gutter, picking his nose and staring sullenly at some ants in the street. He lifted his head at the sound of hooves, and gaped as a column of mounted guards trotted by in a cloud of red dust and brittle laughter. The copper disks sewn to their cloaks of yellow silk glittered like so many suns, but their tunics were embroidered linen, and below the waist they wore sandals and pleated linen skirts. Bareheaded, each man had teased and oiled and twisted his stiff red- black hair into some fantastic shape, horns and wings and blades and even grasping hands, so they looked like some troupe of demons escaped from the seventh hell. The naked boy watched them for a bit, along with Dany, but soon enough they were gone, and he went back to his ants, and a knuckle up his nose.

An old city, this, she reflected, but not so populous as it was in its glory, nor near so crowded as Qarth or Pentos or Lys.

Her litter came to a sudden halt at the cross street, to allow a coffle of slaves to shuffle across her path, urged along by the crack of an overseer’s lash. These were no Unsullied, Dany noted, but a more common sort of men, with pale brown skins and black hair. There were women among them, but no children. All were naked. Two Astapori rode behind them on white asses, a man in a red silk tokar and a veiled woman in sheer blue linen decorated with flakes of lapis lazuli. In her red-black hair she wore an ivory comb. The man laughed as he whispered to her, paying no more mind to Dany than to his slaves, nor the overseer with his twisted five-thonged lash, a squat broad Dothraki who had the harpy and chains tattooed proudly across his muscular chest.

[...]Aggo helped Dany down from her litter. Strong Belwas was seated on a massive piling, eating a great haunch of brown roasted meat. “Dog,” he said happily when he saw Dany. “Good dog in Astapor, little queen. Eat?” He offered it with a greasy grin.

“That is kind of you, Belwas, but no.” Dany had eaten dog in other places, at other times, but just now all she could think of was the Unsullied and their stupid puppies. She swept past the huge eunuch and up the plank onto the deck of Balerion.

Ser Jorah Mormont stood waiting for her. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing his head. “The slavers have come and gone. Three of them, with a dozen scribes and as many slaves to lift and fetch. They crawled over every foot of our holds and made note of all we had.” He walked her aft. “How many men do they have for sale?”

“None.” Was it Mormont she was angry with, or this city with its sullen heat, its stinks and sweats and crumbling bricks? “They sell eunuchs, not men. Eunuchs made of brick, like the rest of Astapor. Shall I buy eight thousand brick eunuchs with dead eyes that never move, who kill suckling babes for the sake of a spiked hat and strangle their own dogs? They don’t even have names. So don’t call them men, ser.”

“Khaleesi,” he said, taken aback by her fury, “the Unsullied are chosen as boys, and trained—”

“I have heard all I care to of their training.” Dany could feel tears welling in her eyes, sudden and unwanted. Her hand flashed up and cracked Ser Jorah hard across the face. It was either that, or cry.

Mormont touched the cheek she’d slapped. “If I have displeased my queen—”

“You have. You’ve displeased me greatly, ser. If you were my true knight, you would never have brought me to this vile sty.” If you were my true knight, you would never have kissed me, or looked at my breasts the way you did, or ...

“As Your Grace commands. I shall tell Captain Groleo to make ready to sail on the evening tide, for some sty less vile.”

“No,” said Dany. Groleo watched them from the forecastle, and his crew was watching too. Whitebeard, her bloodriders, Jhiqui, every one had stopped what they were doing at the sound of the slap. “I want to sail now, not on the tide, I want to sail far and fast and never look back. But I can’t, can I? There are eight thousand brick eunuchs for sale, and I must find some way to buy them.” And with that she left him, and went below.

[...] Dusk had begun to settle over the waters of Slaver’s Bay before Dany returned to the deck. She stood by the rail and looked out over Astapor. From here it looks almost beautiful, she thought. The stars were coming out above, and the silk lanterns below, just as Kraznys’s translator had promised. The brick pyramids were all glimmery with light. But it is dark below, in the streets and plazas and fighting pits. And it is darkest of all in the barracks, where some little boy is feeding scraps to the puppy they gave him when they took away his manhood.

There was a soft step behind her. “Khaleesi.” His voice. “Might I speak frankly?”

Dany did not turn. She could not bear to look at him just now. If she did, she might well slap him again. Or cry. Or kiss him. And never know which was right and which was wrong and which was madness. “Say what you will, ser.”

“When Aegon the Dragon stepped ashore in Westeros, the kings of Vale and Rock and Reach did not rush to hand him their crowns. If you mean to sit his Iron Throne, you must win it as he did, with steel and dragonfire. And that will mean blood on your hands before the thing is done.”

Blood and fire, thought Dany. The words of House Targaryen. She had known them all her life. “The blood of my enemies I will shed gladly. The blood of innocents is another matter. Eight thousand Unsullied they would offer me. Eight thousand dead babes. Eight thousand strangled dogs.”

“Your Grace,” said Jorah Mormont, “I saw King’s Landing after the Sack. Babes were butchered that day as well, and old men, and children at play. More women were raped than you can count. There is a savage beast in every man, and when you hand that man a sword or spear and send him forth to war, the beast stirs. The scent of blood is all it takes to wake him. Yet I have never heard of these Unsullied raping, nor putting a city to the sword, nor even plundering, save at the express command of those who lead them. Brick they may be, as you say, but if you buy them henceforth the only dogs they’ll kill are those you want dead. And you do have some dogs you want dead, as I recall.”

The Usurper’s dogs. “Yes.” Dany gazed off at the soft colored lights and let the cool salt breeze caress her. “You speak of sacking cities. Answer me this, ser—why have the Dothraki never sacked this city?” She pointed. “Look at the walls. You can see where they’ve begun to crumble. There, and there. Do you see any guards on those towers? I don’t. Are they hiding, ser? I saw these sons of the harpy today, all their proud highborn warriors. They dressed in linen skirts, and the fiercest thing about them was their hair. Even a modest khalasar could crack this Astapor like a nut and spill out the rotted meat inside. So tell me, why is that ugly harpy not sitting beside the godsway in Vaes Dothrak among the other stolen gods?”

“You have a dragon’s eye, Khaleesi, that’s plain to see.”

“I wanted an answer, not a compliment.”

“There are two reasons. Astapor’s brave defenders are so much chaff, it’s true. Old names and fat purses who dress up as Ghiscari scourges to pretend they still rule a vast empire. Every one is a high officer. On feastdays they fight mock wars in the pits to demonstrate what brilliant commanders they are, but it’s the eunuchs who do the dying. All the same, any enemy wanting to sack Astapor would have to know that they’d be facing Unsullied. The slavers would turn out the whole garrison in the city’s defense. The Dothraki have not ridden against Unsullied since they left their braids at the gates of Qohor.”

“And the second reason?” Dany asked.

“Who would attack Astapor?” Ser Jorah asked. “Meereen and Yunkai are rivals but not enemies, the Doom destroyed Valyria, the folk of the eastern hinterlands are all Ghiscari, and beyond the hills lies Lhazar. The Lamb Men, as your Dothraki call them, a notably unwarlike people.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “but north of the slave cities is the Dothraki sea, and two dozen mighty khals who like nothing more than sacking cities and carrying off their people into slavery.”

“Carrying them off where? What good are slaves once you’ve killed the slavers? Valyria is no more, Qarth lies beyond the red waste, and the Nine Free Cities are thousands of leagues to the west. And you may be sure the sons of the harpy give lavishly to every passing khal, just as the magisters do in Pentos and Norvos and Myr. They know that if they feast the horselords and give them gifts, they will soon ride on. It’s cheaper than fighting, and a deal more certain.”

Cheaper than fighting, Dany thought. Yes, it might be. If only it could be that easy for her. How pleasant it would be to sail to King’s Landing with her dragons, and pay the boy Joffrey a chest of gold to make him go away.

“Khaleesi?” Ser Jorah prompted, when she had been silent for a long time. He touched her elbow lightly.

Dany shrugged him off. “Viserys would have bought as many Unsullied as he had the coin for. But you once said I was like Rhaegar ...”

“I remember, Daenerys.”

“Your Grace,” she corrected. “Prince Rhaegar led free men into battle, not slaves. Whitebeard said he dubbed his squires himself, and made many other knights as well.”

“There was no higher honor than to receive your knighthood from the Prince of Dragonstone.”

“Tell me, then—when he touched a man on the shoulder with his sword, what did he say? ‘Go forth and kill the weak’? Or ‘Go forth and defend them’? At the Trident, those brave men Viserys spoke of who died beneath our dragon banners—did they give their lives because they believed in Rhaegar’s cause, or because they had been bought and paid for?” Dany turned to Mormont, crossed her arms, and waited for an answer.

“My queen,” the big man said slowly, “all you say is true. But Rhaegar lost on the Trident. He lost the battle, he lost the war, he lost the kingdom, and he lost his life. His blood swirled downriver with the rubies from his breastplate, and Robert the Usurper rode over his corpse to steal the Iron Throne. Rhaegar fought valiantly, Rhaegar fought nobly, Rhaegar fought honorably. And Rhaegar died.”

ASOS Daenerys III

“All?” The slave girl sounded wary. “Your Grace, did this one’s worthless ears mishear you?”

[...]“Your ears heard true,” said Dany. “I want to buy them all. Tell the Good Masters, if you will.”

She had chosen a Qartheen gown today. The deep violet silk brought out the purple of her eyes. The cut of it bared her left breast. While the Good Masters of Astapor conferred among themselves in low voices, Dany sipped tart persimmon wine from a tall silver flute. She could not quite make out all that they were saying, but she could hear the greed.

Each of the eight brokers was attended by two or three body slaves ... though one Grazdan, the eldest, had six. So as not to seem a beggar, Dany had brought her own attendants; Irri and Jhiqui in their sandsilk trousers and painted vests, old Whitebeard and mighty Belwas, her bloodriders. Ser Jorah stood behind her sweltering in his green surcoat with the black bear of Mormont embroidered upon it. The smell of his sweat was an earthy answer to the sweet perfumes that drenched the Astapori.

“All,” growled Kraznys mo Nakloz, who smelled of peaches today. The slave girl repeated the word in the Common Tongue of Westeros. “Of thousands, there are eight. Is this what she means by all? There are also six centuries, who shall be part of a ninth thousand when complete. Would she have them too?”

“I would,” said Dany when the question was put to her. “The eight thousands, the six centuries ... and the ones still in training as well. The ones who have not earned the spikes.”

Kraznys turned back to his fellows. Once again they conferred among themselves. The translator had told Dany their names, but it was hard to keep them straight. Four of the men seemed to be named Grazdan, presumably after Grazdan the Great who had founded Old Ghis in the dawn of days. They all looked alike; thick fleshy men with amber skin, broad noses, dark eyes. Their wiry hair was black, or a dark red, or that queer mixture of red and black that was peculiar to Ghiscari. All wrapped themselves in tokars, a garment permitted only to freeborn men of Astapor.

It was the fringe on the tokar that proclaimed a man’s status, Dany had been told by Captain Groleo. In this cool green room atop the pyramid, two of the slavers wore tokars fringed in silver, five had gold fringes, and one, the oldest Grazdan, displayed a fringe of fat white pearls that clacked together softly when he shifted in his seat or moved an arm.

“We cannot sell half-trained boys,” one of the silver-fringe Grazdans was saying to the others.

“We can, if her gold is good,” said a fatter man whose fringe was gold.

“They are not Unsullied. They have not killed their sucklings. If they fail in the field, they will shame us. And even if we cut five thousand raw boys tomorrow, it would be ten years before they are fit for sale. What would we tell the next buyer who comes seeking Unsullied?”

“We will tell him that he must wait,” said the fat man. “Gold in my purse is better than gold in my future.”

Dany let them argue, sipping the tart persimmon wine and trying to keep her face blank and ignorant. I will have them all, no matter the price, she told herself. The city had a hundred slave traders, but the eight before her were the greatest. When selling bed slaves, fieldhands, scribes, craftsmen, and tutors, these men were rivals, but their ancestors had allied one with the other for the purpose of making and selling the Unsullied. Brick and blood built Astapor, and brick and blood her people.

It was Kraznys who finally announced their decision. “Tell her that the eight thousands she shall have, if her gold proves sufficient. And the six centuries, if she wishes. Tell her to come back in a year, and we will sell her another two thousand.”

“In a year I shall be in Westeros,” said Dany when she had heard the translation. “My need is now. The Unsullied are well trained, but even so, many will fall in battle. I shall need the boys as replacements to take up the swords they drop.” She put her wine aside and leaned toward the slave girl. “Tell the Good Masters that I will want even the little ones who still have their puppies. Tell them that I will pay as much for the boy they cut yesterday as for an Unsullied in a spiked helm.”

The girl told them. The answer was still no. 

Dany frowned in annoyance. “Very well. Tell them I will pay double, so long as I get them all.” 

“Double?” The fat one in the gold fringe all but drooled.

“This little whore is a fool, truly,” said Khaznys mo Nakloz. “Ask her for triple, I say. She is desperate enough to pay. Ask for ten times the price of every slave, yes.”

The tall Grazdan with the spiked beard spoke in the Common Tongue, though not so well as the slave girl. “Your Grace,” he growled, “Westeros is being wealthy, yes, but you are not being queen now. Perhaps will never being queen. Even Unsullied may be losing battles to savage steel knights of Seven Kingdoms. I am reminding, the Good Masters of Astapor are not selling flesh for promisings. Are you having gold and trading goods sufficient to be paying for all these eunuchs you are wanting?”

“You know the answer to that better than I, Good Master,” Dany replied. “Your men have gone through my ships and tallied every bead of amber and jar of saffron. How much do I have?”

“Sufficient to be buying one of thousands,” the Good Master said, with a contemptuous smile. “Yet you are paying double, you are saying. Five centuries, then, is all you buy.”

“Your pretty crown might buy another century,” said the fat one in Valyrian. “Your crown of the three dragons.”

Dany waited for his words to be translated. “My crown is not for sale.” When Viserys sold their mother’s crown, the last joy had gone from him, leaving only rage. “Nor will I enslave my people, nor sell their goods and horses. But my ships you can have. The great cog Balerion and the galleys Vhagar and Meraxes.” She had warned Groleo and the other captains it might come to this, though they had protested the necessity of it furiously. “Three good ships should be worth more than a few paltry eunuchs.”

The fat Grazdan turned to the others. They conferred in low voices once again. “Two of the thousands,” the one with the spiked beard said when he turned back. “It is too much, but the Good Masters are being generous and your need is being great.”

Two thousand would never serve for what she meant to do. I must have them all. Dany knew what she must do now, though the taste of it was so bitter that even the persimmon wine could not cleanse it from her month. She had considered long and hard and found no other way. It is my only choice. “Give me all,” she said, “and you may have a dragon.”

There was the sound of indrawn breath from Jhiqui beside her. Kraznys smiled at his fellows. “Did I not tell you? Anything, she would give us.”

Whitebeard stared in shocked disbelief. His hand trembled where it grasped the staff. “No.” He went to one knee before her. “Your Grace, I beg you, win your throne with dragons, not slaves. You must not do this thing—”

“You must not presume to instruct me. Ser Jorah, remove Whitebeard from my presence.”

Mormont seized the old man roughly by an elbow, yanked him back to his feet, and marched him out onto the terrace.

“Tell the Good Masters I regret this interruption,” said Dany to the slave girl. “Tell them I await their answer.”

She knew the answer, though; she could see it in the glitter of their eyes and the smiles they tried so hard to hide. Astapor had thousands of eunuchs, and even more slave boys waiting to be cut, but there were only three living dragons in all the great wide world. And the Ghiscari lust for dragons. How could they not? Five times had Old Ghis contended with Valyria when the world was young, and five times gone down to bleak defeat. For the Freehold had dragons, and the Empire had none.

The oldest Grazdan stirred in his seat, and his pearls clacked together softly. “A dragon of our choice,” he said in a thin, hard voice. “The black one is largest and healthiest.”

“His name is Drogon.” She nodded.

“All your goods, save your crown and your queenly raiment, which we will allow you to keep. The three ships. And Drogon.”

“Done,” she said, in the Common Tongue. 

“Done,” the old Grazdan answered in his thick Valyrian.

The others echoed that old man of the pearl fringe. “Done,” the slave girl translated, “and done, and done, eight times done.”

“The Unsullied will learn your savage tongue quick enough,” added Kraznys mo Nakloz, when all the arrangements had been made, “but until such time you will need a slave to speak to them. Take this one as our gift to you, a token of a bargain well struck.”

“I shall,” said Dany.

The slave girl rendered his words to her, and hers to him. If she had feelings about being given for a token, she took care not to let them show.

Dany fed her dragons as she always did, but found she had no appetite herself. She cried awhile, alone in her cabin, then dried her tears long enough for yet another argument with Groleo. “Magister Illyrio is not here,” she finally had to tell him, “and if he was, he could not sway me either. I need the Unsullied more than I need these ships, and I will hear no more about it.”

The anger burned the grief and fear from her, for a few hours at the least. Afterward she called her bloodriders to her cabin, with Ser Jorah. They were the only ones she truly trusted.

The red brick streets of Astapor were almost crowded this morning. Slaves and servants lined the ways, while the slavers and their women donned their tokars to look down from their stepped pyramids. They are not so different from Qartheen after all, she thought. They want a glimpse of dragons to tell their children of, and their children’s children. It made her wonder how many of them would ever have children.

“Here they are.” He looked at Missandei. “Tell her they are hers ... if she can pay.”

“She can,” the girl said.

Ser Jorah barked a command, and the trade goods were brought forward. Six bales of tiger skins, three hundred bolts of fine silk. Jars of saffron, jars of myrrh, jars of pepper and curry and cardamom, an onyx mask, twelve jade monkeys, casks of ink in red and black and green, a box of rare black amethysts, a box of pearls, a cask of pitted olives stuffed with maggots, a dozen casks of pickled cave fish, a great brass gong and a hammer to beat it with, seventeen ivory eyes, and a huge chest full of books written in tongues that Dany could not read. And more, and more, and more. Her people stacked it all before the slavers.

While the payment was being made, Kraznys mo Nakloz favored her with a few final words on the handling of her troops. “They are green as yet,” he said through Missandei. “Tell the whore of Westeros she would be wise to blood them early. There are many small cities between here and there, cities ripe for sacking. Whatever plunder she takes will be hers alone. Unsullied have no lust for gold or gems. And should she take captives, a few guards will suffice to march them back to Astapor. We’ll buy the healthy ones, and for a good price. And who knows? In ten years, some of the boys she sends us may be Unsullied in their turn. Thus all shall prosper.”

Finally there were no more trade goods to add to the pile. Her Dothraki mounted their horses once more, and Dany said, “This was all we could carry. The rest awaits you on the ships, a great quantity of amber and wine and black rice. And you have the ships themselves. So all that remains is ...”

“ ... the dragon,” finished the Grazdan with the spiked beard, who spoke the Common Tongue so thickly.

“And here he waits.” Ser Jorah and Belwas walked beside her to the litter, where Drogon and his brothers lay basking in the sun. Jhiqui unfastened one end of the chain, and handed it down to her. When she gave a yank, the black dragon raised his head, hissing, and unfolded wings of night and scarlet. Kraznys mo Nakloz smiled broadly as their shadow fell across him.

Dany handed the slaver the end of Drogon’s chain. In return he presented her with the whip. The handle was black dragonbone, elaborately carved and inlaid with gold. Nine long thin leather lashes trailed from it, each one tipped by a gilded claw. The gold pommel was a woman’s head, with pointed ivory teeth. “The harpy’s fingers,” Kraznys named the scourge.

Dany turned the whip in her hand. Such a light thing, to bear such weight. “Is it done, then? Do they belong to me?”

“It is done,” he agreed, giving the chain a sharp pull to bring Drogon down from the litter.

Dany mounted her silver. She could feel her heart thumping in her chest. She felt desperately afraid. Was this what my brother would have done? She wondered if Prince Rhaegar had been this anxious when he saw the Usurper’s host formed up across the Trident with all their banners floating on the wind.

She stood in her stirrups and raised the harpy’s fingers above her head for all the Unsullied to see. “IT IS DONE!” she cried at the top of her lungs. “YOU ARE MINE!” She gave the mare her heels and galloped along the first rank, holding the fingers high. “YOU ARE THE DRAGON’S NOW! YOU’RE BOUGHT AND PAID FOR! IT IS DONE! IT IS DONE!”

She glimpsed old Grazdan turn his grey head sharply. He hears me speak Valyrian. The other slavers were not listening. They crowded around Kraznys and the dragon, shouting advice. Though the Astapori yanked and tugged, Drogon would not budge off the litter. Smoke rose grey from his open jaws, and his long neck curled and straightened as he snapped at the slaver’s face.

It is time to cross the Trident, Dany thought, as she wheeled and rode her silver back. Her bloodriders moved in close around her. “You are in difficulty,” she observed.

“He will not come,” Kraznys said.

“There is a reason. A dragon is no slave.” And Dany swept the lash down as hard as she could across the slaver’s face. Kraznys screamed and staggered back, the blood running red down his cheeks into his perfumed beard. The harpy’s fingers had torn his features half to pieces with one slash, but she did not pause to contemplate the ruin. “Drogon,” she sang out loudly, sweetly, all her fear forgotten. “Dracarys.”

The black dragon spread his wings and roared.

A lance of swirling dark flame took Kraznys full in the face. His eyes melted and ran down his cheeks, and the oil in his hair and beard burst so fiercely into fire that for an instant the slaver wore a burning crown twice as tall as his head. The sudden stench of charred meat overwhelmed even his perfume, and his wail seemed to drown all other sound.

Then the Plaza of Punishment blew apart into blood and chaos. The Good Masters were shrieking, stumbling, shoving one another aside and tripping over the fringes of their tokars in their haste. Drogon flew almost lazily at Kraznys, black wings beating. As he gave the slaver another taste of fire, Irri and Jhiqui unchained Viserion and Rhaegal, and suddenly there were three dragons in the air. When Dany turned to look, a third of Astapor’s proud demon-horned warriors were fighting to stay atop their terrified mounts, and another third were fleeing in a bright blaze of shiny copper. One man kept his saddle long enough to draw a sword, but Jhogo’s whip coiled about his neck and cut off his shout. Another lost a hand to Rakharo’s arakh and rode off reeling and spurting blood. Aggo sat calmly notching arrows to his bowstring and sending them at tokars. Silver, gold, or plain, he cared nothing for the fringe. Strong Belwas had his arakh out as well, and he spun it as he charged.

“Spears!” Dany heard one Astapori shout. It was Grazdan, old Grazdan in his tokar heavy with pearls. “Unsullied! Defend us, stop them, defend your masters! Spears! Swords!”

When Rakharo put an arrow through his mouth, the slaves holding his sedan chair broke and ran, dumping him unceremoniously on the ground. The old man crawled to the first rank of eunuchs, his blood pooling on the bricks. The Unsullied did not so much as look down to watch him die. Rank on rank on rank, they stood.

And did not move. The gods have heard my prayer.

“Unsullied!” Dany galloped before them, her silver-gold braid flying behind her, her bell chiming with every stride. “Slay the Good Masters, slay the soldiers, slay every man who wears a tokar or holds a whip, but harm no child under twelve, and strike the chains off every slave you see.” She raised the harpy’s fingers in the air ... and then she flung the scourge aside. “Freedom!” she sang out. “Dracarys! Dracarys!”

“Dracarys!” they shouted back, the sweetest word she’d ever heard. “Dracarys! Dracarys!” And all around them slavers ran and sobbed and begged and died, and the dusty air was filled with spears and fire.

ASOS Daenerys IV

Her Dothraki scouts had told her how it was, but Dany wanted to see for herself. Ser Jorah Mormont rode with her through a birchwood forest and up a slanting sandstone ridge. “Near enough,” he warned her at the crest.

Dany reined in her mare and looked across the fields, to where the Yunkish host lay athwart her path. Whitebeard had been teaching her how best to count the numbers of a foe. “Five thousand,” she said after a moment.

“I’d say so.”

“Are those slave soldiers they lead?”

“In large part. But not the equal of Unsullied. Yunkai is known for training bed slaves, not warriors.”

“What say you? Can we defeat this army?” “Easily,” Ser Jorah said.

“But not bloodlessly.” Blood aplenty had soaked into the bricks of Astapor the day that city fell, though little of it belonged to her or hers.

“We might win a battle here, but at such cost we cannot take the city.”

“That is ever a risk, Khaleesi. Astapor was complacent and vulnerable. Yunkai is forewarned.”

Dany considered. The slaver host seemed small compared to her own numbers, but the sellswords were ahorse. She’d ridden too long with Dothraki not to have a healthy respect for what mounted warriors could do to foot. The Unsullied could withstand their charge, but my freedmen will be slaughtered. “The slavers like to talk,” she said. “Send word that I will hear them this evening in my tent. And invite the captains of the sellsword companies to call on me as well. But not together. The Stormcrows at midday, the Second Sons two hours later.”

“As you wish,” Ser Jorah said. “But if they do not come—”

“They’ll come. They will be curious to see the dragons and hear what I might have to say, and the clever ones will see it for a chance to gauge my strength.” She wheeled her silver mare about. “I’ll await them in my pavilion.”

When she had commanded the Unsullied to choose officers from amongst themselves, Grey Worm had been their overwhelming choice for the highest rank. Dany had put Ser Jorah over him to train him for command, and the exile knight said that so far the young eunuch was hard but fair, quick to learn, tireless, and utterly unrelenting in his attention to detail.

One of the first things Dany had done after the fall of Astapor was abolish the custom of giving the Unsullied new slave names every day. Most of those born free had returned to their birth names; those who still remembered them, at least. Others had called themselves after heroes or gods, and sometimes weapons, gems, and even flowers, which resulted in soldiers with some very peculiar names, to Dany’s ears. Grey Worm had remained Grey Worm. When she asked him why, he said, “It is a lucky name. The name this one was born to was accursed. That was the name he had when he was taken for a slave. But Grey Worm is the name this one drew the day Daenerys Stormborn set him free.”

Within the perimeter the Unsullied had established, the tents were going up in orderly rows, with her own tall golden pavilion at the center. A second encampment lay close beyond her own; five times the size, sprawling and chaotic, this second camp had no ditches, no tents, no sentries, no horselines. Those who had horses or mules slept beside them, for fear they might be stolen. Goats, sheep, and half-starved dogs wandered freely amongst hordes of women, children, and old men. Dany had left Astapor in the hands of a council of former slaves led by a healer, a scholar, and a priest. Wise men all, she thought, and just. Yet even so, tens of thousands preferred to follow her to Yunkai, rather than remain behind in Astapor. I gave them the city, and most of them were too frightened to take it.

The raggle-taggle host of freedmen dwarfed her own, but they were more burden than benefit. Perhaps one in a hundred had a donkey, a camel, or an ox; most carried weapons looted from some slaver’s armory, but only one in ten was strong enough to fight, and none was trained. They ate the land bare as they passed, like locusts in sandals. Yet Dany could not bring herself to abandon them as Ser Jorah and her bloodriders urged. I told them they were free. I cannot tell them now they are not free to join me. She gazed at the smoke rising from their cookfires and swallowed a sigh. She might have the best footsoldiers in the world, but she also had the worst.

Arstan Whitebeard stood outside the entrance of her tent, while Strong Belwas sat crosslegged on the grass nearby, eating a bowl of figs. On the march, the duty of guarding her fell upon their shoulders. She had made Jhogo, Aggo, and Rakharo her kos as well as her bloodriders, and just now she needed them more to command her Dothraki than to protect her person. Her khalasar was tiny, some thirty-odd mounted warriors, and most of them braidless boys and bentback old men. Yet they were all the horse she had, and she dared not go without them. The Unsullied might be the finest infantry in all the world, as Ser Jorah claimed, but she needed scouts and outriders as well.

“Yunkai will have war,” Dany told Whitebeard inside the pavilion.

Ser Jorah Mormont returned an hour later, accompanied by three captains of the Stormcrows. They wore black feathers on their polished helms, and claimed to be all equal in honor and authority. Dany studied them as Irri and Jhiqui poured the wine. Prendahl na Ghezn was a thickset Ghiscari with a broad face and dark hair going grey; Sallor the Bald had a twisting scar across his pale Qartheen cheek; and Daario Naharis was flamboyant even for a Tyroshi. His beard was cut into three prongs and dyed blue, the same color as his eyes and the curly hair that fell to his collar. His pointed mustachios were painted gold. His clothes were all shades of yellow; a foam of Myrish lace the color of butter spilled from his collar and cuffs, his doublet was sewn with brass medallions in the shape of dandelions, and ornamental goldwork crawled up his high leather boots to his thighs. Gloves of soft yellow suede were tucked into a belt of gilded rings, and his fingernails were enameled blue.

But it was Prendahl na Ghezn who spoke for the sellswords. “You would do well to take your rabble elsewhere,” he said. “You took Astapor by treachery, but Yunkai shall not fall so easily.”

“Five hundred of your Stormcrows against ten thousand of my Unsullied,” said Dany. “I am only a young girl and do not understand the ways of war, yet these odds seem poor to me.”

“The Stormcrows do not stand alone,” said Prendahl.

“Stormcrows do not stand at all. They fly, at the first sign of thunder. Perhaps you should be flying now. I have heard that sellswords are notoriously unfaithful. What will it avail you to be staunch, when the Second Sons change sides?”

“That will not happen,” Prendahl insisted, unmoved. “And if it did, it would not matter. The Second Sons are nothing. We fight beside the stalwart men of Yunkai.”

“You fight beside bed-boys armed with spears.” When she turned her head, the twin bells in her braid rang softly. “Once battle is joined, do not think to ask for quarter. Join me now, however, and you shall keep the gold the Yunkaii paid you and claim a share of the plunder besides, with greater rewards later when I come into my kingdom. Fight for the Wise Masters, and your wages will be death. Do you imagine that Yunkai will open its gates when my Unsullied are butchering you beneath the walls?”

“Woman, you bray like an ass, and make no more sense.”

“Woman?” She chuckled. “Is that meant to insult me? I would return the slap, if I took you for a man.” Dany met his stare. “I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, khaleesi to Drogo’s riders, and queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.”

“What you are,” said Prendahl na Ghezn, “is a horselord’s whore. When we break you, I will breed you to my stallion.”

Strong Belwas drew his arakh. “Strong Belwas will give his ugly tongue to the little queen, if she likes.”

“No, Belwas. I have given these men my safe conduct.” She smiled. “Tell me this—are the Stormcrows slave or free?”

“We are a brotherhood of free men,” Sallor declared.

“Good.” Dany stood. “Go back and tell your brothers what I said, then. It may be that some of them would sooner sup on gold and glory than on death. I shall want your answer on the morrow.”

The Stormcrow captains rose in unison. “Our answer is no,” said Prendahl na Ghezn. His fellows followed him out of the tent ... but Daario Naharis glanced back as he left, and inclined his head in polite farewell.

Two hours later the commander of the Second Sons arrived alone. He proved to be a towering Braavosi with pale green eyes and a bushy red-gold beard that reached nearly to his belt. His name was Mero, but he called himself the Titan’s Bastard.

Mero tossed down his wine straightaway, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and leered at Dany. “I believe I fucked your twin sister in a pleasure house back home. Or was it you?”

“I think not. I would remember a man of such magnificence, I have no doubt.” “Yes, that is so. No woman has ever forgotten the Titan’s Bastard.” The Braavosi held out his cup to Jhiqui. “What say you take those clothes off and come sit on my lap? If you please me, I might bring the Second Sons over to your side.”

“If you bring the Second Sons over to my side, I might not have you gelded.”

The big man laughed. “Little girl, another woman once tried to geld me with her teeth. She has no teeth now, but my sword is as long and thick as ever. Shall I take it out and show you?”

“No need. After my eunuchs cut it off, I can examine it at my leisure.” Dany took a sip of wine. “It is true that I am only a young girl, and do not know the ways of war. Explain to me how you propose to defeat ten thousand Unsullied with your five hundred. Innocent as I am, these odds seem poor to me.”

“The Second Sons have faced worse odds and won.”

“The Second Sons have faced worse odds and run. At Qohor, when the Three Thousand made their stand. Or do you deny it?”

“That was many and more years ago, before the Second Sons were led by the Titan’s Bastard.”

“So it is from you they get their courage?” Dany turned to Ser Jorah. “When the battle is joined, kill this one first.”

The exile knight smiled. “Gladly, Your Grace.”

“Of course,” she said to Mero, “you could run again. We will not stop you. Take your Yunkish gold and go.”

“Had you ever seen the Titan of Braavos, foolish girl, you would know that it has no tail to turn.”

“Then stay, and fight for me.”

“You are worth fighting for, it is true,” the Braavosi said, “and I would gladly let you kiss my sword, if I were free. But I have taken Yunkai’s coin and pledged my holy word.”

“Coins can be returned,” she said. “I will pay you as much and more. I have other cities to conquer, and a whole kingdom awaiting me half a world away. Serve me faithfully, and the Second Sons need never seek hire again.”

The Braavosi tugged on his thick red beard. “As much and more, and perhaps a kiss besides, eh? Or more than a kiss? For a man as magnificent as me?”

“Perhaps.” “I will like the taste of your tongue, I think.”

She could sense Ser Jorah’s anger. My black bear does not like this talk of kissing. “Think on what I’ve said tonight. Can I have your answer on the morrow?”

“You can.” The Titan’s Bastard grinned. “Can I have a flagon of this fine wine to take back to my captains?”

“You may have a tun. It is from the cellars of the Good Masters of Astapor, and I have wagons full of it.”

“Then give me a wagon. A token of your good regard.”

“You have a big thirst.”

“I am big all over. And I have many brothers. The Titan’s Bastard does not drink alone, Khaleesi.”

“A wagon it is, if you promise to drink to my health.”

“Done!” he boomed. “And done, and done! Three toasts we’ll drink you, and bring you an answer when the sun comes up.”

The man on the white camel named himself Grazdan mo Eraz. Lean and hard, he had a white smile such as Kraznys had worn until Drogon burned off his face. His hair was drawn up in a unicorn’s horn that jutted from his brow, and his tokar was fringed with golden Myrish lace. “Ancient and glorious is Yunkai, the queen of cities,” he said when Dany welcomed him to her tent. “Our walls are strong, our nobles proud and fierce, our common folk without fear. Ours is the blood of ancient Ghis, whose empire was old when Valyria was yet a squalling child. You were wise to sit and speak, Khaleesi. You shall find no easy conquest here.”

“Good. My Unsullied will relish a bit of a fight.” She looked to Grey Worm, who nodded.

Grazdan shrugged expansively. “If blood is what you wish, let it flow. I am told you have freed your eunuchs. Freedom means as much to an Unsullied as a hat to a haddock.” He smiled at Grey Worm, but the eunuch might have been made of stone. “Those who survive we shall enslave again, and use to retake Astapor from the rabble. We can make a slave of you as well, do not doubt it. There are pleasure houses in Lys and Tyrosh where men would pay handsomely to bed the last Targaryen.”

“It is good to see you know who I am,” said Dany mildly.

“I pride myself on my knowledge of the savage senseless west.” Grazdan spread his hands, a gesture of conciliation. “And yet, why should we speak thus harshly to one another? It is true that you committed savageries in Astapor, but we Yunkai’i are a most forgiving people. Your quarrel is not with us, Your Grace. Why squander your strength against our mighty walls when you will need every man to regain your father’s throne in far Westeros? Yunkai wishes you only well in that endeavor. And to prove the truth of that, I have brought you a gift.” He clapped his hands, and two of his escort came forward bearing a heavy cedar chest bound in bronze and gold. They set it at her feet. “Fifty thousand golden marks,” Grazdan said smoothly. “Yours, as a gesture of friendship from the Wise Masters of Yunkai. Gold given freely is better than plunder bought with blood, surely? So I say to you, Daenerys Targaryen, take this chest, and go.”

Dany pushed open the lid of the chest with a small slippered foot. It was full of gold coins, just as the envoy said. She grabbed a handful and let them run through her fingers. They shone brightly as they tumbled and fell; new minted, most of them, stamped with a stepped pyramid on one face and the harpy of Ghis on the other. “Very pretty. I wonder how many chests like this I shall find when I take your city?”

He chuckled. “None, for that you shall never do.”

“I have a gift for you as well.” She slammed the chest shut. “Three days. On the morning of the third day, send out your slaves. All of them. Every man, woman, and child shall be given a weapon, and as much food, clothing, coin, and goods as he or she can carry. These they shall be allowed to choose freely from among their masters’ possessions, as payment for their years of servitude. When all the slaves have departed, you will open your gates and allow my Unsullied to enter and search your city, to make certain none remain in bondage. If you do this, Yunkai will not be burned or plundered, and none of your people shall be molested. The Wise Masters will have the peace they desire, and will have proved themselves wise indeed. What say you?”

“I say, you are mad.”

“Am I?” Dany shrugged, and said, “Dracarys.”

The dragons answered. Rhaegal hissed and smoked, Viserion snapped, and Drogon spat swirling red-black flame. It touched the drape of Grazdan’s tokar, and the silk caught in half a heartbeat. Golden marks spilled across the carpets as the envoy stumbled over the chest, shouting curses and beating at his arm until Whitebeard flung a flagon of water over him to douse the flames. “You swore I should have safe conduct! “ the Yunkish envoy wailed.

“Do all the Yunkai’i whine so over a singed tokar? I shall buy you a new one ... if you deliver up your slaves within three days. Elsewise, Drogon shall give you a warmer kiss.” She wrinkled her nose. “You’ve soiled yourself. Take your gold and go, and see that the Wise Masters hear my message.”

Grazdan mo Eraz pointed a finger. “You shall rue this arrogance, whore. These little lizards will not keep you safe, I promise you. We will fill the air with arrows if they come within a league of Yunkai. Do you think it is so hard to kill a dragon?”

“Harder than to kill a slaver. Three days, Grazdan. Tell them. By the end of the third day, I will be in Yunkai, whether you open your gates for me or no.”

“Ser Jorah,” she said, “summon my bloodriders.” Dany seated herself on a mound of cushions to await them, her dragons all about her. When they were assembled, she said, “An hour past midnight should be time enough.”

“Yes, Khaleesi,” said Rakharo. “Time for what?” 

“To mount our attack.” 

Ser Jorah Mormont scowled. “You told the sellswords—”

“—that I wanted their answers on the morrow. I made no promises about tonight. The Stormcrows will be arguing about my offer. The Second Sons will be drunk on the wine I gave Mero. And the Yunkai’i believe they have three days. We will take them under cover of this darkness.”

“They will have scouts watching for us.”

“And in the dark, they will see hundreds of campfires burning,” said Dany. “If they see anything at all.”

“Khaleesi,” said Jhogo, “I will deal with these scouts. They are no riders, only slavers on horses.”

“Just so,” she agreed. “I think we should attack from three sides. Grey Worm, your Unsullied shall strike at them from right and left, while my kos lead my horse in wedge for a thrust through their center. Slave soldiers will never stand before mounted Dothraki.” She smiled. “To be sure, I am only a young girl and know little of war. What do you think, my lords?”

“I think you are Rhaegar Targaryen’s sister,” Ser Jorah said with a rueful half smile.

“Aye,” said Arstan Whitebeard, “and a queen as well.”

“My sword is yours. My life is yours. My love is yours. My blood, my body, my songs, you own them all. I live and die at your command, fair queen.”

“Then live,” Dany said, “and fight for me tonight.”

“That would not be wise, my queen.” Ser Jorah gave Daario a cold, hard stare. “Keep this one here under guard until the battle’s fought and won.”

She considered a moment, then shook her head. “If he can give us the Stormcrows, surprise is certain.”

“And if he betrays you, surprise is lost.”

Dany looked down at the sellsword again. He gave her such a smile that she flushed and turned away. “He won’t.”

“How can you know that?”

She pointed to the lumps of blackened flesh the dragons were consuming, bite by bloody bite. “I would call that proof of his sincerity. Daario Naharis, have your Stormcrows ready to strike the Yunkish rear when my attack begins. Can you get back safely?”

“If they stop me, I will say I have been scouting, and saw nothing.” The Tyroshi rose to his feet, bowed, and swept out.

A stillness settled over her camp when midnight came and went. Dany remained in her pavilion with her maids, while Arstan Whitebeard and Strong Belwas kept the guard. The waiting is the hardest part. To sit in her tent with idle hands while her battle was being fought without her made Dany feel half a child again.

The tent flap pushed open, and Ser Jorah Mormont entered. He was dusty, and spattered with blood, but otherwise none the worse for battle. The exile knight went to one knee before Dany and said, “Your Grace, I bring you victory. The Stormcrows turned their cloaks, the slaves broke, and the Second Sons were too drunk to fight, just as you said. Two hundred dead, Yunkai’i for the most part. Their slaves threw down their spears and ran, and their sellswords yielded. We have several thousand captives.”

“Our own losses?” 

“A dozen. If that many.”

Only then did she allow herself to smile. “Rise, my good brave bear. Was Grazdan taken? Or the Titan’s Bastard?”

“Grazdan went to Yunkai to deliver your terms.” Ser Jorah got to his feet. “Mero fled, once he realized the Stormcrows had turned. I have men hunting him. He shouldn’t escape us long.”

“Very well,” Dany said. “Sellsword or slave, spare all those who will pledge me their faith. If enough of the Second Sons will join us, keep the company intact.”

The next day they marched the last three leagues to Yunkai. The city was built of yellow bricks instead of red; elsewise it was Astapor all over again, with the same crumbling walls and high stepped pyramids, and a great harpy mounted above its gates. The wall and towers swarmed with crossbowmen and slingers. Ser Jorah and Grey Worm deployed her men, Irri and Jhiqui raised her pavilion, and Dany sat down to wait.

On the morning of the third day, the city gates swung open and a line of slaves began to emerge. Dany mounted her silver to greet them. As they passed, little Missandei told them that they owed their freedom to Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros and Mother of Dragons.

ASOS Daenerys V

Behind them, huge against the sky, could be seen the top of the Great Pyramid, a monstrous thing eight hundred feet tall with a towering bronze harpy at its top.

“The harpy is a craven thing,” Daario Naharis said when he saw it. “She has a woman’s heart and a chicken’s legs. Small wonder her sons hide behind their walls.”

But the hero did not hide. He rode out the city gates, armored in scales of copper and jet and mounted upon a white charger whose striped pink-and-white barding matched the silk cloak flowing from the hero’s shoulders. The lance he bore was fourteen feet long, swirled in pink and white, and his hair was shaped and teased and lacquered into two great curling ram’s horns. Back and forth he rode beneath the walls of multicolored bricks, challenging the besiegers to send a champion forth to meet him in single combat.

Her bloodriders were in such a fever to go meet him that they almost came to blows. “Blood of my blood,” Dany told them, “your place is here by me. This man is a buzzing fly, no more. Ignore him, he will soon be gone.” Aggo, Jhogo, and Rakharo were brave warriors, but they were young, and too valuable to risk. They kept her khalasar together, and were her best scouts too.

“That was wisely done,” Ser Jorah said as they watched from the front of her pavilion. “Let the fool ride back and forth and shout until his horse goes lame. He does us no harm.”

“He does,” Arstan Whitebeard insisted. “Wars are not won with swords and spears alone, ser. Two hosts of equal strength may come together, but one will break and run whilst the other stands. This hero builds courage in the hearts of his own men and plants the seeds of doubt in ours.”

Ser Jorah snorted. “And if our champion were to lose, what sort of seed would that plant?”

“A man who fears battle wins no victories, ser.”

“We’re not speaking of battle. Meereen’s gates will not open if that fool falls. Why risk a life for naught?”

“For honor, I would say.”

“I have heard enough.” Dany did not need their squabbling on top of all the other troubles that plagued her. Meereen posed dangers far more serious than one pink-and-white hero shouting insults, and she could not let herself be distracted. Her host numbered more than eighty thousand after Yunkai, but fewer than a quarter of them were soldiers. The rest ... well, Ser Jorah called them mouths with feet, and soon they would be starving.

The Great Masters of Meereen had withdrawn before Dany’s advance, harvesting all they could and burning what they could not harvest. Scorched fields and poisoned wells had greeted her at every hand. Worst of all, they had nailed a slave child up on every milepost along the coast road from Yunkai, nailed them up still living with their entrails hanging out and one arm always outstretched to point the way to Meereen. Leading her van, Daario had given orders for the children to be taken down before Dany had to see them, but she had countermanded him as soon as she was told. “I will see them,” she said. “I will see every one, and count them, and look upon their faces. And I will remember.”

By the time they came to Meereen sitting on the salt coast beside her river, the count stood at one hundred and sixty-three. I will have this city, Dany pledged to herself once more.

The pink-and-white hero taunted the besiegers for an hour, mocking their manhood, mothers, wives, and gods. Meereen’s defenders cheered him on from the city walls. “His name is Oznak zo Pahl,” Brown Ben Plumm told her when he arrived for the war council. [...]

They watched Oznak zo Pahl dismount his white charger, undo his robes, pull out his manhood, and direct a stream of urine in the general direction of the olive grove where Dany’s gold pavilion stood among the burnt trees. He was still pissing when Daario Naharis rode up, arakh in hand. “Shall I cut that off for you and stuff it down his mouth, Your Grace?” His tooth shone gold amidst the blue of his forked beard.

“It’s his city I want, not his meager manhood.” She was growing angry, however. If I ignore this any longer, my own people will think me weak. Yet who could she send? She needed Daario as much as she did her bloodriders. Without the flamboyant Tyroshi, she had no hold on the Stormcrows, many of whom had been followers of Prendahl na Ghezn and Sallor the Bald.

High on the walls of Meereen, the jeers had grown louder, and now hundreds of the defenders were taking their lead from the hero and pissing down through the ramparts to show their contempt for the besiegers. They are pissing on slaves, to show how little they fear us, she thought. They would never dare such a thing if it were a Dothraki khalasar outside their gates.

“This challenge must be met,” Arstan said again.

“It will be.” Dany said, as the hero tucked his penis away again. “Tell Strong Belwas I have need of him.”

[...] Oznak zo Pahl lowered his lance and charged.

Belwas stopped with legs spread wide. In one hand was his small round shield, in the other the curved arakh that Arstan tended with such care. His great brown stomach and sagging chest were bare above the yellow silk sash knotted about his waist, and he wore no armor but his studded leather vest, so absurdly small that it did not even cover his nipples. “We should have given him chainmail,” Dany said, suddenly anxious.

“Mail would only slow him,” said Ser Jorah. “They wear no armor in the fighting pits. It’s blood the crowds come to see.”

Dust flew from the hooves of the white charger. Oznak thundered toward Strong Belwas, his striped cloak streaming from his shoulders. The whole city of Meereen seemed to be screaming him on. The besiegers’ cheers seemed few and thin by comparison; her Unsullied stood in silent ranks, watching with stone faces. Belwas might have been made of stone as well. He stood in the horse’s path, his vest stretched tight across his broad back. Oznak’s lance was leveled at the center of his chest. Its bright steel point winked in the sunlight. He’s going to be impaled, she thought ... as the eunuch spun sideways. And quick as the blink of an eye the horseman was beyond him, wheeling, raising the lance. Belwas made no move to strike at him. The Meereenese on the walls screamed even louder. “What is he doing?” Dany demanded.

“Giving the mob a show,” Ser Jorah said.

Oznak brought the horse around Belwas in a wide circle, then dug in with his spurs and charged again. Again Belwas waited, then spun and knocked the point of the lance aside. She could hear the eunuch’s booming laughter echoing across the plain as the hero went past him. “The lance is too long,” Ser Jorah said. “All Belwas needs do is avoid the point. Instead of trying to spit him so prettily, the fool should ride right over him.”

Oznak zo Pahl charged a third time, and now Dany could see plainly that he was riding past Belwas, the way a Westerosi knight might ride at an opponent in a tilt, rather than at him, like a Dothraki riding down a foe. The flat level ground allowed the charger to get up a good speed, but it also made it easy for the eunuch to dodge the cumbersome fourteen-foot lance.

Meereen’s pink-and-white hero tried to anticipate this time, and swung his lance sideways at the last second to catch Strong Belwas when he dodged. But the eunuch had anticipated too, and this time he dropped down instead of spinning sideways. The lance passed harmlessly over his head. And suddenly Belwas was rolling, and bringing the razor-sharp arakh around in a silver arc. They heard the charger scream as the blade bit into his legs, and then the horse was falling, the hero tumbling from the saddle.

A sudden silence swept along the brick parapets of Meereen. Now it was Dany’s people who were screaming and cheering.

Oznak leapt clear of his horse and managed to draw his sword before Strong Belwas was on him. Steel sang against steel, too fast and furious for Dany to follow the blows. It could not have been a dozen heartbeats before Belwas’s chest was awash in blood from a slice below his breasts, and Oznak zo Pahl had an arakh planted right between his ram’s horns. The eunuch wrenched the blade loose and parted the hero’s head from his body with three savage blows to the neck. He held it up high for the Meereenese to see, then flung it toward the city gates and let it bounce and roll across the sand.

“So much for the hero of Meereen,” said Daario, laughing.

“No,” Dany agreed, “but I’m pleased we killed this one.”

The defenders on the walls began firing their crossbows at Belwas, but the bolts fell short or skittered harmlessly along the ground. The eunuch turned his back on the steel- tipped rain, lowered his trousers, squatted, and shat in the direction of the city. He wiped himself with Oznak’s striped cloak, and paused long enough to loot the hero’s corpse and put the dying horse out of his agony before trudging back to the olive grove.

Only then did she lead her captains and commanders inside her pavilion for their council.

“I must have this city,” she told them, sitting crosslegged on a pile of cushions, her dragons all about her. Irri and Jhiqui poured wine. “Her granaries are full to bursting. There are figs and dates and olives growing on the terraces of her pyramids, and casks of salt fish and smoked meat buried in her cellars.”

“And fat chests of gold, silver, and gemstones as well,” Daario reminded them. “Let us not forget the gemstones.”

“I’ve had a look at the landward walls, and I see no point of weakness,” said Ser Jorah Mormont. “Given time, we might be able to mine beneath a tower and make a breach, but what do we eat while we’re digging? Our stores are all but exhausted.”

“No weakness in the landward walls?” said Dany. Meereen stood on a jut of sand and stone where the slow brown Skahazadhan flowed into Slaver’s Bay. The city’s north wall ran along the riverbank, its west along the bay shore. “Does that mean we might attack from the river or the sea?”

“With three ships? We’ll want to have Captain Groleo take a good look at the wall along the river, but unless it’s crumbling that’s just a wetter way to die.”

“What if we were to build siege towers? My brother Viserys told tales of such, I know they can be made.”

“From wood, Your Grace,” Ser Jorah said. “The slavers have burnt every tree within twenty leagues of here. Without wood, we have no trebuchets to smash the walls, no ladders to go over them, no siege towers, no turtles, and no rams. We can storm the gates with axes, to be sure, but ...”

“Did you see them bronze heads above the gates?” asked Brown Ben Plumm. “Rows of harpy heads with open mouths? The Meereenese can squirt boiling oil out them mouths, and cook your axemen where they stand.”

Daario Naharis gave Grey Worm a smile. “Perhaps the Unsullied should wield the axes. Boiling oil feels like no more than a warm bath to you, I have heard.”

“This is false.” Grey Worm did not return the smile. “These ones do not feel burns as men do, yet such oil blinds and kills. The Unsullied do not fear to die, though. Give these ones rams, and we will batter down these gates or die in the attempt.”

“You would die,” said Brown Ben. At Yunkai, when he took command of the Second Sons, he claimed to be the veteran of a hundred battles. “Though I will not say I fought bravely in all of them. There are old sellswords and bold sellswords, but no old bold sellswords.” She saw that it was true.

Dany sighed. “I will not throw away Unsullied lives, Grey Worm. Perhaps we can starve the city out.”

Ser Jorah looked unhappy. “We’ll starve long before they do, Your Grace. There’s no food here, nor fodder for our mules and horses. I do not like this river water either. Meereen shits into the Skahazadhan but draws its drinking water from deep wells. Already we’ve had reports of sickness in the camps, fever and brownleg and three cases of the bloody flux. There will be more if we remain. The slaves are weak from the march.”

“Freedmen,” Dany corrected. “They are slaves no longer.”

“Slave or free, they are hungry and they’ll soon be sick. The city is better provisioned than we are, and can be resupplied by water. Your three ships are not enough to deny them access to both the river and the sea.”

“Then what do you advise, Ser Jorah?”

“You will not like it.” 

“I would hear it all the same.”

“As you wish. I say, let this city be. You cannot free every slave in the world, Khaleesi. Your war is in Westeros.”

“I have not forgotten Westeros.” Dany dreamt of it some nights, this fabled land that she had never seen. “If I let Meereen’s old brick walls defeat me so easily, though, how will I ever take the great stone castles of Westeros?”

“As Aegon did,” Ser Jorah said, “with fire. By the time we reach the Seven Kingdoms, your dragons will be grown. And we will have siege towers and trebuchets as well, all the things we lack here ... but the way across the Lands of the Long Summer is long and grueling, and there are dangers we cannot know. You stopped at Astapor to buy an army, not to start a war. Save your spears and swords for the Seven Kingdoms, my queen. Leave Meereen to the Meereenese and march west for Pentos.”

“Defeated?” said Dany, bristling.

“When cowards hide behind great walls, it is they who are defeated, Khaleesi,” Ko Jhogo said.

Her other bloodriders concurred. “Blood of my blood,” said Rakharo, “when cowards hide and burn the food and fodder, great khals must seek for braver foes. This is known.”

“It is known,” Jhiqui agreed, as she poured.

“Not to me.” Dany set great store by Ser Jorah’s counsel, but to leave Meereen untouched was more than she could stomach. She could not forget the children on their posts, the birds tearing at their entrails, their skinny arms pointing up the coast road. “Ser Jorah, you say we have no food left. If I march west, how can I feed my freedmen?”

“You can’t. I am sorry, Khaleesi. They must feed themselves or starve. Many and more will die along the march, yes. That will be hard, but there is no way to save them. We need to put this scorched earth well behind us.”

Dany had left a trail of corpses behind her when she crossed the red waste. It was a sight she never meant to see again. “No,” she said. “I will not march my people off to die.” My children. “There must be some way into this city.”

“I know a way.” Brown Ben Plumm stroked his speckled grey-and-white beard. “Sewers.” “Sewers? What do you mean?”

“Great brick sewers empty into the Skahazadhan, carrying the city’s wastes. They might be a way in, for a few. That was how I escaped Meereen, after Scarb lost his head.” Brown Ben made a face. “The smell has never left me. I dream of it some nights.”

Ser Jorah looked dubious. “Easier to go out than in, it would seem to me. These sewers empty into the river, you say? That would mean the mouths are right below the walls.”

“And closed with iron grates,” Brown Ben admitted, “though some have rusted through, else I would have drowned in shit. Once inside, it is a long foul climb in pitch-dark through a maze of brick where a man could lose himself forever. The filth is never lower than waist high, and can rise over your head from the stains I saw on the walls. There’s things down there too. Biggest rats you ever saw, and worse things. Nasty.”

Daario Naharis laughed. “As nasty as you, when you came crawling out? If any man were fool enough to try this, every slaver in Meereen would smell them the moment they emerged.”

Brown Ben shrugged. “Her Grace asked if there was a way in, so I told her ... but Ben Plumm isn’t going down in them sewers again, not for all the gold in the Seven Kingdoms. If there’s others want to try it, though, they’re welcome.”

Aggo, Jhogo, and Grey Worm all tried to speak at once, but Dany raised her hand for silence. “These sewers do not sound promising.” Grey Worm would lead his Unsullied down the sewers if she commanded it, she knew; her bloodriders would do no less. But none of them was suited to the task. The Dothraki were horsemen, and the strength of the Unsullied was their discipline on the battlefield. Can I send men to die in the dark on such a slender hope? “I must think on this some more. Return to your duties.”

South of the ordered realm of stakes, pits, drills, and bathing eunuchs lay the encampments of her freedmen, a far noisier and more chaotic place. Dany had armed the former slaves as best she could with weapons from Astapor and Yunkai, and Ser Jorah had organized the fighting men into four strong companies, yet she saw no one drilling here.

“There’s the treacherous sow,” he said. “I knew you’d come to get your feet kissed one day.” His head was bald as a melon, his nose red and peeling, but she knew that voice and those pale green eyes. “I’m going to start by cutting off your teats.” Dany was dimly aware of Missandei shouting for help. A freedman edged forward, but only a step. One quick slash, and he was on his knees, blood running down his face. Mero wiped his sword on his breeches. “Who’s next?”

“I am.” Arstan Whitebeard leapt from his horse and stood over her, the salt wind riffling through his snowy hair, both hands on his tall hardwood staff.

“Grandfather,” Mero said, “run off before I break your stick in two and bugger you with —”

The old man feinted with one end of the staff, pulled it back, and whipped the other end about faster than Dany would have believed. The Titan’s Bastard staggered back into the surf, spitting blood and broken teeth from the ruin of his mouth. Whitebeard put Dany behind him. Mero slashed at his face. The old man jerked back, cat-quick. The staff thumped Mero’s ribs, sending him reeling. Arstan splashed sideways, parried a looping cut, danced away from a second, checked a third mid-swing. The moves were so fast she could hardly follow. Missandei was pulling Dany to her feet when she heard a crack. She thought Arstan’s staff had snapped until she saw the jagged bone jutting from Mero’s calf. As he fell, the Titan’s Bastard twisted and lunged, sending his point straight at the old man’s chest. Whitebeard swept the blade aside almost contemptuously and smashed the other end of his staff against the big man’s temple. Mero went sprawling, blood bubbling from his mouth as the waves washed over him. A moment later the freedmen washed over him too, knives and stones and angry fists rising and falling in a frenzy.

Dany turned away, sickened. She was more frightened now than when it had been happening. He would have killed me.

“Your Grace.” Arstan knelt. “I am an old man, and shamed. He should never have gotten close enough to seize you. I was lax. I did not know him without his beard and hair.”

“No more than I did.” Dany took a deep breath to stop her shaking. Enemies everywhere. “Take me back to my tent. Please.”

“I had a look at the river wall,” Ser Jorah started. “It’s a few feet higher than the others, and just as strong. And the Meereenese have a dozen fire hulks tied up beneath the ramparts—”

She cut him off. “You might have warned me that the Titan’s Bastard had escaped.”

He frowned. “I saw no need to frighten you, Your Grace. I have offered a reward for his head—”

“Pay it to Whitebeard. Mero has been with us all the way from Yunkai. He shaved his beard off and lost himself amongst the freedmen, waiting for a chance for vengeance. Arstan killed him.”

Ser Jorah gave the old man a long look. “A squire with a stick slew Mero of Braavos, is that the way of it?”

“A stick,” Dany confirmed, “but no longer a squire. Ser Jorah, it’s my wish that Arstan be knighted.”

“No.”

The loud refusal was surprise enough. Stranger still, it came from both men at once.

ASOS Daenerys VI

No one was calling her Daenerys the Conqueror yet, but perhaps they would. Aegon the Conqueror had won Westeros with three dragons, but she had taken Meereen with sewer rats and a wooden cock, in less than a day. Poor Groleo. He still grieved for his ship, she knew. If a war galley could ram another ship, why not a gate? That had been her thought when she commanded the captains to drive their ships ashore. Their masts had become her battering rams, and swarms of freedmen had torn their hulls apart to build mantlets, turtles, catapults, and ladders. The sellwords had given each ram a bawdy name, and it had been the mainmast of Meraxes—formerly Joso’s Prank—that had broken the eastern gate. Joso’s Cock, they called it. The fighting had raged bitter and bloody for most of a day and well into the night before the wood began to splinter and Meraxes’ iron figurehead, a laughing jester’s face, came crashing through.

Dany had wanted to lead the attack herself, but to a man her captains said that would be madness, and her captains never agreed on anything. Instead she remained in the rear, sitting atop her silver in a long shirt of mail. She heard the city fall from half a league away, though, when the defenders’ shouts of defiance changed to cries of fear. Her dragons had roared as one in that moment, filling the night with flame. The slaves are rising, she knew at once. My sewer rats have gnawed off their chains.

When the last resistance had been crushed by the Unsullied and the sack had run its course, Dany entered her city. The dead were heaped so high before the broken gate that it took her freedmen near an hour to make a path for her silver. Joso’s Cock and the great wooden turtle that had protected it, covered with horsehides, lay abandoned within. She rode past burned buildings and broken windows, through brick streets where the gutters were choked with the stiff and swollen dead. Cheering slaves lifted bloodstained hands to her as she went by, and called her “Mother.”

In the plaza before the Great Pyramid, the Meereenese huddled forlorn. The Great Masters had looked anything but great in the morning light. Stripped of their jewels and their fringed tokars, they were contemptible; a herd of old men with shriveled balls and spotted skin and young men with ridiculous hair. Their women were either soft and fleshy or as dry as old sticks, their face paint streaked by tears. “I want your leaders,” Dany told them. “Give them up, and the rest of you shall be spared.”

“How many?” one old woman had asked, sobbing. “How many must you have to spare us?”

“One hundred and sixty-three,” she answered.

She had them nailed to wooden posts around the plaza, each man pointing at the next. The anger was fierce and hot inside her when she gave the command; it made her feel like an avenging dragon. But later, when she passed the men dying on the posts, when she heard their moans and smelled their bowels and blood ...

Dany put the glass aside, frowning. It was just. It was. I did it for the children.

“Flies are the dead man��s revenge.” Daario smiled, and stroked the center prong of his beard. “Corpses breed maggots, and maggots breed flies.”

“We will rid ourselves of the corpses, then. Starting with those in the plaza below. Grey Worm, will you see to it?”

“The queen commands, these ones obey.”

“Best bring sacks as well as shovels, Worm,” Brown Ben counseled. “Well past ripe, those ones. Falling off those poles in bits and pieces, and crawling with ...”

“He knows. So do I.” Dany remembered the horror she had felt when she had seen the Plaza of Punishment in Astapor. I made a horror just as great, but surely they deserved it. Harsh justice is still justice.

“Your Grace,” said Missandei, “Ghiscari inter their honored dead in crypts below their manses. If you would boil the bones clean and return them to their kin, it would be a kindness.”

The widows will curse me all the same. “Let it be done.”

She stood. “When I sent you down into the sewers, part of me hoped I’d seen the last of you.[”] [...] “I will admit you helped win me this city ...”

Ser Jorah’s mouth tightened. “We won you this city. We sewer rats.”

“Be quiet,” she said again ... though there was truth to what he said. While Joso’s Cock and the other rams were battering the city gates and her archers were firing flights of flaming arrows over the walls, Dany had sent two hundred men along the river under cover of darkness to fire the hulks in the harbor. But that was only to hide their true purpose. As the flaming ships drew the eyes of the defenders on the walls, a few half- mad swimmers found the sewer mouths and pried loose a rusted iron grating. Ser Jorah, Ser Barristan, Strong Belwas, and twenty brave fools slipped beneath the brown water and up the brick tunnel, a mixed force of sellswords, Unsullied, and freedmen. Dany had told them to choose only men who had no families ... and preferably no sense of smell.

They had been lucky as well as brave. It had been a moon’s turn since the last good rain, and the sewers were only thigh-high. The oilcloth they’d wrapped around their torches kept them dry, so they had light. A few of the freedmen were frightened of the huge rats until Strong Belwas caught one and bit it in two. One man was killed by a great pale lizard that reared up out of the dark water to drag him off by the leg, but when next ripples were spied Ser Jorah butchered the beast with his blade. They took some wrong turnings, but once they found the surface Strong Belwas led them to the nearest fighting pit, where they surprised a few guards and struck the chains off the slaves. Within an hour, half the fighting slaves in Meereen had risen.

ADWD Daenerys II

“[...] Will you hear my friends? There are seven of them as well.” He brought them forth one by one. “Here is Khrazz. Here Barsena Blackhair, ever valiant. Here Camarron of the Count and Goghor the Giant. This is the Spotted Cat, this Fearless Ithoke. Last, Belaquo Bonebreaker. They have come to add their voices to mine own, and ask Your Grace to let our fighting pits reopen.”

Dany knew his seven, by name if not by sight. All had been amongst the most famed of Meereen’s fighting slaves … and it had been the fighting slaves, freed from their shackles by her sewer rats, who led the uprising that won the city for her. She owed them a blood debt. “I will hear you,” she allowed.

The advice she received

ASOS Daenerys I

“Sit, good ser, and tell me what is troubling you.”

“Three things.” Ser Jorah sat. “Strong Belwas. This Arstan Whitebeard. And Illyrio Mopatis, who sent them.”

[...] “Which means two traitors yet remain ... and now these two appear. I find that troubling, yes. Never forget, Robert offered a lordship to the man who slays you.”

[...] “Khaleesi, has it occurred to you that Whitebeard and Belwas might have been in league with the assassin? It might all have been a ploy to win your trust.”

[...] “These are Illyrio’s ships, Illyrio’s captains, Illyrio’s sailors ... and Strong Belwas and Arstan are his men as well, not yours.”

[...] “He was not born wealthy. In the world as I have seen it, no man grows rich by kindness. The warlocks said the second treason would be for gold. What does Illyrio Mopatis love more than gold?”

[...] “He is not what he pretends to be. He speaks to you more boldly than any squire would dare.”

[...] “Illyrio Mopatis wants you back in Pentos, under his roof. Very well, go to him ... but in your own time, and not alone. Let us see how loyal and obedient these new subjects of yours truly are. Command Groleo to change course for Slaver’s Bay.”

[...] “Dragons will be as great a wonder in Astapor as they were in Qarth. It may be that the slavers will shower you with gifts, as the Qartheen did. If not ... these ships carry more than your Dothraki and their horses. They took on trade goods at Qarth, I’ve been through the holds and seen for myself. Bolts of silk and bales of tiger skin, amber and jade carvings, saffron, myrrh ... slaves are cheap, Your Grace. Tiger skins are costly.”

[...] “What use are wealthy friends if they will not put their wealth at your disposal, my queen? If Magister Illyrio would deny you, he is only Xaro Xhoan Daxos with four chins. And if he is sincere in his devotion to your cause, he will not begrudge you three shiploads of trade goods. What better use for his tiger skins than to buy you the beginnings of an army?”

[...] “There are dangers at sea as well. Corsairs and pirates hunt the southern route, and north of Valyria the Smoking Sea is demon-haunted. The next storm could sink or scatter us, a kraken could pull us under ... or we might find ourselves becalmed again, and die of thirst as we wait for the wind to rise. A march will have different dangers, my queen, but none greater.”

ASOS Daenerys II

“Tell her that these have been standing here for a day and a night, with no food nor water. [...] Such is their courage. Tell her that.”

“You have lived long in the world, Whitebeard. Now that you have seen them, what do you say?”

“I say no, Your Grace,” the old man answered at once. 

“Why?” she asked. “Speak freely.” Dany thought she knew what he would say, but she wanted the slave girl to hear, so Kraznys mo Nakloz might hear later.

“Yet I must have some army,” Dany said. “The boy Joffrey will not give me the Iron Throne for asking politely.”

“When the day comes that you raise your banners, half of Westeros will be with you,” Whitebeard promised. “Your brother Rhaegar is still remembered, with great love.”

“And my father?” Dany said.

“Those same high lords who abandoned my father to the Kingslayer and bent the knee to Robert the Usurper?”

“Even those who bent their knees may yearn in their hearts for the return of the dragons.”

“May,” said Dany.

“Then leave this place before your heart turns to brick as well. Sail this very night, on the evening tide.”

Would that I could, thought Dany. “When I leave Astapor it must be with an army, Ser Jorah says.”

“Ser Jorah was a slaver himself, Your Grace,” the old man reminded her. “There are sellswords in Pentos and Myr and Tyrosh you can hire. A man who kills for coin has no honor, but at least they are no slaves. Find your army there, I beg you.”

“My brother visited Pentos, Myr, Braavos, near all the Free Cities. The magisters and archons fed him wine and promises, but his soul was starved to death. A man cannot sup from the beggar’s bowl all his life and stay a man. I had my taste in Qarth, that was enough. I will not come to Pentos bowl in hand.”

“Better to come a beggar than a slaver,” Arstan said.

“Khaleesi,” he said, taken aback by her fury, “the Unsullied are chosen as boys, and trained—”

ASOS Daenerys III

ASOS Daenerys IV

Ser Jorah pointed. “Those are sellswords on the flanks. Lances and mounted bowmen, with swords and axes for the close work. The Second Sons on the left wing, the Stormcrows to the right. About five hundred men apiece. See the banners?”

Yunkai’s harpy grasped a whip and iron collar in her talons instead of a length of chain. But the sellswords flew their own standards beneath those of the city they served: on the right four crows between crossed thunderbolts, on the left a broken sword. “The Yunkai’i hold the center themselves,” Dany noted. Their officers looked indistinguishable from Astapor’s at a distance; tall bright helms and cloaks sewn with flashing copper disks. “Are those slave soldiers they lead?”

“In large part. But not the equal of Unsullied. Yunkai is known for training bed slaves, not warriors.”

“What say you? Can we defeat this army?” “Easily,” Ser Jorah said.

“But not bloodlessly.” Blood aplenty had soaked into the bricks of Astapor the day that city fell, though little of it belonged to her or hers.

“We might win a battle here, but at such cost we cannot take the city.”

“That is ever a risk, Khaleesi. Astapor was complacent and vulnerable. Yunkai is forewarned.”

“Missandei, what language will these Yunkai’i speak, Valyrian?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the child said. “A different dialect than Astapor’s, yet close enough to understand. The slavers name themselves the Wise Masters.”

“Wise?” Dany sat crosslegged on a cushion, and Viserion spread his white-and-gold wings and flapped to her side. “We shall see how wise they are,” she said as she scratched the dragon’s scaly head behind the horns.

But when Mero was gone, Arstan Whitebeard said, “That one has an evil reputation, even in Westeros. Do not be misled by his manner, Your Grace. He will drink three toasts to your health tonight, and rape you on the morrow.”

“The old man’s right for once,” Ser Jorah said. “The Second Sons are an old company, and not without valor, but under Mero they’ve turned near as bad as the Brave Companions. The man is as dangerous to his employers as to his foes. That’s why you find him out here. None of the Free Cities will hire him any longer.”

“It is not his reputation that I want, it’s his five hundred horse. What of the Stormcrows, is there any hope there?”

“No,” Ser Jorah said bluntly. “That Prendahl is Ghiscari by blood. Likely he had kin in Astapor.”

“A pity. Well, perhaps we will not need to fight. Let us wait and hear what the Yunkai’i have to say.”

ASOS Daenerys V

“That was wisely done,” Ser Jorah said as they watched from the front of her pavilion. “Let the fool ride back and forth and shout until his horse goes lame. He does us no harm.”

Ser Jorah snorted. “And if our champion were to lose, what sort of seed would that plant?”

“A man who fears battle wins no victories, ser.”

“We’re not speaking of battle. Meereen’s gates will not open if that fool falls. Why risk a life for naught?”

“For honor, I would say.”

“I have heard enough.” Dany did not need their squabbling on top of all the other troubles that plagued her.

“It’s his city I want, not his meager manhood.”

“No weakness in the landward walls?” [...] “Does that mean we might attack from the river or the sea?”

“With three ships? We’ll want to have Captain Groleo take a good look at the wall along the river, but unless it’s crumbling that’s just a wetter way to die.”

“What if we were to build siege towers? My brother Viserys told tales of such, I know they can be made.”

“From wood, Your Grace,” Ser Jorah said. “The slavers have burnt every tree within twenty leagues of here. [...] [”]

Daario Naharis gave Grey Worm a smile. “Perhaps the Unsullied should wield the axes. Boiling oil feels like no more than a warm bath to you, I have heard.”

Dany sighed. “I will not throw away Unsullied lives, Grey Worm. Perhaps we can starve the city out.”

Ser Jorah looked unhappy. “We’ll starve long before they do, Your Grace. There’s no food here, nor fodder for our mules and horses. I do not like this river water either. Meereen shits into the Skahazadhan but draws its drinking water from deep wells. Already we’ve had reports of sickness in the camps, fever and brownleg and three cases of the bloody flux. There will be more if we remain. The slaves are weak from the march.”

“Freedmen,” Dany corrected. “They are slaves no longer.”

“Then what do you advise, Ser Jorah?”

“You will not like it.”

“I would hear it all the same.”

“As you wish. I say, let this city be. You cannot free every slave in the world, Khaleesi. Your war is in Westeros.”

“Defeated?” said Dany, bristling.

“When cowards hide behind great walls, it is they who are defeated, Khaleesi,” Ko Jhogo said.

Her other bloodriders concurred. “Blood of my blood,” said Rakharo, “when cowards hide and burn the food and fodder, great khals must seek for braver foes. This is known.”

“It is known,” Jhiqui agreed, as she poured.

[...] “There must be some way into this city.”

“I know a way.” Brown Ben Plumm stroked his speckled grey-and-white beard. “Sewers.” “Sewers? What do you mean?”

Ser Jorah looked dubious. “Easier to go out than in, it would seem to me. These sewers empty into the river, you say? That would mean the mouths are right below the walls.”

Daario Naharis laughed. “As nasty as you, when you came crawling out? If any man were fool enough to try this, every slaver in Meereen would smell them the moment they emerged.”

#daenerys targaryen #valyrianscrolls #a storm of swords #a dance with dragons #dany passages

20 notes · View notes

vannahfanfics · 4 years

Text

3 a.m. Musings and Cherry Lip Gloss

Category: Mild Romantic Fluff

Fandom: Kingdom Hearts

Characters: Hayner, Olette

With a small groan, Hayner cracked an eye open to peer sleepily at the alarm clock on his nightstand. The bright green numbers depicting 2:28 a.m., the only light source in the inescapable gloom of night, burned into his golden irises. With a louder, more aggravated groan, he rolled onto his back to shove his pillow over his head as if that would make him get to sleep faster. Instead, the neon letters imprinted into his corneas blazed in the dark of his closed eyes. After a few minutes of unsuccessfully trying to lull himself to sleep, he jerked up into a sitting position, shoved the pillow off himself, and just stared out into the dark.

Hayner didn’t usually struggle with sleep. Hell, normally, he passed out right as his head hit the pillow. It was an infuriating change of pace. It wasn’t like he had anything pressing to do in the morning, but the boy just liked his sleep. It was one of life’s many simple pleasures… one that was apparently going to be denied him tonight. He supposed that at least he could take solace in the fact that it wasn’t just some random bout of insomnia; there was at least a reason his mind was whirling one hundred miles an hour and just refused to shut off.

Sora was missing.

The three of them hadn’t been informed of the details. Roxas had just mentioned it in passing because he was depressed about it. There were things about Sora (and the others, too) that Hayner would probably never know- world-jumping and monster-fighting and data-worlds. He was content with that, but what he wasn’t content with was feeling so damn powerless in it all.

Hayner didn’t have a fancy Keyblade that he could sling around and save the day. All he could do was wish, and wish, and wish. Hayner was pretty damn tired of wishing while everyone else charged in to do the work, though. He sighed deeply as he ran both his hands through his tousled blonde hair. Sure, he resented it, but it wasn’t like there was anything he could do about it. Hayner couldn’t wish some fancy weapon into existence, unfortunately.

There’s nothing for it, Hayner thought as he rolled onto his belly to grab his cell phone off the nightstand. He plucked it off the charger and tapped the screen, recoiling with a light screech as it blazed to life and virtually disintegrated his eyeballs. Stuffing his face into the mattress to recover, Hayner swiped his thumb across the top of the screen to lower the brightness. After a minute, the scorching pain receded, and he wearily lifted his head to blink at the now-darkened phone screen. He pulled up his messaging app and tapped on his archived conversation with Olette.

Hey, are you awake? The little bubble made a swoosh sound as it appeared on the screen. There probably was a snowball’s chance in hell that Olette would be awake. He would probably have more luck texting Pence, who was an insufferable night owl who somehow could operate on four hours of sleep and be that same cheerful ball of positivity instead of an irritated zombie. That’s how Hayner got after less than eight hours of sleep. Still, Hayner wasn’t sure he could use Pence’s radiant optimism right now. He was feeling out of sorts, and the one who always comforted him when he was that way was Olette.

Hayner stared at the screen for a minute, waiting to see if the girl was going to respond. He was actually going to break down and just text Pence anyway until another swoosh alert signaled the arrival of another, differently-colored text bubble.

I am. What are you doing up so late?

Can’t sleep. What are YOU doing up so late? Hayner countered. A faint smile ghosted over his lips as he drew up his legs over his back and laid his cheek against the soft mattress. Man, he was glad that she was awake. Something about that made him feel calmer already. Although, Hayner always got like that when it was just him and Olette- because he kind of had a pretty big crush on her…

Heehee! I can’t sleep either! A soft sigh left his mouth. He could imagine that little giggle of hers, accompanied by the sweet smile hidden behind her hand that she raised to her mouth when she laughed. God, he was hopeless when it came to her. Want to meet at the usual spot? He sat up on his arm, intrigued. That was certainly a proposition he hadn’t been expecting at the wee hours of the morning. Still, it was a heck of a lot better than lounging in bed wishing he could fall asleep.

Sure. I’m on my way.

Within minutes, Hayner had changed out of his pajamas in favor of a pair of jeans, a slim-fit, long-sleeve white shirt, and a black jacket. Now that it was the tail end of summer, the nights were beginning to grow cooler, necessitating such precautions. Indeed, as he stepped out of his house onto the bricked streets of Twilight Town, a cold wind blew through the empty corridors and roadways with a quiet, shrill whistle, making Hayner shiver slightly and stuff his hands down into his pockets. Absently, he wondered if Olette had dressed warm enough. He would offer her his jacket if he thought she hadn’t. Setting a brisk pace, he began walking up the sloped incline that led to their secret meeting place.

There wasn’t a soul out beside him. Hayner found the atmosphere peaceful; the town was always a-hustle and a-bustle with people walking towards the shopping district or conversing while they waited for the trams or just wandering about looking for something to do. Even far from the tracks, one could always hear the tram cars rattling as they continuously rounded their circuit of the city. Even the forest before the old mansion wasn’t free of noise; the trees always shook with the wind, and the air always abounded with chattering birdsong.

Hayner, busybody supreme, had always found the noise somewhat comforting and energizing. However, as he strolled under the brilliant canvas of the starry night sky in silence, he found that pleasant and stimulating in its own way, too.

God, he was going all philosophical. Is this what Pence did every night when he stayed up until the crack of dawn? Scowling, he rubbed at his eyes, feeling the bags that were already forming underneath them. He was probably going to regret this little excursion in the morning.

In no time at all, his feet had carried him to their secret base nestled behind an unassuming chain-link fence.

“Olette?” he called as he pulled back the curtain, not wishing to startle the girl if she was there. It was exceptionally likely, considering she lived closer to the base than he did. Sure enough, she perched on one of the overturned wooden boxes that served as their humble chairs. God, they needed to stop spending so much money on ice cream and pretzels and by some real furniture, especially considering that Lea, Isa, Roxas, and Xion were cramming themselves in there now, too.

Olette cocked her head to the side while giving a little wave and that sweet, sweet smile of hers. It almost made Hayner melt on the spot. It seemed being awake so late was making him all sentimental, too. He was all out of sorts for all sorts of reasons. What a concept. “Hey, Olette,” he smiled back at her as he entered the small nook.

“What’s on your mind, Hayner?” Yikes, right to the point. Scratching his head with an embarrassed smile, he hovered in the doorway. She waited patiently for him to answer, hands clasped in her lap and green eyes sparkling with pure goodness. God, he loved her, really. Wait. That isn’t the topic of conversation, he reminded himself.

“I’ve just been thinking,” Hayner frowned as he struggled to put his complicated feelings into words, “how upset I would be if any of you guys just up and disappeared on me.” Wow, that actually came out articulated and cohesive. Not bad for being half-asleep.

He walked over to sit on the small box across from her, resting a cheek in his hand while the other arm slung across his opposite knee. “I know there’s nothing we can do about Sora, but I can’t help but think about it, y’know? I can’t imagine what the others are goin’ through. I’d be devastated if you vanished, Olette.”

The words hung in the air for a moment before he realized exactly what he had said. He immediately blushed fiercely, almost grasping upwards to pluck them down and shove them back into his mouth. That wasn’t how things worked, though. He shrunk into himself in mortification as Olette stared at him with owlish eyes.

Hayner decided then and there not to have any more 3 a.m. conversations with Olette.

The tense silence that settled between them also made him elect that silence was no longer comforting. “Um… Say something, please,” he asked awkwardly after it became too much for him to bear.

“O-oh!” she cried while flushing pink and waved her hands about in an apologetic manner. “I’m sorry, I just zoned out?” She laughed with a nervous smile. Hayner frowned lightly as he resumed his horrible slouching posture. It was definitely a weak excuse, but like hell he was gonna question it. “Um, yeah… I totally get what you mean. To be honest, I’ve been thinking about it too… It’s also why I couldn’t sleep. I’m almost afraid that I would wake up, and…” she trailed off to play with her fingers, gaze falling to her lap, “you not being here anymore…” she finished shyly, glancing up through her pretty lashes at him.

If Olette was really hinting that she liked him as he liked her, well, she was probably questioning it, because Hayner looked pretty stupid with the way his mouth was hanging open as he gawked incredulously at her. Hastily, he shut his mouth and leaned back, unsure quite what expression he was trying to make on his face at the moment. Somehow he managed to form words, though.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that, Olette… I’ll always… be here…” The could’ve come out smooth as hell, but he made it sound so awkward and shy. Well, it really was a wonder he said it at all because he sure wouldn’t have if it were a typical time of day.

For the duration of him saying it, his eyes had been searching the meeting spot for something to land on, only to drift back to Olette. He instantly felt his heart clench in his chest; the way she was looking at him right now, so relieved and happy with just a hint of a demure smile on her pretty pink lips…

Wait, did she have on lip gloss? Who puts on lip gloss at 3 a.m.?

His hands flew to the edges of the box underneath him when she suddenly stood up and walked across the room to stand in front of him. He encased that box in a white-knuckled grasp as he looked up at her uncertainly.

“Promise?" she asked him softly, endearingly, hopefully. With the way the sleep was fogging his brain, he began to wonder if this was all a dream, that he really was asleep after all. Well, if it was a dream, why stop, and if it wasn’t and he really was awake, all the better.

“Promise. I’m not going anywhere, Olette.”

Hayner should pull a move. Girls liked moves. The movies all said so.

He pried one of his hands from the box and tried to ignore the bright red imprint of its rough surface against his palm. He reached out to grasp one of her own, gently rolling circles into the top of it with his thumb. From the way she bashfully looked down at their held hands then up at him, he could tell that it was a successful move. Point one for sleep-deprived Hayner.

Olette reached up with her other hand to softly brush her fingertips over his cheeks. The feather-light touch sent electricity skittering across his entire face that lingered after her hand had already fallen away.

“I’m glad.” The way she whispered the words sent an oddly pleasurable shiver up his spine. He got a sudden urge to kiss her.

Was he crazy? Probably. Then again, he was dangerously close to lunacy already from not sleeping.

Was he going to go for it? Absolutely.

“Olette…” Her name crept past his lips without him noticing as he stood up, tilting his head slightly as he looked down at her. He still held her hand while his other rested against her cheek, fingertips just barely threading into her waves of chestnut hair. She styled it every morning, but it consisted of crimped waves of chocolatey locks due to the late hour. Somehow, he liked that even more… It made her look so natural, so raw, so beautiful.

Without another word, his face drifted down over her own to plant a soft, sweet kiss on her lips. Olette angled her face to respond to him, and as a little of her lip gloss smeared across his mouth, he could vaguely discern the sweet taste of cherries. Point one for lip gloss at 3 a.m.

Hayner held the kiss for a minute before pulling back, but only just. As her eyes fluttered open to peer up at him adoringly, he smirked playfully. “I guess it’s just a little unnecessary to say that I like you, Olette.”

She giggled, holding her hand up to her mouth just like she always did, and he swore that he fell even more in love with her only from that.

“Yes, but a girl likes to hear it anyway.” Her green eyes sparkled up at him like sunlight filtering through a thick canopy of leaves. “Feel better?”

“Loads.” Just from talking to her, he felt like a great weight dropped off his shoulders. Suddenly, a large yawn split his face, and he rubbed his eyes at a sudden onset of drowsiness. He felt like he could fall asleep on the spot.

Olette giggled again before asking, “Care to walk a girl home?” He nodded in agreement and Olette grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together before tugging him out of the secret base. As the chill wind greeted them, she pressed her body against his, and they set off together in the deep of night with the moon and stars as their only company. Hayner really wasn’t sure how he got from point A to B, because his memory faded very quickly after their leaving.

The only reason he knew that it wasn’t a dream was the faint lingering taste of cherry lip gloss on his lips in the morning.

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

#kingdom hearts #kh #haylette #haynette #hayner x olette #olette x hayner #olettexhayner #haynerxolette #romance #fluff #cutesy #oneshot #oneshots #oneshot collection #fanfiction #fanfics #fanfic #kingdom hearts fanfiction #kh fanfiction

10 notes · View notes

thanksjro · 4 years

Text

Polyhex Wars, Book 1 Part 2: The Timeline for the Robots Being Gay Goes Back Further Than I Thought

Ratchet wakes up from that whole, “mystical passing out” thing to find himself strapped to a table with his head all poked into with wires. Optimus and Prowl are also being subjected to this treatment, but they’re not awake yet.

I guess we all have that one character we just latch onto, don’t we?

Chromedome was there when all three of these guys collapsed, and went to go get help. Ratchet explains that there was black fire and breaking glass and it was all like some god-awful acid trip.

No kidding, doc.

Ratchet seems to think that all that actually happened, but it turns out that it was all in their heads, much like everything else that they’d seen. Chromedome just saw them drop with a flash of light.

Optimus wakes up, and First Aid explains that their mental trips into Limbo are coming closer and closer together, and becoming more violent as a result. There’s a good chance that the next time they have an attack, they’ll be sharing a dreamscape.

Prowl hasn’t woken up. Optimus is worried that he’s stuck in Limbo, and demands that they be put back under to guide him back to the land of the living. First Aid has his reservations, but what is he gonna do, argue with the space pope? Optimus and Ratchet are sent back in with the power of mind-transfer.

Let’s take a quick look at some Chromedome canon before we move on to the next chunk of story, because I want to try and get a feel for why Roberts seems to like him so much.

In the Marvel comics, Chromedome was kind of a reclusive computer nerd, who very much disliked the fact that all his programming skills were only being applied to the war effort as opposed to literally anything else. When Fortress Maximus decided to up and leave, he went along gladly. He ended up getting paired with a very outgoing, vain Nebulan partner named Stylor when the whole Headmaster thing happened. They had their differences, but ultimately were brought together by the common goal of kicking Decepticon ass for the greater good. Comic Chromedome is a relatively nice guy, if a bit cowardly- his final entry in the series was heading for the hills when Unicron showed up, but honestly I can’t really fault him for that.

And then there’s the Headmasters anime. Yeah, Chromedome was an anime protagonist back in the 90’s. Anime Chromedome is a completely different entity than his comic counterpart. His whole thing is that he wants revenge for the murder of his friends at the hands of Sixshot. He’s also a Headmaster- no shit- but it works a little differently, in that he’s the only one involved with the process. Chromedome himself IS the head, and the big body he plugs into is just this sort of inert mecha that he pilots when he wants to be able to reach the higher shelves at the supermarket.

Anime Chromedome is the second-in-command to Fortress Maximus, and he’s a bit of a jackass at times, but he seems to have his heart in the right place. You know, when he isn’t busy beating Decepticons to death. Anime Chromedome goes hard.

Getting back to the story, we return to the scene we left at the end of Part One, with the 40 Autobots having been caught in a trap in Darkmount.

Well that lasted all of five minutes. Poor Grandpa.

This starts a chain reaction, and it isn’t long before all the Autobots are throwing punches. Blaster goes full cowl, taking four guys on at once, and potentially kneeing someone in the nuts so hard they flies up into the air and are promptly exploded by gunfire. Blaster throws a gun to Sights, who is a sniper, and then is right back in the center of the fracas.

Sights is a sniper here, but it looks like the only Sights in Transformers canon is a bird who can turn into a fusion cannon. They probably aren’t the same character, unless there’s something I don’t know about birds.

Sights hauls himself up to a ledge using a grappling hook, and starts picking off Decepticons. Things seem to be turning around for the Autobots at this point, because Sights is the best.

Sights is what some might call a Mary Sue- he’s the best at sniping, rivaling Optimus Prime himself with his accuracy, everyone seems to know him, and he singlehandedly has turned the tide of this fight. As the Autobots escape, he manages to explode a key piece of Decepticon equipment, killing over a dozen enemy troops.

This is an earlier work, if you couldn’t already tell.

We do see some neat transitions in the writing, though.

Ratchet and Optimus have entered Limbo, and are feeling a little manic about the whole thing, especially since the space is just filled with corpses from the Time Wars. Like, it’s a carpet of dead bodies.

Roberts was all about that edge from the get-go, huh?

The two robots start walking, looking for Prowl.

Over with Red Alert on the Celestial, he’s not really feeling the vibe on this spacecraft. Neither is Hot Shot, but neither of them can really pinpoint why exactly that is. Sideswipe points out that Getaway doesn’t have his Nebulan partner with him- for this particular story, we’re going with the take on Getaway as a Powermaster, which means he has a smaller person who plugs into his body to act as a battery, kind of like a reverse parasite.

Comic books are weird.

Toy gimmicks are also weird.

This cues in the Autobots that things might not be on the up and up here. You know, that and the whole “Witterquick” thing. The boys load their weapons, but keep them concealed as they approach not-Blaster, who’s beginning to worry that he’s been caught after all this time. He must have sort flavor of social anxiety, because he’s kept his cool over the video chat for the last few weeks, but the moment Red Alert enters the room, he blows his cover and orders the Decepticons to attack.

Back at Darkmount, it seems we’ve lost a few people, as the count has gone from 40 to 29. The boys are running through the halls, completely clueless as to where to go in order to escape.

Don’t be shocked by the language, this is G1 Silverbolt, not the one who fucks is a complete gentleman to a spider.

I’m still convinced that this Courier guy is evil. You should be tossing him out the window, not looking to him for help.

The Decepticons are gaining. Hound, exasperated, asks as nicely as he can for Silverbolt to try and wake Courier up as they attempt to keep the distance between factions as wide as they can. Laser fire quickly becomes involved, and Swerve and Bumblebee go from the back of the pack to the front. Little fellas can move when they want to.

While Sights does another cool thing with some guns he stole, Courier wakes up and says- with some trouble, since he’s just woken up and still bleeding from that leg wound- that they should jump into the sewers to escape.

That’s all well and good, but if they intend on doing such a thing, they’ll need to put a bit more distance between themselves and their assailants. Everyone starts shooting at the ceiling, attempting to bring it crashing down. Everyone except Sights. No, instead Sights goes on picking off any Decepticon who gets too close for comfort, until they manage to bring the house down.

The strong, silent type, Sights is. Tall, dark, and handsome, too, most likely.

Back in Limbo, Ratchet’s starting to crack.

As if on cue, the ground starts to crack, revealing lava of all things, and the whole scene turns into Dante’s Inferno-flavored Hell. Yeah, proper noun Hell. Optimus and Ratchet are exploded by contact with a downpour of acid rain, then their bodies reconstituted, only to be burned to crispies by the lava. When they wake up from that, they find themselves stuck on a spinning silver plate in the sky, where they have an excellent view of where Prowl’s gotten to- he’s stranded on an asteroid with a big, scary Decepticon, who’s about to complete wreck his shit.

You know, the snark has always been there in Roberts’ writing, but it didn’t really hit its stride until after this piece of work.

Meanwhile, in the sewers, our Autobots aren’t doing so hot. Courier’s probably going to die if they don’t get him medical attention soon. I guess they just didn’t have any sort of medic on the Celestial when it was overtaken, which seems like a massive oversight. Or maybe they’re dead.

We don’t have time to worry about the hiring practices of the Autobots right now though, because a few Decepticons just arrived on the scene.

Well, there goes the token girl character.

Seems like nobody told these ‘Cons to not hit their deep cover operative. There goes several thousand years of Autobot secrets, dumbasses. Soundwave’s going to be so pissed.

The Autobots quickly fall into formation and start defending themselves. Turns out Rev-Tone’s on the scene.

Hi Rev-Tone!

Someone gets shot and proceeds to explode, which causes enough chaos for a Decepticon to load up a missile launcher without being noticed and fire it into the crowd.

Things are looking hopeless, so that means it’s time for Sights to make his Heroic Sacrifice™. Hound begs him to stay, because he can’t bear to lose anyone else.

Unfortunately, the Hound/Sights coffeeshop AU slowburn fit written by Rewind will have to have a fix-it fic tag, because Sights is almost immediately and literally ripped apart by a smattering of Decepticons. Knowing his time is running out, he busts out the big guns.

Oh my god he’s got fucking laser vision.

That isn’t quite enough though, so he initiates self-destruct, thereby saving his fellow Autobots and dying a hero.

You know, if you stack Sights on top of what was left of Quark after the interrogation scene, you make a whole robot. Worst. Duobot. Ever.

Not to worry though, because Wheeljack’s taken the opportunity to be all weird and cryptic, and insinuates that they potentially COULD bring Sights back from the dead. Because of course he can.

We don’t get to find out how that magic’s going to happen though, because it’s time to check in on Optimus and Ratchet.

Things aren’t going great. They crashed the disk, and it turns out that the giant Decepticon threatening Prowl and throwing body parts at him is Galvatron. Optimus leaps into action, attempting to use his magnetic repellence on the enemy.

I guess that’s a thing he has.

It works, but it’s taking a lot out of Optimus, so they need to figure something else out fast. Optimus, ever light on his mental feet, surges the power so that Galvatron explodes. Ratchet goes over to Prowl to see what his deal is, and it’s looking like he’s going to need brain surgery.

“Now back the hell up, Optimus, you’re breathing contaminates all over Prowl’s exposed brain.”

Back on Cybertron, it turns out that things might just be okay after all, as Hound and company have stumbled across the lost city of Subterrainia. Subterrainia did not exist in Transformers canon at the time of this writing, but it would in 2012, when Roberts used his immense power as a hired writer for the franchise to make it so.

Now that they’re in a place that has medical equipment, they can heal their wounded and indulge in a little lore. Trasher provides us with the backstory of this lost city.

Long before the War, Transformers lived on the surface of Cybertron. Then, one day, someone said, what if we didn’t do that? Then they built Subterrainia and lived there instead. Then the War happened and people sort of just forgot that it was there. The end.

That’s literally it.

After that riveting explanation, we check back in with Optimus, who I suppose forgot to put on his patience hat this morning, as he asks Ratchet to hurry up with the life-saving field surgery he’s currently in the middle of. Ratchet calls him out on it, as he should, and Optimus apologizes, going back to worrying about his troops outside of Limbo.

Over on the Celestial, Red Alert’s just had his arm shot off, and there’s a continuity error running amok.

You are supposed to be back at base, mister!

The Autobots are getting their asses kicked, and it’s not hard to see why- a lot of the Decepticons on this spacecraft are heavy hitters. Starscream’s here, the entire Combaticon team, it’s wild.

Then Starscream calls for escape plan 3 to take place, and they just… leave. It’s strange, and it’s sudden, and the Autobots can’t help but agree. Red Alert decides to see what’s on the computer to try and figure out what they’re planning, and ends up setting off the countdown for a bomb. Slapdash yells at him for being an idiot.

Back down in the City of the Mole People, Getaway’s come back from checking out the place, and informs Hound that it’s completely abandoned. He theorizes that the Decepticons killed everyone who lived here, an will probably come looking for them sooner rather than later. That’s all fine though, because Courier’s back and better than ever.

I still don’t trust him.

He says he knows how to get out of Subterrainia- which only chalks up more points against him being a true Autobot- but hold on! What about Sights?

Sights just got Goldbugged. It’s Ammo now.

Roberts will never let a pair of robot titties go unnoticed. I can’t believe that Wheeljack, with the limited time they had, would go and make Ammo this attractive, and then have the audacity to show him off with a dramatic reveal. It was completely unnecessary, but here we are, staring at Ammo’s strong arms and thighs, wishing to be held by Hotbot 9000 over here.

Hound is all about this overhaul. Look at him, getting all flustered.

Ammo as character is present in the IDW run of the comics, but in name only. They are very different creatures, much like the different iterations of Quark. Roberts is very into recycling, and here is no exception.

After Ammo’s debut, the narrative checks in on Autobot City, where things aren’t nearly as sexy; Starscream made a beeline for the place the moment they left the Celestial, and they’re wrecking shop. He’s doing this without orders to do so, by the way. This is just how Starscream wants his Monday to go, I guess. It’s looking pretty grim for the Autobots, and Optimus is still stuck in Limbo. Hopefully he gets back soon.

#transformers #jro #polyhex wars #book one #part two #maccadam #Hannzreads #text post #long post #prose writing

3 notes · View notes

kitesupportgroup · 5 years

Text

Be More Chill OBCR 💛💊

So the bmc obcr has been out for a bit now, (and I love it so very much) so I decided to write down all of my favourite things it- if not for other bmc fans but for myself. Enjoy reading through everything I love!!!

****This is not finished, but I ran over the character limit so I’ll be constantly updating this on reblogs! Look out for the most recent ones!!!****

(Btw It’s not all new additions to the album but just everything)

Jeremy’s Theme:

I mean. I love the be more chill band so much.

With the universal Be More Chill sound?

How could I not love this!!!!

And the amazing theremin?

(That’s what that instrument is called)

(I looked up ‘electric stick instrument’ to figure out what it was)

It’s just terrific

100000000/10

More Than Survive:

Will Roland’s voice (and Will Roland in general)

How unenthusiastic ‘good morning, time to start the day’ is

The addition of the parts part between Jeremy and mr. heere on the recording

‘Dude!’ (Weight the options)

‘Oh god!’

Will Roland’s voice (and Will Roland in general)

When the whole cast comes in on the third ‘c-c-c-come on!’

The new hallway lines (I’ve literally never noticed him before)

The dramatic music when Rich writes on Jeremy’s backpack

‘Oh! It’s a sign up for the after school play!’ *pause* ‘It’s a sign up sheet for getting called gay’

‘End scene’

‘Christiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine’ (new harmonies+notes ahhhhh!!!!!!)

‘No need to wallow, no’

Will Roland’s voice (and Will Roland in general)

MICHAEL!!!!

Just George Salazar

Just Michael Mell

‘You look like ass, what’s wrong?’

‘My mothers would be thrilled!’

‘That’s... good?’

[I was gonna say] ‘Getting atoned in my basement’

THE CHRISTINE HARMONIES YALL HAVE MY HEART

The band is so incredible I can’t

The ooooooooooooooo harmonies when Jeremy is signing up for the play

‘Gayyyyyy!’

‘I like gay people’

THE WHOLE LEAD UP TO MORE THAN SURVIVE ITS SO SOFT AND GENUINE WILL YOU WONDERFUL HUMAN

‘Whyyyy’

‘And teach me how to thrive’

THE INSTRUMENTS COMING IN AT THAT PART THEN THE NANANANANA’S

I LITERALLY LOVE THIS SO MUCH THIS PART GIVES ME CHILLS

Will’s bits AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

‘SUR VIIIIIIIIII-IIIIIIIIIII-IIIIIIIIII-IIIIIIIIII VEEE!’

‘GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GO GOOOOO GO!’

I Love Play Rehearsal

Stephanie Hsu. Just. She’s a queen. No- a goddess

The way she says ‘because it is fun.’

And the pause between ‘because it is fun’ and ‘...I love play rehearsal’

‘not depressed as in like’ bit

MAD GIGANTIC FEELINGS

‘I also have a touch of ADD

where was I?

Oh, right!’

‘The way it works out in the Pla-aa-y’

‘Centre of attention’

‘That was, really one of my best roles’ THAT VOICE💛

‘Do you find that? *pause that Jeremy clearly cant respond in time* Cause I totally find that!’

‘Why-y-y-y-y’

‘I *punch* LOVE *punch* PLAY REHEARSAL!’

‘Hives’

‘Why’m’

‘There’s also a part of me that wants to do this *adorable weird noises* yasss’

‘So I did it *giggles*’

‘My brain is like bzzz, my heart is like wow’

‘And it’s starrrrrting,

starrrrrting

it’s starrrrrrting,

sooooooooooooooon’

More Than Survive (Reprise)

I’m sorry. A NEW SONG?!

I LOVE IT AND THE TONE AND TUNE AND BAND AND WILL

the fact that ‘at least I didn’t have a breakdown, and have to go to the nurse’ suggest that this has happened to Jeremy before I NEED TO PROTECT HIM

Just the whole set up- it’s what touching my hand aimed to do but shorter and wonderful

The Squip Song:

I realise I’ve added this to everything but Gerard Canonico and his voice I love him

The start instrumental

The way he sings ‘girlfriend’ (idk why i just love)

‘Gross’

‘Futile quest’

‘I would trip!’

‘Then then, Then then, Then then, Then then, Then then, Then then, I got a SQUIP!’

‘You got quick?!!’ Jeremy is so excited aw

‘Not quick. SQUIP’

That entire conversation

Just the entire: It's from Japan

It's a gray, oblong pill

Quantum nano-technology CPU

The quantum computer in the pill will travel through your blood until

It implants in your brain and it tells you what to do’ part

And of course ‘so... it’s like drugs?’

*deep breath*

‘IT’S FROM JAPAAAAAAAAAAN!’

The techno ness on Rich’s voice

The band

THE HARMONIES

‘Almost hopeless’

‘Yeah, your whole life will flip’

‘Squi-I-I-p’

ALL OF THE SQUIIIIIP BITS WOAH rich GO OFF

Two-Player Game:

Can I just say- one of the cutest songs ever

The part where the intro is all slow after Jeremy and Michael are yelling so excitedly I laugh at it every time

The whole intro sequence basically

The band is amazing

Will and George’s voice’s sound so good together 💛

Michael YOU ARE SO DAMN CUTE

‘pac-man tattoo!’

‘Guys like us!’

‘Listen, bro’

Zombie! Watch out! Ah! Aoh! Awww’

Will’s voice ahhhhHH

‘Dude, I know, I get it!’

‘But we’re not in college’

‘All the same’

‘Ahh! Ohh... ZOMBIE! BLOOD! CLAWS! Pause’

YOU KNOW THAT YOU ARE NY FAVOURITE PERSON IS SO CUTE

‘I’m your favworite pwerson’

JEREMY’S CUTE LIL ‘yes! *giggle*’

‘Conquer it!’

‘Two... PLAYER GAME!!!’

THE BAND IS SO AMAZING

‘Two player gammmmmme!’

THE LAST FEW HARMONIES I LOVE

The Squip Enters:

Woah it’s so short but I have so much to say

STARTING OFF BY JUST SAYING HOW GREAT THE BAND AND SOUND DESIGN FOR THIS IS I MEAN WOW

Jason Tam’s Squip voice 💛

‘What the hell?!’

Will’s screaming and yelling and noises I love

Christine is so concerned!!!!!!!

‘Mild?!?!’

Jake. That’s all. 💛

‘Oh- wait. I’m fine. I jus-‘

‘Discomfort level may increase’ *yelling intensifies*

‘Welcome to your Super Quantum Unit Intel Processer. Your SQUIP.’

Jeremy is so awestruck and cute

‘You look like Keanu Reeves!’

‘But I can see you may prefer to take instructions from Batman, Beyoncé, a sexy anime cat girl with a tail’ ‘KEANU’S FINE’

‘Can everyone see you?’ ‘I exist only in your mind. All they see is you having an animated conversation with yourself- so don’t do that.’

‘Like in X-Men?’ ‘I can see this is going to be difficult’ OH BURN OH DAMN I LOVE IT WOAHH (really tho this makes me laugh so much every time)

‘You want to be more chill?’

‘Oh, you mean cool!’

‘I do not’

Be More Chill, Pt. 1:

Okay but the Squip enters moves so smoothly into be more chill pt.1 woah

NEW INTRODUCTION ITS AMAZING

The ‘c-c-c-Come on’

THE ENTIRE KEY THAT THE BEW INTRO IS IN THO

THE WAY JASON SINGS ‘outdated’ assffhfkglsherb

‘I’ve arrived now, this is not a drill’

‘Be. More. Chill’

‘wow’ (Jeremy you’re so cute)

‘Oh but I am a masturbator’ ‘we’ll fix that’

‘I thought I was more of a... geek?’

‘Wha- stammer? N- I I I. I don’t stamme-‘

‘Non existent’

‘Buh’ ‘Uh-’ ‘Buh?’ ‘Uh!-‘ ‘No.’ ‘UH!’ ‘Stop.’ ‘DOGH!’

‘Everything about you is so terrible’ ‘Terrible?’ ‘Teribble’ ‘oh’

Jeremy sounds so dejected and sad on that ‘oh’ I need to protect him

‘....makes me wanna die’ *hyperventilating*

‘So DONT freak out’

‘It says Eminem’

‘If you’re so astute, what’d’ya need me for?’

‘I envision a future in which you wear a Eminem shirt and things turn out well’ *foreshadowing*

When the whole cast starts singing ‘everything about you sucks’ you can hear individual voices in it and at one point I swear you can hear George doing some weird voice and I love it

‘Now you try picking a shirt’ ‘That’s a girls shirt’

‘Jerry?’

‘Jerry-me’ or ‘Jerry-my’ (I always think of Jeremy being shocked about Chloe talking to him so he’s just like ‘Jerry? Me!’

‘Oh- Hi, Brooke’

‘You look sexy.’ ‘I cant say that to a hot girl- AOWWW’

‘LOOKING-PRETTY-SEXY-BROOKAHH’

‘No! Yess (????!)’

The entire round part I LOVE IT

‘Just like this HAHA’ SO ADORABLE

‘So who was this mystery girl?’

‘Oh you’ve probably never heard of (SQUIP HELP ME OUT HERE)’

‘Madeline’

‘What.’

‘She’s Fre-e-e-e-e-ench!’

‘She is not French! She just pretends to be for attention’ *radiating disdain*

Brooke is SO CUTE

‘Yeah- I mean- (????!!!!!)’

‘Because she was cheating on me-E-eeee-E-eeee-Eeeeeeh’ (YES I LOVE)

‘Hey. Hamlet. Be. More. Chill’

Leading into do you wanna ride!!!!

Do You Wanna Ride?

Okay but Lauren Marcus is literally amazing

And Brooke is amazing

The way the Squip and Jeremy day ‘Yes!’ At the sane time

‘Mich-ael’

Brooke is trying so hard to be seductive and it’s so damn cute

‘Do you wanna get inside my mothers car?’

‘Ah, hah’

‘We gotta stop for frozen yogurt first!’

When the incredible Katlyn Carson comes in GO CHLOE

Harmonies 💛💛

The band 💛💛

And, of course:

‘PII-IIINNNIN-IN-IN-IN-INK berrrrryyyyy

*giggles* ‘Au revoir’

SHE’S BEING FRENCH TO IMPRESS JEREMY

SHE’S SO CUTE

Be More Chill, Pt. 2

‘Repeat after me’

‘Everything about me is just... terrible’

‘Good.’

THE SQUIP IS SO MANIPULATIVE

‘Everything about you makes me wanna die’

‘Everything about me makes me... wanna die?’

‘Now you’ve got it.’

THE WAY THE BAND COMES IN

‘ABout you’

THE CAST

JASON TAM

‘Cool’ ‘Cool!’ ‘And powerful’ ‘wow!’ ‘And popular’ ‘*giggles* ‘incredible’ ‘woah!’

The accordion thing in the aforementioned section? Amazing

‘You wi-i-i-i-i-i-ill’

‘Be More Chilll! *giggles*’ JEREMY YOU ARE SUCH A PRECIOUS BEAN

*squip, probably face-palming* ‘be more chill’

THE CAST

Sync Up

*ahem* SCREAMING

THIS NEW SONG

IS AMAZING

LITERALLY

CANNOT

I have so much to say

Let’s go

First of all, the original more than survive reprise starts us off. I love it

‘C-c-c-Cmon, c-c-c-cmon go g-AHHH!’

‘I’m inside your brain’

I can’t write all of the lyrics as highlights but just know that all of the lyrics are highlights

‘Let’s sync up!’

‘Those facts are not mutually exclusive’

I LOVE HOW THIS SONG SHOWS EVERYONES FLAWS AND FEARS

‘I’m shook, I’m blah, I’m just-’ ‘there-there’ ‘Brooke!’ ‘I’m sorry’ ‘it’s not fair’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘I know’ ‘oh we so sync up’

That entire bit I just

‘But as soon as she shares it, they ignore her’ ‘that’s sad. What should I do?’ *pause* ‘you should ignore her*

‘Up-Up-Down-Down-Left-Right-A’

‘The only controller you need is your mind!’

‘Looks like Jeremy’s killin’’

The electronic ‘lets sync up’ bits

THE BAND IS SO AMAZING THE ELECTRONIC COMPONENTS AND THE EVERYTHING

1 note · View note

atlaswinter-moved · 5 years

Text

Burning White

Self-indulgent AU where Winter is the Winter Maiden and was never told what she was.

Warning for character death.

No one would tell her what she is, and now, at the end, she would never know.

It's almost enough to break her.

What, exactly, was something worth dying for?

Plenty of things. Ideals. People. A myriad of concepts and comforts to think of, knowing that to see them die would be more painful than death itself. That’s what Winter tells herself as she throws herself into the throng of Grimm, hearing Weiss shrieking behind her.

In the grand scheme of things, she never really was that important, she muses as her sword penetrates where the heart of a Beowolf would be, if these creatures had hearts to begin with. Her sword is out of the carcass and stabbing through another before the first creature disintegrates. No one told her much. Proving herself had proved an impossible endeavour, one that required more than just time and effort, but luck, being at the right place at the right time, connections...

At this point, she didn’t have any of those things.

Winter conjures a glyph, still warming up. She raises herself above the land-based Grimm, with some Lancers flying up to chase her. A spin, an array of harsh strikes, and the Lancers are nothing she needs to worry about… at least until the next swarm arrives.

The sea of Grimm is endless. Winter knows that this is a suicide mission, but she also knows that she’s expendable. She knows the least. Everyone else is following a plan she never fit into.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow.

Winter dashes to an empty patch of ground, summoning a swarm of Death Stalkers to keep the other Grimm at bay while she concentrates. She feels it, in her core, white like snow and burning like ice. White hot, in its own way. It bursts forth, and Winter feels this abnormal power burn her from the inside out. She feels it flow through her eyes, like a blast of cold air painting her eyelashes with ice crystals.

Ironwood never told her what she was. Winter wonders if he ever knew to begin with.

Just how low on the ladder was she?

As she throws herself back into the fray, a distraction, an obstacle, something to keep everyone else safe for just a little longer, she hears the voices. It’s Weiss. It’s Weiss’ teammates and friends. It’s Qrow. It’s the young man who is also an old man and the old lady. They sound shocked. Confused.

Did they know what she is?

Did they really know everything she had been working so hard to find out about?

Winter takes out her fury at this revelation on a Boarbatusk. It sounds like it’s screaming and Winter relishes the noise.

Some Grimm are making it past her, pushing forward to the people in the know, and for a moment Winter entertains the idea of letting them die, just out of spite for keeping her at the bottom of the ladder, but she doesn’t. She never could. Winter is a soldier, through and through, and she knows her place. She needs to make sure they survive.

This strange power that she has, a power that she got some time ago and was told to conceal with no explanations, helps her dart and dash much faster than usual. The Grimm trying to slip by don’t stand a chance, but Winter remains outnumbered. She’ll keep fighting until they’re all safe and far away, and even past that. She’ll fight until there are so few Grimm to ravage the surrounding area that they can be picked off.

She’ll make sure Weiss lives.

A wall of ice juts upward to the sky, out of nowhere, and any remaining Grimm trying to get the best of her are trapped. For now. Winter knows that it’s only a matter of time. Even as she fights, destroying every monster that comes into her path, she’s still wrapping her head around the fact that she’s about to die.

Weiss’ screams are growing fainter. She hears Qrow yelling and wonders if he’s the one taking her away.

She hopes he’s not laying a dirty, disgusting, booze-stained finger on her little sister, even if it saves her.

Winter lets more of her power out; Grimm around her are falling like dominoes, and it seems so easy, but she knows that it’s still hopeless. She doesn’t know how to control this power, and the white hot energy is pushing her past limits she never thought she could reach.

It’s a race. A race to see if this power or the Grimm kill her first.

Winter fights. Winter fights and fights and fights and she thinks.

She thinks of Weiss. She thinks of Weiss’ team, of sweet and kind Ruby who is the sort of person Weiss always needed in her life, of the blonde girl named Yang who seemed ready to take a bullet for anyone in her team, of the Faunus… Weiss had said her name was Blake.

A Faunus. Weiss seemed ready to defend her from anyone. Even from herself. From Winter.

Winter realises, far too late in her life and far too close to her death, that maybe Faunus really were people as well, and it leaves a cold pit in the middle of the painful heat as she realises just how much her father and mother and kingdom had influenced her into believing that some people were truly secondary.

Her name is Blake, and even though the thought is still foreign and is against everything she's ever known, she will be the first and last Faunus that Winter will ever be able to protect.

A claw tears at her leg, and Winter feels pain and blood and fear.

Her death today would be a tragedy. It would be a scar that would never truly heal in Weiss’ life, like the one crossing her eye, though this one would go deeper, beneath the skin where no one could see it. Yet in the grand scheme of things, Winter Schnee would just be a name in the list of fallen soldiers.

What a lonely, cold thought. It’s so empty and makes her life seem like such an insignificance in the grand scheme of things. Missed by only one person.

Winter’s vision blurs and a small hot streak runs down her face and she’s crying for the first time since she was a teenager. She stumbles and that one mistake is enough for the Grimm to swarm around her. Winter knows she’s beaten.

She thinks of Qrow. What had caused him to be the way he was? And why was he given everything she always worked for but never received? Too little too late, once again, Winter realises just how closed off she had been from learning more about the world around her. She knew nothing about the people leading Weiss, her most important person, into a war she wouldn’t be able to see the end of.

She thinks of Ozpin. She thinks of Oscar. Just who was he? Either of them? Would he have told her anything?

Some limb of some sort knocks into her gut, winding her and Winter falls to the ground, her sword knocked out of her reach and then blocked by a massive Grimm that she can’t quite see because her vision is blurring, no longer only from tears.

She thinks of the knight and the loud girl and the quiet boy and wonder what roles they play in everything.

She wonders what role she even played.

She feels another tear, in her arm, and screams, feeling power seep out, like she’s about to explode and take everything with her.

She thinks of her useless drunk mother. Of her cold, cruel father. Of her pampered snot of a brother. Were they always irredeemable?

Was she irredeemable as well?

Winter can’t see anymore. Everything is white and she feels Grimm darting forward and being pushed back and she can’t tell what’s happening anymore.

Did she kill enough? Did they escape?

Winter thinks of Weiss one more time.

I’m sorry… I’m sorry for all the pain I’ll cause you.

Winter feels a chill, strong and shocking, her name personified, and one last surge of power. She hears the sound of bodies falling and not coming back up.

Everything is white.

Far away from the battlefield, Weiss screams as a new power enters her body. Everyone knows.

#rwby #winter schnee #weiss schnee #More writing stuff.

6 notes · View notes

queerbycrs · 5 years

Text

so... i’m not finished writing this yet, but since apparently the idea is So Popular going by @iamalivenow‘s post, i thought i’d... lay out the basis of my the magnus archives good place au? vague spoilers up to current canon of tma (ep 120) and definite spoilers up to the end of s2 of the good place

my basic thought, at first, was that this isn’t a “full” tgp fusion -- it would incorporate elements of tma canon, and involve various kinds of amnesia. so, the characters are tormented by not remembering bits of their lives, or remembering things that line up wrong, or having flashes of memory that don’t make sense.

so, in this au, the characters already knew each other in ways that are similar but not identical to canon. that’s part of the reason elias-as-michael is so confident it’ll work out: that idiot michael just threw together some humans and hoped they’d click perfectly horribly. these people have history, and it’ll torment them or just be informational, as required.

so, elias is michael, obviously. pre-redemption. (my thought for this is that the torture actually works so it never proceeds to the actual plot of tgp s2-onwards, so no need to figure out how it would work with elias. alternately, the humans go off through the afterlife without architectural assistance. who knows)

i’m not set on who janet is, but i might go with the suggestion of distortion? because that sounds hilarious, honestly

and there are def soulmates in this au, because it makes things ALL THE MORE PAINFUL. from most-to-least solidly formed ideas:

basira and daisy. basira remembers a picture-perfect life on earth, fifty years of marriage, dying in each other’s arms.

daisy remembers being a serial killer and trying to hide it for years until basira caught on and daisy killed her in a fit of rage, and spent the rest of her life regretting it.

neither of them have accurate recollections. but according to their first day in the good place, basira is correct, and daisy doesn’t know what the hell is going on or why she’s here, with the love of her life, who she thought she killed in the biggest mistake of her life.

(basira prolllllllllly doesn’t belong in the bad place, but elias prolly just snatched her up for his Evil Plans. no one better to torture daisy with, right?)

next: martin and jon. they remember working together, in... an archive? or something? and martin was in love with jon, and jon was oblivious.

well, the official matchmaking systems of the afterlife have chosen! you’re the perfect match for each other! have fun!

martin is completely blissed out at first! it’s wonderful! he spent all those years in hopeless love, and now he gets to spend eternity with the man he thought could never love him back!

and at first, jon is actually... okay with it? he’s a little nervous, because he’s never had a relationship that didn’t crash and burn (okay, sample size of one, but that says a lot in and of itself) but it feels so easy, at first, and it’s... okay. it’s nice.

but then his memories start to get... weird. he has dreams of the archive where he worked, except it’s... different. he remembers worms, and running, and a man’s body on the floor of his office.

he remembers a tape recorder, and he starts recording here, too. just in case.

eventually, as jon’s paranoia starts to build and build, things start going bad for martin, too: he’s having nightmares too, of worms and crushing loneliness, and jon is retreating and won’t talk to him, and this cute older guy who works at the kayak rental/canoe group/scuba-diving-but-without-equipment-because-we’re-dead-and-don’t-need-to-breathe place keeps hitting in him and he’s kind of into it and he feels Really Bad about it

and then i get to, like, melanie and tim and georgie, and in this version of the au i don’t know what to do with them, so i would probably pair up melanie and tim -- their respective responses to stress don’t work well together, at All, so i guess if the tension started turning up they’d probably torture each other pretty effectively.

which leaves georgie. and i’m thinking, maybe elias just doesn’t know how to torture her. she was added to his carefully-planned group without advance notice (probably as a test, those goddamn suits in the department don’t understand how difficult and complicated this is--) and so he just. tells her that her soul is perfectly complete on its own, and she has the admiral for company, but she doesn’t have a soulmate.

georgie’s like, sweet. she can live her best life (afterlife) and hang out with her cat that will be with her forever! this is awesome.

(the admiral probably died of natural causes a few years before, after living a full and very happy life; it got a lovely afterlife until georgie arrived and they got to hang out again. this is how it is for all pets. don’t @ me you know i’m right and i will not take suggestions)

it’s not perfect, because elias just keeps throwing Problems at her to see what’ll stick. but she’s doing pretty good.

alternately:

basira/daisy, and

jon/tim. tim’s reaction to jon’s paranoia is probably a lot more external than martin’s is, which probably leads to some nasty fights. jon probably thinks tim is turning against him, it’s a whole big mess. tim might get seduced away a couple times to increase his guilt and add some depth to their bad relationship, because this is Literal Hell.

melanie/georgie, because Wrench Thrown Into Plan, had to make some adjustments. there’s probably some memory mismatch and external pressure, but it’s not too bad.

martin is a complete person who needs no soulmate to make his afterlife perfect. not a monk, like jason (elias scoffs at the heavy-handedness, the unsubtlety of that.) just perfectly fulfilled in solitude.

he probably gets fully seduced by peter lukas, aka mr. “kayak rental/canoe group/scuba-diving-but-without-equipment-because-we’re-dead-and-don’t-need-to-breathe place” guy. and then there’s a lot of, “oh god this was a mistake what will we tell our soulmates” from peter (externally) and a lot of “i’m going to be alone for literal eternity and even my hookup doesn’t know about it, because it’s so unusual to not have a soulmate” from martin (internally.)

looking at it now, version 1 does seem better and more thought-out, so if i do actually progress with this i’ll prolly go with that. but hey, if someone wants to run with version 2... (or one, idc really) please do, i will love it.

SO. onto: demons!

you know in the beginning of tgp season 2, when michael is doing the pep talks to the demons and one of them keeps asking if he can bite the humans?

okay, that, but with jane prentiss

she just wants to infect them. just a lil. just a few worms in their houses, even

(elias screams internally. why are his demons so incompetent.)

nikola is a mannequin in the windows of one of the stores in the cute little town. she moves... just a little bit... whenever you look away (like a weeping angel.) she probably shows up in people’s houses in the middle of the night and stands at the foot of their beds. when elias is asked about it, he assures them that it was just a nightmare.

there are so many spiders in this afterlife. martin loves it. nearly everyone else... does not.

jude perry owns a pizza place with a classic pizza oven. it’s... weirdly hot in there? (”she spent all her years on earth perfecting this pizza,” elias explains to someone who feels like they’re dying of heatstroke. “she adapted to the heat. it would be cruel to take it away from her.”)

the pizza is delicious, once it’s burned the roof of your mouth to bloody strips

mike crew runs the skydiving/flying place. the humans don’t understand why it’s so painful and weird when they do it. they’re clearly just doing it wrong! why don’t they try again. and again.

not!sasha is there, and sasha isn’t. (i don’t know, i can’t think of how it would work.) (maybe she kept throwing a wrench in elias’s plans so he didn’t want her in his neighbourhood.) she’s soulmates with some random demon and is probably out there, idk, tormenting people with weird uncanny valley.

she runs a wax museum, like the museum in tgp s2, when the gang goes to the real bad place and it has plaques for the first person to do some petty bad thing (telling a woman to smile, sending an unprompted dick pic, flossing in an open-concept workplace, etc.) the wax figures also move in creepy ways, just a little bit.

i’m sure once i write this i’ll flesh out more of the demons, but one last thing:

who is mindy st. clair, you ask?

my answer is: it’s not one person. it’s gertrude and gerry.

but how, you ask? isn’t that like, a really special, one-time thing?

well, dear reader, for one thing, points and afterlife designations work differently in this au than they do in tgp, for practical reasons of getting all the characters i care about into hell. and also, the system doesn’t make sense.

so gertrude and gerry either a) both evened out the points (and medium places aren’t very uncommon) or b) this is an au where you can be “claimed” by the good place or the bad place at random, and neither place wanted them. either/or.

the thing is, though, that the medium place is not meant to be torture. and for the vast majority of people, being alone for eternity with only the most mediocre entertainment and literally nothing to do? is torture.

for mindy, she was incredibly self-centred; being alone is fine. she doesn’t mind being around other people for short periods of time, and she probably wants to get laid, but she’s okay in her own company.

most people are not. and obviously we don’t actually know much about gertrude and gerry’s relationship, but what i’m going to guess is that they didn’t hate each other, or especially like each other, but they aren’t each other’s favourite person, either.

thus, the best person to spend eternity with for absolute mediocrity, they can both be alone when they want and also have company when they need to not go completely off the deep end.

and that’s what i have so far.

and here’s a bonus if you read this far: i also started writing a tgp magnus archives au, where michael (tgp michael) got the gang together in s3 by sending them all to the magnus institute to give a statement. i have most of eleanor’s statement written. still not sure what i want to do with it, but there you go: fusion-ception, an au both ways.

#anyway i plan to write this but also everybody should write this au #the magnus archives #the good place #nicola.txt #nicola writes things

11 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

religionnn

Religionnn

clumsydmitri

Fucking Hell

cosplayermj

Julia's Dream Palace

alicemoonlight

No, I Don’t Know Why My Tumblr Isn’t Working

gypsystables-blog

Gypsy Stables