you know, an interpretation of ct that I don't see that I personally really love is that she's a fuck up. like yes she's cool and she has some good fight scenes, but a huge part of her character is that she makes mistakes. the mistakes that she makes are ones that on their own aren't the end of the world, but she keeps making these little mistakes, and they eventually add up until she's out of room to make any more.
a really good example of this phenomenon in action is the actions she took leading up to her final confrontation with carolina and tex.
strike one, she thought she saw something in the water, but when asked by the leader what it was, she brushed it off as nothing when even if it had been nothing, it would've been smart to tell him what she thought she saw.
strike two, she didn't sense or notice florida's presence when the leader did, and she looks at the leader twice, once as she pulled out her magnums, and again after she did a scan of the room, almost like she was looking at him for guidance before he finds florida and takes him out with one good axe throw.
strike three, she couldn't convince the leader to leave when they had the chance to get away, and her cheap tricks were not enough to hold off either tex or carolina in a fight. they were only good for incapacitating her opponents enough for her to get away, which doesn't work when she has no escape.
ct is not tex, or carolina, or south. she is not a one woman army who can get herself out of trouble when she's stuck in tough situations. she needs people who can watch her back, she need a team who can cover her when she does mess up, and the leader and his team were not those people. she couldn't bring herself to trust them, and they couldn't bring themselves to trust her, and that cost all of them their lives.
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! I made an interesting realization just now in the shower! On a couple of occasions, Eragon and Nasuada suggest that Murtagh should act in the way Tornac would have as a way to change for the better and, ultimately, change his true name to free himself from Galbatorix and fight for them instead. Eragon insinuates this without directly mentioning Tornac: "Look at someone whom you admire but who has chosen paths other than your own through life and model your actions upon his." But in the context of Murtagh's backstory, this advice strongly evokes Tornac. And Nasuada outright names him: "Ask yourself: what would Tornac have wanted you to do?"
But that's a very curious demand for them to make because Murtagh is already emulating Tornac. Consider what we know about him. Tornac served Galbatorix, he would have had to for the king to entrust him with Murtagh's care. They lived in Uru'baen together as Murtagh grew up with Tornac raising him and he would have had to be in Galbatorix's service for all that time. Yet, he had no love for the king given that, when Murtagh wanted to abandon the Empire and flee, he was immediately ready to join him and help him leave that very same night. So he served the Empire for many years even though he had no true desire to be support them or the king, in order to provide the care and protection that Murtagh needed, until Murtagh was ready to make his own choice and take his own risk and Tornac turned his back on the king for him without hesitation.
That's exactly what Murtagh is doing. By yielding to Galbatorix and complying with his commands, Murtagh is doing the same thing for Thorn. He's bowed to this broad, great evil so he can look after the needs of an individual when no one else is willing nor able to. He does what he does to prevent Thorn from being tortured, to keep him from being broken, helpless against the king were Murtagh to abandon him. So he doesn't, the same way Tornac never abandoned him. And in the end, they rebel in a very similar way too. When Thorn is ready to carve his own path and fight for the right to claim his own life for the first time, and Murtagh wants to reclaim the life he desired but thought lost, they stand by each other and break free from Galbatorix.
For him to act the way that Tornac would requires that period of reluctant subservience so he can save the one he loves most. They ask Murtagh to follow Tornac's example, ignorant to the fact that the actions they so disapprove of are doing exactly that. And I wonder if this is a root of Murtagh's defining anger, an anger at Eragon and Nasuada's implication that the compromises that saved his own life and provided him much needed love and support through his childhood- the compromises that saved Thorn, the partner of his heart, when no one else (certainly no one from the Varden) would have helped him- were wrong. That they were immoral, they were not worth while, they were not enough, they fell short, they were wrong. Because such an implication is really a dismissal of Murtagh and Thorn's wellbeing- arguably of their lives.
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@kugel-bitch cont. xxx
"Mmrp."
Sappy.
Sure, she'll take sappy, supposing it's not the worst streak to have crop up every now and again, spurred by a drop or two of liquid encouragement, that is. She'd like to see him try to convince their peers that Lute the lunatic is actually a bleeding-heart softy under all those perpetually ruffled feathers. There lies the difference in their respective facades. His mask is brittle. Hers never slips. If it does, it is through a conscious decision. Deliberate.
A decision she only really makes for him, and only really because it's fair, when he's as easily decipherable as a preschool textbook it's apt she help him glean an insight into her pages once in a while.
...because it's fair—but also because some skittish part of her does want to be known by him. As daunting of a prospect as that is.
To be known.
"Maybe. You best keep that intel under tight wraps, though. I've got an image to uphold—"
Feathers spring up like a cockatoo's crest when Adam lavishes the juncture of her neck and jaw with a generously damp lap of his tongue. A gesture which prompts the angel to sort of shimmy and rub herself, both against him and the backboard of the sofa in order to rid herself of the ensuing goosebumps.
A light chuff of a laugh in response to that last query before she grants herself the permission to sink comfortably into the quietude of their tender entanglement, a crooked smile baring tapered canines stringing the outermost edges of her lips up high, so that the corners of her almond eyes crinkle with the sincerity of it.
"Mmh yeah? Wanna see me crack open a bottle of absinthe?--I'll be the cutest fucking excorcist that ever flapped her wings this side of heaven.--Just gimme twelve hours and a bottle of tylenol."
She half whispers, half laughs into the meager space between their lips when they periodically part for a passing moment, only to dip forward and recapture one another at a different angle. Carefully, she presses her avian talons into the sofa in order to propel herself further up his torso until she can comfortably secure her knees in place at either side of his hips.
"...hey—"
Another octave chipped off her intonation, as hands leave his tousled bird's nest to cradle the sides of his face instead, thumbs gingerly skimming the soft bows of his cheeks.
"—you know I would never actually—"
If he were paying attention, he might feel the way her lower lip twitches disjontedly as the words temporarily fail her.
"—leave...right?"
To be known was something he both wanted and didn't want, but despite the always at-war dichotomy of those two falcon forces of his constantly interlocked at the talons and helicoptering into a helpless freefall, she seemed to always pick up on which side was lower in altitude upon briefly separating and needed more time in the sky to rise back for the next bout of beating each other out of it. After all, the First Man had little else but that title to claim, and while he wasn't opposed to using that façade easily conjured by slipping on a mask and burying himself under multiple layers of robes whose loose and flapping edges would cause folks to second guess if he had just about as many wings as the seraphim did, he still found the transition from the angel they'd made him into the image of his former self just jarring enough to avoid it for as long as he was able, even if it meant permanently existing within the embrace of an exoskeleton. Of course, she was one of the only other beings privy to softer insides cocooned within walls of manic moods and fits pitched to distract him from that inner feeling that compared to all other beastly entities between heaven and hell, he was far more unimpressive than what his title would infer. And yet there he was- unimpressive as usual and pried out of his shell with her talons tangled in his hair and trailing with care like he was something worth preserving- rare, even.
Having already relaxed into his shoulders, still thankful for the dim lighting in the room despite her assurances, he gave a quiet chuckle- amused as always by her willingness to play along with his word games no matter how childish the territory they fell into and often did. "-and you think I don't?" An image to uphold at any rate...though mostly it felt second nature to him at this point. First nature, even...second nature was more along the lines of easing into his skin after a long period of forgetting to force the helmet up farther over his head than just his mouth to brush his teeth. She was probably grateful he did even that, and that it was spurred on by his desire for occasional creature comforts such as the preening peaks of her lips. And if there was any doubt about what he was after during the brief periods of her parting to take shallow breaths, his gaze gilding the edges of her smile was telling enough. He did like it when she spent her shitty mornings sweet talking him. After a night like that he supposed they were both having one.
"...you would hair of the dog that shit. Need a little more sugar to get things going don'tcha think? Order me up a mimosa, babe. Extra on the OJ ~ " Only way he'd trust a fruit was if it was blended up with heaps of added sugar, of course.
As she shifted around, using the help of her talons and his wing to slide up his chest, Adam gave his own few adjustments to accommodate for her roosting, his hips arched up to hook her in place when her 'hey' coaxed his chin downwards until it was nearly against his own chest trying to get a gander at her mood once the subtle quaver in her voice coaxed his curiosity long enough for him to allow her the custody over her lips again despite the peckish mood he'd fallen into. Gaze half-lidded as she lightly fussed over the edges of his face, he fell silent for a moment as he considered her claim. The memory of her twisting that dagger in to his separation anxiety threatened to flare up, but seeing as she was here now and swearing she'd never, it gave the re-opened yet quick to scab scar the gentlest of butterfly kisses.
"...'course not. We're ride or die, babe." The sweet notion skips a beat when his musing trails on, unmuzzled as always. "-and I might just die if you don't start riding-"
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