#doom terrorizing the youths part 2

[ladythornofrivia]

Kingdom of Fire & Blood || (Part Three)

🐉 MASTERLIST 🐉

Next Chapter

summary: modern!reader bloody and beaten up but the prince interrupted the scene.

pair: aemond x reader

warnings & disclaimer: smut, violence, p in v sex, sexual content, aemond being arrogant, modern reader doesn’t know how the world of GOT works but is a Aemond stan, praise kink, breeding kink, spitting kink, voice kink, fluff, angst—family drama, oral sex, hate sex, stalking, jealousy, virginity loss, obsession, reader being sassy and aroused, sweet moments with reader and aemond. Reader is a huge GOT & HOTD fan. Pro-Green, Reader is a green supporter. Aemond becomes king instead of Aegon. (P.S. Alys who? I only know Aemond x Reader)

a/n: please read chapter 2 before reading chapter 3 to know what’s happening. I hope you don’t mind long chapters.

Chapter Three: The House of Black & Green

~ Aemond’s POV ~

Thunder and rain barraged outside the Red Keep. So does Aemond’s heart, thundering and disoriented, clashing like the volcanos in the Doom of Valyria.

Aegon, on the other hand—surprisingly—stopped drinking; silently looking beyond the carved hole and examined the events unfold.

A gush of blood tainted onto the stoned floor when Ser Marrow thrashed your body forward, collapsing with a wet thud.

In the house of the dragons, Targaryens and Velaryons immediately stood from their seats, watching the events unfold. Ser Marrow huffed with his might, abiding for the Targaryens to come to an understanding with Ser Marrow’s reasons.

Alicent rose onto her feet and hoisted you up, but only meet halfway by you sitting up, bleeding as Alicent untied the blindfold and shielded you with her arms, as if Alicent has regret something in the first place.

“Explain yourself, Ser Marrow,” Alicent demanded, brows furrowed in ferocious temper.

Rhaenyra got up from her chair at a slow pace, mouth opened with terror at your current state. She knew that you were hurt from the battle; poisoned by the blade piercing through your youthful flesh.

“I was only doing good for the realm, to keep the peace intact,” Ser Marrow explained. “For Targaryen dynasty!”

“Lady (y/n) rescued my daughter from falling off the bridge, and you call it a ‘threat’,” Alicent defended.

Rhaenyra contained her wrath when Ser Marrow spoke for the ‘good of the realm’. “She saved my son,” she scolded him. “If it wasn’t for her, my son would’ve been killed from the wretched fools.”

“Yes, the wretched fools that this thing brought to the Red Keep!” Ser Marrow accused. “People are dead because of this monstrous bitch!”

Rhaenyra shook her head. “Ser Marrow, you forget yourself. What in the Seven Hells are you thinking? Beating her to a pulp, causing an uproar in the room was no good of excuse for you to gain sympathy of your ranking from us! Why do you think so highly of yourself? Have you had no shame on what you’ve caused?”

Ser Marrow hesitated for a moment, looking at you, then looking back at Rhaenyra. “I only did my duty, princess. Should she stay here in King’s Landing, death and destruction will bring upon the Targaryen line.”

“She did what she had to do to keep my family safe—”

“She’s a monster!” Ser Marrow bellowed. “A monster hiding beneath the human skin. She’s isn’t ordinary! Dangerous and filled with malice and lascivious intents to destory Westeros!”

Rhaenyra sighed, shaking her head. Prince Daemon, who stood the corner of the room, watched the events unfold.

Meanwhile, Alicent still embraced you tight, lessening the anxiety you were trying to suppress.

Aemond watched you from afar. Even awake, he found himself focused on your features—all fragile with grace and beauty within quietude. Droplets sank onto your tainted dress and your once immaculate hair has disarray from hair pulling. Aemond kept his composure and cast his sentimental aside.

Behind him, Aegon took notice of this, but said none; only amusement etched onto his drunken face.

“How dare you raised your voice against me, your future Queen, an heir to the Iron Throne and Seven Kingdoms?!” Rhaenyra declared.

Ser Marrow chuckled. “We all know in our hearts that you will never be queen or inherit the throne like that Rhaenys bitch, stringing along in a comfortably life with that old and weak man like that Sea Snake fucker!”

Everyone’s eyes snapped at his statement. Even Aemond’s and Aegon’s—halt from their tracks.

“Oh yes, surely you think it’s time to realize that you, a woman with big tits, hideous face and a loose cunt will never stand a chance against the son to rule to Seven Kingdoms on the Iron Throne. Sons are meant to rule, never the daughters.”

Rhaenyra had gone pale.

The silent gasps ensued.

Alicent stood up and approached Ser Marrow. “Remove your cloak and sword; you are hereby exiled from Westeros and reside at the Wall.”

Ser Marrow snorted without batting an eye on Alicent. “I don’t take orders from an ugly, vicious cunt.”

Alicent withstood her ground. “I won’t ask again, Ser Marrow.”

Anger blazing, Aemond make haste outside of the secret passage to enter the room, but Aegon hauled him back.

“Release me, brother. I have no time to indulge with your silly antics,” Aemond warned.

Aegon clutched Aemond’s arm tighter. “You’ll get in trouble. In more ways than one,” he warned back.

“Since when do you give a shit about your younger brother other than your wine and whores?” Aemond yanked his arm off from Aegon and entered the scene without noticing him; everyone is too focused that they’re unaware of Aemond’s presence hidden behind the thick pillar, his sword in hand, with his watchful eye, he was waiting for a moment to strike.

~Your POV~

Clutching your stomach as you were urging not to cough more blood. Behind you, the shadow overcast the ground, revealing Rhaenyrs Velaryon offered you a comforting smile and hands on your shoulders, though appearing more apologetic and saddening.

“Ser Criston, take Ser Marrow and escort him outside the Red Keep at once,” Alicent demanded in a low tone.

Ser Marrow shoved Criston back; Criston held his sword on his throat as the other guards in the room held their swords directly in front of Criston and Marrow.

“I will take no part in this charade,” Ser Marrow replied.

“Stand down now, good sir,” Criston said. “And walk away from the Red Keep.”

Ser Marrow. “This is your doing, Criston! If you haven’t brought that bitch here in the Red Keep, I would’ve still be part of the Kingsguard!”

“This is your own choosing to beat Lady (y/n),” Criston responded, apathetic.

“If only the monster hadn’t save the Rhaenyra’s bastard son, the succession to the Iron Throne would be secured. But he’s no son of the late Prince Laenor”—chuckled—“no, rather both monsters brought great ruination.”

For once, you’re glad Jace isn’t here.

“Fuck you,” you choked, blood spattered. “Admit it, you couldn’t handle a woman who bested you.”

Ser Marrow’s mouth clenched so tight, veins protruding from his neck. “You vile, insolent de—”

All the guards’s swords lowered, except for one blade tip kissed on Marrow’s neck with a pointed end. “A war hasn’t even begun and you’ve beaten a young maiden. Do you really think that have you a chance of walking out alive,” a voice said. “I dare you to say the word “demon” again, Ser Marrow.”

All their eyes turned to Aemond, who was looking down, gazing at you.

Though your eyes nearly dwindled, you heart beat pounded against the cage in your chest at the sight of him.

“Aemond, what are you doing here?” Alicent asked, rushing to his side, tugging the upper sleeve of his leathered jacket.

“I was only here to defend her,” Aemond answered with a droned hum. “After all, she saved my dear sister,” Aemond said coolly without averting gaze away from Ser Marrow, though given the exception of looking towards you ever so benign.

“Get back out in the hall, Aemond. This is no fight of yours; Ser Marrow must stand down and leave from the Red Keep,” Alicent said, frantic.

But Aemond ignored her, deepened the blade. “If you touch her again, there will be war.”

Everyone held their breath as they watch Aemond, his cautions ingrained into their minds.

“Aemond,” Alicent hissed, nudging him.

Aemond lowered his blade, and as soon as he did, Ser Marrow rushed towards you with his fist high up, but the sword cleaved Marrow’s head into two, leaving the guards already held their swords to disarm Aemond, as the table clanged loud; one guard bled from his head; Aegon slammed the guard down from trying to stab Aemond on his blind side, and held a short sword; the blade’s tip scraped the guard’s cheek.

“I wouldn’t do it again if I were you,” Aegon said to the guard and caught sight of you with a faint smirk on his wine-stained lips.

Prince Daemon lazily made his way to the crowd to retrieve Rhaenyra as the guards collected Ser Marrow’s body. But before that, Aemond said, “Feed Ser Marrow’s corpse to Vhagar. His service is no longer needed.”

Spectators stared in awe at the sudden events; not one utter a word of objection or sputter disagreement with the one-eyed dragon prince, as Aemond swept his sword clean with a cloth, not sparing a glance to anyone.

Once he sheathed his sword, Aemond advanced towards you and lifted you up, leaving everyone staggered at his proclamation for you.

Taglist: @galactict3a @toodlesxcuddles @daonenonlysandman @hufflepuff1700 @me753 @fredskum @danika1994 @colored-tr-panels @valeskafics

@ aemondswifffeeeyyy - all rights reserved

#fanfiction #fanfic #x reader #reader insert #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #ao3 #archive of our own #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd x reader #fandom #multifandom #writeblr #smut #aemond #aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon x reader #reader #aemond targaryen smut #ewan mitchell #dance of the dragons #targaryen #aemond fanfiction #aemond x you #writer #hotd fanfic #hotd smut #hotd imagine #tumblr

[tags5colors]

Liliana Vess

Part 1 2

Pre Mending or Post Mending: Pre

Status: Alive

How they are alive post mending: Deals with demons

Age: 200+ (likes to look 29)

Primarily Color(s): Black

Other Color(s): N/A

Magical abilities: Necromancy

Species: Human

Homeplane: Dominaria

Know Visited planes (that we’ve seen in cards): Innistrad, Ravnica, Shandalar, Kaladesh, Amonkhet, Arcavios

Sets/Storylines: Lorwyn, Magic 2010, Agents of Artifice, Magic 2011, Innistrad, Magic, 2013, Magic 2014, Magic 2015, Magic Orgins, Eldritch Moon, Kaladesh, Amonkhet, Dominaria, War of the Spark, Magic 202, Strixhaven 

Known Other Planeswalkers (that we’ve seen as a planeswalker card): Bolas, Sorin, Jace, Tezzeret, Garruk, Gideon, Chandra, Nissa, Tamiyo, Dovin, Vraska, Ral, Ajani, Saheeli, Samut*, Teleri, Jaya, Karn

Mini Bio: Beautiful, cunning, and ambitious to a fault, Liliana has mastered the dark art of necromancy. Her spells reanimate the dead and corrupt the living. Ageless and charismatic, she’s sharp as the edge of a razor and lives for the pursuit of power. Once a noble-born healer on the plane of Dominaria, Liliana Vess first encountered necromancy in an attempt to heal her sick brother—but she inadvertently doomed him to spend eternity as one of the undead. The terror of death and the pain of her guilt ignited her Planeswalker spark, and she found herself on the plane of Innistrad. More than a century later, Liliana at the height of her power, the mending happened stripping her of her youth and power. In order to regain her loss power and conquer death, she forged a pact with four of the Multiverse’s most powerful demons. The words of this pact remain written indelibly on her skin. But Liliana has never been one for servitude, and she’s taken up regaining her freedom by defeating the four who bound her.

#liliana #Liliana Vess #Planeswalker #bio #dominaria #human #oldwalker #black #gatewatch

[doomarchives]

“Then again, the nature of “self” can be... so very mercurial. Don’t you think so, my young friend?”

Guardians of the Galaxy #14 - "Doom’s Will Be Done”

Written by Al Ewing Art by Juan Frigeri

#victor von doom #teddy altman #billy kaplan #guardians of the galaxy #doom terrorizing the youths part 2 #comic panels #q

[gone-arai]

Daimones Part 2: Children of Nyx

In Greek mythology, there are various personified spirits called daimones. Eventually this word evolved into what we now know as “demon” (a word with negative connotations), but daimones weren’t necessarily “evil” spirits. Most of these daimones are the children of Nyx, Eris, or Zeus. In general, the daimon children of Zeus are personifications of morally good concepts, while the children of Nyx and Eris represent the malevolent forces which plague humans. Some daimones (like Hebe, the goddess of youth, or even Eris herself) were full fledged gods, while others were mere personifications with no mythology or cult.

According to Hesiod

Moros: the personification of doom (the force which drive humans toward inevitable death). Prometheus saved mankind from misery by taking away the foresight of our own doom (Moros) and replacing it with Elpis (hope).

Keres: female spirits of violent or cruel death. One of the Keres, Akhlys, was the goddess of deadly poisons and the death-mist which clouds the eyes of mortals before death.

Hypnos: god of sleep, husband of Pasithea (relaxation)

Thanatos: god of peaceful or non-violent death. As the twin brother of Hypnos, he represented the eternal slumber of death.

Oneroi: spirits of dreams, they were sometimes considered the children of Hypnos rather than Nyx. Their leader was said to be Morpheus, a man who appeared in the dreams of kings bringing messages from the gods.

Nemesis: goddess of righteous indignation and deserved retribution against those with too much good fortune. She represented the balance of good and bad fortune.

Hesperides: spirits of the evening sunset. They were sometimes called the daughters of Atlas.

Momos: mockery, blame, complaint, and harsh criticism. Zeus expelled him from heaven for criticizing the gods.

Oizys: female spirit of misery, woe, distress, and suffering

Apate: female spirit of deceit, guile, and fraud

Philotes: friendship and affection. She may have also been the spirit of sexual intercourse.

Geras: male spirit of old age

Eris: goddess of strife. She is the mother of a host of malevolent spirits of war.

Moirai: the fates were sometimes called daughters of Nyx, although more often they were the daughters of Zeus and Themis.

Likely Children of Nyx

Anaideia: ruthlessness and unforgiveness

Adikia: injustice and wrong-doing

Adephegia: gluttony

Aergia: idleness, laziness, and sloth

Alastor: counterpart of the Erinyes who punished the family of murderers

Aporia: powerlessness

Lyssa: mad rage, fury, rabies

Epiales: nightmares

Dolos: trickery, cunning deception, and craftiness

Koalemos: stupidity and foolishness

Kakia: vice and immorality

Epiphron: prudence, shrewdness, and careful consideration

Phyge: flight, escape, retreat, and exile

Phrice: horror, she is a more severe counterpart of Deimos and Phobos.

Phthisis: wasting away, perishing, and decay

Hubris: insolence, violence, reckless pride, arrogance, and outrage. Her son, Koros, represented insolence and disdain

Dyssebia: impiety, sometimes called the mother of Hubris.

Amekhania: helplessness and want, sister of Penia and Ptokheia

Ptokheia: beggary, sister of Amekhania and Penia

Penia: poverty and need, sister of Amekhania and Ptokheia

Eleos: mercy, pity, compassion

Sophia: wisdom

Elpis: hope. She was the last spirit that remained in Pandora’s box, representing humanity’s hold on hope in the face of all of these terrors. Her daughter, Pheme, was the personification of rumor, report, and gossip.

Sophrosyne: moderation, self-control, temperance, and restraint

Phthonos: jealousy and envy, especially in the context of love

Nosoi: male spirits of plague, sickness, and disease

Maniai: spirits of madness, insanity, and crazed frenzy

Arai: female spirits of curses (this is where I got my URL)

Poinai: spirits of vengeance and punishment

#mine #nyx #nyx deity #daimones #daimon #hellenic polytheism #hellenic community #hellenic polytheist #hellenic reconstructionism #hellenismos

[pi-cat000]

Magnus Archives/BNHA (1)

Fandoms: Crossover between The Magnus Archives & My Hero Academia 

Characters: Jon and Martin (friendship)

Summary:  Jon and Martin are reincarnated  into the BNHA universe after failing to prevent the apocalypse. They compare their quirks to their respective Entities. 

Will probably post on ao3 at some point. 

(Part 2 here)

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

“They registered my quirk as Veracity you know.”

 “Veracity?”

 “Yes. Quite abstract. I suppose they thought they were being poetic…” Jon mutters, bitterness colouring his tone. He stares out at the playground, watching his age mates run about in a boundless display of youthful energy and innocent excitement.

 From his place on the bench beside him, Martin hums, halfway between sympathetic and thoughtful, “I think it’s a nice name. It softens the edges a bit.”

 “I should have expected it…to have a quirk like this… after we saw what your one did,” he curls his small child hand into a fist, “I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up.”

 Quirks. The strange and wondrous abilities gifted to people of their new reality. Jon had hoped, when he hadn’t presented with one at the usual age of four, that he would remain quirkless. He had suffered enough with having terrifying abilities in his previous life. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t get his wish.

 Martin reaches out, hesitates, then pats him lightly on the knee, “You’re taking it a lot better than me. At least you didn’t breakdown and spend the night in hospital.”

 “I suppose,” he frowns, glancing sideward, “Though our situations are hardly comparable.”

 Martin’s quirk put any person he touched with both hands into a fog-filed, alternate dimension/temporal pocket. Its similarity to The Lonely had been poorly received by both of them. Especially, considering Jon had been the one to suffer through its first accidental activation. While he had found himself lost and alone in a grey, fog filed, void, a hysterical Martin had been rushed to hospital. There the doctors had had to wait for him to calm down enough that a Quirk specialist could walk him through the process of reversing the effect.

 “You thought you had trapped me for good. Of course, you would take that poorly.”

 The quirk specialist had banally called it ‘Cloud Prison’ like it wasn’t the residue of a primordial fear god leaking into their new reality. Not even six years of a second life could dull the pain and terror that had been their final moments before the apocalypse. To suddenly have such a stark reminder shoved in their faces had shaken them both.

 “I would never have done that to you on purpose,” Martin murmurs, probably drawing the same connection as Jon, “It just happened so suddenly…”

 “Yes, well, I am now painfully aware of how volatile and uncontrollable a quirk can be.”

 Martin winces, “Does it activate every time you ask a question? You can’t control it at all?”

 “It seems to be automatic. If I ask anyone a question they must answer truthfully. There is also a lovely mental component,” He lets his resentment grow, “so I can feel their unease when they answer. I’ll know if the person is trying to fight or when they’re trying to leave out an important detail. It is very similar to…before.”

 He grits his teeth. There were no Entities in this word, aside for the residue that lived in their memories but sometimes that could be just as bad. The last thing his recovering mind needed was a reminder of how he had slowly lost his humanity.

 “I also feel them. The people I trap alone in the fog.” Martin adds and shivers, “It’s horrible.”

 “Yes. It is.”

 They both sit in silence as the light began to fade. 

 Their time at the park is almost done. Soon they would have to return to the foster home they both shared. Jon, being a mentally unstable adult trapped in the body of a child, had been too much for a young single mum who had never wanted children. He barely remembers her leaving him at a local shopping centre being hardly old enough to walk at the time. Martin’s parents had died in a villain attack, because, alongside fantastical powers, this reality was full of brightly coloured Heroes and Villains like they had woken up inside a comic book. Six years in and it still felt too surreal to be real.

 “Well, we don’t have to use our quirks. It’ll just never touch anyone with both hands, and I’ll ask all your questions for you so you won’t have to worry either.”

 Jon scoffs, “You can get away with wearing gloves. No need for anything dramatic.”

 “You know what I mean Jon.”

 “Reo,” he interrupts, “please remember to call me Reo. We already attact more attention than is probably good for us.”

 They weren’t Martin Blackwood and Jonathan Sims anymore. That life was behind them. Here, they were Jiro Shirakumo and Reo Tsukauchi and the sooner they acclimatised to using their new names the better. Maybe, one day, he would even start feeling like ‘Reo’ and ‘Jon’ would fade away like a bad dream.

 “You’re one to talk. We would attract less attention if you would loosen up a bit. I mean, I’m not perfect, but kids don’t talk so formally.”

 “I would rather not suffer through the indignity of dumbing myself down on top of everything, thank you very much.”

 “It’s not that bad. Why are you always so prickly?” Martin pokes him in the shoulder, grinning now, forcing Jon to shuffle away, “Normal kids smile every now and then you know.”

 “I think you enjoy being a ‘normal’ kid a bit too much.” Martin had settled into his second skin with more grace than Jon had. Not that he was trying very hard. 

 A laugh, “Well yeah, I mean, no responsibilities, no nightmare monsters, no conspiracies, no apocalypse. It’s nice.”

 “Oi Jiro!” 

A heavy-set kid, two years their senior, stomps up and glares at them, “you and the weirdo coming or what because I don’t want to miss dinner again,”

 “He has a name you know,” Martin reprimands, smile quickly turning into a stern frown, “Maybe you should try using it.”

 “Tch. Whatever. Mrs Suzuki said to be back by five and I’ll get in trouble if I leave you losers behind, so you better hurry up.” The boy storms away, back to his group of friends, who all look their way and laugh.

 “I don’t remember kids being so mean when I was young the first time around,” Martin complains, standing and brushing himself down, “You would think they’d have better things to do.”

 He shrugs. Child bullies were so far beneath him that he barely registers when they shout insults at him, shove him into walls or knock books out of his hand. Not like he didn’t deserve a little hardship after dooming his entire world. Besides, Martin took offence enough for the both of them, getting into plenty of arguments on Jon’s behalf. Of course, now they both had somewhat threatening quirks, their fellow housemates were a lot wearier when it came harassing him.

 “Come on.” He stands as well, “I for one do not want another lecture.”

 “Mrs Suzuki does like to drag them out,” Martin agrees as they trail along behind the older kids.

 Their neighbourhood is full of two-story apartment blocks and tightly packed houses which line the relatively quiet streets. It is only a short ten-minute walk from the park to the share-house and one he is intimately familiar with seeing as his carers force him to take it twice a week for ‘the exercise.’ At least the weather is pleasant here.

  In the fading light of the afternoon Martin’s wispy, cloud-like hair and blue pupilless eyes catch the glow so they are almost orange. Martin’s strange physical features had become more pronounced since his quirk’s activation. Apparently, it was genetic, something a quick glance at the few photos Martin had of his biological family confirmed. This world sported many people with odd features and he just hoped that his own plain appearance, straight black hair and dark eyes, would remain that way. All he wanted was fade into the background and live his second life as peacefully as possible.

...

(Part 2 here): Jon learns more about his truth-quirk and deals with other people learning about his truth-quirk.

#the magnus archives #tMa #jon sims #martin blackwood #bnha #Baku no hero academia #CrossOver #angst #reincarnation #they are both about six years old in this fic #loney martin #the eye jon #fanfic #Hero/Archivist Au

[jawadkhanyusufzai]

English Literature

1. Father of English Novel ---

→ Henry Fielding

2. Father of English Poem--

→ Geoffrey Chaucer

3. Poet of poets ---

→ Edmund Spenser

4. English Epic poet ---

→ John Milton

5. Both a poet and painter ---

→ Blake

6. Famous mock heroic poet in English Literature

---

→ Alexander Pope

7. The poet of nature in English Literature

---

→ William Wordsworth

8. Poet of beauty in English Literature ---

→ John Keats

9. Rebel poet in English Literature ---

→ Lord Byron

10. Poet of Skylark and Winds---

→ P.B. Shelley

11. Father of Modern English Literature ---

→ G.B. Shaw

12. Most translated author of the world ---

→ V. I. Lenin

13. Bard of Avon ----

→ William Shakespeare

14. Poet of Love/ Metaphysical Poet---

→ John Donne

15. Father of English Criticism ---

→ John Dryden

16. Father of Romanticism ---

→ Coleridge & Wordsworth

17. The Founder of English Prose---

→ Alfred the Great

18. First Sonneteer in English Literature ---

→ Sir Thomas Wyatt

19. Poet of Supernaturalism / Opium Eater

---

→ S.T. Coleridge

20. Father of English Tragedy ---

→ Christopher Marlowe

21. Father of English Eassay ---

→ Francis Bacon

22. The Greatest Modern Dramatist ---

→ George Bernard Shaw...

*#LITERARY_FORMS*

#AND

*#MOVEMENTS*

◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼◼

🍁 *What is a round character?*

A round character is a complex and dynamic. In this character improvement and change occurs during the course of work .

🍁 *What is a soliloquy?*

Soliloquy is a device use in drama in which a character speaks to himself or herself (thinking loud) by showing his feelings or thoughts to audience.

🍁 *What is Neo-classicism?*

Neo-classicism is a eighteenth century western movement of art, literature and architecture. They got inspiration from ancient Greece and ancient Rome.

🍁 *What is a mock-epic?*

Mock-epic is a poem in which satire, exaggeration, irony and sarcasm is used to mock the subject or used the epic style for the trivial subject etc.

🍁 *What is a complex plot?*

A complex plot according to Aristotle is that have ‘peripeteia’ (reversal) and ‘anagnorisis’ (denouement) without these is a simple plot.

🍁 *What is interior monologue?*

Interior monologue is the expression of internal thought, feelings and emotions of a character in dramatic or narrative form.

🍁 *What is blank verse?*

Blank verse is a form of poetry that written in iambic pentameter but un-rhymed.

🍁 *What is Art for Arts’ sake?*

“Art for Arts’ sake” is nineteenth century literary movement which gives importance to aesthetic pleasure instead of moral, didactic or utilitarian function of literature.

🍁 *What is Epistolary novel?*

Epistolary novel is a narrated work. In this type of novel the story is narrated through letters sent by the observer or by those who participating in the events. Example: 18th century’s novel ‘Richardson’s Pamela and Clarissa etc.

🍁 *Differentiate between novel and novella.*

Difference between novel and novella is length of the narrative work. Novella is shorter than novel and longer than short story but novel is long narrated work.

🍁 *What is the difference between “Open form poetry” and “Closed form poetry”?*

Close form poetry used the fix pattern of stanza, rhyme and meter etc. For example: sonnet, limerick, haiku and sestina etc. Open form poetry does not use these fix patterns.

🍁 *What is the structure of Spenserian stanza?*

Spenserian stanza consist of nine lines, eight lines are in iambic pentameter and followed by single line in iambic hexameter. The last line is called Alexandrine.

🍁 *Differentiate between ‘Blank verse’ and ‘Free verse’.*

‘Blank verse’ follows the fix meter like iambic pentameter and un-rhymed but ‘Free verse’ is also un-rhymed and does not follow the fix meter.

🍁 *How can you define “Pastoral elegy”?*

Pastoral elegy is a poem about death. In this poem poet expresses his grief for the dead in rural setting or about the shepherds.

🍁 *What is ‘Point of View’?*

‘Point of view’ is an opinion, judgment or attitude on a matter. It may be against are in favor.

🍁 *Define plot.* What are its various elements?

Plot is a logical arrangement of events in a story or play. The exposition, rising action, climax, falling action and resolution are the elements of plot.

🍁 *What is conflict?*

Conflict is a problem or struggle in a story or play. It occurs in rising action, climax and falling action. It creates suspense and excitement in the story or play.

Define black comedy.

Black comedy is a humorous work in which human suffering regards as absurd and funny..

🍁 *What do you mean by Theater of the absurd?*

Theater of the absurd is one kind of drama in which absurdity emphasized and lack realistic and logical structure. For example: “Waiting for Godot” by Samuel Beckett.

🍁*How can you differentiate between flat and round characters?*

A round character is a complex and dynamic. In this character improvement and change occurs during the course of work but flat character are uncomplicated and remains unchanged through the course of work.

🍁 *What was the Oxford movement?*

Oxford movement starts in 1833 and for the revival of Catholic doctrine in Anglican Church. It is against the conventional understanding of the religion.

🍁 *Define Puritanism?*

Puritanism is the religious movement starts in sixteen century and the goal of the movement is to purify the church of England from its Catholic practices.

🍁 *What is Imagism?*

Imagism is a movement of Anglo-American poets started in early nineteenth century in which they emphasize the use of clear images and simple and sharp language.

🍁 *What is meant by Stream of Consciousness?*

Stream of Consciousness is a technique of narration in which the series of thoughts in the mind of the character are presented. “To the Lighthouse” by Virginia Woolf is one example.

🍁*What is meant by Gothic Novel?*

Gothic Novel is one type of novel. In this type the cruel passions and supernatural terror is presented. Example: Monastery or Haunted Castle etc.

🍁*What is Metaphysical Poetry?*

Metaphysical poetry is a highly intellectualized poetry with the use of wit, imagery, conceits and paradox etc. It is obscure and rigid. For example: “John Donne’s poetry.

[5/27, 3:58 PM] ‪[phone]‬: (Solved)M.cqs. ENGLISH LITERATURE ☘🌸🌸👇🙋‍♂🍁🍁🍁🍁

1. Who, among the following poets, was a precursor to Romantic Poetry?

Answer: Robert Burns

2. Which novelists is widely known for his use of the stream-of –consciousness

technique?

Answer: James Joyce

3. Which year in the social history of England is associated with the Restoration?

Answer: 1660.

4. Which British dramatist attempted to reform English spelling?

Answer: G.B.Shaw

5. For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love

Which poem of Donne begins with these words

Answer: Cannonisation

6. How many pilgrims figure in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales?

Answer: 29

7. In which year was Henry VIII acknowledged the Supreme Head on the Earth of the

English church?

Answer: 1534

8. Identify the tragedy written by Ben Jonson

Answer: Sejanus

9. “…though we cannot make our sun / stand still, yet we will make him run���. Identify

the source of these lines from Marvell.

Answer: To His Coy Mistress

10. Which book of Paradise Lost opens with these lines:

‘Of Man’s first disobedience , and the fruit

Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste

Brought death into the world?

Answer: Book I

11. Who said of Chaucer’s characters: ‘it is sufficient to say, according to the proverb,

that here is God’s plenty?

Answer: Dryden

12. Which poem begins with these lines :

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day

The lowing herd win slowly o’er the lea

The plowman homeward plots his weary way”?

Answer: Elegy written in a Country Churchyard

13. “ To me the meanest flower that blows can give

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears”

In which poem of Wordsworth would you come across these lines?

Answer: Ode: Intimations of Immortality

14. Which novel of Joyce begins with these words: “once upon a time and very good time

it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was

coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo….?

Answer: A Portrait of an artist as a Young Man.

15. In which novel would you come across this line: “Ralph wept for the end of

innocence, the darkness of man’s heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise

friend called Piggy’?

Answer: Lord of the Flies

16. Name the first novel of Dorris Lessing.

Answer: The Grass is Singing (1950)

17. Which novel of D.H.Lawrence ends with these words: “But no, he would not give in.

Turning sharply, he walked towards the city’s gold phosphorescence. His fists were

shut, his mouth set fast. He would not take that direction, to the darkness, to follow

her. He walked towards the family humming, glowing town, quickly.”

Answer: Sons and Lovers.

18. “They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it’s night once

more!”

Who makes this observation in Waiting for Godot?

Answer: Pozzo

19. What is the title of the second section of The Waste Land?

Answer: A Game of Chess

20. In which poem of Owen would you come across the following lines?

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

- only the monstrous anger of eth guns.

Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons?

Answer: Anthem for the Doomed Youth

21. Which African American spoke about ‘Double-Consciousness’?

Answer: W.E.B.Du Bois

22. I too, sing America

I am the darker brother

They send me to eat in the kitchen

When company comes”

Whose words are these?

Answer: Langston Hughes

23. Who is the author of Invisible Man?

Answer: Ellison

24. Who wrote In Search of Our Mother’s Gardens?

Answer: Alice Walker

25. Who is the first African American to be named poet laureate of USA?

Answer: Rita Dove

26. You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I’ll rise

Whose words are these?

Answer: Maya Angelou’s Still I Rise.

27. Who is the young man in Hawthorne’s “My Kinsman, Major Molineux”?

Answer: Robin

28. “In every work of genius we recognize our own rejected thoughts: they come back to

us with a certain alienated majesty.”

Answer: Emerson from Self –Reliance

29. What, according to Poe in ‘The Philosophy of Composition’, is the ‘proper length’ of a

poem?

Answer: About one Hundred Lines

30. When was Uncle Tom’s Cabin published as a book

Answer: 1852

31. “I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

For what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.”

Answer: Whitman form Song of Myself

32. In which novel do you come across Starbug and Queequeq?

Answer: Moby Dick

33. In which play of Arthur Miller do you come across the line

“A man is not an orange. You can’t eat the fruit and throw the peel away”?

Answer: Death of Salesman (Willy to Howard)

34. Which poem of Elizabeth Bishop begins with these lines:

“The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

So many things seem filled with the intent

So be lost that their loss is no disaster”?

Answer: One Art (first three lines)

35. In which novel would you come across the Shepherdsons and the Grangerfords?

Answer: Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

36. Who wrote the essay “The Art of Fiction”?

Answer: James

37. Who wrote ‘The Awakening’?

Answer: Kate Chopin

[bitsypookums]

Thia 1, 2, 10, Morr 2, 11, 16, Manami 4, 5,6

Alethia Eclaircir

Prompts 1 & 2 answered here!

10.) How has your character handled major losses?

Alethia grapples with grief in fractured fits-and-starts, moments of rage and mourning breaking through a haze of delirium, dissociation, and vacancy. Thia’s grasp on reality has always been a bit tenuous. She drifts in and out of echo visions that are clearly not her own, memories that are hers but so vivid and jarring as to distort her sense of time, and some scenes that are unknown but so familiar as to bring rib-aching pangs of longing. So she careens back and forth between a dreamlike, distant state of curious confusion... and a sharp, vivid return to those moments of abject loss. It’s a warped and jagged experience of reality.

There are times where she seems almost apathetic, behaving as normal while others tiptoe around the obvious wounds. And there are other moments where her feelings crystalize in a rare, concise, visceral way:

Morrigaunt Givre

Prompt 2 answered here!

11.) What’s your character’s family like (found, blood, or both)? Are they still in contact?

Marcelain Reverine was an only child, though his parents once hoped for a large, boisterous family. His father, Gaël Reverine, was a kind hearted carpenter from the Western Highlands; his soft-spoken humor and joyful service to others shaped Lain’s understanding of love and devotion. He died far from home during a commission to repair the fortifications at Camp Dragonhead. When Nidhogg’s aevis assaulted the structure, none of the tradesmen survived. Young Lain was 11 years old at the time.

His mother, Thècle Sambin, was a Brume-rat turned enlisted soldier. During the course of her career, she lost both parents and three siblings to dragon fire. Her service ended when her legs were permanently impared during combat; she retired with a pension to marry Gaël in Hemlock, leaving her old life behind. Their marriage drew the fierce and frigid soldier out of her shell and into a brief time of hope, gentleness, and joy. His death plunged her into a bitter, rancorous despair from which she never attempted to recover. Unable to remain in Hemlock on only her modest pension, she took her son back to the Brume - familiar dangers to her, but a terrifying and forbidding new landscape for him. She was the lifeline that he clung to in desperation even as he watched her fray further and further. 

To Thècle’s dismay, Lain met and fell for the young Adrien de Toursainte, fourth son of a vassal house of Dzemael. Marcelain saved the little lordling from a beating after an ill-advised venture into the Brume, and the two struck up a bond over their hunger for knowledge of their separate worlds. Adrien, usually timid and gentle, wanted to see the world outside his family’s estate before he was consigned to obscurity in the priesthood. In exchange for Loup’s insight, protection, and companionship, Adrien smuggled books, paintings, and trinkets out for Loup to study - tiny glimpses of another reality that only deepened Loup’s curiosity. 

Their friendship was certain to end badly, possibly in Lain’s death. Fortunately, they were discovered by the kindest of Adrien’s brothers, Clement de Toursainte, a dutiful astrologian-in-training with a wry sense of humor and an indulgent streak for his youngest brother. Since the boys refused to be parted, Clement offered to pull strings and recommend Lain as their eldest brother’s squire - a pathway toward knighthood and a way out of the Brume. Lain was overjoyed. But when he brought the news to his mother, her terror and fury turned his hopes to ashes in his mouth. Thècle berated her son for his naivete, certain that all his dreams would merely be kindling on the altar for the noble houses of Ishgard. She forbade her son from ever seeing Adrien again. When he disobeyed, she gave him an ultimatum: certain this path would end in his death, she declared that if he joined House Toursainte, he could never return home again. It would be simpler to lose her son now than to wait years for the final blow to fall.

But this opportunity promised everything Loup had ever wanted: a chance for service, training, three meals a day, and an expensive education on a noble house’s dime. He left, and the rift formed that day between mother and son would never fully close.

The Toursainte household became his second family, filled with as much deep affection, gentle hope, and bitter partings as the first. 

Lord and Lady de Toursainte were well suited to each other - but that should not be confused with a love match. They had equal levels of paranoia, skittishness, and determination to ingratiate themselves to their betters. To speak kindly of them, they were careful players of the Game of Houses, certain to avoid scandal, quick to follow orders, and resolved to position their sons to the house’s best advantage. Less generously, they could be likened to carrion birds: scavenging the corpses left behind by House Dzemael and vomiting rumor and accusation at anyone who approached their spoils. Though he served them with distinction, the Lord and Lady never saw Lain as much more than a piece on the board, to be played and pawned away at will.

Barthegoire de Toursainte, the eldest and heir, begrudgingly took this brume-rat under his wing and nurtured his prodigious talent for combat and tactics. Carrying the weight of the house’s hopes on his broad shoulders, Barthegoire was an unflinching traditionalist: harsh, commanding, dutiful, and as strict with his siblings and squire as he was with himself. Lain saved Bartie’s life on several occasions, earning the nickname of “Toothpick” when he killed his first dragon by diving past Bartie into the creature’s mouth and driving his lance upward. Barthegoire eventually endorsed Marcelain as a candidate for the order of Dragoons, despite the boy’s low birth and lack of connections. Though brusque and exacting, Barthegoire did everything he could to shield Lain and his brothers from their parents, the eyes of the Holy See, and the cruelty of the Houses’ games.

Clement de Toursainte was as conciliatory as his eldest brother was harsh. A frail constitution in his youth thwarted knightly training, but he found another path through academics at the Athenaeum Astrologicum. His talent for heavens-reading earned him the opportunity to study in Sharlayan for a time, despite the fact that both nations were wary of outsiders. He returned with a reputation as an unorthodox thinker, and avoided accusations of heresy through a mix of devout faith, genial theological debate, and a penchant for flattery. The peacekeeper and diplomat of the family, he ran interference between the brothers, their parents, the house staff, temple knights, offended suitors, his acidic-witted ward, and anyone else who came to him with a problem. 

Said ward was none other than Alianora Cross, a clever and gifted mage who was Clement’s classmate in Sharlayan. Though she kept much of her personal history close to the vest, she was a clear ally to Marcelain in the halls of the higher houses; her wisdom and biting commentary kept him grounded and wary in the vipers’ nest of house games. She did much to encourage his thirst for knowledge and desire to see more of the world, giving him confidence that he could be more than just another low-born body thrown on the pyre of the Dragonsong War. Though she quarreled endlessly with Barthegoire (too much in common, though they would both hate to hear it said), Lain spent many warm nights with Nora and the brothers, singing, dancing, bantering, bickering. Both carefully avoided mentioning their obvious doomed attachments to their respective Toursaintes.

The third son, D’Angustiel de Toursainte, made a sport out of giving the rest of the family ulcers. Pugnacious and iconoclastic, with a mouth as quick as his trigger finger, Goose sought out fights with the same bright-eyed fervor that he had for machina and schematics for the Haillenart’s Manufactory. His frequent liaisons with a rival house and his flat refusal to play courtly games caused his parents and brothers no end of misery. The Lord and Lady threatened disinheritance so often that Goose considered it a morning greeting. Even Lain was not spared his needling remarks and biting questions - though he handled the rest of House Toursainte with careful courtesy and strict boundaries, that etiquette only infuriated D’Angustiel. The third son dreamed of an Ishgard freed of its maundering fetters, but his disdain for orthodoxy earned him the enmity of his patrons. Without Barthegoire’s protective interference, his goose would have been cooked long ago. 

And finally, gentle-hearted and painfully-honest Adrien de Toursainte, the boy for whom Lain’s star fell from the sky. Ill suited to plotting and manipulation, Adrien knew that his consignment to the clergy was equal parts sanctuary and life-sentence. His heart was quick to delight in the frail and fleeting beauty of the world; he never failed to laugh at the worst of jokes, to wonder over the most flippant of observations, and to shatter over a stranger’s tears. From their first meeting in the Brume, Lain was his protector, his confidant, and his dearest friend. Adrien’s open heart dragged Marcelain’s mistrustful soul into sunlight, and Lain’s cautious nature tempered Adri’s eager earnestness. They were both too desperately lonely, too starved for affection, too ready to trade their hearts away, and too young to know any better. Their grand ambition was to live quiet lives in a forgotten corner of Coerthas, with Adrien as parish priest and Marcelain as knight-in-residence, till dragons or old age ended them. They asked Halone for so little, and still she gave them even less.

One by one, every member of house Toursainte met their end by dragons or treachery, until only Adrien was left as the heir of his house. When he was framed for heresy, Marcelain took the fall in his place, tumbling down Witchdrop and crawling out again as Morrigaunt Givre.

16.) What does your character do for fun or during downtime? Do they have hobbies or side projects?

Morr is a talented carpenter and desperately wishes more people asked for those skills, rather than the murder ones. He dedicates much of his downtime to Francel and the reconstruction of the Firmament or assisting with expansion and repairs in Ok’Gundu Nakki and Bahrr Lehs. He also loves hiking and the great outdoors, content to spend hours or days alone with a fishing pole, a botanist’s hatchet, and his chocobo. He’s a gifted chef, a skill forged in desperation to make meals vaguely palatable on deployment in Dravania. He enjoys cooking with close companions and is known for bringing food around to sick, injured, or otherwise under-the-weather friends the moment he hears something’s troubling them. 

Though he’s a bit embarrassed about it, Morr also loves libraries and houses of learning. There’s something sacred to him in the smell of old tomes, the gentle murmuring of turning pages and scratching quills, the infinite possibilities of new minds pouring over ancient words. The fondest memories of his youth were spent in stolen moments between bookstacks with the boy he loved. Despite this, he always feels like an interloper in academic settings - expecting to be ejected at any moment.

In typical dragoon fashion, he also loves high and lofty vistas. If anyone’s wondering where he disappeared to, they can usually just check the highest point on the surrounding map.

Manami Bansho

4.) What was your character doing during the Seventh Umbral Calamity? Do they still think/talk about that time, or do they try to avoid it now?

At the time, she was serving in the XIV Legion as Mana jen Bansho, warmachina technician, field medic, and engineering specialist under Tribunus Rhitahtyn sas Arvina. Stationed in Ala Mhigo, she watched the moon descend from the sky and explode over the horizon, followed by the terrifying devastation of Bahamut’s rage. It was impossible to tear her gaze from the distant calamity while extrapolating the casualties on both sides.

5.) What does your character think of the Echo? What was it like when they first experienced it?

Manami first experienced the echo when she went spearfishing with her mother in the Ruby Sea. Glancing up at the shifting, shimmering sunlight streaming through the surface of the sea like the light of falling stars, she heard the voice of Hydaelyn call her for the first time. After that, she felt her vision sharpen, as though the light of the crystal always glinted off the most pressing, most dangerous, or most valuable target within her view. 

To be fair, she didn’t know it as the Echo until many, many years later. Her mother called it the Dragon’s Eye, and explained that she and many others of their line had been blessed with this special gift. Both women were frighteningly accurate archers - a useful talent when hunting for supper on the roads of Doma. Since they tended to receive the same visions together while traveling, Manami had the opportunity to sit with her mother and discuss what Setsuko called  “insight from the kami.”  

Manami knew better than to mention this gift to anyone during her conscription. At best, her Garlean commanders would dismiss it as Doman superstition; at worst, she would end up on mal Asina’s dissection table.

6.) Did your character always want to be an adventurer, or did unexpected circumstances bring them into it? Do they wish for any of their old life back at all?

When she was young, Manami dreamed she would take over her parents’ work as a traveling doctor and apothecary. That dream was deferred by her conscription under the Garlean Occupation.

For the first few years, she still hoped to survive her service and return to that life someday. After her aptitude for alchemy and armorcraft earned her technician training, she distinguished herself in the repair and design of warmachina. Her love for the intricacy and limitless potential of the technology was constantly undermined by the harsh reality - and body count - of her work. In her comparatively safe new line of work, she still dreamed of returning home… when she wasn’t hounded by nightmares of the devastation caused by her streamlined designs.

Her post in Gyr Abania with the XIVth legion allowed her to climb through the ranks despite being both Doman and au ra. She received particular encouragement from her direct superior, Rhitahtyn sas Arvina. He dreamed of a world united under Garlemald - safe, secure, and full of promising souls like Mana jen Bansho, who could flourish to their full potential. Manami saw their effect on Ala Mhigo very differently. 

When she received news of her father’s Garlean conscription and death at the hands of the Bozjan resistance, she stopped dreaming much at all. During a naval battle off the coast of Vylbrand, she opened a storage hangar, flushing herself and her latest prototype machina out to sea. When she was miraculously saved by the pirate beauties of Limsa Lominsa, she gradually built up a new, unfettered life with dreams of paying that favor forward. Eventually, adventuring seemed like a good way to repay that kindness.

#long post #I'm so sorry this took me literal months but my brain said I couldn't post it without art #and my speed with art progress is... bad during the pandemic #anyway #ffxiv flailing #alethia eclaircir #morrigaunt givre #manami bansho #my art #my deepest apologies to people on mobile

[i4z-0892-il]

Monster House 6

Summary: Posing as Newlyweds Sam and Y/n set out to investigate what’s killing the visitors of a secluded Inn, and attempt to keep their working relationship professional.

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Word count: 4884

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ Only, suggestive themes, language, smut

A/N:  Wow! It’s been a while. This chapter has been sitting in my google docs 90% finished for quite some time. And given the spirit of NaNoWriMo I figured it was time to finish it. So thank you all who have been waiting for this so patiently, and who have been so supportive an lovely in my absence. I can’t promise it won’t happen again, but I’m still writing! I haven’t forgotten. And now, without further ado...

Immerse yourself in the story, Buy Sam’s Scent Here from @scentsfromthebunker (And damn does it smell goooooood)

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Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7

The scream that caught in your throat came out as nothing more than a clipped sob and a whisper of air. Frozen in place and time like a marble statue. What was standing before you was impossible. Everyone had heard the stories, the quick hushed warnings not to speak of the White Thing in the Woods too loud lest its attention be drawn. And despite what you knew about the changing moods of the forest, you didn’t buy into it. It was all bullshit just to keep kids from getting lost in the thicket of trees.

Fables.

Urban legends. 

Fairy Tales. 

That’s all they were. 

The White Thing was no more real than the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy or Santa Claus. 

It wasn’t that you thought yourself too smart to believe in such things, you’d simply taken for granted just how old those Woods were. The America’s were still young, a few hundred years of Colonised society was enough to make a young girl forget that these lands had been here since the beginning. And something lived deep in the underbelly of the wilderness, where even the most foolish or brave-hearted person dare not venture. 

It was a beast, massive and filling the space of your vision to the edges. The Thing was so much taller than you, even as it crouched on legs too long and layered with lean muscle; incredible antlers sprouted from its skeletal head like moss covered tree limbs. Sunken eyes set in their deep black sockets as if it was the void looking back at you. Pallid and worn flesh stretched too tight over the unnaturally thin and long bones of its body, seen through the long mangy white locks that hung from it’s skull. Sharp teeth the length of your palm sprung from it’s elongated skeletal snout, yellowed and rust colored from age and use; able to cleave muscle and fat from bone like slicing through butter. Thick mists of air hung heavy as it breathed, and a curious rumble from deep within rolled out of its mouth as it looked you over. You, this pitiful little creature, helpless and paralyzed by fear and disbelief. 

If there were any doubts before they were dashed now. You were going to die. 

Two things were going to happen. First, you were going to disappear, the Police would put together a short, and limited search party. They’d search through part of the forest, not venturing very far, superstition running too deep in their DNA. The search for you would be called off within a week, and you would vanish into history as nothing more than the face of yet another Missing Girl. Secondly, knowing full well that you played with fire and were burned, the townsfolk would use your death as a cautionary tale to warn other youth to keep in line. To not be the stupid girl that disappeared in the trees. If only she’d heeded her Daddy when he told her to stay clear of the Woods to the North she might still be alive. You would become a myth.

Seconds turned to decades as The White Thing watched you tremble. Tears spilled down your cheeks freezing to the skin at your jaw in the icy air. It tilted its head, leaning forward on one of it’s four boney arms with taloned hands large enough to crush your skull like a grape if it wanted to. You couldn’t breathe.

It sniffed the air around you, as if it could pick up the scent of your terror. It was close enough that you could smell the stench of death pouring from it’s clammy skin. Heart hammering away in your chest you thought for sure it might explode and kill you before this Thing sunk its teeth into your soft flesh. If you were lucky that’s what would happen.

The White thing extended a hand to you, a misty green stone in it’s palm with a symbol carved in it. An offering. Your horror turned to curiosity and confusion, but you were too frightened to move or do anything about your confliction. Moments ticked by agonizing in their pace, years might have passed already. When it finally moved your whole body jerked away on instinct, but it simply placed the stone on the ground, and backed away. And like that it vanished into the mist and ticket of trees just as it had come, like a dream. Or nightmare. 

The icy chill dissipated making way for the warmth of late summer, and the trees parted again letting streams of golden light pour through the canopy. Birds began to chirp and the weight sitting on your chest fell away. Suddenly you could breathe again. The moment your limbs regained their use you took off through the woods, tearing through the trees as fast as your legs could carry you, not bothering to stop until you’d broken through the treeline and into your house slamming your bedroom door behind you. 

You hid your torn and dirty clothes far into the back of your closet, as if you could will away an evidence of what had just taken place. If you believed it was a dream, a hallucination, some trick of the mind then you could carry on with your life. Just like everyone else. Like nothing had ever happened

What did just happen?

What happened was impossible. Absurd. Lunacy. Delusion. Absolute nonsense. Monsters simply could not be real.

The tightness in your chest gripped your lungs like a vice threatening to cave you in and destroy you from the inside out. There was no way you could go back to normal. What you’d just witnessed upended everything you ever knew. Everything you had been certain of once before. 

What else was out there? What else existed in the shadows? Lurking in the dark waiting for the right moment to pounce. Four hours ago you were certain of many things: There was nothing in the woods. The Tooth Fairy wasn’t real. Poltergiest was just a movie, and above all there was nothing to be afraid of in the woods.

You went to bed that night with your eyes locked on your window, blinds and curtains drawn, waiting. Waiting for the whispers to begin and the knocking. After the adrenaline had finally left your bones chattering, exhaustion kicked in and sleep eventually took you. 

When you woke in the morning you couldn’t help but be relieved, maybe it had just been a bad dream after all. You were in one piece, in the safety of your bedroom, all windows, doors, fingers and toes in place. You were going to do all you could to forget it. Although you would never venture through the woods again.

Kicking your legs over the bed and planting your feet on the floor you stretched your arms out over your head, tensing and cracking at the joints. You let out a satisfied groan and huffed a sigh as you pushed disheveled hair from your face. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes you walked down the hall and turned to the living room staring for the kitchen. Absolutely starving, the most heavenly thing you could think of was a packet of pop tarts that had your name in it. 

You snagged a bag and cast a glance at the clock on the stove reading 8:18 am. Usually everyone was up by now. Your little brothers were under no circumstances ones to miss Saturday morning cartoons. Mom was usually piddling around, or  working on a quilt she’d never finish, and Dad no doubt would be outside already and under the hood of that old Mustang. The silence and stillness of the house as you moved through its rooms made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, it was never this quiet on a Saturday morning. What stopped you in your tracks like slamming into a wall was your bookbag. The one you’d dropped in the maze of trees, sitting on the coffee table in the living room, as if it had been there the entire time.

Pulse raced, and blood pumped furiously through your veins as you slowly reached out a hand picking up the bag you thought you’d surely never see again. A little green stone with a marking in the middle dropped from your bag to the coffee table, and your blood turned to ice.

The crushing realization set in along with that black shroud of doom you couldn’t shake. Your legs moved before your brain could process, carrying you down the hall like a doll on a string. You swung the door open to your brothers’  room where carnage painted the walls a sticky dark red. Frozen to the spot, you couldn’t scream, all you could do was let your eyes trail over the mutilated remains of your younger siblings.

Eyes snapped open as you jolted from your sleep. It’d been more than a decade but you’d never really left the woods of that sleepy town. That shadow had followed your every step since, haunting you, lurking in the back of your mind and biding it’s time. It was the Washington State forests that reminded you of the thick wilderness of West Virginia, of home. The same thing happened in Michigan, the Wendigo. Dense woods were more than enough to trigger what you’d done your best to tuck away. Every hunter has an origin story, most aren’t born to it. Most have paid a devastating price for the knowledge of what lives in the dark. You were no different than any of the rest of them, but unlike most of them who found a place in the violence and anonymity, this life gave you no pleasure.

The blood thirsty look in a man's eye is unmistakable, and is a trait shared among a vast majority of hunters. First it’s fueled by vengeance, then it’s something to fill the void until you learn to hate the things you hunt, and killing them brings you a release you couldn’t otherwise find. But for you it was a job, a disgusting one that you’d rather not have been the one to do, but if not you, then who? Some other poor girl who wandered into the wrong place? Truth was you couldn’t have lived with yourself if you left the supernatural for others to deal with who might not be as lucky or well prepared as you.

Your eyes dropped to the floor to see an empty mat and blankets where Sam must have slept overnight. He was an early riser but dawn wasn’t for hours stillt, maybe he couldn’t sleep either. Letting out a sigh you shut your eyes and rolled away from the edge of the bed to the middle on your side as the throb of a headache began to set in and the world tilted around like a weeble wobble. You were still half drunk, and felt like you’d gone four rounds with a brick wall. When you opened your eyes again a shock of breath caught in your throat to find that you weren’t as alone as you’d thought. 

Sam lay stretched out on his back, an arm tucked under his pillow and propping up his head, looking something like a painting in the darkness before Sunrise. A peaceful person he was not, but in that moment it might have fooled you that he could be. So often his brow was furrowed in thought or concentration, his broad shoulders tense with such worry that he rarely looked comfortable. Seeing him asleep was nothing new, but being able to relish in his image without interruption and so close was. He was right there, you could feel the heat radiating from him, seeping through the sheets. You could touch him, you could reach out and touch him. Trace your fingers along the sharp line of his jaw, and down the length of his throat like you’d imagined doing hundreds of times. You could press your lips to his cheek and curl his long silky hair around your fingers. You could. He was right there and you were still tipsy, less inclined to listen to the practical side of your brain.

There was no telling how he ended up in bed with you. Last thing you remembered was being too drunk to stand up on your own, and in times like those you were prone to putting your foot in your mouth. It would have taken a flash in his eyes for the secrets you’d been keeping to spill out of your mouth like a burst dam. It would have taken a grin to his lips and a dimple to let loose the fact that you wanted him. He wouldn’t have taken you up on your offer, not with you being so intoxicated but you must have done something right to bring him to your bed.

You could have watched him breathe forever. The world could have caved in around you and everything fell to ruin, but it wouldn’t have mattered, because he was just so close. Worries melted away just by sheer proximity, and the nightmare you had just roused from fell away with the rest of your problems. If there was one silver lining to the life you lead, it was Sam. Sure the hunting evil, saving people and all that gave the occasional warm fuzzies, but that was expected of you. It was your job. It was thankless and messy and scary and frankly you hated every second of it. There were things you’d planned on doing with your life. Places you’d planned on exploring, people you’d planned on meeting. You had your eye on being a Surgeon, Cardiac, the best the field had ever seen. You had colleges in mind, and the determination to make it happen.

How quickly life changes.

If you had been told at fifteen that this would be your life, you’d have laughed. Never in a million years would you have guessed that you’d live the rest of your life as a Professional Ghost Popper, on the road, in shitty motels and surviving on gas station hot dogs. Though it wasn’t all bad. There was Sam. He waltzed into your life like a breath of fresh air. A kindred spirit. A sliver of hope where there was none. He wanted out too, he only mentioned t it a few times, and usually inebriated, but it was enough. He didn’t like the job any more than you did, but you’d both been doing it so long you couldn’t imagine life outside of it. It was that fear of the unknown that kept you both in your safe spaces. If there was any reason to leave the shelter of the dark, it was Sam.

He shifted in his sleep with a small sigh,his head falling to the side and into the stream of silver moonlight, and there as no fighting the need to reach out and touch his face. Fingertips ghosted over the line of his jaw, resting softly at his chin where your eyes fell to his lips, rosy, soft and parted. You thought of the women lucky enough to know what his lips tasted like. Were they sweet like he was? Intoxicating? 

The screen on his phone lit up on the nightstand as the time ticked over to 3:30 and his alarm began to sound. You dropped your hand away, and Sam let out a remorseful groan as he rolled on his side and reached a long arm over you to the nightstand to hit snooze. His head hit the bed and he was out again, arm left to drape over you, heavy and warm. Trying to pull your arm free he stirred again, his arm wrapping around your back and pulling you to him as his nose nuzzled into your shoulder. 

The swell in your chest was nearly drowning you, it was exactly where you’d always wanted to be, and the one place you’d never allow. Maybe… maybe just for a minute you could allow it. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla and coffee, and the feel of his lips against your shoulder took over your senses. You’d have given anything to stay just like that forever.

Your fingers slipped through silky tresses, and long eyelashes fluttered open at the touch.The sunflowers in his eyes, even in that dim light, took your breath away.

“Good morning,” you whispered. A smile curled his lips and created that perfect dimple in his cheek. Not quite awake he let himself sink around you breathing in the natural perfume of you, and the warmth of your skin, soft like butter and better than he’d dreamed. Only he wasn’t dreaming. The alarm hadn’t woken him like it was supposed to, but you wrapped in his arms certainly did. He told himself that he’d keep his distance, he wasn’t going to encroach on your space. The last thing a drunk girl wants to wake up to is a guy in her bed. But when he turned his eyes up to meet yours, and a lazy smile graced your lips he eased.

“You’re still drunk aren’t you?” He asked.

“No,” you answered nodding your head ‘yes.’ He replied with an amused snicker and pulled his arm away, stopping at your hip when you didn’t move away. You’ve looked at him with those bedroom eyes like that before. A few times. You were drunk each time. When you were sober you were well composed, only allowing yourself to get but so close. When you had a few you let your guard down, just a little, just enough to get a peek over the wall. He’d seen you drunk and on the prowl, and while that was certainly a sight to behold, you were different when you were alone with him. 

With him you were vulnerable in a way you couldn’t be sober, when the girl who had a rock collection in her youth came out. The girl who read The Silmarillion annually, and taught herself to speak, read and write in Elvish. The girl who hates raisins, and catches spiders to set them loose outside instead of killing them. The girl he wanted to get to know more than he’d wanted to know anyone. You’d be three doubles and four beers in, and that look would flash across your eyes. Cheeks flush with drink, eyes half lidded and looking only at him. Then your lips would curl into a smile, and it was almost impossible to resist. Each new day with you proved harder than the last to find a reason why it was a bad idea to be with you.

“Right, and I’m the Pope.” He snarked, as he pulled himself away from your touch and sitting up, regretting not staying put longer almost immediately. 

And the moment was over, back to business as usual in an instant. The pang in your chest was miserable. Swinging your legs over the bed you stood up stretching your arms over your head and waiting for the room to stop spinning.

“So, uhm, guess the floor wasn’t as comfy as you thought?” You said, kicking the pile of blankets.

“Yeah. Something like that.” He said. You didn’t remember. 

Sam heard the thud of your body hitting the floor, finding you in a heap when he yanked the b

athroom door open. Gathering your limp frame in his arms he checked your head for blood, and grateful to find you’d missed the nightstand. Long fingers smoothed hair from your face still flush with drink, and a little paler than usual. Sam had seen you black out drunk before, but he’d never seen you pass out before, the cooking class must have been torture.

The way you settled in his arms as he lifted you was perfect. The last time he’d held you like that you were holding your guts in and bleeding out from a stabbing after a hunt went sideways. The color was draining from your face to pour down your stomach. You were fighting so hard to stay awake, even as your lips turned blue and your eyes lolled to the back of your head. The teeth in your head had begun to chatter so hard he thought they were going to shatter, but you kept talking, the whole time. Raving about how the rampant uncheck misogyny running through the fabric of our culture affects young girls on fundamental levels since birth. The more you talked, the angrier you got, the longer you stayed awake. It was all you could think to do to stay awake. In a less dire situation he’d have paid more attention to your tirade, but all he could do was look on you with amaze. You were the strongest woman he’d ever met in his damn life. You were still ranting when the Medical staff at the hospital took over.

This was how he wanted it to be, soft and warm, safe. The way you settled in his arms was like you were made to be there, like he was made to hold you.You were home. Sam laid you in the bed, and pulled the blankets up around you when you took hold of his hand.

“Stay with me, Sam.” You said in an airy whisper, eyes still closed. Who was he to refuse? He probably should have taken longer to think about it, if he were more noble he might have, but he didn’t argue when you asked him to stay. So he climbed into the bed, careful to give you more than enough space. Countless times had he wished that things were different for his life, this should have been one of them. But truth was if neither of you had become hunters odds were you’d have never met. And even though the life he lead seemed more hellish than anything else, he’d met you. 

Silencing the alarm on his phone he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander over you as you stretched, the way your hair fell, bedhead messy and lovely against your neck begging for his hands to touch

“Oh, I found out where Mr. Lonely is buried. I figure we can go salt and burn the body before the Sun is up, come back, take a nap then hit the road.” You suggested.

“You don’t want to stay for Wine tasting?” He snarked.

“Preferably not, but if we have to then I’m just going to stay drunk today.” You answered, and he grinned.

“We should probably still do an EMF sweep.”

“Really? Can’t we just torch the corpse and call it a night?” You pouted as you watched him move around the room to gather clothing to change into. He stopped to ponder at the bathroom door before giving a nod. It was late, or incredibly early, you were still trashed and both of you only got a couple hours of shut eye. There was no reason not to just get the bottom line done.

“Fine, we can skip it, but we have to stay tonight to make sure it’s done.” He compromised. Sitting in a chair to tie your boots you paused to consider if skipping part of an investigation was worth sticking around for another single night. You turned your eyes up to Sam who stood so tall and broad, and firm, you had your answer.

Yes. Definitely yes. The case would be closed, you’d get to drink, and actually enjoy a little bit of relaxation- though this would not have been your first choice. And it would just be you and Sam, nothing to worry about other than simply being. 

“I agree to your terms.” You said pulling a flask of whiskey from one of your bags. Hair of the dog, you were going to power through the oncoming hangover. You had an empty day ahead of you that you were going to fill with Sam, your enthusiasm was genuine. “Get dressed and lets go defile a grave!”

Hiking at night wasn’t something you wanted to make a habit of doing. The sky was clear, and the Moon was  particularly bright which was great until you hit the treeline where the path to the Graveyard was. The black chasm of the trees swallowed up the silvery Moonlight till there was nothing left but pitch. Then your fear of dense woods sprung up again like a steadily increasing anxiety riddled game of whack-a-mole. There was nothing to be afraid of, you had flashlights, Sam, and you were strapped. Your brain wasn’t giving you a reprieve however, you kept expecting to turn your head and see the skeletal bloody face of the White Thing to appear in the darkness between the trees, ready to spring out and finish the job it started more than a decade ago. A cold chill slid up your spine sending a dread filled shudder down your body. With each step you had to remind yourself that you weren’t back home in West Virginia, you were on the other side of the country, in Washington, it wasn’t going to find you after more than a decade. You hoped at least. If the White Thing wasn’t in the woods there was something else in there with eyes that stalked your movements, putting you on edge, and making you paranoid. Trepidation rattled you, and you found yourself stepping closer to Sam as you walked, finding relief and comfort with each brush of his arm against yours. 

It was a 20 minute hike, in the pitch black wild wilderness, at 3 o’clock at night, but once you hit the gravesite it was worth it. The site sat on a cliffside at the top of the mountain, just a small clearing in the trees, what could have knocked the wind out of you was the most magnificent view of the peaks and valleys of the mountain range, stretching as far as the eye could see. More stars hung in the sky than you had seen in a very long time, no light pollution, no noise, just the calm quiet. No wonder Wellington wanted his family buried there. You allowed yourself a few moments to soak it all in before setting to work.

Stabbing the spade end of your shovel into the pile of loose dirt, you dropped your butt down to sit, legs dangling into the large hole before you. With a sigh you wiped sweat from your brow as you rifled through the pockets of your jacket for a short, partially smoked joint. 

“Isn’t it a little early for that?” Sam asked from inside the hole, a teasing grin on his face as he looked up at you. Answering him with a shrug you  lit up and took a long drag. While he didn’t care much for smoking in general, it was difficult to tear his eyes away from the smoke wafting and curling in transparent tendrils spouting from your lips.

“It’s never too early or late for this.” You answered offering it to him, he declined with a shake of his head, quickly setting back to the task at hand- digging up a corpse. An old, rotten, decayed, mouldering corpse. If you could rate aspects of your job in order, digging up bodies was at the bottom of the list. Though to be honest, there weren’t many things that you did like about the job. There was the bonus of a flexible schedule, and the option to travel, and there was, of course, the fact that your co-workers were a little more than easy on the eyes. But there were no tax exemptions, or paid expenses, no benefits, fuck not even a reliable salary. It wasn’t a job you did because you wanted to, you detested almost everything about it. But someone had to do it.

No one wants to tell you how much effort is involved in digging up a six foot deep grave armed with nothing but a couple of old rusty shovels and sheer willpower. No one wants to tell you how long it takes either. The Sun was going to be up in the next hour or so, and the cover of darkness was a necessary precaution when it came to gravedigging. When Sam’s shovel struck something hard and hollow you could not have been more thrilled. Your eyes met his, as he moved to get a better angle. 

Sam jammed the spade of his shovel between the lid of the coffin and the side prying it open with creaking wood and a crack of relief as the lid came loose. 

“...The hell?” Sam’s face twisted in confusion as he lifted the top, hazel eyes moved back to you as he shoved the lid to the side of the hole revealing an empty coffin.

“Well that can’t be a good sign.” You announced, just as puzzled as Sam.

“You’re sure he said he was buried here?”

“No Sam, I just made it up so we could pointlessly dig a hole in the middle of the night for fun.” You sarcastic eyes at him.

“Hey, I know how much you love digging holes. So if he’s not here-”

Then just where the fuck is he?”

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[theotherbloodfart]

Hey! I love your writing and was wondering if you’d be interested in writing a penny fanfic where the reader finds out by an encounter with penny that they were born with his fourth deadlight. They later find out that several life times ago penny gave one of his dead lights to a human s/o in an attempt to lengthen their lifespan. Fluffy, smutty whatever you’re feeling. Any length you desire. (Heh)

Oml I'm so sorry for your wait!! This was a complex request and wanted to do it well. I'm dividing into 2 parts because it's huuuge lol. This is part 1. My jams I wrote this to were Dead By Daylight by Slumber Party and Dead Souls by NIN

The Fourth Deadlight (pt1)

WARNING

GORE AND ANGST

It hisses. Twists Its form within the sewers of Derry. It feels the rest abating. It is nearly time. The center of It’s emaciated bones burns with hunger. Writhes from it. It’s body jerks and snaps as, in the latent sting of It’s final dreams It cannot decide how to form. To wake. Or perhaps It is dreaming. Running. Flying. Floating in agony. Cracking sounds issue forth from the black hole It has been resting within. Tearing as well. As if It is ripping itself away from It’s cocoon. Or tearing It’s entrails from It’s own desiccated rib cage. Or perhaps…… this is the sound of an eldritch heart as it breaks.

Within It’s dreaming mind twists another time. A different plane. One of delectable fear. The tranquil thrum of wailing screams and gargling death rattles tickles It’s hearing. Sweet music of unutterable gibbering terror. It’s dreaming vision is caressed by the allure of dilated alien eyes. Flaring nostrils. The bounce and sway of bodies fleeing on a different world. Quadrupedal slack jawed fatlings. Spindle legged and trembling with that emotion which was most delicious of them all. It feasted. Mowing thru, enjoying the hot wet rushing taste slopping in It’s gaping fanged maw. Oh but this was ecstasy!

--------

It feasted. Yes. Gorged with ravenous moans and squishing sounds, slurping at the last vestiges of terror as it cooled, turning shiny eyes glassy and dull. Feasted until It was satisfied. Relaxing to rub It’s bloated belly, as It belched comfortably. Being like this had been so satisfying. Carefree. But the hunger was never long in returning. Never stayed away. So soon It was stalking again. It would drain this world as It had drained so many others. Suckle and slurp until this planet was as empty as It’s own heart. Then move along, leaving the now dry planet like a forgotten lover.

Yessssss. Only a few centuries of fun from this beautiful lover before she was dried up like a wastrel. A shriveled husk. Her craggy face like the mummified face of a corpse. Cackling It danced. It loved to dance. Dance upon the dead. Throwing It’s claws to and fro at a speed so rapid that the dry dead vegetation caught flame. Snarling clicking laughter as the planet burned.

And so this dance became repetitive. Billions of screaming terrified whelplings consumed in a delicious feast. Planets burning and destroyed as It cackle and danced in an ecstasy of hunger. Then flying thru the void of space searching for more of that untameable feeling. Always dancing and hunger. Killing and feeding on beautiful suffering. But it was never enough. It must kill and flee the waste, resting as It’s form floated to another sumptuous buffet.

Oh how It loved these rests just as much as the feast. The icy void. The sparkling of distant stars. The hollow gentle floating of deep space. It’s consciousness bubbling in and out of this dimension. In and out of this cosmos. Empty. No hunger. Nothing. And It was delicious.

It would float and rest for an eon or 2 before plummeting down. Flaming and exploding into the gravitational pull of yet another fearful lover.

That was when It felt that presence. The other. No. Not the turtle. Not of the macroverse. Not as the revolting reptile was. Nor as Itself. This was something else. Something other. Colder. So so much colder than the void of space. And darker. Bending light around itself like a ravenous singularity at the center of every black hole. But this was no mindless singularity. It sought IT. Gave chase to It. And this thing. This darkness. It was the unknown. Nonexistence.

And this nonexistence whispered to It. Not words. Only emotion. This thing hungered even more so than Itself. Was never satisfied. And cared not for the fleshly bags It so loved to bathe in. This Thing only seemed to haunt It. And the Thing whispered. Showed It things that It had never thought of. How It was the last. The only. Showed It the blackness of nonexistence. Whispered of the doomed womb of death which awaited It. Perhaps this Thing was the collective vengeance of the lights It had snuffed out. Perhaps these whispers were merely the screams of the dead.

And so a new dance was born. It fled. Feasted and gloated. Forgot for awhile this impending approach. Then the Thing would arrive. And It would flee. It’s floating rest became tinged with nervous awareness. At first this dance was languid and slow. It had time to fill itself and dance. Cackling and roaring and taunting this nameless thing. But then the Thing crept forward in earnest. It no longer had time. This was another newness to It. Time. Or not enough of It rather. It began to have to HURRY. Feasting became desperate gobbling. Dancing became screeches of frustration and angry gesticulating.

But It never fought the Thing. Had no knowledge of an even fight. Had slopped and consumed It’s own brethren as they had rested. Just so that It would never have to share the tasty terrified flesh It so craved. No. This Thing was sentient. Alive. Strong. And the dark promise this Thing whispered of simply would not do. And so It fled.

Soon The Thing was always close. Always trying to wrap it’s cloudlike blackness around It’s form. This Thing did not gloat. Nor exhibit any sort of passion. It was merely hungry. Not to destroy. But to constrict. To hold It forever helpless.

It did not wish to be helpless. An eternity of quiet awareness. Of motionless listening and blindness. And It could no longer feed. Could no longer rest. Must always flee. Faster and faster. No more floating. Only blinding speed.

It began to feel burning hunger. Numbing tiredness. Desperation. So this was the Thing's plan. To wear It out. To tire It. Until it must supplant itself to the will of that blackness. All alone and motionless. That would be……. So lonely. It had never thought of Itself as a lonely thing. Had always had delightful screaming company.

But now this idea took root. Clawed into It’s mind and gnawed on It’s heart like the nearly forgotten youth of It’s own kind. But they were gone. The whispering stardust of a memory. There was nothing out there. No help for It. No supplication. And this being It’s own fault did not occur to It now. This was simply the way things were. Simply what It was. And that……. Loneliness…….. Wanted to end It. And there seemed to be nothing It could do. It slowed. It weakened.

But It had never been a foolish being. And desperation makes a keen mind even keener still. It developed a plan. It was risky. But possible. It smashed and shook It’s head as It fled, slashing at Itself, causing pain. Discomfort. Any thing to block It’s thoughts from the Lonely. And then It expended itself. Using the very last of It’s energy to explode Itself far from the Lonely. Far from the awareness. From the presence. A small planet came into view. Tiny and blue. The third sphere from its star. It felt the burning pull of its atmosphere and lost consciousness. In this state It was no longer visible to the Lonely.

It knew no more for some time. Knew nothing as It’s form crashed into the soil of this world, melting and burning so deep that the plant life around the crater was cauterized. It took a good long rest. Millenia passed. Life forms rose and those same life forms died out. It might have rested forever had not a strange kind of life form emerged. One unlike any other It had ever encountered. Bipedal. And able to reason such as Itself. It was this reason which disturbed It’s long rest. Which ignited It’s eternal hunger.

It burst from It’s deep cavern, withered and starved, joyously swinging It’s gaping toothy maw. It had never tasted anything as sweet as these creatures. It gorged itself till swollen and sated on the easy to conjure fear of them and upon their succulent flesh. Their intelligence was their own undoing. They were so much simpler to scare! And they were so weak! Yes. This planet would do very nicely for what It had in mind.

It knew the Lonely was waiting. Waiting to see It migrating to yet another lush world. But the Lonely would not find It if It stayed small. If It stayed Hidden. Things would have to be different. No more burning of planets. No more wiping out the entire populace of a world. It fed lavishly in a much smaller form. Enjoyed itself for small periods of time, usually 2 or 3 of this planets solar cycles. Then It would snuffle under the weeds to rest and to dream for awhile before rising to continue the circle of feeding and rest.

As It languished here It’s attitude and behavior began to change. It became quieter. Darker. Learned to hide behind darkness or a false form. Learned that stalking It’s prey could possibly stretch out the entertainment. And that toying with the younger of the species made the meat taste DIVINE. It was content like this. It could survive like this. And since It could no longer dance in planetary fire It instead would cause some momentous event to dance in a little instead before slipping off to rest. It found It could do this. To the older of these life forms. To the ones who kept their heads down and obeyed blindly. And this pleased It. It needed nothing else.

Until It saw her. Or rather…. Until she first encountered It. A young female of the species. At first there was no significance about her to It. Merely another capering meat sack to feed off of and enjoy. It had no descriptors for her species other than male or female. Young or old. It only even noticed her because of her……. Sadness. The emotion did not smack the chops like fear did. It was thicker. Like a bitter molasses. And she positively swayed with it. Even this was not significant. It had scented this before. But usually only in the elderly. And yet, It found Itself monitoring her even as It monitored the suckling young. These humans. Entertaining even in their monotony. It had recently fed so, for now, It was content to merely watch all of them.

And there she was. Dancing into It’s vision yet again. She was tilting her head, emitting low pitched rhythmic noises as she walked, swinging a stick. The noises were like singing only her mouth was closed. But there was none of the usual joy these creatures normally exuded when making noises like this. It was tiring of It’s continued attention on her. A quick glance into her mind produced an effective lure. Something called…….. A clown. A freakish aberration of the human form. How ENDEARING! It adored this new form as It’s body morphed it into being.

Luring her was as easy as It had thought It would be. She followed It’s warm voice tho she never really looked at It’s form.

Deciding to have some extra special fun before feeding, It combed her mind to find her biggest fear. And found…… the Lonely. The human jerked in surprise as the once friendly clown before her roared like a fiend. But It was already gone. Hidden shivering and gibbering deep under this town.

How could she have seen the Lonely? How could she even know of this thing? It’s jaw bones cracked as It felt an obscene smile. It did not matter. If she was dead, She could not remind It of the Lonely. Again It sought her out.

This time she was alone. Gathering water. And as It rose before her, clad in some nameless beast as the Lonely had no true form, It was AGAIN brought low. But this time It was because of her gaze. Her eyes were vacant and glazed. She looked thru It. Beyond It.

She reached a hand forward in a giving gesture. She questioned. Motioned with the stick she’d been carrying earlier, making her petticoats swish. It realized…. She could not see. The only vision of fear in her mind was darkness for this reason. Stark curiosity made It comb her mind much more thoroughly.

She had lost her vision very young. The only thing her young mind could remember was the very clown form It had chosen to assimilate. Therefore, by choosing this, It had eliminated any fear she might have felt.

This felt strange. Being here in front of this insignificant thing without even a whisper of fear. Her face was creased with an enormous smile. Her cheeks shone with crystalline tears. She was murmuring of magic. Of angels and gods. Her hands were down near her side, palms facing It. She was completely open to It. It felt…… pride……. Within It’s chest. It knew nothing of human custom or mythos. And this rippling tide of adoration was so very new. It hissed at her in feigned defiance. Testing her. This brought a laugh from her. Not one of mockery, but of quiet gasping joy.

This soft laughter was It’s undoing. It allowed her to approach. Allowed her to touch It’s face. To feel the lines and planes of this form. And from this time onward, this form was It’s very favorite. It came to her often. Watched her from afar constantly. Listened to her stories and whimsy at first while perched before her as she’d sit making chains of daisies. Then later, with It’s head in her lap as her fingers traced the lines of It's brow and carded thru the ginger hair on It’s head. It had never received such treatment.

This being did not feel love as a human might. Only slowly began to register a complete inability to function, to continue, without these things. It still fed. Voraciously so. But in It’s alien mind this feeding was simply not a part of the very most special time It spent with her. And she never knew of It’s eating habits. She was never alone. Never in danger. It always watched. Became obsessed. Did not wish to leave her. Her presence was the blinding light that drove away any last shreds of that dark and dank Lonely. It found that It no longer cared if the Lonely even still existed.

And yet all good things must end. All good things must pass away. And so it was with this as well. It was growing tired. It would need It’s rest. It fought this. Pushed It’s own endurance, staying awake nearly 3 times It’s normal cycle. It had told her It must rest. And that this may very well exceed her. It had waited for her to lash out. Instead she’d held It tightly. Reassured It.

“I would wait forever.”

And so It curled into Itself. Wept into an uneasy rest. Felt the cold chill of the Lonely as It’s consciousness faded. And all was no more.

27 years later

It had been swift. Awakened swift. Broken It’s fast swift. But something had been growing within her all these years. Something nasty and insidious. Dark and so very hungry as it ravaged her from the inside out. Her human mind did not know what this was as this disease was not known during this time in human history. But It knew. It could SMELL it. It could SMELL this waste eating his little human alive from the inside out.

At first It did not understand. Could not understand. Could not fathom anything of endings or the ceasing of existence for anything pertaining to It’s own pleasure. But as she weakened and withered this knowledge became far too real. That she would be gone. No more listening to her childish stories. No more feeling her touch. No more watching her sleep or hum. It had been so pleased to discover that her propensity to create wordless musical noise had been called “humming.” And It did not wish for this to cease.

During the day It watched from the drains, enjoying the ease of travel these “sewer pipes” afforded It. At night It slithered out to her and listened to her. As she became weaker and more tired, It would hold her head as she’d held It’s own head, and speak to her of things It had seen.

One day she was so weak that she ceased eating. This was a concept that It simply could not grasp. She soon no longer spoke, merely gasping occasionally and shivering. It could sense her faltering heart. That night It wrapped a spindly soft form around her and generated heat. She felt so cold. This night It whispered to her of It’s past. Of It’s true nature. It whispered of the Lonely. It asked her to stay. Her vision was the Lonely to It. And It did not wish for her to be embraced in that hollow void. She didn’t answer. It hissed in helpless anger and tightened It’s hold, becoming warmer still. This simply would NOT do.

It did not cease. So why should she? The impulsive question had an equally impulsive answer.

Using It’s claws very gently, It lowered her jaw. Then It lowered Its face to hers. It had never kissed anything. Had no knowledge of this. Nor was It trying to do so now. It’s fanged jaws stretched open wide, wider, and wider still. Drool puddled out onto her gauntly aged face and chest. Her face glowed from 4 tiny light sources inside It’s throat. But this glow grew brighter. Without warning It wrapped It’s massive jaws around her head. It’s teeth did not press tho the longest points did split her skin in some areas. With a strong exhale, the macroverse screamed as It gave her a part of Itself. One flash of destructive light made her blank eyes glitter for a moment as It breathed into her a portion of It’s own existence. It’s own eternity. It’s body bowed and snapped around her as if It were in labor and struggling to drop young. The macroverse poured forth it’s screams and roars of despair and loss.

But It had failed. Even as It’s precious deadlight had burrowed into the flesh of her heart so had her last breath exited her body. It unwrapped from her and collapsed onto the floor next to her bed, gargling sounds of quiet agony pouring from It’s closing maw. There was fleshy tearing pain and a hollowness where It’s little light had been. But worse still…….. It had felt that little light die with her. It had tasted death in a far different way than It had ever tasted death before. And the taste left It’s tongue dry and bitter like ashes and poison. It sneezed from the effect, each jerking contortion of It’s now shifting form feeling the shorn amputation of this piece of Itself.

It paid no heed to her body as a human might. This was just an empty slop of entrails and cooling meat now. An old useless empty vessel. A tomb.

It was no longer hungry. No longer upset or uncomfortable. Simply very tired. Hollow. Empty. It crawled down into It’s cavern and into the most dreamless rest It had ever had.

It was listless ever after. Cold. Hateful. Always preferring the form of that clown. Incomplete.

And always waiting. Always.

#pennywise #pennywise the dancing clown #deadlights #blind S/O #gore #angst #pennywise fanfiction #request #asks

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, JULIE! You’ve been accepted for the role of OBERON with an approved FC change to Oscar Isaac. Admin Rosey: I don't know how many times I said I was possessed when I wrote Oberon but I very much was. I think you have to be a little bit possessed to write him because that's the kind of person he is; you have to be all in with him or perish. I don't know what it is about these types of enigmatic, almost ethereal characters that you understand - they have one foot in heaven and one foot in hell - but you get them at their core, Julie. Thank you for bringing my most beautiful son to the dash. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Julie

Age | 20

Preferred Pronouns | She/her

Activity Level | I mean, y’all know how it is. One draft a day usually does it for me, and at the bare minimum, I shoot for a few replies a week.

Timezone | MST

How did you find the rp?  | I was perusing the ‘lsrpg’ tag, and the rest was history.

Current/Past RP Accounts | Lucien!

IN CHARACTER

Character | Oberon / Olivio Rivera -- with a fc change to Oscar Isaac, if it’s okay with you guys.

What drew you to this character? | There’s something about Olivio that makes him half-man half-hell, and that’s fascinating to me. I think, to a degree, he’s as human as the rest of us, with good parts and bad, but most people don’t show those parts so brazenly and manage to be half as discreet while doing it. This charm is pretty different from a character like Lucien’s, because it’s not a necessary charm. It’s not something he learned to do. It’s something he's always had in him for as long as he’s been -- it’s essential to the core of who he is as a person. There’s a dream-like quality to him that pulls you in and a nightmare-like quality that makes you take a step back when you get too close. He’s brutal in the way he orchestrates his own downfall just to get away from work he no longer has an interest in. He’s gentle with Theo, still grieving, because he knows they’re still working through something and it’s not entirely his place to poke and prod. Walking the thin line involved in this dichotomy is something that immediately caught my attention, and I’d love to explore both sides to him in the way Oberon deserves.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? | 

1. I’d like to explore what Olivio has to sacrifice in order to ascend in the Capulets. He’s already lived a fair bit of his life without any of it really being impacted by the mobs of Verona, so his priorities and goals are likely pretty different from characters that have been here their entire lives. It’ll probably take a while before he builds relationships strongly enough in Verona that he has anything worth sacrificing, but as soon as he does, I’d like to yank them from under him, see how he fares -- if he’s worth becoming a soldier or an emissary in the way that Theodora thinks he can be. He’s strangely comfortable as an initiate, sitting at the bottom of the barrel, but how long is that comfort going to last him?

2. With Olivio, there’s definitely a two-faced element to him, in much the same way there’s a two-faced element to Oberon in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He’s brutal and gentle all in one, and I’d like to explore what dictates in him which part comes out where. He gets his work done and ties it off in a neat bow, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he shies away from the ugliest parts of himself. How does he fare in comparison to someone like Orpheus, a dead man, who had similar goals and aspirations as the Robin Hood of Verona but didn’t set out to become that sort of figurehead -- everyone remembers Orpheus. No one knows Olivio. I also think it’s entirely possible his two-faced nature could undermine his reputation and his overall climb towards a more concrete place in the Capulets, if he isn’t careful, and I’d love to see what the consequences are. It worked for him in Spain. It might not work for him here.

3. In the para sample, I allude a little to Olivio’s dream in the same way it’s alluded to in his biography -- this borderline fantastical dream of a better place, a better world, where the underdogs and the fantastical alike can come together and live in harmony. A place where he can taste honey in his mouth where there might have been blood. I’d like to explore Olivio’s past in reflection to his present. He’s had the same dream his entire life, worked towards it slowly but surely in his youth, and then he ended up sitting on top of an empire he didn’t expect to have and didn’t really want. He gets caught up in his own flaws, and it all crumbles apart right from underneath him, and I’d love to see if he’s doomed to repeat that in Verona or if things are really going to be different this time around.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | I think so! As long as it serves a purpose, I’m happy to dip my hands in angst.

IN DEPTH

TW: VIOLENCE, DEATH

Cesar’s face is so heavily caked with blood that Olivio doesn’t think he could see through the red if he wanted to. His right eye is swollen. He’s missing some teeth. His breath is coming out in wheezes from a few broken ribs, and Olivio -- in spite of his shape, in spite of being three years Cesar’s junior -- is out of breath. They’d grappled for the pistol for some time only for it to go flying under a table somewhere when Cesar kicked it up. Now, staring each other down in an empty backroom in El Valenciano, they’re catching their breath. They’re both drenched in the vibrant pink of overhead lights. It could be a painting, he thinks. Something right out of sleep. He’s had dreams like this before, and they usually don’t end quite so badly.

It makes sense in Olivio’s head that Cesar wouldn’t go down without a fight. That’s fine. He never has. But Cesar knows that Olivio’s never liked losing. Even in drills and races and training exercises, even in the field, neck-to-neck, rifle-to-rifle, Olivio never gave him the chance to get ahead. So those few months where Olivio was falling from grace, slipping from his throne? They must have felt like winning to Cesar. He must have not even realized that the game was rigged from the start.

That’s fine, too. Olivio was always the brain of the operation. Cesar served his purpose as the brawn, the Lancelot to his Arthur. 

“You should’ve let me leave, a year ago. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.” There’s a headache building at the back of his head. Stress or exhaustion. Both? He takes his own trembling hands and grapples for a glass of what looks like bourbon from one of the still-standing tables. Cesar watches him, licks his lips when Olivio swallows. 

“No one leaves. You’ve never let anyone leave. You shouldn’t get the same luxury, Olivio.” Cesar spits the words out so angrily that Olivio’s almost convinced he believes them, but it’s still hard to hear him over the thrumming reverb of the music. Sweet dreams are made of this, who am I to disagree? Catchy. In this moment, in spite of the gore, Olivio thinks Cesar looks young again. Fuzzy around the edges, purple-pink-crimson, young. No more grey at the temples, crow’s feet around the edges. Just blood on his teeth, shifting from pink to blue in a moment’s notice.

“Where are you going to go?” Cesar asks, as he moves a few steps closer. He’s still holding the glass in a white-knuckled grip. His heart is going a million miles a minute. It’s not easy to kill a man with your bare hands, but he’s done it before. He’ll do it again. It feels right to do it this way, with his fists, rather than the barrel of a gun. He wraps his fingers in Cesar’s collar with his free hand and Cesar barely even jerks to meet the movement. He’s all dead weight. Olivio considers the question.

“I’ll go to Verona.”

“In Italy? Bah.” Cesar laughs, throat hoarse. Spittle paints Olivio’s face, but the disgust barely registers. “You always hated Italy -- shot down any business there every time.”

“I hear it’s nice this time of year.”

“You’re burning every bridge you have in Spain. When winter comes around there won’t be any coming back. This is it. You kill me and we’re done.” This feels right out of the pages of the novel. He wonders if maybe he should deliver some sort of dramatic monologue. Something about being brothers from the very beginning. Hold your head up! Moving on! “You’re going to regret it, and you won’t get to crawl back and apologize to me this time.”

Even Olivio’s two divorces weren’t this messy. Still, he leans in close. “It’s not my dream anymore. I’m just making sure it won’t be yours, either.” He searches Cesar’s face for something. Anything. An apology. An indication of guilt. A plea for mercy. The animal-like terror that comes into men moments before they die. They’d seen it a thousand times before, together, and they’d laughed about it over drinks. A shifting green light passes slowly over his eyes. The world goes seafoam.

Nothing. Just their shared breaths. Not even a do it. Olivio sighs. He lifts his hand holding the glass and brings it down. Cesar, to his credit, doesn’t scream. He just takes what he’s given and dies quietly, in the club they bought back when they thought they’d go somewhere bigger than Barcelona. Or maybe that was just him. It doesn’t take more than two minutes.

Olivio stands back, checks Cesar’s pulse, and then wipes his hands on his slacks, chest heaving. 

The ‘ludes start to kick in just as he leaves the club, bloodied jacket in hand, a little later than he would have liked. The cleaners sweep in to wipe evidence away as soon as he’s stepped out of the room and towards the exit. Not a single employee looks at him as he leaves, and the people dancing on the floor hardly notice him. The doorman nods at him on his way out. The car waiting for Olivio at the curb takes him straight to the airport, and he barely has time to settle in his seat before he’s asleep. When he wakes, it’s to the sight of Verona and the river that runs right through it, the sun cresting overhead. He descends onto the tarmac cotton-mouthed, changed into clean clothes, and satisfied.

Cesar had been the last loose end. With his death everything in Spain has tied itself up into a neat bow. The ashes of whatever vision he and Cesar might have shared at some point would be gathered up and put into someone else’s hands. Marta’s, he hopes. She’d always been the most capable, in his mind. She’d been the one to tell him of Verona, originally, when she caught wind of what he was doing: razing everything he’d built. She’d been smart enough to stay loyal in the face of his personally orchestrated coup, and he let her live.

He just hopes she doesn’t take it for granted like he had. That she’ll lay out her own path and stick to it, instead of watching it build by itself and grow restless. Verona won’t be like that -- he’s sure of it. It has to be a new start, one he’ll be happy to die by.

In two days’ time --- and he doesn’t know this now, but he will look back at it and laugh --- he’ll kill an enemy of the Capulets in much the same way he killed Cesar, hooked on the sheer euphoria of his newfound love for the city, just outside a place achingly close to El Valenciano, and it won’t even get him in trouble. The Capulets will sweep him up before he has the time to come down from the high, and they’ll bring him into the fold without even knowing his name. He’ll start from the very bottom, and he’ll relish in it, because it’s been a long time since he had nothing.

What he does know: the Capulets are the key to this newfound dream of his, this new-and-shiny-glossy illusion, and Olivio Rivera will take whatever he can get in a city like this, so long as it means he doesn’t have to raze it to the ground.

Extras: [glass him] PLAYLIST / PINTEREST [cesar won’t remember this.]

#accepted #accepted: oberon

[entwinedmoon]

John Torrington: Redshirt

(Previous posts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9)

“I'm expendable. I'm the guy in the episode who dies to prove the situation is serious.”

–Guy Fleegman, Galaxy Quest

After the exhumations of Torrington, Hartnell, and Braine, and the subsequent publication of Frozen in Time, there was a fresh wave of literature inspired by the photographs and findings from Beechey Island. Novels, short stories, and poems either attempted to recreate what had happened to the expedition according to the latest findings or incorporated this new information in some other way. Some feature Torrington, while some just use certain aspects of the findings, such as the remarkable level of preservation or the lead poisoning theory.

I have read only a handful of the many literary works about the Franklin Expedition that have been published since the exhumations on Beechey Island, so I can’t speak for every novel, poem, or other form of literary composition that has come out since then. For the purposes of this post I decided to focus only on works that feature Torrington himself, and even then, I haven’t had a chance to read every work that does. There may be some that have a completely different take on the story and depict Torrington in a way not seen in the works that I will be discussing, but those will have to wait for another day. For this post I can only focus on the fraction of Franklin-related literature that I have been able to read so far, and if I leave out something that people think is a must-read, I apologize. But feel free to let me know what it is, because I love reading new interpretations of the expedition’s story.

(Unless you’re here to tell me about the Marvel comics character Pestilence, a supervillain who is actually Francis Crozier, preserved in ice for over a hundred years. He’s still alive but he’s gone mad and has magic for some reason. And he can possess other people. Pestilence was first introduced in 1986, and yes, him being frozen in ice was obviously inspired by the exhumation of Torrington. Now, let’s never speak of this again.)

I’m going to start with the various novels that have attempted to tell the story of the Franklin Expedition. FYI, there will be some spoilers, but mostly the spoilers will be about Torrington and other crewmembers dying, which shouldn’t really be a spoiler at this point.

Before I get into the specific books, though, I’ve noticed that there are certain themes in many of these stories, particularly involving Torrington. As his illness and death is a known point during the timeline of the expedition, he inevitably gets a mention in many of these works, but since he died so early in the expedition, he rarely has a major role in the overall story. Not only that, Torrington’s characterization is typically absent altogether. He’s generally depicted as a variant of the Victorian waif—pale and thin and doomed to die—and rarely does he get any dialogue or development. He’s first blood, a harbinger of things to come, but almost never a character on his own. He’s simply there to die, like a redshirt in Star Trek.

I have often flipped through books to see where Torrington comes in, wondering if he’ll be given something to do before he passes, and more often than not I have been disappointed. His death is always included because we know he died, and if it were left out it could be seen as callous at worst or inaccurate at best, yet his inclusion sometimes feels more like the author simply checking something off a checklist. Enters Lancaster Sound, check; winters at Beechey Island, check; Torrington dies, check. Sometimes there might be a funeral, where the main characters speak of Torrington as if he’s been there the entire time and wasn’t just first mentioned only two paragraphs ago, perhaps with Franklin orating the first of many eulogies (“We have lost one of our own today, a fine sailor named John [looks at smudged writing on his hand] Turlington…”).

But one thing that Torrington usually gets is a brief mention of his burial clothes. Since we know what he looks like in death, there’s often a description of him in his coffin, perhaps a mention of his youth, small stature, and wasted appearance. His illness usually gets a mention too—and sometimes he gets berated postmortem for going to sea while sick.

Of course, since Torrington dies only seven months into the expedition, it’s not surprising that he doesn’t have much to do in most stories, but I do wish he could at least have a little more of a role before taking his final bow. It would make his death more meaningful if he was a known character and not just a name in a long list of people who are about to die.

For a deeper dive into how Torrington is typically depicted in novels about the Franklin Expedition, I’m going to start with the most mainstream of the books I’ve read—and also the most inaccurate. That would be The Terror by Dan Simmons, a story that posits what if, rather than starvation, scurvy, illness, and lead poisoning killing off the crew, there was also an evil magical bear bent on their destruction. The book was recently adapted into a television series on AMC, and I watched the show first. I loved the show—it was very well done, despite the evil bear—so I read the book. The book…well, it had some good parts to it, but also some incredibly ridiculous parts and some incredibly offensives ones too. I won’t get into a full review of the book, though—I’m just here for Torrington.

Torrington doesn’t get mentioned until his death in The Terror. In fact, the sentence introducing him is “John Torrington, stoker on HMS Terror, died early this morning.” His slow decline from consumption is described, while also saying that he had obviously been in the advanced stages of the disease when he signed up for the expedition. There’s an aside about how ironic it is that Torrington’s doctor had told him going to sea would be good for his health, something that isn’t based on a known fact about Torrington, but getting away from Manchester and into fresh air may have been part of Torrington’s intent when signing up. Judging by the state of his lungs, he probably had difficulty breathing in the thick smoke of industrial Manchester, so it’s not so far-fetched to think he may have wanted a change of scenery to improve his health.

The dressing of his body for burial, descriptions of the clothes and bindings we know so well from the exhumation pictures, and a brief recap of his funeral get described in just a few pages. The image of him in his striped shirt sticks out in the memory of Dr. Goodsir (who is writing this down in his diary), an image that anyone who is familiar with the Franklin Expedition would know very well. But that’s about it for Torrington in this book. His name does pop up a few more times, though, because Captain Crozier has a habit of going over the names of the dead to himself, assessing how many men he has lost at different points throughout the book. Torrington as part of a list of the dead is mostly how we see him in The Terror.

In the TV adaptation, Torrington doesn’t appear at all, because the show picks up after the ships have left Beechey. The men who died at Beechey are mentioned a few times, usually as a group—referred to as “the men on Beechey” or some variation of that—with only John Hartnell being mentioned by name. Torrington, however, does get a visual sort of reference when one of the ship’s boys, David Young, dies in the first episode. During his burial, his coffin accidentally comes open, and his burial clothes look very reminiscent of the famous photos of Torrington.

Alfie Kingsnorth, the actor who plays David Young, looks a lot like Torrington, making this image extra eerie. In fact, I started watching the show because I saw a screencap of the burial and thought it was Torrington. When I realized that Torrington wasn’t in the show, I was disappointed, but I ended up loving the show anyway.

The next book I want to discuss is a novel that tried to do what The Terror did but without the monster. Robert Edric’s book The Broken Lands tells the story of the Franklin Expedition from the point of view of Commander James Fitzjames of the Erebus, third-in-command of the expedition. Fitzjames seems to be a popular point-of-view character since another book I’ll be discussing in this post is also from his perspective. Fitzjames is an interesting historical person, particularly if you’ve read Battersby’s biography of him, although that was published long after The Broken Lands came out. Being from Fitzjames’s point of view, however, means that the story focuses mostly on what happens on Erebus, which means Torrington, leading stoker on Terror, wouldn’t have had much of a role no matter what.

At least in this book Torrington does get mentioned before his death, but only just. When the ships are wintering on Beechey, it’s mentioned that two men become ill, Torrington and John Hartnell. Since Hartnell died only a few days after Torrington, they would have been ill around the same time. However, rather than showing signs of tuberculosis followed by pneumonia as the killing blow, Torrington and Hartnell suffer symptoms that get mistaken for scurvy but then are assumed to be some form of food poisoning. Torrington dies while Terror’s doctor, John Peddie, sits with him, but there’s not much to the scene. He and Hartnell get buried on the same day after a snowstorm delays their burials. Hartnell gets more attention here because of his autopsy, and there’s no mention of striped shirts and bound limbs.

But that’s not the last we hear of them. In the next chapter, it’s discovered that some crewmembers had been pilfering from the canned food supply. William Braine gets flogged for his part in the scheme, and he starts showing symptoms similar to Torrington and Hartnell. Braine then confesses that Torrington and Hartnell had also been involved in stealing canned foods, and the doctors jump to the conclusion that the canning procedure must be responsible for the illness and deaths of these three men. So instead of going with the known causes of death of tuberculosis and pneumonia, in this version of the story the Beechey Boys die of lead poisoning and only lead poisoning. That bothers me not only because it completely ignores the actual cause of death, but because it makes Torrington, Hartnell, and Braine criminals, stealing food from the ship’s stores. I guess this was Edric’s attempt at explaining why these three men had such high levels of lead so early on in the expedition, but this explanation doesn’t work for me because it ignores a lot of other things in a struggle to make certain puzzle pieces fit. I admit, I got a little overprotective when I saw Torrington being accused of something like this and started ranting about it to my sister—despite the fact that I have no idea what sort of person he was actually like, and he’s been dead for over hundred seventy years, so he doesn’t really need me to protect him from purely fictional accusations. But still…

The other novel from Fitzjames’s perspective is North with Franklin by John Wilson. This is set up as a lost journal written by Fitzjames, using some of the known letters and journals written by the real life Fitzjames as a jumping off point. In these fictional journal entries, there’s a mention of a man in sickbay with signs of consumption in August, and there’s an aside wondering why he didn’t inform anyone about his illness prior to setting sail. However, since this is the sickbay on Erebus, this must be a reference to Hartnell, not Torrington. But it’s a hint at what’s to come for both of them. An update on the consumptive man in November confirms that it’s Hartnell, his condition getting worse, and then it’s mentioned that the leading stoker on Terror is suffering the same. Again, Fitzjames wonders why Hartnell and Torrington didn’t mention their condition before setting sail, calling their weakened lungs a “death warrant” in the Arctic. There’s another update in late December about their worsening condition, until they both succumb. Out of the three books discussed so far, this is the most that Torrington has been mentioned pre-death, but he says not a single word.

Torrington’s death, taking place on New Year’s Day, brings down the happy celebrations of the crew. Again, it’s mentioned that Torrington should never have undertaken the journey with his illness, as if it hasn’t been driven home enough that he and Hartnell had probably been showing symptoms when they first boarded and should have reported it. Torrington’s burial clothes get an overview, with his short, emaciated appearance being compared to that of a child. He gets a funeral, with Franklin presiding.

The repeated mentions of how Torrington and Hartnell should have declared their illnesses before sailing on the expedition almost comes off as blaming them for their early demise. Realistically, of course, they probably had noticed some early symptoms before leaving England. But how bad were those symptoms? Were they enough to make them think they had a disease that would prove fatal? Did they realize that they wouldn’t be coming back, or did they shrug it off as just another cough? Torrington had bad lungs anyway, so maybe he didn’t notice when his black-lung-coughing changed into tuberculosis-coughing.

John Wilson wrote another book about the Franklin Expedition, this one for young adults, called Graves of Ice. This book is from the point of view of one of the ship’s boys, George Chambers. Chambers was assigned to the Erebus, so the main action happens on that ship once again, which means Torrington barely appears. Again. William Braine, however, befriends Chambers and gets far more dialogue and development than Torrington or Hartnell in any of the previous books—or this one—combined. Braine actually gets to defend his actions by saying his lungs had always been weak, and he thought the cold might do them good, explaining why he didn’t bother declaring any illness before setting sail. In real life, Torrington probably felt the same way, but he doesn’t get to stand up for himself here. In a prime example of dramatic irony, Braine calls Torrington an idiot for signing up while sick.

Torrington and his illness get mentioned the same day he dies, just shortly before Dr. Peddie informs Franklin of Torrington’s passing. His death gets called a bad omen among the crew. His burial gets a brief mention, but there’s no lingering on the image of his body in its coffin, or any mention of it even. He has no lines once again, nor does George Chambers ever meet him. At least one crewman admits that there are many men on board with lungs as bad as Torrington, as if to soften the accusation that Torrington should have known better, but it doesn’t soften it by much.

In all four of these books Torrington has had zero lines of dialogue. He gets sick, he dies. That’s it. There’s another book, a self-published one that came out this year, that I had hoped may do better by him. That would be Toward No Earthly Pole by Jonathan Schaeffer, which is from the point of view of James Thompson, the engineer on Terror. Being the engineer, Thompson would have interacted with Torrington a great deal, so I’d hoped I would get to see Torrington fleshed out more as a real character, but sadly that was not to be. Torrington does get mentioned more before his death than in other books, but it’s mostly in superficial interactions where anyone could have stood in instead, such as Torrington pointing out a polar bear.

Near the beginning of the story, Thompson gives a rundown of each stoker, giving Torrington a less-than-stellar description as a weakling, saying that, “He comes across as an old man resigned to his lot in life.” But Thompson does remark that Torrington is handsome, which isn’t really that important, but it is mentioned multiple times in the text. I guess the point was to emphasize that Torrington was cut down in the prime of his young, handsome life, but it comes off as a little awkward.

Torrington apparently has no friends in this interpretation of the story, and only Thompson seems to visit him when he gets sick. The day before he dies, Torrington, in a delirium, says some incomprehensible sentences, ending on an ominous “…do not belong here,” a phrase that Thompson initially interprets as meaning that Torrington realized he didn’t belong there, but that over the course of the expedition Thompson comes to think means the entire expedition didn’t belong there. Torrington gets the usual drawn-out illness coverage, unsurprising death, and a mention of his burial. He also becomes an omen that gets mentioned again as the situation grows worse. Even though Thompson would have been one of the crewmembers to interact with Torrington the most, Torrington still doesn’t get much development as a character.

However, there is one retelling of the Franklin Expedition that gives Torrington quite a bit of development. That would be Kristina Gehrmann’s graphic novel Im Eisland (or Icebound in the English version). I previously discussed Im Eisland in my last post about Torrington in art, but now I’d like to focus on the writing rather than the artwork. Torrington is actually introduced as if he’s going to be a major protagonist of the story, and for a time he does play a large role. We get a glimpse of a sweet little romance between him and his fiancée (we don’t know if Torrington was engaged to anyone, but there’s no evidence that he wasn’t either), and he develops a warm friendship with Thomas Evans, one of the ship’s boys, whom he teaches to read. Torrington comes alive as a real person here, and while yes, he does inevitably become too ill to work and dies, as he did in real life, he’s much more than just the first victim of a tragedy. If you’re looking for some good Torrington fiction, Im Eisland is an excellent choice.

But not all Torrington-related literature is a retelling of the expedition. There is a famous story by Margaret Atwood, “The Age of Lead,” which appears in her short story collection Wilderness Tips. I should say upfront that this story is not about Torrington himself. Atwood described her use of him as that of an extended metaphor, as his death is juxtaposed with that of another character’s in the story. But the story still delves into the pathos around Torrington’s death. In mourning for her friend, Jane, the protagonist, mourns for Torrington in a way too. As Jane remembers sitting with her dying friend, she ponders about who may have sat with Torrington in his final days. His half-open eyes are described as “the light brown of milky tea,” and they look back at Jane as she watches a program about him on television. It’s a touching story that asks some emotional questions about Torrington’s death—did he have anyone to comfort him as he passed, so far from home? Did anyone on the ship mourn him, love him? The story might not be about Torrington in the end, but he makes for a powerful centerpiece, and this story treats his humanity as far more present than many of the novels discussed above.

The last piece of literature I’d like to discuss is “Envying Owen Beattie” by Sheenagh Pugh. In a poem that gives Seamus Heaney a run for his money, Pugh lovingly describes the exhumation of Torrington’s mummified body. She compares Torrington to Snow White by describing his being cocooned in ice as “asleep in his glass case.” The reason she envies Owen Beattie is because of an anecdote Beattie had once told that Pugh recounts here, of how when Beattie lifted Torrington out of his coffin, Torrington’s head lolled onto Beattie’s shoulder, and they stared eye-to-eye at each other, Beattie holding his frail, limp body. This leads Pugh to conclude her fairy tale metaphor by saying “how could you not try to wake him with a kiss?” I have to admit that if I had been in Beattie’s place, I probably would have dropped the body, but Pugh romanticizes the moment instead.

While many of the novels that I’ve described above treat Torrington as just another milestone to get through in the story, Pugh brings far more emotion and love to his depiction in so few words. Torrington looks so very much alive, like a princess under a sleeping spell, so why can’t a kiss break that spell and bring him into the present? A sweet sentiment tinged with the sadness that we know he can’t be awakened by a kiss, because it’s no spell that’s put him asleep. He’s too far beyond fairy tale dreams to come back. The tragedy of Torrington’s death gets swallowed by the larger tragedy of the Franklin Expedition’s demise in the full-length novels, but in shorter pieces such as Pugh’s poem and Atwood’s short story, Torrington’s death is given greater thought and respect. Torrington, after all, was no redshirt on Star Trek but a human being. He wasn’t just a name, a check on a checklist, but a man who suffered and died at too young an age. But the tragedy of the individual is easily lost among the tragedy of the group.

Next: My final post, a personal reflection as I ponder just what fascinates us about him after all these years.

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Torrington Series Masterlist

#john torrington #franklin expedition

[calliecat93]

Top 5 Things I Liked About RWBY Volume 6

(Top 5 Dislikes)

Holy Hell, I actually made it. Twelve… err,  eleven posts in one week. I somehow did it! It’d been super fun to go back over Volume 1-6. Some of them I haven’t rewatched all the way through in years. It was a super fun ride, but it’s time to wrap things up. Volume 6 is my favorite volume, and now I get to talk about hey. So let’s conclude this series of Like/Dislikes posts with my Top 5 Things I Liked About RWBY Volume 6!

#5. Maria Calavera

Back in V5, they had to cut out a plotline where, during his search for Huntsmen to recruit, Qrow met an elderly woman. This character, however, had to be cut out due to timing. But they didn’t throw her out. They just her back into this volume. That character was Maria Calavera, and she is awesome.

Maria brought so much levity into the volume honestly. She’s funny and really charming, but also sharp and intelligent. Her ass towards Yang and Qrow always got a giggle out of me. It also helped when the flashback ended, since she wasn’t feeling crushing hopelessness and was able to get everyone to at least start looking for shelter. We didn’t know anything about her, but with how she chose to stay on the train after it de-railed and her going through Barlaby’s journals, it speaks a lot to her mindset and definitely hint at her experience.

Most everyone figured this out by the time of the reveal, but Maria was a former Silver Eyed Warrior. Which while I wish that they did some more foreshadowing about her legacy before, the flashback with Maria was freakin’ awesome and showed how much of a badass that she was in her prime. She agrees to mentor Ruby, and honestly? Maria is exactly what Ruby needs. She’s experienced and an overall nice person who gan give Ruby proper guidance, but also stern enough to give her a good bonk on the head when necessary.  Which proved valuable for when we got to the end.

Maria came in at exactly the right time, and she was a big part of what made V6 so enjoyable. She was hilarious, like the “Maybe she’s dead!” line still cracks me up. SHe’s wise and can get everyone to focus on what matters. She’s been through the same hopelessness and sense of loss that they are… well okay not the exact same way, but she gets it. She wants to do something to make up for when she gave up and finds it in guiding Ruby. Someone who has the same gift and the same drive as she did in her youth. If Chapter 12 was any indication, Ruby may very well be on her way to being the next Grimm Reaper, and that’s all because of Maria. I love that old woman~

#4. Ozma and Salem Backstory

I have been watching RWBY since V1. I started just as the volume wrapped up, so I have more or less been around since the beginning. I have been following every plotline since 2013. I’ve had so many questions for so many years. One of the big ones was the connection between Oz and Salem, and why they have a conflict to begin with. I had waited since the end of V3 to get an answer. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but when we finally got it, I’d say that it had been very well worth the wait.

The Lost Fable was everything that I had been hoping for. We found out about Salem. We found out about Ozma and why he keeps reincarnating the way that he doe. We found out about the Gods. We found out the history of Remnant and what exactly happened to cause the world to be what it is now. We finally found out about why the moon is broken! There were so many answers to so many questions and even stuff that I wasn’t expecting. I had guessed that Oz and Salem were former lovers, but them having actually formed a family? Making themselves God and that being the beginning of their downfall? Damn man…

The backstory was very well done. I feel so bad for these people. Al that Salme wanted was her lover back after he gave her the happiness and love that she never received before. But she was also selfish, trying to turn the Gods against each other and then driving the world to war But the GOds also made her immortal and wiped out humanity, treating them more like objects than anything else. But the biggest victim here is Ozma. He did nothing wrong except die of an illness. He accepted a deal to be with his wife again, but still had to do what was right for the world. He didn’t do that, and by the time that he realized how twisted Salem had become, it was too late. He lost his love. He lost his children. He lost his life and had to start all over again, doomed to never die until he’s united the world. Otherwise, when the Relics unite and the Gods return, everything and everyone will die.

It all makes sense. Why Ozpin acts like he does and why he keeps reincarnated. Why Salem is so Hellbent on destroying all of humanity and making Oz suffer. Sure there are some unanswered questions, like how humanity came back after their demise, but that’ not that big a deal. This was several years in the making, and I can still remember the utter shock that I felt after the first viewing. I was so happy to have this at last, and again, the wait was very much worth it.

#3. The Brunswick Arc

As much as I wished that we had more varied reactions to the Ozpin stuff, we did get a very good arc due to the hopelessness that everyone felt. These two episodes were really great. It had this horror tone, and the snow setting certianly gave it a cold feeling. There were some good bits. Yang’s PTSD still affecting her and Blake trying to comfort her but saying the wrong words. Weiss being afraid to go back to Atlas after just escaping and her terror after finding the corpses. We have RUby’s concern of Qrow drinking if he finds the storeroom of alcohol and her trying to get him to talk to her, but he’s just closed himself off completely. RUby’s trying to be optimistic, but you can just see how much everyone is weighed down.

Then we get to Chapter 6. Things aren’t going well and everyone’s on the verge of just giving up. Yang’s tired. Blake is tired. Weiss is tired. They’re all doubtful of why they’re doing any of this and why they’re going to Atlas. Ruby tries to remind them that they have to… and that’s when we get Yang asking why. We see her blank anime eyes, and we just know that something is very, very wrong. They all try to get Ruby to drop the lamp in the well, and even she begins to say how tired she is. She goes to the well, her hands trembling as she holds the lamp over the well. Her eyes are blank, but she sighs, pulls back… and a pair of red eyes make her drop ti. She refuses to leave without it, so RWBY all go down and while they find the lamp, they also find something much, much worse: The Apathy.

These embodiments of nightmare fuel are Miles’ favorite Grimm. They’re essentially zombies, using their power to weigh you down until all that you feel is apathy. You feel nothing. You don’t care about anything. You just lay there, and you either die from that or the Apathy get to you first. They are horrifying. You can’t just shoot them dead either. The girls barely get away, only being saved by Ruby’s Silver Eyes. It ends with Weiss burning everything tot he ground as they escape. We find out that Bartleby brought the Apathy tot he farm in hopes of using it to ward off enemies since they can’t keep affording a Huntsmen. Instead, the whole horde found their way there, and no one cared. They felt nothing, except for tired. 

This arc is short, but dark. There’s this bleakness all the way through. It feels like you’re the one standing out there in a blizzard with no warmth to push away the bitter cold. They did such a great job of nailing the tone. The Apathy are horrifying, but such a great concept and I can see why these are Miles’ favorite. You feel for all fo the characters and know that they are not acting right and there’s just so much relief when they snap out of it and drive away. On the upside, this gets them to apologize for their words and regain their resolve in getting the lamp to Atlas. It did a lot of good for Ruby, but we’ll get to that later. For now, this was a highlight of the volume, and I enjoyed it immensely.

#2. Bumblebee Storyline

Ho boy, this one has been controversial. And by controversial, I mean this has been hated on for stupid reasons. Like… really stupid. Bt I’m getting ahead of myself.

We all knew that when Blake came back, she and Yang would have things to work out. Which I think that they handled very well. Weiss’ talk with Yang helped her realize why Blake did what she did and let her back in. She still needed time, but she was just happy to have her back. Blake clearly still felt horrible for running away, trying to help Yang with her bag. I don’t think that Yang needed to be more angry towards Blake. Like I said, she had time to cool down and Weiss helped her with that. Blake was genuine in trying to make things right, especially when she saw that Yang was having a PTSD flashback. She talks about Adam’s tactics of making others feel powerless and tries to comfort Yang. But she ways the wrong words and Yang pushes the whole thing back as a result. Still, Yang pulled Blake out of the house after they got away from The Apathy after Blake, in particular, came close to death, so clearly Yang still cared.

But now, we get to the end of the volume, and as such the controversial bit. So int he final arc, Blake goes to take down the city’s radar, but as it turns out Adam stalked her. At this point, he’s lost everything. The White Fang. His power. His standing. At that point, all that mattered to him was making the one that he saw responsible suffer, and that was Blake. She fought back as Adam kept calling her a coward and a traitor. Unfortunately for him, Blake wasn’t alone. Yang entered the fray, and she held her own against him. Adam tried to intimidate her over what happened last time, and it’s enough to make Yang’s arm tremble. But Blake grabbed it, telling Adam that she isn’t protecting Yang. Nor is Yang protecting her. They’re protecting each other.

Adam was an abuser. While seeing his scar certainly leaves an impact, it doesn’t justify all that he had done. He only cared about control and power, and anyone who got in the way of that would earn his spite. He became a monster who emotionally abused Blake and frequently gaslighted her into making her stand at his side. That is until Blake decided that enough was enough, and she left him and the WF behind. Since then, he wanted her to suffer, as well as anyone else that she cared about. It’s why he dismembered Yang. Imo, Blake had no romantic feelings for Yang at that time, but she was still her partner. And because of it, Yang had to suffer at Adam’s hand. Which caused Blake to run, and for Yang to be traumatized and broken. In that moment, Adam made his choice, and there was no redeeming him nor did he want it.

Fortunately, the two girls recovered and got back together. But there was still one obstacle in their way before they could truly move forward, and it was Adam. They gave him the chance to eave. He refused. They fought him. It was either fight back or die. It ended with Yang managing to stop Adam’s Semblance by using her own, getting rid of his sword in the process. Adam lunged at Blake’s broken weapon ut as Blake did, and had he gotten it first then he’d keep trying to kill them. As such when Blake grabbed it and when Yang grabbed the other half, they did the only thing that they could to save themselves: shove the blades forward through Adam. It ended with him falling over the cliff, and to his watery grave.

Adam’s death caused a lot of controversies, but considering that this is a Likes post, you can probably guess where I stand. Adam wasn’t ruined by the CRWBY whatsoever and he led himself to his end and this was the right time to do it. But really? That’s not important. What’s important is what happens after, when Blake breaks down. Yang hugs her and Blake tearfully swears that she’s not going to run again. Yang answers that she knows. These two girls went through so much Hell, and it was together that they were able to set themselves free. This is what finally got me to subscribe to the bumblebee ship. Before. I was indifferent and at times angered by how many people used it to attack the writers. But this was when I saw the value of it. That sense of mutual support that they both needed. How they freed each other. How they can now move forward, and do so together as equals. This showed how great that bond is. How great that their characters are. How far that they have come, and how they can now move on. I loved this arc. It was well written, well-acted by Barbara and Arryn, and was just a super satisfying ride from beginning to end. I loved it.

But alas, there was one thing that I loved even more. Which is a big deal because this was the one thing that I was hoping for above else in this volume. What was that thing? Well...

#1. Ruby Character Arc

In my Volume 5 Dislikes post, I said that Ruby’s lack of development was the thing I hated most. It was the only real thing in the volume that I hated. When V6 was about to start, my one hope was that they would give RUby something. I didn’t care what, as long as it was something that would develop her character and have a payoff, I could live with it. And… well… they did it. They absolutely did it.

This was everything that I had been hoping for. In this volume, Ruby has to take the reigns of leadership. She’s the one who reminds them about the innocents on Argus when the truth about the Relic came out. When Oz tried to make her give the lamp back, she refused and questioned if he lied about protecting humanity. She made her own choices and was the only one aside form Maria to keep her sense and keep moving. At Brunswick, she had every reason to be frustrated and hopeless. But she kept it together and tried to do things like find food or get Qrow to talk to her. This girl was trying her best.

Then we get to Alone in the Woods. I went over this a bit int he Brunswick section, but Ruby here was fantastic. We do see that she can get frustrated and that she can’t always kepe up her optimistic facade. She almost gives in to being tired, but he fights it back, This was what she signed up for. She had a duty, and she was going to carry it out to protect everyone. She managed to fight back against the Apathy’s influence to save Blake, and then with Maria’s help was able to tap into the Silver Eyes enough to blast a huge number of them into dust. And because of it, we finally, finally have Ruby question about the Silver Eyes and ask Maria to teach her to use them.

So much good for Ruby was in here. She has to harden herself a little. It never gets to the point of brooding or angsting, but she and the others are left with no true guidance. The closest thing that she has is Maria, but she’s a new arrival in the conflict. Ruby’s used to Ozpin or Qrow having the answers, but they both have given up. But Ruby hasn’t. And when Qrow refuses ot hear Jaune’d plan out and tells everyone to just give up now, what does Ruby do? She turns to her uncle, her mentor, and tells him that she’s going to hear Jaune out. THat she doesn’t care what Qrow thinks. He may have given up, but it doesn’t mean that she has to. This was where she truly became the leader of not just her team, but the entire group. It took a second talk, but she restored Qrow’s hope. She refused to give up because they can’t. This was what she chose to do, and she was going to do it. With or without anyone to guide her.

It all ends when, after the plan went array, RUby faced Cordo. All that she has is her scythe, but this teenaged girl tells Cordo to either let them through or else. Cordo refuses, so Ruby carries out her threat by gumming up the canon arm to the point of disrepair. But that’s not the end. The Grimm attack, and they all decide to stay. RUby calls the Argus base, telling them that she is a Huntress. This isn’t the same wide-eyed girl who fangirled at Glynda and asked her for an autograph because she was a Huntress. No, this time Ruby is that Huntress. Her resolve is stronger than ever. She’s going to save Argus, and she has the one thing that can do the job: the Silver Eyes.

This was RUby’s trial by fire, and she passed it. It isn’t easy as her happy memories get tainted by the bad ones. But she’s able to use her wits and summon Jinn to buy herself time. Yes, she used the Relic despite not having a question, and she got away with it. It’s enough to let her recollect her happy memories, and ended with the first shot of her mother, Summer Rose. That image is the last thing that RUby needed to, for the first time by her own choice, use the Silver Eyes. while she’s only able to briefly freeze the Leviathan, it’s enough time to let Cordo recover and kill it for good. She lets them through due to this, and RUby not only guaranteed Argus’ safety, but them successfully making it to Atlas.

Ruby is often derided as a flat and under-developed character. I disagree. It’s not easy to move forward. It’s not easy to stay strong when so much is falling apart. Giving up is easy. Hating is easy. But RUby refused to take the easy way. She made a choice, and she has stood by that choice over and over again. She began as a naive girl with a childish dream and major anxiety. She surpassed it. She went from being afraid to make friends to befriending everyone that she meets. She went form charging at a Nevermore to prove herself, to channeling that recklessness into insane but brilliant plans. She went form questioning Oz if he was right to choose her to be leader, to effortlessly leading her team and encouraging others. Her dreams went from a childish fantasy to true dedication and understanding of what she’s fighting for. Bad things happen, and she wants to make people’s lives better as much as possible. She has a stronger understanding of the world and used it to better herself. Now here? She’s taking matters into her own hands and pushing everyone forward along with her. She’s holding on to her hope, and that is what makes her strong. 

Ruby is an amazing character. She is my favorite character. And this volume shows why that is. This corrected all of the mistakes that I felt that V5 made. She actively develops and it’s never dropped. She questions things and starts to learn from them. She learns to use her Silver Eyes. But most of all? All of this got a payoff wth her facing the Leviathan. Yes, she’s still suppressing so much and that’ll come back to haunt her. But for right now, this is what she needed. She needed to take this step, and they executed it wonderfully. As such, ti si is without a shadow of a doubt my favorite thing about RWBY Volume 6.

And with that, we are done! It’s been one Hell of a trip going back down memory lane, but I enjoyed it! Thank you, everyone, who read this as well as the previous posts. I’m not likely going to do any other LikesDislikes for RWBY until V8 starts. But I’m not done reviewing. V7 starts tomorrow, and I plan to do my episode reviews for it. I hope that you all will check those out. V7 is on the horizon my friends, and I am ready for it! I hope that you are to. But for now, thank you again, and I’ll catch you later~!

#rwby #rwby reviews #top likes/dislikes

[clarissalance]

[Anthem for Doomed Youth] Sample Essay

Hi guy~

I found some useful resources from my old IGCSE notes that might be useful to use. Feel free to read and take some notes. DO NOT COPY, This is my writing and my product. If you copied and paste it as your work, you teacher might knew it since they will be using turnitin to check it. If you got caught, too bad, it’s your fault. This is for learning the writing style, structure to get the top mark in IGCSE English as 1st language Poem part II.

Enjoy~

Anthem for Doomed Youth

Question: How does the poet evocatively convey his feelings about war in the poem Anthem For Doomed Youth?

Essay: 

Anthem of Doomed Youth is focusing on the pain and loss of the young men who went to war without knowing anything about it and returned back wounded and dead. The word Anthem in the title is ironic to the poem below as war is something deadly that people shouldn’t be praised for or encouraged to go. The word Doomed is representing something deadly and he used the world Anthem before it, which is contrasting to the rest of the title.The word Anthem is lamentation of the war, not for cheering and supporting soldiers. These helped him creates a clear impression to the readers that he evocatively conveys his feeling about the war in the poem. 

Firstly, the poet has explored the theme destruction of war by describing the unbearable and harsh condition of the war where the Youth is fighting. Owen described the soldiers “dies as cattle”. Owen has used metaphor to show how much people had died during the war. This suggested that they had to be in critical condition and died without glory or reputation-just like the cattle. Owen has done this to show the pain that the Youth endured during the war and uselessly accepted it without doing anything. This emphasizes the carelessness of people, they didn’t care of the dead people because there were too many “cattle” and no one can really do anything about it. Not only dying as cattle, the survivors had to constantly face fears of gun sound. The gun sound is described as “rifles’ rapid rattle”. The poet’s used of alliteration to portray the sound of the gun, which bring sound effects to the reader and creates the vivid image of the soldiers falling down with the sound of guns, which created terrors of war. Owen has done this to show how dreadful and disastrous the war is and gives the reader the brutal truth that war isn’t as pleasant as it was told. He gave the readers a true experience of what the war is like since he was in war once, which is the reason why he can dramatically create image about war. This is also consonance, which suggested that Owen wanted to make the reader see that the war is harsh and create bitter tones, like sympathizing the for soldiers who had fought in the war. The uses of repeating “Only” in the poem has suggested that the soldier’s daily lives are torture and nothing more than the fear of dying with the sound of guns going on constantly. This, again portrayed a clear image for the reader to see the horror of war and the unbearable living condition that the soldiers had faced every day.  

     The poet also explored the theme being forgotten by time and the senselessness of the people by using the structure and imagery to portray the pain and loss of the youth who attended the war. In the first stanza, Owen has used of the rhetorical question in the first line, as to ask why there is no one remembering the sacrificed soldiers after all of their effort for defending and fighting for their country. The author's done this to show that they will be forgotten sooner or later since they are nothing compared to other. No one really knew what they have been through in the trenches. Owen also used of repetition to emphasize the pain of being forgotten by repeating “No” and “Nor”. This suggests that the how brutal the reality was for the soldiers who fought in trenches and lost their lives without even remembered by the civilian. Owen also references to the religious image in line fourth line in stanza one, “Can patter out their hasty orisons”. This shows the absence of god since he isn’t there to save them even though they were praying every day for peacefulness and he gives people, which suggests the loneliness of the soldiers as no one remembered them- a callous fact that the god won’t come and save them from the deaths. 

Wilfred Owen also conveyed his feelings about war through the loss of families and the sacrificing of the youth in this poem after they came back. In the last line of stanza one, the poet said “bugles calling for them from sad shrines”. This suggests that their parents, families are calling from afar. The word “bugles” shows the distant as physical and mentally as their lives are drifting away from them. The author has used imagery to create a lonely and painful moment for the reader but also shows that war is destructive and bring apprehension to everyone. It isn’t only broke families and kill the younths. This is contrasting to stanza above as Owen said he will be forgotten by everyone. The poet’s uses of rhetorical question again at the start of stanza 2, to emphasizes the loss of youth. The pains, experiences, terrors of the young soldiers are shown “In their eyes” through the “candles”. This suggests that their lives are like the candle when they were young, it burns vigorously and full of energy and all of that is waste for the war. Owen's done this to show how the youth is being taken easily of the young soldiers and left them back uselessly. The image “candle” is like a mirror, which portrayed the war image and showed the pain in both physically and mentally. Owen has used Sonnet poem- a romantic type-structure poem, which contrasts with the destructive image of war that he shows in the poem and represented a death. Owen ‘s done this to show the dark irony in the poem, the romantic is hard to forget both in positive and negative but the war is also hard to forget in a more negative way, there are too many deaths to get over in such a short time. 

Lastly, Owen’s pain and hatred with the war has evocatively conveyed his hostility and malice about war, which shows the reader that he once attended the war when he was young, therefore, he clearly understood the pain and loss of the soldiers. The image “passing-bells” is representing the slow motion of time running away, slow but desperate like the author is hoping the time to go faster as the death is too painful for him to endure. This symbolizes the terror and the brutal reality of the war, as something Owen hated the most. The uses of caesura throughout the poem reflect the injuries that the poet once experienced in his life, like telling a dark and harsh real life story to the people who didn’t know what life was like in the war. It made people think that the story had ended but it isn’t and somehow, the readers sympathizes more to the soldiers. The poet has used of metaphor in “ Nor any voice of mourning save the choir”. This shows the voice of people calling the soldiers from home and suggest that the despair on the front line is something can’t be replaced. The pain they endured and loss can never be replaced by the cheer of people at home, which suggests Owen suffered much from the war, which made his poem can be this painful. Additionally, he wrote “slow dusk” in the last stanza, also describe the loneliness and the helplessness of the situation. The war shouldn't have happened, because it’s the thing that took away their time, youth and lives. Owen didn’t lose his lives on the battlefield but he lost it due to the physical wounds. Lastly, he wrote “blinds”. The author’s uses of imagery to not only describe a physical wound that the war brought but also the absence of hope, deaths and darkness are swallowing them from the bottom of their heart. They lost their target in lives due to the war, young soldiers who killed many people and broke many people promises and dreams, which made great anxieties to the young people and the feeling of fearful of war, which is similar to Owen and through his poem, the reader can see the painful and destructive, but also dreadful and melancholy of the war in the poem Anthem of Doomed Youth. 

#AnthemforDoomedYouth #igcsehelp #sampleessay #donotcopy

[safestsephiroth]

do the total war games have any mods that bring back the in-depth trait systems for nobles that seems to have been removed after Medieval 2?

That was what made me love the games so much and them missing made the games feel more like board games and less like stories.

My best memory of the game was playing Brittania as the Norse.

Early on, I decided I had to pick one front to wage war and stick with it. I decided I’d start with Ireland. Ireland was small, isolated, wouldn’t be too hard to get involved with. I could ally with the Welsh and the Scots and the English, then bring down the Irish in a concentrated sweep. Having unified control of all Ireland would be a significant boon to my overall position, and let me have a place to fall back to in the event things got bad.

Well.

The scots, those bastards, betrayed me after forming an alliance. I had landed on the main isle and took a single city, and those bastards went full conquest on me in the North. It was a desperate struggle to hold anything.

And, to my dismay, this came right after I had fully invested into war with Ireland.

My King and his immediate nobles were stranded on Ireland, and I was forced to make the extremely difficult and unfortunate decision to disband my navy almost entirely so I could keep my finances above board. The English at this time were getting really uppity, and I realized if I put my King to sea he could well be killed by an English - or, god forbid, Scottish - raiding party. This could not be allowed.

And so, the lone General on the main isle was given an impossible task with insurmountable odds. He had a small army of elite soldiers straight from Norway, and he would be the advancing front of my army. Everything I got that wasn’t thrown wholeheartedly into the lagging defense in the North, trying in vain to hold back the Scottish tide, and everything that wasn’t sent to Ireland to maintain our foothold (lest those Irish bastards fortify the entire isle and make reinvasion impossible), went straight to this man.

History has lost his name. In this retelling, will call him: Karl.

Karl was, from the outset, in a bad situation. Severely outnumbered, with minimal support, his first objective became to acquire a castle capable of allowing him to replenish his losses. Fortunately, we were able to get troops across from the Isle of Man relatively easily, but these troops were highly expensive and my budget was dying. If I had lost my foothold in Ireland, my entire economy was doomed to collapse. Karl fought with care. He chose his battles well. He waited for the English and Scottish to war, assisted the English in a field battle, and split two cities between himself and the English. The English had a clear foothold into Scotland, Karl had a castle, and all was well.

Until one turn later.

Having sent his most damaged units back for repair, Karl was garrisoning this small castle with nothing but himself, a single unit of Housecarls, a single unit of crossbows, and two peasant militia.

The English came with a full stack of military might. To Karl’s two hundred, the English sent two thousand.

Outnumbered ten to one, Karl gave his men one final grim speech. He was committed to fighting his way to Valhalla. He was ready to die for his King, ready to die for the dreams of the Norse in Britannia.

Yet, something strange happened.

The English swarmed the walls, stormed the gate. The Housecarls thrust themselves into the gap, the peasant levees on the walls swiftly getting overwhelmed, the crossbowmen desperately firing at the endless horde of the English.

And then, just as the battle seemed lost forever, as the Housecarls fell to the last man, Karl charged.

One last glorious push, right?

But Karl had a reputation. Karl had butchered all prisoners he took, Karl had put down any rebellion with extreme violence.

The English saw Karl, the peasant levees in their thousands, they saw his standard. They were tired, they were desperate, and they were surrounded by the bodies of their friends and brothers, slain by the valiant Housecarls.

And they fled.

The English fled. The units in front routed, and those behind panicked and followed as well.

Karl and his bodyguard unit lost twelve of twenty-four men. The Crossbows fell to three. The Housecarls were eradicated to the last, as were the levees.

Karl personally captured 1200 fleeing Englishmen, including the enemy commander. His army killed another 400.

Immediately, Karl’s Dread skyrocketed - especially since he elected to execute every last treacherous Englishman, to teach their crown a lesson:

Never break an alliance with the Norse.

The English, for their part, flagged at the sight of Karl’s army. Swiftly reinforced, Karl hurried to repair the defenses, and all funding was diverted directly to the miraculous hero.

The English fell back as Karl advanced, taking two more English cities, fortifying them, garrisoning them and leaving them behind. Because Scotland had just turned down our final peace offer to them.

Karl’s eldest son took up the defense of these cities, and there were plenty of stories in their own right about him.

Meanwhile, in Ireland, the King and several of his closest family held out against wave after wave of Irish attacks. The battle was a war of endless attrition. The Irish were too numerous to conquer further, but we couldn’t let them just siege our city whenever they liked. Our economy couldn’t handle that. Instead, we occupied a fort nearby, and held stubbornly to it. Until one of my King’s nephews, one of the most promising youths in the royal family, fell ill - and grew mad. For fear of him spreading his stark raving lunacy to those around him, we gave him a Norse end - seeing the perfect opportunity when the Irish came to invade the fort with two full armies.

Hopelessly outnumbered, we withdrew the garrison. All save for a few peasants and this woebegotten nephew. In his final stand, despite being wracked with pain and tormentous visions, he fought as a true Norseman, and took the Irish down with him. He lost the fort - and was carried to Valhalla - but in the act, the Irish advance was crippled, and a counterattack led by the Crown Prince saw the rest of their army utterly annihilated.

The economy thusly protected, Karl advanced northward into Scotland.

At first, the Scots did not seem to take him seriously. The Norse were that tiny army of proud idiots they had bullied out of their castles for years. What threat was this man?

In battle after battle, Karl’s elite army of terrifying Housecarls sent the Scottish peasant armies fleeing in terror. Unable to resist their overwhelming charges, the fleeing Scottish were cut down and captured by Karl himself.

And Karl did not allow survivors. A Scot sent home was a Scot who would rearm himself. Better to thin their innumerable herd a battle at a time.

The Scottish sent armies innumerable at him. They sent their entire military straight for Karl, who was reinforced by his eldest son in a critical moment and turned the tide, eradicating the bulk of the Scottish army in a decisive battle and taking a key coastal castle.

And then, at the cusp of victory, Karl was met with what seemed a challenge straight from the Gods Themselves:

A Scottish hero had risen. With the unified Scotland behind him, and given an immense army on the spot - a timed event many may be familiar with, and may have seen coming - William Wallace arose. A leader of immense honor, able to maintain the morale of all nearby allies to an extreme degree, and an incredibly effective commander, Wallace brought with him several full-stacked armies. These were not mere peasants, either. Well-trained, professional soldiers.

Karl was forced to fall back to the freshly-taken castle. After evaluating the situation, Karl came up with a solution.

He would harry Wallace’s army, he would fight a retreating war, he would stymie them at every juncture. They would be allowed no reinforcements - by deftly maneuvering and cutting off bit by bit of Wallace’s army, then vanishing before the bulk could be brought to bear, he brought the Scottish juggernaut’s armies down again, and again, and again. He destroyed unit after unit, leaving no survivors, until the Scottish were left with only a hardened, elite core of professionals, fanatically loyal to Wallace himself.

The battle was imminent. Karl chose the time and place carefully. He lured Wallace forth, and sent a detatchment of his army to besiege a Scottish city Wallace had been pulling support from. Wallace turned, predictably, and Karl’s army lifted the siege - attacking Wallace from both sides, with reinforcements from a distinguished subordinate.

The battle was the closest Karl had ever fought. There were moments it looked like either side could win. The Norse casualties were not insignificant.

But the moment Wallace fell in battle, the outcome was already decided.

The Scottish were rounded up and slaughtered to a man. Grim work, but by now Karl had developed an obsession. He despised the Scottish. Loathed the Scottish. Was more than happy to defeat them in battle. His was a name of legend in Scotland, spoken in hushed whispers:

Karl, Bane of Scots.

His already prodigious military skills were further enhanced by his intimate knowledge of Scottish tactics, and with Wallace dead, nothing was left to stop Karl’s march. And march he did. He slew the Scottish King in the field of battle. He took city after city, putting down any resistance with overwhelming force. In the end, all that remained was the castle of Inverness.

By this point, the Scottish had resorted to appointing random guard captains as their nobility, so thin was their line. These guard captains fled - as any rational man would - but to no avail.

Karl, aged 62, laid siege to Inverness. The final Scottish stronghold. The end of his life’s work was in sight.

And then, in winter, he died of illness.

The Scottish were left with no time to rejoice in the death of their hated foe, for they had no break before a second max-size Norse army arrived. Led by Karl’s youngest son, who inherited his father’s ferocity and, at age 17, already had 6 Command and 5 Dread (out of 10), with an additional +2 to both against Scottish armies.

Inverness Castle fell to the Norse. Karl’s life’s work was finished. The Scottish were brought forever to heel. Karl’s son went on to put together a fleet whose size had never been seen before, and brought relief to his brother’s armies by invading London from the sea, razing the English capitol and bringing terror to their nation, teaching them what happens to the enemies of the Norse. Then he sailed for Ireland, and personally oversaw the full conquest of the Irish.

Karl’s legacy lives on with me a full decade later.

Total War made generals into units you choose an upgrade path for, now. It makes me deeply sad. Because I’ll never get another story like this again, and this? This is what Total War is to me.

#total war #please assist

[eddycurrents]

For the week of 5 May 2019

Quick Bits:

Age of Conan: Bêlit #3 throws a few road bumps in the way of Bêlit’s plans as the Kushites renege of their deal and her drunken “Captain” continues being a jerk. I’m really liking this exploration of Bêlit’s early days from Tini Howard, Kate Niemczyk, Scott Hanna, Jason Keith, and Travis Lanham.

| Published by Marvel

Archie #704 throws some roadblocks in the way of Archie and Sabrina’s relationship through the form of a “Bachelor”-like charity programme set up by Cheryl. I love the even more stylized pastel colour palette from Matt Herms.

| Published by Archie Comics

Batman & The Outsiders #1 is an entertaining debut from Bryan Hill, Dexter Soy, Veronica Gandini, Clayton Cowles. I’ve not read the arc in Detective Comics that feeds into this, but this first issue provides enough information for new readers now to be lost and gives good incentive to check out what’s come before. Great art from Soy and Gandini, with an interesting look inside a team and a compelling start to a mystery about the last survivor from a metahuman generating factory.

| Published by DC Comics

Bettie Page #4 concludes the QE2 aliens caper. Love the art from Julius Ohta, Ellie Wright, and Sheelagh D.

| Published by Dynamite

Bronze Age Boogie #2 continues the strangest Doom Patrol story as the Martian invasion angle has taken hold in the future and a motley crew of heroes bands together to try to stop them. Stuart Moore, Alberto Ponticelli, Giulia Brusco, and Rob Steen are playing with some interesting cross-media influences to tell a highly entertaining tale. It’s rounded out with the usual goodies in the form of prose, letters, and what’s probably my favourite of the back-up strips so far, Major Ursa, from Tyrone Finch, Mauricet, Lee Loughridge, and Rob Steen.

| Published by Ahoy

Conan the Barbarian #6 sees Jason Aaron, Mahmud Asrar, Matthew Wilson, and Travis Lanham tell a story of Conan’s frustrations as a mercenary in the skirmishes between Turan and Stygia. People constantly underestimating Conan is always a fun story.

| Published by Marvel

Deadly Class #38 sees Marcus and Maria return to King’s Dominion. It’s kind of messed up seeing the new status quo, but at the same time the tension that Rick Remender, Wes Craig, Jordan Boyd, and Rus Wooton build here between to old Legacy kids and Marcus & Maria feels like it’s going to explode, suggesting something even worse for the characters is coming soon. It’s very captivating.

| Published by Image / Giant Generator

Detective Comics #1003 reveals the identity of the Arkham Knight. It’s not really anyone you could have possibly guessed, but an interesting addition to Batman’s rogues gallery. Also the cult surrounding the Arkham Knight is certifiably insane. Gorgeous artwork again from Brad Walker, Andrew Hennessy, and Nathan Fairbairn.

| Published by Marvel

The Empty Man #7 goes full Clive Barker as we get an explanation for what the Empty Man really is and how he continues to manifest himself upon reality. I know I keep saying it, but the body horror brought about in the art from Jesús Hervás and Niko Guardia just can’t be stressed enough. Every issue they seem to outdo themselves with creepy and intriguing designs.

| Published by BOOM! Studios

Eve Stranger #1 looks to be another winner for Black Crown. This first issue sets up the titular character as a secret agent who seems to need to reboot her memory every week. Why, exactly, is left unknown, but that’s part of the fun. David Barnett, Philip Bond, Eva de la Cruz, and Jane Heir do a wonderful job here with the action and intrigue. Also it’s great to see Bond doing more espionage tinged action, his art always looks so great telling these kinds of stories.

| Published by IDW / Black Crown

Excellence #1 is a thoroughly excellent debut from Brandon Thomas, Khary Randolph, Emilio Lopez, and Deron Bennett. The world and character building in this first issue is impeccable and the art from Randolph and Lopez will just blow you away. Incredible development of a magic-based society and the class structure therein.

| Published by Image / Skybound

The Flash #70 begins “Year One” promising new insight and occurrences during Barry’s origin story. Given that the last time this happened his mother was murdered, changing the timeline and resulting down the line in Barry trying to fix it with Flashpoint, anything’s possible. The real draw, though, is the stunning artwork from Howard Porter and Hi-Fi. Porter is really giving this his all and it shines through wonderfully.

| Published by DC Comics

Hawkman #12 brings Bryan Hitch’s tenure on the series to an end with the conclusion to “Cataclysm”. This is an excellent, action-packed final confrontation between the legion of Hawkmen and the Deathbringers, setting up a whole Hawkman for possibly the first time and hints as to worse things waiting on the horizon.

| Published by DC Comics

Infinite Dark #6 amplifies the terror and chaos as the dead-ish things exposed to the void start spreading fear and panic throughout the station. Ryan Cady, Andrea Mutti, K. Michael Russell, and Troy Peteri ratchet up the horror here.

| Published by Image / Top Cow

Invaders #5 raises more questions after we thought some things were coming into focus in the previous issue, as Chip Zdarsky, Carlos Magno, Butch Guice, Alex Guimarães, and Travis Lanham continue “War Ghosts”. The tension here on the brink of all out war between the US and Atlantis is incredible, and there are more interesting twists that suggest something far more sinister occurring.

| Published by Marvel

Jim Henson’s The Storyteller: Sirens #2 features a gorgeous adaptation of the story of Chinese mother goddess, Nuwa, by Chan Chau with letters by Jim Campbell. The artwork is amazingly beautiful supporting a very sweet tale.

| Published by Boom Entertainment / Archaia

Justice League Odyssey #9 opens up an interesting thread that Starfire, Cyborg, and Azrael may be unduly under the influence of Darkseid. Dan Abnett is setting up some simmering conflict between Jessica Cruz and the rest of the team here, along with quite a few occult catchphrases thrown in to help amplify the mood.

| Published by DC Comics

Lodger #5 is the end to this excellent crime drama from the Laphams and it is all kinds of messed up. We learn what really happened to Ricky’s family and...yeah. This has been a strange, at times disturbing, ride and they stuck the landing.

| Published by IDW / Black Crown

Murder Falcon #8 is the epic conclusion to this series as Jake and Murf take on Magnum Khaos. Between this series and Extremity, Daniel Warren Johnson has proven himself time and again as a master storyteller and it shines through with the heartrending end to this story. This one goes up to eleven.

| Published by Image / Skybound

Red Sonja & Vampirella Meet Betty & Veronica #1 is an interesting mash-up of the three properties from Amy Chu, Maria Sanapo, Vinicius Andrade, and Taylor Esposito. Some nice fish out of water humour as Sonja and Vampirella acclimate to Riverdale.

| Published by Dynamite

Savage Sword of Conan #5 concludes “The Cult of Koga Thun” from Gerry Duggan, Ron Garney, Richard Isanove, and Travis Lanham. Some interesting twists in this finale of what has been a highly entertaining adventure.

| Published by Marvel

She Could Fly: The Lost Pilot #2 sees Martín Morazzo cut loose again with some of the designs and presentation for Luna’s dreams and schizophrenic episodes.

| Published by Dark Horse / Berger Books

Star Wars: Age of Rebellion - Boba Fett #1 features some incredibly rich artwork from Marc Laming and Neeraj Menon. Great detail throughout this story spotlighting Boba Fett’s cold, silent amorality.

| Published by Marvel

Star Wars: Doctor Aphra #32 begins “Unspeakable Rebel Superweapon” as Aphra and her young protege steal the titular MacGuffin. There’s some interesting flashbacks to Aphra’s youth and it’s great to see Caspar Wijngaard doing more Star Wars art, even if just the flashbacks.

| Published by Marvel

These Savage Shores #4 is a sumptuous feast. Ram V, Sumit Kumar, Vittorio Astone, and Aditya Bidikar are elevating the artform of comics which each subsequent issue. The epistolary narrative, the horror and mythological themes, the plays upon the nine-panel grid, the shadowy character designs, the lush and spooky colours, the overlap with historical events, the unique approach and detail in each character’s missive...just one of these elements would result in an entertaining tale, this comic mixes all of them into a superlative package. You’re doing yourself a disservice if you’re not reading this series.

| Published by Vault

The Unstoppable Wasp #7 throws Nadia a birthday party, wherein she learns of her relations to what seems like half of the Marvel universe. Also, issues a death threat to Tony Stark. It’s cute, from Jeremy Whitley, Alti Firmansyah, Espen Grundetjern, and Joe Caramagna.

| Published by Marvel

War of the Realms: New Agents of Atlas #1 sets up the conflict in the Pacific with Sindr while introducing a swath of new international characters to the Marvel universe. Also, Amadeus Cho continues to be a massive idiot, even at his shrunken size. Great art from Gang Hyuk Lim and Federico Blee.

| Published by Marvel

Wonder Twins #4 sets up the twins with a pair of dates, allowing for some hilarious misadventures. Also, Polly seems to have a weird obsession with testicular cancer. Mark Russell, Stephen Byrne, and Dave Sharpe continue the fun, even though this one kind of takes us away from all ages material.

| Published by DC Comics / Wonder Comics

Wyrd #3 opens up the messy can of worms of Wyrd’s past further as a figure out of the past he can’t remember emerges for a “meet”. Great tone and atmosphere for this story from Curt Pires, Antonio Fuso, Stefano Simeone, and Micah Myers.

| Published by Dark Horse

X-Force #7 begins “The Counterfeit King” from Ed Brisson, Dylan Burnett, Damian Couceiro, Jesus Aburtov, and Joe Caramagna as past and present threaten to collide. Some nice character development for the team as they wait for Deathlok to do his thing.

| Published by Marvel

Other Highlights: Accell #20, Age of X-Man: Apocalypse & The X-Tracts #3, Battlestar Galactica: Twilight Command #3, Betty & Veronica #5, Black Hammer: Age of Doom #10, By Night #11, Captain America #10, Captain Marvel #5, Catwoman #11, Curse Words #21, Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man #6, Gunning for Hits #5, Hack/Slash vs. Chaos #5, Hit Girl: Season Two #4, House of Whispers #9, Ice Cream Man #12, James Bond: Origin #9, The Last Space Race #4, The Long Con #9, Marvels Annotated #3, Oberon #4, Ronin Island #3, Section Zero #2, Shadow Roads #7, Six Days, Spider-Man/Deadpool #50, Star Wars Adventures #21, Supergirl #30, Symbiote Spider-Man #2, The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl #44, Unnatural #9, Vindication #4, War of the Realms: Journey Into Mystery #2, Wasted Space #9, Waves, Wonder Woman #70

Recommended Collections: Accell - Volume 4: Slipstream Dream, Beyonders - Volume 1, Blackbird - Volume 1, Doctor Who: The Thirteenth Doctor - Volume 1, The Freeze - Volume 1, Justice League - Volume 2: Graveyard of the Gods, Pearl - Volume 1, Quantum & Woody! - Volume 2: Separation Anxiety, Red Sonja/Tarzan, Spider-Gwen: Ghost Spider - Volume 1: Spider-Geddon, Star Wars: Age of Republic - Villains, Thor by Jason Aaron: Complete Collection - Volume 1, The Woods: Yearbook Edition - Volume 1

d. emerson eddy feels like a frappuccino.

#This Week in Comics

[astraltwelve]

The Zodiac Signs as Greek Monsters

Aries: The Sirens

A distant cousin of the mermaid (in folkloric terms anyway), the sirens were beautiful, alluring women who dwelled near rocky cliffs and sang to passing sailors. According to legends, the hapless seamen would become enchanted by the sirens’ song, following the mellifluous melody to their deaths as their boats crashed upon the rocky shore. It is an ancient morality tale about the evils of women, but not all sirens were so comely.

Other accounts depict sirens as half-bird, half-woman creatures who would lure travelers to their doom with harps instead of their voices. In Greek myth, Odysseus escaped the sirens by having his sailors plug their ears with beeswax, though in modern times doctors recommend soft foam earplugs for sailors who may encounter these dangerous monsters.

Taurus: Polyphemus

The most famous of the cyclops was Polyphemus. Greek hero  Odysseus and his crew were trapped by the cyclops Polyphemus, who kept them in his cave for later consumption. Odysseus cunningly plied Polyphemus with wine, and when the monster fell asleep, blinded him by driving a large stake through his only eye.

As the story goes, Odysseus later escaped captivity from the now-blinded Giant’s cave by tying himself to the underside of one of the Cyclops’ sheep, which was let out by the giant for pasture. Or, that’s what Odysseus told  people who found him cavorting with a sheep.

Gemini: Hydra

Hydra is an ancient Greek mythical beast that was mentioned in the tale of the twelve labors of Hercules (also called Heracles). The hydra has many heads (possibly 7, 8 or 9), the number of head varies from different versions of the legend, however, more accounts agree on nine. It was said that the middle one was immortal and it has very poisonous venom and breath.

If the heads are cut off, the heads would grow back. One head cut-off would result to two heads growing back in its place.

The Hydra was believed to have lived in the Lernean marsh which is located near Argolis, the region around Argos, Greece. Others say that the Hydra lived in Cave in the Swamp of Lerna.

The serpent-woman Echidna and the hundred headed Typhon are the Hydra’s parents. His siblings include the Nemean lion, Cerberus, Chimera and Ladon.

The Hydra guards the entrance to the Underworld and from the murky swamps of the Lake of Lerna the monstrous serpent would rise and terrorize the city. The Hydra was finally killed by Hercules during his second labor.

The Hydra was said to have the body of a dragon/snake with many heads (possibly 7, 8 or 9), two arms & legs with knife-like claws, sharp spines/spikes & a long serpent tail.

Cancer: Charybdis

Charybdis was interpreted as either a sea monster or as a large whirlpool in the Greek mythology. In the former, she was portrayed as the daughter of the sea god Poseidon and goddess of Earth, Gaia. In this interpretation, she had a mouth for a face and had to swollen huge amounts of water each day. When Charybdis belch the water back, it lead to the formation of large whirlpools.

Charybdis was featured in the story of Odysseus, who had to cross a narrow channel in the Strait of Messina. On one side of the channel lies Charybdis while the other side lays a hydra monster by the name of Scylla. To cross the channel successfully, Odysseus had to balance the ship’s navigation well. This give arise to the modern saying of “‘between Scylla and Charybdis’”, which means that choosing between 2 dangers.

Leo: Medusa

Medusa, in Greek mythology, most famous of the three monstrous Gorgon sisters. She was once a beautiful woman, but she offended Athena, who changed her hair into snakes and made her face so hideous that all who looked at her were turned to stone. When Medusa was with child by Poseidon, Perseus killed her and presented her head to Athena. Chrysaor and Pegasus sprang from her blood when she died. Medusa’s head retained its petrifying power even after her death. Because of this power, her image frequently appeared on Greek armor.

Virgo: Lamia

Like many women in Greek mythology, Lamia is dealt a bad hand in life just by virtue of being born beautiful—and by somehow not managing to stay out of Zeus’s sight. And we all know what Zeus does to beautiful women…and who it is that gets blamed afterward.

The story goes that Lamia was once the queen of Libya, who became a beloved mistress of the god Zeus (by choice or by force, we’re never told). Naturally, Zeus’s wife Hera found out about the affair—she had a knack for that sort of thing—and instead of punishing her husband, she took out her anger on Lamia. This isn’t unusual for Hera, though the concept of blaming the woman for the man’s infidelity is a theme that runs throughout much of history and ancient myth.

To punish Lamia, Hera transformed into a monster and murdered Lamia’s children while Lamia watched, helpless to stop the goddess’s fury. There are several different accounts that explain what happened here, depending on the source:

1.   As if killing her children wasn’t enough, Hera then took away Lamia’s ability to blink or close her eyes, so that she would be forever haunted by the sight of her dead children.

2.    Hera didn’t actually kill the children—she only stole them—causing Lamia to go insane with grief and tear out her own eyes.

3.   Rather than kill the children herself, Hera forced Lamia to kill and devour her own children.

And whether it happens out of the madness found in grief for her children’s’ death, as a part of Hera’s punishment, or as a gift from Zeus in order to exact revenge on the world for what has been done to her, Lamia is transformed into a serpentine monster that hunts and devours other people’s children.

Libra: Scylla

In Greek Mythology, Scylla was a monster that devoured Men who passed near her & Charybdis

According to Ovid, Scylla was once a beautiful nymph. The fisherman-turned-sea-god, Glaucus fell madly in love with her, but she fled from him onto the land where he could not follow. Despair filled his heart. He went to the sorceress Circe to ask for a love potion to melt Scylla’s heart. As he told his tale of love about Scylla to Circe, she herself fell in love with him. She wooed him with her sweetest words and looks, but the sea-god would have none of her. Circe was furious, but with Scylla and not with Glaucus. She prepared a vial of very powerful poison and poured it in the pool where Scylla bathed. As soon as the nymph entered the water, she was transformed into a frightful monster with a body of a Water Serpent & six heads with faces of frighting women with sharp teeth. She stood inside a large cave, destroying everything that came into her reach, a peril to all sailors who passed near her. Whenever a ship passed, each of her heads would seize one of the crew

Scorpio: The Erinyes

The Erinyes were known to be entities of vengeance. They were born out of the blood of Uranus when Cronus castrated him. It is unknown how many Erinyes were there although their physical attributes were unmistakeable. They had serpents around their waist and had blood dripping from their eyes.

In the Greek mythology, they appeared to Orestes and try to hunt him when he killed his sisters on the orders of Apollo, the god of sun. Eventually, Orestes managed to escape to Athena template where he was given a trial, attended by both the Erinyes and Apollo. Orestes was later found to be not guilty and was released from pursuit by the Erinyes.

Sagittarius: The Sphinx

Sphinx has the head of a woman, the body of a lion and the wings of a bird and might be the sister to Chimera and Cerberus.  In the Greek mythology, there was one sphinx who guarded the road to the city of Thebe.  To all travelers who used this road, the Sphinx would ask the following riddle “Which creature walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs in the evening?” Anyone who can’t answer this riddle correctly was devoured.  The riddle was eventually solved by Oedipus who gave the correct answer: “man”.  It was said that the Sphinx either jumped off a cliff or devoured herself when the riddle was solved.

Capricorn: Cerebus

Cerberus is the famous three headed hell dog that guarded the entrance of the underworld. Appearing in both Greek and Roman mythology, Cerberus has also been depicted numerous times in various game titles. According to the Greek legend, Cerberus was was given birth by Echidna, a hybrid half-woman and half-serpent, and Typhone. Cerberus was featured in the stories of Hercules as the last labor in which the hero must captured the monster alive with no tools.

There are currently some disagreement over the representation of the three heads. Some said that they represent past, present and future while others have argued that they represent birth, youth and old age.

Aquarius: Harpies

The Harpies were the spirits of sudden, sharp gusts of wind. They were known as the hounds of Zeus and were dispatched by the god to snatch away people and things from the earth. Sudden, mysterious disappearances were often attributed to the Harpies. The Harpies were once sent by Zeus to plague King Phineus of Thrake as punishment for revealing the secrets of the gods. Whenever a plate of food was set before him, the Harpies would swoop down and snatch it away, befouling any scraps left behind. When the Argonauts came to visit, the winged Boreades gave chase, and pursued the Harpies to the Strophades Islands, where the goddess Iris commanded them to turn back and leave the storm-spirits unharmed. The Harpies were depicted as winged women, sometimes with ugly faces, or with the lower bodies of birds.

Pisces: Graeae

Graeae are the three sisters who shared one eye and one mouth. They were birth by Phorcys and Ceto and were in fact sisters to the Gordons . The names of the three Graeae sisters are Deino Enyo and Pemphredo. Although mot stories portrayed the Graeae sisters as old hags, some poets actually described them as beautiful creatures.

The Graeae sisters appeared in many pop culture including the second book of Percy, as well as in the 2010 movie, Clash of the Titans. In the Greek legend, it was the Graeae sisters who directed Perseus on how to kill the Medusa, although the hero did steal the eye from them before they are willing to do so.

#zodiac #astrology #greek monsters #zodiac signs #astrology signs #astrology blog #monsters #greek #aries #taurus #gemini #cancer #leo #virgo #libra #scorpio #sagittarius #capricorn #aquarius #pisces #sirens #polyphemus #hydra #charbydis #medusa #lamia #scylla #erinyes #sphinx #cerberus