#just to establish that he has one and likes to ride it around brandishing weapons

[fauveshumankaiju]

niels ghidorah my beloved

#sunday afternoon movie sketch.... #just LOOK at that lovingly traced motorcycle #just to establish that he has one and likes to ride it around brandishing weapons #ghidorah #san also knows how to ride and occasionally takes ni's precious babies out for like groceries or smthn #ni just likes the sense of efficiency and control.... ichi thinks that theyre death traps and hates them #rodan thinks that its the sexiest fuckin thing hes ever seen and just. WANTS TO GET ON TOO PWEASE #makes grabby hands #he's got a shitty little like... mountain bike w an engine soldered on. he just wants a proper motorcycle so baddddddd

[beautifulramblingbrains]

The Dog - Chapter 4

Fandom: Vikings Characters: Ivar, Ubbe, Hvitserk, OC (However brief they appear.) UbbexOC Rating: This is Mature content with trigger warnings.

A/N: A big thank you to @murmelinchen for forever cleaning up my mess, and to those following the story.

First Chapter // 2nd Chapter // 3rd Chapter

Tags:   @pathybo@oddsnendsfanfics@sparklemichele@singingpeople@captstefanbrandt @equalstrashflavoredtrash@whenimaunicorn@kiiiimberlyriiiicker1995@emmysrandomthoughts@pokeasleepingsmaug@underthenorthstar @ariwolf14 @bcat1291 @tomarisela (If you want in or out of the tags just tell me, it’s all cool :))

The Quiet One always kept a hand on the top of Avery’s arm, guiding her back quickly to the woods, beyond the treeline, where in the distance she was surprised to see movement. Once they were hidden, he stopped her again, and Avery shrugged his hand off.

“I’m not going to run,” she hissed, fed up with his hovering.

“You lie beautifully.”

Avery only frowned. “I have nothing to trade with you.”

He clicked his tongue, placing his hands on his hips in thought while staring down at her. “I think you do. Well, not an item trade…”

Tilting her nose up at him, she pulled her cloak further around herself. “Not my body either.”

“So, you do think lowly of me. That is nice to know.”

“I hate the ground you walk on. I won’t be fooled by you.”

He snorted and ran a hand across his mouth. “Huh, that so. Well, you can hate me all you want but I am what stands between you and becoming an evening's entertainment.” He sighed and stepped closer, keeping his voice low. “For the trade, it is your help in return for the life of your holy man. Your holy man can live if you make them open the gates.”

“One life for a whole Keep? How stupid do you think I am?”

“Do you favour your life? If you don’t, that is stupid. Not one of them in there care for you, not even a little. You are just a casualty.” Avery peered to the ground, watching his leather boots step into her view as he crept closer. He wasn’t wrong. She’d seen it before; how easily they disregarded her safety, how people were left behind. “And it is two lives we are talking about, including yours. If you don’t help, there is no use for you, and I don’t travel with useless people. It’s not like we can let you go.”

“This isn’t a trade, it’s bribery.”

“..Or perhaps protection?” He smiled toothily. “But you call it what you wish.”

“I do this, I become an enemy. Once you and your people are flogged back to your boats and leave, I have nothing but a past that is going to haunt me.” She became desperate as she spoke, gripping the sides of her skirt in frustration, panic. “Will you kill me after?” Avery’s eyes shone, and for a moment he was wordless. “What happens after? Am I a slave now? Will you give me to that… demon,” she spat.

The Quiet One seemed far away, then crossed his arms over his broad chest. “You are a slave now, stulka.”

“Slave…” She tested the word in a whisper, her sense of pride dwindling. “I have another condition.”

“Yes? What is that?”

“I want to go back to my Keep. I need to know what happened to them.”

“There is nothing to go back to.” He chewed his cheek, tilting his head with a sigh. “But I will take you if you agree.” Avery couldn’t look at him anymore, and nodded, swallowing thickly. “Your name?”

“Avery.”

“A word of advice, Avery,” he said her name so thickly, pronouncing it with the hindrance of his accent. “Betray me and you will know Hell. Pretty face or not.” He roughly grabbed and spun her towards the men gathering heavily in the trees. “Move.” And she did, this time without being restrained.

The path leading up to the large gate was quiet, just the sound of crunching earth under her feet disrupting the silence. Her heart pounded and the sweat that slowly started breaking out was cooled by the light drizzle. The Keep was a picturesque view, a form of sanctuary portrayed before her like the gates of heaven. Though, the devil secretly flanked her, the heathens slinking to nearby buildings, eyes locked on the prize, watching her and every movement.

For a group of dangerous, rumbunctious men, they were undeniably quiet - not a sound. No wonder her Keep never saw them coming.

“Halt!” shouted a man’s voice when she got within reach and she froze.

“I come from Benedict Biscop’s Keep to the North with news.” She tried not to look around her, to give away anything. “And I’m in need of help.” She lowered her hood, brandishing her cross for all to see against her chest, a woman standing alone at the mouth of dragons. If her accent and fluent talk wasn’t anything they could trust, she could conjure up a prayer, or beseech them.

“Benedict Biscop?”

“Yes. There has been a great tragedy.” She suddenly remembered what Benedict had told her. “It’s for Father Murdoch’s ears alone.”

The one face of a man disappeared and left a great silence, and for moment she didn’t think it had worked. Until the sound of thick chains began to rattle, a loud crack as the gate began to lower. It sheathed itself against the earth and Avery was signalled forward by paranoid and iron clad churchmen with spears in their hands.

Clasping her sweaty palms, she made a slow walk without any haste, praying for her soul, raindrops running from her hair down her face. She stopped within their reach. Confusion swept across their features when she whispered, “May the Lord be with you.”

Deafening were the battle cries from the heathens as they passed her, weapons held high in full sprint, while she stood solidly in the middle of the path like a witch that had cast their deaths.  

Eventually the celebrations of the night tumbled into the first light of the morning. Only a few had caught sleep. Ubbe wasn’t one of them. His brother Hvitserk was outstretched on some furs, daydreaming across the small river by their camp.

“A Christian woman damning her people,” he said aloud, not looking to Ubbe, chewing stolen dried meat. “She doesn’t run now.”

“No,” Ubbe said. She was out by the water, crouching down to wash her hands, having aided a man with a blunt wound to his forearm. “She prays for it though. You can see it.” And he could, her face turned into the sun, following the stream across the field. “But now she can’t.” Especially now, he thought.

“A Christian woman with courage,” Hvitserk toyed.

“Is it courage or self-preservation? There is a difference.”

With Ubbe’s tone sharp, Hvitserk changed the subject. “The villagers will tell tales.”

“Let them.” Ubbe stood up and stretched. “We move soon. But there is something I must do. Perhaps you can lead and I will catch up.”

“Let me guess, West?” Hvitserk sat up. “And where are you going?”

“I promised to take her back to the Keep to look. What for, apart from rubble, I’m not sure.”

“It will be swamped with the Christians,” Hvitserk almost laughed, linking his arms over his knees. “You can’t be serious.”

“My plan worked better than I thought. If I can’t stick to my side of the bargain she won’t do it again.” Ubbe tied a knot in a sack of travelling items. “And we might need her to.” He eventually glanced at Hvitserk with a smirk on his face. “You’re not scared for me, little brother?”

“You know Ivar’s men are here to watch you. Hendrick-”

“Can suck my cock. I may not be King of anything, but I rule here, right now.” Ubbe flicked his wrist to the old man by the cart in the distance, beckoning his horse. “Dog or not.”

“It’s a stupid title only Ivar finds funny.”

“Ah, well, I happen to not mind it much.”

Hvitserk was bothered though, letting it show on his face. He’d seen the physical torture, the training, the pain. And still, Ubbe had come out on the other side, awoken by the leash of Ivar being cut.

The freedom, the distance, relying on hope of re-establishing their brotherhood kept Hvitserk restless. Yet, there was something still lost. It looked and sounded and had the quick criticism of Ubbe. But the determination and stamina, tactics, thinking rationally, were not.

Had this been what Ivar had subtly planted into Ubbe’s image without possibly realising?

Hvitserk stared at Ubbe a long moment, even when the old man approached and Ubbe commanded another horse. It could have been a delirious, drunken thought but it dawned on him like the sun that lit up Ubbe hitching the saddle. He’d even said it himself. ‘I may not be King, but I rule here’.  

“Two days and I’ll be back,” Ubbe broke Hvitserk’s thoughts. “Move our camp further West, a day’s ride, and I’ll find you.”

The younger brother was still mesmerised in his own discoveries. “Yes, brother.”

There was many things Avery was expecting. But for the Quiet One to approach from behind, the thudding of horses on reigns, was not.

“We go now,” he told her.

Still ashamed, she didn't bother to speak to him, walking up to the horse tied to his where he helped her up onto it. He was covered in thick furs, a sack dangling down from the saddle. He briefly looked to her in silence and clicked his tongue, moving them out to the shallowest part of the river to cross again.

She wished she was knowledgeable, had paid attention to the lay of the land and took the few occasional lessons on basic survival seriously. But at the time it was left on deaf ears as she mourned for her family and old way of life. What drove her was basic instinct. And furthermore, a guilt so deep for betraying people just like her.

The sun burned her eyes and she squinted past the silhouette of the quiet one leading ahead until the liquidy warm rays slightly tinged her skin. If she was already going to burn in Hell for the children's sake, she may as well make damn sure that she lived in the short time that she had left. Maybe, once it becomes her time to leave and fall into the afterlife, God may forgive her then.

But could she forgive herself?

Avery had wrapped herself tightly in her cloak, letting the horse sway her from side to side, eyes heavy. The cold chapped her face and it had been hours since she could last feel her fingers.

The Quiet One dropped back until they were side by side, at a leisurely pace, and he didn’t seem bothered by the weather at all. “On my travels I prefer to hear stories to pass the time,” he said, watching her as she kept her eyes straight ahead.

“I know none.”

He chuckled to himself. “Tell me of what happened to your home?” Avery raised an eyebrow, but still didn’t say anything. “Your original home before you were a hidden slave girl.”

“I minded the children. I wasn’t a slave.”

“So you say. Did they give you a pretty title instead?” He began reigning in the rope between them, bringing them closer. “You know, we have a very long way to go. It’s going to be longer if you don’t talk.”

“Everybody was killed, every woman was raped, everyone is dead.” The wind picked up and swung her hair, covering little noises from the horses and scurrying off into the trees in the distance.

“Hmm, apart from you.” Suddenly he tugged on the reign of her horse and halted it.

“What do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you so you can get off on the details?” she finally snapped. “Do you want me to tell you how I watched people and the buildings burn? How I hear them still?” She turned her nose up at him. “Ha, that is probably exactly what you want to hear. You’re all a bunch of scruffy barbarians. There is nothing between you and those who ransacked my village.”

The Quiet One leant over and grabbed her foot, unhooking it from the saddle, and in one easy movement flipped her entirely off the other side. She landed with an ‘oomph’, the air knocked from her. He laughed loudly. “Your skills on horseback are terrible, stulka.” She was dusting herself off angrily. “I need to rest. Here will do. We have cover and I can tie the horses.” He grunted as he dropped down, pulling away the two steads and tying them. He brought back his sack, laid out a fur he’d stashed and sat down. Avery took a place opposite him, far away enough that he couldn’t touch her, but near that she could still hear him and not look like she was running away again.

He indulged himself on bread and dried fruits while Avery wrinkled her nose at him, hugging her knees. “You eat like a dog,” she said, beginning to pluck grass.

“It works for me. I am called The Dog.” While he took another bite, Avery got a glimpse of fine braids crossing over the top of his head, and then into the small hair he had pulled back.

“That is not something you should be proud of.” His blue eyes shot up, daring her to speak further. “Dog,” she let out slowly.

“I am going to get tired of you very quickly. Have I not stuck to my word? You should be thankful.” Out of his sack he pulled a lump of meat and carved a piece with his knife, sticking it on the end.

“Oh, yes. Let me thank you for being a dog walking upright. Scavenging peaceful villages, stealing, killing.”

He stood so quickly she jumped and shuffled back, but not fast enough. He pulled her up by the back of her hair, his breath curling out in foggy whispers while he cursed in his language over the sound of her prayers.

At last, he held up the knife. “Enough with your noise. Eat. And when you're finished, you can find wood for a fire.” He shook her to capture her attention. “And no more from that mouth of yours.” He tipped the point of the knife towards her, and she took the food. “Good.”

They’d fallen asleep around the fire. It was Avery who woke first as the flames died down to nothing but embers and the chill set back in. The Quiet One was on his back, long and deep breaths while he slept, and in one hand Benedict’s cross.

It looked as though he had been examining it before dozing off, though she didn’t see him doing that. But right now it glinted so openly for the taking, loose in his palm.

It’s not his to keep, she told herself, sitting up. It is mine.

And it was indeed hers. Benedict had given it to her. It was her salvation, her currency if she ever survived being a Viking’s captive. And on that thought she crawled on her knees very slowly, taking it from his large and scarred hands, claiming it back for herself. Acting like she hadn’t moved at all when he begins to stir, she rests her head back down and pretends to sleep.

Avery got the feeling they were close just before the light had begun to die earlier that day, leaving them travelling by moonlight. The river had began to widen, similar to how it was by her Keep, how she had last seen it on that night.

The Dog, The Quiet One, or whatever his name was that she still hadn’t learnt, lead ahead, casually guiding her horse with their tie. She’d been gloating inwardly to herself the whole time as so far he hadn’t noticed, and a smile kept threatening beneath the half-faked forlorn look on her face.

“We are almost there,” he said, confirming her thoughts, his voice trailing off while keeping his sights turned straight ahead of him. He dropped back beside her again. “When we get there, we are quiet.”

She nodded. There was nothing she had to say to him. The night was beautiful and calm, the moon lighting their way. It shone from the mane of her horse while she pulled her fingers through it.

“Isn’t it a sin to steal?” Avery snapped her head to him, mouth opening to defend herself but he interrupted her. “I know you took it.” His voice was smug, body swaying with each step of the horse. “Don’t deny you didn’t.”

“Well, it is mine,” she said curtly, scrutinizing him with a frown. “You stole it from me. I was taking it back.” He only chuckled. “And if you should know, it is my salvation after I am free from you. I will sell it if I need to. Then my plan is to find work, a manor or farm... Keep a roof over my head until I find a husband…” she mumbled the last part, not really agreeing with the idea that in order to have a normal life, she needed a husband.

Sometimes she didn’t even think she would live to have one. And so far, with what she had seen, she didn’t know if she would be healed enough from her experiences to live so quietly. She would be forever dreaming off into the night in vivid nightmares, perhaps screaming out that the Vikings were coming again while they slept. That no place was safe.

“Once I am finished with my duties here, I will have a big farm. You can work on my farm.”

Avery scowled at him. He was leaning over his horse in his own amusement. “If there is any good in this world, you will be dead,” she said simply.

“My name is Ubbe. That is what you will call me.” He was smirking, self-assured. “When you are my slave on my farm, I will allow you to call me by my name… perhaps. I will think about it more - whether I can put up with such a heated mare.”

“Your humour is sad.” She meant to offend him, but it didn’t work. He was happy for a reaction she’d tried all this time not to give him. “And your name is stupid, ooh bear.”

Even though he had demanded silence, he laughed loudly. “Your accent is joyful. Your mannerisms not so…” He thought about what he wanted to say for a moment. “A little guidance and you could talk like a true Viking.” They began to incline a hill to a break through some woods, having to turn away from the river on their detour. “It’s U, B, B, E. Ubbe.”

“It still sounds like an infant cooing to a beast.”

“I like that…”

She couldn’t help but snort in disdain, trying to cling to her horse and not show she was fearful. “It is not a good thing.”

“Your mouth is still feral, that is not a good thing. Especially while still being held captive, stulka. It could get you into trouble.”

“Don’t call me th-” Her horse suddenly stumbled, lost its footing and slid back while she held on for dear life. It made an awful noise, a squeal, and Avery tried her best to unhook her feet and roll off the horse’s side as it collapsed and began to slide all the way to the bottom, leaving her a crumpled mess half way. Ubbe let their tie go and motioned his horse to the brow of the hill, then skidded back down, bringing debris with him.

Avery coughed, once again thrown from the saddle. But this time, Ubbe pulled her to sit up. She groaned from the jolt, but the whimpering of the horse was worse. At the bottom it lay heavily breathing, throwing a hoof out, and Ubbe, having looked, wiped a hand down his face cursing. “Stay here,” he told her, his eyes saying more.

She watched him unsheath a knife that was hidden within his furs, make his way down quickly to the stead laying helpless, and without hesitation, jammed it through the animals skull. He took whatever supplies her horse was carrying and jogged back up to her still seated in a daze on the incline.

He flicked his head to get moving back up the hill, and she did so, watching him climb effortlessly back onto his horse. “You ride with me now.” And without speaking further, pulled her up to sit behind him.

“You killed it,” she said, barely.

“I killed it quickly rather than letting it die slowly. We can’t help a horse with a bad leg,” he said, his amusement completely deflated by the unexpected accident.

Avery nodded to which he couldn’t see. Then, he prompted by shifting his elbows outward and letting her hold onto him, her fingers slipping between his furs, finally finding warmth.

There was no bodies like Avery had seen in her foresight. All the little huts that used to surround the Keep in a magnificent show of life, were all but five. Three, if she didn’t count the ones that still stood erect but without roofs and half blackened. It smelt charred and burnt too. A smell not like campfires and comfortable memories of feeling safe and warm, but a poignant stench that was wretched. When she looked down on the dirt, it was etched with pools and lines from a rain that must have passed, and the reason why the smell was so powerful.

As far as she could see in the dawn lighting, there was no Keep but a shell of a once fortified wall.

They stayed seated on Ubbe’s horse, walking directly through the middle - through the silence. They had hung back far enough to watch for movement, to be left with nothing but a bird tittering down to the ground and pecking, calling to its mate and fluttering off. There was not a soul.

“It doesn’t exist anymore…” she managed to breath through the squeeze in her chest. She went to slip off the side but Ubbe grabbed her thigh.

“There are track marks,” he said cautiously.

“They are gone.” She intentionally used her blunted nails to try and hurt him as she pushed his hand away, but he didn’t flinch at all. Slipping down, she surveyed her surroundings. “They are all gone.”

With her feet flat on the ground, she searched aimlessly, each image burning into her mind. She could see her own village now, how it looked after the raids. She could feel how the people did when they came across it. All of those things she didn’t experience and wished she could to lay her mind to rest, only triggered it.

“Avery-”

“Shut up!” She turned on him with tear-stained cheeks marking through the dirt on her face, pointing a finger to drive her point home. “Don’t you speak to me!” She ran through what was once the arch of the Keep’s gateway and across the barren courtyard towards what would have been the entrance to the kitchen.

She could remember stumbling through the fencing of the chickens, the items scattered around her when she had fled to find help, telling the children to stay there. They were supposed to hide and not come out unless days had passed or she had come back for them.

Avery’s knees gave out.

They never had a chance. The weight of the building had fallen sideways, crushing everything in its path.

Rubble and dust, nothing else was left. After a while, the guilt shifted to sadness, leaving her in a bleary haze. Emotionless, still entranced by the exact place where the kitchen of the Keep used to stand, she rose to her feet. The horse snorting as it came to a stop behind her was the only sound.

“We can’t stay here, stulka,” he said in a low voice, sounding almost compassionate.

Avery knew they had been here longer than necessary, knew that she couldn’t stay here much longer, frozen to the very bone. “You slaughtered them without any thought, just like that horse. Are the innocent seen as bad limbs - unworthy of fixing?”

“Men have fought over land endlessly; way before we were born, and long after we die.” She finally turned to look at him while he spoke. “We are all pieces to a lasting game and will never see the end to it. That is what you must see.” He gestured towards the rubble. “Not this.”

“Is there a choice?”

“To play the game? No. It has already started. But some of us make do. And we do that, we all lose something. It’s what keeps us playing. It is the way it goes and always will.”

Avery gathered her cloak around her. “And your farm? Is that what keeps you going?”

“It is my dream. I know I will never see it,” he admitted. She went to the back of the horse and Ubbe shook his head, holding out a leather bound hand to her. “You take my hand and you risk playing something with no known end, stulka. But it is the path of the make-do. And I think you have already suffered your losses, don’t you?”

Her fingers itched, half extended to his. “What does that mean?”

“That you may find something that keeps you playing. And from nothing, we can only gain.”

“You sound like you know a lot about it?”

He ignored this question, his posture only giving away the slightest discomfort with it. “It is time to go.”

Avery noted the damaged and scarred palms of his bared to her; the knicks and scabs of terrible doings. When seeing her own half-extended in moral hesitation, there wasn’t much of a difference.

Her fingers slid past his slowly, an uncertainty, but rather, a fascination. The possibility of finding answers to nightmares, her own existence, and how far her beliefs would carry her began to swarm her mind. There was a chance to heal, even if minutely, and also, to see the faces behind the monsters that plagued every day of her life.

She could save one man - Benedict. But she couldn’t save them all. Maybe that was her objective, her path she was destined to take.

Avery’s feverish touch was hastened by his roughness. He grabbed her hand, pulling her up until she sat in front of him. An uncomfortable minute passed as they adjusted, a turn of her head to see him behind her so close and leaving her blushing.

Ubbe tugged the reigns and guided the horse back around.

#the dog #chapter 4 #ubbe #vikings #ubbe cross oc #ubbexoc #beautifulramblingbrains #ubbe vikings fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #hvitserk

[jitolibido]

Asha I Battle of Ice (entire chapter)

For convenience, I just post the whole thing here so it’s easier to read.

The following is a speculative fan fiction based on the facts established by The King’s Prize chapter in A Dance with Dragons, the Sacrifice chapter in A Dance with Dragons, and Theon I preview chapter in The Winds of Winter. The Night Lamp theory was initially created by BryndenBFish on reddit I believe. Also there’s Asha fragment, a paragraph decoded from an enhanced image of GRRM’s computer. I wrote this fan fic, and ahhhh... follow me on instagram @truestannis

The day was cold, and the white winds bit harder as Asha inhaled. Ser Justin Massey, the freckled knight of summer, had left with the banker Nestoris and Ned Stark’s daughter. She did not desire him, a southron knight who wore a pretty blonde beard could hardly be her Lord husband in the days to come, were she to live. And yet, she thought of him. The other queen’s men, Farring and Suggs, thirsted for her blood like a pack of jackals. The knights of the greenlands would pray to their queer god of fire, but the North was of the old, and the old gods were more punishing and severe than R’hllor could ever be. Doomed, she thought, doomed men on a death march.

         The ice lakes at the crofters’ village were caked with snow. When Asha walked outside along the camps, the snow seeped into her boots. The hill tribes, the southron knights, and the Glovers had been working day and night felling the trees. Catapults, she thought. Why would Stannis want siege weapons when the enemy were to meet him in an open field?

         The king walked out of the tower. She had last seen him when she was pleading for her brother’s life, or a quick death, rather. “Your Grace. My brother—“

         “He will live, for now. I have better use for him, because he knows the layout of Winterfell. Which walls are the strongest, and which gates the weakest. It’s not me you need to worry about, Lady kraken, it’s these northmen. Norrey and Wull would not hesitate for an instant to bloody their axes with Theon’s head.”

         The queen’s men escorted their prisoner outside. Arnolf Karstark was accused of conspiring with Lord Bolton to turn on Stannis’s rearguard once the battle began. The queen’s men prepared a pyre for Lord Karstark on the weirwood island. Next to the pyre was a chopping block. The Wulls, the Flints, and the Norreys gathered around the king and his men.

         “Lord Arnolf Karstark, you have been charged with treason and the conspiring with the enemy. I, Stannis Baratheon, the one true King of Westeros, sentence you to die. You are a northman. I do not wish to tamper with your old gods or your tradition in front of the brave men who stand beside me. Confess, and I shall grant you the swift death with my sword. Lie, and you will meet a warmer end. Choose wisely, Ser Clayton Suggs has much and less patience than I.”

         “Aye, I confess. What of it! Lord Bolton has seven thousand strong. You will starve, and freeze, pretender. The Frey host alone is like to shatter what’s left of you and yours without breaking a sweat!” The old man spat onto the snow. He turned to the Wull, “Hugo fucking Wull. You support some southron fool now? Much is the pity! You are dead men! Do you hear me? Dead! Dead will be your false king, and dead your sons. Be cursed!” The old man coughed and grinned.

         “Very well then,” the king pulled his magical sword from the scabbard. It was bright, and red, and orange. The light was as blinding as the sun.

         The old man quivered before the sword and squinted his eyes. His cracked lips nonetheless widened into a hideous grin, “All hail King Tomm—” The old man’s head came falling before he could finish his words. Thirty yards away, amidst the cold winds, Asha could still hear the king’s teeth grinding as the name Tommen was mentioned. Baseborn abominations, he’d liked to call the children of Cersei Lannister. The king would not risk the allegiance of the northmen, so even a treasonous schemer such as Arnolf met his end in the ways of the weirwood. Arnolf’s sons, Cregan and Arthor, as well as Arnolf’s grandsons were still kept in the cells, except the one who’d lost his arm. Stannis had need for Karstark’s strength, four hundred spears, two score archers, and a dozen mounted lances.

         “Eddard Karstark, step forward,” the king commanded. A boy, no more than twelve, walked forth to Stannis. The clansmen and the knights made way for the boy who bore the wolf’s name. The lad was of neither Rickard’s nor Arnolf’s line. The Tallhart next to Asha told her that the boy was kin to the Hornwoods and the Manderlys. Harrion, the rightful heir to Karhold, was Lord Walder’s prisoner still. Stannis needed not an heir to Karhold, but a man who could command the Karstark forces in the battles to come. Boys have been conquerors before. Mayhaps little Ned will surprise us yet.

         The boy knelt before the king dutifully as he swore his allegiance. The queen’s men, once again, began singing the only song they knew, “One realm! One god! One king! One realm! One god! One king!” The clansmen sneered at that.

         Morgan Liddle rode back to the islet with a group of scouts. He climbed off his palfrey and walked towards the king. Ser Godry soon followed.

         “Your Grace, the Freys will be upon us soon. Mostly mounted knights, followed by the baggage train,” the Middle Liddle brushed the snow from his warhelm. “The Manderlys are yet to be seen.”

         “The turncloak told the truth, it would seem.” Stannis smiled at that. “Lord Wull, give the order, we will march forth to give them battle. Get the men in formation now. It’s time.”

         “Men!” The Big Bucket Wull walked forth to his men. The clans gathered and began forming the van. He brushed the ice off his long, thick beard with one hand, and raised his huge battle axe with another. “We’ve been through many battles, aye, and this is like to be our last. I remember the days when I dreamt of glory, listening to the songs and tales of great heroes and their greater deeds. The first battle is like fucking for the first time. You are afraid, so afraid that you may foul your breeches. We all shit ourselves. There’s hardly shame in that. We are marching towards almost certain death. We may never return again to embrace our wives, or cradle our babes as they draw breath for the first time. And yet we must fight, and we must die, for the Ned, his house, and all he’s done for us. Let the Freys know the wroth of the old gods. Let them scream as our axes bite deep into their skulls. Let them know that winter is here, and the North remembers!”

         “The North remembers!” The clansmen chanted in unison. The king’s knights joined as well. “The North remembers! The North remembers! The North remembers!”

         The king gathered his knights, as Ser Richard Horpe, his second-in-command, gathered whatever horses they hadn’t eaten.

         “Fifty horses we have left, sire. Adding to the dozen from the Karstarks, two and sixty.” The knight said grimly.

         “The mountain clans will ride forth with whatever few garrons they have. The snows will halter even the finest breeds. It’s spears and shields we need to face Ser Stupid. The night falls early this time of year. Use it to your advantage. Attack their train and gather whatever loot you can gain. Ride back when you see the men from White Harbor or the Bastard. You are far too few to engage them as yet.”

         “Your Grace,” Asha walked towards the king. “Free me from these chains and put an axe in my hand.”

         “You are in no position to make demands.” Ser Richard intejected

         “The kraken’s daughter has no lack for courage, it would seem. The banker ransomed your lot from Lady Glover, it would seem only fit that I put you under her men’s command. Ser Richard, bring Lady Asha to Ned Woods and unchain her. Give her a bow and an axe. Keep her close to the Liddles as well. The Liddles know their lands. Let them guide the sixty horses you have. Tristifer Botley and his men, we need more bows. Go, now.”

         Asha climbed onto Ser Richard’s horse and they rode to gather the queen’s men, the ironmen, the Liddles, and a dozen Glovers. I am the daughter of the Lord Reaper of Pyke, and yet here I have no ships, no seas. Only an axe and bow. I am fighting alongside the men who want me dead. I am sure to die here, but I’m no craven. I will die with a war cry and blood on my face and hands. Asha thought as she looked on the lay of the land.

         Asha squinted her eyes as she turned her head to the north. The enemy emerged from the snows. The leader of the enemy wore silvered plate and mail, inlaid with details of lapis lazuli. The crest of his warhelm was tall, fashioned in the shape of the Twin Towers of House Frey.

         Before him rode three banner bearers, One bore the stag and lion standard of King Tommen, another the Twin Towers of House Frey. The third brandished a bloody head impaled upon the point of a tall spear. An old man’s head, white-bearded and one eyed. The spear was made from a pale wood, almost white. Its upper shaft was dark and red with blood. Crowfood Umber, Asha knew. The old northman had fought to his death, it seemed. Perhaps the foe had thought the sight of severed head would strike fear into Stannis’s men. They rushed together as Hugo Wull raised his shield wall. The Karstark men remained at the longhall. The Karstarks are meant to defend against Manderly’s knights, Asha thought. The twin lakes provided the king with some advantage, it would seem. One narrow passage. Stannis does not wish to be ambushed again as he was at the Blackwater. He has no lack for caution. Robert was always the bold one. Ser Justin once told her that Tyrion Lannister’s mountain clans from the Vale had attacked Stannis’s forces at the kingswood, thus preventing him from knowing the Lannister-Tyrell relief force in advance. No trick will work against him twice. Good.

         “Will they hold?” Asha asked.

         “The clans are not meant to hold,” Ser Richard replied, “they’re meant to retreat.”

         “Where do they retreat to? The longhall? The weirwood islet?”

         “Stop asking questions and mind the surroundings. If a dozen Frey knights are to follow us, or if the fat lord appears, I want to know. You’re wanted for your axe and your eyes, not for those prattling lips that irk me so.” Ser Richard was less harsh a man than the likes of Godry the Giantslayer and Clayton Suggs, nonetheless his patience wore thin as ice in such conditions. The winds came slashing against Asha’s face, each cut harsher and more ruthless than the one before. She felt her lips crack, but refrained from licking them, as she knew it would soon turn to ice. She pressed her cheek against Ser Richard’s cloak. The cold winds and the snow are foreign to these southron knights, and yet they fight for their king as they always did. Does the faith in R’hllor warm their hearts, or the faith in Stannis? The promise of a northern castle, or the glory in the battle itself?

         It was not long before Asha saw the baggage train. Ahead of the train were twenty riders, all clad in heavy armor and the surcoats of House Frey. Ser Richard drew his longsword from the scabbard. “Men! With me!” Asha raised her axe as the enemy rode forth to them. Richard gestured the men to spread out the flanks to envelope the enemy. He raised his sword and charged against the enemy leader. The foe was no craven, and his sword nearly cut off Asha’s head. Her battle axe had shorter reach than the long sword, but there were more than one way to engage a mounted enemy. As the Frey’s sword clashed once again with Ser Richard, Asha cut off the palfrey’s leg with one firm swing of her axe. The loss of balance had Ser Richard’s horse founder into the snow. Asha was tossed some ten feet away. As she pushed herself up from the damp and cold ground with her axe, she saw the unhorsed Frey knight walking towards her. His helm was gone. Asha readied herself, as the man put both hands on his the hilt of his longsword and lunged forward. Before he could reach her, Tristofer charged forward and lopped his head off with his axe. The Liddles finished off the rest of the enemies soon enough, and seven Frey horses remained alive. The majority of palfreys and destriers in Stannis’s army hadn’t survive long in the march, but more horses were better than no horses.

         Ser Richard lead a captured Frey destrier towards Asha, “Now you have your own horse, my lady.”

         “I’m not a lady.” Asha took her gift gratefully.

          Richard pointed at a few Glover men, “take these Frey armors and bring the train back to the king from the south side of the lakes. Rest of you, with me. It’s getting dark, we must return and give them battle.” Ser Richard commanded.

         Asha looked towards the village, the snow was blinding, and the darkness was soon to come, and all she could see was the faint lamp light from the watchtower.

         The night fell as the king had promised, as the sky shifted to grey, to a dark blue, and then black, in contrast to the white of the never ending snow. Asha could scarce make out the sound of cold steel clashing amidst the punishing winds. Her back ached from the fall, as she could hardly keep the lance straight. I’m more fit for an axe, she thought. The Frey soldiers were more like to use long swords, spears, and crossbows. Asha had slung the dead Frey’s crossbow onto her back. She thought of her uncle Victarion who would cut through scores of foes with his battle axe. Had I not pressed my claim, would he have won the kingsmoot then? Anyone in Westeros would be fitter to sit the Seastone Chair than Euron Greyjoy.

         She could almost make the Frey banners as she rode forth towards the light. The Frey rear marched slowly whilst the van was engaged with the clansmen. The two flanks of the Frey army attempted to envelop the clans but arrows flew from the king’s position, halting their formation. The fire arrows provided little or less light as they were extinguished as soon as they hit the snow.

         “We’ll lure out their rear,” Ser Richard commanded, “separate them from the main force. Ready the men!”

         Asha and the rest of the ironborn loosed the crossbow bolts onto the Frey rear. A few Frey horses fell into the snow. The rearguard turned, and they outnumbered Ser Richard’s men two to one by sight. However, by the time that their luxurious and yet impractical southron breeds managed to turn around, Richard’s cavalry already jammed their lances into a row of Frey knights. The rest of the foes remained ferocious, however, and they retaliated. The right wing, commanded by Liddle, began to retreat, and the freshly aggravated Freys ate the bait and then some. As the left wing of the rearguard rode forth towards the Liddles, Asha, Tristifer Botley, and the men under Ned Woods’s command went to engage them. We have the element of surprise, and their numbers matter but little so long as they can’t maintain the formation.

         Asha drove her spear into the back of a Frey’s neck. The man wore chainmail under his warhelm, but the sheer impact broke his neck. In a matter of moments, the left wing of the rearguard was all but annihilated. There were many left still, Asha realized that as a man cut her spear in half with a sword. She drew her axe and engaged, but her arm was growing weak. The initial blood rush from a battle would make one forget the very concept of exhaustion, but soon or late, fatigue always set in. In that instant, she grew thankful of Ser Justin Massey, who had urged her to devour more horse meat despite her lack of appetite. She gave all the strength she had and swung the axe upward, and the blade almost touched the enemy’s warhelm. Her body was left defenseless, and the foe lowered his sword to his chest level for a killing strike. Oh, fuck me.

         The foe’s head came flying towards Asha before his sword could land a killing strike. Tris? she thought for an instant. As the headless body rolled off the horse, the man who appeared was Qarl the Maid. Asha remembered the night she had spent with Qarl in Deepwood Motte, when he’d sucked her breasts whilst driving his firm cock into her wet cunt to release his seeds. Asha had loved the rough play. Quiet, mind, she reminded herself. She gave a nod to Qarl. It may be that I shall never bed you again.

         The Freys were no meek foes, the rest of the rearguard were not to submit without a fight. Thirty men or so they had left, perhaps fewer, got in formation, and charged forward with a chilling war cry, as the Liddles turned around. Ser Richard’s men engaged them, and Tris was on the left wing, attempting to surround the Freys once again.

         Qarl rode close to Asha. He sees that I’m weak, Asha thought begrudgingly, I’m not some princess who needs a flowery knight to shield me from danger. And yet she seemed to be surrounded by men who’d die for her, and a precious few who’d love to see her burnt alive. Almost forgot that.

         “Thank you.” It took a deal of reluctance for Asha to express her gratitude. She had affection for the pink-cheeked boy once in a while. Asha rubbed on her right shoulder to make sure that she could still swing. When she turned her head it was too late.

         A spear went through Qarl’s back and protruded out of his chest. Qarl had worn only jerkin, fur, and light armor, and the blood rendered the back of his white horse crimson. He held onto the tip of the spear with his right hand, and coughed out blood. The enemy tried to pull the spear but Qarl would not let go.

         No time to grieve, Asha turned her horse towards the Frey. The man loosened his grip on the spear to draw his sword, but Asha killed him with a single swing before his sword could clear the scabbard.

         “Don’t forget me.” Qarl smiled with blood around his lips. It was the sweetest smile he ever gave. Asha fought her tears, and she fought them hard. A few managed to drop, however, and they froze onto her cheeks. she pressed her hand against her cheek to break it. Qarl almost fell from his horse, and she held him.

         “Go.” He planted one last kiss upon Asha’s lips before he fell into the snow.

         “What of our losses?” Ser Richard cut down a Frey and rode forward to Middle Liddle.

         “A dozen or more,” the Liddle replied.

         Richard ordered the men to ride towards the light of the watchtower. When they rode close to the lakes, Asha realized that the light was not from the tower at all.

         The tower was all in darkness. Instead, the light that they saw was on the weirwood islet. Asha remember the tales of the night lamp of Sisterton, where the sistermen lure ships with false beacons.

         The mountain clans fought the Freys on the surface of the ice lake. Already Asha saw a few horses sinking their limbs into the ice as the knights fell off their backs. When the Frey knights got on their feet, the clansmen cut their throats.

         Asha heard one blast from a horn, coming from the longhall. The mountain clans began to spread out and retreat. The Freys either chose to dismount, or struggling to hold still. One Frey who was larger than most, dismounted and cut down two clansmen. He was freakishly huge, althought not as big as Gregor Clegane. The big bellied chief Hugo Wull raised his axe to engage him. The old man struggled, as the Frey was much stronger. The old man blocked the Frey’s blow with the hilt of his axe, but the knight kicked him in the belly. The old man rose and lunged forward, raising his battle axe. The knight got on his feet and parried the attack and drove his sword into the old man’s throat. Two of the queen’s men began fighting the ferocious Frey. And then came the second blast. Stannis’s men moved farther from the islet, and the Freys struggled. The holes were not only for fishing, Asha thought. Ned Woods had made a remark about Stannis’s men drilling holes into the ice.

         When Asha heard the third blast of the horn, large rocks were flung into the lakes from the north and the south. Catapults, Asha noticed. large portions of the ice began to crumble and crack. two dozen Frey knights sunk into the water as the rest attempted to retreat. The king’s knights and the mountain clans lined up along the east side of the lake and held a shield wall. Another hail of rocks were launched with the next blast of the horn. Dozens, or hundreds of horses fell. Asha could barely tell as the snows were blinding. The heavy cavalry were mostly sunk as the barding on the destriers added more weight. The king’s archers got into position as well, two dozens at the north side of the lake, and another two dozesn at the south side.

         “Nock! Draw! Loose!” A hail of arrows were loosed onto what remained of the Frey van. Some arrows found their way onto the clansmen’s shields as well. Most of the Freys dismounted and drew their swords to engage in melee with the mountain clans. The horses were spooked and began running in all directions. The Freys’ castle-forged steel were still an advantage. The Frey men got into formation in an attempt to fight their way out of the mountain clans’ envelopment. They concentrated their forces on the right wing. Stannis’s archers were lightly armored and the Freys cut through them with ease. The Freys began pushing south as they were no longer surrounded. The large Frey fought in the frontlines and cut down half a dozen of the tribesmen. Asha had seldom seen such ferocity. The man reminded her of her uncle Victarion. Stannis’s knights went towards the Freys. Asha could hardly see faces, but she saw the winged pig and the purple knight sigils. Suggs and Farring, she thought. For a split moment Asha wished that the bloodthirsty queen’s men would fall. She hoped that the fearless Frey knight would cut them in half. She soon regretted that thought. She wondered why she grew to hate the queen’s men a little less. Perhaps it was Ser Richard, she thought, nothing in this world turns foes into friends faster than comraderie born amidst a bloodbath.

         The fire-crazed knights were indeed a fearsome lot, as their steel clashed against the Frey armors. The knight of the winged pig, Ser Clayton Suggs, stroke the helm off the tall Frey. A husky man with a jut-jawed face thick with beard and full of rage. He blocked the blows from both Suggs and Farring, and pushed forth with his freakish strength. Godry the Giantslayer lowered his sword and cut the Frey’s leg, and as the Frey went onto his knee, Clayton drove a dagger into the brawny man’s throat.

         Asha heard a horn blast from the north, but a deal farther than the one before. More men? She thought. By the sound, Asha judged them to be a few hundred horses at least. Asha looked towards the north and could almost make out the banners. Green, she thought, a white figure on a blue-green field, a merman. The knights wielded tridents instead of spears. The Manderlys. The Karstarks came out of the long hall to engage the White Harbor knights. She could almost hear the laugh of relief of the Freys. Their saviors finally came for them, and we are fucked.

         Except, the tridents went through the necks of the Frey knights, not Stannis’s men. The clans soon understood the situation and surrounded the Frey knights completely. More cavalry came pouring through the woods onto the helpless Freys. The trumpets were blowing, as the knights continued to charge and trample through the deserting Freys, and the words they cried were “the North remembers! The North remembers! The North remembers!”

#a song of ice and fire #game of thrones #asha greyjoy #fanfic #fanfiction #the winds of winter #georgerrmartin #grrm #fantasy #stannis #stannis baratheon #stannis the mannis #melisandre #davos seaworth #theon greyjoy #asoiaf #got

[houseofpinky]

The Best Action Movies of 2019 (So Far), Ranked

As a social product, the activity film is in a condition of motion. Toward one side of the range, you have colossal, globe-eating up open displays like Avengers: Endgame, the current year's greatest blockbuster and a certifiable popular culture marvel; on the opposite end, littler wrongdoing spine chillers and experience stories, when the thumping heart and soul of the class, have been consigned to moderately under-the-radar discharges on gushing stages and on-request benefits. Aside from the uncommon effective establishment like John Wick, it feels like the white collar class of activity film dom has been dug out.

In any case, the present minute is an entrancing time to be a fanatic of motion pictures where autos explode and individuals kick each other in the throat. Like a year ago's rundown, the objective here is to keep a running rundown of the best activity titles of 2019 on the extra large screen and on gushing stages, which could mean superhuman legends, unknown dialect slugfests, and, almost certainly, in any event one motion picture featuring a previous expert wrestler. As the grizzled, tobacco-spitting squad pioneer in an activity film may state, we're recovering the pack together.

12. Polar

Discharged: January 25

Cast: Mads Mikkelsen, Vanessa Hudgens, Katheryn Winnick, Matt Lucas

Chief: Jonas Åkerlund (Lords of Chaos)

Why it merits viewing: superficially, this adjustment of a realistic novel about a globe-running hired gunman nicknamed Black Kaiser (Mikkelsen) resembles a John Wick clone, total with absurdist world-building and balletic weapon battling. Be that as it may, the genuine tone of motion picture, which pursues the Kaiser nearly his retirement from the homicide business, is hyper-dynamic and all around shabby. Rather than the adapted, make mixed drink facade of Wick, chief Jonas Åkerlund, who has coordinated music recordings for craftsmen like Madonna, Taylor Swift, and Maroon 5, seeks after the gaudy mayhem and shouting blandness of the Crank arrangement. Not the majority of the incitements are powerful - for instance, the opening scene with Johnny Knoxville getting killed mid-sensual caress will probably send queasy watchers back to the Netflix landing page - however Mikkelsen gives a moving, profound execution. Regardless of whether he's educating kids on the best way to gut a foe or avoiding slugs naked during a log-lodge attack, Mikkelsen keeps the film grounded, and, eventually, makes it worth viewing in spite of its imperfections.

11. Cold Pursuit

Discharged: February 8

Cast: Liam Neeson, Laura Dern, Emmy Rossum, Tom Bateman

Executive: Hans Petter Moland (In Order of Disappearance)

Why it merits watching: More of a dimly comedic wrongdoing adventure than a clear activity spine chiller in the form of Taken, this Colorado-set retribution story is revolved around a snowplow driver named Nels Coxman (Neeson) who executes street pharmacists and dumps their bodies in a cold waterway. He's determined to this fierce, cold way after the lamentable demise of his child Kyle, who endures a heroin overdose regardless of Nels' cases that Kyle was never "an addict." The different offenders Nels alienates, in addition to their heel partners and a couple neighborhood cops, occupy more screen time than you'd expect, giving the procedures a romping, shaggy-hound outfit vibe that can be an odd fit with Neeson's irate father schtick. (Neeson additionally made some stunning remarks during the film's press visit, which make some the content's rough endeavors at "restless" supremacist funniness feel especially confused.) Though the film's focal retribution plot can be repetitive, the edges of the story are loaded up with scraggly character on-screen characters like William Forsythe, some really smart bits of exchange, and a bunch of roused visual snapshots of eccentricity. Overlong and half-cooked, Cold Pursuit isn't in a similar alliance as The Commuter or Non-Stop, Neeson's ongoing joint efforts with executive Jaume Collet-Serra, however it has a comical quality that radiates through the heaps of snow.

10. Hauled Across Concrete

Discharged: March 22

Cast: Mel Gibson, Vince Vaughn, Tory Kittles, Michael Jai White

Executive: S. Craig Zahler (Brawl in Cell Block 99)

Why it merits viewing: The striking title of this proudly provocative, every so often cumbersome cop epic fills in as either an appreciated tangle or a notice sign contingent upon your resistance for hard-bubbled exchange, stunning brutality, and the screen nearness of disputable star Mel Gibson. Playing Officer Brett Ridgeman, Gibson brings a fatigued stillness and an injured pride to the job of a supremacist cop suspended for getting captured on video utilizing unnecessary power at work. Lashed for money and hoping to make one major score, Ridgeman and his more youthful accomplice Lurasetti (Vaughn) plan to take cash from a group of burglars, including a criminal (Kittles) just discharged from jail and hoping to improve life for his family. The set-up is natural, riffing on comparable heists you've seen in noir films and in wrongdoing books, however Zahler's arranging of the real groupings, similar to a delayed weapon fight close to the end, can be grasping and his composition, especially in the drawn-out stake-out scenes, can be satisfying to the ear. While Dragged Across Concrete does not have the punch of Brawl in Cell Block 99, his past (and a lot more grounded) joint effort with Vaughn, it's plainly crafted by a craftsman hoping to grow his extension and willing to test his group of spectators' understanding.

9. Domino

Discharged: May 31

Cast: Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, Carice van Houten, Guy Pearce, Nicolas Bro

Executive: Brian De Palma (Mission: Impossible)

Why it merits looking at: Brian De Palma's desire for the bizarre the two drives and eventually crashes this captivating, irritating late-profession psychological oppression spine chiller, which arrived unceremoniously on VOD in the wake of being deferred for enigmatically vexed reasons and talked down in the press by the unbelievable executive himself. Round of Thrones star Coster-Waldau brings gleams of crafty appeal and loads of fatigued abdication to the job of Christian, a Copenhagen cop who gets enveloped with an as a matter of fact confounding global trap of untruths spun by a repulsive impact point of a CIA operator (Pearce). For the most part, Christian needs to retaliate for the demise of his accomplice, who was engaging in extramarital relations with another cop played by van Houten. As incoherent and wrong-head as the film can be, Domino merits searching out for a bunch of ridiculously organized, virtuosically shot anticipation successions, including a stunning homicide that prompts a housetop pursue and a dumbfounding set-piece including a bullfight and an automaton. (Much the same as in works of art like Blow Out and Femme Fatale, De Palma stays fixated on instinctive inquiries of viewpoint.) Even in its potentially traded off express, the film has more visual sparkle than the vast majority of the blockbusters moving off the sequential construction system this mid year.

8. Triple Frontier

Discharged: March 13

Cast: Ben Affleck, Oscar Isaac, Charlie Hunnam, Garrett Hedlund

Chief: J.C. Chandor (A Most Violent Year)

Why it merits viewing: Any film that moves you to tune in to Metallica's Ride the Lightning for seven days subsequent to seeing it is accomplishing something right. Notwithstanding opening up with "For Whom the Bell Tolls," this military heist spine chiller, which discovers Affleck driving a group of ex-Special Forces superstars determined to ransack a street pharmacist in the wilderness, hits all the vital activity film beats: There's a "recovering the posse together" scene, an "are you in or are you out?" arrangement, a "put the cash down we gotta go" minute, and, sure, a "good lord" helicopter crash in the mountains to demonstrate how a lot of cash Netflix was happy to dish out. So for what reason does the film feel disappointing? Triple Frontier began life as another strategies fixated Kathryn Bigelow and Mark Boal venture - one that about each popular male entertainer in Hollywood was supposed to star in sooner or later - yet it was in the long run taken over by Chandor, the helmer of the macho account dramatization Margin Call and the lethargic '70s wrongdoing riff A Most Violent Year, and he gives the material an incidentally unwieldy touch. Gotten between a ultra-tense Bigelow epic and a scrappier WWE Studios rush ride, the motion picture never entirely discovers its balance, especially in the subsequent half. All things considered, those Metallica tunes sound incredible

7. Ace Z: The Ip Man Legacy

Discharged: April 12

Cast: Max Zhang, Dave Bautista, Liu Yan, Xing Yu

Chief: Yuen Woo-ping (Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon: Sword of Destiny)

Why it merits viewing: There's a grouping in Master Z: The Ip Man Legacy, the most recent section in the enormously engaging arrangement of combative techniques films, where Michelle Yeoh, playing wrongdoing manager Tso Ngan Kwan, goes head to head against an assailant, and the entire motion picture gets a shock of power. Yeoh's part in the film is little, however scarcely inconsequential: She loans gravitas and kineticism to the procedures. The bigger story, which pursues skilled warrior Cheung Tin Chi (Zhang) as he opens a supermarket and endeavors to avoid inconvenience, is stuffed with comparative blasts of vitality, hand-to-hand battle scenes that make the watcher wheeze, chuckle, and cheer at the physical elegance and arranged accuracy in plain view. Despite the fact that it to a great extent relinquishes the motions towards real history that characterized the first Ip Man passages and doesn't include Donnie Yen, the aloof essence of the arrangement, Master Z has an appreciated comical inclination, a winsome tone, and a mustache-brandishing Dave Bautista wearing suits that battle to contain his monster outline. What more do you need?

5. Avengement

Discharged: May 24

Cast: Scott Adkins, Craig Fairbrass, Thomas Turgoose, Nick Moran

Executive: Jesse V. Johnson (The Debt Collector)

Why it merits looking at: DTV activity star Scott Adkins realizes how to arrive a punch, yet this sequentially broken battle film, which joins a grisly jail dramatization with a Guy Ritchie-esque black market plot, likewise gives the preposterously buff entertainer a chance to hotshot his acting slashes too. With a metal barbecue on his teeth and intense scars all over, Adkins plays the Biblically named Cain, a previous fighter turned convict who begins the motion picture by getting away from his security detail on an excursion to the medical clinic to visit his perishing mother. On the run, Cain winds up at a bar amidst the day, where he engages the gathered goons with his tangled biography, which includes a disloyalty by his more seasoned sibling and numerous exhausting prison fights. Johnson, a stand-in turned-movie producer who has coordinated Adkins highlights like Accident Man and Triple Threat, co-composed the refreshingly sharp content, which has more at the forefront of its thoughts than your normal battle driven retribution film, and he arranges the savage, exposed knuckle skirmishes with fitting life, permitting Adkins to give a standout amongst the best exhibitions of his vocation.

4. Alita: Battle Angel

Discharged: February 14

Cast: Rosa Salazar, Christoph Waltz, Keean Johnson, Mahershala Ali

Executive: Robert Rodriguez (Sin City)

Why it merits viewing: The primary thing you notice are the huge eyes, alluring like entryways to another measurement. Alita, a cyborg found in a junkyard by a conceivably crazy lab rat overwhelmed by distress over the demise of his little girl, is played by the on-screen character Rosa Salazar (Maze Runner, Bird Box), yet she's brought to uncanny life by means of innovation Alita maker and co-author James Cameron created for his outsider ecological creation Avatar. (Cameron was initially going to coordinate Alita, however he got diverted the universe of the Na'vi.) Compared to Avatar, or other late beautiful demonstrations of gonzo-world-building like Jupiter Ascending or Valerian: City of a Thousand Planets, Alita: Battle Angel moves in fits and begins, at times attempting to blend Cameron's hyper-sincere, massive reasonableness with Rodriguez's progressively showy, unexpected methodology. All things considered, when the motion picture interfaces, as in the ludicrous and dynamic "motorball" succession, which discovers Alita fighting off brutish aggressors in a savage, X-Games variant of tag, it's as elating as this sort of reality-changing, cash copying science fiction blockbuster gets. Maybe fitting for an anecdote about a character's confounded relationship to her very own body, the motion picture sets aside some effort to feel great in its very own CG ski

3. Shadow

Discharged: May 3

Cast: Deng Chao, Sun Li, Zheng Kai, Wang Qianyuan

Executive: Zhang Yimou (Hero)

Why it merits viewing: In a city shrouded in dim mists and assaulted by steady downpour, an umbrella can turn into your last line of resistance against the components. In Shadow, the most recent outwardly staggering activity epic from Hero and House of Flying Daggers wuxia ace Zhang Yimou, parasols are more than supportive sun-blockers: They can be transformed into fatal weapons, shooting boomerang-like cutting edges of steel at approaching aggressors and changing into defensive sleds for going through the smooth boulevards. These gadgets are one of numerous creative jumps made in telling this Shakespearean adventure of castle interest, retribution, and mystery doppelgangers set in China's Three Kingdoms period. Administrator Yu (Deng) serves helpless before the pitiless King Peiliang (Zheng), who guidelines like a trivial and touchy young person, yet the valiant Commander is really a "shadow," a body twofold enrolled to fill in as a potential substitution in a period of emergency. The "genuine" Commander Yu, additionally played by Deng, medical attendants a putrefying fight twisted underground, preparing his twofold and conspiring to oust the lord. This is a combative techniques epic where the thick plotting is as dubious as the regularly balletic battle scenes. The account loses steam in stretches, however the splendidly structured and faultlessly altered activity arrangements are essentially on another level. In the event that the fight scenes in Game of Thrones left you disappointed, Shadow gives an exciting option

2. The Standoff at Sparrow Creek

Discharged: January 18 Cast: James Badge Dale, Brian Geraghty, Patrick Fischler, Happy Anderson Executive: Henry Dunham

Why it merits viewing: The Standoff at Sparrow Creek is a motion picture that comprehends the estimation of restriction. After a mass taking shots at a police memorial service, a volunteer army bunch in Michigan collects at a distribution center to twofold check the status of their enormous store of lethal weapons, including a clump of AR-15s. Turns out one of the firearms is missing - the radio has affirmed that the shooter utilized an AR-15 - and just one of the men in the gathering could have gotten it. Rapidly, the Reservoir Dogs-like situation spirals out into an at the same time garrulous and grasping whodunit with James Badge Dale's abrupt ex-cop Gannon cross examining his kindred intrigue disapproved of partners, generally played by splendid character on-screen characters offered space to flex here, with an end goal to discover the executioner before the shooting can be stuck on the gathering all in all. In any case, can any of these shadowy figures be trusted? This isn't an anthropological investigation of conservative suspicion under Donald Trump or a treatise on white male wrath in the time of InfoWars - the careful points of interest of what all these folks accept and would like to accomplish with their impressive capability are kept unclear - however Dunham, making his component debut here, zeroes in on the characters and frames of mind of the men attracted to these periphery gatherings. He demonstrates to you what really matters to them. At that point, he makes them squirm.

1. John Wick: Chapter 3 – Parabellum

Discharged: May 17

Cast: Keanu Reeves, Halle Berry, Laurence Fishburne, Mark Dacascos

Chief: Chad Stahelski (John Wick: Chapter 2)

Why it merits looking at: Whether he's pummeling an adversary in the face with a book in a library or evading stray projectiles while running down a Manhattan road on horseback, John Wick tries to avoid panicking. The dependably on-the-run professional killer, returning for the third passage in this shockingly flexible arrangement, indicates shortcoming, torment, and even powerlessness, however no weapon can cut the covering of stillness Reeves brings to the job, and his exhibition is the thing that makes these motion pictures so holding. The story is generally senseless - Wick has been pronounced "excommunicado" by the request of professional killers he used to have a place with and must search out old partners over the globe - however Reeves and his teammates, including arrangement chief Stahelski and the first rate trick group, never dismiss the center components that make Wick tick. Indeed, even as the folklore develops progressively confused, the cast extends to present amusingly named characters like The Adjudicator (Billions break-out Asia Kate Dillon) or The Director (Angelica Huston), and the battles become much increasingly detailed, Reeves glides through the movie. Regardless of whether a portion of the first's black market coarseness has been sparkled away, supplanted with scrape free comic-book extravagance and bourbon business feeling, the arrangement remains focused on straightforward joys. Nearby Tom Cruise's all the more apparently focused on Ethan Hunt, Wick remains the best activity saint Hollywood brings to the table.

Best Movie Site 

https://moviestailler.blogspot.com/2019/07/actoin-movies.html

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[brightestandbest]

The Angel of Evil

This is a piece of fiction inspired by two statues of Lucifer and the fact that they were carved by two brothers. Other than that it has no relationship whatsoever to reality. Under a cut for length and sexual content. 

Louis had been commissioned carve a marble statue of Satan for the cathedral. The project, so far, was turning out to be appropriately hellish.

His brother, also a sculptor, had not spoken to him in weeks. Gaspard, elder and a more eminent artist, had been confident that he would receive the commission. When Louis had been asked to sculpt Satan, Gaspard had been convinced that he himself would be asked to tackle more sublime subject matter—John the Baptist, the blessed Virgin, perhaps even Christ on the Cross. He had mocked his younger brother as an inferior talent, saying he had only the skill to capture the ugliness of Satan, not the pure beauty of saints or angels. But as days passed and it became clear that no commission was coming to Gaspard, he grew bitter. He stopped speaking to Louis, even to mock. He simply shut him out.

Gaspard even contrived to pull their father into the quarrel. Somehow, he had convinced him that Louis was malicious, conniving, and insolent in taking a commission so clearly intended for his more established elder brother. Louis received a curt note from the patriarch expressing disappointment in him for wronging his brother so, and even quoting a bit of scripture regarding Cain and Abel. It ended by notifying him that his allowance would be suspended until he made amends to his brother.

Little as he relished the familial strife—and much as the loss of his father’s support had hurt him, emotionally and financially—Louis had more pressing problems on his mind. Chief among them was the project itself.

The Archbishop had been disquietingly vague in his instructions. He had specified the approximate dimensions of the statue and the space it was intended to fill, and said that it was to portray the Adversary. Which left Louis to answer the hardest question: how?

The problem had obsessed him for several nights now. At first it had been precipitated by the gloom that descended after being shunned by his father and brother, but soon the question itself had grown into the source of a despair even deeper. What, after all, was the nature of the Devil? Louis knew only what he had been taught in church, and had never thought too long or hard about Satan. Now that he had begun to ruminate on the nature of the adversary, his thoughts had grown deep and terrifying.

He turned first to scripture to answer his questions, but only found himself more confused. Here was the serpent, slithering through the garden of Eden. Here was Lucifer, son of the morning, fallen from heaven. Here was the devil tempting Job, nearly playing dice with men’s souls—disturbingly, with God for a gambling partner. His image of Satan became less distinct, and yet more seductively sinister, with every verse.

And those verses were few and far between. Louis soon realized the Good Book was a poor source of information on the evil one. It contained very few mentions of the devil, and what was there often seemed contradictory. Scriptures that had once made sense to Louis now seemed a pack of nonsense and lies. So agonizing was his doubt, so anguished his confusion, that he began to fear that Devil was actually taking hold of his soul.

Despairing of finding inspiration in scripture, Louis sought it in art history. He turned next to medieval manuscripts, where he saw Satan as snarling and serpent-tongued. Here, at least, was an entity that seemed more recognizable to him from the sermons. He made a few half-hearted sketches based on this impression, and sent them to the Archbishop. They were sent back. The Archbishop, he was told, wanted something a bit more modern. Modernity hardly seemed to Louis like a Catholic virtue, and he found himself now doubting not just the holy scriptures, but the Archbishop as well. His inner darkness deepened, along with his artistic frustration.

He had spent a fortnight, now, staring at the marble block. Sometimes he wasted hours running his hands along it, hoping to discover, in the raw rock, some demonic form waiting to manifest. His money was running out—without his father’s allowance, he had only the Archbishop’s deposit to live on.

Many nights, he found himself staring not at the marble block but at the beams of the ceiling, thinking of where to hang a noose. At other times, he contemplated taking the chisel not to the marble, but to his own tender wrists.

One early morning, at the tail end of one such bad and sleepless night, he stood before the marble. The gray light of dawn, creeping through the windows, combined with the uneven light of a few sputtering candles to reveal his pathetic condition. He was unshaven, unwashed, and thin. He gripped his chisel like a murder weapon. Without meaning to, he found himself saying a sort of prayer in his head, not to God on high, but to the dark one below.

Show yourself to me, he was begging in his heart. I must see you.

That was he heard his studio door open.

Louis spun about, chisel upraised, to face the intruder. At first he thought he was hallucinating, that desperation and sleep-deprivation had driven him mad. Surely the apparition before him could not be flesh and blood.

It was a young man, perfect in his beauty. He wore his hair unfashionably long and scandalously loose around his shoulders, but it was hard to blame him for showing off that softly curling golden mane. His features were smooth and well-balanced, a paragon of masculine beauty so harmonious it seemed to have been created by mathematical formula. Yet despite his appearance as a platonic ideal of youthful manhood, nothing about him seemed tame or rational at all. There was a bright wildness in his eyes, which were a tawny golden color. His full lips looked too red, too sensuous, obscene; a haughty smile played around them. He was dressed in rich clothes, but his cravat hung half-undone around his throat, his shirt was partially unbuttoned, and his suit was rumpled.

He met Louis’s gaze with his wild eyes. Upon that contact, the sculptor seemed to hear a howling in his head, as of high winds and lashing rain; and the muffled noise of huge, beating wings. He staggered, and had to steady himself against the marble block for support.

“Who are you?” he croaked, still half-brandishing the chisel in unconscious self defense. “What do you want?”

The young man’s smile widened, showing strangely sharp teeth. It was mocking smile, but somehow not unkind. Its effect was profoundly unnerving.

“I have heard you are the sculpt the devil.” His voice was an androgynous tenor. “I am he.”

Louis, in his state of near delirium, actually believed him for a moment. Then he put the notion aside. He even convinced himself that he had heard or remembered the words incorrectly—the young man must have said something like “I am your devil.” He was a young model supremely confident of receiving a job, nothing more.

Having persuaded himself of this version of reality, Louis looked at the young man more closely, more critically. There was something peculiarly wicked and demonic about his beauty. His wildness, his hauteur, the insolence of those perfect lips—yes, this could be a fallen angel, previously the wisest and fairest of them all.

“Yes,” Louis heard himself muttering aloud, “Yes, you could be. I know the hearts of men. They do not fall from grace by chasing ugliness. They fall for beauty.”

The young man said nothing, merely inclined his head slightly, as if agreeing with the point—no, as if acknowledging that the point was made self-evident by his very being. Louis, entranced, wondered who had fallen for that beauty before. He did not doubt that many had. He thought men and women alike probably went mad for it, died for it, scratched their eyes out desperately trying to forget it.

Without another word, the young model began to shed his clothes. He was completely unselfconscious about it, shucking everything as though, to him, it was all mere affectation. Nudity brought his beauty into even starker relief. It wasn’t so much that his body was beautiful—though it was, achingly so—more as if the layers of clothing had served to dim some inner radiance of his, that flowed out from every inch of his exposed flesh. Louis swallowed uncomfortably, his mouth suddenly watering and his breeches feeling very tight.

The model cast him a teasing glance, then pointed at a stool across the room.

“I will sit on that,” he said.

Louis stood still for a moment, stunned and stupefied, then shook himself and went to retrieve the seat, pulling it into a good position. The model alighted upon it, gloriously, irresistibly nude. Louis drew back, afraid to accidentally touch his skin. A shocking heat seemed to radiate from the man’s body, as if his skin would burn to touch.

“You’ll be needing a drape,” Louis said after a moment.

The model glanced back over his shoulder at Louis. “Will I?” His eyes were dark and bright at once, his grin bewitching. In the periphery of Louis’s vision, he saw something twitch, like a large and very lewd snake.

Louis swallowed hard and tried to sound severe. “Definitely,” he said firmly. “The sculpture is for a church.”

“Of course,” the model sighed. “Do as you must, I suppose.”

Louis brought over a drape, and arranged it delicately across the model’s lap. The model wasted no time in making adjustments, tucking it in under his buttocks and arranging it so that it covered merely the essentials, riding low across his hips but high over his knees.

Louis started to protest.  

“Be quiet.” The model’s voice was startlingly firm. “It has to be just so. This is an image of temptation, yes?”

Louis hesitated, then paced around the model in a slow circle. He had to admit, reluctantly, that the flash of nude buttock, the suggestive drape between the knees, was compositionally perfect. It drew the eye to all the right, or wrong, places. After a moment’s further hesitation, he nodded.

The model swept his eyes up to the ceiling, drew in a deep breath, and seemed to collect himself. “Fallen from heaven,” he murmured, and his voice sounded sad. “Of course. Right.”

He adjusted his posture so that his shoulders curved slightly, as if beneath the weight of wings. His eyes were cast down on his lap, and held a fierce, burning regard. His expression was serious, but at the same time, serene. A fallen angel who has accepted his lot, gathering his strength and courage to begin his reign in hell. He was perfect.

“Yes,” Louis whispered, “Yes, I see you.”

He went to work with the chisel immediately. Every cut he made felt painful, as if he was sculpting from his own flesh, but he did not stop. The lithe, youthful form, and the suggestion of wings behind it, began to emerge from the stone.

Louis worked feverishly. The deeper he went into the stone, the closer he felt he was coming to that smooth, frighteningly warm flesh. He longed to trace the subtleties of clavicles, biceps, and jawbone. He couldn’t wait to trace the soft contours of those perfect areolas with his chisel. But he was far from such levels of detail when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to find the young model standing beside him.

“Louis,” he said softly. “Enough. You’ve carved all day and all night. You have to stop.”

Louis looked blearily over at the window, to see the rose hues of another dawn gracing the horizon.

“Your body cannot take this, Louis,” the voice sounded pitying. “You are only human. You must rest.”

“No,” Louis said unclearly, “Inspiration like this, it never comes. I have to continue…” his voice shook with exhaustion and fear.

A soft laugh. “Poor artists. I adore you so. You are the only real martyrs. Your inspiration will return, I promise it.”

Louis shook his head, still trembling, feeling drunk from exhaustion.

“Hush. Hush. Let me sustain you.” Blackness was already beginning to cover his vision. He felt himself enveloped in strong arms, a body hot as a furnace pressed close to him. “Taste of the forbidden fruit.” The words seemed to come at once from very far away, and from within his own skull. A rush of soft wings enfolded him, and lips as scarlet and as scorching as coals pressed to his mouth. And then he knew no more.

 When Louis woke, he felt refreshed and rested as he never had before.

He lay in the model’s arms. What he had dreamed were enfolding wings must have been the sheets and soft down of the pillows.

Louis sat up quickly, horrified to find himself in the embrace of a naked man, still more distressed to realize he was naked too.

A soft chuckle let him know he was being watched. He looked down and met the golden eyes of the beautiful youth.

“How,” Louis began, “What…?”

The model sat up, leaning gracefully on his elbow. In the morning light, the contours of his body were serpentine, elegant. “Hush, my friend. You have slept as innocently as a babe.” His lips curved, and Louis dizzily thought—the bow of Eros.

“I do not corrupt,” he murmured. “Only tempt. And last night, you were much too tired to be tempted.”

Louis rubbed unnecessarily at his eyes, trying to banish sleepiness that was not there. On the contrary, his sight had never seemed clearer.

“Besides,” the young model laughed, “You only want to do one thing.”

The sculpture. Louis’s hunger to finish it was ravenous, lascivious. As he raked his eyes over the boy’s form, he knew that where other men might desire to touch him, Louis would be satisfied far more deeply by drawing its copy out of the marble. To mutilate the stone in search of that gorgeous form would be far more piquant a consummation. Thinking these thoughts, he flushed, and nodded.

 It was another day and night of feverish work. Louis did not eat, but he did not feel hungry. It was as if he fed on proximity to his model, drank him with his eyes. The wings were beginning to take shape, framing the body. It nestled between them, the face like… like the pearl within a woman’s folds, Louis could not help but think. It was a blasphemous thought, but it seemed right. Was this not the forbidden fruit—desire? Knowledge, of the most carnal kind?

Louis came to know that bright body, his chisel conforming to its most intimate contours. His strokes were still rough—it was not time, yet, for the cherished smoothing, the forming of delicate features—but he strained towards those details passionately, taking away the stone a bit at a time, leaving just enough so that he would be able to perfect the close work later.

The model sat perfectly still, barely seeming to breathe. He had assumed the exact pose, the exact expression, of the previous session. He was not only the most beautiful model Louis had ever had the pleasure of working from, but also the best.  

Marble chips showered to the floor like hail. Powdery white dust filled the air, coating Louis’s face and hands until he himself looked like a statue.

When another dawn approached, the model again stopped Louis’s work with a gentle hand. He lead him away to a warm bath, perfumed with the scent of roses. As Louis soaked, the model sat at the edge of the tub, massaging the sculptor’s sore neck and shoulders. Under his hands, Louis felt himself become something better, more refined—as if the model was a kind of sculptor himself. When the water had cooled, the model led Louis to bed and gave him another gentle kiss, and the artist once again slipped into a blissful sleep full of nothingness.

           It went on like that for a week. A day and a night of work, a day and a night of seemingly drugged slumber. Louis was on fire, happier than he had ever been in his life. His work was extraordinary, glowing with the light of genius.

           One day, mid afternoon, Louis was surprised to feel himself stopped, again, by a hand on his shoulder. He was even more startled to glance out the window and see the sun still high in the sky.

           The model stood over him, beaming.

           “Stop, you silly man,” he commanded. “Can’t you see that it’s already perfect?”

           In a daze, Louis glanced up, and saw that it was. He was kneeling at the statue’s feet, detailing a serpent that ran around the base of the pedestal. The marble eyes of the devil stared down at him, their gaze somehow penetrating despite their blankness. Their regard led the way down a magnificent body, lovingly detailed. Every centimeter of it had been rendered flawlessly, and polished to a smooth radiance that nearly hurt to look at.

           Over him stood the original of this perfect copy, and his smile was incandescent.

           Louis felt tears come to his eyes.

           “I don’t want to stop,” he whispered. “I can’t give you up.”

           The model squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. His fingers were still painfully hot, but Louis had grown used to that burning touch, and to the scorch marks it left on him.

           “You have to stop, Louis, or ruin your most perfect work.”

           Louis nodded, unable to deny it. Now that he looked at the thing in its entirety, he realized the model had stopped him just in time. A single stroke more would have marred it.

           “You will always be mine,” came the voice from above him, and once again Louis heard thunder and rain. “But not in the way you fear. Poor Louis,” he continued, as the grew louder, “Your father is so cruel to you, as mine was to me. Do not fear. You will never have to meet my father. You will join me in the shade, beneath the tree of knowledge.”

           “It is you, isn’t it?” Louis murmured in wonder.

           Behind him, he heard the rush of air as the mighty wings spread.

           “You want to keep it for yourself. You don’t want it to go to the church. That is fine, Louis. Such selfishness is no sin. Be patient, and I will come back to you. I promise it.”

           Louis closed his eyes and tilted back his head, and accepted, for one final time, that burning kiss that consumed his consciousness.

             The statue was at the cathedral that same day. No one saw the work crew come and install it. It was simply there.

           The Archbishop received word that the work was done, and was content. He sent Louis his full payment, and a little extra. He did not even bother to come and see it—at least, not at first.

           Soon the atmosphere in the cathedral began to change. It began as a subtle shift—a dark shimmer in the air, a little extra heat. Fewer offerings were strewn at the feet of the Virgin, fewer candles burned by the hem of her stone skirts. The flowers, the candles, the incense, and the praying devotees soon crowded around the sublime statue of Lucifer instead.

           Men came to church dressed as women, and women as men. They looked so natural, so happy and content, that nobody would have noticed—save for the fact that they recognized their neighbors. Here a farmer or a banker in a long skirt, there a housewife in her husband’s breeches.

           The priest got a child with the Mother Superior at a nearby convent. Both had to be dismissed in disgrace. They were soon seen holding hands and gazing together at the exquisitely carven face of the fallen one.

           It was whispered that in the dark hours of the night, nude figures crowded into the cathedral, a congregation far greater than had ever assembled there before. The worshippers writhed together on the pews, or entwined in the aisles between them. Incense burned and strange hymns were sung. Kisses were given and received like the eucharist, sperm swallowed like communion wine. Neither the Archbishop or the new Priest or any of the elders of the church were there to see it—or at least, they claimed ignorance of the lascivious midnight masses, and tried to dismiss the stories as wild rumors. But evidence was found, here and there—a suspicious stain on an altar cloth, a smear on the pages of a Bible, a discarded piece of underclothing draped over the Virgin’s shoulder.

           Something had to be done.

           The Archbishop had the statue removed and delivered back to Louis’ door less than two weeks later.

           “Keep your cursed sculpture,” read the accompanying note, “And the money too. You have completed your commission all too well.”

           Louis smiled as he read the brief missive, and a warm hand seemed to graze his cheek.

             In the end, Gaspard got the coveted commission. His Lucifer was stormier in aspect. His brow was furrowed, his expression grim. One hand tugging frantically at his wild hair, and his ankle strained at a chain. The face of the statue, though, looked familiar. Many speculated he had worked from the same model as his brother.

           Not long after, Gaspard was found dead and blinded. It seemed he had scratched his own eyes out. Their father, overcome with grief, took fever and passed away in early spring, leaving Louis sole heir of the family fortune.

           Louis cared little about the money. He was drowning in commissions, so many that he could happily pick and choose, accepting only the work that made his heart sing.

           And sometimes, as he worked, his masterpiece would stir, blinking an eye, or stretching a wing. As soon as he looked directly at it again, the motion was gone, and all returned to its place.

Except, he could swear that the drape was forever slipping further and further down those divine hips.

#my writing #fiction

[vaalkyrja-blog]

// Meta ! Talk about sexism that may or may not exist within the Zofian knights, or Zofia as a whole, and how Mathilda handles it.

meta requests

the game says it better than i can. ( also this is long [ who’s surprised ] so under a read more it goes )

fernand & clair memory prism

fernand: “you know, it still confounds me that you decided to enlist with the knights. your father is too lenient with you. always has been.”

clair: “and why shouldn’t i be a knight!? i wield a lance and ride a horse as well as the best of you. perhaps even better. why else would they allow me to join? heavens, you and my brother were the ones who TAUGHT me to fight and ride.”

fernand: “because you harangued us without end. you always were keen on following clive. honestly, we assumed it was a phase you would grow out of. you should be looking for a husband, not brandishing a weapon. unless to expect to meet your soulmate on the battlefield?

clair: […] pursuing a warrior’s path does not doom me to a life of spinsterhood.

fernand & clive memory prism

clive: “i fear my mother has about given up on my dear sister. she worries she’ll never marry her off into a proper family. if clair hears you’ve joined the knights, shes liable to try and follow. she does abhor being left behind…”

fernand: “ha ha ha! i’ve no doubt clair will come to her senses. she’s at the age where girls learn to embroider and be demure. she’ll soon realize it best to leave the kingdom to us men.”

clive: “embroidery needles are just weapons to her.”

zofia is very sexist. very. and the knights are likely even more so, given that it’s a community of entirely ( or at least mostly ) men who are more concerned than the average with displaying martial strength, which is viewed as a strictly masculine trait. as we see from fernand’s commentary, noblewomen in zofia are expected to be “demure”, and to leave matters of leadership ( meaning state, in his dialogue, but also clearly military leadership ) to men. they are expected to learn to defer to men’s desires, and if they continue to exhibit a strong will as clair does, they are seen as being maladjusted. 

it’s clear that a noblewoman’s primary goal in life, after learning traditionally feminine trades such as “embroidery”, as mentioned here and, we can assume, everything else that has typically been associated with femininity, should be to secure a suitable marriage. in such a patriarchal society, women are tokens to be “married off”, as clive puts it. given that, in his a support with mathilda, clive also mentions that the husband being his wife’s “lord” is — in his view — an “old-fashioned notion”, we can also assume that men are seen to be socially superior to women as well, in any context.

we see more examples of women being traditionally viewed as beings of service or decoration elsewhere in SoV. slayde, for example, asks a young tobin if he has any older sisters, and states that they can serve him the food and drink when he arrives at the village. in her memory prism with clive, mathilda also remarks that she “abhors walking the castle like some pretty bauble”, implying that noble women are commonly objects to be admired aesthetically as ornamentation at gatherings.

given this, it seems interesting that women should be allowed to pursue a knighthood at all, and yet clair doesn’t appear to have had much difficulty getting a position as a knight. i don’t believe that mathilda was likely the first lady to have been made a knight, but considering that her character endings emphasize how she is remembered as the “famous female knight”, it does seem that the occurrence is very rare, and i am willing to bet that mathilda is the first lady knight in a very long time, especially given that she exhibits such extraordinary skill, greatly surpassing the men around her.

this brings me to my next aspect of sexism within the knighthood: that lady knights, even if they should make it into the knighthood on merit, are frequently underestimated and dismissed by their compatriots. this doesn’t come as much of a surprise, and i imagine that mathilda has heard her fair share of “oh you’re pretty good for a girl” or “you only beat me because i wasn’t prepared to fight a girl” and other such sexist remarks thinly disguised as sideways compliments. these are probably what make her the most angry because it’s difficult to take offense at them without inciting some self-righteous “i was complimenting you!” reply, usually accompanied by some implication that women are super emotional and quick to fly off the handle. 

( this latter stereotype is, in my hc, what’s also contributed to her expressly developing — and putting forward — a calm, rational demeanor, being known as the ‘voice of reason’, which is something else, as clive tells us, that is celebrated in men but not expected of women. as soon as she displays too much emotion, men are quick to take her far less seriously. )

mathilda herself remarks on how, even as a knight, she is still largely only admired and objectified for her appearance. clive says “what do you think lights the fires of a boy’s heart? a stoic old man… or a beautiful woman?”, to which mathilda replies “ha ha! the fires would sputter out if the lads actually saw me in combat.” i talked about this line before, but we can see that she’s accustomed to being objectified even as a martial figure — kind of like the “hot female knight” trope — but as soon as she actually shows a guy up in battle, he feels emasculated and vulnerable. 

i think that, when mathilda was younger, she was a lot more sensitive to sexism from those around her — it was probably just near constant for her, and she naturally developed a defensive reaction to it in her youth and early years in the knighthood. however, i think compared to life at home and at courtly functions, she still vastly preferred being with the knights in the castle, because even if some of the men were pigs, there was no denying her skill. she did prove herself on merit alone, even if it took a long time and she received a lot of backlash for it. clive does talk about how she’s sung about as “the finest knight in zofia”, so eventually, hard work paid off. 

by the time she meets clive in the knighthood, she’s still quick to perceive sexist undertones, such as her comment discussed above. by this memory prism, though, she’s already fairly well-established in her position, and as we see from just the opening line of the prism, is clearly clive’s superior officer in both rank and experience. i do think that spending more time with clive and being with him mellows her even more with time, though. by SoV, she’s the self-assured woman we see who barely has a regard for others’ remarks unless they’re blatantly in her face, because she’s already been acknowledged and has found her place, and really just doesn’t need anyone else’s bullshit.

one thing i do headcanon though is that sexism is the direct reason why mathilda was not made the leader of the deliverance. despite being clearly a better fighter than clive, and his superior among the knights, and being the one who came up with the idea in the first place, it is clive who takes up the mantle of leadership, and him who everyone defers to foremost. i imagine that they discussed this, and originally, he had wanted her to lead, but there was likely a lot of backlash against the idea from a theoretical perspective. 

seeing as the deliverance’s purpose was to restore the old, traditional order, they couldn’t easily do something as radical as have a woman lead and expect to uphold traditional values at the same time. secondly, it was also just a matter of cohesion. more people were likely to rally under a banner led by a man. in patriarchal zofia, that’s just the way it is. and there would be less dissension in the ranks, as well. overall, it was just easier this way. given fernand’s prejudiced ideals and the fact that he was one of the first members of the deliverance, i also don’t imagine he would have been okay with mathilda leading, which was probably a big factor in why she passed the mantle onto clive. 

was she disappointed? i don’t think she was angry that she had to give up the command. she’s not an ambitious person for her own gain, and as long as the cause was something she supported, she found the liberation of zofia to be the most important thing here, not whether she was in charge of it. was she annoyed by the fact that this had to be the case because of established social norms? yeah, probably. but they had bigger fish to fry at the time, and she was content to do what she could. ( besides, it’s not like clive didn’t still kind of defer to her anyway, probably, at least in the beginning. )

#( i finally answered this question my guy #thank you as always #this was a long time coming haha ) #gradiivus #( ✉ ) #⊰ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ⊱ | shieldmaiden .

[alexfrostaegis]

Swordsmen of Hingashi

The xaela disembarked the Ul’dahn ship, beneath the clear azure sky. She gazed upon the looming shadow of the hostelry directly in front of her, the gil she had been paid to fend off pirates weighing in her purse. She took in the new and exotic sights, sounds and smells, wandering the streets only as an ijin could.

She stopped by a stall manned by a raen man, with no mere passing resemblance to her own father, he was a swordsmith who clearly took pride in his considerable skill. A blade caught her eye, a silvery titanium tachi with simple and elegant details, a white wrapped hilt and a fascinating curve to the blade, similar to the ones she had seen on the guardsmen on the streets. The man looked upon Alex with a tilted head and a wry smirk. He spoke in xaelic, “That one, is it?” catching Alex off guard. Lacking confidence to verbally answer the man, Alex cleared her throat and looked upon her gil. The man continued in xaelic “The blade is simple and strong, none of that folded shite here, a homogeneous tempered edge that will slice through steel like butter, if you’ve the arm for it. And, judging from the giant sword at your back, you do. The price is rather reasonable too, trust me.” Slightly off put by her own ear for the man’s words, she considered the price. She might never use the sword but it was, in a way, aesthetically pleasing and would make for an interesting conversation piece. Alex continued to make the rounds at the various food stalls, taking in the foreign cuisine. Savoring a meatball made of octopus, she was approached by a very ornery looking Hingan man, a sword at his hip. He spouted words, the precise meaning of which escaped her, but it was clear the man was insulting her in some way. The man’s dialect changed to common, he leaned in “Foreigner... your language burns my mouth! But you do not understand me otherwise, just like you do not understand our ways.” Alex, having stared down a dragon for the last roasted cutlet of dodo before, was unfazed by the by the man who could be no older than 30, yet seemed to be balding from the top. The man’s vein engorged in his forehead as his words seemingly fell on deaf ears. Alex flicked the stick at the man as she gulped down the last bite, setting the the plate on the bench before getting up, coming up the the man’s chest. Shooting him an apathetic look from mere ilms away, she started walking away. The man’s face contorted like a dragon’s anus, beat red with rage. Spitting a string of profanities at the Ishgardian, he went for his sword. A click and a feint rasp queued Alex to grasp her own sword, turning on her heel, she saw a man in red, brandishing a similar curved sword. They yelled back and forth to each other in a language Alex did not know, but got the gist of the conversation.

Quite fed up with the man, Alex shouted past the Sekiseigumi “Judicial Dual!” letting her Ishgardian completely hang out. The sekiseigumi looked back with horror as the towering samurai made a crude gesture with his free hand. The poor peace keeper began an explanation why such a thing cannot be done, only to be cut short by an older sekiseigumi wandering over, a lieutenant perhaps? His demeanor was much more relaxed, and he seemed to want to allow the duel to take place, giving Alex a thumbs up and saying in a thick Hingan accent “duel”. Wearing his patience thin, the sekiseigumi mediated the terms of the judicial duel, to be held publically near the sekiseigumi headquarters the 2 days from then, at high noon. This seemed odd to Alex, as judicial duels were a more intimate affair in Ishgard.

Alex regretted tieing herself in to spending 2 nights in Kugane, but decided to make the best of it. She asked other foreigners for recommendations for lodging, a particularly slick blond Ul’dahn representative recommending an inn with an outdoor hot springs bath. Spending the bulk of the afternoon, Alex searched for just such an establishment, eager to see what the fuss was all about. Finding such an inn, Alex inquired about their stabling possibilities, getting a confused look when she brought up large flying reptiles. Changing the subject she asked for directions to this much hyped bath. Having settled in, she made her way to the baths as instructed, eager to be cleansed of the grimes of sea voyage in plate harness. Opening the doors, the view of the setting sun over the sea was breathtaking, clouds of mist billowed over the side as crystal clear water practically called to her aches. Not wanting to be the voyeur, Alex purposefully focused her gaze on the pool about to step in as a deep mountain of a voice called out in common “Stop! no, you have to wash first.” Alex turned her head, confused, to a bald, red helsguard man sitting on top of a comparatively tiny stool. Alex could feel her icy blood rush to her cheeks and face entire, “Thall’s b- I’m so sorry, I must have the wrong- I didn’t mean to- I... !” covering her eyes and spinning around to the exit she rushed forward with her head down. The door had slid open the moment before. Crash. The wet stone floor gave up traction and Alex found herself intertwined with another Xaela woman. The dark skinned, black haired xaela had dark blue eyes with plum red limbal rings, the highlights in her hair matching. “You ok? ... Off.” she barked, about as deadpan as Alex typically would. Scrambling to her feet and pulling the xaela up, Alex looked about, seeing several men and women in the springs and washing up. “Clumsy much?” another xaelic speaker, a man, wryly commented. Her brother perhaps? Similar shades of blues and reds adorned him as well, his hair swept back and spiked up with highlights at the tips.

Alex had on occasion seen other au ra, but these two were likely closer to her ancestral heritage as she had ever come before. She let slip “apologies... new.” in xaelic, the woman replying “s’aright, didn’t hurt much. Wash m’back an’ we’ll call it even.” Obliging, Alex couldn’t help but to ask about the pair (not that pair, you perv), hearing about the Xaela tribes of the steppe, much of which she had already heard of but not as detailed or vivid as their account. The brother then remarked “So formal!” the sister adding “you don’t have to be so stiff.” The brother continued “Yeah, we’re just travelling. Looking to buy passage to Eorzea. I hear the women there are big an’ tall, kinda like you, but taller.” Alex confusedly looked at the sister, realizing that she was actually a few ilms shorter than herself. She offered to be a liason for the two, telling them how she was actually from Ishgard. They accepted. That night, thoughts of a sea of horizon and people who looked like her filled Alex’s head. She was anxious not of the duel, but of being around people whom had some ties to her ancestral home. She had always though of herself as Ishgardian, despite how she looked. She was not elezen, but Gelmorra, and Thordan’s sin were in her blood. She even gave into her pride as a knight and issued a formal duel at the drop of a hat. The only way she could have been more Ishgardian in that moment is if she was riding a chocobo and munching on knight’s bread.

The day of the duel came, Alex stood proudly in her Ishgardian harness, a sword about a fulm longer than herself at her back, and her arms crossed on a raised platform not unlike a stage. The sekisegumi that had intervened in the altercation rushed over as the crowd was gathering. “Frost-san, what do you think you are doing?” Alex yet again was confused. “The duel is to be conducted with similar weapons, I know for a fact that you own a tachi of some sort and that is the way it has been done for as long as I have been a member of the sekiseigumi.” Hurriedly, Alex was taken out of sight, stripped of her armour and lent some hakama, no-none daring to take the dame’s shirt off her back.

As the duel was about to begin in earnest, Alex’s opponent having appeared in similar dress to the sekiseigumi, but a darker red, she looked upon the crowd gathered. She saw the two xaela, slightly perturbed that their guide had gotten herself into a judicial duel. The Raen swordsmith was there also, looking pleased and confident, probably enthusiastic about his sword being used in a duel, the sort of stunt Alex’s own father would pull. A pair of men in strange black armour also caught Alex’s eye, they seemed Garlean of all things, but different. Her face turned red and she had to evert her eyes as the roegadyn’s face from the hot springs stared back at her from the crowd.

The Hingan swordsman who had shown up with his sword on his shoulder, now pointed his weapon at Alex and taunted “Now, ijin, I will send you back to your country with your ugly lizard tail between your legs! No hand but that of a true hingan samurai should touch a blade that elegant.” “Racist. Wait, he started a fight over a sword?!” Alex though to herself, looking to the swordsmith, whom was rather full of himself after that comment. Shaking hear head, Alex drew her sword and shouted in xaelic “Bring it on, dickhead!”, a few of the crowd sputtering a laugh, the sister burying her face as the brother smirked after having taught Alex that ‘traditional xaelic phrase’ the other day.

The sekiseigumi lieutenant gave the signal. The samurai rushed forward and took several arching swings at the xaela half his size, clearly putting his size and strength to use. Alex parried and blocked with relative comfort, herself possessing no small modicum of strength. Typically used to longer blades paired with shields, Alex struggled to get used to fighting with a tachi, it turned oddly in her hand and the tsuba seemed awfully small. Mimicking the samurai’s stance and movements, Alex was caught off-guard by a basic leg sweep, falling on her back as the samurai drove the katana downwards toward her. Twisting out of the way and onto her feet, Alex grasped the tachi with one hand, having let go to push off the floor. The samurai seized the imbalance of her stance again and slashed upwards in a huge arc, narrowly missing the seasoned gladiator-knight.

As the two continued to trade blows, slash, parry, repost, dodge, Alex grew more comfortable with the blade. The samurai was clearly measuring her reach, looking for an opening. Lifting the katana over his right shoulder, the hingan pulled his robe off his left shoulder, revealing his muscular, scar riddled arm. “You foreigners make light of our ways and traditions. Look upon the proof of my devotion and determination.” Alex, recognizing the tactic as intimidation, straightened out her posture. Pulling open her shirt, she began taking it off, not breaking eye contact with the samurai. His expression went from disdain to a realization, tinged with a hint of respect, as the xaela revealed a toned body with a number of sizable scars. Letting the shirt fall to the floor, Alex’s upper body was was bare for all to see, save for her halter supporting her breasts and protecting her modesty. Her skin was white like ice or compacted snow, slightly tinted towards a blue hue. Her arms had discernible shape and tone to them, as did her back and chest.

The spectacle of the duel was over, the two had recognized each other as warriors. The fight had begun. With careful and measured moves, the two circled each other, changing from guard to guard, trying to get the upper hand before the moment to strike was ripe. The samurai tried to provoke Alex, stepping forward and sharply shouting. No reaction, she wasn’t about to fall for that. He would have to commit. The samurai took a swing at Alex’s leg, a feint, he drew his attack upwards towards Alex’s head as she moved to parry. She dropped, to one knee, narrowly dodging the blade, beginning her counter attack. The blades clashed as they met in the middle of their paths, neither able to reach their target. They clashed again, as Alex regained her footing in an upright standing position. The samurai twisted his blade along Alex’s, forcing her to sidestep. With that same motion, the samurai swung back at Alex, whom parried his strike with a static block. A metallic snap. In one swift move, the samurai found himself pinned to the ground, as the xaela’s leg had appeared behind his, her body against his and the floor rushed to meet his back. He felt the titanium blade at his throat, looking down it’s length. Past it he saw a broken sword, a hilt with half a blade extending from it. Beside the blade at his throat was a heavily panting xaela woman, midnight coloured scales, and the faintest glimmer of blue eyes and pale limbal rings past her snow-white bangs. “I yeald” he uttered in hingan.