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bogbiter · 10 months

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League Concept: Bazelgeuse

Finally my own content hooorah!

So, for those who haven't caught on, I love creature/character design, I love Destiny, I love Monster Hunter, and I love League of Legend's world building. This culminated in one of my projects of fan champions inspired by monster hunter and destiny.

Before Bel’veth was even launched, I had grown uninterested in new champs because well riot was going through its shirtless hunk era and the sparkly faced whatever the fuck Lilia is era. And though I like Sett and I can appreciate Yone, they ultimately served the "Sex Sells" argument of champ design. All of this later culminated in the Ruined King event, which just... sucked. Viego was the biggest offender of that, and characters like Gwen really felt like cop-outs. I was excited for a living doll, and we got well...

Anyways alot of complaining I openly was unhappy with the newest designs and among mutuals at the time the main thing brought up is "monsters don't sell", people want to look at something pretty not something unfuckable. I found this concept absurd because I could list many times fiction depicting monsters in a non-scantily clad light took off. And so I created this mini project, inspired by the monster hunter caste.

The idea was to make monstrous champions, from lore to kit to aesthetic, interesting to the player, and engaging enough to revisit. And monster hunter to me, had honed that down. It's a game about hunting creatures that can take up to 40 minutes of just chipping away at fantastical megafauna, taking the kill, reveling in it!-

Than repeating because you need more parts but a good monster! Makes the returning fight still engaging. And one monster I especially loved was Bazelgeuse. A strong bombastic and cinematic theme, a massive hitbox. Literal explosions pouring out of it from bomb like scales... and that reverberating trilling roar was just... mwa! And as a fan of playing as the meaty bastards in top lane Like Volibear, Cho'Gath, Malphite, and Sion, I thought that for a tankier crowd-controlling bruiser we deserve the same spectacle up there!

And so here was my attempt: Kyridon, The Custodian of The Sands.

....

Not all who seek adventure are running from something. Not all who are sent for battle do so for a noble purpose or greater plan. No, some just wish to have their fun. Ever since time memorial, the Rocs were ancient wardens of the skies over Shurima and Targon, their presence usually inciting reverence and awe at their body crushing might. Even more terrifying was their power over flame, and when combined with their explosive dust that showered upon their foes from their feathers, oftentimes turned the earth below into a warzone no man is able to take head on. After the Rune Wars, their numbers waned, and they became a more elusive sight as the centuries carried on. They now patrolled the land as ever searching scavengers, often coming in to feast on the sun-bleached meals of travelers and beast below, occasionally hunting the weakened caravanners or outcast of Targon. Yet occasionally, a Roc might bring home trinkets they exchanged with the wiser nomads of the lands they patrolled, or Guardians who offered them some blessings for their travels. Kyridon, the chick of an eccentric literary collector, would wander to his mother's horde and read up on the epics of the races below. These tales, which told of the Ancient Ascended Rulers of Shurima or the Divine Aspects that protected Targon. His little mind was filled with dreams of great power. He wished to be revered for his might. Or, more simply put: "Look cool beating the shit out of someone."

As Kyridon grew, his form was something else to behold, far longer and more wyverian in design than the massive raptorial visage of his kin. The first sparking of a Roc is usually quite uneventful, as they shed their feathers, they slowly begin to shed the explosive scales their kin are known for, and frequently if was accidentally ignited by the emerging Flame sac the Roc possessed, it is usually but a surprising pop that is far more bark than bite. Kyridon, of course, was not so harmless. His ventral feathers on his neck and tail appeared to be braided, ending in feathered clumps that looked like a rosebud. He wasn't producing the explosive scales the rest of his clutch did, so his father, a venerated warrior, took it upon himself to try and teach his chick how to use their explosive arts. Shaking his body, the larger Roc jumped back, and letting out a blast of fire from his maw, ignited the ember- like cloud lingering on the ground, creating a fantastical explosion. Kyridon looked bewildered, and not wanting to disappoint did the same, but instead, the rose buds bloomed with a fiery glow and fell to the earth like a gourd. As he jumped back, he blew just a small flame onto them, and the explosion it produced threw him back and staggered his father. As the sand and smoke cleared, the crater left was far larger than what was typical of a Roc his age. His son was gifted, incredibly so. Along with his musculature, there was no doubt his son was meant to fight.

For the four years Kyridon lived under his parent's roost, every day, he was taken to train and hunt with his father and the others of his colony. He was their Desert Rose, a poster child for their little enclave where the mountains touched the desolate sands. Their praise, however, diluted his vision, and for all his stoicism, he had grown rebellious as well. With so much power, he wished to claim himself as The Roaming Tyrant of these lands. The Custodian of the Waste!"

It wasn't a gradual takeover either, Kyridon had all the subtlety of a firework's display. At first, he set his eyes to the raiders of the sands, those who followed the "Butcher of the Sands." In his mind, he believed himself to be starting an epic, starting with what he assumed to be the "Bad Guy." And at first, the little almost chortle like squawks he made before he did every attack was confusing, bewildering. Before the Rose Feathers began to pelt the earth, detonating on impact with the sands, throwing man, mount, and ground around. Then, the cries for war became more clear as he descended down to attack his foe- no... his prey.

He'd drop his explosive covering onto the earth, as if outlining a runway... Then he'd release an earth shattering bellow, before the beast crashed into the earth, setting his own explosive feathers off as he dragged himself across the ground. His foes were engulfed in flame, the sands polished into smooth glass. Standing up from the carnage he'd patrol around for survivors, eating whoever wasn't entirely scattered across the wastes, then take off once more.

Soon, his roar, his silhouette, his behavior spread across the land. Tales of the strange roc that dropped bombs upon his targets inspired fear upon those who had to trek the open, as they knew well how standing their ground made it easy for him to dive upon his victims. Yet if they were to run, they heard he would still pursue them, until they broke into cover, in which case they'd hear a cry of pure rage as the explosives would descend onto their shelter, as he flew off to find a better fight. And while at first Kyridon attacked those he knew to be the raiders on the outskirts of his colony's territories... he hungered for another chapter to his story.

He soared over the dunes, immediately working upon asserting himself as the apex of the land. He'd steal kills from the invasive void beast or the crocodilians and jackals of the dunes. His own explosives made for a great way to assert himself in any situation, as most would cower at the carnage raining down from above and the vibrations quaking the earth around them. For those who were perhaps too foolish, they'd be met with the beast landing before them, bill snapping, as it charged at them, Kyridon throwing his weight around with little finesse, focusing more on his brutish strength than any greater level of strategy. It, however, grew boring, it grew stale, they didn't tell stories of scavengers, they told stories of warriors and kings! So he began to survey the land, looking for a fight. After two days of searching, he found it, a scuffle between some desert trolls and shuriman nomads. But from so high up, it seemed like a battle of raiders against one another. Such barbarism had to be dealt with swiftly, and so Kyridon descended onto the battle, his explosive feathers dropping around them in a run by flight, as he soared over them yet again, casting his shadow over their terrified forms. Naturally, they raised their arms, and Kyridon dived for the kill.

The battle that ensued was violent, as the beast let off his explosions around them to create a ring for the brawl. He threw his weight around, dragging his head across the ground as he crashed into the crowd with the force of a comet. Smash into everyone, crash into everything, the reckless abandon befitting of kamikaze. Fire threw from his maw, as spell and blade pierced his side, the one leading the trolls throwing a javelin into his neck, Kyridon dropping more feathers from his neck and tail reflexively. He roared in the heat of the moment out of raw joy of the carnage he participated in, not knowing this peculiar below would be enough to light the fuse. As he turned his head to face the troll in charge of his own entourage, him and his opponent were enveloped in sand and flame. As the smoke subsided, he charged forward, hoping to meet his opponent, and instead found nothing but remains. He performed his usual, searching for something to scavenge on that was intact.

However, as he approached a wagon, having been tossed away due to the explosion, he heard coughing. He was snapped out of his foraging trance. He approached the wagon, tearing the fabric off, finding a human child, singed and with broken legs, the bone visible. Kyridon felt his heart sink. Why was there a child here... They looked so young, why didn't he smell them... Why did he attack then?! Heroes defended the innocent, stood for what's right, and legends favored the noble. He heard a whimper, not just from the child, but the female troll whose weapon was now lodged on the back of his neck. He looked around. Everything else was just charred, broken. His battle trance wavered, and he felt shame, knowing he had scarred this child and that the woman on the other side of the crater had perhaps lost something dear to her too. He spilt blood, and while he found it quite easy and fun, here it just felt... wrong. He was astronomically stronger than most of his opponents. He knew that. He didn't think for a second. That was his problem.

The damage was already done, but maybe he could bring them somewhere safer. He gently took both troll and child into his bill and took off, searching the lands for a village to properly bring them to. He flew faster than he ever had before, and as the sun faded behind the dunes and the moon took its place, he found a village fortified by intricately carved stone. But no matter how high it stood, he could simply glide over. He landed in the middle of a bustling market, mortifying all present. As they cowered in their structures, the guard rushing to aid them and drive away the Roc, Kyridon gently laid the two towns against a stall, before taking wing and leaving the market, fighting the urge to combat the guard who pelted him with arrow and bolt. As he soared across the desert, searching for a new place to roost, the sight of the broken boy and woman twisted something in his gut, and as he finally roosted atop a peak overlooking the dunes, he found no solace in resting, simply questioning what it was all for. Was he the hero of his story, or just a self-serving beast, diluted by grandeur.

He stalked the dunes silently now, searching for prey he deemed able to put up a fight, creatures that did not immediately fall to his attacks. However, it became a struggle in his turf, and thus, he had to go toward the "Great Sai," where the most dangerous beast of the desert sands lurked. He had been warned of the Great Worms of that land, and the Sand Sharks and Earth Swimmers, that they were not of this world, and that even the smallest fought with the ferocity of a Rok. But that's what Kyridon needed, a proper fight. As he soared over The Great Sai, it wasn't long to spot the tunnels made by his new prey. Dropping some of his heavier feathers onto the ground, he'd see the sand part as figures immediately swam in for the kill. Only to arrive just as the explosion set off, throwing those hidden by the dunes away and onto the surface, and thus attracting more prey. This, this was the fight he wanted, those who did not flee from the explosions! He roared out to the swarm of purple chitin layered beast below them, opening up their inky black maws to roar at him. He crashed into the earth, setting off more explosive feathers around him, as the swarm would pour over his form. He did not rest. He did not halt, he tackled swatches of the beast, setting off more explosions that slayed many but drew in even more. Fire scorched and bubbled the exposed flesh of his enemies, his bill chomping through their shells. As they lunged from below and tried to gut him, he'd lift himself into the air, crashing back down on the advancing tide, their bodies splintered and fractured. He did this many times over, scoring dozens of bodies out of it, like a gluttonous demon he'd feast on their bodies for weeks, before diving into the heart of the tide, wishing to partake in the cathartic slaughter of these beasts.

He eventually grew tired and stalked after the Great Void Worms, stealing their meals at first with a surprise assault from his run by explosive tactics. But soon, the beast learned of his tactics and tried to bring the fight to him. Such exciting concepts invigorated him, and he met their own savagery with his unparalleled eagerness to brawl. These fights were the stuff of legends, and many told of that same Bomber Roc tackling the whale sized beast of the sands, sealing their fate. The cries of his prey lingered on for minutes before falling silent, his own cry of victory ringing out across the Great Sai.

His feast was plentiful, subsidized by the invader beast and their caches, he ruled over the skies like some guardian beast. No longer did he pursue the Caravans and those passing under his guise. He was now the brilliance that ruled the dunes, The Custodian Of The Waste. And thus, it put him at odds with the Queen Beast of the Sands, Rek'Sai. Innumerable were their fights together, as he preyed upon her and her kin, and for years The Subterranean Queen and The Avian Tyrant dueled in the Sais, leaving craters in the earth, and tumbling stone monuments. Many let the beast fight, less they attract either the Warhead's Ire or the Queen's Wrath. Of course, the two were met in a stalemate, beings of raw power colliding for one goal: Domination. However, it was obvious Kyridon was undeniably controlling the numbers of Rek'Sai's kin, and so, drawn to the commotion, came a desert wanderer, violet eyes under indigo cloth standing out amidst the sands.

The Traveler wandered for a few days, walking among the skeletons of wildlife and void creatures alike, many embedded in the sides of deep craters. It didn't take long for the Sand Swimmers to grow interested in him, a few lunging forward in the sand to attack the strange nomad. He was unbothered by them. He knew once they got close enough, they could see what he truly was. But before they could, he felt his body tremble when he heard the roar of the one he came to greet. Diving down upon the Sand Swimmers, Kyridon didn't even bother with explosives, simply smashing into everyone, crashing into everything. The Traveler barely avoided the Roc as it tossed about a sand swimmer caught in its jaws, and to the nomad's surprise, the other sand swimmers abandoned their kin to be devoured on the spot. The Traveler hesitated for a bit before confronting the Roc.

"...Are you the Custodian of the Waste?"

The creature hesitated, stopping its crunching and tearing, looking back at him.

"What of it?"

Luckily for him, the creature was not one to immediately fire upon him, he continued to talk with the beast as it pulled its head back, its bill hook helping free softer flesh from muscle and ligaments. He peered into the being's thoughts, probing its mind with greater finesse.

"So- you used to soar all across Shurima, why did you stop in the Sais?"

"I was looking for fights... Just so happened it was... One Sided."

He was growing bored of the conversation, the Traveler could feel it, plus he was almost done with his meal, it wouldn't be long before he took off. The Traveler prepared for the worst, ready to cast a shield upon himself as he forced out his words.

"The Child and Woman, whose friends and family you butchered-"

And Immediately the beast turned to face him, his feathers rising as he stomped over to face the nomad, a fire brewing in the back of his throat. The Traveler had to continue, less a fight would ensue.

"They reside in a village, the same one you dropped them in, and it is under the protection of Xerath. But another, with an army made of the desert itself, is on the warpath, and the Village will not bow to a new king, and so they will be silenced. I came here, so you may quit the fight with the Voidborn, and bring it to someone who is actually endangering the Innocent."

The Roc stared for a bit, his gaze hard to read. He stomped over and as the mage called upon his shield, it saved him from being directly smashed into the earth by the tyrant's swinging head. Yet as they were thrown back into the Earth, Kyridon spread his wings and began to take to the air, looking down at the mage-

"So, youre saying there is a good war to fight?"

----

Kyridon traveled from the Sai and flew to the West, as he was carried by the drafts to gain a higher altitude, trying to find the village he left those two behind all those years ago. He spent three days on the wing, scouring the dusty plains for the fight. On the fourth day he saw a village, in the beginning throes of a siege, a man in the distance raising his hand, and the sands themselves formed into a legion of warriors that marched forward towards the village. This was no raiding party, this was a full out battle. He soared in lower, and could see siege equipment being pushed by men with jackal-like heads, and there in the frontlines, trying to push the Sand Soldiers back, was an older female troll, and a man with prosthetic legs. He for some reason felt his mind revert into a battle trace, as he furrowed his brow, gazing at the sand horde below, catching the attention of the sorcerer general, he then let out a warcry that he hadn't bellowed in sometime. The two at the frontlines looked up, their faces paling. They immediately began to tell their men to fall back past the walls, as rosebud-like feathers bloomed in the air as they fell to the floor, the jackal headed men looking confused.

Then the explosions rang off, as Sand Guardian after Sand Guardian returned to dust as their lines were blown apart. As the Jackal Headed men tried to retreat, they found only a searing heat met them from above, and for those who did not succumb to the flame, a crushing weight as Kyridon crashed head first through the earth. With momentum alone, he carved his way through the enemy lines before fixing himself up onto his back legs, roaring into the heavens as he charged forward, any poor soul trampled underfoot. Their searing blades meant nothing, the presence of his blood on the sand motivated him in ways he hadn't felt before. He threw his neck and tail haphazardly, letting them detonate once they made contact with any of the men surrounding him. His flame turned those closest to him into grains of glass, and those not scorched by the flame were charged at, helping detonate any of his explosives that weren't set off. The village looked on at the war-torn earth, and the one man army pushing the enemies' forces back. A spark returned to Kyridon that hadn't been felt in a long while, the spark of war, of might, what all true legends strive for! To be witnessed!

As the man who set upon this small legion to attack the village began to retreat, the Roc felt the need to pursue and grow stronger. He took to the skies, soaring faster than the man could run, as he trailed explosives behind him, making a runway straight for the coward's position. He began to dive again, his wings out as he barreled into the earth, his head raised and his mouth open to roar as he prepared himself to nab the man with his bill alone. As the explosions set off around him, he grew so close, so close to taking a bite out of the coward!- Only for a wall, one of shields and blades stronger than any stone met him head on, as the beast was thrown back, a massive explosion accompanying his collapse as the world began to dim. When he came to, he saw the village garrison looking on at him in fear and wonder. The Roc clamped his bill together, finding nothing. It audibly groaned as it dragged itself out of the crater, scorch marks everywhere. He flexed his wings, finding no permanent injuries on him. And the army he had been assaulting had disappeared without a trace. Yet that wasn't right. There had been flesh and blood he knew it that much. Unless, of course, their mages had helped them retreat. As soon as he realized what happened, he laughed hysterically. The thrill that fight brought him, the adrenaline! He took wing and soared out to find the man who gave him that brawl and finally finish it off. He wasn't done with this man of sand. He was a Roc on a mission: crashing his foe’s party.

Kyridon Kit:

His Passive is similar to Garren's old passive, where you do more damage to people who have a bounty on them, the theme being you're going after the best fights, and his kit is very explosive and offensive

Passive- The Warhead: Kyridon foes more damage to enemies with a bounty, and after takedown, gains a significant movement speed bonus and temporarily decreases ability cooldown.

Q-Fussilade Torp: Kyridon breathes out fire in a straight line in a straight trajectory, doing ap damage upon impact. Can detonate explosives if they make contact. Enemies marked with Q can be dashed into to knock them off the ground.

W- Piledriver: Kyridon charges forward, doing AD damage and pushing people back. Knocks enemies up into the air after being hit by Q, and impact with explosives will cause them to detonate.

E- Gravefall: Kyridon drops a set of interactive explosives in a given area, which, when detonated deal AD damage with AP afterburn. These can be triggered with Q or W.

R- Party Crasher: A chanelling ability, Kyridon flies overhead, dropping explosive feathers as to make a "Runway," which he then then crashes through the entire length of till reaching the end, creating explosions on both sides.

....

It's pretty obvious even when reading, and especially look at this raggedy ass doodle I did his inspirations

Visually he takes Inspiration from Bazelgeuse from Monster Hunter and Phoenix from Dota 2. This is done to add weight to his character and to add a feeling of luminous to him, as if he wishes to be the center of attention. And it helps make him stand out. He is heavy bodied with a massive tail, but instead is alit like a fire, with a sharp bill and robust wings that make him feel as though every scene he is in he captures everyone's awe. Or terror.

Also because Phoenix from Dota 2 is a comfort character and I wanted to make Kyridon a bird.

Kyridon might not be subtle, but he speaks like a Herculean hero. He is full of pride but also believes that for his legacy to live on, he must constantly punch above his weight class. He isn't looking to bully people weaker than him. He's looking to provoke someone stronger than him.

He is utterly violent and bombastic, but he uses his aggression to find higher purpose and praise. This is why he finds kinship with the concepts of self-made legends. People who raised above their station. To him, that is like the ideal dream and aspiration to hold to. Unfortunately, his tactics are pretty mid, and his intimidating bulk is what keeps him from being minced meat.

I am redoing the first one because he deserves it, and I have some destiny Inspired champions I can post here if that is anyone's cup o tea.

#league of legends oc #bogbiter #bazelgeuse #character concept

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aester · 2 years

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A look at RT from a fellow digital media employee

Oof, so RT scandal am I right?

I haven't been in the fandom since ~2018 but following all of this (and specifically the alleged workplace conditions) I thought I'd throw in my two cents as someone who grew up idolizing the company, has chosen to go into digital media because of them and now works in the industry (thankfully not for them).

This will be a long boi (organized into a tumblr-friendly numbered list) based on what I know of the industry in the US, both my own experiences(all thoughts and opinions are my own) & what I've seen of my peers' experiences.

This is also useful info for those interested in pursuing a career in studio-based anim, vfx & game design fields.

To throw in my own cred, I was a member of the RT (and specifically AH & AH art) community from about 2014 to 2018, Monty's work inspired me to pursue my own interests in digital media in a professional sense. I went to uni with my dream internship/job being RT (thankfully that didn't come true). Since then I've graduated and got a job within the industry. So, thanks to having a pretty nice sample of recent grads joining the industry as well as doing my own research on wages and positions before graduation in prep I wanted to take a look at some of the claims and numbers I've been seeing mentioned in this whole mess.

None of this is in defense of RT or in contempt of the ex-employees. RT is a company. People deserve other people's support against a corporation.

Starting with the most quantifiable thing: ✨wages✨. Digital media encompasses a variety of fields - animation, gamedev, vfx, ux etc. & salaries will vary based on both the location and the field that the job is in. From what I've seen among my peers, the avg pay for an entry-level position is about 50-60k for non-LA Bay area jobs(for those add ~ extra 10k from the cost of living). This is not counting additional pay such as overtime, relocation, severance(although I don't know a single person in the field with this condition), or bonuses. Adjusting to what I know of Texas industry salaries, I'd put a good starting industry salary for Austin at 40-50k a year (~20-~25 an hour). Motion Graphics and editing usually pay a bit less than 3D anim positions so the pay could be 5-10k lower than that, which would fucking suck when it comes to cost of living but still doesn't reach the 20k mentioned by Kdin.(20-40k for an LA-based position is just disturbing). Remember that digital media is considered a specialized occupation and generally requires a bachelor's degree (doesn't mean you HAVE to have one) to enter a field so that should be reflected in the salary.

Now onto the most unfortunate part of the industry: overtime (OT) is an industry standard. Everyone joining the industry knows that going in (at least coming out of college). The difference here is that companies should be open about the expected OT/month. My employer for example (all thoughts and opinions are still my own btw) was very clear on how much OT I'd have per month before signing a contract and I am compensated for it. Usually, those who don't get OT comped get higher starting pay. VFX (especially compositing dept) has infamously horrible conditions with insane levels of un-comped OT, crunch, low job security, burnout, and low wages but that at least is an open secret.

Crunch is not just overtime, crunch is sustained OT that exceeds usual expectations. It is more prevalent in studios that have to answer to a client & haven't heard that much about crunch from anim houses now that I think about it? if someone has more experience with serialized anim prod & conditions i'd love to hear from a more reliable source.

To address people's concerns about why certain people(current employees) don't speak up I've seen people bring up NDAs.A Non Disclosure Agreement covers sensitive & internal data (both company secrets and personal identifiable info). An NDA break can be litigated so it's obvious employees don't want to break it. That wouldn't be what is stopping people rn, commenting on this situation would probably fall under some sort of employment guideline. Digital media companies often have extensive guidelines as to what an employee can and cannot say about the company, things that happen in the company, the employees of the company, and other things like this. Now, a breach of guidelines wouldn't be a legal issue, it would just be breaking the contract and be grounds to either have some sort of action against the employee or termination of the contract. It's understandable why folks don't want to lose their jobs for speaking up but the "trouble" they'd get in wouldn't be as big as THE COURT.

I saw someone (don't remember who because of how much info has been coming out) mention offhand RT promising assistance with a work visa & not delivering on the promise & I wanted to quickly bring that up because of my own experiences with this. What they're talking about here is an H-1B lottery application(yes in order to get a work visa in the US you need to win a lottery). This is a process in which the employer(!) petitions the gov't for a non-immigrant work visa for a prospective (or current because these fuckers expire & you have to do the whole lottery all over) employee. There is a lot of documentation, applications, and fees involved, which is why few companies undertake trying to hire international employees. Those who do are at the scale where they have their own immigration attorneys and the H-1B application process is outsourced to a separate law firm. Financially I don't know enough int'l employees to give a blanket statement, but for me, the H-1B application cost was covered by the company and was written into the contract. The records for what companies entered the H-1B lottery are available online & I think like 3 years ago I remember seeing RT having 2-3 applications total?

Union efforts. I don't have a single acquaintance who works under a union in the industry because no one is unionized. I'm not saying RT shouldn't unionize, but their issues seem so far beyond what I've seen at any other company that it's not even comparable to some digital media startups I've seen.

Lastly, I wanted to bring up something extremely subjective when it comes to the field. Any sort of decision of staying or leaving a production company relies on the people you work with, the creative fulfillment, and the stability of your position. Unfortunately, the industry is full of short-term gig positions & project-based contractors. The projects you work on won't be yours, the length of you having a stable income is always up in the air, while the industry is mostly located in the most expensive cities in the country. It's a tough one.

So tldr; the overall digital media field is not peachy with its work conditions but holly fuck what the fuck RT.

And remember kids:

If a potential employer promises something, make sure it's stated in your contract~ otherwise, the promise carries no weight.

Always negotiate the terms of employment! You might not get a higher starting salary but you might get a bonus or some other benefit!

If you want to earn a lot of money in digital media become a tech artist or a rigger.

#rooster teeth #rt #achievement hunter #ah #dear lord i haven't used these tags for so long #rly brings me back to an oof simpler time #don't idolize companies kids it never ends well #digital media career tips i guess

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rx-05-29 · 9 months

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Kamen rider geats's final episode is airing soon. This will be my first completed tokusatsu show. Here are some unfiltered 3am thoughts. Spoilers if you care

I feel like someone should make some 2 hour video essay about what the show says about creators, their work, and fans.

Beroba and to an even greater extent kekera, are just fans who have their own twisted idea of what a Kamen rider is and being the V.I.Ps they get to influence the show runners. Kamen riders are lonely and miserable and they have to suffer to no end. I feel like this might be a real notion among some fans,(but I don't know shit about the JP kr community, so take this with a grain of salt) who ignore the hope and love for humanity that is present since the original in favor of their mark miller dark brooding hero guy. Our protagonists will probably always suffer at some point but they can be happy too dammit.

the exploitation of people's bodies and dreams, using their lives as entertainment, and disposing of them once they served their purpose. The main characters, who throughout the whole show have been pawns in this system, whose every weakness and vulnerability has been broadcast, rebel against the system and fight for the happiness of everyone.

Michi knew the system was bullshit from the start, but instead of fighting those who set up the game he blames the other riders for being selfish and using the system. I think subconsciously he knew he couldn't take on the system on his own, though if you told him that he might stomp off angrily and fight it right there and then. When the grand end was happening he was just kinda chilling on a roof. They are going to go on to exploit some other time in history but not here. He did what he could (or what he thought he could, which was mostly fighting) and there would be no more riders here. Of course that didn't pan out but you know. At least now, with the help of geats, actually See's a world beyond capitalism. Now if only the guy could find some happiness for himself. I don't even think that he thinks he deserves to be happy. Poor guy, you too can have a Little happiness. As a treat.

The villain's main idiolgy is that there is finite happiness in the world and to achieve your dreams you have to take away the happiness and the very dreams of others. Step on others and be number one, as long as you keep within the lines drawn in the sand. You can reach the clouds but you better stay in the cage. Geats excels within this cage, and without his mother as motivation he might have stayed locked up, but he destroys his chains (like in the opening! Wow symbolism) and the whole fucking cage with it. They had the whole will you choose destruction? But one final talk with little ol mama and the boy wants everyone to be happy forever and ever. Geats really is a Mama's boy.

Any way that was some unfiltered thoughts from my brain, I'ma sleep now and if I don't find a subbed version of the episode anywhere online when I wake up I will cry.

#kamen rider geats spoilers #kamen rider geats #kamen rider #kr geats #geats spoilers #buffa is best boy #i dont care how much he murders #he deserves a hug

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diznam · 1 year

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Do you mind if I ask your top 10 favorite characters (can be male or female) from all of the media that you loved (can be anime/manga, books, movies or tv series)? And why do you love them? Sorry if you've answered this question before.....Thanks....

Oh! Thank you for such a great and difficult question!

A looong text awaits heh (and I could certainly write even more!!)

I think I'll limit myself to only one character per fictional universe, and I'll only choose from internationally famous works to make it easier. I will surely forget someone and I will never be able to choose if I think it over for too long... So, without contemplating too much, and in no particular order (except for the first one), i'll go with this:

1. Dustfinger from Inkheart -- This man was probs my first fictional crush ever and my forever nostalgic number one. He's a morally gray character, deeply troubled, kind, selfish, painfully human, but also gorgeously magical. Oh, and fire loves him. Can’t beat it. Even though for children, Cornelia Funke writes and illustrates beautifully. If you haven’t read any books of hers, you should try one!

2. Fred and George Weasley (yes i'm sorry but I will write them as one unit) from Harry Potter -- Need I say more than that they make everyone laugh in times of darkness? As the youngest, and only daughter among numerous siblings, I relate a lot to Ginny, and really love these two - the ultimate big brothers.

3. Monkey D. Luffy from One Piece -- The perfect paradoxical mix of incredibly selfish but with a huge heart. Luffy just lifts everyones spirits, and he's so stupid, ambitious, and wholesome that you can’t not love him. As someone who has a hard time being impulsive and living in the now, I find him so terrific and almost inspiring.

4. Sokka from Avatar the Last Airbender -- Underrated character. I would've never claimed him as my favourite when I was little (especially since i was mad for Katara), but as an adult I’ve come to see just how fuckin awesome he really is. Like, he's funny, kind, relatable, smart, strong, brave and just an all around realistic character. Love. Also, I think I just automatically love all the kind big brothers that remind me of my own ones (♡)

5. Jace Herondale from The Mortal Instruments -- Could have just as well written Will Herondale here, but I’m not going to write two Herondales on the list (especially since they are VERY similar. Will is a book nerd tho, which is like the ultimate perk). Anyways, so, after Dustfinger, my second fictional love was Jace I think. Attractive, strong, sarcastic, troubled, kind, LOVING, and with such character development and ambition. Ya. Just so so good. I think I mostly focused on his hotness as a 13 y.o tho -.-

6. Peeta Mellark from The Hunger Games -- Honestly, I just love him because he shows how truly important and helpful kindness is. Loyalty, kindness and bravery - this man has them all. Plus he's a friggin baker and an artist. Like, come on, how lovely can you get??

7. John Watson from BBC's Sherlock -- Another example of a profoundly realistic character. I thought first about writing Sherlock's name, but I think I might actually love John more. He’s just so complex, but at the same time real simple. And surprisingly funny. Much, I attribute to Martin Freeman's amazing acting skills, but yeah, John's awesome.

8. Katsuki Bakugou from Boku no hero academia -- Honestly, I'm questioning myself putting him on this list, but I think he deserves a spot simply for the fact that his character development is So. Fucking. Good. Almost as good as Zuko's from atla. And he deserves a spot purely because surely the amount of fanfics I've read starring him must be telling me something.

9. Edward Elric from Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood -- Ah, okay, so once again an older sibling who is funny, strong, kind, brave, energetic, troubled, and who loves so painstakingly strongly (I'm starting to see a pattern here...). Idk, but I just really like him. And I felt like I had to include someone from Fmab because the show slaps.

10. Victoria Spring from Solitaire (and the Osemanverse in general) -- Honestly, Tori is just such a great character, because in all her melancholy, depression and numbness, you can still find so much to love about her when reading from her perspective. Also, shes an older sibling who adores and takes great care of her little siblings. I've struggled a lot with mental illness, and I can teally relate to both Tori and Charlie's problems. So finding that I can love these two characters so much despite all their issues, makes me realise that maybe I can like myself a little bit more too

THAT WAS TEN! I could easily write more, but I’m gonna stop myself now. Sorry if this was a lot longer than you expected, but I really liked this question.

Thank you for asking it! Hope you got what you wanted. Have a great day/night wherever you are :) <3

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mariacallous · 5 months

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youtube

Dear Friend of Ukraine, Today, December 29th, russia launched one of the biggest air attacks on Ukraine since the beginning of the war, sending a total of over 158 missiles and strike drones to Kyiv, Kharkiv, Lviv, Odesa, Zaporizhzhia, and Dnipro. Dozens of civilians have been killed and wounded, and the number is still rising. This is yet another attack on innocent lives, as russia continues to target civilian infrastructure in this merciless war.

Among the targeted buildings was a school in Lviv. What was once a place for learning and play now remains in rubble. This is the reality for children across Ukraine, who must spend their class time in shelters during air raid sirens.

As air raid sirens replace school bells and basement bomb shelters become makeshift classrooms, children in Ukraine lack a safe space for learning, playing, and growing. We at United Help Ukraine refuse to let this be their reality. We envisioned a classroom in a bomb shelter, where hope still thrives. United Help Ukraine teamed up with Deloitte to make a difference and transform repurposed bomb shelters into spaces of warmth, learning, and play. Thanks to the incredible support from our generous donors, we received all of the necessary supplies to fill 200 comfort boxes for preschool and elementary children. Each box, worth ~$300, contains cozy blankets, sensory toys, crayons, puzzles, and classic games to bring a sense of comfort and security in times of fear.

These comfort boxes arrived just in time for the school year, and are now being used in schools across Ukraine! Rather than associating bomb shelters with danger and fear, over 2000 children feel warmth and support, and can distract themselves from the realities of war.

Every child deserves a safe space to learn and flourish. Yet, for children in Ukraine, their reality is far from this ideal. It is felt even harder by the severely ill children who stay in hospitals, where they live, play, and learn. One of our recipients was the "School for Superheroes", a school for severely ill children who seek long-term medical care. They must live, study, and hide from air raids in shelters of the hospital. Your support has played a crucial role in transforming this situation, and together, we continue to provided solace and happiness to Ukrainian children affected by war. We are incredibly thankful for your support.

Your generosity powers critical programs like these – from humanitarian aid to medical support and defender initiatives. A donation today ensures we can continue saving lives and aiding the resilient people of Ukraine. Stand with the resilient people of Ukraine and make a difference in their lives with your year-end donation. Support United Help Ukraine and be a part of the positive change that helps build a brighter tomorrow for those facing adversity. Thank you for being a part of our mission to help people and save lives in Ukraine.

#Youtube

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marlborohq · 1 year

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INTRODUCING ... MAN IN BLACK.

UTP AS PORTRAYED BY UTP, PREFERRABLY AN FCOC / 35+, MUST BE MASC PRESENTING.

NARRATIVE

( cw: mentions of illegitimate children, sheltered childhood, religion. )

you wear black looking like death incarnate and yet you’ve always got a hymnal tucked into the side of your cheek. through all your wretchedness, you are still holy, from where you’re standing at least. after all no monster would ever deem itself as such, you are turned inside out, sure, but it is merely your nature. you were a thing thrown to the woods when the village that was supposed to raise you sensed the wrongness that settled in your marrow.

it is said village that would make you a monster in the first place. they worshipped the man you would learn to hate and that made you unworthy. your father counted you as a one-off only to be made a god among men, only had his followers known they had played their hand in making him unjust. your father becomes a holy man and all the while you are the standing relic of the man he was before he was elected into the pulpit. the dark eyed maim, the bastard. you are raised in a cage, not because you deserved it but because your mother had no other choice than to protect you from what resided beyond those gilded bars. in time, you would undo the lock, and further, you would learn to seize what lie just beyond reach of your confines.

you were fifteen the last you saw your father, he handed you a sliver of paper with numbers scribbled on it from which you could contact him and a singular polaroid with a tall woman and a child you’d mythicized. the same gift you’d received every year since you where seven but you were all the more grateful. your father may have secluded you in the thing he called love but he had given you one thing, a legacy in which you could pluck the seams and sew into something of your own creation.

CONNECTIONS

PRAIRE DOG / SUBJECT.

nothing more than an insect beneath your thumb, you only let him up to peel back his wings and peek at what lies beneath that brittle shell of his. always chittering about where he shouldn’t you know that there is much more to little PRAIRIE DOG the media has portrayed. cold and warm, you recognize that they are a sheep with a wolves eyes and mouth, primed for something good. the consults between you are short-lived but if you’ve gathered anything, it’s that PRAIRIE DOG may very well see you for what you truly are: a worshiper of self, leading all willing to bid your wishes toward an uncertain demise.

MOURNING DOVE. / ESTRANGED SIBLING.

a monster knows itself by marrow and others by blood. you know MOURNING DOVE by both even if you’ve only known them through the skim of photos your father spared you as a kindness. you’ve come to find your little monster, to unveil what you always have known to be true in an effort of many to restore what was so rightfully owed to you. its a double pleasure knowing that MOURNING DOVE sees you but does not know you as you do them, to know that the hand you play in this little game is the upper one.

GRAVE DIGGER. / WELL-KEPT SECRET.

always shifting in one way or the next, you happen upon the people of marlboro as a lesson in fluidity: an unforetold change in a town otherwise stuck where its founders had left it. they ask if they are too far gone to be healed and you look up to an empty sky and ask of the same. you both must be forgiven for the sins you are not yet to commit but know you are very well capable. it’s this same recognition that has kept you in the back pocket of the GRAVE DIGGER this long. they know what you’ve done, and you know what they came here for, it’s too bad you’re the one who will atone for it all.

THIS SKELETON IS OPEN.

#skeleton.#man in black.#open.#all.

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starlessea · 3 years

Text

𝙎𝙩𝙚𝙥 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙨 - Chapter 1. Is It A Bird?

A/N Make sure you read the prologue before, or this chapter might not make sense!

Series Masterlist: Step on the Gas

Summary: A dishonourable discharge from the military results in you being hauled off to live with your grandparents in the boonies, otherwise known as the middle of nowhere Georgia. After running over a nail on the road, and pushing your grandpa's vintage Camaro to the nearest auto-shop, you meet Daryl Dixon - the local mechanic. At some point, the world ends, but that stubborn man never gives you a chance to slow down. His smile gives you whiplash, but he still insists that you to step on the gas.

Words: 4869

Chapter Warnings: Language, Injury

You watched the bird fly from behind the clear glass, level with the top floors of the office building.

You followed it the best you could, walking the stretch of the room alongside it. The window was long and wide, filling the wall entirely. This whole section of the building was made of glass, and stood tall against the skyline — so that you could often see the flocks of birds that flew by.

Though, it wasn’t as tall as the ones closer to the inner city.

No, this was more of a dwarfed skyscraper.

You reached the end of the office, and placed your hands up against the cool glass as the bird continued onwards — leaving you behind. Below, the street seemed desolate, just as the sky now did. There wasn’t a single soul lurking down there — but you didn’t trust your eyes in the slightest. Especially not here.

You needed a better view. You needed a bird’s-eye view.

The fire escape steps were rickety, and metal flakes crumbled beneath your feet. They had rusted from the rain, and you tried not to think about how precariously they squeaked as you made your ascent to the roof. You’d done it before, but every time felt worse than the last.

You just couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d cave beneath you — and laugh their squeaky laughs as they sent you plummeting to the ground.

You reached the top, and felt the breeze on your cheek as you scaled the roof courtyard. Up here, everything seemed untouched. It always had done. This high up, people would look like mere ants — harmless, and far enough away that it didn’t matter if they weren’t.

The wind blew, and you stared out towards the building parallel to the corporate one you were currently standing on. It had been a hotel once. But now its roof held something far more valuable than deckchairs and a cocktail bar.

There she was, you smiled, and what a beauty indeed.

It was an army helicopter, sat perfectly still against the horizon — like a bird nesting. It was a camo green, but it didn’t camouflage against the greyish sky in the slightest. Though, it did seem like it belonged there; it was a hawk after all.

A Sikorsky Hawk, to be more specific.

You’d never flown her type before, but she’d been there ever since you first took refuge in the building, like an abandoned bird in an abandoned city. The army had been the first to flee, after all — or the first to die. Either way, the hawk had sat alone for nearly two months, teasing you.

You should have just stayed in Georgia.

It was only meant to be a weekend trip, but somehow you’d gotten stranded in Atlanta during the end of the world. You would have cursed your luck, but then again you were lucky enough to get stuck on the outskirts — only narrowly missing the bombs as they reigned down upon the city.

It was like a meteor shower. Except, instead of falling stars, it had been napalm.

You could remember it perfectly. First the power had gone out, then the water mains dried up, and finally the food whittled down to nothing. You’d hopped from building to building until you came across this corporate graveyard — which had enough supplies to keep you alive for a few weeks. But you should have just left Atlanta whilst you had the chance.

This tower had lulled you in with the promise of safety, but had kept you trapped there ever since.

Walking closer to the roof’s edge, you glanced along the building in the distance. You’d checked it a dozen times now — mapping out all of its exits to try and find a way inside. You had to be prepared. After all, it wasn’t like you could just wait until you got there. Your boot hit the fencing, and you felt the urge to peer over the railing at the alley below.

Don’t look down, you told yourself — but you always did.

A narrow sidestreet separated the office block from the hotel. There was a fence at one end, secured with a thick padlock, whilst the other was open. That would have been fine on its own; except, the biters had all stumbled into the alley as though it were a cattle cage — and couldn’t figure out how to leave once they were there.

Dumb fucks, you thought, watching them pile up against the gate as though it were a concert barrier.

Almost every day, you’d come to see that helicopter — separated by a channel of the undead, their heads bobbing like ripples on the surface of water — and every day you’d turn around and head back down the fire escape.

Your stomach gurgled, and you let out a sigh. The stale lunchroom cereal had recently run empty. You felt for your pistol in your back pocket — the one you’d managed to get a hold of during the initial outbreak.

Six bullets, you counted, before slipping it back into your jeans.

You smiled at the irony.

“Six!” you yelled at the man, placing your card face-up on the bar. “It’s my lucky number.”

Dixon knocked back his whiskey and grimaced as it went down. Joe’s was practically empty by now, but the man lingered about like the aftertaste of your drink — waiting for your shift to end.

“An’ why’s that?” he asked, not looking up from his own hand.

You smiled — the alcohol making you loose-lipped.

“It was your closing time. Six in the evening,” you explained, waiting for him to lay his last card. “But you still fixed up the Camaro anyway.”

Your fingertips rested along the hem of the jacket, feeling the worn leather. The air was stiflingly warm, but you kept it on. After all, it still smelled faintly of the man who’d given it to you.

Like whiskey and gasoline.

Atlanta had gone still and quiet, leaving you to your thoughts as you stood on that rooftop — trying to be brave. Military training was meant to beat that into a person, but maybe you’d gone soft since then. After all, you always preferred to stay above the action than be in the midst of it.

Six bullets, a Hawk, and a cattle grid filled with biters.

You laughed. Everything interesting always seemed to happen on a Tuesday.

Glancing over your shoulder at the bird once more, you tried to ignore the way your stomach dropped and your palms sweat. It was probably from the heat, you tried to tell yourself, but you knew better than that.

“I guess today’s the day,” you said, to no one in particular.

Then, you began to descend that rickety fire escape once again — because what goes up must always come down.

What you hadn’t realised, is that the same could be said for that Sikorsky Hawk, which spat you out of the sky like you didn’t deserve to be there.

When you finally came back around — after drifting in and out of consciousness for what felt like much too long — all you could smell was burning rubber.

That’s not good, you thought, as you blinked your eyes open.

Black smoke hung thick in the air, melding with the orange flames that flickered in the distance and caught the trees.

Those damn trees.

You hissed curses through your teeth as the pain finally kicked into gear — albeit a bit delayed. In your haziness, you’d barely realised how precarious your situation was. Like a puppet on a string, you dangled from the branches of a tall, leafless tree — caught by your parachute wires.

Your breaths were shallow and strained, and you slowly lifted a hand — the one not tangled in the cords — to feel your stomach.

Blood.

It was shrapnel from the crash. It stung like a bitch, and would probably need stitches. Well, it would if you could get down in the first place.

You glanced up at your other arm, eyes stinging from the brightness of the sky.

That doesn’t look right either, you grimaced.

It had gotten caught during the fall, and had twisted at an unnatural angle which only made you wince as you tried to free it. Like a marionette, if you plucked those wires ever so slightly, your whole body flailed.

The radios whirred below you, letting out a continuous note of high-pitched static as they caught alight. It reminded you of the screeching of wheels as they spun over tarmac — or something like that.

But, then you saw a man.

And the man saw you.

At first, you barely recognised him without his oil-stained work clothes — wrench in hand. But at the same time, he seemed to blend in perfectly with this new world. He had a crossbow slung over his back, and a rope of limp squirrels looped around his shoulder. A natural born hunter, indeed.

With numb toes, and blood rushing to your head, you called out to him hoarsely — hoping that he’d spot you perched among the trees.

“Dixon,” you spoke, and winced straight after.

Your voice didn’t even sound like your own.

Still, the man whipped around, and stared straight through you as though he were looking at a ghost.

“How’s it hanging?” you teased, and recognition flashed on his face.

It had taken him a while to cut you down, untwisting your limbs delicately from the cables. But once you were free, he carried you in his arms — like some trophy game from his hunting trip.

Then, he noticed the wound.

The mechanic looked down at you helplessly. He still hadn’t said a single word, but his eyes told you everything you needed to know. They rested on your hands — which were pressed down firmly to stop the bleeding — before trailing back up to your face.

He looked older than you remembered, and more hardened. And he didn’t view you with the same shy curiosity as before — you had noticed.

No. This was sadness.

You brought a hand up from your stomach and touched it to his cheek. He flinched at the contact, but didn’t pull away.

You could swear he even leaned into it.

His mousy stubble tickled your palm, and only then did you realise the bloody fingerprints you’d left behind on his skin. You let your head flop against the man’s chest, your ear pressed to his pounding heartbeat.

“Today really isn’t my day,” you murmured there, and he started walking.

You watched the sky the whole way back.

It looked so different from the sky in Atlanta. There were no hulking skyscrapers blocking it, nor fast food billboards that had begun to peel away. And there were far more birds flying by — the real kind, not any Sikorsky Hawks.

Dixon remained completely silent, except for when he’d occasionally remind you to keep pressure on that wound. He moved quickly, but he seemed lost in thought — lacking the usual bite you remembered.

He also seemed to have lost his words, you thought.

But then you reached a clearing.

You could hear the commotion before you saw it; there was some rustling behind the trees, accompanied by dry shouts and the clanging of metal. You glanced up at the man carrying you for answers, but he didn’t once look down.

Daryl stepped out into the open air, and squinted from the sunlight. You did the same, turning your head into his chest for some cover from it.

“Ya can drop yer weapons,” you heard him say.

Well, more like felt — since the vibrations rumbled against your cheek.

“Unless yer plannin’ on offing me with tha’ shovel,” he snapped.

There he was, you smiled, that was the Dixon you recognised.

You could feel his heart thumping as he spoke, and you had to coax yourself away to take a look at the scene for yourself.

A group of people holding spades, a bashed-in biter, and a mauled deer.

You laughed. Fucking Tuesdays.

Except, the laugh trailed off into a wheeze as the pain started up, and the blood poured.

Daryl quickly kicked into gear with urgency, and brushed off the group as they tried to ask their questions. “Someone best go get Merle off his lazy ass,” he yelled, “tell him his favourite helicopter pilot jus’ crash landed ‘ere.”

Your head snapped up at his words.

Merle Dixon, too? You weren’t sure you could handle them both.

Except, nobody moved to go and retrieve the older brother. Instead, a small asian man stepped forward — removing his baseball cap and wringing it in his hands.

“I can’t believe it,” he announced, eyes locked on you, “helicopter boy was telling the truth!”

You squinted at his words, trying to make sense of them amidst the heatstroke and blood loss.

But, you didn’t have to try for long. A second man stepped out from behind the frontline of people, also parting with his obnoxiously large hat as he did so. Except, this was no baseball cap; this was a damn country midwestern cowboy hat.

The badge in the centre of it caught the light and beamed it back directly into your eyes, making you cower away. The man shucked his hands into his pockets, and only then did you catch sight of him fully — clad in his King County Sheriff’s Department uniform .

Great, you sighed, letting your head flop back over Daryl’s arm. A fucking cop.

Dixon’s jaw clenched, too. You saw it above you — tensing.

“You come from Atlanta?” the officer questioned, “earlier today?”

That caught your attention. He’d been in Atlanta, too?

You definitely hadn’t seen any survivors on the flight over. But then again, it would’ve been nearly impossible to distinguish the dead from the living at that altitude. You swallowed thickly, and nodded.

“What happened to you?” he pressed.

The group’s chatter had died to a silence, and even Daryl seemed to await your answer.

“Engine failed,” you croaked, parched from a lack of water. “Couldn’t control the descent so I had to jump,” you cursed the last part, “too many trees.”

Then, you pinched Daryl’s arm lightly — feeling woozy from the sun. He nodded, and wordlessly stepped over the rotting corpse near his boot.

“You two know each other?” a voice interrupted, “and you just happened to find her?”

You didn’t like this man’s eyes; you hadn’t since you’d first caught a glimpse of them. He had dark, bouffant hair that seemed far too prim for the end of the world, and was wearing light cargo pants.

Then you noticed the dog tags hanging from his neck, and the combat boots which matched what you knew to be police-issued training gear.

Seriously, you thought, another one?

Daryl didn’t seem particularly fond of the guy, either, because he narrowed his eyes at him in the same way he did the biter at his feet. He looked as though he was considering ignoring him completely. And you couldn’t blame him.

It wasn’t like you were bleeding out, or anything.

“Was trackin’ tha’ deer,” he responded, toeing the dead animal with his boot. “Seen the bird go down an’ followed it.”

Daryl readjusted his grip on you, and you groaned from his heavy-handedness. But you didn’t miss his guilty expression.

After all, he probably tried to be gentle.

“An’ there she was, jus’ swingin’ from tha' tree like a big ol' piñata,” he finished — that southern drawl thick on his tongue.

You watched the other man’s jaw shift as though he were chewing on a bee, and spit at the ground like it had stung his mouth.

“You’re telling me that she crashed a damn helicopter in our backyard?” he barked, narrowing in on you with those sharp, dark eyes. “Drawing walkers from all over?”

Daryl shifted where he stood, making the leather of your jacket squeak as it rubbed together. You were beginning to feel like tinfoil in a microwave — cooking slowly in the sun as you waited for the men to finish brooding.

“Ya hear ‘nything?” the mechanic asked of the group, who turned away from his intense gaze one-by-one. “Din’t think so,” he spat, and you could practically hear his thoughts.

What a bunch of cowards.

“Was in the bow of the woods,” Daryl went on, eyeing the dark-haired man where he stood. “Land dips in at either side, like a noise tunnel.”

He paused, his eyes briefly flicking up to the sky as though seeing the scene once more.

“Only ones hearin’ it were the ones a’ready there.”

Daryl juggled you in his arms again, probably aching from the long trek, and seemed antsy to finally escape those heavy stares. But then, the man shook his head — as though remembering something.

“Now where’s my damn brother?” he growled.

And everyone’s eyes fell straight to the ground, like birds swooping down from the sky.

It would be an understatement to say that Daryl Dixon had exploded at the news.

He went nuclear.

If you hadn’t been in his arms at the time, you were certain that someone would’ve been on the receiving end of Daryl’s right hook. You’d seen it before, after all. That man wasn’t exactly one to pull his punches.

But, luckily, you had been there — crumpled in on yourself as the white hot pain also reached nuclear levels.

And so, you were ushered into a small, greyish tent that smelled faintly of oil and gasoline — and the unfortunate alcoholic stench of Merle Dixon — and stripped out of your jacket by a woman who tried her best to quell the bleeding.

But even then, you could still hear the storm raging outside the thin canvas material — the storm that went by the name of Dixon. He’d never shown that sort of temper around you before, so it came as a shock to see it brewing for yourself.

Yells competed with each other outside the tent walls, as a woman with short, greyish hair politely tended to your wounds — pretending she couldn’t hear anything at all.

But, you heard it and bolted upright, straight as an arrow.

Merle Dixon had been chained to a roof like a dog in Atlanta.

What fucking irony.

The smoking ban had loomed over rural Georgia for a while now, but it fell on the deaf ears of the regulars. They still smoked their thickly rolled cigars, and cheap cartons of cigarettes — clogging up the bar and your lungs every time you took a breath.

Dixon sat on the stool, watching as you wiped down the chestnut oak covered in sticky beer rings, and pulled new drinks for the impatient men twice your age. He was mulling over a particularly hard whiskey that day, but wouldn’t tell you the reason behind it.

So, you continued with your rounds until another man approached you, and took the only free seat beside the mechanic.

Big mistake, you smirked, and awaited his reaction.

Daryl Dixon shared barspace with no one - hence, the free seats on an otherwise crowded Friday night. Except, he did nothing but shoot the stranger a side-eyed glance, before returning to his whiskey that needed a top-up on ice.

The newcomer let his eyes slide down over you, in that sleazy way you’d become familiar with by now. He ran his tongue along the front of his teeth and tilted his head back in an exaggerated display of bravado.

And you snorted; you just couldn’t help it.

He scowled at you in response, as his gaze rested on the bare skin of your neck.

“Military dog,” he spat, despite your lack of tags, “where's yer collar?"

Beside him, the mechanic’s jaw clenched as he looked up from the ice melting in his glass.

You laughed. “Howdy, redneck, where’s your cousin?”

And Daryl choked on that same ice.

Surprisingly, the bitterness all but faded away from the unknown man’s face — as he seemed to take your comment in jest. He smirked, and wacked Daryl on the back forcefully as he hacked up his whiskey — yelling something about it being too damn expensive to go shooting out all over the bar.

You couldn’t understand the situation. You’d never seen Daryl act like that with anyone at Joe’s — let alone this particular breed of asshole.

“Feisty, jus’ how I like ‘em,” the stranger quipped back, sending a wink at you that lingered on your skin.

You pulled a face, and went back to wiping down the bar — careful not to lean over too much.

“Knock it off, Merle would’ya?” Daryl shot back, his voice rising in pitch over the name.

The other man — Merle — grinned, before clapping Daryl over the back once more. “No promises, lil’ brother,” he teased.

Then, he knocked back a drink you were certain he must’ve snuck in — because you sure as hell hadn’t poured it for him — and disappeared into the sea of drunkards playing pool and throwing darts haphazardly.

You froze, glancing over to the mechanic.

“That’s your brother? I’m so sorry-”

“Don’ worry ‘bout it,” he interrupted, before finishing his whiskey and handing you the empty glass. “Asshole deserved it.”

Back then, you saw no resemblance between Daryl and Merle Dixon — but, families always had a strange hold over a person. After all, that was the reason why you’d gotten shipped off to Georgia in the first place; your parents had swept you under the rug like a bad kept secret — simply to try and keep up appearances.

You’d followed your brother into the military, only for it to spit you back out and leave a bad taste in everyone’s mouths afterwards.

The tent door unzipped, and flapped as it caught the evening breeze.

Daryl entered like a hurricane, startling the woman — Carol — as she tended to you. He was followed by an entourage of curious faces who watched as he toed his boots off, and kicked them to the side.

“All of ya best get out,” he grumbled, as he peeled off his leather vest and set it down next to you — his eyes focused on your white shirt that had since been dyed red.

The group seemed to register his words, but no one made the move to leave.

The man let out a frustrated grunt, before fumbling with the small first-aid box near your feet. “Need to give ‘er stitches, an’ I ain’t need no one breathin’ down my neck,” he said, scowling down at the supplies.

You swallowed thickly, that didn’t sound very convincing.

A blonde woman near the tent entrance seemed to think the same, because she chirped up.

“You know how to do that?” she questioned — braver than any of the men who stood in stunned silence.

Daryl’s jaw set. “Y’ain’t believe me?” he bit back. “Think ‘m only good for spittin’ on the ground an’ feedin’ ya damn squirrels?”

The same woman recoiled at his words, and you sighed.

Always had a bark much worse than his bite, that one.

But then the man reached over for the hem of your shirt and you just froze — before slapping his hand away. He also recoiled with the same, exaggerated movements, and scowled at you as though your touch had burnt him.

You wanted to trust him, but part of you just couldn’t.

Daryl must’ve caught the look in your eyes — and recognised it for himself — because he sighed and shook his head, and glanced over at the women nearby.

“Anyone else know how to give stitches ‘round ‘ere?” he demanded, but the majority shook their heads.

All except one.

“I think I-” Carol piped up, before a burly man shot her a look so boldly threatening that it even made you flinch.

The woman paused over her words, before eventually shaking her head.

“I don’t. I’m sorry,” she mumbled, timidly, before that same man slipped his hand in hers and pulled her away.

You recognised that look, too.

And so the rest of the stragglers disappeared from the tent one-by-one, until only you and Daryl remained — deadlocked.

“C’mon, Camaro, quit yer bitchin’,” he coaxed, his voice more soft now that it was just the two of you. “Unless ya wanna bleed out o’er my tent.”

He had the needle and thread all prepared between his fingers, waiting for your permission.

You sighed. “You used to be a lot nicer, you know that?” you remarked, thinking back to the Dixon who shyly smoked cigarettes on that cliff’s edge, watching you like you were brighter than the stars.

You had noticed.

Then, you lifted up your shirt with your trembling hand, as he pressed onto your skin with his steady one.

And so Daryl gave you stitches — filling you up on Merle’s stash of whiskey to dull the pain — and muttering how, despite his work not being pretty, it’d be functional. You didn’t question how he’d come to learn how to sew butterfly stitches in the first place, thinking it best not to ask, nor did you comment on how gentle he wiped away the blood.

Always a man of his word, Daryl Dixon’s stitches were definitely not pretty.

But, to you, they looked like constellations.

He’d made it clear how lucky you’d been that it was only a surface injury; if it were anything deeper, he wouldn’t have been able to patch you up. It was probably thanks to that thick jacket that you’d managed to walk away from the crash mostly unscathed.

You’d seen him eyeing it occasionally as he worked, glancing over at the bloody leather that stained his tent floor.

Like hell would you be giving it back.

After that, he’d also managed to sneak Carol back inside — away from who you could only guess to be her husband. She’d told you that your arm wasn’t broken, but in fact dislocated, and helped set it back into place as your eyes stung with salt tears.

But you couldn’t complain.

After all, they’d tried to put you back together like humpty dumpty after your crash — albeit with staples and scotch tape.

Though, as soon as you were out of the woods and in the clear, Daryl pulled his boots back on and collected his things impatiently — not even sparing you a second glance.

“Where are you going?” you asked quietly, afraid of the answer.

Your words left your mouth a bit slurred from the medical-whiskey concoction, but he only pretended not to hear them.

You asked again, until he finally responded. “‘M goin’ to get my damn brother back, where’d ya think?” he answered, frustration laced in his voice.

He stuffed a few things into his rucksack, before slinging it over his shoulder.

“Careful, Dixon,” you cautioned, “you have a habit of finding yourself in a mess when you let your temper get the best of you.”

The man scoffed, and made a point of looking you up and down — calling you hypocritical with his eyes alone.

“Don’ act like ya know me tha’ well,” he growled, startling you with his tone.

But, you couldn’t blame him for his words.

After all, you’d spent more time apart than you had together.

The man sighed. “Gotta go get Merle,” he reasoned, more carefully this time.

He flickered open the tent, and let in the sky. It was not yet black, but a burnt orange, as though preparing to be set alight with stars. It reminded you of those evenings you’d get to close up early, and walk past a certain auto-shop that still had its amber lights turned on, and its door wide open.

And the former mechanic started walking away, leaving you behind out on the sidewalk.

“Daryl-” you called after him.

The word spilled from your mouth like beer overflowing from a glass — pouring over before you could stop it.

He glanced back immediately.

You never called him that.

Even though you knew his name from other people’s tongues, he’d always been Dixon — ever since the moment you read it on his shoddy name-tag. Not once during the month you’d spent with him had you called him Daryl.

Not until now.

“It’s getting dark out,” you whispered, even though the sky was still clearly orange.

You swallowed the dryness from your throat — and with it, your pride.

“Please stay? Until morning?”

Dixon looked back at you, swaddled in one of his clean shirts that he’d buttoned up himself — making you look so small.

And he sighed. He always was the worst liar of them all.

“Jus’ ‘til mornin’,” he repeated, trudging back to that grey tent.

Then, he took a seat beside you, his knees knocking against yours. But you tried to fight against your smile, and racing heart that pounded deep in your chest.

Because what goes up must always come down.

Feedback is always welcomed; I love hearing what you all think - so feel free to comment, send in an ask, or just message me if you want to chat!

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A/N Boom. The series has officially been kicked off. Did you like seeing the parallels between Daryl’s POV in the prologue and the reader’s? I really hope you all enjoyed it - please let me know what you think :)

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deascheck · 3 years

Text

Sam Winchester's Love

Summary: You are in a relationship with Sam Winchester. You don’t feel deserving of his love as your depression causes you to sink into a deep rut. Sam does some research about depression and responds to your lapse in happiness with a gentle approach that ends with him showing you just how much he loves you.

Word Count: 2906

Warnings: talk of depression and suicide/death, angst, and all the fluff with some smut added in there.

A/N: First- I’ve never written smut before. So be nice! Second, I struggle with depression and anxiety, and wanted to write a fic that expresses what would help me (or hopefully anyone struggling as well) feel appreciated when I’m low. I bolded symptoms of depression to help people see what it feels like to have depression. These are not the only symptoms. If you identify with one or more of the symptoms, I encourage you to reach out to someone and start a conversation. It could be a complete stranger or a loved one. (I'm always a listening ear, too!) Whatever you’re most comfortable with. All “Google results” are from my own google search. The crisis text line is a real resource for you to use, if you find yourself in a mental health crisis.

Also tagging a couple people who might like to read. Sorry if that's overstepping! @winchester09 @that-one-gay-girl @supernatural-harrypotter7 @winchest09

The one good thing about living in a bunker was that there were no windows. Your room that you shared with Sam Winchester was no different. It meant no morning sun could wake you up, and you could keep the room as dark and cool as you wanted to. And on this particular morning, your depression had you keeping the room as dark as you possibly could.

You knew the boys would be wondering where you were, since it was 10:30, and you were always up by 8:00. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You couldn’t move, you couldn’t get dressed, brush your teeth or hair, or even get your legs swung over the edge of the bed. You were so emotionless that you couldn’t even cry. You simply didn’t care. Nothing felt important to you. You had no motivation to do anything except lie there in the gloom, curled around yourself, stuck in this dark rut.

You had no idea how much time had passed while you stayed there, motionless, until Sam came in, knocking softly as he opened the door. Your eyes glanced over to him and you could see the surprise and concern on his face at discovering your lack of activity.

“Y/N? Love, what are you still doing in bed? It’s 2:00 in the afternoon.”

You sighed. “I don’t care,” you said softly. “Nothing matters to me right now. I wish I would die. Then I wouldn’t be a burden to anyone anymore. No one would miss me.”

Sam knew you struggled with depression, but in the short time you’d been together, he had yet to see a truly deep depressive episode. It scared him, and he replied, “What? Y/N, I would miss you! You’re scaring me.”

You moved your head marginally to be able to look at him for real, and asked, “Would you let me be? I just need to be alone.” Your tone was expressionless, and it freaked Sam out.

He nodded and slowly and quietly closed the door. Once the door was latched firmly, Sam beelined for his laptop. He’d be damned if he was going to let you suffer alone and in silence.

Opening his computer, he typed in “symptoms of depression”. Among the results were, “fatigue, sleeping too much or too little, feelings of worthlessness or hopelessness, loss of interest in activities that once brought pleasure, appetite loss, feelings of sadness, loneliness, or ‘empty’ feelings, thoughts of suicide or death”. His eyes widened. You met every single one of those criteria for identifying depression.

Determined to help, he next googled “how to help someone with depression”. The answers ranged from helping the loved one cope, to opening a conversation with the loved one and getting them to talk about their feelings. Asking questions such as “What caused you to start feeling like this? How can I help you right now?” Stating things like, “You’re important to me. Your life is important to me,” or “You’re not alone, I’m here for you.”

One resource he found as he researched fervently was the crisis text line. It was a number (741-741) someone could text and speak to a certified individual about whatever their crisis was. Sam noted that in the back of his mind as something to bring up to you.

Sam nodded as he read. He knew he could do all these things. His biggest goal for you was for you to feel supported and loved. Seeing you in the state you were in concerned him and it had almost sent him in a tailspin of worry. But he would remain strong for you. You needed Sam to lean on if you were going to get up to see the light.

Sam noticed Dean wander in and motioned him over.

“Hey, I gotta talk to you about Y/N. She’s in a really bad depressive episode. She said she wanted to die.” Sam’s heart rate sped up with fear just saying those words. He swallowed and continued. “I’ve been looking up depression online and I think I know how to help her. But I could use your help.”

Dean quickly responded, “So that’s why she’s still in your room. Of course. What do you need?”

Sam answered, “I’m going to have a conversation with her and see if I can’t convince her to get out of bed. Actually, once we finish talking, I’m going to carry her out if she won’t walk. But I want to give her some ideas of simple things we could do as a group that would help her snap back to us.”

Dean nodded in agreement. “I think you’re on the right track. I dated a girl for like, a week, years ago who had depression, and getting outside really helped her she said. Maybe we could go on a walk with her down to the lake. Or hell, even loop around the bunker’s perimeter a few times.”

“That’s a good idea. I was also thinking something easier, like a movie night squished between us - something to show her she’s loved and not alone. Or maybe making dinner with us, so that she’s up and about but doesn’t really have to do much.” Sam ran his hand through his hair as he thought out loud.

Dean grinned. “Oh we’d show her she’s loved. She’s like my sister. She’s not going anywhere.”

His grin faded. “Hey, what if we took her on an easy hunt? Tried to get her back in the swing of things? Maybe it would distract her from the depression.”

Sam shook his head thoughtfully. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. She said she wanted to die, which makes me think that she might do something stupid on the hunt, like try to get killed. Or even just make a stupid mistake because her head isn’t in the game. No, I don’t think a hunt is the right option for her right now.”

“Of course. Duh. I should have known that,” Dean rolled his eyes in exasperation at his cluelessness. ‘I wouldn’t want to put Y/N in danger.”

Sam sighed. “Well, we’ve got some ideas. Let me go talk to her and see what I can get her to do. We’ll be out in a bit one way or another.”

Dean nodded and headed to the kitchen to grab a bite and some coffee before doing his own research on your debilitating ailment.

----

You still hadn’t moved since Sam had come into the room. Your mind felt empty, like everything had been drained from it. You just lay there quietly, waiting for nothing.

The door opened slowly, and Sam silently came in, shutting the door behind him. He didn’t say a word, just got in the bed with you and wrapped you up in his arms to hold you close. Your back against his chest, he tried to shelter you with his body, as if he could protect you from the dark thoughts. Sam wanted you to feel his love first before he tried to say anything. The two of you stayed like that for several minutes, the only sound in the room was the sound of two humans breathing softly. You hadn’t even known, but his touch was what you’d been needing. You soaked in the moment, grateful Sam was giving you space before speaking.

“Y/N?” Sam kissed the nook between your shoulder and your neck. “I want you to know you’re not alone. I’m here for you every step of the way.”

You didn’t respond, but it created the first semblance of emotion you’d felt all day. You could feel your eyes start to well up, not understanding how he knew exactly what to say to you.

“I don’t know what triggered your episode, but I think it would help if you talked it through with someone. It doesn’t even have to be me. You could text the crisis help line, and speak to someone through that. What do you think about that?” You could hear the hesitation in Sam’s voice, as though if he spoke too loudly or firmly he’d break you.

Sighing once again, you summoned the motivation to speak. “If I talk to anyone, I’d like it to be you.”

You could feel the smile on his lips as he again kissed you.

You drew in a shaky breath and decided to describe to him how you were feeling. You told him in a whisper about how you had no motivation, no gumption to do anything. How you felt worthless and unlovable. You told him how you felt he’d be better off if you just died so you weren’t a burden anymore and how you couldn’t bring yourself to care about anything today. As you spoke of your symptoms and feelings, you could feel a couple warm tears dripping into the crook of your neck and shoulder.

Once you finished, you felt Sam take a couple steadying breaths, clearly attempting to get himself together. “My love, I’m so sorry you’re going through this. If I could take this all away I would. But I’m here. I can share the weight of your burden. You mean the world to me. You are the farthest thing from a burden on me. You are the shining light in my life, guiding me and loving me. You have given me a reason to fight on. You are what I hold on to in my dark moments.” Here Sam paused, unsure whether he was overwhelming you or even getting through to you.

You turned in his arms so that your chest was facing his, your arms pressed against his chest as you brought your head to tuck under his. “Sam, I can’t tell you how much that helped me,” you said softly.

Sam took that as a cue and gently unwrapped one of his arms from your back and brought your head up to his. Tenderly, he pressed his lips to yours, sending you the message “I love you”. You allowed yourself to respond, capturing his lips with yours. Your kiss was sending the message, “Thank you.”

The two of you kissed delicately for a minute before your body began to respond. You pressed your mouth more firmly against his and adjusted your body to press closer against Sam’s. You brought one hand up and began to run it through Sam’s hair, something you knew he was crazy for. As the kiss began to become more passionate, you grabbed Sam’s hair at the roots and gently pulled, letting him know it was ok to take this a step further. He moaned a little against your mouth at the feeling of his hair being tugged on and involuntarily ground his hips into yours.

You automatically responded by thrusting your hips back against his. Sam broke the kiss long enough to look at you with an unspoken question in his eyes. You nodded, understanding his desire to show you just how much he loved you. Sam rolled you onto your back before resuming the kiss, running his tongue along your bottom lip, lazily requesting access to your mouth. You granted it, and began to explore his mouth with your own as if it were your first kiss. You could feel Sam slowly grinding against you, not rushing, but clearly feeling the need for some friction. His erection was bumping against your abdomen, and both of your breathing began to get shorter and heavier.

Not breaking the kiss, Sam lifted himself up on one arm and began pulling your nightshirt over your head. You allowed your lips to leave his only long enough to get the shirt out of the way and immediately brought your mouth to Sam’s again. His free hand roamed across your stomach, tracing lines in circles and random shapes as he made his way up to your breasts. Your breathing hitching, you moaned into the kiss as he began to massage your breast, pinching your hardened nipple. Your hips began to grind back against Sam’s, now also needing friction. Your arousal was beginning to pool between your legs, and you weren’t wearing panties.

Sam began to move his kisses down your jawline and to your neck, where he sucked through his teeth, determined to leave his mark on you. You cocked your neck to the side to allow him full access but he was already moving lower, taking your nipple in his mouth and swirling his tongue around it, sucking on it. He pulled off it with a pop, and moved to the next one. Sam then continued to work his way down your body, kissing every inch of your stomach, navel, and down to your inner thighs. You shuddered, his lips so close to your slick folds. Sam smiled against your leg. “You like that, sweetheart?” All you could do was whimper in response as you ground your hips desperately. “Ok,” he murmured. “Ok, love. Let me show you how much I love you.”

Sam ran his tongue between your folds and immediately you felt the tightness in your core begin. He knew every sensitive spot, every place to make you writhe in ecstasy. He sucked on your clit and slowly stuck a finger in your hole. You threw your head back, eager for him to insert another, which he obliged. He bent them and ran them against your walls, curling and pumping. Your juices squelched a bit, letting Sam know just how ready for him you were. He continued to run his tongue in swirls around your clit and through your folds as he finger fucked you. The tightness in your core becoming unbearable, you could feel your release coming. You moaned loudly and stuttered, “S-Sam, I’m gon-gonna…”

“Cum for me baby. Come on, that’s it. Good girl,” he praised as your orgasm exploded, pleasure coursing through your body, your pussy clenching around his fingers over and over again as he rode you through it.

You lay limp against the sheets, unable to form words. Sam looked up at you and chuckled. He slowly brought himself up along your body to recapture your lips with his, putting all his love and passion into the kiss. “Now do you know how much I love you?” he asked. You smirked. You could feel his erection pressed between your bodies. You wanted to feel him deep inside you, filling you, satisfying you. “Mmm I’m beginning to,” you murmured. “I might need you to show me more.” Sam smirked back at you and said, “As you wish, my love.”

He lined himself up at your entrance, rubbing his cock in your juices. Slowly, he pushed in, letting you adjust as he went. That was one thing you loved about him. Sam never rushed your body. He worshipped it. Once he was fully sheathed, he pulled halfway out, and slowly thrust back in, creating a slow, lazy pace that made you two feel like you had all the time in the world. As he thrust, he grabbed one of your legs, and put it over his shoulder, giving him a new angle, to get him deeper.

You moaned and your pussy clenched around his cock as he hit places that gave you waves of pleasure. He groaned as you clenched around him and sped up his pace, his balls slapping against your skin. Sam took his free hand and started rubbing your clit again, trying to help you get to your climax. His other hand held your hip in place as his pace picked up even more, almost becoming erratic as he got close to his release. You threw your head back again as you felt the familiar tightness building in your core. “Oh don’t stop. Oh Sam. Oh my god. Don’t .. don’t… ahhh!!” You came loudly and harder than last time, your back arching and your pussy milking Sam’s cock for all it was worth. Sam grunted - he couldn’t handle it, the tightness, the pulsing - and released inside you, jerking his hips, spurts of cum coating your walls.

Sam gently pulled out of you, his cum dripping from between your legs. He got up and grabbed a towel from the closet and quietly cleaned you up, careful to not be too rough. You lay there in heaven, a stupid smile on your face, unsure if you’d even be able to walk the next day. Sam crawled back into bed with you and gathered you in his arms. He pressed a soft kiss to your temple and said, “Do you believe me now? How much I love you?”

You smiled adoringly at him and whispered, “Yes, I do.”

Sam grinned. “Good. Because we have an activity outside the room that we’re going to do. And you need to be clothed for it.” He winked at you cheekily. “Dean and I were talking, and we brainstormed something the three of us could do that would help you feel less alone. So, let’s get UP,” he rolled you on top of him and then over him to get you to the side of the bed. “And dressed, and then we’ll go meet Dean.”

You smiled again at him, and good-naturedly shook your head as you got dressed. The darkness was gone for now. You knew it would be back, but you had ammunition to combat it the next time it came a-knocking. Sam Winchester’s love.

#supernatural #supernatural smut #supernatural fan fic #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester #spn fic #deascheck

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sp00kworm · 3 years

Text

Silence (Part 3- Bloodhound’s Ending)

Part 1 - A Bar Brawl

Part 2 - A Totem to Remember (Revenant’s Ending)

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Pairing: Bloodhound x Gender Neutral Reader

Warnings: None

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The Star Goddess - Bloodhound’s Ending

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Bloodhound had done well in the games recently. Keen eyes with even keener tactics had proven their worth countless times, in countless line-ups. They had a good number of wins under their belt and you assumed that meant lots of winnings. The customers had quickly become fans, and often you found them asking you about the mysterious champion and to put on the highlights for the latest match. You were always happy to put the highlights on for them when asked, and you enjoyed watching the expert tracking from Bloodhound on the screen. A few weeks of highlights made you wonder if Bloodhound would ever come back to your little bar in the outskirts of the city.

A chirp from over your shoulder paused you in your humming. The washing robot chirped again as you looked at it and watched the screen as it flashed with a winking emoji and a smirk before red text scrolled along the bottom.

‘WASHING COMPLETED!’

You smiled and nodded, “Okay buddy.” You patted his front, “Did you manage to put them all away?” You asked.

The robot chirped with a nod, his green optics flashing before he held out a tub of the shot glasses for you to take.

“I’ll put them away, no problem. Thank you.” You took the box with a smile and moved back towards the cabinet to put all the freshly washed glasses back in their proper homes. You blew dust from the shelves and tutted before taking a duster and wiping the shelves down with quick strokes towards you, removing the thin layer of dust over the wood. It was much tidier with a dusting. After placing the duster away you started putting away the glasses in their correct places.

You jumped when there was a knock at the front door. It was just before closing, but there wasn’t anyone in the bar, so you’d already gotten to cleaning up for the night. Another few knocks sounded against the metal and you placed the tub of glassware down before you headed over to the door and opened it a small amount.

A man stood in front of you, dressed in heavy pelts with a smile like a bears snarl. He gave a great laugh at you before pulling back his hood to reveal his bright white hair and beard, “It’s been long, krútt!” He raised his arms jovially before heaving his packs a little higher and pulling his hover-sledge a little.

“It has been a long, long time, Halldór.” You replied with a laugh as you let the traveller into the bar, “How has business been?” You asked as you helped him tuck his sledge in the corner by the door.

“Pah. What business?!” Halldór sneered as his icy eyes trained on the bar, “But you have had a makeover! Look you even have…what is name? Holovision!” He clapped his hands together before he tugged free his furs and hung them over the hooks by the door, “Did you get loan?”

“Nothing like that…” You shrugged, “Some asshole came in here and started…well…” You grumbled, “A man died in here and I got a lot of hush money.” The confession was like poison and bitter in your mouth and you unhooked the bar door before closing it and facing Halldór.

“Hush money. Not good to get involved with those sorts…even after the war.” He tutted in disappointment, “But, I suppose the money went to good use.” He didn’t ask anymore questions, and you were glad, for both of your sakes. You knew that the Games would not be too happy with more people knowing about the murder. It was best left in the past, and that was where you would rather it stay forever. Just the thought of Revenant’s orange gaze made you grimace.

Halldór sat himself at the bar and smiled, “Come, come. Let me tell you about the Outlands! There are new faces and new stories to be heard.”

“How about we get to that after you show me what insane drinks you’ve brought.” You laughed as you reached for some glasses and placed them in front of the Outlander.

Halldór scrubbed his hair back from his face and stood with a groan, hobbling tiredly, and dramatically, over to his sledge to take out items from the sacks laid across the metal structure. The sacks were large but Halldór reached into each of them in turn and pulled free a bottle of liquor from each, each of them wrapped tightly with brown paper and tied to stop them from breaking and spilling into the rest of his goods. He pulled all the brown paper free and revealed a brown bottle and two green taller bottles. They each had a hand made label and you looked at them before taking the brown one in hand and smiling at the label. Brennivín. You smiled at the label and turned it around for him to see.

“It has been a while since I’ve gotten hold of it.” Halldór chuckled as he squinted at the label, “That’s something strong right there.” He snorted, “I don’t think many customers would be after that.”

“Its more for a personal try.” You offered as you turned the bottle back to face him and hummed, “What kind of a price are you thinking of? I can give you a hundred for it.” You went in low, knowing you had room to bargain with the trader then.

Halldór snorted at your offer, “I want at least two hundred for it. It has come a long way you see.” He smirked at your scowl.

“One bottle for two hundred. No way. One fifty.” You retorted.

“Not even one hundred and sixty?” Halldór teased you.

“Nice try. Not a penny more for you.” You chastised as Halldór laughed at you. You reached for your credit purse and pulled out the chips for Halldór to take from the top. He slid you the bottle and you took it from the bar top with a smile. The green label was stark with a writing you were sure you could not read in large lettering above the translation.

“I have something else you might like.” Halldór smirked as he went back to retrieve something else from one of his large sacks. He pulled free a large jar full of meat and sauce.

“That looks like death.” You commented at you watched the pickling liquid swill left and right.

“No, no. It is pickled meats. Goes well with Brennivín.” He said as you took the jar from his grasp to look at the long strips of game in the juice.

“I feel like you’re lying to me, but I’ll take it.” You hummed as you eyed the gamey looking meat.

“For you, eighty credits.” Halldór smiled and you handed him the credits without much complaint, wondering if you could find someone to eat it if you didn’t like it.

Halldór tucked away all his goods before he sat down and slapped the bar with his palms, “Come then. Let us drink for a while, you can fill me in on what I have missed among the land of the living.”

You laughed at the merchant before you reached under the bar and plucked free a very suspicious looking rum, “Well you’ll be glad I got this then. I think it was made in some guys basement, but I know you like those sorts of drinks.”

Halldór laughed brightly, “You know me so well!” He threw his arms out with a guffaw and you laughed with him as you reached for the glasses and poured him a drink.

“To meeting old friend again!” Halldór cheered as he held his alcohol up. You clicked your glasses together and drank with each other late into the night, far past closing time.

The memory of that hang over made your eyes spin in your skull, a reminder of how tired you had felt the next day as you opened the bar for the night, eyes half closed despite the insane amount of water you had chugged. It was another busy night, some days after your exhaustion, and you were rushed off your feet trying to get out the insane amount of drinks to customers without any help. Thankfully, your washing robot was happy to step in and help you out with serving, though he was no good at pulling pints. You’d let him start pouring and watched as his tummy for washing smacked the handles over and caused beer to spill over the sides, splashing everywhere as the robot fussed and chirped in upset. Now he was happily handing out bottles and cans of drinks as you took care of the pints and other more delicate drinks which the robot could not handle. It went a lot easier with some help and you felt less rushed off your feet as the customers eventually ebbed to drinking and speaking with the occasional refill for the larger groups.

Closing time couldn’t come any sooner as you took in the last of the glasses and hooked your robot back up to the water to get on with the tidying. He chirped happily as the water started to churn in his systems and you laughed softly as he chirped a tune.

“Thanks for today buddy, you were a big help.” You cooed as you patted his shoulders and brushed off some dirt from him before you took your cloths and set to cleaning down the bar top and the tables

His screen flashed with a thumbs up emoji and you laughed again as the robot hummed to himself and happily set about working cleaning and stacking pots.

“That’s it, buddy. Too right.” You jokingly said as you headed back towards the tables on the back wall of the bar with the trigger bottle of disinfectant in your hand. The tables were particularly covered in beer and pieces of nuts. You grumbled at the mess, wiping away the sticky mess before you cleaned away the crumbs and sprayed it with disinfectant. The holoscreen played softly in the background announcing the end results of this season in the Apex Games. It was a rough season, but Bloodhound had finished with many wins under their belt, closely followed by Revenant. Neither was the winner overall, but you turned to watch the replays of intense moments and laughed at the knife in Revenant’s side as Bloodhound severed his coolant pumps and drove it three times up through his sternum, severing the rest of Revenant’s vitals before they laid the Simulacrum back and placed the gun over his chest with a nod of their head. The Simulacrum got what he deserved for trying to bait the hunter into fighting him.

The call of a Raven sounded from outside and your head shot up as you paused cleaning the tabletops to peer through the window as the Raven hopped along the window ledge and pecked at the glass harshly. Two hands appeared from behind the wall to grasp the bird by its body, tucking its wings close before the hunter appeared, clad in heavy fabric and goggles, their respirator fixed firmly in place. Bloodhound peered through the window, Artur tucked under their arm before they nodded their head in greeting and knocked on the door quietly with three solid raps of their knuckles. You turned towards the door and unlocked the mechanism before peering out with a smile.

“Hey stranger.” You smiled at Bloodhound.

Bloodhound let Artur go at the birds incessant nipping to their gloves and watched him hop up their shoulder before replying, “It has been some time.” They commented, “I hope you have faired well.”

“I’ve been fine! It’s been busy but with the season over its finally winding down a little bit.” You let Bloodhound in through the door, watching as Artur hopped across their shoulders before cawing loudly at your face, his beak snapping at your nose.

“Artur. That is rude.” Bloodhound reprimanded as they entered the bar, peering around the empty inside before they limped over to the bar and settled awkwardly on the seat, their foot perched on the stepping part of another stool.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” You watched Bloodhound as you rounded the back of them and lifted the bar door before standing behind the top and watching them squirm in discomfort, however minimalistic the movements were.

“I am fine. A small injury in the ring.” Bloodhound brushed your concerns aside as they adjusted themself on the stool.

“Revenant got you in that tussle, didn’t he?” You asked as you reached into the back of the liquor cabinet for the new bottle of Brennivín. You turned back to Bloodhound with a smile as you offered the green bottle to them and placed it on top of the wood. Bloodhound gave a breathy chuckle as they took the bottle and looked at the handmade label.

“The Simulacrum got his recompense for daring to try.” Bloodhound observed softly as they ran their gloved fingers over the label and reached to undo the top, pulling the cork with a deft twist of their wrist before smelling the strong liquor, even through the respirator.

“Its strong. That’s for sure. I remember you saying something about cold glasses?” You reached under the bar and tugged out two glasses from the cooler, laying them on the top for Bloodhound.

“

“Yes. Though snow is still the best way to cool this.” Bloodhound huffed a laugh again as they poured a generous amount into each glass.

You took one in your hand and raised it to the hunter, “To…” You floundered, “I don’t know. What do we toast to?”

Bloodhound held their glass up, “To new friendships and a long rest.” They tapped your glasses together before laying the drink back on the bar and waiting.

“Ah, sorry.” You turned around as they reached to undo the straps of their respirator, “You don’t have to take it off if it makes you uncomfortable.”

Bloodhound tapped the back of your elbow, “I do not mind.” Their voice was soft but gentle, like the sound of a strong wave against the beach, powerful but not hurtful. You turned around and smiled at their scarred face, the pale skin covered in thin veins of tough scars from an old injury. Their goggles stayed in place with their head wear and scarves, which prevented anything else from being revealed. Still, the gently slope of their lips made you wonder how someone with such a pretty, yet scarred mouth, could be a vicious hunter in a game of blood sport.

Bloodhound ignored your eyes looking over their scars and gave a small smile. It was a simple small twist of the corner of their lips before they took a large swallow of Brennivín and hissed at the burning in the back of their throat, “That is stronger than I have had.” They coughed a couple of time before chuckling and motioning to your own drink which you had not touched, “You have toasted but not drank.”

You swallowed heavily, “I don’t know if I want to after your reaction, and you’ve been drinking it all your life.”

“It is not that bad, so long as your stomach is strong.” Bloodhound insisted with another chuckle, “You will be fine. Give it a taste.”

“If you insist.” You joked as you took a sip of the liquor. It took a moment for the taste to pass and the burning sensation to clench your throat, “Oh my…” You gave a sharp cough and cringed at the burn before breathing deeply to try and ease it.

“It is good for the soul.” Bloodhound chuckled again before Artur squawked and tried to dip his beak into the glass, “No, my friend, it is far too strong for you.” They eased the bird from their shoulder and watched the Raven protest and hop along the bar, ruffling his feathers and pecking at the wood and bar taps.

Suddenly you felt at a loss for what to say. You had wondered if Bloodhound would ever show up. They were under no obligation to, of course, they had merely been interested in keeping Revenant in line, but you had to wonder if they enjoyed your company.

“So, what’s kept you away? Has Revenant kept you busy?” You asked as you watched Bloodhound sip at the drink.

Bloodhound gave a grumble, “Unfortunately. The robot cannot control itself.” Their fingers twitched in the motion as though they were playing with something and you watched them reached to their thigh and pluck free a short throwing dagger before they proceeded to spin the blade back and forth and around their fingers in a dexterous display.

“I don’t doubt that.” You commented as you dragged yourself over a stool and sat in front of Bloodhound, “I know it first-hand, after all.” You tried to laugh a little to not remember the night of the slaughter across your bar floor, but the blood and guts were fresh in your mind. The alcohol’s sting was welcome as you avoided Bloodhound’s eyes behind the orange tinted goggles.

A hand on your own shocked you, and you looked up just as they slid the knife across the bar, the tip of the blade tapping at your wrist.

“You do not have to fear him, krúttið mitt.” Bloodhound uttered before revealing bright, white teeth. Two fangs dipped out from under their top lip and you found yourself staring a little as their other hand cupped your palm and squeezed softly, comfortingly.

“I don’t fear him…” You tried to ease your hand out with a gentle tug, “I just don’t want him near me or my bar, ever again. I wouldn’t hesitate to…to…”

“I admire your bravery, but you would be dead before you could touch a wire. He is an animal now, do not forget that. He would have little regard for your life.” Bloodhound grumbled again, “I have seen him torture my fellows. I know what he is capable of. You are best to stay away.”

“And what, you’ll protect me?” You scoffed, “I’ve heard that before.”

“I will.” Bloodhound’s goggled eyes looked towards your own, the deep brown glinting through with the shine of the antique lighting, “I will make sure he bothers you no longer, this I promise.” They covered their heart and bowed their head, “And if I fail, then you will have the right to hate me.”

You took your hands away with a frown before shaking it and giving a wet, upset laugh, “There’s no need for the dramatics. I believe you.” You watched Bloodhound drag their hands back after a moment before you held the bottle of Brennivín again, “Another?”

“I would rather not partake again but thank you.” Bloodhound reached for their respirator and fixed it back into place. Their respirator whooshed quietly as you put the bottle back in its appropriate place.

“Do you have matches coming up?” You asked as you worked quietly behind the bar, facing the cabinet.

Bloodhound shook their head, the beads and bones of their hat clicking together, “Not soon, but I promised Loba I would help her practice her hand to hand.” They stated softly, “Though I think it is her way of gauging our individual abilities.” They confessed with a peer up the bar at Artur who was contently admiring himself in a metal nut dish.

Loba seemed to hardly need such training, “I think you’re probably right about that.” You chuckled, “Watching the test match…Well she really doesn’t need the training, huh?”

Bloodhound hummed in agreement, “She is up to something.” They commented mildly.

“Like what? I thought you were all there for the contest and the titles…or whatever it is you all like.” You asked as you leaned over to finish the last of the liquor in your glass with another cringe and a cough. You decided one glass was more than enough for you as well.

“Titles?” Bloodhound hummed, “I have three titles of Apex Predator, but that is not why I do this…The hunt is what I live for.” They confessed with another look at their knife, their glove testing the sharpness of the edge before they levelled their gaze on you, “None of us are kind people, but there are far more dangerous folk than I in these games. I am here to honour my Gods and my family. Others for fame. Others for death.”

“That’s…” You swallowed, “I didn’t mean to assume anything.”

“You have done no harm. Now you know my reasoning.” Bloodhound nodded their head, “I live for the hunt and to honour the All Father.” They confessed quietly as they slid the knife away.

There was a moment of quiet between the two of you before Bloodhound looked back at the door and to Artur who hopped along the bar back to the hunter’s arm. The Raven pecked at Bloodhound’s sleeve before he climbed back up to their shoulder, perched, watching you with two beady black eyes.

“I can’t say I understand it, but I respect it. It’s better than a lot of people.” You smiled at Bloodhound before remembering the jar of pickled meats you had gotten, “Oh, wait a minute. I know you want to go but I have something for you.” You rushed into the kitchen and rooted through the cupboards. Your washing robot chirped in confusion, large question marks floating over his screen as you finally pulled free the pickled game that you had purchased. Thankfully, when you rushed back into the bar, Bloodhound was still perched on their seat, watching you with their head slightly tilted in curiosity.

You placed the jar on the bar top, “I got these from the same merchant as the Brennivín. He said that anyone who liked Brennivín would love this.” You tapped the metal lid of the jar before sliding it closer to Bloodhound, “Take it as a thank you for what you’ve done for me.”

Bloodhound eyed the jar before carefully pulling it closer with a gloved hand, their respirator whooshing quietly with air before they reached to undo the lid. It came off with a pop and carefully they leaned to look into the pickling liquid.

“Pickled pheasant.” They whispered before looking back to you, maybe to assess your motive and reasoning, “I have no had this since I was a child.” They confessed as they screwed the lid back into place, “There was an old woman, we all called Amma, who made the best. Sour but meaty. Cooked just right. She passed some years into my teenage life. So, I thank you. This is a fine gift, krúttið mitt.”

“You’re welcome.” You smiled before looking back to the orange goggles, which hid dangerous eyes, “You keep calling me that…What does it mean?” You asked.

Bloodhound shook their head, the metal beads and nuts of their headwear clinking before they stood from the bar seat, “Perhaps that is something for another day. It is late and I have a long way back to my residence.” They reached for the jar and tucked it under their arm, “Thank you, for the drink, gift and for your time.”

“Its not a problem. You’re actually lovely company.” You complimented.

“Thank you?” The hunter seemed a little flustered, “I am oft’ told I am…too stoic and boring.” Bloodhound gave a small breathy laugh before tipping their hat, “I will see you again. Good night.”

“Good night, Bloodhound.” You followed them to the door and closed it behind them, watching through the window as Artur took off into the sky and Bloodhound melted into the shadows past the streetlamps.

The break between the seasons was a little longer this time. Various legends had injuries which needed to heal and personal business to attend to before they could get back to what they did best. That meant that Bloodhound had more free time to come to the bar. Sometimes they had a drink, but others they did not. The legend was not much of a drinker and you figured that out when one night they had around four drinks and swayed in their seat, back and forth, grumbling about each and every legend. Mirage came up often. It was usually how annoying the man was for a playboy. Loba came up a few times in the same category. A flirt by nature she managed to ruffle Bloodhound’s feathers often and the hunter made it clear how much they despised the foolery of it all. Other times, Bloodhound showed up after closing and simply talked about their day, carefully retelling tales they thought you would enjoy. That’s how the stories started. When you were alone, each with a drink and a snack, Bloodhound would think of a tale from their childhood, about the Gods or folktales which were too whimsical to ever believe. You were entranced by their voice and storytelling capabilities, and a few times you watched Artur settled down to sleep with the gentle rhythm. You yourself could have also fallen asleep with the peace that settled over you both in those moments. They became precious memories to you as you greeted Bloodhound at the door with a smile and a drink or food.

All you had to wonder was if they felt the same way.

The night before the season start was cold. The wintertime was rolling in, even to the city, and you made sure to keep the bar doors firmly closed the whole night and the heaters on. Even your washing robot complained about his coolants being far too cold. You shuddered in a jumper as you placed the last of the glasses away and peered at the clock. It was very late. A knock made you grin, even as your teeth attempted to chatter, and you headed to the small back door and unlocked the electronic system, smiling up at Bloodhound as they ducked a little to enter. Artur squawked on top of their head and you laughed as Bloodhound shook their head to make the Raven move.

“Good evening.” Bloodhound uttered, “Forgive me for being sudden, I know you have no said anything yet, but I have something to ask of you?” They asked in a rush, their voice betraying a small amount of urgency.

“Hi to you too.” You teased before stepping back to let them inside, “Sure. Is anything wrong?”

Bloodhound shook their head, “Nothing of the sort.” They promised before they reached to remove their hat, revealing a wrap of dark cloth hiding their hair and features from you still. They ducked their head and placed their hand over their heart, “Would you do me the honour of accompanying me out?”

It was very old fashioned, but you remembered that Bloodhound had grown up very isolated away from the normal city life and culture. A smile split your face before you could control yourself.

“You mean like on a date?” You asked curiously.

Bloodhound swallowed audibly, “If that is agreeable to you? If not, then you may forget that this ever occurred…”

“No!” You rushed to catch their gloved hand and smiled, “I would be honoured…But let me get a coat, okay? Its too cold to be outside without too many layers.”

“Of course. Take your time. We will have to travel by hover to get there.” Bloodhound nodded as they turned back to the door, “I will wait at the front.” They promised.

“Okay. I’ll not be long. I just have to get a coat and lock up.” You rushed into the back and up the stairs to your small flat over the top of the bar. After snatching a warm coat from its hook and you rushed back and helped your washing robot back into the charging point before locking all the doors. Eventually, you appeared out of the front door and looked at the hovering vehicle.

Bloodhound hopped from the vehicle and you looked at the old engines with a fond smile. It was similar to an ancient snowmobile, but it hovered above the ground with old technology, humming much louder than any of the newer modern models.

“I haven’t seen a mobile like this in a long time.” You nodded appreciatively of it.

“It is old, but she will get us to where we need to go.” Bloodhound promised with a soft chuckle, “It is up in the mountain.” They pointed up past the city outskirts to the mountain beyond, “The snow has fallen so we will need her to move through the terrain unhindered.” They stood by the side of the vehicle next to the back which was packed with fur and blankets. You smiled excitedly before you took hold of the hunter’s gloved hand and let them help you into the small back compartment. You sat carefully and laughed as Bloodhound flicked the hover mobile into action and punching the gas. The two of you streamed down the old roadways towards the outskirts, quickly leaving behind the blue light pollution as the fields turned into old pine trees.

The mountain was cold, and you laughed brightly again as Bloodhound engaged the snow skis and the hover vehicle sprayed snow either side of you both. It was exhilarating to be out of the pollution riddled, busy city, and be in the fresh air of the countryside. You held your head high in the fresh, cold air and watched Bloodhound navigate the mountain with ease, their shoulders relaxed as they handled the controls with small turns and touches. You looked at the ancient trees with awe.

“Do you come up here often?” You asked over the hum of the engine.

“Not often enough.” Bloodhound replied, their feet planted firmly as they made a sharp turn and revved the engine again, heading up towards a large rock platform jutting from the side of the mountain. You looked at the place and wondered if it was warm, as there was no snow covering the grey surface of the stone.

“Is that where we’re heading?” You shuffled in your seat to look over the side of the vehicle.

“Yes. We are almost there.” Bloodhound peered over their shoulder, orange goggles glinting in the small amount of light from the lamps they had on the front and back of the snowmobile, “Keep inside. Some rocks could catch you.” They scolded as you headed towards the platform with another grumble from the old engine.

“Careful. The snow hides holes and rocks.” Bloodhound jumped from the snowmobile before they held out their hand to help you out of the small seat in the back.

“Thank you.” You took their hand and hopped out before watching your breath steam in the air and laughing excitedly, rushing over the rocks to go and look out across the city below, “This is amazing!” You cried as Bloodhound dragged the blankets and a basket from the back of the vehicle, “How did you find this?”

“I have time to waste occasionally.” Bloodhound chuckled before they reached for another pack and you rushed to help, taking the large bundle of blankets to help them a little, “Thank you, krúttið mitt.”

“You still haven’t told me what that means.” You joked as you carried the blankets to the edge and unwrapped the cord which held them in a large roll.

Bloodhound placed the basket down before hefting the furs from their shoulder. They gazed over the mountain’s edge before replying, “It means something…like sweetheart.” They confessed in a hushed voice.

You looked at them and smiled, sensing their unease, “That’s adorable.”

“I am glad you like it.” Bloodhound returned in a rush before looking at the pile of blankets you had set out and dragging them out on top of one another, “I did…I thought it was perhaps stepping over a boundary?”

“You worry a lot, you know.” You joked as you sat over the blanket and accepted a heavy, outstretched fur, “I…I can’t hate it, because its from you, and you mean a lot to me Bloodhound.”

“I…” Bloodhound seemed stunned, “You mean more than you know to me.” They draped another fur over you before sitting close and peering down at you through their orange goggles. You took the initiative and tugged your own furs over Bloodhound’s lap before sitting closer. You were close enough to feel the heat from their covered skin, but you only smiled and took one of their hands, linking your fingers before you looked out at the city, far, far below, and listened to the peace around the two of you.

“I have brought food…like those…how do you say it. Picnics!” Bloodhound exclaimed softly as they dragged the basket over and squeezed at your hand, enjoying the contact even through their thick clothing.

“A picnic? What have you brought?” You asked as you leaned over Bloodhound’s lap to peer at the contents of the wicker basket. It was covered with a deep blue cloth and they dragged it away before revealing a small selection of food you had never seen before.

“They are delicacies from my home world.” Bloodhound pulled free a small jar and you recognised the pickled meat you had given them, “I thought it would be…nice to share them with you as I tell you a story. I had to spend a long time remembering this one.” They confessed as they pulled free a dense looking load of bread and a tub of butter, “If that is what you want?”

You tugged the furs closer and nodded as they sliced the bread on a plate and buttered you a piece, “Of course, you know I love the stories!” You gushed as you took the bread and took a bite, humming as Bloodhound fished you free a piece of meat and then showed you the mushrooms they had also covered in a form of sauce. It looked spicy and you gladly dug in as they cautiously reached for their respirator.

Their hands reached for the straps and you watched the elastics loosen as they pulled the clips free and the respirator fell away with a quiet whoosh of air, revealing their scarred lower face. They smiled at you, revealing a single point of one canine before they took a moment to get used to the mountain air.

“Does it not hurt?” You asked worriedly, “I know…”

Bloodhound held up their hand before they coughed a few times over their shoulder, “No. It takes some time to adjust. The fresh air is fine, but the city. The air there hurts.” Bloodhound’s fingers squeezed your hand again in comfort as they coughed a few more times before finally growing used to the unfiltered air.

“These mushrooms…I’m amazed!” You cooed to distract them, happy to see them smile again as you gobbled another, “I never thought you…”

“That pickled foods would taste good?” Bloodhound teased with a small wheeze, “I confess, I thought you would hate them. They are an acquired taste, krúttið mitt.” They took a small bite of bread before seeking a large piece of game and tearing it apart easily with pointed teeth, chewing quickly before the rest of the piece followed. You only continued to eat, waiting for them to start the tale you wanted to hear.

“Before there was day. Night ruled the frozen wastes.” Bloodhound started as they laid back, tugging you into the blankets so you could both gaze up at the bright stars hanging above the two of you, “There was a goddess of light, controlled by her ruler the Night, banished to a cage in the sky, twinkling in the halls of the Night as she wept tears of silver light from between the bars.” They gestured to the sky above, “She reached between the bars and begged the Night to let her free, to let her roam and dance across the night sky. He denied her, selfish and greedy for her light to himself. So bright was her light, he wanted to keep her beauty of silver flesh and hair for himself.” Bloodhound watched a start twinkle, “One day, the goddess wept again but she whispered to the tears as they dripped from her eyes, of the universe and adventure, of life and protection. The tears dripped from her cage and painted the halls with bright silver spots, blinding and glorious. Night returned to find her cage empty, the only remnants of his light the bright tears rolling from the stone and falling into the sky below, dancing over the blackness one by one, brightening the world with a glorious silver light. She danced that night, between her own tears, on pointed toes, jumping from light to light, causing the sky to twinkle with joy, even in the darkest of nights.” Bloodhound pointed to the North Star, “She wore a crown of stars, blessed in her freedom from her own tears, making constellations with her dances to defy the Night.”

You gazed in wonder at the sky, “What did they call this Goddess?”

Bloodhound chuckled, “Nothing. She was simply, the stars.” They gestured to the stars again, “I think there is beauty in that story. She was free with her own will to dance and defy all those that would work against her.” They sighed, “It was my favourite as a child.”

“I can see why. It is a beautiful tale.” You whispered, trying not to disturb the peace that had settled over the two of you, “Even if it started so sadly.”

“Not as wonderous as you.” Bloodhound whispered next to your ear as they turned their head, “I never thought the stories would pale in comparison, but the Gods seem an eon away when I gaze at you.” Carefully, they reached to remove their gloves before they shakily reached to touch at your cheek, brushing their fingertips gently over your cheekbone. Bloodhound’s mouth parted as they followed the trail with their eyes. Their calloused hands touched your cheek and gently traced a path over your nose and then down to your chin, leaving a streak of heat in their wake, “It is blasphemy but I…” They swallowed, “I believe I love you. We have spent so much time together and you consume my mind no matter the task I undertake.”

Fire laced your veins as you pulled the tracker forwards to press your lips to theirs, kissing their soft, scarred lips with fervour enough to demonstrate your point. Bloodhound was frozen for a moment before they returned the kiss, their arms wrapping around your back tightly as their goggles dug into the bridge of your nose. You didn’t mind. You pushed against them with a hum before moving away. Bloodhound tried to chase your lips, breathing a little heavier, a wheeze emanating from their chest.

“I love you too.” You whispered, cupping their cheeks.

Bloodhound smiled crookedly again before they reached up and pushed their goggles away. Their cloth dipped a little to reveal their bright ginger hair, tamed in braids and clasps, but you didn’t touch it, you simply looked into their deep, dark brown eyes, amazed by the mix of red in the colour. Their eyes were almost maroon. You kissed Bloodhound again.

“You…” They eased back, “You do not care that I am…”

“You are Bloodhound, master of the hunt and the one I love.” You gushed as you held them tightly, burying your face in their clothing, “Nothing else matters. We can take our time with everything else.”

“I…Thank you, krúttið mitt. You mean so much to me.” They confessed with another soft peck to your lips.

“I love you, Bloodhound.” You confessed again, affirming it even to yourself, as though it was not real.

“I love you too, my darling.” Bloodhound whispered against your ear as you clutched each other under the furs, laid before the night sky.

The Stars twinkled across the central belt as the Goddess danced for the happiness that she had witnessed that night.

#bloodhound x reader #bloodhound x gender neutral reader #bloodhound #apex legends #bloodhound apex #apex legends bloodhound #bloodhound apex legends #reader insert #my writing #fanfiction #fanfic #gender neutral reader

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jadelotusflower · 3 years

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It’s Cold in that Fridge: The Case of Nakari Kelen

Since The Case of Mara Jade has been doing the rounds again, I’ve finally gone back to this post that has been sitting in my drafts for literally years. So let’s honour this absolute badass who deserved better:

Once upon a time, the Star Wars universe was but six films (and a tv series) in the story of the Skywalker family. But beyond George Lucas’ story was an absolute boatload of books, comics, games, and other materials that made up the Expanded Universe. When Disney purchased Lucasfilm and the rights to the Star Wars saga, everything in this universe was decanonised and deemed “Legends” - some aspects of this universe were retained or re-purposed, others sit in Disney’s figurative vault and will likely never see the light of day (and seeing how the ST turned out, maybe that’s for the best).

But this transition between Legends canon and Disney canon was not so simple, because the nature of publishing meant that there were novels approved during the time of Legends canon that would be released in the time of Disney canon. In particular, there had been the planned trilogy “Empire and Rebellion”, set between A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back, with each novel from the perspective of one of The Big Three.

Razor’s Edge (Leia) and Honor Among Thieves (Han) were released prior to the Great Canon Split of 2014. But while the Luke-centric novel had been planned, it was not due to be released until well after the Split. So Heir to the Jedi (so called as an homage to the Legends progenitor Heir to the Empire) became one of the first books of the Disney canon.

What does this background have to do with Nakari Kelen? Perhaps nothing, but I do wonder how the writing process was affected by the shift from Legends to Disney - was the novel a relic of the old EU with any reference the LFL storygroup didn’t like excised during editing, or was it a trendsetter for the new EU, a Sign of Things to Come?

The most salient point being, of course, that Nakari Kelen - like so many love interests before her - was not allowed to go along her merry way at the conclusion of the novel, but was shoved into the fridge.

If there was one constant of the Legends EU, it was that Luke Skywalker’s love interests couldn’t catch a break. Mara Jade naturally lasted the longest relationship-wise, with almost twenty years of marriage to Luke before some bright spark decided she had to go (as per the aforementioned case study). But before Mara there was Jem, Shira Brie, and Gaeriel Captison (who came close to escaping the curse), and in the Legacy of the Force series they brought back sole survivors Akanah and Callista, only to kill them off for good too (and rather brutally, if I may add).

So perhaps when Kevin Hearne began writing HttJ within the confines of the Legends continuity, he was merely sticking to the status quo, or perhaps once subsumed by Disney they needed to make sure Luke's slate was clean (so to speak). And I can’t put all the blame on Hearne since I don’t know whether it was his idea, or LFL mandated - but regardless it was a poor decision.

The root cause of fridging, imo, is limited imagination. How best to cause your male protagonist pain if not kill off someone they love, or at least have strong feelings for? The answer is of course, easily. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The Luke Skywalker of HttJ is fresh from his victory in ANH, a lieutenant in the Rebellion: young, not dumb, and full of...

Nakari Kalen is an absolute Queen a civilian volunteer and crack-shot sniper who loans her ship Desert Jewel to the Alliance. Luke is immediately attracted to her, they bond over a mutual love of fast ships and leaving behind desert home planets, and engage in the inexpert flirting of two nineteen year olds while also risking their lives several times over.

I want to make it clear: I actually really like this book. It's a breezy read, almost serialised as The Early Adventures of Luke Skywalker, and is ofttimes genuinely funny. And credit where it’s due to Hearne, many of of the supporting roles in the novel are female. Other than Nakari, there's Soonta, the Rodian who gives Luke her uncle’s lightsaber, Sakhet the Kupohan spy, and the Givin cryptographer/math genius Drusil Bephorin. In a genre where male characters are often the default for these kind of roles, it was nice to see, but makes the regressive fridging of Nakari even more egregious.

Luke and Nakari make a good team fighting brain-sucking monsters and Imperials, but more importantly they have fun together - she encourages him to work on his Force skills, and he successfully moves objects with his mind for the first time (leading to Nakari adorably dub him "a little noddle scooter"). It's a very sweet, if brief, relationship, and a respite from the danger of the mission. They spend the night together (leaving the reader to decide exactly what happened behind closed doors), and share a kiss before splitting up to try and escape bounty hunters. No prizes for guessing what happens to Nakari immediately after she received the Skywalker Kiss of Death.

I assume there were two motivating factors for why Hearne and/or LFL couldn't let Nakari live:

1. If she survived, fans would wonder why she doesn't appear in ESB/subsequent material.

I recall this bandied about on forums back at the time of the book's release, and to that I say - so what? Fans are always going to wonder, and try to paper over the gaps in canon, to make up their own headcanons to explain any any perceived inconsistencies. It's certainly no reason to kill someone off.

It is in fact possible for two young people to have a romance that just fizzles, or doesn’t work out for whatever reason - it should not require great maneuvering or explanation. If Nakari doesn’t show up in the next book in the timeline, what about it? The reader is smart enough to assume she and Luke broke up, decided to just remain friends, whatever. But it seems that the only way for a female character to exit stage left is for her to die, which is bullshit.

And actually, there's no reason why she couldn't have shown up again. ESB and RoTJ cover a month and a few days, respectively, of Luke's life - just because there was no mention of Nakari doesn't mean she didn't exist at that time, whether or not she and Luke were an item. She could have made an appearance in a subsequent novel, or Rebels, or the comics - she could have become a recurring character, showing up when the Rebellion needed her, or - heaven forbid - even have her own comic/book/show! Her existence in Star Wars canon didn't need to begin and end with Luke Skywalker, merely to service his plotline and backstory and abandoning the richness of her own.

No, the only reason Nakari had to die was to facilitate this:

It was a blow to the gut, realizing what that sudden absence meant. I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, but I had felt Nakari's life snuffed out through the Force, and into that void where she had shone anger rushed in - anger, and a cold sense of raw power and invincibility...I took a step to join in the hunt but stopped, breathing heavily, unaccountably sweating even though I felt so cold inside and the power of the Force roiled within me... I shook with emotion and power, and none of it felt the way the Force had before...I saw what kind of space it was , a black hole that would always be hungry no matter how much I fed it. I might never feel warm again if I didn't get myself under control.

Luke feels the dark side and is tempted by the boost of power it offers him, but immediately identifies it as dangerous and unnatural. I can understand why Hearne wanted to include this - it is a book of firsts after all: Luke's first solo mission, his first time using telekenisis, and ending with story with his first experience of the dark side makes sense. But it wasn't necessary, which leads to:

2. How to push Luke to touch the dark side without killing someone he has romantic feelings for?

Also, obviously, shite of the bull (or nerf, if you prefer). Even if this brush with the dark side was absolutely necessary for the novel's climax, there's any number of ways it could be achieved. At this point, Luke is fresh from losing important people in his life - Owen and Beru, Ben, and Biggs - lumping another death on top of that a narrative trick for Luke to react not only to losing Nakari, but the others as well. But it's cheap, the first card in the deck, and why not show a bit of imagination? Luke is young and inexperienced enough at this point that any number of things could be the catalyst - the whole book he's struggling with his growing powers, why not try and reach too far in the firefight with the bounty hunters, his anger and frustration with himself in not doing enough trigger the dark side temptation? It would work thematically and doesn't involve a fridging that ultimately has very little payoff.

Because Nakari is killed less than ten pages from the end of the book - afterwards Luke grieves, but ultimately chooses to honour her memory and be grateful for what he learned with her, recommitting to becoming a Jedi. It's all very surface level, and once again a female character's death facilitates a male character's development. Was it so imperative that Luke lost someone he cared about as part of this story? Sure, this was a time of galactic civil war, and it's far from unrealistic that these stories have a high body count, but who to make collateral damage remains an authorial choice, and in this case Nakari Kelen was (a) a female character of color, (b) a love interest of the protagonist - not just of this book, but the entire Original Trilogy.

I don't know to what extent (if any) race had to play in the decision. I'm sure there was a segment of the fandom absolutely livid that Luke Skywalker kissed (and maybe had sex with) a black woman. Was her death LFL hedging its bets, or demonstrative of the general lack of attention/respect they show their characters of colour?

In any case this was a chance to stand out from the old EU and it's fridge full of Luke's dead girlfriends, but instead they chose to introduce and kill off Nakari for the sole purpose of Luke's manpain and character development, and that's gross.

And then there's this:

A grisly yet reliable fact about custom bounty hunter ships is that you can always count on them to have body bags stashed somewhere for the easy transport of their kills. They often have built-in refrigerated storage, too.

NAKARI IS KILLED AND LITERALLY STORED IN THE FUCKING FRIDGE I COULDN'T BELIEVE WHAT I WAS READING.

I really hope this was unintentional on Hearne's part, because yikes. He was halfway there, this book was full of interesting female characters who had agency - Drusil in particular was a delight with her super math and inability to understand human interaction. Nakari was full of life and fun - capable but relatable, showing a different side of the Rebellion and those that suffered under the Empire's rule. Fridging her in her first appearance is considerably more vile, because it reduces her to a footnote of Luke's story, a plot device to Help Him Grow, rather than a springboard to tell more of her own story.

Because Nakari was a compelling character ripe for spinoff potential. I would absolutely have read or watched her continued adventures, juggling missions for her father's Biolabs company and trying to aid the Rebellion, shooting her slug rifle and cracking wise, maybe even finding a way to amplify her mother's song Vader's Many Prosthetic Parts to really stick it to the Empire, or try and free the political prisoners on Kessel.

The old EU was made great by allies and enemies of Our Heroes showing up again to help or hinder them, and/or branching out into their own material. We fell in love with them, and followed their stories even as they diverged from the main saga, eager to read more about their lives.

Nakari Kelen never got that chance. In many ways, she exemplified what Disney Star Wars was to become: an exercise in wasted potential.

#star wars #star wars meta #heir to the jedi #nakari kelen #luke skywalker #fridging #it's cold in that fridge #star wars expanded universe #nucanon

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anonniemousefics · 3 years

Note

Can we please get more tfota scenes from cardan's pov? Maybe something from qon this time 🙈

Happy New Year! ♥️🥂

It’s so great you guys are enjoying these Cardan POV pieces! This one sort of follows His Monstrous Bride and this other little continuation -- it’s taken from Chapter 18 of The Queen of Nothing when Jude and Cardan talk about her exile before meeting with the Living Council.

I don’t have a title for it -- let’s just call it His Monstrous Bride Part II. lol

(Also a shameless plug for my ongoing fic The Nine Terrifying Moons, which will feature a Cardan POV chapter coming soon. Wheeeee!)

-----------------------------------------------

Cardan is well versed at hiding his emotions, but it doesn’t hurt to look the part. And the day that his High Queen is finally awakening, once again restored to Elfhame, is a day to dress for a very specific kind of battle. Jude has ignored him for months – now he must be unignorable. He has gold along his cheekbones and caps like gold knives at the tips of his ears. Jude likes knives after all.

He’s flanked by his guards at her door. (Their door? He’s unused to sharing.) The Living Council means to interrupt her convalescence, and he’ll have none of it. He’s there to make sure she is fit and ready, and he doesn’t have to do more than that, he tells himself. His envoy is at his sides at all times now, and still, in this moment, some part of him wishes there were more of them. Wishes he could shrink back from what may lie ahead.

“Your Highness?” His guards are waiting for him to do something. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been hesitating.

It’s just… it’s been months of endless rejection, though he knows now she never received his letters, but still…he’s not sure he can take one more. And his heart is still cracked and raw from her most recent brush with death.

He steels himself. And knocks at the door.

It’s Oak who answers with an innocent smile, which is something of a relief. With Oak around, Jude’s less likely to become stabby.

Although, at least if she’s stabbing him, she’s no longer ignoring him. And Cardan really can’t stand one more minute of being ignored by Jude Duarte.

She’s there now, and the sight of her standing catches him right in the chest. The last time he’d clapped eyes on her, she was bleeding all over his spider-silk sheets. He’d cleaned her blood with his own two hands, but now she’s upright and clear-eyed, dressed in a foreboding black number with silver at her collar and cuffs. Her auburn hair has been braided like a crown, and with smoky traces of rose around her eyes, she looks deadly and formidable once more.

It’s such a welcome sight. He has never been so thrilled to see her. And that’s such a treacherous and terrifying notion, since he thinks it’s very likely she’s might smack him in the near future if he can’t navigate the mess of crossed wires between them.

The thrill lasts only a moment, because then his stomach gives a lurch. He’s just realized that all of her sisters are there, too. And they’re all staring at him. And he’s been staring right back.

Suddenly, Cardan’s on the verge of breaking into a cold sweat.

“Walk with me,” he finally tells Jude, eager to get away from so many Duarte eyes.

“Of course.” Jude’s brown eyes in particular seem uncharacteristically wide and confused.

Vivienne catches Jude’s hand before she can join him.

“You’re not well enough,” she objects. As if Cardan can’t take care of her. As if he hadn’t cleaned up her blood himself.

“The Living Council is eager to speak with her,” he says instead. Jude should be proud of how he’s learned to curb his tongue in her absence.

“The only danger anyone has ever been in at a Council meeting is of being bored to death,” Jude is reassuring her family, before stepping away, the guards folding in around them.

Cardan offers her his arm – he wants to keep her close, and he wants Vivienne to take note. It is different now, and he wants them all to see. Jude is cared for here.

He wants to take his time with her at his arm as they swap neutral business about the Roach, about the Bomb, about Madoc, but he can hardly even look at her. His head is full of visions of those nights he wrote to her again and again, outright begging in the end, and then lying awake, alone, certain his agony would be never-ending. Gods above, he’d even written once that his heart was hers, buried with her in the soil of the mortal world -- and she’d sent no reply. And though he knows now it’s because she hadn’t even received it, he’s still completely unsure of how to act.

It’s extremely unsettling how normal Jude seems in this moment. As if no time has passed at all.

And there are still so many eyes on them. Courtiers bobbing their heads as they pass. The guards just an arm’s length away. This is no place to try to sort through what he had written to her, what she needed to know. So maybe he just won’t, he thinks. Maybe it can just be like this for an eternity and he can go back to drinking away his feelings after this Council meeting. Maybe this is the most he should hope for.

But then, Jude says: “I need to talk to you.”

And his heart plummets to his guts. He’s not sure he can keep the dread off his face.

“It won’t take long,” Jude says, which is maybe worse. It means it’s simple: she wants to end their marriage. She wants to return to the mortal world. Of course she does.

But then, she says: “Whatever your scheme is, whatever you are planning to hold over me, you might as well tell me now, before we’re in front of the whole Council. Make your threats. Do your worst.”

What? What the bleeding skies is she talking about? This is such a mess he’s made. And it is, perhaps, the first mess he’s ever truly cared to clean up.

Cardan turns them away toward a corridor to the outdoors.

“Yes,” he agrees. “We do need to talk.”

He steers them for the royal rose garden, where he knows the guards will stop at the gate and leave them alone. He has only a few steps down a path of shimmering quartz stairs among the roses to decide exactly what parts of his heart he’s willing to reveal today. What exactly won’t hurt so terribly much should she throw it all back in his face.

“I assume you weren’t actually trying to shoot me,” he says, choosing first the obvious and easiest. “Since the note was in your handwriting.”

“Madoc sent the Ghost--” Jude starts, but then stops. Softens. “I thought that there was going to be an attempt on your life.”

This does not mean that she cares for you, he has to remind himself. He still doesn’t want to look at her. The memory of perceived rejection is still too strong, still too bitter.

But he’s not going to live with the regrets he’d drowned in when she’d nearly died. He tries to choose his next words carefully.

“It was terrifying,” he admits, feigning interest in a nearby bush of jet black roses, “watching you fall. I mean, you’re generally terrifying, but I am unused to fearing for you.” He swallows back the memories, threatening the periphery of his mind. “And then I was furious. I am not sure I have ever been that angry before.”

“Mortals are fragile,” Jude shrugs him off. She doesn’t get it.

“Not you,” he sighs. “You never break.”

There. Can that be enough? He’s made it fairly obvious now, hasn’t he? Surely she gets it now – he doesn’t want her to die, he doesn’t want to see her hurt. Witnessing it was the worst thing he’s ever seen. Because he cares for her.

If he has to spell it out, it might kill him. So, he just waits for what she has to say to that.

Jude’s looking at the roses, too, when he glances at her, her thick lashes lowered.

“When I came here, pretending to be Taryn, you said you’d sent me messages,” she says, and oh, please, gods, not this. “You seemed surprised I hadn’t gotten any. What was in them?”

Cardan wants to vomit. No, he needs to vomit. If his nervous stomach would cooperate and vomit everywhere, he could still get away from this with a shred of dignity.

He clasps his hands behind his back so she can’t see how they shake, his smile telling the lies that the rest of him can’t. That he is cool and unaffected, not at all hopelessly in love with the mortal girl in front of him.

“Pleading, mostly.” He tries to say it like it’s a joke. “Beseeching you to come back. Several indiscreet promises.” Maybe that little bit of tantalizing will flatter her.

It doesn’t. Actually, he’s not sure Jude can be flattered. She closes her eyes shut in no small amount of frustration.

“Stop playing games,” she growls. “You sent me into exile.”

“Yes. That.” Right, of course she doesn’t love that he’s beating around the bush. If only he could help it. He’s so goddamn nervous. “I can’t stop thinking about what you said to me, before Madoc took you. About it being a trick. You meant marrying you, making you queen, sending you to the mortal world, all of it, didn’t you?”

The glare she throws him is so very Jude, though he loves it less when it’s directed at him.

“Of course it was a trick,” she seethes. “Wasn’t that what you said in return?”

Well, this is rich.

“But that’s what you do. You trick people.” Though Cardan’s starting to realize just how wrong he’s been about the things Jude enjoys. “I thought you’d admire me a little for it, that I could trick you. I thought you’d be angry, of course, but not quite like this.”

“What?” Jude looks like she could unhinge her jaw and swallow him whole. He might even deserve it.

He needs to put an end to this nightmare. There’s still a miniscule chance she’ll find some part of it amusing.

“Let me remind you that I didn’t know you’d murdered my brother, the ambassador to the Undersea, until that very morning,” he points out. Surely, the context will help his case. “My plans were made in haste. And perhaps I was a little annoyed. I thought it would pacify Queen Orlagh, at least until all promises were finalized in the treaty. By the time you guessed the answer, the negotiations would be over.”

But Jude’s face is unchanged. He isn’t seriously this good at trickery, is he?

“Think of it,” he presses, hoping she’ll follow along. “I exile Jude Duarte to the mortal world. Until and unless she is pardoned by the crown.” Any minute now. Any minute.

“Pardoned by the crown,” he repeats to her blank stare. Right, so, this game isn’t funny anymore.

“Meaning by the King of Faerie. Or its queen,” he explains, watching her eyes grow wider, wilder. “You could have returned anytime you wanted.”

When he’d first envisioned her figuring out the riddle, he’d expected probably a punch in the arm, maybe she would have even drawn her blade again. That would have been delightful. He’d thought about trembling beneath her again, about that searing look she got in her eye just before devouring his lips. That would have been – gods. He might have considered letting her murder more of his brothers to have that again.

But what is happening now is decidedly the opposite. Jude’s breath is quickening, her face flushing, and in the air between them, Cardan feels a rift cracking wider. He hasn’t played a trick – he’s done something horrible.

When Jude begins to back away from him, he thinks back to what it felt like to find Nicasia with Locke. What Jude’s face is doing now – that is what his heart had done then. She is recoiling from him. Jude Duarte is recoiling from him, because he has hurt her.

He honestly had not thought it was possible. He honestly had not thought himself capable. He honestly had not thought she cared enough.

She whirls then and marches away from him, and he has never hated himself more. Stop her, he thinks, but he’s still stunned. If he’d known she cared…

Stop her!

He runs after her. She has to know he wouldn’t have done it if he’d known. She has to know he will fight to keep her now that he knows. But when he seizes her arm, she hauls around and slaps him, hard enough to turn his face.

It’s not the worst hit he’s taken, not by a long shot, but its sting is entirely different. There’s something fiery in her eyes, and, for the first time, he’s aware that he is not the only one who has been in agony these long months. Oh, he would undo it all now if he could. He would pull her in and kiss her over and over until they both stopped hurting.

Except she still looks murderous. Getting close to her face is probably not a good idea if he doesn’t want to be bitten. (He does kind of want to be bitten, just…in a very different scenario.)

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says, carefully, and his hand finds hers. To his great surprise, she lets their fingers lace together, and his heart seizes with a wild hope. It does not mean she loves you, he thinks. He fumbles. “No, it’s not that, not exactly. I didn’t think I could hurt you. And I never thought you would be afraid of me.”

“And did you like it?” Jude asks, narrowing her eyes.

His cheek is hot from the slap of her hand, and now with shame. Because how is he supposed to answer that? He didn’t hate being more powerful for once. He didn’t hate being the one with the answer to the riddle.

“Well, I was hurt.” He’s hesitated too long, and now Jude’s pressing on. “And yes, you scare me.”

Cardan finds himself taking in her full face then, the one that has always seemed so defiant and fearless and headstrong.

“You’ve always scared me,” Jude is saying, and this is what almost undoes him. She repeats it, telling him again and again each moment she had been afraid of him, and with each one, his mind bursts a little more. This doesn’t seem real. “And I am scared of you now,” she concludes, that defiant gleam in her eye til the end.

Cardan is speechless. And Cardan’s never speechless.

There was a time when he enjoyed playing a villain in her heroic story line, but she wasn’t supposed to be truly afraid of him. She was supposed to vanquish him and make him beg for her kindness. (And he would now. He really would.)

(Maybe he will.)

“You despised me,” Jude reminds him, because he does need reminding. He’s not sure now if he ever really did. “When you said you wanted me, it felt like the world had turned upside down. But sending me into exile, that made sense. That was an entirely right-side-up Cardan move. And I hated myself for not seeing it coming. And I hate myself for not seeing what you’re going to do to me next.”

At that, Cardan closes his eyes. Hopelessness is threatening to overtake him. Fear has created this monster before him, the one who irrevocably holds his heart. Is it possible to unmake such a curse? He’s certainly been unable to find a cure for his own fear, lifelong coward that he is.

When she’d first returned and his heart was freshly cracked, he’d thought back to a fairy story about a boy cursed with a heart of stone and the monster he took as his bride. It had been patience and fearlessness that had won over the monster in the end – something the boy had managed only because of his stony heart.

So, Cardan thinks of stones then. Of pulling together all his cracked and raw edges. Of being impenetrable and solid and fearless. He thinks of doing what needs to be done. He needs her, for so many things, and she must know that. Perhaps it is folly to wish for anything more than simply averting a crisis.

But he can’t manage it if he’s looking at her. He releases her hand and turns away.

“I can see why you thought what you did,” he says at last. “I suppose I am not an easy person to trust. And maybe I ought not to be trusted, but let me say this: I trust you.”

Patience. Fearlessness. Deep breath.

“You may recall that I did not want to be High King. And that you did not consult me before plopping this crown on my head. You may further recollect that Balekin didn’t want me to keep the title and that the Living Council never took a real shine to me.

“There was a prophecy given when I was born. Usually Baphen is uselessly vague, but in this case, he made it clear that should I rule, I would make a very poor king.” It hurts more than he thought it would to say it out loud. “The destruction of the crown, the ruination of the throne – a lot of dramatic language.”

He has to be cavalier about it; it stings too much otherwise. It’s been the bane of his existence, this prophecy. It is the reason his entire childhood was filled with nothing but dismissal and cruelty. It’s the very, very low standard he’s spent his whole life trying not to meet. The best his family had ever hoped for from him was his complete and utter disappearance – and he’d failed to do even that.

He turns back to Jude. Patience. Fearlessness. He has so much more to say. He has so much more he wants to be than this. Deep breath.

“When you forced me into working for the Court of Shadows, I never thought of the things I could do – frightening people, charming people – as talents, no less ones that might be valuable. But you did. You showed me how to use them to be useful. I never minded being a minor villain, but it’s possible I might have grown into something else, a High King as monstrous as Dain. And if I did – if I fulfilled that prophecy, I ought to be stopped. And I believe that you would stop me.”

Jude sputters at that, blinking hard.

“Stop you?” she echoes. “Sure. If you’re a huge jerk and a threat to Elfhame, I’ll pop your head right off.”

“Good.” And he means it. To die by Jude’s hand would be a dream. “That’s one reason I didn’t want to believe you’d joined up with Madoc. The other is that I want you here by my side,” and just for good measure, just in case she still isn’t getting it: “As my queen.”

But he can’t read the expression on Jude’s face when he says it – if it brings her joy, if it brings her more distress. He’s not sure what else he could have said to make it any more clear. And now her silence is threatening to eat him alive. This reeks of the beginnings of yet another rejection.

He smiles at her, instinctively, a last ditch effort to make this even slightly less awkward.

“But now that you’re High Queen and back in charge, I won’t be doing anything of consequence anyway,” he promises. “If I destroy the crown and ruin the throne, it will only be through neglect.”

He wants her to smile back. To roll her eyes at him and act like she isn’t amused when she so clearly is. He’s missed that, oh, how he’s missed that.

He gets all that and more when she blurts out a laugh.

“So that’s your excuse for not doing any of the work?” She quirks an eyebrow, and it makes his heart swell. They’re smiling together again. He’d needed that, too, more than he’d realized. “You must be draped in decadence at all times because if you aren’t kept busy, you might fulfill some half-baked prophecy.”

“Exactly,” he says. Exactly… It’s more true than he wants it to be. His smile fades. And Jude is looking more tired than he’s comfortable with. He hopes he has not pushed her too hard. He touches her arm, gently, not thinking. Her gaze catches his, soft and warm. He finds himself leaning in…

“Would you like me to inform the Council that you will see them another time?” he asks. “It will be a novelty to have me make your excuses.”

But Jude is stalwart and determined as ever. He expected nothing less.

He pulls back. She does not need him. Not like he needs her.

“No, I’m ready,” she says.

How he wishes he could say the same.

-----------

Tagging: @yellowavocadopit, @dagypsygirl, @ireallyshouldsleeprn, @booklover-sleeplover, @mwejh, @courtofjurdan, @faeriequeenofwest, @sugawsites, @loveyourselfsolid, @owl0y0s, @feelinglikecleopatra, @akaloto, @charrise, @persephxnecoven, @raging-bisexual-alert, @rteme, @nahthanks, @addies-invisible-life, @elorcanislife, @snusbandxknifewife, @poeticbrownmermaid, @duarteegreenbriar, @thefolkofthefic, @alittledribbledrabble, @carmensworld17, @annejulianneh111, @amandlas, @elriel4life, @idk-what-name-to-use, @thewickedkings, @juliazato, @woodsbeyond1, @booksmusicandgoodvibes,

#jurdan #the folk of the air #tfota #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #jude x cardan #cardan pov #fanfic #fanfiction #jurdan fanfic #jurdan fanfiction

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emblemxeno · 3 years

Note

Dimitri as a character and AM as a route are simple in a complex way that gets overlooked a lot. Both are a traditional character/journey but the way they’re presented and how they make use of the characters and setting around them just turns what would be a simple story you’ve seen a million times into an emotional journey where you feel invested enough to care about the things happening in the story. After having played the other routes, which are good in their own right, I ended up with a newfound appreciation for what 3h did with Dimitri and how he develops in regards to Edelgard and Fodlan’s different factions.

I feel the same! It took a very traditional and familiar plot by FE standards and gave it a twist. A lord who witnesses first hand the kind of tragedy that sets the stage for their eventual succession to the throne, but unlike his predecessors whom have gone through similar events (like say, Elincia, Micaiah or Eliwood), Dimitri commits to his desire for vengeance, creating a fascinating dichotomy with his sense of justice and personal aversion to killing. You get pulled in easily, whether you're a long time FE fan or starting with 3H, because it provides something for both.

He loses himself when he experiences things that remind him of the Tragedy of Duscur, until he finally snaps upon the Flame Emperor's identity reveal. It then becomes a story where you must follow a prince who is driven by rage, frustration, sadness among other things towards a goal which during two of the routes where you aren't with him? He gets killed. He dies a death that's said no one deserves to go through.

But upon realizing how much he had lost and how he had wronged his friends by having them go down that path with him, he begins to find himself again and live for what he believes in. Something I appreciate though is that it isn't an instant change; he's still very much in recovery even by the end of the game. He still hears voices, contends with nightmares and visions of the dead, but presses on for his kingdom and his loved ones regardless. He even goes so far as to try and negotiate with Edelgard one last time instead of fighting first (quality of the scene itself notwithstanding).

It's just... really good. Idk if it hits harder for me personally since I started with Shadow Dragon which set the foundation for the "Lost Royal Takes Back Their Homeland" that a number of the other games follow, but it really got me the first time I played Blue Lions. I really do love that route.

#queue #fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #fe3h #dimitri fire emblem #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd

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mybg3notebook · 3 years

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Astarion and Power - Part 1

Disclaimer Game Version: All these analyses were made up to the game version v4.1.101.4425. As long as new content is added, and as long as I have free time for that, I will try to keep updating this information.

Additional disclaimers about meta-knowledge and interpretations in (post)

The number between brackets [] represents the topic-block related to (this post), which gathers as much evidence as I could get.

Before talking about Power, Cazador, and other details, I would like to quickly gather what little we have about Astarion’s past.

Backstory: Mortal Astarion.

About his past we have little information, mostly given by Swen in interviews with game magazines or via his on-live demonstrations of the game early in 2020 before the release of EA. All this information is subjected to changes, of course, so we should take it with a pinch of salt.

As a mortal, Astarion was a corrupt magistrate who judged criminals he later sent to the local vampire coven of the Szarr family as food. After a while, his greed got the best of him and started to sell those criminals into slavery as well, having a double profit from this. This movement brought the fury of the Szarr family upon him.

From this short story we can infer that there was a high probability that his judgements were unfair, condemning criminals who needed a death sentence to lighter ones (this is related to his strange comment of “death is a harsh sentence” in Arabella’s scene, see the post Astarion's Standards and Manipulation) while condemning innocent ones; all with the goal of having a decent amount of living creatures to offer to the local vampire or to the slave traders.

We also know, by his own words in game, that when he was turned into a vampire, he had been the victim of an attack of thugs/Gurs (he says this information in different moments of the game, changing details. I don't know if this is on purpose to show Astarion’s manipulative nature depending on your reaction to Gandrel, or it’s a consequence of unpolished details during EA). What we know for sure is that these Gurs/thugs were angry because of a judgement he had previously made. It’s easy for us to infer, using the info above, two situations:

Astarion may have condemned some isolated Gur to an unfair trial who ended up in a slavery network, being discovered later by their Gur fellows who simply avenged them in Baldur’s Gate. This theory has been developed as a way to see fit the concept of Maiden Fel. If Gandrel dies and Astarion performs a Speak with Dead, he will reveal that Maiden Fel is the head of his tribe who asked him to return with Astarion “unblemished”. Digging for more details about who Maiden Fel is, Gandrel says she is the “reason even monsters have nightmares”. Walking on the speculation ground, there is a chance that Maiden Fel could be a nightmare Hag, since Gurs consider hags as “wise women'', and unlike the rest of the humans, they respect them a bit more than common folks.

Or the whole setting was done by Cazador, who plotted this ambush to make it look as an act of barbarism using furious Gurs (which attack could be seen as an obvious reaction since Gurs are despised everywhere due to their nomadic lifestyle and all the stigmas they carry) as a way to punish Astarion for trying to outsmart him.

Among the many conclusions that we can draw from here is that, if Astarion’s backstory is not retconned and rewritten later in the full game, we can be almost sure he was an Evil-aligned character as a mortal. We can’t say that vampirism twisted his morals; they were rather poor in the first place.

Astarion, the Vampire spawn

After the bite scene, Astarion presents himself as a vampire spawn, a creature lesser than a slave for his master, since Cazador’s commands are impossible to resist. He explicitly says that his body always reacts to Cazador’s word and for two hundred years he was tormented by him. Thanks to datamining information, we know that Cazador performed an infernal deal, and part of the contract is carved on his back.

Due to datamining information as well, we know that the first dream that Astarion experiences may not be the one related to the tadpole dreams mechanics since he dreams without having made use of the tadpole powers yet. I prefer to suppose that this dream is product of his own psychology, or even it could be an effect of Cazador’s power on him (maybe he can’t dream of anything but of his Sire, considering how possessive Cazador is)

As I said, this is not a dream of power and desire in the same way that the other companions or Tav have, and for this reason I’m inclined to say that the vampiric power of Cazador is the one making an effect instead of the tadpole (or simply Astarion’s trauma showing). This dream looks like a reminder, like a reiterative dream for Astarion about Cazador’s rule, which are:

rule 1: he will not drink from thinking creatures.

rule 2: he will obey him in all things.

rule 3: he will not leave Cazador’s side unless directed.

rule 4: he will know that he is Cazador’s proprietary.

Most options end up in the similar idea of: “Free? Lie to yourself, boy, but not to me. You are mine, forever.”

Cazador and Astarion

[Astarion has just related what Cazador made him eat] “Flies? What did you do to deserve that?”

“I existed, that was enough for him. He revelled in having power over me, because those with power can do whatever the hell they want.”

If we are going to talk about power with a character as Astarion in mind, we need to talk first about Cazador. Let’s start with the way Astarion describes him:

“The biggest threat to a vampire is another vampire. They're scheming, paranoid, power hungry beasts. So why would any vampire give up control over a spawn to create a competitor? Trust me, it doesn't happen.”

“Cazador Szarr is a vampire lord in Baldur’s Gate. The patriarch of his coven and a monster obsessed with power.(...) Not political power or military power. Power over people. The power to control them completely. (...) He turned me nearly two hundred years ago. I became his spawn and he became my tormentor.”

“He had me go out Baldur’s Gate to fetch him the most beautiful souls I could find. It was a fun little ritual of his—I’d bring them back and he’d ask if I wanted to dine with him. And if I said yes, he’d serve me a dead, putrid rat. Of course if I said no, he’d have me flayed. Hard to say which was worse.”

“Cazador liked to make them art, spent all night with a razor, drafting a sonnet on my back. (Puppy eyes) Apparently the more I screamed, the more mistakes he made. And the more editing was required.”

“It was a group of Gur/thugs that attacked me that night in Baldur’s Gate. I would have died had Cazador not appeared and saved me. (...) He chased them off and offered to save me. To give me eternal life. Given that my choices were “eternal life” or “bleed to death on the street”, I took him up on the offer. It was also afterwards I realised just how long “eternity” could be.”

“Cazador likes to toy with people. Let them think there was hope right until the end. Until he snatched it all away. Creatures like them don’t play games unless they know they’ll win.”

(About Raphael’s encounter) “All that 'take your time. I'll wait' nonsense? He's playing with us. It reminds me of Cazador, taunting his slaves with hope when he knew the game was rigged. "

Tav: “Would he send another Gur to capture?” / Ast: “Yes, he probably thought it was funny.”

(“We can kill him.”) “No, you don't understand. You don't know him. Just trust me when I say we need to be careful. He'll send more lackies – he has plenty of souls to command. We just have to be vigilant. Keep our wits about us. And kill any monster hunters on sight. We can probably make an exception with Wyll... Probably.”

>>So far we know that Cazador has a particular pleasure for control, especially the one related to people’s will. With the nightmare information, we know he has powers related to mind control. He has many slaves, and enjoys cruelty, humiliation, and torture. He enjoys making Astarion eat putrid animals, carving his back with an infernal contract, and playing psychologically with him. He also likes to give false hope, making his victims believe that there is hope, removing it right in front of them.

I want to highlight that this twisted way of giving hope just to offer a perverted solution to a person’s problem, and enjoying the pleasure caused by the break of the hope, can be seen in Astarion during EA: in the approval that Astarion gives to Tav when you revive Connor, and that pinch of hope in Mayrina turns into horror when she sees Undead!Connor. For Astarion this situation is “funny”. Similar can be said when he approves telling Arabella’s parents that she will be released after the end of the ritual, when she is in fact dead.

Astarion describes a bit more what power we should expect from a Lord Vampire:

Shapeshift: turning into mist.

Calling wolves to do his bidding.

Shrugging off blows.

He “could walk into our camp tonight and kill you with his bare hands.”

Astarion and Slavery

One of the characteristics that so far in EA has got my attention was how little conflict Astarion has with slavery, despite having been his former condition.

He is apathetic to slavery in the best case, or even supporting it in the worse case. Proof of this can be found in the Myconid Colony, when interacting with a duergar slave. He speaks as if it were a totally useful tool that inspires little sympathy in him, since they don't have consciousness. However, he leaves a quite open question when finally adding “Or maybe not”.

But this “maybe not” is not left to speculation, we can see what Astarion truly feels with a non-Gur human slave in another part of the game: in the Zhentarim hideout. This can be checked with Oskar, the painter slave.

You can free Oskar using persuasion with his kidnapper (Astarion keeps neutral, he doesn’t approve the freeing). Now, if you can buy Oskar by paying the gold directly or by using intimidation to lower the price, it would keep Astarion neutral until the moment of the payment is stated, which he disapproves. At first I thought it was because he was truly against slavery of thinking creatures... but it was not. It was because you are paying a lot of money (we need to remember Astarion is greedy [1] as well, he wouldn’t be a vampire if it weren't for his greed).

Once bought, if you keep Oskar as a slave, and you demand him to keep silent because "you want your slaves silent unless they are spoken to", Oskar will think it's a joke, and you, again, can use the option "I don't joke with my slaves" and then Astarion will approve. None of these options is under any tag to make them believe they are part of a preformative act to prank Oskar. And this is key... this is not a joke. They are used as your real sentiments and intentions, and Astarion approves them.

These reactions are not random, they make sense with his—until this moment unchanged or retconned—backstory, where he had no problem trafficking with criminals as vampire food and later as slaves to have higher profits. So, these two aspects remain in his vampire nature unaltered: the most important thing is always to have profits, and his relationship with slavery is absolutely fine as much as it gives benefits, it’s useful or at least, gives him some entertainment.

The tadpole

We know the tadpole has a particular effect on Astarion. Unlike the other companions, Astarion doesn’t dream of a person who represents to him both desire and power. Power? undoubtedly, but desire? It’s hard to say. The implied, vague concept that Astarion has been sexually abused by Cazador is there (because we know these dreams are about “sensual” desire as well).

It’s maybe a consequence of the vampirism and, by extension, of Cazador’s power, that makes Astarion unable to dream of anything else but his master. From the datamining information about the non-tadpole dream of Astarion, in which Cazador lists four rules, we know that the fourth one is about never stopping to be Cazador’s propriety, unable to be free, not even in dreams. Maybe Cazador’s effect also applies to Astarion’s dreams as well (but this is a mere speculation, there is no real proof of it on EA or datamining info so far).

So when Astarion awakes in the beach and sees that some rules of his vampiric nature have been changed, he gets excited about the tadpole, and unlike the rest of the companions, he doesn’t want to get rid of it. He wants to master it, to have control of it. However, when the opportunity of controlling the tadpole appears with Raphael encounter, Astarion is one of the few companions who is completely against it at first.

“Raphael is playing with us; Cazador liked to toy with people too. Let them think there was hope right until the end. Until he snatched it all away. Creatures like them don't play games unless they know they'll win.”

In that moment, he claims he won’t change a vampiric master for an infernal one. However, when the first use of the Tadpole causes the first symptoms of transformation evident, Astarion falls in despair: he is scared and, calling for Raphael to take him from the camp, he says a curious phrase:

“I would choose servitude over oblivion any day”

So, after this moment, he is not completely convinced that Raphael is the true solution to his problem but he is more open to keep him as a plan B if anything else fails. Later he claims that it doesn't matter to be a servant of a devil, because he knows Cazador, and he wants to get rid of his power for good.

“I won't lie, it's tempting. If I keep the tadpole, I risk transforming into a grotesque monster. If I lose the tadpole, Cazador has control of me, body and soul, and I return to the shadows. It's grim either way, so why not sell what's left of my soul to a devil? Better he has it than cazador. Whatever it's coming we need to have our options open.”

Astarion’s process of seeing the potential of the power of the tadpole increases along the game. It gets higher and wilder. The first instances of the tadpole use are about Astarion discovering how much this tadpole gives him powers he can barely understand.

“The tadpoles are not so bad at all. (...) First I can walk in the sun, then make people dance like puppets? *laughs * I've certainly had worse days.”

He is not an idiot, he knows that, without control, they will end up turning into mind flayers, so he needs to find something powerful that can give him control over his tadpole. This is the reason why he encourages the use of the tadpole after knowing about the netherese magic containing the transformation via Omellun or Ethel.

Ethel explains that the tadpole had been tampered, so the dialogue goes:

Tav: “It's giving us more time, sounds good to me”.

Astarion: “Perhaps. And who's to say it can't be tampered with further?” (She said it was netherese magic) “it must be powerful magic to stop the parasite in its tracks, I wonder what else it could do?

At that point in the story, he knows that the netherese magic is powerful enough to contain the transformation: so he is now sure that there is more time to use it. So he will end up being the only companion in EA who encourages everyone to use the power:

“What's not to enjoy (with this tadpole)? I can walk in sunlight, trespass upon any home, manipulate minds – I'm the most powerful vampire in the realms. Granted, the looming doom is an issue, but why not enjoy the benefits while we can?

Despite the nightmares happening after every use of the tadpole powers, Astarion doesn’t want to stop. At this point, he is the only companion who doesn’t want to.

“The power to twist a mind to your will is worth some nightmares.”

By the end of the game, we are sure that Astarion wants this power without doubts. He revels in the power of mind-controlling people, ironically, despite having suffered so much of it under Cazador’s control. If we see all the situations where Astarion’s mind is controlled, or violated, his reactions will be extremely more aggressive than the other companions. He has suffered it a lot, but by the end of EA he is enjoying being on the other side of that power.

This post was written on April 2021. → For more Astarion: Analysis Series Index

#astarion #bg3 early access #bg3 meta

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charlieconwayy · 3 years

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D3: The Mighty Ducks (1996) is the best Ducks movie and a flawless coming of age movie

It’s no secret that The Mighty Ducks are a beloved trilogy. The three films spawned a professional NHL team named in their honor, 2021 sequel series, as well as many knockoff films released in the 1990s. But with any movie series, fans tend to rank the films and have passionate opinions on which is the best. For most Ducks fans, the answer is simple: D2. It has the Bash Brothers, Team USA dominating, the iconic “Ducks Fly Together” scene and two Queen songs. What’s not to love? But upon a rewatch of the trilogy, I came to realize that it’s not D2, or even the original, that is the best in the series.

It’s the criminally underrated 1996 D3 that for me, is the most mature and has the most heart. Perhaps it’s that the Ducks are now old enough to carry their own weight on screen. Perhaps it’s that the film takes a look at trauma, specifically trauma in teenagers, and how that manifests itself. Perhaps it’s that the film is maybe ahead of its time, in the way it discusses classism, racism and sexism. There is so much about this overly hated film that makes it the best Ducks movie and a perfect coming of age film.

The movie starts presumably a few years following the Ducks’ win against Iceland. They all look noticeably older - definitely older than the middle schoolers we left behind in 1994 - and all of the male Ducks’ voices have dropped a few octaves. Gordon Bombay, played by Emilio Estevez, is presenting the team (except for unfortunately, Jesse Hall, a leader among the Ducks who would’ve made for a strong presence in this mature film, as well as Portman, but we’ll get to him later) with scholarships to his alma mater, Eden Hall, a preparatory high school in Minnesota. Charlie Conway, played by a young, pre-Dawson’s Creek Joshua Jackson, is the Ducks’ captain and unspoken leader. There’s been much debate over the years over whether or not Charlie is the true captain of the Ducks. Adam Banks, played by Vincent Larusso, is far and away better than practically every Duck combined. Fulton Reed, played by Elden Henson, has shown more maturity and leadership at this point. It’s probably true that the Ducks as a team think that Charlie is Captain because of Bombay’s favoritism towards him (and his mother), but I think that this film makes it abundantly clear why Charlie is the captain.

D3 is Charlie’s story. We see that in the opening scene, when Bombay tells Charlie he will not be following the team to Eden Hall, accepting a job instead in California. We learned in the original Mighty Ducks film, that Charlie and his mother left a bad situation in Charlie’s father when Charlie was very young. We also hear about Charlie’s mother, Casey’s marriage to a new man in the D2, who we can assume from what Jan says, that Charlie doesn’t like. We see in that first film, Charlie’s reaction to Bombay announcing that he is leaving the Ducks after the two of them have formed a bond. It is very clear that Charlie deals with abandonment issues, stemming from trauma in his early childhood. Charlie freaks out when a D3 Bombay announces the same thing, and storms off.

Change is the biggest theme in D3. We see how change affects each of the Ducks, even those who don’t get many lines. Some, like Russ Tyler, played by SNL’s Kenan Thompson, think it’s a good thing. All of the Ducks don’t come from good neighborhoods and we assume that most of them don’t have the best home lives, especially when Charlie tells their new coach, Orion, played by Jeffrey Nordling, that the Ducks are the only good thing that any of them have had. Going to a preparatory school should be a good thing for them. But for most of them, it’s not. The new Ducks (who by the way, three of which are people of color, and one of which, is a woman) are immediately told that “their kind” is not welcome at Eden Hall. The Varsity team claim that they feel this way because the captain’s younger brother was not admitted onto the JV team because of the Ducks’ scholarships, but it’s very clear what they really mean. Russ commented that he’s the only black person on the whole campus earlier, and he, Luis Mendoza (The Sandlot’s Mike Vitar) and Ken Wu (Justin Wong) are the only people of color we see in the film. Change takes a toll on each member of the team. We see it the most in Charlie, but we also hear from Fulton on how the separation from his best friend, Dean Portman (Aaron Lohr), who decided not to enroll at Eden Hall, is taking a toll on him. Connie (Margerite Moreau) and Guy (Garrette Henson) have presumably broken up, as the two small scenes we get of them, they are arguing. It’s a transition period, one that the first year of high school often is. But it’s also a look on how a rich, white privileged world is vastly different than the one that the Ducks are used to.

Coach Orion seems like a hardass, especially when he tells Charlie at their first practice that he will no longer be “Captain Duck” (as coined by D2’s Gunnar Stahl, played by Scott Whyte, who now plays the level-headed Varsity goalie Scooter). This, to the Ducks, is a line in the sand. Ever since Bombay turned District 5 into the Ducks four years previous, Charlie has been their captain. They’re in a whole new environment, where the man who gave them so much happiness and so many friendships isn’t, and their “little Duck tricks” won’t work anymore. Orion thinks Charlie is a showoff, and perhaps he is. This Charlie is vastly different than the sweet, shy Charlie we see in D1 and D2. But this Charlie is older, has just been abandoned by a man he considered a father, and is being harassed on a daily basis for being, as Varsity Captain Reilly puts it, “white trash.” I find it hard to believe sometimes that fans can look at Charlie from the outside, and not see who he is on the inside. All of Charlie’s closest relationships that we see portrayed in this movie, are with women. His mother (who he, as a teenage boy, says “I love you” to in the final scene of the movie), his teammates, Connie and Julie, who he gets a lot more screentime with, and with new love interest, Linda (Margot Finley).

I think now is a great time to talk about the shockingly impressive way all of the female characters are portrayed in this series, particularly this movie, especially for a 90s sports film. Connie has always been a leader on and off the ice. She’s in a relationship with Guy, but it’s not her only character trait. Dubbed “the Velvet Hammer” by Averman (Matt Doherty), she stands up for herself, and for her shy teammates (she literally shoves Peter Mark - a character cut out of D2 and D3 for good reason - in D1 when he insults Charlie) and stands up to the entire Varsity team despite them telling her that they hope they can “fight” with her later. Julie “The Cat” Gaffney (Columbe Jacobsen) is the second best player on the Ducks, despite the little ice time (thanks, Bombay) we see her have. She is the first person to tell of the Varsity, telling Captain Reilly that his little brother “just wasn’t good enough.” She’s a huge facilitator in the fire ant prank and despite the very weird and out of character game she had against the Blake Bears, shows that she deserves the number one goalie slot that Reilly gives her - despite what Goldberg, and the obvious underlying sexism there, have to say. I’ve also always been very impressed with Charlie’s mother, Casey (Heidi Kling). Although she has a romance with Bombay in D1, she makes it clear from the get go that her first priority is Charlie. We know that she took the two of them away from an abusive situation, and she’s a goddamn hero for that. Her scenes in D3 are limited, but they always show her chastising Charlie’s antics and encouraging him to stay in school. It goes unsaid, but it’s clear that she knows that he’s not going to get an education this good in the problematic public school system. But according to Linda, Charlie’s love interest, the private school system is no better. The first time we see Linda, she is protesting the “outdated” Warriors team name. This was in a 1996 kids movie, no less. She holds her own against Charlie, calling him out when he’s wrong. No one aside from Charlie, and maybe Fulton, get much screentime or lines aside from Bombay and Orion, but her presence and the point of her character is clear - not every rich person agrees with the horrible things that wealthy people do.

Back to the plot.

When the Ducks receive their positions, they learn that Banks, as a freshman, has made Varsity. From an outside perspective, they seems obvious. Banks is the best player we see in any of the films, definitely miles better than the losers on Varsity, so it seems obvious that he would be promoted. But Banks is unhappy with this. Adam Banks is a fan favorite character, definitely due to the sweet, understated performance by Larusso, but we don’t see much of him. From what we do see of him though, he underwent a huge character arc from D1 to now. In D1, Banks goes against his father’s protests and joins the Ducks, claiming that he “just wants to play hockey.” Here in D3, we see that Banks is utterly miserable despite playing with some of the best players in the state, purely because he’s not with his friends. At the end of the film, he makes the (questionable) decision to rejoin the Ducks and go against the Varsity. But Varsity seems to feel that Banks fits in with them, for obvious reasons. He’s the only Duck who comes from an affluent background, and he’s definitely the most clean cut. Captain Reilly is visibly angry in the final showdown with the Ducks that they no longer have Banks on their side, as if he’s betrayed “his kind.”

The turning point of the film comes when after Charlie has quit the freshman team (no longer the Ducks), Hans, a father figure to the Ducks and Bombay, suddenly passes away. It’s an insanely dark moment for a Disney film, especially when Bombay returns to the funeral and reminds the Ducks that it was “Hans who taught them to fly” and Charlie storms off, crying. I think Joshua Jackson, in the Ducks films, as well as in Dawson’s Creek, is phenomenally good at portraying teenagers who wouldn’t normally be seen as leading men. Who let their emotions overtake them, who have anger issues, who deal with familial problems. Characters like that in leading roles were almost unheard of in the 90s, and in the upcoming scenes, it reminds us why this side of Charlie that we’ve seen throughout the movie is not the only side of Charlie.

Bombay takes Charlie to the rink to see Orion skating with his disabled daughter, who was injured in a car accident. He reveals to Charlie that Orion quit the NHL to take care of her, and this immediately changes Charlie’s opinion of him, but he’s still unconvinced about rejoining the team. The next scene is without question, the greatest and most important scene of the trilogy. The last two films spent way too much time telling us how great of a person Bombay was, how he was the Minnesota Miracle Man,despite us seeing so little of that onscreen. We see him making mistake after mistake, hurting the team, being an unjustified dick to those around him. But this scene more than makes up for all of that. I’ve put the quote from this scene below.

Bombay: I was like you, Charlie. When I played hockey, I was a total hot shot. I tried to take control of every game. I wound up quitting. So I tried the law. I ruled the courtroom, but inside, I’m a mess. Start drinking. Man, I was going down. But then this great thing happened, maybe the best thing ever - I got arrested and sentenced to community service. And there you were - Charlie and the Ducks. And as hard as I fought it, there you were. You gave me a life, Charlie, and I want to say thank you. I told Orion about all of this when I talked to him about taking over. I told him that you were the heart of the team and that you would learn something from each other. I told him that you were the real Minnesota Miracle Man.

Charlie: You did?

Bombay: I did. So be that man, Charlie. Be that man.

It’s a callback to D2, when Jan tells Bombay “Be that man, Gordon. Be that man.” This scene is flawless. Every good thing that has happened to the Ducks, came because of Charlie’s heart. It came because of that game when Charlie refused to cheat, and made Bombay see his wrongs. It came because of when Bombay first tried to quit the team, and seeing how hurt Charlie was, agreed to stay. It was Charlie who stepped out of the game against Iceland so that Banks could play. It was Charlie who found them Russ. Giving the credit to a young, emotionally unstable teenager, rather than their Emilio Estevez, hotshot Bombay, is the best thing this series ever did.

This movie, in my opinion, is nearly flawless. Every moment has been planned to make the same point - change sucks. Especially when you’re a teenager. Even more so when you’re a teenager with trauma.

#the mighty ducks #gordon bombay #charlie conway #meta #i'm so proud of this pls read gay people!!!

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