(no subject)
Fandoms do come and go, don't they?
I'm on a Dragonlance kick again. It must've been the horrid "Raistlin is now He-Man" movie they came up with, but ... whatever it was I've felt like drawing, and writing, Dragonlance-y stuff these days. Aside from the drama, of course.
By Dragonlance, well, mostly I mean the Raistlin/Dalamar ship. I'm a huge fan of both characters, you might've observed; particularly of Dalamar. So, for having the ship, I've been writing little fanfics, one part at a time.
A year ago in the August I was in Germany, I'd pulled together this monstrous 10k+ words fanfic thingy, mostly made of scenes that are not connected to one another. It doesn't look too bad to me except for the fact that they are just random scenes and the string of plot that's supposed to tie them together isn't very strong; also, they aren't properly placed in the timeline (or plot) either.
The fic is pretty much a supposed "what happened?" ficlet, centering on what happened in the Tower High of Sorcery of Palanthas, ie. what went on between Raistlin and Dalamar, an outtake on their relationship for the most part... I'm pretty sure I could classify it as something like: master/slave relationship where there is a latent yet massive power struggle and the roles of master/slave aren't that easily defined, cat toying with mouse if you will, with the mouse often becoming the cat, attempts to use one another for benefits one way or the other (there's a reason why I think the Tori Amos cover to Wrapped Around Your Finger is an amazing theme song for the way I ship this 'ship**), cue getting used to one another too much and cue drama and a love/hate/abuse relationship, and WHAM BAM thank you ma'amsir betrayal and cue both (?) sides having CAPS LOCKs OF RAGE AND TRIPLE DOTs OF ANGST etc etc. As an added bonus, strange hysterical women digging with their nails and teeth into the world of very gay men. It's a really strange fic, and even I can't make sense of it sometimes.
For all it's worth, though, I decided to post a little bit of it over here, because I really seem to have spent effort trying my hand at writing this mess, and I don't really want to throw this away and forget it forever again. I would love to be able to finish this, someday.
So here goes... a random scene with the Conclave tower at Wayreth as the setting, and two outsiders studying the main characters.
------
The wind did not favor Wayreth. It was mercilessly beating at the walls and whistling shrilly through the shutters, wrenching each and every mage in the tower away from his sleep. But it was not the wind that kept Par-Salian from sleeping that night.
It was the guilt that was coming together in knots in his stomach. He had sent yet another mage to his death, again, and he knew he would keep doing so forever. It was always the same-it had always been the same. Every year, he admitted apprentices into the Tower of Wayreth. They would be so proud by the time they got to the Tower and faced the Head of the Conclave.
Every one of them would have the same look in their eyes once they were done, and Par-Salian remembered them all.
He remembered a frail young man falling to the floor, clutching his burning eyes, shrieking curses and screaming and desperately calling for a brother.
How could he have forgotten?
That young man would have done everything.
Everything.
The knot in his stomach tightened, threatening to force its contents into his mouth. Par-Salian shivered against the crackling flames of his fireplace. He brought his trembling hands together, rubbing them against each other, finding little warmth. Heat seemed to be fleeing his body in terror every time the thought of that man crossed his mind. Picturing a younger Raistlin, howling in pain, crying out in fury, calling death-that seemed to have an even worse effect.
The wind was still raging on, thunder had begun cracking and rolling across the skies, yet there was no rain. Feeling imprisoned in his own chambers, both because of the decrepit air that seemed to be choking him and also his own hidden guilts clutching at his limbs, Par-Salian considered going out and challenging the wind, teleporting himself atop the very tower, attempting to meditate, and waiting for one of the light Gods to reach him so he could consult them.
The smooth way in which a quiet shadow glided into his room did little to break him out of his reverie. The only thing it did was to bring him to reality.
“This is not right.” he told the figure when it moved behind him.
“We did what we had to do,” came the reply.
“We shouldn’t have done it. We shouldn’t have sent him there.”
“It was what we had to do,” the figure repeated, its voice cold and dark as the robes it wore. Slowly, it made its way towards the chair opposite the elderly mage. When it pulled aside its hood, Par-Salian did not need to look at it to know who it was: the Head of the Conclave took the liberty of knowing it already.
“We needed someone to do it and he volunteered, that’s all.” Ladonna said, her tone almost half-silent but still strong. She sat down quietly, idly smoothing the folds of her velvet robes.
“You always think everything to be so simple.” Par-Salian grunted, frowning.
“You always think everything to be so complicated. You think too much, sometimes.”
“I do because you do not.” Par-Salian’s words earned a frown from the black mage. “Ironic, isn’t it, that I would worry so much about a mage belonging to your order?”
Ladonna’s pursed lips smoothened and pulled back in the form of a crooked sneer. She did not say anything. She knew the Head of the Conclave better than that.
“What if his cover is blown? He’d kill him-”
“He’s already dead,” Ladonna interrupted, attempting to remind Par-Salian the one thing he seemed to have forgotten. “He’s an exile.” She lifted one brow, forming a graceful, yet intimidating arch. “You, of all people, Par-Salian, should know better. A dark elf usually has nothing to lose.”
“Usually!” Frustrated, Par-Salian sighed. “Do you remember what he told me when he accepted the ordeal?”
“I’m afraid I can’t seem to recall.”
“He told me he would risk his soul.” Par-Salian sighed again, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. “But I see it is not a matter of risk.”
“The world is so cruel.”
“I send people to their deaths every year,” the elderly mage’s voice was low. “But I do not have rights over their souls, Ladonna.”
For a few moments, Ladonna was quiet. Something was hidden in her dark eyes.
“It’s not your responsibility,” she said finally.
Par-Salian almost wanted to scream. He knew Ladonna, and he knew why she didn’t feel responsible.
She was simply doing what was best for herself. The Black Robes functioned so differently from the others; so much was lost in their chaos and hidden from the eyes of strangers. The struggle for power was with the Black Robes most evident, and almost everyone in the order stood for his own and his own only-it was rare that they stood also for the Dark Queen.
Ladonna’s position was threatened. It had always been so, even when she’d finally had the power to unite the rebellious mages of her order. She had been threatened by young upstarts and elder, wiser wizards, and she had overcome them all. And yet, her greatest enemy right now was a young upstart who happened to have a Tower of High Sorcery to his name and power far beyond her abilities... and the abilities of the entire Conclave itself. Only fortunately-he was not opposing her at all. Ladonna had long since disregarded him entirely. The only thing she now seeked to was defeat those who were actively opposing and outright threatening.
Dalamar Argent was ambitious, cunning, dangerous. He was bold and he feared little, he was obviously talented and proficient in the arts. And even then, there was one tiny thing about him that the others of the Black Robes could never even hope to have: patience. Dalamar Argent was patient. The other mages of his order did not share that little trait. While every other human mage was racing through the candles of his life in order to attain knowledge, and while Ladonna’s and Par-Salian’s candles were burning out themselves, the dark elf had a lot of time. He was still young and he would stay young-for a long time.
And such, he promised a great deal of grievous harm if given the opportunity. Ladonna was, in her own right, wise in throwing him headfirst into the lion’s pen-at Raistlin Majere himself-it was a wise decision, after all. Surely it would be a tragic loss for the order, but it made sure Ladonna kept her position.
Par-Salian knew it didn’t. Trying to arrange the details in her hysteria, Ladonna was missing the bigger picture. Her real opponent was still out there. His real opponent was out there.
Par-Salian faced the window, placed his hand on the cold glass, listening to the wind screeching through the cracks. “Sometimes I feel like we have only done exactly as he wanted.”
Ladonna kept quiet.
------
EDIT. ** IF THIS SONG DOESN'T MAKE ME BLEED RAISTLIN/DALAMAR, THEN NOTHING DOES.
Strange Tori Amos-woman + Björk + freaking Police cover with an angst twist.
Let's take a look at these lyrics:
You consider me your girlfriend
Caught between the Scylla and Charibdes
Hypnotized by you, I should linger
Staring at the ring 'round your finger
I have only come here seeking knowledge
Things they would not teach me in college
I can see the destiny you sold
Turned into a shining band of gold
I'll be wrapped around your finger
Mephistopheles is not your name
But I know what you're up to just the same
I will listen hard to your tuition
And you will see it come to its fruition
Trouble on the deep blue sea behind me
Vanish in air, never find me
I will turn your face to alabaster
Then you will find your servant is your master
And you'll be wrapped around my finger
THIS SONG MAKES ME BLEEEEEEEEEEEED. And even, the Police version actually has "You consider me the young apprentice" in it, to make things even worse. But the Tori Amos cover is so much angstier, and started playing just as I was writing about Ladonna talking to Dalamar. D: The gods are with me on this one.
Whew. This needs to be proofread, of course. By myself, and... some victim of my choosing. I might end up pushing this down Netta's or Turna's throat or something.
KEK.
I'm on a Dragonlance kick again. It must've been the horrid "Raistlin is now He-Man" movie they came up with, but ... whatever it was I've felt like drawing, and writing, Dragonlance-y stuff these days. Aside from the drama, of course.
By Dragonlance, well, mostly I mean the Raistlin/Dalamar ship. I'm a huge fan of both characters, you might've observed; particularly of Dalamar. So, for having the ship, I've been writing little fanfics, one part at a time.
A year ago in the August I was in Germany, I'd pulled together this monstrous 10k+ words fanfic thingy, mostly made of scenes that are not connected to one another. It doesn't look too bad to me except for the fact that they are just random scenes and the string of plot that's supposed to tie them together isn't very strong; also, they aren't properly placed in the timeline (or plot) either.
The fic is pretty much a supposed "what happened?" ficlet, centering on what happened in the Tower High of Sorcery of Palanthas, ie. what went on between Raistlin and Dalamar, an outtake on their relationship for the most part... I'm pretty sure I could classify it as something like: master/slave relationship where there is a latent yet massive power struggle and the roles of master/slave aren't that easily defined, cat toying with mouse if you will, with the mouse often becoming the cat, attempts to use one another for benefits one way or the other (there's a reason why I think the Tori Amos cover to Wrapped Around Your Finger is an amazing theme song for the way I ship this 'ship**), cue getting used to one another too much and cue drama and a love/hate/abuse relationship, and WHAM BAM thank you ma'amsir betrayal and cue both (?) sides having CAPS LOCKs OF RAGE AND TRIPLE DOTs OF ANGST etc etc. As an added bonus, strange hysterical women digging with their nails and teeth into the world of very gay men. It's a really strange fic, and even I can't make sense of it sometimes.
For all it's worth, though, I decided to post a little bit of it over here, because I really seem to have spent effort trying my hand at writing this mess, and I don't really want to throw this away and forget it forever again. I would love to be able to finish this, someday.
So here goes... a random scene with the Conclave tower at Wayreth as the setting, and two outsiders studying the main characters.
------
The wind did not favor Wayreth. It was mercilessly beating at the walls and whistling shrilly through the shutters, wrenching each and every mage in the tower away from his sleep. But it was not the wind that kept Par-Salian from sleeping that night.
It was the guilt that was coming together in knots in his stomach. He had sent yet another mage to his death, again, and he knew he would keep doing so forever. It was always the same-it had always been the same. Every year, he admitted apprentices into the Tower of Wayreth. They would be so proud by the time they got to the Tower and faced the Head of the Conclave.
Every one of them would have the same look in their eyes once they were done, and Par-Salian remembered them all.
He remembered a frail young man falling to the floor, clutching his burning eyes, shrieking curses and screaming and desperately calling for a brother.
How could he have forgotten?
That young man would have done everything.
Everything.
The knot in his stomach tightened, threatening to force its contents into his mouth. Par-Salian shivered against the crackling flames of his fireplace. He brought his trembling hands together, rubbing them against each other, finding little warmth. Heat seemed to be fleeing his body in terror every time the thought of that man crossed his mind. Picturing a younger Raistlin, howling in pain, crying out in fury, calling death-that seemed to have an even worse effect.
The wind was still raging on, thunder had begun cracking and rolling across the skies, yet there was no rain. Feeling imprisoned in his own chambers, both because of the decrepit air that seemed to be choking him and also his own hidden guilts clutching at his limbs, Par-Salian considered going out and challenging the wind, teleporting himself atop the very tower, attempting to meditate, and waiting for one of the light Gods to reach him so he could consult them.
The smooth way in which a quiet shadow glided into his room did little to break him out of his reverie. The only thing it did was to bring him to reality.
“This is not right.” he told the figure when it moved behind him.
“We did what we had to do,” came the reply.
“We shouldn’t have done it. We shouldn’t have sent him there.”
“It was what we had to do,” the figure repeated, its voice cold and dark as the robes it wore. Slowly, it made its way towards the chair opposite the elderly mage. When it pulled aside its hood, Par-Salian did not need to look at it to know who it was: the Head of the Conclave took the liberty of knowing it already.
“We needed someone to do it and he volunteered, that’s all.” Ladonna said, her tone almost half-silent but still strong. She sat down quietly, idly smoothing the folds of her velvet robes.
“You always think everything to be so simple.” Par-Salian grunted, frowning.
“You always think everything to be so complicated. You think too much, sometimes.”
“I do because you do not.” Par-Salian’s words earned a frown from the black mage. “Ironic, isn’t it, that I would worry so much about a mage belonging to your order?”
Ladonna’s pursed lips smoothened and pulled back in the form of a crooked sneer. She did not say anything. She knew the Head of the Conclave better than that.
“What if his cover is blown? He’d kill him-”
“He’s already dead,” Ladonna interrupted, attempting to remind Par-Salian the one thing he seemed to have forgotten. “He’s an exile.” She lifted one brow, forming a graceful, yet intimidating arch. “You, of all people, Par-Salian, should know better. A dark elf usually has nothing to lose.”
“Usually!” Frustrated, Par-Salian sighed. “Do you remember what he told me when he accepted the ordeal?”
“I’m afraid I can’t seem to recall.”
“He told me he would risk his soul.” Par-Salian sighed again, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. “But I see it is not a matter of risk.”
“The world is so cruel.”
“I send people to their deaths every year,” the elderly mage’s voice was low. “But I do not have rights over their souls, Ladonna.”
For a few moments, Ladonna was quiet. Something was hidden in her dark eyes.
“It’s not your responsibility,” she said finally.
Par-Salian almost wanted to scream. He knew Ladonna, and he knew why she didn’t feel responsible.
She was simply doing what was best for herself. The Black Robes functioned so differently from the others; so much was lost in their chaos and hidden from the eyes of strangers. The struggle for power was with the Black Robes most evident, and almost everyone in the order stood for his own and his own only-it was rare that they stood also for the Dark Queen.
Ladonna’s position was threatened. It had always been so, even when she’d finally had the power to unite the rebellious mages of her order. She had been threatened by young upstarts and elder, wiser wizards, and she had overcome them all. And yet, her greatest enemy right now was a young upstart who happened to have a Tower of High Sorcery to his name and power far beyond her abilities... and the abilities of the entire Conclave itself. Only fortunately-he was not opposing her at all. Ladonna had long since disregarded him entirely. The only thing she now seeked to was defeat those who were actively opposing and outright threatening.
Dalamar Argent was ambitious, cunning, dangerous. He was bold and he feared little, he was obviously talented and proficient in the arts. And even then, there was one tiny thing about him that the others of the Black Robes could never even hope to have: patience. Dalamar Argent was patient. The other mages of his order did not share that little trait. While every other human mage was racing through the candles of his life in order to attain knowledge, and while Ladonna’s and Par-Salian’s candles were burning out themselves, the dark elf had a lot of time. He was still young and he would stay young-for a long time.
And such, he promised a great deal of grievous harm if given the opportunity. Ladonna was, in her own right, wise in throwing him headfirst into the lion’s pen-at Raistlin Majere himself-it was a wise decision, after all. Surely it would be a tragic loss for the order, but it made sure Ladonna kept her position.
Par-Salian knew it didn’t. Trying to arrange the details in her hysteria, Ladonna was missing the bigger picture. Her real opponent was still out there. His real opponent was out there.
Par-Salian faced the window, placed his hand on the cold glass, listening to the wind screeching through the cracks. “Sometimes I feel like we have only done exactly as he wanted.”
Ladonna kept quiet.
------
EDIT. ** IF THIS SONG DOESN'T MAKE ME BLEED RAISTLIN/DALAMAR, THEN NOTHING DOES.
Strange Tori Amos-woman + Björk + freaking Police cover with an angst twist.
Let's take a look at these lyrics:
You consider me your girlfriend
Caught between the Scylla and Charibdes
Hypnotized by you, I should linger
Staring at the ring 'round your finger
I have only come here seeking knowledge
Things they would not teach me in college
I can see the destiny you sold
Turned into a shining band of gold
I'll be wrapped around your finger
Mephistopheles is not your name
But I know what you're up to just the same
I will listen hard to your tuition
And you will see it come to its fruition
Trouble on the deep blue sea behind me
Vanish in air, never find me
I will turn your face to alabaster
Then you will find your servant is your master
And you'll be wrapped around my finger
THIS SONG MAKES ME BLEEEEEEEEEEEED. And even, the Police version actually has "You consider me the young apprentice" in it, to make things even worse. But the Tori Amos cover is so much angstier, and started playing just as I was writing about Ladonna talking to Dalamar. D: The gods are with me on this one.
Whew. This needs to be proofread, of course. By myself, and... some victim of my choosing. I might end up pushing this down Netta's or Turna's throat or something.
KEK.