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I have to know: What is it about the Boyle sisters you like so much? They're presented as extremely unpleasant people to say the least. Esma's attempting to block the world out by drowning herself in drink, it is hinted that Lydia is a serial killer, and Waverly, well: "A favorite game of hers is to befriend a young socialite, and then see her ruined within a year."
This is a fair question; thank you, anon, for giving me a chance to explain my love for these ladies again.
(Question - why do you think Lydia’s a serial killer? The Heart’s line ”her servants never last long. And no one dares question about their whereabouts” doesn’t mean she kills her servants; ”of all the Boyle women, Lydia has the most to keep secret” merely matches all the other hints that Lydia dabbles in Outsider worship. Waverly’s the only one who’s definitively stated as having directly caused someone’s death)
Short answer: because they’re better than you and they know it
Slightly less short answer: because they’re feminine and work within the system, yet there are no men truly in the picture, and yet they’re still terrifying.
Proper answer: *rolls up sleeves*
What makes you happy?
Writing, when it goes well and actually works, is the best feeling ever.
…And I feel like if I go on too long this response will devolve into a long, maudlin, “raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens” list, and that’s… not what I want to be waxing poetic about at the moment. XDD
(Actually, that’s a lie; the reason I’m not waxing poetic is because the second thing that sprang to mind after writing was “swimming,” the meditative repetition and the feeling of hoshit my body can do this… and then my brain went to a weird place because I used to swim like it was my job, something like 20+ hours in the pool a week, and I was really very good at it, and I’ve spent the past six years slowly writing my way through all the emotional baggage that came with it. I hated it and I sincerely miss it.)
What are you currently reading?
There is literally a stack of Fables comics (which pathopharmacology lent me) sitting right next to me. Two down, seven or eight to go. XD
And I just finished The Buddha in the Attic. Which my brain treated as more like poetry than a novel, so I was very happy.
Morgan’s such a pretty name for a lady though!
The funny thing? My parents picked it (in part) because they did not want an androgynous name. They didn’t know Morgan could be a boy’s name. They thought it was exclusively and obviously feminine.
They, uh. Kinda fucked up with that one. XDDDDD
Your first fandom!
The Elder Scrolls. Specifically, TES IV and the Dark Brotherhood questline.
TES is my first fandom because it’s the first fandom I wrote and published fic before and where I actually found other fans and got involved. (There was a forum, back in the day, called lucienlachance.net, and that’s all I’m gonna say about that). It feels pretty damn cool that I’m still in the same fandom and hanging around with some of the same people I met seven or eight years ago. :D
The first fandom I wrote (but did not publish) fic for was Neverwinter Nights. I still have that ungodly monstrosity of a self-insert lying around somewhere. I was fourteen. I also wrote a lot of Vampire Chronicles stuff around the same time (and from a technical standpoing my writing for that fandom is better, at least; I had a huge “I’m allowed to be a poet!” epiphany when I was sixteen and it shows). But neither of those count because I didn’t interact with anyone and none of that fic is ever seeing the light of day. O.o
Your first name
I think I’ve mentioned this before - it makes writing Pendleton twincest extremely weird
Anonymously message me one (1) thing you want to know about me!
I would offer you Garrett cuddles if I had a Garrett but I do not have a Garrett so I guess you’ll have to suffer or something idk
I am very sad that you misplaced your Garrett but also somewhat relieved as Garrett cuddles would be a) kinda hilariously awkward and b) where did my wallet go?
talk to me about boromir
Ten Things About Boromir the Bold That Never Made It Into the Red Book of Westmarch
I. His strongest memory of his mother was the smell of the sea she carried in her hair; how dark and tall she stood, looking towards an east Boromir would ever only long for in her honor.
II. Boromir did not ever doubt that he was loved. He was the first son of Gondor, swaddled in a walled citadel and rocked in Pelennor’s arms. He did not question why his father’s love was like stone, nor why his brother looked to him like he was the highest point of the ramparts. They were a city, and how else was a city to love?
III. For Boromir’s fourteenth year, the master of hounds promised him a pup of his own—One of Huan’s own line, the man swore, As befits a prince. What Boromir received, however, was the runt of that spring’s litter, a wheezing, stumbling thing that Boromir stubbornly nursed with a cheesecloth dipped in milk, then fed meat from his own plate.
Bellas, he called it, and ignored any who dared laugh.
Bellas never grew taller than Boromir’s knees, but she was strong and stubborn and loyal—for three years, Boromir went nowhere without her shadow at his heels. Bellas slept at the end of his bed; waited patiently during Boromir’s lessons; loped after his horse when he went riding.
Boromir was seventeen when Bellas was killed, her neck broken by an orc who had stumbled into their hunting party. She had put herself between her young master and the terrible interloper, and afterwards, Boromir had carried her in his arms all the way back to Minas Tirith.
He buried her beneath a sapling tree on the slope of Mindolliun, and wept where no one could see him.
IV. Faramir looked east, and dreamt of great waves. Boromir watched him, heart heavy in his chest.
V. He had been in love with—well. He never said.
VI. Boromir was ill at ease in Elrond’s house, feeling too rough with travel, and heavy—all of Gondor on his shoulders, the knowledge that Faramir’s fine speech and strange visions might have meant something here, where Boromir, Protector of the City, did not. But he burned when they dismissed Gondor, his fingernails biting into his palms when the strength of Men was so questioned. (He had not seen any Elves come to Osgiliath’s defense, nor heard of any wizard-craft that kept the Corsairs from their brazen pillaging of Langstrand and Belfalas. What had these mighty peoples done to battle back the Shadow in the East except sit in their cool green palaces and speak in riddles?)
VII. He liked the Hobbits best, even after. They reminded him most of his own men, with their stubbornness and light-hearted complaints, their love of food and pipe-smoke and story. Three of them had left behind the whole of their world, to walk into darkness beside just one, and—yes, Boromir could respect such brotherhood.
VIII. (Aragorn remembered when Boromir was only a child, rosy-cheeked and happy to leave his mother’s side, to follow Thorongil around the citadel burbling in some tongue only Denethor and Finduilas could decipher. It was strange to meet the man that child became, to stand at a height with him, to wield a sword at his side, to listen to him speak of peace for Minas Tirith like other men spoke of lovers.
It made Aragorn feel very old, an ache deep in his bones that had not been there before. Careful, he wanted to caution the man, as he had once cautioned the child. Reach too high and you will fall.)
IX. One rainy night, when Boromir was keeping watch over the sleeping Fellowship, he sketched it out in his mind—the streets he would lead Aragorn through, the hidden corners of the palace he would show to Merry and Pippin, the great gates of the city whose craftsmanship he might justly boast of to Gimli. How Minas Tirith, that shining city, would chase the sorrow from the Fellowship’s faces, might shield them, might give them rest.
The rain dripped down his neck, cold, but he was gone to Minas Tirith—This is my home, he imagined himself saying to his companions, his brothers. This is home, may you always be welcome.
X. His last thought was of Faramir.
(Brother, little brother, I—)
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