march

April 01, 2021

Things I enjoyed in the month of March:

Ilona Andrews', Magic Binds:

I think it's finally starting to hit me.
It's almost over.
Two books; one spinoff (hello again, Hugh D'Ambray, you beautiful bastard) and the finale of the series, and then we're done.
No more supernatural post-apocalyptic Atlanta, no more Kate and Curran, The Pack will be gone, I'll never hear Kate's sass-mouth spar joyfully with idiot cocksure nemeses in my head again.
It'll just be gone.
A beloved experience, a treasured memory, something that changed my heart.
I know that sounds grandiose but it's what literature does to me.
It's that thing, y'know?
Doesn't everyone have that thing?
That thing that altered you somehow.
That thing you go back to when you're in need of comfort, or grounding, or uncomplicated joy.
Surely we all have one of those?
Be it a band you listen to on repeat, or a tv show you curl up with when you're wounded, a food that's more a sense-memory than something you merely consume, etc.
The thing that becomes a key piece of who you are.
...
The thing!
I'm not that special, it can't just be me.
And I've experienced this phenomena a fair few times; most notably when Buffy aired for the first time (although, Joss Whedon's tainted that forever. Misogynistic, abusive dick-splash ← Interesting and sense-making thoughts on that, here).
It wasn't just a tv show, it was something more.
From that point on it was a part of my persona, it bled into the way I talked, I referenced it repeatedly, it became an essential part of my memories.
To this day, it still feels like it's mine.
The reasonable part knows I'm one of millions who worship at the alter of Buffy Summers, but the unreasonable part of me will fight you for the title of reigning Fanqueen.
I'm so possessive over the characters, the story, the world-building, everything.
And that's exactly how I feel about the Kate Daniels series.
I started it almost exactly three years ago, and I remember acutely thinking oh, there you are, where've you been all this time?, and that feeling hasn't dwindled with time, if anything, it's grown stronger.
Which is why the very thought of it ending, let alone it actually happening, feels like a searing backhand to the heart.
And that didn't fully compute until I neared the end of Magic Binds, because Kate knows it too, she knows war's imminent, the end is nigh, whatever that may look like, and like me, she's freaking the fuck out.


"Okay, why are you so freaked out?"
"Because you did that thing your father does."
"What thing?"
"The one where you smiled and it was like being blessed."
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
"I can handle your father, because I despise him." [Curran's] gray eyes were hard. "But I love you. Don't do that to me again."
I was turning into my father.
I turned away from him before he saw my face. He moved behind me and then his arms closed around me. He'd seen it anyway.
"What did it feel like?" I asked, my voice quiet.
"It felt like a god noticed me," he said. "Warm and welcoming. Like the sun broke through the clouds."
The warmth of his arms shielded me. Curran would shield me from everything, except myself. That one was on me.
"I love you more than I've ever loved anyone," he said. "But I don't want a new sun or a goddess. I want you. A partner."
"I know." I pulled away from him and went to our house. 
He followed me.


Since the beginning of the series, we've been told time and time again that Kate's special.
Not in an arrogant way but simply an undeniable truth.
She's descended from magic royalty, she's a powerful fighter with or without magic, she's intelligent and strategic, brave, moral - but flawed, she's earned the trust and respect from the people who stand by her.
She's a fantastic protagonist, but there's always been an air of... doubt as to whether, when the time comes, she'll be strong enough to win her biggest battle.
(Which I love, by the way. I don't want perfect chosen one, I want a heroine who'll make me sweat 'til the very end)
Now, I'm not stupid, I know she'll find a way, my girl always does because she's savvy as hell but the nerves are still there.
What she stands against isn't some ancient evil she'll be able to pick random knowledge out of her head about and defeat because she's basically a walking bestiary for the eldritch horrors of the world.
It's her dad.
Her dad, the self-appointed god.
Her dad, the one who calls her blossom.
Her dad, who murders her friends, murdered her mother.
Her dad, who wants to be at her wedding.
Her dad, who would wipe her from existence in a heartbeat.
But still... her dad.
A parent doesn't define who you are, especially a decidedly absent one, but for Kate, who's all bite on the outside and all mush on the inside, it's not as easy as deciding: he's a mass murdering zealot god with too much power and he must die.
No, it's more like: he's a mass murdering zealot god with too much power and he must die but I don't know how to fucking feel about it.


"Can you kill Roland?"
"I'm not sure I want to." And that came right out.
"Of course you don't want to. He's your father."
I stared at her. She rubbed her stomach and grimaced. "The kid won't settle down."
"How can I not want to kill him? He's evil, Andrea. He won't stop until he grinds everyone under his boot. A city, a state, a country won't be enough. He'll keep going until his empire spans the whole planet. He tortured people. He's been talking to Julie behind my back, trying to subvert her. Why am I having doubts? What is wrong with me?"
"He's your father. He made you, Kate. He's your link to your family, the only link you have. And he loves you in his own twisted way. I saw the way he looked at you when you claimed the city. He was practically bursting with pride. If you manage to stab him in the heart, he'll be proud of you with his dying breath. Of course, you're having doubts. You wouldn't be human if you weren't."


Roland, the builder of towers, Nimrod himself might be a bad, bad man but he's charming and he genuinely love his daughter.
Kate loves him too.
It's the age old dichotomy of how do you end the life of someone you love, no matter how much it needs to be done?
In Kate's case? When enough is enough.


He saw us coming.
Our gazes met.
[...]
My father saw the promise of death in my eyes. In that fleeting instant he understood I knew we were bound and I didn't care.
[...]
We would end this here.


We finally got there, the breaking point, to the realisation that it can only end one way.
Dad's a bad guy, let's end him even if it hurts.
...
Rough stuff for someone who's just trying to make it home to her family for dinner each night in her surprisingly suburban home.
And that's only part of what Kate has to deal with, because dear old dad might be the most powerful creature in existence with a real dogma complex but she's his progeny, his blood is her blood, his power is her power.
The problem is, Kate's a baby in comparison to the man who defied God and built the Tower of Babel - yeah, he's that Nimrod.
She's close but not near enough to his level of power.
So how in the holy supernatural hell do you defeat someone who's stronger, bigger and faster than you?
...
I don't know!
Kate's power has certainly grown throughout the series, especially in the last few books (much to the detriment of her brain; can we please never go through book eight again? I think I aged ten years by the end of it) but she's still not godhead material.
She's so incredibly fallible (I repeat: book eight, never again) and I just, I don't know how she's going to do this.
Or even how she's going to do this and survive her own magic.
It's in her blood to be tempted by power, a nifty little curse her family was blessed with, but it's not in her nature and it doesn't fit her moral code.
Nonetheless, it's there and it's strong, and the more power she gains the more susceptible she is to losing herself to it.


I touched the surface of the ocean. It pulsed. Curran jumped backward a full fifteen feet.
Now that felt interesting. I touched it again. Another pulse.
"Every time I use my magic, everybody gets so concerned. I defend them, I bleed for them, and the moment the immediate danger passes, they let me know how much they disapprove. As if their fucking disapproval matters. As if I should ask their permission, like a servant, to do what is in my power."
"Kate," he said. "I know you're in there. Stop."
I brushed the ocean, giving it a hint of my power. The fey lanterns flashed brighter on all the houses down the street.
"Have you ever wondered what would happen if I stopped listening to every pathetic creature who thought that they had a right to weigh in on my decisions? Wouldn't it be nice to not have to ask permission for something that's already yours? What's the point of having power if you never use it?"
I slapped it again and again, faster, picking up rhythm.
Thump, thump, thump.
"I can crush all of them, but I won't. That would be wasteful and I'm not wasteful. I'll use my magic and turn them into willing happy slaves."
"No," Curran said. "You won't."
"Don't you love me, Curran? Don't you want me to bear your children? Can you imagine how powerful they will be?"
I pulled on my magic a tiny bit. It warmed me from within and I let it out. It felt like I was glowing, but I could see my arms and no glow seemed to be shining out.
Curran froze.
"Take my hand, Curran. You know you want to."
"No. This isn't you."
"Of course, it is. Jim told you so. Take my hand, baby. Be with me eternally. Rule with me. All you have to do is love me and I will give you all the power and immortality you could ever want."
The door of George's house swung open and Eduardo stepped out.
"Is everything okay?"
Aw. He ruined it. Well, it was fun while it lasted. I let go of the magic. "Everything is fine. Curran and I are having a married moment."
"Oh. Sorry." Eduardo turned and went back inside.
Curran looked like a flying fish had popped into existence in front of him and slapped his face with its tail.
"You should see your face," I snickered.
He snarled. "Damn it, Kate!"
[...]
"You're an asshole," he told me.
"You knew that before you asked me to marry you. What, no hug?"


I've always been an advocate for Kate's vulnerabilities.
My perfect Fantasy heroine (and hero) is basically an armadillo: tough as shit on the outside and squishy on the inside, preferably with a side of sass and devotion towards their loved ones.
I like to call them alpha-mallows.
Kate's an alpha-mallow through and through, so's Curran, and they go together so perfectly it's in danger of veering into nauseating territory.


Curran laughed.
"What?"
"You always know how to get under someone's skin."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It's your superpower. Trust me, I know."
He looked at me and laughed harder.
"What?"
"I love when you bare your teeth at me. All the shapeshifter living has been rubbing off on you. You'd make such a cute shapeshifter."
"I will fucking throw you off this tower."
"You and what army?" He spread his arms. "Give it all you've got, baby."


But they're both capable of being the dumbest shits in Urban Fantasy history.
Because they love each other too much.
Case and point:


I was a piece of shit. She was a person, an actual real human being, and I had decided to play God with her life. When I had a chance to turn her into a slave, I stopped because I recognized that Curran wouldn't like it. I should've stopped because it was the wrong thing to do. Because I didn't make slaves.
[...]
How could I have gone so far? How do I fix this? 


ie. Kate's being taken over by her powers, she made a mistake she believes unforgivable, she crossed a line she promised she wouldn't, she's certain Curran will leave her.
Kate hides what she's done.
Curran grows ever suspicious, but gives her the benefit of the doubt.
Kate slowly dies inside.
...
Idiots.
I hated this element of the story.
I hated knowing it was completely understandable what Kate was doing, empathising with her dilemma whilst willing her to come clean.
I hated every second of her keeping things from Curran.
I thought we'd moved past this side of their relationship, I thought they were solid.
But I get it.
When you love someone that much and you think you're turning into a monster, what else would you do but hide it from them?


I needed to figure out what she was before I saw Curran, because I didn't understand it myself and I didn't want there to be any misunderstandings. I knew what I did and what I didn't do. If I made it into a "believe me because I am me and you know me" argument, he could give me the benefit of the doubt, but I didn't want that. I wanted to prove to him with absolute certainty that I hadn't enslaved this woman. I hadn't crossed the line. I'd ridden an elephant up to it and run back and forth along its edge while a mariachi band played in the background, but I hadn't crossed it.


Totally understandable.
Endlessly infuriating.
But again, I get it, we had to go there. Kate's character had to be called into question, we had to know whether she would cross the line from powerful to power hungry.
That line is always going to be an issue for someone like her, someone who's moral compass isn't a straight, pious arrow but clearly follows a code of conduct.
Kate's a good person but there's a reason temptation isn't really an issue for villains, which is why she needs to get her head out of her ass and talk to His Furriness.
Because what keeps tempted people on the right track?
...
A fuzzy lion shifter who'll throw a medium-sized silent tantrum, stomp off for a bit, and then come back and talk some sense into his mate because holy fuck, Kate's a dumb shit when she's freaking out.


He gave an exaggerated sigh. "What am I going to do with you? You're a walking catastrophe."
"Get the hell out of my apartment!"
"Why? So you can sit here in your solitude and mope some more?"
"I wasn't moping."
He grinned at me. "Poor sad Kate, all alone with her sadness . . ."
"Curran, stop while you're ahead, or I swear, I'll kick you until you fly right out of this window."
He pounced on me. I tried to punch him, but it was like trying to wrestle a bear. He gathered me up and pulled me to him.
"Go away!"
"I love you," he said.
I stopped struggling.
"Where the hell would I go without you, Kate? No matter where I went, you would be there in my head. I would miss you every moment of my life."
"I would miss you, too."
He squeezed me to him, his gray eyes laughing.


She needs a support system, people to tell her when she's gone too far, people to forgive her even when she screws up.
Which she would realise she has if she'd take second to forgive herself.
She has it with Curran, Julie, Derek, Andrea, Raphael, Jim (when he also pulls his head out his butt), Dali, Barabas, Christopher, Ascanio, Mahon, Martha, Evdokia, Roman... need I list more?
Because it's a long list, longer than Kate even realises.
That's why I'm not worried about her losing herself, not when she has all these people around giving her shit but standing by her side.


"I can't."
"Why not?"
I opened my mouth."Yes?"
"Mahon doesn't even like me. He barely tolerates me."
"Of course he likes you. I like you, too. Now, he didn't always think you were a suitable wife for his special son, but he always liked you."
Could've fooled me. "What changed?"
"We saw you carry the djinn," Martha said. "We were both there and we saw you give it up and hand it to Curran and then we saw him give it back to you. What the two of you have is a rare thing. We don't love Curran like a son. He is our son, one of our children. Mahon may be an old stubborn bear, but he isn't blind or stupid. He knows Curran won't do better. We are lucky to have you for a daughter-in-law."
It was the stupidest thing, but I felt like crying.
She took the chain and put it into my hand. "You wear it. I want you to."


Never has this series felt more like a family than it did in this book.
And yet again, that's what sets her apart from her father.
Roland murders everything he "loves" so no one can usurp his throne.
Kate does the opposite. Kate would rather be the one who dies.


I loved them both. I loved my unborn future baby. I loved Curran, his eyes, his laugh, his smile. I woke up next to him, I ate breakfast with him, we went to work together, and we came home together. That was the core of who I was: Curran, Julie, Derek, even Grendel, the family I'd made. It was my life, the one I fought for, the one I built and wanted. We were together. That was how things were.


Which is why she's making deals with the devil in order to stop something worse.
It's interesting how the overall theme of the KD series isn't about good and bad, but more what you do with the power you're given.
So, even though Roland sets himself up as a benevolent god who will smite the land and its people in order to build paradise (oh, sound familiar, does it?), Kate will do whatever it takes to give people a choice, to give them their freedom, and if that means making faustian bargains with the Slavic god of death and darkness, then so be it.
She'll take the hit.
Kate will always take the hit.
I'm just really hoping it involves a certain pet dragon of the above-mentioned god, who's fond of cuddles:


Aspid hissed and slithered to Roman, the serpent dragon's huge head level with him. If he opened his mouth, he could swallow the volhv in one gulp.
Roman shook his head, clearing it.
The dragon opened his mouth, his teeth like long curved sabers. Oh crap.
"Roman!" I started toward them and sank into the mud.
Aspid's long serpentine tongue flicked out and wound around the volhv. I sped up, splashing through the bog. There was no way I could make it through all this mud in time.
Roman blinked again and smacked Aspid's nose with his hand. "What did I say about kisses? No kisses unless invited."
Aspid's tongue contracted. He pulled Roman into his mouth.
I sprinted.
"Yes, I love you, too," Roman said from inside the forest of teeth. "I need to go now. Come on."
The dragon opened his mouth and put Roman back into the mud. The massive serpent looked at me, hissed, and slid into the forest, his obsidian body going and going . . . It would be comical if it weren't so damn scary.


And the volhv he inflicts said cuddling on.
I cannot even begin to describe how much love I have for Roman.
He'll bring you terror, he'll bring you pain, he'll transmogrify into a gigantic raven and peck your eyes out, but need your wedding officiated and organised?
He's your guy.


A black woman with a head full of bright poppy-red curls followed Roman, pulling behind her a small metal cart full of plates. Roman picked up one of the plates and a spoon, carved a small piece of the cake on it, and held the spoon out to me.
"What is this?"
"Cake."
"Why do I need cake right this second?"
"This is Mary Louise Garcia," Roman said. "She is the head baker for Clan Heavy's Honey Buns bakery."
Mary smiled at me and waved her fingers.
"Mary very kindly agreed to bring over samples so you could select a wedding cake."
"I did." Mary nodded.
"Mary turns into a grizzly. A very large grizzly."
"I know who Mary is," I told him. "I met her before, at Andrea's wedding."
"If you don't pick a wedding cake, Mary will sit on you and stuff all this cake into your mouth until you make a selection."
"Mary and what army?"
Mary smiled at me. "I won't need an army."
"Can he select the cake?" I pointed at Curran. "This wedding involves two of us."
"He already did," Mary said. "These are the choices he narrowed down."
I turned to Curran. "You narrowed it down to sixteen choices."
"They were all very delicious," he said.
"Were there any choices you didn't like?"
"Yes," he said. "I scrapped coconut and lime."
"After you are done with the cake, we'll discuss flower selection and colors," Roman said.
I would strangle him.


Order isn't a term readily associated with the Daniels-Lennart household but with Roman at the helm, marital shit gets done and it gets done with threats and infinite, smirking patience.
Give me all the OCD dark priests with the ability to make a chair blush with a wink.
Or just give me Roman and the series House Andrews are currently, possibly, concurrently working on between their other projects?

Oh, and let's throw in a Christopher and Barabas series while we're at it.
Because they might be the most adorable pairing in the entire series?
And I may have been shocked as shit to find out exactly what Christopher's deal is?
I mean, I knew it was something, but I didn't see this coming.
How can the sweetest man alive be Deimos, the god of dread and terror?
And why does it make perfect sense?
And is him swooping around in the clouds the most adorable thing to have happened in the series yet?


Christopher glided above me, somewhere too high to see. Watching him in the sky had made me forget about being suspended hundreds of feet in the air with a whole lot of nothing between me and the very hard ground. Christopher had remembered how to fly. He would climb up, bank, and dive, speeding upward, out of the curve, and soar. Teddy Jo had rumbled, "You'd think he'd act like he had wings before," then caught himself, and left Christoper to the wind and the speed.


...

It is, it really is.

I'm used to experiencing the full emotional gamut whenever I pick up one of these books but bloody hell, number nine with a bullet.
There's SO much to unpack, I don't even know where to start.
Or how to stop my brain from going down potential spinoff ideas:

→ Andrea, Raphael, and baby B do domestic shit for an entire series
(This would be amazing, don't fight me on it. I need to see Ascanio babysitting)

→ Christopher and Barabas do adorable domestic shit for an entire series
(There would be extracurricular flying and hammock cuddles)

→ Julie, Derek, and Ascanio do bickersome domestic shit for an entire series
(To be fair, this is happening in Blood Heir but it isn't going to be as cute as it is in my head)

→ Roman and Aspid (of cuddly dragon fame) do mischievous domestic shit for an entire series
 (Their children's parties would be the stuff of legend)

...
You may sense a theme.
I can't be the only one who's in dire need of entire series where their OTPs do the most mundane crap?
Surely not?
Do I need to run to AO3 to check this?
Nah, I already know the answer.
But alas, the likelihood of any of this being written is infinitely small; I'll just have to deal with the two current spinoffs and the potential Roman one in the works.
Woe is me.

But for now, I've got to somehow convince myself that finishing this series isn't the end of the world.
That I'll be okay when there are no more stories to come.
That when I'm sad or in need of comfort, Kate and her pack of fluffy hotheads will always be there for a re-read, even though I'm terrible at re-reading.
They'll still be there.
Should I need them.

I mean, where else am I going to get that particular buzz of my vertigo-suffering heroine riding through the night on the back of a spirited pegasus by the name of Sugar and it not be completely ridiculous?


After the first fifteen minutes of flight I decided that I could stop clutching at Sugar every time she beat her wings, which signaled to her that it was time for aerial acrobatics. She threw herself into it with gusto, neighing with delight every time I screamed. I managed not to throw up, she managed not to kill me, and by the end of the thirty-minute test flight we had reached an understanding. I realized that she didn't plan to murder me and she realized that I meant every word when I promised to drop the bag with sugar to the ground if she didn't stop doing barrel rolls. Christopher watched it all from a safe distance. I heard him laughing a few times. I'd never live it down.


FUCK, I love it so much.
There's a chapter that starts with the words: birds were assholes, how could I not love it desperately?
Someone tell me it's going to be okay without it keeping me sane?
Someone, for the love of literature-reliant brainpans everywhere, tell me it's going to be okay!
...


Ps. Curran ate a tiger-god and the consequences have yet to be addressed.
Um...

Not cool, House Andrews, not cool at all.
I. demand. answers.

...

Very important fan art moment by Sofia aka. blossombythesea:

...

There are so many things I love about this.
Being reminded yet again that Curran is a grey lion, not golden - Nine books in and my brain still won't accept this.
Andrea in the background shaking her future husband with bestie pride - more solo books with these two, please.
Derek's little flag - look how smol.
Dali's immediate crush beginning to show and Jim's obvious distress at fucking everything - Dali's Coke-bottle glasses are perfection.
Oh, and how fucking badass Kate looks in one of my favourite books in the entire series - hot tub; all I'm saying.
Oh yeah, I'm a straight up fool in love with this.

.............................................


One of the first things I look at in figurative work are the hands.
You can tell when someone knows their anatomical shit if the hands are seamless.
Sam Kipperman's hands are...

Ps. And this includes little chibi flippers like the majestic kind Ketnipz draws:
(The kiss. Oh, heaven help me, the little kiss)

If they work, they work.

.............................................


...
I have so many questions.
But mostly, how do I get this song out of my head?:
(If you know, you know)

And will my endless crush on Kathryn Hahn ever cease to be?
I really hope not, she's magnificent.

Same goes for Elizabeth Olsen.
I knew I liked her already but to watch her switch effortlessly between entirely different genres of tv almost every episode was, excuse the lack of articulation, impressive as fuck.
https://dailywandavision.tumblr.com/post/190631210782/wandavision-a-sitcom

That and her wondrous nose scrunch:

As beautifully illustrated here by Alice X. Zhang:

And then there's her wardrobe, which Savannah Alexandra nails with this paper doll format:
...
Perfection.

.............................................

Harmonising fonts with Chad Morgan:

...

I think my brain exploded.
Why have I never realised this before?

Ps. Chad Morgan is a fount of helpful design tips.
Follow, follow, follow.

.............................................


There's a particular scene in Magic Binds (the book reviewed at the top, if you didn't read it; no judgement, reviews aren't for everyone) where the protagonist, Kate, needs to dance in order for a piece of absurd magic to occur.
In typical Kate style, she took everyone by surprise:


"Dance, Kate."
I stomped around onstage. Saiman was looking at the lava lamp.
"Not enough."
"How do you know?"
"The lamp would glow. We need more. You have to commit and put in the effort, like the child that was originally dancing on the the stage. Try to be graceful this time. You're a swordsman. Surely you can scrounge up some elegance."
Screw it. "Throw me my socks."
Curran balled my socks together and tossed them at me. I pulled them on, raised my hands, and slipped into the classical fourth position. I took a deep breath, fixed my gaze on the narrow window directly in front of me, and launched into a double pirouette to pick up momentum. One, two, fouetté turn, another, another, another, pirouette, pirouette, what the hell, let's go for eight, fouetté, fouetté, seven, eight, pirouette, fourth position, arms open.
Botched that last pirouette a bit. It had been a while.
Saiman and Curran stared at me.
"Do you need a shovel to help you pick up your jaws off the floor?"
Saiman woke up, grabbed the roses from the vase, and threw them at me. A spotlight drenched me, out of nowhere. Behind me Zoe screamed. The spotlight vanished.
I turned around. The Maori woman collapsed in a heap, her hands over her eyes. Saiman hurried over to Zoe, leaning on his cane.
"Ballet?" Curran asked.
"There are so many things about me you don't know."


She's such a shithead.
I love her.

.............................................


The softness... it's... melting me...

Emotions aside, the strokeable grain on this makes me feral.

.............................................


Somewhere between Little Women, Booksmart, and Clueless.
And holy shit, I loved it.

I already knew anachronistic music in historical situations was one of my weaknesses (A Knight's Tale, Plunkett & Macleane, Romeo + Juliet, Peaky Blinders, Bridgerton, etc.), what I didn't know was that contemporary vernacular used in historical situations would bring me so much joy.
The combination of formal speech and f-bombs is delightful.
Emily Dickinson receiving bad news and uttering bullshit feels entirely wonderful and entirely natural to me.
Perhaps because I've the lexicon of a foul-mouthed fish wife and bullshit's my native tongue, but nonetheless, wonderful.

It just feels... right.
And it's funny as hell.
Not clutching your stomach, tears streaming down your face funny but stupid smirk on your face the entire episode funny.
At least until Moody Dickinson rears her curmudgeonly head.

I wasn't the biggest Hailee Steinfeld fan prior to watching this but now?
Love her.
Her timing is impeccable.
She's delivers chaotic, caustic wit with twitchy bravado and is equally subtle in times of distress.
She's fantastic.
As is the supporting cast.
The cinematography.

The costume design.

The interspersing of Emily Dickinson's poetry throughout every episode, which was specifically beautiful in episode six:

The soundtrack also happens to be impeccable:

There's nothing else to say other than:

Roll on season 3.

.............................................


...

.............................................


...
I need them to stop this.

I can't handle it!

.............................................

Bailie Rosenlund's dragonfly-winged unicorns:

My childhood was full of unicorns.
Figurines, soft toys, painted on the walls of my bedroom by my lovely mater.
They were everywhere.
Not so much now but I still love them (see: Legend).
And apparently crossing them with a dragonfly gives me apoplexy.
I want that pink, towheaded, emo as fuck uni on my wall.

Eli Spencer's up to this nonsense as well:

I love my fellow unicorn-appreciating illustrators.

.............................................


...

He's just so... nice.
I haven't met such a profoundly lovely protagonist since... since... well, there's a chance he might be my first.
Or I'm being blinded by his on point description of a scone:

Tastes like a muffin but sucks all the spit outta your mouth.

...

Nah, he's just the nicest (fictional) human alive.

As for the rest of the cast?
Well, there's this fearsome creature:

This grumbly alpha-mallow:

Oh, and Keeley, the adorable independent lady:

Ted's work husband (we love him; they're the cutest):

And basically everyone else.
It's one of those shows.
Soft writing.
Soft characters.
Soft humour.
Soft, squishy feelings-maker.
...

.............................................


    Anthropomorphised ceramics are in my Top 5 forms of ceramics.
Their little feets and rosy cheeks!
My Hinkleville Snoozy mug is one my most prized possessions:

I dread breaking it because unfortunately, Jennifer Hinkleville seems to have disappeared off the face of the planet.
So, this little sucker is the only one I'll ever have.
And because of the British exit I did not bloody vote for, shipping one of Myostery's kicky feeted little monsters would probably cost me my soul.
These are the days I wish we were still Pangaea.

.............................................


...


How I lure my mum into listening to headbangers.
(It's not hard, she's got stellar taste in music)
She's the one who taught me how when I was little, after all.

.............................................


I don't even like it.
...

And it was cancelled on a gigantic unhappy-for-now ending.
...

I feel so betrayed.
And I DIDN'T EVEN LIKE IT.
...
FUCK!

.............................................

I'm an anxious hamster and I am not alone:
Gemma Correll

Alexia of Not So Secret Diary of Anxiety

Loner Life

Ambivalently Yours
(This one made me stop for a second)

chuck

Elise Kumar
(Well... fuck. That's what that feeling is)

...

.............................................


Excuse me, I'll be cackling in the corner for the foreseeable future.

.............................................


I honestly don't know if I enjoyed this but Suranne Jones was majestic.
Her walk annihilated me:
https://thought-i-to-myself.tumblr.com/post/185520016623/gentleman-jack-anne-lister-head-to-toe-in

Look at that zero fucks swagger.
She's glorious.
And adorable:

Swoon...

.............................................

It's coming and I am afraid:

How are they going to cast my unearthly beautiful Fae idiots?
It's not possible!
...

Oh god, it's going to be a dumpster fire of epic proportions and there's a chance I might not even see it because it's on Hulu and for some reason the UK doesn't support that but they do loan their shows out so maybe it'll be okay and it's being adapted by Ron Moore of Outlander fame and I love Outlander and I'm... 

I'm losing my fucking mind over here.
...

What to do when your favourite book series is being brought to life and you're freaking the fuck out?
Calm the mania with fan art:

Liz Parkes always picks the best parts to illustrate.

.............................................


I'm not a candle person.
My catastrophising brain spends way too much time imagining the house catching fire to enjoy them.
This little, melty lady, though?
I'd make an exception.
...
By putting her in a jar.
A deep, deep jar.
And acquiring a Geppetto to light her with his taint:

...
Not a sentence I ever thought I'd think, let alone say.


Ps. The resin sculptures are oh so pretty:

.............................................


Has self-defence ever looked this pretty?
The depths to which I want a knife-knuckle moth is unfathomable.
Mostly to wield whilst monologuing Mandy Patinkin's infamous lines:

Because reasons.

.............................................


Mr Norrell escaping a party to sniff books in a people-less room is the most relatable thing I have ever seen:
https://fainiel.tumblr.com/post/119290035001

This was visual porn for me.
Dark magical academia and the pernicious Fae?

That ending, though?
Really?

.............................................


I am smol.

.............................................

Leigh Bardugo's, King of Scars:

"It's good to be home."


...

That's it.
That's everything I've got.
...
Okay, it's not because I'm way too verbose to stop there but more importantly:

 I bloody knew it.

I knew Leigh Bardugo wasn't done with that spectacular bastard.
You don't waste prime villain material like The Darkling.
He's like dessert.
Rich, elegant, delicious, moreish and you'll hate yourself for the stomach ache he causes after you've licked the "bowl" clean but will that stop you going back for seconds, thirds, eighths?
No, because you've the stomach of a Hobbit and a heart of fucking darkness.
Sarah Andersen puts my feelings for this vainglorious fucker perfectly:

Also, this response:

I'm sorry but if you don't want me to root for the villain, you've got to make him a dull squid who monologues more than he murders.
Otherwise, the rest of the world and I are gonna swoon 'til we reach the earth's core, revel with the demon spawn, and convince the devil to start a mini apocalypse (we're not crazy, we just want to watch the world burn a little...) with a Darkling facsimile leading the charge.
I can't control this shit, it's just the way things go.
And it goes spectacularly well when The Darkling's involved.
What's even better? I get to watch this beautiful son of a Grisha play him in the upcoming tv show:
https://herbookstacks.com/post/644203249567662080/ben-barnes-as-general-kirigan-the-darkling

...

Bardugo, if you can hear me, thank you for this gift.
Ben Barnes' face, voice, demeanour is just...

Now for them to cast Nikolai (who we'll only get if season two happens; get watching, please) and my head can fully explode into lecherous confetti.
Which brings me to what I should be talking about instead of my morally coerced hormones: the book.
King of Scars.
Nikolai's book.
Or should I say, Nikolai, Zoya, and Nina's book.
Three integral characters who naturally feel like they should be working together.
Together, being the optimum word.
Which is where, I'm sorry to say, this book fell a little short for me.
The difficulty with having a narrative split into three voices (four in the second half of the book), and one of those narratives taking place halfway across the world, is being able to keep them cohesive, to make their separation seem almost inconsequential.
It pains me but, in my opinion, Bardugo didn't manage this.
Perhaps simply because there was zero communication between Nina and the Triumvirate. She's out on her own mission for the King, far from home, alone but not, grieving and vengeful, as can only be expected after the events of Crooked Kingdom (I'll never forgive, Bardugo. Never).
Her isolation isn't what irks me though, isolation and distance are probably what Nina needs right now, it's that there is literally not a single word spoken between Nina and Nikolai, or Nina and Zoya.
Nothing.
Zilch.
And it feels... wrong.
If there'd been a paragraph of dialogue, a flashback, a letter, something to cement the connection between these three linchpin characters, I think I would've settled into the narrative more comfortably.
Instead, I was in a constant state of unfulfilled anticipation, and it sort of wrecked my enjoyment of a story I've been looking forward to for years.
...
Wrecked might be a little hyperbolic.
I still had a good time, largely due to my love for the world Bardugo created and has been expanding on from the very first pages of Shadow and Bone.
I love being here, it's a ridiculously rich landscape infused with a magical system I adore.
I don't know how many times I've said it but Elemental Magic is the best kind of magic.
Casting spells is cool and all but being driven by a power you're born with, that manipulates the world on an atomic level to do your bidding is so beyond "cool" I can barely stand it.
 

With a sweep of her arm, two iron-colored stalks shot toward Zoya, their thorns gleaming like the barbed tail of a sea creature.
Zoya drove her hands upward, and a ferocious whirlwind caught the stalks twisting them around each other and yanking them from the thorn wood by the root. Zoya flung them back at Elizaveta.
"How fierce you are," said the Saint. "Juris was right to make you his student. I'm sorry his knowledge will die with you."
This time half the wood seemed to rise up, a snarling mass of fat, thorny stalks. Zoya pulled moisture from the air in a cold wave, coating the stalks in frost, freezing their sap from the inside out. With a rumbling gust of air, she shattered them on the wind.
"Such power. But you cannot defeat me, Zoya. I have the advantage of eternity."
"I'll settle for the advantage of surprise."
Zoya raised the sands for cover and let herself plummet in a flash to the thorn wood. As Elizabeta had talked, Zoya had drifted to the far side of the circle, to the bier on which the Darkling's perfectly preserved body rested. She had the briefest moment to take in the beautiful face, those elegant hands. Zoya had loved him with all the greedy, worshipful need in her girlish heart. She had believed he prized her, that he cared for her. She would have done anything for him, fought and died for him. And he had known that. He had cultivated it as he had cultivated his own mystery, as he had nurtured Alina Starkov's loneliness and Genya's desire to belong. He used us all, just as he is using Elizaveta now. And I let it happen.
She would not let it happen again. She lifted her arms.


And watching the characters within the book struggle to understand the level of power they hold is exhilarating.
At first it was Alina, then it was Nina, and now it's Zoya.
Three irrefutably different women but all of equal ferocity.
Alina fighting for something better than she's been handed.
Nina revelling in who she is, just as she is and wielding it to protect those who can't protect themselves.
And then there's Zoya, Nikolai's general, his right hand, the person he trusts the most.
A force to be fled from, a heart not easily given, a survivor.
She's the bearing of a queen and the heart of a warrior and I couldn't love her more.


"Zoya, get down!" Nikolai shouted, lunging for her.
"Like hell," she muttered, and knocked him into the sands, bracing before him with her feet planted and her arms raised.
The dragon unleashed its fire and Zoya let loose the storm. For a moment they seemed evenly matched―a golden cascade of flame buffeted by a wall of wind. Then Zoya swept her arms in a loop and cast them to the sides like a conductor concluding a symphony. For a moment Nikolai didn't understand, but then the flames collapsed. The dragon reared back, a choked wheeze emerging from its throat. Zoya had stolen its breath; she'd banished the air from the fire, depriving it of fuel, and left the dragon gasping.


I was wondering where this story would go with Zoya, because as she is, nothing needs to necessarily change.
Yes, we can tell there's some deep-seated pain that's the cause of her icy demeanour.
Yes, we know her need for vengeance for the crimes The Darkling committed against her and her people will never quite be sated.
Yes, we know Zoya is complicated.
But in need of change?
No. Absolutely not.
And thankfully that isn't what Bardugo did.
Instead, we were given Zoya's story, we were given her fear and her hope and in a tentative, fragile way we were given her heart.
Bardugo opened her up, bid us take a polite look, and asked us to accept her.
Like Nikolai does. Like a patronising dragon does. Like she does.
But change her? Never.
Change her power? Absolutely.
You know that elemental power I was talking about? The lack of true understanding the Grisha have of it?
Zoya's about the change all that.
Zoya might just be about to change everything and I cannot wait.


Nikolai said nothing. This time there'd been no mistaking it. When Zoya had glared at the boy, her eyes had flashed silver, and her pupils had turned to slits. For a moment, he had been looking into the eyes of the dragon. Just what had Zoya done to get them free? 


And Zoya isn't the only one to experience a change in herself, the same could be said for both Nikolai and Nina.
One born of power, the other infected.
One to raise the dead, the other a thing of death.
Both corrupted.
Both at the precipice of being overtaken by their power, both tempted, both desperate to remain themselves.
But inevitably that can't and won't happen.
Nina and Nikolai aren't the same as when we first met them, they've done too much, seen too much, lost far too much.
Nina perhaps most of all.
I can honestly say that Nina losing Matthias at the end of Crooked Kingdom is one of the most painful things I've experienced in my entire reading life.
I sobbed, I ranted, I begged for a different outcome (If I'm being honest, I'm still hoping, even after the conclusiveness of this book), I ached for days after.
It hurt, it still does two years later, and the first half of King of Scars reopened that wound.
Because now we have to truly let go.
Because Nina has to let go.


"Matthias," she whispered, then cleared her throat and tried again. "Matthias," she said more loudly. She wanted him to hear her, need to believe he could. "Oh Saints, I don't want to leave you here. I don't want to leave you ever."
[...]
Litte red bird, let me go.
[...]
Goodbye, Matthias.


 But how do I do that when she's having conversations with him in her head?


You showed Mercy Nina, never regret that.
But mercy was a luxury Matthias could afford. He was dead, after all.
It seems rude to mention that, my love.
What do you expect from a Ravkan? Besides, Brum and I aren't done.
Is that why you're here?
I'm here to bury you, Matthias, she thought, and the voice in her head went silent, as it always did when she let herself remember what she'd lost.


When's she's hoping he's something not quite gone?


What right did they have to survive when her Matthias, her beautiful barbarian, was gone?
Nina.
She wished she could clap her hands over her ears and tell him to leave her alone. But that was the last thing she wanted.


How can I accept that these two will never have a life together?
Yes, I know, she's eighteen, plenty of time, other fish, blah, blah, blah.
Just... fuck off, okay?
When I commit to a ship, I commit eternally (unless your name is Rhysand and then I'll jump an entire armada to get to you, leaving the flower-scented sanitary pad in my wake), and I was/am a diehard Helnik shipper.
My dreams of them pulling off heists, flirting inappropriately during said heists, righting wrongs during the day and retreating to their house of waffles at night so they can make good on the flirting was mercilessly slashed to bits in Crooked Kingdom and I can tell you now, I'm never going to be okay with it.


Tell me a story, Matthias.


And I'm certainly not okay with the new love interest Bardugo nudged my way through the entirety of Nina's chapters.
Not cool, Bardugo.
It's too soon.
Stop. It.
I want Nina happy, I truly do, but she just laid Matthias to rest; can we have a godsdamned minute?
...
Speaking of gods.
Bardugo, I may be mad with you for the above-mention ship-pushing but I've got to say, the introduction of the gods we've spent the five previous books going on about was nothing short of fucking awesome.
Maybe I'm biased because I'm a big fan of the gods in literature - they're so egotistical and mischievous, what's not to love? - but it just felt like a real authorial power move.
Like, here, we've put you through hell, it's going to get worse, have some deities to really fuck shit up.
...

And the gods were on point arrogant, playful, burdened, untrustworthy.
Everything I want from a supreme being with zero fucks left to give.
(Particularly Juris; him and Zoya sparring gave me happy palpitations. I'll miss his big dragon butt)
I'm just wondering where Bardugo's going to take that in the next book because she kind of nuked the gods we were given and it's totally possibly there are more out there but I just have this feeling they won't play as big a role as I want them to.
Instead, I think it's going to be Nikolai, Zoya who act as the gods of this story.
They've got the power, the need, the arrogance. If you were to question the existence of gods walking among us, these two would unquestionably be held up as possible celestials.
Zoya's basically the Grisha embodiment of Athena, Nikolai something akin to Heracles or Apollo but with a dash of demon thrown in.
It's funny how this is technically Nikolai's book but I didn't feel wholly connected to him throughout it.
As I said before, the Nikolai we met in the Shadow and Bone trilogy isn't who we're dealing with anymore. The events of those books changed him irrevocably and I hate to say it, not necessary for the better.
The most appealing thing about our eponymous King of Scars is his ability to charm the bark off a tree, make light of the heaviest of situations, be free in his captivity.
Nikolai Lantsov is a suave son of a bitch and one of the few people who can take on the frozen tundra that is Zoya Nazyalensky's death glare.
He's glorious and I felt absolutely isolated from him.
His humour was diminished, his poise was shaken, he just seemed... less.
Maybe that's the point, because of what he's fighting against he has to lose himself day by day before he can break free.


I am the monster, the monster is me.


I can see that but it made it seem less like Nikolai struggling and more like Nikolai written slightly differently so he could fit the current story.
I didn't care for it.
There were of course moments where good old Sturmhond reared his button-pushing head, particularly when in the presence of Zoya (yeah, I ship it pretty hard) and I revelled in those instances.


He turned to Zoya. "You have the order? If the monster takes me―"
"I know what to do."
"You needn't sound quite so eager."
To his surprise, Zoya seized his hand. "Come back," she said. "Promise you'll come back to us."
Because he was most likely about to die, he let himself cup his hand briefly to her extraordinary face. Her skin felt cool against his fingers.
"Of course I'll come back," he said. "I don't trust anyone else to delivery my eulogy."
A smile curled her lips. "You've written it already?"
"It's very good. You'd be surprised how many synonyms there are for handsome."


But they were still way too far and few between.
In all honesty, everyone was kind of miserable in this book.
Everyone was kind of miserable in the Shadow and Bone trilogy and I think, no, I know the problem was that I was waiting for the same humour and zero-fucks-but-all-the-fucks behaviour of The Dregs.
I wanted the spirit of Kaz Brekker effortlessly fucking things up, slinking its way through the pages.
I wanted Nina, my Nina, taking joy in the chaos.
 I wanted Inej because simply, Inej.
Because even at their worst, they were still joyful (if sardonically) because they were free.
But I guess that's the problem, Nikolai's not free, he might never be.
How does a king find joy when all he's dealt is one blow after another?
I guess we'll see.
My money's on it involving a certain squaller ruling the kingdom with him.
Queen Zoya has a nice ring to it, don't you think?


"Zoya of the lost city. Zoya of the garden. Zoya bleeding in the snow. You are strong enough to survive the fall."

...

Ps.

...
DID YOU SEE MY DREGS?!
DID YOU SEE THEM?!

...

.............................................

Fan arts:
Marta García Navarro
(Hated the movie, love this)

chem_doodles
(I love this scene, Noah and Ronan need more on page time together IMO)

Ana Godis

Zuzana Čupová

Ashley aka. Smash in Space

2ghosts

Sara Hagstrom

Gax Vallez

Bonus dragons:

.............................................


This glorious creature's been brightening my day the past few weeks.
Telling truths and letting her freak flag fly high.
This is the shit I want in my Insta feed.

.............................................


If you don't mind a little schmaltz, enjoy music-based tv shows, and you're a fan of Sara Bareilles, give this a shot.
 I had a great time.
And for some reason I sound a thousand years old trying to talk about this.
...
Bye.

...

Ps. The cast all sang. No dubbing here. Very cool, Bareilles.

.............................................


These are giving me very strong mural urges.

.............................................

Sarah aka. anderkaya

Little Pearl's totally listening to Grouper.
I never thought I'd feel any kinship with an introspective ball of dirt but here I am, kinshipping.
The bunny slippers, though.
They were the real clincher.
https://bethyling.tumblr.com/post/91896787032

.............................................

Rewatches:

My brain requires... supervision.
Left to its own devices it behaves like a wayward toddler, prone to wandering off and falling in patches of nettles.
(I did that when I was three, do not recommend)
It needs a babysitter.
And books, movies, and tv are the employees of the century.
These have been my favourite saviours so far:
Fresh Meat
(Dirtbags. Wondrous dirtbags)

("My heron!" - perfect surreal television)

(This doesn't get better with age, and it has the worst Darcy on record but I still kinda love it)

(I'm here for Karen Gillan, that's it)

(Sapphic, boy-eating, demon Megan Fox. Still perfection. Still in desperate need of a sequel)

(I'm in love with Catherine Reitman's face, her everything)

.............................................

The soft of it all:
Dr. Morícky
(I'm panel number two, which are you?)

Kat aka. Denimcatfish

심연
(I don't know why but I find this very soothing)

Faryn Hughes
(My Chonky Floofer looks just like this when confronted with water. The endless battle of I wants to touch but I don't wants to wets the precious floofs. ... Which is how I end up with water being whipped in my face because he's lost the battle AND ALL MUST SUFFER!)

.............................................


The level of detail in this is crazy.
I'm particularly fond of the mushroom terrarium.
And everything else because look. at. it.

If I was an author, Mountford's who I'd want illustrating my stories.
Or just favourite scenes from stories I love.
Or creating dust jackets for book covers I hate.
Imagine a library of Mountford original covers...

Heaven.

.............................................

Ciara Turner's verdant living room:
...

Prime napping real estate.

.............................................


...
I need one of these.
Immediately.
My body doesn't feel complete.
I need to show my collegiate allegiance to all my bookish babs!

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