Aconcoctionofobsessions - Elusive

A piece of media: This is a complex story where no one is evil and no one is a saint. People are a reflection of their world, their life experiences and trauma. Morality depends on context from which you view the character. You are not supposed to find every character good or even likable. You can take sides and find real life parallels but the biggest point is to make you think and maybe recognize the flaws in yourself as well as the goodness in those you hate.

Tumblr: okay so THIS is the bad person and THIS is the good person. This is the oppressor and this is the oppressed. This is the abuser and this is their victim. If you like this EVIL character you are clearly the same as my asshole dad who reminds me of this character. Not taking a moralistic stance on a fictional story means you are amoral. Analysis is actually about figuring out who the bad-est person is so you can disavow them and who the good-est person is so you can root for them. The media you consume reflects your values and the characters you find interesting are clearly the ones who are exactly the same as you.

“What is it, one-eyed Visenya? Did we finally conquer Dorne?”

Ausserferrera, Switzerland [3024 × 4032] [OC] - Author: phaexal on reddit

@femmefatalenet | event nine | athena in 2018 | sky

In 2018, Athena is still in Athens, trying to figure out where it went wrong, strategizing, reading, analysing, war after war after war, trying to see when she lost control of it all, when it starting going beyond her. Because she is determined, single-minded, steadfast, and she is going to change the world once more. 

winter is here. (insp.)

Mythology Fic Challenge: H for Honor, Sita & Draupadi

For anon!

Draupadi learns quickly to be exasperated with the example set by Janaka’s daughter. “She suffered so,” exclaim the other women of the court, “and remained silent through it all! That is why,” they tell Draupadi, newly emerged from fire and a stranger to human mores, “she became a goddess, remembered to this day.”

Draupadi has no use for goddesses, not when the crackle of fire is so close to her soul, and Krishna a friend she can know and see and feel. She has just as little patience for silence, too, no matter how potent a weapon it might be: hers will always be the shout instead.

But Krishna always shakes his head at her when she complains. “You are not so very different, you know,” he tells her mildly. “I am sure she does not deserve your scorn.”

“Maybe not,” Draupadi admits, “but not my respect, either.”

That is before Draupadi is won, and wed, and wagered away: that is before the first shock of finding herself so poorly valued by those she had loved and trusted. That is before she closes her eyes and dreams, the bruises of Dushanana’s fingers still livid on her shoulders, and sees a golden-skinned woman before her.

The woman raises a hand, holds it to Draupadi’s cheek. Her fingernails are caked with dirt. 

“My poor daughter,” she breathes. “Learn this from me: your honor is in your own hands, and no other’s. No one can take it from you, not by touch or word or deed. Fight for it, with all your strength; rage against the powerful, who would render you so helpless.”

Mother, Draupadi thinks, with a desperation she has never known. Sister. Anyone who might understand me. 

“The world has forgotten this of me,” says Sita sadly. “Not you, as well.”