Rotten Egg's Shitty Writing - Tumblr Posts

Monstrous, she is, tar-black strands like gnarly vines in the dark of the night— so dark it refuses to have any shine. It absorbs all light, even the lustre of the golden headpiece seems dulled and corrupted with grisly shadows. No one has ever seen her face for it is always behind a veil— all that escapes that piece of cloth is her voice... a cracked and gravelly one that scrapes the air like nails across a blackboard. It sounds broken, like something took her voice and mangled it before returning it to her, thin and pained. She never raises her voice, but it carries anyways, as if from a higher entity that permeates and seeps into their surroundings. If she is some sort of entity then she must be a malevolent one, of shadow and blood and death. Everyone thinks her face has to be hideous too, surely it must be, when the rest of her body too is certainly inhuman— blackened veins taking root in ashen flesh.

This is so wonderful

❤️❤️❤️

I love the emotions that comes through it

Have to read it twice 😊

Shapur didn't think today could've gotten any stranger, truth be told.

One moment he'd just found out Isfan and his mother had been cast out into the mountain, the next he rode out alone to go fetch them, only to find them both surrounded by wolves and Isfan held in a young man's arms.

The man's face, indulgent and gentle towards the toddler, hardened the moment he laid his eyes on Shapur, then drew a blade and pointed it at him.

“Have you come to finish them off?” he asked, wolves growling behind him.

Shapur looks at him now, digging a grave under a large, dark tree adorned in bone-white snow. The same shade of white as his hair, he notes somewhat absently, a warm bowl in his hand. The soup poured from the waterskin is still somehow warm even in this cold weather— how strange. It couldn't have been a short trip, or else he would've made it in time to save Golnar as well.

And the wolves...

Isfan is cooing at one, reaching out a small hand to touch the nose. The wolf moves closer, allowing the boy to touch it. It licks Isfan with a rough tongue, making the boy laugh.

The man turns to meet his eyes, face much kinder than it was mere moments before. “Did you know her name?”

“Golnar,” he answers readily, and his heart does a little leap at how the man's eyes lit with approval.

“Golnar,” he echoes. “Thank you.”

Shapur looks at her, wrapped in a pale shroud. The man's cloak, that he gave up without complaint.

His heart aches for Isfan, for both of them. She didn't deserve to die like this, and Isfan doesn't deserve to lose his mother at such a young age.

If only he'd done more for them, if only he could've protected them, if only, if only...

He is brought out of his thoughts when the man sings, a voice soft yet strong, resonating in cold crisp air as if he sings to the mountains themselves and the mountains sing back, soft-packed earth and sunlit snow and naked branches. As if there's a thousand singers, thousand and one, overlapping and saturating the air like ocean waves, but there is only one singer and none other.

With deep-dark soil and half-melted snow still on his hands the man has the heel of his palms pressed together, one up and one down... It's a gesture Shapur has never seen before, just like he's never heard the song either. He knows none of the words too— a foreign language, he realizes. But they're still in Pars, in the Elburz mountains of the north. This should feel wrong, this should feel out of place, nothing is familiar.

And yet, and yet...

And yet Shapur feels at ease. It's comforting, even, though he doesn't know why. The song has made a home in his bones and warmed him from within, the wintry winds won't reach them here.

He listens, in silence, closing his eyes and adding a Parsian prayer in his thoughts. He may not be able to follow along a foreign song, but this he can do.

The man's prayers blend with his, and the wolves start to sing too. A mournful, restless howl— their voices join the chorus and his own thoughts, together making the song full and complete.

After they'd lowered her into the grave, he belatedly realizes that he hadn't asked the man his name. He takes a deep breath, uttering the question though his voice comes out shakier than he'd have liked.

“What is your name, kind stranger?”

The man looks up from where he kneels, smoothing the earth with his hands, as if startled. A heartbeat passes, and he answers, softly, “Ayunnen.”

“Ayunnen...” He tastes the name on his lips. What an unusual name. “I am named Shapur. And this boy... Isfan. My half-brother.”

“Yes, so you told me.” He smiles.

Daylight dwindles above them, the sun's rays fading behind soft grey clouds, taking with them what little warmth they had before this point.

“You best head back now, if you hope to make it home by night. Dusk is coming, and soon it will be nightfall.”

“Come with me,” Shapur says suddenly, clutching the now asleep child in his arms. “Come work for me. You will be rewarded, and provided for. Gorgan could use someone like you.”

“I cannot,” the young man replies, fondness in his eyes. “I will not.”

“Why?”

“Things I must do, people I must protect.” Ayunnen turns to stare deep into the woods. Does his home lie there? What does he see that I don't? “People like Isfan,” he says, and then looks at the fresh grave before them. “People like her.”

He stares at the grave, a sharp pang of pain stabbing through his chest. Like her, like them. Has he had experience with this? Is that why he was so ready to cross blades with Shapur, so sure that he was a hunter sent to finish them off? Tears cloud his vision, unbidden, and there's something lodged in his chest.

He almost jolts out of his skin when a gentle hand cups his cheek. “I can't come with you,” Ayunnen says. “This is for the both of us. Please understand.”

He cannot answer.

Neither of them acknowledge the tears shed silently.

That was their first meeting.

It was not the last.

---

The next time he sees Ayunnen, it's a year later, almost two— when the leaves turn gold and trees have begun to shed them for the coming winter.

He would oft ride up the mountains all alone, in search of the kind stranger that would not leave his mind—

I've finally found you again. I've been searching all this time.

There he is, seated underneath a hornbeam tree, birds nesting in its foliage and singing alongside his own song. The song has a light, airy sort of quality to it, the sound of strings filling the air with sweetness.

The wolves were nowhere to be seen, though, which he finds odd.

Ayunnen's face blooms into a gentle smile when he sees Shapur. “It's you,” he says. “Where is your little one?”

“Home,” he says, “My parents aren't there, and my men will keep him safe.”

Ayunnen pats the spot next to him. “Come sit.”

They talk.

They talk about Isfan, about their days, about mundane things, anything and everything at all. He wed a girl he's loved since childhood. Isfan's growing healthy and strong. There's a small group of bandits seeking to cause trouble. Did you know that the wolves belonged to my wife, actually?

Their conversation is more than words. It's the smiles, the gentle shrugs and the light in their eyes. The content of the conversation itself ceases to matter anymore, only that they're here, next to each other.

They fall silent afterwards, as silent as they can be with birdsong and music in the air, as silent as can be with the rustling of leaves and the whisper of the wind... Even without words this feels comfortable.

He stares at Ayunnen, his gentle hands and gentler voice, humming softly as he idly played his oud.

“Come with me,” Shapur asks again. “Come with me to Gorgan.”

Ayunnen looks at him, fingers halting on the strings. He shakes his head. “You know I cannot, Shapur.”

“They will be protected too,” he pleads. “Gorgan will care for them.”

He will make certain that it shall be the case. Ayunnen, his wife, and whoever's up there that he's sheltered and provided for. He swears it, in the deeps of his mind. They will be safe. They will be.

“You know it can never be. You can't put Gorgan in conflict with the entirety of Pars, can you?”

“That's—”

“It's more than just sheltering a handful of people, Shapur. These are escaped slaves, victims of cruelty and abuse— and Pars was the one who wounded them. Taking us in will put you at odds with the country itself.”

Shapur's words die in his throat. There it is, the truth he hadn't been able to face. His father's lack of care and his mother's cruelty, they were not things unique to only them, or one-off events— no, the problem runs deeper and deeper still, the country he loves from his core hurting its own people.

People like Isfan. People like her, Ayunnen had said back then. People I must protect.

How many more? How many people like them are out there? How many had been saved, and how many had not been? He feels a hand in his hair, tucking away the frayed edges of his mind, grounding him in a way he's never been before.

“Ayunnen, who's that?”

Shapur's head snaps up. It's a boy, younger than them— fifteen at most, cat-like eyes squinting warily at Shapur. When did he get here? He didn't hear anything— The boy's arms bear winding patterns of bright bold colours, not unlike the fallen leaves of this season. He spots the design of a leaping cat. Painted on? Tattoos, perhaps?

“Where's your sister, Kazai?” he says, smiling. “And he's my friend. I met him two winters ago.”

“The one with the little brother?”

“The one with the little brother. Kaz—”

“Oh!” the boy— Kazai— brightens. “So it's you! How's your little one? I was so surprised to hear Ayunnen didn't bring him home, y'know? That's never happened before.”

“Uh... He is well—”

“Why are you up here, by the way? Chasing another brother up these slopes? What about your brother? Will he be alright?”

“I came here to look for Ayunnen, actually,” he says, barely processing the sudden onslaught of conversation. “I wanted to thank him.”

“Ah, Ayu shoulda told you there's no need. It's our job and all that.”

“Your job?”

“You didn't know? We look after these parts. Somebody always winds up—”

“Kazai, where is Kashi?” Ayunnen interjects, with the practiced patience of someone who's used to dealing with him a hundred times or more.

“Hm? Oh yeah. She was moping around, like usual, y'know? Then she suddenly got up and hopped into the woods. She said she wanted honey.”

“Oh dear.” He doesn't even look the slightest bit surprised.

“You know how she is, Ayu. She probably had the epiphany of her life or something.”

Kashi. Ayunnen mentioned her. His wife, and the master of the wolves. Whenever Ayunnen mentioned her his voice was full of warmth. She has blue eyes, he said, deep and dark as the midnight sky. Her head is always full of thoughts, and her hands are strong. This boy must be her brother. Ayunnen said he was bit like a whirlwind, that one, and Shapur can't say he disagrees.

He watches them talk, not sure when he should say anything but also not wanting to anyways. It's a warm sight, and soft. He'd like to watch this forever if he could. Which...

“Oh Araya's boots— I'm gonna be a man next year, y'know?”

“No, Kazai.” Ayunnen flicks his forehead, evidently stifling a laugh. “You'll always be our precious boy.”

“Why must you be like thi—”

Shapur takes a deep breath. “Will you not consider my offer?” He sends Ayunnen a look, hoping it conveys his sincerity enough.

“My answer will not change, Shapur,” Ayunnen says, sadness in his brown eyes. “Why don't we head back now? You too, Shapur. Surely your little one must miss you.”

“Is there really nothing you will accept from me?”

“I wouldn't say so, no.”

“Then what can I give you that you won't refuse?” What will he ask for? They don't seem like people who'd ask for riches and rewards, and he awaits the answer with bated breath.

“The promise to nurture your brother, safe and sound.”

He can't help but wilt. “Is that all?”

“And I'd like to be your friend.” Ayunnen gives him a warm smile. “You are a good fellow.”

Shapur blinks. “Will we meet again?” To become friends... surely they will, right? And maybe finally he'd be able to do something for them when they are friends.

“If you wish. Only, don't wander in blindly, it's easy to lose your way in these woods.”

He feels his cheeks warm a little. “You knew?”

“I had a feeling. Oh, and try not to come too often. We'd like to avoid... prying eyes, so to speak.”

And his heart's back to being heavy again. Anger roils, deep beneath the surface— oh, not at him, never at them, but at the whole situation itself, and his own helplessness.

If only I can do more...

“I understand,” he makes himself say. They'll be safe if they're by his side, he is sure of it. He just needs to make them see it. “Then... I shall see you again.”

---

They continue meeting like this.

Their meetings aren't planned, and they often miss each other, but that just makes the times they actually run into each other all the more precious. The hornbeam tree becomes the first place he goes to find them, and often he does find them there— though sometimes they'd run into each other elsewhere.

Like today, for instance.

“Hah, when will those guys learn?”

“They need ta stop tryna invade our turf. That's just rude.”

“Well at least the fight's done and over with today. Ahhh, the noise probably chased our game away, damn the jerks.”

“Oy, Kashi, ya ain't coming?”

“You lot go on ahead. I'll catch up later.”

The blood-red blooms of poppies and tulips have begun to wane, as spring goes by and summer approaches. Under the dappled sunlight among the boughs and bright green leaves, he rode up in hopes of finding them today, only to run into a skirmish between Kashi's people and a group of bandits— a cacophony of battle-cries and metal-on-metal and the cries of crows.

“Well, if yer sure.” The man gives Shapur an uncertain glance before walking away, his friends in tow.

He stepped in to help, but really they didn't need it. Under Kashi's lead the group fought bravely, and the bandits had been soundly defeated, even as the bandits outnumbered the hunters and they were fighting on difficult terrain.

The crows certainly helped, in any case, swooping down and taking eyes.

Kashi's strength was nothing to scoff at, either. If only she were born a man, outside these mountains and in a good enough household, she might've become a marzban.

They're both seated on a log, Kashi pouring something into a small wooden bowl, intricately carved. She's in her armor, as she always is, worn over dark long-sleeves.

“Here.” She hands the bowl to him. The scent of tea hits his nose.

“Thank you.”

They fall into a comfortable silence. The crows are probably up in the canopy above— He may not see them but he hears them. Ayunnen's crows, as the wolves are Kashi's. Summer light dances on them, on the earth under their feet. Kashi's chewing on some nuts, eyes staring somewhere faraway. No doubt her mind is wandering elsewhere.

“Is this a regular occurrence?”

“Hm?” She blinks and turns to him. “Want some nuts?”

“No, thank you,” he says. “The bandits, I meant. Do they come often?” He will have to dispatch some men to help deal with it, if that's the case.

“Sometimes. They were quieter before but I think they're getting restless. They want control over these parts.”

“I see...” He supposes it makes sense— In the southern parts of Pars the Zott clan reigns stronger than the rest, but one would be hard-pressed to find a clan like that here up north. The clans are smaller, more scattered— it's no surprise that one of them may try to claim supremacy. He ought to do something about it.

“It's a mess. The other night we found a wreck of a caravan. Only a kid lived.”

“Only the child?” His stomach churns at the thought. “How are they now?”

“Only one. We were looking for other survivors, if there are any— No such luck yet, sadly,” she says, gulping down a mouthful of tea. “In shock, that poor soul. Ayunnen has him, he'll settle down soon enough. Oh, that kid. He's about the same age as your boy, actually.”

Shapur blinks. “He is?”

“Probably. Looks like five or six at most. He was shaking and hiding, and he thought me a bandit too.”

He imagines Isfan in that boy's position, alone and scared in the dark of the night, and feels bile rising up. No. He will not allow it to happen. Never. He doesn't even want to entertain the mere idea of it.

He decides to divert his mind instead. “How are they?”

“Kazai and Ayunnen?”

“Who else?”

Kashi snorts. “Well, that's my bad,” she says, “Ayunnen's working on new weaves. Sehara and Tulnokhi started moulting, you see.” She pops more nuts in her mouth. “Kazai's back home too. I left him there to take care of Ayunnen and Gieve— that's the boy we found the other night, by the way— and well, the usual. Climbing everything that can be climbed, making mischief.”

“The boy is in good hands.”

“He is.” Kashi smiles fondly. “How are things on your end? You look tired.”

“That's...” He sighs, looking ahead, into the deep green woods. “I am the lord of the castle now.”

He can't see her, but he can imagine her eyebrows going up. “Truly?”

“Yes. My father passed.”

Kashi sucks in a sharp breath. He looks at her. She isn't looking at him, only ahead, somewhere beyond these woods.

After a long silence, she says, “I'm sorry for your loss.”

She says no more.

His father... When Shapur was a boy, he looked up to his father like any little boy would. He thought his father strong and just, the pinnacle of what he should strive to be, but... it turned out to be untrue. The older he grew the further the gap between them became... Until his father sired Isfan and refused to do anything for his little brother.

Things were irreparable by that point.

He still doesn't know what he should feel, truth be told. The man was callous and uncaring, but his father all the same.

“Won't you come with me?” He is the lord of Gorgan now, with more authority than he had before as the heir. They've always steadily rejected his offers, but maybe now...

“Have you gone mad? You'll only earn enemies if we do.”

“That is untrue,” he insists. “My name shall protect you. You shall be safe, as well as your people. You will have resources and safety more than ever. Why do you not see it?”

“Listen here, Shapur. You can't lift an entire village and drop it in your castle. You're a young lord, new to the scene. This will just cause unnecessary conflict and headaches for you.”

“You can leave the village. I will make sure it is looked after, I swear it. Surely the three— no, four of you can come to Gorgan?”

The gaze she gives him is stern and harsh. “We're watchers of the mountains, the mountains sheltered us in our time of need and we serve it in turn, and take in people like us too. We swore it, an oath before the Heart Tree.”

He bristles. “I am saying you need not confine yourself to this remote place— your oath can still be fulfilled from within the castle too. You will have easier access to resources, even!”

“At what cost? A target will be placed on your back, larger and bolder than any other. You're already shouldering many a responsibility, ruling a castle and protecting your brother. Adding more would only make you trip and fall.”

“I can handle it.”

“Can you? What will you do when some lord or slaver inevitably kicks up a fuss about the escaped slaves, branded or otherwise, under your protection? They will be in no less danger than before, and you and your brother will be placed in more trials to boot. Protecting one person is different from... from this, you ought to know.”

He cannot say anything. What would he do? He racks his brain for a solution, anything that might convince her, but there is only darkness and silence.

“Shapur.”

He has nothing to say. How can he meet her eyes?

“Hey.” He voice quiets. Softens. “I know you're just trying to help. All three of us do.”

“But Shapur.” She lays her hand on his thigh. “You ought to know that some things... they're out of our reach. Trust me, I've thought of saving everyone. Dreamt of it. Wept for it.”

“You have?” His voice is hoarse.

“I have. I learnt it, the hard way. That sometimes there's truly nothing you can do. You don't go out and wave your sword at a storm.”

“...What happened?”

She looks up at the sky, an indescribable look in her eyes. Haunted, gaze even farther and more faraway than usual. “I don't want to talk about it,” she whispers. “Not now. Not today. Maybe someday, I'll tell you, but...” She shakes her head. “Those guys must be wondering where I am.” She stands up. “What I was saying is, don't beat yourself up for not being able to do more for us. The situation is well out of your hand, well out of our hands. Being friends, like this... That's enough. So don't ask again. We want you safe too.”

He stands up too. What does he say to this? The heaviness in his heart, the feeling of helplessness, the clawing edge of wanting to do more, none of that has gone away. They still churn, they still burn, bright and hot and sharp.

“...I understand,” he says instead. The words taste like ash on his tongue.

“I'll get going. You should too.”

“Alright.”

He watches her retreating back with a heavy heart.

It is his duty to protect his people— the people of Pars— and they're counted among them too. Or they should be, they should. And yet there's not a thing he can do...

He stands there, for a long time, even after she's nowhere in sight anymore.

What can I do? a small voice inside him cries. Why won't you let me help?

But Shapur, Kashi's voice resounds in his head.

You ought to know

That some things...

They're out of our reach.

The skies darken and the world turns grey— rain is coming, and he needs to head home.

He sighs, turning around to where his horse stands in wait.

“I'm sorry for making you wait,” he murmurs softly. “Let's go home.”

Ashaya backstory revamp

Ever since classes started again I have been consistently unable to either draw or write, and it's frustrating me a lot, so I'll just have to settle for making AU posts.

Andragoras and Tahamenay's child, that has not changed.

Given to some family in the Tabaristan region (formerly known as Mazandaran in ancient times), who were given hush money in exchange of raising them.

Ever since she was young, Sherine has noticed that she is... different.

Her parents leave her out. Her siblings pick up on that and leave her out too. Her parents don't treat her the same way they treat their other children.

Besides which, Sherine is not dumb. She realizes pretty quickly that she looks different from the rest of her family. Face too pointy. Hair too light.

People say she's a beautiful child.

Her parents seem determined to prove them otherwise.

Sherine is given more chores to do. Given plainer clothes. Made to stand behind her siblings at any given event.

She cries. She screams and struggles and stomps and yells in hopes that they'd listen, they'd know, this is unfair, she's their daughter too, isn't she? Sherine is—

Sherine is not dumb.

Sherine knows that whatever she is, she doesn't belong here.

People say she's a beautiful child.

Her family says she's nothing but trouble.

She wanders her hometown, sneaking off from doing chores at home. Spends her days scanning the faces of the townspeople— the merchants, the neighbors, the strangers, even the slaves. She looks and looks and looks, for any hint of similarity, any bit of resemblance, anything that might echo back to what she sees in the mirror, in the waters, every day.

Sneaks out of her house, flits from street to street, in a desperate bid to find someone, anyone, with some iteration of her features hiding amongst the crowds.

Stalks the family of that jolly grape seller from a couple blocks over, because they were light-haired like her even if the shades don't even come close to matching.

Hers is always different.

Hers is too peculiar.

Ivory-blond with rosy tips, hair of an outsider.

Mama beats her and sends her to bed without dinner.

Curling up in bed, hungry in a way that no amount of food would satisfy, Sherine thinks.

She doesn't belong here.

She isn't a child of this family.

She doesn't think she's even related to them.

Where are her parents?

Did they die? Is that why papa and mama take her in? Because they knew her parents?

Except, really, they mustn't have loved her parents, whoever they were, because if they did then surely they would treasure Sherine too. Right?

Right?

If they died and nobody here loved them, then why is she here? Wouldn't she have been put on the doorsteps of a temple or taken from the streets by... by...

She'll never get the image out of her head, a slaver, flogging a young boy barely older than her.

She's seen them, on her escapades, prowling the streets sniffing around for any abandoned baby by a roadside or in an alleyway.

She shudders thinking about it. Mama always says one of these days she's going to sell Sherine, too.

She's scared.

She doesn't know.

Whatever the case was, she was unwanted in some way. Is unwanted, right now in this present she lives in, unwanted by this family, unwanted by whoever decided to leave their daughter on this doorstep.

She clutches her aching stomach.

She doesn't sleep.

Day by day, night by night, she prays what little words she manages to remember.

Prays to be loved.

Prays to be found.

Prays to be...

To be...

There's a tale in this town.

If you wander deep into the woods, you'll find a dilapidated place.

They call it a temple. That's stupid. The building looks nothing like a temple.

Those who wander in, they say, come back wrong.

Come back days, months, years later.

No matter how long they take, they don't look a day older.

They were playing, her siblings and the other kids, they play, but she never gets included. They get mean when she tries. They always give her whatever's the worst.

She runs.

She runs and runs and runs until her legs burn and there's no air in her lungs.

She doesn't notice the butterflies frozen in air.

She doesn't notice the sudden stillness of the trees after a certain point.

Not until she trips.

There, on the ground, stained in mud and dirt and snot and tears, she curls up like she always does at night.

She's so hungry.

She hears their voices, a couple bushes over, arguing about the prey they were supposed to hunt.

They don't find her.

She bolts upright, startled, nerves tingling with something she doesn't know what to name.

She looks around.

Silence and stillness.

She should be afraid, she thinks. She should try to leave. To go home, to go find those dummies who didn't even see her when they were nearby.

But she thinks of their meanness, of mama's anger and papa's weird stares, of the prowling slavers wandering the streets.

Just a little bit, she thinks. Just a little longer. Just a little bit of peace. She'll take the beatings later, she'll deal with that when they catch her.

That's right.

She just has to not get caught for a little while longer.

[brain juices running out so this will be reverting back from story mode to summary mode, augh]

Anyways, she spends a long time (to her) in the woods and doesn't really notice that the sun isn't moving in the sky bc she's a little kid and she's too busy rolling around and having fun until she falls asleep out of exhaustion (both physical and emotional, since all the shit she went through finally caught up to her in a safe moment)

(you'll notice that in the story/narration part “Sherine” refers to themselves by she/her bc at the time they hadn't had the chance to realize y'know, the gender stuff)

Sherine wakes up, finds that it's night, and she can't find her way back.

(the haunted area actually booted her out so she's in a different spot of the forest)

Kid has an epiphany of sorts.

“She can't stay here.

Not anymore.

If she's so unwanted anyways, what harm would it do for her to disappear?

For her to leave?”

So she does.

Anyways, it's night, Farangis (with some clan adults) is wandering the area for a reason I have yet to fully decide on.

They meet.

Sherine is absolutely taken by this gorgeous lady.

One long conversation later while Farangis does her best to clean the kid up, it's abundantly clear that Sherine is Not Okay.

So they get taken!

And Sherine gets to chop off their hair and choose a new name.

But until she settles on a proper name she chose for herself, their temporary name is Ranna.

Sherine has a complicated relationship with girlhood because of the toxic standards that were forced on her by their “parents”.

Anyways that's how Ashaya comes to join the clan!

What I imagine a young ex-Sherine to look like as she leaves with Farangis.

Fun fact, Areyan is usually a sweet and gentle kid but for some unknown reason he and Ashaya regularly gets into fisticuffs.

They're 7 when they join the clan. Farangis is 15, she'd just come of age.

At some point I kinda wanted Ashaya and Alfarīd to have met in their younger years but I don't see that working out w this trajectory sooooo... oops.

Anyways, a look into Ashaya's trauma! Where their lack of hope and faith in the world stems from. I somehow couldn't get into it in the narration but her family house could own slaves, maybe, (still she gets made to do chores bc Double Standards), and on her escapades to find her parents or relatives in the town she gets to see a whoooole lot of violence thrown at slaves and poor commoners and it always stuck w them.

She tries questioning it once, they got punished.

Kinda echoes Alfarīd's hopelessness in the nation too, she did say in the manga “there's no point to restoring the nation, it'll just make new nobles and new slaves” and it's an attitude Ashaya holds, too.

It'll be up to them to find that hope again. Alfarīd would be the one to eventually give back hope to Ashaya, but for that she herself will have to believe.

Unlike in canon I don't really see Alfarīd coming to believe in someone changing the system, rather that there's something worth living for even in a broken world. I think she'd have an attitude like that. It just fits her.

(I'm reminded of the song Kamado Tanjirou no Uta from the AU playlist, and that one video from Hello Future Me about the Ghibli movie The Boy and the Heron.)

(“We did not choose this world. But we must live in it.”)

To elaborate on why Ashaya lost faith in the world, it's smth like, if something so terrible and hurtful like the slavery system is allowed to exist, if nobody batted an eye at the abuse she went through, if nobody thinks to hold abusers accountable, if people are rewarded with brutality for their kindness, then... there's nothing worth saving here.

In addition to their own abuse they also saw others being abused, remember that the clan is made up of runaways and hurt people and abandoned people and victims and survivors— almost nobody who comes to the clan... came from happiness.

Is it any wonder that their faith was broken?

In contrast, let's look at Alfarīd. Protective instincts, strong sense of justice, responsible if a bit chaotic, remember how in the manga Alfarīd urges Estelle to remember the women and children and injured they'd saved? That they must think of, that they must protect, instead of thinking about the King?

Alfarīd, I think, abhors the system, but still sees people and things worth protecting anyways.

(and not to jump all over like a kangaroo but let's talk about Farangis this time)

She's an orphan. She entered the temple of Mithra after her loss. She was too talented. Too diligent. Too beautiful. People shunned her because of it.

And I'm willing to bet there's aggression and subtle bullying, too.

Look, it's a closed community. That sort of place gets rancid real fast.

(I would know. I myself was trapped in a prison of a boarding school where my suicidal ideation got wayyyyyyy bad.)

So, y'know, Ashaya-as-Sherine is a reflection of her days in the temple. That's why she has a soft spot for her.

Farangis is one of the few people Ashaya will listen to.

Anyways that concludes thus the post about Ashaya!

Can't write rn so have this:

“I'll kill them,” says the saffron-clad girl with jagged tattoos. “I'll kill them all. The fake-ass princes, the king, the nobles. Everyone. All of them. They'll never become a problem for my hometown. Never. I'm gonna make sure of it.”

Alfarīd takes in the sight of Ashaya's hidden face, the tremor in their lengthy frame. Takes in their voice, so full of bitterness and anger, so full of...

Fear.

Ashaya is afraid.

And who wouldn't be, when it's you against the world?

She lets herself plop down on Ashaya like she's seen cats do with each other. You can die at the hands of royalty, monkey. Consider it an honor. “Well, that makes it two of us, ey?”

Ashaya snorts. “Congratulations, you've just got a roadside fox stuck to your side for perpetuity. Now what?”

“Were you even listening to yourself? We're gonna rid the world of pests.”

“The rat bastard with the silver mask first?”

“The rat bastard with the silver mask first.”