catherine

Yes Jared Padalecki got arrested, and i want to remind you all of something.

We only know through TMZ and the Media what happend.

We don't truly know what happend, why he got into a fight or why he allegedly punched someone, but i stand with this Man no matter what, like family. Through the good and bad .

Always.

I have the ocean in my veins and the moon within my soul.

While the first act is all about introducing your characters, settings and conflict, the second act is about making your audience ask, “What is this set up going to entail?” While answering this question, your task is to keep your audience interested. To make sure that the next fifty per cent of your story is paced well and is consistent with what you’ve written in the first act.

Structuring the Second Act

For your second act to answer the question posed and be well-paced, several structural elements need to be addressed. The First Half of the Second Act The first half of the second act should take up around twenty-five per cent of your book, meeting its end at the midpoint or fifty per cent mark. This part of the book is all about your character reacting. If they have a character arc, this is where they stumble around using their old ways to try and fix whatever the first plot point threw at them. It should be a deliberate contrast to the next half of the second act. First Pinch Point The first pinch point is where your protagonist will come into direct conflict with your antagonist. This part of the story is when your antagonists flex their muscles. They show the protagonist and the readers that they aren’t even close to the level of power that they have because they haven’t learnt the truth yet. Midpoint Like the first plot point, the midpoint is another huge life-changing moment in the story where the narrative changes. Your characters get new information, but the conflict rises, even more, marking the 50% mark in your story. The Second Half of the Second Act In contrast with the first half, the second half of the second act is when your character actively engages with the story, often pushing the conflict into the third act. Now the plot and your character are working together instead of one being dragged by the other. With the new information from the midpoint, your protagonist is acting rather than reacting. Second Pinch Point Like the first pinch point, it is all about displaying the power of the antagonist, but this second pinch point should foreshadow the climax and propel the characters into the third act effectively ramping up the stakes.

Stakes in the Second Act

In my experience, the second act is the hardest act for writers. The second act is the longest and heaviest of the three acts, and the easiest to mess up.This concept is why you have to keep the stakes constant in this part of the story, to keep the story from dragging. Ramping up the stakes personally and externally fastens the pace, dominoing it to the climax in the third act.

Extra Notes

Sam and Dean,

Words can’t describe what you mean to me. How much you’ve helped me all these years. How every night when I was alone and crying in the dark you comforted me. How every time I just wanted to quit you helped me to my feet again, reminding me to never give up (because are you kidding me? that’s not what Winchester’s do.) People tell me “it’s just a show.” “They’re not real” but they could never understand the depths of who you are and what you do. How human you are. Thank you Dean, for being the only person so similar to myself in almost all actions, thoughts and aspects that I feel less alone and less of an outsider. Thank you Sam, for reminding me (and dean) that it’s okay to care, be scared, be emotional, be “soft” - that it doesn’t make you weak. Thank you for being there during my loneliest nights and darkest hours. For showing me how important it is to never give up both on myself and others. For showing me that there is a light at the end of this dark-ass tunnel. And for helping me to find myself, fight my demons and just be me - because that is more than enough.

Sam and Dean, thank you for saving me, when no one else understood.

Mother is dead.

Drogon can feel her weight in his talons, so small and so light that she can hardly be called ‘weight’ at all. Afraid of dropping her, he gathers his feet closer to his body and tightens his grip, securing her limp body. 

As Drogon flies east, flapping his wings and riding the wind, he scrambles to gather the pieces of what transpired in The City of Mother’s Death. He heard the screams and wails of dying men, terrified men, realizing their mortality is upon them as he opens his mouth and spits his fire, sending the smell of cooked meat wafting into the air. Mother had been on his back, and her fury and sorrow fed his. He sensed her loss as acutely as he felt his own: for the man Jorah Mormont, and, more recently, for the woman Missandei - and for Rhaegal. 

Jorah. He was dead. Drogon has always been fond of Jorah. He could see that Mother loved Jorah well, and the man has ever been kind to him. Drogon needs only his family, his mother and his brothers, but if he included anyone else in that circle it would have been Jorah. He remembers clearly his confusion to find Mother on the ground, clutching Jorah and sobbing. And then the stench of death. Then the sorrow. And he knew Jorah Mormont was dead.

And Missandei. Dead too. Mother’s dearest, closest friend. When her head was separated from her shoulders, Drogon felt Mother’s devastation and ruin, stabbing cleanly through his chest as it had hers. And his own shock. Why Missandei? Missandei was good. Missandei was kind. Missandei was lively. Missandei made Mother happy, and when they were younger, her stroking made Drogon and his brothers hiss with satisfaction. Missandei was like his mother’s sister, and she was gentle. Why her? 

Rhaegal. And Rhaegal. And his brother, his annoying, arrogant, sly brother. Drogon remembers play-fighting with Rhaegal and Viserion as hatchlings, pouncing and hissing and screeching, as Mother watched them and smiled. Rhaegal was always mischievous, he recalls. And tricky. You could never trust Rhaegal. He would play-surrender and then lunge again. But Rhaegal is gone too, struck in the chest with a giant man-claw, plummeting from the sky and vanishing beneath the waves. 

Pain fueled only rage, as it had Mother’s. And as it had - still did - Drogon’s, as he unleashed his fire and burned the stinking city to the ground. He sensed Mother’s anger at the place, and it sang with his, his anger being her anger and her anger being his anger. You will all burn. You wronged Mother. You killed Missandei. You will burn. They had been one, melding together into a force of nature bent on destroying all that wronged them.

But then Drogon had lost Mother, and when he found her again, she was still. The stench of death hit him, and he had known that Mother was dead. And the man standing before her - Jon Snow - he was the one to do so.

But why? Was Jon Snow not his mother’s chosen mate? Drogon remembers watching them in the icy cliffs of the north, before the not-dead came marching. He remembers smelling the scent of Jon Snow all over his mother and flaring his nostrils in dislike. They had copulated. Multiple times, in fact. So why? Mates were for life, and it was heinous, the height of treachery, to betray each other. So why was it that Jon Snow had thrust the small man-claw into Mother’s chest? Mother did nothing wrong. Avenging her companions - was it not something men did? Was it something particular to Mother only among humans? 

Drogon does not know. He is confused.

And frankly, he does not want to know. From the moment she sailed with Jon Snow, Mother has lost and lost and lost. She has lost Jorah Mormont. She has lost Rhaegal. She has lost Missandei. And even barring that, Drogon senses it when she is in distress, and she constantly was after their arrival at the Stone Castle in the North. Jon Snow has hurt her, time and time again, and in the end, he has killed her. Drogon wants no excuses. He wants no reasons. He needs none of Jon Snow’s justifications, nor those of any cooperating with him. 

Drogon clutches Mother tighter to his body. 

He is headed east - the far east, to the place of ebony stone and shadow. Something there calls to him. Drogon cannot name what it is, but his instinct bids him to do so, and his instinct has not failed him yet. If he goes there, he feels that his Mother, dead and limp in his claws, will be dead no longer. 

Drogon flaps his wings in the air to halt his progress and hover, and gazes back toward the Stone Castle in the North and City of Mother’s Death. He bares his teeth in disgust. They are full of leeches, parasites, who used then betrayed and discarded his mother’s people, his mother, his brothers, as if they are nothing but beasts of burden. He does not remember all their names, but he recalls all their faces. Jon Snow. Tyrion Lannister. The three-eyed-not-man. The tall red-haired northern woman. They are traitors, all of them. 

And if they think they can survive betraying Mother, Drogon will ensure that they are wrong. No one who has ever betrayed Mother has survived. He would have burned them himself, then and there before he took off with Mother’s body, but he refrains, for he wants his mother to have that honor herself. The traitors deserve it. Mother deserves it.

He turns his gaze back eastward and takes off once more. The quicker he arrives, the better. Then Mother can wake once more. Then she can recuperate. Then she can gather her strength. 

Then she can return. And it will be with fire and blood. The traitors, they will die.

We don’t get to choose who we love.