Can you imagine how mentally taxing, as the personal wayward bride of The Gorosei is?
Your entire anatomy, stripped of all self-significant definition, the value you weigh is the bind chaining you by the pulls of the stubborn hands of Gods. The Elders pridefully render the frame of their favored, head to toe, a shell of its original self for personal ambition. Any bodily resistance is met with cold-crude determination to break in their possessions in line with their shapes, remade completely in The Elders’ ideal image. Against the sheer force of the Elders' consequences, the looming threat of painful inevitability at the personal behest of their inhuman physics is only a mortal matter of endurance; you will adjust to their size even if they have to stretch your vulnerability above natural proportions, you will find The Elders hold endless patience for the pursuit in their long, long existence, willing to put in the work for it for an easy price of time spent.
That will not be all, either. Not even the worst of it. Just when you think you're safe in the confine of free thought, one of the few things left solely you can touch, even that, and the humanity that gives it such depth, will be stripped of relevance as well. The Elders place you well beyond the desperate grasp of human comprehension; you live deliciously and at heel, at the table of God's own fingers, not amongst the same level as the insects below. To do yourself an ignorant kindness, at best, ignore at length enslaved fellow kin.
A contrast of hypocrisy. You live in a permanent state of absolute suppression, mind under lock and key in the World Government’s most luxurious vault, soul tied around the thumbs of a wicked authority far older than your generation while also being held above feeble mortal whims, bounded body standing atop a golden pedestal of eternal holiness and purity as a trophy, a compliment for the ancient men that forever rule over you. You, alone, will shine as God's brightest jewel under Heaven. But you will never betray a crude word against the holy men that grant upon you these golden privileges written in the blunt color of your suffering, ever speak as if their generosity could ever be so undeservingly bestowed or shared to the insects living in God's boot.
The mouth they kiss in blissful reverence, the tongue they taste in greedy stride, the voice that prays in devoted agony to the demonic forms of divine authority will remain dull to the maggots and vermin below. Bugs get squashed, and Dragons forgoes the skies. The rules of nature are always clear, The Elders pay no mind to any insect they step on intentionally or otherwise. The fairest of them all, the one Gods most endear to, will not waste blessed breath upon them either. You are a higher essence, a most delicate purity not for the eyes of filth and grime, The Elders won't ever allow you to stray from the path as long as you wear their imprinted ward, as both a matter of pride and pure privilege. Holy testaments such as you don’t attend to slaves nor impart kindness to their lonesome, empty variety. To do so, regardless of how miniscule said action was, will result in a very strict lesson on the obvious difference between what lives above and what squirms underground.
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it’s a really strange sensation when i read or watch something and it is like the issue here is i am sensing some deep chord of what i would name a misogynistic contempt, but in a way where i know the evidence will simply never be “convincing” enough for people who don’t feel it. and people do not have to feel it, to agree with the feeling. but the response to this is usually so scornful - you are hysterical if you are picking up on this. you’re crazy. show me the exact frame that proves it. but i do feel also with something as subterranean and vast and old and structuring and constant and inescapable and strange as misogyny and the other foundational oppressions of liiiiike our whole society there is a felt excess that sometimes exceeds what can be defined with language where all the classic means of evidence simply sort of fail in the face of what ultimately is an unpleasant feeling. exactly because i think unpleasant feeling itself, like the work a feeling of, say, contempt, can do in the world, is the means through which so much of the wordless processes of misogyny and other bigotries are advanced. so.
So I was re-listening to a song I haven’t heard in awhile (turns out it’s from the Barbie movie) and I was given the mental image of Jive wearing pink and honestly……
I think he’d kill it 💅✨
Yeah, I think he ate with the pink, you were right!!
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; pre-release snezhnaya bite-sized light yan drabbles, yandere but some of them are implied at best, we know nearly nothing of them rn so OOC is bound to happen, not proofread,
LOVE IS OBSESSIVE. (ANASTASYA )
A thin layer of frost has formed over closed, glass-pane windows, obscuring the otherwise perfect view you’d have of Snezhnograd down below. Now all you see are blurry blobs of color that vaguely resemble buildings if you squint. Residing at the highest floor in the Zapolyarny palace, nothing here serves as entertainment, not even sightseeing.
It’s cold too. Unbearably cold. An unsettling chill that comes and goes, peaks and subsides when she personally visits you. Unfortunate that she invades your room often, gently closing the door behind her all to ensure that no one else, not even a passing guard, will be privy to her intimate conversations with you. Poised upright like the embodiment of elegance that she is, Anastasya sits down at the foot of your bed and gives you a small smile – a considered rarity among her subjects.
How are you today? Have you been faring well in her absence? Did you miss her? Basic conversational questions are asked, and after you answer (no matter how lacking they may come off, she’s satisfied just to see you in the flesh), she starts sharing anecdotes about herself. Today, the Fatui did this, her harbingers had a minor disagreement, Pierro advised her to act on a particular issue, and the Belyi Tsar’s grave has been tended to by yours truly.
You nod accordingly – that all seems interesting, Anastasya – a built-in response picked up after years of such routine. When the topics of conversation dry up like a well, she will unglove her ice-cold hand to feel your exposed skin. You become used to the chill that you no longer flinch; it’s hard to be bothered anymore.
She savors her moments with you and immortalizes such transient minutes through the very ice she controls. To preserve and cherish every moment with you is one of the simplest pleasures in her life. The moment she’s needed to step back into her role of being Snezhnaya’s ruler, she leaves whisps of snowflakes that gently caress your cheek; her own form of a goodbye kiss.
You’re not her spouse, nor is she your wife. But she promises day and night for the past 500 agonizing years that the moment she seizes authority from the heavenly principles, you two will finally be wed and shall be marked as the first monumental event in the new world.
That child, too, will come back. And you’ll all be a happy family.
Until then, you are encased in a room only she has access to in the name of love.
LOVE IS CONJUGAL. (VALERIY)
“Major Valeriy will be displeased to learn you lost your wedding ring. Fret not, I will find it for you, my grace.”
His Oprichnik subordinate quickly gets on his hands and knees to begin a fruitless search while you watch him scramble around from the sofa. Leisurely leaning back with a cold drink in your hand, you know it’s not nice to torment a faultless person, but all your anger must be vented somewhere even at the cost of an unfortunate Oprichnik. You’ve grown to be selfish in that sense - it’s an undesirable trait nursed by your husband’s weirdly coddling attitude. His fault. Entirely his fault.
You intended to watch this stranger run around like a headless Volkodlak fae for a little while longer, just enough to bring him to tears behind that mask when heavy, thudding footsteps enter the room. The Oprichnik quickly stands at attention, bowing a perfect ninety degrees to whom you need not guess. Your husband, Valeriy, is here. Rolling your eyes over to his, you note that his obsidian hair is powdered in snow with his cape nowhere to be found, nose is a bit red too. You hold in a grin – an avalanche most likely caught him. Serves him right.
It falls just as quickly when a familiar ring glints from the chandelier. A bemused glint appears in his eyes at your bewildered stare.
“How did you–?” You threw that wedding ring out of the window. You know it, saw it become lost in the snow. Yet he–
“I did a little digging.” He strides up to you before kneeling down. He extends out an expecting hand to which you reluctantly give. Gently and reverently, he slides the ring back on your wedding finger, smiling in content when he does so. “Be careful next time.”
LOVE IS COURTSHIP. (ALYOSHA)
You have a peculiar companion who walks you home at night. You don’t know him, his face, or his name, but you know his voice and shadow. He always follows just a couple of steps behind you with his footsteps lagging a second behind before hiding behind barrels and buildings when you turn around. You’d think you’re hallucinating had it not been for the proof standing outside your home.
Swallowed by shadows, you see only his vague silhouette. A fur-lined hood with horns protruding, you think, average height – the only visuals he presents to you. On brave occasions, you’d call out with a stutter,
“W-why are you following me?”
His answer and the voice you hear are both hauntings dredged up from your nightmares: “Because I love you.”
Morning comes and the result is the same. You open your door, ready to head off to work before being stopped by a carcass left at your doormat. It stains the textile with blood – you’ll have to buy a new one after you finish your shift. With a shudder, you drag the dead animal inside, cringing at the trail it leaves behind.
At work, you ask your boss about it, fed up with the horrors you’re forced to live through. To which she tilts her head and smiles, “That means he’s courting you. I know you’re from overseas, but that’s how it is here in Snezhnaya!”
“I… What?”
She laughs, “It’s the land of love. Who isn’t willing to do everything for love around here?”
You better get used to it.
LOVE IS INFATUATION. (VODYANITSA)
“Seriously, another ticket to her show? You’re not rigging the system, are you?” Your Co-patroller jabs an accusing finger at your golden ticket. Lord Harbinger Pantalone would have your heads for slacking off on the job by talking about Primadonna singer Vodyanitsa, but your excitement cannot be contained for a moment longer. He’s not around to personally survey the Fatui agents in the area, fortunately. You’re free to parade your golden ticket around – proudly so.
“I didn’t buy it!” You hug the ticket close to your chest, daydreaming about seeing your beloved singer on stage once more, “My pen pal did!”
“Pen pal? You mean, what was it again— Sirensong?”
You smile, “Yeah. She’s also a big fan of Miss Vodyanitsa. I told her she didn’t need to buy me tickets every time, but she insists–”
“--and you’re too much of a freeloader to actually stop her.” Your co-patroller gravely nods, looking away from you, “Got it. I already know what type of person you actually are, we’re both Fatui runts at the end of the day.”
“Stop being mean to me, you’re just jealous.” You wave the ticket around their masked face. “Does it keep you up at night? Knowing you only saw her in-person once? Don’t worry friend, I’ll enjoy in your stead.”
“Whatever, whatever,” They roll their eyes before snapping back to yours, “Wait. Don’t you find it weird?”
“Weird?” You parrot.
“Yeah. How come she doesn’t attend the shows herself? Your pen pal, I mean.”
“She said she’s limited to her home. It’s why we’re pen pals…?”
They don’t look convinced. On the contrary, they’re growing more suspicious.
“Really now? But tickets are sold onsite in the opera house days prior to the show.”
“She probably has servants. I wouldn’t be surprised – she’s able to afford the tickets!”
“...Can I see your ticket?”
You frown, “You’re not going to steal it and run off, are you?”
You receive a playful whack on the head as rebuttal, “Stop talking nonsense, I still need to earn money for my sister! I just need to see the code and seat number.”
“Okay…?”
Their face changes in real time once they get hold of your ticket. Observing, confused, and finally… Understanding?
“What did you see?”
“A VIP ticket. I get it now.”
They pick up their gun and resume patrol, leaving you in the dark.
“What? What do you get?”
“Only the harbingers get VIP tickets, you know.”
“...Are you implying I’m a harbinger? I’m not.”
They shake their head, sighing.
“No, I’m implying that the only way you can get those tickets is if the giver was one of the opera organizers or…
Miss Vodyanitsa herself.”
LOVE IS ENVY. (ODETTE)
“You’re late.”
It’s a pain to work with Odette. Talented and skilled she may be in the art of ballet, her punctuality remains as something she must work on. She always arrives late to rehearsals, sometimes completely missing them, only to perform just fine on the grand day itself. You didn’t know what went on in her life to always miss the appointed time, nor did you bother to care. She was wasting yours.
But after catching her cleaning up a dead body one night after rehearsals, face splotched with a knowing red and dagger situated inches away from her on the ground, you now know everything there is to her. Agreeing to a truce, you negotiated for rehearsals to be limited to the two main stars while the rest of the cast practiced at a different time.
Only so she can do her business in peace thus avoiding her tendency to be late. It worked for a while, but as of right now… looking her up and down, maybe she just has a serious problem with time awareness.
“I said… You’re late. Did you not hear me, Odette?”
She nods a beat after, “I’m sorry.”
You turn away to start packing your bag, “What am I supposed to do with that? I don’t want your apology, what I want is for you to stop wasting my time. I get you’re busy with your… side assassin work, but keep me in mind, too.”
“I do.” She hurried to assure, “I keep you in mind every day.”
“Odd. It doesn’t feel that way.”
The ballet studio feels especially colder today.
You’re nearing the exit when she finally unveils like the ribbons of your ballet shoes.
“I got jealous.”
Her admission freezes you in place. “What?”
“So I… took care of him. I’ll control myself better next time. Keep rehearsing with me.”
LOVE IS AN ADDICTION. (NOY)
You know your place and your cue.
A knock on your wooden door means it’s a house servant because Lord Noy himself enters without permission. With that knock comes a set of responsibilities expected from you. Once means that you must pick out the ribbon the lord will wear in his hair for the day. Twice means you must sleep in his bed that night.
And thrice means… the lord needs another supply of your blood. Merely three days after his last feeding session, and already he’s asking for more. You grit your teeth before ultimately abandoning your journal to open the door, your smile is inauthentic, so too is the house servant’s.
“Please inform Lord Noy that I’ll be there after showering. Thank you.”
The house servant shakes her head, “I’m afraid he needs you now.”
“...As of this moment?”
“I believe so.” She bows before stepping back, “Please follow me. He’s in his study.”
Is he gravely injured that he needs your blood so soon to replenish himself? The usual time interval between feeding sessions on average is one week. Sometimes five days if he’s overworked… but three days is a first. You don’t know if you should feel worried for him. Or is his old age finally catching up?
Perhaps the answer is far simpler.
Upon reaching the doors of his study, they immediately open and the house servant makes herself scarce. Lord Noy, dressed down in the comforts of his home, politely smiles at you, yet the lack of an… alarming injury on his person makes a question mark apparent on top of your head. You envisioned him to be bedridden in pain or maybe lethargic in his movements. The Lord Noy standing in front of you right now is anything but that. He’s perfectly fine. Visibly joyed at the sight of his sole bloodbag, actually.
You don’t want to overstep your place, so you keep your inquiries to yourself as you begin unbuttoning your high collar, fully exposing your still sore neck to his blood red eyes. He sucks in a sharp breath a second later, and you watch him advance toward you as if in a trance.
Indeed, the answer is far simpler.
Watching him feast and groan at the taste of your blood, you understand that he’s growing greedy. Both with your blood and body, and most especially your heart.
LOVE IS THERE AT FIRST SIGHT. (MITYA)
The books you’ve been planning to borrow from the royal library were all borrowed by someone else first. It wouldn’t upset you at all if it were going to be returned next week, but it’s been three months now and the librarian is growing tired of your constant pestering. To throw you a bone, she gave you the address of the person who has your planned books and told you to: “Pay him a visit if you’re so desperate!”
Not the most moral thing to do, but you’re now standing outside the house (hut?) from the address given to you, seconds away from knocking on the door. He’s read all those books surely, so he’ll give it to you, right?
You knock. “Hello? Anyone there?”
A muffled, “Uhh, busy!” answers you.
Busy, huh? “That’s okay! I’m just here to retrieve the books you borrowed from the royal library. An approximate quantity of twelve books, if I may recall correctly.”
A faint gasp. “Already!?” What does he mean by already? It’s been three months. “Hold on! Extend it a bit, please!”
“Absolutely not.” You snap, “I need to read ‘I’m reborn as an evil scientist so here’s a guide to quantum physics.’ and ‘why it’s not crazy to say teyvat is upside down: a dissertation.’ now. You had your chance to read it!”
He shuts up for one second before bursting out laughing, “It’s good that I can just… not hand it over to you then! How did you find my address in the first place?”
You turn rabid. Gentle, polite knocks are now fists angrily banging on wood. “The librarian gave it to me! Open the door or else I’m invading your house!”
“Go for it! You can try!”
“By the Tsaritsa’s benevolence, I will!”
Ten minutes later, the thick wooden door collapses from your anger, and you see the source of your ire for the past three months in the middle of the room, surrounded by countless stacks of books, looking at you in complete shock. Ugh, What a greedy hoarder! He’s probably a poser!
“Give me the books!”
He mumbles something indecipherable.
“What?”
You wish you hadn’t asked him that.
“I said... I think I’m in love with you.”
LOVE IS PASSIONATE. (DANICA)
The bed is made, dinner is cooked, the rooms are cleaned, your nightwear is laid out on your bed, the curtains are drawn, and the small garden outside is already watered – all to the courtesy of Danica, of course. Her dedication to take care of every aspect of your life is commendable, but you don’t see the point in chastising her.
It’s because of her dedication that you can get away with being an utter brat.
“My liege, I’m back.”
You come rounding the corner eagerly greeting her, “Did you do it? Did you poison my father, Danica?”
She smiles at your demeanor, her uncaring and formal exterior always nowhere to be found in the face of her master. “Yes, the deed is done. He collapsed thirty minutes ago.”
You hug her in thanks, “And the body? Did you search the body?”
Her arms hold you in a tight grip, unwilling to let go. Melting into your embrace, you feel her lips move around the nape of your neck, “I have.”
Danica knows you like the back of her hand and her loyalty is unfaltering. The ugliness of your soul can never chase her away, for she loves you dearly and undoubtedly.
“What did you find?”
She shakes her head in disappointment. “Nothing.”
You pull away, ignoring the pleading eyes she sends you. “How unfortunate… Then it seems we have to look for the key elsewhere. You cleaned up the evidence, right? Oh, and prepare some tea for me, please.”
“My liege…”
Patting her head and watching her lean into it, you tut, “Danica, I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at that dead bastard. The Tsaritsa’s plan needed his research, and he chose to keep it from us. Could you believe him? Serves him right.”
“So please don’t worry, my dearest maid. You have never disappointed me, and you won’t be doing so anytime soon.”
LOVE IS A CRUSH. (VESNA)
“You!”
You hold in your sigh, and instead brace yourself for the telltale sound of fae wings fluttering in your direction. It’s the third time this week, and the nth time this year that you’re stopped and humiliated in the middle of Snezhnograd, all at the amusement of a certain fae officer. A high-ranking one too, unfortunately.
The sound of her heels dropping down to the ground makes you look at her. You say nothing, she seems pleased by this.
“Good, you knew you were the offender right away.”
She swivels and takes flight once more, “What are you standing around there for? Come with me! You need to fill out your violation form in the office.”
That makes you sputter, “But I don’t even know what I did wrong? You just stopped me and–”
“You think just because you possess a stellar linchpin means you’re free to run your mouth? Might I remind you that I impose the will of the Tsaritsa on you humans?” Vesna’s always been cuckoo to you, but this is…
You bite your tongue, watching the other faes squirm around in discomfort.
“Nevermind. I’ll follow you.”
Like a switch flipped, she proudly nodded in approval. “Very well. Off we go now.”
From behind, you hear the fae officers whisper to one another that: “She’s incapable of wooing her crush. Let’s leave her be; she can always make them give their name to her.”
...What a horrible week.
LOVE IS UNCONDITIONAL. (PANTALONE)
Centuries ago, the name Feofan was inconsequential to the citizens of Snezhnaya, for the bearer of that name was nothing more than a struggling young man living paycheck to paycheck as a bank clerk. He meant nothing to the grand picture of the nation, but at that time, Feofan was your closest friend.
As the bank clerk slotted after his shift, you formed a friendship with him that way. During the brief window of time as his shift ended and yours was about to begin, conversations were made, and hangouts were formed. Good friends save up their salaries to go see an anticipated Opera that day. Good friends didn’t care that their friend wasn’t the epitome of wealth.
When Feofan asked you if you wanted more in life; wanted more from him, you shook your head no. What else is there to want? You had good friends and a decent job. But his expression was unreadable when he asked a following question if you’d like to have more wealth.
…It’d be nice, definitely. But I’m fine with my life right now, maybe in the future I’ll want more, just not now.
Believing that it’s the only way to repay you for loving a worthless man like him, he took that as the signal to pursue his years-long obsession with money. After quitting his job, he disappeared from your life for a few years, and he began pursuing a business. You thought he had moved to a neighboring nation at some point until he showed up on your doorstep one day.
Your bank clerk friend, now turned Fatui Harbinger, insisted then and there that you drank the vial he held in his hands. You trust him, yet…
“Why?”
“I want us to live forever.”
To love a worthless man… surely you would love him more now that he had something to his name.
; yandere, blurb, rerir, very minor spoilers but it's written before i go through the nod-krai archon quest and was made purely based on speculation.
just from looking at him, both the traveler and paimon knew that whoever this red-cloaked man may be, he is not a good person by any means. if not for the carnage left in his wake, then with the ease with which he summons his spear, prepared to strike them and their floating companion down to the ground, suffices as proof.
they had only managed to escape his hands by a mere hair's breadth, saved with the combined efforts of the lightkeepers and frostmoon scions, suffering minor cuts and bruises from collision in the aftermath. it leaves them desperately gasping for air. a sinner, they surmised, one of the five sinners that dainsleif had revealed to them all those moons ago.
as lauma helps them up to their feet, with flins' lantern acting as a guiding light to safety, one can't help but wonder what business did the sinner have in nod-kai.
something within their mind tells them that he's not just here to seize the moon.
rerir moves with relative ease, passing by the extravagant scenery that nod-krai natives loved to boast about, yet he could only do nothing but scoff in its face. his head hurts, has been for centuries now, yet it's nothing compared to the pain his cursed body grants him. he navigates through the howling winds and eerie silence before arriving at a secluded cave that he made as your makeshift resting place.
hidden deep within the cave, found only after sifting through spider webs and narrow openings, there you lay, eyes closed with a faint smile, never having aged a day since the cataclysm.
only a few knew of his origin and why he carries around a limp body, commonly mistaken for a corpse due to how unresponsive they are, that daintily hangs off his bandaged arms, clothed in long, flowing robes with an eight-pointed star that rests on their slumbering chest that signifies their homeland. for several centuries, rerir has dragged his aching body across the dessert land of sumeru, crossed blades with the abyss in natlan, braved through the frigid winters of snezhnaya, all while keeping you safe and sound. a life of a nomad, one that he willingly chose with you by his side after letting his homeland fall to ruin.
you've fallen into deep sleep on doomsday, a byproduct of ronova, who thought that you deserved more than just the curse of immortality with no known cure on how to wake you from such.
to say that rerir has tried every solution he can concoct in the past 500 years would be a severe understatement; he's tried everything. a childish true love's kiss from the fairytales told to awed children, an alchemical solution sourced from rhinedottir herself, a long-forgotten blood ritual that originated from a fallen civilization, sowing through countless mortal bodies in hopes that the deaths resulted can be tipped to your favor, everything.
yet not once have you ever opened your eyes. not once have you cupped his cheeks with your delicate fingers, cooing out a tease that's riddled in affection. not once have you uttered his name out. the memory of your voice is now a fast-fading one, tethering on the edge of remembering.
there's no solution, no cure that can be obtained that overrides ronova's specialized curse for you.
not until recently, that is.
his footsteps echo in the damp cave, reverently kneeling down before your limp body as he places a tender kiss on your bare palm, only muffled by the bandage he wears. a deep rumble comes from his chest, "my dear love," he announces, "nod-krai is the place that holds the key to curing your ailment."
this he is sure of.
this time, he swears, he'll finally wake you from your deep sleep using the blood and corpse of the new moon goddess. only then will rerir know true happiness - real peace. there will be nothing blocking his way, neither fatui nor the infamous traveler.
so let a magnanimous blood red trail behind him, extending his cape past its intended length as he slaughters his way to victory, sparing no one. each death toll will amount to nothing, not when you are at the end of the finish line.
he will get stronger, regain his original strength, and bring an end to the cruelty unfairly placed on your gentle soul.
in his name, rerir, rächer of solnari, it will come to fruition.
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Mind if I get up on my soapbox really quick? Oh, you do? Well, here it goes anyway:
If your reason for assuming that Coyle is stupid is just because he’s southern, then you need to check your prejudice. You’re actively spreading harmful stereotypes already constantly seen in media, and are only causing further harm to a community.
“But the letter!”
You already felt that way prior to the letter, so let’s not go there, and there’s previous evidence already in place to suggest that it’s due to forced drug use and increased paranoia. He has nice handwriting, and all former/earlier instances of his writing are shown to have no spelling errors. You just latched onto this as an excuse to make more “Southerners are stupid” jokes.
You want him to be stupid, because you want your prejudiced ideas to be reinforced. You want him to be stupid, because he’s southern. You think he’s stupid, because he’s southern, even if plenty of his lines suggest the exact opposite. He’s not the most well spoken individual in the world, but he in no way comes across as uneducated.
You don’t take the abuse he faced as a child seriously, because of harmful beliefs about the commonality of incest in the south. You think the line about him kissing his mother is funny, because he’s southern. You’re not considering the larger implications of childhood sexual abuse that he normalized and blamed himself for as an unhealthy way to cope.
If Coyle sounded like Franco, you would talk about him differently. If he sounded like the Kress twins, you would talk about him differently. If he sounded like Easterman, you would talk about him differently? Do you see where I’m going with this? You are so comfortable calling him stupid, because he’s southern, and because of harmful stereotypes that you have been raised to think are fine. You cannot remove him from the context of being southern, because it is relevant to him as a character, but it does not- in anyway- make him stupid.
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