#roddacember 2021

Roddacember Day 17: Looming

Day 4 - Caring

Jasmine— what was a I thinking searching for a caring character in my mind. I mean, sure, Jasmine is many things: wild, independent, brave... but her most instrinsic quality is her care for everything [not evil].It's Anna's spirit in her. And it's solidly fused with her selflessness and her soft heart beneath layers of ferocity. What a shame that this was her most underrated trait in my eyes for a long time!

When she was orphaned and took care of Filli and Kree; when she met two strangers in the forests and endangered herself once she realized they were not Grey guards; her extensive care for the trees and living things; every time she stubbornly took care of Lief and Barda, with her healing balm and the tiny jar around her neck, symbols of how much she's ready to look after her loved ones (she sometimes had such a motherfigure among the trio); how she tenderly tried to calm down little Ida; how she wept for the small bundle of bones of the fake heir... and the list goes on.

Roddacember Day 25 | Plot | Amusing

‘Tom is not a creature,but a man,’Lief snapped. ‘He should know what is right!’

‘Are you so sure you know?’ ​Jasmine answered sharply.

Lief stared at her, ‘What do you mean by that?’ he demanded.

‘Do not argue,’ said Balda wearily.

-Rodda.,Emily Deltora Quest 3 City of the Rats

This is a exchange between three of my personal favourites. Lief and Jasmine must have tired Barda out with their frequent arguments over trivial matters.

And, although it's not directly related to Tom's sign, this question from Jasmine is very interesting.

Who really knows what is just and what is not?

day 24 - confronting

Rye’s head felt as if it might burst. He could feel the bag of powers warm and pulsing against his skin like a live thing with a heart.

Nine powers to aid you in your quest…

Powers to help the dupe of the Fellan do what the Fellan themselves could not—end Olt’s life and open the way to the Lord of Shadows.

Shuddering with revulsion, Rye tore the bag from his neck so violently that the knotted drawstring snapped and pulled completely out of its casing. Its neck ragged and gaping, the bag lay in his hand like flabby skin shed by some loathsome, creeping animal.

More than anything in the world he wanted to cast it away from him, see the charms scatter in the wind and be lost.

The Third Door // Ch 18 The Head of the Serpent

i imagine the “finding out that during the entirety of your quest you were being used as a pawn for the people you thought you could trust” situation would be pretty confronting to learn, so yeah. that’s not really what happened, but rye didn’t know that at the time so we can just let him have his breakdown

also i just know that if i stare at this any longer i’ll never post it, so i’m just going to post it! come get y’all juice (now in colour!)

I collected these while reading s3 because I dont think I've seen them all in one place before

The reason I had first collected them was to compare how the environments of the sisters affected the appearance of the stones (especially isle of the dead, obviously) but I think they're representative of the most intricate and well thought out plot rodda's written

Screaming sea-birds, the wind blowing at her hair, and the taste of salt on her lips. 

These were all things that Verity had associated with love since she had been a little girl. Love for the sea that brought her fish that fed her, driftwood that her father would carve into toys when she was a child, sprays of water that would cool her on a hot summer’s day. But now the gulls do not sing, their mouths are too full of the berries and fresh water that keep her from death. She counts the nights—wind has not blown in nearly two weeks, not since she was tied to the prow of The Lady Luck. The salt is still there, but it tears at her lips and makes them bleed.

The ropes that bind her to the prow of the boat bite into the flesh not covered by her cloak and nightgown, and thin trails of blood spiral down her arms as the crew below her jeer and shout horrible things, but she does not listen to their crude words. While the water does not move and the waves do not crash, the subtle sounds of the sea play like music in her ears. There is no hatred in her heart for her father and the mistakes he has made, only a deep love and wistful grief. She feels no hunger nor thirst—the birds have cared for that. There is pain, yes, and exhaustion, but the knowledge that she is cared for by something greater and unrelenting than these things brings her comfort.

For a vow once made cannot be broken.

I hear your words, James Gant, and they will bind you.

The blade pierces her heart and the sea screams with her. Blood and bile rise in her throat, choking her last words as pain spreads through her body like a plague. Black blood spills from her wound and her lips, onto the mottled wood of the ship, and into the unforgiving sea. Great waves crash upon the boat, ignoring the screams of the men that have bound her, and instead focusing on the one they love.  

Screaming sea-birds, the wind blowing at her hair, and the taste of salt on her lips.