#s-....si.....sigh..................................

The most strategic decision would have been to organize my time so I could have done stuff for 3 days instead of having 3 pieces for one day but that's just how my mind works Why 3 pieces tho? Well... 1. The mini comic one is the scene situation I wanted to tackle. 2. The other one came into existance as a product of my own complex feelings about the quality of the first one. It's now my personal hc that this is how Miya would saw the situation if he happened to catch a glimpse of it. That's why it's so out of character shoujo roses coded, my guy had his fudanshi glasses on, as he always does. Also, since he's big brained enough to even come up with a love triangle in the last manga episode, I think he could get invested in Niibashi x Kagi x Hirano. Even if he pretty much acts like Kagihira is his otp. 3. The third one is pretty much an extra but it functions as an aftermath of the scene, and while not providing much clousure it provides fun ideas about how the guys would deal with each other. Aditionally, have I mentioned how much I love the way Harusono draws chibi Kagiura? no thoughts just a big pure heart.

I have lots to say so I divided it in two big subjects: ✦About the characters: If you asked me whether or not this could happen withing canon I would tell you that: 1. I rarely think about rarepairs 2. I'm very particular about who I ship with Niibashi. You know the "you swan, he frog" meme? That's how I feel about him.

Anyway, I don't think Niibashi would fall for whatever responsible sempai that takes care of you trope that Hirano has going on. However, Hirano has a certain ... unaware of his actions charm(? Think of the balloon puppy he made for Kagiura. So, while I see Niibashi as someone who always has his walls up against more typical approaches Hirano is anything but typical. So he could momentarily get niibashi to fold. Another varible one has to wonder about is: How frequently does Niibashi receives praise? Specially taking into account he goes to an all boys school. Something something I don't expect young men to be particularly honest much less about the things they admire in their peers so whole context thing weights in this discussion. In conclusion, I think he would get surprised by the situation but he would accept it cus his pride is on the line, ofc his hair is soft and silky. Nonetheless, his sempai is patting his hair like if he were a dog so... there's that. About the little extra: Niibashi's the kind to think that there's a right way to stuff when it comes to apperances. Don't think it as a "there's just one way you can look like" but more of a "you should never look like this, no matter the circumstance". Something something decency and being prim and proper. He got the handbook so interiorized that he gets restless when someone isn't following it (refer to his nagging towards Kagiura and his attempts to repair his sweater's button). So I think Hirano's hair situation would make him fret enough to momentarily forget their awkward situation and he would want to help. He would tell himself is more for him than for Hirano, something about how it's an eyesore, but he would help nonetheles. It's very: that one hair stylist that cut my hair and almost didn't let me get out of the salon cuz he couldn't accept in good conscience that I would keep living with fried bleached highlights- core. ✦About the drawing: I have gone a LONG way with Niibashi, I mean it wholeheartedly. My first attempt ever looks nothing like him (although I maintain that I swear I know there's a mangaka out there who draws just like that despite me not being able to pin point who it is. My bestfriend and I's best guesses are: Fujitobi, 2010's Yodonaga Yuo, 2000's Tomoe Kiko) My best attempt came after my essay on him so perhaps the key to learn to draw a character is thinking a lot about them(? LOL Aditionally, I still don't get his haircut. Harusono sometimes draws it so pointy, almost mountain top/ mushroom haircut like(? and then there's a ton of stuff going on on the top of it. It's so complex it's almost Genshin™ character-esque. Which kinda helped me out, since I settled on thinking it works a bit like Scaramouche's haircut.

Continuing on, I need you to understand that I've thought about Niibashi and dogs since June 30th. As a self proclaimed dog expert, I juggled many breed options such as: Pomeranians, Cavalier king Charles Spaniels, Cocker Spaniels, Shih tzu, Maltese, or a Yorkshire Terrier. I guess I was mostly going for breeds that are tiny, cute and either read as regal or happen to be expensive. (I find it funny that I ended up with a ton of dogs that can have copper reddish fur since you know, Niibashi has pibk hair)

So, Why did he ended up as a Pomeranian? Honestly, cuz it's easier to get references. Also, Kedama <3 (he very much was the inspo behind my first sketch)

Lastly, I hated this pose. Whoever came up with the idea of having Hirano touching Niibashi's hair had it against me (it was me). This was so difficult for no reason. I have like 500 references and I still don't get it. Which leads me to, when I tell you that I approached this x2000 times I mean it I have the receipts (heck now I'm kinda mad that I like this more than I like whatever we ended up with but whatever) In the first one I traced up the hands from some of the manga panels that I had as reference to later re-do the lineart by myself using the traced lines as a guide; however, I felt Harusono very detailed hands didn't mix together with my style. For the 2nd one I was fed up with the pose so I messed up with it and ended up with something that felt charged. like intimacy through the roofs kinda thing.

Finally, at some point I remember people have free will and acces to that one petting gif maker so: Count this as Hirano's pov ig lol (+the other other other Niibashi I drew)

As a primary stipulation, curiosity about an unknown society is not exclusive to one culture. Assuming that only one type of people could envision strange cultures with different, even magical rules, is just another kind of othering; imagination and curiosity are global human traits. Not every story about encountering a strange society is inherently a colonialist narrative.

However, our understanding of how the protagonist should act in an adventure fantasy is, nowadays, deeply influenced by colonialism. Robinson Crusoe says if you end up stranded on an island, best get yourself a Man Friday—somebody to rebuild a hierarchical society for you. Non-fiction accounts of Shackleton and Sir Edmund Hilary say that if you see a natural wonder, the noblest struggle is to somehow “best it”. The Indiana Jonesish protagonist, the Raider of the Lost Ark, is also behaving in a way informed by colonialism. It’s a very sneaky behaviour that allows the protagonist to picture himself the hero. It’s not “I am stealing your treasure,” it’s usually “I am protecting your artifacts from decay and from people who would misuse them.” It’s a colonial philosophy encapsulated by the phrase “that belongs in a museum”. The adventurer isn’t even really deciding what to do with the artifact; there’s some kind of infallible law that says it belongs in his care, where it is “safest”.

So you can see here that in order to seem heroic, rather than morally repugnant, these adventure fantasies with neo-colonialist streaks depend on erasing or infantilizing the indigenous population. This happens all the time in real life and throughout real history, from anthropologists pilfering Egyptian artifacts from tombs despite the very alive Egyptian population, to the characterization of the American and Canadian West as “empty” and “uninhabited” in order to encourage settler-colonialism. If you pretend the indigenous population isn’t there, you can ignore the injustice inherent taking their treasure or transforming their land. If the indigenous population is there in your fiction, taking their treasure or transforming their land involves violence. Violence against the indigenous population is still very much a part of the adventure fantasy. The Uncharted series, in an attempt to capture this spirit of adventure fantasy, put itself in the position where half the gameplay is robbing graves and half is Nathan Drake massacring brown people — and even Yahtzee noticed that. But that kind of story does net more negative press nowadays. Again, you know you’ve stepped out of line if you have a mainstream game reviewer criticizing your representation of race.

This is why the Ruined Tomb is such a useful trope for neo-colonialist fantasy. This is why so many fantasy worlds are built around a long-dead race and their uninhabited settlements. The dead city and the ruined tomb put the death of the other front-and-center. There is no one living here who can still be harmed, says the Ruined Tomb, and graverobbing can be set towards modern ends with a clear conscience. It works especially well with pure fantasy worlds, because you are not mischaracterizing or erasing a real population — just creating one that was already gone. It’s also great in post-apocalyptic settings, where your own, nuked-out civilization is the one being rediscovered (this is why I’m writing this post at all — it’s related to my dissertation.)

(This is also one of the fifty zillion reasons why my favourite episode in all of the Avatar franchise is still “The Firebending Masters” — it used the same construct of the Ruined Tomb, from the traps to the treasures, and then made sure the indigenous population was still there to adjudicate whether the protagonists deserved access to their knowledge or not.)

So, as I learned this week (this morning, actually), the new Critical Role opening features the cast playing at the table in slow-motion, intercut with clips of them dressed in early-nineteenth-century explorer gear searching through a non-descript, non-culturally-specific ruin. They do not encounter any people or artifacts; they mostly look around in surprise and hold up lanterns. The cameras are focused on them, rather than the set. In terms of problematic faves, this short sequence is certainly no Uncharted. However, the criticism going around is that this is still a weirdly specific gesture towards those neo-colonial adventure stories. It chafes in particular because this is the intro to a campaign set in Marquet, a region that is a loose pastiche of the kind of Middle-Eastern cultures that often suffer the worst at the hands of neo-colonial adventure fantasy. And it’s also strange (either a bad coincidence or an unexamined association) that a show with two previous intros displaying a much more varied interpretation of “adventure” would hone in on tomb raiding iconography at this particular juncture.  And by “criticism going around,” I mean I saw two tweets about it, both politely worded and thoughtful, and both by people identifying as SWANA (an abbreviation for South-West Asian or North African, which is a really catchy acronym I didn’t know before).

The reason I’m summarizing and contextualizing all this isn’t to label this opening is some kind of neo-colonialist propaganda. It’s not As Problematic as something like Uncharted. This isn’t about counting strikes or gauging How Bad the thing is exactly. The cast have repeatedly said they hired a sensitivity consultant for the show; nobody is questioning their intentions; and they are clearly invested in making an inclusive product as best they can. The point I’m making is that these neo-colonial adventure narratives are extremely insidious in a way that we can and should talk about. Our entire concept of adventure has been touched throughout by colonialism — or, more accurately, colonialism and neo-colonialism employed the idea of “adventure” so thoroughly that they can’t ever be fully extracted from each other. Pointing out how this narrative appears in the Critical Role opening is a criticism, yes, but a criticism is not the end of the world; a criticism is a chance to flip the script.

My favourite example of this kind of script-flipping is an essay by Dan Olson titled “Minecraft and Colonialism” or “Oops, I did a Colonialism in Minecraft”. Olson explains how the game mechanics led to him accidentally doing a colonialism (kidnapping villagers by leading them onto boats), which led to him further questioning the literal “building blocks” of Minecraft and how colonialism informs them. Near the end of the video, Olson points out that there are plenty of games where the player builds structures, industrial complexes, or civilizations, and that those games are fun and he enjoys them; but, there are none that he knows of where the player re-naturalizes a space that has been conquered by industry. I would play the heck out of a game where an angry Druid magically reclaims a bunch of old coal mines or nuclear plants with nature magic. You might get apologies out of this kind of situation, where neo-colonialism informs your artistic approach— but it’s even better to get ideas. That’s why I started this short essay post thing by mentioning Purvan’s tomb and the Tomb of Horrors. Nobody in their right mind is going to call the cast horrible racists for using the Ruined Tomb trope back in Episode 44. And they shouldn’t. However, if the cast now thinks about how the trope of “the abandoned tomb” has served the neocolonial adventure fantasy for so long, they might be able to flip the script and come up with something as cool as Olson’s hypothetical nature-reclamation game, or “The Firebending Masters”.

The thing I find the most repugnant about the situation, and the other reason I wrote this context/response, is that Brian Foster has taken this entire conversation in exactly the wrong direction, reacting as if his well-intentioned friends have been slammed by groundless hate mail for completely unfounded reasons, answering flippantly, dismissively, and unhelpfully. If anyone is harassing the cast for this — I haven’t seen it, so I can’t prove it’s happening — that is indefensible. Harassment is harassment regardless of context. However, just because people may be using this conversation as a weapon doesn’t mean it’s a pointless conversation to have. An extremely level-headed Twitter user going by ShelfMadeMan responded like this:

“I’m not sure it’s for me, a white dude, to suggest how they go forward. I don’t think any reasonable person’s calling for the team to be hauled over the coals. I’m sure as hell not. I just think there’s valid criticism and the team need to decide what to take from it…I loved the intro…but I’m also a white Brit - I acknowledge these issues haven’t touched me. There are other people who should be listened to here.”

And Mr. ShelfMadeMan, you are correct. Hashtag same. 

He looks between the three men infront of him in his office, disgruntled and angry looks on the lot of them. His blue eyes flicker down to the page.

‘dear diary,

I’ve been working hard to make Price proud of me. I’m not sure if anything I’m doing is helping or worth it, every time I get my words out for anything I can’t help but feel so- I don’t know- small? Or— ugh it feels wrong. Everything that comes out of my mouth feels so stupid. How can I make everyone think I’m smart? How can I get Price to be happy with me? I don’t know if I can’t figure it out—“

The older man sighs, rubbing his temples, fingers brushing against your words, makes his stomach flip. It’s not like he meant to talk to you like that, he shouldn’t have said it to begin with. But every time you ran into each other, words would get caught in his throat. You’d only nod and give him a small smile. “I didn’t know what to say-“

“—An apology maybe, ya fuckin-“

“—Cool it Johnny.” Simon warns.

Kyle sighs, hand squeezing the Scots shoulder, “We’re not trying to jump you here Price, but you’ve hurt the baby’s feelings and it’s festered into something else now.”

“We can only do so much. We love ‘er the same, love you the same. Know you love ‘er too, but she needs to hear that from you. She wants your reassurance.” Simon tells him, clear and concise. 

“Ye apologize t’ the lass properly today or it’s ye sleepin in tha’ bloody small ass couch right here with yer fucked back ye eejit.” Soap points as the three of them leave out. The door slams shut but John can hear their muffled words.

“Johnny-“

“I’m bein sound! Who wants t’ see those ye care about nae be on good terms? It’s the five ‘f us for fuckin reason.” He curses.

*. * ·

It’s late when John decides to knock on your door. He threw himself into work like he’d done the past week, but his thoughts only wandered about you, what he’d said to you. That poor look on your face youd made the other day.

“Captain!” You open the door, in your pajamas, you suck in a breath, “H-Hello sir!”

Captain. Sir. It makes him wince when you don’t call him like you usually do.

“Can I- can we talk sweetheart?” His voice comes out so soft.

You open the door wider, enough space to let him come into your small dorm. It’s just as it’s usually been, cozy and full of soft colors. But there are a stack of books on your desk, the light still on.

He leans against the desk, watching as you fiddle with the hem of your shirts— it’s one of his, blue and large.

He sighs, “I’ve made a mistake dovie, I should have never talked to you like that. And I singled you out in front of everyone and I shouldn’t have.”

Your heart beats faster at his words, but you shake your head, “But Captain, you were right. I need to be more focused on my job and-“

“—When have you not been focused [+]? You’re a hard worker and keep up with the boys and I better than anyone else can. You made a mistake, I shouldn’t have been so hard on you.”

“But you have to! You have to because—“ you hiccup, voice cracking. And it’s what you’d been wishing to hear all week long, but if it was all for nothing, if you didn’t improve— “I want you to think I’m smart too!”

Tears fall down your face as you sob and John’s heart breaks, taking you in his big arms. His big hands rub uo and down yout back, soothing you as you ball your eyes out.

“You are smart darling, I’m the muppet here. You’re more than enough for me and the boys. You work so hard everyday and deal with people who don’t understand you honey, I should be one of this people and I let you down. ‘M so sorry baby.”

He coos, “Next time I’ll watch my mouth saying something so rude like that, and if I do say it, you should knock me clean out.”

Your eyebrows furrow, coming up from his shoulder, John brushes your tears away as you hiccup, “I- I don’t want you to be hurt too.”

Oh, you adorable thing.

He holds you close, pecking your plump lips, “I’m sorry lovie, you forgive me?”

You nod, wrapping your arms around John. Letting you cuddle and kiss you all night.

He rises from the bed without amour, without crown, just bare feet on cold floor, rubbing his dry and tired eyes from the day’s burdens. Sighing as he stalks around the room, tucking in the fallen chair beside the table in the quiet, an aching in his search, yet he already knows where you are.

He crouches at once without another thought, and there you are.

Curled beneath the bed like a frightened child, your knees pulled to your chest, hair loose and wild, your eyes too bright for this hour.

Your dreams always do this.

Not visions like stories make them, they’re not pretty, or poetic.

Instead they come like storms, like a fire burning in your skull, the future clawing its way through you before you can understand it.

“My love,” Baelor kneels softly against the stone floor, pressed onto his fours as he calls out to you, his voice gentle.

You flinch though you recognise the sound.

“It’s me,” he says quickly. “It’s Baelor, your husband. I’am here.”

Your voice trembles as you trace the wooden slats underneath the bed, shaky hands reaching up just in front of your face.

“I saw it again.”

He doesn’t dismiss it, doesn’t sigh, he doesn’t try to claim it to be something it isn’t. And he never has. Not like the rest of them do. They call you mad, odd, worrisome.. some opting to send you away since you were a girl all until you birthed the first child. Yet Baelor refused any of it, from the moment of betrothal he was yours, and he meant his vows through sickness, health and what haunted you in the night.

He reaches slowly, palms flat on the stone so you can see every movement as you looked up at him, tears pricking your vision, unmoving. He hooked himself next to you, the gap tight between him and the bed but he relaxed comfortably next to you.

“Tell me.”

Your breath shudders, leaning into the present you can’t escape any way. The man beside you grounding as you recalled it.

“There was smoke over the river. Dragons screaming, and a crown falling into blood. I couldn’t stop it. I tried but it kept happening — like it already has.”

The tears slide down your cheeks, warm and frantic shaking your head at yourself in shame.

“I’m mad,” you whisper. “They all say dreamers go mad.”

Baelor’s jaw tightens at that, not in anger, but in pain for you. The words you’ve had to endure for far long enough, that even he does not believe.

“No,” he says firmly. “My heart, you see.”

He inches closer, sliding further beside you until he can brush your fingers with his own.

“Just like you saw the storm before it came. Just like you saw my brother’s fall before the maester’s raven arrived.”

You swallow at the mention, you were both only young when his younger brother Rhaegal was said to have gone mad. Plagued by perhaps something like you, or something else, they wouldn’t say. But you’d told them all it was going to fall apart, that brothers would be distanced and crowns would pass to the unlikely.

“It feels so real.”

“Because it is real,” he answers gently. “Or real enough to matter.”

He ignored the cold stone beneath you both, brushing the dust away as he brings his eyes level with yours.

“Breathe with me.”

Slowly, he inhales and exhales, eyes never once leaving you as he does it. Those multicoloured hues you’d remembered, you’d known..

And you mirror him.

Again.

And again.

Every breath until your shaking eases.

“Tell me where it was,” he says softly. “The river. Was it wide? Narrow?”

You blink at him, tracing the line in your memory, grounding yourself.

“Wide… with reeds along the banks.”

He nods thoughtfully, fingers curling around yours gently.

“And the crown — gold or silver?”

“Gold.”

Baelor hums low in his chest, not doubting, but considering.

“Then it wasn’t of today. My father wore silver at council.”

You sniff softly, a fragile laugh escaping at the answer.

“You always do that.”

He smiles back at you, quirking a brow.

“Do what?”

“Make it feel like it can be understood.”

He reaches out to you then, cupping your cheek, thumb brushing your tears away, face angling towards yours.

“Dreams aren’t madness,” he says. “They are messages. Even the cruel ones.”

You finally crawl forward, shuffling on your side until you collide with him, pressing into his chest like you’ve done since you were young. And he wraps you up instantly, strong arms a shield around your trembling body. The way he told you it was alright.

“I’m scared one day it’ll be something I can’t stop,” you whisper.

His lips press into your hair, firm and steady, never wavering.

“Then we’ll face it together.”

A pause. Your vows.

“Did you see yourself?”

You nod slowly against him, “I was standing beside you.”

His breath catches, just a little.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Then I know I’ll never face it alone either.” He rocks you gently, back and forth, calming the storm that was.

Outside, kin and servant alike are fast asleep, but here you are together, and he rests his forehead against yours like he’s never known differently.

“You’re not broken,” he says quietly. “You’re chosen, and you’re mine. And I will always believe you.”

Your breathing steadies as the fear ebbs. The world feeling real again, with every steady thrum of this heart.

And when he finally lifts you, tugging you both off out from under the bed and carrying you back into the silk sheets, he tucks you in like something precious — staying awake long after you drift off, watching over the dreamer who holds tomorrow in her mind.