#about grigor

[thatwickedman]

For my part it is very simple. I never gamble with anything I care for, but will gamble to fierce extremes with everything that I don't. Of course, I am fortunate in that I care for very little, and thus by far the greater part of the world becomes for me infused with a sense of ... for lack of a better word, play. But serious play, I do assure you.

The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters, Gordon Dahlquist

[thatwickedman]

Helpful headcanons about timelines

Stradden has owned the Whorehouse in his own right for ten years, since the age of fifteen. He was an apprentice to the previous master for about four.

Excesses in prior management caused him to take particularly brutal measures, not only to be considered seriously as a trader and master despite his youth, but to shore up deficiencies and begin turning a profit again. Inmates of the Whorehouse present at this time remember it as a particularly harrowing year, in which many, many of the previous enslaved people were sold either south or to the mines. 

While it's true that Grigor was a precocious, clever child, and was capable of good judgment for the most part even as a teenager, privately he took a lot of advice and direction from his mother. Many of the enslaved sold off were her enemies, rivals, and people she merely disliked.  

[thatwickedman]

Useful Headcanons on magic

Grigor's wordsmithery is not as powerful as he'd like you to believe. His magic merely persuades the hearer that whatever he is saying is a good idea, possibly connected to an idea that they had, once, long ago, maybe. He's good at getting into the mind of the hearer, and picking up on clues, and exploiting them in his favor. It is very difficult to say no to him, as it is very difficult to say no to what is obviously a good idea. It's not mind control; it's just very convincing.

Using his wordsmithery has a corrosive effect on his voice, and it becomes more and more difficult for him to speak while using his magic. The effect has worsened over time, since he was once capable of making long speeches while using his magic, and can now manage only a short conversation. His mother, whose powers were based on performance and oration, never suffered from anything similar and could not explain it. Her powers were similarly quite weak in comparison to other wordsmiths.

Grigor discovered that he could heal at around the age of seven or eight, during a game with the other children in the Whorehouse, and wordsmithery at eleven during an altercation with older free children from the town. His mother instructed him to keep it secret, and with a few exceptions, Grigor hasn't healed anyone of an significant illness or injury for some six or seven years. Due to a lack of practice, he has some difficulty controlling his healing magic, particularly if he is trying to use his wordsmithery at the same time as being in physical contact with someone who is injured or ill, even slightly.  The potency of this magic is also uncertain, but he suspects that it's much stronger than his wordsmithery.

[thatwickedman]

... 'How did you contrive to grasp The thread which led you through this labyrinth? How build such solid fabric out of air? How on so slight foundation found this tale, Biography, narrative?' or, in other words, 'How many lies did it require to make The portly truth you here present us with?'

Robert Browning, "Mr Sludge, 'the Medium'"

[thatwickedman]

He was beautiful, that was always affirmed, but his beauty was hard to fix or to see, for he was always glimmering, flickering, melting, mixing, he was the shape of a shapeless flame ... He was amused and dangerous, neither good nor evil.

"Ragnarok: The End of the World," A. S. Byatt.

[thatwickedman]

Once there were two children, a boy and a golden-haired girl. Beside her bright and plump-cheeked beauty, the boy was lean, bony, and hungry, a little knife that wanted blood. Between the two of them, he gave her the greater portion of their bread, which, at first, they had to share. He wanted her to grow tits faster. It seemed that his generosity also held an edge.

This edge would never dull. Her soft flesh would always yield, part into deep red lines, and bleed out. It became easier, for the golden-haired girl to pretend that it did not hurt, just as it was easier, in the end for the boy to be a knife. One day, he would wake up and forget that he had ever been anything else.

The first time he dressed her himself. He never explained where he found the gown or the jewels. Her toes had turned dark blue, but he rubbed the pink back into them—sweat on his brow, he said, they were never so bad to begin with. You are lucky I found you. He wound his fingers in her yellow hair, tugging and scraping it into place. He had picked every louse from it himself.

As he laced the back of the gown, he pulled her close. Do as I say. Do not cry. Do not speak. However they hurt you, do not cry, and I will give you whatever you want. You will never wear rags. You will never be hungry or cold. You will never be alone.

You will always belong to someone, and that someone will always be me.

[thatwickedman]

I'll be glad when you're dead, you rascal, you. When you're dead And in your grave No more women Will you crave I'll be glad when you're dead, you rascal, you.