Pale Lights - Think of The Story
Song, Angharad and Maryam
Pale Lights book 3, chapter 61
Angharad is convinced she's the sane one...
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Pale Lights - Think of The Story
Song, Angharad and Maryam
Pale Lights book 3, chapter 61
Angharad is convinced she's the sane one...
Songharad dance
A Pale Lights comm for the lovely @gwennafran
Pale Lights theorizing
Book 3 spoilers below
Speaking of characters' proximity to power, it's kind of funny that, of all the Thirteenth, Angharad, the character who's practically defined by her aristocratic background, doesn't even make it into the top half of the brigade's relative status within their respective societies.
Izel, favoured son of the bigshot general, grew up in the center of Izcalli power, engaged to a cadet branch of the royal family.
Maryam, daughter to one of her culture's kings, albeit far removed from the line of succession, given that her mother was hardly her dad's first wife. Still an heir to magical royalty, essentially. Might even be above Izel depending on how you count.
Song, daughter to the, admittedly disgraced, former governor of one of the ten Republics, making her a member of one of the ten most important families of Tianxia, hated though that family now is.
Angharad, daughter of a minor Malani noble family, with their own estate yes, but far removed from the Malani center of power, given that Pereduri is essentially a particularly well-integrated colony of Malan.
Ishanvi (she counts), trained as a scribe at a Someshwari school for the kids of the rich and powerful, an incredibly unglamorous position that would essentially see her as a perpetual servant to those rich and powerful.
Tristan, street rat, although he does also have a last name, and his dad was a violinist, which isn't the sort of job available to the completely destitute, so even he didn't grow up at the bottom rung of his society
It really does add to the idea that Malani nobility as an institution is so well respected that, despite all this, Angharad still registers as the 'aristocrat' of the group.
Reason #18057 why I Love Song Ren.
She spared a moment of deep dismay at the thought of so many rare books being so callously destroyed, lore perhaps forever lost to the murderous thing’s tantrum. A petty evil compared to the rest of the night’s work, but an evil nonetheless.
A thought to deplore later, she chided herself.
She's like -------
God escaping prison - fine whatevver. BUT NOT THE BOOKS.
I've finished up reading book 2 of Pale Lights
And with that, I'm officially caught up with ALL of EE's writing! It took about 3 months (I think I started and finished on the same day - the 27th of December and of March respectively) but it feels like no time at all at the same time.
Thoughts time, and anticipation for book 3 and what lies in the future for ErraticErrata.
To start off, for anyone interested in the series but hasn't heard the news, Pale Lights will no longer be updating on WordPress, but will instead live on the (functionally more friendly to read on) Royal Road site. Which is fine by me, as it means cover art to show off, and @gwennafran's gorgeous designs. [book 1 and book 2] I love the choice of scene for book 1, probably Tristan's best chapter in Lost Things, while book 2's cover is a brilliant visualization of the Great Orrery, and our main setting for the series (probably).
Getting into spoilers below:
Song Ren forced me to take a photo shoot of him today because it's quote "Father's Day, so if any lonely soul is looking for a daddy who knows how to please, they won't have to spend the holiday alone." 😏😘😎
So happy Father's Day to the uh, ACTUAL fathers, whether they be for humans, animals, or dolls! Just anyone who isn't this menace (I can't believe I let him live in my home :/).
Hand on the chisel, or Song Ren's rigid, brittle self-control
From Pale Lights book 2
Chapter 2:
Song’s lips thinned, but she held her tongue. You are stone shaped by the chisel of life, she recited. Will it be your hand wielding the tool, or theirs? If she gave her anger to others, she relinquished the chisel – and that was unacceptable.
Chapter 8:
It was one thing to hold a member of her cabal, another to beat them. That would not be tolerated. Hand on the chisel, Song reminded herself, but wrenched open the door harder than necessary.
Chapter 11:
She grit her teeth. To say this was to insult their very contract, since she had asked to – Song smoothed out the thought, the rising anger. He did it, she knew, to get a rise out of her. But she would not fall for it this time. Song had prepared herself, meditated on the matter. Her hand would remain on the chisel.
Chapter 13:
Song could see them creeping across the checkered, cracked floor of the entrance hall. The god was everywhere, blind hands tugging and pulling at the insides of Scholomance like a child at play – moving this and that, just itching to smash it all onto something that would scream. Hand on the chisel, she reminded herself. Fear would do her no good in this place. Fear never helped anywhere.
Chapter 16:
Song, instead, calmly rose and faced as much as the wall as she could. She blinked, once, and breathed out. The sheer number of details was… Hand on the chisel, the Tianxi reminded herself.
Chapter 16:
“Trade on your own time,” Colonel Cao told the students. “We move on.” Song almost flinched. Hand on the chisel.
Chapter 18:
It smelled burnt. Swallowing thickly, Song looked down and saw that in her fugue she had left the chicken unattended too long. The top was still pink, but when she flipped the cuts she saw they had charred stripes. The Tianxi swallowed. If she cut them out perhaps it wouldn’t show? No, they’ll still see I cut out parts. Perhaps if she sliced every piece in two, then – no, idiot, they would notice the quantity was too small. One of them would ask. They would know. Hands shaking, tearing up like a fucking child, Song did the only rational thing she could: she put the pot off the fire, went outside with a shovel and dug a hole in a corner of the garden. She emptied the burnt chicken into it – she’d have to buy another to replace it from her own funds – and filled the hole. She had to hurry, they could be back anytime now. Song opened the windows to get rid of the smell and cleaned the iron pot before doing the recipe properly this time. When her cabal began arriving one after the other, Song was ready. She welcomed them with a smile and a meal and her hand remained on the chisel as they all sat together and ate. Like a proper brigade, led by a proper captain.
Chapter 21:
And he was right, she realized. It would be their word against his, and though she was confident they would come out ahead in the hearing the incident would be added to her record. She had shot a watchman from behind. Every superior officer she could ever have would know she had crippled someone wearing the black. Who would trust her after that? Who would let her stand behind them? Song had already seen how bad it would be, fighting against the tide, and now mere minutes out of that place she was somehow making it all worse. She had learned nothing, made all that pain and grief pointless. Crack. “-of your life,” the man laughed. “You’re fucked, brat, you-” Her hand slipped. It was not the blow of a duelist or a soldier: her blade hacked into the man’s face like a butcher knife. “You trash,” she snarled, ripping her blade out and hacking down again. “You relic, you-” Song screamed and struck again. And again, and again and again. He had cornered her, ended her career. Only when her arm hurt and her breath was ragged did the silver-eyed girl fall to her knees, choking out a sob, fingers closed around the chisel she had used to make a ruin of the watchman.