#tragicheroes

[athenanfaymont]

The Tragedy of Tim Drake: the Robin who imposed himself

Tim Drake’s story isn’t just one of a boy stepping into a legacy, not a fallen one, not a replacement, but a boy who chose to become Robin because he believed in what Robin stood for. He didn’t fall into the mantle: he claimed it. And that, in a world of inherited roles and tragic accidents, already sets him apart.

👨‍👩‍👦 Tim's Family, the Ghosts of His Past Tim Drake was never truly seen by his parents, not until it was almost too late. His father, Jack, was distant, and his mother, who tragically passed away, left a void that Tim tried to fill with his intellect and drive. But what’s more tragic than being neglected as a child is being recognized only when you’ve stopped needing that recognition — when Tim had already begun to build new bonds, to find care and purpose elsewhere. That’s when Jack tried to pull him back. Not because he finally understood him, but because he was afraid of losing what he never properly held.

At that moment, it wasn’t just a father’s jealousy over another man taking his place. It was a father who couldn’t see the child he had neglected, only recognizing Tim when it felt like his identity was being rewritten by someone else.

🦇 A Substitute for Jason, but Never Jason Tim didn’t get the luxury of being the first Robin. He wasn’t a legacy, and his connection to Batman was never formed out of mutual understanding or shared trauma like Dick or Jason. He was a replacement for Jason Todd, whose death had left an unhealed wound in Bruce’s heart. But Tim? He was just another boy with a talent for detective work, another cog in a machine that had already been turned several times before.

And he wasn’t even the Robin Bruce adopted. Not the heart-son that Jason became in life and death — even when Tim was left truly orphaned, and in the most traumatic of ways.

He doesn’t have the history Dick shares with Bruce, and he certainly doesn’t have the bloodline Damian boasts.

🌑 A Usurper to Damian, Always in the Shadow If being a replacement for Jason wasn’t enough, Tim also had to face Damian Wayne — a son of Bruce’s blood, a boy who wasn’t just a Robin by choice but by inheritance. To Damian, Tim wasn’t just another member of the Bat-family; he was a usurper, someone who had been given a place he didn’t deserve. Damian, with all his arrogance and entitlement, made Tim’s position feel fragile at best. There was always this unspoken tension — Damian with his blood right, Tim with his intellectual cunning.

To Damian, Tim was nothing more than the second Robin. A placeholder for Bruce's "real" son. And what makes this even more tragic is how little recognition Tim gets from his own family.

💔 Bruce, the Father Who Can't Love (Enough) But the deepest tragedy lies in Bruce himself. Bruce Wayne loves Tim, there’s no doubt about it, but he doesn’t know how to express it. He doesn’t know how to show it. And Tim, who has spent his whole life being neglected, can’t read Bruce’s affection the way Dick or even Jason could. Unlike those who saw Bruce’s gruffness as a sign of his love, Tim doesn’t have the luxury of knowing that Bruce cares. He has no emotional cushion to protect him from Bruce’s inability to express his feelings, and it leaves him feeling more alone than ever.

He’s the Robin who isn’t needed. He’s the Robin who imposed himself. The one who loved the idea of Robin more than anyone else. And the only one who was never chosen to be Robin.

Maybe that says more about what Robin truly is than any other child who’s worn the mask. Maybe that’s what makes Tim the closest to the spirit of “I Am Robin” — the movement that came after, born from choice, belief, and conviction rather than legacy or blood.

Is it because of all this that Tim has had more emotional development in fandom than in many of his current comic runs? Probably.

And yes — he has beautiful moments of being loved by his family. His coming out is one of them, tender and true and long overdue. He is loved, and well loved, in many stories.

But today, I wanted to sit with the pain. To look at the anguish in his journey. Because that is also Tim Drake. And he deserves to be seen in full.

[Riley Rossmo]

[alvizediegil]

NOTES FROM THE LEVANT V: Yaltra of Balah-Al 🇬🇧

If you’d asked Yaltra, she’d have told you demons don’t smell. Maybe sulfur. Maybe gunpowder. Maybe diabolical shit.

Turns out hers smelled like fish.

Which made more sense than it seemed at first, given she found it in a port warehouse. One from far-off Shaar, by the way. Doesn’t even show up on maps anymore. Might’ve been important once. Or not. Who gives a fuck. Point is, there was a demon in a rotting, empty warehouse in one of those rotting, empty port towns.

And Yaltra broke in to steal. Because that was her life. And she had no interest in changing it. When you get used to something, it can be shit and still feel like home. And thieving wasn’t even that bad — not when your targets were beggars, other thieves, or fine, upstanding workers.

She’d felt bad the first time she robbed a stevedore. But when she saw him spend his money on booze and girls far too young… well. Better off in Yaltra’s pockets.

She slipped through a hole in the warehouse wall, all splintered wood and stink. Wasn’t expecting much — maybe some copper scraps, loose metal, anything shiny.

Or food. She was starving. And that wasn’t even an exaggeration anymore.

Good thing Yaltra had always been skinnier than a rail-thin weasel. Wriggling her way through gaps too small for a child was basically a Tuesday.

Inside was the usual rot: salt-stained wood, half-dead insects, streaks of dusty light from the ceiling. Some weird porridge puddles on the floor. Best not to guess what they were.

And then, she saw it.

A demon. A devil. A bicha, as she’d heard once — she liked the word, but demon had a certain weight to it.

This one had no such weight. It was skinny like her, cross-legged on the floor with a head twice the size it should be. Something between a man and a spider, nightmare geometry folded into a body.

“Ugh. Gross,” she muttered. A beam of light cut across its forehead like it was about to whisper the secret to eternal life.

“Antialpe, crameteus?”

Great. Speaking in some gods-forsaken tongue.

“What the fuck are you doing here? You should be dead or something. You look like shit.”

It blinked — first one eye, then the other.

Yaltra had no fucking clue what it was. Briefly considered eating it. The head alone looked like it could feed someone. But gods know what diseases were packed into that oozing, hole-pocked flesh. Like cheese. Or a rotten cherry. The thought made her ass clench.

“Baltros?”

Maybe Baltros was a good name.

Was she seriously thinking about taking it with her? She pictured the slime it’d leave in her pack. There was room. That wasn’t the issue.

Oh, Gods Below and Above and Sideways and With Good Hair — the porridge puddles were HIS, weren’t they?

She nearly gagged. Her stomach twisted, empty as it was, and the second wave hit her hard. A splash of bile, nothing else.

The thing in front of her was nightmare fuel. A creature scraped from the ass-end of a fever dream. Something no sane god would ever claim.

Yaltra crossed herself. She’d need all the divine luck she could muster.

Because she’d come to a conclusion — maybe crazy at first, but as true as sunlight and blue skies and whatever other universal truths she could grab onto.

She could charge people to see him.

A couple coins to see Baltros. Maybe a few more if they puked.

Bingo.

Ugly, yeah. But reliable.

And in desperate times… she wasn’t about to say no to an endless pile of cash. No matter how ugly it was.

NOTAS DEL LEVANTE V: Yaltra de Balah-Al 🇪🇸

Si le hubieran preguntado a Yaltra, habría dicho que los demonios no huelen. A azufre, igual. A pólvora. A mierda diabólica. Resultaba que el suyo olía a pescado. Y tenía más sentido del que podría parecer en un primer momento, si se lo había encontrado en un puerto… Uno del lejano Shaar, por cierto. Ni siquiera figura en los mapas, pero antaño fue importante. O no. Qué más da. El caso es que había un demonio en un almacén abandonado en uno de sus puertos en una de sus ciudades. Y Yaltra entró, a robar, porque no conocía otra vida, y tampoco le apetecía dejarla. Cuando te acostumbras a algo, ya puede ser malo para abandonarlo. Y la vida de ladrona no era especialmente mala. Ni siquiera la que tenía sus miras puestas en mendigos, otros ladrones y honestísimos trabajadores. Robar a un estibador le remordió la conciencia la primera vez que lo hizo. Cuando vio que, si no lo robaba, se lo gastaba en alcohol y chiquillas demasiado jóvenes… bueno, digamos que estaba mejor en los bolsillos de Yaltra.

Entró por un agujero en los maderos del almacén. No esperaba encontrar mucho, si acaso algo de cobre que pudieran haberse dejado, algún metal que revender, o cualquier cosa que reluciera. O comida… Se moría de hambre. La hipérbole no parecía tan hiperbólica llegados a ese punto. Lo bueno es que Yaltra siempre había sido flaca como una musaraña, así que embutir su cuerpecillo en un agujero demasiado pequeño hasta para un niño era la tesitura habitual. 

Buscó por aquella sala y no encontró mucha cosa. Muchísima madera podrida. Un hedor a sal y pescado podrido, bichos y finos haces de luz que se colaban entre los maderos. Había papillas tiradas por el suelo cuyo origen no quiso ni pensar. Y, en una de esas, se lo encontró. Un diablo. Un demonio. Una bicha, como había escuchado alguna vez. Le hacía gracia lo de bicha, pero demonio era más solemne. Esa criatura, en realidad, no era solemne desde ningún ángulo, pero le concedió el nombre. Era esquelético como ella, estaba sentado con las piernas entrecruzadas y tenía una cabeza exagerada en comparación al resto del cuerpo. Daba una sensación arácnida a la par que humanoide.

—Joder, qué asco —masculló nada más verlo. Un haz de luz le cruzaba la frente como si fuera a decirle el secreto de la inmortalidad.

—Antialpe, ¿crameteus?

Para colmo de males hablaba en a saber qué mierda de idioma.

—¿Qué demonios haces aquí? Deberías estar… muerto o algo, qué mal aspecto.

El demonio parpadeó unilateralmente. Primero uno. Luego el otro.

Yaltra no sabía qué era. Pensó en comérselo. Desde luego, tenía un cabezón digno de ser cocinado. Pero a saber qué enfermedad tenía, con aquella carne bulbosa y agujereada en algunos lugares, como un queso, o como una cereza pocha. Le entró un escalofrío y se le crispó el culo solo de pensarlo.

—¿Baltros?

Quizás Baltros era buen nombre. Pero… ¿estaba pensando en llevárselo? Pensó en la baba que dejaría en su morral. Entraba de sobra, pero… Ay, por los Dioses Bajos, Altos, Medianos y Agraciados, esas papillas eran suyas… Yaltra contuvo una arcada. Su estómago se retorció, vacío como estaba, y no pudo contener la segunda. Apenas vomitó algo de bilis. Aquella criatura era materia prima de pesadillas, una criatura sacada de lo imposible, de la fantasía más retorcida del mago más macabro o del Dios más aborrecible.

Yaltra se santiguó. Iba a necesitar toda la ayuda posible para lo que estaba por hacer, porque había llegado a una conclusión, quizás loca en un primer momento, pero seguro que verdadera como que el Dios Sol da calor y que el cielo es azul y que todas las verdades universales que pudieran ocurrírsele. 

Podía cobrar por verle. Un par de marquillos por ver a Baltros. Y por generarle una arcada, quizás. Vaya chollo. Pero, a situaciones desesperadas… No iba a hacerle el feo a una fuente de dinero inagotable. Quizás era fea, sí, pero inagotable al fin y al cabo.

Still life with golden bream. Francisco de Goya, 1808-1812.

[alvizediegil]

Notes from the Levant IV: Minthas Corvia 🇬🇧

In her years of diligent study, Minthas Corvia, princess of Sircé and proud leader of the Synod in her virginal youth, was absolutely certain of three things: the pomp surrounding the Synod was utter nonsense, goat's milk was the best accompaniment for her dissections, and her youth had been anything but virginal.

Beyond these three dogmas, everything else was open to debate.

For instance, how to turn the severed foot on her desk into an automaton capable of strolling through the palace? Well, to begin with: why the foot? Why not the hand? You might ask this because you have no idea how to deal with dead tissues.

“Tissues, even after death, retain the essence of their purpose,” she would have replied with her typical Levantine haughtiness. Possibly accompanied by a “tsk,” and you wouldn't mind, because Minthas Corvia was insufferable—but the kind of insufferable that makes you laugh. And that irked her; she wanted to intimidate, not amuse.

The foundation was stigmas, symbols, marks. Every econist has their methods, right? And Minthas's mind was better suited to marks. Moreover, Doña Corvia's project was engineering, not just a simple projection of resonances; it wasn't enough to make hand gestures or spit out the first power word that came to mind. If she used her hands, she'd have to become a shadow puppeteer. And if she opted for her voice, a ventriloquist. Well, Minthas wasn't a clown, so the only option was symbols. But that didn't mean it was easy.

And what should the marks be like? How do you tell a foot severed a couple of hours ago to start functioning again? And to top it off, it was a young foot, inexperienced. If it had been an old woman's, or better yet, a well-worn shepherd's foot, the damn thing would already be prowling like a cat.

Anyway: she inserted the knife and carved with the stylus. First, the maintenance runes, so the flesh would last a couple of weeks. Then, the reminder ones, because how the hell is a foot supposed to know its role if you don't give it a little nudge? The third step was consciousness. One had to be careful not to overdo the runes, but a foot isn't particularly intelligent, so this part was dispatched quickly. The tricky part was the fourth step: movement. She had to improvise a new type of motor function because the foot felt freer now that it didn't have thirty or forty kilos on top of it, and it wasn't as simple as shifting weight forward and letting it fall. Other muscles would handle that, right, you little bastard? Well, no. Minthas slashed, hacked, cut, tore, and sliced. In every language and with all intensities. Inside the skin, outside, wherever necessary. And she was an expert, don't be mistaken, but even experts fumble now and then, and she tried haphazardly more than once or twice. The final result: a scandalous bloodletting. It stank of iron like the backroom of a butcher shop. It didn't bother her; she was already used to it. What a cruel irony it would have been to be a Corvia, dedicate oneself to necromancy and be nauseated by the stench of flesh.

She grabbed the pen and noted her progress in a field notebook. Picture the state of that poor notebook. She took a sip from her cup of milk. The calcic smell, specifically goat's, not so much cow's, served as a respite amid so much iron. She had the impulse to raise a hand to her forehead to wipe away a bead of sweat. She recoiled when it was already raised. Another lesson for her left hand. She noted it in another notebook. The breviary of self-knowledge. When she died, her daughter would have to continue her education after Triania, and nothing better than her mother's thoroughly examined, seasoned, and educated body to experiment on. It would even come with a guide. “Yes, daughter, if you're going to create a spy automaton with my eyes, take the left one. The right is a bit lazy, and I always had a few black spots in it.” For now, the left hand was also winning.

She prepared to continue with her foot project. The covered corpse, the previous owner of the foot, exhaled a deep intestinal sigh, to which Minthas responded:

“Bless you.”

Just in case the ears could still learn something. Maybe later she'd try making some spy automatons...

Notas de Levante IV: Minthas Corvia 🇪🇸

En sus años de laborioso estudio, Minthas Corvia, princesa de Sircé y orgullosa líder del Sínodo en su virgen juventud, estaba segura por completo de tres cosas: la parafernalia en torno al Sínodo era una parida, la leche de cabra era la mejor para acompañar sus disecciones y su juventud había distado mucho de ser virgen.

Además de estos tres dogmas, el resto de cosas estaban abiertas a discusión.

Por ejemplo, ¿cómo convertir el pie cercenado sobre su escritorio en un autómata capaz de pasearse por palacio? Bueno, para empezar: ¿por qué el pie? ¿por qué no la mano? Os preguntaréis esto porque no tenéis ni la menor idea de tratar con tejidos muertos.

—Los tejidos, aun después de muertos, conservan la esencia de para qué sirvieron —os habría contestado ella con su típica altanería levantina. Posiblemente lo habría acompañado de un «tsk», y no os habría importado, porque Minthas Corvia era insoportable, pero ese tipo de insoportable que hace reír. Y vaya si le jode; ella quiere espantar, no hacer reír.

La base eran estigmas, símbolos, marcas. Cada econista tiene sus métodos, ¿no? Y la mente de Minthas se hacía mejor a las marcas. Además, el proyecto de Doña Corvia era ingenieril, no una simple proyección de resonancias, no le servía con hacer gestos con las manos o escupir la primera palabra de poder que se le ocurriera. Si usara las manos tendría que haberse convertido en una titiritera de sombras. Y, de optar por la voz, en una ventrílocua. En fin, Minthas no era una payasa, así que la única opción eran los símbolos. Pero eso no quería decir que fuera fácil.

¿Y cómo debían ser las marcas? ¿Cómo decirle a un pie cercenado hace un par de horas que vuelva a funcionar? Y para colmo era un pie joven, sin experiencia. Si hubiera sido el de una anciana, o mejor aún, el de un pastor bien curtido y cuajado por la edad, el pie cojonero ya estaría rondando como un gato.

En fin: metía la navaja y tallaba con el estilete.  Primero las runas de mantenimiento, para que la carne durara un par de semanas. Después, las recordatorias, porque cómo diablos va a saber un pie cuál es su papel si no le das un empujoncito. El tercer paso era la consciencia. Había que tener cuidado y no pasarse con las runas, pero un pie no es especialmente inteligente, así que esta parte se despacha rápidamente. Lo peliagudo era el cuarto paso: el movimiento. Había que improvisar un nuevo tipo de motricidad, porque el pie se sentía más libre ahora que no tenía treinta o cuarenta kilos encima de él, y no era tan fácil como apoyar el peso hacia delante y dejarlo caer. Ya se encargarán otros músculos, ¿eh cabroncete? Pues no. Minthas rajaba, sajaba, cortaba, desgajaba y tajaba. En todos los idiomas y con todas las intensidades. Por dentro de la piel, por fuera, por donde hiciera falta. Y era una experta, no os confundáis, pero hasta los expertos dan palos de ciego de vez en cuando, y ella probó al buen tuntún no una ni dos veces. El resultado final: una sangría de escándalo. Hedía a hierro como en la trastienda de una charcutería. No le molestaba, ya estaba acostumbrada. Vaya una ironía cabrona habría sido ser un Corvia, dedicarse a la nigromancia y que el hedor de la carne te diera arcadas.

Cogió la pluma y apuntó sus avances en un cuaderno de campo. Figuraos el cuadro que era ese pobre cuaderno. Dio un sorbo de su taza de leche. El olor cálcico, concretamente el de cabra, no tanto el de las vacas, le servía de descanso entre tanto hierro. Tuvo el impulso de llevarse una mano a la frente para quitarse una gotita de sudor. Reculó cuando ya la tenía alzada. Una lección más para su mano izquierda. Lo anotó en otro cuaderno. El breviario de autoconocimiento. Cuando muriera, su hija tendría que continuar su educación tras Triania, y nada mejor que el cuerpo examinado hasta la saciedad, curtido y educado de su madre para experimentar. Contaría hasta con una guía. «Sí, hija, si vas a crear un autómata espía con mis ojos, coge el izquierdo. El derecho es un poco vago, y siempre tuve unas cuantas manchitas negras en él». De momento, la mano izquierda también llevaba las de ganar.

Se dispuso a seguir con su proyecto podal. El cadáver cubierto, el anterior propietario del pie, exhaló un grave suspiro intestinal, a lo que Minthas respondió:

—Salud.

Sólo por si las orejas todavía podían aprender algo. A lo mejor después probaba a hacer unos autómatas espías…

Dedicado a mi amigo y mentor nigromante, Millán el Magnífico.

Clavis Artis, 17th century.

[alvizediegil]

The Finest Sword in the West / La mejor espada de Occidente

🇬🇧 English

The finest sword in the West stepped into the arena an hour before the duel was set to begin. It would take place at noon, so the sun would fall straight down—granting no one the advantage. Or harming both equally.

She could have spent that last hour practicing, revising strategies, maybe thinking through her opponent’s weaknesses or digging for a last-minute tip to land a critical blow… but instead, she strolled through the arena. Why? Simple: it was overflowing with people who adored her. Women, in particular.

For as long as she could remember, she’d had a rapier in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. The pleasure of female company hadn’t taken long to join the mix. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure which of the three had come first. But she damn well knew which she preferred right now.

The stands were packed with Altherians, and they erupted in cheers the moment she appeared at the amphitheater’s gate. She didn’t get goosebumps, if she was honest. She simply scanned the crowd with a smirk on her lips, both hands resting lightly on the hilt of her sheathed blade.

Hell, this is the life.

🇪🇸 Español

La mejor espada de Occidente salió a la arena una hora antes de que comenzara el combate. Sería al mediodía, para que el sol cayera a plomo y no favoreciera a nadie… O perjudicara a ambos por igual.

Podría haber pasado esa última hora practicando, revisando estrategias, quizás pensando en las debilidades de su rival, o consiguiendo información de última hora para propinarle un golpe crítico, pero decidió pasearse por la arena. ¿Por qué? Fácil: estaba a rebosar de gente que la amaba. En concreto, mujeres.

Desde que tenía uso de conciencia había tenido una ropera en una mano y una copa de vino en la otra. El placer por la compañía femenina tampoco tardó en llegar. No sabía de cuál de esas tres llegó primero. Pero sí que sabía cuál prefería en ese momento.

La gradería estaba a rebosar de altherios, y todos se lanzaron a gritar en cuanto ella apareció por la puerta del anfiteatro. No se le erizó el vello, a decir verdad. Se limitó a otear el paisaje, con una sonrisilla en los labios y apoyadas sus manos contra la ropera enfundada.

Joder, esto es vida.

View from the Porch of the Palazzo Ducale, Giovanni Migliara (19th century)

[alvizediegil]

Notes from the Levant I

🇬🇧 English

Gael stepped into his study. His robe carried a faint scent of jasmine—clean, precise. As director of the University of Triania, and with two months still separating him from the start of the academic term, the towers of parchment, leather, and ink sprawled across his desk demanded his organizing hand. Half a summer spent promoting the most capable scholars, assessing the arcanists, and—above all—penning letters of recommendation for new applicants. He turned toward the tall windows of his study. The last streaks of snow had blown free from the Argavé range, and the cypresses already bore the deep green of summer. Wild still, yes—but it was his land. And with its strange aftertaste of order, it rose above all the rest.

Upon turning back, his gaze landed on a particular letter—sealed in the distinct purple wax his secretary used. He drew a long breath. Then, driving the letter opener into the envelope’s belly, he kept perfectly composed, as if scanning an index. Yet what the letter contained could very well shake the foundations of the Academy. And, by extension, of the Principalities themselves.

The letter spoke of a boy. A genetic outlier. Magical capabilities unseen in any record.

He recalled the beast that, half a century ago, slaughtered a hundred people in the forests near Tavriano. It had taken years to bring the creature down—and by the time they did, commerce in the region was beyond salvaging. Since hearing that tale, Gael had believed—quietly, steadily—that every so often, the world spat out something ahead of its time. A statistical aberration. A threat to the ecosystem entire.

If the finest sorcerers were castles with spires above the clouds, this boy was the mountain range that eclipsed them all at dusk. So much raw potential, and not a single drop of noble blood. In under two weeks, he would outshine the entire University. Even without his magic, Gael could see that future.

Regardless of whatever fame the boy might earn, only one thing mattered: his alignment. Loyal to the eastern princes—or catastrophe incarnate.

The sun reached its zenith. The letter with the purple seal still lay there. The only one opened. He needed to know this wild prodigy better. Cold words written a week ago were not enough.

With every outcome already weighed—and despite what his judgment usually advised—Gael chose to give him a chance. If he was wrong, the world of magic would tear the boy apart. But if he was right...

Then the princes had just found their greatest ally. And so had balance itself.

Notas del Levante I

🇪🇸 Español

Gael entró en su despacho. Su túnica exhalaba un particular olor a jazmín, a limpio.  Como director de la Universidad de Triania, y con dos meses hasta el inicio de curso, requerían su mano organizadora para deshacer los torreones de papel, cuero y tinta extendidos sobre su mesa. Medio verano de ascensos para los eruditos más aptos, evaluaciones a los arcanistas y, lo más importante: cartas de recomendación para nuevos estudiantes. Oteó los ventanales en su estudio. Los últimos rastros de nieve volaron de la cordillera de Argavé y los cipreses  lucían ya el verdor estival. Aún salvaje, era su tierra, y, con un inexplicable regusto a orden, se elevaba sobre todas las demás.

  Al voltearse, su atención fue a parar a una misiva concreta, sellada con la cera especial de su secretario. Púrpura. Dio una buena bocanada de aire. Tras hundir su abrecartas en las tripas del sobre, se mantuvo sereno, como si leyera un índice. A pesar de su entereza, aquellas noticias bien sacudirían los cimientos de la Academia. Y de los Principados por completo. La carta hablaba de un adolescente. Una rareza genética con capacidades mágicas sin parangón en los registros. Le vino a la mente la bestia que, medio siglo atrás, masacró a un centenar de personas en los bosques alrededor de Tavriano. Tardaron años en aniquilarla y, para cuando eso hubo sucedido, el comercio en la zona ya estaba arruinado. Desde que le contaron esa historia, fue firme creyente de que, en ocasiones contadas, nacían seres adelantados a su tiempo, despropósitos estadísticos. Amenazas para su ecosistema entero. Si los mejores hechiceros eran castillos magníficos de tejados por encima de las nubes, este joven era la sierra cuya sombra los eclipsaba al ocaso. Con tanto potencial y sin linaje alguno, en menos de dos semanas iba a empalidecer a toda la Universidad. Aun sin su magia, Gael vio ese escenario. Independientemente de la fama que el chico granjeara, lo relevante sería su postura: bien fiel a los príncipes levantinos o una crisis personificada.

El sol alcanzó su cénit. La carta del sello púrpura seguía ahí. La única abierta. Lo cierto es que necesitaba conocer mejor a esa bestia azarosa: unas palabras frías, escritas una semana atrás, eran insuficientes. Con cada posibilidad ya sopesada y en contra de su habitual buen juicio, decidió concederle una oportunidad.

De errar, el mundo de la hechicería despedazaría al joven. Si el tiempo le daba la razón a Gael, se consagraría como el mejor aliado de los príncipes.

Y del equilibrio mismo.

Cypresses at the Villa d'Este, Tivoli, Edward Lear (19th century)

[alvizediegil]

Notes from the Levant II

🇬🇧 English

A road cuts through the Argavé Mountains. It’s a low pass—you won’t get a runny nose or need to bundle up more than you would stepping out of your house. This trail is lined on both sides with cypress trees, like every damn road in the Levant. You’ll find mimosas and lentisks too. The sunlight filters through the peaks, lighting everything just right. It’s such a pleasant walk that even merchants haven’t bothered looking for an alternative route. If you stay on this road for two and a half, maybe three hours, you’ll cross the range. And once you do, a boundless plateau stretches out before you. Look closely, and you’ll spot the towers of Triania in the distance. It’s not a pretty city, let’s not kid ourselves. But there’s still a way to go, so I’ll spare you my complaints—for now.

The plain has olive trees, foxes, and sun. Lots of sun. It burns with a heat that settles in your gut and steals your appetite. There are villages too. Irrelevant ones. Don’t expect to find a single doctor before Triania. Maybe a tanner or a blacksmith here and there, and taverns—plenty of those. One time, the moon caught me off guard, and I had to sleep in one. Not bad places, really. The folk who run them aren’t bad either, just a bit removed from the world. With a mountain range between them and Veranza, and the endless flatland to Triania, the sheer distance shields them from the creeping crawl of progress.

Past the olives, outposts, and endless grazing lands lies Triania. The city of sorcerers—though apparently they know nothing of architecture. Or didn’t. Word is, they’re finally renovating the Academy. Took them long enough. With all the funding in the world, they hadn’t bothered to build proper roofs—tall ones, with spires sharp as lunar splinters. But wizardry isn't all there is to Triania. It’s a decent trading hub, full of everything: wax merchants, plenty of bookshops (naturally), more inns—just to shake things up—ranchers, hunters, and a small Veranzan garrison of a hundred guards keeping the peace. And guess what else? Cypresses. Of course. The road leading to the Academy’s General Secretariat is flanked by those same tall, narrow trees—like lances from a joust. Triania, in the end, is little more than a glorified village, but it’s the last outpost of humanity before venturing into the continent proper.

What lies beyond are scattered hamlets, separated by leagues and leagues of forest, like rafts adrift in open sea. And those villagers? They’re the real deal. Not like the tavern folk between Triania and what we call civilization. These ones speak of lamias and endriags, though they’re probably just oversized dogs or outcast herbalists—scruffy types, if anything. But in Tavriano, a few years back... something odd did happen. I won’t even talk about it. The continent’s interior is best experienced in passing, with a caravan of no fewer than thirty people. Actually, scratch that—don’t go at all, if you can help it. The more time you spend near the coast, the better. In ranges close to the sea, or in cities like Triania. Take my word for it. I’m not saying this just to hear myself talk—and you don’t seem like bad company.

Notas del Levante II

🇪🇸 Español

Un camino atraviesa la Cordillera de Argavé. Es un paso bajo, no te moqueará la nariz ni tendrás que ir más tapado que al salir de casa. Este sendero está rodeado a ambos lados de cipreses, como todos los caminos en el Levante. También hay mimosas y lentiscos. La luz se cuela por los picos de la sierra y todo queda bien iluminado. Es un paseo tan agradable que ni los mercaderes se han molestado en encontrar otra ruta. Si continúas por este camino durante dos horas y media o tres, atravesarás la cordillera. Cuando llegues al final del camino, se extenderá una meseta infinita. Si te fijas, a lo lejos, podrás ver las torres de Triania. No es una ciudad bonita, para qué mentirnos. Pero todavía queda trecho, así que me ahorro mis desdenes.

La planicie tiene olivos, zorros y sol. Mucho sol. Arde con una fuerza que se te mete hasta el estómago y te roba la misma hambre. También tiene pueblos. Irrelevantes. No encontrarás ni un solo médico hasta llegar a Triania. Si acaso curtidores, algún herrero y muchas tabernas. En una ocasión, la luna me pilló desprevenido y tuve que dormir en alguna. No son malos lugares y los que las regentan no son malas gentes, si acaso algo apartadas de lo mundanal. Con una cordillera de por medio hasta Veranza y la llanura eterna hasta Triania, el propio espacio les protege del avance de los tiempos.

Pasados olivares, postas y la dehesa sin fin, está Triania. La ciudad de los hechiceros, que al parecer no saben de arquitectura. O no sabían. Por lo visto están renovando la Academia. Ya era hora. Con toda la financiación del mundo, no se habían dignado en poner unos buenos tejados, altos y de cénit afilado como una esquirla lunar. Pero la ciudad de la hechicería no es solo la academia; Triania es un buen enclave comercial y hay de todo. Cereros, muchas librerías, claro, tascas —para variar—, ganaderos y cazadores, un pequeño enclave verantino con cien guardias para patrullar la ciudad y… ¿a que no sabes qué más? Cipreses. Faltaría más. El camino que lleva a la Secretaría General de la Academia está sembrado de estos árboles, altos y puntiagudos como lanzas de justas. Triania, en fin, es poco más que un pueblo, pero es el último reducto de humanidad antes de entrar en el continente.

Las entrañas de esta tierra no son más que pueblos dispersos, separados por kilómetros y kilómetros de bosque, como balsas a la deriva en alta mar. Los pueblerinos lo son de verdad, no como los taberneros entre Triania y el resto de la civilización. Les gusta hablar de lamias y endriagos, aunque no sean más que perros creciditos o herbolarios desterrados de sus aldeas, quizás un poco greñudos. Pero en Tavriano, hace unos años… Sí que hubo algo extraño. No quiero ni hablar de ello. El interior del continente es mejor conocerlo de paso, en una caravana de como mínimo treinta personas. Ni siquiera eso, a poder ser. Cuanto más tiempo te quedes en la costa, mejor. En cordilleras cercanas a la orilla, o ciudades como Triania. Hazme caso. No digo las cosas por nada, y tú no pareces mala gente.

View of Rome from Mount Mario, Vasily Raev, 1853

[myth2myth]

⚡ “Your love for humanity ends here.” Bia's voice was cold. Hephaestus obeyed, hammering the spike. Prometheus stayed silent, watching smoke rise from distant fires. ▶ Full myth: https://youtu.be/fVsIiwWcTEI

[neuage]

“Sweeping dramas”

https://neuage.org/e-books/

Texts-Design-Photos: Centennial-Denver, Colorado/ Shimla, India - Terrell Neuage 2019

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