Greetings {{firstname_title | Valthakai}}…

We’ve got a very fun edition for you today, so I won’t spend too long waxing poetic.

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Of course, if you want an easy way to read online

Enjoy!

Love,

Daniel and the Crone

Many of you have put forth this suggestion, which we are more than happy to explore today.

The internet, in its eternal critique and social commentary, has posed the question: Man or Bear?

But it leaves out a vitally important option: Male Main Character or Bear?

Today, we will be assessing some stellar male main characters according to five factors: Trustworthiness, Attractiveness, Respectfulness, Conflict Resolution, and Safety and seeing how they compare to one of nature’s adorable apex predators.

Now, obviously, these supernatural men need to be up against equally supernal bears, which is why we will be pulling from previous winners of Fat Bear Week.

If you don’t know what that is, I highly recommend checking it out (unless you have a gambling addiction).

Let’s get started!

Already, we are finding our competitors to be neck and neck; thus, I am forced to turn toward my fellow Valthakai in this hour of need.

Both our participants are relatively equal in terms of attractiveness, though, of course, their respective dimensionality and its impact on attractiveness are up to the reader. Some of you freaks like ‘em paper-thin.

Additionally, it comes down to personal preference in the Respectfulness category— on the one hand, Rhys’ disrespect to Tamlin is a plus, but on the other, Grazer is unburdened with the knowledge of who Tamlin is. In my opinion, that puts our bear in the lead.

Alternatively, I am a much bigger fan of Rhys’ conflict resolution style. If we had taken the Grazer approach to Hybern, all the king would have had to do was wave his arms and shout, and the Night Court would have fallen. I also prefer to kill my enemies as opposed to just eating them.

Rhys also takes the Safety category for similar reasons, but fails in the Trustworthiness department. Grazer would never hide the fact that her wife’s pregnancy might kill her because the fetus has wings. Though, of course, the odds of that situation popping up in her life are rather slim.

All things considered, I think I’m far more likely to die at the hands of Grazer than anything else, but only because I tried to pet her.

What do you think?

I’m going to come right out the gate and say it. Dalinar wins for me.

This is my emotional support warlord, whose ghost-wife forgave him for killing her and whose current wife is an absolute baddy.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure 747 gets around, but nothing compares to Navani Kholin.

I also have a thing for his character arc; we see the worst that he has to offer (the bear, if you will) and see him accept responsibility for becoming better.

I’m not seeing that kind of character growth in 747. In fact, per the Fat Bear Week website, he often maintains a significant size even outside of hibernation preparation, implying that he is used to bullying his way into the best feeding grounds and is perfectly content with disrespecting his fellow bears.

Sorry, Bear 747, you’re canceled.

Oh, but Daniel and the Crone, surely you recognize the risk that is Dalinar Kholin! The man with whom the Thrill fell in love! The dude who burned his wife alive in a city he turned to ashes!

God forbid a warlord have hobbies. Guys, he literally apologized.

And his wife forgave him!

I’m just honoring her wishes.

But I’ll let you cast your vote even if there is a right answer.

Now, this is an interesting comparison. On the one hand, we have a regular bear, and on the other, we have a man who got turned into a bear-wolf thing (and got hotter, I will admit).

Now, in a base discussion of body count, Warwick absolutely takes the lead here, having slaughtered dozens of adults, most of whom were enforcers of the Piltover police or motherfuckers that got between him and his daughters. Yes, he technically tried to kill them, too, but I already brought up MTJ.

32 Chunk is the only one between the two to have killed a child, and before any of you bastards bring up Isha, I’m going to point out she blew herself up.

Thus, it becomes a matter of absolute value versus intent.

Who do we feel is least likely to brutally annihilate us, as technically one could avoid interaction with 32 Chunk, whereas one would want to hang out with Warwick, especially if their father sucks, and even despite the risk that he may be even more violent.

Personally, as I do not look like Vi, I trust 32 Chunk far more than Warwick if I’m simply looking to survive. However, if I’m looking for a hug that would cure my mental health disorders, I would risk getting Warwick’d for the sake of the Vander beneath.

You?

At this point, many of you may be concerned that I have exclusively chosen men I trust over bears. That is absolutely not the case, as seen by this latest comparison between 435 Holly and The Wizard of Oz.

Holly has proven herself time and again in each category. She is simply a bear. If you don’t mess with her, she won’t mess with you.

Only one person in this list utilized the naivete and hope of a cunty witch to create an army of flying simians, and it wasn’t Holly.

You know exactly what you’re getting with 435, but with the Wizard, you must peer beyond the facade of Jeff Goldblum and realize this motherfucker is shifty.

At least Holly won’t try to kill me unless I annoy her, but if you rightfully accuse the Wizard of being a fraud, then you’re the bad guy?

Absolutely not.

If you care to find me, look to the western sky (where the sun is setting, you idiot).

Of course, I still value your opinion. Though it will lower in my estimation if you pick the Wizard, I would still get it.

Of course, Klaus is going to appear in an analysis of existing men; if you’re surprised by that, at this point, I don’t know how to help you.

The bear in this argument could have direct ties to the Ghostbloods, Illuminati, Asteri, Hybern, and the Valg, and I would still pick whatever lump of ursine flesh over Klaus Mikaelson.

I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again: the man’s entire existence is getting other people caught up in the problems he causes.

480 Otis over literally any excuse you can give for Klaus Mikaelson, a jawline honed with a diamond whetstone doesn’t excuse the headache, injury, and decapitation that follows this man.

Kill my immortal love once, shame on you, kill my immortal love 37 times, and lock me in a coffin, and I will hunt you to the ends of the earth.

But that’s just my opinion.

Previously in Chapter 7: A Lesson in Magic

Ixsidhe continues to be a bit of a know-it-all and is utterly stunned at the information Arc is missing about his magic.

Luckily, he is (eventually) receptive to her teaching, realizing a fundamental error in the way he approaches his spellcraft.

With that resolved, he reveals the seed the Cult of the Mother Well had given him— the last remnant of the Grove of the Inktrees of his homeland.

Of course, Ixsidhe immediately suggests that they have to destroy it!

Arc came to a halt so abruptly that Ixsidhe tripped on the steps, swinging on his arm and almost dragging him down as well.

“Absolutely. Not,” he snarled. Ixsidhe couldn’t see the look on his face as she was too busy collecting herself.

“Fragments change,” she said.

“What?” Arc frowned.

Instead of elaborating, the Brewitch continued up the steps. The fountain Arc had seen was even more enormous up close— practically a pool with water spilling over the gilded rim of the cauldron.

Each of its curled legs was carved to resemble a different material. As Arc walked past, the one closest to him looked like a snarl of thorny roots.

The reminder just made his mood worse.

“I truly wonder if the Gatherers keep you ignorant on purpose.”

“Fragments change?” Arc pressed.

“Inside,” Ixsidhe gestured over her shoulder.

If the giant cauldron out front wasn’t enough of an indicator, the countless individuals walking around with bundles of herbs, empty glass bottles, and stained aprons were the final clues Arc needed to realize he was in the Brewitch Guildhall.

Ixisdhe nodded to many of the people they passed, and Arc was forced to wait a moment when a man approached his escort.

The gentleman was older, with a long white mustache and no beard. Seeing as he hadn’t bothered to introduce himself, Arc felt guiltless reaching out with his Mind, confirming the man had the same Fragments as Ixsidhe.

He scowled over at Arc but continued to speak in hushed tones, constantly glancing about the room. Despite his apparent seniority, Ixsidhe looked to be working to calm him. With an assuring hand on his shoulder and a nod, the man stepped away, moving into one of the many side halls extending from the entrance chamber.

“Friend of yours?”

“An acquaintance,” Ixsidhe answered, guiding Arc down another hall.

The decorations changed abruptly, gilded wood giving way to a living tapestry strung across the walls. The floor was covered in a springy moss, and the ceiling was made from glass panels to allow light in.

Flowers of all kinds bloomed within the greenery on both sides, delicate fruits Arc had never seen before ripening above his head.

An archway loomed before them, simple stone with moss growing within the cracks.

“Take off your shoes,” was all Ixsidhe said before she stepped through, and Arc’s mouth dropped as he followed. Where the Brewitch had tended a personal garden behind her shop, the Guildhall oversaw a private forest.

Walls curved away behind Arc, leading off into the trees and far out of sight.

The ceiling ended here, and more of Ixsidhe’s associates were walking among the foliage. A few paused, giving Arc an odd look as they wound along a stone-paved path.

“Your guild is rather… well equipped,” Arc ventured once the silence stretched too long.

Ixsidhe laughed, running her hand among low-hanging leaves as the path curved like a river.

“There is much coin to be made in curing the woes of man,” the Brewitch spoke like she was quoting something, though Arc wasn’t particularly interested in the source.

“I… can see that,” the Inkmage muttered. Wherever he turned to look, boughs were heavy with vines, fruit, or flowers. The path snaked lazily among them all, and Arc eventually realized the trees had been allowed to grow naturally but were organized into small groves.

A delicate shimmer hung in the Ethereal, nothing like a true Fragment, but rather the subtle emanations of thousands of different flora.

“It’s overwhelming,” Ixsidhe admitted, like she could hear his thoughts.

“It reminds me of the Inkgroves,” Arc said, “though there is far more variety here.”

The Brewitch smiled, taking the observation as a compliment,

“Flora is the most easily changed by Fragments. They do not Braid as mortals can, but over time, growing in the presence of the divine alters them Ethereally. Changes we can take advantage of by sourcing and cultivating them here,” Ixsidhe explained.

“They retain their properties? For how many generations?”

“In perpetuity as far as we can tell… those with the right eyes claim they can see the barest thread connecting every leaf to the Fragment it grew near, extending into the Ethereal,” Ixsidhe finished with a flourish and a wave of her hand, extending off into the distance.

She certainly enjoys waxing poetic, Arc thought to himself.

“We’re here,” Ixsidhe stepped off the path, approaching one of the red-barked trees in this section of the garden.

“Where are we going?” Arc asked as she began to walk around the tree, trailing one hand on its trunk. He followed her for a moment, then stumbled back as she abruptly turned, switching hands and continuing to circle the tree.

Ixsidhe was muttering under her breath, and Arc stepped back, allowing her her ritual. The Brewitch paused, spun again, and then grabbed a low branch, plucking several leaves.

She faced the tree, placed a fist against the bark with her opposite hand, and flung the leaves over herself.

There was a pause, and then Ixsidhe calmly walked around the tree and out of sight.

“… well?” Arc called after her, stepping around the tree. Rather than finding her waiting, a new path had appeared, seemingly woven from the roots of the forest. It extended from the trunk he stepped around and cut straight before forking up ahead.

With Ixsidhe nowhere to be seen, Arc stepped onto the path.

Ugh, witchcraft.

The trees were far more orderly along this new route, trunks pressing in on both sides like a wall. Shadows moved along the gaps, flashes of light, Arc realized, were eyes peering out at him.

Don’t stray from the path. That message was rather obvious.

As Arc approached the fork, he paused. The leftmost path was indistinguishable from its opposite, but considering the former should technically lead back to the entrance to the garden, Arc went right.

The change was immediate, a sudden shift in the air against his back, and when he turned around, the path he had neglected was now swallowed by trees. More shadows and eyes goading him onward.

“A warning would have been nice, Ixsidhe,” Arc spoke at a normal volume, but the beings in the trees answered.

“Warning,”

“nice,”

“Ixsidhe,”

“Ixsidhe,”

“Ixsidheeeeee,”

The cacophony grew louder, and Arc began to run, covering his ears.

The sounds changed, morphing into screams, into cries for help.

The smell of the sea and an iron tang of blood.

Arc crashed through a hedge, not even realizing one had risen in front of him.

Thorns ripped at his skin, something began moving up his leg, and he thrashed, clawing his way forward.

Just as the scream reached a fever pitch, it cut off… and Arc paused… the sudden silence overwhelming to his senses.

He had pushed through the foliage, eyes taking a moment to recognize Ixsidhe before him, an apologetic grimace on her face.

“I told you,” she said.

“It was still foolish to risk it,” a nasal voice responded, and Arc realized another woman was present.

“What. Was. That?” Arc hissed through gritted teeth, his focus solely on Ixsidhe.

“A defensive configuration, one that attacks the Mind,” Ixsidhe explained.

“And why would you lead me through it, instead of deactivating it if you wanted me here?!” Arc’s voice rose, and Ixsidhe’s companion tsked at his shouting, but he ignored her.

“She couldn’t have done that even if she wanted to. The spell affects everything not touched by the Witches’ Font.” Arc finally turned to the other Brewitch and bit back a curse.

Where Ixsidhe had elected to leave her hood down, her face— and the only way Arc could tell it was a woman was by her voice—was hidden within the unnatural shadows of her cloak, the light overhead unable to pierce her cowl.

“Do I have something in my teeth?” The stranger raised a hand to where her face would be, a pale, wrinkled finger disappearing into the darkness. Arc had the sense she was enjoying herself.

“What… are you?”

“Don’t worry about that, dearie. The less you know, the better.”

“She’s a friend,” Ixsidhe said, drawing his attention back to her.

“And this is?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” The cloaked Brewitch asked. She gestured over her shoulder, and Arc finally noticed the delicate sound of running water.

A large stone rested in the center of the glade, a circular hedge wrapping the area in a wall of pink-tipped thorns.

As he watched, a thorn shed a delicate drop of the same color, and the burning in his skin confirmed it was poisonous.

Wonderful, Arc moved deeper into the clearing. A small crack broke the surface of the stone, a shimmering substance bubbling forth across its surface and descending to a pool barely a handspan wide.

The Ethereality was heavy here, burdened by the weight of the Fragment.

“This is one of your Braids?” Arc asked Ixsidhe, she stepped up beside him, wetting her hand in the pool and flicking droplets into his face. A moment later, the scratches on his skin began to cool.

“One of them, in any case. The Font is the first step for those who join the guild.”

“And one that many of our siblings would like to see you killed for using it while uninitiated,” the cloaked one muttered.

“Is she serious?” Arc looked to Ixsidhe with wide eyes. Whatever her connection to Theophanes, it seemed like she was quite invested in bringing down the Cult.

“Technically? Yes, but it’s unlikely they’d be able to get approval for your execution given that you walked the Path of Nightmares, and it allowed you here,” Ixsidhe waved him off.

“Approval? For my execution?” Arc spluttered.

“Enough of that. You brought the seed?” The cloaked one stepped forward.

Arc stared into the darkness of her hood for a moment, then nodded, pulling it out of his pocket. He had often wondered why the Cult had gifted it to him.

A sense of honor? An insult? It had haunted him many a night, which he supposed could also have been the point. Small veins were present along its surface, the barest traceries of Ink that Arc hadn’t absorbed in fear of killing it.

“Before I let you do this, explain yourselves,” Arc wrapped his fist around it.

“You’re up, dearie,” the hidden Brewitch pulled a small bowl out of her cloak, dipping to fill it with the Font.

“Summon your Ink, Arc,” Ixsidhe said, laying a hand on his shoulder. With a frown, he gathered several droplets above his other hand. “Now reach out to the Ethereal; what do you sense?”

Following Ixsidhe’s instructions, Arc reached deeper toward his own magic, once again feeling the life within his Ink, the desire to grow.

Another emanation tethered with the first, rising from the seed in his hand.

The two sensations had a distinctly different feel. Where his Ink still felt an impulse to burgeon, the seed was… confused. Lost.

“It’s… damaged,” Arc felt a tear welling in his eye.

“No, merely different,” Ixsidhe said gently. “The destruction of your Grove means that a portion of your Fragment is clinging to its past identity. You are driving a change in the Ink you have. Slowly, they’ll diverge.”

“This,” Arc held up the seed, “will become a new Fragment?”

“It could,” the cloaked Brewitch said over her shoulder. With her back to the two of them, Arc couldn’t tell what she was Brewing. “But until it does, it is a drain on your magic. Two siphons draining the same well.”

“Is this… killing it?” Arc asked.

“No,” Ixsidhe assured him.

“Yes,” the other Brewitch shrugged.

“It’s complicated,” Ixsidhe backpedaled.

“You’re burning a leaf when someone has already cut down the tree,” the cloaked one turned back to them. The bowl in her hand was now burning an intense white as whatever Brew she concocted seethed with heat.

“You don’t have to do this,” Ixsidhe cautioned. But Arc knew that to be a lie.

He basked in the sensations that pulsed within his veins. The thirst for more, to expand and consume.

But for a plant to grow, one must cut away the rot.

A funeral pyre for a leaf when the tree is gone.

He allowed a single tear to roll down his face as Arc delicately dropped the seed into the Brew, a violent hiss and an accompanying echo in the Ethereality as it was consumed.

Ixsidhe stepped closer, muttering under her breath and stirring the Brew with her finger, unbothered by the heat.

“… now what?” Arc asked. He could see the tether between his Ink and the seed beginning to fray.

“You won’t be conscious for that,” the cloaked one admitted.

What?

A sudden surge in the Ethereality and a building pressure within his Mind.

Arc collapsed without a sound.