Showing posts with label Genre: Historical. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Genre: Historical. Show all posts

The Great Grand List

It's been a little while and I've been neglecting this blog (but then the Club hasn't exactly been having dozens of meetings since the last update), but I was reading Let Them Eat and was having a good rummage around my brain as to why romance novels annoyed me so much and I though I'd have it out once and for all, before the individual nit-picking overtook any sensible discussion of why I'm continuously disappointed in the genre:

1) I want it to show the diversity of love.
I want cultural differences. I want to be shown all the different sorts of relationships build across time and space (and all those fantasy lands). I want to see people conducting relationships in a way different from my own.
But instead, it only shows the same Perfect relationship in all times, in all places, in all settings. Instead of showing me cultural and personal variation, the audience is shown that all cultures and all Perfect Couples conduct their relationship more-or-less the same way and the setting is only wallpaper.

2) I want it to revel in imperfect love.
It's what always warms my heart. A relationship in all its little, bittersweet (but mostly sweet) imperfections. It's the little irritations that make it seem real and solid and human.
But instead, it only shows me more-or-less the same flawless relationship, where the Perfect Couple are simply telepathically perfect in bed, flawlessly work together and never, ever disagree trivially. True Love is shown to be completely effortless. For example, the hero, once he's found the heroine, is incapable of finding anyone (male or female) attractive ever again.

3) I want them to be honest.
The rhetoric around romance novels annoys me. The way the novel is discussed, reviewed, presented. It's the way the novel is presented as an examplar of Perfect Love as opposed to simply an instance of love, however flawed but true. It's not even presented as a fantasy, as something that is decidedly undesirable in reality. Kresley Cole's A Hunger Like No Other begins with what is essentially a rape fantasy. There is absolutely nothing wrong with having one and writing one, but it would be nice if she and the readers showed some self-awareness when it comes to discussing it. Perhaps I'm very used to the rhetoric of "safe, sane and consentual", but the framing of the relationship as desirable, as "true love" and the hero's actions as justified all repel me.
I am quite capable of saying that I like reading about imperfect, functioning but really-fucked-up relationships. Time Traveller's Wife is probably a prime example in which the narrative itself admits how really rather messed up the whole thing is. Though, to be fair, I'm not going to go read any reviews; It'll probably just annoy me.

4) I want the setting to do something more than just prop up and excuse the audience's desires for the same old configurations and the same old prejudices.
I want it to be well thought-out. I want it to not be built around the author's desire to write about a string of Alpha men in a series. And I really don't want to hear the same old about the Importance of Virginity.
Opinions, perceptions and manifestations of love and desire differ throughout the ages. I want to read about it. Really ties back into point-number-one.
But this feeds into a larger point about how work is gendered and the sheer invisibility of women in fantasy fiction doing anything else other than generically rebelling, being housewives or being "ladies." Though that said, this is slowly, slowly changing.

5) It seems to deny that people can have a complex sexuality.
It seems to deny that people can have quite a different sexuality than their regular selves. It seems to deny that nice, quiet people can be dominant in bed (or vice versa). The Hero's extreme Alpha personality is a sign of how dominant he is in bed. Less alpha men are shown to be less sexually capable and less dominant in the bedroom.
Perhaps I'm just rather too aware of how geeky the kinky community can be (being a regular reader of Mistress Matisse and Twisted Monk), but it irks me that as opposed to showing the complexities of human sexuality and how surprising it can be, romance novels are wont to confirm first impressions, as though we all wore our "bedroom face" on our sleeves. Equally, the paired trope in which the sexual self is seen as the True Self is highly problematic.

My Fair Viking, continued, part two

Part one of this masochistic dissection was here.

Clash between slapstick and gritty plot

My Fair Viking strains between gritty realism and wacky matchmaking-driven slapstick. The result is a book that jumps from one to the other in no logical emotionally true order, trying to elicit sympathy for one thing that is later laughed off as inconsequential.

Here, the winters were long and bitter, often with only one or two hours of daylight; survival took precedence over all else… or it should have.

No one at Stoneheim cares about survival. But more to the point, the slapstick: we're treated with a scene intended to elicit heart-wrenching grief, the scene that should be setting up Adam's inner turmoil and reasons why he doesn't easily open up to people anymore.

Adam the Healer dropped to his knees and beat his breast.

It is the Big Reason why he doesn't want to ever heal again, why he is willing to just sit on his estate and write his book... but then we leap straight into a scene of Rashid (the wacky, comical relief Muslim) pestering to have a harem. The change is simply too abrupt.

And this happens repeatedly. Bolthor (the comedy relief skald) entertains us all with a terrible, terrible poem about how Trya captured Adam and hurled him over her shoulder (in order to get him to save her father, of course):

Now, some say she needed his talent,
That a miracle in him the gods sent.
That very well may be true,
But on this idea you should chew:
Exactly which talent of the knave
Did the fair maid crave?

But this is whilst Thorvald is still in a coma, his life still at risk and no one knows whether or not he'll survive. If he dies , the succession will be in question; whilst Tyra is supposed to take over and has been groomed to take over by her father, but the reader is given no indication that she is capable (because the narrative is too busy grooming her to be Adam's bride and helpmeet, see below) of that responsibility. But more to the point, it's fundamentally tasteless to be suggesting that an action done out of filial piety is done for sexual desire when the fate of her father is still unknown, when in theory they're all bracing themselves for his possible death and consequent political turmoil. Perhaps afterwards there can be some ribbing about it, when the danger has passed (not all danger, of course, that would be silly)but joking during, and especially when everyone knows Tyra is uncomfortable with the idea of being with Adam, it seems... yes, tasteless.

Tykir and Alinor declared it the best poem Bolthor had ever created.

Of course, some may find it amusing, this undermining of their commander's power in a time of potential invasion. The humour isn't even potentially bracing or encouraging. Bolthor is singing this to Tyra's family (all about to suffer personal loss) and the three hundred fighting men of Stoneheim. These men are about to put their lives on the line to defend the place; they need to be utterly confident that Tyra is the best warrior to lead them.

The second day, she'd taken a bath, willingly, in a marble tub big enough to hold twelve people. Then it took eight eunuchs of considerable size to hold her down while every single hair on her body was plucked off.

Tyra is plucked clean of hairs at the harem where she was held captive. This is clearly quite a traumatic experience for her since she was held down during it and afterwards her shaved crotch is enough to drive her to run away from Adam so that he won't see it.

"They plucked all the hair off my body. So there! Now you know." She started to weep again, this time with mortification.

But this incident isn't treated as a violation of her, only actual rape counts as that. Adam reacts violently to the possibility that Tyra may have been raped during her stay at the harem:

He immediately stiffened. "You were raped? My God, I will go back and kill the old buzzard. I thought you said you had not been touched."

However, having hairs plucked from her body, is something to be laughed off until the woman realises she's being silly. It surprises him that the experience bothers her. That being held down by burly eunuchs and plucked, chicken-like, is a physically painful and traumatic experience whilst being held captive in a land where no one speaks her language surprises him. He does not even bother assuring her that she is still attractive without hairs and simply wouldn't stop the stream of chicken-jokes – under the impression, no doubt, that such humour will shame her out of feeling violated. Hill seems to share this opinion as Tyra's mortification is played for laughs and it really doesn't make me feel inclined to like Hill.

My Fair Viking is simply surreal in the characters' inability to react to the gritty reality around them and the author's refusal to acknowledge that the reader may find some of these details harrowing. There isn't even a show of stoical survivalist ethic against the hardships. They are simply forgotten within the chapter. No one remembers the women and children who were taken in the raid. Dagma's rape, difficult labour and consequent stillborn child is brought up in the middle of a sex scene. (I know Hill's going for unsexy, irrelevant conversation to contrast with the "sexplay" but it's unpleasant to point of reminding us of... well, see below)...

 

The Rapist Hero

It's often the case that one hero or another is described as having dubious ideas about consent (Decadent's hero comes to mind) or is a little too forceful for one to be actually comfortable with him.

"Nay, I will not kill you immediately. [...] I have other plans for you first. [...] First, I intend to tup you till your toenails curl.[...] Then I will tup you again till your eyes roll up into your head. [...] And then I will make love to you again and again till you beg for more. That should take, oh, a sennight or two… or five. [...] Then… and only then… will I kill you," he concluded, and grinned mirthlessly at her.

Azrael: "It is creepy. It is not a piece of hero dialogue. That is cheap villain dialogue. Normally, in this genre, I would expect that paragraph to be eventually followed by a revelation that the speaker is secretly an evil gay paedophile."

After he is captured by Tyra, he is tied to the mast and part of their merry banter includes his threats of raping her when he gets free. Now, granted, he's held captive against his will and there is some obvious physical attraction between them – but attraction is certainly not consent. And from his point of view, without the aid of an omniscient narrator, he's just issuing threats of repeated rape that ends in murder. That's neither sympathetic, justified nor sexy. 

The dialogue must also be placed in the context of a world in which rape is a very real threat. Dagma, a fourteen-year-old girl, we are told, has been raped by a passing tradesman. Women and children were captured by Danes and you can imagine what will follow. Tyra is held captive in some sultan's harem and whilst not actually raped, felt violated and it was a distinct possibility in her time there. 

When he was done stitching her wound, he acted quickly. Grabbing her by the waist, he tossed her onto the table face down and flipped up her tunic. She was screaming like a banshee and trying to rise, but he had one hand firmly on her neck and the rest of his body weight pressed over her bottom. Leaning back, he noted that she was not wearing a codpiece, but she did have on some kind of loin cloth. He ripped it off so that he could examine her arrow wound. 

For a bit of context, this takes place right after Tyra has claimed she word a codpiece under her clothes. Tyra had specifically stated last time he offered to look at the wound that she doesn't want his hands on her. Adam is "examining" the arrow wound her on her ass (from Alrek's careless bowmanship; because Vikings never bother teaching their children the common sense of not firing when there's someone between you and the target) without her consent. I really don't care that he's a doctor and is more qualified than the blacksmith. He simply didn't even bother asking her to show it him before flipping her over and ripping her loincloth off. As Azrael put it, "Well, he's clearly a cock."

 

Chronology and Internal Inconsistencies

It's October throughout the book. Despite constantly being informed that sennight after sennight has past in the italics before a chapter, it's always, always October. Adam arrives in Norway in October, sees "Butchering Day" (early October, we're informed) and after the wacky adventures in the Byzantine Empire (taking at least seven sennights of travel or something like that, it's still October.

Exactly when does Adam earn his fame as a healer? I know people have long memories, but he was in the East learning medicine from "the world's best physicians" (but not a university the way a real medieval physician would have) for several years, during which he wasn't practicing and therefore can't be reputation-earning. After returning and finding Adela dead, he hides for two years – It's upwards of five years he spends away from the West. How is it that he is still the most far-famed and allegedly best Healer in the West? Is his absence making him into some sort of living myth? Have people forgotten about his failures? Is it because he's related to Rain?

Also, why does Adam have a dozen changes of clothes, his sword, his books and his shield with him at Stoneheim? He was kidnapped and wasn't exactly given any time to pack for his trip and his captors are hardly the considerate sort that would helpfully gather his belongs for him. Even if they gathered whatever looked like medical equipment, why would they pack his weapons? He's not going to need it on a trip to heal the king of Stoneheim.

Ingrith sniffed the air that morning, noticed the frost on the herbs in her kitchen garden and a few snow flurries in the sky. Clear signs that winter was almost here.
Satisfied, she gave a hearty shout of "Butchering day!" in the great hall where everyone was breaking fast.

Yes, but different cattle and pigs were butchered at different times during the year. Given that we're in October, it should be cattle and sheep that meet the fatal knife, not pigs. Swine get butchered later, somewhere in November, usually.

 

Wacky Muslims

"Nay, master, do not speak such sacrilege. Only Allah, or your Christian God, should make such destiny-decisions," his assistant Rashid cautioned softly, putting a comforting hand on Adam's shoulder.

Rashid is the wacky Muslim sidekick of Adam. He specialises in obsessing over harems and doling out Arabic proverbs. It's a walking, talking insultingly simplistic stereotype. He's also really, really annoying.

To all of these, Rashid nodded and replied, "I swear on the feet of Allah!"

Islam is an iconoclastic religion. Among many other things, it doesn't do humanoid depictions of its deity. Allah doesn't have feet. Even a quick swing onto The Godchecker could tell you that.

The odd thing about Rashid is his sheer inability to get along with anyone. He cites his god Allah with great frequency, he tries to get every attractive woman to join his harem and generally makes a nuisance of himself by offering unwanted advice. The real question is, why hasn't he been chased out of whatever settlement he's in with pitchforks? He's obviously foreign, speaks in some unknown language (possibly of curses) and keeps calling on his heathen God. The Norse might put up with him, what with being polytheistic and quite far travelled (the men, at least), but why are the Anglo-Saxons putting up with him? It's mind-boggling how no one regards him with even the slightest bit of suspicion. Especially since he's doing a lot of dodgy things: he utters a constant stream of blasphemy; he almost certainly doesn't attend church and he's been hitting on all the woman.

"Perhaps you could travel partway with me… you and Rashid. He speaks often of a yearning to return to the warmer clime of his homeland."

And why does Rashid return with Adam to Hawkshire at the end of the book? He's been trying to get Adam to travel back with him home for most of the book, but then when he's in the East... he comes back?

 

Names, oh, the names!

Yes, England has shires, Sandra Hill. Well done. But none with names like "Hawkshire" and "Ravenshire." They stick out like sore thumbs and in a bad way. Shires, sorry to disappoint, don't have romantic names like that. Just to name a few: Bedfordshire (Shire of Beda's Ford), Legeceastershire (Shire of the city of legions), Grantbridgeshire, Wiltonshire (shire of Wilton, name of town, which is named after the river Wylye), Hertfordshire (Shire of hart's fjord), Buckinghamshire (Shire of Bucca's home), etc, etc...

Stoneheim's keep was a wood fortress, like most others throughout Norway. But that was the only way in which it was similar.

Stoneheim. What sort of a name is that? Heima is Old Norse for "home," which is why it appears in mythological place names like Jötunheimr (home/homeland of the giants). The settlement of Stoneheim is certainly not made of stone and the fields of its holdings are stone-studded. Are the people of Stoneheim made of stone? Where is the stone? And why mix an English word (Stone) with an Old Norse one (heima) in this jarring way? What reason has she to do so?

Dragonstead. Stead is English. Staðr, however, is Old Norse, meaning "place" or "stead," so pretty much the same thing. But why mix it with "Dragon"? (The Old Norse word would be Draki.) Dragons aren't really a good thing in Germanic myth and legend. You put it on the front of your longship because it's fearsome and scary, not because it's cuddly and lovely.

Fagrfjord. Here, we have an Old Norse word. But Fagr? Fair Ford?

Now, not all places in Norway or England or the rest of the world have prosaic names. After all, there's a Ravenswood and a Seven Oaks... but there's also the places in Iceland named by Ingimund when he got there: Saudadal (Sheep valley), Svinavatn (Swine lake), Hunavatn (Cub's lake), Hof (Temple), Stigandahrof (Stigandi's Shed), Hrutafjord (Rams' fjord), Vididal (Willow valley), Bordeyri (Plank headland) and Thordisarholt (Thordis' wood).

In fact, all of Tyra's sisters were legitimate. Her father had a tendency to marry his women, even more than one at a time.

Breanne, Drifa, Vana, Ingrith, Tyra. All legitimate daughters of Thorvald.

That makes no sense given the Germanic alliterating naming traditions for royal families. That's all I can say. They should all begin with same letter, if not the same component.


To be continued...

My Fair Viking... let me count the ways

My Fair Viking, by Sandra Hill

The captain is everything a Viking warrior should be -- tall, fierce, blond, and curved in all the right places. Hold it -- curved in all the right places? That's right. This Viking captain, Tyra, is a woman, and a lovely one at that. For years her height and strength and sharp tongue have daunted any Norseman with marriage on his mind. But now, faced with her ailing father's vow that her sisters (all smaller, sweeter, and younger than she) will remain maidens until Tyra weds, the bold captain decides it's time to find herself a husband. That's when she meets Adam the Healer, the twofold answer to this maiden's prayers. The skilled physician can use his expertise to cure her father, and Tyra's more than willing for the tall, handsome man to warm her marriage bed as well. There's just one problem. It seems that Adam isn't inclined to take orders from anyone.... But Tyra isn't the first Viking captain to kidnap a likely-looking mate -- though even she admits it's generally the groom who wears the armor on such occasions. My Fair Viking is fun and fast-paced -- and, when Adam finally realizes what he's being offered, things get even funnier and faster.

It is hard to describe everything that's wrong with My Fair Viking, (the book that the Chronicler, the Anthropologist and the Balance ended up reading one day) but the Chronicler will valiantly try. These points are roughly – very roughly – organised in terms of their jarring and irritating nature.


Adam's Priority Chart

The characters have very bizarre priorities that boggle the mind and strips the reader of any sense of sympathy for them. What is more jarring is the way Sandra Hill seems utterly oblivious to the phenomenon of her characters behaving like... well, bastards.

Adam realises his calling in the field of medicine as he, at the age of ten, watches in amazement at his stepmother-to-be help a woman give birth (by making "a small cut in the place between her woman-folds"). He decides that it was his destiny to become a doctor and that was that.

(The use of the word "doctor" is jarring in and of itself, as it wasn't until late 14th century that it was used to mean a medical doctor rather than a learned man or teacher  - some four hundred years after when this book is set.)

Of course, the hold this destiny has on him is weak, at best, as at the death of his sister, Adela, he decides he to give up medicine forever: "One thing is certain. No longer will I answer to the name of healer. I am forswearing medicine." He says this as he cradles his dead sister (he seems to care little for his step-parents) and as hundreds more lie dying around him. Now, I understand that he's really distraught and that his sister means a lot to him. However, it seems callous to the point of inhumanity that Adam could just walk away from these people dying of the wasting sickness.

Over and over, the sufferers called for Adam and his healing skills, but he had nothing left to give.

I could but assume he's collapsing out of exhaustion, but how about tomorrow and the day after? It's an epidemic. "The toll in lives thus far was horrible to contemplate," we're told. Doesn't Adam want to anything about it? If he went into medicine for more selfish reasons (like a fascination with the subject) rather than a desire to help people, it might have been more sympathetic, but now it seems only to highlight his lack of conviction and the sheer shallowness of his calling. He doesn't doubt his skill in healing or find it traumatic to deal with patients... he just stops, abandoning hundreds to their fate. He doesn't even try to console himself that there are monks and priests aplenty to deal with the dying, or that most are too far gone to be tended and need divine intervention and peace rather than a healer. He spares not a single thought or a smidgen of guilt to " the rows of pallets where dozens of people lay sick and dying of the wasting disease" when he renounces medicine.

(Incidentally, not to undermine the tragedy, but 27 really isn't that young for a woman to be dying in the early middle ages. Considering the very real threat of death that comes with pregnancy. Another question is why in the world isn't she married? Was she really that ugly? Also, we never find out why Adela was still in Jorvik when the epidemic hit, since most rich people knew to evacuate to the country when things look a bit sickly. Rain, "far-famed healer", may have felt compelled to stay, but Adela could have left.)

Arguably this isn't exactly distant from the expensive and elite medieval physicians that Adam may have been modelled on. University-educated and very rare, a physician could only be afforded by the very rich during the middle ages. Most simply sought out the local midwife, monks, nuns, folk healers and saints, which were cheaper and more widespread. But then, as pointed out, his calling was to heal and not to covet.

"Don't you want to know about my father's illness… so that you may be prepared to cure him when we arrive at Stoneheim?"

"Why should I inquire about his symptoms when I do not intend to treat him?"

Even as Tyra kidnaps him in hopes that he will save her father, Adam maintains that he has renounced medicine and he would do the dying comatose man no good, which at least shows he is committed to his cause and will not be swayed by tales of dying men. However, when Tyra is shot in the behind with an arrow (really, really stupid slapstick, I refer you to that section), Adam offers to remove it and Tyra is shocked and horrified at the concept.

"Nay, I do not want you touching any part of my body, and certainly not that part. Besides, I thought you had given up medicine."

"For this, I would be willing to make an exception." He was still grinning, but he meant it. For a view of her naked backside, he would do just about anything.

This exchange undermines any credulity that Adam has as a virtuous and selfless healer. He is later reluctant to treat the many who flock to Stoneheim to be healed by him, but leaps to the chance of seeing Trya's ass. It really isn't encouraging or endearing an action. It seems to show that he puts the chance of seeing an attractive ass above his solemn vow to his dead sister on his list of priorities, which is above healing the sick and weak. I would really be more suspicious of a man who's more concerned with seeing ass than healing head wounds.

More work for him, though, he presumed. 

At the sight of the dying, all Adam could think of is that. More work for him to do. More bodies to operate on. He doesn't even wonder at the attack or what may have transpired.

Even Adam's book, his great legacy, he forgets soon after he puts down his quill.


More on Medieval Medicine and Midwives

The thing that enthralled Adam was what Rain was doing inside the hut. She was a healer, apparently. Not just a midwife, as some old crones were, but an actual trained physician.

I hated every word of that sentence. Mostly because the likelihood of Adam having seen "an actual trained physician" in his lifetime to know what one looked like is unlikely to the point of impossible. Him being a street urchin and physicians being part of the elite. In the 13th century, there were only 3 in all of Worchester. Secondly, counting on Adam's ingrained medieval misogyny in later chapters, women were never physicians.  They were midwives, folk healers and nuns, but not physicians as a physician implies a university education (that was where the training comes from) and that required one to be male. A woman being a physician is about as preposterous as her joining the Varangian Guard – an idea that Adam finds so ludicrous he laughs for hours. Literally.

Of course, he might not have meant university-trained with those words, but rather some sort of folk healer, but then, what would the difference be? Both were trained as apprentices by masters, so it seems bizarre to privilege one over the other. Especially insulting is the way midwives are described as "just a midwife" and described as old crones. Where is he getting this inane prejudice from?

And how many times has the young boy seen midwives at work? Did he think Rain wasn't one simply because she wasn't old and ugly? How did he know most midwives didn't work with such magical efficiency? Episiotomies were first used in the 18th century, so is rather anachronistic in and of itself, but on top of all that, it also seems odd that Rain comes from the 20th century where the practice has been falling out of use and questioned since the 1960s.


The Cheerleader Attitude

"Cheerleaders" is what Mrs Giggles calls them in her review, and I think it's a good term for what the character do. They are all – yes, all of them, from Tyra's sisters to Adam's uncle to the precocious children – obsessed with getting Adam and Tyra, the hero and the heroine, together. Nothing is more important than scheming to get them into each others' "bed furs," as Hill puts it. Not only is this annoying, but the matchmaking shenanigans is set against the backdrop of Danish outlaws pillaging village outposts.

"Unless my father awakens soon and begins to show his face in public, this will be the first of many such strikes, and not just by Ejnar, either," Tyra told Rafn. "Every malcontent from here to Birka will be on the move, sniffing out any weakness in our flanks."

The Danes can smell weakness like a shark. Which is all well and good. But no one seems to care much. The matchmaking continues at Stoneheim. The sisters gossip exclusively about Tyra and Adam; nary a word about their dying father or worries about his comatose state crosses their lips. There are patrols, but only after  the attack, which seems silly since they all know of the perceived weakness and should have been working hard to counter it.

They'd burned some timber longhouses, stolen cattle and sheep, taken a few women and children who were unable to run to the mountains, and killed a half dozen fighting men.

This is serious business. If one worries not about the lives that were lost, the captives that have been taken, then surely one must worry about the valuable cattle that were stolen. But the inhabitants of Stoneheim are above such petty cares.

"But we caught this raid early on. Now that we are forewarned, we will send reinforcements to man all of our vulnerable border lines."

Lies. Rafn says "we caught this raid early on" as though that piece of intelligence made any difference to the dead fighting men, the captured women and children and the stolen cattle. It didn't. The Danes had come and gone by the time they arrived. Incidentally, just before she departed Tyra ended up in a long and protracted discussion with Adam about Alrek's annual pay, their relationship and him wanting her to not go. It is utterly irresponsible that she delay going

...she turned and walked stiffly toward the groups of men and horses waiting for her.

It is made clear that her men were ready and waiting for her, but she feels that talking to Adam is more important than the possibility of a burning village. Again, she does not reprimand herself for delaying setting off. Though arguably, it's only ten, twenty minutes, it may be enough to see away the Danes, to engage them in combat – vengeance is better than nothing, after all.

The king was especially engrossed by the events surrounding Tyra and Adam, but he was also more than interested in the outlaws who'd attacked his holdings the night before.

It really reads as though he finds Tyra and Adam more interesting than the outlaw attacking his holdings. Despite having been informed that attacks have been made, and presumably, being the wily old king he is, Thorvald would know that a show of strength in his recovery is essential at this point. He feels no guilt for keeping his recovery a secret from the world because he's too busy perusing some "mush-brained" plot to get Tyra and Adam together. That this very secret is costing him the lives of his people and cattle from his holdings. Though arguably, him making a show of awakening a couple of days earlier might not have made a difference (as the news would not travel as fast) surely he feels the responsibility of his kingdom keenly enough to be ashamed of putting such a petty thing above his people.

Furthermore, he had already trained Tyra to be the warrior that succeeds him. Why does he need her to get married?

After Tyra runs away with her hesirs (further weakening the defences of Stoneheim), Thorvald insists on making the journey to go after her. A rescue and all that. Whilst his kingdom is still under the Danish threat. Whilst it is rather late in the season for an attack, but it seems foolish to underestimate the people who've dealt you a near-fatal blow and successfully raided your village.

The matchmaking plans are not even slightly dented by the attacks or the possibility of more attacks. Especially when the plans seems to involve undermining Tyra's authority as head of the hesirs (see below). It is inane to think making this match is worth undermining the authority of their father's successor in protecting them all. Have they really so much faith that their father would recover and thereby make Tyra's rule redundant? Or do they really have no understanding of how authority works?

All of the secondary characters sound the same after a few chapters as what little personality they have (usually a hobby that borders on obsession) is soon eclipsed by the all-consuming desire to see Adam and Tyra get it on. The stability of the realm, international relations, politics, the safety and wellbeing of others, all rank after.

 

Inexplicable Wandering Accents

Sandra  Hill cannot do accents, so she should have just given up on them. The characters wander Cockney Street Urchin to Somerset Pirate to Yorkshire Farmhand to Modern American. The children, especially, are susceptible to this. The accent won't stay still halfway through a sentence. The uses of the "dost", "nay", "mayhap", "methinks" all sound as though she went through with a find and replace. These pseudo-Shakespearean words are used willy-nilly with less than archaic words like "barmy." The result is a mess and the sentences simply don't scan.

Women! 'Twas hard to figure them out.

The usage of "dost" makes even less bizarre since Hill uses it in the place of "do you", so "Do you think she would consent to wearing pierced bells on her breasts?" becomes:

Dost think she would consent to wearing pierced bells on her breasts? 

But "dost" is the second-person singular simple present form of do. It's used with "thou". Dropping the "thou" consistently makes no sense. It's like saying the "do" without the "you."

Also, she uses "methinks" as a cipher for "I think" rather than "it seems to me", which is telling in certain sentences.

 

Incestuous Overtones

The Chronicler would be the first to admit that we are all too ready to read these into texts, but Adam the Healer's relationship with his sister is rather alarming:

Despite her being covered with filth from bare feet to lice-infested head, as he was, too, Adam thought she was more comely than a harem princess... not that he'd ever seen a harem princess, but he'd heard sailors speak of such.

Arguably, Adam has never seen a harem princess and doesn't know that they are objects of sexual beauty, despite listening in on the talk of sailors who would hardly be reticent about such things. He could have chosen other things of beauty – such as a memorable statue of the Virgin Mary, perhaps, or a folktale princess – which would be less inherently and blatantly sexual. Hill made a conscious decision here to compare the young Adela to a harem princess, in a book which features harems as a prominent fantasy, seems rather alarming.

 

Small Precocious Children

The Anthropologist and The Chronicler are hardly the sort to go cooing over small children, but they are quite confident that even the most soft-hearted of women would be repulsed by the sheer cutesiness of the children in My Fair Viking. Alrek, aged ten, is at the head of his tiny household, all of whom are younger than him.

Ten is not considered adulthood in Viking terms. Somewhere between fifteen and eighteen is the age most heroes in sagas (both legendary and historical) start out and that seems to be a good age. Puberty should be well underway (though bearing in mind it happens later in ye olde times) and they can handle adult-sized sword and armour. Ten, however, is nowhere near this and Alrek is described in especially tiny and undergrown terms.

As such, Alrek is not only too young to go aviking, he is also too rubbish. He is a walking hazard. No self-respecting captain would let him onto their ship and they would especially not give them special attention the way Tyra does. He isn't trained with a sword and is unable to row. He isn't used as a cabin boy or equivalent, so why he's allowed on is beyond the Chronicler.

"Me father left when I was five. Some say he is a fighting man in the Rus lands; some say he is dead." He shrugged with indifference. "Me mother died last year of the childbed fever. She were a kitchen helper. Two sisters and a brother I have back at Stoneheim. I am the oldest, so I mus' support them with the silver coin King Thorvald pays me each year."

(The Chronicler also wonders how in the world the littlest, Besji, who is two survived her mother getting "childbed fever" since there is no alternative to breastmilk. What was the little tyke drinking all the time its mother was lying dying?)

Furthermore, the idea of Alrek as head of his family is stupid given the communal living arrangements of Stoneheim and Viking society as a whole. They all lived in an enormous longhouse, ate together in the one enormous room and slept in the same enormous room. The idea that he is alone responsible for his siblings is preposterous. This is a society that is knit together with hand-me-downs. Soldiers aren't paid predominately annual fees but live off their lord and are given gold at his will ("ring-giver" and all that) and portions of booty.

If he's being trained to be a Viking warrior, then he should be trained with all the other children at Stonehiem. There are three hundred fighting men at Stoneheim, at least some of whom are married. I could but assume some of them have sprogged and want their offspring to follow in their footsteps. And if I recall correctly, they would be trained by the women when the men are away.

Alrek and his brood already have a family. The women of Stoneheim should be taking care of them along with all the other children. Especially given that they are increasingly incompetent as the story goes on. At first, they are described as clumsy but able to fend for themselves – tough, even – since, they've survived this long. And yet, they're not. At first, Alrek claims Besji is toilet trained and that they used to have to change her linens ever five minutes (incidentally, why are they using linens?!) but later they are shown unable to cope with Besji soiling herself and are harassing Adam to do it. 

The children's shenanigans are supposed to be humorous, but it's annoying. Really annoying. And at times, very disturbing as we hear Alrek talk all sorts about virgins and sex. He peers into the room as Tyra and Adam have sex in an obviously supposed-to-be-funny way, but all it elicits in this audience is horror. The communal living should have made it into a matter-of-fact issue, but he gawks at it all in an annoying way.

Also, "youthling" is a stupid, stupid word. Worse than "youngling" and that's saying a lot.


To be continued...

(The Horror is not over Yet.)

The Loinfire Club reads... Come to Me

Come to Me, by Lisa Cach

Samira was the lowliest creature of the Night World: a mere succubus, a winged spirit bringing dreams of passion to sleeping men. She knew every wicked wish that lurked in their hearts, and yet she had never felt the touch of a man's loving hand. Nor had she wanted to… until now.

Shattered by war and banished to a crumbling fortress, Nicolae turned to the dark arts. He planned to use Samira as a tool to find a means to oust the invader from his lands and regain all that he'd lost. When she arrived on his doorstep in human form, his long-sought vengeance was lost.

A creature of the night and a ruined prince: one called and the other came. What happened next would change their worlds forever.


The Loinfire Club is reading “Come to Me,” the book with the virgin succubus. It has been anticipating this for a long time.

The book reeks of gin and tobacco. It came second-hand from the Internet, you see, and the Club could but wonder at its previous owner. Every member is initiated into the Meeting by smelling the book and recoiling the horror. The latter half of that ritual is technically optional.

(The Chronicler could now but apologise that the book really got on her nerves in many ways so there may be more angry asides in brackets than normal.)

The first word Naked had been used to taunt and scare away one of the uninitiated, who remembers that he has a very pressing engagement elsewhere.

The map is mocked for looking like a Stupid Fantasy Map, though it is, in fact, a map of Transylvania. The way the surrounding land is coloured makes it look rather... island-like.

The Balance (who is reading tonight): "Are you all sitting comfortably?"

Maramures, Northern Transylvania, 1423
The Anthropologist: "That sounds familiar. Are there any other novels set in this region?"

Naked and full of mischief, Samira crept onto the bed of the ruling prince of Maramures. She paid no heed to the wench who slept beside him, crawling over the snoring girl as if she did not exist.
(The Chronicler could but note now how in both An Original Sin and in this book, "evil" has been downgraded to "mischief." She ponders at this development.)

The prince, Dragosh, mumbled and twitched in his sleep, as if trying to dislodge a bug from his face.
(Note Dragosh, he's going to be Very Important.)

Samira tilted her head, her long, bloodred hair slithering over her bare shoulders...
The Balance: "Her hair slithers... At least we’ve got a reason. She's a demon, after all. Her hair is allowed to slither."

...her black, leathery wings fluttering once to keep her balanced as she peered into the face of her victim.
The Loinfire Club wonder at the perfect manoeuvrability granted by these wings.

Prince Dragosh had a thick scar across his cheek, and deep creases etched into his square forehead — creases from a lifetime of strife, she guessed.
Pillywiggin: "No one should be etching in one’s forehead. Etching is bad for you."
Luca: "So is being square."
Lady Miriam: "He just looks like Spongebob in my head, now."

Sometimes she thought they cared more about eating than they did about having sex.
(This is a sentence that will later come back to haunt us all. And not in a good way.)

The prince's lips were thin, his skin weather-roughened, his nose a much-broken fist in the center of his broad face.
Sordan: "That has to be a medical complication: his nose being fist."
Pillywiggin: "I'm trying hard to imagine him. A square head, etched and a fist for a nose. You’ll have to draw that, Sordan."

The Anthropologist: "This is going to be quite a world setting, where even professional sex workers, even born sex workers, have an I'm not a Slut complex."
Lady Miriam: "What?"
The Anthropologist: "The heroine is a virgin succubus. We found this out from the blurb."
Lady Miriam: "I thought you don't get to be a succubus until you have sex. Until then, you're just a 'bus."
The Anthropologist: "Well, she mind rapes them, not physically rapes them."

The Anthropologist: "Is she a fluffer? I seem to remember that from the other blurb we read."
Lady Miriam: "What?"
The Anthropologist: "She keeps men busy before the Important Demons can come eat their souls."
The Chronicler: "I'm not sure..."

The Anthropologist: "Are we supposed to find this person [Dragosh] attractive? Or is she having angst that she’s required to mind rape ugly men?"

Drool dribbled from the corner of the wench's parted lips, and a thin film coated her exposed teeth. Samira shuddered and moved her wing away from the girl's gaping maw. If this was the best that Maramures had to offer in the way of nubile young beauties, Dragosh had her sympathy.
Big L: "Maybe he has a thing for ugly women."
The Chronicler: "All beauty is objective, remember?"

Big L: "Are there going to be incubi?"
The Anthropologist: "It could be working on the D&D supplement where there are six different species of succubi but only one mention of incubi in the entire book."

She turned her attention back to the nymph-deprived prince.
The Anthropologist: "Is that like a sort of nutritional problem? Imagine going up to your doctor who says, We've done some tests and we find that you've got an nymph-deficiency..."
Lady Miriam: "It could be a House plot."
Big L: "It's not Lupus... it's Nymph deprivation."

A fanning of lines spread from the corner of each of his eyes, speaking of hours spent squinting into the sunlight, surveying the field of battle and happily counting the bodies of the slain.
The Anthropologist: "You'd think if he'd won the battle he'd know better than not to stand squinting into the sunlight."

Dragosh was a strong ruler, she guessed. Fair. Hard. Which meant a lot of people probably hated him. Such was the perversity of humanity.
(The Chronicler wonders if that is a subtle jibe at those who dislike President Bush and other such unpopular "hard" figures of authority. Also considering the rebellion against God, one of the usual backstories of such night gribblies, it seems a bit odd.)

The Anthropologist: "It sounds like she's really bored, theorising his life with some bizarre branch of physiognomy. As though she's forced to stare at the same corner of the ceiling for a long time and trying really hard to find it interesting."

Samira looked back over her shoulder at her friend Theron, standing by the door to the prince's chamber. He was an incubus, a male dream demon who existed only to give dreams of sex to frustrated mortal women. Samira was a succubus, and gave such dreams to sex-deprived men. They were both demons of the Night World, winged beings who gave sexual fantasies—and sexual nightmares, when warranted—to dreaming mortals.

Pillywiggin: "Isn't there another series of books called Night Word?"
None of the members of the Loinfire Club recall the books, (but the Wikimobile proves it's existence.)

The Anthropologist: "Wait... are all the demons homophobic? Because that would basically make them more conservative than normal humans, which just isn't right."
The Chronicler: "She's just the BFG but with more sex."

The fantasies were fun, and the nightmares even more so. Samira's nightmares were a punishment to men who had behaved badly: men who ogled women's breasts while talking to them; who made rude remarks about the size and lumpiness of their wife's buttocks; who thought foreplay was for sissies; who passed gas in bed. The list of tiresome male failings was endless, and Samira's inventiveness legendary amongst other succubi. She had a natural flare for female vengeance, and enjoyed it if only because she was good at it.

The Anthropologist: "So the demons job is to enforce greater degree of sexual conservativeness, thoughtfulness and decency... that doesn't sound like the way it's meant to work."
Sordan: "Fail!Demons."
The Anthropologist: "It sounds like they were originally meant to be sex angels, policing the world of human sexuality but the editors thought that was a bit too... weird."

The Loinfire Club also notes the angry misandrist undertones to that speech. And the triviality of the crimes. And that rape, the greatest of all sexual sins, isn't listed... which is especially pertinent considering the later actions of the hero and how he is curiously nightmare-free.

Dragosh, however, had done nothing wrong recently. Nothing that called for a sharp slap on his nose—
The Anthropologist: "That's the shittest demon punishment ever. I've come to torment you and..."
Sordan: "Bitchslap!"

...unless Samira counted finishing first when he'd made love to the wench, and then falling asleep on top of her. A crime, yes, but so common among men as to go without remark.
Big L: "Which is clearly a lesser crime than farting in bed."
The Anthropologist: "It's good to know that sex demons are relativist in these things."

The sheer amount of random misandry gives rise to Random Sexism as a new category for The Club to drink for.

No, Theron had asked Samira to deliver this nightmare to Dragosh as a favor to him, to fulfill his end of an outrageous bargain he had made with a human named Vlad.
Some would say that it had been a bargain made with the Devil, but Theron wasn't the Devil.
The distinction between Devils and Demons intrigues the Club, but the author is silent on the subject.

And delivering this nightmare meant breaking half a dozen rules of the Night World.
The Balance: "This sounds like possible future angst."

It was just another nightmare, after all. How much harm could it do? Dragosh had probably done something to deserve it.
The Anthropologist: "Apart from having a fist for a nose."
Big L: "I'm sure there'll be a fisting joke soon."
The Anthropologist: "The fist-nose could be a sort of alarm-system in case people attack him in his sleep. He doesn’t have to wake up; It just punches people. Which would explain why none of the pretty women would sleep with him since they get punched."
Lady Miriam: "Or many he's simply headbutted so many people his head has become a fist."

No man was innocent. She ought to punish them all just as a matter of course.
More drinks to random sexism.
The Anthropologist: "That's quite interesting radical feminism coming from a virgin succubus."
(The Chronicler notes, in retrospect, this looks a lot like the All Men Are Bastards belief many heroines adhere to before the hero appears.)

Samira climbed atop Dragosh's barrel chest, squatting weightless upon his rising and falling rib cage.
Big L: "Dear God, is there anything about this guy who isn't horribly malformed?!"
(The Chronicler points out the author naively not understanding the connotations of the term hagridden, the Balance suggests it's just part of the author's attempt to desexualise the succubus... but we'll come to all that later.)

The prince's latent sexual energy was feeding her powers and rousing an echo of his hungers within her ethereal body. She had no physical desires of her own, and only felt lust when she reflected it back from a man.
Big L: "O rly?"
Sordan: "Not a slut!"
Pillywiggin: "I’m not sure what that’s worth drinking for, but I’m drinking anyway."

The Anthropologist: "Essentially when she does have sexual fantasies they’re transsexual ones... her sexual identity must be really screwed up. She'll either identify as asexual or a man."

A jumble of images and emotions washed through her. Faces of men: worry; anger; distrust. The face of a young girl, tawny-haired: love; protectiveness. The vicious chaos of battle, Turkish armies in their foreign garb, with bloodstained spears and swords: fury; fear; bloodlust; determination. Peasant farmers in their tunics, bent in the fields: approval; paternal concern.
Pillywiggin: "He’s thinking very quickly."

The greatest enemy of Dragosh's family, the black-haired Bogdan of Moldavia: distrust; grudging respect; anxiety.
Big L: "Damn you BOGDAN!"
(The Wikimobile tells us that Bogdan of Maldavia did actually exist...)

These were the echoes of the prince's thoughts, the impressions of his days, the bits and pieces of his history.
Pillywiggin: "Why isn't he dreaming of a giant codpiece chasing him down an endless corridor? People dream of random shit..."

Again, and even more strongly, Samira sensed the tawny-haired girl. She knew already, from Theron, that this was Dragosh's youngest sister, Lucia, [...] Samira sensed Lucia's purity in Dragosh's mind. Innocence.
The Loinfire Club: "Eeeeeew!"
Big L: "I see where this is going. And it's not good."
The Anthropologist: "Is the fist-nose on the Y chromosome? I keep getting mental images of this beautiful supermodel with tawny hair and that face..."

A deep love and pride in Dragosh, that this fragile angel among mortals should be his responsibility to protect and cherish, to keep untouched by the foul, lewd hands of other men.
The Balance: "Dodgy... dodgy... "
Sordan: "No one else can rape my younger sister! Only I can!"

Talk turns to Cao Dai in a bizarre tangent and the matter of Victor Hugo being their saint.

From those inner emotions and images she began to weave the requested nightmare: Dragosh's beloved sister, the innocent, tawny-haired Lucia, was standing on a table in the great hall of the despised Prince Bogdan of Moldavia. She wore only a thin sleeping shift.

Big L (who had briefly left the room): "Are they still describing the sister in loving detail?"
The Anthropologist: "No, we've moved on. Now we're about to have rape."

Bogdan's five sons sat around the table. [...] dressed them in the colors of Moldavia, with the silhouette of a wolf on the shoulder. The wolf—it was the symbol of the ancient Dacian race from which they claimed descent, which had inhabited Moldavian lands for millennia.
The Chronicler: "Gang rape, no less."

Samira made the dream Lucia quiver at being the center of such crude male appraisal. The girl shivered in the cold, her nipples hardening, their points visible through the thin linen of her garment...
Sordan: "Boobs!"
The Anthropologist: "I think we need a subcategory for nipples."

She tried to cover herself with her arms, but the movement caused her shift to fall off her shoulder.
The Anthropologist: "That's a very badly fitting shift."
The Balance: "Well, it is a dream shift."
The Anthropologist: "Well, you shouldn't trust succubus labour. No outsourcing for you!"

Her hair draped against her cheek as she bent her head forward, leaving the back of her neck exposed.
Lady Miriam: "Maybe they’re vampires."
Sordan: "There's not much blood in the back of the neck."
Pillywiggin: "They're spine fluid vampires!"

He tried not to look directly at Lucia, her blatant sexuality touching on a deep taboo within him.
The Anthropologist: "Her blatant sexuality as a rape victim!"
(The Chronicler notes that his association with pure innocence and blatant sexuality comes through in other parts of this narrative, but we'll get to the distressing Lolita problems of this book later.)

She was his sister. His little sister.
The Loinfire Club: "Eeew!"
Pillywiggin: "However, the correct response."

As far as he was concerned, she was a blank doll beneath her clothes.
The Anthropologist: "That's even more freaky!"

She did not have the body parts of a normal woman, and certainly none of the desires.
Pillywiggin: "No, actually she’s a man!"

Samira watched Dragosh's reaction with amusement. He was bothered that it was his Moldavian enemies who surrounded Lucia, but even more disturbed by seeing his innocent sister in a sexual situation.
The Anthropologist: "I'm not getting over the blatant sexuality of a teenage girl about to be raped..."
Luca: "Didn't she get this out of his mind earlier?"
Sordan: "She's seducing him in his mind using his virgin younger sister?!"

A soft cry of distress escaped from deep within Dragosh's throat.
Big L: "I'd be disturbed."

...but Samira was suddenly inspired by Dragosh's reaction to watching his sister...
Big L: "You’d think she as a succubus has lots of experience with gangrape."
The Chronicler: "Not Virgin succubi."

She decided to throw in a little extra torture for him, via Lucia herself. This could be fun.
Lady Miriam: "Still, good sadism."

Samira made the dream Lucia toss back her tawny lioness hair...
The Loinfire Club break off into a discussion of what colour 'tawny' is exactly...

...a salacious glint in her eye, a hungry grin forming on her soft lips.
Sordan: "Now she’s going to be gangraped and enjoy it?"
Pillywiggin: "Pass the gin..." (whimpering in a way that implies something about the previous chain-smoking, gin drinking, previous owner of the book and this section of the chapter)

The Anthropologist: "It’s the level of wrongness that you get during a fumble in a Mary Sue roleplay game, not the first scene of a romance novel. I'm not sure that reflects well on us, though..."

Dragosh gasped, his body going tense. "No, no, no, no!" he scolded, and loudly clapped his hands together, as if startling a cat away from a bowl of cream.
The Anthropologist: "Scolded?"
Sordan: "I'm getting a mental image of the a sort of Bad Kitty scolding... not really extreme enough for this scene, is it?"
The Anthropologist: "No, Lucia. We’ve discussed this already. No more crazy orgies or else you're grounded..."

Lucia gave as much heed as would a hungry feline.
Chimes of μ are heard around the room for the catgirl reference.

At this point Lady Miriam attempted to beat Pillywiggin to death with empty chocolate biscuit packet.

The other Moldavian in front of her offered up his goblet, his eyes lightening to the golden tone of a wolfs.
The Anthropologist: "Is it often for gangrapist's eyes to change colour?"
The Balance: "Well, it is a dream..."
The Anthropologist: "But it’s still a very odd detail."
The Balance: "Probably more hinting to him that they're werewolves."

"Drink! Drink! Drink!" his brothers growled, their sharp teeth shining, the thud of their own goblets on the table a drumbeat that matched the beating of Dragosh's frantic heart.
The Anthropologist: "They have a drinking ritual strongly resembling that of my sixth form college? That just makes it even more disturbing."

She was smiling wickedly, her eyes shining. "They rut like beasts, too! They're animals, and hung like—"
The Balance: "Hung like hyphens, it would seem..."
Sordan: "Now they’re hung like Harry Potter."

Dragosh gave an unmanly shriek.
The Anthropologist: "Also known as a girly scream."

"Hung like bulls. [...]And they have tongues like dogs."
"Tongues?" Dragosh asked, startled, momentarily confused. "What of their tongues?"
The Anthropologist: "Ah, it's because he’s only had mediocre sex. That makes him evil."

"They lick me, lick me, lick—"
Big L: "There are far too many hyphens."
The Anthropologist: "Does she have a fetish for repeating the same word?"
Big L: "But the poor hyphens! Think of the poor hyphens!"

Samira held him helpless, leaving him only the power of his voice. "Lucia! You don't like being touched! You're a virgin!"
Lady Miriam: "How does he know?"
Big L: "Because she doesn't like being touched by him."

then slid his long fingers into the dark, damp place between her thighs.
The Chronicler: "Sounds really unpleasant... dark and damp..."
The Anthropologist: "Like something under a log."
Big L: "I wonder if there are woodlice."

This was his sister—his sister!—engaging in sexual acts...
Lady Miriam: "With someone else!"

"You gave me to them, and now I'm their whore," she said. "Thank you, brother, for I have sinned!"
(The Chronicler: "She's getting paid?")

Another Moldavian prince lifted Lucia, straightening out her legs and then laying her back upon the table, the backs of his hands becoming coated with dark fur, his nails turning into claws.
Sordan: "She's about to be raped by wolves now!"

He shoved her shift up past her hips, exposing the dark golden curls of her sex.
Pillywiggin: "But her hair is tawny!"
The Anthropologist: "So she doesn't match."
Pillywiggin: "Damn artificial tawnies."
The Balance: "Or artificial dark golden. We just don't know."

The hair on his face seemed suddenly heavier, his ears growing pointed, his features transforming into something half canine.
The Anthropologist: "Why does it make it worse that she’s having an orgy with werewolves?"
The Balance: "Well it does."

His body tried to rise...
Sordan: "Dodgy comment!"

but he was paralyzed by the bonds of sleep, and by Samira perched upon his chest, holding him in dream thrall.
The Chronicler: "Like being hagridden..."

Lucia cried out in pleasure, the fur-covered hands of the enemy princes slowly pulling her legs open yet wider...
Sordan: "How far do her legs go?"
The Anthropologist: "She’s a professional gymnast."

The prince between her legs latched his lips tightly to her sex, sucking and licking, shoving his face at her with a force to rock her hips and make her breasts sway with the movement.
The Anthropologist: "Don't her breasts have a werewolf on them? Doesn't that impede them somewhat from?"

Dragosh's entire body stiffened with revulsion
The Balance: "Note: his entire body."
Big L: "Is this one of those bizarrely inexplicit ones, where it just says 'sex' and we might never find out what gender these characters are."

...repulsed as much by seeing his pure-hearted sister in sexual acts...
The Anthropologist: "Sexual acts.... That keeps coming up. It's so very vague..."

She parted her thighs wider, and lifted her hips to meet the mouth and hand of the other prince.
Sordan: "She opens her legs wider... I’m sure they’re going to snap soon."

An impossible, nightmare-sized erection, brilliant red, emerged from the pelt at his loins and stood stiff and ready.
Pillywiggin: "Exactly how large is impossible?"
The Balance: "Bull-sized."
Pillywiggin: "You can make walking sticks out of bull cocks."
The Anthropologist: "Just because you can doesn’t mean you should."
The Balance: "What? Where?"
The Anthropologist: "Tourist shops in this country. It's the logical conclusion to postcards with dirty pictures on them and the like."

"They're wolves," Lucia said to her brother, grinning, her eyes glowing, the pupils turning into vertical slashes like those of a cat.
The Balance: "She’s turning into a catgirl!"
Pillywiggin: "Oh no! My sister is turning into a furry!"

"Dacian wolves. We're cats and dogs, and oh! how we snarl and fight!"
The Anthropologist: "Does it make it more beastiality-ness if they’re different animals? Beastiality squared, you know."
Big L: "And exactly how much cat does there need to be until they're not longer catgirls fucking dogpeople but cats fucking dogs?"
Lady Miriam: "Why do you need to know? Are you desperate for a computer model?"

The wench beside him stirred and opened her eyes, blinking somnolently at the dark room, then with eyes still full of dreams she made out the winged shape of Samira perched atop Dragosh. The wench shrieked as if the gates of Hell had opened before her.
Sordan: "These demons aren't scary enough to merit that sort of reaction."
The Anthropologist: "She's just woken up so she could be imagining she's seeing something interesting."

The dream shattered, all images falling away into the night, their shards leaving deep gouges on Dragosh's soul.
The Balance: "Plotpoint."

...perhaps even see a beat of black wing or a brief glow of blue eyes.
The Chronicler: "That must clash with the blood red hair."
Pillywiggin: "Mary Sue!"

...his bare feet as bony and white as a skeleton's against the stone floor.
The Anthropologist: "He now has skeleton feet. And the barrel chest. And the fist nose...."
Lady Miriam: "He's a better demon than she is!"

He ignored their queries, running naked down the shadowed corridor, his flabby buttocks quivering with each slap of his feet upon the floor.
Big L: "You’ll have to draw them... they look like really bad wings."
Sordan: "Ass wings! I pray he’s not actually going to be the hero. Because we'll have a description of his hyphen. And that can't be a pleasant mental image."

Samira peeked into the doorway over his shoulder, and with her perfect night vision she made out the slumbering form of a young woman...
The Chronicler: "Is he going to rape his sister now?"
The Anthropologist: "That would be hilarious."

...a girl, really, no more perhaps than fourteen human years of age.
Big L: "Hoh yeeaah!"
The Anthropologist: "So it's paedophilic as well!"
Pillywiggin: "Human years? What other sort of years are there?"

The browned-honey tangle of hair on the pillow told her that this was Lucia.
The Chronicler: "It’s honeyed now...
The Anthropologist: "The problem of honey and caramel is that I associate it too much with stickiness so they just have masses of sticky mess..."

He now believed the wickedness of Eve to be a seed within her, awaiting the chance to sprout and grow.
Pillywiggin: "Medical complication! That's a parasite."
(The Chronicler could but wonder at why the wickedness of Eve was promiscuity and what exactly the snake did to the first woman. Admittedly, medieval theology does have all sort of interesting interpretations on this front, but still...)

He was certain that a nymphomaniac lurked inside her, awaiting the chance to break free and rut with beasts and Moldavians.
Pillywiggin: "He's nymph-deprived; she's a nymph. That's a match, right?"
The Balance: "She's not one, it’s in her."
Sordan: "It'll eat it's way out of her, like in Alien."

The Chronicler: "How is she making life better for women? Considering how all the crimes she punishes in her job as being the upholder of sexual decency has a bizarre feminist twist..."
Sordan: "She only saves women from mediocre sex. And having their boobs gawked at. And farting in bed."

The aging prince turned away from the doorway, and with glazed, sightless eyes walked slowly back down the corridor toward his own room.
The Balance: "He's gone blind."
The Anthropologist: "It is possible to gain psychosomatic blindness in the Call of Cthulhu RPG."
The Balance: "He has just taken a massive sanity drain..."

His movements were stiff, as if he were made of wood, and the dry skin of his soles rasped against the stone floor as he shuffled along
The Balance: "Being made of wood is a medical complication, right?"
The Anthropologist: "If I was one of his guards. I’d be serious alarmed... Or maybe their lack of alarm means that he does this every night. At around three in the morning he'll run naked to his sister's room and she lies there pretending to be asleep, hoping he'll go away. At first the guards were a bit concerned, but now it's just a matter of course."

A whisper of human regret pierced Samira where her heart should have been.
The Anthropologist: "No! You're a demon, remember?"

It had been as if Lucia were the chalice that held what remained of his own innocence, his own belief in what was good and right. Now that chalice had been spilled.
Sordan: "I think the complex metaphor is beyond me."
Lady Miriam: "I think it's beyond her."

At this point in time, the Chronicler and the Anthropologist exchange notes about the article about Settling and a recent Feminist Mormon Housewives on being "invisible" and Christlike.

Every time he looked at Lucia now, he would see the wolflike sons of Bogdan lapping at her breasts, pulling at her clothes, and her ecstatic acceptance of their touch.
Pillywiggin: "Damn you! Wolflike sons of Bogdan!"
The Balance: "It's not a bad battlecry... I AM the wolflike son of Bogdan!"
Big L: "Sounds too much like Hammer of Bogardan, the Magic the Gathering card."

Samira wondered what frightful changes might happen in Dragosh himself, now that she had destroyed the one pure place in his heart.
The Balance and Big L: "My purelands have been violated!"

She was surprised by her concern, her own sudden sense of guilt. It wasn't her way to feel such things. It wasn't any succubus's way.
The Anthropologist: "Why does she have a capacity for guilt?"
Sordan: "Because she's a fail!succubus."

Then again, neither was it Samira's way to break the rules of the Night World.
The Chronicler: "What are the rules of Night World?"
Lady Miriam: "First rule of Night World.: You do not talk about Night World. Second rule of the Night World: you do not talk about the Night World. Third rule of the Night World..."
The Anthropologist: "You do not write retarded books about Night World."

She looked up at him, a question burning inside her. Was Theron's bargain worth the price they had just made Dragosh pay?
Pillywiggin: "Yes. You're a demon."

Theron touched her hair, his long, strong fingers combing through a silken red lock, and then he let his hand rest heavily on her bare shoulder. He had never touched her before.
The Chronicler: "I thought she was incorporeal."
Lady Miriam: "She's never touched by an Incubus before?"

She felt his [Theron's] sexual power coursing through his hand, setting off involuntary responses in her body that were echoes of the responses he had roused in thousands of sleeping women throughout the centuries.
The Anthropologist: "It's just a business thing. Nothing personal. Unfortunate side effect of the job."

Samira shivered, aware of what Nyx, the Queen of the Night, might do...
Sordan: "Nyx!"
Lady Miriam: "She's murdering a perfectly decent goddess' reputation."

Samira's shoulder stung where he had touched her, seared by the unexpected power in his hand, even as her sex throbbed in the shadow of stolen mortal desire.
The Anthropologist: "She allergic to Incubi."
Lady Miriam: "Or she's allergic to sex. Must be really unfortunate in that line of work. A bit like discovering you're allergic to latex last minute..."

She was eager to be away from both Theron and the scene of this misdeed, as if by escaping both she could forget it had ever happened; forget that she had spoiled the protective love of a brother for his innocent sister; forget that she had driven him half mad, and seared images into his memory that he would never be able to forget...
Sordan: "Demons aren't allowed to have angst."
Pillywiggin: "So just eat his soul."
The Anthropologist: "This is where she goes up to him and says 'If you give me your soul, I'll make sure it never happens again.'"

Theron stood on the threshold of Lucia's doorway, his glowing eyes gazing intently upon the sleeping, innocent princess of Maramures.
Big L: "Hoh yeeaah!"

And with that, the prologue closes...

Come to Me, continues, part two

Chapter One...
Sordan: "We went through all that pain and it’s not chapter one yet?!"

The picture of Dragosh is passed around. There is much giggling.

Six years later...
Big L: "So the guy’s ass is even more saggy, now..."
This unpleasant mental image elicits more giggling.

Samira flew above the earth, its landscape a shifting panorama of blacks and grays, formed by the minds of dreaming mortal men.
The Loinfire Club commends the author on her conception of the shifting dreamscape. It is quite cool.
The Anthropologist: "Though they people of this kingdom are really well-adjusted if that's all they dream about. Or maybe it's a sign of them being all mundanely insane."

...it was a thrum, a vibration in the night that belonged to a single sleeping man...
Sordan: "He's vibrating in the night."

Her body hummed in response, a faint tingling pleasure vibrating through her, luring her toward this drowsing male who needed release in the form of a sex dream.
The Loinfire Club hums in response.

This was the main work of a succubus: giving sexual release to sleeping men through their dreams.
The Anthropologist: "So, hang on. Does she have different shifts, some of which she’s the punishment and some of which do wet dreams? Or does she do both at the same time? And how does she know if those who are sexually frustrated haven't sinned? This system..."
Big L: "Well, there's a big bag of armbands, some of which are green and some are purple. At the beginning of each night, they each pick..."

She had no existence apart from this work; no solid body on the plane of mortals, no lover in the Night World. She had no home or close family, no talents or skills beyond weaving dreams. Up until six years ago, that had suited her perfectly.
The Anthropologist: " You're a demon!"
Sordan: "Fail!demon! Wangst!"
(The Chronicler observes that this angst is very much like the Independent Working Woman Angst in contemporary romances.)

Lately, though, a bleak and depressive mood would sometimes steal over her.
Lady Miriam: "She hit puberty."

She would wonder— absurdly!—whether she was nothing more than a shadow of the mortals she visited; a poor imitation, making up stories for their entertainment, and pretending to herself that those stories were real. As if, somehow, telling stories could be the equivalent of living a true and mortal life.
Big L: "Wait a minute... She's a larper!"
The Anthropologist: "No, she's a romance novel author."
The Chronicler: "Can you smell self-insertion?"
(The Balance later points out that it's absurd for an incorporeal creature to lament that she doesn't have a corporeal existence. It's much like a corporeal creature thinking they're missing out by not being able to "feel" the Night World, especially as the denizens of the Night World are perfectly capable of interacting with each other. The author is physical-centric.)

As if a mortal life was something worth living! She was not like Theron, who wanted such a thing.
The Anthropologist: "He's even more fail! I was hoping he'd be the sensible actually demonic one."

Humans lived but a fleeting moment, the space between their birth and death no more than the duration of a sigh, and that sigh filled with mud, cold, fleas, disease, and great puddles of bodily fluids that Samira shuddered even to think about.
The Chronicler: "She's as squeamish as Satan from last week."
Sordan: "Fail!demon."

Humans were cruel and greedy and violent, and not half so beautiful as the creatures of Night.
Pillywiggin: "But they're demons!"
Sordan: "Why are these demons so morally superior?"
Big L: "She didn't read her brief properly."
The Anthropologist: "Which is why I suspect they used to be sex angels."

It was foolish of her to feel even a moment of envy for mortal creatures. And she didn't. Not for a moment!
The Anthropologist: "Obviously not, since she's not schizophrenic."

Who would it be this time? [...] An adolescent boy [...] Maybe a long-married man with a brood of children and an exhausted wife. Or perhaps it was a shepherd alone in the hills, far from his maiden fair.
Big L: "With only his sheep..."

Making up stories about sleeping men was about the only thing that still kept her interested in her work.
The Anthropologist: "That must suck. If you’re a sex worker and that’s all you can think about is your work."

Making up stories about sleeping men was about the only thing that still kept her interested in her work. Ever since that night she'd given the nightmare to Dragosh, nothing had been the same for her. She was no longer a virtuoso of vengeance. She'd lost her taste for the delivery of nightmares.
Lady Miriam: "I'm not sure she ever was a virtuoso of vengeance."
Sordan: "To be fair, if you did it every night. Boredom is a possibility."
Pillywiggin: "But she's a demon."

And what could she do about who she was now? She was a succubus. She could be nothing else. There was no escape from the Night World, for either her or for Theron.
Sordan: "Why do I think the rest of the book is going to contradict that paragraph?"

Better to chase intriguing rivers of male lust...
Lady Miriam: "That’s an Exalted name."

Change. A different life. A different world. A different her.
The Anthropologist: "Demon!"

You're just bored, she told herself. You'll snap out of it in a couple hundred years.
Sordan: "She's talking to herself."
Big L: "It's an italics monologue. That's much worse."
The Anthropologist: "It'd be among the first questions psychiatrist in these books would ask: How have you been feeling lately? Your monologues... Have they been in italics?"

She hovered where she was for a long moment, the forest of dream trees beneath her shifting from full leaf to winter bare to autumn yellows and oranges as dreamers dreamt scenes within it. The sky above filled with dark gray clouds, as thick as wool, and then parted again to let through streamers of moonlight and a twinkle of distant stars.
As said, the Loinfire Club does think the Dreamscape is quite cool.

A frown between her reddish brows...
The Anthropologist: "Has she dyed her hair?"
Sordan: "Reddish is such a nasty colour..."

There was a flavor to this sexual thrum...
Lady Miriam: "Sound effect please."
Pillywiggin thrummed the guitar behind her.

After three millennia of exploring the minds of men, all their sexual thoughts, their fantasies, she had seen it all. She hadn't come across anything truly new for at least five hundred years. The hopes were always the same, year after year, culture after culture...
Sordan: "Eeeeww! It's as though her brain contained the entire Internet..."
The Chronicler: "No. It'll just be endless vanilla sex."

Making love to a wife's best friend or her sister, or to the big-breasted woman who once passed in the street. Being ravished by an eager young wench, who could only be satisfied by his impressive manroot.
The Chronicler: "Manroot?!"
Big L: "Hoh yeeaah!"

Two women at once, pleasuring each other and the man with equal passion. Thrashing bare bottoms with a switch. Being thrashed in return, while wearing the wife's favorite chemise.
The Chronicler: "I stand corrected. She's done some research."
Big L: "If she had entire Internet she'd think of worse things."
Lady Miriam: "Well, those things were on paysites and she didn't think she needed to do that much research."

The Balance: "But Culture had not changed for five hundred years. For five hundred years, everything has been the same... all cultures, everywhere, in all times... the same desires..."
The Anthropologist makes many distressed noises.

She was overdue for finding something new.
The Anthropologist: "She was debating to herself if she wants to move into Paedophilia, which is dealt in a different demon department."
Sordan: "But they do. There was that fourteen year old."
The Anthropologist: "But she has breasts. In some cultures they have different values. Except for this time, of course."

She was repeating herself too much, often being so lazy as to simply give a man satisfaction with nothing more than a dream handjob.
Lady Miriam: "She's become the demon of mediocre sex."

The only time she felt her old enthusiasm rising up was when she came across a sleeping man who was deeply in love, and who needed nothing more than a dream of holding his beloved close in his arms and making love to her tenderly.
Lady Miriam: "She wants the girlfriend experience. Instead she wants to do the faking being his girlfriend..."

For that, she still took time and care, and would feel within her a shimmering of emotion that she could not name.
The Anthropologist: "Creepy mind rape."

In truth, she didn't understand love, except when it came as an intense sexual yearning. That she understood and could feel as she reflected it back to a man.
The Anthropologist: "Which as we said should make her gender confused. For all she knows women are functionally asexual."

Something inside her whispered that love might be more than that, though. It might hold treasures of which she was utterly unaware, and which she could never know.
(The Chronicler notes that that's the love not appearing in this book, especially as romance novels have a long history of using sexual desire as shorthand for deep romantic love... but we'll come to that. It's in here too.)

It made her want to weep, if only she was capable of it. Succubi had no tears, though, nor a heart to break.
Sordan: "Oh! The angst!"
Hands are duly stapled to foreheads.
Pillywiggin: "That's definitely a medical complication."
The Balance: "How are her eyeballs are not drying up and falling out?"
The Anthropologist: "That's why she’s so angsty. You would you be that way if your eyeballs are about to fall out constantly."

But maybe, after so many centuries of playing in the minds of mortals, she had become infected by their emotions. Maybe part of her was turning slightly human. Humanity might be contagious, like the plague.
Sordan: "If she were to turn human, it would raise the suck level of humanity."

She wasn't sure if that was an encouraging thought or a repulsive one.
Thankfully, the Loinfire Club are quite sure.
Big L: "We don't want to be the same species as her."

...tantalizing, unique thrum of male desire she was following, should not be passed by for so paltry a reason as fear...
Thrum!
goes the guitar.

The thrum of desire from the unknown man was beginning to attract other succubi...
Thrum!
goes the guitar again.

One, a blonde, approached too close to the stream of desire, and Samira bared her teeth, hissing, asserting her ownership.
Lady Miriam: "My desperate male! Fuck off!"

The blonde bared her teeth back, hissing in return, but then gave way, flapping off into the darkness, tossing her hair back over her shoulder with a pout and a glare.
The Anthropologist: "There should be a David Attenborough documentary on this... Hunting across the plains. We see the succubi in their native enviroment engaged in territoral combat..."
(She continues to narrate the rest of the scene in a David Attenborough voice.)
Lady Miriam: "Oh the corsets!"

Samira made a face at her, feeling disappointed. The coward. A territorial bat fight would have been fun.
Pillywiggin: "Bat fight?"
Lady Miriam: "They just throw bats at each other."
Big L: "Or they just scream since no one is Immune to Sonic."

The warning sounded yet again in Samira's mind, chasing a shiver down her spine. Something truly wasn't right about this thrum. Something wasn't natural.
Lady Miriam: "It needs tuning."

Three millennia of experience were telling her to slow down, to be cautious.
Pillywiggin: "She's been this stupid for as 3000 years?!"

Curiosity and the deliciously strong desire of the sleeping man lured her forward, regardless. Common sense fled, and she happily waved it good-bye. Boring old common sense. What use had she for it?
Luca: "Common sense twitched and then died."
The Anthropologist: "A demonhunter could just keep a horny teenage boy in a cage covered in fly paper to catch these things, you know, because they're as sophisticated as flies..."

She slipped out of the charcoal landscape of the Night World and emerged into the nighttime landscape of mortal men—the plane of the Waking World, they of the night called it.
This confuses some of the members of the Loinfire Club due to the drink the previous chapter had driven them to.
The Anthropologist: "But it's not the waking world... they're all asleep!"
Lady Miriam: "I want to be in the Drinking World."

Everything was real, everything was solid, and now she herself was the one who was not, and she could not be seen by waking eyes.
The Anthropologist: "Except we just broke that in the prologue."
Sordan: "I think the girl was half asleep..."
Big L: "Or she can only be seen if she's reflected in drool."
Sordan: "Or man-lust."
Big L: "Same thing."

A fragile wooden walkway led from the bank out across the dark water to an island. [...]As she approached the island, she made out the thick walls of a ruined fortified monastery, originally built for protection from invading Tartars and Turks. What was left of the brutal low outer walls was punctuated by two remaining stubby towers...
Big L: "How can you have a brutal low wall?"
The Anthropologist: "If you’re gnome..."

A massive square spire rose from one end, miraculously still standing, tall and strong. The spire dwarfed the outer protecting walls, thrusting upward like a spear, its roof a tall, tapering pyramid covered in red tile...
Pillywiggin: "Like a giant hyphen."
The Balance: "So a cock spire."
Sordan: "Why are these books so full of phallic architecture?"
The Anthropologist: "I'm just trying to imagine what the architect's pitch was like: Our new models are 50% more phallic than our competitors and 25% more phallic than our previous models... "

...the peak stabbing the night sky like a bloody blade that had pierced the belly of the moon.
The Anthropologist: "Is this what God was complaining about with Tower of Babel. Because now I can totally see his side of the issue and why I never want anyone to try that again..."
Pillywiggin: "There's a cock in my floor."
Big L: "Or maybe they're just scarred by what they saw through God's floor..."
Lady Miriam: "When they say we should never speak of this again..."

Samira flew up toward the windows, and then alit on a sill, her hands clinging to the stonework
Sordan: "But she's incorporeal..."
Pillywiggin: "She can touch anything that is actually a penis."

A shiver of anticipation ran through Samira, the last vestiges of rational thought flickering and dying under the pull of the unknown man's desire. [...]When nothing threatening appeared, she folded back her wings and inched through the opening scrabbling along like the demon she was...
Sordan: "The demon she barely was."
Luca: "The demon she wasn't."

She could have passed straight through the wall itself if she had so desired, but such passages through solid matter were painful and tiring for succubi.
Sordan: "AKA I want to have power but I don't want it to fuck up the plot."

A massive table dominated the room...
The Anthropologist: "Table fetish! Do we have a category for that?"
The Balance: "You need to learn to generalise. Sometimes it's all the same thing..."

The dark-haired man slept with his arm sprawled across one of the open books on the table, his face resting on his white sleeve, his black hair concealing all but a pale triangle of forehead from her view.
Pillywiggin: "What?"
The Anthropologist: "It's a freemason thing."

There is some discussion as to what this insight into the hero's appearance means, concluding with:
Sordan: "He looks like a hick, basically."

The Anthropologist: "You should never, ever fall asleep over a demonology book. Only bad things could happen. Especially if you drool on it."

His other arm was drawn up close to his body, resting atop his thighs under the table.
The Balance: "Implied masturbation."
The Chronicler: "That's a first... but if he's been masturbating, why in the world does he still have a miasma of unquenched lust?"
Lady Miriam: "In that case he wasn't doing it right."
The Balance: "The ancient art of masturbation has fallen by the wayside."
The Anthropologist: "Maybe he's being working twenty-two hour days and he fell asleep during."

Samira could feel it entering her as if through the pores of her skin, setting every inch of her alive with tingling, unquenched lust.
The Chronicler: "So she's feeling lust as though she was wanking her own cock, since she’s feeling it reflected from other men."

She stood still, soaking it in, helpless for a moment to do otherwise. She'd never felt anything like this, the man's unsatisfied desires coursing through her body with the sweetness of honey, pooling in her loins with a hungry anticipation of things to come.
Pillywiggin: "Eeew! Honey in loins!"

For the first time in all her thousands of years, she was vaguely aware of the danger of falling captive to the lust of a man. It had always been easy for her to weave her dreams and fly away, never losing control, never being tempted to stay.
Pillywiggin: "Why would that be a problem for a demon?"

Such thoughts of control were far from her now. Almost any thought at all was beyond her.
The Anthropologist: "I think my theory is proven. Sucubbi have the mental capacity of small insects. Like some sort of supernatural daddy long legs. Repeatedly flying into torches and lightbulbs."
Sordan: "Except it's not lightblubs."
Pillywiggin: "Basically she's a cock mosquito."

Her gaze flicked over them, almost wondering what this man had been doing...
Pillywiggin: "The gheys have returned!"
Luca: "We should write a book about that. A secret society of the gheys."
The Anthropologist: "They're like bodyguards. But different."

...her mind was drifting in and out of a welter of caution and sexual excitement, and she could make no sense of the things.
The Chronicler: "How could she not know? Doesn't someone have fantasies about that?"
The Anthropologist: "Because she's not a slut."

She came around behind the sleeping man, noting the strong line of his back beneath his simple white tunic and the broad line of his shoulders.
Pillywiggin: "So he's just made of two lines. He may in fact be two dimensional."

Midnight sun!
The Anthropologist: "That's the stupidest swearword."
Big L: "Not as bad as By the Stones!"

You'd think I'd never done this before...
The Loinfire Club drinks again for I'm not a slut!

She shifted from foot to foot, her bare breasts pressed against her thighs as she squatted beside him...
Luca: "That's not physically possible."
Pillywiggin (demonstrating): "No you just need bigger tits. It can be done."

She wanted to touch him so badly, the desire was making her weak and uncoordinated.
Sordan: "So why doesn't she? She's a bloody succubus!"

She looked at the broad expanse and quivered at the thought. She wanted to lay her breasts against him, to wrap her legs around his waist and to feel the total strength of his yearnings through every inch of her naked body. She wanted to melt into him, wanted to become part of him, wanted—
The Balance: "She wanted his hyphen."
The Anthropologist: "We need a new category for all these hyphens and ellipsis."
The Chronicler: "Surely if she's feeling his lust she'd be wanting to find something female to fuck... unless he's gay..."

Do it! she urged herself. Touch him!
No, there is danger.… a softer voice within her said. Think, Samira, something is not right.
The Balance: "Canon schizophrenia."

Energy crackled through her with the force of lightning, slamming into her and blasting her away from the stranger, her hearing deafened by a thunderclap of power even as her mind and senses reeled with a burst of images and emotions, blinding her to the room all around.
Pillywiggin: "I want to be able to lightning bolt demons that touch me."

She bumped against a spike protruding from a beam, the iron making her yowl in pain and sending her tumbling again through the air.
The Balance: "She has a weakness to iron, just revealed. Plot point!"

When she came up against a wooden rafter she clung tightly to it as the images and emotions from the man washed through her: Fury. Despair. Utter, soul-destroying loneliness.
The Chronicler: "If the soul is destroyed then it can't be worth eating."
The Anthropologist: "I'm not sure that's how it works in this system."
Pillywiggin: "The word system implies something that's consistent and functional..."

"Who's there?" he asked harshly, his deep voice bouncing off the stones of the walls. "I know you're here. Come out!" [...] His brows were dark and devilish, with points at the center of their arches.
Big L: "So, horns..."

...a splash of webbed pink that started below his left eye and then poured down the side of his cheek, broadening to the width of a spread hand along his neck and then disappearing into his tunic.
The Anthropologist: "What?!"

Big L: "Are we getting a picture of this man? A triangular forehead. Devilish eyebrows. V-shaped beard. A scar that spills."

The Balance disappears for a moment and returns, producing a multitude of Maltesers.
Pillywiggin: "I'm thrumming..."

In three millennia of being a succubus, she'd seen everything a human body had to offer, as well as a thousand vividly imagined things it did not.
The Anthropologist: "Except burn scars, it would seem."

"I am Nicolae. Who are you?" he asked the shadows.
Pillywiggin: "Perhaps you shouldn't have given it your name."
The Anthropologist: "Perhaps you should look it up in your demonological texts the blurb says you own."

"Or instead of asking who you are, perhaps I should ask what you are?" he asked, a brow lifting.
"I am not a what," Samira muttered, indignant, and then clamped her lips shut. It was stupid of her to make a sound.
Sordan: "Yes. Yes it was."

She saw that his eyes were a warm, clear brown, flecked with yellow, the iris rimmed by a darker brown that was almost black.
Sordan: "Those are shit eyes."
The Anthropologist: "With corn in them."
The Balance: "Turd eyes."
Lady Miriam: "And the black could be blood in stool."

Something small suddenly broke inside her at the question, for it was as if he were interrogating a loathsome beast he'd found hiding under his bed. She was a thing to him.
The Anthropologist: "She's a hateful thing on top of his bed, thank you very much."

The strange sadness that had plagued her for six years welled up once again, and again she wanted to weep like a human, with tears to relieve the ache inside her. [...] For what was she? The Loinfire Club: "You're a demon!"

A defiler of a brother's love. A soulless creature with no heart, and no future other than to look from her lonely vantage into the loves and lusts of others, doomed always to pretend to live and never to feel or grow or change.
The Anthropologist: "You're a romance author!"

The open pages were covered in dense black writing, and in the middle of one was a drawing: a naked female with spread black wings. Before she could make sense of what that might mean...
Big L: "What the fuck? She can't even recognise a picture of her own species!"

Nicolae touched the page with his fingertips, and suddenly Samira felt a powerful jolt of his sexual desire, the same as had drawn her to him in the first place.
(The Chronicler: "Aha! He was summoning her!")

Samira looked quickly at him, and found her gaze met by his own wide-eyed one...
The Anthropologist: "He has a gheys too! So they can be friends."

"Succubus," he said, the word as much a statement as a question.
The Chronicler: "It's not! There's no question mark! I can see the page!"

"Samira!" she said, throwing out her name in frightened defiance. She would not be a thing. [...]In a desperate bid to use his weakness, to gain control, she reached up and rolled one of her pink nipples between thumb and forefinger. His lips parted, and he stared at her moving fingers as if in a trance.
Sordan: "Hypnotic nipples!"
Luca: "They have little spirals painted on them."
The Anthropologist: "The real question is: Is there a sound effect for this?"

She was an individual, not just another demon.
The Anthropologist: "No you're not! You're a succubus!"

"Samira," she said again, firmly this time.
The Chronicler: "She really shouldn't be telling him her True Name."
Sordan: "Maybe it's not her True Name."

Even as the force of his desire ran through her, bringing every inch of her to involuntary, tingling arousal...
(The Chronicler: "Is it just me or does that imply she has a cock?")

She sucked in a breath, going as motionless as he was, her nipple in mid-roll. He'd heard her.
The Anthropologist: "Inexperienced fail!demon!"
The Anthropologist: "Maybe it's like you’re trying to do a coin trick but failing to remember what the next step is and you're embarrassingly stuck..."

...it was her name on his lips that she wanted most.
"Samira," he echoed, granting her wish as if he'd felt her demand.
(The Chronicler: "This is getting ridiculous.")

"Samira."
She swayed toward his outstretched hand and took one step toward him, drawn by her name spoken so irresistibly in his deep, mortal voice.
The Anthropologist: "It was her True Name. 'Tard."

He saw her. He knew her name. He spoke to her.
Sordan: "You told him your name five seconds ago! You 'tard!"
The Anthropologist: "She just has really low self esteem."

His fingertips were inches from her skin. If she took one more step, he'd be able to reach her. She remembered what had happened last time.
Lady Miriam: "She has g-spots all over her body."
The Anthropologist: "He's just realised he's not stupid enough to be attracted to you... or not..."

Inside herself, she felt a faint beat. It was an echo of his own heartbeat, she realized with wonder.
Sordan: "What the fuck?!"
The Balance: "She's hollow, then?"
The Anthropologist: "Am I the only one who thinks that hearts beating in unison should be a third or fourth date sort of thing or am I just conservative here?"

His heart might not beat much longer if he received another jolt such as that, she realized.
The Anthropologist: "I did biology once..."
Big L: "You don't need to have done biology to know repeated lightning jolts..."

Fear, shame, and an unnamed longing—for what? for his attention?—did battle within her.
Big L: "She's just a fail!person. Regardless of being a succubus."

The least she could do was give him a pleasant memory to take into his waking hours.
Sordan: "And raping him in his sleep is the perfect thing to do."
Lady Miriam: "It's not rape. It's surprise pity sex."
Sordan: "I'm not convinced she's more attractive than him. She has clashing hair and eyes."
Lady Miriam: "But he has a scar and a limp."

He was a handsome man, even when unconscious.
The Chronicler: "How does being awake affective attractiveness levels?"
The Anthropologist: "You know, this is the first instance of female on male rape in these books we've encountered."

She was here to give the man a moment of celestial pleasure.
Pillywiggin: "What?! Surely it's demonic."
The Anthropologist: "It's the flaw of the find-and-replace editing out of the sex angels."

She curled her toes in anticipation, reached out, and touched his brow.
The Loinfire Club descends into debate as to whether not the last sentence was alluding to a foot fetish as the chapter closes.