#//shut up muru

[moromuru]

So the Chapter 4 teaser came out the other day, and the new lamb critter gave me an idea (i went feral on it aha :D)

Guess we know why he's mad now

[dellamortethelesser]

Finally going to lore dump about my Laurent Surana. Going to drop the lore underneath the cut but feel free to read and ask me anything about him :3 he’s not completely finished!!

Laurent Surana and his cousin, Rook, are actually alternate POVs that accompany Mahanon in my fic and they travel with him throughout the events of Origins. They join the party after the Kinloch Hold debacle with Wynne.

Rook was from Denerim and was taken in by Templars when she was young (resulting in the death of her elder brother attempting to protect her). Laurent was born and raised in Orlais and hid his magic until he was 12; his parents found out and arranged for Templars to take him right out of his bed. Because they had the money to move him around, they got him transferred across the border to Kinloch Hold so that way he could be together with his cousin.

Laurent and Rook leave with Wynne and become part of the Origins squad; Rook becomes spirit healer and trains under Morrigan, leaning towards entropy. Laurent undertakes the Arcane Warrior specialty. Laurent’s arc with the Origins crew is about disillusionment and the loss of his romanticism …

SHIT OKAY THIS IS A LOT im speeding uip im skipping lore. BRRR so after origins they find and destroy their phylacteries in denerim. rook becomes a warden, laurent does not but travels with them. when mahanon disappears with morrigan through the mirror it sends people into an uproar because uh thats treason. and considering laurent is an apostate and doesn't have the protection of the grey wardens, he bails (which i think in my worldstate so does anders)

time passes, he's still looking for mahanon, remembers Merill from Clan Sabrae and goes to seek her out, which takes him to kirkwall, etc etc. He disguises himself as an Orlesian Knight (which garners attention but not for being a mage, moreso for being an elf. its funny), connects with Merrill and tries to aid her with the mirror, is the one who stumbles upon Seb's quest for vengeance and inadvertently drags Hawke into it, etc etc. His whole bit is that he goes by a pseudonym (Garahel!) and is never completely honest with them (save for Merrill and Anders, the latter of which doesn't like him too much at the end of all things.)

Well, and Sebastian. Re: The Tale of Lohengrin, Laurent swears to answer any question asked of his lover with honesty, but if Sebastian asks him his name, he will have to leave. so uhhh yeah knightly romance hours.

There’s this vibe where he’s like He’s not playing “The Game” as an Orlesian noble who thinks it’s funny and crude and is willing to let their servants and lessers die he’s gambling on this idea that this specific play will work out in his favor … it’s a masque … emotional and literal … it’s… mmm

Basically he’s got the uhh an Orlesian mask and it’s like ITS LITERAL BUT ALSO METAPHORICAL and it’s the .. it’s the fact that Kirkwall, out of any place we see in Thedas, is the great imbalance; there will come a time where he will have to look at Sebastian and come forward with every lie and every hurt because you cannot have a true and honest relationship without those things but the very act of revealing is so discomforting that Laurent feels he has no choice but to leave, removing the agency of his partner in the decision

Anyways ok those are my rough thoughts enjoy the art from my irl breastie and @vahingoniloinenlapsi

[pretty-toastie]

"Monomyth"

The metro is loud. Full of loud people, yes, sometimes, but that’s not what I mean; even when it’s empty, the metro is loud. The trains rumble like there has never been silence—like all of Turku has always just been engine noise, the shriek of metal on metal, the rush of air outside the windows that never quite shut properly.

A young girl sits alone, the entire car empty but for her. No bodies fill the battered seats, no markers scrawl graffitied runes on the plastic seat backs, no hands grip rails that were once painted yellow and have since worn down to the silver metal underneath.

Yes, I know you’ve been on the metro, muru. I know it’s different now. This was a long time ago. Let me tell the story.

The girl leans her head against the window, ignores the way it jostles her skull. Her breath fogs the glass until she isn’t really looking out at the world anymore, and her gaze remains fixed on some distant point purely out of a desire to stay still. She has a coat draped over her shoulders; it’s a large, thick, patchwork thing, all mended elbows and mismatched buttons, too big for her. She clutches it tightly around herself. She isn’t going anywhere specific. She just needs to be somewhere else, somewhere that isn’t where she was.

The lights in the car are off, the illumination glyphs that normally cast the space in a bright white light all either damaged or drained of power. This is not so out of the ordinary, the girl knows. The metro system is in a constant state of disrepair, and it’s not dark in the train car, not by any means: The cool light of a winter sunset filters in through the misty glass. Even so, without the familiar bright glow, the space feels eerie. The girl clutches her coat closer around her.

Don’t be ridiculous, of course this story isn’t about me. I was never a young girl. I came into this world your mumma, old and witchy, and I haven’t changed a bit in the many years since then. No, I don’t have more wrinkles than the last time you were here. Stop interrupting with silly questions. Let me tell the story.

The train reaches a tunnel and the window, until that moment fogged and white and glowing, suddenly drops to a deep black. The girl sits up in surprise, looks around the darkened car, but there is nothing to see. She leans back against the window, waits. The tunnel seems to go on forever, and then just as suddenly as the space had gone dark, the train rushes out the other side, plunging back into light, and the girl has to squint against the sudden brilliance. When her eyes finish adjusting, she is no longer alone. There is someone sitting in the seat next to her.

The girl frowns at the stranger—all these empty seats to choose from, and she had to sit right next to her. She doesn’t try to hide her annoyance, and the stranger smiles apologetically from under the wide brim of her hat.

“The other seats were taken,” she says, and when the girl furrows her brow in confusion, she adds “The haamut—the ghosts? Can you not see them?”

The girl blinks, looks the stranger up and down, her frustration slipping away. Though the stranger is not much older than her, she is dressed as though she stepped out of a history book: a dark cloak and capelet, the material thick and warm looking—maybe wool, the girl thinks. Brightly colored birds and delicate flowers embroidered in careful stitches decorate the stranger’s garb, and an intricate knot of golden cord clasps it shut. She wears an old-fashioned witch’s hat, adorned with orange and green feathers that match her cloak. The girl isn’t certain, but the feathers look fake: maybe conjured, maybe crafted. They lack some subtle detail of life; no living birds gave these feathers, nor did any die for them. I like her, the girl finds herself thinking.

The stranger leans towards her, squints, and the girl cannot help but notice the freckles that dust the stranger’s cheekbones, the small mole under her left eye. The jagged edge of her bob, as though she cut her hair herself. Her lips.

“I’ll take that as a no,” the stranger says and the girl jumps slightly, and then the stranger asks “Would you like to be able to?”

“What?” the girl asks, trying to brush her distraction aside.

“See the ghosts.”

“The ghosts?”

The stranger laughs, a bright, joyful sound.

“Aren’t you quick?” she teases, and then more gently, “I asked if you wanted to be able to see the ghosts.” After a pause, she adds “It doesn’t much matter if you can’t—they don’t mind sharing space—but they do love it when someone stops and notices them.”

“Yes,” the girl says, and she thinks she might have said yes to anything the stranger asked—but no, she chides herself, she’s smarter than that. She’s not so reckless.

The stranger reaches out and cups the girl’s face in her hands, presses her thumbs gently into the bones beneath her eyes, and the girl forgets how to breathe.

“What–,” she starts, but the stranger says “Shh,” and then she says something in a language that feels like the sound of buzzing flies, that makes the girl’s bones ache—and then everything is too bright, everything is pitch dark, everything is hot and cold and sharp, and the girl has to squeeze her eyes shut. She jerks away from the stranger’s touch, presses a hand to her temple.

“Shit–,” she manages, “what did you do? Why– jumalat, why does it hurt so much??” She fights to keep the rising edge of panic out of her voice.

“Open your eyes,” is all the stranger says.

People fill the metro car, bodies of all shapes and sizes packed together. Tiny keiju perch on the rails that run along the ceiling, and a pair of looming peikko stand in the aisle. All of them are translucent, wispy. The girl cannot make out the features of their faces. An unseen breeze tears at the edges of their forms as though they might dissolve, might be pulled apart at any moment. The faint, distorted sound of laughter and conversation reaches the girl’s ears.

She sees too, though, other things. Some of the messily drawn charms and glyphs that graffiti the seat backs glimmer faintly. Outside, the conduit lines glow. The stranger’s cloak shines faintly. An ethereal form, feline—a house cat, the girl realises—lifts itself from its place on the stranger’s shoulders, and leaps gracefully into the girl’s lap, and when it rubs up against her she can almost feel it.

She looks back to the stranger. “That was Väinämöisen kieli, wasn’t it?” she demands, and when the stranger, startled, manages a nod, the girl grabs her hands, leans in, eyes shining with excitement.

“Teach me,” she says.

———

It is pouring rain, and the girl stands out in it with someone who is no longer a stranger—someone who is now a friend. They have shared their names with each other, now.

What their names are isn’t important. Now, hush– Well of course I know their names, but that’s not the point of the story. What did I tell you about silly questions? Just listen.

As I was saying. The girl’s friend looks up into the rain, and she says something in a language that feels like the sound of cracking bones, that makes the girl’s eyes sting—and then the rain that falls towards her friend slopes away, as though rolling off some invisible surface. She grins at the girl, and the girl smiles back, tries to mimic the sounds, piece together the words she’s learned.

It takes a couple tries, and then there is fire rushing in her veins and her skin feels tight, and the rain above her does not reach her. It pools above her, though, doesn’t run off properly, and then after a minute the girl looks over at her friend and her concentration slips and the puddle of rainwater falls all at once, drenching her to the bone.

There is silence for a moment as she stands there, her dripping hair hanging over her face, and then her friend starts laughing and she is laughing too, and they both stand there in the downpour, laughing until they run out of breath.

———

They are on the metro again. They aren’t going anywhere specific, but they’re going there together, the girl and her friend. They sit next to each other, and the girl plays with a cat named Fish that has used up each of its lives but lingers still to knock crystals and bottles and books off of shelves in her cramped apartment every time her friend visits.

When the doors of the train car rattle open with the tinny ding of the many small bells that hang from them, the girl and her friend leave together on a whim. The girl catches her friend’s hand in her own as they walk, and her friend says nothing, just smiles and bumps her shoulder lightly into the girl’s.

When they pass a vendor on the street with a stall full of fresh fruit, the girl says something in a language that feels like the sound of stone grinding against stone, that makes her spine crawl—and then the vendor’s eyes pass over them without seeing, and she grabs a handful of fruit, a luumu and a fistful of mustikoita, as much as she can hold, and she and her friend run off, giggling, hearts pounding with the fear of being caught until they are safely around a corner, leaning against an alley wall, breathless and grinning.

When the light begins fading from the sky and the streets of the market are crowded with people and lit by hundreds of lanterns, glyphs scrawled on their paper shells, the girl and her friend explore another layer of it all. Fish leads them to it when he darts away to chase a ghostly rat: a spectral market superimposed over the corporeal one. They wander among ethereal stalls, watch haamut of every shape and size bustle about, so full of life even in death.

When the night is dark and the stars burn far above and they are walking back through the crowded streets and the market towards the train station, still hand in hand, the girl’s friend slows her steps. She stops to look at every stall and then ignores the wares, looks only at the girl.

When they stand at the edge of the platform, lit by the moon and stars and the glowing runes scribed into posts that illuminate the station, the girl’s friend reaches out and touches her chin, and then they are looking at each other like no one else exists and the world fades away around them.

When they kiss, it tastes like stolen fruit.

———

Another day, another time, the girl stays in the small building on the outskirts of the city that is full of translucent animals and drying herbs and pieces of half-used parchment, covered in symbols. The girl recognises most of them. She has been teaching her lover her city’s magic, symbolic and written and strict, just as her lover has been teaching her Väinämöisen’s tongue with all its ill defined phrases and shifting meanings.

When night falls, the girl learns that her lover’s body, too, is covered with symbols—glyphs and sigils, charms and runes and characters. They weave in complex patterns over her skin, twist into delicate shapes. The girl runs her fingers over them, traces every line of ink.

———

Years have passed, and the woman who was once a girl stands next to someone who was once a stranger, long long ago—someone who is now her wife.

———

And that’s it. That’s the story. No, it doesn’t end there, not quite, but the rest hasn’t happened yet. Yes, I will tell you once it has. No, I won’t tell you another story tonight. One is plenty. Now go to bed, muru, or I’ll turn your pillows to stone.

[bluesidra]

The Gang as NPCs:

Emanuel: Get him on board if you need the efficiency of the Efficient Commissioner, but don't like her ties to the Bazaar. Infernal and emancipatory leanings, is easily impressed by authority. If Feducci is on the Board, the two of them might spontaneously get into violent arguments. The Bishop of Southwark won't be eligible as a Board member while Emanuel is on it and vice versa.

Ophelia: Only here because of obligation. Has a weird mix of leanings with no clear agenda, but also an extensive network of friends who can make things possible. Will continuously chatter with Palace figures during meetings and pay even less attention.

Muru: Very opinionated, but a capable Crimson Engineer (and bombmaker) who will solve engineering issues one way or another. Will probably advance the Liberation of Night during board meetings, and grill you on matters of hierarchical violence for the most benign questions. Can easily be confused with paperwork.

My Railway HC:

Emanuel got roped into this thing by Feducci and they run it in tandem. Feducci is the one with the ideas and drive, Emanuel is the one who handles paperwork, procurement and auditing. They clash on most things, except for solving their difference with violence, so any Board-Meeting has the potential to end in a destructive redecorating of the Boardroom. He runs, to everyone's surprise, his workforce with a huge amount of respect and supports emancipatory efforts. He never states why.

Ophelia took over Emanuel's place on the GHR Board after he "vanished." She's a lot more conservative, but continues the emancipatory and infernal leaning in Emanuel's memory. Since she's taken over the board, the meetings have become a lot more boring, the paperwork a lot more lax and there is overall less passion in the project. At one point, when public interest in the Railway has tapered out, she unofficially handed over the reigns to her friend Muru. She keeps her position as public facing Head of the Board, while signing off any decisions made by the shadow cabinet. Why she did this is yet unknown, as is why she chose to collaborate with a ardent LoN-supporter despite her ties to the Judgements.

Muru has basically forced the Calendar Council into a regular meeting, while running a railway on the side. They're the decision-makers behind Ophelia's puppet court. In principle, he doesn't care about railways and thinks of them as a tool of oppression, but if you give him a locomotive, his eyes will glaze over with tech-enthusiasm. Then, he's shut up for a while while he plays with his new toy. He is terrible with any sort of bureaucracy or paperwork, so if faced with it, he'll eventually agree to anything just to get out of this boredom. If promised the involvement of bombs, he is a lot more likely to agree. While any constellation of the Calendar Council is hard to herd, the Jovial Contrarian is mainly here to tutor his eventual successor, which makes the meeting way less of a headache than they could be. The Bishop of St Fiacre's and the Dean of Xenotheology are usually calling in sick for the meetings.

Railway players, what would OCs be like in the board room? Whose interests would they be for and against? Would they be ripe for bribery, or would they be swayed with obfuscation or Respectability? Would they have any unique interactions with other members of the board?

Betty would be very disinterested in the board, but would feel obliged to come along because of the players' acquaintance with her. She would mostly be for Urchin, Labour and Revolutionary interests, voting in favour of a charity charter and basic necessities like benches and access in the train cart. Anything promoting Hell or Society would be an instantenous challenge for her.

Betty would be easily swayed with obfuscation, taking it at face value after a moment of uneasy consideration. No amount of respect would get her to agree with you; it might have the opposite effect.

If she is on the same board as Sinning Jenny, she might be seen whispering to her and engaging in an entirely unrelated conversation. With the Contrarian, she sends him a death stare if he comments after being unconvinced. With the Commissioner, the two might share a knowing glance if both of them agree on a matter brought forth.

[happer08]

rakastan sua

as promised! i used google translate so please be kind also translations are at the end 

"Why are you hiding -muru?" Mikko hummed from where he pressed his thighs to the bed he had just laid you on. His big soft hands pushed up under your shirt, his finger rubbing ghostly circles over your heated skin. "You’re handsome," your voice was high and desperate-sounding. Mikko, honest to god, chuckled, looking over your laid-out figure like you were a meal, and he was a starving man. His hands slid further up your body till his fingers pushed against your lacy bra, one of Mikkos' favorites. His breath hitched when he realized what he touched; his lust-wide eyes fluttered shut before opening again slowly. His too pink tongue darted over his bottom lip, more of his body leaning over you. "On purpose?" he muttered, low and heavily accented. "Always," you breathed. He muttered something in Finnish, laying his body down on you more, leaving you some breathing room before pressing his lips down to yours, wet and hot. Mikkos kisses were always intense, a wet slide that never seemed to end but had a zip of electricity. He bit gently at first, then a little harder, a heavy moan escaping your mouth, pushing right into his. Mikko swallowed the sound moving your legs around him, grinding down on you, heavy, hot and dirty. You could feel him hard in his too-tight pants grinding into you, a familiar throb overtook you, and you moaned, chasing the filth grind of his hips. "I-" You pulled your lips away; Mikko found purchase on your neck, his teeth dragging on your skin as his hands had a solid grip on your sides just under your ribs.

  You tried to speak again; as you opened your mouth Mikko pushed against you again, his, what had to be painfully hard, cock pressed against your jeans, and instead of words, an incoherent moan left your mouth. Dragging your hands up Mikkos' back and over his shoulders, you threaded your fingers into his hair. "Mi-Mikko, please," You pleaded as the assault on your neck and collarbones continued. “ puhu minulle (talk to me)” "I need you." Mikko pulled back, an almost sleazy smile pulling over his lips. Usually, Mikko would take his time, undress you, worship you, and pull you apart just to put you back together by the end. But tonight was different. You both undressed quickly, your clothes landing in various corners of the room even though it felt like his hands never left your skin. Mikkos' bare chest pushed into yours as he laid back on top of you, though now you were both naked. You wrapped your legs around him, and he slowly and gently guided himself inside you. His massive frame shook above you as he buried his face in your neck for a moment till he was settled; a slow-burning stretch came along with him, pushing deeper. It took your breath away despite the years you'd spent together. You both took a moment, enjoying the feeling of each other and attempting to settle the overwhelming feeling bubbling inside your chest. "Not gonna last long," Mikko mumbled; he'd been hard and ready to go since the car ride. "Just fuck me, please," You pleaded, nails digging crescents into his back. It started with a slow drag. His body was shaking as you wanted to keep him inside you. He cursed in Finnish, pushing back in, somehow finding deeper spots inside you before starting to fuck into you in earnest. His hand slide over the bedding, finding and lacing your fingers, kissing you, a distraction from the eruption bubbling inside you both. "Go with me?" Mikko pulled back enough to ask the question into your mouth. The only answer you could muster was a high whine. "That's it; cmon," Mikko praised, nosing at your jaw, drawing your impending orgasm out of you with ease. You and Mikko came with similar low-pitched whines shaking and grabbing onto each other. He stopped moving, feeling you squirming under him from overstimulation, and rested his weight on top of you, mouthing wetly at your neck. The warm sensation of him filling you made you feel like a completed puzzle. "Gotta clean up," you yawned, rubbing up and down his back, his skin soft and warm to the touch. "Hmm," Mikko hummed into your neck between licks to your skin. Mikko decided it was best to carry you to the shower and join you once the water was at the right temperature. He tucked you into his chest, carefully not suffocating you while running a soothing hand up your back. “rakastan sua”

[ertrunkenerwassergeist]

Wow! That was fast! You’re spoiling us! Poor Nyx. This was an interesting demonstration of what he knows and doesn’t know. They have a lot to learn from each other! I’m glad Libertus and Crowe got out and Pelna found them in time. Murus’ defense was spirited (no pun intended), but the power of the Elders was impressive. Thanks for this very interesting chapter! I really love this verse! (I hope they snap out of it soon. *chewing on knuckles*)

I feel like I'm on a roll. XD

And I have more time again after renovating and the move, so there's that.

Yes! Nyx knows some things instinctively and some other things he learned by picking up facts here and there when he was at the fihrie market. But there are many things he never learned because there was no one really willing to teach him.

Crowe has a naturally high resistance to all kinds of magic, so she was able to get herself and Libertus out, before the effects took hold on her.

And Murus. That guy has a temper. Like most Ostiums do. XD

Elders and Storytellers are both very respected in Galahdian society. The least you can do is hear them out. And an Elder Storyteller gets double the respect. Istoria gets even more extra points, because at this point she is the oldest Storyteller currently alive.

So when she talks, people shut up and listen.

Storytellers are a very integral part of Galahdian society since they're the guardians of their history.

[krypteretnetwork]

Camp NanoWrimo April 2021: Day 15

Word count: 610 (14777 total)

    “SHUT UP!” screamed the micronation, hugging herself tightly as she retreated to herself, crouching down a bit. “God, I just… I can’t with you anymore!” as she yelled, she could feel her heart beating faster; pulling forward and pushing back.

    “All I want to know is why you are doing this,” said the Swede, his tone rather firm. He was clearly upset with her, but for what, Alleos didn’t know. She’d only been defending herself. Standing in the doorway was Ladonia, smug as all hell. He couldn’t help but snicker a bit, which only riled up Alleos even further.

    “GET HIM OUT OF HERE!” she yelled, the all too familiar feeling of frustrated tears welling up in her eyes once more. “He’s why I act like this! It’s him! And the fact you pay him more attention and just- blatantly favorite him!”

    Upon hearing this, Sweden was surprised. “Alleos, I-”

    “Don’t say another word!” she snapped right back at him, staring up to him as tears began to roll down her face. “You… you…” Within seconds, she found herself standing at her full height. She was breathing rather heavily; she was enraged, and it showed. “I cannot believe you…! You are really narrow minded, you know that?! You can’t seem to let go of shit that’s happened, like, forever ago! And- again, you- you favor that little motherfucker in the doorway!” Just as Sweden was about to speak up again, she cut him off. “Don’t you dare!”

    She found herself getting closer to him, her entire body tense as she was ready to strike at any moment. “Don’t say a thing against it, because it’s true…! You never, ever fucking listen to me! Instead, you’re always jumping to his defense! Some pathetic father you are, huh?! Would you just prefer it if I offed Alleos in whole?!”

    As she yelled at and approached him, Sweden stood there, silent as ever. Yet, towards the end of her rant, his mouth was slightly agape. Glancing back over to the doorway, he gave Ladonia a look that immediately ushered the boy away. Kneeling down, he tried to comfort Alleos, only to be pushed away rather harshly.

    At that very moment, it seemed, she stopped crying. “I don’t care. You should have thought sooner. Get out.”

…

    Once more, as Alleos came out of the… vision, or whatever it could be classified as, she seemed upset. For her, it was completely reasonable, yet in the eyes of the other two…

    “Yeah… that’s just been… happening, almost ever since the accident…” murmured the Finn as he sat next to his friend on the couch. Clearly flustered, Alleos moved over to the armchair and sat down. Sweden on the other hand found himself staring rather intensely. What on earth was that just now?

    “It’s fine…!” she tried to assure them, wiping her eyes with her hand. “A-anyways, uhm… I kind of want to do something… I’m not so sure what, though… I’d just like to get out.”

    With a troubled smile, Finland nodded. “Well… we can sort something out, for sure, muru.” He hoped being able to take her mind off of things further would maybe, just maybe, help her feel a bit better.

    “Aren’t there some parks?” inquired Sweden, who found himself continuing to give the micronation a bit of a look.

    Alleos smiled in a desperate attempt to redeem herself. “We could bring Kukkamuna on a scenic walk…”

    Finland nodded with enthusiastic agreement. “That sounds lovely! Oh, it is supposed to snow within the next few days as well… I wonder if the ponds will be frozen over enough to go ice skating on…”

[mst3kproject]

508: Operation Double 007

I would have no idea Sean Connery had a brother were it not for this film.  Apparently Neil spent most of his life working as a plasterer and was only in three or four movies, most of them attempting to capitalize on his relationship with Sean.  This one’s a stellar example, as its other two titles are OK Connery and Operation Kid Brother.  Yep, they’ve got Sean Connery’s brother, and that’s all they’ve got.

Dr. Neil Connery (yeah, they didn’t even bother) is a renowned plastic surgeon and hypnotist, who also happens to be the brother of an important secret agent.  When one of his patients is kidnapped and her fiancé murdered, the government turns to him to find out what’s going on.  A trail of clues leads to the evil organization Thanatos (like Thanos, but with weak chins instead of weird ones), who have a fiendishly convoluted plan to control the world’s gold reserves.  Is Neil up to the levels of drinking, smoking, and seducing that this mission will require?  Or will they be forced to call in a real secret agent instead?

I’d never seen this episode for some reason, so the first time I ever watched the movie was just now, and I gotta say, they missed an opportunity, big-time.  It seemed perfectly obvious to me that the way to defeat a device that shuts down anything made of metal is using a plastic explosive.  The archery thing is kind of cool I guess but if they were trying to make a comedy they really dropped the ball there.

Were they trying to make a comedy, though?  I honestly can’t tell.  If you were to tell somebody they’re going to watch a movie about a super-spy’s non-spy little brother having to save the world while the spy brother is out of town, they would probably assume that’s a comedy, but Operation Double 007 never bothers to make any jokes.  It presents us with a series of tropes that seem designed to be made fun of, but never does so, and therefore comes across not just as one missed opportunity, but a series of them.

For example, consider the villain, Mr. Thayer.  All his employees, from secretaries to sailors to the girl whose back he projects movies on (?!), are beautiful women.  In The Million Eyes of Su-Muru, they had a running joke about how all these women had become so sexually frustrated that they threw themselves at whatever men they saw. It was a stupid, sexist, heteronormative, unfunny joke, but the attempt was made.  Operation Double 007 never even tries that.  The women are just there – Thayer keeps them more or less as decorations, and their only function on screen is to decorate the movie.

Similarly with Connery’s character.  You would expect that the non-spy drawn into the spying world would be out of his depth, and that this could be mined for comedy.  In particular, you’d probably think of him having some kind of job you wouldn’t expect to be useful in spying, only to have a situation arise where the world can be saved by driving a forklift or cooking a meal or some other utterly ordinary skill.  Instead, Connery is a surgeon, hypnotist, lip-reader, and championship archer, a set of quite extraordinary skills that sometimes put him a step ahead of the actual spies.

Another way you could go would be to make the brother’s personality defy the spy movie stereotypes, perhaps having him be a nerdy teetotaler who is awkward with women.  The title Operation Kid Brother suggests we may be watching somebody much younger than the spy, who doesn’t have the kind of worldly experience needed for the role.  Operation Double 007 doesn’t do that either. Connery can smoke and smooch with the best of them.  The only difference between his character here and the standard James Bond type seems to be his beard, which is pointed out and then forgotten about.  Another potential source of comedy lost.

Finally, you can do like Austin Powers and just dial all the stereotypes up to eleven, to the point where it all becomes a farce.  Some of the references in Operation Double 007 make it sound like they were heading this way, as when the blonde tells Connery “you read too many novels by Fleming”, but it never really gets there.  This is at least partly because the Bond movies sometimes get so ridiculous they become this kind of parody all by themselves (see Brosnan’s entire run). Thanatos’ plan to blackmail the world by shutting down all machines with a nuclear-powered super-magnet isn’t any sillier than Goldfinger wanting to irradiate Fort Knox.

The only moment when I actually laughed at the movie rather than at Joel, Crow, and Servo was when they announced that Thanatos was planning to steal an atomic nucleus and everybody acts like this is shocking and terrible.  What’s so bad about stealing an atomic nucleus?  I’ve stolen atomic nuclei.  Every time I take home a paperclip from work I am stealing billions of atomic nuclei. If you’re going to technobabble, you have to make sure you’re not using words that actually mean something.

With all possible fonts of humour thus firmly stopped up, all we’re left with is a slightly sci-fi-ish spy movie that makes a big deal out of the fact that it stars Sean Connery’s brother.  Since it never makes a joke, we have to try to take it seriously, and when you try to take it seriously, it’s still not very good.

For one thing, for all the fuss it makes about its star, Operation Double 007 makes it really difficult to tell if Neil Connery has any talent as an actor.  It doesn’t ask him to show much emotion or portray a character grappling with difficult decisions, just to run around and punch things and sometimes glare at people he’s supposedly ‘hypnotizing’.  We don’t even get to hear his voice, as it’s dubbed over by some American.  Apparently this was because Connery himself was ill when the time came for ADR. I kind of wonder if maybe his line reads were just that bad, but as I’ve never seen any of his other movies I can’t make that judgment.  The other actors all look bored.  They’re being paid to be here so they showed up, but they’re not putting in any more effort than they absolutely have to.

By this point in my blogging career you guys are probably expecting me to get mad about the way women are treated in this movie, but for the most part it doesn’t bug me.  They're largely portrayed as competent and skilled on both sides – the nun is an expert infiltrator, Miss Maxwell a good shot, the blonde has skills ranging from sailing to hand-to-hand fighting to horseback riding, and so forth.  The only place where it really makes me mad is the way the story uses Yasuko.  She’s introduced to us as a burn victim who was going to marry the last spy who was looking into Thanatos and their magnet thing.  We meet her as Connery announces that he has successfully healed her face, so she still has value and her boyfriend won’t have to marry an ugly girl.

That’s just backstory, though.  Yasuko’s actual function within the story is basically as a file folder. Her boyfriend hypnotized her and implanted some secrets in her brain, then made her forget she knows them – only Connery, by hypnotizing her again, can extract the vital information.  In other movies this role could be filled by a suitcase, a tape, a flash drive, whatever you like.  Operation Double 007 uses a human being, who goes on to be kidnapped, tortured, and eventually killed over something she consciously knows nothing about.  We have no idea if she consented to this, and none of the other characters seem to give two shits about her life or death on any other level. She never even gets to find out her boyfriend is dead.

You know, a much more interesting movie could have been made with Yasuko as the hero.  Learning her fiancé is dead and knowing he told her a secret but not what the secret is, she could set out to take revenge on his killers and find out what was worth dying for.  Sadly, that movie wouldn’t have been a feeble attempt at a starmaking vehicle for some famous guy’s brother, so nobody wanted to make it.

The way hypnosis is used in Operation Double 007 is both ridiculous and troubling.  Ridiculous because Connery seems able to hypnotize people just by staring at them really hard.  Troubling because he is able to strip them of any resistance to his will and command them at a distance, as he does the one mook who suddenly turns around and punches his comrades.  It’s particularly creepy the way he uses it on the man he was supposed to operate on, who is subsequently killed when he charges Thayer to facilitate Connery’s escape. Connery is supposed to be a doctor, somebody who is devoted to improving and saving lives.  Shouldn’t sending a guy to his death give him some of those moral qualms the movie never asks him to portray?  I guess not.

Why didn’t they make this a comedy? When your entire premise is we’ve got Sean Connery’s little brother in our spy movie that would seem to be the way to go.  Sadly, they studiously avoided every possible opportunity to be funny and left us with a film that’s just kind of bland and lifeless, with no clear goal. Some movies needed a re-write, but this one needed a re-imagining from the ground up.

[ti-bae-rius]

Alec as Consul - oneshot

From the headcanon of @sweetcabbageprince that I answered a week or so ago. It was so fun writing this and I adore writing the malec family dynamic. I haven’t written any malec in a while - though they used to be my main muses. It’s nice writing them again. I’ve missed it. 

“Chin up, darling.”

Alec sighed and smoothed his jacket. It was so strange, Magnus thought, to see Alec in a suit. Objectively, the blazer looked far better than his usual ratty sweaters. However, it did mean he lost a little Alec-ness that Magnus missed. But he looked formal and his hair was neat. Well, mostly neat. 

“Come here,” Magnus said, shaking his head fondly and smoothing down the cowlick at the back of his boyfriend’s head. “There.” He put a hand under Alec’s chin gently. “Hey, it’s going to be okay,” he whispered and Alec looked up at him.

“They’re going to hate me,” Alec replied and Magnus looked uneasy.

He couldn’t deny it. The Cohort were going to throw a fit. The amount of fuss they’d kicked up when Jace voted Alec forward for Consul had shut down the meeting for the rest of the day.  Now that he was actually up for election, there was going to be a whole world of chaos for their family. For a long time, the two of them had discussed whether or not Alec should run. Magnus had always said he thought Alec should do it, but he’d listened to Alec’s 2 a.m. monologues about all the problems with it regardless. He was mostly terrified it would expose the children to scrutiny. (’Like their lives haven’t been hard enough, Magnus’). They were just children, Alec argued. They didn’t deserve to be put under the Clave’s microscope just because Alec was selfish enough to want to run for Consul. He’d eventually been convinced to at least attend the meeting by a strong barrage of arguments from his friends that, if he refused to stand, they’d end up with another Cohort member in leadership. That settled it. The past month with Horace Dearborn in the role of Inquisitor, had been pure hell on earth. Max and Rafael had been kept firmly away from Idris. As much as Magnus and Alec wanted to help everyone in Alicante, they were obviously far more dedicated to their children. The couple had lived in permanent fear since adopting their sons that the Clave would force them apart. When Jia Penhallow and Alec’s father had been in charge, that fear was less of a reality and more a nervous parental worry. Now, with Horace Dearborn and his sycophants, all harbouring views that vilified the couple, the fear their children might be taken away felt more and more rational by the day. 

Magnus never would’ve expected he’d become a family-oriented man, but here he was. His apartment which had once been the notorious hub of New York’s party scene was now decorated not in half-empty liquor bottles and glitter but in toys and books with the thick cardboard pages with bright, round writing. 

“Maybe they will,” Magnus said softly, pressing his lips to Alec’s cheek briefly. “You’ll still have two sons who adore you. And you’ll still have me.”

Alec smiled a little, the air behind Magnus’s words stirring his hair. “Well, that does sound good,” he murmured. “I’d better go. I wish you could come with me,” Alec added, and in that moment he sounded for all the world like the 18 year old boy Magnus had first met, insecure and nervous and shy.

“I can try and arrange for someone to look after the boys,” Magnus offered but Alec shook his head, his resolve firmly set again. All trace of vulnerability left his face. Well, all that anyone else might see. Magnus could still see the waves of self-doubt swimming in Alec’s blue eyes. 

“It won’t be as bad as I expect,” Alec said, injecting fake confidence into his voice. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Magnus lingered in the doorway as Alec went into the boys’ bedroom, kissing each of his sons in turn on their foreheads. Max started fussing as Alec pulled back and Magnus swooped in to pick the boy up. He gave Alec one last smile as he left and sat down on the carpet beside Rafael, joining in their pretend game. He hoped Alec was right, that it wouldn’t be as bad as they were predicting. The swan dive his stomach took as soon as the door closed made him think otherwise. 

As soon as the front door opened that night, Magnus knew something was wrong. There was a tension in Alec’s stance that put him immediately on guard. He didn’t say a word before heading to the bedroom. 

“One second, mi lindo,” Magnus said to Rafael who gave his father an imploring look as he put down the book they’d been reading together. Magnus knocked the back of his hand gently against the wood of the bedroom door. 

“Give me a minute,” Alec said tightly. Magnus pushed the door open in response. “I said give me a minute,” Alec repeated tersely. 

He was sat on the bed, tie in his hands and shirt collar askew. He held up a hand when Magnus began to ask if he was okay, which Magnus took carefully and lowered onto his knee as he sat beside his boyfriend. The Lightwood ring gleamed on his hand and Magnus stroked a thumb over the signet softly. 

“What’s wrong?” Magnus asked and Alec put his head against the other man’s shoulder in defeat.

“I won. I’m the new Consul.”

“Alec!” Magnus exclaimed. “That’s amazing!” When Alec didn’t say anything, he looked across in confusion. “Isn’t it? What’s up?”

“They hate me.”

“What happened?”

“There was a picket line, Magnus,” Alec said, voice strained. “I had to cross a picket line to get to my own meeting.”

“A picket...?” Magnus trailed off, shocked into a rare moment of silence. 

“Some of the signs...” Alec looked broken. “Some of the signs were awful. They weren’t just angry with me, they were protesting against you and the kids and gay shadowhunters and mixed Nephilim-Downworlder families and...”

“The Cohort are assholes.”

“Some of them weren’t even Cohort members,” Alec replied. “Some were just normal shadowhunters who don’t like us. I feel like...like I’m doing more damage than good. I’ve never seen protests like this over a Consul election. Before now, maybe those complaints were still there, but they weren’t voiced so publicly. Having me in charge is just adding fuel to the fire, giving them a platform to spread their hate. The stuff on those signs...” Alec swallowed hard. “It honestly made me feel sick. I guess I’d kind of tried to forget that people actually still thought like that. I thought it was better now. I can't just think about myself anymore. There are young gay shadowhunters to consider. If I’d seen those kind of riots when I was still in the closet, I don’t know if I’d have ever come out.”

“But think how much it would’ve meant to you to see a shadowhunter in power who was like you,” Magnus said, tugging on Alec’s arm. His eyes were gleaming with earnest. “And not just any shadowhunter, but the Consul, the highest Clave member. Think how much that would’ve meant. You said it couldn’t be all about you, and you’re right. You have to do this for the kids like you, the adults like you. Besides, think what it would mean to the Downworld. Which shadowhunter would understand them better than you? Not only are you dating an infamous warlock -” At that, Alec cracked a smile and squeezed Magnus’s hand. “- and you have a warlock son but you know what it’s like to be ostracized by the Clave. You know what it’s like to be treated differently for who you are, for something you can’t change. You already founded the shadowhunter-downworlder alliance. And, not to brag, I do have a certain amount of clout in the Downworld.”

Alec brought their hands to his lips and kissed Magnus’s knuckles. “Thank you.”

“What’s next?” Magnus asked.

“There’s an inauguration dinner together and then I move into my new office in the Gard on Monday.”

“Do you happen to have a plus-one?” Magnus asked, and Alec looked uncertain. 

“I do. But I don't know whether it’s wise.”

“Alec, darling, I don’t want to panic you, but I think they all know you have a boyfriend,” Magnus whispered jokingly. “I think you can come out now.”

Alec shoved him gently in the shoulder. “I just meant that it might make things worse. Besides, I don’t want them to say anything to you.”

“I’m a big warlock, Alec. I can handle it,” he said, kissing him gently. 

“Papa!”

They exchanged a look and Magnus stood up. “Coming, muru!” he called. 

The handle of the bedroom door turned and Rafael’s face peeked into the room, his hand clutching Max’s, pulling his little brother along impatiently. Alec bent down and Rafael dropped Max’s hand to run into Alec’s outstretched arms. Max toddled over, not wanting to be left out.

“How are you?” Alec asked, burying his face in Rafael’s black hair and kissing the boy’s head. “Have you eaten yet?”

“Nope. We were waiting for you,” Magnus said, and Rafael scrambled up onto the bed and into Magnus’s lap. Max barrelled forward into Alec’s chest enthusiastically and Alec carefully untangled a ringlet of blue hair from where it was caught on his son’s budding horns. They were coming through. It was like teething again but without the resources of ten Google pages of parenting blogs to consult for advice. 

“Well, let’s go get dinner. This little blueberry looks hungry,” Alec said, and hitched Max onto his hip. “Let’s see what we have, Max.”

Magnus watched him go, their son on his arm, and pulled Rafael closer. Maybe some bigoted shadowhunters thought their family was wrong. Who could argue that their family - their beautiful children, his boyfriend who sung lullabies vaguely out of tune, the way Rafael’s hand curled around his thumb - was anything less than any other family? Who out there was protesting against the families who threw out their downworlder children? Who was protesting Horace Dearborn forcing his warped ideals onto his daughter, Zara? No one.

“Papa?”

Magnus looked down at Rafael and smiled. “Come on, let’s go and see what Dad and Max are doing.”

“Do you really think we can bring the kids to Idris?” 

Magnus rolled over and looked at Alec, laid flat on his back, hands resting on his stomach over the bed covers. 

“I don’t see why not. The dinner tonight was okay, minus some passive aggressive commentary from a Cohort members. Besides, I doubt anyone will really be there tomorrow. You’re just moving into the office, right?”

“I guess that’s true,” Alec said, and turned to look at Magnus. “Am I being crazy?”

“No more than usual.”

Alec shoved him in the shoulder, laughing quietly. “Shut up! I’m just worried. I don’t want the kids to get caught up in this. I don’t want to drag them into this mess. I don’t even want to drag you into it, but I don’t think I have a choice in that one.” He smiled and Magnus nodded. 

“You’re right. There’s nothing I love more.” Magnus pulled Alec toward him and rolled over, his back flush to Alec’s bare chest. “Mmm,” he said sleepily. “We’re coming with you, Alexander - all of us. I’m proud of you, darling. I’m not going to be scared away by some Clave assholes. They’re going to have to raise hell to drive us apart.”

“That didn’t work so well last time we went to hell,” Alec teased, kissing along Magnus’s neck gently. The warlock gave a mumble of pleasure and leaned back into Alec’s arms.

“Exactly. So Horace Dearboring isn’t going to have a chance,” Magnus said, wrapping his feet around Alec’s ankles. “Sleep, love. We need to be up early.”

“Can’t you distract me instead?” Alec asked and Magnus rolled over, eyes glinting. 

“And suddenly I’m awake.”

Alec laughed.

“So, how would you propose I distract you, Consul Lightwood?”

Alec grinned. “I’ll leave that up to you.”

“Say no more.”

“I’m exhausted.”

“Yeah? And whose fault is that?” Magnus laughed, scrambling eggs.

“Well, I mean, technically yours,” Alec said, kissing his boyfriend’s cheek from over the warlock’s shoulder. “I’m going to go get the kids ready.”

Magnus watched Alec go, watched his shoulders move under the light grey t-shirt he slept in. When he’d made his breakfast, Magnus took the bowl into the boys’ room where Alec was simultaneously trying to stop Rafael getting toys out to play right before they left and wrestle Max’s feet into light-up sneakers.

“Why are you fighting me? You like these shoes,” Alec said in exasperation. “Rafey, no toys now. We’re setting off soon.” He glanced up at Magnus and sighed. “Oh well, I’m glad you got your eggs.”

“They’re great,” Magnus teased. “I’d go as far as to say they’re even better than reasoning with a three year old - and everyone knows that’s my favourite pastime.” 

Alec rolled his eyes fondly and turned to Rafael and Max. “Okay, both of you come here. I need you to listen really hard.” When he’d managed to get both boys sat on Rafael’s bed, he bent down in front of them. “I need you to stay close to Papa when we’re in Idris. If you can’t see Dad or Papa, stay exactly where you are and we will come and find you. Don’t talk to anyone you don’t recognise. We’re going to use our very best manners. And if anyone asks who you are, you are Magnus Bane and Alec Lightwood’s sons, okay?” The boys nodded solemnly and Alec smiled. “No, no, don’t be nervous. It’s fine. Dad’s just worrying. It’s all going to be just fine.”

He straightened up and picked Max up to carry him through the portal. Magnus took Rafael’s hand and squeezed it comfortingly. Well, it was now or never. He pulled Rafael gently after him through the portal and into the whirling abyss. 

The portal spat them out at the base of the hill on which the Gard sat. Max wriggled to be put down and Alec placed him gently on the grass, compliant. 

“Race!” Max declared and set off running, Rafael a beat behind, though he easily overtook his little brother. When he dramatically slowed, Magnus raised his voice.

“No slowing charms, Max! No using magic on your brother!” he called and Max stopped and reluctantly reversed spell on his brother.

Rafael scowled and sprinted after Max, who was now motivated both by the prospect of winning and a desire not to be wrestled to the ground by his older brother. Magnus gave Alec a despairing look, but Alec looked nervous. 

“It’s fine. They’re fine,” Magnus said and Alec nodded, sighing.

“Sorry. I’m just a bit tense.”

“You’re always tense. You’re on a goddamn knife’s edge, Alexander. Just breathe. It’s going to be alright.”

Alec nodded and exhaled slowly. “Okay. I’m good, I’m fine. Let’s go after them.”

Before they’d even got fifteen feet though, a familiar voice called out: “Papa! Dad!”

Rafael. Magnus and Alec exchanged a look at the tone of his voice and set off running. When they crested the hill, the two froze in unison. Rafael and Max were there, hand in hand, facing the Gard. Alec walked over to them and put a hand on Rafael’s shoulder gently.

“Come on, let’s go in,” he prompted and Max looked up.

“But...”

“I know, blueberry. Just...just keep walking.”

Alec could see the small crowd gathered around the door to the Gard, every person accompanied by a picket sign. He hoped his sons couldn’t understand them, but both were strong readers and the look on Rafael’s face said that he understood more than Alec would’ve wished. Magnus followed behind, one hand on Max’s head and the other on the small of Alec’s back. Some signs hurt more than others - Alec was far less offended by the ‘Not my Consul’ signs than the ‘Register your “son”‘ ones. Alec curled his hands into fists. What did those quotes imply? Max was his son. Rafael was his son. He didn’t care about blood, about magical race. He couldn’t imagine loving anyone more than his sons. Alec pulled the boys along quickly and ignored the shouts and chants. As soon as the doors to the Gard shut behind them Alec breathed out. Max and Rafael looked at their dads, confused. 

“Why are they mad?” Max asked. 

Magnus started telling them not to worry, but Alec sighed and pulled his sons into his new office. He lifted them both onto the big oak desk in the middle of the room, their legs dangling, and bent down in front of them. 

“Okay, firstly, I need you to know that you’re both perfect exactly as you are and you shouldn’t ever change for anyone. Those people out there are from a teeny tiny minority of shadowhunters. It’s a silly thing to think, because everyone is the same, regardless of what kind of blood they have. They don’t like me and Papa very much because they don’t think shadowhunters and warlocks should love each other - and some of them think you should have a mommy and a daddy, not two daddies.”

“Why?” Rafael asked. 

Alec shrugged. “It’s just what they think, but that doesn’t make it true.” He took one hand from each boy in one of his own and smiled. “You have an exciting chance to prove to them that they are wrong. You get to show them that it doesn’t matter that you have two dads, or that one of them is a warlock and one is a shadowhunter, or that you two aren’t exactly the same. What matters is what we have in common, and that’s that we love each other, that we’re family. What matters is that we’re happy, and I am happy. You have dads who love you - and each other - more than anything. Don’t listen to them; make them listen to you.” Alec stood up and kissed their heads softly. “Right, go and explore. Don’t go too far, and stay in this wing.”

Rafael jumped down off the desk and Alec lifted Max down too. Once the door closed, he leaned against the desk and looked at Magnus. 

“Well that sucked,” Alec said, rubbing a hand over his brow. “I really didn’t think we’d be having that conversation with them that early. Sorry I kinda monopolised it.”

Magnus kissed his cheek gently. “You did great. Close your eyes.”

Alec obeyed and when he opened his eyes again, Magnus had moved all the things they’d boxed up last night into the office. On the desk, nestled with the pens and pencils was a small rainbow flag. Photo frames with pictures of Alec’s siblings and Magnus with the kids littered the desk. Alec grinned and sat down in the desk chair, meeting Magnus halfway across the desk to kiss him. 

“Wow, the Consul and the warlock representative. What a scandalous power couple,” Magnus grinned. “I’m gonna go find the boys, check they aren’t vandalising Clave property or whatever.”

Alec watched him go and leaned back in his chair, pushing it to swivel with his foot. It had been a rocky journey to his office, but it had been more than worth it to be sat here. Finally. 

[huntinghags]

1. The Hunter

(Overview of Adder’s Backstory)

The sun was finally beginning to abate, tucking itself behind the tree line, but its heat stayed. Adder wiped the sweat from her brow and adjusted the tie that held back her dark hair. The stables were immaculate, there was much to be said about Adder’s other attributes, but she was a hard worker. A low clopping of horse hooves on the cobbles caught her ears, and she straightened up, craning her neck to see who was arriving in the early evening.

               The approaching figure was shrouded by a deep grey cloak of fine make. Across their back was a wicked longsword with a worn hilt that had seen much use. They held the reins of their horse, a huge black beast, with ease as they led it towards the stables. Adder watched as the few people that were out on the streets shied away from the traveler, ducking into their houses to watch them from afar. Typical, Adder snorted, the people here feared what they did not know. She made herself clearly visible and tried to tamper down her smile of excitement. New travelers always brought new stories, and this one seemed like they would be full of them.

               The traveler pulled back their hood as they stopped just before the stable hand, and at last Adder could see their face. What was perhaps once a handsome visage was marred with scars of all types: burns, wicked claw marks, and several that couldn’t be identified. One eye was completely ruined, scarred shut, and the other was a yellowish hazel, and darted around gathering information and missing nothing. His dark hair was cut short, hastily it seemed, for it was uneven in several places. Beneath his cloak he was clothed in studded leather armor that bore as many marks as his face. Adder couldn’t quite place the man’s age, but she guessed that he was no more than 10 years older than her 20.

               Adder stepped forward and gave a quick bow of her head in greeting.

“Will you be stabling with us this evening?” She asked, and when the man gave a curt nod, she continued. “What is your name, and how long do you intend to be staying?” Adder tried her best not to sound as impatient as she felt, these formalities were always the worst part of it. She was eager to ask him of his travels.

“Bakar Muru. I do not know how long I will be staying, but you can assure your overseer that I will be good for it.” Bakar made seemingly no attempts at decorum. He reached out with a gloved hand and pressed five gold pieces into her palm. Adder raised her eyebrows, and quickly pocketed the gold. Almost no traveler paid for a tenday at a time, and it was notoriously foolish to flash so much money. She almost said something about it but bit her tongue. She realized it would be ridiculous to tell someone so armed to the teeth to be careful how he showed off his money. No one would trouble Bakar; Adder was sure of it. It was clear he’d be here for a while, at least, and for that she was glad. She tried to make a good first impression, though the man had offered no title, Adder wanted to be sure she didn’t get off on the wrong foot.

“Are you a lord, sir?” She asked, wondering how he should be addressed.

“No, nor a knight.” He answered brusquely, and passed her over the reins to his horse, turning away to offload his saddlebags. Adder wasn’t sure how she felt about his shortness, it was refreshing to speak to a guest that didn’t have a stick up their ass, but at the same time she had a feeling it would be difficult indeed to pry a story out of him. She set the thought aside and took his horse from him, coaxing it to follow her with a low and quiet voice. Bakar watched her for a moment, and when he was sure she had taken good care of his mount he left for the inn, leaving the stable hand to stew over why such a traveler had come to visit.

                  In a tenday Bakar learned of something that the locals had known for a long time: Adder was nothing but trouble, and that there was no getting rid of her. While the entire village kept him at more than an arm’s length, there was no escaping her. She hounded him at any given opportunity; spying on him as he went about his business, or joining him at the tavern, always with a pair of mugs and seemingly endless questions. At first, he did his best to shoo her away with short and gruff answers, but he eventually relented under her onslaught.

               Adder learned that Bakar was a hunter, and that many of his scars were owed to his tangles with hags and their terrible magic, and the rest were from the other creatures he hunted to fill the time. The marks that filled his face had also filled his pockets, for the hunting of dangerous creatures was a profitable job indeed. The local lord had hired Bakar to stay in the area for quite some time, to clear out the horrors that had assailed many a traveler. This village was set at a crossroads between highly frequented roads and a few towns of interest; these attributes made it a fine place for Bakar to stay as he fulfilled his work for the lord. He also took any other jobs that came his way from the neighboring areas.

               Bakar learned much of Adder, too. He learned that she had a knack for getting under someone’s skin in precisely whichever way she wished, and that it often ended with her bruised and bloodied after a bar brawl. Yet, there was a charm to her that few ever stuck around to witness. She could talk at length about all manner of things, and there seemed to be no end for her appetite for stories. With much astonishment and alarm, Bakar also learned of Adder’s aptitude for the arcane.

He had tried his best to hide his own magic from her prying eyes, evidently to no avail. For one day she proudly showed him how she could copy the spell he used to start his fires or warm his meals, repeating the words she had so craftily learned through eavesdropping. Fire did leap from her fingers as she had intended, but it nearly caught the stables ablaze. It was then that Bakar decided he was better off training her than hiding his craft from her, for she would attempt to learn it one way or another.

In the small amounts of time that Bakar had between his work, he tutored Adder. Just as she had devoured his stories of adventure, Adder was tireless as they learned of magic, the blade, and the world they lived in. Bakar often left, for variable amounts of time, to do work in nearby towns. Adder always sorely missed him, but she knew he would return with a story and more teachings. Adder did her best to practice their craft and always had something to show him when he came back. The village was glad that Adder had a pastime that wasn’t causing mischief, and usually left the pair to their own devices.

Around a year’s time from their first meeting, Bakar was away on business when something peculiar happened. All at once, Adder began to have strange dreams. Within them, she followed a thread through an impossibly dark wood. She knew something waited for her at the end of it, though she never rested long enough to find it. A tenday went by, and then she began to hear voices even as she woke. They beckoned her, called her, pushed her to leave and follow them. They called out as voices she knew, or as ones she had never heard. They made promises, and sometimes had no discernable meaning at all. It all frightened Adder, and what scared her most was how at times she wanted to follow them. After a point she shut herself in and simply waited for Bakar to return, only leaving her residence to complete her work at the stables.

A couple more tenday passed before Bakar finally returned to a distraught Adder, who told him all that had occurred in his absence. Bakar had listened with a grim expression, but he did not look surprised. He told her of what ailed her: of her heritage. That she had been born daughter to a hag, and that the voices that summoned her were that of her mother, beckoning her to join her in a coven. He warned her that if she did, she would throw off any humanity she once had and become the same sort of cruel creature that had birthed her. Bakar confessed that he had suspected she might be a changeling for some time and had watched over her to ensure she didn’t wander off and become the sort of thing he hunted. With dismay, Adder had listened as he described the features that told of her foul bloodline: her mismatched eyes, dark hair, pale skin, and penchant for magic.

Adder begged Bakar to teach of how to ignore the Call, and he showed her what he could of how to resist it, though warned her that the only way to silence permanently was to silence the source. Adder began to dye her hair, wanting to put any space she could between herself and her heritage. With Bakar’s teachings, the Call was quieter, still there, but as a dull murmur instead of a roaring command within her.

Two more years passed, and Bakar was away on work more and more. Until one day, he told her he was going somewhere far, that he wouldn’t be back for quite a while. She had asked to accompany him, but he had forbidden her. It was too dangerous, he had said, but he promised to return. With more training, she could one day travel with him. It would come sooner than she thought, he assured, and asked her to practice their craft until he finished his work in this distant place. He would not tell her where he was bound, for knowing her, she would find a way to follow. And so, when the years passed and he didn’t return, Adder knew not where he had gone, or how she might learn what had become of him.

                  The low din of noise that filled the tavern was of some comfort, it made it harder to hear the voices that berated her inside her head. The alcohol helped too; it was impossible to focus on much of anything when your vision blurred. Adder sat at a small corner table, with only one chair. It was her usual spot. No one cared to disturb her, save for Andrea the Barkeep who had continued to encourage her to slow down on her drinks to no avail. It wasn’t uncommon for Adder to get belligerently drunk, but to Andrea it seemed that her frequent customer was aiming for a new level of intoxication. The barkeep knew it wouldn’t end well, for it never did. Andrea grimaced as she watched Adder give another bizarre toast to no one and downed another ale.

               Adder barely propped up her own head with her hand and was stooped over both table and mug. She mumbled quietly into her drink.

               “Bakar, they’re louder now that you’re gone. The things you taught me don’t work as well anymore. It’s so fucking wretched here.” Adder sighed, dwelling in her drunkenness on something she always tried to avoid thinking about. It had been three long years since Bakar had left the village, promising to return. She could only guess that he was dead, or that he’d abandoned her without a thought; she didn’t know which of those options hurt more to assume. Knowing one of those fates was likely true hadn’t stopped her from looking up from her work every time she heard hooves on the cobbles to check if he had finally come back. Nor did it stop her from drinking double on each anniversary of his departure. She knocked back the last ale she would remember drinking that evening.

               Several hours later, judging by the low light and the lack of voices in the tavern, Adder woke. She flopped over from her side to her back and stared up at the worn oaken beams from her place on the tavern floor behind the bar. Her head pounded and her nose was aching and covered in dried blood. Her view of the tavern’s ceiling was interrupted by a very cross looking Andrea, who offered her a hand up. Adder took it, lugging her protesting body into a stand, noting that she’d likely taken some blows to the ribs and stomach with how they screamed at her as she moved. Adder slumped a bit against the bar and reached for one of the mugs and began to slowly clean it, in penance.

               “Why must you make yourself so insufferable, Adder?” Andrea chided with a tired voice. Adder didn’t doubt that Andrea had been the one to drag her behind the bar from wherever she’d fallen on the tavern floor. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

               “You say that like they’d suffer me otherwise.” Adder laughed hoarsely, earning an eyeroll from Andrea.

               “Perhaps they would if you spent your wits and talents doing something other than trying to be an absolute menace.” Andrea put the mug she was polishing down with a heavy sigh, knowing this talk would lead to no changes. “I’m going to bed. Finish cleaning and we’ll call it even.” The barkeep gestured to the mountain of dirty steins.

               “You know I’m good for it. Sleep well.” Adder called after her. Andrea was already halfway out the door and gave only a rude gesture in response. Adder chuckled softly and doubled down on her efforts to clean, there were only a few more hours before sunrise, and she’d be needed at the stables.

[pamphletstoinspire]

The Second Book Of Esdras - Also Known As - THE BOOK OF NEHEMIAS - From The Douay-Rheims Bible - Latin Vulgate

Chapter 7

INTRODUCTION.

This Book takes its name from the writer, who was cup-bearer to Artaxerxes, (surnamed Longimanus) king of Persia, and was sent by him with a commission to rebuild the walls of Jerusalem. It is also called the Second Book of Esdras, because it is a continuation of the history begun by Esdras, of the state of the people of God after their return from captivity. Ch. --- Genebrard believes that the latter wrote the work. But how long must he thus have lived? and how come the lists to vary so much? C. --- We may allow that these variations are owing to the mistakes of transcribers, (1 Esd. ii. 1.) for the writer of both works was certainly inspired. Esdras lived a long time along with Nehemias; (C. xii. 35.) and he may have left memorials, as well as the latter, from which the present work seems to be compiled. H. --- Some additions have been made since the days of Nehemias, articularly C. xii. to v. 26, or at least (C.) the five last of these verses. Capel. Chron. --- The passage cited from the commentaries of Nehemias, (2 Mac. ii. 13.) is not to be found here; which shews that we have not his entire work, but only an abridgment, in which the author has adopted his words, with some few alterations. The fifth chapter seems to be out of its place, and also the dedication of the walls. C. xii. 27. Nehemias was a person in great favour at the court of Persia; and of high birth, probably of the royal family, (Euseb. Isid. Genebrard in Chron.) as most of the ancients believe that all who governed, till the time of the Asmoneans, were of the tribe of Juda. Hence he styles Hanani his brother, (C. i. 2.) and declines entering into the temple. C. vi. 11. His name never occurs among the priests; and though we read 2 Mac. i. 18. 21, jussit sacerdos Nehemias, (T.) the Greek has, "Nehemias order the priests;" iereiV: (C. Huet. D.) and the title of priest sometimes is given to laymen at the head of affairs. H. --- In this character Nehemias appeared, by order of Artaxerxes: and notwithstanding the obstructions of the enemies of Juda, rebuilt the walls of Jerusalem, and returned after twelve years to court, making a second visit to his own country, a little before the death of the king, whom he probably survived only one year, dying A. 3580, about thirty years after he had been appointed governor. C. --- In the two first chapters, we behold his solicitude for the welfare of his country, in the ten following his success, and in the last what abuses he corrected. W. --- He renewed the covenant with God, (C. ix. and x.) sent for the sacred fire, and established a library at Jerusalem. 2 Mac. i. 19. 34. and ii. 13. H.

The additional Notes in this Edition of the New Testament will be marked with the letter A. Such as are taken from various Interpreters and Commentators, will be marked as in the Old Testament. B. Bristow, C. Calmet, Ch. Challoner, D. Du Hamel, E. Estius, J. Jansenius, M. Menochius, Po. Polus, P. Pastorini, T. Tirinus, V. Bible de Vence, W. Worthington, Wi. Witham. — The names of other authors, who may be occasionally consulted, will be given at full length.

Verses are in English and Latin. HAYDOCK CATHOLIC BIBLE COMMENTARY

This Catholic commentary on the Old Testament, following the Douay-Rheims Bible text, was originally compiled by Catholic priest and biblical scholar Rev. George Leo Haydock (1774-1849). This transcription is based on Haydock's notes as they appear in the 1859 edition of Haydock's Catholic Family Bible and Commentary printed by Edward Dunigan and Brother, New York, New York.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

Changes made to the original text for this transcription include the following:

Greek letters. The original text sometimes includes Greek expressions spelled out in Greek letters. In this transcription, those expressions have been transliterated from Greek letters to English letters, put in italics, and underlined. The following substitution scheme has been used: A for Alpha; B for Beta; G for Gamma; D for Delta; E for Epsilon; Z for Zeta; E for Eta; Th for Theta; I for Iota; K for Kappa; L for Lamda; M for Mu; N for Nu; X for Xi; O for Omicron; P for Pi; R for Rho; S for Sigma; T for Tau; U for Upsilon; Ph for Phi; Ch for Chi; Ps for Psi; O for Omega. For example, where the name, Jesus, is spelled out in the original text in Greek letters, Iota-eta-sigma-omicron-upsilon-sigma, it is transliterated in this transcription as, Iesous. Greek diacritical marks have not been represented in this transcription.

Footnotes. The original text indicates footnotes with special characters, including the astrisk (*) and printers' marks, such as the dagger mark, the double dagger mark, the section mark, the parallels mark, and the paragraph mark. In this transcription all these special characters have been replaced by numbers in square brackets, such as [1], [2], [3], etc.

Accent marks. The original text contains some English letters represented with accent marks. In this transcription, those letters have been rendered in this transcription without their accent marks.

Other special characters.

Solid horizontal lines of various lengths that appear in the original text have been represented as a series of consecutive hyphens of approximately the same length, such as ---.

Ligatures, single characters containing two letters united, in the original text in some Latin expressions have been represented in this transcription as separate letters. The ligature formed by uniting A and E is represented as Ae, that of a and e as ae, that of O and E as Oe, and that of o and e as oe.

Monetary sums in the original text represented with a preceding British pound sterling symbol (a stylized L, transected by a short horizontal line) are represented in this transcription with a following pound symbol, l.

The half symbol (1/2) and three-quarters symbol (3/4) in the original text have been represented in this transcription with their decimal equivalent, (.5) and (.75) respectively.

Unreadable text. Places where the transcriber's copy of the original text is unreadable have been indicated in this transcription by an empty set of square brackets, [].

Chapter 7

Nehemias appointeth watchmen in Jerusalem. The list of those who came first from Babylon.

[1] Now after the wall was built, and I had set up the doors, and numbered the porters and singing men, and Levites:

Postquam autem aedificatus est murus, et posui valvas, et recensui janitores, et cantores, et Levitas :

[2] I commanded Hanani my brother, and Hananias ruler of the house of Jerusalem, (for he seemed as a sincere man, and one that feared God above the rest,)

praecepi Hanani fratri meo, et Hananiae principi domus de Jerusalem ( ipse enim quasi vir verax et timens Deum plus ceteris videbatur),

[3] And I said to them: Let not the gates of Jerusalem be opened till the sun be hot. And while they were yet standing by, the gates were shut, and barred: and I set watchmen of the inhabitants of Jerusalem, every one by their courses, and every man over against his house.

et dixi eis : Non aperiantur portae Jerusalem usque ad calorem solis. Cumque adhuc assisterent, clausae portae sunt, et oppilatae : et posui custodes de habitatoribus Jerusalem, singulos per vices suas, et unumquemque contra domum suam.

[4] And the city was very wide and great, and the people few in the midst thereof, and the houses were not built.

Civitas autem erat lata nimis et grandis, et populus parvus in medio ejus, et non erant domus aedificatae.

[5] But God had put in my heart, and I assembled the princes and magistrates, and common people, to number them: and I found a book of the number of them who came up at first, and therein it was found written:

Deus autem dedit in corde meo, et congregavi optimates, et magistratus, et vulgus, ut recenserem eos : et inveni librum census eorum, qui ascenderant primum, et inventum est scriptum in eo.

[6] These are the children of the province, who came up from the captivity of them that had been carried away, whom Nabuchodonosor the king of Babylon had carried away, and who returned into Judea, every one into his own city.

Isti filii provinciae, qui ascenderunt de captivitate migrantium, quos transtulerat Nabuchodonosor rex Babylonis, et reversi sunt in Jerusalem, et in Judaeam, unusquisque in civitatem suam.

[7] Who came with Zorobabel, Josue, Nehemias, Azarias, Raamias, Nahamani, Mardochai, Belsam, Mespharath, Begoia, Nahum, Baana. The number of the men of the people of Israel:

Qui venerunt cum Zorobabel, Josue, Nehemias, Azarias, Raamias, Nahamani, Mardochaeus, Belsam, Mespharath, Begoai, Nahum, Baana. Numerus virorum populi Israel :

[8] The children of Pharos, two thousand one hundred seventy-two.

filii Pharos, duo millia centum septuaginta duo :

[9] The children of Sephatia, three hundred seventy-two.

filii Saphatia, trecenti septuaginta duo :

[10] The children of Area, six hundred fifty-two.

filii Area, sexcenti quinquaginta duo :

[11] The children of Phahath Moab of the children of Josue and Joab, two thousand eight hundred eighteen.

filii Phahathmoab filiorum Josue et Joab, duo millia octingenti decem et octo :

[12] The children of Elam, one thousand two hundred fifty-four.

filii Aelam, mille ducenti quinquaginta quatuor :

[13] The children of Zethua, eight hundred forty-five.

filii Zethua, octingenti quadraginta quinque :

[14] The children of Zachai, seven hundred sixty.

filii Zachai, septingenti sexaginta :

[15] The children of Bannui, six hundred forty-eight.

filii Bannui, sexcenti quadraginta octo :

[16] The children of Bebai, six hundred twenty-eight.

filii Bebai, sexcenti viginti octo :

[17] The children of Azgad, two thousand three hundred twenty-two.

filii Azgad, duo millia trecenti viginti duo :

[18] The children of Adonicam, six hundred sixty-seven.

filii Adonicam, sexcenti sexaginta septem :

[19] The children of Beguai, two thousand sixty-seven.

filii Beguai, duo millia sexaginta septem :

[20] The children of Adin, six hundred fifty-five.

filii Adin, sexcenti quinquaginta quinque :

[21] The children of Ater, children of Hezechias, ninety-eight.

filii Ater, filii Hezeciae, nonaginta octo :

[22] The children of Hasem, three hundred twenty-eight.

filii Hasem, trecenti viginti octo :

[23] The children of Besai, three hundred twenty-four.

filii Besai, trecenti viginti quatuor :

[24] The children of Hareph, a hundred and twelve.

filii Hareph, centum duodecim :

[25] The children of Gabaon, ninety-five.

filii Gabaon, nonaginta quinque :

[26] The children of Bethlehem, and Netupha, a hundred eighty-eight.

filii Bethlehem, et Netupha, centum octoginta octo.

[27] The men of Anathoth, a hundred twenty-eight.

Viri Anathoth, centum viginti octo.

[28] The men of Bethazmoth, forty-two.

Viri Bethazmoth, quadraginta duo.

[29] The men of Cariathiarim, Cephira, and Beroth, seven hundred forty-three.

Viri Cariathiarim, Cephira, et Beroth, septingenti quadraginta tres.

[30] The men of Rama and Geba, six hundred twenty-one.

Viri Rama et Geba, sexcenti viginti unus.

[31] The men of Machmas, a hundred twenty-two.

Viri Machmas, centum viginti duo.

[32] The men of Bethel and Hai, a hundred twenty-three.

Viri Bethel et Hai, centum viginti tres.

[33] The men of the other Nebo, fifty-two.

Viri Nebo alterius, quinquaginta duo.

[34] The men of the other Elam, one thousand two hundred fifty-four.

Viri Aelam alterius, mille ducenti quinquaginta quatuor.

[35] The children of Harem, three hundred and twenty.

Filii Harem, trecenti viginti.

[36] The children of Jericho, three hundred forty-five.

Filii Jericho, trecenti quadraginta quinque.

[37] The children of Led, of Hadid and One, seven hundred twenty-one.

Filii Lod Hadid et Ono, septingenti viginti unus.

[38] The children of Senaa, three thousand nine hundred thirty.

Filii Senaa, tria millia nongenti triginta.

[39] The priests: the children of Idaia in the house of Josue, nine hundred and seventy-three.

Sacerdotes : filii Idaia in domo Josue, nongenti septuaginta tres.

[40] The children of Emmer, one thousand fifty-two.

Filii Emmer, mille quinquaginta duo.

[41] The children of Phashur, one thousand two hundred forty-seven.

Filii Phashur, mille ducenti quadraginta septem.

[42] The children of Arem, one thousand and seventeen. The Levites:

Filii Arem, mille decem et septem. Levitae :

[43] The children of Josue and Cedmihel, the sons

filii Josue et Cedmihel filiorum.

[44] Of Oduia, seventy-four. The singing men:

Oduiae, septuaginta quatuor. Cantores :

[45] The children of Asaph, a hundred forty-eight.

filii Asaph, centum quadraginta octo.

[46] The porters: the children of Sellum, the children of Ater, the children of Telmon, the children of Accub, the children of Hatita, the children of Sobai: a hundred thirty-eight.

Janitores : filii Sellum, filii Ater, filii Telmon, filii Accub, filii Hatita, filii Sobai : centum triginta octo.

[47] The Nathinites: the children of Soha, the children of Hasupha, the children of Tebbaoth,

Nathinaei : filii Soha, filii Hasupha, filii Tebbaoth,

[48] The children of Ceros, the children of Siaa, the children of Phadon, the children of Lebana, the children of Hagaba, the children of Selmai,

filii Ceros, filii Siaa, filii Phadon, filii Lebana, filii Hagaba, filii Selmai,

[49] The children of Hanan, the children of Geddel, the children of Gaher,

filii Hanan, filii Geddel, filii Gaher,

[50] The children of Raaia, the children of Rasin, the children of Necoda,

filii Raaia, filii Rasin, filii Necoda,

[51] The children of Gezem, the children of Asa, the children of Phasea,

filii Gezem, filii Aza, filii Phasea,

[52] The children of Besai, the children of Munim, the children of Nephussim,

filii Besai, filii Munim, filii Nephussim,

[53] The children of Bacbuc, the children of Hacupha, the children of Harhur,

filii Bacbuc, filii Hacupha, filii Harhur,

[54] The children of Besloth, the children of Mahida, the children of Harsa,

filii Besloth, filii Mahida, filii Harsa,

[55] The children of Bercos, the children of Sisara, the children of Thema,

filii Bercos, filii Sisara, filii Thema,

[56] The children of Nasia, the children of Hatipha,

filii Nasia, filii Hatipha,

[57] The children of the servants of Solomon, the children of Sothai, the children of Sophereth, the children of Pharida,

filii servorum Salomonis, filii Sothai, filii Sophereth, filii Pharida,

[58] The children of Jahala, the children of Darcon, the children of Jeddel,

filii Jahala, filii Darcon, filii Jeddel,

[59] The children of Saphatia, the children of Hatil, the children of Phochereth, who was born of Sabaim, the son of Amon.

filii Saphatia, filii Hatil, filii Phochereth, qui erat ortus ex Sabaim filio Amon.

[60] All the Nathinites, and the children of the servants of Solomon, three hundred ninety-two.

Omnes Nathinaei, et filii servorum Salomonis, trecenti nonaginta duo.

[61] And these are they that came up from Telmela, Thelharsa, Cherub, Addon, and Emmer: and could not shew the house of their fathers, nor their seed, whether they were of Israel.

Hi sunt autem, qui ascenderunt de Thelmela, Thelharsa, Cherub, Addon, et Emmer : et non potuerunt indicare domum patrum suorum, et semen suum, utrum ex Israel essent,

[62] The children of Dalaia, the children of Tobia, the children of Necoda, six hundred forty-two.

filii Dalaia, filii Tobia, filii Necoda, sexcenti quadraginta duo.

[63] And of the priests, the children of Habia, the children of Accos, the children of Berzellai, who took a wife of the daughters of Berzellai the Galaadite, and he was called by their name.

Et de sacerdotibus, filii Habia, filii Accos, filii Berzellai, qui accepit de filiabus Berzellai Galaaditis uxorem : et vocatus est nomine eorum.

[64] These sought their writing in the record, and found it not: and they were cast out of the priesthood.

Hi quaesierunt scripturam suam in censu, et non invenerunt : et ejecti sunt de sacerdotio.

[65] And Athersatha said to them, that they should not eat of the holies of holies, until there stood up a priest learned and skillful.

Dixitque Athersatha eis ut non manducarent de Sanctis sanctorum, donec staret sacerdos doctus et eruditus.

[66] All the multitude as it were one man, forty-two thousand three hundred sixty,

Omnis multitudo quasi vir unus quadraginta duo millia trecenti sexaginta,

[67] Beside their menservants and womenservants, who were seven thousand three hundred thirty-seven: and among them singing men, and singing women, two hundred forty-five.

absque servis, et ancillis eorum, qui erant septem millia trecenti triginta septem, et inter eos cantores, et cantatrices, ducenti quadraginta quinque.

[68] Their horses, seven hundred thirty-six: their mules two hundred forty-five:

Equi eorum, septingenti triginta sex : muli eorum, ducenti quadraginta quinque :

[69] Their camels, four hundred thirty-five, their asses, six thousand seven hundred and twenty.

cameli eorum, quadringenti triginta quinque : asini, sex millia septingenti viginti.

[70] And some of the heads of the families gave unto the work. Athersatha gave into the treasure a thousand drama of gold, fifty bowls, and five hundred and thirty garments for priests.

Nonnulli autem de principibus familiarum dederunt in opus. Athersatha dedit in thesaurum auri drachmas mille, phialas quinquaginta, tunicas sacerdotales quingentas triginta.

[71] And some of the heads of families gave to the treasure of the work, twenty thousand drama of gold, and two thousand two hundred pounds of silver.

Et de principibus familiarum dederunt in thesaurum operis, auri drachmas viginti millia, et argenti mnas duo millia ducentas.

[72] And that which the rest of the people gave, was twenty thousand drama of gold, and two thousand pounds of silver, and sixty-seven garments for priests.

Et quod dedit reliquus populus, auri drachmas viginti millia, et argenti mnas duo millia, et tunicas sacerdotales sexaginta septem.

[73] And the priests, and the Levites, and the porters, and the singing men, and the rest of the common people, and the Nathinites, and all Israel dwelt in their cities.

Habitaverunt autem sacerdotes, et Levitae, et janitores, et cantores, et reliquum vulgus, et Nathinaei, et omnis Israel in civitatibus suis.

Commentary:

Ver. 2. House: "the citadel;" (Tigurin) "palace." Vatab. --- The Sept. retain the original, Beria, (H.) which signifies a palace, (Pagnin) concerning which Nehemias had spoken. C. ii. 8. M. --- But as it was not yet built, the house, being placed alone, more properly signifies the temple. We read of Zacharias and Jehiel, who occupied the same post (C.) as Hananias. 2 Par. xxxv. 8. H. --- He was next to Eliasib, the high priest. C.

Ver. 3. Sun. Lit. "the heat of the sun," or perfect daylight. H. --- They. Syr. and Arab. "while it was still day," (C.) or the sun shone. Before dusk the gates were shut, to prevent any improper person from entering. H. --- House, on the walls. C. --- These things protect a city; as grace a guard over the senses, and watchfulness do the soul. W.

Ver. 4. Not built, sufficient for so great a multitude. C. --- They lodged under tents, or in huts. H.

Ver. 5. Heart, inspired me to provide inhabitants for the city, as was afterwards done by lot. C. xi. T. --- Written. Hence it seems evident that Nehemias here only transcribes this ancient record, of those who came under Zorobabel, and consequently this chapter sought to agree with 1 Esd. ii. as well as with 3 Esd. v. 9, (H.) which is now strangely corrupted; so that it can throw no light upon the matter. C. --- Some think that various catalogues were taken, at Babylon, at the first coming to Jerusalem, (M.) and at the dedication of the temple; (T.) and that Nehemias refer to a different one from that of Esdras. Sa. Lucas. T. --- Others suppose that changes were introduced, as the families were increased or diminished, in the time of Nehemias; (T.) who, therefore, judged it necessary to write a fresh catalogue, but only adjusted the old one to the present circumstances, including probably the names of those who had returned with Esdras, or with himself. C. --- This seems contrary to the text, a book of, &c. and it would perhaps be as well to allow that the variations arise from transcribers, as all allow that many of the names and numbers are corrupted. H. --- The similarity of Hebrew letters for different numbers might easily occasion this; as we cannot suppose but Esdras would be able to give the total of sixty particular sums. Watson, let. 5.

Ver. 33. Other Nebo. We find no first mentioned; but in the ancient Latin edition, Nebo occurred instead of Geba, v. 30. See 1 Esd. ii. 29. Sept. and Arab. omit, "the other." This Nebo may be Nob, or Nobe, in the tribe of Benjamin. C.

Ver. 43. The sons; or, "who were the sons (filiorum) of Oduia." H.

Ver. 65. Athersatha; Nehemias, (C.) as he is called in Chaldee. 1 Esd. ii. 63. M.

Ver. 68. Their. Heb. Rom. Sept. Syr. and Arab. omit this verse; but it is found in the Alex. Sept. and even in the Rab. Bible, printed at Venice, 1564, as well as in the 1st and 3rd Esdras, (C.) and it is inserted by Protestants. H.

Ver. 69. Hitherto. This is not in the original, or in the other versions. It is inserted in the margin of some Lat. MSS. and entirely omitted in others of great authority. The gloss might have been placed after v. 64. C. --- Yet some of the following verses seem also to be copied from 1 Esdras. H. --- S. Jerom informs us from what sources the work was compiled, which is all declared canonical by the Church, (W.) whether written by Esdras or by Nehemias. H.

Ver. 70. Athersatha; that is, Nehemias, as appears from C. viii. 9. Either that he was so called at the court of the king of Persia, where he was cup-bearer, or that, as some think, this name signifies governor; and he was at that time governor of Judea. Ch. --- Rom. Sept. insinuates that the princes gave these things "to Nehemias." C. --- Alex. Sept. "They gave for the work, unto Athersatha." --- Prot. "The Tirshatha gave," &c. H. --- Thersa means, "he fed," and satha, "he caused to drink." T. - The A, at the beginning, is only the article. H.

[moromuru]

welcome to my very crap guide to my drawing process :D

that's it

[ecotone99]

[SF] Interrogation

No one knew the woman that accompanied Finn Dralor through the dimly lit corridors of the trader’s deck, but everyone knew enough about Dralor to realize that whatever business she was conducting with him, it was sure to be bad.

Dralor was well known to be a slaver, smuggler, pimp ...and worse. If this were anywhere but the pirate-run Salvation Station, he’d have a dozen or more Inter-Sol bounty hunters already taking aim on him. His rakish good looks and unusually tall frame, in addition to his penchant for rich, colorful clothing, made him quite recognizable for those looking to cash in on the sizable reward offered for his capture. Fortunately for him, it was Salvation, the only space station in the entire solar system where the laws of the Inter-Solar Union didn’t hold sway. Those who came here knew that while they might look and listen, they had better keep their mouths firmly shut and mind to their own affairs.

The woman herself was anything but attractive. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, but her scowling face and the fierce glances she cast about made her seem older than her years. One cheek was badly scarred, perhaps from a serious burn, and her left arm, from the elbow down, was a cybernetic replacement, steel and plexicon grafted to living flesh. Her dark hair was cropped short and her clothing, in contrast to Dralor’s rich finery, was made of a course black fabric, sleeveless and unadorned.

Usually, no one would have taken notice of her, save for one glaring detail; she wore no weapon. On Salvation, a lawless bastion of murderers and thieves, everyone was expected to provide their own protection. The fact that the woman in Dralor’s company didn’t feel the need to carry any form of protection led to one of only two possible assumptions. Either she believed that Finn Dralor would keep her safe (which would make her a fool) or, there was much more to this young woman than her appearance suggested.

All eyes watched as the pair made their way to Garl Varo’s shop, The Wicked Way. A run-down, rusted corner of the deck where illicit drugs, synth-whores, and other forms of debased entertainment could be easily purchased. As the sliding steel door of the store closed behind them, the onlookers turned back to their own business, secure in the knowledge that whatever happened inside Varo’s store, the less they knew about it, the better.

Inside, the shop was a cacophony of lights, music, and perversion. The walls were covered with monitrons displaying images of nude synthetic prostitutes, both male and female, dancing and offering their customizable bodies to those that had the currency to buy them. One simply had to select the features and attributes they desired from the touch menu on the screen, pay the required fee, and the synth-whore would be ready and willing in seconds in one of several rooms below the shop.

Directly across from the entrance sat several counters, each with a selection of holographic images showing various wares the store had to offer. Pharmaceuticals, pornographic holovids, and the latest in recreational bio-mods were on sale. The dancing colors coming from the multitude of strobing light emitters, coupled with the sound of Martian jazz, was enough to make a customer brain-dead within minutes from sensory overload, which was probably the intent. The worst salesman in the galaxy could make easy money off a zombie.

At the back of the building sitting on a hover chair was the proprietor, Garl Varo himself. A bloated, greasy lump of pale, pasty flesh, Garl was not someone most people enjoyed being around. A stinking miasma hung in the air around him at all times, a result of his addiction to muru, an extract from the root of the Venusian Orchid that put the user into a state of relaxed euphoria. His bald head and pig-like face were covered in wart-like growths, a side effect of the drug, and his wide mouth resembled nothing so much as two slabs of raw liver, gone bad. His hairless torso was bare, and sweat ran down in rivulets over his sickly-looking skin, even though the room was quite cool. He was the picture of over-indulgence and gluttony. However, anyone who drew their conclusions about Garl from his appearance alone would soon be dismayed by any business dealings they might have with him. His mind was as sharp as a razor, and his greed knew no bounds. Those two traits, along with the selection of wares he chose to sell, made him one of the most ruthless and under-handed traders on the station.

He glanced up as the two entered the shop and his face broke into a wide, stained-tooth grin. Removing his muru pipe from his lips, he beckoned to them.

“Finn, my boy!” He exclaimed throwing his gelatinous arms wide in greeting, “What brings the dirtiest scoundrel in the nine quadrants to my humble little corner of space?” Finn grinned back at the fat blob as he strolled towards him. “Oh, you know,” He said with a casual wave of his hand, “business as usual.” “Oh?” Garl replied, his eyebrows arching. “Well, let’s see if I can help you out then, alright?”

Suddenly, Garl’s hover chair spun around one hundred eighty degrees. From the back a series of panels dropped open and half a dozen tubes extended out. Finn dove to one side as the tubes began discharging ion rounds, all of them aimed squarely for the young woman still standing near the front of the room. The entire store turned into a blaze of screaming energy eruptions, the charges detonating on impact and incinerating anything they came in contact with. After a few seconds, the firing stopped and the chair spun back around.

Garl looked around at the damage to his store. The blackened monitrons filled the air with the stench of burnt ozone, and the music that had been playing was reduced to a quiet garble. The shelves with the built in holographic projectors fizzed and sparked, while puddles of melted plexicon congealed and solidified on the floor. Of the woman, there was no sign. “Well, it looks like you owe me quite a bit of money, Finn,” He said while still surveying the destruction, “I’d say about ten thousand cred’s worth.” He finished smugly. He drew deeply from his pipe as he catalogued everything that would need to be replaced.

“Who was that slut, anyway?” He asked, finally turning to look at Finn, still lying on the floor. “She wasn’t much of a looker, if ya…” Garl’s voice trailed off as he looked at the man on the floor.

Finn Dralor wasn’t paying attention to Garl. His eyes were turned upward, with a look in them that Garl didn’t like at all. Just as he turned to see what had Finn’s attention, he felt a sudden burst of pain as the woman, whom moments before he had assumed vaporized, leaped down from the ceiling she had been clinging to and caught him in the side of his bulbous, warty head with a hard kick that sent him flying from the hover chair and crashing down to the floor next to Finn.

He barely had time to realize he might be in real trouble before a cybernetic hand closed on his throat and yanked him to an almost standing position. Trying to focus his vision, he looked into the eyes of the woman who now held his immense weight up with what appeared to be very little effort on her part.

“That was a really cute trick.” She said calmly, drawing her face closer to his. “Tell me, was it the phrase ‘business as usual’ or the wave of the hand that signaled you?” She asked. “Look, miss, I …” Garl began.

The steel grasp around his throat closed tighter, restricting the flow of oxygen. She held him like that for a few moments, emotionlessly watching him to struggle to breathe. He was almost to the point of passing out when she finally loosened her hold enough for air to pass through to his lungs. His vision fading in and out, Garl heard the woman speak again.

“I don’t want to hear anything from you, beyond the answers to my questions.” She stated flatly. “Do you understand?” Garl nodded weakly, his jowls quivering.

Almost contemptuously, the woman tossed him back to the floor to once again lie next to Dralor, who hadn’t moved during their brief conversation. Looking down on both of them, the woman asked, “You deal in the drug, Irellion-9?” It was more of a statement than a question.

Propping himself up on one elbow and massaging his throat, Garl nodded. “It’s an inhibitor class stimulant, used mostly by rift pilots traveling beyond the Plutonian quadrant.” He responded. “It alleviates the symptoms of void sickness while allowing the pilots to stay conscious for months at a time.”

The woman nodded, then asked, “Do you know of anyone other than a freighter pilot who has purchased it from you in the last six months?” Garl glanced over at Finn, his eyes questioning. Finn slowly nodded his head, not saying a word.

The woman kneeled down in front of Garl, her fierce eyes boring into his. “I’m not given to asking questions a second time, Garl.” She intoned.

Garl swallowed hard, his whole body now soaked in a cold sweat. “This is Salvation, miss.“ He explained, “Someone who goes around talking too much about other people’s business don’t last very long here.”

“Oh, is that so?” The woman asked.

Reaching down with the prosthetic appendage, the woman gripped a handful of the fat man’s belly and clenched her fist. Garl began to scream, but the sound was cut short by the woman’s other hand forcing its way into his mouth, and down his throat.

“I know ways to make you suffer for days without dying, Garl.” The woman calmly assured him.

Suddenly a burning, ripping pain exploded in Garl’s chest, crawling through his abdomen and worming through his extremities. The pain grew and expanded until his entire body felt as if it were imploding in on itself. Squirming on the floor, he began wishing he would die, that he would give in to the pain and horror and simply cease to be. It felt like hours passed, all the while Garl could do nothing but suffer and hope for oblivion.

Then, when he was beginning to feel what may have been the first stirrings of death, the pain ceased, and the hand was drawn out of his mouth. Gasping and vomiting, he rolled to one side, fear and dread washing over him. To hell with the code of Salvation, he thought. He had never felt such pain! He would tell this woman whatever she wanted to hear, so long as it would get her out of his shop.

“Now, I hope we have a new understanding of one another, Garl. You’re going to tell me what I want to know, or I’ll begin to get creative. Understand?” The woman said, in that eerie calm voice.

Rolling back over to face her, Garl nodded his head vigorously in answer.

After a moment or two of silence, Garl remembered that she was awaiting an answer to her earlier question. As the woman’s eyebrow raised, a possible sign of impatience, Garl sputtered forth a response.

“There was a woman that came here about four or five weeks ago.” He said, “She purchased a large quantity of I-9.”

“How much is a ‘large quantity’?” The woman asked.

“Three liters.” Garl replied quickly. “She cleared out my entire stock.”

“How do you know she wasn’t a pilot?” The woman asked intently.

“I’ve been in business a long time, miss, and I know the look of a long trek pilot.” He assured her. “They get a real spacy and distant look in their eyes.” He said, partly smiling, as if it were an inside joke between them.

When the woman didn’t smile in return, he hastily continued, “Oh, and she wasn’t armed, just like you.” He added. “Nobody comes to Salvation unarmed.” He looked nervously at her for a moment. “Well, at least, not usually.”

“Describe her.” The woman ordered. “What did she look like?”

Garl licked his quivering lips. He tried to call up the image of the woman in his mind, but he couldn’t remember what she looked like, and that bothered him. He had an unusually good memory. Years of being in the business of selling to people who might come back with buyer’s remorse had sharpened his powers of observation considerably. For him to not be able to remember a customer, especially one as unique as the one in question …it just didn’t add up. After a few moments, he saw the woman’s eyebrow rise again.

“I’m sorry, miss!” He wailed, terrified at what new torment might be forthcoming. “I can’t remember what she looked like!” He began to blubber, “I know it was a woman, but I can’t remember anything about her beyond that.”

The woman seemed to ponder this for a moment, her eyes studying his for any sign of deception. Then she asked, “Do you know where she went, after making her purchase?” Garl was on the verge of telling the woman ‘No’ out of force of habit, when he remembered the pain from only moments ago. It went against the grain to tell someone about someone else’s affairs, but this was no ordinary someone. He had no doubts this woman was being nothing less than truthful when she said she could put him through the most excruciating torture for days before allowing him the luxury of dying. He also had no doubts she would follow through on her word without hesitation if he gave her an unfavorable response.

“Yeah,” He nodded, “Word got back to me that she made straight for the docking ports.” He said. “She got on a transport bound for Xanadu.”

Xanadu was the largest colony on the moon Titan, orbiting Saturn. It would only take a few hours to get there by ship.

“You’re sure it was Xanadu?” The woman pressed him. “Absolutely, miss.” Garl answered. The woman stood up slowly and looked over at Finn Dralor. “We’ll be leaving now.” She said.

Suddenly, the fabric of reality seemed to shift in front of Garl Varo’s eyes. One moment he was lying on the floor of his ruined shop, looking up at the woman who had caused him so much pain and misery. The next, he was seated in his hover chair, looking across the unmarred shop at the woman and Finn Dralor standing just inside the door. He stared in dumbfounded amazement at the displays and monitrons, all undamaged and just as they were before the two had entered his store.

Finally his gaze settled back on the woman, who was looking at him with a hint of veiled amusement. Dralor was standing at her side, a somewhat regretful look on his face. Then, it suddenly came clear. “Bloody shite,” He swore. “You’re a Dah’shia!” The Dah’shia was a sect of assassins known throughout the entire solar system as powerful psionicists, beings able to manipulate the thoughts of others with their minds. Many considered them to be a legend or myth, due to the rarity of survived encounters. It was said a Dah’shia assassin could turn a person’s own mind into a weapon against them. Based upon his recent experience, Garl could personally vouch for it.

“You’ve been very helpful, Garl.” The woman told him in a matter-of-fact manner. “But I’m afraid I can’t leave you alive to tell others about this meeting.”

“Wait …please …I won’t …” Garl stammered, before his consciousness abruptly shut off forever.

Turning to her companion, who was still staring at the twitching corpse floating in the hover chair, the woman spoke. “We will return to your ship now.” She said. “I want to depart for Xanadu as soon as possible.” With that, she moved towards the door.

Finn turned to leave, following the woman, and then glanced back at the body of Garl Varo. They had only stepped inside the store for a few moments, and though Finn had no way of knowing what had passed between the mind-assassin and the smut-peddler, he knew it had to have been horrifying. Exiting the shop, he and the woman, whose name he didn’t even know, made their way back to his ship.

submitted by /u/Fireflyfever [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/2TYdgqX

[vocabflex]

immure

verb

enclose or confine (someone) against their will."her brother was immured in a lunatic asylum"synonyms:confine, intern, shut up, lock up, incarcerate, imprison, jail, put away, put behind bars, put under lock and key, hold captive, hold prisoner

late 16th century: from French emmurer or medieval Latin immurare, from in- ‘in’ + murus ‘wall’.

[ertrunkenerwassergeist]

Laying of the Cards

Here’s the Link to ao3!

After the fresh and biting cold winds outside the smoky air inside the kitchen of the small cottage that had been built many years ago at the edge of the village, caused Nyx' eyes to burn and his throat to itch. He blinked a few times to make out the other people in the room within the flickering light, the fire burning in the hearth the only source of light, their number higher than he had expected, considering what was to happen this evening.

There were seven people in the crammed room already, making the stuffy air even worse. Nyx felt his head swim at the smell of burning herbs and spices, wet fur, burning wood and unwashed bodies. The plumping had frozen about a week ago, causing some people to whisper that the white she-demon was wandering about again. In Nyx' opinion there would be a whole lot of frozen dead people right about now, if that were true, but he did the smart thing and kept his mouth shut. Let the people talk. That way they would have something to do over the winter that promised to be longer and harder than unusual.

He knew about half of the people here at least by face if not by name. The others were most likely either of the Watcher Clans or from one of the more western islands. The people there kept even more to themselves than the Galahkari did anyways.

Nyx lifted his dominant hand horizontally up to his collarbones in a general greeting, not really in the mood to more people than he absolutely had to. He should be at home right now with his mother and sister, helping to keep the house from cooling out or helping in the forge, seeing as that was the warmest place they had right now.

“Nyx,” he heard Crowe's voice from the corner to his right.

She, like everybody else safe for the mistress of the house and her apprentice, was still buried under thick layers of wool and furs against the freezing winter howling outside, battering the village with a gale of snow. Her cheeks were flushed from a mix of cold and the sudden heat in the kitchen but even then he could see her pallor underneath it. Despite her many layers of clothing he could see how tense she was.

“You too?” he said in a low voice when he stepped closer to her.

Crowe sent him a dark look. She wanted to be here as much as he was. Which was to say not at all.

Nevertheless he tugged at a strand on her long brown hair until she complied and leaned her forehead against his own. They stayed that way for the span of one breath before Crowe stepped away again. Nyx ignored the looks that action got him and grinned unabashedly at his friend. She huffed in fond exasperation, thankfulness lurking in the depth of her brown eyes. He wondered how the last week had been treating her. The heating at her place had always been shitty, but now it had to be even worse. Neither his mother or Selena would be upset if he were to invite her to stay for the rest of the winter. Another helping hand was always welcome, but she clearly wasn't in the mood to talk right now either, so he just stood next to her in companionable silence.

Sweat started to pool at the small of his back and formed beads along the arch of his brow. The stuffy and smoky air that smelled of burned herbs, was nigh unbearable. Nyx wanted very badly to open one of the windows to be able to breath, consequences be damned.

“You better not be doing that, boy. Elder Rhea will tan your hide if you take one step towards the windows, and she'll not be without help,” grumbled a burly man with a barrel chest and a deep voice that sounded like the rumble deep in the mountains.

“Chief Ostium,” Nyx greeted with a nod of respect that could be nearly taken as a bow.

“Cut that out, Ulric,” scowled the older man. His heavy brow, the thick beard and the long salt and pepper hair made it only more impressive. “You're a man grown now and a chief yourself. Start acting like it. People won't be as tolerant as they were when you were nine.”

Nyx resisted the urge to duck his head like a chastised boy, like he had done so often before, when this man had caught him and Libertus doing something stupid again. Murus Ostium nodded, his gold flecked blue eyes grew warmer as he patted Nyx' fur clad shoulder once. Unbidden, he felt himself stand up straighter despite Crowe's scoff. Murus didn't even spare her a glance.

“Come and greet Elder Rhea. No need to be impolite to an Aware One in her own home.”

With that he guided Nyx away from Crowe, whose eyes flashed with an old hurt Nyx would have loved to soothe, if he only knew how to. Libertus and him had met her too late for that.

Elder Rhea Etas stood by the hearth, bowed over an earthen bowl filled with smoldering sage, roasting cino nuts and druhm roots standing on a cooking grate. She hummed a tuneless melody while her gnarly fingers rummaged through the pockets of her layered wool dress. Her smile showed her crooked teeth and deepened her wrinkles when she saw them approaching. Or rather him being pushed by the older chief.

“Ah, Chief Ulric. Welcome to my home. May the fires warm you and the white she-demon not steal you or your loved ones during the night.”

Nyx made himself answer that smile as he crossed his wrists in the traditional greeting. “Thank you for letting me step into the light of your hearth. May it keep you warm during long nights and dark days.” The smell coming from the earthen bowl over the fire brought tears into his eyes and made him want to gag. He swallowed dryly. It made it only worse.

“Take a seat, young Chief and take part in the meal. Soon we will begin.”

The young man nodded and forced his questions down. He had no idea why he had been invited to a flow laying of all things. They were for people with power, influence important destinies – mystic heroes during times of old - and while he wished he could be someone like that, he doubted that he was such a person now. Some of the other participants also didn't make a lick of sense to him.

A young man, clearly of the Lazarus Clan with his blond hair and pale skin, sat at the table and frowned into a steaming cup. Nyx' eyebrows shot up in surprise. The Lazarus' seldom came out of their little conclave in Tenebrae. Especially after they had brought news of Tenebrae's conclusive conquest by Nifelheim and their slaying of the Oracle a few years ago. Next to him sat a woman he didn't know with sandy brown hair twisted into thick braids that wound around her head like a crown. A bit ostentatious in his opinion, but who was he to judge another clan's braids? She was talking to Elder Istoria Patientia, one of the few people he knew from the westernmost islands, who sat at one end of the table. The old woman had made it her mission to travel all over Galahd to keep the stories alive and well, as she said.

Nyx finally shed his furs and the outer layers of his clothing until he was down to a knitted jumper, his mother had made for him, his pants and his boots, and carefully laid it all over the back of the chair across from the Lazarus Clan member that had to be around his age. Him, Crow and Nyx were clearly the youngest people here. Now the heat in the room wasn't as oppressive and he could breathe a bit easier. Crowe claimed the chair to his left, looking even more uncomfortable than she had when he had come in. She was the first Nameless One to take part in a flow laying in a few hundred years.

At last he had stories to tell him what to expect from this. Ulrics had been part of this every few generations since the Clan had been founded. But her...

The leaden wight in his gut only grew, so he went straight for the fumir and also poured his best friend a cup of the steaming beverage. Without saying a word they drank a deep gulp. It nearly scorched his tongue and the stronger than expected spices made him blink the tears from his eyes before some of the other people in the room noticed. Crowe sent him an amused smirk, the traitor.

“Don't worry too much about it,” he whispered, leaning towards her, “The stories say that all you have to do is sit still and watch. The Aware One will do everything else.”

“Well, it's not like you have ever been to something like this either,” she hissed back, clearly agitated over her own ignorance.

The sound of a door opening and closing made them and the other people in the kitchen go silent and look up. Elder Rhea's apprentice, whose name he didn't know, flushed red in embarrassment at the attention she received. She carried a heavy looking wooden box in her arms. It was covered in elaborate carvings of the Galahdian jungle and the sea and was around one and a half handspans high and two long. She carefully set it down at the end of the table where two empty chairs stood and sat down on one of them.

The other guests also settled down, the plate in the middle of the table that had been stacked full of nuts and dried meats now empty, and a tense silence settling over the group. For a short moment Nyx let his eyes wander. Everybody seemed to be as tense as he was despite their best efforts to hide it. The young hunter could practically smell the nervousness in the air.

Finally Elder Rhea stepped away from the bowl over the hearth. Nyx followed her every move with keen eyes as her gnarly fingers opened the box, its well oiled hinges not making a single sound. Within, he knew, lay the cards with which this game would be played, even if it was a game in name only and that, too, just barely.

The fire crackled ominously as she pulled a surprisingly large stack of cards out of the box. All of them were made of thin wooden plates the length of his hand, one side painted in vibrant colours, the other bare. Some of the cards were older than Galahd, his mother had said, while others were as young as to have been made only a few years ago. The river was forever in flux and so cards came and went.

On his left Crowe was gripping her cup so hard he feared she would break it. He took another fortifying gulp from his own. The spicy alcohol spread its warmth quickly and made his face flush even more.

Elder Rhea put the cards into two neat stacks, face down. Her apprentice pulled out a pen and a stiff sheet of paper, her chair the one furthest away from the table. Nyx assumed she wouldn't take part in the game then.

“Thank you all for following my call. Strange things are afoot. This winter is far colder than many of its precursors. The magicks are restless and unsettled and all of you gathered here have to play a part in what is to come.”

Another short silence followed. Nyx shared one last glance with Crowe. Then, without further ado, the Elder picked up the first card from the stack closest to her and laid it on the table with an audible click. Nyx stared at the image. The only clear features he could discern were a pair of sickly yellow eyes on black and a too wide grin full of sharp teeth. The rest was hidden behind a screen of smoky grey, but he thought he could see the black spots of scourge marring a human face. The card practically oozed savage satisfaction and a sick desire for blood and vengeance that made something within Nyx bristle in defense. He shook his head. The alcohol must be getting to his head already.

“The Herald of the Starscourge,” muttered Elder Rhea just loud enough for all to hear.

Nyx couldn't tear his eyes away from it but he could still hear the hissed breaths the others took. The Starscourge cropped up on their isles every few years. Just a few cases, mind, but still enough for all Galahkari to learn what to do if one were to meet one of the scourge-sick. Which, in essence, boiled down to giving them a quick and painless death.

He wondered if there would be another outbreak, worse than there had been for many generations. Nyx had heard of the rising numbers of scourge-sick on the mainland, which was not only, but in part, because the last Oracle had been slain by the Nifelheimr Empire.

“He is the one who will put what is to come in motion, who will guide a great number of the players involved. With or without them knowing has no bearing upon it.”

A second card was picked up and gently laid down next to the first. This one depicted a softly glowing crystal in the form of a heart, wrapped in chains.

“The Chained Heart,” Elder Rhea said, her eyebrows raised in something resembling astonishment. “An opponent to the Herald but not an enemy. At least part of their goals align and lead towards the same outcome.”

The third card was laid horizontally across the first two. It showed a figure all of them knew and none of them liked.

Bahamut.

Self proclaimed King of the Astrals and all around pain in the ass. His tries to conquer them through the Kingdom of Lucis had made the Galahkari hate him even more than they already had after the Astral War. Nyx had to suppress the irrational urge to bare his teeth at the card.

“King of the Sword, Bahamut. Master of the actions taken by the Herald and the Chained Heart. What his own agendas are remains murky in the flow.”

Elder Rhea reached for the first stack again – Nyx wondered what the second was for – to pick up the third card in the laying but then something happened. Later Nyx couldn't say what it had been and neither could any of the other attendees he had asked afterwards. Maybe it had been a slight of hand, maybe a slip of old and tiring fingers, maybe her apprentice had jostled her as she wrote down what had already been laid out. Whatever the case, the intended card flew from her hand and slid over the edge of the table where it landed face down in a loud clatter of wood on wood. Instead another was shown.

The wooden card clattered onto the table, out of order and too far to the left, the sound reverberating through the smoke filled room like gun shots. It did so with a wight that couldn't be natural. For a moment none of the participants sitting around the table moved. Nyx felt his muscles tense up and the fine hairs on his neck stand on end as Elder Rhea leaned towards the fallen card, the beads of her gently swinging braids clinking against each other.

“The Black Ships,” she whispered hoarsely into the deathly silence.

Nyx felt lightheaded as his blood fled from his head. Suddenly any influence, the alcohol may have had, vanished. He looked at the Lazarus across from him, who sat head bowed and clenched fists trembling. The card of the Black Ships laid nearest to him. Their black sails and hulking hulls promising death and suffering.

The gisdrauhti said this card had come into existence when the Conqueror King of Lucis had come to take their lands in the name of his patron God. It was one of those stories that had scared him witless as a young child, but he had only understood it as he had grown into his teenage years. The Black Ships only represented bloody invasion, death and pain and deep sorrow, that would be remembered until the end of their days for his people.

A thin and calloused hand clutched his in a death grip under the table.

The near silent clinking of wood against wood made him look towards the Elder who picked up a new card, from the second stack this time he noted, with trembling fingers. Her mouth was pressed into a bloodless line. She seemed to stare into thin air for a few moments as all others, including Nyx, held their breath. The grip on his hand grew even tighter. His own grip was just as strong.

Gently, Elder Rhea laid it down in front of the Lazarus. Nyx could practically see the relief wafting off of the blond. Leaning forward, he breathed a tremendous sigh of relief himself in tandem with Murus Ostium next to him.

There, facing the Black Ships that sailed in a stormy sea, was the Watcher of the Hunt.

They would be warned.

Thank the ancestors and the spirits of the jungle.

They would be warned.

“Thank ahtrii,” whispered someone across the table. Nyx didn't know who it had been. Nor did he care.

“It seems we have much to prepare for. Dire times lie ahead of us. Dire times, indeed. What needs to be determined now is what role each of you will play in what is to come,” said Elder Rhea, her normally calm voice a tight curl of tension Nyx had never heard before.

More cards were laid out. This time in front of the people sitting around the table.

Orfefs, Father of the Hunt.

The woman with the braids wrapped around her head.

Priestess of Fire.

Elder Istoria Patientia.

Witch of the Hunt.

Crowe the Nameless.

Mage of the Wilderness.

Himself.

Wall of the Wooden Throne.

Murus Ostium.

Ship of the Hunt.

The man with red hair and Solheimr golden eyes that hadn't said a word until now.

Nyx had no idea what any of this meant but when he looked down at the card in front of him, at the man with the coeurl eyes, the wild grin, naked, safe for the white fur wrapped around him, he couldn't help but feel a rightness that scared him down to his core.

[moromuru]

Is simon as rich as alister? Because that is a lot of gold ✨️

You're from Twitter aren't you? XD

Well yes Simon is richer than Allister but in terms of the "rich kid hierarchy"

1. Bubba

2. Simon

3. Kickin

4. Rabie

5. Allister

Bubba's dad is like an important figure in the city and he lets his son use the money since they aren't really losing any XD

I can go on about what each critter does to make money or what jobs they have to keep them sustained but that's for another ask