#Against Ecumenism

[jewfrogs]

you look up classics on indeed.com and the results are all either completely unrelated retail in texas or christian schools looking for a ‘defender of the western tradition’ who maintains ‘the highest christian virtue and personal decorum’ to teach latin

[kuramirocket]

@sephirajo You know how we were talking about that digusting Ecumene Aztec game? Well, I had left a comment on the video thanking the creator for his amazing video:

And not surprised at all that I got this reply:

Thankfully people shut down this clown swiftly and quickly. I really appreciated that so much because usually it's just the anti indigenous racism I see when it comes to native people and just on the topic of our people in general.

But anyways, again, it just proves our point how this game is just pandering to racists and white supremacists. It really is bringing out the racism in people as we know. I mean the clown here also made what was essentially homophobic comments and complaining about lgbt characters in media.

What also needs to be talked about is how a lot anti indigenous sentiment and genocide is also perpetuated and supported a lot of times by followers of the Abrahamic religions.

As I always say, one of the reasons it's important for people to actually learn native history and to listen to indigenous people when we talk about the racism and hate we get.

[fictionadventurer]

It is so much fun watching Roseanna M. White be Catholic.

For one thing, she tells you cool history stuff about Christmas music.

[eleemosynecdoche]

I would never have in all my years seen hero-cult behavior treated as better when applied to real, living people, but it's being applied to a guy who disappeared protesters in Iran during the 80s and 90s, so...

[kuramirocket]

I just saw the whole video and yeah, ofc, as I always say as an indigenous person trying to reconnect; the game is absolutley disgusting and just full of tomfoolery. It's not surprising at all to see such racism in the game to pander to the alt right and neo nazi racists, but also not surprising at all to see the disgusting pro genocide takes of people against the indigenous people of Mexico. It's the same bs 'excuses' I see everyday of why our people "deserved" genocide. As if European invaders were any better, as the uploader of the vid explained with historical accuracy and sources. But the sad thing is, all of this doesn't matter to racists. They will just say it's pro 'noble savage' pRoPaGaNdA (not like it wasn't Europeans who came up with this term in the first place because of the atrocities of war happening in Europe) and 'historical revisionism' to make the indigenous people look better because wOkE reasons.

This type of digusting game really just perpetuates negative stereotypes against the indigenous people of Mexico.

Just, this is why it's so important to actually become educated on the history of the indigenous people of what would become Mexico and not just look at the side of the Europeans who wrote history to make their genocide against the natives seem as if it was good and just. And also why it's important to listen to actual indigenous people and voices who actually know their own people's history and struggle against colonization and genocide.

this is why my mestiza ass can't have nice things i stfg

[lokisgoodgirl]

Holy Orders [Avenger!Loki x Fem.Reader]

Part of the Hostile F*cks Collection A Link to my (new) Masterlist is HERE Summary: (17) Loki is working undercover as a priest in Rome. Ecumenical eroticism ensues. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Heresy. Smuttish. Latin. Priest!Loki. Language. (w/c 3.6k)

The door of your holiday apartment slammed behind you, cursing as you stumbled down a tiny step directly onto the cobbled street. It had been three weeks since the travesty of the Renaissance Faire.

After three days, you had accepted that Loki’s attention denial was not a phase. After five, the absence of his irritating teasing had you feeling an unusually bitter disappointment.

After seven, when he had left for Rome without even a courtesy farewell, you had woken in the night wondering the unthinkable. What if Thor was right?

And after twelve, you had begrudgingly accepted that you loved him.

There was a morning buzz in the air, jostling bicycles ringing lightly as the slap of your sandals sounded lightly on the aged stone beneath your feet. You hurried across the street, trying not to be run over by a moped speeding past, blowing up the back of your sundress. Jesus Christ, you thought; heart pounding before your lips curled in a secret smile. Father Laufeyson wouldn’t like that kind of talk, you laughed to yourself as you rounded the corner and Piazza Navona came into view.

For two weeks, Loki had been working undercover in a small church tucked out of the main bustle of Rome. His home had been the same ancient streets you now walked. And you wondered as you passed the marbled carvings of roman gods hanging against the circular fountains, if he had ever thought about you.

Of course not, he’s been busy, you chided yourself, hoisting the bag strap on your shoulder. When Rogers had assigned him this mission, apparently the laughs of the team could be heard two floors below. But as it turned out, Loki could be as convincing as a priest as he could be as a heartless arsehole. Now that his information gathering was complete, you had been sent to collect the evidence. You volunteered, idiot. A seamless pass-over. In and out, Rogers had said. Fuck, should someone have told him it was me that was coming? What if he’s mad?

You turned another corner, skilfully avoiding a group of tourists buried in a map. And what if he’s not? you thought; a thrill of wild anticipation blossoming in your belly.

“The Church of Santa Maria dell'Anima…” you murmured absent-mindedly, looking up at the flat exterior of the sandy coloured stone building.

As far as Roman churches went, it wasn’t a big draw - favoured more by the faithful local residents than photo-happy tourists. Perfect for a Hydra Vatican infiltration ring, you thought, pursing your lips as the eager congregation filed past you up the short flight of steps to the entrance. Swirling a white shawl around your shoulders, you took a deep breath of heavy, heated air.

Morning mass was about to begin.

You slipped inside the ancient wooden doors, a waft of stale coolness tingling over your skin. The breath seemed to evaporate from your lungs as your gaze drew up, eyes scanning over the high marble pillars and bright frescos painted floor to ceiling. Warm orange and gold infused the air, the sting of spiced incense filling your nostrils. The low hum of foreign conversation echoed around the church from people filing between the wooden pews, facing the altar. And there he was.

Loki Laufeyson stood with a long wooden taper clasped gently between his fingers, re-lighting candles by the far side of the carved stone nave. Strands of waxy hair fell around his cheekbones, illuminated by a hundred flickering flames resting in the metal display.

A thick green vestment embroidered with gold hung over his body down to his calves, making him look even taller than he usually did. Pure white shirt sleeves billowed around his arms, swaying gently as he continued his intricate work unphased.

He looked deep in thought, a calm serenity bathing his sharp profile as he blew out the taper and watched the smoke waft aimlessly through speckles of swirling dust. Loki clasped his hands in front of him, flattening the luxurious fabric of his vestment against the washboard stomach you knew lay beneath.

He turned, bowing lightly towards the crucifix hanging above the altar before ascending the several low steps.

Fuuuuck, you thought; pussy suddenly throbbing. Your hand fumbled to the strap of your bag, lowering it and sliding subtly into the back row. A cold shock of wood pressed against the back of your bare knees, making you wince. When did I get so wet, you frowned; knowing exactly when, as Loki turned towards the congregation.

A bell chimed, summoning another priest from the side of the church. You drew the shawl tighter around your chest, feeling your heart thunder against the clench of your fist. A woman slid in beside you, tucking her hair nervously behind her ears before making a sign of the cross.

“Nel nome del Padre, del Figlio e dello Spirito Santo, Amen.” she murmured, running her wide eyes up and down the ridiculously handsome figure opening the large bible, poised behind the altar. You suddenly wondered if morning mass had always been this popular.

The low tinkle of bells echoed again as the service began. The crowd rose, fifty or so of the faithful bowing their heads as the undercover Avenger took centre stage.

He is loving this, you thought incredulously, seeing his arms rise at his sides. The drape of green and gold vestments shimmered in the light, a warm glow radiating upwards to his pale face bathed in morning bronze from the stained glass. The crowd before you sat down obediently on the lowering of his palms. You fumbled backwards, catching yourself on the edge of the long bench.

Loki’s stare ran over the congregation, covertly scanning every face like only his keen gaze could. It stopped on you, making your breath hitch. You thought you saw the tug of a smirk at the side of his lips, a glint in his eye. Or maybe it was the light.

The next twenty minutes passed in a religiously erotic blur, swathes of ceremonial chants in Italian at Loki’s command making your thighs squeeze together. Heresy, you thought; a shudder rolling down your spine as the god leant forward to kiss the gospel. I’d be burnt in the old days.

The second priest had blessedly taken over to give the sermon, the broken words you could understand not even registering as you watched Loki listen rapturously to the side in feigned interest. He knows I’m watching him, you scowled; realising that every casual smooth of his stomach, every clench of his perfect jaw was for you.

How you wanted to storm up the marbled aisle, grab his stupid fancy poncho in a fist and kiss him violently against the golden tabernacle. Might blow his cover, though; you thought, immediately thinking of what else you could blow as he gripped onto the tall candlesticks by the altar.

The vivid fantasy was broken as the congregation shuffled to a stand. The woman beside you adjusted her cleavage, shaking her hair back. Loki raised his hand. “Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum.” he said, the practised words of prayer a chant - that velvet voice sinking through the heavy air like double cream. Even speaking in Latin, it was irresistible.

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be your name

Your hips shuddered back against the wooden pew, bare skin of your thighs dragging against the grain. You recognised the tempo. How could you not.

“Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra.” Loki spoke slowly, eye-fucking you menacingly from the top of the raised steps behind the lecturn. His lips hovered on ‘tuum’, a fizz of unstoppable need rising in your belly as you recalled its place in the prayer.

Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on Earth, as it is in heaven.

Dozens of voices chimed around you, their Italian lilt making the dead language sing. But it was only his earthen tones you heard. Only him.

It had always, only been him.

“Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut, et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris” he rumbled in baritone, tilting his head.

Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, As we forgive those who trespass against us

You raised your gaze to meet his, knowing it would be waiting as he stood with his large hands encasing the sides of the lectern by the altar. His eyes narrowed briefly, the subtle slant of his brows betraying his utter bemusement at your presence.

“Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo.” he growled, the timbre of his voice making the woman beside you straighten. You could see her fingertips digging into the soft flesh between her knuckles, hands clasped in prayer.

And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

How appropriate, you mused. You watched as Loki slid the bible from its place, holding it briefly aloft and placing a kiss against the leather before lowering it to his crotch in a gentle hold.

“Amen.” he murmured, solemnly; lowering his chin.

“Amen.” came the ringing response. “Amen.” you echoed slowly, squinting thoughtfully as Loki turned and sat with a smirk.

You sat back down, questioning everything. Did you think that when he saw you it would have been any different from how it ever was? That he would somehow wordlessly communicate that he was pleased to see you? That he had missed you? That he loves me too, you scoffed painfully; flinching as the organ sprang to life.

The communion procession began with those at the front of the church, each person pausing in front of the priest to receive god’s bounty. Loki and his counterpart held the small, circular host aloft, their lips moving before placing it on the recipients tongue. Kinky, you thought; before realising the woman to your right had risen and joined the slow moving queue. Fuck.

You shuffled behind her, rolling your eyes as she fiddled nervously with her hair, smoothing and re-smoothing the same strands. Your gaze wandered to the ornate figure of Christ hanging on the cross above the altar, his limp form getting closer and closer. Don’t look at me like that, you huffed to the disappointed looking Jesus; immediately switching focus to the floor beneath your feet.

“Corpo di Cristo…” a dark voice murmured. It was tinged with weighty intentions, thick memories of feral moans of unrestrained passion in your ear flooding your mind as you fluttered your lashes upwards. Loki’s eyes betrayed none of your history, his stare glazed; the twitch of one dark eyebrow the only indicator that he ever knew you at all.

“Amen.” you whispered hoarsely, parting your lips.

He placed the host gently on your outstretched tongue. Against your better judgement, you felt your lids flicker shut, the soft graze of his fingertip smoothing against wet muscle that longed for his touch.

It lingered, the melt of the wafer beginning to slide down your throat. His wide fingertip pulled imperceptibly at your bottom lip on its withdrawal, making your eyes shoot open. Loki’s brows raised, a light furrow reminding you that there was an entire congregation at your back. You gave a small nod towards him, scurrying around the front pews and back to your seat.

You could feel the burning heat in your cheeks for the rest of the mass, ten minutes feeling like an endless vat of time. The final blessing was, in reality, swift. A few chimes, swings of incense and murmurs of reverent praise and it was done.

Loki disappeared in procession with the other priest behind a door at the back of the church in a sway of luxurious, billowing green. The stillness of the holy space washed over you as attendees left in their own time. You checked your watch. Forty-five minutes. Had that been all?

The clap of your sandals against the marble floor echoed as you walked slowly around the walls, drawn to the beauty of the figures drawn by those long dead. You traced your fingers over cracks in the face of a rather grim looking Virgin Mary. “I know how you feel…” you whispered to no-one, feeling the plaster catch beneath delicate skin.

“I very much do not think you know how she feels.”

Your hand paused on the fresco, falling to your side as you turned. Loki stood resplendent before you, the folds of his holy garment making him look more achingly irresistible than he ever had before. You felt a frown crease your forehead, pursing your lips to stop a moan. It was worse up close.

Loki leant forward, casting a conspiratorial glance towards a small group of locals loitering by the door. “-due to the fact that for one thing, she is a virgin, while you...Agent...” he smirked. Your frown deepened.

“Keep your voice down.” you hushed, glancing over your shoulder. Satisfied, you looked back to Loki, his obsidian hair curled behind delicate ears revealing the white flash of his clerical collar. The bone structure you knew so well against the curves of your body sang in the mid-morning light through the windows, every iridescent inch of his skin glowing with tantalising radiance.

“I see you still managed to wear green.” you scoffed under your breath, making the priest chuckle lightly. “It’s Ordinary Time in the church calendar, Agent. Did you not read the briefing documents? It is the standard colour for the season” he drawled quietly, giving a reverent nod to his fellow priest heading for the door and the beckon of Rome beyond.

“They really think you’re one of them?” you said, turning towards a row of candles flickering to the side. Each one represented someone loved and lost, a prayer. A hope.

“Of course." he scoffed. "Father John Lockhart on pilgrimage from England. Why would they suspect?”

You ran your eyes down the silk embroidered vestment which hid his intensely muscular body. Just. The bulge of his biceps shifted beneath the billowing sleeves making your gaze hover. “Priests aren’t usually so…”

“Yes?” he goaded, raising an eyebrow in amusement. You dropped a coin in the basket, taking a candle and fingering the wick. “You don’t seem like the type, that’s all. I’m surprised you didn’t shapeshift.”

Loki chuckled. “My dear, you clearly don’t know Catholicism. A web of mysteries and contradictions which go far beyond their lore-bound texts...” he said, shifting so you stood with biceps pressing against each other.

“Are you considering a change of vocation then?” you quipped, playing with the wick between your fingers. He faced the wall of candles, but you could feel the stare of his eyes roaming the sliver of skin beneath the parted shawl. “Not quite.” he muttered absent-mindedly. “The reverence and theatrics are appealing I grant you, but there is far too much celibacy for my liking.”

The ghost of his breath skated across your collarbone, the unbearably small distance between you making every nerve in your body vibrate with desire.

“What are you praying for, mio figlio?” he murmured innocently under his breath as the wick of your candle caught flame from another. My child, you thought with a grimace, recognising the taboo of unmistakeable arousal deep in your pussy.

You watched the tear-dropped fire settle from its first rage, flickering gently as it came to terms with its place in the world. Setting it down amongst the others, you turned your chin to look up at him. The blues of Loki’s irises swam with green in the shadowed alcove, the dance of the candlelight illuminating him like a bygone Saint.

“Salvation.” you whispered quietly, voice catching.

Without knowing why, you bowed your head. The god’s fingers flew gently beneath your chin, tilting it upwards once more. His eyes were wide, lips parted as he inhaled softly. “Darling, I-”

“Padre?” a voice muttered tentatively behind you.

You and Loki both turned, seeing the fidgeting figure of the woman who had been your unknowing lust-buddy all through the service.

“Sì, figlia mia?” Loki replied gently, his hands disappearing back into the draped sleeves of his robes as he clasped them together. You rolled your eyes, pivoting back towards the wall of tealit flames. The thunder of your heart was a solid beat in your ears, pounding. His smooth voice rumbled in Italian, the sweet ministrations of his undercover persona clearly honed over the past two weeks. “Grazie Padre…” you heard the woman say, a tremble in her voice; before quick footsteps echoed away from you.

Loki chuckled, resuming his position by your side. “Impure thoughts about an inappropriate figure, apparently.” he whispered, barely contained glee bursting from the confines of propriety. “Wishes to make a confession to me personally at the next session. Imagine that. I wonder who it could be.”

“You are impossible." you sighed, a wave of jealousy roaring in your belly. "I bet you’ve been very popular here in that regard.” you said through gritted teeth, trying to focus on the wavering light of your candle. Salvation.

“Always so quick to judge.” he chuckled, drawing himself stoically upwards. “My dear, I am a priest.” he said, turning to face you. His nose was inches from your forehead, the empty church feeling stifling as the air settled around you both. “I have been a beacon of chastity...and contrary to popular belief, I do take my assignments seriously.”

Slowly, you met his gaze – the sincerity in his face, unmistakeable. “I didn’t think you took anything seriously, Father.” you said, mockingly; unable to stop yourself as you watched his eyes narrow at the words.

“Don’t you mean Daddy, Agent?” he smouldered, “Or am I nothing but a memory to you now with my brief absence?”

In two quick steps from his impossibly long legs, your back was flush against the nearest wall. The curve of the low archway hung dangerously close to Loki’s full height as he loomed above you. His forearm pressed to the marble cornicing above your head, trapping you like a lamb for slaughter.

A long sleeve of forest green shielded you from the gaze of a dozen judgemental statues, the collar around his neck straining against the weight of a hard vein that bulged ominously. “Why must you always think the worst of me?” he growled, the primal sound rumbling deep in his throat hoarse and wild. Familiar burning lust bubbled uncontrollably to the surface in those beautifully dangerous eyes as his chest heaved, daring you to respond.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you said, flustered as the shawl fell around your shoulders to the floor. Loki stepped closer, fingertips of the hand not affixed above your head squeezing into the flesh of your bare bicep.

“I think you know very well.” he spat, all traces of serenity gone as he blazed beneath a façade of restraint. “Why are you here? To taunt me? To parade yourself in front of me while you tease me with your endless games? Anyone else could have taken your place. Anyone.”

Your frown deepened, a deep ache blossoming in your belly as you tasted the rage on his every word. You shouldn’t have come.

“-Or am I wrong? Have you come to confess to me, darling?” he hummed goadingly, the feeling of his tips running down your aching skin making your shiver.

Sarcasm bit through his words, slicing through the intimacy of the moment. “And what better place? What better persona? Are you ready to admit your undying love for me and put this charade to an end? Or have your attentions wandered...”

A staggered breath surged in your throat as his hand traced down your cleavage, feeling your resistance falter. You could feel the swell of his hard erection through the drape of holy garb, the violence of his lust boiling beneath the shroud of theatrical consecration. The words were on the tip of your tongue- But then the game will be over for him. He will have won, you thought with a chill; And what then?

Loki’s brow furrowed, a jolt of his jaw taking you by surprise – like shaking off a fly. Whatever was in your head, he clearly didn’t want to hear it.

“And what about you…?” you managed to quiver through shaky breaths, your hands sliding tentatively over his shoulders. Loki tilted his head, confusion etched across his brow. In a brief second, you saw his bravado falter, features softening as he processed the possible meanings of your request. His tongue darted out, licking quickly over his cupid’s bow before biting his lip.

He shook his head, a solitary gasp of forced laughter gusting against your parted lips.

“I have just recalled I seem to owe you a certain...something, do I not?” he said casually, skating over his previous barbs as he tried to change the subject. You shuffled against the wall, attempting to pull him closer to you and failing. “More than one, actually.” you muttered, feeling the wet slick between your thighs grow hot. It was embarrassing how much you needed him. Above everything else, it was him.

“More than one?” Loki purred disapprovingly, tsk’ing as he raised an eyebrow. His hips dragged up your pelvis, every forbidden inch of his solid cock making you mad with need. You began to pant, as he thrust once against your torso. Creases had formed at the corner of his eyes; his outburst it seemed...forgotten.

He released the forearm from the wall above your head, a theatrical flourish of his arm making the heavy metal bolt across the doors of the church slam shut with an almighty clang.

“Here?” you gasped, feeling the embroidery of his sacred vestment scratch against your cleavage as he pressed his muscular torso against you. “But what about...you know.” You tilted your chin upwards towards the crucifix in explanation, the majesty of the surroundings somehow making you forget to whom you were pinned against.

“Don’t worry about Him, Agent…” Loki whispered, before his lips wrapped around your earlobe, sucking gently. “Mine are the only Holy Orders you shall be following today. Mine, the only sacrament your body desperately needs.” His dirty whispers hummed against your skin, falling deeper into waves of sin with each dark syllable. "Mine." he rasped quietly, the word melting against your breathy moans unheard, before fastening his lips to yours in a desperate kiss.

Continued in Holy Orders: Mercy Part of the Hostile F*cks Collection

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[girls--complex]

Do you have any advice on how someone should pray, individually or otherwise? I’ve been to Quaker meetings in the past but they make me so anxious for one reason or another. Should I just suck it up and keep trying?

Hai Anon, held U in the light today

Recurring anxiety during Contemplation is a pretty common experience furst of all, so ur not alone...

I would encourage you to find some spiritual guidance IRL. Either an actual meditation teacher or clergy or something or just a kindly elder to confide in. It's good to have a longitudinal conversation about this because different things will likely come up and different pointsin the journey. If you are very inhibited your nervous system needs social permission to access new consciousness. It's also good if they can get a multi sensory read on you. It's even better if they can consciously respond to your embodiment because fear lives in the body. Actually Buddhists tend to be really good at that if you're comfortable going there.

Compassionate and accessible resources can be found via the Center for Action and Contemplation (ecumenical, Franciscan theology) as well as Buddhist meditation teacher Pema Chodron ("getting unstuck")

My prayer life = clinging to remote fellowship with God constantly against being dragged into lifeless caenality. Remembrance of God's bottomless delight in creation. Openness 2 the channel... openness 2 myself in the world.. the defenseleness of incarnation. Youre always permeated or penetrated or saturated in this way. Discomfort doesn't always mean something is wrong. It *can* mean that something is wrong or it can mean that something is very right.

"Sucking it up," because there is a grit to holding, for instance and especially fear and not engaging in the usual shutdown or mythologies (fear is also very strongly impressed in my body), but more actually yielding, bending in the wind, untangling knots of resistance (impiety), letting the energy move thru U and pass. It is like passing a bladder stone or something. Actually it's crucifixion lol... c v c x v .... receptive and yielding grit, the toughness, actually the almightiness of divine Vulnerability

We have an animal instinct for how to allow physical pain through the body, by pacing, breath, shaking off, whatever, emotional pain functions similarly (arguably a class of physical pain). You may need help with this embodiment in some way? Even though a contemplative may sit still there is usually an intentional and structured embodied technique... as in zazen, they breathe and sit with intention at every step. But there is also pacing, dancing,intoning, quaking 🫨 tantra... and you can find a teacher in these things or discover them yourself. There's advantages and disadvantages to self direction.

Guidance to what to look for maybe or maybe not because I have so little information from you and so little of my own experience..........

best of luck friend

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

Hitchens: People want to pray, you can’t stop them. But we cannot have state subsidized prayer. We cannot have state subsidized preachers or chaplains.

Give it up, or give it to your deadliest enemy and pay for the rope that will choke you.

This is very urgent business, ladies and gentlemen, I beseech you: resist it while you still can and before the right to complain is taken away from you, which will be the next thing.

You will be told, you can’t complain – because you’re Islamophobic. The term is already being introduced into the culture, as if it’s an accusation of race hatred or bigotry, whereas it’s only the objection to the preachings of a very extreme and absolutist religion.

Watch out for these symptoms. They are not just symptoms of surrender, very often ecumenically offered to you by men of God in other robes, Christian and Jewish and smarmy ecumenical. These are the ones who hold open the gates for the barbarians. The barbarians never take a city until someone holds the gates open to them. And it’s your own preachers who will do it for you, and your own multicultural authorities who will do it for you.

Resist it while you can. And if you wonder what will happen if you don't, look and see how a cricket team in Middlesex in England had to change its name by force last week because it was called, and had been for years, the Middlesex Crusaders. Look and how stories about little pigs can’t be taught to children in English schools anymore, lest offense be taken by the religions of peace.

Resist it while you can.

-

Starmer: One of the things that's coming up over and over again is Islamophobia and well, you can see by the stats, you can see the numbers rising, particularly since October the 7th, although we shouldn't fall into the trap of thinking that before October the 7th, this was all heading in the right direction. It's been far too high for far too long. Clearly, we need to just say over and over again, Islamophobia is intolerable. It can never, ever be justified and we have to continue with a zero-tolerance approach, and I think there's more we can do in government. There's certainly stuff online, which I think needs tackling much more robustly than it is at the moment.

Q: What I'm hoping, Keir, is your experience as a prosecutor means you'll be thinking about the strategy we can use to make sure we take action against those who break the law.

==

The UK is in very big trouble. There are weekly antisemitic parades through London calling for the eradication of Israel and the Jews, but Starmer's big concern is the imaginary dragon of "Islamophobia." That you are not allowed to oppose or even question Islam or its tenets or its unending and ever escalating demands. That disagreeing with and opposing Islam is itself - or should be - a criminal offence.

Reminder: opposing the imposition of Islamic demand and concessions to fragile Islamic sensibilities is not "bigotry." It's completely reasonable, sensible and necessary.

[thefirstknife]

How much information were we exactly given on the Harmony?

I'm trying to find as many possible connections to them as we're given, and more specifically if they were just a one-off mentioned race that was totally wiped out and Calus took an Ahamkara bone from. There's also Ahamkara mentioned along with them and I don't know if the Harmony are ever brought up again in relation to the Ahamkara...? If I didn't accidentally gloss over anything.

Basically, are you aware of anything that might have mentioned the Harmony in more detail or if there's anything you think might be references to them?

Unfortunately the only thing we know about them is in Books of Sorrow and the minor mention of Calus taking the ahamkara bone (from LF CE). There's no other details, at least that we can accurately attribute to them. It seems they were completely wiped out and no other record remains besides what was written in the Books of Sorrow.

Calus came upon the ruins of their civilisation probably millions of years after they were destroyed by the Hive so there wasn't much he could find out. We knew from Books of Sorrow that they had some sort of a connection to the ahamkara, but the nature of that is unknown; it seems to have been in some way beneficial because the Harmony deployed the ahamkara to fight the Hive. I'll summarise it all here for people who might be interested.

First mention in the Books of Sorrow - they were guarding something called a Nicha Thought-ship, unknown what it really was, but Oryx wanted it to find the location of the Gift Mast. He used the Dreadnaught's superweapon against their Harmonious Flotilla Invincible and took the Nicha Thought-ship, but inside (?) of it was a Vex trap (also unclear if the Harmony was using the Vex on purpose or if the Vex were just there. This is where Quria comes from). Given its name, a "Thought-ship" might be something similar to various devices often linked to the Vex that are capable of either simulations or "predictions" like the OXA or the Device from the FWC. Maybe! It could be anything really.

Second mention in the Books of Sorrow - very brief description of their civilisation and their technologies like the Gift Mast and the Harmony Sting. Also mentions "dragons" and brings one of the more interesting lines from Xivu who says:

Our gods should be ours alone.

The implication being that there could be some connection between the ahamkara and the Worm Gods, or at least some sort of similarity which angers Xivu Arath and is the reason why she compares the ahamkara to "our gods" aka the Worms.

Third mention in the Books of Sorrow - this details how the Hive defeated the Harmony. Ahamkara were used by the Harmony to fight off Xivu Arath, who ends up killing them (this is also where we know that these "dragons" are ahamkara because they're referred to as "wishful bishops" and it says that the Harmony turned to "dragon-wishes"). The Gift Mast is torn down and the surviving Harmony kill themselves in despair.

And then, fascinating, years later in LF CE (page 15) - they're not directly identified by name, but the description matches what we know of the Harmony. Conclusively shows that they're gone (at least from this system) as there's only debris left and curiously, Calus gets himself an ahamkara bone from the debris.

An ancient bone retrieved from the debris around a once-radiant black hole. Scholars tell me, Caiatl, that eons ago, a species lived around this deepness, and built an engine to tap its polar jets. But something came upon them from the dark and killed them all.

Really cool that this was brought up again after so long. We didn't get many details or anything but still. That's also everything we know, so far! They've expanded on some other species recently (like the Ecumene (Inspiral) and even moreso the Qugu (Inspiral and Dynasty)) so you never know. Maybe in time we'll get something else on the Harmony as well.

[mapsontheweb]

Europe in the 17th century

🇱🇹 "Viduramžiai: atlasas, konspektas, žodynas", Briedis, 2010

via cartesdhistoire

In 1648, a concert of nations was established. The starting point is the separate treaty concluded on January 30 between the United Provinces and Spain: there we see the idea of balance appearing, no longer against the defeated Habsburgs but against a France which would be too preponderant; hence the failure of the project cherished by Mazarin of an exchange between Catalonia and the Netherlands.

The theory of balance triumphed at the Treaties of Westphalia and a new Europe appeared, within which large states developed on the basis of reciprocal independence: the notion of empire as the ecumenical power of Christianity thus disappeared. definitely. However, France's centuries-old conflict against the Habsburgs has had such a profound impact on diplomatic traditions that it is impossible for France to think about international politics outside of this very conflict. Louis XIV thus ignored the importance of maritime and commercial aspects, leaving France to fall behind England. Indeed, if the Franco-Spanish War which ended in 1659 was a land war, it was coupled with a maritime war during which England sided with France with the aim of seizing Dunkirk. Furthermore, with his eyes fixed on France's traditional alliances in Eastern Europe, Louis XIV did not worry about the development of Russian power after 1660, following the Northern War.

The consequence is that France's forces are then wasted in obsolete enterprises of useless struggles which only bring together ever-reviving coalitions against it - including the Grand Alliance of 1689. In 1715, France certainly found itself equipped with a border better than in 1648, but territorially equal to itself, in a Europe where other States have significantly progressed. While in 1648 it had undeniable pre-eminence, at the death of Louis XIV it was no more than one of the elements of the European balance.

[mask131]

Vampires before they were cool... (2)

In my last post, I left you by the 16th century. But it was the 17th century which was the BIG century for the evolution of the vampire myth.

During the Middle-Ages, the vampire manifestations were mostly localized in Western Europe: vampire tales came from the British Isles, from France, from Spain, from Portugal. However, throughout the 16th century, these phenomenon rarefied themselves in the West… Only to brutally amplify and multiply by the East. In the 17th century, vampires popped up everywhere in the Balkans, in Greece, in Russia, in the eastern part of the Austro-Hungarian empire. In fact, by the 17th century, vampires had turned so rare in Western Europe that some people (like Voltaire in France) would later believe vampires were “invented” by the 17th century and did not exist prior to this date…

Why such a big shift? Well, sociologically speaking, Eastern Europe was a poor and isolated part of Europe at the time. The great innovations and inventions of the Renaissance had not crossed over to the East, unlike things like the vampire tales, which travelled very fast – and while the bourgeoisie and the city-dwellers of Eastern countries were educated, the rest of the population, the peasants and the folks of the countryside, usually did not know how to read or write. It was a fertile ground for folktales to take root and superstitions to manifest themselves… But there was a second reason that amplified this one: a religious difference. In Western Europe, it was a time of hunts and persecutions of all kinds – be it the Catholic Church and its Inquisition who led a merciless fight against anything deemed an “heresy” or a superstition contradicting its canon beliefs; or the Anglican Church of the Stuarts who caused one of the largest witch hunts of history. These phenomenon caused the disappearance and erasure of the vampire myth in Western Europe… But to the East, the Byzantine-descending Church had a more open-mind and a greater tolerance when it came to local folk-beliefs, even including superstitions in its rites and practices: as such, the vampire myth was welcomed by the religious authorities – a case being the brucolacs of Greece.

The Greeks have very ancient beliefs when it comes to the dead who do not rot and get out of their graves: the archetypal case is the one of the “vrykolakas” (usually re-written as “brucolac”). They were people turned undead because they were not buried in a holy ground (death by suicide, or being excommunicated). However when the legend of the vrykolakas started they were… harmless and pitiful creatures. They were tormented souls who only sought to escape the physical body they were trapped within, and did not harm humans: to send them to an eternal rest, the Church just had to remove its excommunication and their soul would be at peace. However, from the 16th century onward, the nature of the vrykolakas changed with the arrival from the West of these yet-unnamed harmful undeads. And this lead to a confusion with werewolves.

Yes, werewolves: “vrykolakas” was also a Greek term to designate werewolves, who were very present in the folklores of the Balkans or the Carpathians. The werewolf myth was, just like the vampire myth, crystallized by the Christian medieval beliefs. And just like the vampire, it had an “official” recognition: Sigismund, king of Hungary and leader of the Holy Roman Empire (1368-1437) had the Ecumenical Council of 1414 recognize officially the existence of werewolves, and in the 16th century the Roman Church led official investigations on lycanthropy. Between 1520 and the mid-17th century, more than 30 000 cases of lycanthropy had been reported in Europe (in the West, France was the most touched, while in the East they were found mainly in Serbia, Bohemia and Hungary). A rumor started spreading around, about how when werewolves died they turned into “blood-sucking undead”. This led, in the end of the 17th century, to the apparition in popular culture of vampire-werewolves entity. They were found in Silesia, Bohemia, Poland, Hungary, Moldavia, Russia, and of course Greece, where the peaceful brucolacs were turned into bloodthirsty monsters ; and by the 18th century they covered pretty much all of Northern and Central Europe. Every country had its own terms, its own names, and its own traditions when it came to these undead: “upir”, “brucolac”, “blutsauger”, “vulkodlak”… In Slovakia and Romania for example, the “dead that walks” was accused of every misfortune: famines, diseases, disasters and misfortunes were supposedly all caused by them, and it could only be solved by opening their graves and plunging a stake in their bodies. People feared the “strigoi” and the “moroi”, these corpses that got out of their coffins at night to drink the blood of the living, and they were FAR from the glamorous vampire we think of today. They were these fleshy, bloated corpses that wandered around with their eyes bulging and wide-open, never blinking, repulsive monsters with barely anything human left in them. To recognize one, you had to a find a corpse that was still fresh despite being buried for quite some times, and who had nose either on its mouth or nose. Then, you needed to pierce it with a stake, or removed its heart to burn it. In Romania, the families of the recently deceased brought wine and bread on the graves in hope of appeasing them. Slovakians rather sent elderly ladies in the cemeteries to stab graves with hawthorn branches or old knives: five in total, four for the limbs and one for the chest, to “nail” the corpse to its coffin. Eyes were closed with coins so they wouldn’t open, mouths were filled with garlic and wired shut, and if these rituals were useless a special person would be brought to destroy the corpse by decapitation, fire and religious symbols – a holy man, or a “dhampir”, a man rumored to be half-vampire… In Romania, many, MANY people could turn into vampires, not just werewolves: seventh sons of seventh sons, babies born with a caul o with teeth, individuals who had both red hair and blue eyes, and of course all the criminals, suicides and other disgraced people who did not receive proper burial.

All the fuss and commotion in Eastern Europe ended up alerting the capitals of Western Europe. In October of 1694, the French review “Le Mercure Galant” (a courtly magazine for the nobility) had an entire issue dedicated to these vampires of the east. By the end of the 17th century, while the word “vampire” still did not exist, it was a true mass psychosis, an “epidemic of undeads” followed by ferocious “hunts” during which corpses were dug up to be “killed again”… At the beginning of the 18th century, the authorities decided to take measures to calm things down and quiet this upcoming chaos. Though at this moment, the mass panic about vampires still relied on rumors, oral culture and other travel-tales: there was no written text or official report per se… Until the 18th century, when the authorities stepped in.

Cases of so-called “vampires” were studied and mediatized in Austria and Serbia, Prussia and Poland, Moravia and Russia. When the plague hit the eastern part of Prussia in 1710, the local authorities dug up themselves the corpses accused of having caused the epidemic. But two specific cases became the most famous and spectacular ones, making vampirism a full European thing.

The first was the death of a peasant: Peter Plogojowitz. He died in 1725, but his small village of Kizilova quickly called him a vampire and accused him of having caused eight deaths within the village. Testimonies talked of Plogojowitz being seen in people’s bedroom at night, trying to strangle them. When the grave was opened by the authorities, it was testified that his body had not yet rotten, and that fresh blood was on his mouth. He was quickly staked and burned. The second case was the one of Arnold Paole, a peasant from the small town of Medwegya who died falling from a cart in 1726(27?). He had apparently confessed to his fiancée, some days before his death, that he had encountered what he thought to be an undead… Paole himself was accused of having turned into a vampire, and caused the death of the village’s cattle and four people. His body was ug up and pierced with a stake. The case of Paole was extremely interesting because an authority was sent to study the case: Johann Flückinger, who investigated in his quality of both high-ranked major and army doctor. The result of his presence was the famous “Visum et Repertum” document, a 1731 report of the entire case and his conclusion, cosigned by other doctors and officers, and where (according to Antoine Faivre) the word “vampire” first appeared in the history of written texts, spelled “vanpir”. The “Visum et Repertum” became an object of curiosity for all the ruling classes of Western Europe: we know that Charles VI of Austria and Louis XV of France were both invested in the outcomes of the Plogojowitz and Paole cases. The Paole case was notably described with many details in “Le Glaneur”, a famous Franco-Dutch review often read at the Versailles court (issue of march 1732) – and it was in this “Le Glaneur” issue that the word “vampire” first appeared in the French language, spelled “vampyre”. The very same year and month, an article was published in the “London Journal” which brought over the word “vampire” to the English language.

These two cases also led to a LOT of treaties and dissertations being written about vampires, by both pseudo-scientists and actual men of the Church, which in turn caused intense debates and huge controversies among universities and literary circles. The first of those treaties is from the latter part of the 17th century, published at Leipzig in 1679, “Dissertatio historica-philosophica de Masticatione Mortuorum”, by Philip Rohr. This text tried to explain why the dead would “masticate” in their graves by explaining it was a demonic possession of the corpses. This book caused a huge controversy in the 18th century, splitting people in two sides: either you agreed with Rohr’s supernatural explanation, either you deemed this an ignorant superstition. Another famous treaty was published in Leipzig, in 1728 this time: “De Masticatione Mortuorum in Tumulis Liber” by Michael Ranft. This book opposed and discredited the thesis of Rohr by claiming the devil had no power onto the corpses of the dead, and that while the “undeads” would influence the living, they could not appear to them under any tangible form. Many other treaties would follow, such as Johann Christian Stock’s “Dissertatio Physica de Cadaveribus Sanguisugis” (1732) or Johann Heinrich Zopft’s “Dissertatio de Vampiris Serviensibus” in 1733.

Though the most famous of them all is Dom Augustin Calmet’s 1746 Parisian text, “Traité sur les revenants en corps, les excommuniés, les oupires ou vampires, broucolaques de Hongrie, de Moravie, etc », published in two volumes (Treaty on the undead in body, the excommunicated, the upirs or vampires, brucolacs of Hungaria, Moravia, etc). This Benedictine monk and famous commentator of the Bible wanted to refute the belief in vampires: to do so, he collected and analyzed an enormous amount of trivia, testimonies, folktales and “cases” surrounding vampires. While his work is mostly a naïve collection and compilation of anecdotes, it still held in the future a huge importance for the study of historians, sociologists and anthropologists, as it is one of the most complete catalogues of vampire phenomenon of its time. Other high-ranking members of the Church also tried to express the official position of their religion on vampires: Giuseppe Davanzati (archbishop of Florence, patriarch of Alexandria) wrote in 1774 “Dissertatione sopra i vampire”, and the pope Benedict XIV (Prospero Lambertini) wrote a few pages about vampires to discredit their existence in the fourth book of his enormous “De Servorum Dei Beatificatione et de Beatorum Canonizatione” (1749). Unfortunately, these anti-vampire testimonies were perceived as the Church giving a form of credit and recognition to these undead…

In France, meanwhile, the authors of the “Encyclopédie” (aka the very first encyclopedia ever) were greatly annoyed and irritated by this obsession for vampires. Voltaire, in his 1787 “Philosophical Dictionary”, wrote an entire rant about them, while Rousseau denounced the belief in vampires in a letter he sent to the archbishop of Paris. Both wondered how such superstitions could become so popular in the age of “reason and progress” that was the Enlightenment. But indeed, all these texts and treaties about vampires simply helped spread the legend, making people who had never heard about these monsters learn all about them – and most importantly, it popularized and stabilized the use of the term “vampire”, and its Latin equivalent “vampirus” (though it was still spelled differently depending on the countries and time eras: vampyr, vampyre, wampire…).

However the 19th century would see the end of the actual belief in vampires. While at the end of the 18th century vampires were still the hot talk of universities and literary salons (especially in France and Germany), the actual “cases” and supernatural phenomenon the myth built itself upon were rarer and rarer. The ideas and philosophies of the Enlightenment had finally made their way across Eastern Europe, plus the great era of the plague was over: education and health worked together to erase the vampire from people’s minds, especially as the industrialization of Europe changed heavily the lifestyle of people and the landscape of the countries. There were still cases of vampirism in the 19th century, but they were isolated, and we never saw any mass panic or large-scale “vampire hunt” as there used to be. The vampire was a manifestation of ancient and primal fears in a world filled with superstition, darkness and disease – in this new era of the miracles of technology and wonders of science, dominated by materialism and positivism, the vampire had no place in people’s hearts… The early 19th century still has magazines and newspaper talking from time to time of an Hungarian or Serbian remote village where coffins are opened in quest of vampires, but nobody is interested anymore, everybody focused on gas-lamps and railroads. Nobody dreams of the vampires, except maybe for the Romantics, who are repelled by this era of bourgeoisie and businessmen dominated by obsessive work, absolute religion and social hierarchy, and in the vampire find back this nostalgia of a distant, frightening, fascinating “magical past”…

And thus the vampire would move from a being of religion and science, of superstition and newspapers, to an entity of poems and novels – from Ossenfelder’s poem to Stoker’s Dracula…

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

Ψ M is for Maraclea: Chapter Ten

M is for Maraclea: Following an accident you had over summer break, you find yourself in limbo after being legally dead for several minutes. Now an outcast at boarding school, you end up finding comfort in a strange boy named Nigel. As winter draws near and tragedy strikes, your only reprieve from madness comes from a mind much like your own.

Warnings: Murder Mention.

To Note: Nigel Colbie x Fem!Reader, NAMED Reader for Plot Reasons, There Are A Lot of DARK Themes.

Word Count: ~2.9k

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You sit in your Christian History class, your mind wandering. The warmth from the intimate night you shared days past still lingers, a constant, comforting presence. Nigel's promise echoes in your thoughts, a steady hum beneath the droning lecture on medieval church reforms. You feel different, more grounded yet oddly buoyant. Warm.

"Mary?" Mrs. Thompson's voice cuts through your reverie.

You blink and refocus on her stern face. "Yes, Mrs. Thompson?"

"Could you tell us about the significance of the Council of Nicaea?"

You clear your throat, the answer surfacing from somewhere in the back of your mind. "It was the first ecumenical council held in 325 AD to address the Arian controversy and establish uniform Christian doctrine."

Mrs. Thompson nods approvingly before returning to her notes. You let out a quiet sigh of relief, sinking back into your thoughts of Nigel and that intoxicating warmth that now wraps around you like a second skin.

You try to focus on the lesson, but your mind drifts back to that night in Nigel's crawl space. The ache between your legs, a raw reminder of losing your virginity, pulls at your concentration. You shift in your seat, feeling the burn of discomfort mixed with the memory of warmth. It’s hard to ignore, a constant whisper in your body.

"Mary, are you all right?" Mrs. Thompson's voice slices through your haze again.

You snap back to the present, realizing you've been squirming in your seat. "I'm fine," you reply, though it sounds unconvincing even to your own ears.

"You're agitated and can't seem to sit still," she presses, her gaze sharp. "Are you ill?"

"No," you respond with a blink, but her eyes narrow, studying you with that mix of concern and suspicion teachers always seem to have.

"Perhaps you should visit the nurse," she suggests, her tone leaving little room for argument.

"I shall be fine," you insist, forcing yourself to sit still. The ache flares again, but you grit your teeth and focus on the blackboard.

Mrs. Thompson looks like she wants to say more but returns to her lecture. You let out a slow breath, trying to push Nigel and that night out of your mind. But the memory clings to you like those damp clothes, impossible to shake off.

You stare at the notes on the board, each word blurring into the next. Your fingers drum against the desk as if playing an invisible piano piece only you can hear. The classroom feels stiflingly warm now; every second stretching into an eternity.

"Mary!" Mrs. Thompson's voice is sharper this time. "If you're not feeling well, it's best you see the nurse."

You nod stiffly and gather your books, aware of the eyes following you as you leave the room. Once outside, you breathe deeply, letting the cooler air clear your head slightly. It does the job but the warmth in your stomach persists.

You walk down the hallway, the weight of Mrs. Thompson's concern pressing on you. Each step echoes in the quiet corridor, your mind a whirl of Nigel, cold water, and the lingering ache from that night. Delicious warmth you now craved…The cool air does little to calm the storm inside you.

The loudspeaker crackles to life. "Attention all students," Headmistress Carlisle's voice booms through the hall. "There is an emergency assembly in the great hall immediately."

Your steps falter. You pivot, heading towards the great hall instead of the nurse’s office. As you enter, students are already filing in, their chatter a low hum of curiosity and anxiety. You find a seat near the back, wondering what could have happened to warrant the assembly of the entire school.

The room fills quickly. Girls cluster together in tight knots, their whispers growing louder as more seats fill. The air is thick with tension, and every minute feels like an hour. Your bullies were missing, had been since the prior night. Perhaps an investigation into their whereabouts is to be issued?

Headmistress Carlisle stands at the podium, her usual stern demeanor even graver than usual. The room falls silent as she adjusts her glasses and clears her throat.

"It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you of a tragedy," she begins, her voice steady but solemn. "This morning, Jane Peterson, Charity Langford, and Victoria Clark were found dead."

Gasps ripple through the hall, yet in the wake of that news you feel nothing but relief. They won't be bothering you anymore. You let out a deep breath, an unknown tension releasing from your body.

"They were found floating in the lake," Headmistress Carlisle continues, her voice tight with barely restrained emotion. "The circumstances are under investigation, however given current evidence, it is presumed that they were murdered."

Around you, girls start to sob or whisper frantically to each other. You stay silent, staring straight ahead at Headmistress Carlisle who struggles to maintain composure.

"We ask that everyone remains calm," she instructs. "Counselors will be available for those who need support, and we ask that you refrain from going anywhere outside school grounds alone."

The room around you erupts in a cacophony of whispers and gasps. You sit still, your mind elsewhere. Nigel’s warmth, his touch, and the comfort of his crawl space blanket your thoughts, drowning out the collective shock around you. Your fingers curl into your plaid skirt, twitching for his fingers to slide into yours.

Headmistress Carlisle’s voice breaks through the noise. “Detectives will be speaking with a number of students,” she announces. “If your name is called, please remain in the hall.”

You watch her lips move, but it’s as if she’s speaking from underwater. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears, each thud a reminder of that night with Nigel.

“Jessica Warren, Emily Sinclair…”

You barely register the names being listed. Your mind is a swirl of Nigel’s fingers tracing your skin, the sensation of his breath against your neck. The assembly fades to a dull background hum.

“Mary Forbes…”

Your name jolts you back to the present. You glance around, seeing eyes turn towards you, but their stares barely penetrate the haze enveloping you.

Headmistress Carlisle continues listing names. You try to focus, but your thoughts keep drifting back to Nigel and that intimate night. The warmth he gave you feels more real than the cold dread spreading through the hall.

Finally, Headmistress Carlisle finishes reading names. “Those called will stay here,” she instructs. “The rest may return to their dorm rooms for the day.”

Students begin to shuffle out, some crying softly, others whispering frantically to one another. You remain seated as instructed, watching them leave without really seeing them.

The hall empties until only those named remain. You glance at the others who were called but feel no connection to them, only an odd detachment. Your mind remains with Nigel and that secret warmth he ignited within you. That warmth you now crave.

Headmistress Carlisle approaches you and the other remaining students. “Detectives will be here shortly,” she says firmly.

You nod absentmindedly and shift in your seat, feeling the ache from that night flare again—a reminder of something tangible amidst all this chaos. You focus on the sensation and cling to it for comfort.

You sit stiffly on the wooden bench, eyes fixed on the door as Detective McKenzie strides into the great hall. His presence commands attention; the room falls silent. His steely gaze sweeps over you and the other girls, landing momentarily on each one before moving on.

"Good morning," he says, voice deep and authoritative. "I am Detective McKenzie. I’ll be questioning each of you about the recent incidents. I ask for your full cooperation."

He moves to a makeshift table set up at the front of the room, where a chair waits. You can feel the eyes of the other girls darting towards you, whispers buzzing around you like gnats. You focus on your breathing, steadying yourself for what's to come.

"Mary Forbes," he calls out.

You stand slowly, every muscle in your body tensed. As you walk towards him, you can feel the weight of suspicion pressing down on you. You take a seat across from him, and his eyes bore into yours with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.

"Mary," he begins, flipping through a small notepad. "I remember you were Susan Mueller's roommate?"

You state. "That is correct."

His eyes narrow slightly as he leans forward. "And I’ve been informed that Jane Peterson, Charity Langford, and Victoria Clark had... issues with you?"

"They bullied me," you reply pragmatically.

He studies your face for a moment longer before glancing at his notes. "Where were you last night?"

"In the library," you answer with an arched eyebrow. You were nowhere near the lake, you hadn't even left the academy. "I was studying for an upcoming exam."

He raises an eyebrow. "Can anyone corroborate that?"

"Mrs. Thornton, our librarian," you say. "She saw me leave just before closing time."

He scribbles something in his notepad and then looks up again. "Did you notice anything unusual last night? Anyone acting strange or out of place?"

You shake your head slowly. "No, I did not."

He leans back in his chair, tapping his pen against the notepad thoughtfully. "Mary, considering your history with those girls and Susan’s recent death, can you understand why there might be suspicion cast upon you?"

Your heart pounds in your chest as you meet his gaze steadily. "Quite clearly, however, I have long since decided that they are not worthy of my time nor energy. I wouldn't have retaliated."

He nods slightly, eyes softening just a fraction as he regards your frail appearance and tired eyes. You looked worse than he had last seen, perhaps even coming down with a cold. “We’ll double check your alibi, but you're in the clear,” he says finally. You nod and rise from your seat.

You walk back to your seat, the weight of Detective McKenzie's questions still pressing on you. The eyes of the other girls follow you, their whispers like a constant buzz in your ears. In their eyes, you are the culprit.

You step into your dorm room after studying in the library, the door closing behind you with a soft click. The afternoon light filters through the curtains, casting long shadows across the floor. You move to your closet and pull out a warm sweater and jeans, slipping them on quickly. The memory of the cold lake water still clings to your skin, an echo of that numbing chill. Now you need warmth.

You grab your coat and scarf, wrapping them around yourself before heading for the door. As you open it, Ms. Eliza, the dorm monitor, stands there with a concerned look on her face.

"Mary," she starts, her tone firm but gentle. "I don’t think you should be going out alone right now. It is quite late."

You pause, meeting her gaze with a steady look. "I’m meeting my brother, Alex. I’ll be with him."

She hesitates for a moment before nodding reluctantly. "Alright, but please be careful."

You give her a small nod in return and step past her, making your way down the hallway and out of the dormitory building. The crisp air greets you as you walk across the campus towards the train station.

The train station is eerily empty as you approach the ticket booth. The lone attendant behind the glass gives you a weary glance as you slide money across the counter.

“One ticket please,” you say, your voice sounding hollow even to your own ears. You'd take the short loop.

The attendant hands you the ticket with a nod, and you make your way to the platform. The train arrives with a screeching halt, and you step aboard, finding an empty car near the back. You sink into a seat by the window, staring out at the darkening sky. The world outside blurs into shades of gray and black as the train starts moving.

Minutes pass in silence, broken only by the rhythmic clatter of the train on the tracks. You close your eyes, letting the motion soothe you. The door at the end of the car slides open, and footsteps approach. You glance up to see Nigel and Alex entering.

Nigel's eyes light up when he sees you. He takes a seat across from you, while Alex sits beside him. They exchange a look before turning their attention to you.

"Mary," Nigel begins, his voice soft but firm. "We heard about what happened at school."

You nod slowly, unsure where this conversation is heading.

Alex leans forward, his expression serious. "Those girls... Jane, Charity, Victoria—they won't be bothering you anymore."

Nigel's gaze never wavers from yours. "We made sure of it."

Your heart skips a beat at their words, but outwardly you remain calm. You are surprised that they are even getting along now. Your eyes flicker between them, searching for any hint of hesitation or regret. You find none.

Nigel reaches out and takes your hand in his, his grip warm and reassuring. "They won't be hurting anyone anymore."

Alex watches you closely, his eyes filled with an intensity that matches Nigel's. "You’re safe now," he adds. "I'm heading off, see you later sis."

You and Nigel sit on the train, the rhythmic clatter of the tracks beneath you creating a comforting backdrop. The world outside the window blurs into a blend of shadows and faint streetlights, but here in this small, moving space, you feel a sense of tranquility.

Nigel's fingers intertwine with yours, his thumb gently brushing over your knuckles. "I’m glad we have this time together," he murmurs, his eyes softening as they meet yours.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Me too," you whisper, leaning into him slightly. His presence is warm, grounding you in the moment.

The train loops around, bringing you back to where you started. The screeching halt signals your stop, and you both rise from your seats. Nigel's hand remains in yours as you step off the train and onto the platform. The night air is crisp, biting at your cheeks as you walk towards the dorm building.

Nigel's grip on your hand tightens slightly as you near the dark corner by the entrance. He pulls you gently into the shadows, his eyes gleaming with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. "Mary," he breathes, his voice low and husky.

You tilt your head up to meet his gaze, feeling the warmth of his breath against your skin. His fingers brush aside your collar, revealing the faint love bite lingering on your collarbone. His eyes darken with appreciation as he traces it with a gentle touch.

"My Maraclea," he whispers before capturing your lips in a fervent kiss.

You melt into him, your hands finding their way to his shoulders as he presses you against the cold brick wall. His kisses are hungry, desperate, each one searing a trail of fire throughout your body. Your fingers tangle in his hair as he deepens the kiss, pulling you even closer.

Nigel's lips are warm against yours, a stark contrast to the cold brick wall pressing into your back. His hands roam over your sides, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you. Each kiss grows more fervent, more demanding, as if he wants to consume every part of you.

Your hands slide under his jacket and shirt, fingers grazing over the hard lines of his muscles. His breath hitches, and he deepens the kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with a hunger that sends shivers down your spine. You respond in kind, matching his intensity, losing yourself in the heat and urgency of the moment.

Nigel’s hands find their way under your own coat, sliding up your back and leaving a trail of fire in their wake. His touch is possessive, almost desperate, as if he’s afraid you might slip away. You arch into him, needing to feel every inch of him against you.

He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there. You gasp, tilting your head back to give him better access. His name escapes your lips in a breathless whisper, and you feel him smile against your skin.

“Mary,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice low and husky. “You drive me crazy.”

You tug at his shirt, pulling him even closer as he continues his assault on your neck. His hands move to your hips, gripping them tightly as he presses his body against yours. The world around you fades away until there’s nothing but the heat between you and the cold night air.

Nigel pulls back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes. His gaze is intense, filled with a raw desire that sends another shiver through you. He leans in for one more searing kiss before resting his forehead against yours.

“I should let you go,” he whispers reluctantly.

You nod, though every part of you screams to pull him back in. “Goodnight,” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He gives you one last lingering kiss before stepping back. The cold air rushes in between you, but the heat of his touch remains imprinted on your skin.

“Goodnight,” he says softly, eyes never leaving yours as he turns and walks away into the night.

You watch him until he disappears from view before turning towards the dormitory door. The warmth from his kisses lingers long after he's gone, a comforting reminder that you're not alone.

Date Published: 7/21/24

Last Edit: 7/21/24

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[anarchotolkienist]

By the way, my criticism of pagan approaches to theology as potentially being open to anti-Semitism should obviously never be interpreted as saying that Christian theology does not have a massive problem to handle with regards to the Jewish faith and people, we very clearly do and must always be on guard against it.

It is easily done with those interpretations that are just heretical (gnosticism, Marconism, etc), but much more difficult with those interpretations that are fundamental to the Church's historical self-conception (espescially Supercessesionism, which in my view has to be rejected but which will take a very large amount of internal scrutiny and ecumenical work with Jewish faith groups, some of which is happening, but not nearly enough). None of us are free from the bloody sin of anti-Semitism, and that's doubly true for Christianity.

[woundlight]

WTW PLANET PROMPTS - VENUS: POLITICS - godslayer

The Exarchy is an interstellar theocratic empire ruling over the vast expanse of the Ecumene. Being the largest and most powerful political entity in the known space, it is the ultimate authority for the majority of humankind. Following the angels' assault on humanity, the Church gained unparalleled political power, with the Inquisition assuming the dual roles of defense against cosmic threats and maintaining social order. The Holy Synod, governing both the Church and the Inquisition, holds absolute authority over the Exarchy, while the Exarch serves largely ceremonial roles. Entrusted with the ultimate fate of humanity, the Synod determines the course of affairs in its struggle for survival. However, maintaining a centralized government over interstellar distances is impossible, even with faster-than-light travel and communication. This has resulted in a neo-feudal structure within the Exarchy, where the noble dynasties of the Great Houses are responsible for various functions of the empire. Headed by the seven Archons, these Great Houses comprise the Synkletos, the senate of the Exarchy. This body carries out the day-to-day decisions required to govern the Exarchy according to the Synod’s will.

godslayer taglist:

@zorya-km @seasteading

[apenitentialprayer]

The act of humans killing each other, brother against brother, is the most abhorrent and unacceptable mark of the destructive and degenerate state that humanity, unfortunately, continues to be a hostage to. [... A]ll wars and conflicts, and any action that undermines peace and disregards the dignity of the human person, being the icon of God Himself — is a defeat for humanity.

Ecumenical Patriarch Bartholomew (x)

[yo-aloe-vera]

Aaron Bushnell's family has come out against their son's actions, saying that Aaron was "mentally disturbed" and that they had tried to intervene with Air Force leadership "to get him help." They claim he was "brainwashed by Hamas."

They then clarified that they support Israel proudly.

These people who dare use mental illness as a weapon against their own son are members of a cult, the Community of Jesus. Calling themselves an "ecumenical, monastic community," they are known to control members--especially children--by working them to the point of exhaustion and terrorizing them mentally. They fed Aaron on a steady diet of paranoia and distrust of anyone who differed from their whackadoodle cult.

Yet AARON was the one who was "brainwashed" and "mentally unstable."

First of all--if he was mentally ill, it in no way takes away from the profundity and selflessness of his action. "Mentally ill" needs to stop being thrown about as an epithet by which we can dismiss and demean others.

Second of all--It's highly unlikely he had any diagnosable disorder or had shown signs of one up to now. The military in general, and the Air Force in particular, get very, very nervous about mental illness. Not nervous enough to treat veterans with PTSD, mind, but nervous enough to discharge those suspected of being mentally ill with a quickness.

Lastly--what the fuck constitutes mental health in an era when children are murdered before our eyes daily and it's sold as a war for democracy? We're being gaslit at every turn. Had Aaron thrown himself in front of a bullet for a brother in arms, he'd have been hailed a hero. Doing the equivalent for the children of Palestine? He must be mentally ill.

No one is healthy in our environment. Those of us who are functional, I'd wager, are dissociated to a degree that isn't exactly normal. We speak of mental illness as different sets of "maladaptive" behaviors, but what does it mean if you're well-adapted to a constant state of warfare, economic instability, and social collapse?

Fuck Aaron Bushnell's parents. This Sunday, a week after their son's death by fire, they'll walk into their tawdry "Church of the Transfiguration" and genuflect before the image of a man dying of self-sacrifice. A man who said "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."

They will prattle on and on about martyrdom, because communities like that love them some martyrs--when they're safely enshrined in the tabernacle of history.

But they'll never, ever once, in their pathetic, twisted little lives, find the strength of a martyr within them. Their son did. And they came out and said it was because he was crazy.