#Attempt to read the Latin names in the cemetery
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
juno-dearborn · 3 years ago
Text
Nothing quite like a cemetery at the full moon.
She’d been searching for Dice, finally recovered-- or something akin to it-- after the morning’s mussels, and the aborted fight with Dani, rudely interrupted by Gamemaker intervention. She had her too (or so she told herself).
She hadn’t noticed she’d gone too far at first, but even after she had, curiosity had taken over. It seemed that houses in this area were in poorer shape, and certainly had fared worse than the more lavish ones she’d seen after the quake. She kicked around some rubble, investigated some of the teetering houses. She didn’t expect much, but as she reached the city wall, she was surprised to find a piece of it crumbled too-- exposing something on the other side. Pausing, her heart suddenly leaped into her throat. Unrealistically, her first thoughts jumped to the 125th Arena, the way Jeanine Twill had walked right out of it. Then sense returned, and she realized quickly that first, the Gamemakers would never make that mistake again, and second, that something like this must be intentional. She ducked through, nerves buzzing. Was she the first to find this? Was there another part to the Arena, undiscovered, lying in wait? On the other side, she was met with what, at first, reminded her of some of the large, public parks back in Two. There was a wide dirt road, flanked on either side with statues, benches, rotundas, small temples. She approached one, squinting at the inscription. She didn’t understand it, even tried and failed to sound it out, but realized quickly, recognizing the middle name as one of her classmates-- a name. These were dedications to the dead. Two always did like their Roman namesakes. For a while, she walked, drinking in the odd somberness of it. While Thetis had never been the type to enjoy cemeteries, there was an unexpected peace here. Perhaps it was the stillness in a place like the Arena, or it was the realization that in the next week it would either be her or dice underground like this, soaking in the eternal quiet she was now enjoying. Eventually, she stumbled across a temple-- a big one this time, unmistakable. Friezes were lit at either side, casting the inscription in a flickering orange light in jet black marble: Pluto.  The God of the dead. She’d done okay with mythology in school, though in part it was the vanity of trying to find her own name among the tales of Achilles, despite her mythological counterpart not featuring as heavily as she would have desired. Carefully, she ascended the steps, approaching a bowl identical to the one in front of the Temple to Neptune. She knew the cost now-- she pricked her finger, flinching, on the tip of her spear, then turned it upside down over the altar. The blood pooled into a dark pearl at her fingertip, then fell, splashing into the center,  For a second, it remained quiet. Then the temple shuddered as her own had, and Thetis took a step back, waiting for the doors swing open to reveal... Nothing? No, an empty, dark compartment, a few feet wide and deep, dark cement on all sides.  With a frown, she approached, spear at the ready, prepared for another fight. No, not nothing, there was something on the floor, a papery white rectangle glowing in the moonlight.
Quickly, she scooped it up greedily, anticipating a clue, a note, something that would turn around the horrible start she’d had to these Games. Instead, a single, individually wrapped bandaid. Thetis’ mouth immediately turned into an angry, frustrated scowl. She turned to face the sky, holding up her middle finger to the moon and drawing in a deep breath to bellow: “What the FU--” The transmission cut to another tribute for viewers all across Panem.
3 notes · View notes
hollandwestbrook · 3 years ago
Text
anatomy of a girl; part 6
And there may not be meaning, so find one and seize it
Her lungs were tight in her chest, putting immense pressure against her ribcage with each breath as she ran.
She picked it up from the ground, squinting at the letters on it: VS, perhaps, she could see it as it was close to her face and the moonlight dug into the shadows of the letting. It was the end of the name that started on the stone, but she couldn’t quite make it out. Whoever rested beneath this earth, she wanted to thank them for giving her a piece of themselves, the self that had sprouted from the ground above them to mark their eternal rest. She promised to use it well.
The creature was half-woman, half-bird, and immediately Holland wanted to stuff and display her. Her skin seemed almost to glow, her wings spread out far beyond the spread of where her arms would reach, black hair fell in her face, and were she not trying to kill Holland, Holland may have been too stunned to move at all. As it was, though, she was not. She looked hungry for Holland, and she could picture herself falling to the ground, dead, and being picked apart by this woman-bird as a vulture would do to roadkill before Holland drove up and scattered the birds.
The only thing Holland had in her hand was the gravestone piece. It was a corner, one of the top corners, but hardly sharp at all. It was only solid. Beyond that, it was the breath in her lungs that pushed her forward, kept her fighting, dodging the creature, running to hide behind a mausoleum, taking refuge for a moment behind a gravestone.
She had been drawn to the temple in the cemetery by the skulls. They danced as the firelight and moonlight fought for dominance, their shapes changing. The jet black temple itself was stunning, and Holland had run her hand across its outer wall in something akin to awe or worship.
She had always loved a dead thing.
So cutting herself with the gravestone, dropping some of her blood into the bowl, it felt natural. What would this beautiful place offer her?
When its door opened and the bird-woman emerged, Holland felt she’d been burned by the very fires that had drawn her towards it. How could she not be accepted by this place? How could it not love her back?
Holland dashed from one grave to another, dodging, hiding, her lungs fighting for air as she grew more and more exhausted. She could not keep up this game of chase forever, she knew that she was the weaker creature of the two. So taking in a breath, as deep as she could, and begging the air to sustain her, she started to run, putting all of her power into it, towards the wall back into the city. She was aiming for the place she’d come in, but the bird-woman, flying, caught up to her quickly, and she began to climb where she was, her boots searching for purchase.
She could not fucking die here. Not here, alone, in a cemetery, without Aspen. She couldn’t die here.
She fell, and the bird-woman began to descend onto her, knowing she had her now. The stomach was exposed, and Holland realized it might be her only shot. Her fist with the rock shot up almost as an apology; if she could have killed her without destroying her, she would have, but she had no choice.
The bird-woman’s own weight was what dug her grave, as the jagged stone edge went into her gut, Holland screaming with the effort to keep her arm straight, to hold on, to be as strong as she could possibly fucking be for just one second.
And then it was dead. It was over. She collapsed on top of Holland’s body, and Holland laid there for a moment beneath her, skin and feathers covering her, breathing heavily, trying to coax air back into her body.
Finally she gathered the strength to push the monster off of her, and she stood, shaking. There was a gash in the monster’s mid-section and blood spilled out; Holland could hardly stand to look at her, not out of disgust, but guilt. Such a beautiful creature. And she’d destroyed her.
Holland limped back to the temple, where she’d dropped her bag, and returned. Pulling the last of the thread from her bag, threading it through the eye of the needle, she used one of the creature’s wings to wipe the blood away. The bleeding stopped in time, as there was nothing pumping it through her veins anymore, and Holland admired the body. The intricacy of it. And then, taking some of the remaining scraps from her toga that had been stored in her bag, she stitched a large cover for the creature’s middle. She covered it, stitching it to the skin, which didn’t feel like human skin and yet was not entirely different. She couldn’t bear to see what she’d done, couldn’t bear for anyone else to see it, and while she didn’t have the tools to fix the woman up, she could at the very least hide what she’d done from her own eyes. 
3 notes · View notes
conradscrime · 4 years ago
Text
Who was Kaspar Hauser? Mysterious Boy Died in a Mysterious Way
Tumblr media
April 1, 2021
On May 26, 1828 a strange teenage boy showed up in the streets of Nuremberg, Germany with a letter addressed to the Captain von Wessenig, captain of the 4th squadron of the 6th cavalry regiment. The writer of this letter was anonymous but they claimed they had been the caretaker of this teenage boy who went by the name of Kaspar Hauser. 
The anonymous letter writing claimed Kaspar had been brought into their custody on October 7, 1812 as an infant and that this caretaker had taught the boy how to read and write. The letter also went on to say that Kaspar was not allowed to step foot outside of the caretaker’s home, and that he had been raised in a darkened cell with no sunlight and only bread and water to eat and drink. 
The letter also said that Kaspar was now here to become a “cavalryman like his father” and the Captain von Wessenig could either take the offer or kill the boy by hanging if he was of no use to him. 
The boy known as Kaspar was also carrying another short letter with him that was supposedly written by his mother. The letter contained personal information about the boy such as his date of birth which was April 30, 1812 and that his father was a cavalryman of the 6th regiment but was now dead. The two letters (the one from this boys supposed caretaker and the one from his mother) were written by the same hand which people later suggested was because Kaspar had written both of these letters himself. 
Kaspar Hauser was taken to the captain but they could not seem to get much information out of him so he was then taken to the police station where he wrote down his name. The strange boy was able to say a few prayers and could read a little bit but his vocabulary seemed limited and he wouldn’t answer very many questions. He was then imprisoned as a vagabond because no one knew what to do with him. 
For the next two months Kaspar stayed in Luginsland Tower in Nuremberg Castle and was taken care of by a jailer named Andreas Hiltel. The boy was apparently in pretty good physical condition and could walk quite well, as well as having a pretty healthy facial complexion. This does not make much sense however if the boy was locked up in a darkened cell his whole life receiving no sunlight and eating very little. 
According to Kaspar himself he had been in solitary confinement his whole life and appeared to be 16 years old. He said he had a straw bed to sleep on and only had a few wooded toys to play with. Kaspar also claimed each morning he awoke to bread and water next to his bed though he said sometimes the water would taste bitter and when he would drink this bitter water he would always have deeper sleeps. Is it possible someone was trying to drug him? 
Kaspar also claimed occasionally he would wake up and his straw would be changed and replaced and his hair and nails would also be cut. Is it possible whoever was taking care of him was giving him drugs while they cut his hair and nails to keep their identity a secret? 
Kaspar said the first time he met another individual was a man who had come to visit him right before he was released. The man apparently hid his face from Kaspar quite well and taught him how to write his own name. After learning how to stand and walk Kaspar was taken to Nuremberg. 
This story became quite the talk of the town and Kaspar Hauser received a lot of attention for being this mysterious boy with a mysterious origin story. Rumours began to spread with some believing he was an imposter who had made the whole story up and others believing he was royalty, perhaps the prince of Baden. 
Here’s where things start to become even stranger. Kaspar was given to a man named Friedrich Daumer who was a schoolmaster and philosopher. He taugh Kaspar various subjects. On October 17, 1829 Kaspar did not show up to lunch and was found in the cellar of Daumer’s house with a wound on his forehead. 
Kaspar claimed he had been attacked by a hooded man who threatened him. Kaspar said he recognized the man’s voice as being the man who had visited him in his cell and brought him to Nuremberg. Some believe that Kaspar had self-inflicted this wound himself to either get pity or to escape Daumer who he had recently gotten in a fight with other Daumer thinking Kaspar had a tendency to lie.
Kaspar was then sent to live with a man named Johann Biberbach. On April 3, 1830 Kaspar was found in his room at Biberbach’s house with a pistol wound to the right side of his head. Kaspar claimed he was standing a chair in order to reach some books and the chair fell, leading him to try to grab something to catch on to. The item he had grabbed onto was the pistol hanging on the wall and this fall caused it to go off. Again, some believe this was Kaspar’s way of getting out of repercussions from Johann Biberbach about lying. 
In May of 1830 Kaspar was transferred to live at the house of Baron von Tucher. Kaspar was also known to lie while living here. Then Lord Stanhope, a British nobleman who took an interest in Kaspar and gained custody of him in late 1831. Lord Stanhope spent quite a lot of money trying to find Kaspar’s origin, he even took him to Hungary twice hoping that the boy would recognize something from his past as Kaspar apparently knew a few Hungarian words and once claimed his mother to be the Hungarian Countess Maytheny. 
Lord Stanhope later said that he started to doubt Kaspar when he couldn’t seem to recognize anything about his past in Hungary. In December 1831 Lord Stanhope transferred Kaspar to live in Ansbach with a schoolmaster named Johann Georg Meyer and in January 1832 Stanhope left Kaspar for good. At one point Lord Stanhope had promised Kaspar he would take him to England, but never did, though he continued to pay for Kaspar’s living expenses. 
Johann Meyer was a strict man and soon became tired of Kaspar’s excuses and supposed lies. Kaspar soon became unhappy with his situation while still hoping that Lord Stanhope was going to take him to England. On December 9, 1833 Kaspar had gotten into a pretty serious argument with Meyer. 
On December 14, 1833 Kaspar had returned home with a deep wound in his left breast. He claimed he had been lured into the Ansbach Court Garden where a stranger stabbed him while giving him a bag. The police found a small violet purse at the scene which had a note that said, 
“Hauser will be able to tell you quite precisely how I look and from where I am. To save Hauser the effort, I want to tell you myself from where I come _ _ . I come from from _ _ _ the Bavarian border _ _ On the river _ _ _ _ _ I will even tell you the name: M. L. Ö.”
Kaspar died from the wound three days later on December 17, 1833. A lot of people speculate that Kaspar Hauser had attacked himself and made up the story about a stranger stabbing him. Many believe this because the note contained a lot of spelling mistakes which was typical for Kaspar. He also was very eager for the police to find this bag containing the note at the scene but had never asked what was in the bag. The note was folded in a specific way which Mrs. Meyer said was how Kaspar always folded his notes. Many believe that Kaspar stabbed himself in an attempt to gain more attention from the public and to convince Lord Stanhope to take him to England. It is thought that Kaspar did not mean to injury himself as deeply as he had. 
Kaspar Hauser was buried in the Stadtfriedhof cemetery in Ansbach where his headstone reads in Latin, 
“Here lies Kaspar Hauser, riddle of his time. His birth was unknown, his death mysterious. 1833.” 
A lot of people speculated as mentioned before that Kaspar Hauser could have been the hereditary prince of Baden who had been born on September 29th, 1812, 5 months after Kaspar’s supposed birth date. According to history the prince had died on October 16, 1812, not even being a month old and it was alleged that he had been switched with a dying infant who turned out to be Kaspar Hauser. Some believe Hauser had been murdered to hide his true identity as the prince as he would of been kidnapped by Countess Hochberg whose motive would have been to secure the succession for her sons. 
To this day, no one knows the true origin of Kaspar Hauser or whether he was murdered or stabbed himself. 
17 notes · View notes
thetypedwriter · 4 years ago
Text
Cemetery Boys Book Review
Tumblr media
Cemetery Boys Book Review by Aiden Thomas 
In true Halloween fashion, I decided to pick up Cemetery Boys to get me into the festive mood, along with pumpkin spice everything, Harry Potter movie marathons, and sweaters I don’t need as southern California is still a million degrees. Currently on the New York Times Bestseller’s List, Cemetery Boys is author Aiden Thomas’ debut novel about, you guessed it, boys in a cemetery. 
Although, in a way, the title is a tad deceiving as the book contains much much more than boys loitering in graveyards and lying next to mausoleums (anyone catch the reference?). In fact, said boys don’t spend much time in the cemetery at all. 
But I digress. 
The short novel starts off and surrounds our main character Yadriel, a Latinx youth from East Los Angeles that is struggling with the death of his mother, the looming festivities of Dia de Muertos, getting his family to accept his true gender and name, the sudden disappearance of his cousin Miguel, and you know, the casual summoning of a hot dead boy with too much energy and a wicked smile that makes Yadriel feel like he’s on fire. 
But it doesn't matter because the boy Yadriel summoned on accident, Julian Diaz, resident bad boy extraordinaire, is dead right? He’s just a ghost. 
Or is he?
Yadriel and Julian, with the help of Yadriel’s best friend Maritza, spend the few days leading up to Dia de Muertos in hot pursuit of what happened to Julian in the hopes that it will reveal Miguel, allow Yadriel to finally convince his family and his community that he is indeed a brujo, a male servant of Lady Death, the Goddess of their lives and religion which allow them to speak to spirits and perform other magical abilities like healing and even raising people from the dead. 
Yadriel is convinced that if he finds Miguel and severs Julian’s spirit ties, sending him to the afterlife, his father and the rest of the brujx will have to see him for what and who he truly is after years of being denied and called the wrong name and gender. 
However, Yadriel quickly finds himself way over his head as Julian turns out to be the most annoying, most hot-headed, most alive spirit he’s ever met. Not to mention that he’s developing feelings for him, feelings which soon are returned. 
Yadirel is then faced with a bigger dilemma: does he lose everything he’s wanted-acceptance from his father and his community and his true place as a brujo, or Julian-the dead boy he’s fallen for?
In what is probably the most frightening thing of all-cliffhangers-I won’t give away the ending this time people. You’ll have to read Cemetery Boys to find out. 
What I will do though is give you my breakdown on this very sweet, very young, fictional novel that is quite honestly the furthest thing from being spooky. 
Firstly, the best and most wonderful thing about this novel is representation. Trans, gender fluid, and intersex characters are still wildly bereft in the young adult fiction world, especially as main characters, so a new novel with the main character being trans is wholly welcomed and appreciated. 
Yadriel is an anxious, but relatable sixteen-year-old with problems that many of us face: fear of isolation, desire to belong, and feeling like an outcast. It was so relieving and enlightening to hear from a character and experience the challenges and emotions they faced while attempting for the world to understand and accept them for who they were. 
In addition to Yadriel, you had other representation in terms of the Latinx community, other trans characters, gay characters, foster youth, homeless youth, and even small side delves into veganism and much bigger issues like deportation, medical care, and runaway children. 
This book was short, but man did it pack a punch in terms of the social issues it revolved around and introduced into its story. 
In addition to the wide cast of characters with myriad backgrounds and circumstances, the focus on Latinx culture in particular was very strong and very saturated. Throughout the whole novel you have characters speaking Spanish, a plethora of food specific to certain Latinx cultures, and the sometimes heavy handed explanations of certain customs and traditions unique to Yadriel’s community and ancestors. 
On the one hand, I really enjoyed this. I love it immensely when authors bring in their own background to further expose readers to different cultures and customs, especially as it pertains to the main character and their experience. 
However, oftentimes in Cemetery Boys it came across a little too burdensome. It was like I was reading a pamphlet on Dia de Muertos instead of a young adult novel. I wholeheartedly understand Thomas’ vision and goal of Latinx inclusion, but the way it was written was not always seamless.
 It often dragged me out of the book and irritated me when the flow of the story was interrupted for a whole page so that Dia de Muertos could be described, or so paragraphs of Latin foods could be listed out. 
Once again, I love this representation, but the writing could sometimes be a little too chunky and repeatedly it was too long and too obvious for it to come across seamless and natural. 
Speaking of natural, the biggest criticism I probably have of this book is that it comes across much younger than presented. Even though Yadriel and the other characters are sixteen, they often felt much more immature to me, especially with how the story unfolded and Thomas’ writing as a whole. 
This is not itself a criticism, but I would definitely recommend this book for much younger consumers than it is currently targeting. 
As a teacher, I could see this book being recommended for middle school in order to teach children about trans youth, the importance of acceptance and love, and of course, for the representation that is abundant throughout the novel. 
I personally think this would be too juvenile for high school and above. 
I certainly found it juvenile as a 26-year-old-woman. 
Once again, this does not mean it’s not enjoyable. I still enjoyed the book and had an overall good time reading it. But it also means that there were several parts that I found predictable, exaggerated, or as I said before, heavy handed in how certain aspects of the novel were displayed and organized. 
The plot for instance, was laughably easy to predict. I think I had the entire ending down when I was about ⅓ of the way through with the book. Does this make it a bad read? Of course not. But books that have unpredictable endings or that manage to surprise me end up leaving more of an impression on me as a reader .
In addition, often the way Yadriel and Julian, especially Julian, would react was very childish in my opinion. Simply how they processed emotions, handled their problems, and dealt with high-stakes situations were very reminiscent of characters much younger than they were. 
Most of all however, the juvenile feeling of this book I would attribute to the writing. Thomas is definitely not a bad writer, but nothing about it came across as young adult to me. Some scenes were a bit cheesy, but the writing itself was very easy, uncomplicated, and very straightforward. 
There were some scenes I felt like were not dealt with enough (aka Yadriel losing his cousin and thinking about it once or twice and the whole Julian running away and Rio being like meh, Julian is Julian). Some scenes just seemed....odd and out of character and others needed to be expanded upon more. 
I want to reiterate that these are NOT BAD THINGS. 
Overall, I found the novel very cute, very refreshing, and a wonderful addition to the literature world. All of Thomas’ characters are likable, the representation is amazing and nuanced, even if it is a bit arduous in certain parts, and the story is interesting and action-packed, keeping readers on their toes and never bored with what is going on. 
As a whole, Cemetery Boys is quite honestly a lovely little read that is perfect for the Halloween season. You might not be frightened, but you will get a cute story, some very welcome representation, and wholesome relationships and themes that, while simple, are not to be overlooked or underrated. 
Score: 7/10
Recommendation: Put on Hocus Pocus, light your pumpkin scented candle, make yourself some tea or hot cocoa, snuggle up with a blanket (either because it’s actually cold where you live or because you have the AC on like me) and delve into Cemetery Boys for some lighthearted fun, some magic, some ghosts, and of course, a whole heaping of good feelings where love wins and the world is a better place for it. 
36 notes · View notes
hexandbalances · 4 years ago
Text
Visiting Salem
A few years ago I traveled to Salem for Halloween week. It was a fun trip but not at all the quaint town I had expected. And it was busy. Salem eagerly leans into its witch history and new age spiritualism, sporting many psychic readings and occult shops. To be honest, a large part of my stay was spent walking, shopping, and eating so I didn’t get to visit as quite as many museums as I would have liked. I’ve included a brief review of some of the places I stopped in at while I was there:
Jolie Tea - this was tucked away from the Essex Street pedestrian mall, which made it the perfect place to escape the crowds and blustery wind. They had a selection of seasonal tea blends made in shop. I stopped in several times and took several pounds of tea back as a visiting gift for my aunt. I know it’s an odd compliment but I’m in love with their upholstery and the wallpaper in their restroom. Very limited seating (only 3 tables, one of which only seats two people), but quiet enough at the times I went as to not be a problem.
Count Orlok’s Nightmare Gallery - located on Essex street (the main thoroughfare, foot traffic only) this gallery houses memorabilia and trivia from classic and modern horror cinema. I recommend it if you fancy yourself a horror movie buff. Tickets were $9 for adults and did not need to be purchased in advance. The tour is self guided, walk in any time.
O'Neill’s Pub & Restaurant - honestly I popped in here just intending to use the facilities and get off my feet for a bit but they sell the best pumpkin ale I’ve had to date. The rim is dusted with cinnamon sugar and the head is dusted with a crescent moon of spice. I enthusiastically returned twice a day for the duration of the trip (I was on holiday after all). Their shepherd’s pie was quite good and the waitresses were happy to share insider advice on the best places to park, how to avoid traffic, etc.
Howard Street Cemetery - I visited this cemetery under the impression that the headstone for Giles Corey was there. It wasn’t. There was a memorial at one time but it was toppled by a vandal in 2015. Nevertheless it was a nice, quiet place to stop and take a breather from the crowds.
The Witch House - this is a bit of a misnomer as the house belonged to Jonathan Corwin, one of the judges of the trials. The house is the only structure left in the city that has direct ties to the trials and gives a much more authentic impression of daily life. The tour is self guided but there are volunteers stationed throughout ready to talk about particular items or history of the individuals that resided there. They have a limited capacity they’re required to stick to because of the house’s age so you may be in for a bit of a wait if you catch it during a busy hour. Tickets are about $10 for adults, sold in the gift shop.
Salem Witch Museum - They start the tour by seating visitors in a dark theatre. A recording plays, lighting up vignettes at scheduled points. These vignettes are maybe roughly 9 feet up from where you will be seated, not in sequential order, and cover a full 360° so swiveling your head up and around to find it is necessary. The recording and displays are rather dated; my guess is that they haven’t been changed since the museum’s founding in 1972 (to be honest I was rather expecting Vincent Prince to narrate). After this the group is lead into a small gallery with various placards and pop culture and news printouts. A guide will deliver a brief monologue and then you are free to view the gallery or filter into the gift shop. 
I was rather perturbed that the museum spent effort linking hysteria of the Salem witch trials to McCarthyism (and any other time the American media described a thing as a “witch hunt”) but did not give but the briefest lip service to the misogyny that drove the witch trials and the selection of its victims. Anxiety about attacks from indigenous people were mentioned, but nothing of the political tension of territory and property lines, the disputes between Salem and its many pastors, or the institution of witchcraft as a prosecutable offense in a court of common law by King James. For a museum on the trials it was very light on the details. I found more information available in the gift shop’s surprisingly thorough selection of books. You do have to buy tickets ($21 adults) somewhat in advance for tours that rotate on (I think) 45 minute intervals. 
Peabody Essex Museum - The Peabody Essex Museum is huge and hosts art and history exhibits. When I visited they had an exhibit on Qing Dynasty empresses and had just finished reconstructing brick by brick, tile by tile, a real Qing Dynasty ancestral home imported from Huizhou, China, Salem’s sister city. General admission is $20 for adults.
The Hocus Pocus House - The house used for the exterior of Max and Dani’s in the 1993 movie is a popular stop but it is quite a long walk away from the main tourist hub. I’m sure there are bus tours that would take you there, but like the spendthrift I am, I hoofed it. You can’t enter the house as it is a private residence so taking photos from across the street is the best you can get. The benefit of walking are the scenic views (at last! The quaint town I had imagined!) and meeting a neighbor a few doors down. She had fashioned a hedge from seashells and had delightful watchdog whose name escapes me, save that it was compound and started with “Sir.” I caught her outside gardening - or rather she caught me - and had a chat about the house, tourists, and living in Salem.
Witch City Mall - free multi-story parking! Get there early.
The Coven’s Cottage - Tools, ingredients, books, and more with an exclusive focus on Asatru.
HausWitch Home + Healing - prime example of the self-care industry meets new age spiritualism.
Artemisia Botanicals - Every powdered or raw ingredient you could likely hope for. I saw advertisements for their tea reading service but none was offered when I visited.
Hex Old World Witchery - a sister store to the one in New Orleans. It sells tools, spell ingredients, enchanted candles, jewelry, and some very jaunty pointed hats for ladies and gents.
Life Alive Organic Cafe - Organic vegan cafe. It has the Sanderson Sisters painted as vegetables on their window.
Opus - A fusion restaurant. The food was amazing and the service was great. They have live shows in their basement level. A perfect place for cocktails.
Adriatic Restaurant - Mediterranean and Italian fare. Decent, but pricey.
Caramel Pasteries & Macarons - Easily the best macarons in town. They also sell ice cream and a limited selection of coffee and tea.
The Satanic Temple Headquarters - Baphomet had just returned from his extended stay in Arkansas. The connected Salem Art Gallery and library was also open, and there were some rather striking vine and wicker sculpture work to greet you. And as expected, the people were quite friendly and helpful with recommendations for what else to do and see in Salem. The only downside is that it is a bit of a hike from downtown, but a much shorter one than the Hocus Pocus house. Self-guided tour is $15 for adults.
Street vendors - there are many of these out and about close to Halloween. You can buy whole bags (and whole bags only) of apple cider donuts and other goodies. Not something I normally go for but it was enjoyable. Bring cash.
Additional notes
There are loads of people in costume days before Halloween. If you are shyly deliberating on whether or not to pack a costume, you needn’t think on it further. Do it and have fun, my darling. 
However, I should warn you that if you are one of those that plans to wave a movie replica wand at traffic while shouting bad Latin, I can assure you that you aren’t the first to attempt this and the drivers will not be patient with you. Better to hustle along.
Salem has a noise ordinance that goes into affect at 10 PM on Halloween night. According to the local waitresses most folks don't begin to trickle into town until 10 AM or so that day. 
Essex street is cobbled, please wear comfortable shoes. 
Shop around! There are many shops selling largely the same merchandise. By and large you'll see the same prices but if you've got a sharp enough eye you can save yourself a bit of cash. 
Reserve your stay, wherever it is, AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. I reserved in January and still had to book a room 20 minutes away, which required a car rental. 
Speaking of which, if you're driving in from outside Salem, the lanes merge and disappear frequently and it can be a little stressful. Most of the drive into Salem is single lane through neighborhoods - school bus traffic included.
The temperature in late October is mild but the wind chill coming off the sea makes it feel at least 10°F cooler. And it’s quite windy - wear your hair up. Preferably add a hat lest you show up on someone’s doorstep looking like Sadako, as I did.
31 notes · View notes
wondereads · 3 years ago
Text
Personal Review (08/08/21)
Tumblr media
Cemetery Boys by Aiden Thomas
Why am I reviewing this book?
I'd been looking forward to this book for a while, and I think it's really good for a debut novel. Also, it's just really sweet, and I think people should read it.
Plot 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
Yadriel has been out to his family as trans for a while, but they still refuse to acknowledge him as a brujo, a man who guides spirits to the afterlife, but Yadriel knows he isn't a bruja, a woman who heals through magic. In an attempt to prove himself to his family, Yadriel tries to summon the spirit of his recently deceased cousin, only to accidentally summon Julian Diaz, his delinquent classmate. Yadriel still tries to free Julian's spirit to prove his talents to his family, but Julian and his cousin's death herald something much worse to come.
The plot was fairly predictable; I knew almost immediately who the villain was and what they had done. However, I think the characters more than made up for it, which I'll talk about later.
There's so much Latin American culture wrapped up in this book. To be honest, I don't know enough about it to know how much was changed to fit the plot, but it felt immersive and authentic.
I was very invested in Yadriel's connection with his family. I wanted them to accept him, but I also wanted him to realize that he doesn't need to apologize for or tone down who he is for them. The ending was very sweet, and I was very satisfied overall.
Characters 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
Yadriel, Maritza, and Julian are such compelling and genuine characters. All of them are a bit odd in different ways, and I loved that their unique aspects were emphasized but also (except Yadriel's desire to be accepted as a boy) weren't made out to be these huge problems. Maritza is vegan and refuses to use animal blood, so she just doesn't practice magic. Julian comes from a parentless, low-income family, but it's hardly ever brought up except to develop the relationship between him and his brother. Things like that.
Yadriel and Julian's relationship came about very naturally, and I was rooting so hard for them. While it is expedited over only a couple of days, it's a very well-paced progression from allies to friends to lovers. It's obvious they each have the utmost respect and admiration for each other–Julian wholeheartedly supports Yadriel being trans (when he fixed his name in the yearbook I squealed), and Yadriel doesn't care at all about Julian's background. That kind of acceptance was very nice to read, and it made it so easy to love their romance.
Finally, Yadriel's family was tough to get along with. They're not bad people, they're not transphobic, but they really struggle with it and obviously don't take it seriously, and it's easy to see what kind of effect that has on Yadriel. It was nice to get a happy ending with them, but I hope Yadriel sets some boundaries with them after the fact so the years of misgendering won't just be brushed under the rug.
Writing Style 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
Thomas' descriptions are great. The scenes that incorporate Latin American culture are are so beautiful to imagine, and it was very easy to picture it all in my head. There were some places that felt a little clunky, but, like I said, this is a debut book, and I'm already loving their writing style.
One thing that particularly stood out to me was that there was quite a bit of Spanish mixed in to the dialogue. Spanish that was then not translated. I had to have Google Translate pulled up while I was reading, but I actually loved it. People living in the US that speak another language are always told to make it "accessible" by translating to English, and there's actually so little tolerance for Spanish in particular in today's society. Of course a book about a Latinx family is going to have Spanish in it! Yadriel certainly isn't going to translate it; he understands it! I just really liked that bit.
Meaning 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
Yadriel's struggle with his family is tough; it's never easy to have the people you love invalidate your identity. While it may not end this way for every trans kid, I liked that Yadriel's story in particular had a happy ending. That message of familial acceptance is really important for younger LGBTQ+ people to read about.
Overall 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
The fact that this is a debut book is insane. The plot is a little predictable, but the characters, romance, and writing are all pretty amazing. It works well as a standalone; I don't feel the need to know more about these characters, and there are no outstanding questions or plot points. I'm glad lots of people are reading this book because it's got a super sweet romance and great representation. I would recommend this book to people who enjoy paranormal stories, LGBTQ+ stories, and golden retriever boyfriends.
The Author
Aiden Thomas: American, trans, also wrote Lost in the Never Woods
The Reviewer
My name is Wonderose; I try to post a review every two weeks, and I take recommendations. Check out my about me post for more!
3 notes · View notes
let-the-dream-begin · 5 years ago
Text
A Place to Belong Chapter 9: Rest Easy, Soldier
Chapter 8
Read on AO3
Tumblr media
In a week’s time, they had a coffin fashioned, a headstone made, and the priest’s blessing to proceed with the burial, if one could call it that. While Jenny knew Jamie would have wanted Fraser tenants at his funeral, it would have been far too public to have a large gathering of the like. If they found out they were having a burial for a Jacobite that perished at Culloden, the Redcoats would be upon them, likely assuming they’d stolen the body after all. They’d desecrate the grave without a thought. So they would keep the service small, family and their own servants alone.
 Claire was sitting in the parlor, staring absently at the empty coffin. She was wearing that black veil around her shoulders, something she hadn’t touched since they’d said goodbye to Faith in Paris. She pulled it over her head as she approached the coffin. She ran her fingers over the wood and looked inside. She swore she could see him lying there, cold and lifeless, no smile on his face despite how it appeared that he was simply sleeping. His hair was combed back as it had been on their wedding day. He was dressed similarly as well, tartan and Fraser crest arranged perfectly. She longed to bend over, to kiss his cold cheek goodbye, to smooth his shirt so he would be perfect for God…
 But she could not. Because there was nothing in the coffin.
 “Maman?”
 Claire was jolted out of her morbid thoughts by Fergus’s small voice. She turned around, and her heart broke anew at the sight of him dressed head to toe in black.
 “What is it, darling?”
 “I have been thinking...about burying Milord.” His eyes wandered the room, seemingly unable to look at her or the coffin. “What he would want. And I…I would like to be un porteur de cercueil.”
 Claire’s throat tightened, overcome. “Fergus…”
 “It is traditionally family, no? Brothers, Uncles…or sons.”
 Claire sighed, a strangled, pained noise. She crossed the room and took the boy tightly in her arms. “He would be honored to have his son carry him.” Her voice wavered, and she pressed a long, tender kiss on the crown of his head.
 Jenny and Ian entered the parlor just then, Ian leaning on the crutch Claire had fashioned to help him to stay off his leg as much as possible while the bullet wound healed. Jenny was carrying the Fraser tartan. Claire moved her arms around Fergus to hold him around the shoulders and guided him behind Jenny and Ian to the coffin.
 Jenny held out a length of the fabric to Claire, and she took it in her hands. Ian and Fergus took hold of a piece of it as well. Simultaneously, they brought it to their lips. In Claire’s kiss that she pressed into the fabric was every ounce of love she bore for the man that had once worn it. She reminded herself that it was not that love that she was putting to rest. She would never, never stop loving him. The dull ache of his absence would be with her forever, and she would forever attempt to fill that void with memories of him, shared with those that loved him as much as she did. Memories she would share with their children.
 After kissing the tartan, the four of them lowered it into the coffin with all the reverence in the world.
 “Mistress,” Mrs. Crook said, having waited a moment before speaking. “The priest has arrived.”
 They all turned to see Mrs. Crook, holding Kitty and flanked by Maggie, wee Jamie, and Rabbie, Father Gregor standing behind them. 
 “Good day, Father,” Ian said.
 “Good day. My blessings to yer grieving family in this time of great sorrow.”
 “I thank ye.” Ian nodded.
 “Who are the pallbearers today?”
 “I am,” Ian answered. “And three men from the village, old friends of ours.”
 “Two men,” Claire interjected. “The fourth will be Jamie’s son.” She placed her hands on Fergus’s shoulders, standing him directly in front of her.
 “Well, bless my soul,” Father Gregor beamed. “I didna ken my Laird sired any sons before his passing.”
 “He didn’t,” Claire said. “But Fergus is our boy nonetheless.”
 “Oh, that’s fine, very fine,” Father Gregor said, nodding.
 Fergus looked up at Claire, crossing his arm across his chest to rest his hand atop hers on his shoulder.
 “I’ll go fetch the men, then. They’re in the dining room,” Jenny said, scurrying away and returning shortly with two men.
 “Peter Dunkirk and Lawrence Quigley,” Jenny said to Father Gregor.
 “Alright,” Father Gregor said, finally crossing the room and approaching the coffin. “Have ye all had, ah…proper goodbyes?”
 “As proper as it can be,” Claire said bitterly.
 Father Gregor nodded, then gestured for the men to put the lid on the coffin. Jenny, Claire, and Fergus stepped back, all holding onto one another. Peter, Lawrence, and Ian  lowered the lid on the coffin, closing Jamie’s tartan inside forever. It didn’t feel as final as Claire had expected it to, perhaps because it was only fabric and not her husband himself.
 Father Gregor blessed the coffin in Latin, and everyone bowed their heads. Upon completion of the prayer, everyone crossed themselves. Father Gregor looked expectantly at Fergus, and he looked up at Claire with uncertainty. She gave his hand a squeeze and gently pushed him forward. The four of them positioned themselves around the coffin and hoisted it over their shoulders, Fergus having to hold it up with his hands, being the shorter of the four.
 Father Gregor started out of the room, the coffin following behind him, then Claire and Jenny. Jenny paused in the doorway to scoop Maggie into her arms and settle her on her hip.
 “Both of ye hold onto Mrs. Crook’s skirt. Dinna let go, and behave yerselves,” she said to Jamie and Rabbie. “This is to honor yer uncle’s memory. Treat it wi’ respect.”
 “Yes, Mother.”
 “Yes, Ma’am.”
 Satisfied when the boys took hold of Mrs. Crook’s skirt, she straightened and gave Kitty a brief kiss on the head, then turned to face Claire. She stretched out the free hand that was not holding Maggie. Claire gratefully took it, and hand in hand they processed after the coffin, Mrs. Crook following close behind, followed by the rest of the servants that had been congregated in the hall, waiting for the procession to begin.
 The sky was gray, and a gentle breeze greeted them as they crossed the threshold onto the porch. The weather was finally starting to turn for the better. It was not hot, but there was no longer a bitter chill in the air. It was beautiful. The heather was blooming, something that Claire hadn’t noticed until today. Her eyes wandered to little Maggie, her head resting on Jenny’s shoulder, and Claire’s hand absently rested on her stomach, where a small bump had started to form. It had been just over four months; she’d start getting bigger by the day now.
 She let her eyes wander everywhere but where they should have been, which was on the coffin. She watched the trees bend in the wind, she watched the heather dance in the breeze, she watched birds dart between branches. This land was truly beautiful, and she would raise her child on it, raise him to remember that his father had fought for this land that they stood on.
 Claire hadn't even noticed when they’d arrived at the cemetery, but before she knew it, the coffin was down and Fergus was back by her side. Grateful to have him back in her arms, she held him close, kissing his head again. Her eyes lazily fell on the headstone, and something took hold of her heart.
 Laying the tartan in the coffin, closing the lid, none of it had felt final. But to see his name etched into a headstone:
 James Alexander Malcom Mackenzie Fraser
Born in 1721 and Died in the 25th Year of His Age
at the Battle of Culloden 1746
Beloved Brother, Husband and Father
 It was unbearable.
 Jenny must have felt her trembling, because she placed a steadying arm around her shoulders. Claire tightened her grip around Fergus, crossing her arms over his chest. He held onto her hands.
 She wanted to run away. She wanted to pretend she’d never seen his name carved in stone, burn the sight from her memory. She wanted to wake up every day and sit on the porch, waiting for him to appear on the road. She wanted to live forever in denial, holding onto the hope that he would keep his promise and return to her.
 But she had to face it. It was time to let him go. She could not raise his child to remember him properly if she thought all the while that he would be coming back soon. She could not be a mother if she was the grieving widow for all eternity. Her child deserved better than that. His child deserved better than that.
 The ceremony finished before Claire had even started to pay attention. Jenny gave Claire a gentle shove, jolting her out of her thoughts. Claire blinked herself to consciousness, and finally noticed the priest standing before her, holding a small shovel out to her. Hand trembling, she took it and approached the mound of earth beside the grave. Nothing felt real as she scooped up some dirt with the shovel and walked mechanically to the hole in the ground. She turned over the shovel, watching as each individual speck showered down, eventually landing on the empty box six feet below her.
 She stood there, frozen for a moment long after the dirt had fallen, hand and empty shovel hovering over the hole. A gentle hand closed around her hand that gripped the shovel, and she turned to see Jenny’s teary face, Maggie still on her hip.
 “It’s alright,” Jenny said gently.
 Claire nodded dazedly, relenting her grip on the shovel. Fergus was not far behind Jenny, wrapping his arms around Claire’s waist as soon as she backed into him. Jenny held Maggie’s hand on the handle, pouring the dirt in together. Jenny turned and handed the shovel off to Fergus. He followed suit of those before him, then handed it over to Ian, who brought wee Jamie up with him to pour it over together as Jenny had done with Maggie.
 Ian held Jenny in his arms, Fergus and Claire held onto one another, as they watched the servants pour their own scoopfuls of earth into the hole. The small crowd gradually dispersed, the female servants wandering back after they’d thrown dirt in, except for Mrs. Crook, being that she was still holding Kitty. Once only the men were left, Jenny put Maggie down and approached the stone, careful of the gaping hole in the ground.
 She removed the wooden rosary from around her neck, kissed it in her palm, and then lovingly placed it atop the stone. She stood up, wiped her eyes, and returned to the family.
 “Off we go then,” she said, picking Maggie up again and beginning to walk off.
 “I’m staying,” Claire said stiffly.
 “Claire, it could take the men hours to get it completely buried — ”
 “I need to see it,” Claire interjected. “With my own eyes.” Jenny looked at her quizzically. “I need to see it buried completely so it feels…final. So I can finally feel like…like it’s really over.”
 Jenny sighed, rubbing Claire’s shoulder. “I understand.”
 “I am staying, too,” Fergus said. “I want to help.”
 “Yer needed inside,” Jenny said, trying to usher him away from Claire.
 “No, it’s alright,” Claire said, tightening her grip on his shoulders. “If he wants to help then he should.”
 Jenny nodded. “Try not to be out here all night.”
 Claire nodded. Jenny took wee Jamie’s hand and headed back to the house, followed by Mrs. Crook holding onto Rabbie’s hand. Ian and Fergus grabbed shovels and got to work helping the other men fill the grave.
 Claire stood there watching shovelful after shovelful, forcing herself to believe that he was really down there, that they were really laying him to rest after all this time.
 Hours went by, and she remained rigid, watching dutifully as her husband was buried. Finally, the mound of earth was gone, the hole was filled. The servants touched the stone one last time before walking off with their shovels and disappearing back toward the house.
 Claire watched as Ian struggled to kneel, and Fergus immediately helped him. He prayed silently for a moment, then crossed himself before kissing his hand and touching the stone. Fergus helped him up again, handing him his crutch. Ian started toward the house, beckoning Fergus to follow.
 “I want to stay with you,” Fergus said, approaching Claire, those beautiful blue eyes wide with concern.
 “It’s alright, darling,” Claire said, caressing his hair. “I need…I need to be alone for a moment, if that’s alright.”
 Fergus nodded dutifully. “Of course, Maman.” He glanced behind him back at the stone.
 “Go on,” Claire said gently. “Go say goodbye.”
 Fergus obeyed, kneeling before the stone, silent for a moment. After a short while, he gently brushed his fingers over the name etched into the face. “Farewell, Milord.”
 He stood up and turned to leave, but not without stopping to hug Claire again.
 “I’ll be in shortly,” she assured him.
 He nodded, and with that, Fergus and Ian departed the cemetery, heading back toward the house.
 Claire slowly approached the stone, her heels sinking into the fresh dirt. She kneeled before the stone, gingerly resting her hand atop it.
 “Hello, Jamie.” She smiled, despite the horrible pain. “I hope I don’t look too deranged trying to smile right now. I just…I know you hate to see me cry. And you always said that my smile was a…a sun in your cloudy day. So I’ll try to smile for you, Jamie.” She sighed shakily. “And I’ll apologize in advance for all the crying I’ll likely be doing, and all that I’ve done recently. It’s…very hard to go on without you. You made very certain that I’d be incomplete without you whether you meant to or not.”
 Her hand lingered over the spot where Jenny had left the rosary, the very tips of her fingers brushing over the beads. “I know you’re not really here, or your bones aren’t at least. What matters is that…that I can feel you here, with me. When I touch the growing bump on my stomach…I can hear you whispering to him like you did to Faith. I can feel your kisses there. I can feel how much you love him.
 “I’m…I’m sorry, Jamie. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about our child. I was afraid. I know what I promised…but I didn’t want to go back. I couldn’t. I couldn't raise your child away from this world that I’ve grown to love as my own. But I promise you that he will be safe, and loved, and so happy here. He’ll run around this land with his cousins, like you did as a boy. He’ll grow surrounded by love, from his Aunt and Uncle. He’s going to learn French, and Gaelic, and play chess, and ride horses. All things you would have taught him. All of us, me, Jenny, Ian, Fergus…we will teach him. All the things you would have wanted him to know, he will know.
 “He will be raised with our love for him, but also with the love that you bore for us, me, Jenny, all of us. The way you made me feel…I will carry that with me forever. I could never forget it. And our child will know that love, Jamie. I will make sure that he feels your love.
 “And I will go on.” She couldn’t help the tears this time, and she cursed herself as they rolled down her cheeks. “For our child, I will go on. For Fergus, our son, I will go on. For Jenny, our sister, I will go on. For you, in your memory, I will go on. Every single day I will feel the pain of you being gone, but as you know by now, I’m a tough lady.” She felt a fraud even as she said it, never having felt weaker in her life. “Jenny has already seen me through my worst of days. She’s a wonder. Even if I wanted to give up, she wouldn’t let me. I can assure you that.
 “At Culloden, we said a lot of things. But there was one thing I didn’t say…I couldn’t. But I’ve seen you buried now, the best we could, and I can’t spend my life chasing your ghost. Too many people need me. So, it’s time.” She pressed her lips to the cold, unforgiving stone, feeling as if they could fall off. “Goodbye, Jamie Fraser. My love.
 “Rest easy, soldier.”
 She gave the stone one last reverent touch before standing up and wiping her tears. “I’m sorry,” she laughed in spite of herself. “It’s going to take some practice.”
 Breathing deeply and steeling herself, she made her way back to the house to join her family in celebrating the life of a man they all cherished.
22 notes · View notes
fakedudes · 4 years ago
Text
The Gravewood Curiosity Shoppe was the least neglected building on Psychics’ Strip - but that wasn’t saying much. Many of the supposed seers who lived on the block considered decrepitude part of the aesthetic. The more a house was falling apart, the more accurate the Tarot card reading. 
Boris Andreyez, the proprietor of the Curiosity Shoppe, did not deal in fortunes, however. He sold artifacts - evidence of the existence of cryptids, ancient relics from tribes long gone, cursed jewelry, anything demonically possessed. A spooky storefront was unnecessary for this; before moving to Gravewood, Boris had traveled the world. His stories alone were enough. 
Despite his strong belief that his salesmanship would prevail over cheap gimmicks, he couldn’t deny the allure of atmosphere. It was why Autumn was his most profitable season. The town Halloween festival his very best day. Regardless of any roaming imps who wandered near to play tricks upon him. In fact, the obnoxious band of college boys barely crossed his mind at the end of the evening, when he returned to the Shoppe with pockets full of gold. Metaphorically, at least. 
“It was good this year,” he said in greeting to his nephew, a gangly boy with messy hair sitting behind the front desk marking up a notebook. Griffin did not so much as glance up, scribbling something fervently on the paper. 
“‘Good’ is incredibly non-descript, Uncle. It sounds dull to me.”
Boris smiled warmly, a sparkle of humor behind his tortoise-shell glasses. “Hm. Profitable, then. It was a fantastic capitalistic enterprise. I sold the entire lot - including every issue of your magazine.” 
Griffin looked up at this, as Boris had known he would. Kick Rochs, the literary ‘zine Griffin spearheaded at school, was his pride and joy. He peered at Boris for a moment, as if to determine the veracity of his claim. When his mouth twitched, it appeared he’d decided to believe. 
“The Halloween issue always does well,” he reasoned. Ever the reasonable boy, Boris’s nephew. 
“Logical. It is Gravewood’s favorite holiday. I even saw your friend out and about... uhh... what’s his name? The Goliath with skin like a coloring book.”
“Dean Grady is not my friend. Not anymore, anyway.”
“Oh? Shame. He’s a good boy. He would come in handy whenever we have jars we need opening.”
Griffin slid off the stool he’d been sitting upon, finally closing his notebook so that he could help Boris pack away the Shoppe’s booth setup. He had not been asked, but he never had to be. Griffin was a dutiful boy. He shouldered every nearby burden like he was born magnetically attracted to responsibility. He was, perhaps, every parents’ dream child. But Boris had never planned to be the caretaker of a child - or a man, now, he supposed. The ever-present crease of anxiety in Griffin’s brow did not so much fill Boris with pride as it did melancholy. 
“There will be many parties tonight,” he said as they carried a table in from the truck. 
“That is the trend these days,” Griffin replied sarcastically.
“Why not attend one? Perhaps Dean Grady will be at one, you can reconnect.” He swayed, singing a tune. “Make new friends, but keep the old...” 
Griffin huffed, stumbling as he attempted to keep up with his uncle’s impromptu dance. “One is silver but Dean Grady is coal,” he finished, letting the table fall to the floor with a thud as soon as they reached the foyer. 
“Sourpuss. Where’s your holiday spirit?” 
“I seem to have been born without the gland for that.”
“Preposterous. Your mother loved holidays more than anything. She even celebrated Arbor Day with vim and vigor.” 
Griffin froze. With the pained expression now on his face, he looked like a companion piece to the Bigfoot in the Shoppe’s front window. Like he’d been attacked. Boris, for the first time that day, felt nervous. Because it was not a group of rowdy, privileged boys that frightened him. It was this one, wrapped in a thrift store sweater and claiming more than his share of sadness.
“Loves, of course. Celebrates. She’s not... Poppet, you know I know she’s not... The brains of us elderly folk, we lose our aptitude for tense with the years. Time becomes an unknowable concept.” 
Griffin glanced at the Bigfoot statue, as though it were the cause of his torment and not the fact that his mother was somewhere, but not there. 
“I’m tired,” he said, speaking directly to Sasquatch. “I’m going to call it an early night.” 
Boris watched his nephew retreat upstairs to their apartment, feeling helpless and inept. 
sweet dreams (are made of this) ➙
Griffin stood on the street outside the festival. It was over, the sun having gone down hours before. Only remnants of the day’s entertainment remained; stray candy wrappers, abandoned jack-o-lanterns, glitter clinging to the grass like morning dew. The park was empty... except for one figure. They were cast in shadow, the street lamps not bright enough to reach where they stood near the jungle gym. 
Griffin’s heart beat solidly in his chest. Something was wrong. He could feel it, like prickles creeping up the back of his neck.
“Hello?” he called out. His voice disappeared across the cool evening. The silhouette did not react. It stood unnaturally still. 
Of course. It wasn’t moving. It wasn’t a person. It must have been one of his uncle’s ridiculous store mannequins. That was why Griffin was out there at the park, after all. Wasn’t it? 
He strode forward with a sigh... only to stop dead in his tracks when the light at last angled over the figure in the park. It was not a statue. 
It was Dean Grady.
And he was looking right at Griffin.
“What are you doing out here?” Griffin asked.
“What did we do?”
Dean’s voice was quiet and low. It was always quiet and low, but that night, in the park, it was also... afraid. Dean was the tank. He was the fighter with the iron fists. Griffin had grown up knowing his anger. Never his fear. 
Griffin was about to ask him what was going on, but then Dean continued. “What did we do?” he asked, louder now. “What did we do? What did we do?” He was frantic, his voice raising in volume with every question. Griffin shook his head, confused, until he realized that Dean was not looking at him. He was looking through him. 
Griffin spun around. And there was Ace. Ace, who never left the house without that pesky smirk of his, looking inconsolable.
“I never meant to hurt you.” 
Were Ace and Dean in a fight? Some sort of weird lovers’ squabble? Griffin turned back to see Dean’s reaction, but he was no longer there. He’d been replaced by a young man nearly a foot shorter than his predecessor. Duck. Duck who was smiling in an absent daze. Duck who was absolutely covered in blood and guts.
“I’m so glad we’re all friends again,” he said. “Hey! Do you think Griffin would let me braid his hair? I learned how to braid hair when they put me in charge of the girls’ bunk at church camp last Summer. I think he’s got enough of it. It’s really not that hard, you just have to...” The normally neat and organized Duck threaded his fingers through his own hair to gather it up, spreading something’s - or someone’s - innards all throughout. 
Griffin’s heart had started pounding again. The wrongness had crept back in. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the macabre sight of a blood-soaked Duck Bettencourt. Until something bolted in the space between them. 
It was Kaz, running. Not with a football in hand. Not in his jogging shorts. Running from something. An invisible pursuer. He stopped next to Griffin, so close that Griffin could hear his labored breaths. But Kaz didn’t acknowledge him. His eyes were open wide, peering through the darkness for signs of whatever monster was chasing him. 
“Holy shit I’m gonna die, holy shit I’m gonna die,” he was muttering.
“Alea iacta est.” 
The sound came from behind them, and Griffin spun around once more. There he stood. The last, and first, of them. The Mystery Club’s esteemed leader and most loyal member. Jamie Ward. 
It was then that Griffin was thrust into the reality that this was a dream. Because he had dreamt about Jamie before. 
It was always the same. The Latin, spoken in a too deep voice. Jamie, standing before him as a mist rolled in. He began to raise from the ground, his arms slowly spreading out to his sides. He hung in the air, suspended above Griffin.
Jamie looked down at him, meeting his eyes. 
“Aut viam inveniam aut faciam.“ It was Jamie’s mouth that moved, but again, that too-deep voice. Then he smiled. Something that looked both foreign and fearsome on Jamie Ward’s face. 
Griffin woke up just as an invisible force began to rip Jamie limb from limb. 
He sat up with a start, heart racing. He could hardly catch his breath, blinking rapidly as though it might help vanquish the lingering image of Jamie’s body being torn apart. The bones cracking, the skin tearing. Blood pooling from his veins as his joints and sinews snapped apart. 
It took several moments before Griffin even realized he was not in his bed. His hands felt the soft Earth beneath them and he finally saw something other than the gory destruction of his once friend. 
He was in the cemetery. Back where he’d been a week ago at Kaz’s behest. Sat right in front of the door to Jamie’s shed. The raw fear coursing through him did not dissipate. He was too afraid the dream wasn’t over. Terrified of what he’d see if he opened the door. But Griffin knew enough about these nightmares by then to know they always ended the same way: with Jamie. Jamie who was most certainly in that shed.
Griffin really wanted to wake up. So he opened the door. 
5 notes · View notes
kusunogatari · 4 years ago
Text
[ ObiRyū October | Day Sixteen | Incantation ] [ @abyssaldespair ] [ Uchiha Obito, Suigin Ryū, Hatake Kakashi ] [ Verse: Ghost Among the Ghosts ]
[ Previous ] [ Next ]
“Hi, Mom...it’s me again. I brought you some fresh flowers! Sorry I left the other ones here so long...I’ve been busy the last few weeks. School is going well, but...it’s a lot of work. I’m keeping my grades up, at least. But that means less time for...everything else. And no, I still don’t have a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend, for that matter. But maybe that’s a good thing. I’d be really inattentive lately, and that wouldn’t be fair. I dunno, maybe I’ll meet someone after, y’know? But if work is busy too, then...guess I’ll just be a crazy old cat lady. Though I don’t have a cat yet…”
She’s rambling. But then again, that usually happens when she takes a day to catch up with her mother. Sitting cross-legged in the grass, Ryū lets an elbow rest on a knee, chin held in a palm. It’s nice to just...sit and chat.
And given Reika can’t really reply, it means she can go on for as long as she wants.
“Dad came to visit yesterday. That was nice. He said he was going to stop by and see you while he was here. I hope he did. Guess he didn’t leave anything, but...well, I told him I was going to stop by today. Maybe he just figured things would get cluttered, otherwise.”
Beyond the freshly-replaced flowers, Reika’s headstone is clear. There’s a small growth of lichen, but she’ll take care of that while she’s here. Otherwise, the polished black marble is flawless.
“Anyway...I guess there’s really not much else to report. Kinda stuck in a bit of a slog, I suppose. Same routine over and over. Classes change, but the routine doesn’t.” Shifting positions, she leans back on her palms, sighing. “There’s a few people I’ve seen in a couple of classes with me, but...haven’t really made any friends. Dad says I’d scare them away anyway cuz I spend so much time here.” Ryū can’t help a snicker. “I might’ve had my baby goth phase in high school, but it didn’t stick. I just...like dark clothes and hanging out with my dead mom! Nothing weird about that, right?”
The only answer is wind rustling through the cemetery trees.
Another sigh escapes her, seeming to get lost in thought. “...guess I kinda just fell into it all. The image, I mean. People were always calling me Ghost, so...it was easier to roll with it than fight it. Is that weird? Maybe not. Guess I just kinda adopted it. Maybe part of it’s still sticking, huh?”
Another thoughtful silence before she straightens, hauling herself to her feet and brushing leaves and grass from her clothes. “Well...I won’t bug you any more today. Though I’m not really looking forward to heading back to my dorm. It’s so cramped, and my roommate snores. Not to mention I have an essay to do when I get there. So maybe I’ll just...wander around a bit. Y’know...procrastinate.”
After clearing the lichen, Ryū says her goodbyes before heading further into the cemetery rather than back toward the gate.
It’s strange. She’s here so often, yet she’s never really taken the time to look at any other parts of the graveyard. Even back when she was embracing her spooky image in high school.
Better late than never, she supposes.
The further you go, the older the plots get...and eventually, entire family crypts start popping up. Ryū eyes them curiously, feeling an old itch start bubbling up to the surface. Maybe she’ll just...take some pictures. For old time’s sake. Surely nobody will mind, right?
Out comes her phone, subtly snapping photos of some of the more unique headstones. One bears an entire full-size weeping angel, arms outstretched to the sky in mourning.
“Wicked…!”
Okay maybe her goth phase isn’t as over as she likes to pretend it is.
Soon enough she’s losing herself in it, taking artsy pics of as much spooky splendor as she can manage. The cloudy Autumn day only adds to the atmosphere, she can’t help it!
And then she hits the motherlode.
Looming up out of the gloom is one of the crypts: its own stone building to inter members of a family. And this one is massive...let alone clearly old as old gets. A wrought iron gate blocks access to the interior, and no matter how she cranes her neck, Ryū can only see so far.
Backing up a few paces, she realizes there isn’t a family name carved anywhere in the stone. That’s a bit odd. Instead, a phrase is etched along the top of the threshold. Usually it’s something in Latin, but...this doesn’t look quite right.
Brow furrowing, Ryū reads it over a few times in her head. Maybe it is Latin and she’s just...really rusty. But her curiosity persists, and so she googles it.
...nothing really comes up.
Well, drat.
A sigh escapes her, tucking away her phone for the moment. Under her breath, she tries sounding it out, doing so slowly with the Latin pronunciation that she knows.
As soon as she finishes, a flash of cold washes over her, seemingly coming up from the crypt.
Every hair on her body stands on end, tensing as eyes fly wide.
...what the…?
Fog then begins to plume up the steps, curling around the gate. And as she stares, Ryū sees hands slowly reach to grip the bars. Then with an ear-splitting creak, it starts to swing open.
Oh this is not good...what did she do?! What, was that some kind of...incantation? That stuff isn’t real…! And why would it be carved into a crypt?!
A deep, raspy chuckle then sounds, and a shiver runs its way up her spine. Every part of her brain is screaming at her to run...but she can’t get her legs to move, locked into place as she trembles.
“Well well...been a while since anyone’s given those words a read. Was starting to wonder if anyone would ever bother…”
With a lurch, she manages to stumble back half a step, body feeling rigid and stubborn. “Who...who’s there…?”
“You mean to tell me you read the invocation, and you don’t even know who you’re talking to? I should be offended. And here I was so relieved at finally getting a chance to stretch my legs! Hell gets so boring after a while…”
A figure then starts to emerge from the fog. And Ryū’s heart feels about ready to jump right out of her chest. Hell...this person’s from Hell? Then...doesn’t that mean -?
“I guess I can still manage an introduction. But...you first, hm? Only polite, since you rang.”
...is it wise to tell them that? “It...it’s Ryū. M-my name is...is Ryū.”
“Ryū…?” They seem to roll the word around in their mouth, as if tasting it. “Hm...I suppose that’ll do. And my name...is Obito.”
They take one last step, and Ryū beholds the demon in all their glory.
...it’s not an image she expects.
It’s not a gargoyle-like creature. No cloven hooves, no horns. It’s just a...a man? Wearing black slacks, shining black shoes, a violet button-down shirt, and a black vest. A hand wrapped in a fingerless glove adjusts a matching purple tie. Short dark hair, glowing red eyes, and...and…
Scars. All over the right side of his face. Some even peek up from under the loose collar of his shirt.
“Why is it everybody always stares, hm? Something on my face?”
Ryū forces herself to blink. “...I-I -?”
Ignoring her, the demon glances around. “...huh. Not where I expected to pop up. No one’s used this place in a long time. Being nosy, are we?”
“Wh-? N-no! I...I was just looking, and…?”
“And decided to recite the obviously-demonic carving on the wall?”
She sputters. Obviously demonic? How was she supposed to know?! “I-I didn’t know that’s what it was! I-I swear!”
Obito just rolls his eyes. “Uh huh. That’s what they all say.”
“Can’t you just, um...g-go back where you came from?”
“I’m afraid not, you see…” He starts sauntering toward her, her own legs attempting to retreat. “Demons, once called out of Hell, can only return once they have their contracted’s soul in their possession. It’s a system. And given that you called me...that means you.”
“I-I didn’t call you! It was an accident!”
“Yes, yes...you humans and your accidents.” He steps closer, Ryū finding herself with nowhere to run as her back finds a tree. Leaning in, Obito gives her a very unabashed once-over. “...hm…”
“W...what?”
“I think you’re lying.”
“Wh-? Why would I lie?!”
“Because I can smell it on you.”
“Smell what? I-I just took a shower this morning before I came to see Mom!”
Obito gives a roll of his eyes. “Oh, brother...so you don’t know…?”
“Know what?!”
“That you’re a witch.”
She freezes. “...I’m a...a what?”
“Oh come, now. Your appearance is telling enough. Tell me...did your mother look like you? All ghost-like…?”
Ryū feels the blood draining from her face. “...I…”
“Thought so.”
“I am not a witch! I just had a goth phase in high school! And the only reason I did was because everyone forced it on me!”
“And why do you think they did that?”
“Because I look like this!”
“And? You really think they couldn’t tell? It’s a subconscious thing, especially in this day and age. Very few people legitimately cry ‘witch’ nowadays. Most who do just get laughed at, but they’re out there. Or rather, you’re out there.”
Head shaking, Ryū rebuke, “Well...still! Witch or not, I did not call you here on purpose! So just...go back where you came from, and leave me alone!”
“I told you, I can’t do that. Not until I harvest that soul of yours. Or...mine, really. Semantics.”
She stares at him. “...so, I...I really am stuck with you…?”
“Until you utilize your contract, that’s exactly right. So hurry up and make your request so we can get this over with.”
“...and if I don’t?”
“Don’t what?”
“What if I don’t make a request? What if I just...ignore this so-called contract I didn’t agree to? Then what?”
Obito’s face goes slack. “...you can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, contracts have consequences the longer they go on. Consequences that are rather dire for mortals. Eventually you’d just be begging for me to end it, so there’s no real point in drawing things out.”
“I could...I could hire an exorcist!”
That earns an outright laugh. “Oh, you could. But it wouldn’t go well. We’re contracted. My suffering is your suffering. And vice versa.”
...well shit. She’s running out of ideas. Surely by now demons are rather used to all the ways humans try and wriggle their ways out of contracts. Ryū’s eyes flicker back and forth, trying to think of a solution.
All the while, looking amused, Obito watches her. He’s never actually met someone from a witch bloodline before. While they don’t all look like she does, that just makes her all the more unique. Part of him wonders what her skills would be. Are witch souls worth more than a regular human soul…? He’s not actually sure. But he’ll admit, it feels rather tantalizing compared to other humans he’s contracted with. Almost seems a shame to waste it.
“...you know, there is one way to circumvent this whole ordeal.”
He speaks without meaning to, her head shooting up.
“...and what would that be?”
“You could always become a demon yourself. It’s not easy, and technically you’d still be damned, but...you wouldn’t die.”
A stubborn scowl overtakes her face. “Not sure that’s much better.”
Shoulders shrug. “Just letting you know. Hell’s really not all that bad when you’re on Lucifer’s good side, you know.”
“...I’ll bear that in mind,” is her dry reply.
“You really should make up your mind. Time is ticking. And I’ve got other things I could be -”
“Hey!”
The pair of them turn, seeing another figure making its way toward them. Silvery, messy locks fall over a fair face, the bottom half obscured by a mask. There’s really not much remarkable about him...except for a glint of silver that jostles around his neck as he runs.
A cross.
Behind Ryū, Obito’s eyes narrow.
Reaching them, the newcomer holds an arm out between them, barring Ryū back. “I’ve been waiting for you to show your face again. Let her go!”
“This is none of your business, Kakashi. She summoned me.”
“I told you, it wasn’t on purpose!” Ryū insists from behind Kakashi’s arm.
“It’s too late! Intentional or not, what’s done is done. She has to forfeit her soul one way or another. I’m just doing what I’m meant to do.”
“Don’t you remember what it’s like to be human?” Kakashi barks in protest. “Why hurt them when you used to be one, Obito?”
Ryū’s eyes widen. He was human…?
Obito’s lip lifts in a sneer. “I was human. And that life was nothing but suffering. Poverty, loneliness, despair...and then a violent, painful end before I was even a man. Can you really blame me for letting that bitterness overcome me? Life wasn’t, isn’t fair, Kakashi. Humans suffer, and they cause suffering. They must reap what they sow.”
“And what has she done wrong, beyond being at the wrong place at the wrong time? Do you really want to damn an innocent just because you suffered in life? That won’t reverse what you went through. It will just make someone else suffer, too. Let her go.”
All the while, Ryū watches them both. It’s clear they knew each other before Obito became a demon. And if Obito is telling the truth, then...it seems to her that he had every reason to be persuaded into a role like this, given what he went through.
Suffering begets suffering, after all.
...then maybe…
“You can’t break this contract, Kakashi. You’re hardly strong enough to have any influence here. It doesn’t matter if she’s willing or not. It was a done deal as soon as she spoke the incantation. One way or another, I’ll -!”
“I know what I want.”
Both men turn to her, expressions equally surprised.
“Miss, no - you can’t go through with this! If you do, your soul will -!”
“You heard the lady, Kakashi.” Behind them, Obito gives a bone-chilling smirk. “She’s made up her mind. And about time. What’ll it be, then?”
Gently urging Kakashi’s arm aside, Ryū steps forward, studying the demon. “...so, in order for the contract to be fulfilled...you have to complete whatever task I give you...right?”
“That’s right.”
“No matter how long it takes?”
“Yes. But we demons are very efficient.”
“...and the task can be anything?”
“Well...there are a few exceptions. I can’t raise the dead, for example. Can’t make you immortal. But most things are on the table. Tell me your wish, and I’ll let you know.”
She can’t help a dry snort at the word ‘wish’. As if she sought this out. “...all right, then. What I want from you is...to protect me from all possible harm, within your ability, until I die naturally. Only once I’ve lived whatever life you can allow me to live can you have my soul. If you purposefully allow me to be killed to try to complete the contract early, then you’ll have failed, and the contract is null and void.”
As she speaks, Obito’s grin slowly falls to a neutral, and then surprised expression.
Behind her, Kakashi gives a humorless laugh. “...so, rather than a guardian angel...you’ve snagged yourself a guardian demon. Well that’s a first.”
Ryū doesn’t reply, still looking at Obito. “...so? Is that on the table…?”
Sighing curtly, Obito looks aside as if trying to think of some kind of loophole. But after a minute of silence, it’s clear he can’t recall any. “...I suppose it is.”
“And because you’ll be performing your contract, there won’t be any of those consequences you talked about?”
“...in all honesty, I can’t be sure. I’ve never had a contract quite like that. The longest I’ve had to wait was a week.” He looks her over. “...you really want a demon to be hovering over your shoulder for the rest of your life?”
“I figure that’s the best outcome I could ask for, all things considered” is her quiet reply. “...besides, something you said struck me a bit funny.”
“...and what was that?”
“That you were lonely.”
His face goes slack. “...you...can’t be serious.”
Even Kakashi has no rebuke for that.
“You’re extending your contract to the fullest possible extent because a demon implied that they were lonely…? You must be a special kind of naive, lady.”
She gives a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “You’re the one who implied it, not me. Not everyone is a jerk, you know.”
He scowls, but doesn’t have a retort. “...all right, then. We shake on it...and your request will be set. No changing your mind. Got it?”
“Obito, I can’t let you do this!”
“There’s no can’t, Kakashi,” Obito retorts. “You couldn’t stop me if you tried. Buzz around her like an annoying little fly if you want. There’s no saving her.”
Turning to the other human, Ryū gives a somber smile. “I’ll be okay.”
“But -?”
Before he can try to argue, Ryū reaches out, and takes Obito’s hand.
The same rush of cold eddies around them, and Ryū can’t help but flinch as her hair whips around her face. Leaves kick up, the trees creaking as they get caught in the ethereal wind.
Hands still locked, Obito sneaks his other arm around her back, pulling them chest to chest with their hands pressed between them. A smirk curls his lips, hovering several inches over her own. “...it’s done.”
“This isn’t over, Obito!” Kakashi insists.
The demon turns to him, expression bored. “Well, I suppose you might have time to build up some power before she kicks the bucket. But I won’t be letting a soul go that easily, Kakashi.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” the demonologist replies lowly.
“Run along, then. Go bury your nose into your books and find some holy relics. You’ll be racing against the clock for this one.”
Glowering, Kakashi turns on a heel and leaves them.
“Finally, a little privacy,” Obito then sighs, giving a stretch. “You think he’d give that demonologist bit a rest…”
“So...you two know each other?”
“In a manner of speaking. But let’s not get into that, now. You’ve got a life to get to.”
It’s then that Ryū hesitates. “So...other people can see you…?”
“Only if I want them to. And even then a very small handful could otherwise. You’d be one of them, actually. If you had a bit more training, you might even be able to see what I really look like.”
“...you mean this is a ruse?”
He smirks. “...yes and no. This is my human appearance. I died at thirteen, but as a demon I’ve kept aging. This is how I’d look if I’d lived. But it’s not what I truly am, now. Not fully.”
“So I won’t have to explain why someone is constantly following me, then.”
“Not unless I decide to show myself. Which, for my own convenience, I doubt I’ll do often, if at all. I’d like this whole experience to be as painless as possible, since you seem to have it in your mind we’re going to be buddies in the meantime. Just think of me as a voice in your head that only you can see.”
...well, this is going to take some getting used to. But at least for now she has time. And it seems that this Kakashi guy wants to try and break this contract. Maybe he’ll succeed. For now, however...she’ll just have to adapt.
“...all right then. Come on. We’re leaving.”
“And going…?”
“Back to my dorm. I have homework.”
“You’re a student?”
“Studying to be a nurse.” She starts walking, and Obito follows.
“Riveting.”
“You’re the one who asked.”
Yes, this is going to take a lot of getting used to.
Tumblr media
     This is...super random but I guess it works for the prompt xD I dunno anything about demonology or whatever, so this is...purely me winging it. Also any religious mentions are just for the sake of context. That’s another subject I know little to nothing about lol      A human (well, kinda) and a demon stuck in each other’s company. Surely nothing is going to wrong in this situation, right? Riiiight.      I’d...say more but it’s late and this weekend is gonna suuuck so I’m gonna go sleep. Thanks for reading!
4 notes · View notes
madame-coquette · 4 years ago
Text
Tumblr media
Under the cut: you will find a lengthy, yet concise summary of the historical life and rule of Louis XVI. 
*** While this is not a mandatory read - it is interesting and will be referenced in most threads outside of the Modern AU, ( which must be requested to write in. ) Some knowledge may benefit you to know if you don’t have a good base in the history of the french revolution. I may add to this as I gain more sources and insight into the King’s personal life. ***
Name: Louis Auguste de France
Other Names: Louis XVI ||  Citizen Louis Capet ( Before Execution ) 
Titles: Duc de Berry ( Given at birth ) || Dauphin ( After his father died ) || King of France ( After his grandfather died )
Birthday: 23rd of August 1754 || Reign as King lasted from May 10th 1774 - September 21st 1792
Died: January 21st 1793 || Execution By Guillotine
Religion: Roman Catholic
Family Ties: House of Bourbon
Siblings: Louis XVIII Comte de Provence, Charles X Comte d’Artois, Élisabeth de France, Louis Duc de Burgundy ( Died at 9 ), Clotilde de France, Xavier Duc de Aquitaine ( Died at 1 ) , Marie Zéphyrine de France ( Died at 5 ), Marie - Thérèse de France ( Died at 2 ). 
Parents: Marie-Josèphe of Saxony & Louis the Dauphine of France
Spouse: Marie Antonia Josepha Johanna || ( French Version ) Marie Antoinette ( Second Cousin, Once Removed. ) 
Biography: 
Often passed over in favor of his older brother Louis ( Duc de Burgundy ) because he was more outgoing, handsome & intelligent. Tragically, he died at 9 & favor was shifted to the new future Dauphin. Louis Auguste was by all accounts a healthy but painfully shy & reserved child. He was equally as bright as his brother excelling in: Latin, History, Geography, Astronomy. He was also fluent in English & Italian. ( Louis liked to wrestle with his brothers & hunt with his grandfather. ) His special interest was in locksmithing & this was encouraged by those around him as a worthwhile pursuit even in his childhood. The subjects he was taught by the Duc de la Vauguyon additionally included: Religion, Morality & Humanities.
Louis married Marie on May 16th 1770 when he was just 15 and she was 14. By the time the two were married to form the French & Austrian alliance: the defeat of France, in the 7 years war had already made the French public view the new Dauphine as an unwelcome stranger to the country. 
The couple only met 2 days before their marriage, and for this reason the marriage was cordial but very distant in the beginning. Louis was shy & also afraid of being manipulated by Marie for stately purposes --- this made him act coldly towards her in public. They did eventually foster a fondness for each other & their marriage was consummated in 1777.
( Louis XVI & Marie Antoinette’s reputations were damaged because they did not produce heirs in a traditionally ‘ timely manner ‘. ) 
After gentle prodding from Marie’s brother, Joseph II --- Louis began to take his conjugal duties seriously and Marie fell pregnant, eventually giving birth to 4 live-born children. ( Marie suffered 2 miscarriages and Louis - by all accounts - consoled her each time. ) Louis XVI also ‘ adopted ‘ six children additionally, though they were never granted royal status.
Louis took the throne in 1774 at age 19 after his grandfather died. By then, there was already resentment among the public for the royal family, lots of government debt incurred before he was installed as monarch, and so much responsibility that Louis himself did not feel ready & prepared to take on.  
Louis XVI’s indecisiveness & lack of firmness - though grounded in the idea he wanted to be liked & loved - ultimately, led to part of his downfall. ( It should be noted Louis Auguste DID genuinely attempt to be a good and just king, the circumstances that line up before his assent to the throne were too vastly stacked against him. ) 
Louis reinstated the ‘ parlements ‘ & put a more experienced advisor in place to ensure that things were fair and on the up and up. Louis also signed the Edict of Versailles || Edict of Tolerance that allowed Non-Catholics to have the legal right to practice their faith(s), as well as restore legal/civic rights and status to them. This overturned the Edict of Fontainebleau which had reigned as law for a little over 100 years. While the Edict of Versailles didn’t claim freedom of religion - it decriminalized the practice of other religions and helped ease tensions based on religious differences in the country.
Radical financial reforms were a steadily growing need in the country because of the mounting debt ... the nobles refused to instate the necessary laws ultimately culminating in further dissatisfaction among the public and stoking the flames of the oncoming French Revolution. The publication of ‘ Le Compte - rendu au Roi ‘ -> ‘ The Records of Accounts for the King ‘ further ruined the monarchy’s reputation by publishing propaganda that was full of fictitious & inaccurate budgets meant to make France look more financially stable than it was. When the true extent of France’s debt was revealed: the common man & many nobles alike were shocked and disgusted, the nobility outright rejecting the reforms necessary to begin to rectify the scenario. 
Finally, the country’s finances reached an appalling low --- and Louis was forced to use his absolute powers to force reforms, though they could only be maintained for more than 2 - 4 months maximum before he would be forced to revoke them. He closed down the french parliamentary system. The royal treasury was also unable to sustain the reforms imposed because it was in a crippled state as it was. 
 After much abuse from the the First & Second Estates ( after Louis reinstated the Estates-General ) the third estate decided unanimously declared themselves the National Assembly. Soon after Louis lost control of this newly formed legislative body - the revolution was underway and officially began with the Storming of the Bastille on July 14th 1789. 
Louis Xvi’s Palace de Versailles was stormed by an angry mob on October 5th 1789. This was done in an attempt to kill Marie --- the now much hated symbol of frivolity to the French public. After the Marquis de Lafayette diffused the situation - the royal family was forced to move themselves to the Tuileries palace in Paris. 
While plenty of key figures besides the king and queen attempted to gather strength to restore the former absolute power of the monarchy --- it would ultimately fail and many of these secret supporters either retracted loyalty to the crown under threat of death, or met grisly ends by the hands of the public & new governing body. Louis, finally realizing the danger he and his family were in and wanting to regain control of France - helped Axel von Fersen ( a rumored lover to the Queen ) plan the royal family’s escape to gather forces and gain protection by Austria. After a series of setbacks, missteps, poor judgements, indecision, and assorted other issues behind the scenes - the family was caught and returned to Paris ( Tuileries Palace ) on June 25th 1791 and placed under highly monitored ‘ house arrest ‘. It didn’t help that before they left, Louis left a manifesto denouncing democracy and asserting his authority as king by birthright. Many of his subjects felt torn and confused, though remained loyal ... until this incident in which the revolution was known to be imminent. 
All in all, the call to arms fell on inactive deaf ears amid among other foreign monarchs, making the response woefully lackluster and this ultimately sealed the fate of the French aristocracy. On August 10th 1791, the people once again stormed the palace Louis and his family resided in forcing them all to take refuge with the Legislative Assembly. 
Louis was officially arrested on August 13th 1792. 
September 21st 1792 - the former Third Estate’s new government body the ‘ National Assembly ‘ announced France a republic and abolished the monarchy altogether. All of Louis - Auguste’s titles were taken and he was referred to as Citoyen Louis Capet. While many members wanted the gratification of executing the former king --- the fact some had backgrounds in legal work felt due process a necessity. An agreement was reached that there would be a trial for Louis before the National Convention. 
Several charges were brought against Louis while he was being tried, though there were only three questions that mattered to the assembly: 
1| Is Louis guilty ?  
2| Whatever the decision, should there be an appeal to the people ?  
3 | If found guilty: what punishment should Louis suffer?
On the 26th of December 1792, Louis responded tot he charges: Not Guilty. At this time, behind closed doors - he had already accepted his fate & knew that he would be found guilty. He was reported as wanting to hold his ground so that he might still be viewed favorably and as a good king to France. 
Voting took place & after an uncomfortably close call - Louis was sentenced to death by the majority of one vote: his own cousin, the former Duc d’Orleans, voted to have his cousin executed immediately. After an unsuccessful attempt at swaying the decision - the King’s council was resigned ( read as: ‘ forced ‘ ) to allow the execution to proceed. 
On Monday, January 21, 1793 --- The ( Former ) Sun King was executed by Guillotine at age 38. This happened on the Place de la Révolution. By most reputable accounts, Louis faced his death with resignation and dignity. He gave a small speech before hand and was stopped before he could complete it with a drum roll that signaled the Guillotine was ready. 
After the execution, his body was taken to Madeleine Cemetery where he was given a small secret funeral service and then buried in an unmarked grave, head between his feet and covered in quicklime. 
The cemetery closed in 1794. 21 years later, Louis XVIII had his brother and sister in law exhumed and reinterred in the Basilica of St. Denis. From 1816 - 1826 a monument honoring the King and Queen was erected in the same area the former cemetery and church occupied. It was named the ‘ Chapelle Expiatoire ‘. 
6 notes · View notes
Text
Observations on the Hierarchy Of the Guard of Priwen
The Guard of Priwen largely remains a mystery to us as the player throughout Vampyr. No matter how openly we see them patrol the streets as some form of underground night watch, we only see glimpses of their true, and supposedly resurrected power, let alone witness the history of what they were before the schism from their “cowardly” brothers, the Brotherhood of St. Paul’s Stole. As Lady Ashbury parts with us, the Guard of Priwen is a secret society, one of many in the dreary and eerie vampire underworld.
I have other plans to delve deeper into the militaristic madness that is the Guard of Priwen’s inner workings and possible historical backgrounds, but I first wanted to share this small piece regarding the one detail that is most obvious in the game: the several Mobs we encounter with their logos splattered all across it. Therefore, this will be a shorter analysis solely dedicated to the possible hierarchy within Priwen, combining datamined research, the lore, and some fun historical notes behind each and every rank!
As per usual, this analysis will have spoilers, this time all the way through! All parts of this post will discuss Vampyr’s lore in detail, so please skip if you do not wish to be spoiled! 
Tagging @comfycheesecakes, @orionali, @cursedbethechoice as I imagine some of this may be to each of your interests. 
To preface a starting point point: Usher elaborates on the history of Priwen’s conception when Jonathan speaks to him in the West End inside his crypt: 
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Usher also writes of them in the Collectible “Laughing at the Guard”, explaining their origins and beliefs from a historical point. The Collectible helps to detail the inner turmoils that founded the Brotherhood as well as the detailed purpose behind its creation:
Full screenshot
Tumblr media
Full screenshot
Tumblr media
This gives us a starting point to Priwen’s possible background and development. 1801 places the birth of the Guard of Priwen in the Georgian Era, beginning from 1714 to circa 1830 - 1837. 
You will also see a militant trend following Priwen which is also an obvious fact in game but characters like Archer Woodbead in The Docks or Dorothy Crane in Whitechapel, both in Districts with the highest concentration of Priwen, this is a very visible trend for those around them: 
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Dorothy’s exchange occurs if you Spare her as Jonathan, revealing a harrowing fact about Priwen’s encroaching behaviour in their fanatical fear of keeping any sign of vampire activity eradicated. Beforehand, Priwen guards burst in to the Dispensary regardless of your Pillar Choice as Jonathan, with the patients downstairs being shot to death should you check again with Senses. The bodies no longer have visible heartbeats.
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
When Jonathan begins to gain access to the rich streets of the West End, it, too, struggles to avoid Priwen’s influence with not only their guard presence, but also their criminal presence! 
Inspector Charles Jerome Albright will speak to Jonathan about the recent happenings and murders in London, claiming that there are:
Tumblr media
Jonathan has the option to then report a possible suspect, one of these being Geoffrey McCullum, the current leader of Priwen:
Tumblr media
If you choose McCullum, Jonathan calls Priwen a group of “vigilantes”; a vigilante is someone, or a group, who attempts to enforce laws (or their ideas of what is law) without the authority to do so.
Tumblr media Tumblr media
With this very worrying trend now established, let us fully move onto dissecting Priwen’s inner workings!
GUARD OF PRIWEN
What’s interesting to note is that a lot of the current enemies in GoP have different names depending on where you look—from either the canonical versions in the game themselves, to the game files, or even the concept art. I will be looking at all three sources for any comparisons!
PRIWEN
To begin dissection—I will first begin with the titular names of each organisation for each of their respective sections, beginning with the Guard of Priwen. “Priwen” is a reference to Geoffrey of Monmouth’s (Latin: Galfridus Monemutensis, Galfridus Arturus, Welsh: Gruffudd ap Arthur, Sieffre o Fynwy)  Arthurian legend titled “The History of the Kings of Britain”, or “De gestis Britonum” (On the Deeds of the Britons) or Historia regum Britanniae”, written circa. 1136.“Priwen” is the name of King Arthur’s shield, hence, the Guard of Priwen:
“Without a moment’s delay each man present, inspired by the benediction given by this holy man, rushed to put on his armour and to obey Dubricius’ orders. Arthur himself put on a leather jerkin worthy of so great a king. On his head he put a golden helmet, with a crest carved in the shape of a dragon; and across his shoulders a circular shield called Priwen, on which there was painted a likeness of the Blessed Mary, Mother of God, which forced him to be thinking perpetually of her.” — Legends of Arthur, Richard Barber, 2003.
Arthurian myth utilized in several aspects of Vampyr, with this being one of the more prominent examples. The symbol of Priwen is also referencing this myth, as it resembles a Latin cross with a circle to represent a shield:
Tumblr media
LEADER
This is relatively standard, but we do know that the head of the Guard of Priwen is always referred to as “leader”, as the notes done by Geoffrey McCullum and Carl Eldritch thus far are denoted by “leader”; the only exception is reserved for Kendall Stone who is also denoted as “Founder”. “Leader” is rather self-explanatory, as it simply means “someone who leads a group”. Interestingly, it also seems to be used for those who are not the head of Priwen either, as we see in the scouting note during Thelma’s side-quest: a female “team leader” who went by Amanda Tilton. This seems to indicate there is no specific or official title to discern the head of Priwen, perchance making “leader” more of slang or casual terminology that merely stuck through the generations. The below are either written manuscripts by the leaders themselves, or copies from another. 
Full screenshot
Tumblr media
Kendall Stone’s denotation and signature:
Full screenshot
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Carl Eldritch’s denotation and signature:
Full screenshot
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Geoffrey McCullum’s denotation and signature:
Full screenshot 
Tumblr media Tumblr media
CHAPLAIN/SHEPHERD/PREACHER
(For the purpose of relevancy, I will mostly be focusing on the Chaplain terminology as that is the canonical one we see in-game, but will still be examining the Chaplain’s alternative terms and their origins.)
Chaplains are curious. You do not see them until much later in the game (other than certain exceptions regarding side-quests), there are two versions of them according to the game files, that being the Shepherd_Preacher and the Shepherd_Fanatic, but only one model, the Fanatic, remains in the game. Shepherd_Preacher is the first version of the Chaplain which we see in the E3 2017 Trailer. Their enemy busts are below; the model shown in the game files is only of the Fanatic:
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Concept art also reveals them being originally labelled as “Preacher”, with a single exception being that sometimes, the loading screen within the game will use the title:
Tumblr media
 Florent Auguy
Tumblr media
The word “chaplain” is borrowed from Old French “chapelain”, which in-turn stems from the Medieval-to-late Latin “cappellānus” that also hails from a Medieval Latin to Late Latin word read as “cappella”. Notably, “cappella”  is defined as a chapel or a choir. The story of chaplains themselves hail from a 4th-century practice:
In the 4th century, chaplains (Latin cappellani) were so called because they kept St. Martin’s famous half cape (cappella, diminutive of cappa). This sacred relic gave its name to the tent and later to the simple oratory or chapel where it was preserved. To it were added other relics that were guarded by chaplains appointed by the king during the Merovingian and Carolingian periods, and particularly during the reign of Charlemagne, who appointed clerical ministers (capellani) who lived within the royal palace. In addition to their primary duty of guarding the sacred relics, they also said mass for the king on feast days, worked in conjunction with the royal notaries, and wrote any documents the king required of them. In their duties chaplains thus gradually became more identified with direct service to the monarch as advisers in both ecclesiastical and secular matters.
In modern usage, a chaplain holds a strange position within the religious circle they reside in, most notably because the definition of a “chaplain” is a cleric who is assigned to a secular institution such as a hospital, prison, military forces, universities, and so on. 
n. A member of a religious body (often, but not always, of the clergy) officially assigned to give pastoral care at an institution, group, private chapel, etc. A person without religious affiliation who carries out similar duties in a secular context.
Clergy and ministers appointed to a variety of institutions and corporate bodies—such as cemeteries, prisons, hospitals, schools, colleges, universities, embassies, legations, and armed forces—usually are called chaplains.
Often they are considered a religious leader or some form of a figurehead, with some chaplains previously being leaders of a chapel before their assignment to a different institution. Given Priwen’s circumstance of being an underground militia, the usage of the word makes perfect sense as the Chaplains of Priwen seem to hold the same responsibilities of real-life, in this case, military chaplains (as they are called) who serve in the armed forces (the concept of allowing religious figures into battle, to this day, still holds much controversy), or we can at least assume they do some of the following which are: 
A chaplain performs basically the same functions in most armed forces. A chaplain in the U.S. military must furnish or arrange for religious services and ministrations, advise his commander and fellow staff officers on matters pertaining to religion and morality, administer a comprehensive program of religious education, serve as counselor and friend to the personnel of the command, and conduct instruction classes in the moral guidance program of his service.
Beyond that, a “shepherd” has a variety of religious messages but to keep it short: “shepherd” stems from the Middle English word “schepherde” to the Old English “sċēaphierde” which is a mixture of the two words “sċēap” (”sheep”) and “hierde” (”herdsman”). A female version of the word is a “shepherdess”. The word itself has multiple sorts of definitions, with a rather funny one to think about at times:
n. A person who tends sheep, especially a grazing flock. (figuratively) Someone who watches over, looks after, or guides somebody. (figuratively) The pastor of a church; one who guides others in religion. (poetic) A swain (”young man”); a rustic male lover.
A “preacher” is as it sounds: someone who spreads their worldview or philosophy. In this case, it would be perhaps a gospel or a sermon. From the Old French “preecheor” (”prêcheur”), to Latin “praedicator” (”public praiser”, “proclaimer”). A female preacher is known as a “preacheress”.
EXECUTIONER/TRAPPER
Executioners, or Trappers as the concept art referred them as (see above), are the crossbow snipers wearing red, hooded garbs, able to throw gas grenades and flaming bolts, bereft of any melee resistance whatsoever. According to the game files, there are three types of Executioners. Here are the files:
Tumblr media
Alongside their respective busts labelled Chemical, Fire, and Wood, their models are instead labelled CrossBow, FireCrossbow, and Sniper:
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
The word “executioner” is a combination of the words “execution” , which is borrowed from Old French “exécution”  (c. 1360) of the Latin “executio”, an agent noun (a word deriving from another word that denotes an action of some sort), of “exequi” (”to follow out”) which stems from “ex” (out) and “sequor” (”follow”) and of course, “-er”, from Middle English “-er” and “-ere”, as well as Old English “-ere”, and Proto-Germanic “-ārijaz” used as a suffix. “Executioner” is also a fairly self-explanatory definition; it literally means “one who executes”, but to ensure that we are being thorough:
n An official person who carries out the capital punishment of a criminal. (archaic) Executor (one who conducts a task). A hit man, especially being in some organization.
An “executioner” was historically seen as a “hangman” or “headsman”—a reference to the practice of execution via. means of public decapitation. This, alongside the file name of “Sniper”; the fact that the Executioner is only ranged, defined as “hit man, especially being in some organization” and that beheading would often result in instantaneous death, the choice of title is very distinct. Like beheadings, a sniper aims to kill with a single action—an underleveled Jonathan will easily be one-shot by an Executioner from afar, making their name strikingly fitting. The fact that they are a part of Priwen, an “organization” of sorts that specializes in executions of the undead, is simply a fond, bloody coincidence. 
In comparison, a “trapper” is, well, one who “traps” something, often animals for their hides or other precious materials. This may be an insinuation that literal traps of some kind were going to be added to the final product but were inevitably cut out. It does, however, fit Priwen’s perception of vampires—that they are feral animals to entrap and be rid of.
INVESTIGATOR
This will be short, as it is a term used in the game files and concept art for three ranks od Priwen, which happen to be the most squishy of mobs: Priwen Rookies (Rookie), Priwen Cadets (Veteran), and Priwen Gunners (Range).
Tumblr media
“Investigator” is also self-explanatory: “one who investigates”, which is to say: 
v. (transitive) To inquire into or study in order to ascertain facts or information.      to investigate the causes of natural phenomena (transitive) To examine, look into, or scrutinize in order to discover something hidden or secret.      to investigate an unsolved murder (intransitive) To conduct an inquiry or examination. 
Said to have derived from the mid-1500s, from Latin “investigator” which hails from “investigare”. Interestingly, we know that female versions of each of these models exist in the game files apart from NPCs, confirmation of a female “leader” as shown above, as well as hearing female voices in the Prologue of Vampyr when Jonathan must escape the mass grave at dawn. Women were shown in the Alpha iterations of the game. Elwood confirms the presence of women in Priwen if you speak to him soon after Edgar’s kidnapping:
Tumblr media
The feminine usage of this word is known as “investigatrix”, from Latin “investīgātrix”.
ROOKIE
Rookies are the most numerous types of enemies within the game as well as the first one you encounter within the Prologue. They only use melee weapons and hold resistance to Ranged Attacks. The sheer amount of them you find are most likely a reference to the Guard’s revitalized state in the wake of the Skal Epidemic. Ashbury mentions that Priwen was “almost gone” before Priwen began its new wave of mass recruitments: 
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Jonathan will frequently hear references to this mass recruitment when wandering around idle Guards:
Tumblr media
“Rookie” is also a rather simple word to dissect: an altering of the word “recruit” and “-ie”. There is also a possibly Dutch origin from the word “broekie”, short for “broekvent”, lit. meaning “a boy still in short trousers”, which explains why “rookie” is often used as a sort teasing term. To be technical:
n. plural “rookies”
An inexperienced recruit, especially in the police or armed forces. A novice.
As the first definition shows, it does have some bearing to Priwen’s overall trend of having a nomenclature relating to militaristic forces.
The Rookie’s respective enemy UI portrait and model:
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
CADETS/VETERANS
Cadets, or Veterans as the game files name them, are essentially Rookies with guns or flaming torches, only being somewhat tougher than fresh-blooded Rookies. This can be inferred as a progression in rank—a Rookie that’s survived their first couple of nights on patrol. They certainly look more well-garbed, and the term “veteran” also fits with this idea of experience alongside surviving the dreary, vampiric-ridden streets.
The Cadet’s enemy UI and model:
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
An interesting feature to note at this point about each of Priwen’s enemies is that the majority of them seem to have an undercut. At the time (and even now), undercuts were done on men deployed to the war as the militaristic style of the era—Jonathan and McCullum share ones of their own. This hints to Priwen’s military connections that many NPCs remark on (as shown above) and that some of Priwen’s members do hail from military backgrounds which are demonstrated in their extreme firepower and access to various parts of the city.
“Cadet” stems from French “cadet” from a southwestern French known as Gascon Occitan “capdet”, further back into the Late Latin “capitellum” (”headling”) shortened version of “caput” (”head”), sharing English form by 1634. “Cadet”, unsurprisingly, is also a term with military usage. The female version would be spelt “cadette”. It also holds a definition for “junior”:   
n. plural cadets
A student at a military school who is training to be an officer. (largely historical) A younger or youngest son, who would not inherit as a firstborn son would. (in compounds, chiefly in genealogy) Junior. (See also the heraldic term cadency.)      a cadet branch of the family
“Veteran” is borrowed from Middle French “vétéran”, of Late or Vulgar Latin “veterānus” of the word “vetus” (”old” or “aged”). It is a rather official word referencing one who has served in the military or armed forces, most specific to older soldiers or those who have seen long years of service. While the age of Priwen’s Guards can certainly be up for debate—Cadets, while relatively squishy, seem to be what Rookies advance to should they survive their first nights at the mercy of patrols, facing whatever awaits them during it.
GUNNER
Gunners are another frequent, early mob of Priwen that you encounter. They are about as numerous as Rookies and equal in their frailty, only they seem to be Rookies with more additions to their design and opt to only use Ranged Attacks, much like their fellow Executioners. The portrait shows no difference as it is a reused UI bust, but their outfits differ slightly.
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
“Gunner” sounds straightforward but does hold a military usage. One can literally define “gunner” as “someone who uses a gun”, but the word itself is a rank used in the British Army Royal Artillery. It is abbreviated as “Gnr”, and is equivalent to the military rank of a “Private”, which makes sense. They hold similar stats to Rookies, Rookies are stated to essentially be new recruits—privates usually act as the lowest, entry-level rank in the military after training has completed, which means that Gunners, too, are on par with Rookies in terms of Priwen’s hierarchy. 
BRAWLER/ENFORCER
Brawlers are quite the mixed bag of things. There are three different variations of them in the game files, are seen relatively early in the game, and serve as the brutish powerhouses Jonathan has to face when running into more of Priwen’s hordes. We seem them with heavy guns, a shield on their left arm, gas, and flames. A wide assortment of anti-vampire materials is cast onto a single kind of member, which proves interesting.  In the game files, they are known as Enforcers with three names: Flamer, Ram, and Shield (”Tank” seems to be used generally amongst all of them for clothing files).
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
“Brawlers” is defined as “one who brawls”, which is to say: “fight or quarrel”—of Middle English “braule” and “brall” (”brawl, squabble”) of earlier “braulen” and “brallen” (”to clamour, boast, quarrel”). Similar words from Middle High German (”prālen”; “to boast, flaunt”)), Low German (”brallen”; “to brag”), Dutch (”brallen”; “to boast”), and Danish (”bralle”; “chatter, jabber”) have also been considered, whose meanings make sense. Priwen’s guards hold no shortage of leech-related insults, but the Brawlers have quite the large assortment of them out of every other Guard member. A show of their imposing sizes and statures, I would wager. However, their large array of weapons, brute force, and usage of miniature bosses imply that Brawlers are quite high on the ranking list. Chaplains are the only thing larger than them, and it has been established that Chaplains are sort of seen as pious, leading figures. Consider this when taking a look at the game files term for Brawlers: Enforcers.
“Enforcers” is a combination of “enforce” and “-er”, with “enforce” coming from Old French “enforcier”, of the Late Latin “infortiāre”, from “in-” and “fortis” ((physically)“strong”)). I emphasize this word for the Brawler for one definition in particular: 
n.
One who enforces. The member of a group, especially of a gang, charged with keeping dissident members obedient.
Ram is also a reference to a battering ram (and the ability in which they charge at you) used in the British Police Forces. The second definition is specific to a Mob Enforcer. Priwen has access to multiple parts of London, with heavy access to firepower, large numbers, and seemingly free reign once night comes, kept entirely away from law enforcement. This is what discerns Priwen from a gang per say—their power and influence put them upwards to that of a Mob, or a “traditional gang” which is essentially a gang with overarching influence upon a region, to the point that they nearly act as the local law enforcement. Multiple mobs/traditional gangs existed, some of notable fame, throughout the Victorian Era well into the World Wars, many of which centred in the East End much like Priwen is: Peaky Blinders, Birmingham Boys, the “Sabini” gang, Hoxton Gang, The Yiddishers, and several others. 
Brawlers essentially being Mob Enforcers must mean they hold a lot of trust within Priwen to both be given the position of watching the other men, as well as proving they can also follow through with said position. 
With all of what we know of Priwen now defined, here is a chart of what I believe to be the hierarchical structure within the Guard of Priwen from what we have gathered:
Full image
Tumblr media
As Ashbury says: like all good societies, Priwen is still very much a secretive one even with such open recruitment. There may be inner workings we are unaware of, and what we have been revealed to may only be scratching the surface of what truly hides within the esoteric, fanatic-hunting organised Mob that Priwen has built itself into. Worse more is the mystery behind their schism with the Brotherhood: a once united group, now a duality that remains incessantly at odds. The way the current Brotherhood organises themselves is much more esoteric and theological than that of militaristic Priwen, a further representation of their dichotomy being at odds.
CREDITS:
None of this data collection would have been possible without the informative help of @wolfsirius and @orionali. Of course, I will never write a post without thanking @cursedbethechoice for their initial, contributive works to the lore of this fandom and for continuing to inspire me throughout. 
The tool I used to view these files was from Gildor’s Umodel Viewer.  
EXTRA COMMENTS:
This essay is exactly 3,724 words long!
It’s been quite a long while since I’ve written anything despite being active on the blog. Nearly a year now! I’m hoping this small introduction allows me to ease my way back to the projects I wanted to share (which are a lot) both here in full, and show peeks of on Twitter! Thank you to those who have continued to follow this blog despite the time gap. I hope to be much more frequent with Lore posts here!
You may notice a tag at the bottom labeled “secret societies series”. That is because I intend to have a small series of analyses dedicated to the three major factions we witness in Vampyr: The Guard of Priwen, The Brotherhood of St. Paul’s Stole, and The Ascalon Club. This will be the catch-all tag for any analyses relating to those topics!  …With a possible mention of the Druid Order (mentioned in the “Blood Goddess Heresy” Collectible). 
Other “series” are still in the works!
Full screenshot
Tumblr media
Full screenshot
Tumblr media
ALL SOURCES/BIBLIOGRAPHY (in no particular order):
Legends of Arthur, Richard Barber, 2003 “GANGS”, Bill Sanders, February 2016 — Oxford University Press Chaplain, ENCYCLOPÆDIA BRITANNICA Oxford English Dictionary Merriam-Webster’s Online Dictionary Wiktionary Online Etymology Dictionary The British Army Website’s British Army Structure London Metropolitan Police’s Article of the Enforcer Wikivisually’s Article on the Enforcer (battering ram) Etymology of “Chaplain” – Traditional & Professional, Rev. Dr. Michael G. Maness, 1998, revised 2015, formerly published as “Meaning of Chaplaincy” The etymology of “rookie” in Wikitionary The etymology of “chaplain” in Wikitionary The etymology of “brawl” in Wikitionary The etymology of “enforce” in Wikitionary Online Etymology’s Dictionary’s Page on “enforce” The Mob Museum in Las Vegas—National Museum of Organized Crime & Law Enforcement Online Etymology’s Dictionary’s Page on “veteran” Online Etymology’s Dictionary’s Page on “shepherd” Online Etymology’s Dictionary’s Page on “preacher” The etymology of “shepherd” in Wikitionary. “investigate” in The Century Dictionary, The Century Co., New York, 1911 “investigate” in Webster’s Revised Unabridged Dictionary, G. & C. Merriam, 1913 King Arthur: The Mystery Unravelled By Chris Barber Journey to Avalon: The Final Discovery of King Arthur By Chris Barber, David Pykitt The Welsh Academy Encyclopædia of Wales. John Davies, Nigel Jenkins, Menna Baines and Peredur Lynch (2008) pg. 668
75 notes · View notes
milkcartonbastard · 6 years ago
Text
No Choice
Fandom- My Babysitter's a Vampire (Benny X Vamp!Reader)
Warnings- Violence, attempted murder, blood sucking, and I describe a healing wound.
Notes- Requested by anon on Tumblr- "Benny x vampire!reader where they need reassurance on their morale."
   It just popped up and I think my inbox might be messed up, because it's under submissions I got a few weeks back. If you've sent something in since two weeks ago, please re-send it because nothing is popping up and I know I had a few requests. Sorry for the wait.
~~~
   Fresh tears rolled down your winter-bitten cheeks. You were sitting in a cemetery near the old park of Whitechapel. The moon was shining bright, casting light onto the frosty grass. You were currently having a small break-down, sitting next to a dead body and crying your eyes out. The guy had come out of nowhere and started talking to you. He had seemed nice, but that had been thrown out of the window when you realized he was trying to kill you.
   He was a vampire hunter and had brandished a machete, of all things, and began to swing it at you. You had dodged it narrowly, but he hadn't quit coming after you. You didn't want to hurt him, hadn't wanted to use your strength against a human. Maybe that was irrational to think of since he was trying to kill you.
   When you tried to fly away, he had swung his weapon at you, which caused it to hit your leg and split it wide open. You dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes and screamed out. It was only when he'd pulled a wooden stake out of his pocket that you had gotten angry and fought back. You snapped his neck with one swift motion and he hit the ground. He had a hunter's symbol on the inside of his forearm and you'd freaked out. Killing him would bring more to Whitechapel and endanger your friends. After all, you weren't the only vampire in town.
   You could feel your leg getting colder, meaning it wasn't going to heal without eating. You whimpered and another sob sounded out of your lips. If you just reached over and grabbed the hunter's arm, then you could drink from his wrist and heal. But you could feel yourself curling away from the body. You'd killed a human and it felt like shit. Sure, he had been trying to kill you, but maybe if you'd just knocked him out it would have been fine. You didn't want to drink from him. 
   "Hey, are you okay? What happened here?" A voice asked. Your eyes widened and you looked over your shoulder. It was Ethan standing near you with Benny walking behind him. Ethan's eyes widened when he noticed it was you. They fell to the body next to you and then back to your tear-streaked face. "Benny! It's Y/n!"
   If Benny hadn't been hurrying before, he was now. He was by your side in seconds, his hands on your shoulders. Ethan was looking at the body on the ground beside you again. "Are you alright? What's wrong?"
   A sob escaped your mouth and he started looking you over. He stopped when he saw your tattered jean and the big cut poking out of the fabric. Blood was running out of it, not slowing down. Benny's cotton candy eyes widened dramatically and you sobbed again. Hot tears were running down your freezing face, falling from your red and puffy eyes. You were sure you looked like a mess, but couldn't bring yourself to stop the water-works. 
   "You need something to eat, you aren't healing. Y/n, what happened?" Benny asked softly, grabbing your bloody hand with his clean ones. You tried to stop crying- taking in shaky breaths and trying to stop your heaving chest. 
   "He's a huh-hunter. He att-attacked me and I kuh-kuh-killed him." You managed to get the words out through your suppressed sobs. Benny ran his hand up and down your arm. 
   "That's alright, that's fine. Were there anymore, Y/n?" Benny was talking to you gently, trying to make sure you didn't start crying again. You shook your head.. Ethan was crouched down and looking at the hunter. His fingers barely brushed the dead-man's skin when he was gasping and his eyes widening. He was Seeing something.
   Benny and you held your breath and watched him. He came out of the Vision abruptly, gasping softly and letting his hand drop away from the man's arm.
   "He was sent here by a Hit-man. I didn't see anyone's face. Just a contract with a few names on it. Sarah, Erica, and Y/n. Rory wasn't on there- neither was Jesse." Ethan elaborated. You felt a hiccup push past your lips and tears well back into your eyes. Benny pulled you into his arms. They were wiry and had no muscle whatsoever, but they felt safe.
   "It's not your fault, Y/n. You didn't have a choice. He was going to kill you. You didn't have a choice and nobody is blaming you. You're going to be alright, okay?" Benny whispered in your ear and placed a soft kiss above it. You closed your eyes and the tears stopped. You didn't even know vampires could cry. Benny released you and rocked back on his feet. He held onto your shoulders as he looked into your eyes. "But you have to drink something, okay?"
   "No, I'm not going to drink from him. I messed up and I don't de-"
   "Y/n, you didn't have a choice. I know you wouldn't have killed him if you didn't have to and you are not a bad person for saving yourself. Please, just drink a little. You aren't healing." This was one of the rare times Benny was serious and not trying to make a joke out of anything. Sure, that was how he dealt with things, but he was trying to comfort you.
   "I could have knocked him out! I didn't have-"
   "Then he would have just come back for you. Or Sarah or Erica. You saved all three of you girls, not just yourself. Y/n, please just drink a little of him. You can't stand on this leg if you don't heal." Benny picked up the hunter's arm and held it out to you. He looked a little grossed out, but he meant well. 
   You were quiet as you looked at the man's arm. It was his left, the one with a tattoo in the bend of his elbow. It was something in Latin, but you were sure Ethan or Benny could read it. Nerds.
   Benny's pretty eyes pleaded to you. You finally took the arm from him and sunk your teeth in. The blood ran into your mouth and you let it drain down. The freezing wound on your leg heated up slowly and you watched the long wound start to close, like someone was zipping up a jacket in slow motion. When it was fully closed you tossed to arm away, wishing the ground would opened up and eat the dead body beside you. It didn't, but Benny did help you stand up. He hugged you tightly and pressed another kiss to your head, something you didn't think he realized he was doing.
   "Now, we just have to get rid of the body. At least vampires have the decency to explode and disappear." Ethan said. You laughed a little and Benny squeezed your hand. 
89 notes · View notes
papapiusxiii · 6 years ago
Text
50 Great Thrillers by Women, as recommended by 10 of the UK’s female crime writers
Sophie Hannah:
Summertime by Liz Rigbey. Follows a woman who loses her baby and whose father unexpectedly drowns. When her husband and sister close ranks against her, she begins to suspect they are lying to her.
The Spider’s House by Sarah Diamond. Also published as In the Spider’s House. When Anna Howell discovers that a 1960s child murderess was the previous resident of her old cottage, her marriage, sanity and life come under threat.
Hidden by Katy Gardner. When a young mother’s seven-year-old daughter disappears, she finds herself questioning everything in her life. Then a police officer starts asking about the murder of a woman 14 months earlier …
A Shred of Evidence by Jill McGown. DI Judy Hill and DCI Lloyd investigate the murder of a 15-year-old girl on a patch of open parkland in the centre of town.
Searching for Shona by Margaret Jean Anderson
The wealthy Marjorie Malcolm-Scott trades suitcases, destinations and identities with orphan Shona McInnes, as children are evacuated from Edinburgh at the start of the second world war.
Val McDermid:
The Franchise Affair by Josephine Tey. A teenage war orphan accuses two women of kidnap and abuse, but something about her story doesn’t add up.
Rubbernecker by Belinda Bauer. The Booker-longlisted author of Snap follows it up with the tale of a medical student with Asperger’s who attempts to solve a murder.
The Field of Blood by Denise Mina. The first in the Paddy Meehan series sees the reporter looking into the disappearance of a child from his Glasgow home, with evidence pointing the police towards two young boys.
A Fatal Inversion by Barbara Vine. Writing under her pen name, Ruth Rendell tells of the discovery of a woman and child in the animal cemetery at Wyvis Hall, 10 years after a group of young people spent the summer there.
When Will There Be Good News? by Kate Atkinson. In the third Jackson Brodie book, a man is released from prison 30 years after he butchered the mother and siblings of a six-year-old girl in the Devon countryside.
Ann Cleeves:
Little Deaths by Emma Flint. Inspired by the real case of Alice Crimmins, this tells of a woman whose two children go missing from her apartment in Queens.
The Dry by Jane Harper. During Australia’s worst drought in a century, three members of one family in a small country town are murdered, with the father believed to have killed his wife and son before committing suicide.
Devices and Desires by PD James. Adam Dalgliesh takes on a serial killer terrorising a remote Norfolk community.
The End of the Wasp Season by Denise Mina. Heavily pregnant DS Alex Morrow investigates the violent death of a wealthy woman in Glasgow.
Fire Sale by Sara Paretsky. The inimitable VI Warshawski takes over coaching duties of the girls’ basketball team at her former high school, and investigates the explosion of the flag manufacturing plant where one of the girl’s mothers works.
Sharon Bolton:
Gone by Mo Hayder. In Hayder’s fifth thriller featuring Bristol DI Jack Caffrey, he goes after a car-jacker who is taking vehicles with children in them.
Gentlemen and Players by Joanne Harris. A murderous revenge is being plotted against the boys’ grammar school in the north of England where eccentric Latin master Roy Straitley is contemplating retirement.
The Shining Girls by Lauren Beukes. A time-travelling, murderous war veteran steps through the decades to murder extraordinary women – his “shining girls” – in Chicago, in this high-concept thriller.
The Wicked Girls by Alex Marwood. Two women who were sentenced for murdering a six-year-old when they were children meet again as adults, when one discovers the body of a teenager.
Apple Tree Yard by Louise Doughty. Married scientist Yvonne, who is drawn into a passionate affair with a stranger, is on trial for murder.
Sarah Ward:
A Place of Execution by Val McDermid. Journalist Catherine Heathcote investigates the disappearance of a 13-year-old girl in the Peak District village of Scarsdale in 1963.
The Crossing Places by Elly Griffiths. Forensic archaeologist Dr Ruth Galloway investigates the discovery of a child’s bones near the site of a prehistoric henge on the north Norfolk salt marshes.
The Ice House by Minette Walters. A decade after Phoebe Maybury’s husband inexplicably vanished, a corpse is found and the police become determined to charge her with murder.
The Liar’s Girl by Catherine Ryan Howard. When a body is found in Dublin’s Grand Canal, police turn to the notorious Canal Killer for help. But the imprisoned murderer will only talk to the woman he was dating when he committed his crimes.
This Night’s Foul Work by Fred Vargas (translated by Sian Reynolds). Commissaire Adamsberg investigates whether there is a connection between the escape of a murderous 75-year-old nurse from prison, and the discovery of two men with their throats cut on the outskirts of Paris.
Elly Griffiths: 
R in the Month by Nancy Spain. Sadly out of print, this is an atmospheric story set in a down-at-heel hotel in a postwar seaside town. The period detail is perfect and jokes and murders abound. This is the fourth book featuring the fantastic Miriam Birdseye, actress and rather slapdash sleuth.
The Daughter of Time by Josephine Tey. A gripping crime novel in which the detective never gets out of bed and the murder happened over 500 years ago. Griffith says: “I read this book as a child and was hooked – on Tey, crime fiction and Richard the Third.”
The Detective’s Daughter by Lesley Thomson. Cleaner Stella Darnell finds herself tidying up her detective father’s final, unfinished case, after he dies. It is the first in a series featuring Stella and her sidekick Jack, an underground train driver who can sense murder.
A Place of Execution by Val McDermid. Griffiths says: “I could have chosen any of Val’s novels, but this book, about a journalist revisiting a shocking 1960s murder, is probably my favourite because of its wonderful sense of time and place. It’s also pitch perfect about journalism, police investigation and life in a small community.”
He Said, She Said by Erin Kelly. An account of a rape trial at which nothing is quite as it seems. Griffiths says: “The story centres around a lunar eclipse, which also works wonderfully as a metaphor and image.”
Dreda Say Mitchell: 
Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn. The Gone Girl author’s debut follows journalist Camille’s investigation into the abduction and murder of two girls in her Missouri home town.
Dangerous Lady by Martina Cole. Cole’s first novel sees 17-year-old Maura Ryan taking on the men of London’s gangland.
The Mermaids Singing by Val McDermid. Clinical psychologist Dr Tony Hill is asked to profile a serial killer when four men are found mutilated and tortured.
Indemnity Only by Sara Paretsky. A client tells VI Warshawski he is a prominent banker looking for his son’s missing girlfriend. But VI soon discovers he’s lying, and that the real banker’s son is dead.
The St Cyr series by CS Harris. Mitchell has nominated the whole of this historical mystery series about Sebastian St Cyr, Viscount Devlin – master of disguises, heir to an earldom, and disillusioned army officer. It’s a bit of a cheat but we’ll let her have it.
Erin Kelly:
No Night Is Too Long by Barbara Vine. Tim Cornish thinks he has gotten away with killing his lover in Alaska. But then the letters start to arrive …
Broken Harbour by Tana French. The fourth in French’s sublime Dublin Murder Squad series, this takes place in a ghost estate outside Dublin, where a father and his two children have been found dead, with the mother on her way to intensive care.
Chosen by Lesley Glaister. When Dodie’s mother hangs herself, she has to leave her baby at home and go to bring her brother Jake back from the mysterious Soul Life Centre in New York.
A Savage Hunger by Claire McGowan. Forensic psychologist Paula Maguire investigates the disappearance of a girl, and a holy relic, from a remote religious shrine in the fictional Irish town of Ballyterrin.
The Cry by Helen Fitzgerald. Parents Joanna and Alistair start to turn against each other after their baby goes missing from a remote roadside in Australia.
Sarah Hilary:
The Hours Before Dawn by Celia Fremlin. A sleep-deprived young mother tries to stay sane while her fears grow about the family’s new lodger, in this 1950s lost classic.
Cruel Acts by Jane Casey. Leo Stone, sentenced to life in prison for the murder of two women, is now free and claims he is innocent. DS Maeve Kerrigan and DI Josh Derwen want to put him back in jail, but Maeve begins doubting his guilt – until another woman disappears.
Sex Crimes by Jenefer Shute. A lawyer’s New Year’s Eve pick-up spirals into an erotic obsession which leads to graphic cruelty.
Skin Deep by Liz Nugent. Nugent, whom Ian Rankin has compared to Patricia Highsmith, tells the story of a woman who has been passing herself off as an English socialite on the Riviera for 25 years – until the arrival of someone who knows her from her former life prompts an act of violence.
Cuckoo by Julia Crouch. Rose’s home and family start to fall apart when her best friend Polly comes to stay.
Louise Candlish:
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie. Christie’s classic – with a legendary twist. The best Hercule Poirot?
The Two Faces of January by Patricia Highsmith. A conman on the run with his wife meets a young American who becomes drawn into the crime they commit.
Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood. The author of The Handmaid’s Tale imagines the life of the real 19th-century Canadian killer Grace Marks.
Little Face by Sophie Hannah. Hannah’s thriller debut is about a young mother who becomes convinced that, after spending two hours away from her baby, the infant is not hers.
Alys, Always by Harriet Lane. Newspaper subeditor Frances is drawn into the lives of the Kyte family when she hears the last words of the victim of a car crash, Alys Kyte.
8 notes · View notes
anastpaul · 7 years ago
Video
youtube
Today, 28 July 2018 , is the First Feast Day of Blessed Stanley Francis Rother (1935-1981) Martyr, Priest, Missionary.   Blessed Stanley was born on 27 March 1935 in Okarche, Oklahoma.   He was martyred by gunshot at approximately 2am on 28 July 1981 in his rectory in Santiago Atitlán, Sololá, Guatemala.
Tumblr media
Stanley Francis Rother was one of 4 children of Franz Rother (8 August 1911 – 2 July 2000) and Gertrude Smith (23 May 1913 – 24 October 1987), who had a farm close to that town in Oklahoma;  sister Betty Mae, who became Sister Marita and two brothers, Tom & Jim.   Stanley was strong and adept at farm tasks.   Then after completing his high school studies at the Holy Trinity school he declared his calling to the priesthood to his parents. His parents were pleased with their son’s decision though his father asked him:  “Why didn’t you take Latin instead of working so hard as a Future Farmer of America?”   To prepare for this, he was sent to the Saint John Seminary and then to Assumption Seminary in San Antonio in Texas.   His talents gained working on the farm left him with other duties at the seminary and his studies suffered and he struggled with Latin.   He served as a sacristan, groundskeeper, bookbinder, plumber and gardener.   After almost six years the seminary staff advised him to withdraw.
Tumblr media
After consultation with his local bishop Bishop Victor Reed he then attended Mount Saint Mary’s Seminary in Emmitsburg in Maryland from which he graduated in 1963.   Bishop Reed ordained him to the priesthood on 25 May 1963.   Rother then served as an associate pastor in various parishes around Oklahoma and in 1968 – at his own request – he was assigned to the mission of the archdiocese to the Tz’utujil people located in Santiago Atitlán in the rural highlands of southwest Guatemala.
Tumblr media
So that he could be in closer touch with his congregation, he set out to work to learn Spanish and the Tz’utujil language which was an unwritten and indigenous language that the missionary Ramón Carlín once recorded.   He served in Santiago Atitlán from 1968 until his death.   Rother lived with a native family for a while to get a better grasp of practical conversation and worked with the locals to show them how to read and write. He supported a radio station located on the mission property which transmitted daily lessons in both language and mathematics.   In 1973 he noted with pride in a letter:  “I am now preaching in Tz’utuhil.”   During that time, in addition to his pastoral duties he translated the New Testament into Tz’utujil and began the regular celebration of the Mass in Tz’utujil.   In the late 1960s Rother founded in Panabaj a small hospital, dubbed as the “Hospitalito”,  Father Carlín served as a collaborator in this project.
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
By 1975, Rother had become the de facto leader of the Oklahoma-sponsored mission effort in Guatemala as other religious and lay supporters rotated out of the program.   He was a highly recognisable figure in the community, owing to his light complexion as well as his habit of smoking tobacco in a pipe.   Since there was not a Tz’utujil name equivalent to “Stanley,” the people of Father Rother’s mission affectionately called him “Padre Apla’s,” translated as “Father Francis,” in reference to his middle name.
Rother put his farming skills to good use in Guatemala, on one occasion operating a bulldozer from 7:00 am to 4:30 pm to clear land on local farms, stopping just for Mass. His door was open to all people.   There was one old man who appeared each day for lunch and others came for advice on personal or financial affairs.   Some even turned up to have their teeth extracted.   On one occasion he accompanied a boy to Guatemala City to be treated for lip cancer, from which the boy was eventually cured.
Within the last year of his life Rother saw the radio station smashed and its director murdered.   His catechists and parishioners would disappear and later be found dead, with their bodies showing signs of having been beaten and tortured.   In December 1980 he had addressed a letter to the faithful in Oklahoma and wrote about the violent situation:  “This is one of the reasons I have for staying in the face of physical harm.   The shepherd cannot run at the first sign of danger.”
Tumblr media
At the beginning of 1981 he was warned that his name was on a death list (he was number eight on the list) and that he should leave Guatemala at once to remain alive. One parishioner warned him in January:  “Father, you’re in extreme danger.   You must get out immediately.”   Rother was reluctant but he nonetheless returned to Oklahoma in January, though he later asked the archbishop for permission to return:  “My people need me.   I can’t stay away from them any longer.”   Another reason for returning was that he wanted to celebrate Easter with them.   His brother Tom said to him, upon hearing that Stanley wanted to return to Guatemala:  “Why do you want to go back? They’re waiting on you and they’re gonna kill you.”   Rother said: “Well, a shepherd cannot run from his flock.”   “Pray for us that we may be a sign of the love of Christ for His people,” said Fr Stanley, “that our presence among them will fortify them to endure these sufferings in preparation for the coming of the Kingdom.”  Rother went back to Santiago Atitlán in April and knew that he was being watched.
On the morning of 28 July just after midnight, gunmen broke into the rectory of his church and shot him twice in the head after a brief struggle.   The killers forced the teenager Francisco Bocel (who was in the church at the time) to lead them to the bedroom of the “red-bearded Oklahoma-born missionary.”   The men threatened to kill Bocel if he did not show them Rother and so Bocel led them downstairs and knocked on a door near the staircase saying:  “Father. They are looking for you.”   Rother opened the door and a struggle ensued as Bocel ran upstairs hearing Rother yell:  “Kill me here!” One shot pierced his jaw and the fatal shot struck the left temple; there were bruises on both hands.   His father Franz – upon hearing the news of his son’s death – rang his eldest daughter Marita in Kansas and told her:   “They got him.”   She hung up the phone and wept.
Father Rother was one of 10 priests murdered in Guatemala that year.   His remains were flown back to Oklahoma and were buried in his hometown on 3 August 1981, in Holy Trinity Cemetery.   At the request of his former Tz’utujil parishioners, his heart was removed and buried under the altar of the church where he had served.
Three men were arrested on charges of murder within weeks of Rother’s murder, another man and a women were sought for questioning at that stage as well.   The three men arrested admitted to having entered the church in a robbery attempt and also admitted to having shot Rother dead when the priest attempted to stop them.   Despite the confessions, many people familiar with the circumstances of the murder considered the three accused persons as innocent and the prosecutions to be a cover-up of paramilitary involvement in the murder.   Convictions for all three men were later overturned by a Guatemalan appellate court, under pressure from U.S. authorities. No other suspects have been prosecuted for the murder.
Tumblr media
On 1 December 2016 his Beatification received approval from Pope Francis after the Pope confirmed that Rother had been killed “in odium fidei” (in hatred of the faith).   On 13 March, 2017 the date for his Beatification was announcedand was Beatified on 23 September 2017 at the Cox Convention Centre, with Cardinal Angelo Amato presiding over the Beatification – as the Prefect of the Congregation of the Causes of the Saints on the Holy Father’s behalf at a Mass attended by approximately 20,000 people. 
Tumblr media Tumblr media
youtube
48 notes · View notes
Text
Armenians, Assyrians, Jews, and the Origins of “Genocide”
Preface: On Wednesday January 10, at the Center for Jewish History, human rights lawyer Philippe Sands will explore how personal lives and history are interwoven in his book East West Street. In this work, Sand connects his own work on crimes against humanity, to an untold story at the heart of the Nuremberg Trials. A conversation with Douglas Irvin-Erikson, author of Raphäel Lemkin and the Concept of Genocide, will follow. He will discuss the ongoing consequences of the concept of genocide, from the Armenian killings of 1915, to the atrocities perpetrated on the Yazidi and Rohingya communities a century later.
CONVENTION ON THE PREVENTION AND PUNISHMENT OF THE CRIME OF GENOCIDE. ADOPTED BY THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY OF THE UNITED NATIONS ON 9 DECEMBER 1948
THE CONTRACTING PARTIES,
HAVING CONSIDERED the declaration made by the General Assembly of the United Nations in its resolution 96 dated 11 December 1946 that genocide is a crime under international law, contrary to the spirit and aims of the United Nations and condemned by the civilized world ;
RECOGNIZING that at all periods of history genocide has inflicted great losses on humanity; and
BEING CONVINCED that, in order to liberate mankind from such an odious scourge, international co-operation is required,
HEREBY AGREE AS HEREINAFTER PROVIDED
So begins the Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide, ratified by the United Nations in 1951. 
The first inklings of the Convention took form not during World War II, but in the head of a Polish Jewish teenager named Raphael Lemkin (1900-1959), who opened a newspaper one day in 1915. Staring back at him from the page was news of the Armenian Genocide: the 1915 mass murder of approximately 1.5 million Armenians by the Ottoman Empire and its successor state, the Republic of Turkey.  
Lemkin would not have another intellectual encounter with this form of mass murder until 1933, when he learned of the Simele Massacre: the Iraqi mass murder of Assyrian Christians.
In the years between these two encounters, Lemkin studied linguistics at the University of John Casimir in Lvov, philosophy at the University of Heidelberg, and law back at John Casimir. He graduated with his legal degree in 1926. Lemkin worked as Public Prosecutor for the district court of Warsaw and, while doing so, wrote about law and worked on the team codifying the penal codes of Poland.
It was the plight of the Assyrian Christians which drove Lemkin to bring together his intellectual encounters with mass murder with his work as a lawyer. In October, 1933, the Legal Council of the League of Nations held a conference on international criminal law in Madrid. Lemkin attended, and there presented to the delegation his first attempt to enter recognition of mass killings aimed against a specific group of people into the international legal lexicon.
He urged the Council to accept his proposal that the “destruction of national, religious, and racial groups” should be declared “an international crime,” and proposed a ban on mass murder. The Nazi delegation to the conference greeted the proposal—introduced by a Polish Jew, of all things—with laughter. The proposal failed. When Lemkin returned to Poland, the Polish Foreign Minister reprimanded him for his remarks. Under pressure, Lemkin resigned from his public position in 1934 and went into private practice.
Five years later, mass murder came to Raphael Lemkin. When the Nazis marched into Poland, Lemkin joined up with a group of partisans in the forest. He escaped into Lithuania when the opportunity presented itself. The majority of his family—with the exception of his brother Elias, Elias’ wife, and their two sons—would die in the war between the machinations of Hitler and Stalin.
From Lithuania, Lemkin made his way to Sweden. There, in addition to lecturing on international finance at the University of Stockholm, Lemkin persuaded Swedish officials to give him copies of the Nazi directives issued to occupied nations. Soon thereafter, Lemkin’s friend and colleague, Duke University law professor Malcolm McDermott, invited Lemkin to join him as a professor at Duke. Directives in hand, Lemkin made his way east—via Russia and Japan—to the United States. He arrived in 1941.
Tumblr media
Lemkin’s 1946 War Department ID
Lemkin presented the confiscated Nazi directives to the Department of State and the Department of War. When the United States entered Second World War, the military took him on as a teacher and consultant.
It was during this period that Lemkin completed what was quite possibly the most important work of his career, Axis Rule in Occupied Europe: Laws of Occupation, Analysis of Government, Proposals for Redress. In chapter 9, Lemkin, introduced the term and concept of “genocide,” combining the Greek “genos,” or, “race,” with the Latin “cide,” or, “killing.” In this, Lemkin created an entirely new legal conception of killing, one based on the deliberate destruction of a national, racial, ethnic, religious, or political minority by the majority or dominant group. With this piece of writing, Lemkin completed the work he began in Madrid nearly ten years previously.
In 1945, Lemkin advised US Supreme Court Judge Robert Jackson during the proceedings of the Nuremberg Trials. Over the course of the trials Lemkin fought to have the word “genocide” introduced into the record, but the British prosecutors objected on the grounds that the word was not listed in the Oxford English Dictionary.
In 1946 the UN General Assembly convened in Lake Success, NY. Lemkin, determined to have the act of genocide condemned by the highest international legal body, presented a draft of the Genocide Convention to three UN member states: Cuba, India, and Panama. He persuaded them to sponsor the Convention. With the support of the United States, the resolution to ratify the Convention went before the General Assembly. The General Assembly approved the draft of Resolution 96 (I) on December 11, 1946.
Over the next two years, the UN hammered out the wording and details of the Convention on the Prevention and Punishment on the Crime of Genocide, with Lemkin regularly consulting on the articles of the treaty. In December 1948, the draft of the Convention went before the General Assembly at the Palais de Chaillot in Paris. Lemkin, despite his money problems and ill health, was in attendance when the UN adopted the Convention on December 9, 1948. The United States was the first Member State to provide the signature needed for UN treaty adoption.
However, it was also necessary for each signatory state to ratify and adopt the treaty. When the Convention was introduced to the US Congress in 1949, the combination of domestic ideological factors and international policy interests came together to block US ratification of the Convention. In April 1953, Secretary of State John Foster Dulles withdrew all human rights treaties from consideration.
Though devastated by the decision of his adopted country,  Lemkin would spend the rest of his life working towards the goal of US ratification of the Convention on the Prevention and Punishment on the Crime of Genocide.
Raphael Lemkin died of a heart attack at the age of 59, in 1959. He is buried in the Hebron Cemetery in Queens. The headstone reads: “The Father of the Genocide Convention.”
 The United States would not ratify the Convention until 1988.
 His papers are held in the archives of the American Jewish Historical Society. be hyperlinked) http://findingaids.cjh.org/?pID=109202
Though the United States would not ratify the Convention during Lemkin’s lifetime, it did have immediate impact. One of the first accusations of genocide to be submitted to the United Nations was a 1951 petition submitted by the Civil Rights Congress titled “We Charge Genocide: The Crime of Government Against the Negro People.” It charged that the United States was party to hundreds of genocidal  legal and extra-legal murders and abuses of Black Americans. However, the petition failed in the maelstrom of racism and Cold War politics which characterized US politics in the late 1940s and 1950s.
The Convention was enforced for the first time in September, 1998 when the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda found Jean-Paul Akayesu guilty of nine counts of genocide, and convicted Jean Kambanda on genocide charges. The first state to be found in breach of the Genocide convention was Serbia. In Bosnia and Herzegovina v. Serbia and Montenegro, the International Court of Justice ruled that Belgrade had breached international law in failing to prevent the 1995 Srebrenica genocide, and in failing to transfer persons accused of genocide to the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia.
To learn more about the American Jewish Historical Society, please visit us at our website, or email us at [email protected]. You may also find us on facebook, twitter, and instagram.
56 notes · View notes
exkernal · 7 years ago
Text
Fanfic: The Life and Death of Hector Rivera
“Hector, mijo, pay attention!” was the constant refrain of his childhood. By seven, he’d lost count of how many times his abuelita, exasperated, let those words slip from her lips. For a time when he was six or so, he’d become half convinced that that was his full name and that everyone just called him Hector for short.
It wasn’t his fault. He tried to focus on his chores (boring as they were) or his lessons (mostly to avoid Senorita Garcia’s lethally sharp ruler) or mass (though, really, what was the point of paying attention when the priest spoke in Latin?) but his mind kept wandering away from him. He would find himself humming a tune or tapping his fingers against his calves in the perfect beat. He’d think, this could be a song, and then he was gone, creating the story in his mind, stringing the words and sounds together.
He couldn’t help it. It was just the way he was.
He grew up poor, but then, everyone was poor in Santa Cecilia. He didn’t have much family to speak of. He entered the world at a tumultuous time, and each year more and more men in his family disappeared to the revolution, or else the many diseases that ran rampant, snatching children from their families like a monster come to life. That was the fate of his cousins, his siblings, but strangely, it spared him. He’d had his mama once, but he couldn’t remember her. She died in childbirth, not with him, but a stillborn hermanito. This left Hector in the care of his aging, arthritic abuelita, who was forever lamenting Hector’s foolishness but still loved him fiercely, in her way.
Hector was drawn to the Mariachi Plaza. The music pulled him in, the timber of their voices, the sounds of the various instruments working together to create something magical. Was no one else hearing this? Yes, they enjoyed the music—he could see it in the way the townspeople danced, how they sang along—but it didn’t seem to move them like it did him.
It was no wonder, then, that he and Ernesto became friends. Ernesto understood. He was two years Hector’s senior, and came from a loving, doting family that was whole unlike Hector’s tattered one, yet he was the only other person in Santa Cecilia who loved music like Hector.
While the other boys were out in the streets playing football and tag (and Hector still joined them, some of the time, because he was still a boy, after all) he and Ernesto would often head to Mariachi Plaza to hear the music.
“Hey, Ernesto,” Hector said one summer day, as the two of them found shelter from the sun in the shade behind the fish vendor’s cart. “If I tell you something, do you swear you won’t tell anyone?”
“Of course, amigo,” Ernesto replied as he swatted at a particularly pesky gnat.
“I’m going to be a musician when I grow up.”
To his credit, Ernesto didn’t laugh. But he wasn’t enthusiastic either.
“Don’t you need to play an instrument to be a musician?”
“I’ll get an instrument. A guitar.” And already he could see it in his mind: the perfect guitar, bedazzled with diamonds in intricate designs, strapped across his chest.
This time Ernesto did laugh. “Where are you going to get the dinero?”
Both boys were currently wearing threadbare, patched up pants and shoes with worn down soles.
“I’ll find away,” Hector vowed. “Believe me, amigo, I’ll become a musician if it kills me.”
Ernesto pondered it. His voice broke into a smile. “Perhaps we could both be musicians,” he said, “and travel the world.”
“Si, we could go to Guadalajara—”
“And Cuidad de Mexico—”
“And California—”
“And Cuba—”
“And Paris.”
They were both grinning ear to ear.
Hector found his chance when he was nine-years-old.
It was the Day of the Dead. After the visit to the cemetery (always Hector’s least favorite part. His abuelita became so emotional, but Hector couldn’t share her connection to relatives he had never known in life), he’d gone to listening to the performers in the plaza.
“Come on, mijo!” his abuelita called, “it’s been a long day, you need your rest.”
He’d gone to follow, reluctantly, when he crossed paths with a disgruntled singer, who nearly ran into Hector as he made his way to the dumpster.
“Bah! This piece of shit! What good is it?”
He heard the sound of something heavy crashing down. Hector waited until the man had gone, then dashed over towards the dumpster. There, amongst the garbage pile, was a guitar. It was the most beautiful thing Hector had ever seen. Sure, it was covered in trash, and the guitar itself wasn’t in the best condition with its peeling white paint and splintering handle, but it was workable. Fixable, for sure.
He used some tap to fix up the handle. It wasn’t perfect, but it wouldn’t break anytime soon. With a little shoe polish, he was able to cover over the peeling paint and various dirt stains, turning it into black and white designs, including a skull that he was rather proud of.
They didn’t have a teacher. No books to guide them. Hector and Ernesto essentially taught themselves to play through mimicking the sounds they heard, passing the guitar back and forth. It was slow at first. Hector’s fingers calloused and bled, and he messed up the notes more often than not, but he pressed on. He found time to sneak away for practice each day, sometimes with Ernesto and sometimes without. By the time he was twelve, he finally felt semi confident in his abilities.
He left school that year. The family needed him to work to help them get by. He didn’t mind. He could read and write, which was enough for him to put his lyrics to paper. His true education came from the plaza.
He worked a series of odd jobs, never quite sticking to one. His favorite, though, were the occasions that he and Ernesto were able to play at the plaza or the local tavern, and collected a coin or two as tip. Typically, Hector played the guitar and Ernesto sang lead, with Hector occasionally providing back up. Puberty had been kind to Ernesto: he was tall and broad while Hector was a perpetual string bean, with a chiseled, handsome face and dark, soulful eyes. Girls flocked to hear them play, swooning over the dashing, charming Ernesto de la Cruz. Hector wasn’t too hard on the eyes himself; he had his share of admirers, even if Ernesto had twice as many. Not that he cared. The music was what mattered.
In those early years, they stuck to playing old favorites. Folk songs, traditional, humorous little ditties that always got a laugh. Hector became well known for his rendition of “Juanita,” though he only ever played that for the men at the tavern, when he was sure that his abuelita wasn’t around.
He tried his hand at writing his own songs. Those first attempts would embarrass him, slightly, in the years to come. He drew inspiration from the things around him—one particularly memorable sunrise that filled his bedroom in an orange glow, the people that he encountered in Santa Cecilia. This got him in trouble from time to time. On one notable instance when he was fourteen he tried between gasped breaths to explain to Mariana Lopez’s ham-fisted older brothers that “Donkey-Faced Mariana” was about some other girl, one they’d never met before and so definitely couldn’t be related to them.
He was returning home from playing in the plaza, in the autumn of his fourteenth year, when he heard the most beautiful sound. A girl was singing somewhere just ahead of him. He recognized it as “La Llorona.” Each note captured the sheer tragedy and longing of the song, as if the girl had lived a thousand lifetimes, each with a fresh share of sorrows. He needed to find the owner of that voice.
After dashing ahead and turning a corner, he found her, the loveliest girl he’d ever seen. She was tall and slender, with a round, flawless face and black hair tied up in an elegant bun. She carried a basket of laundry in her arms and continued to sing, unaware of her new audience. Hector grinned. Carefully, he slid the guitar into his arms and began to play along.
“La LLorona, la Lloron—argh!” she jumped at the sight of him, dropping the laundry on the dirt road.
“I’m so sorry! Let me help you!” he said, scurrying to collect her now dirty clothes. He felt himself blush, and ducked his face down to hide it.
“What’s the matter with you?” the girl demanded. She was about his age, and clearly not someone to be messed with. “Who do you think you are, sneaking up on people like that?”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, “I heard you singing and I had to follow. Senorita, you have the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard.”
She scowled, but it didn’t hide the pinkish tinge that appeared on her cheeks. Hector took that as a good sign. “I know you. You’re that boy that plays in the plaza.”
“Hector,” he said, with a theatrical, and he hoped, charming bow.
She was not amused. “Imelda.”
“You should join me in the plaza, Imelda,” he said eagerly. “A voice like yours needs to be heard.”
“I don’t have time for that nonsense,” Imelda scoffed. “Not when there’s work that needs to be done.”
She sounded harsh, but Hector caught the look that flickered across her eyes. It was wistful, perhaps longing. Hector was half convinced that he already loved the girl.
“If you say so,” he said. “Here, let me carry that for you. It’s the least I can do after scaring you.”
“I wasn’t scared,” she said, but she didn’t protest when he reached for the basket, and let him walk her all the way back to her casa.
He saw Imelda a couple of times a week. They talked about nothing in particular, and after a while, sang together. She had older brothers like poor Marianna Lopez, unlike the hermonos Lopez, Felipe and Oscar were not very intimidating. It balanced out, for Imelda was intimidating enough for her entire family, and could ensure that his intentions were honorable. Not that Hector intended anything less! Ernesto could chase after their female fans all he wanted, but Hector’s heart belonged solely to Imelda.
His abuelita died when he was fifteen. Pneumonia, he thought it was. He buried her with all of the rites of the Roman Catholic Church and made a point of placing her photograph on the ofrenda. Although he ached for her (he even missed her nagging) it caused only minimal change to his life. He was a man now, or close enough. He still worked whatever jobs he could, still played with Ernesto, still courted Imelda. It was a simple life, but he enjoyed every minute of it.
His songwriting improved, too.
“Hector, mi amigo,” Ernesto aid one night, clasping him on the back. “Where do you get your inspiration? ‘Un Poco Loco’ is genius!”
Hector grinned. ‘Un Poco Loco’ had been a smashing success at the tavern that night. In fact, at that very moment, he could hear two drunks stumbling around the street, belting out their own version of the song, which missed half of the words but still got the gist right.
“Ay, Ernesto, I can’t tell you. I don’t want to get in trouble.”
“Come on, you know I wouldn’t—” realization dawned on his friend’s face. “It’s about Imelda, isn’t it?”
Hector tried to keep a straight face, but failed miserably. They broke up into a fit of laughter.
“I don’t understand how you two stay together the way you fight,” Ernesto said. “Mark my words, you won’t last another year!”
“We’ll see.”
It took nearly two years before Hector could finally persuade Imelda to join them on the plaza.
She was uncharacteristically quiet as they walked to the plaza, her skin as white as a ghost.
“It’s normal to have stage fright,” he said. “My first time in front of an audience, I almost threw up on my zapatos.”
“I do not have stage fright,” she said automatically.
“Oh, si, si, of course you don’t,” Hector said. “But what helped my stage fright was loosening up like this.”
He wiggled his arms, shoulders, then neck, exaggerating every moment. “See, querida?”
She laughed. “Hector, you look foolish.”
“Si, mi amor, but I feel wonderful.”
She rolled those gorgeous brown eyes, but she went along with it. Not quite with Hector’s enthusiasm, but she did it all the same.
“Feels better, no?” he smirked, elbowing her in the ribs (lightly, of course). She pushed his hand away, but she was smiling, too.
They never had to worry about stage fright again.
He loved Imelda with his heart and soul, but there was a reason why she inspired ‘Un Poco Loco.’ Their bickering was legendary. Their relationship seemed to swing between periods of blissful happiness and tumultuous fighting. None of their friends could understand it, but Hector knew that’s just how they were.
One such incident occurred when he was sixteen. He found Imelda in the garden behind the house she shared with her older brothers.
“Ay, mi amor! As beautiful as ever—”
He had only a split second to dodge the shoe she aimed his way.
“You idiot!” she cried.
“What was that for?” he asked, more baffled than anything else. Usually the reason behind her anger was clearer.
“Oh, what was that for, he asks,” Imelda said, throwing her hands in the air. “I’m pregnant, estupido.”
Hector’s heart skipped a beat. He must have misheard. There’s no way she could have said what he thought she said. Then came the panic. This can’t be happening, he thought. We’re too young, we’re not ready. How can I support a child? He peered into Imelda’s eyes and saw his own doubt and fears reflected back to him. He wanted to comfort her. Would it really be so bad? They could make it work. And he’d have a proper family—he and Imelda and the child they had made, all together.
“That’s wonderful, mi amor,” he said, and by the time he said it, he was half convinced that he actually meant it.
The night before his impromptu wedding (Imelda was starting to show, but they could still hide it with the right dresses), Hector sat at the tavern, surround by friends and well-wishers.
Ernesto led the toast. “To Hector!” he raised his glass. “It's this crazy bastard’s last night of freedom!”
“To Hector!” the others echoed, clanking their glasses and laughing. Hector felt pleasantly warm, and couldn’t keep the smile from his face.
“Congratulations, Hector, she’s a real beauty,” Diego said.
“Ay, but that temper,” Antonio said, elbowing him in the side. “You can keep her, amigo.”
“Having a wife and family changes everything,” said Elian, the only married man of their group.
“It won’t for me,” Hector said, “I’ll still be out here every night, playing ‘Juanita’ for you bastards.”
As the others laughed, Hector noticed, briefly, the look that came over Ernesto’s face. He couldn’t place it, not exactly, but it was serious, almost grave. Before Hector could dwell on it, the topic changed, and the party switched back to the same boisterous mood as before.
Imelda went into labor two weeks after Hector’s seventeenth birthday. He was banished from the casa by a stern-faced midwife, though that didn’t stop him from making seven attempts to sneak back in. He couldn’t stand to see his wife in such pain, especially when he was powerless to do anything about it. Apparently, she couldn’t stand to see him when in such pain, either, because the last time he tried, she looked him square in his eyes, her face layered with sweat, her black hair askew, and said, “You did this to me, you bastard!” It did not strike Hector as an appropriate time to point out that that technically they did this to her.
So he sat outside of the window (hearing every moan and cry of pain) and strummed his guitar. He played a medley of songs, some traditional and some his own invention, all gentle and soothing. He hoped she’d hear it and know that he was thinking of her.
His daughter was born just before sunset. She was perfect: looked just like her mama with big, soulful eyes and a tuft of black hair. He couldn’t quite believe it. Him, a father. He was the father of a beautiful, healthy, perfect baby girl. They named her Socorro, but everyone called her Coco for short.
If marriage was an adjustment, it was nothing compared with adding a baby to the mix. For the first month and a half, no one slept.
Hector loved his daughter dearly, but he also missed his sleep.
It was particularly bad one night when Coco was about a month old. He and Imelda sat up in their tiny bedroom, red eyed and so exhausted that they could barely think. Nothing could soothe the screaming baby, not rocking her, not changing her, not feeding her.
“Ay Dios mio,” Imelda groaned. “Go to sleep, mija, por favor.”
Hector, who had been rocking the wailing child in his arms, met Imelda’s eyes.
“Hey, Imelda,” he said, then motioned with his arms as if to mimic throwing the baby out of the window.
Imelda looked a second away from scolding him, but then her face crumpled into laughter. Hector joined in. Laughter felt so good to his weary body.
“Let me try something,” he said. He began to sing, “Oh mija please go to sleep/so mama and papa can sleep/because if you don’t go to sleep/ than mama will claw out papa’s eyes.”
Imelda snorted.
It didn’t work instantly, but after a few more minutes of adding nonsense versus, Coco’s eyelids grew heavy, and after nestling against Hector’s chest, she finally succumbed to sleep.
Hector never felt so proud in his life.
“The lyrics were terrible,” Imelda commented, “but the melody was sweet.”
She was right. He had something there, if he could just fix the words.
38 notes · View notes