#Black Slave Cemeteries

[ausetkmt]

"Forgotten Slave Cemetery Uncovered After a Century of Neglect | Shell Convent Refinery"

CONVENT, La. (AP) — A major oil company is taking steps to honor once-forgotten slaves buried on its land west of New Orleans in an area where sugar plantations once abounded, an effort that some hope will grow into a larger movement to recognize and protect such cemeteries around the country.

The Shell Oil Company marked, blocked off and spruced up the tracts near its Convent refinery west of New Orleans and held dedication ceremonies in March, about five years after archaeologists confirmed the presence of slave burial grounds in 2013. The company also has been working with the nearby River Road African American Museum to arrange commemorative events and accommodate visitors.

It's the latest example of the South's decades-long path to acknowledging unsavory aspects of its history.

For Kathe Hambrick, the director of the River Road museum, the work is the culmination of years of efforts to ensure that Shell honored and remembered those buried on what used to be the Monroe and Bruslie sugar plantations, just two of many plantations that once abounded along the road. Hambrick said there are likely hundreds more such graveyards between New Orleans and Baton Rouge.

Some of the restored plantations are themselves undergoing a rediscovery, moving away from their romanticized "Gone With the Wind" portrayals of the past to offer a more realistic look at the South's history of human bondage. One, the Whitney Plantation in the town of Wallace, opened in 2015 as a full-fledged museum with an unvarnished look at the cruelties of slavery.

"We ought to work together to figure out how ... to evaluate the things that we want to preserve, protect and teach about in terms of how this country was really developed," said A.P. Tureaud Jr., the son of a revered New Orleans civil rights lawyer who counts slaves and slaveowners among his ancestors.

Tureaud, who traveled from his current home in New York to attend March dedication ceremonies for the Monroe and Bruslie sites, has joined with Hambrick in an effort to give slave gravesites federal protection. The two have brought their idea to the attention of U.S. Rep. Cedric Richmond, whose district includes most of New Orleans.

Vincent deForest, a civil rights activist who helped preserve two slave cemeteries in Washington, D.C., said he and others are urging the Congressional Black Caucus to get involved. DeForest would like to see the National Parks Service undertake a study to identify ways to preserve such sites in every state.

"The wholeness of the living is diminished when the ancestors are not honored," deForest said, quoting one of his favorite epitaphs.

Sandra Arnold, a fellow at the Center for the Study of Slavery and Justice at Brown University, is leading a project to compile a database of slave burial grounds, but notes there is a dearth of records.

"It's as if their humanity is erased," Arnold said.

Thurston Hahn, an archaeologist with Baton Rouge-based Coastal Environments Inc., said it's reasonable to believe many of the slave graveyards along the River Road have been farmed over or covered by levees or petrochemical plants.

"The problem with the slave cemeteries — we just do not know where they are," he said.

It's a problem researchers working farther south, in the Louisiana city of Thibodaux, can relate to.

Anthropologists and geophysics experts from Tulane University are among those using radar and soil samples in hopes of discovering the burial sites of dozens of African-American victims of Reconstruction-era racial violence that came to be known as the Thibodaux Massacre.

The descendants of massacre victims and Confederate plantation owners have formed a committee to honor the victims of that violence and, if possible, find a mass grave. If a grave is eventually discovered, they want any remains exhumed and reburied on consecrated ground.

No such grave has yet been discovered.

The Monroe and Bruslie sites were found during land surveys commissioned by Shell as it prepared for a construction project that has since been abandoned for economic reasons not related to the cemetery discoveries.

Ground-penetrating radar and the careful scraping away of topsoil exposed variations of color and texture in the dirt, indicating the presence of graves, Hahn said. The remains of the slaves were not uncovered and the number of graves could only be estimated.

"We don't want to disturb them at all," Hahn said. "We are just looking for a shaft that the gravedigger dug to put the burial in."

Hugues Bourgogne, general manager of the Convent refinery, said Shell wants to honor and respect those buried at the sites. In addition to protecting, preserving and marking the cemeteries, Shell has installed iron benches where visitors can sit, reflect and pay their respects.

Visitation opportunities are limited, however. One day a year will be set aside for planned activities at the sites and Shell will work with descendants and other interested groups to arrange safe access at other times, he said.

Malaika Favorite, an artist and lifelong area resident, says she knows she has ancestors who were enslaved and buried at plantations, but hasn't been able to isolate the burial sites. Now she feels a little closer to doing that.

"Just making this step with the graves here is a step forward," she said. "And we need more of that."

[hecksupremechips]

Mutuals I have a dilemma and I require assistance okay

I have a massive crush on someone that I am friends with and I want to shoot my shot cuz it’s getting like unbearable keeping this to myself lol but they were in a long term relationship that ended badly a while back and it kinda messed them up so I don’t know if they’d really wanna consider dating me, or if they even like me that way and I would just be like. Really sad if I got rejected and they’re such a good presence I don’t wanna lose our friendship but I’m like gonna explode if I have to keep this in any longer so what should I do and how should I go about bringing this up 🥺

[streetsofsalem]

A Slave Trader in Salem

I’ve learned a lot about Salem’s African-American history while writing this blog; I don’t think I would look at the city the same way otherwise. I associate Chestnut Street, where I live, much more with the Remond family and their myriad activities centered on Hamilton Hall than with any particular Salem merchant or sea captain. When I walk to work down Lafayette Street, I pass a neighborhood of…

[funniestpersonalivefr]

couldn't leave you

wesker lives after the events of resident evil five but returns to find you mourning his death. mentions of character death and the grief that comes with that. not proofread, credit to image owner.

it felt like a scene from a movie. the day was cloudy and grey, providing the perfect atmosphere as you watched the empty coffin lower into the ground. tears fell from your eyes from behind the black veil you wore. your husband was dead.

the dirt was placed over the coffin, it was empty but it still brought pain to your heart. they hadn't even succeeded in finding a body to bring you closure. you didn't want to believe it but after the days passing turned into weeks and then into months the possibility of his death seemed more and more likely.

it was impossible for your mind to believe that albert wesker, the god of a man he was, could've died. his mortality never seemed to be a real factor in his life, you could've sworn he'd live forever.

the tombstone stated back at you, almost taunting you as you continued to read it over and over again.

in memory of albert wesker, a loving husband.

it felt official, he was gone. you couldn't help the tears that slipped from your face as you walked away from the grave as you went back to your car. almost as if the world around you knew how solemn of an occasion this was, the dark clouds began to let rain fall. it felt as though the sky was crying with you.

as you sat in the car, collecting yourself and wiping what tears remained in your eyes. you looked around briefly, you could've sworn you saw him. you blinked and he was gone.

your brain has to be playing tricks on you.

little do you know your husband was standing in the cemetery as you drove away. he approached the grave with a sigh. part of him couldn't help but wonder if it would be better to let himself die. he'd free you from the constant worry and the target that had been placed on your back when you married him but deep down no matter how selfish it may seem, he couldn't leave you.

you had found yourself back in the house you once shared with the love of your life, specifically you were curled up in his study. the study was truly his, his smell still lingered from the countless hours he spent slaving away at his research.

"oh albert, i wish you were here," you mumble into the couch that sat in his study. you had spent the nights following the news of his supposed death sleeping in this very room.

you were already drifting off to sleep, the exhaustion from crying finally taking its toll on your body. the front door unlocked and your ears barely picked up on it but your body was sent into full alert.

did whoever killed wesker decide to get you next?

you searched his office looking for anything you could use to defend yourself, settling on the fire poker. you tried to think of all the self defense tips your late husband had given you but all you could do is cower in a hiding spot by the door, hoping to maybe get the upper hand.

heavy footsteps approach and you raise the fire poker, bracing yourself to attack the intruder. the door opens and you swing, eyes closed as you wait for the impact.

"it's good to see you too, dear," a familiar voice speaks out.

your eyes open wide and you stare at the man in front of you. it was your husband, it was albert wesker. he had blocked your makeshift weapon with ease and it quickly slipped from your hands.

"albert? i thought you were..." you say, getting choked up as emotions overwhelm you. the blonde man pulls you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you tight as you begin to sob into his chest.

"shhh, i know," is all he can say as he jaw clenches shut. he's fighting his own tears at this point and he refuses to let that side of him slip, not now at least. you pull back, cupping his face as you cry. a smile crosses your face as you stare at him.

"it's you, it's really you," your tone is filled with disbelief and you can't help but pull him into a kiss. the kiss is desperate as you try to cement in your mind that this is real.

he kisses you back before pulling away, taking in your disheveled state. the two of you spend the next few hours in each other's arms in moments filled with love after he explains all he can about what happened.

his body is marked with horrendous burns that have torn away at his skin, albert won't let you see them. they're covered under numerous layers of bandages and he'd hate to hurt you anymore. albert's head rests on your chest as you comb through his blonde hair. you pretend not to notice when tears start to slip from his red fiery eyes.

his body is mangled and burnt and he's afraid. albert wesker is afraid of you leaving him, his body isn't the work of art it was before yet here he is in your arms.

you hum to him softly as you comb through his hair, you'll never understand how he managed to survive but you continue to thank any higher power for bringing him back to you. his breathing slows and albert wesker manages to fall asleep in your arms.

[lucozadehulahoop]

A Question of Time (Astarion x f!reader/tav) part 3/?

Chapter summary: Astarion makes his choice, but his actions don't go unnoticed. Call it divine intervention.

A.N: Big thank you for the massive love on this! I've only been posting this fic for three days and the response has been overwhelming! I appreciate every single comment and it really keeps me motivated. The tag list will be posted below the cut because it's getting a bit long ahh.

Tags and T.W.:pre-bg3!Astarion, slave!Astarion, mentions of torture and abuse, demi-goddess!tav, eventual NSFW (minors stay away kindly, thank you darlings)

warning for this chapter: seggsual sention (eh more just dorks being dorks)

part 1 part 2 part 4

"Astarion, favored soul, I send you my own flesh and blood to remove you from harm, yet you do not take your chance to flee..." An ethereal voice sang to Astarion as he tried to make sense of his own surroundings.

Slowly he began to recognize the cemetery, the tombstones, his own grave... how had he ended up back there?

The moon shined brightly down on him, and slowly the origin of that voice materialized itself right in front of him.

Astarion may have not been a believer, but he could recognize a goddess when he saw one. Much like in her many popular depictions, Sehanine wore what resembled a black silk gown, the very fabric that created the shadows she was a patron of. Her hair was black and white, her skin deep blue like the ocean, and her eyes the shape of twin moons. Many were the elves who worshiped 'the Moonweaver ' dutifully.

Sehanine was also the only diety criminals and tricksters seemed to cling to. A favor from the patron of illusions and misdirection could make the difference between the success or failure of a deed carried out under the cover of night.

But she was not only the goddess those who worked in secrecy and trickery often asked for a blessing from. Love was the biggest blessing tied to her name, and many cursed her for being the protector of lovers who steeled away for a tryst in the night.

"Do not be afraid, Pale One." She smiled at him eerily. "I appear to you now to give you guidance. I am sure by now you recognize me, even though on this plane I have come to be known to many as Selùne in these times, but you have been alive since the days of the old creed..."

"Y-yes--" Astarion stammered, never once having thought he'd be entertaining a conversation with a diety.

"I know you have not once believed in anything that was not material, and I am not here to test your faith, little vampire. I have been guiding your journey through this world ever since you began to display all of those qualities that are so dear to me... the Moon has been your close ally in all of your deeds..." The goddess proclaimed. "I look out for my own, but now... you go against my design to deliver you from your wretched master. Why is it so?"

It was quite a hefty amount of information to take in all at once. Not to mention preposterous. Guidance? Protection? If Astarion had been so favored by the gods, why in the seven hells had he been crushed underneath Cazador's heel for two hundred years?

The anger didn't take long to boil up inside of him. "No. No, forgive me, your holiness, but there has to be some kind of mistake here." Astarion sneered. "I think you've got the wrong Astarion, because this one has been attacked by the Gur, turned into a vampire, and subjected to two centuries of torture at the hands of a maniac!"

Sehanine smiled down at him once more, almost as if Astarion's lament was something to be amused by. "It is not up to me to explain the trials and tribulations of mortal life, dear one... If I directly interfered with the lives of every being I wished to influence in a constant manner, then other gods would want the same and war would surely break out amongst us. I would not come to you if I did not fear great peril on the horizon. Your Master, Cazador Szaar, has joined a league with dark, dangerous forces... forces that are enemies to myself and other entities that keep the balance between good and-"

Astarion scoffed. "I fail to see, how any of this is my concern."

The goddess's eyes became pitch black and her form started to warp into something far more sinister. "Count yourself lucky I consider your quick wit as a quality, but do not make the mistake of disrespecting me again, vampire spawn." She threatened in a booming voice. "You will be turned into a sacrificial lamb to your Master's ascension to near-godliness if you do not flee now, underneath my daughter's protection."

Astarion was silent for a very long while. In fact, he could not tell how much time had passed before she finally spoke again, her voice once again gentle.

"I will not have one of my own be involved in this abomination of a rite. In fact, I will make sure Tav stops this event from coming to pass so that she may meet her destiny."

Astarion couldn't stop himself from speaking his mind once again, even at the cost of being punished by the divine. "Meet her destiny? Surely... surely you must know how powerful Cazador is. I mean, I've seen what your darling daughter can do, but she doesn't seem to have a single mean bone in her body and you might risk losing her-"

"Tav must die for Cazador and the rest of the evil he's created to be eradicated for good." Was the goddess's simply put answer.

"But... she's your daughter." Astarion failed to understand until it finally clicked in his head. "You---you set her up like a lamb for slaughter. This is why she couldn't keep away from me? Because you made her come to my rescue every time? And now she's... Hells, she's getting rid of Cazador for you and dying in the process because you can't look bad in front of your god pals? What happened to looking out for your own?"

"I may have brought her into this world, but she is not one of my own." The Moonweaver clarified." Too sweet, too good-natured. The only thing I can truly recognize is her beauty. But no, I have not spoken to her, ever. I thought it best she did not know the pain of who she truly is, nor how she will meet her end. I simply know how and when it will come to pass. Yet, it was quite surprising to see how deeply attuned to your pain she is... and in the grand scheme of things it drew her like a moth to a flame, right into Cazador's grasp..."

Astarion began to feel violently ill, and he couldn't understand why. "Wait, what do you mean, what are you talking about---"

"Oh hush now, don't tell me you care for her? I would find that hard to believe..." She grinned, her very nature compelled to be intrigued by displays of affection, especially when they bloomed in the most unlikely of circumstances."However, I must go now, little vampling. But do not worry, Tav will be remembered, I will personally make sure to immortalize her in the stars for her valiant sacrifice."

"No!" Astarion cried out as he thrashed on the floor, suddenly regaining consciousness underneath Tav's tear-brimmed eyes.

She had been trying desperately to bring the pale elf back to consciousness after he'd dropped to the ground unexpectedly, his red eyes rolled to the back of his head and his body wracked by convulsions.

"Astarion!" She shook him a little more for good measure. "Astarion stay with me!" Tav let out a little sob, never having come across a physical ailment she hadn't been able to cure.

"Hells below..." Astarion cursed, slowly managing to sit up as he caught up with what had just happened.

Tav was quite a sight for a creature who hardly ever seemed to be affected by anything. Tear-stained cheeks, her hands twisting in the fabric of her dress. Astarion couldn't recall the last time someone had ever displayed worry over him. And now that he knew the truth about so many things, he didn't deem himself worthy of it. "Cheer up, sweet, I'm alright." He couldn't help but say, pinching her nose softly between his curled fingers.

"Alright?!" Tav barked at him, huffing and shooing his hand away. "You dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes and then you started convulsing!" She accused as if Astarion had done so on purpose. "You were completely unresponsive for almost half of an hour! How often does this happen for you to think it's alright?"

Astarion could think of a million things to say. A close encounter with Tav's dear old mom being the explanation at the forefront of his mind. But the implications of that conversation having undeniably taken place (considering it hadn't been just some weird dream as he'd liked to have hoped) were too painful to consider. He should have been thinking about the fact that Cazador planned to sacrifice him. He should have been burning with rage at the mere thought of his death aiding his captor on the path to becoming god-like.

Instead, all he could do was laugh, enjoying the way it riled up Tav even more. "Like a what? Darling, I must say my likeliness has been compared to many things in my lifetime, but a sack of potatoes has certainly never made the list..."

"Oh well, then may I suggest that 'obtuse ass' also be included?" She retorted, getting in his face as she was completely unamused by the way he was belittling her concern.

"Do you spend a lot of time thinking about the shape of my backside?" Astarion tilted his head closer too, meaning to snap back at Tav, but instantly realizing his words had come out quite a bit softer than intended.

"I-I don't see how that's relevant..." Tav whispered, mimicking his tone as her pupils turned into the size of saucers.

"You're the one who brought it up..." Astarion shrugged, as he had a very private laugh within himself at Tav's expense. She was so gullible, he could have eaten her up.

"No! You have misunderstood me. Please, I apologize if I have made you feel--" Tav was in the middle of expressing a sincere apology when she realized Astarion could no longer contain the amusement he was having at her expense. "You are despicable!" She huffed, doing a poor attempt at shoving at his chest before getting herself back up on her feet.

Astarion chose to admire her a few seconds more from where he was sitting on the ground. "Now that, my darling... is something I've definitely been called before."

Tav crossed her arms over her chest as she adamantly checked on his capability to stand back up on his feet again. "How will you know it won't happen again?" She asked him seriously, referring to the episode that had just transpired.

"No, I'm pretty sure I'll get called 'despicable' again for days to come." Astarion attempted to avoid the question.

"I meant you fainting!" Tav insisted.

"I've... got a pretty good idea of what I need to do to stop it from happening again." Running away from this hellhole, and leaving you here none the wiser, so I don't get any more friendly reminders from your mother, Astarion thought to himself as he swallowed down a knot in his throat. He looked out the window and recognized the familiar hues of light. The day was coming and he wasn't going to be able to leave until it was over.

Astarion needed to get his affairs in order and rest. Staying simply wasn't an option.

Not to mention, he was practically starving.

His gaze began to linger extensively on Tav as she stared into the fireplace.

"You've been up all night, darling---" Astarion snapped out of his reverie and began to fret as he started closing all the window panes, making sure not a single ray of light would be able to break through. "Surely, surely it would be good for you to get some rest, no? In your room that is --- far, far away from me, I mean- I have tasks to do now. Servants are terribly, terribly busy people, you see---" He continued to ramble as he not so subtly nudged Tav out of his room, guiding her to the door. "I must get to my work-"

"But you are clearly unwell! You're the one who must rest, Astarion. You're even paler than usual-" Tav protested, turning into his arms to look up at him in defiance once more.

"May the gods help me -- no, actually let's leave them out of this -- must you stick your pretty little nose in everything I do? I can take care of myself and I'm not the helpless little critter you seem to think you've stumbled upon-" Astarion had intended on pushing Tav out of the room, but all he was doing in actuality was bringing her closer to his body.

"Well, you've certainly given me plenty of proof on that front haven't you?" Tav spat and twisted her hands in his worn-out shirt.

Just like that, they were back to arguing again, except this time it wasn't amusing for either of them.

"Proof? Is that what you want?" Astarion asked her, losing his last nerve to hunger and exhaustion.

The curtain fell, and Tav looked back into the face of a vampire.

---

A.N: hehe, oh how I like to tease you so. Okay real talk, this is now an ongoing fic. Truly, you guys have given me so much love, and I'm overwhelmed. I'm really enjoying writing this story and I thank you all for joining the ride. stay tuned for part 4!

This story is also on Ao3 btw, for the people who prefer reading it there.

tag list (if you want to be added to the tag list, just let me know!): @d0nutkaky0in @i-just-want-to-sleep-97 @omggiannarosa @dead-giirl-walking @warbwarts @mrsfullbuster500 @uwomina @iyaesakura @cheeslyy @dragon-kazansky @bambamwolf87 @chibi-chi @orsomethingelseentirely @davenswitcher @adequate-superstar @ophelias-flowerss @tragedybunny @yaimlight @the-golden-ouroboros @candyladycry @babygirlbrainrot @mariposakitten @blobs-away @biganddrunkunicorn @astarionmisc @the-garbage-central @raviolixxx

[goryhorroor]

Do you have any recommendations for what films on shudder to watch? I just got out of hospital and am on bed rest for a week so thought it would be a good time to check out it out.

azrael, mads, wnuf halloween special, nightwatch, blood and black lace, at midnight I’ll take your soul, cemetery man, black christmas, mad god, satan’s slaves, impetigore, and grabbers to start out! and feel better!

[petervintonjr]

"I wonder if our white fellow men realize the true sense or meaning of brotherhood? For two hundred years we had toiled for them; the war of 1861 came and was ended, and we thought our race was forever freed from bondage, and that the two races could live in unity with each other, but when we read almost every day of what is being done to my race by some whites in the South, I sometimes ask, 'Was the war in vain? Has it brought freedom, in the full sense of the word, or has it not made our condition more hopeless?' In this 'land of the free' we are burned, tortured, and denied a fair trial, murdered for any imaginary wrong conceived in the brain of the negro-hating white man. There is no redress for us from a government which promised to protect all under its flag. It seems a mystery to me. They say, 'One flag, one nation, one country indivisible.' Is this true? Can we say this truthfully, when one race is allowed to burn, hang, and inflict the most horrible torture weekly, monthly, on another?"

Everybody raise a glass to the memory of Susie King Taylor (neé Baker), teacher, author, field nurse, and Civil War hero. Susie holds the singular distinction of being the first Black woman to write and publish a memoir of her wartime experiences. Born enslaved in 1848 Savannah, Georgia, Susie was fortunate enough to be able to attend secret schools taught by Black women --despite the state's harsh literacy laws regarding slaves. Her principal teacher was a free woman of color who is only ever named as "Mrs. Woodhouse," a friend of Susie's grandmother, Dolly Reed, and over the years Susie would herself surreptitiously educate other enslaved persons. At the age of 14 she became free when her uncle led her out to a Union gunboat patrolling near Fort Pulaski (in Confederate hands at the time). Along with many other formerly-enslaved Black refugees in the aftermath of the Battle of Port Royal, Susie sought safety behind Union lines on the South Carolina Sea Islands.

Expediency led Susie to attach herself to the 1st South Carolina Volunteers, later known as the 33rd U.S. Colored Troops --the very first Black regiment in the U.S. Army. Formed in 1862, this unit boasted a large number of Gullah recruits. Having originally signed on as a regimental laundress and cook, Taylor's literacy quickly elevated her to the role of reading and writing instructor for many of the black Union soldiers during their off-duty hours. She also served as a field nurse. Military governor Rufus Saxton took notice of Taylor's talents and entrusted her with munitions and equipment responsibilities far beyond the scope of a laundress. She married a Sergeant Edward King of Company E in 1864, and the 33rd Regiment itself ultimately dissolved in 1866. The Kings settled in Savannah and established a school for Black children; unfortunately Edward died in a dockside accident only a few months after the birth of their son. Susie moved to Boston in 1870 and joined the Women's Relief Corps (of which she would eventually become president).

By 1879 Susie had remarried a Russell Taylor of Boston, and while she continued her work with the Women's Relief Corps, had also begun work on a memoir of her time with the regiment --originally intended for her son, she instead opted to publish the essays in 1902 as Reminiscences of My Life in Camp with the 33D United States Colored Troops, Late 1St S. C. Volunteers.

So... yeah. Go pick that one up and give it your undivided attention. And then pour one out for Susie, who died on this date (October 6), 1912, in Boston. She is buried at Mount Hope Cemetery.

[onyxandemerald]

The Intro To The Intro to Spirit Work

I have some anecdotes and some advice. When I was a kid, I could not figure out for the life of me why this kept happening. If I was, for example, wrestling with a really stuck jar lid. I could be fighting with it, and fighting with it, trying all the tricks, cold water, tapping it on the counter -- anything. And then the moment I hit defeat, still arguing with the jar in my hands, I would waddle over to my mom and as it was in the process of coming out of my mouth; "Can you open this ja-"

The seal would break. Holding the jar in one hand and the lid in the other, my mom would just stare at me. And that was it and I'd be like oh okay sick, thanks, the universe? This was a regular occurrence for me. It came to the point where I started asking for help out loud even if no one was home to hear me, and usually it was well received.

This is how I have been working with spirits since I was like 10 years old. I genuinely believe it's this easy, and while proclivity naturally varies person to person, I do think this is something most people experience and just don't even realize. When spirit workers complain about how vague and subtle the spirit world can be, this is what we mean. Its like if you asked someone to interact with light. Light rays are just here! Sometimes you get a a glorious view of rays beaming through a part in the clouds on a gloomy day, but for the most part it's just here doing its thing not even taking mind in what I am doing.

Working with spirits is like asking a fish about water. Water is an integral facet of being a fish. A fish struggles to identify water because its all he knows! A fish knows nothing of land as he cannot survive there. Interacting with spirits is similar to feeling your emotions while also being aware of them. They're here all the time and most people do not even realize that it's spirits they are interacting with. This is the bright side, but this is also the bad news at the same time lol. It means that without a doubt, if you're considering working with spirits, its because a spirit asked you to and something in the spirit world wants your attention. Congratulations, you are already working with spirits.

The practice, now, becomes noticing and translating what spirits have to say to you. This is where most people take a wrong turn. This is not something you can force. Think of it as a bird friend. If you move too quickly or too abruptly, you'll scare her. If your emotional world is too tumultuous and you struggle to keep it still and gentle, it will interrupt your connection. Mindfulness, self-awareness, and meditation are the bread and butter of spirit work. If you are self-aware, you can discern, "is this message coming from inside the house? Is my empathy activating? Or is this something outside myself making itself known?" The better you understand your own inner workings, the easier it is to filter out that noise.

Sometimes its helpful to imagine a spirit as a virus in your prediction. Its probably not going to be malicious like a virus but bear with me. Due to previous experience, I had no expectation that an 8 year old would be able to open this jar, but when I reached out with my voice for assistance, it didn't even need to reach another alive person before that call was received. My entire childhood, every time this happened I would freeze in shock and awe. It was weird. According to what I know of physics, it seems unlikely that this would be the course of events. But something different happened that I was not able to anticipate.

I was on vacation with a friend and we were visiting a historical Civil War cemetery in Virginia. As is customary, I brought them to greet what I understood to be the eldest grave, one of a young Black girl born a slave during the very early 1800s. The grave marker was unique, as in it seemed haphazard and makeshift. As we were taking it in, my friend pulled out their phone to take a picture. Immediately something in me turned sour, and they couldn't see me how we were standing, but I kind of grimaced. I wasn't intending on stopping them, I was content with observing. Then I watched them start to put their phone down.

The feeling I had gotten, I can only describe as, seen. The thought came into my head that, "Wait a minute, did they hear me? Does she get it?" My grimace fell and I was left almost puzzled instead. I did not feel personally attached to this thought. It did not feel like it came from inside the house. It carried the same tone as if I was standing in line eavesdropping on the people around me. Their phone came back up and she took the picture and we left.

I am completely convinced that, while unconfirmed because I didn't have any tools with me, we heard to a spirit for sure, possibly the spirit of that little girl. I genuinely felt like I had overheard two people having a conversation.

"Can I take a picture?" "No! This is my home! Be respectful!" "Oh, okay sorry." "Wait you can hear me? Well I didn't know you were cool. Maybe in that case, its okay."

I spoke to my friend about this and they said when they took their phone out, they had felt something along the lines of, "Well maybe I don't have to take a photo of everything we come across," and that's when they lowered their camera. But then they said something changed. I felt a spirit changed their mind and gave them permission. This stands out to me because we both experienced it. We both felt that energy shift. I was not upset at my friend for taking a million pictures, even if I don't relate, so I don't feel this emotion was mine. I didn't feel my friend change their mind mid-thought because, well to be honest they don't do that lol. They are not exactly the mindful type, and they don't really love having original thoughts or using their intuition.

TLDR; This is the part that I am trying to drive home. When you're first beginning, its hard to notice spirits. And then there's the phase where everything feels like it could be a spirit or a sign. Which is entirely possible! But also not every spirit is trying to get your attention or has something to say to you just like not everybody at the grocery store is immediately your best friend. Sometimes you'll bump into a spirit just long enough for you both to diverge paths without even noticing. When you don't yet know what to look for, spirits sometimes can manifest similarly to your own emotions (I'm convinced that's because this is how we interact with our own spirits on the daily, but that's another post). A feeling. The difference to look out for is it's source. If you're feeling angry and upset or sad and hopeless seemingly out of nowhere with little to no prompting, consider if its a spirit. If you suddenly feel warm compassion lying motionlessly on your bed, consider if it's an ancestor's spirit touching you. If you violently get the urge to acquire a ukulele when you've never played an instrument before in your life, maybe that's Apollo reaching out to you. If the source is murky, dig deeper.

My other take away for you is to ask. Literally ask your question out loud. "Are there any spirits here? Who are you? What's your name? Do you have a message for me? Is this tarot card even or odd? Can I take a picture? Will you help me open this jar?"

[blissfulstarsfics]

Black and White Chapter 16

Read on AO3

Chapter Rating: M

Pairing: A!A x F Tav

“Our tormentors were a symptom of a greater illness. We have had our revenge against them. Next, we will have our revenge on the world that made them.” 

Summary: It's time for the Upper City to gather for a grand wedding reception. Parties at the Crimson Palace are known to be eventful, this one is no exception.

Six months. Eighteen tendays.

The Crimson Palace went about its business in relative peace for six months. Winter had come and gone. Blades of grass were peeking their heads through the defrosted soil, birds were returning from their migrations, and the streets were returning to their usual bustle. 

Tav’s ward was back at boarding school, where he was barely keeping afloat. Much to Astarion’s approval, the boy opted to stay in his family’s home under the supervision of a governess during breaks. She wasn’t without sympathy for the young lord. Both his parents passed away quickly and now he was under the guardianship of a complete stranger.

Toril continued to spin along without a single care for the woes and anxieties of its inhabitants. The circle hadn’t made a move, as far as Tav knew. From time to time, Astarion was suspiciously quiet on that front when asked. Her condition had caused him to treat her like she was made of glass. As though the first hint of distress would cause her to shatter in a thousand pieces.

Even today, as they strolled through the Lower City, he insisted that she either hold his hand or take his arm. While she did understand his concerns, he had become overbearing. She had experienced the typical range of side effects; nausea, exhaustion, mood swings, and the anemia never fully went away. Despite her assurances that all this was normal, he continued acting like she was a fragile doll.

Tav had wanted to visit the cemetery and pay respects to Analee Foxworth. The grass crunched underneath her as she knelt beside the dust covered tombstone. With a small handkerchief, she brushed off the residue and set down a small bundle of silk flowers. It was still too early in the season for real ones.

“How many like her - like us - exist in Upper City?” Tav thought out loud, looking at the sad, little grave. The lady had been cheaply laid to rest in a cold, dark corner of the cemetery. A testament to her late husband’s disdain for her. A woman of her status deserved to be in a mausoleum.

“Like us?” he asked.

“Yes, like us,” she stood back up, taking his arm once more. In a hushed voice, she spoke, “The people no one cared about. The children sent into misery to better their families, the overlooked slaves, the wretches who’s plights were ignored for the greater good?”

Astarion placed a hand on hers, “Our tormentors were a symptom of a greater illness. We have had our revenge against them. Next, we will have our revenge on the world that made them.” 

“It will be glorious.”

“And bloody,” he tapped her hand, “but we must be off. We need to get ready to receive half the Upper City,” Astarion eagerly looked over to the central wall, “Us, the most gorgeous couple in Baldur’s Gate, resplendent in our matrimonial attire. The food, the entertainment,” he leaned close, “the intrigues that will no doubt happen. Oh, this is going to be the talk of the Gate for the rest of the year. I cannot wait!”

Astarion was giddy with excitement. Planning their wedding reception was one of few things that brought her joy in these last months. The color scheme was scarlet and gold. When they had left, people were hanging gilded curtains in the ballroom and setting up grand tables for the refreshments. They elected against a sit down dinner, in favor of hors d'oeuvres and other finger foods. Having the guests move about freely meant more talking and more talking meant learning new conspiracies and schemes. 

Back at the palace, all sorts of people were carrying crates around. The chamberlain was running around trying to keep the vendors in order. Tav stopped a few of the maids carrying the favors for inspection. The satin bags were scarlet with gold ribbon. Inside contained a small box of finely made chocolates with gold leaf, small bottles of Evereskan wine, a silk handkerchief, and gold statues of Hanali Celanil.

“Perfect,” she nodded. No one would be able to say the Ancunín's skimped on the celebration.

Upstairs, her dress awaited. Keeping with the color scheme, the dress was made from cloth of gold. It had a low boat neck, billowing sleeves, and the intricate gold stitching shaped into spiraling leaves across the gown. The seamstress masterfully incorporated her elvish heritage into Baldurian fashion. 

The dress itself was a tad more snug than the last time she’d tried it on, thanks to her ever growing belly. Tibbi sat her down to do her makeup and hair. Her eyes were painted dramatically with white shimmer in the corners and darker colors in the creases. Her lips were, of course, deep red.

Astarion had a ruby tiara with a matching necklace and earrings commissioned for their special occasion. Once fully adorned, Tav thought she looked like a queen. Perhaps that was his intention. Clever, she thought. 

Shadowheart entered the room wearing a borrowed dress. She and Tav were similar enough in size that she was able to loan a dress to her guest. The blue and silver gown the cleric wore complimented her features as well as it did Tav's. She had done her own hair into an elegant bun. 

“You look wonderful, Shadowheart. Try not to upstage me,” she smirked.

“As if I could,” she opened her hands, “Look at you! You’re breathtaking. Let’s hope Astarion can behave himself for a few hours.”

“Give the man some credit,” she jokingly replied, “Sit down. It’s your turn for makeup.” Tav opened a different palette with colors more suited to Shadowheart’s dress. The half elf sat at the vanity while Tav thought of how to style her friend’s eyes. Dark blue went into the crease with the white shimmer underneath, giving the appearance of a full moon. Perfect for the Moonmaiden’s acolyte. A neutral color on her lips and she was finished. The ladies gawked at themselves in the mirror, all done up.

“I wonder if I would have done makeovers like this, as a young woman, with my mother, or perhaps siblings, or friends had Viconia not taken me.” Shadowheart sighed heavily. The weight of her mother’s death still hadn’t lifted, nor the sorrows of having her childhood stolen. “Sorry, this really isn’t the time.”

“It’s all right. I think we all wonder similar things from time to time. What would my life be like if I wasn’t born to a prostitute? Karlach probably wonders about what if Gortash didn’t send her to the hells. Wyll with meeting Mizora. Astarion if he never became a vampire. It’s natural,” she bumped Shadowheart with her shoulder, “Memories like these want to creep up on us at the worst possible moments.”

“So true,” she laughed. Tav put her arm around Shadowheart, still looking in the mirror.

“We may not be young girls anymore, but now that we’re unburdened by gods and cults I think we can find time for girl talk. And makeovers. You, me, and Karlach. I’d extend the invitation to Lae’zel, but I think she’s still a bit busy with her whole civil war thing.”

“What about Minthara?”

“Nah,” she shook her head, “she’d try to poison our wine. Also, she probably wouldn’t stop pestering Astarion to grant her immortality.” Shadowheart snorted at the thought. She would have asked about Jaheira, but she knew better. It would be a long time until they were on speaking terms with her again, if ever. 

“Before I forget,” Tav grabbed two bodice daggers, “We can never be too sure.” She carefully concealed one in her dress, Shadowheart did the same.

The clock struck four. Guests would soon be arriving in an hour. A final inspection was in order. Long tables lined the walls of the ballroom, covered in scarlet cloths with gold runners. Mages carefully sculpted swans out of ice with enchantments ensuring they wouldn’t melt. Cocktail tables were scattered around the floor bearing centerpieces made with silk flowers and tall, magically lit candelabras. 

Garlands of roses lined the stage where the string quartet was warming up. Crystals suspended in the air, giving the room a magical quality. Tav nodded in approval. She had been overly worried that the ballroom would look gaudy or tacky, but this was exceptional. It fit them.

Outside, she heard the clacking of horse hooves. It was time. She hurried back to her room so as to remain unseen. Guests were to arrive at five, file into the ballroom, and at five thirty they would make their grand entrance.

One last look in the mirror. Not a hair out of place, not one smudge of makeup. She exited her room where Astarion was waiting for her. His attire was the same cloth of gold with similar embroidered patterns. They looked every bit the regal couple. He reached his hand out to her. 

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he uttered, awestruck. When she took his hand, he spun her around to get a proper look at her. There would be few, if any, opportunities for him to admire her later. Best to take them now.

“So do you,” he leaned in for a kiss, but she stopped him, not wanting her lipstick to be ruined, “Ah ah, this color would look terrible on you.”

“My love, all colors look radiant on me. You should know this by now,” he touched the tip of her nose. He then placed her arm in his, “Shall we? It would be rude to keep our esteemed guests waiting.”

They stood outside the ballroom as they were announced. When they entered, servants showered them with rose petals and the quartet played a lively tune. In her peripheral vision, she saw a few of his old lovers, teary eyed, dressed in black and smirked. Tav was over any petty jealousies she harbored toward them. She was here, at his side, and they were not. Everyone else clapped as they stepped on the raised platform which held Astarion’s throne. He raised a hand, silencing them.

“My dear friends, we wish to thank each and every one of you for coming. Tonight, we celebrate a bond that can never be broken. A bond eternal.” Astarion waved a servant carrying champagne over. The young man pointed at a specific flute containing a non-alcoholic drink which Astarion handed to Tav. 

“A toast to my lady. My dear Elia, whom you all know as Tav," his crimson eyes met hers, "My love, you have given me everything I have ever wanted. And some things I never knew I wanted. To you.” Her eyes threatened to water up. 

The clanking of glasses echoed in the ballroom, “to Elia,” they cheered. 

Ah, yes, her name. The invitations were sent out under her true name. ‘Elia’ was on their certificate, so hiding it felt pointless. She was now Lady Elia Ancunín, also known as Tav. Difficult as it was, she would have to face the occasional individual utilizing her name. It helped greatly that she had the vampire ascendant at her side. Next to him, she felt unstoppable. She could do this. She could take back ownership of her name.

~~~~~

All eyes were on them. They would have the first dance of the evening, as was tradition. The quartet played a slower song at their request. Elia didn’t want to tire herself too quickly. They elegantly flowed and glided across the floor, eyes locked and in perfect unison. The world was watching, but they did not notice. The moment was for them and them alone.

Soon after their dance, people eagerly went onto the floor. The party was now in full swing. Wyll approached them, dressed in attire befitting the son of a Grand Duke. Karlach was, as always, right behind him. Astarion was impressed with how the tiefling was garbed; she wore a light gray, off the shoulder satin gown that was expertly tailored to her brawny frame. Master Figaro managed to make her look equally feminine and fierce. 

“Quite the spread, Astarion. I’m impressed,” Wyll shook his hand. The two of them may not always see eye to eye, but manners were still manners. 

“You two look amazing. I’m happy for you. Both of you. Congratulations.” Karlach lifted her glass to her lips and squinted, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this fancy stuff.” Astarion let Elia chat with the two while he surveyed the ballroom. Nothing of import was happening just yet.

At least, not in the immediate vicinity. It was faint, but he heard a scurrying in the adjacent hallway. Too small to be humanoid. Too methodical to be an animal. Instincts told him this wasn’t some woodland critter coming out of hibernation. He needed to check it out.

“Wyll, you claim to be quite the dancer, you should take Elia to the floor.” The three of them looked at each other, then to Astarion. It struck them as odd that he would make this kind of suggestion to someone he had a lukewarm relationship with. Despite his efforts, they knew aught was amiss.

“Um, sure. Tav, shall we?” He bowed. She curtsied and they went to the floor, slightly perplexed. He would hear about this later, of that he was sure. 

Sneaking away this early proved to be a challenge, but he somehow managed. The hallways were dark and barren, excellent conditions for someone trying to sneak in. Astarion wasn’t keen on leaving Elia’s side, however he knew it would be idiocy to attack her with Wyll in close proximity. Not only was the Blade of Avernus a force to be reckoned with, assaulting him would make a foe of Ulder Ravengard and thus the Flaming Fists. 

Down the hall where he heard the scratching, he saw two beady eyes staring directly at him. The critter didn’t move as he stepped toward it. This definitely wasn’t a natural being. On edge, he reached for the dagger hidden in his sleeve. As he was about to launch it at the rodent, the mouse’s shape dispersed with a hiss, and a new figure warped and grew into an all too familiar druid.

“I knew you would find me. You may not be happy to see me, but we need to speak. Now.” Whatever Jaheira had to say, it had better be good, “I have word that the circle is infiltrating your little party tonight. Keep an eye out for anyone suspicious looking.”

Astarion was taken aback, “Tonight? In front of all these people?”

“Yes. They think they have you by the short hairs. Either you suppress your true strength and leave you vulnerable or you use the full scale of your powers and reveal your true nature to the nobility.” 

Amusing. Truly amusing. What did they think he had been doing all this time? Suppressing his prowess was second nature at this point. So what if he had to proceed the old fashioned way? Improvising was one of his specialties. And were these people stupid enough to believe his old allies wouldn’t come to their aid? Again, it was all deliciously amusing.

“My thanks. Now, tell me how you got in here,” he demanded. Jaheira shrugged nonchalantly.

“Easy. You have mice in your cellar. I followed them in. They led me to a nice, half empty sack of grain.” How disgusting. Astarion would have to bring this up with the chamberlain later. “Hurry back. It would be rude of your lordship to abandon his guests for too long.” Nature magic gathered around her, miniaturizing her back into a mouse. 

Back in the ballroom, the song was coming to a close. No one seemed to notice his absence, except Karlach and Shadowheart. They looked perturbed at his sudden departure. He huddled them in a circle.

“Are you two armed?” He asked. The ladies glanced at each other. Karlach nodded.

“Is shit going down tonight, Fangs?” 

“Yes. I just spoke with Jaheira. The circle  wants to spoil my good reputation,” he smirked, “We can’t have that, can we?” To his left, Elia was curtsying to Wyll, marking the conclusion of their dance. Ulder Ravengard stepped forward, asking for the next song. 

This was also acceptable. Wyll grabbed a glass of wine from one of the servers and merrily made his way over, sipping its contents. The cheeriness faded when he saw the seriousness on their faces. 

“Party’s going to get lively, Wyll,” Karlach updated him. 

“The Blade stands at the ready,” he patted the side of his doublet. Through the fabric, Astarion saw the outline of a dagger sheath.

Astarion’s senses were on fire. The four of them did their best to act as normal party goers, despite the imminent threat, mingling and munching on the hot and cold delicacies.

When Elia’s dance with the Duke was finally over, she dutifully returned to his side. Her heartbeat was elevated from the exertion, “how are you feeling,” he asked.

“Fine, why?”

“Do not leave my side,” he ordered, firmly grasping her hand. The steely side glance she briefly gave him indicated her irritation with him. 

Lady Jannath came up to them with open arms. She first greeted Elia with a kiss on both cheeks, “You look ravishing, my friend. This is quite the show you’ve put on for us, Lord Astarion,” her demeanor became business-like, “Oskar has the painting outside. He will be bringing it in shortly for the big reveal. I hope you don’t mind, but I snuck a peak at it. It’s wonderful! Oh, I just know you will be pleased!”

Astarion bowed, “I’m sure we will. And I’m sure you will keep us in your thoughts for the future.” Lady Jannath paled. It was no secret that her love match with the painter Oskar Fevras hadn’t been a financial boon.  While he had some renown, his commission fees weren’t enough to cover their lavish spending. This wouldn’t have been a problem if the Jannath’s tin mines hadn’t recently dried up. Astarion had been assisting in keeping them afloat in exchange for their cooperation. Rich or poor, the Jannath name still carried weight.

“Ah, there he is,” she pointed to the ballroom entrance. Oskar wheeled the tall, covered painting in on a cart with the assistance of three elves. Their hair and clothing looked Baldurian enough, but they couldn’t mask the unmistakable smells of their homeland. Fevras should have vetted his people better.

Only three. This couldn’t be the full assault team. Yet, there were no others present who shared their scents. The cart squeaked along the hardwood floor as the painting was guided to the center of the ballroom. Astarion had hoped the wheels wouldn’t leave any unsightly scuff marks. Patriars oohed and ahhed, forming a horseshoe around the painting, awaiting the big reveal.

Oskar cleared his throat and puffed his chest, “Lords and Ladies, it has been my distinct pleasure to capture, in paint, the love of the illustrious newlyweds. Without further ado, I present the first portrait of Lord and Lady Ancunín.” He pulled down the curtain, but instead of roaring applause there were gasps of shock.

The painting had been altered with crude fangs and devil horns on their faces. “HERETIC” was written in red across Elia’s torso. Oskar’s mouth flopped in humiliation, his head darting from the painting to Astarion.  

Before he could get in a word to defend himself, his three assistants began incantations to summon elementals. So, that was their strategy. A small force to sneak in, then fill their numbers with conjured creatures. Not a bad strategy, he had to admit. 

“Death to the heretic!” They shouted, raising their fists in the air. The crowd erupted in screams of terror. Those who could fight looked for any makeshift weapon they could use. Elementals were powerful entities. Nothing that they couldn’t handle, but them being in the middle of a group made the situation tricky.

“ Impero Tibi,” an intense voice called from the entrance. A voluptuous beauty stood confidently in the doorway, arm outstretched, having immobilized two of the three casters.

“Excellent as always, Gemma,” Gale proudly beamed.

“I know. Now, be a dear and finish the elementals before they trash the canapes. They look quite delicious.” She picked up a glass of wine from a nearby table, casually sipping it down while she held the spell. Gale winked at his beloved and got to work. 

The weave burned around him, illuminating his surroundings in the soft glow of his goddess’s touch. Fire materialized in the air around the ice elemental, ready to decimate.

“ Arde!” The beams reached their mark, weakening the frozen flesh, steam billowing from the impact, until it melted and shattered. The wizard smugly joined his fiancé, celebrating his job well done with a sip from her cup, “Fantastic! I’ll have to ask Astarion what this is.”

Wyll, Karlach, and Duke Ravengard surrounded the air elemental, weapons ready. The tiefling’s arms were a change from her usual great axe. Unable to hide the bulky weapon under her skirt, tonight she dual wielded hand axes. 

“It’s been a long time since we’ve fought side by side, my son,” Ravengard said, readying a repurposed heavy candelabra.

“Let’s see if you can keep up, Father!”

“Ha! I can still run circles around you, boy.” Ulder’s words were no empty boasts. He was every bit the warrior he had been in his youth, working in tandem with his son and Karlach to bludgeon the creature down. The change of weaponry did nothing to slow down the barbarian’s fury. 

Gusts of wind threatened to send them flying into the walls. Karlach fought against the gales, closing in enough to lodge an axe into its side. The creature’s shrieks were silenced by a dagger up the skull and a blow to the top of its head. 

When it was over, Ulder stood between them, arms around their shoulders, “My son and the daughter I never had.” He was ever proud.

That left the fire elemental for Astarion, Elia, and Shadowheart. He goaded the creature, and used his superior agility to dodge its attacks. The ladies had to be careful with their attacks; one touch would set their dresses aflame, immolating them. 

“ Flagra!” Divine energy shot from Shadowheart’s hand into the elemental. As it reeled, Elia threw her dagger into the creature’s core. It yelped in agony. Distracted from the pain, it didn’t see the looming death from above.

“Hta’zith!” A longsword masterfully cut down into its head, splitting it wide. The elemental crumbled into ash at the githyanki’s feet as it died. What a sight she was. A proud Knight of the Comet, holding her silver sword, wearing a fine yellow-green Waterdhavian gown.

“Lae’zel?!?” Elia gasped, embracing her old friend. Hugs were not common in githyanki culture, so the return embrace was a little awkward. 

By now fists had arrived to apprehend the casters Gemma had immobilized. How lucky they showed up right after the threat had been dealt with. The third mage escaped through the servants’ passages in the turmoil.

“I hope you don’t mind us bringing a plus one,” Gale smiled.

“I was in Waterdeep, searching for new information on liches, when Gale informed me of your nup shills.” Lae’zel placed the sword on her back, her lips upturned.

Gemma held the back of her hand to her mouth, “Nuptials.” 

“You’ll have to forgive our tardiness,” he added, “We needed to find suitable attire for our friend here.”

“Chk!” she held her nose to the air, “I am a warrior of Creche K’liir. I will not wear garments that slow me down in combat. I dare say our cause of lateness was warranted.”

The sun had set and Astarion heard his spawn stir in the spaces below. There was a scuffle and then it abruptly stopped. The intruder had been caught. He could tell by the movement of sound that the caster was being dragged to the dungeon. That would be dealt with later. 

Maids had arrived to clean up the aftermath of the battle. Fortunately, thanks to Elia’s Fifthday socials, most of the nobility were well aware of their predicament. She had played it up to their advantage, having woven a harrowing tale of kidnapping, rescue, madmen, and true love conquering all. Astarion was honestly surprised she didn’t throw a fairy godmother into the prose. Bards did like their embellishments. In any case, the story garnered support and sympathy from powerful families. 

Already, she was making her rounds, rallying the aristocracy, encouraging everyone to forget the abhorrent event; to make the most of the remaining evening. More wine was poured, food replenished, and the band was instructed to play. In the blink of an eye, all were lively again.

In the hours that followed, Astarion once again snuck off. This time, to the dungeon. His spawn had the elf chained and gagged. Through the cloth, he could hear the man try to curse him, his chains rattling as he tried lunging at his captor. How to extract information from him? Removing the gag could lead to incantations. Best to be patient and go with the tried and true method. 

Astarion removed his outer jacket and handed it to one of the spawn, not wanting to risk it being stained. Baring his fangs, he watched the elf’s face go from bravado into damning revelation.

“You committed the unpardonable crime of entering my home, uninvited, with the intent of harming my family.” The vampire grabbed the elf by the hair, slamming his head into the wall, “And failed spectacularly. You’re about to learn how long eternity can be.”

Sinking his fangs in, he took his time draining this one, wanting to watch the life slip out of his prey. The mage vainly struggled against the vampire’s grasp, screaming through the cloth, begging for someone to save him. No gods are coming for you, he thought. Once he stopped moving, Astarion wiped his mouth with a clean towel.

“Bury him,” he ordered the spawn. Two days he would have everything he needed to know. 

The remainder of the evening went swimmingly. At the end of the night, the companions retired to the library to wind down. Gale approached Astarion with a box in hand.

“I brought it, like you asked. I'm not sure what you want with the Astral Prism, but I have no use for it.” After the brain’s defeat, Gale had taken possession of the artifact.

“Oh, I wanted it as a token of mine and Elia’s first adventure together,” he nodded in thanks, “It has some sentimental value.”

“Tsk’va!” Lae’zel swore, “My prince’s prison. It should be thrown into a pit of lava, never to be seen again. Not kept as a keepsake!”

There was more to it than that, but Astarion needed to keep his mouth shut for the time being. The prism was going to be an eventual player in his long term agenda for control of Baldur’s Gate. A decades long plan currently in its infancy, which could boost him to untold status on the Sword Coast. 

Astarion is laying the groundwork for his endgame. Let's hope he's not getting too ambitious. Feel free to leave a comment, like, or reblog.

[wakandamama]

I got a bit of a loaded question, sis. And if it's inappropriate you can tell me, but you said you're Black and Cherokee, so I thought you might have a good perspective.

Do you have any suggested authors, books, or articles behind what seems to be this lack of Black and Indigenous solidarity? I was scrolling this morning and I saw this post that literally was two seconds from dropping a slur (the dogwhistles were horns) and I'm like ... well damn. White Supremacy works terrible wonders, bc I would think the circumstances that brought our groups together would cause some sort of solidarity, so I'm always blown away when I see stuff like that. With other groups I'm familiar with the reasons behind it, but I don't want to assume things for this one.

Sure thing! I'm also gonna annotate this with my own story and learned knowledge of the struggles I've encountered while trying to expand the understand of my identity at the end.

This awesome article by Amber Starks

All these articles by Alaina E. Roberts she amazing at inner community discussion on this topic along with just being an amazing scholar and writer

This Guardian article by Caleb Gayle (another amazing scholar and author, just anything he's written on the topic will do but this article really helped me understand why I had issues connecting) that explores a case study of a Black family aving to fight for a claim to their indigenous identity with certain tribes that want to erase their history of participating in the chattel slavery of Black people

Also Gayle's book We Refuse to Forget

The book Untangling a Red, White, and Black Heritage by Darnella Davis

The Book Blood Politics by Circe Sturm

All of Zora Neal Hurston's black anthropology films they are free on YouTube or through her foundation site and the Black Film Archive

This article by Rebecca Nagle that explores the history of Cherokee confederates and the community slow acknowledgement and atonement for them

This blog post leads to many other articles and interviews with other Black Natives and their experiences in different tribes

This Kyle Mays interview about the re-establishment of Cherokee Freedmans status (hey that's me) and it impact

These npr articles 1 2 about The fight for tribal rights of Cherokee Freedmans

kararoselles, choctawchickasawfreedmen, and faithcampos on tik tok are incredible too

---

Okay so boom, me personally I am both Cherokee Freedman and by Blood quantum (ick) am Cherokee. However I claim my rights though the Dawes Rolls my great- grandfather enrolled too after emancipation because his father (and 2 aunts) were Cherokee slaves. I only really started connect with the native part of my identity recently (like 3 years)

Growing up I was told a lot of the family stories and raised to do a lot of old school practices that are crossed with being Black and being Cherokee. You drop me off in prairie land or a river side I'm surviving, (I hate it but I can process a deer) I grew up weaving baskets/wicker and doing beading, I know a lot of family recipes that now that I've expanded my knowledge are meals that are mixed between traditional Native American foods and AA cooking. My great-grandfather helped build Grand Lake in OK. My family is even prominently buried in and care takers for 2 Freedman Cemeteries.

But I was always taught that was just part of my and my family's Blackness. I have no living family that aren't Black in some way. Being Native American was an afterthought because of the generational racial trauma. Multiple of my full blood grandmas weren't allowed to have their grandchildren at their homes or on their land because they were Black. My mother often told me stories that her grandmother would sneak them to her home and land to learn how to forage, everytime they left she would cut her hair off to give to them because there was always the threat that they were going to get reported and her rights would be stripped. One of my ancestors is lost because he was a runaway slave from the Cherokee slave trade, many were denied status at some point

It's a lot and it didn't help that when I learned about this side of me and tired to reach out to the Native American club in my school. The Cherokee people there started being very racist to me and dismissed me. It jaded me, it pissed me off, I am still bitter and will probably be until I die.

Because a lot of the problems I advocated for (such as local climate change, environmental degradation, contaminated water, land stealing, food deserts, ect.) We're movements spearheaded by Native Americans in my area. I was denied say or acknowledgement because my issues were "Black issues". If someone told you "Hey this white rancher who had only been here 12 years is illegal trying to destroy a Native American cemetery so he had more graze land for his cows" the trial authority would be on that. But no, since the cemetery is Black Cherokees and Freedman they don't want to claim jurisdiction to help my family save it.

But, I do recognize that there has been a long and important history of Native and Black solidarity from social justice to environmental things. To just the clear fact that Native American people had everything stolen from them by white supremacy while Black Americans were stolen people brought here. Just as there was chattel slavery of Black people in certain major tribes, there were many that protected and supported escaping slaves. That history and cross culture is mine, I've made it one of my side missions to learn more about my Native side's culture, reconnects as some of my older family members are (mostly through folklore learning and connecting the things I was raised to do to Cherokee practices, participating in tribal news/votes ect.) But I haven't got the energy to connect with the people yet, I haven't gone to any in person Circles or powwows. I've only met other Black Cherokees with the intention to have community and friendship with.

Unfortunately but not surprising, the cause of a lack of solidarity comes down to white supremacy and global antiblackness. But I think that is the cause for a lack of ALL POC solidarity with Black people, especially in America.

------

And for the hoteps that are gonna find this post and try to be fucking weird on it.

NO! BLACK PEOPLE (THOSE DESCENDANTS OF THE SURVIVORS OF THE MIDDLE PASSAGE SLAVE TRADE, DEMOGRAPHICALLY CATEGORIZED AS AFRICAN AMERICANS TODAY, MAJORITY OF US) ARE NOT THE ORIGINAL NATIVE AMERICANS OR OTHER INDIGENOUS PEOPLES TO THE AMERICAS

Do NOT be a fucking weirdo and deny the legacy of survival, tragedy, perseverance, and love that our ancestors went through in the past to lead to your lineage of today. I am a special and blessed case to have the family records, story keeping, and DNA testing available to claim my indigenous identity that is directly linked in through my Black identity.

DO NOT BE WEIRD ON THIS POST, THOSE STONE HEADS WITH THICK LIPS ARE NOT WHAT YOU HAVE BEEN MISLED TO THINK THEY ARE. CHEROKEE NATION WAS A DICK BEFORE HOPKINS WAS ELECTED. PLEASE RESEARCH YOUR LINEAGE BEFORE YOU HOP ON MY POST BECAUSE I WILL EMBARRASS YOU WITH THE RECEIPTS OF MINE

[thundergrace]

I was so baffled by "Black cemetery" until I realized they meant "slave cemetery." I doubt there's any documentation to accompany these burials. It's hard enough to accept as a Black American that you'll never know where you come from, but it's extremely difficult even tracing your lineage back a few hundred years to the Black people who were brought to the same damn country. There's so little documentation.

[ridenwithbiden]

Dead #PresidentsDay Abraham Lincoln #BlackHistoryMonth #AbrahamLincoln became the #UnitedStates’ 16th President in 1861, issuing the #EmancipationProclamation that declared forever free those slaves within the Confederacy in 1863.

Lincoln warned the South in his Inaugural Address: “In your hands, my dissatisfied fellow countrymen, and not in mine, is the momentous issue of civil war. The government will not assail you…. You have no oath registered in Heaven to destroy the government, while I shall have the most solemn one to preserve, protect and defend it.”

Lincoln thought secession illegal, and was willing to use force to defend Federal law and the Union. When Confederate batteries fired on Fort Sumter and forced its surrender, he called on the states for 75,000 volunteers. Four more slave states joined the Confederacy but four remained within the Union. The Civil War had begun.

The son of a Kentucky frontiersman, Lincoln had to struggle for a living and for learning. Five months before receiving his party’s nomination for President, he sketched his life:

“I was born Feb. 12, 1809, in Hardin County, Kentucky. My parents were both born in Virginia, of undistinguished families–second families, perhaps I should say. My mother, who died in my tenth year, was of a family of the name of Hanks…. My father … removed from Kentucky to … Indiana, in my eighth year…. It was a wild region, with many bears and other wild animals still in the woods. There I grew up…. Of course when I came of age I did not know much. Still somehow, I could read, write, and cipher … but that was all.”

Lincoln made extraordinary efforts to attain knowledge while working on a farm, splitting rails for fences, and keeping store at New Salem, Illinois. He was a captain in the Black Hawk War, spent eight years in the Illinois legislature, and rode the circuit of courts for many years. His law partner said of him, “His ambition was a little engine that knew no rest.”

He married Mary Todd, and they had four boys, only one of whom lived to maturity. In 1858 Lincoln ran against Stephen A. Douglas for Senator. He lost the election, but in debating with Douglas he gained a national reputation that won him the Republican nomination for President in 1860.

As President, he built the Republican Party into a strong national organization. Further, he rallied most of the northern Democrats to the Union cause. On January 1, 1863, he issued the Emancipation Proclamation that declared forever free those slaves within the Confederacy.

Lincoln never let the world forget that the Civil War involved an even larger issue. This he stated most movingly in dedicating the military cemetery at Gettysburg: “that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain–that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom–and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

Lincoln won re-election in 1864, as Union military triumphs heralded an end to the war. In his planning for peace, the President was flexible and generous, encouraging Southerners to lay down their arms and join speedily in reunion.

The spirit that guided him was clearly that of his Second Inaugural Address, now inscribed on one wall of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D. C.: “With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation’s wounds…. ”

On Good Friday, April 14, 1865, Lincoln was assassinated at Ford’s Theatre in Washington by John Wilkes Booth, an actor, who somehow thought he was helping the South. The opposite was the result, for with Lincoln’s death, the possibility of peace with magnanimity died.

[lathalea]

For the Sweet Bingo, hopefully no one else has thought to ask for kissing on a ferris wheel and Thorin. I think it could be interesting if Yrsa somehow made an appearance. I do love her! Ultimately, it is your playground. Hopefully the muses are kind. Happy writing!

Hello hello @sweetestgbye! Guess what, it's finally happened, here is your request for the Sweet and Spicy Bingo by @fellowshipofthefics-- sorry it took so long and enjoy! :)

Relationships: Thorin x Yrsa (from Blame it on Cider)

Rating: G

Warnings: none

Author's notes: A modern take on Thorin and Yrsa's relationship. Since @sweetestgbye gave me a free hand with picking a Sweet and Spicy Bingo prompt, I chose "soulmates".

✨Soulmates✨

“Are you crazy, Thorin? I’m not getting up there!” Yrsa huffed and stomped her foot. And stomping her feet while wearing those new ruby-red high heels was a very difficult thing to do. But she was on a date with the hottest guy at the uni, a.k.a. Thorin Thrainsson, a.k.a. her boyfriend, and she just had to look her best. Especially since today he wore his hair (his amazing hair!) loose and he smiled at her with that soft little smile of his that softened his features, and looked at her with his dreamy blue eyes… making her knees unusually weak. But she was sure the cider they had just been drinking was at least partially to blame. She took another sip and stole a glance at the huge Ferris wheel, the newest–and biggest–attraction of the local amusement park. No, she was most certainly not getting up into that monstrosity, even though everyone in her home town kept on talking about how great it was. For a whole week Yrsa tried to ignore all the Instagram pictures or TikToks everyone kept on posting: “Look, this is me on the Ferris wheel!” “This is me and my bae kissing on the Ferris wheel!” “My doggo takes a ride with me on the Ferris wheel!” “Cute baby’s first time on the Ferris wheel!” “Mikey gets sick again on the Ferris wheel!”

Somehow, Yrsa did not think it was great at all.

“I got us tickets for the midnight ride, see?” Thorin took out four green tokens from the pocket of his leather jacket and purred seductively. “We’ll have the whole pod only for us. It's a full moon tonight, just think how romantic it will be: you, me, the moonlight in your fiery hair…”

“Thorin Thrainsson, I know exactly what you’re doing and sweet-talking me won’t work!” Yrsa poked her finger into his chest (very hard chest, she might add, and a very enjoyable one too, especially when not covered with that black rock band t-shirt he was currently wearing. She was referring, of course, to how well-defined his muscles were. She needed to see his bare chest often. For science. She needed to pass her anatomy exams somehow, right?), “I refuse to become one of the slaves of the consumerist society and go on this ride to hell! Besides, we can do so many other things, like go for a walk in the park…”

“At midnight? I thought you didn’t like that cemetery nearby,” Thorin furrowed his brow.

“Well… true, but still… We have options! Lots and lots of them! And all of them are on the ground!”

“Yrsa,” Thorin murmured, his half-lidded eyes cast a smouldering glance at her. “I know you’re not a fan of heights, but I’ll be with you all the time, holding your hand, just like I do now. You will be fine. I promise.”

Yrsa looked at their joined hands and then back at Thorin’s face. Very handsome face. And that wavy hair of his, dark as the night around them. And the way his lips moved… and she knew what these lips were capable of doing when they were alone. And they would be very much alone during the ride on the Ferris wheel. She swallowed.

No, Yrsa had to stand her ground.

“I won’t be fine! Can you imagine me hanging in the air, 300 feet above ground? It’s not natural!” She waved her hand emphatically, her ruby-red nail polish sparkling in the lamplight.

“I thought that this could be something special,” his rumbly voice reached her ears despite the hustle and bustle of the amusement park around them. “It’s our first anniversary, after all…”

“Oh. Is it? Yes, you’re right! How could I forget? it’s August, and our first kiss was at that wedding… You were so unbelievably grumpy, remember?” She chuckled.

“Only because you kept on brushing me off all day long!” Thorin grunted.

“I was just after a messy breakup,” Yrsa sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. “I’m still ashamed of how much I’ve drunk that night. But I’m glad you hadn’t given up on me then.”

“It’s not often I wake up next to a gorgeous woman who insists I’m her soulmate and then falls back to sleep, drooling on my chest…” “Hey!” Yrsa protested.

“... in a very cute and feminine way, of course,” Thorin grinned.

“Nice save!”

“Thank you,” Thorin made a mock bow, making Yrsa giggled and took another sip of cider from her paper cup.

“One year already, huh?” She hummed. “Our anniversary. I’m sorry, I feel so stupid, I should have remembered…”

“You remember all the Latin names of the bones in the human body and I remember the important dates and appointments. That’s how we roll, right?” Thorin pulled her close so that she was facing him now.

“Right,” she pecked him on his bearded cheek. It smelled like cider, strawberry ice-cream, and that sandalwood fragrance she had given him for Christmas. “Has anyone told you you’re the sexiest mechanical engineering student I’ve ever met?”

“Not often enough,” he rumbled, his lips drifting towards hers, but Yrsa tilted her head back.

“Am I not getting my one year anniversary kiss?” Thorin frowned.

“It depends,” Yrsa wrinkled her nose. 

“On?”

“On whether we are going on that contraption from hell,” she pointed at the said contraption moving in a steady, circular, and slightly sickening motion above them.

“Yes, we are,” Thorin said with conviction.

“No, we aren’t,” Yrsa said with conviction.

“So… are you withholding kisses from me? It’s blackmail!”

“It’s called a self-preservation instinct!”

“Yrsa. The Ferris wheel is safe. I swear. It’s brand new, it passed all the tests—I was helping with the fatigue tests, remember? You will be alright!” Thorin squeezed her hand. 

“I won’t!” Yrsa shook her head. 

“Look at that kid, he just got off the Ferris wheel and he’s beaming!” “It’s Mikey Dorisson, he’s going to puke.”

“No, he’s not, he’s… oh. Well.”

“I told you.”

“But his sister looks happy!”

“Because she’s just uploaded another TikTok vid of him puking,” Yrsa scowled.

“Well, you won’t puke!”

“Because I’m not going!” “Even if I ask you to close your eyes so that I can give you one kiss for every minute we’re up there?” Thorin purred, pecking the tip of her nose. “Hmmm… how about one kiss every ten seconds?” Yrsa batted her eyelashes innocently. “That can be…” Thorin started.

“What’s up, bro? Hiya, Yrsa!” A dark-haired teenager in a worn, navy blue baseball cap waved at them.

“Frerin! What are you doing here?” Thorin growled.

“I came to see how you were doing! Yrsa, have you said ‘yes’?” Frerin gesticulated excitedly.

“He meant the Ferris wheel,” Thorin interjected, but Yrsa clearly saw the deadly stare he directed at his younger brother.

“I don’t— Ouch!” Frerin made a jump. “Ah, yeah. Right. Sure. I meant the Ferris wheel. So, are you going?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t prepared my last will yet,” Yrsa whispered conspiratorially, making him laugh.

“I wouldn’t go if I were you,” Frerin replied with a glint in his eye. “Can you imagine spending so much time alone with my big bro? He’ll probably start telling you everything about the centrifugal force and all that other boring stuff! And what if you catch a cold? It’s very windy up there, you know. Oh, and…”

“Shut up, Frerin,” Thorin groaned, clenching his fists.

“Actually, Thorin was about to bribe me with some cotton candy…” Yrsa stated.

“Were I now?” Thorin’s eyebrow travelled up his forehead. Slowly.

“Yes, you were, “ Yrsa exclaimed enthusiastically. “Cotton candy and that big white teddy bear from the Mirkwood Shooting Gallery.”

“You know how I hate that stuck-up guy who runs the place,” Thorin sighed with a frown.

“But the teddy bear is sooo cute!” She batted her eyelashes again. It always worked. “Please?”

“Well…” Thorin hummed, but Yrsa knew him well enough to know she had already won. 

“And you better keep on hugging me all the time we’re up there,” she wrapped her arms around his upper arm and pecked his cheek. “Deal?”

“Deal!” Thorin pulled her into his arms and kissed her right on her lips, most probably ruining her ruby-red lipstick, but at that very moment she did not really care. She could never say no to his kisses. So she reciprocated.

“Guys! You’re disgusting!” Frerin groaned theatrically. “I’m going to get some ice-cream. Who wants some?”

Sadly, no one replied to him. Thorin and Yrsa were too busy.

***

“I’m going to name him ‘Beorn’.” Yrsa hugged her giant teddy bear as she settled herself in her Ferris wheel seat.

“Like that guy who rented us his vacation cabin?” Thorin wondered. 

“Yeah!”

“I don’t see the resemblance.” “Well, Beorn here is… fluffy.  Just like that guy. He reminded me of a big teddy bear.” She chuckled and sat the bear on the seat opposite her.

“Beorn? A big teddy bear? Didn’t you mean a big, rabid bear?” Thorin put his arm around her shoulder.

“No, that’s you,” Yrsa grinned, but then the Ferris wheel started moving, making her pale. “I’m going to need that hug and kiss now.”

Thorin, of course, complied.

 “Yrsa…” Thorin whispered as their lips parted. “You can open your eyes now. We are on top now and the view is…”

“No.”

“Not even a tiny bit?” He murmured into her ear and moved away before she could protest.

“Nuh-uh,” she shook her head, her eyes still closed.

“Not even if I tell you that I have a little something for you? For our anniversary?” Yrsa decided that Thorin using his deep, purring voice had to be classified as a crime. She couldn’t say no, could she? She opened one eye. Just a little bit. Just to see why Thorin had stopped embracing her.

What she saw made Yrsa open her other eye and gasp. Thorin was kneeling on one knee in front of her and held something in his hands.

“Yrsa… I have to tell you something. You knew it from the moment we first met, but it took me a whole six months to realize that you were my… soulmate.”

“T-Thorin?” Her voice trembled. Somehow, Yrsa forgot that she was sitting in a small pod 300 feet above ground in darkness, sailing through the air with the moon hanging above them. “What are you saying?”

“I’m trying to say that you are the one I want to spend my whole life with.” Thorin opened the little box he held in his hand. Against the bottle green velvet, something glittered like the stars above them. “Will you marry me, Yrsa?”

Before she drowned in the low, velvety rumble of his voice, in the deep blue sea of his gaze, Yrsa managed to whisper, “Yes.”

At that very moment, she was not afraid of heights at all.

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[jackrussell1907]

“Huck and Jim in Their Final Years”

In 1903, on his last visit to his in-laws at Quarry Farm in Elmira, New York, Mark Twain (1835-1910) posed for this photograph with his friend, John T. Lewis (1835-1906), who was born a free man in Maryland and who had migrated to upstate New York. They met in 1877 after Lewis saved the lives of Twain’s sister-in-law and her daughter by courageously stopping their runaway carriage at no small risk to his own safety. Lewis was an Elder in the Church of the Brethren (the Dunkers), and he and Twain often talked about religion and other such matters. Lewis loved to read, and Twain would send him every one of his books when they came out, with a loving inscription in each one. After Lewis retired from farming, Twain and his in-laws arranged to have him receive a pension. When Twain returned to writing Huckleberry Finn, in 1879 while at Elmira, Lewis was one of the real-life people upon whom he based the character of Jim, and it is even possible that his acquaintance with Lewis caused Twain to continue working on the novel after having earlier set it aside.

Twain’s friendship with Lewis was hardly atypical; of all the white authors in this period, he was the one most fully immersed in and appreciative of African American culture and the one most at home in the company of African Americans. Near the end of his life he recalled a time in New York City when he was walking with another black friend, George Griffin, and people stared at them: "a 'white man' & a negro walking together was a new spectacle to them. The glances embarrassed George, but not me, for the companionship was proper: in some ways he was my equal, in some others my superior.”

Published in 1884/1885, Huckleberry Finn is about a racist boy’s realization of the full humanity of a fugitive slave. Ten years later, in Pudd’nhead Wilson, Twain would deconstruct the very idea of race itself as nothing more than "a fiction of law and custom" without any basis in biology. As Toni Morrison stated, "Mark Twain talked about racial ideology in the most powerful, eloquent, and instructive way I have ever read."

Mark Twain and John T. Lewis are both buried with their families in Woodlawn Cemetery in Elmira

[the-girl-who-didnt-smile]

(Scrapped Concept) Maman la Vie

This is the last time I’m planning to draw this character, and her male counterpart, as they were both conceived in poor taste. 

Lengthy explanation / rant below cut: 

WHY THIS WAS A TERRIBLE CONCEPT FROM THE START

Long ago, I grossly mischaracterized the real-life Baron Samedi and Maman Brigitte like so: 

…In the actual mythology Baron Samedi is like a womanizer who is cheating Maman Brigitte all the time. Maman Brigitte is also really promiscuous…

…In Voodoo, Maman Brigitte is portrayed as a white or light-skinned biracial woman because Maman Brigitte is the only one of the Loa that is European in origin, not African…

OOF! I CRINGE!!!

In all seriousness, the above is an incredibly offensive mischaracterization of the lwa. 

Let’s start with Baron Samedi: I confused him with a different category of spirits, called “Gede”. The male Gede are known for being overtly sexual, but it is not because they are adulterous lechers. They celebrate sexuality because sexuality is the process by which life is created, for death is entwined with life. They also do this for the purpose of mocking social hierarchy - namely, the race/caste system that emerged out of chattel slavery. Zora Neale Hurston describes this at length in Tell My Horse. The reason why the Gede wear top hats actually pertains to this. The Gede are often portrayed as dark-skinned, for they are the spirits of enslaved people. Hence, the favorite spirit of the Black peasantry adopts the dress of the white slave-owning class - the top hat - for the purpose of mocking this social hierarchy. Their overt sexuality also serves this purpose - to alienate the white upper class.

My description of Maman Brigitte is yet more egregious. She is not promiscuous at all, nor is she Caucasian, biracial, or light-skinned.

Here is how the lwa are portrayed by the master painter, Andre Pierre:

Pierre portrays the lwa with a range of skin tones, where some of the lwa (e.g., Ezili Freda, Damballa Wedo) are portrayed as lighter skinned. Maman Brigitte is shown next to Baron Samedi in the bottom right corner.

Here is closer shot of Maman Brigitte, alongside Baron Samedi and Gede Nibo:

Maman Brigitte is portrayed as dark skinned, with the same skin tone as Baron Samedi and Gede Nibo. Additionally, she is not promiscuous, but a dignified and reserved older woman. 

Andre Pierre is not the only Haitian artist to portray her in this manner. She is consistently portrayed this way by Haitian artists, such as Gerard Paul: 

And Roudy Azor: 

Eziaku Atuama Nwokocha describes Maman Brigitte (Gran Brijit) like so: “Gede, like all lwa, has many incarnations, including Bawon Samedi, a guardian of the cemetery; Gran Brijit, an old woman, keeper of the cemetery, and Gede’s partner; and Gede Nimbo, a male spirit who is often honored by queer ­people and who appears as an effeminate dandy.” (p. 37)

Elsewhere: “Gede’s delighted embrace of sexuality is an undeniable display of male desires. The spirit manifests in multiple genders, like his female counterpart Gran Brijit, but only the male version are so explicitly sexual. No female deity in the Vodou pantheon expresses sexual desires so emphatically or bluntly in a ceremony. There are female spirits who are coy, mysterious, vengeful, or wise, but not one proudly proclaims her sexual desires…” (p. 39-40)

Much like her male counterparts, there is a lot of nuance to the portrayal of Maman Brigitte’s sexuality (rather, lack thereof). This too pertains to the history of slavery and the manner in which racism is gendered: “During the centuries of enslavement in Hispaniola, enslaved Black women were subject to routine sexual abuse from White enslavers and others with the power to dominate them. To justify this commonplace brutality, Black women were constructed as hypersexual temptresses and prostitutes who were always available for sexual conquest...To combat the construction of Black women as hypersexual, their sexual desires were ignored entirely, characterized by reductive binaries that placed whores on one side and good, chaste Christian women on the other: there was no room for the actual desires of real women."

Source: Nwokocha, Eziaku Atuama. Vodou en vogue: fashioning Black divinities in Haiti and the United States. UNC Press Books, 2023.

Hence, my description of the lwa was incredibly offensive. I read it from a source that turned out to be not reputable. I apologize for being so careless in my research. 

I do not know why the portrayal of Maman Brigitte as a White or Half White woman has persisted in the public consciousness. Surely, it is because it reinforces racist stereotypes of Black men and colorism against dark skinned Black women. But I think it is also because her name sounds so similar to the Celtic Saint. This does not mean that she is White. For example, the name “Baron Samedi” sounds European. If you didn’t know any better, you might think he is French, as “Samedi” is a French word. But the “Samedi” in “Baron Samedi” is distinctly non-European in origin. It is either derived from the indigenous term Zemi, or it is African in origin. Similar statements can be said to the lwa that arrived in New Orleans; Damballah became “Dani Blanc”, Ogou Feray became “Joe Feraille”, etc. Vodouisants were forced to Europeanize the names of these ancestral deities, who can trace their origins back to Africa. I remain uneducated about the true origins of Maman Brigitte, and it is something I have been meaning to research.

A while back, I spoke to a guy from Haiti on this topic. He got really ticked off and started talking about how terrible portrayals of Baron Samedi and Gran Brijit are. One of the main things he emphasized was how they play into fucked up, racist stereotypes of Black people. He got so pissed off I never got a chance to get to the root of the matter. Now that I’ve taken the time to research this more carefully, I realize just how horrendous the mischaracterizations are. Incredibly offensive descriptions are written in books, which turn into characters in various media that perpetuate these stereotypes. Just look at how common it is to see Baron Samedi portrayed as a lecher, and Maman Brigitte portrayed as a Caucasian or biracial woman! I didn’t fully grasp the gravity of what this man was trying to impress on me, until now. I completely underestimated the volume of misinformation that exists, and the appalling degree to which Vodou has been disrespected. 

I really cannot stress this enough: The lwa are comparable to Catholic Saints. They are not these Satanic demons, and have only been mischaracterized as such due to the demonization of African religions that is rooted in the history of slavery. As far as I can tell, Baron Samedi really is one of the most misrepresented of the lwa; so is Maman Brigitte. Should they ever be put into Hazbin Hotel, I think it would be best to pay tribute to the great Haitian painters of the 20th century. To do otherwise is deeply disrespectful to people in New Orleans, Haiti, and other places in the diaspora. But perhaps this whole endeavor illustrates why it is a mistake to put either one of them into the show - that it does cross the line into cultural appropriation.

My depiction of the “Maman Brigitte”-type character and her male counterpart for sure crosses the line of cultural appropriation... It’s. SO. BAD!!!! I for sure deserve to get canceled for this one… Hence, I intend to correct this egregious error. 

I might not have communicated this well in my previous post, but this is my intention: I have no plans to proceed with the old concept of “Maman la Vie” or “The Baron of Death”. This is the last time I plan to draw either one of them. I want to proceed with what I have been calling “the alternate concept” (i.e., “Baron of the Dead” and “Gran Maman”). I want to swap this “alternate concept” in, and move the old concept into a scrapped folder. If I had the time, I would for sure just go back, redraw old drawings, and delete the old concept. Unfortunately, I work full time, so I probably do not have time to do this. But the old concept bothers me so much, if I have time I will go back and fully redo this. In the meantime, my plans are to develop and proceed with the “alternate concept” (i.e., “Baron of the Dead” and “Gran Maman”). At minimum, I want to draw both of them at least once and refine their character descriptions. These would be moved into the main folder, replacing the old concept.

I hope that makes sense… it probably doesn’t…. Sorry, my brain is tired and communication is not my forte…my creative process is a hot mess and the inner machinations of my mind are an enigma…

ACTUAL IMAGE DESCRIPTION

I still drew her one last time because she is very fun to draw. I would be lying if I said I did not love this character on some level… Her personality is so outrageous, it is really funny to me. This tiny, under 5’ woman is the craziest sexual sadist in all of existence…!

In my brain, this makes so much sense. If you’re the immortal goddess of life who can heal any injury… your mind probably would go to that place, wouldn’t it…?

But yeah. This was totally conceived in poor taste…just, just start firing nukes at me!!! However, I love this character too much to completely scrap her, so instead I am going to reinvent her as a demon. A character with this personality clearly belongs in the setting of Hell. It’s so easy to just turn her into a demon, I don’t know why I didn’t think of this from the start. 

That demon character is named “Lavi”. I guess these outfits would be outfits she might try on if she were to ever assume a human disguise… But she would probably only wear them briefly before stepping into a discount Harley D. Quinn fit. 

The dress on the left is inspired by Nina Kristofferson as Billie Holiday. The dress on the right is inspired by a dress worn by Josephine Baker on May 5th 1953, when she appeared as Flower Girl at the Famous Charity Ball of the "Little white Beds" held at the Moulin Rouge, Paris. At that, I totally think someone in the cast of Hazbin Hotel has got to be styled after Josephine D. Baker herself - ideally, Alastor’s mother. I like that idea so much, I’m actually tempted to try to draw my take on canon Alastor’s mother…

[tomorrowusa]

A Conservative politician is making millions off of slavery 190 years after slavery was abolished in Britain and its territories.

Tory Richard Drax comes from a filthy rich family notorious for having established the model for slave-based sugar plantations in the Caribbean in the 1620s. Even by the standards of a slave-based economy, the record of the Drax family was appalling.

The Barbados plantation was worked by up to 327 slaves at a time, with the death rate for both adults and children high. Sir Hilary Beckles, chairman of the 20-state Caribbean Community’s (Caricom) Reparations Commission and vice-chancellor of the University of the West Indies, estimates that as many 30,000 slaves died on the Drax plantations in Barbados and Jamaica over 200 years.

Thanks largely to their their ill-gained riches, the Drax family owns a 700 acre walled estate in Dorset which includes a deer park. And apparently they are getting even richer.

Despite threats to make Richard Drax pay reparations and seize his family’s plantation – described by one historian as a “killing field” of enslaved Africans – the government is now planning to pay market value for 21 hectares (about 15 football pitches) of his land for housing. The move has angered many Barbadians, especially those who say the Drax family played a pivotal role in the development of slavery-based sugar production and the Barbados slave code in the 17th century. This denied Black Africans basic human rights, including the right to life. Critics have called the planned deal an “atrocity” and said this is “one plantation that the government should not be paying a cent for”. Trevor Prescod, MP and chair of the Barbados National Taskforce on Reparations, said: “What a bad example this is. Reparations and Drax Hall are now top of the global agenda. How do we explain this to the world? “The government should not be entering into any [commercial] relationship with Richard Drax, especially as we are negotiating with him regarding reparations.”

It's baffling why the Barbadian government would enter into such a deal.

Drax, the MP for South Dorset, travelled to Barbados to meet prime minister Mia Mottley. It is understood he was asked to hand over all or a substantial part of Drax Hall plantation. If he refused, legal action would follow. Mottley’s spokesperson said the current Drax Hall purchase was not linked to reparations and the government “constantly acquires land through this process”. Mottley has pledged to build 10,000 new homes to meet demand on the island, where there are 20,000 applications for housing. A senior valuation surveyor said the market value for agricultural land with an alternative use for housing would be about Bds$150,000 (£60,000) an acre. At this price, the 21 hectares could net Drax Bds$8m (£3.2m). The land would be for 500 low- and middle-income family homes, which would be for sale.

I'd just grab the land and pay Drax a token £1 just so he legally can't claim he wasn't compensated at all for the transfer.

Barbados poet laureate Esther Phillips, who grew up next to Drax Hall, said the planned deal was an “atrocity” and a case of the victims’ descendants now compensating the descendant of the enslaver. “He should be giving us this land as reparations, not further enriching himself … at the expense of Barbadians. As Barbadians, we must speak out against this.”

And with the reported thousands of deaths during the 200+ years of slavery at the Drax plantation, how many people will be comfortable with the idea that their new home is built on what was essentially a forced labor camp which became a model for regional slavery? Isn't the Drax property on Barbados a large cemetery?