#Echoes of history

[silent-calling]

And now time for: Echoes of History, first installment.

So I saw this tweet earlier,

- and thought "huh, that seems odd anyone might celebrate a Nazi." so, I did a little bit of digging, and found the Politico article to read for myself what the hubbub was about.

Now, I'm on principal skeptical of headlines, so I read through it, and the article details the ovation was for one Yaroslav Hunka, a 98 year old WWII veteran from modern day western Ukraine. He was heralded as a hero, not just to Ukraine, but to Canada as well, having been cited as a freedom fighter against Soviet rule.

However, at least one Jewish advocacy group took issue with this, because this man was a member of the 14th Waffen Grenadier division in the Shutztaffel, 1st Galician unit (Wikipedia article, well sourced) - meaning, this man served in the Nazi party's paramilitary forces, along with a collection of men from Galicia, which can be seen below.

Pretty shocking, huh? How could we possibly honor a man who obliged to such a heinous group as the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei, commonly known as the Nazis?

Well, the answer might surprise you, if you're not familiar with the history of the region.

See, Nazi Germany marched through Poland in 1939, same years as the Soviets. But what happened prior to these invasions is arguably as heinous or moreso - the Holodomor, or "terror famines," of Ukraine. Ukraine was subsumed by the USSR, and in the aftermath the farmers of fertile Ukraine would be forced to surrender nearly all their yield to the Party for redistribution, which led to the starvation of between 3.5 and 7 million Ukrainians and some of the worst famines across Europe. Those who didn't starve were often rounded up, executed or imprisoned, and their land redistributed to the comrades of the Party.

Needless to say, Ukraine and her neighbor Poland were in dire straits.

Well, here's the thing about this scenario: the terrors of the Soviet Union were largely hidden from the outside world, and would remain such until the 1960s, when we got a peek into the Iron Curtain to see what Stalin's Party was doing. And what we would learn years later was the depths of depravity the USSR had went to in order to bring forth the great revolution.

Many Ukrainians and Polish saw the Soviets are, believe it or not, worse than Nazis, because of the simple fact that the Soviets were much less discerning on who they killed and how - any opposition, no matter how small, against the Party would be a death sentence. So, they got desperate, and some would opt to side with the devil they don't know, who wasn't actively genociding them, over the devil they did. This is where the 14th Waffen Grenadier comes in.

See this unit would become disbanded and reformed before the conclusion of World War II, being renamed toward the end as the First Division, Ukrainian National Army. Further, during its formation, one of the three major concessions made by the Germans at the request of the Ukrainian-majority unit Was they would not be sent westward, but would remain in the east to fight "Bolsheviks" - the old name of the Communist Party. (citation here)

Essentially, the unit was stood up as a sort of freedom fighter against Soviet oppression.

They would then surrender to the allied forces in 1945 at the end of the war in Europe.

And that is how a man who fought under the banner of the Shutztaffel could possibly be heralded as a hero to Ukraine - because he essentially joined a group of Ukrainian men in using Nazi equipment to fight Soviet oppression.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

The girls are back (from the grave)

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[secretly-a-trekkie]

one does not simply attempt to touch Echo's snacks without consequence

[eobe]

🧶 I couldn’t resist and I waited if somebody does it, but if, I didn’t notice but the more the better! ♥️ – so I need to show you, what my brain brew how to add Wrecker, Batcher and Gonky to the big sweater cuddle pile (Tech still tinkering at this point of the story) and how Hunter reacts to Crosshair’s kicking attack 👀 Did you actually think, Crosshair really can kick Hunter? Enhanced senses! 🪶 Even during sleep 😎 Nice try.

Batcher and Gonky affection attack idea credits to @kark-trooper-echo ☺️ But your head got bumped because of that 🫣

The background and previous story is lovingly listed by @foxwithadarkside here! And not to forget, everything started with this gorgeous Echo piece by @astral-veil

Check out this awesome unplanned artist collab for context and joy! 🤩🫶 Thank you all, it‘s so much fun ♥️✨ Your honor! Additional reblog of this incoming, too!

My personal ALT text mission: (Big sweater collab series part 3) ‚Don‘t do it, Crosshair‘

aaargh edit: I accidentally wrote part 2, but it‘s part 3!

(the mission – 1 ALT text for previous artworks with every new artwork post ✨)

Taglist: @eclec-tech @lonewolflupe @bixlasagna @returnofthepineapple @sunshinesdaydream @covert1ntrovert @general-ida-raven @vrycurious @dystopicjumpsuit

[hopelessfandomfreak]

the way agatha and rio smirk at each other before agatha shows the coven her scar, and the way agatha immediately says “no you don’t” when rio claims she has a scar…like of course they know exactly what each other’s bodies look like, and it’s equally soft and hot how obvious they make it

[oliviaeatworld]

Happy Echo day to my favorite child. Don’t tell the others

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: annnd we've made it to velaris ! yippee !! now it's time for all the introductions >:D i hope you enjoy pls let me know what you think angels <3 ok mwah bye

word count: 3.5k

synopsis: You wake up somewhere entirely new, a long, long way from your home.

CHAPTER EIGHT :: STRANGERS (AGAIN)

The air all around you is sickly sweet.

Maybe... sweet is the wrong word. The air is clean; perfumed with an allure of scents you've never smelt before, heady and swirling, sweet and sterile all in one.

But more importantly, it is utterly foreign.

You're in unknown territory. Age old instinct has you shifting the moment you wake, surging up in a rush before your memory can catch up and remind you why that's an terribly bad idea.

The sheets rustle as you push yourself up into a sitting position, a heavy dose of panic already poisoning your system. It doesn't take long for the pain to follow.

You falter in your movement as an aching agony ricochets through your body, forcing out a wince. Your eyes screw up in pain. Your entire body feels like a bruise, punishing you with every movement.

You allow yourself only a moment of pause before you force them back open to take on the new threat, every sense filtering in unknown information as they sluggishly come to life. You have to blink rapidly to clear your vision, light coming in from all angles.

Why does it feel as though you've been asleep for years?

Where are you?

A room. You're not outside which is where you memory places you last. The extent of the memory drifts back as you search the room, your eyes climbing the walls, ravenous for details. They're made of some kind of warm coloured stone that covers the whole ceiling, you realise, as you follow the line of it up.

You screw your eyes up again and blink hard when you open them again. Every sense keeps pinging for your attention, a thousand things unfamiliar. The bed beneath is too soft, the sound of the wind outside isn't a whistle, the clothes on your back...

You startle, stumbling off the bed you've awoken on as you peer down at yourself, eyes moving about wildly. You're wearing... something completely new.

Frowning down at your arm, you raise one of your hands and pinch at the new fabric that covers the expanse of your arms. It's soft. So soft.

You tentatively smooth your hands down the tunic you're clothed in, all the way down to your pants. Each thing is finely made, with details far smaller that you would ever consider, and soft. Warm but sturdy.

What the fuck? Your chest starts to heave as panic truly sets in, your breath just out of reach before you can catch it. You gasp, grasping at your chest tightly, the new clothes scrunching up beneath your fingers. Memories begin to trickle back in as your mind scours for any information about how you ended up here.

You had been... cold. It was raining.

And your wings had been—your wings—your brain trips over the thoughts as every detail bleeds back in, sudden and frightening.

Stakes driven through the flesh of them, your wings pulled taut, stretched out for lashings and prepped for removal. Your terror climbs, its cloying grip tightening around your sternum like a fist.

Eyes screwed closed, you pray to every deity you can imagine, begging the Mother for this one thing.

You twitch the familiar muscle and feel the weight of your wings as they respond. There's no describing the relief that bursts within you, overwhelming your panic in an instant, your knees nearly buckling beneath you. They're still moving, still stretching out as you command them, still yours.

You stand there and peer over your shoulder, stretching your wings out as far as you can—cringing when they stop before full extension, buckling and bunching up at the violent spike of pain that ripples through them. It echoes through your body, making you hunch forward and grit your teeth. Your left eardrum wails extra loud.

What had happened? What had changed?

You could recall the finality of being down on your knees in the pouring rain, your hands are bound as your fate. Endless agony. The secret you couldn't keep, despite all you had tried.

You had been resigned to it—to dying there amongst in the dirt from where you had come from.

So, what changed?

Behind you, there's an abrupt noise from behind a door in the room, a rustling that makes your head snap around to face it.

Someone’s coming.

You stumble back a couple steps, dread mounting in your chest and your panic returns in full-force. You don't know where you are, you don't know how you got here, you don't know who is coming through that door.

You know that you have a lot more foes than you do friends.

Eyes darting around the room frantically, you spot a balcony down a small hallway and don't waste a single second.

As you begin to stride, you realise faintly that you're without shoes, feet bare on the cool marble floor. It turns to carpet beneath you as your fast strides transforms to a run, hearing the door open somewhere behind you.

It feels like a trap. Not the nice clothes or the fancy room would be enough to fool you. You're caught in a sickly sweet trap of honey and the net is being reined in, the ropes closing up on every side of you. It feels like you're being chased.

Heart in your throat and pulse rabbiting wildly, you burst through the doors of the balcony, daring a glance behind you without thought—

—and you nearly plunge off the edge of a mountain.

The gasp that escapes your throat is entirely involuntary, your fingers gripping the edge of the stone railing the adorns the balcony.

Your balance tips momentarily, the momentum of your dash nearly pulling you over. Terror freezes you. You're fairly certain with the state of your wings, it would be a short flight and an almost guaranteed casualty.

But a wind blows gently against your face, as though helping push you back to safety.

When you're sure you're not going to topple over the edge, some of your crippling panic eases. Your breaths, short and fast, begin to slow.

Your eyes travel up from the daunting height of the mountain side and widen, all the air in your lungs stolen in pure surprise.

Because before you, stretching out across the land that meets the sea, is something you've never seen before.

It's... a city.

A city that sits amongst the rolling, steep hills of the terrain and curls around a meandering river that leads out to the ocean. Tall, jagged mountains surround it from all sides, their hills steep up the top until they give way to gentler slopes, eventually becoming paved roads and streets for magnificent buildings.

The structures gleam, even from afar, made with precision and beauty in mind. Some are white marble or warm sandstone, others the same red stone of the mountains beside the one you're standing on. Small, quaint houses with green copper roofs, their white chimneys smoking softly.

Your breath stutters out in an exhale and you don't dare blink.

A city—a sprawling, wondrous city that was bursting with people, with colour, with life. So utterly unlike the chilled gray-scale of the Illyrian Mountains.

In fact, you wonder briefly if this was even the Night Court at all. This— this incredible sight felt like something you'd imagined of Summer or Spring, imbued with warmth, a place where things could grow and thrive.

The Night Court was... foul. It was the biting frigid cold of the wintry mountains or the shudder-inducing darkness of the court that lay beneath the mountain. This... where is this?

As though you've spoken your thoughts aloud, a voice answers from behind you.

"Velaris."

You start, whipping around fast enough to reawaken all your wounds, forcing you to stifle a pained noise that leaps up your throat. Your heart thunders as your eyes lay upon an unfamiliar figure, stepping out from the empty hallway—a form cut from the very night itself.

Your hands grip the stone railing behind you and you're unsure whether it's to keep your knees from buckling in fear or from bolting off the edge, into uncertain skies.

He's unfamiliar to you, yes, but you have a feeling you know exactly who he is.

"You asked where this—" The male waves a casual hand to the city beyond the balcony before pocketing it, either unaware of your panic or uncaring. "—is. You're in Velaris."

He surveys you, his violet eyes glancing down at the strained way you clutch at the railing.

"I know you must have a thousand questions. We haven't been introduced. My name is Rhysand and I am—"

"I know who you are." You interrupt. There's a lilt of fear in your voice but you couldn't keep it out even if you tried. He's the fucking Highlord of the Night Court.

Which means—Azriel.

His name slams into you like a shooting star, glowing hotly and dripping through your ribcage with a fire warmer than you've ever known.

Azriel must be— he was the one- he's the reason you're still alive. It feels like you relive the relief of his appearance during the storm all over again, remembering that he came back for you.

You have no idea the cacophony of emotion you're giving off, shouting all your unguarded thoughts across the balcony.

Rhysand's cool expression doesn't falter at your disruption. He looks at ease, both hands in his pockets, like he's merely having a conversation with a friend.

"Then it's important for you to know," He continues. "that I mean you no harm."

Lying, lying, liar, LIAR—the thought festers from within you instinctively, only growing in its urgency. You and everyone else where you come from are well aware of the origins of your Highlord.

And while he's your ruler, he's first and foremost, an Illyrian male.

"Only half," Rhysand corrects.

You startle, sickly surprise at the fact he seems to be able to read your very thoughts.

Then he confirms it, by saying, "And I can."

"You can read my thoughts?" You echo, voice sounding so much meeker than you intend. You sound like a child—and you feel like one, feel like the same eight-year-old staring down at the scorched brown earth in Exordor. Old blood. The same dirt you had been forced to kneel upon that now makes you shudder at the fresh memory.

Rhysand's expression falters momentarily at your train of thought, a flash of hurt on his handsome face.

His eyebrows draw together, forming a sympathetic, troubled look. "I can teach you how to shield them, if you so wish."

You don't make a noise. You don't even dare to take a breath, your fingers still crushed around the railing.

Within you, some part of you knows what he's offering. What the very nature of his words implies. He voices it anyway.

"You're no prisoner here. You're free to—”

"Where's Azriel?" The question falls from your lips before you can even think to stop it. Fear hammers through your chest—Fae that make a habit of interrupting Highlord's often find their lives cut short.

But Rhysand gives no impression that he minds. All he does is step to the side, revealing the empty hallway out to the balcony.

Except it's not empty anymore.

There, standing back to hide in the shadows as he did best, is your Shadowsinger.

Reserved and holding back, clearly waiting for you to remember him, to make your call before he made himself known. Making sure you wanted to see him at all.

Azriel, all 6ft something of shadow and muscle, with his wings tucked politely behind him, takes one step out on to the balcony and towards you.

His hands stay at his sides and his hazel eyes watch you with a familiar intensity. Something deep within you unfurls at the sight of him.

It feels like the collision of a thousand stars rain down on you, their jagged, burning fragments pelting into your body.

It's as though the world had been falling out from underneath and then, seeing him before you—when Cauldron knows how long ago you had been resolutely convinced you were never ever going to see him again— suddenly your feet were grounded and the world was still.

You breathe out his name. Azriel sways forward, almost imperceptibly, as though the sound of his name on your lips was a siren call he was helpless to fight.

You don't know that you say it sweeter than he's ever heard it in all his centuries.

Like following an invisible tug, you don't even realise when you start moving, only that you're rushing towards him with an urgency you can't begin to comprehend. It's like he's calling to you and you can't bear to be this close to him and not press in closer.

His beautiful face, usually guarded, reveals a glimpse into his storm of emotions. Concern, care, and something that looks suspiciously like... longing.

Your brain catches up and your feet falter, bringing you to a stand still before him, chest heaving.

Reason starts to catch up to you, asking meanly about what exactly you meant to do, running up to him—you weren't raised with physical touch beyond violence. You and Azriel had barely touched beyond sparring and those quiet nights in your shelter, skin brushing as you passed something to the other.

In the end, it's not you that moves, it's Azriel.

He closes the distance between you with one single step and his strong arms sweep around your middle, pulling you into the tightest hug. Night-chilled mist and cedar swirl your senses.

Helpless to do anything else, with no desire to do anything but this, you melt.

Your weight slumps into Azriel and he takes it without question, your arms curling around his neck to hold him back just as tightly. The light around you shifts, his shadows frenzied as they kiss along your neck and arms, all checking for hurt they can ease. Your heart is torn between soaring and stopping altogether.

The world fades away as his head ducks down, pressing his face the crook of your neck. It's more touch than you've ever known. More safety, more kindness than you've ever dreamed of. You and Azriel seem to exist only in a cocoon of shadow and warmth, in each others arms.

"You're alright," Azriel murmurs, his breath against your neck. It sounds more like he's reassuring himself than telling you. He sounds devastatingly sincere when he says, "I'm so fucking glad you're alright."

"Thanks to you," You whisper back, not wanting to break the silence. "You—"

The words get caught in your throat and you know you need to see his face when you say this. Pulling back from the embrace, you clear your throat as Azriel straightens up. You miss the heat of his body almost instantly.

"I-I thought I was never going to see you again."

It looks as though your words pain Azriel, a flash of pain and shame crossing his expression. His voice, low and gravelly, holds a guilty tone you've never heard him use before.

"I never should have left."

You blink. That wasn't what you had expected him to say in the least. It was you who had lied, who had deceived him from the very beginning. He was— he had— this was what you got for letting anyone get close to you, you understood that.

You shake your head, pointedly ignoring how it makes your injuries throb. "I know why you did, Azriel. I can't imagine—"

Azriel's scarred hands clench into fists at his sides, anguish colouring his face.

"No." He shakes his head, his jaw clenched tightly. "You did nothing wrong. Nothing."

"Then why did you leave?" Your questions comes out with an edge this time, a biting fury as your emotions process what he's saying.

He says you did nothing wrong. He says he shouldn't have left you behind. It's a ugly mixture of hurt and anger that paints your insides as realisations churn to the surface.

Azriel steals a glance to the side, serving as a quick reminder that there was, indeed, someone else still out on the balcony with you. You glimpse at the Highlord as your anger begins to bubble but you can't bring yourself to care.

You had... trusted him— you had let him in, let him get closer to you than anyone ever had, and he had left. He left, he left, he left. He did exactly as you had feared and he was wrong for it.

The greatest secret of your life, exposed like a raw nerve, and he hadn't said a word as he deserted you.

Your heart warbles at the betrayal and you can't help but step back, putting distance between the two of you. It's such a far cry from the nearness of a moment ago.

And even though you know he wasn't responsible for the events that followed, in the haze of your upset, it's awfully easy to add it to his betrayal. As if in response, your wings flinch and shudder as a wave of agony passes through them. You wince, gritting your teeth and turning your gaze to the ground.

"I can leave to give you both some privacy," Rhysand cuts into the conversation, evidently answering Azriel's pointed glance in his direction. "However, I don't think it will be overtly helpful. She's shouting every thought so loudly, I think I'll be able to hear it from the other side of the house."

She. It's been so many years since anyone has used that in reference to you that it nearly winds you, your entire body giving a visible flinch.

It feels foreign. You can't quite tell how you feel about it; whether it's some lost part of yourself to reclaim or whether it's something you've outgrown altogether.

You don't get time to consider it further as, bustling as she walks, a fourth Fae steps out onto the balcony. She's an older female in appearance but certainly not in her sprightliness. Her eyes land on you and they lighten up, as though you're the one she's been searching for.

"You are supposed to be resting." She tsks, without much further explanation. Your heart sinks, already feeling as though you're in trouble. Rhysand, reading your abrupt switch from anger, jumps in to explain.

"Madja, here-" He gestures to the female with a polite smile- "is our resident healer. She's been taking care of you over these last couple days, helping to heal your wings."

A severe reminder of the sorry state that had been in not too long ago. Glancing over your shoulder, your eyes glaze over as they take in the dozens of scattered markings that litter your wings. Irreversible. Your glorious love, changed forever.

There's patches over the ends that you hadn't noticed before, covering where you know the stakes had been. You suddenly feel an immense rush of gratitude towards the stranger before you.

"Thank you," You say, your throat thick. You want to say it again, want to repeat it over and over til your lungs bleed because just once doesn't seem enough.

But Madja nods in a grave way, as though she knows your internal turmoil.

"You weren't supposed to be up and moving quite so soon," She says, this time with less disapproval in her voice.

She directs a more withering look towards Rhysand and Azriel, enough to surprise you. Perhaps, healers held a higher rank within the city than they did in the mountains? The whole scene looks like a mother scolding her naughty children, especially with how both males shrink beneath her glare.

"Anyhow, come now," She turns back to you and gives a gentle wave of her weathered hand, ushering you back inside. "You'll need at least a days rest before you should be back on your feet."

You amble in her direction, too fearful to glance back at the Highlord and too conflicted to turn back to Azriel. You had broken his trust with your deceit but... he had broken your trust back.

He had abandoned you when you needed him most. But he had also turned up during your darkest hour and saved your life.

You weren't sure what you wanted to do more; hug him once more or throw a shoe at his head. Probably both would make you feel better.

From behind you, you swear you hear a faint chuckle of amusement.

—

When it's just the two of them on the balcony, Rhys turns to Azriel, ignoring his brother's unsubtle sullen demeanor.

"So," He grins. "Mates, then?"

Azriel casts a glance across the balcony, still rigid and unmoving from his spot. His shadows perk up at the word but Azriel gives no reaction beyond a twitch in his jaw muscle. Debating whether to respond at all.

Finally, he mutters, "How could you tell?"

Rhys tilts his head back, chuckling quietly, his mind cast back to an old, fond memory. His violet eyes slice back to his Azriel and he gives a little shrug. "A hunch, really. I think I might have enough to start a theory actually."

He wanders over and nudges Azriel with his shoulder, breaking him from his frozen spot and nodding for them to both head indoors. Rather reluctantly, the Shadowsinger falls into step. Side by side, Rhys gives him only a moment of quiet to stew in before he pipes up once more.

"Say— how much do you remember Cassian and Nesta's first meeting? Any flying projectiles?"

[NEXT PART: FRIENDS (IN OTHER PLACES)]

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[nobeerreviews]

Rome is the city of echoes, the city of illusions, and the city of yearning.

-- Giotto di Bondone

(Vatican)

[spocks-kaathyra]

thoughts about the Cardassian writing system

I've thinking about the Cardassian script as shown on screen and in beta canon and such and like. Is it just me or would it be very difficult to write by hand?? Like.

I traced some of this image for a recent drawing I did and like. The varying line thicknesses?? The little rectangular holes?? It's not at all intuitive to write by hand. Even if you imagine, like, a different writing implement—I suppose a chisel-tip pen would work better—it still seems like it wasn't meant to be handwritten. Which has a few possible explanations.

Like, maybe it's just a fancy font for computers, and handwritten text looks a little different. Times New Roman isn't very easily written by hand either, right? Maybe the line thickness differences are just decorative, and it's totally possible to convey the same orthographic information with the two line thicknesses of a chisel-tip pen, or with no variation in line thickness at all.

A more interesting explanation, though, and the one I thought of first, is that this writing system was never designed to be handwritten. This is a writing system developed in Cardassia's digital age. Maybe the original Cardassian script didn’t digitize well, so they invented a new one specifically for digital use? Like, when they invented coding, they realized that their writing system didn’t work very well for that purpose. I know next to nothing about coding, but I cannot imagine doing it using Chinese characters. So maybe they came up with a new writing system that worked well for that purpose, and when computer use became widespread, they stuck with it. 

Or maybe the script was invented for political reasons! Maybe Cardassia was already fairly technologically advanced when the Cardassian Union was formed, and, to reinforce a cohesive national identity, they developed a new standardized national writing system. Like, y'know, the First Emperor of Qin standardizing hanzi when he unified China, or that Korean king inventing hangul. Except that at this point in Cardassian history, all official records were digital and typing was a lot more common than handwriting, so the new script was designed to be typed and not written. Of course, this reform would be slower to reach the more rural parts of Cardassia, and even in a technologically advanced society, there are people who don't have access to that technology. But I imagine the government would be big on infrastructure and education, and would make sure all good Cardassian citizens become literate. And old regional scripts would stop being taught in schools and be phased out of digital use and all the kids would grow up learning the digital script.

Which is good for the totalitarian government! Imagine you can only write digitally. On computers. That the government can monitor. If you, like, write a physical letter and send it to someone, then it's possible for the contents to stay totally private. But if you send an email, it can be very easily intercepted. Especially if the government is controlling which computers can be manufactured and sold, and what software is in widespread use, etc. 

AND. Historical documents are now only readable for scholars. Remember that Korean king that invented hangul? Before him, Korea used to use Chinese characters too. And don't get me wrong, hangul is a genius writing system! It fits the Korean language so much better than Chinese characters did! It increased literacy at incredible rates! But by switching writing systems, they broke that historical link. The average literate Chinese person can read texts that are thousands of years old. The average literate Korean person can't. They'd have to specifically study that field, learn a whole new writing system. So with the new generation of Cardassian youths unable to read historical texts, it's much easier for the government to revise history. The primary source documents are in a script that most people can't read. You just trust the translation they teach you in school. In ASIT it's literally a crucial plot point that the Cardassian government revised history! Wouldn't it make it soooo much easier for them if only very few people can actually read the historical accounts of what happened.

I guess I am thinking of this like Chinese characters. Like, all the different Chinese "dialects" being written with hanzi, even though otherwise they could barely be considered the same language. And even non-Sinitic languages that historically adopted hanzi, like Japanese and Korean and Vietnamese. Which worked because hanzi is a logography—it encodes meaning, not sound, so the same word in different languages can be written the same. It didn’t work well! Nowadays, Japanese has made significant modifications and Korean has invented a new writing system entirely and Vietnamese has adapted a different foreign writing system, because while hanzi could write their languages, it didn’t do a very good job at it. But the Cardassian government probably cares more about assimilation and national unity than making things easier for speakers of minority languages. So, Cardassia used to have different cultures with different languages, like the Hebitians, and maybe instead of the Union forcing everyone to start speaking the same language, they just made everyone use the same writing system. Though that does seem less likely than them enforcing a standard language like the Federation does. Maybe they enforce a standard language, and invent the new writing system to increase literacy for people who are newly learning it.

And I can imagine it being a kind of purely digital language for some people? Like if you’re living on a colonized planet lightyears away from Cardassia Prime and you never have to speak Cardassian, but your computer’s interface is in Cardassian and if you go online then everyone there uses Cardassian. Like people irl who participate in the anglophone internet but don’t really use English in person because they don’t live in an anglophone country. Except if English were a logographic writing system that you could use to write your own language. And you can’t handwrite it, if for whatever reason you wanted to. Almost a similar idea to a liturgical language? Like, it’s only used in specific contexts and not really in daily life. In daily life you’d still speak your own language, and maybe even handwrite it when needed. I think old writing systems would survive even closer to the imperial core (does it make sense to call it that?), though the government would discourage it. I imagine there’d be a revival movement after the Fire, not only because of the cultural shift away from the old totalitarian Cardassia, but because people realize the importance of having a written communication system that doesn’t rely on everyone having a padd and electricity and wifi.

[crowroboros]

Official Echoes of Wisdom Timeline Placement!!!

The official Legend of Zelda (Japanese) website was updated with Echoes of Wisdom, officially placing it on the chronology in the Downfall Timeline post Triforce Heroes and before Zelda 1. Unfortunately, the Japanese site doesn't list the different eras and the English site—which does—hasn't been updated yet, so we don't know if it is at the end of the Era of Light and Dark or at the End of the Golden Era as of now; Given the location of the Triforce in Echoes of Wisdom (not in the Royal Family's hands, as them using it regularly is what kicks off the Golden Era), I'm going with the assumption that it is right at the end of the Era of Light and Dark.

Very cool to see!

[naturesass]

I can't stop thinking about the 0% ship log vision

[hotstreak2k3]

As we are getting closer to the Nintendo Switch 2 announcement, let’s take take a minute to appreciate how amazing the Switch era was. Absolutely one of the best Nintendo eras we ever have!

[vibrantvetty]

“Lady with an Ermine” was painted by da Vinci, I really shouldn’t be surprised that my gaydar is blaring

[entropyvoid]

Golden Hour (+ lineart below cut)

I took a picture of the lines for once and did some basic crappy photo editing on my phone, so you could probably print this out and use it as a coloring page or something if you so wish lol. Do with it what you will.

[bodysnatch3r]

FUCK ME. art really is subjective.

[thetorturedlovergirl]

Au where in “The Woman Who Fell To Earth” instead of falling in Sheffield, 13 accidentally lands in front of an Echo of Clara.