#Grand Chaplain

[socraticmethadon3]

There’s a Buddhist prison chaplain at San Quentin who works with the death row inmates. We’re messaging and trying to find a way for me to volunteer with her. She calls it her Death Row Sangha. And she isn’t paid because California doesn’t recognize Buddhist or interfaith chaplains yet. This is gonna be an uphill battle. But I’m called to do it. It’s much bigger than me

[cmesinic]

The fruits of Texas Republicans grand scheme to have School Chaplains.

[dongnan001]

This is Master of Fifth Lazarus,and some plots from his new novel.

p1 A quarrel with Supreme Grand Master

p2 Familiar Librarian bully(and I really want to see Ezekiel again😭)

p3 Lazarus and his Interrogator-Chaplain Demetrius

[empiredesimparte]

Live broadcast of ‘Le Sacre de Napoléon V’ on the national channel Francesim 2, hosted by Stéphane Bernard

(Stéphane Bernard) The Emperor solemnly hands over the regalia and all honors to the Church, symbolized by the Grand Chaplain Mgr. Morlot, so that they may receive the sacraments necessary for the anointing. It is at this moment that the Alleluia will resound. A gesture of profound symbolism unfolds before our eyes, dear viewers.

(Pope) Do you profess, our dear Son, and promise before God and the angels to observe the law, to administer justice to your subjects, to maintain peace in the Church of God with the help of His grace, in the manner that you deem most fitting…

(Pope) … Based on the advice of your faithful counselors, and to ensure that the Pontiffs of the Church enjoy the respect and honors due to them according to the holy canons? (Napoléon V) Profiteor

⚜ Le Sacre de Napoléon V | N°10 | Francesim, Paris, 28 Thermidor An 230

The Emperor of the French, Napoleon V, makes his profession of faith before Pope Gregorius XIX. It was broadcast live on television by Stéphane Bernard, the famous journalist for the crowned heads in Francesim.

Beginning ▬ Previous ▬ Next

⚜ Traduction française

(Stéphane Bernard) L'Empereur remet solennellement les regalia et tous les honneurs à l'Église, symbolisée par le Grand Aumônier, afin qu'ils reçoivent les sacrements nécessaires à l'onction. C'est à ce moment que retentira l'Alléluia. Un geste d'une profonde symbolique se déroule sous nos yeux, chers téléspectateurs.

(Pope) Professez-vous, notre cher Fils, et promettez-vous devant Dieu et les anges, de faire observer la loi, de rendre la justice à vos sujets, de maintenir la paix dans l'Eglise de Dieu avec le secours de sa grâce, de la manière que vous jugerez la plus convenable....

(Pope) ... D'après l'avis de vos fidèles conseillers, et de veiller à ce que les Pontifes de l'Eglise jouissent du respect et des honneurs qui leur sont dus suivant les saints canons ?

(Napoléon V) Profiteor

[autisticskeleton-s]

Good Omens season 2 is about what religious trauma does to indoctrinated people, and here’s why.

so i finally watched Good Omens after my friends BEGGED me to ever since the first season first dropped and even though the ending stabbed me in the balls repeatedly for several hours i can’t help but marvel about how genius the ending really is and how crucial it is to both Aziraphale and Crowley as characters

i was hesitant to watch this show bc i was indoctrinated and conditioned by evangelicalism from birth (i’m literally the kid of two ex-missionaries and my dad was a chaplain for 36 years) and i knew that i could easily get triggered if i wasn’t careful.

i’m so glad i watched this show. there’s many reasons but i really just wanna talk about the ending of s2 aka The Divorce. it went entirely over my friends heads bc none of them grew up in the church but when i watched the ending it felt like i was watching pieces of myself at war with each other even though they didn’t want to be. to me, i was watching two people so broken by heaven and hell that they don’t understand that what they’re doing is hurting themselves more than it’s hurting each other. this is a pretty long ramble so i’ll continue under the cut

Aziraphale and Crowley are two halves of the same coin (literally soulmates) and are narrative foils to each other. obviously right, i mean, everyone noticed that. but what they truly represent in the grand scheme of things is the fallout of religious trauma. Crowley has seen the absolute Worst of heaven and the angels. he’s been outcast, scorned, and tortured for (assuming based on the opening scene of season 2) simply asking questions and questioning his faith. Aziraphale is the poster child of what a good angel is in the eyes of heaven and has reaped the benefits for millennia.

what is happening here is a war between two halves of a whole, Denial vs Bitterness.

as a young child it was drilled into my head over and over that my faith had to be as strong as a rock all the time or i would crumble like sand. i idolized all the bible characters and memorized all the verses and did all the good and right things i was supposed to. i was a standard in all the churches i went to, i was the example of what a good christian was, and i knew it.

then, over time, i began to see behind the curtain on what was really going on in the church and i was devastated. how could something based on love do all of that? why am i so scared to think freely? why do i feel like i can never be good enough? the more i questioned the more shame i felt and the more bitter i became, but i longed to go back to that innocence of being the best little christian kid in the church.

Aziraphale cannot truly comprehend the uncomfortable reality that what he’s been subscribing to all this time isn’t good for him. heaven has been hurting him for a long time and he doesn’t understand that. how can something he thinks is so right, so true, so good hurt him and his friends so much? no, it must be something he’s done right? it must be some bad apples right? the whole orchard can’t be bad right? he just has to fix this. he just has to make it better for him and for Crowley and then everything will be ok again.

Crowley can’t wrap his mind around why Aziraphale cares so fucking much. hasn’t he seen what heaven and hell have done? they barely stopped the end of the fucking world!!! they tried to destroy both of them with holy water and hellfire!!!!! they’re still trying to meddle in their personal lives after everything!!! why is Aziraphale so stubborn???? why does he choose something so asinine over him? Crowley has been there for Aziraphale a hell of a lot more than heaven has, can’t he see that?

both of them are hurting deep down into their very souls and they just can’t see it. that’s what religious trauma does to you. it strips you so bare of your personhood that without your religion, who are you? without your god, you’re just an empty shell. you’re nothing without “us”, without the church.

without Aziraphale trying and failing to fix heaven, he’s never gonna understand how corrupt of a system it all is.

without Crowley learning that Aziraphale is hurting just as much as he is, he’s never gonna learn that Aziraphale really had his best intentions at heart and just wanted to do what he thought was the good thing

without both of them realizing that they’re both wrong, they’re never gonna come together and really stand up for themselves and for their friends and for earth as a whole. without this grief, without this pain, without this separation, they’re never going to be truly free

and i, for one, cannot wait to see them kick some ass when they decide that enough is enough

[edwardseymour]

“[Jane] supervised the preparations of the official announcements of the birth from her bed. It was traditional for the queen to announce the birth herself […] Jane was also expected to play a very public role in the christening of her son and, on 15 October, she was wrapped by her attendants in velvet and furs to guard against the cold and carried to the christening on a special sofa prepared for the occasion. By convention, neither Henry nor Jane attended the christening and they waited in an anti chamber as the baby was carried away in a grand procession. Jane would also been glad of the prominence given to Mary and to members of her family, and Mary stood as godparent with the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Duke of Norfolk. Jane’s kinsman, Sir Francis Bryan, also had a prominent role as one of the gentlemen dressed in aprons and holding towels as they took charge of the font. Edward Seymour was prominently placed, carrying the four-year-old Princess Elizabeth, who made a rare visit to court. The gentlemen in the procession walked in pairs, carrying unlit torches before them. The children and ministers of the king’s chapel followed. The knights, chaplains and other members of the nobility also walked in pairs. Following them, the prince was brought, carried carefully by the Marchioness of Exeter and assisted by her husband and the Duke of Suffolk. Jane’s son was dressed in a great robe with a long train borne by Lord William Howard and, over the prince’s head, a canopy was held by a number of gentlemen, including Thomas Seymour. Jane felt proud as she watched the procession go by and she and Henry would have talked quietly about their son and their hopes for the future as they waited for the procession to return.”

— Elizabeth Norton, Jane Seymour

[rats-and-robots]

Children of the Void

Hi I am making a Host for Uralon the Cruel because I'm. Normal. And I want to get this down on paper.

Some disclaimers;

I headcanon that the events of RT occur almost immediately following or concurrently with the fall of Cadia. Which is to say Uralon's Host has been outside of the Eye of Terror since before the Fall.

Uralon here is a Grand Apostle, not just a Dark Apostle, as it's implied here in the game that he's on the Dark Council;

The Children of the Void are the 27th Host.

It is important to note that very few members are original members of the Host, as they have gone through multiple battles with great losses and at least one attempted coup. Many members are converted from loyalist legions, such as Nova who was converted as a Scout from a Black Templar chapter, or were stolen from planets and made into Word Bearers, and as such have never seen Sicarus or met Lorgar.

Obviously Uralon the Cruel is the head of the 27th Host as the Grand Apostle. He is a Colchisian native and fought during the heresy. Pre-Heresy, his chapter were always known for having a more wandering spirit and when their captain died and Uralon took over as one of the first Dark Apostles, this didn't change, thus their name labeling them as the Children of the Void, children of the stars and the voidships they travel in, rarely comfortable staying in one place. They were sent on a mission to find a way out of the Eye of Terror around the barricades and succeeded, but haven't been able to re-establish communications nor return until the Fall of Cadia.

His First Acolyte is his closest blood brother and former fellow Chaplain, Eclipse. Eclipse is a sorcerer and a psyker, a very, very powerful one at that. Eclipse and Uralon used to be nearly identical in appearance, before corruption gave Uralon horns and took Eclipse's sight. He and Uralon bounce off of one another easily, and Eclipse is often the one reeling in Uralon's ambition and reminding them of their limited resources outside of the Eye. Eclipse's name obviously was not always Eclipse, but he took the name following a great conquering triumph wherein he called upon the Dark Gods and they stole both the planet's sun, and his sight. This began a bit of a trend wherein members of the Host would rename themselves after cosmic events, furthering their own attachment to their traveling and the stars. (Eclipse has also pseudo-adopted Nymet, @nightshade-victorian's Night Lord, who follows him around like a puppy.)

Aphelion is known for being rather vocal about disliking Uralon's decisions, however despite this, Uralon chose him as his Coryphaus following Aphelion's attempt at a coup within the Host, preferring to hear out and stop any further insurrections given their total disconnect from Sicarus and their perilous situation. He would give himself the name Aphelion after this, once he learned it's meaning; the point where a planet is furthest from its sun. All of this said, he ultimately respects Uralon (now) and is loyal almost to a fault. Almost.

Epoch is the Host's 'Head Apothecary' and is more augment and corruption than flesh. Epoch was a member of the Vor Nergeth, or Order of the Procurators, who was assigned to the Children of the Void's mission. While he was not originally the Head Apothecary, he was forced to take the role following Aphelion's failed coup when the former one was killed. He stays on the ship, his... 'clinic' seated close to the center. Few actually see him for treatment and for the most part he acts as a last resort or as the Host's source of toxins and conversion from human into Astartes. Epoch has two Astartes who serve as guards to his chambers, Keon and Carnephitz.

There are four units of twelve beneath them, including the Captains of each; Nova, Zheon(preceded by Aurora), Rosk, and Azimuth(preceded by the Kiava Gamma CSM).

[meteorologears]

24 for the catch-22 ask game because i want to jump in on this fake discourse that you're about to make up for this nonexistent fandom LMAOOO

Anything for you Liv, and thanks for the ask! This is gonna be fun. Okay so lets go, here's 24: "topic that brings up the most rancid discourse" and i need to emphasize because this is all made up, here are the main bins I'd imagine this would draw from. I'm also putting this under a readmore for those who don't want to see fabricated drama for a nonexistent fandom

shipping wars. obviously yossarian is shippable with almost everyone in the book (heller self insert x heller oc. many such cases) but I can only imagine the biggest war would be over Yossarian x chaplain (the obvious ship that you get from the get-go) and probably something like Yossarian x milo (could make a good case for this). (Actually... upon checking the ao3 statistics, one cannot help but notice: there are an equal number of Yossarian x orr and chaplain x yossarian fics (four of the yoss/orr ones are mislabled)). So it would probably be these two camps against each other. Milo shippers wouldn't fight people (on second thought) because "everyone gets a share"

I remember it was going for a while on c22tumblr a while back (as a joke; with the 'hypothetical fandom') but evidently label discourse. I feel like this would be so intertwined with the ship wars though that it's almost not worth its own bullet point. Here's how I see it going down: "poly yossarian" people would not have issues with anyone else, although people would take issue with the premise of yossarian being poly because it would interfere with them believing he's monogomous (again, all things which do not matter in the grand scheme of life). and of course it'd devolve from there (think: 2016 tumblr).

actually this isn't discourse this is just something i realized but there would be incessent character woobification in a very very bad way (i guess depending upon the ages of the people involved in the hypothetical fandom) but key people to get the treatment would be the chaplain (nice guy), milo (tumblr sexyman c. 1960), and possibly clevinger (optimist syndrome). probably a few others, too. i was just thinking of this the other day and it made me grit my teeth, though i don't think it would spawn actual fandom discourse. oh also major major would get woobified

proship discourse but it's not real problems, it's stuff like "[woobified] Nately is too innocent to consent and his girlfriend doesn't love him and is just using him!" (thus vilifying her. someone would do this and there would be backlash). cathkorn would get the proship label because of it being toxic in the manipulative sense. they'd make luciana a lesbian to get her out of yoss mlm situations. all of these are smaller blips that i imagine would spawn horrific discourse in the fake fandom because someone would get upset about it and then other people would argue against it pretty vehemently

[tagedeszorns]

Vulkan He'stan

Two versions of him - or rather his ritual branding scars - for Marine Meat Monday.

The Forgefather leads a lonely life that constantly takes him far away from Nocturne into the depths of the galaxy, where he searches alone on his own for the artefacts that the Salamanders believe hold a key to discovering what happened to their missing Primarch.

Contrary to what was said in TTS, it is not the case that Vulkan will simply appear like Father Christmas once the artefacts are collected. The Salamanders are an incredibly independent, stubborn chapter and firmly believe that nothing is given for free. Especially not their beloved Gene-Sire. Instead, the Tome of Fire and the artefacts offer the opportunity to get clues as to what happened to Vulkan.

And unlike their predecessors during the Horus Heresy, the 40k Salamanders are not at all convinced that he is still alive! The famous war cry "Vulkan Lives!" was definitely a 30k thing. More specifically, coined by Pyre Guard Captain Artellus Numeon, a Terran Salamander who, after Isstvan V, didn't believe Vulkan had been killed and who, after the events surrounding Curze's brief reign of terror in Magna Macragge City, dragged Vulkan's "dead" body across the galaxy. And managed the seemingly impossible.

In 40k, "Vulkan Lives" is no longer the flaming sign of unshakable faith. This is no longer the time of the miracles of the Grand Crusade, after all!

Do they hope he's still alive? Sure! But they are also realists. And that's why they do what's possible with what they have.

And when inexplicable things happen now and then, like a Chaplain's destroyed Crozius still working, or a dead Psyker suddenly becoming a Living Flame and simply disintegrating a Chaos Fleet … well, obviously there is still a lot to find out then!

And Vulkan He'stan is just the man to find out!

When he then emerges from the most inhospitable corners of the galaxy every now and then, he is on the one hand very happy to see Prometheus and Nocturne again, but is constantly only too aware of how far away his task removes him from his brothers. Then he allows himself a little melancholy. Shares with the Chapter Master a little loneliness that they both feel. And then he sets off again to fulfil his task.

Because that's what Salamanders do!

It was at He’stan’s request that they’d come to one of the viewing galleries in Prometheus space port. The long chamber was dark, illuminated by brazier coals. The flickering light revealed the icon of the Firedrakes as they pulled the shadows away, only for it to be swallowed as the darkness reasserted itself again a few moments later. ‘Aye, we are humbled by her savage beauty, Lord He’stan.’ Tu’Shan clapped a firm hand upon the Forgefather’s shoulder.

For He’stan it was an odd sensation. He had been apart from his brothers for a long time. His quest for the lost artefacts of Vulkan had taken him to the edges of known space, to sights he would not describe and deeds he would never speak of. To them, his Fire-born kin, he was an enigma, a distant figure whose ways were inscrutable. It was no small thing to return.

Kyme, Nick. Salamanders: The Omnibus (Tome of Fire) (S.741). Games Workshop. Kindle-Version.

[illarian-rambling]

Thanks for the tag @elsie-writes! This, uh, is an old one lol

Five Lines Tag

My lines:

A sad line

A line about a book/reading

A line about fighting

A fun line

A line about hopes and dreams

I'll pull from End Times :)

A Sad Line

Like a hive of bees, the Heralds set to work immediately with their chisels and black paint. End turned its back to them and, by Izjik’s guess, began inspecting another tunnel as its route out. However, its position gave her a clear view of those who had fallen to the chaplain’s muskets. Her heart dropped as she caught sight of round spectacles speckled with blood.

No, no, no, don’t do this to me, kid, she pleaded. Solane lay prone, bleeding from a shot to her knee. Izjik barely contained her prayer of relief as she noticed the girl was still breathing. It must’ve been a glancing shot if her leg was still attached.

Yet, no one tended to her, or the other, more severely injured. Those who could walk were patched up quickly, but anyone unable to move was left where they’d fallen. There was no room for stragglers in End’s grand march.

There was nothing Izjik could do—no words she could say to sway her captor that wouldn’t just make things worse for her or the cultists. Solane couldn’t survive a wound like that unaided, though she might last an excruciatingly long time down here in the dark with her waterskin and cook’s supplies.

Spirits, girl, I’m so sorry, Izjik cried silently. At least she was unconscious now. Perhaps she would stay that way until the end.

A Line About A Book/Reading

“Pasty, you’re never going to believe what I found!”

Grinning madly, the Amaranthi set a stack of stone tablets on the table. Twenari gasped softly as she took in the geometrical, chisel-wrought script. How had the Devarises gotten their hands on those?

His face unreadable, Sepo ran his fingers across the siren tablets. Djek put his hand on the man’s shoulder with a smile.

“I can’t read siren, but I know we’re looking for major centers of religion, so I figured there’d be something about that in these things,” he said.

Sepo shuffled through the tablets, seeming to skim their titles. Twenari examined the ones he set aside. They weren’t bound or marked in any way—in fact, it seemed like each tablet was its own, contained volume. The script, though clearly made with a chisel, was breathtakingly intricate. Did each character of Llanaodan contain greater meaning than their Janazi counterparts? She figured they must, with such a constrained medium.

“You’re right,” Sepo finally admitted. “A fair few are religious. I’m not giving you credit for that though, because it’d be more impressive if you found nothing religious among siren writings. Even still, we already know the seat of siren religion—I grew up there for fuck’s sake.”

A Line About Fighting

The man cried out as he sent a net of shadows flying towards End’s head, but it or Izjik knew the feint for what it was. It jumped over the hidden patch of sticky darkness lurking in its path before dropping into a roll just in time to avoid the net.

Djek sent forth a flurry of dark spears as he retreated. He needed to keep distance between them. However, that was pretty fucking hard when End reacted like it could see the spell before he even cast it. It dodged the needle-quick strikes with a bored fluidity.

Then, it was right next to him.

Djek blinked in surprise. He hadn’t even seen it move! That was all he was able to process before a fist drove into his solar plexus. He doubled over, coughing, only to realize his mistake too late.

The short selkie drove her knee into his chin—just like he’d seen her do a thousand times with taller opponents—and everything went white. He didn’t even have the air to cry out, the space of mind to make a sigil, before she stood him up again with a monster of an uppercut and proceeded to pummel his ribs like they owed her money.

Vision swimming Djek tried for a weak hook, but End caught his hand easily. It grinned with Izjik’s face.

“You sorcerers….” It tisked disapprovingly. “All bluster from fifty feet away. But up close you’re nothing.”

A Fun Line

“Nah dude, you got thrown through a stone balcony like three days ago. Keep watch. I might not be some country bumpkin, but how hard can finding sticks in a forest be?”

Somewhere in the dark, Djek caught a glimpse of abyssal eyes narrowed into something almost like appraisal. The Amaranthi found it highly telling that Sepo hadn’t just told him to bite it immediately. He was probably worse off than either human suspected—not that he’d admit it on pain of death.

“Look for dry wood in a variety of sizes,” Sepo acquiesced with a sigh.

Djek smothered a giggle. “And I’ll bet you’re an expert at looking for dry wood in a variety of sizes, huh?”

A twig flew out of the darkness and impacted his forehead. “You’re a child.”

“Avoid any Nabafyrian cedar,” Twenari added. Either the innuendo had sailed over the girl’s head or she just didn’t care. Honestly, it was a toss-up. “It can explode when exposed to intense heat.”

“That’s…. Sure, whatever. Exploding trees.” Djek cracked his knuckles with a sigh and began to make his way into the underbrush. “Run fast if you hear me scream.”

“The head start will be appreciated.”

“Run towards me, dumbass!”

A Line About Hopes And Dreams

What would his family say? It’d been even longer since he’d thought of them and even longer still since he’d seen them. But even so… Djek pictured a tiny, rickety apartment in Fayuki’s industrial district. It was filled with grime from the air outside and noisy with the sound of too many mouths and not enough food. He pictured his mother’s rusty eyes and his father’s murky hazel. Out of all his siblings, Djek had been the only one born with eyes of true, Amaranthi crimson.

They would die if he failed, those who probably weren’t dead of starvation or industrial accidents or redlung already. Sure, everyone else would die, too. Sepo and Twenari, Izjik and Daedryn, all of the dozens of Devarises and rowdy Nacians and sirens battling under the waves.

Even so, Djek couldn’t help but imagine his big sisters Kiva and Kana, one with her gap-toothed grin and the other with her corny jokes, watching the stars fall from the sky. He wondered if little Vanik had ever managed to get the food he needed to grow taller than the rest of his siblings, if Shon and Avra had ever gotten out of the city like they’d planned. Would they all have to watch the seas boil and the sun burn out? Watch the blood of gods drip down like so much rain?

Maybe after all of this was over—if he still lived by then—Djek would pay them a visit. He’d hated his parents after they’d abandoned him, almost as much as he’d hated himself for being the child they chose to sacrifice to the streets. But his siblings had played no part in that. It wasn’t fair to lump them in with the snarl of emotion he felt whenever he looked back on his childhood.

Ah, nothing like an incoming apocalypse to make you work through your family trauma.

He would, Djek decided. When this was all over, he would go back to Fayuki—dressed to the nines, marks of a god on his hands, and flanked by his best friends, who just happened to be three of the most terrifying bastards this side of the Oresea. He would find his family’s home and waltz in for dinner.

I'll tag @rivenantiqnerd @kuebiko-writing @pluppsauthor @elizaellwrites and anyone else who wants to play :)

Your lines:

A line about friendship

A line with a lie

A line about fighting

A line about the weather

A line about determination

[tasam1075]

I've got a little runaway muse (inspiring with the wrong chapters 🤔)

here's a little snippet

Transferred

Scott woke to another day of the same monotony, for the last seven years his days had very little variety.

His 'existence' was now limited to a 6ft by 9ft 'cage' that he only left for an hour each day, although it wasn't unusual for him to be left in his cell from Friday evening right through to Monday morning with no respite.

The bland (usually cold) substance that masqueraded as food was passed through the slot three times a day, he couldn't even remember what good food tasted (or looked) like any more.

Privacy was another non existent concept for him now, his occasional phone calls were always listened to and his mail (both sent and received) read by the guards.

Even when he was taken to the showers everything had to be done in front of the guards, not even a frosted screen to give him the illusion of privacy.

As awful and degrading as it had been at the start, it had now become normal for him.

He never knew whether he should look forward to the, now infrequent, visits from his family or dread the aftermath of said visit.

After every visit he was left with the brutal reality of his existence as he was taken back to his cell whilst his visitor was always free to leave, the knowledge that life had continued for his brothers just cemented the depressive nature of death row for him.

Three marriages and the only sister he'd ever actually met was Tintin, he knew that he'd never be introduced to John and Gordon's wives (at least not socially).

Ironically he'd been, indirectly, responsible for John meeting his wife even though he'd never actually met Abigail.

Three funerals that he hadn't been able to attend, no-one had even told him that Becky and their son were both dead until months after their funerals had taken place.

He didn't even know how many more grandchildren his father was now able to dote on.

He couldn't allow himself to dwell on that, not without thinking about his own son, the son whose name he still wasn't allowed to know, the son whose funeral he hadn't been allowed to attend - how could he grieve properly for his son when he wasn't allowed to know his son's name.

Although the death row cells were not 'officially' classed as solitary confinement, that had been classed as a cruel and unusual punishment, the only non-solid wall was the bars at the front of the cells.

He knew that the cells on either side were occupied but he could only ever see the occupants of the cells opposite, none of whom were given to any form of communication beyond yelled insults and obscene gestures, he usually tried to ignore them as he retreated even further into his own personal hell of the never ending nightmares and perpetual solitude of this isolating existence.

Sometimes the prison chaplain came round on one of his semi-regular pastoral visits to the 'condemned' men, he never described the death row inmates as condemned but they all knew better, a brief despite from the soul destroying reality of his existence.

The chaplain was also the only person in the prison who ever spoke to him as if he was a normal person.

Scott cherished those infrequent conversations, a rare chance to feel 'almost' human, to feel as if someone actually cared about him, at least enough to talk to him even if the conversations were always meaningless in the grand scheme of things.

Something felt different about today though, a feeling of increased tension that he couldn't quite reconcile as he walked around the exercise area.

He almost smiled to himself as he considered the 'exercise area' that was all he was allowed to use.

Twice as long as his cell but less than half the width and all he could do was walk, no other form of exercise was permitted, twenty steps forward and twenty steps back for the entire allotted hour.

The last time he tried to do anything other than walk he'd lost the 'privilege' of his daily hour of exercise for a month.

Not even any rain to break the monotony today, even sunlight had become a foreign concept for him. He'd almost forgotten what sunshine looked like, did the sky have any other colour than shades of grey? He, almost vaguely, remembered the beautiful clear blue skies of home, the home that he hadn't seen for a decade and now would never see again.

His hour of exercise now completed the restraints were back on his wrists and he was ready for the return to his cell.

Instead of going back to his cell, however, he was taken to a different part of the prison where the leg restraints were fitted before being connected to the chain now at his waist.

He was confused the last time he'd been in such restraints was the day that he had been supposed to see his grandmother, the day that she died, the day that his own brother had hit him so hard that he'd spent the next two weeks in hospital recovering from his injuries. Injuries that would have prevented him from attending his grandmother's funeral even if permission had been granted for him to be there.

"What's happening?"

He asked, not really expecting any answer, after all his occasional questions were rarely answered by anyone these days.

"You're being transferred"

Scott just stood in shocked silence as the hood was placed over his head, how could he be transferred with no notice, where was he being taken to?

His last, and only, transfer (to date) he had a few days notice. He'd been able to send his most prized possession (a photograph of Becky from happier times) to Tintin for her to keep it safe, otherwise it would have been destroyed.

Unable to see and with the restraints limiting his movement it was a helpless Scott who was taken from the prison to the awaiting transportation.

After an uncertain amount of time, and three different vehicles, the hood was removed and he could finally see his surroundings, not that there was much for him to see.

He was seated, with the restraints still in place and secured, in a steel-grey 'room' that was only a little larger than a lavatory cubicle. The only light came from somewhere above his head

What little he could see didn't fill him with any kind of hope, his restraints had been secured so completely that he couldn't bring his hands to his face. Even standing was now impossible for him, he was completely trapped until someone returned to release him and that wouldn't happen until he reached his destination, wherever that was.

Without any indication of the passage of time Scott had no idea how long he'd been 'chained' in place, in could have been hours or just a few minutes, at least in his usual cell he had an impression of the passage of time from the regular activities of the guards, there was nothing here, no indication of anything to distract his, usually all too vivid, imagination.

He didn't even know what type of vehicle he was now in.

The sudden jolt and subsequent feeling of motion surprised him. Every sense he had, if he could still trust his senses after all these years, told him that he wasn't in an aircraft and the motion and sounds did not feel like any form of road transportation that he was familiar with, as a result he came to the conclusion he was on a train.

The rhythmic sounds and movements of the train had a soporific effort on him and Scott soon found himself lulled into a somnolent state.

Scott slept as the train moved on through the night, its long journey unremarkable until it reached the river crossing.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Michael de Adder, Washington Post :: [Robert Scott Horton]

* * * *

Letters From An American

Tonight, just before midnight, the state of Georgia indicted former president Donald J. Trump and 18 others for multiple crimes committed in that state as they tried to steal the 2020 presidential election. A special-purpose grand jury made up of citizens in Fulton County, Georgia, examined evidence and heard from 75 witnesses in the case, and issued a report in January that recommended indictments. A regular grand jury took the final report of the special grand jury into consideration and brought an indictment.  

“Trump and the other Defendants charged in this Indictment refused to accept that Trump lost” the 2020 presidential election, the indictment reads, ”and they knowingly and willfully joined a conspiracy to unlawfully change the outcome of the election in favor of Trump. That conspiracy contained a common plan and purpose to commit two or more acts of racketeering activity in Fulton County, Georgia, elsewhere in the State of Georgia, and in other states.” 

The indictment alleges that those involved in the “criminal enterprise” “constituted a criminal organization whose members and associates engaged in various related criminal activities including, but not limited to, false statements and writings, impersonating a public officer, forgery, filing false documents, influencing witnesses, computer theft, computer trespass, computer invasion of privacy, conspiracy to defraud the state, acts involving theft, and perjury.” 

That is, while claiming to investigate voter fraud, they allegedly committed election fraud. 

And that effort has run them afoul of a number of laws, including the Georgia Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations (RICO) Act, which is broader than federal anti-racketeering laws and carries a mandatory five-year prison term. 

Those charged fall into several categories. Trump allies who operated out of the White House include lawyers Rudy Giuliani (who recently conceded in a lawsuit that he lied about Georgia election workers Ruby Freeman and Shaye Moss having stuffed ballot boxes),  John Eastman, Kenneth Chesebro, Jeffrey Clark, Jenna Ellis, and Trump’s White House chief of staff Mark Meadows. 

Those operating in Georgia to push the scheme to manufacture a false slate of Trump electors to challenge the real Biden electors include lawyer Ray Stallings Smith III, who tried to sell the idea to legislators; Philadelphia political operative Michael Roman; former Georgia Republican chair David James Shafer, who led the fake elector meeting; and Shawn Micah Tresher Still, currently a state senator, who was the secretary of the fake elector meeting. 

Those trying to intimidate election worker and witness Ruby Freeman include Stephen Cliffgard Lee, a police chaplain from Illinois; Harrison William Prescott Floyd, executive director of Black Voices for Trump; and Trevian C. Kutti, a publicist for the rapper formerly known as Kanye West. 

Those allegedly stealing data from the voting systems in Coffee County, Georgia, and spreading it across the country in an attempt to find weaknesses in the systems that might have opened the way to fraud include Trump lawyer Sidney Powell; former Coffee County Republican Committee chair Cathleen Alston Latham; businessman Scott Graham Hall; and Coffee County election director Misty Hampton, also known as Emily Misty Hayes.  

The document also referred to 30 unindicted co-conspirators.

Trump has called the case against him in Georgia partisan and launched a series of attacks on Fulton County District Attorney Fani Willis. Today, Willis told a reporter who asked about Trump’s accusations of partisanship: “I make decisions in this office based on the facts and the law. The law is completely nonpartisan. That's how decisions are made in every case. To date, this office has indicted, since I’ve been sitting as the district attorney, over 12,000 cases. This is the eleventh RICO indictment. We follow the same process. We look at the facts. We look at the law. And we bring charges."

The defendants have until noon on August 25 to surrender themselves to authorities.

Letters From An American

Heather Cox Richardson

[jaysthea-warhammer-blog]

Jay reads The Ravanwing by Gav Thorpe part 1

Also known as "who knows what in the dark angels"

How did the Lion die?

Great opening line

Horus, arch-traitor, thrice-cursed, had murdered the primarch of the Dark Angels.

The Dark Angels, the First Legion, greatest of the Emperor’s warriors, had fought against the evil of Horus and those primarchs who had been corrupted by his silken-tongued promises, and they had triumphed. The victory had been won at great cost, and Lion El’Jonson, the primarch of the Dark Angels had given his life to defeat the enemy.

Oh Annael buddy, you don't know shit. Love how the dark angels are like "Let me tell you the truth" and tell another lie.

An unaugmented human in his middle ages, the bridge officer bore the sigil of the Chapter as a red tattoo on his left cheek; a symbol of one who had been accepted as an aspirant but ultimately failed the subsequent testing by the Librarians and Chaplains. Unsuitable to undergo the transformation into a superhuman warrior, Pichon instead served as the ranking non-Space Marine officer of the bridge crew

it's cool that even failed aspirants still get a job in the chapter.

There were certainly other Dark Angels who hailed from Bartia, Sergeant Seraphiel being one of them, but there was no way to know who they were before they had become Space Marines; they could not remember and the Chapter records did not contain such details.

"Place of origin: none of your business"

‘The Ravenwing do things their own way,’ said Telemenus. ‘Sometimes they act more like White Scars or Space Wolves than Dark Angels.’

Inter-compony rivalry. They would hate being compared to the space wolves. Also have the ravenwing and white scars ever hung out.

It was the weakness in himself that gave rise to doubts, not some shortfall in the conduct of those around him; such was the teaching of the Chaplaincy

"Questing stuff is a you problem"

Sammael drew his blade, the Raven Sword forged from a piece of meteorite inlaid with a crystal matrix powerfield.

cool.

He was the Grand Master of the Ravenwing, the eyes of the Chapter, and he could not afford to miss any clue.

'Eyes of the chapter' - Sammael your going 200 km an hour

The Grand Master could see nothing of his companion’s face but his posture spoke of great distress. To see such a thing from a veteran of Harahel’s standing gnawed at Sammael’s own resolve.

I love that even Sammael questions himself

‘Nestor was a gene-guardian?’ Sammael knew of the gene-seed caches located on some of the Dark Angels’ recruiting worlds, held away from the Tower of Angels to ensure future generations could be created if something disastrous happened to the fortress-monastery. However, only a few of the Inner Circle knew the locations and the names of the gene-guardians from the apothecarion who watched over them.

Cool lore, but Gene-Guardian is such a funny tile

[fideidefenswhore]

The encounter at Hailes was later remembered by Anne's personal chaplain, William Latymer, to have prompted thoughts of a grand programme of reform. This has been read as a proof of her influence on a deepening distaste for the tradition in the mind of the King. Yet what Latymer remembered was not the total suppression of the monastic estate but rather a judicious reform: 'from that time forward she advertised all other preachers of God's word ...touching the subverting of any houses of religion, but rather to make continual and earnest petition for the stay of the same.' Latymer claimed that 'the sweet sound whereof, after it came to the ears of the governor of other religious houses wonderfully revived them and gave them good hope.'

Clark, J. G. (2021). The Dissolution of the Monasteries: A New History. United Kingdom: Yale University Press.

[motionjames]

TRUE LOVE IS POSSIBLE FOR NEW PEOPLE, PT.1

or

char and amuro, snowden, mr.lawrence, the asteroid, the boy, and the place we were born

In the Snowden chapter of Catch-22, Yossarian wakes up in a cold sweat surrounded by probing doctors after getting stabbed multiple times in his side. The doctors ask:

‘Where were you born?’

The fat, gruff colonel reminded Yossarian of the fat, gruff colonel who had interrogated the chaplain and found him guilty. Yossarian sat up at him through a glassy film. The cloying scents of formaldehyde and alcohol sweetened the air.

‘On the battlefield,’ he answered.

‘No, no. In what state were you born?’

‘In a state of innocence.’

Before this it was all comedy. After this– after the knife comes down, after the woman cries for her lover, after Yossarian shrieks and falls to the ground in genuine terror as the past blooms in his side for an uncaring audience– it dies. From now on, there will be nightmares. It won’t stop until the end.

+++

I started watching Mobile Suit Gundam in middle school on the library computers and then I began saving the battery on my school-issued laptop so I could watch it on the bus as well. I loved the mechs and grand, sweeping arcs and most of all Amuro Ray, curled up with whited-out eyes in a near vegetative state as the world orbits around him. I drew him clumsily with a mouse in mspaint and made it my icon for various online activities. His hair was nice. I didn’t understand what I wanted for or from him, but I knew I wanted to watch.

At some point I began to question where exactly it is that Amuro gets doomed. We already know how it ends– in that brilliant burst of cosmic light, the sky painted with shooting stars– but when did it start? When did he lose it all? Amuro is so withdrawn, so singular, so depressing to watch in action, he’s nothing more than a doll for another doll, some flesh and bones that bring a killing machine alive when somebody else tells him to. There’s nothing left. Amuro believes in compassion but it’s too late for him. Maybe it wasn’t always like this.

Following the thread, I found it: It wasn’t in the burning cockpit at the end of CCA or in the elevator in Zeta or through the endless battles of ‘79, it was when he entered the mech. The RX-78-2, a tool for war and a plastic toy I have lovingly placed on my shelf. A machine his father built. His father is thrown into space. His mother rejects him for his atrocities. Amuro is effectively orphaned by the machine and pulled apart and reconstructed and told to continue onward. He despises it, and then he lives it.

Before this it was comedy. After this, it dies.

+++

Char Aznable never really existed. Because of that, nothing he says or does really means anything, no matter how much others would tell you otherwise. Quess adores him for the promises he feeds her, Garma latches onto his support, the world revolves around him. He has an undeniable magnetism. And yet, when he is up on a podium speaking to an audience, he fails. Char is a terrible politician. He has so much charisma but no real ideals– He was a boy with a gun and he’s been coasting ever since then.

A man who has spent his life under a mask will know the script by heart. These are not words of his own but he speaks them like they are, not because he means them or even that he wishes to but because it will advance him to the next scene. The play will keep going. He started this as a means of revenge but his role became too large and now everyone is watching, waiting for his next move, and frankly, there isn’t any reason why he shouldn’t continue. Casval never got to be a person. It’s just the mask and uniform now.

Unable to exist, there isn’t any reason why he shouldn’t destroy everyone around him. Quess is so easy for him. Nanai, too. He’s been doing this his whole life. Incapable of treating his fellow man with any sort of respect, how can he be expected to craft a better future for humanity? Only in the very end in tears and a burning cockpit does he realize something so simple– “Humans, who possess warmth, are still cruel enough to destroy Earth” – and the mask is gone at last. What was he doing this entire time? What was the point? Casval’s eyes open and he cries.

Hatred is so easy. It’s just nightmares to the very end.

+++

“How can you aim a gun at someone like that, and fire?”

Amuro’s mother asks this when they meet for the first time since being separated by the war. Amuro looks panicked because he doesn’t have a good answer– He’s been told to do this, to survive, but death is still death, except he never really wanted to hurt anyone, not really, they would’ve died if it wasn’t for him– and his mother cries and rejects him for what he’s become. She’s so ashamed of him. You’re no longer my son, she says. He’d lost his place in the world as soon as he’d entered the mech but now he really knows it, that the one place of unconditional love he could ever hope for has officially run dry. He is taken away by the White Base and the two strangers never see each other again. Somewhere, his father is melting away in a colony tinkering with trash trying to make gadgets of war just like the old days.

Amuro speaks to his mother in a foreign language. It is a language of violence. It was how he was taught to live. But there is no response and there is no love here; there are no words or violence that could possibly express how alone he has really become. The world revolves around him but he sits at the center unmoving and unchanging, tinkering with the toys that ripped him out of time. It’s the last place he has left to go. It’s too late for people like him.

+++

Amuro and Char are trying to craft a new world. They are the only people who could understand each other because they were both born on the battlefield and remember there must’ve been innocence once, if not in them then around them, and somehow it was lost along the way. If they saw something beautiful they wouldn’t know it because they only know how to speak in guns and swords and nights preparing for something terrible to happen, probably by their own hand. The story makes circles around them and they get closer and closer with time. In their final battle in the original series, Char tries to kill Amuro but then suddenly suggests they run off together instead. It’s such a selfish action. Humanity’s future lies with them.

It is too late for either of them and no matter how pure Amuro’s heart is or how powerful Char becomes, the future will never be born with them or anything they do. They cannot picture a world unlike the one they live in now. White Base’s beloved crew will grow up serving the government without question and have happy families and live in a hell they inherited but nonetheless perpetuate. Somewhere on the battlefield, a boy is born. He does something terrible. He’s given a medal. His father will kill him one day. He watches two pilots burst into light and the galaxy glow with the souls of a hundred mobile suits. With blood on his hands, he catches sight of a future where none of this has to happen.

It was always too late for Amuro and Char. But for the boy–

+++

At the end of Merry Christmas Mr.Lawrence, POW Jack Celliers is dying in the sand. He has been a rebellious spirit for the entire story, pushing back against the senseless cruelty with harmless acts of humanity . He has kissed the Captain of the camp and he is going to die for it. His head lays in a miniature desert with the skin flaking off his sun-scarred cheeks.

The Captain appears. He saws a small lock of hair from the man he’s sentenced to death before bowing and leaving forever. Jack dies. The Captain dies. The Sergeant beneath him is executed years later for his war crimes. Earlier, a young man bit his tongue out and bled to death. Emaciated prisoners collapsed to the ground after being forced to walk from their beds. So much death all around, and for nothing. All of the kindness was crushed underfoot and left behind in the march.

The dread is overwhelming but there are flashes of crimson throughout the film; there are sprouts of kindness between the blows that appear beautiful and bright before they are stamped out. Sergeant Hara gets drunk and hand waves the execution– a move that would normally get him shot– but the usually so venomous Captain Yonoi lets him off with a slap on the wrist and a cigarette with a notable red flower mark on its side. The red flower is not unlike the one Jack offered to him scenes ago and the deliberate act of unprecedented kindness has a similar ring. Hara, years later in his cell before his death day, looks up to his old friend and brings up a joke from the night he was drunk. Yonoi kills Jack but takes a lock to remember him. Everybody dies. Somewhere, there is love.

The sprouts are plucked out time and time again but they keep pushing out from the cruel earth regardless. Jack knew he would die when he stole that kiss, but he planted the seed regardless. It is too late for us, but true love is possible. Just not here. Not for me.

+++

+++

The only thing left for the two men is to die.

The Axis is coming down and it’s going to end at last, finally the play will be over and we can stop reading the lines and pretending like we mean them, but soldiers fly up in their war machines and try to push it all back. They dissolve due to the overwhelming temperature and vanish into stardust. Amuro screams for them to stop. But this is a radical movement of selflessness that will save them all and in the end the two men die and become a part of the green aurora that swims around the earth like a halo. The children look up at the sky and point to the light and smile. It was the best thing they could ever become. And it only lasted a night.

–When people speak of happiness, they almost always refer to the near-impossible everlasting kind, the one that you spend your whole life chasing. But it is easy to forget there were small moments as well; everyday occurrences or inexplicable happenings that plant a seed in us before being swept away forever. They’re a peek into the future. Somebody left it there for us to find. It was impossible for them, but for us…

+++

The moment Jack holds forth his flower is no more than 3 seconds long. But I can take that reel and I can find that frame and I can see it was there and alive and that it meant something. Things never really go. They just sit in a sequence of many other moments, and sometimes– hopefully– they’ll repeat.

+++

Amuro and Char and 100 other pilots become a green moonlit mist that the children of earth wish on. A boy in his mobile suit watches in horror and inherits this moment in all of its love and hope and pain forever and ever. He has killed someone and he is about to get a medal. The earth is saved. The children watch and send their wishes to the sky. For a moment before their evisceration, the centers of the universe saw the world they could never build themselves. It is too late– It is too late– It is too late—

Seeds are planted. True love is possible. A boy named Hathaway watches the dream of thousands pour out from the precipice of the new world.

Somehow, it repeats:

Humanity's future lies with him.

thank you for reading.

[thepastisalreadywritten]

SAINT OF THE DAY (April 14)

Public humiliation led Peter Gonzalez to a true conversion experience and set him on the road to sainthood.

Peter was born on 14 October 1190 into a noble family in Castile, Spain. He became a priest as a step to high office.

One Christmas Day, during a grand entrance into the city before all the townspeople, the young priest was thrown off of his horse and onto a dung-heap.

Embarrassed and knowing that his parishioners thought he was a fake, Peter withdrew from the world for a period of prayer and meditation.

During this time, he had a conversion and spent the rest of his life making up for his lost youth.

He joined the Dominicans and shunned those who tried to convince him to return to his old ways, saying: "If you love me, follow me! If you cannot follow me, forget me!"

He also became a renowned preacher. Crowds gathered to hear him and numberless conversions were the result of his efforts.

He served as the confessor and court chaplain to King Saint Ferdinand III of Castile and reformed court life.

He worked for the crusade against the Moors, went into the battlefields, and worked for humane treatment of Moorish prisoners.

Fearing that the honors and easy life offered by the king’s court would lead him to return to his previous ways, he left the court and evangelized to shepherds and sailors. 

He died on 15 April 1246.

Peter was beatified by Pope Innocent IV in 1254. Although he was never formally canonized, his cultus was confirmed on 13 December 1741 by Pope Benedict XIV.

He is considered the patron saint of Spanish and Portuguese sailors.