#I do eat out north of the river sometimes because I have a number of friends who live there and who I visit often | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thetamrieliclibrary · 4 years ago

Text

Pocket Guide to the Empire, First Edition: Aldmeri Dominion

The Aldmeri Dominion is a relatively recent creation. [1] Formerly divided into he two realms of the Summerset Isles and Valenwood, the Aldmeri Dominion has its origins in CE830, when the heirs of the Camoran Dynasty began to fight over the Valenwood throne. When a faction of the Bosmer (Wood Elves) made overtures of peace to their longtime enemies in West Cyrodiil--territorial concessions in return for Colovian support for the faction's claimant--the Altmer (High Elves) of Summerset invaded the Valenwood Nations. Citing a stewardship clause in a treaty from a thousand years before, the High Elves quickly established a provisional government, the Thalmor, on behalf of their own claimant, Camoran Anaxemes, whose bloodline had struck the pact with the Aldmeri Council in the first place. As the Cyrodilic Empire was still in the shambles of the Interregnum, the Colovians were quickly driven back by the Aldmeri army. The other heirs of the throne were silenced, the Wood Elves thanked their cousins for bringing back stability, and the High Elves reminded Anaxemes the price of Summerset's aid: fifty years' fealty to the King of Alinor. The Aldmeri Dominion was born. [2]

The Thalmor strengthened its hold on the Valenwood Nations during the foundation of the Third Empire. Savage Bosmer tribes skirmished with the Estates along the River Strid, whipped to a frenzy by their High Elven masters. With the Empire now reunified under Tiber Septim, these attacks have subsided; but encampments wait on either side of the Valenwood border, awaiting a decisive battle. On the occasions when the Elves probe the Empire's defenses, the Legions have sent them back in tatters. Indeed, the Colovians have taken to calling their enemy the "Old Mary" Dominion, for the womanly offensives of its Elven soldiers. The situation at sea, however, is another story, and the Dominion terrorises the southern waters from the Cape of the Blue Divide to the Topal Bay. [3] Their sorcery has made allies of a few Reachmen, the Maormer of Pyandonea, and, as of this writing, perhaps even the Elsweyr Confederacy. Though no formal declaration of war has been made, Tamriel is divided between the Empire and the Elder Races, and Tiber Septim has made it known to the Thalmor that he is the True Emperor of Cyrodiil, and heir to all of its former holdings. The Elves of Tamriel have yet to answer.

Considering we have endured their offenses for two thousand years, we know surprisingly little about the Aldmeri. (Only Morrowind, under Skyrim domination during the First Empire, and open to travel and trade during most of the Common Era, is somewhat better known.). The Elves of High Rock and Cyrodiil were either wiped out long ago or displaced into obscurity. As for the Elves of the Dominion, our knowledge of their regions is limited to brief Imperial occupations, or to the translations we have of their literature (see "The Scarcity of Elven Writings").

Of particular scarcity is information about either the High Elves or the Summerset Isles. During the Second Empire [4] ambassadors were allowed only in the capital of Alinor, and thus any description of the Altmeri homeland is confined to that city alone, and elsewhere (see Places of Note--Alinor). Furthermore, we can offer only this brief but reliable account of the High Elven people. It comes from the journals of Eric of Guis [5]. Reman's emissary to the Altmer, who lived among them ca. 1E2820:

"High Elves consider themselves to be the only perfect race. Over hundreds of generations they have bred themselves into a racially pure line, and are now almost identical to one another in appearance. The theory that the High Elves do not reproduce as quickly or as often as humans is false. Rather, and to my horror, they kill nine out of ten babies born to them in their obsession for purity.

"The Altmer despise other Elves as unsophisticated churls and barely consider the non-Aldmeri races at all. They pay their Imperial tithes, I'm sure, not for fear of war with the humans but rather to keep an invasion from "infecting" their islands.

"Breeding outside the pure line is a terrible, unthinkable crime, and taken as prima facia evidence of the tainted blood of the individual in question--if they were, they wouldn't have the impulse to do it. Exile to the mainland is regarded as equivalent to a death sentence, since there is no purpose to living outside their ideal society.

:They have a high regard for order and gravitate naturally towards wearing uniforms and speaking in formal patterns. Their trees and their livestock have been bred to be as standard and ideal as they are. They have no real names of their own, only combinations of numbers that, when aloud, sound to human ears as such. They feel no real tenderness for one another and have no concept of compassion.

"They are decadent and self-obsessed, and prize form and their own brand of manners or style as their main value. Aware of their aristocratic position, they surround themselves with riches and treasures, the works of great artists and the finest of everything, but have no real appreciation for any of these things. Each of them is concerned solely with himself, and as a result they do no real socialising; they meet and hold courts only to demonstrate their importance and power to each other. Rarely do they speak to the human ambassadors of Cyrodiil; when they do, their speech is full of riddles, or spell-words that enchant one to a satisfied madness."

Valenwood was claimed as a wasteland province of the Second Empire, and its geography is partially described in several Imperial surveys. Valenwood is noteworthy in that it has no cities or townships built by the Wood Elves themselves. Their strict "Green Pact" prohibits the use of wood or other vegetable derivatives as building materials, and they are too improvident to learn the use of stone. The Wood Elves permitted a few roads to be built by the Second Empire, but neglect their maintenance, as the Bosmer do not need roads to move easily through the thickest forest; these roads would be now overgrown were it not for the High Elves of the Thalmor, who have repaired and widened them for rapid passage of their arms to and from the coast. Much of the region is impenetrable mangrove and coastal rain forest, with few grasslands or glade areas until further north near the Strident Coast. Many of the human trading posts established by the Second Empire have been abandoned or claimed by the beastfolk--Centaurs, Orcs, and Imga--that share the forests with the Bosmer tribes. Humans, in general, have learned not to intrude in the forests of Valenwood. While they once depended entirely on the annual Stridmeet caravans of the Colovian West, the Wood Elves now rely on the sea piracy of the Dominion for whatever they require from the outside world.

Concerning the Wood Elves as people, we must again turn to the prolific Eric of Guid. After a grateful dismissal from the Court of Alinor, he stayed with the Bosmer for a time at the capital city of Falinesti, during its summer migration. As the city strode along the coastal region of the Cape, Eric of Guis recorded much about Valenwood culture:

"No less abhorrent are the Bosmer than their kin at Summerset, but they are far more cooperative. The Wood Elves love the current human activity because it makes them feel important.

"They are exclusively and religiously carnivorous. They cannot, or will not, eat anything that is plant-based. They eat game, beastfolk, each other, or meats imported from other regions. This part of the Green Pact is known as the Meat Mandate, and, among its other rules, it requires that a fallen enemy must be eaten completely before three days pass. The family members of the warrior that slew the enemy may help him with his meal. Needless to say, the Wood Elves do not like to engage in large battles if they have not undergone a suitable starvation period.

"Though they are excellent archers, the Green Pact forces their bowyers and fletchers to use bone or similar material, or to buy bows from other cultures. The use of woodcrafts created by another race is not forbidden, nor is the sale of their own Valenwood timber as long as it is collected by a non-Bosmeri.

"The Wood Elves, of course, cannot some anything of a vegetable nature. Bone pipes are common, however, and are filled with caterpillars or tree grubs.

"For a brief time the Colovian armies used Wood Elf archers, as in the War of Rihad two years past. The Bosmer proved to be too undisciplined and prone to desertion for further use. They would sometimes walk into the shade of a single tree and vanish. Their forest-coupling skills are remarkable. The title of their most famous poem, the Meh Ayleidion, means "The One Thousand Benefits of Hiding."

"At the trading posts of the Empire, the Wood Elves become very happy. Some creations of carpentry delight them to no end. Most of it has never occurred to them. They bring their own trade items: hides, river pearls, finger-bone charms made from the still-magically-charged hands of their dead wizards. They often buy woodcrafts that they have no use for or whose use they never bother to find out. Some of the bravest Wold Elven warrior use wagon wheels as shields, or as (they think) impressive headgear.

"While sometimes amusing, the Bosmer have a bestial side. They can resort to animal shapes if they need to, or water. Their most dreaded transformation is the Wild Hunt, which killed King Borgas [6] for the "iniquities" of his Alessian faith. The Wild Hunt is a pack of shifting forest-demons and animal-gods, thousands strong, which sweeps through the countryside killing everything in its path. The Wood Elves do not like to talk about the Hunt, and I gather they do not feel proud of this power at all--Gomini, my Bosmer companion of late, tells me that the Hunt is used for justice, but that also, "every monster in the world that has even been comes from a previous Hunt. Those Bosmer that go Wild, they not not return.""

The traveller is advised to avoid the lands of the Aldmeri Dominion. Though the Thalmor have representatives at the Imperial City, and the Cyrodiilic Grand Vizier Zurin Arctus is meeting with the King of Alinor, contact with the Bosmer and Altmer are often disagreeable to the common Imperial citizen. Avoid their books and magic. Wear the permitted weaponry when near their borders. If you are manly and able, apply for service in the Legions.

The Scarcity of Elven Writings

Much of the blame for this can be laid on the Alessian Order, which was tireless in ferreting out and destroying Elven writings during its long dominance. Today, we are left with the beautiful heresies of the Anuad, surviving only by virtue of their popularity and proliferation, and perhaps a dozen more works of lesser renown. This, though, does not explain fully the scarcity of Elven letters. We might turn to Dylxexes, an early human scholar, for another answer. After studying the financial records of the Direnni Hegemony, a High Elven merchant family that exploited the human kingdoms of its day, he had this to say: "These [records] may help to explain why so much of Aldmeri literature is forbidden, scorned, or untranslated, for I have seen [their] like before. The Direnni were either exceedingly paranoid or their system of economy so inextricably linked with dangerous theosophist numeral-symbolism that much of what is recorded here requires... sorcerous precautions on the part of the reader. [Hidden magic] is everywhere incorporated in their writings... signs and preternatural runes and [correspondences]... in expenditure columns, even, or margins [that] can be fatal to the uninitiated. Crucial pages were covered with the spittle of the previous translator, who had babbled idiotically over the text for days before catching fire."

The Great Apes of Valenwood

The Great Apes, or Imga, are native beastfolk of Valenwood. they see the High Elves as their lords and masters, and as a portrait of an ideal, civilised society. Great Apes go to desperate measures to emulate the High Elves: they wear capes, practice with the dueling sword, and attempt to speak with perfect enunciation and courtly manners despite their gravelly, baritone voices. Each Imga bears some kind of title, be it Baron, Duke, Earl, or the like, which they use when addressing the members of the Thalmor (needless to say, there are no landowning Great Apes). More extreme Great Apes shave their bodies and powder their skin white to seem more like the High Elves. They often cut themselves in the process, creating the truly pathetic picture of a naked white Ape, skin dotted pink with blood, strutting around the trading posts of Valenwood with mock nobility. The Imga feel that humans are beneath them as lesser beastfolk, and pretend to find their smell exceedingly offensive--a Great Ape holds a perfumed corner of his cape to his nose when Men are around.

Places of Note

Alinor

A forbidden city for nearly fifty years, Alinor is both capital of the Summerset Isles and the heart of the Aldmeri Dominion. Human traders were only allowed at its ports, and they described the city as "made from glass or insect wings." Less fantastic accounts come from the Imperial emissaries of the Reman Dynasty, which describe the city as straight and glimmering, "a hypnotic swirl of ramparts and impossibly high towers, designed to catch the light of the sun and break it to its component colours, which lies draped across its stones until you are thankful for nightfall."

Falinesti

The walking city of the Bosmer king, Falinesti is south in the summer and north come Hearth Fire. It is the largest of Valenwood graht-oaks, whose magic was invoked at the dawn of recorded history. The Camoran throne is somewhere in the highest branches, as are numerous other dwellings. Wood Elves climb about its surface like termites, or carefully swing from level to level by means of thorny vines. Humans have generally been too unsettled by the city to stay there long, though Great Apes and Orcs are common. The Thalmor has decided to change the campital of Valenwood from Falinesti to Elden Root for the duration of the Aldmeri Dominion.

Annotations

1. Of this pamphlet, this regime, this lunacy 2. I don't know where to begin pointing out the lies 3. !!! 4. My bones chill thinking of such rampant human trespass 5. Does Grandfather remember this fool? 6. Wood Elves of the Wild Hunt, 1e369, still about in Valenwood--Willy the Bitten returned to haunt Silvenar Grove, While King Dead Wolf-Deer stalks the Lynpar March.

~ Follow for more books, journals, and notes from the Elder Scrolls series ~ Updates daily ~

#tes #the elder scrolls #tes books #the elder scrolls books #summerset isles #valenwood #altmer #bosmer #admeri dominion #alinor #falinesti

14 notes · View notes

cursewoodrecap · 3 years ago

Text

Session 22: Five-Dimensional Man-Go

This is a session I’ve been looking forward to for quite some time. I get to introduce three of my favorite characters in the entire campaign.

In the real world it’s been a while, but this was the session we officially welcomed a new chaos goblin player to the table. And damn, am I glad we did.

Valeria goes to Hoeska’s armor smiths for some upgrades, and accidentally kicks off a goth fashion montage. Her new armor has gorgeous black detailing with purple rose accents, accessorized with a brand-new Shusva-skin bag with matching claw clasp. Gral picks up a fancy Shusva-leather cloak and belt. Shoshana, realizing that a vampire’s castle is basically a Hot Topic, gets some fishnet arm warmers to accompany her fang necklace. We also get some healing potions and hope they aren’t made from lost souls or anything.

Valeria resummons Aethis, who pops back into existence in a burst of glitter that’s entirely incongruous with the local grim aesthetic. Apparently celestial gators are only mildly inconvenienced by fatalities.

As we hitch up the horses to get back on the road, we find out Ser Boris is also preparing to head out. “Woods full of many nasty creatures. Must keep hunting! Maybe I find way down to Barroch, I have heard monsters are attacking workers there.”

Gral perks up at the name of his people’s capitol. “I’m sure the orcs will treat you well. What kind of monsters are they dealing with?”

“Wolves, bears, maybe werewolf? I will find out when I get there! Cursebreakers do not have much of working relationship with orcs, so info is scattered. That is why I must investigate!”

While he heads south into orc territory, we’re gonna go north toward Sturmhearst to look into all the Key nonsense Professor Bjork told us is goin’ down. It’ll be a long trip; it’s on the coast, and we’re well into the heartland of the wood. As we get closer, we’re gonna have to look for new maps, too – the patchwork of safe zones and Curse disasters changes rapidly, and the roads that were passable a month ago might be deathtraps today.

We trek for several blessedly uneventful days. One night, in a region where a sizable number of halflings have settled, we have the fortune of seeing an inn on the horizon as night starts to fall. A sign proclaims the Fusilier’s Rest, a combination winery and inn located on a lush vineyard. Valeria’s kind of suspicious of anything too plant-based right now, but the rest of us totally want a winery tour.

We hitch up our wagon next to a post labeled Valet Parking. Aethis parks themself in the stables. Looking at the place, with its rather low doorframe and quaintly painted décor, we suspect Demish wine snootery instead of weird plant cults.

We duck through the door and take in the scene. It’s on the upscale end of totally normal, with locals sitting around eating and a huge pot of Demish onion soup bubbling on the hearth. The old halfling bartender is wearing pieces of a worn but well-cared-for blue-and-gold uniform. Two polished old pistols hang within reach on the wall, along with a pristine old Fusille musket in a place of honor behind the bar. Shiny medals in a handmade case are proudly displayed atop the bar.

As is D&D protocol, we look around for any notably wacky characters. We find them in the corner: an old man with unkempt white hair and multi-lensed, colorful glasses, engrossed in a game of Man-go against a young human doctor. We know he’s a doctor, because he’s got a stubby-beaked Sturmhearst mask pushed up to expose a tired but friendly face. His coat might once have been a lab coat, but it’s since been patched and sutured together so many times that it’s probably done a full ship-of-Theseus. His right arm is in a makeshift sling, and he’s nursing a small glass of Kevan vodka; probably the closest thing they have to rotgut moonshine in a wine-snob place like this.

We’re like, neat. Let’s eat soup.

Valeria orders a local vineyard wine and chats with the bartender about it. “The man who runs it is a madman; he thinks he can grow good wine grapes in Valdia. But he pays my sister well, she does her best.”

“Oh, don’t listen to René, his sister does marvelous work! No halfling will admit that wine grown outside Demionde will be more than spoiled grape juice,” teases one of the local barflies.

Gral asks Valeria who’s winning the Man-go game. The old man is rambling pleasantly, barely paying attention, and he is absolutely crushing the young doctor. The doctor looks like he’s totally aware he’s being taken to the cleaners, but he’s gonna let the old guy have his fun. As the game draws to a close, the younger man smiles ruefully and hands over a few coins. Meanwhile, the old fella, his eyes magnified to mismatched sizes by his funky glasses, spots our most conspicuous party member.

“Kyr! How’s the wine?” he calls, beckoning her over.

“Quite good actually!” Valeria chirps. “Was that the Kiloni maneuver?”

“Yes, or a variant I picked up somewhere! The Killam maneuver…kilometer…kilowatt? Something of the sort.”

Valeria very much wants to play him, and the old guy’s defeated opponent is happy to trade her his spot. The young man’s propped up leg hits the ground with a suspiciously loud clunk as he vacates his chair for her.

The old man peers up at her, bright-eyed even behind multiple layers of glass. “So what brings a Knight of the Rose here?”

“We’re headed to Sturmhearst, actually!”

“I see! I’ve heard the roads between here and there are pretty tricky to travel, you know.”

“No kidding. Do you have an updated map?”

He snaps his fingers. “No, but I just came from there! I’ve got an old map and I can easily update it for you kids. René is on night watch, I’ll leave it with him so you don’t have to stay up waiting for me to finish it. I know a route that’ll get you there lickety-split and safe as trousers! Now let me guess, you played at the clubs in Aurentium? You have the look about you.”

“Not the clubs, precisely…”

“Ah! Street rules, then!”

Valeria, who played Man-go against literally everyone who would have her, shrugs. “Maybe?”

“René, we’ll need some cups and a dumb hat!” the old man calls.

The young doctor wanders over to the bar and gets a refill, settling down next to Shoshana. “Hey, wanna bet on their game? The old guy’s pretty sharp.”

Shoshana laughs. “Oh, my friend is definitely gonna lose. I’ll put a silver on her, though, out of loyalty.”

It’s an odd game to spectate. Valeria falls behind early on; an insight check shows he’s not cheating, he’s just VERY good. Oh, and also Valeria’s assuming an entirely different set of house rules than this guy, and it’s tripping her up. Wait, are we doing street style, or dock style? Anyway, Valeria’s wearing the dumb hat now. At one point they both spit on the board.

“Y’know, I’ve never seen anyone from Sturmhearst take the mask off,” Shoshana says to her new drinking buddy, watching the game with confusion.

“On the clock, it’d be a safety hazard! But off the clock, eh, it’s fine. Some people get more elitist than me about it, I’m a hometown Valdian through and through.”

(You’re from Joisey, I’m from Joisey! What exit?)

“I haven’t actually been to the university since the Curse started, but I’m heading back to research some stuff I found out up in the Grammelsmarsh swamps. Some real disconcerting stuff regarding undead, and the like. The locals refer to it as the Wailing Wight.”

Shoshana gives him a once-over, rolling a decent Perception. He’s scruffy, though that could mostly be from hard travel, and definitely looks like he’s had a rough time of it. His arm’s in a sling and the little exposed skin Shoshana can see has more than its share of nicks and scars. His gait when he walked over was slightly uneven, one leg making a suspiciously heavy thunk against the wooden floor. Over his shoulder, he’s carrying a long, heavy case sealed with tar for waterproofing.

Hold up. She points to the case. “Do you have an alive guy in there?”

“…Uh.”

“You hesitated, and that’s not great.”

“Uh…no. No, I do not have an alive guy in here,” he says awkwardly.

“Okay, because the last time there was a weird bag, there was a whole-ass dude in there, and it turned into a whole thing.”

“N-no, no no no, there’s no person in the case,” he protests, not quite meeting Shoshana’s judgy cat eyes. He definitely doesn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, even though the case has started gently twitching.

Meanwhile, old Man-Go man has proved himself quite fluent in Draco-Aquilian, though with an unmistakable mammalian accent. Gral butts into the lively conversation when it winds back to Valdian. “It seems like you’re rather well traveled. What is your profession?”

“Oh, y’know, I go here and there. I’ve been around. There’s so much to see out there!”

Valeria smiles. “I can’t fault you there. Anything in particular you’re looking for?

“I go wherever the winds take me, mostly,” he says, as if Cursewood travel isn’t the most dangerous hobby since they invented pyromancer cookoffs.

Valeria, impressively, only loses the game by a little. The old man jovially shakes her hand and promises to go get started on that map to Sturmhearst for us, springing to his feet with surprising deftness for his age and bustling up toward his room.

Gral and Shoshana, meanwhile, are busy makin’ friends with the doctor guy. “What swamp were you fighting undead in?”

“The Grammelsmarsh? It’s downriver of Mornheim.”

“Ohhh! We heard some, uh, adventurers did a purifying ritual on the river. It might help your situation?”

“That’s great, but…I dunno. Once you mix in swamp gas, things get a lot more interesting.”

“The explosions kind of interesting?”

“…Sometimes.”

The players have noticed that our doctor friend here is, like…not an NPC, there’s another guy at the table (the same player as Isadora! :D), so we start sizing each other up as travel companions.

“You seem like a pretty decent guy,” Gral says, immediately insight checking.

“I mean, you guys seem on the up-and-up too?”

Shoshana winks at him. “Well, I’m not that up-and-up but these two are very diplomatic and important.”

“If you’re also headed up to Sturmhearst, it might make sense for us to travel together? I’m not very quiet,” he admits, knocking on his knee with a clang, “but if you-“

“Hello!” Valeria, hearing clanking, has clanked over loudly to join. “Kyr Valeria Argent, at your service!”

“Uh, hi! I’m Vigdor. I’m a doctor! I mean, you knew that, with the, uh-“ He points to his bird mask. “If you need any balms or salves – I mean, I’m mostly a surgeon, but I know some herbology.”

Is that so! We chat about Dr. Ulmus and Dr. Kjeller. Everyone loves Dr Kjeller!

“I’ve heard of Dr. Kjeller! I haven’t met the guy, but he’s the leading expert on troll physiology. Getting him to come lecture hasn’t worked out so far.”

We ask René the innkeeper about any local threats. Apparently this town’s gotten lucky; the biggest threats recently have just been bandits and one overaggressive badger.

“Oh yeah, one of my cats fought one of those, it went badly,” Shoshana remembers. “For the badger, I mean. I have weird cats.”

(The inn also has cat. His name is Jean Clawed.)

Eventually we all head upstairs. As the night bears on, the girls fall asleep, presumably after painting each other’s toe claws and gossiping. Gral’s still awake, practicing his lute in the rare luxury of a single room, when he pauses. Something doesn’t sound right.

Putting his lute aside, he listens cautiously at the window and feels a deep dread grow in his stomach. The faint scent of ozone drifts in the air. The crickets and night birds have gone dead silent, and in the unsettling quiet he can hear the terrible growling, piping sound he’s heard twice before: once in a house in a hole, and once as Bullbreaker’s expedition faced its destruction.

With great urgency and no volume control, Gral sends a Message to a sleeping Shoshana: “RED ALERT, KEY SHIT’S HERE.” Shoshana wakes up and kicks Valeria.

Gral then sends a Message to our new friend Vigdor, more calmly. “If you have weapons, get them now. Something is happening, it’s going to be dangerous.”

The early warning lets Vigdor and Valeria armor up, Shoshana helping Valeria buckle on the heavy pieces in a hurry. Meanwhile, Gral sprints downstairs, casting Mirror Image as he goes.

René the innkeeper is cleaning his fusille with practiced precision, humming an old marching song. Gral can hear something moving in the kitchen behind the old halfling, so he pops another stealthy Message cantrip. “This is the orc from earlier. I think something bad is in the kitchen – I’ve heard that noise before. Hold on tight to that musket, I’m going in.”

“The back door is locked, I would have heard someone come in,” the old soldier whispers back.

“These things don’t use doors,” Gral hisses.

A 17 Persuasion convinces René, who loads a bullet into his musket. “Where are those friends of yours?”

A heavy clank from upstairs answers that question, as Vigdor and Valeria thud toward the stairs. Gral scopes out the room and sees, on the bar, a big leather map case. The map from the Man-Go guy! Then he peers into the kitchen and, yup, that’s a fleshhound, all right.

Everyone else upstairs bursts into the hall just as a second fleshhound emerges into existence next to them. Shoshana, without hesitation, hits it with a gout of flame. Its strange ethereal flesh solidifies for a moment, but then it shakes itself and charges forward, its displacement energy restored.

Meanwhile, the one downstairs doesn’t aim for Gral or René, trying to run past them. Gral plays a discordant note on his lute, using his Minor Key at the opposite frequency to its vibration and preventing it from displacing, before he strikes. A spectral, scarred orc swings a warhammer down on the creature, Thrice-Burned’s ghost getting some payback as Gral’s blade strikes true.

René takes a shot with his musket and crit-fails, understandably freaked out by the writhing mass of teleporting tentacles, the wild shot careening directly into Gral. Luckily, it only pops a Mirror Image, but everyone upstairs hears a frustrated yell of “NO. FRIEND! ME FRIEND!”

Vigdor dashes past Valeria to the stairs, his previously-motionless arm reaching out of its sling to slap her on the armor with a resounding clash of metal. A silver Jotunn rune glows through the cloth of his sleeve, and she feels Protection from Good and Evil snap into place over her. She takes the cue and stabs the hound, rose vines bursting from her trident and stabbing their long thorns into its oddly flickering flesh.

The pupils on the Eyegis snap to the space behind the beast. Our normal eyes see nothing, but the Key-aligned shield’s eyes see a magical gate, faintly connected to the hound.

As a member of the Order of the Rose, Valeria’s trained to deal with fiendish incursions. This isn’t a portal to the Hells, but she thinks it might get closed similarly. As she charges forward to deal with it, everything seems to move twice as fast as it should: the Key’s spatial distortion has made certain areas the opposite of difficult terrain, where you can move double your speed. Nyoom!

Shoshana zaps it with lightning and heads downstairs to help Gral, who’s being slapped by tentacles. The zapped one flees toward the portal, but Valeria Sentinels and stabs it to death. The downstairs hound gets its tentacles into the real Gral.

Vigdor moves to Gral’s aid, ripping away the last of his sling and clamping a large circular blade to his forearm. With the pull of a ripcord, it loudly whirs into motion. As the Buzzing Butcher slams into the displacer hound with a gory squelch, he asks about sneak attack, like a rogue!

A very, very loud rogue.

Gral breaks away from the hound’s tentacles and looks around. Through the windows, more fleshhounds have appeared outside. The space outside is warped – leaving this inn is going to be very difficult while all this nonsense is going on. The lights of the vineyard seem miles away.

However, Gral realizes, the hound responded to the sound of his lute. And when he used his Minor Key he caught a glimpse of the portal it came through. He begins to play again, using the Minor Key to try to take control of it. The GM allows him to burn a 3rd level spell slot for a colossal roll of 33. He moves the portal inside a wall, to temporarily block anything coming through.

René takes a shot at the remaining hound and misses.

Valeria, upstairs, draws her chained sword and spends a 1st level slot to try to close the portal, the same way paladins close Infernal gateways. The chains of Rack extend from the sword and stitch the portal shut.

(Gral and Valeria each gain inspiration for using Portal Trixx!)

A Thing Occurs at initiative 0, and we hear strange piping coming from the stables. We’re kind of occupied, so we trust Aethis to bite anything that bothers the horses.

Shoshana sprints down the stairs and to the bar. Aw, there’s another flesh hound coming in from the kitchen. Her Chill Touch misses, and the new monster slaps Gral.

Vigdor nyooms through a Zoom, which makes some Really Weird doppler effects happen with his clanky leg and his buzzy arm. He slides across the bar like an action hero and slams his saw down, missing the hound and showering the room in a hail of splinters.

Valeria is still upstairs, and it is LOUD downstairs. She’s gonna dash to get the heck down there and rejoin the festivities.

Gral Phantasmal Forces the new fleshhound, and in its mind, horrible liquid tendrils emerge from the soup pot and constrict around it. The soup rises to the defense of the Fusilier’s Rest!

René gets his wits about him and takes a pistol shot at the nearer fleshhound, tagging it with a bullet and keeping it in place. “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE. OUR POLICY IS NO PETS! I will not make an exception for you, you do NOT seem particularly polite!”

The fleshhound grabs the map case off the bar and starts to run for it. René hits it with the butt of his rifle. The second hound can’t attack Vigdor since it’s too busy convincing itself soup isn’t dangerous, so Vigdor’s free to draw his pistol and unload a Sneak Attack bullet into the fleeing hound’s back.

René reloads his musket. It’s been a long time since he’s done it under fire, but the Royal Fusilier Corps of Demionde does not half-ass their training.

The portal the hound’s heading for bisects a wall now, so it might be hard for the hound to get through. Before it can worry about that, though, it comes face to face with Valeria, who’s ready to rumble. She kills it, dropping the map to the ground, and skitters through the Zoomy Zone to try to trident the second hound. It displaces out of the way.

Gral seizes control of another portal, and this time decides to use it to see what’s going on. He tries to hop out to the stables, where that weird noise is coming from. He enters a weird nether space full of the flickering bodies of fleshhounds, writhing and blinking, which the DM calls the Threshold. Gral accepts psychic damage to see what’s going on, and the patterns become clearer as the Key takes hold temporarily in his brain. These portals all connect to each other and the Threshold at the same time. Whatever’s out in the stables, making that eerie piping noise, is tied to the portals – it can’t fully exist in our realm. So if you close all the portals, it’ll force that thing to leave; if you drive it away, the portals will close. Either way, the Key’s influence on this place will fade.

Oh, and that thing out in the stables? It’s the Lurke r again.

Gral’s old enemy wrests control of the portal back from Gral, who stumbles back out into the inn, reeling from the sudden whammy of Key taint.

Shosha shoots lightning at the nearest hound, which retaliates by leaping through her, disrupting her matter with its own. It’s a highly unpleasant experience. A new hound jumps out of the portal next to Valeria. As Vigdor, Shoshana, and René all attack, Gral shuts another portal with his lute’s magic. “Guys, there’s something horrible in the stables!” he shouts. “If we bust enough portals it’ll go away!”

The Lurker continues to make mysterious dice rolls, but apparently it’s rolling poorly, so we don’t quite find out what it’s up to. It peers through one of the last few portals, only visible to Gral and the Eyegis. It’s hard to get a good look at, fifth-dimensional as it is, but it’s weirdly humanoid, actually? It’s surrounded by floating lanterns and holding some sort of pipe or flute.

(The DM notes that Jean Clawed is awake and doesn’t see why any of this is his business. He’s capable of using the portals; he’s not Key tainted, that’s just how cats are.)

We exchange blows with the remaining hounds, Chromatic Orbs flying and chainsaws buzzing. René bayonets a hound to death, for the honor of all NPCs.

Gral powerslides on his knees across the Zoomy Zone, playing a complicated riff, woobling himself right through the fireplace into the kitchen. He spends another level 3 spell slot to get the portal to dance itself shut. “And that was Through the Fire and Flames!”

René reloads his gun. Shoshana blasts the hound with fire, so Vigdor’s action goes off and he chainsaws it to death, the body and spine getting caught in the spinning chain. FATALITY.

The searing light of Shoshana’s fire casts sharp shadows on the walls of the inn, which begin to writhe and re-form, swirling together into a lithe, snarling feline shape that springs toward the Lurker. It pounces with an odd, broken yowl that’s incredibly familiar – although Valeria and Gral have only ever heard it once, from underneath an overturned laundry basket.

Vigdor, who’s never met a flesh-hound OR a cursecat before, makes an arcana check to figure out what in the seven hells is going on. It seems some sort of entity is thinning the barriers between realities? Its very essence seems to be intermingled with portal; it cannot fully leave the portal or exist in this realm. Like a malevolent, sentient pair of curtains.

He’s like okay, curtains sound like something I can chainsaw. It’s curtains for you, see? (Fun fact: if he rolls 21 or higher on attack roll with chainsaw, he gets sneak attack regardless of other circumstances. Because it’s a goddamn CHAINSAW.)

The Lurker turns its attention directly on us, or at least to the enormous hissing cat hellbent on ruining its day. Gral, still strumming furiously, realizes the Lurker’s only got a couple of portals left. He’s closed a portal already; he’s gonna try to close all of them for good. The DM imposes disadvantage and a brutal pile of psychic damage, but Gral is unphased, hitting a power chord that shakes the entire inn.

The Lurker screeches and reaches for him, the space around Gral beginning to warp, but it’s too late, the portal slamming shut against it. The Zoomy Zones vanish; the portals close, the strange atmosphere fades. The road looks to be the size it was before instead of an endless stretch of packed earth; the vineyard is once again an easy ten-minute walk away.

His big solo complete, Gral sways and collapses unconscious. Valeria runs over and Lays On Hands so he doesn’t die, while Vigdor starts casting Mending on the destroyed bar furniture. Shoshana, meanwhile, just stares dumbstruck at the place where a huge spectral cat is dissipating into shadowy smoke.

“…Schmendrick?”

René is holding himself together, but he’s an old man and it’s been a while since he fought this much. He took a bit of damage; Valeria pat pats him some HP. “Thank you, Kyr. I…I need to check on my other guests. The old man with the Man-Go game, we must find out if he lives.”

Valeria accompanies him upstairs. Rack’s glowing rose vines are still visible, stitching the portal shut; it’s healing more quickly than Valeria’s used to seeing. The door to the old man’s room swings open under Valeria’s cautious knock. The bed is unmade but empty, and the old man’s luggage is gone. The only things left are a generous tip on the counter and his odd multicolored glasses.

As Vigdor steps outside to clean viscera off his chainsaw, Gral scopes out the stables. There’s evidence of disturbed earth around the grounds, but nothing conclusive. Aethis seems to be unbothered.

We reconvene without much to show for our investigation. But we have one last clue: Why were the hounds so interested in the old man’s map? We spread it out on one of the bar tables and crowd around. It’s a map of Valdia, but the path it shows us to take to Sturmhearst makes No Sense. It’s not even contiguous! It tells us to start here and wander north, and then the line cuts off next to some scribbled equations, the route picking up again elsewhere, where he’s drawn a symbol we don’t recognize – and so on, in strange and nonsensical disconnected paths.

Shoshana, on a hunch, puts on the multicolored glasses the old man left behind. Like 3D glasses, they reveal the hidden image. Through the kaleidoscopic lenses, she can see remnants of the Key’s influence all around the inn; the fading Zoomy Zones and closing portals light up in ultraviolet. The map, meanwhile, has gained an entirely new dimension, like a layer of holographs. NOW the shortcuts make sense – they route through other dimensions along the z-axis, with additional symbols and labels giving helpful hints.

To be honest, it does look like a much faster route. And one of the notes says it leads to the “Drowned City” – hey, isn’t that where Bullbreaker ended up? But we’re all rightfully wary of hopping right back into another flesh-hound portal disaster.

We now have the Extradimensional Map and the Stranger’s Glasses.

Oh! The map has a note for us: “Happy Journeys to a fellow master of the game. Your friend, T.T.”

We immediately rifle through our notes and realize he may have been Professor Trevor Twombly, Headmaster of Sturmhearst. Vigdor, did you know that guy?!

Vigdor didn’t recognize him. Maybe the guy looked like Twombly, if you squint? There were a lot of old men at Sturmhearst, and they wear masks most of the time? Also he had distracting glasses? So, like…maybe?

As we bicker, Vigdor snags the glasses off the table and heads to his room, opening up his case and taking a look. The lenses don’t reveal anything new about the object inside.

Unfortunately, the poor rogue didn’t bother to stealth. “Whatcha doin’ in here?” says Valeria, who followed shortly behind.

“Um, just looking at my leg, seeing if anything is weird-“

Valeria immediately checks Vigdor’s lower limbs for wounds. “I can help! An extra pair of hands can always-”

“No, no! I think I’m okay! Really!” he protests. He glances into the case again, clearly torn, and sighs. “Let me explain.”

He lifts a whole human leg out of the case, kicking and twitching.

“This is my leg, and I’m taking it to Sturmhearst. I’m not sure if it’s wholly mine anymore.”

Through his torn pants, Valeria can see a clunky clockwork leg to match his buzz-saw arm.

One player immediately yells “FULL METAL ALCHEMIST.” Another player says it again, in a slightly different voice.

Dr. Vigdor Gavril has joined the party!

#the cursewood #session recap #the key #valeria argent #gral omokk'duu #shoshana bat chaya #vigdor gavril #schmendrick #trevor twombly

3 notes · View notes

petepettingillposts · 4 years ago

Text

NEW YORK DAYS 1987 – 1988

I was born in Queens, a New York City borough but I grew up in Nassau County. The city always loomed large in our lives but we didn’t have much to do with it. It might as well have been another country.

My father worked at 26 Broadway. My Aunt Jessie worked in Manhattan, too, for General Electric in the sixties and early seventies. My mother worked for Liggett & Meyers until she left to have me in the late fifties. We visited the city a few times as kids to see my father, to eat at the automat, to ride the Staten Island ferry. As young adults we would drive in late in the evening to go to the top of the World Trade Center. We did that a few times. But we’d always come right back out.

Sometime in 1987 I was promoted by my company to a supervisory position in Rockefeller Center from one of the Long Island offices. I was not keen on this at all but I went. It was going to mean longer days because of the commute and I was uncertain what it would be like overall. I was twenty-eight years-old and had been with the company two and a half years. In hindsight I was not so opposed that I ever contemplated quitting my job. As a dutiful soldier, I took the assignment and went to New York City, much as I had taken orders to go from Fort Jackson, SC to Giessen, Germany a decade earlier.

I was married and living in Hempstead. We had been married just over two years. E was working as a research librarian at a Wall Street bond firm. Our apartment was very close to the Long Island Railroad station. It was only a mile but I did not consider walking there because it was not a great neighborhood. I drove to the station every morning. I had to have a town sticker to park in that parking lot.

I became excited about the job and wanted to do well. I went early every day. I recall getting up at 4:30 or 5:00, showering, dressing and leaving. We wore suits in those days, or at least slacks and sports jackets with a tie. Don’t forget the tie. In the late autumn and winter, I wore a trench coat or an overcoat. It was during this period I developed an affinity for herringbone. I had a maroon briefcase from Macy’s I bought for my promotion. That only went to the dump a few years ago.

Whenever I reflect on this part of my life to other people, I always make sure I tell them “I read the Wall Street Journal or the New York Times in the morning and the New York Post in the afternoon.” Stories in the news then were Tawana Brawley, the garbage barge, and, of course, Oliver North and Fawn Hall were waist deep in the Iran-Contra Affair with Ronald Reagan. And rarely a day went by that Donald Trump was not in the New York Post.

Rarely did I catch a morning train that did not require a change at Jamaica to go to Pennsylvania Station, so I also like to share how at least twice I fell asleep, missed the change, ended up in Brooklyn, and had to work my way up to Rockefeller Center on the subways from Brooklyn. I am glad that only happened twice. It is an ordeal.

On the approach to Jamaica, I was always fascinated by the ruin of Saint Monica. Saint Monica’s was a Roman Catholic Church built in 1856 and closed in 1973. In 1987 it was staggering to see this church, right in the middle of Queens, not just in complete disrepair but collapsing. It always captured my imagination: the people who had built it, loved it, and cared for it. And now abandoned it. What had become of them that this had become of this church?

Shortly after departing Jamaica, the trained stopped at Woodside, and from there accelerated and dove in to a tunnel under the East River. Next stop: Pennsylvania Station.

Depending on the weather I would either walk the mile from Penn Station to Rockefeller Center or I would take a subway. I had two choices: the 1 train or the F train. The F train stopped in a mall beneath what was then the JC Penney building. I could work my way through the labyrinth to number 10. Using the 1 train I would emerge by a deli and I would always get a fried egg on a bulky roll and pint of Tropicana orange juice for about $2. Those guys could move some people through that place every morning. The hustle was all New York.

Early on I learned about synchronized commuting on the subway: the best entry point on the subway that would be the best exit point off the subway for my stop. You will see the same New Yorker standing in the same spot at the same time for decades with little deviation.

Rarely was I the first one in the office. Pat always beat me. In those days he commuted in from the Delaware Water Gap. That was an hour and a half each way! I would eventually work with Pat again in Dover, New Hampshire.

I loved the work I was doing in New York. I was a supervisor and we were doing liability claims primarily for department stores, hotels, and restaurants. I worked with some great people and we had a lot of fun. I can still name names but I won’t. We had one guy who frequently took naps in the bathroom stall with his pants around his ankles.

It was a formative time in my career. I had good managers. They let us do our work and were there for us when we needed them. We dealt with some huge and complex claims, and I was exposed to some of the most notorious plaintiff attorneys in the country. I was naïve and would go right at them. I had no idea who I was dealing with until it was all over. Sometimes it ended well and sometimes it did not. But we settled cases all day long.

We had some high profile claims that were in the news and we’d always have a few with celebrities. It was real time stuff. I worked with some great defense lawyers. And to be honest I worked with some really good plaintiff attorneys. One guy actually coached me on how to do my job. I mean he was completely forthright and honest. I remember his name as if I spoke with him last week. “Kid, make sure you are leaving a paper trail because you will never remember it all and I’d hate to see you get hung up.” My adversary said that to me.

I am sure I ate lunch but I don’t remember much about it or any particular routine except for walking. I walked everywhere. I’d walk up to Central Park and back. I’d go down to Bryant Park and the New York Public Library. I took advantage of the sights and sounds of the city. Of course, the famous Christmas tree was right outside our building and Saint Patrick’s Cathedral was across the street. I had no inside information but I knew my city career would be a brief period of my life and I wanted to take in every piece of it while it lasted.

I frequently walked over to the then construction site of Worldwide Plaza. When I first visited the site it was a great big hole between West 49th and West 50th Streets and Eighth and Ninth Avenues, the proverbial city block. And for the remainder of my time working in the city I watched that hole turn to a foundation and three main buildings, the tallest being fifty stories. If you have never watched a skyscraper being built, it is really something else to see the trucks arriving with steel beams, and the workers and the cranes put them in place and fasten them.

If I did take the subway back to Penn Station at the end of the day I have no recollection of that now. For the most part I walked. It was a mile and it was an interesting mile of people, places and things. And smells. Smells good and bad. It always seemed like the best choice to walk. In fact it might be quicker depending on the timing of the subway. And it was a good way to unwind. If my timing was right, I could catch the Hempstead train and not have to change at Jamaica. In fact, I think I planned it that way most often.

To call Penn Station bustling is an understatement. Certainly, not for the faint of heart. I quickly became accustomed to it, entering from Seventh Avenue, descending the escalator, and working my way through the faceless crowd and countless shops and concessions. Thinking back on it all now, it was pretty amazing, the timing of it all: leave the office, walk to Penn, get on the train moments before it pulled out.

I feel fortunate I had the experience. After about 18 months, I was moved back to one of the Long Island offices and shortly after that, in 1989 I came to New Hampshire on a 3 – 5 year temporary assignment.

I’ll leave it at that for now.

1 note · View note

punkscowardschampions · 4 years ago

Text

Hathor & Sekhmet

Hathor: About to slap myself so you'll feel it Hathor: wherever you are ain't where you should be Sekhmet: what im sleep Sekhmet: 😴😴😴 Hathor: wake up 👊🏽 Hathor: you asked me to meet you, remember? Sekhmet: I think that's tomorrow Sekhmet: I said Wednesday, right Hathor: That's today Hathor: you blackout past Tuesday? Sekhmet: You're joking Sekhmet: well then, that means I've got a deadline I gotta meet and not a whole lot of time for brunch dates Hathor: you're joking Hathor: I cancelled on a fine boy for you Sekhmet: it's so early you got time to hit it back Sekhmet: I know I didn't tell you I'd meet you at the crack of dawn Hathor: you didn't and you're late af still Sekhmet: chill sis, I'll make it up to you Hathor: yeah Hathor: anyone else'd be offended you don't ever want to have a sober conversation Hathor: but I'll see you in the club Sekhmet: girl, chill 😂 Sekhmet: how fine was he that you're all kinds of vexed with me Sekhmet: don't even care how I'm gonna make it up to you, oh my days 🥴🍆🧠 for real Hathor: he's got prospects, I'm not saying any more than that if you're not coming out 👅 Hathor: I'll care how you're gonna make it up when you next show up for real Sekhmet: ugh! living up to your name 🐮 Sekhmet: bitch I'm busy 😏 the juggle is real Hathor: you know I don't say that shit lightly except once in a blue moon, however fine a lad be looking Hathor: but if you don't wanna hear it Sekhmet: is he 🧑🏾🧑🏿 Hathor: 🥛 Hathor: nobody is more surprised than me Sekhmet: 👏🙌 yay Sekhmet: I told you, white boys are the best Sekhmet: they treat us like 👸 Hathor: It's his Irish accent tricking me Hathor: I gotta take a trip back and cure myself Sekhmet: awh, you're homesick, precious Sekhmet: now it makes sense why you wanna tie me down Hathor: can barely understand him he's from so far north, more likely that Sekhmet: throwback 📟 📠 📺 📻 Hathor: get the psych dept to pull their shrink shit on me about it Sekhmet: You wanna be just like Vee, sorted Sekhmet: take my PhD now 💁 Hathor: be more disrespectful! first you stand me up and then put that out there Sekhmet: 🤭 you've got a ways to go, even if you're rolling mad extra today Hathor: I didn't ask 👼🏽💘 to 🎯 me up in the 🍑 Hathor: got my own things I'm busy with Sekhmet: love is magic 💖 Sekhmet: don't be complaining in my inbox when I'm tragically single Hathor: I've been serving and swerving him for long enough I thought I'd succeeded, there's the complaint Sekhmet: 🙄 you can't ❌ feelings bitch Hathor: white boys are a different animal, I ❌ the fear of Sekhmet: 😍😍😍 Hathor: I'm not here to be treated like a 👸🏽 if that's one step away from being called 'exotic' Hathor: there's nothing sexy about a power imbalance Sekhmet: most girls would disagree, babe Sekhmet: why do you wanna be run of the mill every day when we been #blessed with this 🔥 Sekhmet: all black guys wanna chat about is my light-skin privilege and their black man struggles, I can't 🥱 Hathor: fetishization like that ain't foreplay I'm interested in Hathor: 👑 me for other reasons than my melanin Sekhmet: insecurities SNAPPED, I'm sure he likes you for more than your skin, you crazy Hathor: he likes me for how I pour measures rn Sekhmet: racial Sekhmet: that's why everyone likes you 💃💃💃 Hathor: on account of being a poor student not Northern Irish, don't be biting the hand that feeds your blackouts Sekhmet: my white boys always pay Hathor: #blessed innit Sekhmet: 👸😇 tings Hathor: which white boy you with ignoring your deadline then? Sekhmet: whoever it is they've gone to work Sekhmet: but they left a 💳 with their cute note so I know I'm in a good postcode still 🙏 Hathor: so come meet me and spare mine, that's the right thing to do Sekhmet: just 'cos it's good doesn't mean I'm not lost still, damn Sekhmet: hold on and let me get dressed and get my bearings Hathor: if your phone ain't drained I can use it to get your bearings while you serve a look Sekhmet: who doesn't have a charger in their hoe 👜 PLEASE Hathor: you didn't know what day it was, can't blame me for 👶🏽ing Sekhmet: where would I be without you 😘 Sekhmet: mum hasn't phoned me in ages actually, it's so rude Sekhmet: I missed the last few but still Hathor: I hit her with your highlights, creatively Hathor: like how I won't mention a white boy making me feel like a baby 🐮 that can't walk Sekhmet: 😶😶 Sekhmet: dad would 😥 Hathor: and she'll 🙌🏽 harder than you've done Sekhmet: facts are facts Sekhmet: look at her dad, Vee's... Hathor: cliches are tired and stereotypes are damaging Sekhmet: @ your white boy with the 👋 then booboo Sekhmet: I think dad's in town working today, you wanna come for dinner with us? 🥂 Hathor: he's not mine to command in or out 👅 Hathor: yeah 🍾 will help Sekhmet: I'll teach you Hathor: those twin stereotypes are damaging too, like Sekhmet: oh hush, I only tried to 💋 you ONE time and we were like babies and that boy was the first great love of my life Sekhmet: anyway, you're like hot but not my types type these days, you know Hathor: that boy was trash Hathor: you levelled up fast though Sekhmet: awh, don't be rude, I have fond memories Hathor: I have loads of him trying to ask me out at the same time Sekhmet: oh yeah Sekhmet: I forgot that happened Sekhmet: his hair was gorgeous though Hathor: it was Sekhmet: good times Sekhmet: my new guy, not this one, the actual one, looks like old school Leo, I SWEAR Hathor: Yeah? Sekhmet: like Leo and a bit of River and Ryan Philippe in Cruel Intentions Sekhmet: 🥰🥰🥰 Hathor: love of your life material Sekhmet: definitely Sekhmet: he's a trader in the city and his apartment is 😱😱😱 Hathor: what's the age range this time? Sekhmet: he's only 26, it's mad how successful he is already Hathor: he sounds like the full 🎟 Hathor: any catch? Sekhmet: only technically Hathor: technically he's a 🤖? Sekhmet: ha, he totally has the stamina of one Sekhmet: he can keep up with me, almost 😉 Hathor: 👌🏽 he's perfect Hathor: fucking hell Sekhmet: no need to be jealous when you're 🥰 yourself Sekhmet: what does he look like? Hathor: Tall enough Hathor: more like a 🥊 than a 👼🏻 Sekhmet: you really do wanna do great grandpa Sekhmet: jk, he sounds so you Hathor: he does work for the main brewery that supplies us, maybe I do Hathor: Jesus Christ Sekhmet: 😂😬 processing that Sekhmet: not really though, every boy I've ever dated has been like dad, it's unavoidable tbh 💁 Hathor: in our postcode nobody's trying very hard to be anything else Hathor: 💰💳💎🍾 Sekhmet: why would they? Hathor: they wouldn't and they aren't, it'd be terrifying for any of those boys to step out Sekhmet: 🙄 you aren't going to throw yourself down a ladder when you're at the top, babe Hathor: wouldn't kill them to give other people a hand up though, they just act like it Sekhmet: 🥱 when's your deadline? Hathor: my work's done Sekhmet: then button it, loser Sekhmet: you wanna eat out on this nice rich boy's 💳 Hathor: ETA of 15 on getting to you Hathor: you best 🚿 Sekhmet: way ahead of you 🛀 Sekhmet: door's unlocked, our breakfast will hopefully be on the table when you get here Sekhmet: love ubereats Hathor: 🙌🏽 Sekhmet: you can bring it through, the view in this bathroom is immense Sekhmet: thought getting the driver to bring it to the tub was unlikely Hathor: he probably would but it's unlikely I'd recover from walking in on it Sekhmet: 😘 Sekhmet: do fuck with an asian boy Hathor: you don't know he will be Hathor: might not even be a lad Hathor: but if it is, guarantee they'll send the most unexpected one Sekhmet: it usually is, your stereotypes be damned Hathor: what are you gonna bet? Sekhmet: the Belgian 🧇s Hathor: you're on Sekhmet: sometimes you shock me with how green you are, Hath Hathor: back to putting disrespect on me, what a nice truce while it lasted, like Sekhmet: I mean, you know I can see the driver on my app, babe Sekhmet: no points for guessing where Hassan is from Sekhmet: you can have the 🧇s anyway Hathor: you know I can read your thoughts, the playing field is level Hathor: and anyway I like green, that's my boy's eye colour Sekhmet: been gazing into them longingly across the bar have we🤭 Hathor: maybe Sekhmet: so cute Sekhmet: hope this one doesn't have a fiancee Sekhmet: or a maid who thinks we've broken in Hathor: if he does he better break that eye contact with me Sekhmet: I meant Mr Black Card, don't worry Sekhmet: he's a student, yeah? he won't be Hathor: he's only got a year on us, I don't predict an engagement Sekhmet: yeah, doubt it Hathor: outside of our family people aren't usually that extra Sekhmet: some of the asian internationals are but they usually cheat if their intended ain't here yet so Hathor: Yeah Sekhmet: what even does an engagement mean anyway Sekhmet: not much, right Hathor: a flash 💍 Hathor: what's my course teaching me if I don't know the statistics on how often a wedding follows? Hathor: shows how outdated it is Sekhmet: he gives me that anyway Hathor: I'd take a phone number and be happy with it for now Hathor: but it's probably the party and that whole flex too, right? Sekhmet: the dress Sekhmet: but it's irrelevant if it doesn't happen, like you said Hathor: 🎁🎁 even if it doesn't if people bring them for the engagement as well, but you're not going short of any Sekhmet: right Sekhmet: 😥 if you need a wedding for attention Hathor: Jay's birth mum QUAKING Sekhmet: omg I bet that's EXACTLY what his fiancee is like Hathor: does he ever speak about her? Sekhmet: obviously not Sekhmet: but she must never come up from wherever they're from because I'm like ALWAYS over so Hathor: maybe she doesn't know about this place Hathor: old school Sekhmet: Who knows Sekhmet: can't be my problem Hathor: Yours is the day you've missed, like Hathor: what's the assignment? Sekhmet: design some sportswear line Sekhmet: got to get the sketches in by 5, but all I ordered for me was a shit ton of coffee, it'll be fine Hathor: more productive if I stay or go? Sekhmet: you've already missed your date, you may as well stay Hathor: okay Hathor: am the sportier one Sekhmet: how are you 😂 Hathor: ⚽⛹🏽🚴🏽🥊 Hathor: why dad loves me more than you Sekhmet: now I know you're talking nonsense 😏 Hathor: True, he loves Vee and she never gets off her chaise Sekhmet: and she doesn't even love him back Hathor: poor dad Sekhmet: yeah Hathor: what time's dinner with him? Sekhmet: I'll ask him when he wants to go Hathor: about to come up, so whatever you were planning for Hassan, this is me Sekhmet: regrettably noted

1 note · View note

videcoeur · 5 years ago

Text

The Cult of the Mirthful Messiahs

*Credit to this page belongs to @etchtrolls and used with permission. I simply modified the model to fit my own personal headcanons. Headcanons for my version of the cult under the cut, because it’s long as heck.

Several trigger warning applies for canon clownery, including but not limited to violence, gore, cult-like mentality, sect mentions, cannibalism, etc.

Social Culture

The Carnival is an extremely tight-knit community. They are akin to a pack of wolves in how close they all are with one another. Most everyone knows everyone else in their neighborhood- or faction. Grudges, while possible, usually do not last very long because they disrupt the fluidity in which the Carnival works together. If a group of individuals is persistently hostile and antagonistic towards one another, they are usually separated or sat down to be given a talk. The notion of ‘stronger together’ is very important. For this reason, secrets don’t usually last long.

There are many subtle ways of communication that the Carnival uses, most of them being gestures and noises. In some situations, members of the Carnival can speak to each other completely without words. They have done this with the purposeful intent to distance themselves from the rest of the Alternian society. The Carnival, while not as a whole seeing themselves as better than everyone else, certainly considers themselves apart. Due to this general opinion and the large number of odd quirks that they have, the Carnival is generally viewed by the rest of society as increasingly odd.

They indulge in vast amounts of PDA, to the point of being borderline pale.

Social Ranking in the Church

Because it is hard to read, here it goes.

The Grand Highblood is the highest authority. He is the Bishop of Alternia and is considered to be the closest to the Mirthful Messiah. He is Their messenger.

After The Grand Highblood comes the Archbishops, which presides over their faction. The factions go as such: South, West, North, and East. The South and West Archbishop are The Grand Highblood’s closest archbishops, elected by His Truly. North and East are elected amongst the top 3 (GHB + South and West) as a popular vote. Ombres is the Archbishop of the North.

Each Archbishop is free to choose their cardinals, which is another highly sought after rank. Generally, Each Archbishop will pick a maximum of two of them, but it may go up to three if their faction is numerous enough. (South and West are the biggest, whereas North and East are less large in comparison)

Following the cardinals are the priests of different towns, and the contributors. Both are of the same rank because of their contribution. Priests spread the words of wisdom and contributors (celebrities, purples that give back to the church while not actively taking part in it) fund the cult. Every church needs money, after all.

After the priests, the highest ranks a believer may wish to reach is the one of Subjugglators or Laughsassins.

And finally, there’s the believer. One who does not wish to advance in the church but still actively takes part in it.

We do not talk about heretics.

Greetings

Acquaintances greet one another by clasping forearms. This is the most basic form of greeting another member of the Carnival.

Trolls that are close to one another, be it close friends or intimate quadrants, greet each other by clasping forearms and cupping the back of the other’s neck to touch foreheads.

Elders or trolls of significant importance such as the Highblood or high ranking acolytes receive kisses to their knuckles as a way of greeting from subordinates, who receive kisses to the forehead in return. They greet one another by dipping heads.

Slavery

Keeping slaves is generally frowned upon within the Carnival. The clowns believe in doing their own work, and so, those who keep slaves are seen as lazy and lesser in strength and resolve because they always have someone else clean up after them.

However, it is not forbidden to keep slaves. If someone really wanted to keep them, they would not be stopped, but they would certainly have more than a few dirty looks and some snide remarks would be made about them.

Lusii and Wrigglers

Purple blooded wrigglers are often mistaken for violetbloods by lusii. Due to this, they’re often adopted by seadwelling lusii. Once the mistake is discovered, usually due to the fact that purple wigglers don’t flourish underwater, lusii will usually abandon the wiggler. In the past, this led to a decline in the population of purplebloods because so many were dying of neglect as wrigglers.

To amend this problem, the Carnival began to take in the abandoned wrigglers and raise them as their own. The coasts of bodies of water are searched regularly for wrigglers, and any that are found are brought to the nearest settlement. There are special ranks within the Carnival that are devoted to the care of wigglers.

Grand Highblood

The Highblood, also known as the Speaker within the Carnival, is the absolute leader and the mouthpiece of the Messiahs. They are looked to in all times of hardship and their word is the law. They’re surrounded by 4 archbishops, two of which are of their choosing.

The title of Highblood can be passed down in one of three ways.

The least commonly used way is also the most peaceful. This is when the Highblood steps down from their position due to age, injury, or personal reasons for their descendant, also referred to as their Heir, to take their place.

The Heir, after coming of age, can challenge the Highblood for the throne. The challenge is a fight to the death. Whoever comes out on top takes or maintains the title. This is not required. If the Heir does not wish to become Highblood, they do not have to initiate the challenge, but they will continue to be protected by the laws.

Any purpleblood of the Carnival above the age of 12 sweeps, regardless of ancestry, may challenge the Highblood over the throne the same way that the Heir may. If the challenger wins, they become the Highblood automatically with no strings attached. The Heir of the defeated is no longer Heir and loses their lawful protection.

Generation Gaps

There is not usually a large amount of squabbling between generations. While elder trolls definitely have a large amount of respect, their word is not law. Younger trolls are encouraged to share their opinions and ideas. The only thing that matters is social rank and should a younger believer disrespect a cardinal or a bishop, they are severely scolded. Any purple with a title ( priest, cardinal, archbishop, the grand highblood) is worthy of respect and should never be disrespected. Questioned, yes. Disrespected? Never.

Cannibalism

A tradition that began generations ago during a time of famine, the Carnival very heavily promotes the idea of eating other trolls. Only adults are ever eaten. Under normal circumstances, parties are not sent out for the purpose of killing trolls in the street to devour. Instead, the bodies of those that are culled and those that are found trespassing on Carnival land are the usual candidates for being eaten.

There are some trolls that are forbidden from being eaten altogether. The Tainted and wrigglers are absolutely untouchable. Dead quadrantmates are usually reserved to be fed upon by their still-living quads if they so choose. If they prefer to not eat their dead mate, however, the body is not free for all. The quad has full control over what happens to the body. The weak and sickly are not forbidden but are usually not eaten.

Due to having this tradition for generations, the Carnival is very knowledgeable on how to eat the dead. It’s common knowledge through the ranks what signs of decay and parasites to avoid, and how old a body can be before it’s inedible.

Settlements

Clowns, due to being very separate from the rest of society, tend to live in their own neighborhoods, which are usually on the outskirts of cities and town, often with some physical borders to set them apart such as a treeline or river. All land surrounding each settlement is considered Carnival property and is generally avoided by outsiders.

The main base of the Carnival is something similar to the Vatican. Large stony buildings, a lot of priests, and a place for all abandoned wrigglers to grow until they choose the faction they want to join.

The Archbishops also reside in a church, similar to the Catholic Church. They live in the Presbyterian appended to it while their clowns live in tents and small hives in their territory.

Miscellaneous

Food is shared throughout the ranks. No one is left out to starve unless they are fasting with religious intent. The disabled are taken care of by the rest of the ranks, never left to die or rot due to not being able to take care of themselves.

Religious Culture

1. Paint

Face paint is one of the most obvious ways to tell if someone is a follower of the Messiahs, and is one of the most important tasks to do in the religion. Wearing paint is vital to having a connection to the Messiahs. The reason behind the paint is the idea that one’s real face- their true face- is saved for only the Messiahs and the closest of company such as quadrants. What one paints upon their face is what they present to the rest of the Carnival and to the world, what they aspire to be, and what strangers will notice upon first meetings. Taking off one’s paint while another is around is one of the most intimate of acts a follower can do.

Back in older generations, the rules and expectations about wearing paint were stricter. There would never be a time outside of closed doors that anyone would wear paint. Newer and younger generations are more lenient about this and sometimes do not wear paint when going out into the cities of outsiders, but wearing it is still important when on Carnival grounds. Some exceptions may be made but they are rare.

The painting of quadrants outside of the Carnival is a common event and even encouraged. If someone wants to involve a mate in a ceremony or just want to paint them up for fun, it’s absolutely allowed.

2. Other Bloods

Officially, trolls of blood color other than purple are welcome in the Carnival. It’s a rare occurrence due to the widespread terror and hatred of the Carnival, but it does happen. There are certain ceremonies that are to be carried out to officially welcome in trolls of other blood colors.

There are definitely some quarrels between the ranks of the purplebloods about whether or not other blood colors should be welcomed into the Carnival. Some would argue that since the Messiahs made everything, then other types of blood are their children as well and deserve the right to praise them and be looked after by the laws of the Carnival. Others think that since purple is the caste with the most numerous amount of followers that they are the Messiah’s favorite children, so they deserve special privileges while other blood colors should be treated as second class citizens.

Older generations tend to cling to the latter way of thinking, but usually, don’t do anything to stop another blood color from joining. The most a skeptic usually does is give dirty looks or huff over it for a while. However, these trolls are rarely rising in rank and never even reach the rank of subjugglators. Being a laughsassin is easier for a highbloods of blue or cerulean caste, but subjugglators are almost exclusively voodoo users.

Most of the other castes who decide to join in take in jobs as entertainers, beast tamers, or other circus-related jobs.

3. The Messiahs

The Messiahs themselves are the twin gods that the Carnival follows. There are some conflicting legends and opinions for just how the Twins came into being, but the topic is not usually squabbled over. What everyone agrees on is that the Messiahs are all-seeing and all-knowing omniscient beings that seek to create and sustain balance in the world.

The Sister is the quieter of the two, but also the more clever. She is usually the one responsible for setting tests of wits and instigating acts of desperation in old legends and myths. It is said that she likes to see just how far followers will go to gain the favor of the gods, and how long they will sustain to keep the favor. She is more likely to give aid to those in need but in subtle ways. It is because of her that purples paint their face and paint murals in blood. She also represents the fun, creative side of their religion.

The Brother is the more violent of the two, but also the more ardent. He’s said to enjoy acts of bravery, enjoying overcoming physical boundaries and obstacles over mental ones. It is he that the followers most often look to for favors and good luck, for he is more lenient and more inclined to give good fortune. His favor is more easily won than his Sister’s, but his rage is catastrophic. He is the harbinger of destruction and is the one who promotes wrath and the development of voodoos.

4. Rules

Destruction of religious items or property is grounds for physical punishment

Any sexual assault on another purple is punishable by death

Under normal circumstances, when a crime is committed against someone of the church, the victim can choose the punishment for it, and carry it out if they wish

Do not waste any part of a meal

Do not claim enlightenment or godly knowledge for the sake of popularity or power. This is punishable by death

Honor the dead and treat them with respect

The quadrants of a brother or sister are safe ground and not to be harmed purposefully

Wrigglers are sacred and the future of the Carnival, therefore they are not to be harmed under any circumstance

The Heir of the current Highblood is protected from being killed purposefully to prevent the Highblood from killing their descendant, therefore keeping themselves permanently in power

Strangers trespassing on Carnival land may claim the Traveler’s Garb, which will protect them from being harmed in any way until they have an audience with the authority of the ground they walked on, which in that case would be the Archbishops, who may or may not relinquish the task of dealing with the intruders to their Cardinals.

5. The Tainted

The name called to those that are disgraced and hated by the Carnival for any variety of reasons. The Tainted are untouchable, forbidden to have any contact with the members of the Carnival. They may not be shown any kindness or aggression, nor may they be helped or eaten.

There are several ways that a troll may become one of the Tainted in the eyes of the Carnival. One of the most common ways is to break one of the most important laws, such as the one protecting wigglers or the one punishing false prophets. One may also become one of the Tainted if they insult the Messiahs.

It is not only trolls that are part of the Carnival that can still become one of the Tainted. Outsiders may also gain this disgraced title. ‘Tainted’ is one of the vilest of insults that a Carnival troll can use. Only the Highblood can officially decree someone as Tainted.

6. Miscellaneous

Suicide is generally looked down upon in the religious texts. Taking one’s own life is seen as an insult to the Messiahs, akin to rejecting a holy gift. However, anyone troubled with thoughts of suicide or self-harm are encouraged to come forward to seek help. Even though the scriptures condemn it, the top priority is to take care of the members. If the troll who killed themselves has a descendant, they are immediately taken care of and monitored closely.

Destroying another’s property is one of the highest offenses

7. Ceremonies

Officially, the Cult of the Mirthful Messiah has a few ceremonies.

The Grand Highblood’s Conclave: Changes with each new Grand Highblood. The conclave is the night they are elected/obtain their titles. This night is generally celebrated in the holy city where the Grand Highblood resides. Many believers will then make a pilgrimage there to celebrate with their brothers and sisters. If pilgrimage cannot be made, they tend to create smaller ceremonies in their own settlements to celebrate the Grand Highblood’s Conclave.

The Mirthful Day: Once a sweep, the purples gather and remain silent. It is a night of commemoration and honor for all the previous Grand Highbloods and to the Mirthful Messiahs. After that silent day, 5 joyous, heavily active circus nights are encouraged.

Several religious days, determined by each faction. For example, each faction could celebrate the election of their Archbishops, their cardinals, etc.

The thing to remember is that purples do not need a reason to celebrate, sometimes, they’ll just figure one out of the blue.

8. Cleansing

Outsiders who visit the Carnival and plan to stay for a period of time longer than a week must be purified with steam. This is a rather short process and requires that a visitor stands over a steaming grate of coals for six minutes without coming out. They must also give a strand of their hair to be burned in the coals. The steam is thought to purify the troll, cleansing away sins that would rub off onto followers and chasing away lingering bad spirits that the visitor may drag in with them.

9. Mingling Bloods

When an outsider of another blood color wishes to join the Carnival, a special ceremony must be carried out. This includes being purified, with steam, but also requires the outsider to cut off a lock of hair to burn and to drip their own fresh blood into a fire. They are then officially painted for the first time by Oracles in a pattern of their choosing.

10. Chucklevoodoos

Voodoos, while not being possessed by all purplebloods, are very common throughout the ranks of the Carnival. There are some trolls that think that those who do not possess voodoos are in some way disliked by the Messiahs, but this is not a widespread opinion and is more the superstition of the old.

Some trolls have a natural resistance to voodoos. Higher blood colors are generally harder to control because they are less susceptible to psychic invasion. It is especially hard to penetrate the mind of a highblood that knows an attack is coming and is willingly resisting. Highbloods are also more likely to sense that there is something else controlling their will than lowbloods, but they are not as adept at actually fighting back if they are being controlled or manipulated. Lowbloods, while easier to control, put up more of a fight and can be more dangerous because a good number of them can fight back with their own psionics. Obviously, more experienced users are more powerful and find it easier to slip into the minds of their victims no matter their blood color.

There is a wide variety of ways in which voodoos can be used. The most common ability that voodoos give is that of mind control. But besides this, there are also hallucinations, telepathic communication, and an ability to shift completely through the layout of one’s mind and memories. The levels of hallucination vary. Some trolls can warp in little things at edges of vision, while others can change the reality that their victim sees altogether. Voodoos are naturally inclined to manipulate fear, so users that are able to manipulate trolls find it very easy to pinpoint a victim’s fear level and what terrifies them the most.

The telepathic communication is used most commonly among the Carnival. It’s a way for the trolls to communicate with each other and to ensure no eavesdroppers. Besides just being able to transfer thoughts, they are also able to show memories and to empathize with whoever they are connected to.

Some trolls are only able to do certain things with their voodoos, and only at certain levels. The weakest of voodoo users are only able to enact very minor mind control. So minor that it is less control and more like subtle nudges to the subconscious. The strongest of voodoos are able to reach a point where there are actual physical consequences, such as pressure behind the eyes, nose bleeds, and splitting headaches. In the most serious of cases, voodoos can cause the rupturing of eyes or eardrums.

Voodoos can have long time effects on a victim. If someone has been controlled for long periods of time, it becomes harder to fully extract the voodoos from their mind. There are lingerings in the mind, ‘strings’ or ‘cobwebs’ as they are commonly called within the Carnival. These strings can cause permanent damage to the victim’s ability to make decisions and mentally function correctly. One who has had their memories tampered with too many times may begin to have memory problems where they cannot discern between what is real and what is false. Trolls who have been experiencing hallucinations due to voodoos for long periods of time may develop paranoia and may begin to see things on their own due to the trauma to their psyche.

11. Miscellaneous

Fire is a sacred element and has to do for the most part with purity and cleansing

Snakes, ravens, and goats are sacred animals

#( ooc. )#( the cult. )

4 notes · View notes

warriorsfireandwater · 5 years ago

Text

Chapter Four

In the morning, Dawnwhisker woke Firepaw up with a light jab to his belly. “Wake up.”

The tom lifted his head. “Er… huh?”

“Get up,” the molly repeated. “Time to see the territory.”

Firepaw parted his jaws in a wide yawn before he rolled over and sat up. He was still so tired, and judging from the dim light outside, it could only have been just past dawn. Why on earth did these cats get up so early?

“Don't worry,” Dawnwhisker said, a bit sympathetically. “There’ll be time for rest later. RiverClan gets an early start so we can relax in the hottest part of the day. But let's get going.”

Reluctantly, Firepaw followed her out of the den. Outside, there were a number of small groups of cats gathering and then leaving the camp together. “Patrols,” Dawnwhisker explained. “Best time to fish is around dawn and dusk. We’ll join them together once you've become more familiar with the territory.” She flicked her tail towards another group, made of a few young cats. “Those are the other apprentices,” she meowed. “They'll be your denmates from now on. But you can meet them later. They'll be headed off to battle training today—another important thing you'll have to learn to be a warrior.”

There's a lot to learn, Firepaw thought, feeling a bit overwhelmed and still half-asleep. Training, territory, patrols… then there's this ‘StarClan’ business and something about a code? How am I supposed to remember it all?

“Come on,” Dawnwhisker said, starting off again. “Let's go.”

Together they left the camp. Firepaw was aware of the stares on him, and many weren't quite friendly. They passed the apprentices on the way out, and though most ignored him, one actually hissed as he walked by.

“That was Silverpaw,” Dawnwhisker explained as they brushed through the reeds. “Most of that lot will be fine, but he's prickly.”

I'd say! Firepaw thought. He just hoped this Silverpaw would leave him alone, at least.

They stopped at the riverbank for a moment after walking through the reeds. “As you know, this is our river,” Dawnwhisker began to explain. Firepaw followed her gaze across the wide stretch of the river to Sunningrocks. He suppressed the urge to shudder. I could have died there yesterday. “Many generations ago, the river flowed around Sunningrocks there, so it was undisputed as part of our territory. The river flooded, though, and when it returned to its normal size, Sunningrocks turned up on the other side of it. RiverClan and ThunderClan have been fighting for it ever since.” She glanced down at Firepaw. “One day, you will be sure to take part in these battles. RiverClan is rarely attacked, but Sunningrocks is guaranteed to be a battle ground.”

Firepaw pricked his ears with interest. “Will the fighting ever stop?” he asked. “Didn’t you win Sunningrocks yesterday?”

“Well, yes,” Dawnwhisker meowed. “But ThunderClan will recover and strike back when they’re ready. If they cross the border, then there’ll be another fight. Sunningrocks has traded paws many times, Firepaw.” She frowned for a moment. “Honestly, I don’t think you or I will live to see the day when that fighting stops.”

“Some day,” she went on, as she turned to start to walk upstream. “You’ll learn to swim in the river. But we’ll have you practice in the shallows first.” Dawnwhisker chuckled to herself. “Like we do with the kits.”

Even the kits swim? Firepaw swallowed at the thought of swimming again. “Um… okay.”

Dawnwhisker smiled and flicked Firepaw with her tail. “I know it doesn't sound exciting. But you'll learn in time. Let's keep going.”

The pair traveled on up along the river for some time, and Firepaw admired RiverClan’s territory—his territory—as Dawnwhisker pointed out choice hunting spots or simply quiet, secluded locations. Though there weren't many trees, those that stood were beautiful and not cramped together, as they had been in the forest. Smooth beech trees stood tall and proud, while elegant willows cast shade over parts of the river. As they walked, the river began to curve north, the land began to slope uphill, and the water started to drop farther down from the shore.

“If you look up ahead, you'll see the bridge,” Dawnwhisker explained. “Sometimes humans will stay near it for a few days. They set up odd pelt-dens and hunt for fish in the summer. Usually, they don't cause too much trouble, but we try to stay away from them. The worst they can do is throw their rubbish in the river, which poisons the fish, but it isn't usually severe.” She veered away from the river, heading north, where the peaks of the mountains could be seen in the far distance. Out this way, there was the beginnings of a moor, covered in bright wildflowers. As they traveled, Firepaw spotted a few huge brown creatures that were eating grass.

“What are those?” Firepaw whispered, staring at the creatures oddly.

“Don't worry, they're just horses,” Dawnwhisker explained. “They’re grass-eaters, so they won't attack like a fox or badger would. The humans sometimes bring sheep here, which are about half a horse’s size and look like clouds.” She twitched her whiskers in amusement at Firepaw’s nervousness. “Don't worry, they're both peaceful creatures. You could probably take a nap under them and they wouldn't mind. If you do ever get close to them, though, move slowly, because if they get spooked, they'll buck and could trample you easily.”

Firepaw nodded, but still eyed the tall horses suspiciously as they went on. A few lifted their heads to watch as they went, but most continued to munch on the lush grass. Dawnwhisker eventually flicked her tail to their right, where the human shelters were set up near a large stone bridge, and noted that that was the human site and bridge. Soon they headed back towards the river, where it was now much farther below them.

“This is the gorge,” Dawnwhisker explained. “Step forward, carefully. Apprentices are never allowed near it except for when it's shown to them. Even warriors avoid it.”

Firepaw came forward cautiously, then peered over the end. His stomach surged as he saw the swirling white water that rushed along far below. The gorge itself was about the width of a large road, and the ground at the very edge looked very unstable, like it would crumble away if they stepped any closer.

“The river is deadly here,” She cautioned him. “But, it keeps WindClan from invading. All land on that side of the river is theirs.”

Firepaw gazed out across the gorge. Across the river, there was a wide moorland that was even farther uphill.

“In fact,” Dawnwhisker added, “Here comes WindClan.”

Firepaw narrowed his eyes, confused, until he saw three tall, lithe cats streaking after a rabbit down the hillside. He was amazed by their speed—he’d never seen cats moving so quickly. One tom, a young brown tabby, overtook his patrol and caught up to the rabbit before leaping, pouncing, and killing it. The cats had very similar body shape—all were long-legged, and though they were slim, hard muscles showed clearly from under their pelts.

“They mostly hunt rabbits,” Dawnwhisker explained. “Cats like us could never run as fast as they do.”

That was amazing! Firepaw thought. They were so fast.

The WindClan patrol seemed to have spotted them. The three cats approached their side of the gorge, tails lifted in a friendly greeting. “Dawnwhisker, is that you?” A brown-furred molly called. “I haven't seen your pelt since the last Gathering.”

“Morning, Wrenfoot,” Dawnwhisker purred. “How's that son of yours?”

Wrenfoot flicked her tail towards the tabby that had caught the rabbit. “Right here,” she replied. “He earned his warrior name a half-moon ago!”

The tabby puffed out his chest. “I’m Owlwhisker now!”

“Owlwhisker, huh?” Dawnwhisker meowed. “Seems the name suits you. That was a good catch.”

“How's your prey running—er, swimming?” Asked the third cat, a gray tom. He chuckled at his own joke.

“Fine enough, Tornear,” Dawnwhisker replied. “But yours runs a little too fast for my liking.”

Firepaw shuffled his paws, and the WindClan cats seemed to finally take notice of him. “Oh, who's this?” Wrenfoot asked. “New apprentice?”

Dawnwhisker nodded. “Mine. His name is Firepaw.”

Firepaw glanced at her, silently praying that she wouldn't mention his birthright. These cats seemed friendly enough, but did they share his new Clan’s sentiment for kittypets?

“Well, that's good to hear,” Tornear replied. “Good luck with your training, Firepaw. You've got a good mentor.”

Firepaw brightened. “Thank you!” And thank goodness she didn't say anything.

“We’d better keep going,” Dawnwhisker said. “Nice seeing you all.”

“They were nice,” Firepaw remarked, as they continued to follow the gorge upstream.

“They usually are,” Dawnwhisker meowed. “We don't have many disputes with them since the gorge keeps us both from crossing the border. Of course, there's always the bridge, but taking territory from other Clan would be pointless. It would be too difficult for either of us to reach and patrol. So, we've almost always been peaceful.”

That's good to know, Firepaw thought. At least WindClan isn’t as heartless at ThunderClan!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Firepaw was exhausted when he finished touring the territory. They'd returned to camp a bit past sun-high, and Firepaw’s muscles were aching all over again.

“Fetch the elders some prey before you rest,” Dawnwhisker told him. “Elders and queens must be fed first. It's an important rule to remember.”

Firepaw’s own stomach twisted with hunger. He hadn't eaten since yesterday. He nodded anyway. “Yes, Dawnwhisker.”

The fresh-kill pile wasn't surrounded by apprentices as it had been before. There was one plump ginger-and-white molly who was staring down at the fish, tail twitching. As Firepaw approached, she glanced up at him. “Hello there,” she meowed. “Don't believe we’ve been introduced.”

“I haven't really met many cats yet,” Firepaw replied, dipping his head respectfully. He could tell by her milk-scent that she was a queen, but judging by the size of her belly, she had yet to give birth.

“Shame,” the queen said. “I'm Mallowtail. Dawnwhisker is my sister. Did you go see the territory?”

Firepaw nodded. “Yep. It's… really nice.”

Mallowtail chuckled. “Well, good. I wanted to tell you that it was good you didn't back down to Whiteclaw when he yowled about you last night. I love him, but he can be a bit of a hothead.”

“Whiteclaw’s your mate?” Firepaw asked, pricking his ears. I'd better start remembering all of this! There's so many cats here.

Mallowtail nodded as she hooked a trout with her claws and pulled it close. “Yeah. The old badger is stubborn, but he's got a good heart. Just not friendly to outsiders. Stay a while and you might understand why we’re not all so welcoming.” She smiled at him, and quickly added, “I voted for you, though. See you around.” She picked up the trout in her jaws and turned away, heading back to the nursery.

Firepaw watched her go. I don't really like that Whiteclaw, but… he thought of Thistlestar and shuddered. I guess I can see why they don't like outsiders.

He returned his attention to the task at hand. Firepaw chose a plump carp and turned around. Thankfully, he recalled where the elder’s den, and padded off towards it. I hope they're nice like Mallowtail.

Firepaw ducked inside the woven reed den. There were four cats inside—two were older, and the other two seemed about his age. One, a gray molly, had been in the middle of speaking, but she stopped and glanced at him as he entered. All four cats stared silently.

Firepaw dropped the fish. “Sorry if I'm interrupting,” he meowed. “I was just bringing some fresh-kill.”

“Ah, well, that's always welcome,” the elderly gray molly purred. “Bring it here, then.”

The larger of the two apprentices leaned in to sniff him as he padded closer. “That's what kittypets smell like?”

The other rolled her eyes and cuffed him over the ears. “I don't think our new denmate is deaf, Beechpaw.”

“What?” Beechpaw asked. “I was just asking.” The brown tom glanced up again as Firepaw dropped the carp at the molly’s paws. “Don't kittypets wear collars?”

Although he wasn't sure how to feel about the comment about his scent, Beechpaw didn't sound malicious. “Most of them do,” Firepaw answered. “But Thistlestar broke mine when he attacked me.”

“Wait,” Beechpaw meowed, eyes wide. “You fought Thistlestar?”

I could hardly call that a fight, Firepaw thought. “Well, sort of…”

“Wow,” the other apprentice meowed, eyes wide. “He's a seriously tough cat. No wonder Crookedstar wanted to invite you to the Clan.”

“Well,” the elder sighed. “If you're done gossiping, you might as well introduce yourselves so I can get back to my story. I'm Graypool, and my companion is Snowfang.”

Snowfang, who hadn't said a word the entire time, huffed quietly.

“He doesn't like kittypets much,” Graypool said, apologetically. “Don't pay him any attention.”

Snowfang glared at her. “Any cat with half a brain doesn’t like kittypets.” Firepaw flattened his ears and tried to ignore the remark.

“I'm Shadepaw,” the second apprentice said. “Guess we’ll be training together from now on.”

“Yeah, Silverpaw’s furious,” Beechpaw snickered. “I wouldn't be surprised if he put a dead frog in your nest already.”

“Silverpaw’s all bark and no bite,” Shadepaw retorted. “He always wants to start trouble, but he wilts when someone snaps back.”

“True,” Beechpaw said. “Remember when he tried to get into it with Minkpaw and she threw him right in the river?”

“Ahem,” Graypool coughed. “As I was saying… Do you want me to finish this story or not?”

Beechpaw pricked his ears. “Yes, please!”

“You're welcome to stay for it, Firepaw,” Graypool purred. “I'm telling them about how Mudfur won a battle for Sunningrocks all on his own.”

Mudfur? Firepaw blinked. He seems so gentle. He sat down quietly.

“Where was I?” Graypool muttered.

“Mudfur challenged Adderfang,” Shadepaw reminded her.

“Ah, yes, that's right,” Graypool said. “Mudfur stepped to the front of the patrol and declared that too many lives had been lost over the rocks. He knew that Adderfang was a respected and mighty warrior of ThunderClan, so he challenged Adderfang to a fight between just the two of them. Adderfang had too much pride to refuse. As soon as Hailstar agreed, Adderfang struck. He lunged for Mudfur, and both cats fought fiercely, swiping and dodging the other’s attacks. Adderfang finally managed to get a blow in on Mudfur’s belly, and he fell back, yowling like he’d been dealt a death blow.”

“It was enough to fool that proud Thunderclanner. Adderfang leaped forward—but Mudfur was ready! He struck him across the face and chest and threw him off easily before he regained his footing. Blood splattered the rocks as the two battled on. Adderfang began to push him back, towards the river, but Mudfur surged forward to meet him head-on, overpowering him. He threw Adderfang to the ground and held him down like you would to an opponent in the water. Adderfang struggled desperately, but Mudfur cut off his breath with a paw, and just like that, Adderfang gave in, and the battle was won.”

“Wasn't that when Mudfur decided he wanted to become a medicine cat?” asked Shadepaw.

“Yes,” Graypool replied. “He was just… so disillusioned by fighting. Mudfur used to be a great warrior, but he was in battles often because of it. I think losing his mate was the last straw, really.”

“Tired of watching cats die,” Snowfang grumbled. “Don't blame him. I've watched a Clan’s worth of cats die in my lifetime. All of my friends and family, gone. Losing his mate struck a heavy blow.”

Mudfur was a warrior first? Firepaw thought.

“But how did he become a medicine cat when he’d already been a warrior?” Beechpaw meowed. “Don't medicine cats get chosen as kits?”

“Usually,” Graypool said. “But StarClan must have recognized a connection to him, or they would have rejected him as a medicine cat and Brambleberry would have had him return to his warrior duties.”

Firepaw shuffled his paws awkwardly. “Er… what's StarClan?” he asked. “I keep hearing about it.”

Beechpaw and Shadepaw stared at him, as though shocked. “You don't know about StarClan?” Beechpaw demanded. “Don't kittypets have any faith in their ancestors?”

“Cats outside the Clans generally don't have stories and legends like we do, Beechpaw,” Graypool gently reminded him. “But it's important for Firepaw to learn about them.”

“Important is an understatement,” Snowfang hissed. “StarClan is part of all of us. Faithless fools cannot truly be Clan cats.” Firepaw flattened his ears. It's not my fault I’ve never heard of them!

“He has time yet,” Graypool said, firmly. “But I don't see why there isn't time for another story. Beechpaw, would you like to tell it? It's your favorite.”

The brown tom lifted his head and grinned. “Oh, absolutely! The story of how the Clans started, right?”

“Of course,” Graypool purred. “You know it well.”

Beechpaw sat up and wrapped his tail around his paws. “Alright, well…”

#warrior cats #wc #warriors: fire and water #chapter four #warrior cats rewrite

81 notes · View notes

ixeliema · 6 years ago

Text

Insecure - Shane x my farmer, Terra

By popular demand (sort of, I mean I have never posted content on Tumblr out of fear it would get stolen or that I’d get harassed for it, so “popular” means like 2 reblogs and around 30 likes, THANK YOU ALL), here’s my fic about Shane being an awkward scared bean!

Summary: Terra and Shane had grown really close over time, and have formed somewhat of a routine. Shane goes to the saloon after work, Terra meets him with a beer for conversation. When Terra stops coming to the saloon, Shane begins to wonder what he did wrong, and if he messed up.

TWs: Implied self harm near the end, Talk of Suicide and Suicide Attempts, Anxiety and Depression, General Angst, Language (let’s be honest, Shane definitely swears a lot)

Word Count: 5373

Thursday, 18 Spring, Year 2 – 3:40 PM

I hadn’t seen her in days, and I was beginning to wonder if I’d done something wrong.

Stocking those infernal shelves day after day made it hard for us to see each other as it was, even though we’d been dating over half a year by now.

At the end of last summer, she’d approached me shyly and handed me a bouquet and a beer. The beer, I’d come to expect, as she’d began greeting me at the saloon on a nightly basis when I got there at 6, drink in hand, and during the summer, sometimes with a freshly grown hot pepper.

Even after starting my therapy, she was always there with something, whether it was a beer because I’d “earned it” or a sparkling water because I was still trying to get away from my past emotional crutch and she knew that. Hell, she knew that all too well.

But two days ago, she wasn’t there. I was worried so I sent her a letter, and even then, no response. With work, I didn’t have much time to ask around town or visit, so I’d asked Jas and Marnie to tell me if they saw her anywhere, and even then, nothing.

I was becoming increasingly more convinced that I’d upset her somehow. What had I done in the last week to upset her? Had it been my tone when we talked on Saturday? Was it the beer can on the floor when she came to see me at home on Sunday? What WAS it?

I shook my head. Deep breaths, Shane. I channeled my counsellor’s advice. “Don’t panic, just breathe.” I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.

“SHANE.” Morris’ voice boomed behind me. Startled, I stood up quickly, can of chili still in hand.

“Yes, sir?” I somehow managed to say without stuttering, despite my nerves still being high from the voice behind me.

“Your shift ends in an hour and a half, and you still have two aisles to stock.” Morris didn’t really sound angry at me, but he wasn’t exactly known for being a pleasant person to work for. There was a reason the girl with the ginger hair at the counter looked like a corpse from dawn until dusk every day.

“Sorry sir, I was taking a quick breather.” I made up the excuse knowing that Morris wouldn’t care whether I was 5 centimeters from a mental breakdown or not. He wouldn’t care what I said.

“Just don’t let it happen again. You still have plenty of work to do.” He smiled at me, and I felt ill.

He turned around quickly at the sound of the doorbells jingling. “Hello, welcome to JojaMart!!”

I rolled my eyes. What, am I not allowed to breathe here anymore?

“Oh! Miss Terra!”

My shoulders shot up from the pouty slumped state they were in upon hearing her name. Terra? What was she doing here? She hates JojaMart almost as much as I do at this point.

I heard a hushed voice to Morris and rapid footsteps away from my direction. I rushed to the edge of the aisle, desperate to see her face, to ask what was wrong, if she was okay. If WE were okay.

Nothing, just the same tired cashier, and no Terra, no Morris.

I looked around a bit, but to no avail. She must have gone to his office to talk with him in private.

What for though? She literally talks shit about him every time we hang out. What would be so important that she’d be willing to talk to Morris PRIVATELY?

With a sigh, knowing that Morris would fire me if I was caught loitering around the aisles, I went back to work.

Thursday, 18 Spring, Year 2 – 7:20 PM

Never in my life had getting blackout drunk sounded so appealing as I sat in the corner, completely alone, and with far too many questions spinning around in my head.

Seriously, what was this afternoon all about? Even after changing out of my uniform and clocking out, Morris wouldn’t talk to me, and even if he did, I doubt he would have said anything. Not like he owes me anything, I’m just a pawn to him, and he has always made it clear he doesn’t “care” about us.

I felt my heart sink again as I remembered watching Terra walk away from the store through the glass doors in the rain, wanting desperately to call out to her but feeling completely powerless in the face of my fears and my douche of a boss.

Not even Lewis and Willy’s banter about fishing off the docks when they were young, or Gus’ finest pizza could snap me out of the funk I was in. The only thing I could understand tonight was that Terra blatantly didn’t want to see me today.

I stood up and left the saloon, far earlier than I ever had before. Maybe, just MAYBE, I could run into her, especially if she was trying to avoid me. She knew my schedule well, not like it was difficult to memorize. Wake, eat, work, drink, sleep; rinse and repeat. She knew exactly where I’d be and when, and if I had any chance of finding her, I needed to use that to my advantage.

I started out toward the forest. Maybe she was fishing by the lake? She had a particular fondness for the dock where we’d first sat down and really talked, and she loved fishing there. Something about a “constant flow of 25-inch-long smallmouth bass.”

Upon finding nothing, I checked my phone. 8 PM. Maybe she was home? It was a longshot, at this hour, but worth a try. She really pushed her body to the limit when it came to sleeping.

I headed north to Vervain Farm, sidestepping some weeds and a fallen tree branch as I headed up the docks. Her farm was very much right in the middle of a number of small rivers, and the numerous “isles” that made up her farm were traversable only by small bridges.

“Terra?” I asked softly, almost as if my voice didn’t really WANT to be heard. Clearing my throat and shaking my head, I called again. “Terra?”

My voice echoed in the wind, as a chilling breeze swept through my tattered jacket and into my bones. No response. I approached her cabin and stood on the doorstep in the rain for what seemed like forever before I finally gathered the courage to actually knock louder than a pathetic tapping.

I heard silence, then a shuffle, and then nothing again. I knocked again, hoping she was there, but all that answered my knock was a muffled “mrow?”

Terra’s cat, Citrus, emerged from the cat door and rubbed up against my leg, before realizing I was soaked and shaking his head indignantly at me.

“Hey boy,” I said under my breath, well aware that it was cold enough to see my breath fogging up the night air. “Have you seen Terra?” I asked, stroking his fur with my cold hands.

He looked up at me, green eyes wide and curious. “Mrow?”

I sat down on the porch beneath the gable, petting Citrus for another few minutes, listening to the rain and his purring, and trying to breathe normally.

Where is she? My mind was going crazy, and I swore I felt hot tears welling up in my eyes.

I grabbed Citrus close and let out a single sob. The cat, more than a little disgruntled by my actions, meowed loudly in surprise and growled at me until I loosened my grip.

“S-sorry.” I stuttered, feeling my jaw tensing up and chattering from the cold. “I’m sorry.” I repeated, scratching the cat behind his ears.

The orange tabby mewled at me once more before reentering the house, and I sighed heavily.

Alone again.

I stood up and shook my head aggressively, feeling the raindrops flying out in all directions from my messy purple hair.

The rain had lightened up, and I knew that this was the only chance I had to get home without receiving another cold shower from mother nature.

As I descended the stairs, I swore I heard a voice inside, but then again, at this point, I was too tired, cold and sad to know if it was merely an auditory hallucination or not.

I fell into bed at Marnie’s place at 9 PM on the dot, and as I did, I tried to empty my mind of all these thoughts. Terra, my insecurities, my loneliness, everything. And as I eventually drifted off the sleep, around 2 in the morning, I dreamed of Terra and I’s first date.

The gridball game with the Tunnelers, the game where I kissed her suddenly out of excitement, and panicked, thinking I’d just ruined my chances with this wonderful woman who had given me hope again. As she kissed me back, I remember feeling everything fading into the shadows. The game’s noise, the crowd’s screams, the tipsy feeling inside my head, everything was gone. Only her and me.

And god, was it wonderful. The last Sunday of Fall, and the last game of the season. We’d won, but I barely even remember that part. I remembered the taste of her lips on mine. The faint scent of beer and fried food as I inhaled deeply, taking it all in.

Moments like that could drive an atheist to Yoba, because in that moment, I had kissed an angel.

On the bus ride home, she fell asleep with her head on my shoulder, hair messy, and a little bit tipsy herself. She was just so beautiful. Even as she drooled a bit on my jacket and made strange noises in her sleep, I just fell harder and harder for this woman every time I took a breath.

“Terra, I love you so much.” I said under my breath. “You give me hope that there is a future for me after all. You make me feel like I actually mean something to someone. You give me a reason to try harder, and I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done.”

A small snort answered my statement and I felt my face start to hurt from how wide I was smiling. “Terra, I think that I want to marry you someday. No, I know I do. Terra, I want to make me the happiest man alive…god this sounds so cheesy. I’m trying to say that…I love you. And I hope I can make you happy for the rest of my life.”

After the bus stopped in Pelican Town, I woke her and walked her home, thanking her for the wonderful time, and laughing at her jokes and her story about a funny dream she had on the ride home.

Of course, she didn’t know what I’d said, but I did. And those words were tattooed on my heart now. I want to marry her. I really, REALLY do. But I can’t propose without a Mermaid’s Pendant, and lord only knows how the hell you get one of those anymore.

Morris appeared in my dream, sly and shrewd. I knew he knew something, but there was no point in asking what he knew, because he would never tell me so long as he lived and breathed. He owed nothing to a stupid subordinate.

The night was long, and full of miniature dreams and nightmares in which I was alone and drowning in my fears.

God fucking damn it.

Friday, 19 Spring, Year 2 – 8:20 AM

A rolling fog had settled over the valley, and the walk to work was much chillier than usual.

The milky white haze was so thick that I could barely to the end of Marnie’s cow paddock. As I continued my walk, I wondered if maybe Terra would answer her phone.

I dialed her number and stared at her contact name as it rang. It read “Brat” with a purple heart emoji. I always wondered if she had me named something in her phone, especially since she was literally the only person in my contacts WITH a nickname.

“Hi this is Terra,” Her voice jolted me out of my daze.

“Terra, oh thank god, I was so worried—”

“Unfortunately, you caught me in the fields, on in the mines, or…whatever. Anyway, I’m not able to talk right now.” I exhaled. God, I was so stupid. Was I so desperate to hear her voice that I didn’t realize I’d gotten her voicemail? It’s not like I hadn’t heard it before.

I hung up. Even if I could competently leave a voicemail without enough “Uh’s” and “Um’s” to outdo Jeff Goldblum, I didn’t know what I’d say to her, much less if she wanted to hear it at all.

I sighed heavily, feeling like all my happiness was draining out of my fingertips into the foggy air.

I clenched my fists, in a vain attempt to stop myself from feeling so rotten. I didn’t have much say right now. After work, I could go to Pierre’s, or sit outside her house until she got home…actually no, the last one would just come across stalker-y. And at this point, the last thing I needed was to drive her further away.

God damn it! Damn it damn it damn it!

I kicked a rock into the mists of oblivion, hearing it splash into the river. I needed to get my dumb ass to work before I lost my job. Not like anyone else in town was hiring, so I’d be fucked if I lost the job.

So, dragging my feet more than I ever have in the past, I dragged my shallow corpse of a body into JojaMart.

Friday, 19 Spring, Year 2 – 4:40 PM

10 minutes until my shift ends. I said to myself, feebly attempting to ground myself in reality after the most out-of-it shift I’d ever had, even including all the ones I’d been forced to work while hungover.

The clock’s incessant ticking had me so high strung I was convinced that the next tick I’d hear would make me break the fucking thing over my knee.

A constant reminder of where I was, that ticking. A steady reminder that I’m wasting away stocking canned goods in a dead-end town for a corporate dunghill while the love of my life refuses to speak to me.

My eyes felt hollow, like they weren’t really seeing things, more like they just stared off into the blackness of nothingness and stayed there.

The snapping of Sam’s fingers in my face startled me back into reality. “Earth to Shane, hellooooo.”

“Sam?” I sounded almost drunk in my bewilderment, which wasn’t ideal right now. The last thing I need is for my coworker to think I’m zoning out because I’m drunk off my ass on-shift.

“Yeah, me.” He grinned his borderline obnoxious sunshiny smile. “Your shift ended like, 3 minutes ago. You’re usually out of here in a flash.”

I stared back at the clock I’d been fantasizing about murdering, surprised. He was right somehow.

“You’re one to talk, your shift ends at 4, what the hell are you doing here still?” I retorted, indignant at the younger man’s tone for no good reason.

Walls up.

“I fell asleep in the break room, don’t tell Morris.” He sniggered; way too proud of himself. “You going to the saloon? I’ll come with. I’ve got about twelve games of pool to lose tonight.”

I wasn’t thrilled by this bright and smiley tagalong, but it wasn’t like he was wrong. Where the hell else would I go? Not like anywhere else felt right today.

May as well let myself relapse like the coward I am.

“Sure. Give me a second to get out of this shitty uniform.” I said, disappearing into the break room.

Friday, 19 Spring, Year 2 – 5:10 PM

Sam wasn’t a bad guy really, but right now he was the worst guy for me to be around. He was too cheery, and far too talkative.

I thought the clock was annoying, but Sam reminded me far too much that I was a total wet blanket just by breathing with a smile.

“How was work, dude?” My mind didn’t really register the question until I heard the bells jingle as the door shut behind us.

“Uh?” I answered gracefully. “Oh, right. Work. Uh, um.” I stammered. Pathetic, Shane, you seriously suck shit at conversation. Why does anyone bother with you to begin with?

“Yeah, work. Good ol’ Joja.” Sam rolled his eyes. “Long day, huh?” He seemed sympathetic, but to me, that meant pity. And I didn’t need his pity.

“Yeah, sure.” I said.

Walls fortified.

“You okay?”

The fucking worst question of all. In the deluge of questions this kid asked me, that one bothered me most, and for really no good reason.

It made me angry, it made me want to cry, it made me want to scream, and it made me, most of all, just feel empty.

“Not really, Sam. Please stop talking.” Was the politest response I could manage.

Sam raised his finger as though he had something to say, but quickly decided against it.

Good. Please stop pressing me before I throw myself in the river and pack my coat full of stones.

We walked in silence for a while until we were passing the Mullner’s house, when Sam piped up again with a smile. “Hey Shane, I think tonight will help you get your mind off of…whatever’s going on.”

I stared at him, actually stopping in my tracks. Why did this kid sound so fucking condecending? And why did he give two shits about my mental wellbeing?

No one gave a shit about that, except Terra, and now she was gone.

“Why are you acting like you know me?” My voice was steeped in venom, probably more so than I’d intended. “Why do you give a fuck what’s going on with me?”

Sam stopped too, staring at me, worried.

“Stop acting like you understand me. It’s pissing me off.” I felt my face getting hot. It wasn’t anger, it was tears. “Get lost, kid.” I suppressed a sob, hurting my chest and making my eyes burn with tears.

Sam stepped toward me. “Shane, I didn’t mean—”

“SHUT UP!”

I turned around quickly as the tears fell. “Just…please…go away.” My voice choked. “Pl…ease.”

Sam took a deep breath, and then grabbed my arm, dragging me around the corner and through the door of the Stardrop Saloon.

“What the fuck are you--? Get your hands off me! Let me go! Get off!—” I struggled against his grip, but to no avail. I fell to the ground, and Sam dropped me. Suddenly, I heard a familiar voice.

“Shane?”

Turning around in a daze, I saw Terra. Golden earrings, brown hair tied neatly in a bun, familiar purple sweater, leather boots, and gorgeous blue eyes. My heart stopped for a moment, and then began rushing again as I realized I was still crying, on the floor, and in complete disarray.

“Terra—! I, um, hang on, I, wait, uhhhh…” I panicked and basically spilled out words like a semi-truck carrying nothing but alphabet soup crashed into a wall.

“Shane, what’s…?” Suddenly her eyes widened. “Oh my god, Shane.”

Her arms were around me instantly, her lips on my forehead, and suddenly I couldn’t feel anything. Numbness covered me the instant her hands made contact with my skin, and I couldn’t hear anything.

None of the noise from the tavern, none of the eyes staring, none of the tears on my cheeks, just her arms around me. I felt like I was home again.

I snapped out of it to hear Terra apologizing profusely, on the brink of tears, as I stared into nothing. “I’m so sorry, Shane, I didn’t think about how you’d interpret my actions, oh my god, I’m so sorry…”

“F…for wh…what?” I rasped, throat dry from dehydration. “It’s…my fault. Right?”

She stopped moving, stopping to stare at me. “Wh…what?”

“I fucked up…and…you…you finally realized…that I’m…just a…piece of shit.” I was dizzy, and Terra was growing increasingly more concerned.

“Baby, baby no!” She shouted her pet name for me, turning a few heads from the arcade area. My face was burning. No no no no don’t look at me. I bit my lower lip, suppressing a sharp inhalation that would have certainly made me start hyperventilating.

“Baby I…” Terra stopped and sat back, staring at me. “I was gone because I was…” She paused, pursing her lips.

“I was looking for this.”

She reached into her sweater and revealed a blue conch shell on a leather string.

It was a Mermaid’s Pendant.

Everything went white for a moment. Wait. She wasn’t serious, was she?

Me?

I stared at her in complete shock, jaw gaping, breathless and completely incapable of saying anything. “Terra, you…”

“Shh.” She put her index finger to my lips and put the necklace around my neck. “Shane. Breathe.”

Right about now I noticed exactly how many people were surrounding us. Almost everyone from town was here. A Friday night at the saloon was busy enough already, but there were some new faces, like Jodi and Caroline, both of which I’d never seen in here before.

Everyone. Sebastian, Abigail, Alex, Willy, even LINUS, was staring down at us, as I felt my face heat up in embarrassment. She’d been planning this for days. Everyone was here. For us. For me.

“I…” I cleared my throat, scrambling to sit up straight, and try to recover whatever dignity was not currently ablaze in the depths of hell. “I…”

Terra looked concerned. Oh my god, she thought I was going to say no.

She’s just as scared as I am about what this means.

“I accept!!” I shouted.

Silence, then eruptions of applause.

Terra tackled me with a hug and began to cry into my chest. And unbeknownst to even myself, so did I. Gus cheered and turned on the jukebox to the oldies channel he always played. Sam smiled down at me, Sebastian congratulated me…Lewis tried talking to me about how to go about arranging a wedding, but I couldn’t hear him.

I was far too busy crying. Someone, no, not just anyone, TERRA, just told me that they want to spend the rest of their life with me. ME!

Part of me wondered if it wasn’t somehow just an elaborate prank, but the tears in her eyes and the pendant around my neck snapped me out of that illusion immediately.

Terra was going to be my wife.

Holy shit.

After the commotion died down I asked her everything I’d been meaning to ask over a well-deserved beer and basket of chips. “Why did you actively avoid me for the last week?”

“I’m a really bad liar and I know how perceptive you are, and I was really worried you’d find me out. I wanted to invite everyone because they’re all really important to me, but it was hard getting around without running into you.”

She looked incredibly guilty, and I felt my heart tighten at the sad look on her face. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.” I laughed a little. “Just…give a guy a warning…or something.” I took a huge sip of beer. “I mean, I was basically staying up all night thinking you were ghosting me because I left a beer can on the floor when you visited on Sunday.”

“The what?” Her oblivious question made me realize exactly how stuck up in my head I was about the whole thing, of course she hadn’t even noticed.

“Wow.” I exhaled. “I feel…stupid.”

“That makes two of us.” She replied, putting her head gently on my shoulder. “I didn’t even think about how this might affect your anxiety.” She bit her lip. “God, I’m an idiot.” She slumped, seeing her so broken up over my mental state destroyed any lingering doubts I may have had about how genuine she was being with me.

“Terra, baby…I…” I stopped. I was about to tell her that she wouldn’t have HAD to worry if I were normal, but I stopped myself. I wasn’t great at sitting and talking feelings with a borderline stranger, but there was one thing I’d learned in abundance in the short time since I began therapy.

I couldn’t keep blaming myself for everything. I would consume myself and end up even worse off. And it had been a battle to stop, especially considering recent stressors.

“We both messed up, baby.” I answered. “You made a mistake, and I got super worried and convinced myself that you were breaking up with me in a slow and painful way. And worst of all, I was convinced I deserved it.” I paused as Terra looked up at me. “Baby, I want to marry you. I’ve wanted to marry you since that night at the gridball game, but I’m such a goddamn trainwreck that I wanted to get better before I proposed. I…”

“I wanted to be worthy of you.”

Terra looked into my eyes with a lot of confusion and a lot of love.

“That’s when I decided I wanted to marry you, too.” She blushed a deep pink and looked at the floor. “I…heard you saying how much you loved me in my dreams.”

I froze. Wait. Had she also heard the—

“I heard you tell me you wanted to marry me, too.”

I felt my face burning. Fuck. I was hoping she wasn’t going to say that.

“After a few days of thinking about it, I decided to look into how to propose.” She continued, laughing. “I eventually found out, about halfway through winter, that I needed to propose using a Mermaid’s Pendant, which can only be received from a ghost you can find in the RAINY season.” She scoffed. “I was really angry about having to wait, actually.”

Seeing her pout about this was adorable, even though I had no goddamn clue what she was talking about with a “ghost” and the “winter” and “rain.”

“I only got the pendant yesterday, actually. I was on the beach at like 6 PM and I saw the Old Mariner standing on the island across the bridge.”

“It cost me a lot of money, so I spent the rest of the night at the beach, fishing up some big fish to sell to repair the dent in my funds.”

Wait. “How much did it…cost?” I said, concerned.

“It’s…not a big deal now. I got the money back from a good harvest and quality fish.” She smiled a toothy grin. She knew what I was doing. I was fishing for a reason to blame myself, and she put an end to that right quick.

“Hey Shane,” Sam’s voice came from behind me. “Hey dude.”

I turned to face him. “Hey…uh, I’m sorry about earlier.” I scratched the back of my head awkwardly. This kid was just trying to help and I’d just yelled at him and made myself out to be a total ass.

“No, no, I get it, man.” He held up his hands as his two friends ducked out the doors of the saloon. “I would have been really confused and angry too. And I know now that you have a lot of anxiety and…a lot of baggage.” He paused, glancing at me, as if looking for approval. “I shouldn’t have forced you, and I’m sorry too.”

I smiled, and Sam looked at me as though he were witnessing a unicorn cantering through the fields of heaven. I guess it really was true how little I smiled in public, good lord. “I appreciate what you did for me, Sam.” I put my hand out to shake his hand, and he reluctantly accepted. “Thanks.”

“For…wait, what?”

“Thank you for being such a good friend to Terra, and for helping me out, even though I’ve been nothing but unpleasant to you.”

“Uh, no problem, man, I just…I’m glad that it all worked out.”

Sam ducked out, and I felt my nerves cough and sputter out like a dying lawnmower.

“Shane,” Terra said my name and snapped me out of my drowsy stupor. “You should get home. You’ve had a long day.” She smiled. “We can get together and plan the wedding tomorrow. I’m thinking the 22nd would be a good date.”

Wedding. God that word sounded foreign to me.

“Alright,” I sighed. “Let’s blow this joint.”

Waving at Gus and Lewis as I left, Terra and I ventured out into the cold.

As we started toward Marnie’s ranch, I paused.

“Wait, Terra, the 22nd is a Monday.” I felt my heartbeat trying to race, but falling victim to my slightly intoxicated bloodstream. “We can’t possibly get married then, I have…ugh…work.” I grimaced.

“Oh, about that.” Terra laughed. “I may or may not have prematurely gotten the next week of work off for you by talking to Morris.”

The pieces connected suddenly. “Wait, that’s what you were doing?”

“Well, yeah, what, did you think I went in there to blow the bastard? I’d rather die.” I laughed loudly at her crudeness, spooking a rabbit into a bush nearby. “It wasn’t easy. We can do Monday, Tuesday, any day. I just think that Monday is best because then we’ll have a whole week to move you in and get adjusted.”

Moving in? Oh god, that was something that made my heart leap. I’d be living with Terra. Holy shit. Married and living with the love of my life, and by MONDAY? This was clearly all a ridiculous dream.

“Fuck, pinch me.” I said breathily. “I have GOT to be dreaming.”

“Why so?” She laughed. “I didn’t know you were into that kind of thing.” She added coyly.

“Oh shaddup.” I retorted. “I…still can’t believe any of this is real.”

She leaned over and kissed me square on the lips, tilting her head to the right and bending into me with a passion that not even the horniest dream could manifest.

Her tongue danced behind her lips, asking permission, and I opened my mouth, allowing her access, grunting slightly as her hands caressed the back of my head, stroking my hair.

She pulled away, leaving me wanting more. “Are you convinced now?”

I shook my head. “God damn, how did I get so fucking lucky?” Laughing, I caressed her cheek, kissing her forehead. “Seriously, what did I do to deserve you?”

She beamed at me, grabbing my hand and continuing to walk toward Marnie’s. “You went through hell every day, waiting for someone to love you.” She turned back. “It took me…a long time to realize what I felt for you. I realized rather suddenly actually, after…that day.”

She couldn’t meet my eyes for that moment, and I knew that it still haunted her. The blood, the broken glass, the cuts, the beer, everything. I realized in that moment what I would have lost, had I succeeded. I would have missed out on everything good that had ever happened to me.

She interlaced her fingers with mine. “We fit like a pair of puzzle pieces.” She said. “And without you, I don’t feel like I’m complete anymore.”

“Terra, I…I don’t think I knew what “complete” felt like until I heard you talking to me when I was resting at the clinic after…all that. I heard you saying that you might love me, but that being in love scared you. You kissed my cheek, my bandages, and when I officially “woke up”, I just remember feeling…whole.”

Terra blushed. Clearly we both had said things to the other when they were “sleeping” that we were shy about saying to the others’ faces. “Terra, you’ve made me the happiest man in the world, and EASILY the happiest man in Stardew Valley.” I said, turning to her.

I took her hands in mine and kissed her gently, feeling all the worries and fears of the day wash away like the tides rolling out to sea. “I will never stop loving you. And I will do my damnedest to make you the happiest woman alive.”

“I love you.”

41 notes · View notes

disappearing-rose · 5 years ago

Note

Heyya darling! Such a cool non-US ask game, so here a bunch of numbers for you: 1, 2, 4, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 13, 16, 19, 20, 26, 28 (just wanna know your favourites, I kow your country has plenty of beautiful, beautiful nature :P) xoxo, - alexa

Ahh, Alexa, honey, thank you so much for the ask!❤ Now, this is a long one so *cracks knuckles* brace yourselves.

1. Favorite place in your country?

Well, my favorite place would have to be the island I live on. I like places where you are close to nature, with trees and mountains and, most importantly, the sea. So my home island is definitely my favorite place in Norway, by far. No place like home, right? ;-)

2. Prefer spending your holidays in your country or abroad?

Hmm... a little bit of both. The only time we really travel is during the summer holidays. For example, right now I'm in Crete, boiling and wanting to shed my own skin, it's so fucking hot. But sometimes we've just driven down to Oslo to spend a couple of days there, exploring our capital. But during Easter and Christmas we stay at home. So while I like getting out of the country sometimes, I always look forward to going back home. In case you can't tell already, I'm a home body;-)

4. Favorite dish specific for your country?

Does Grandiosa (Norwegian frozen pizza brand) count? We don't eat much traditional food in my family, but one of the weirdest and coolest to tell people about is "smalahove" ( boiled sheep's head with eyes and (sometimes) the brain intact. And everything is eaten).

5. Favorite song in your native language?

Ooh, I like both "God Morgen, Min Kjære" (Good Morning, My Love) by Benny Borg, though I listen to Hanne Sørvaag's version the most, and Sissel Kyrkjebø's "Se Ilden Lyse" which also has an English version, "Fire In Your Heart". It was the song for the 1994 Olympics in Lillehammer and they are both beautiful. "God Morgen, Min Kjære" always makes me emotional and "Se Ilden Lyde" makes me patriotic and long for the winter and snow.

7. Three words from your native language that you like the most?

Kjærleik (love), the nynorsk version of the bokmål word 'kjærlighet'.

Æva (enternity), the nynorsk version of the bokmål word 'evighet'.

Melankoli (melancoly).

(For reference, we have two written languages in Norway: nynorsk and bokmål. Nynorsk is based the dialects around villages and places/ islands away from the city, like where I live, and bokmål is based on the Danish language and how they spoke in upper class Oslo in the 1800's. They also have bokmål- like dialects in eastern Norway today. The words are spelled and pronounced differently, but the meanings are the same, in Norwegian and English).

8. Do you get confused with other nationalities? If so, which ones and by whom?

We often get confused by Americans ( I think, but don't take my word for it) as being Swedish, as some think that Norway is the capital of Sweden. Though, if you wanna get technical, we used to be in a union with Sweden, from ca. 1814 to 1905, after they won us from Denmark.

Psst! I recommend you read up on Norwegian history, especially from around the middle ages to the present day, it's SUPER interesting!

9. Which of your neighboring countries would you like to visit most/ know best?

I'd love to visit Russia and learn their language, I think it's so beautiful. I'd also like to visit Sweden, as my great- great- grandfather was from Sweden and I'd like to improve my Swedish as well.

10. Most enjoyable swear word in your native language?

"Faen!" It means "damn" in English, but in Norwegian it's actually a fancier word/name for Satan/ the devil. I also like the phrase "faen i helvete", which litterally means 'the devil in hell" and I use it quite frequently.

11. Favorite native writer/poet?

I love Henrik Ibsen to death! There is a reason why people call him the second best writer to ever live, after Shakespeare.

13. Does your country (or family) have any specific superstitions or traditions that might seem strange to outsiders?

We probably have a few, but the only one that comes to mind is that we don't open our Christmas presents on Christmas Day/ Boxing day morning. In stead, on Christmas Eve, we dress up all fine, you know, dresses and suitpants and shirts, and eat Christmas dinner. Then we gather together and one person gets up, read out the labels on the presents and hand them out to the person they are for. And then, when everyone has gotten their presents, we open them together, not one by one. Then we have dessert later and enjoy family time. Sometimes it's just my immediate family, sometimes it's my entire mother's side as well.

16. Which stereotype about your country you hate the most and which one you somewhat agree with?

Ohh, this is a good question. There are quite a few that I hate, and it's difficult to pick just one. The one about polar bears roaming free in the streets is one that always irks me, but is also funny. (BTW, they don't, at least not in the main land. The only polar bears that exists in Norway is on Svalbard, an island very north of Norway.) Or the one about everyone being tall, blonde and blue-eyed, which is not the case. (Yes, I'm blonde, but I'm 5' 4" and my eyes are green).

Another one is that people consider us rude. That is not the case. We consider it polite to not unnecessarily bother a stranger with, for example, small talk and we just respect other people's personal space. It doesn't mean we are cold or rude.

However, I do somewhat agree with the fact that we are a 'cold' people, just not in the way people think. We are very... introverted, I suppose you could say. For example, we don't ask strangers for help unless we absolutely have to and we generally avoid sitting next to people on the buss, prefering to sit alone. And we don't randomly go up to people we don't know and strike up a conversation about the weather, which is why we might seem a little frazzled when strangers/ tourists ask us questions or for directions. We just prefer our own space and company. But we are a very, very polite people who are happy to help, despite our perhaps confused exterior, and who smile quite a bit. Sure, you might run into some grumpy people, but who hasn't had a bad day in their life?

19. Do you like your country's flag and/or emblem? What about the national anthem?

🎶Det er Norge i rødt, hvitt og blått!🎶 I love our country's flag, it always make me exited to see it during the Olympics or while walking around the streets in other countries. I love our national anthem as well! The lyrics, written by the wonderful Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson, contains so much love for our country and describes it so well. The melody, I have to admit, is a little slow and melancolic- sounding compared to other nations', but I can't imagine it being any other way, nor do I want to!

20. Which sport is The Sport in your country?

Many, many, maaany people will say soccer, and I suppose they are right, as it is the sport with the most supporters and what they talk about the most. Personally though, I prefer handball, mostly because it's a sport at which our national team is actually good at. Our women's team has won both the European Championships and World Championship several times through the years. Has the soccers teams ever done that? Yeah, I don't think so, my friend.

26. Does your nationality get portrayed in Hollywood/American media? What do you think about the portrayal?

I don't think so, at least not a lot. And if they do I think they often portray us as barbaric Vikings, stupid blondes, or bad at English. And I've never seen an American movie/ tv- show where they portray someone Norwegian, so I don't really know what I think about it.

28. Does your country have a lot of lakes, mountains, rivers? Do you have favorites?

If anyone has ever seen photos of litterally anywhere in Norway, you'll know that we have the most stunningly beautiful nature. Tall, strong mountains, long, winding rivers, big lakes you can swim in, deep, long fjords, small waterfalls. Norway is full of nature and the nature alone is worth a visit. As for favorites, I can't choose as I barely seen it all, but the Geiranger fjord is gorgeous, though packed with tourists and cruise ships in the summer, but its beauty never fails to amaze me, espacially from a high vantage point.

PS: If you are ever going to visit Norway, I suggest getting out of the big towns like Oslo, Bergen and Trondheim, as the most stunning nature is along the roads, highways and smaller towns. Also, most of our fjords are situated along the entire west coast, so be prepared to take ferry boats to cross them.

#oh look it's me #alexa alcantara #norway #ask

7 notes · View notes

anamuseinglife · 6 years ago

Text

Iditapod: Rainy Pass, Race Rookies, and Rohn Axe-Throwing

[sound of an axe hitting wood]

[men cheering]

Discordant voices: Ayyy! That was it! That was it hitting the bullseye

[theme music plays]

Casey Groves: Welcome to the Iditapod! It’s a podcast about dog mushing and the Iditarod, and… axe throwing? We’ll get to that in a few minutes. But first, here’s a word from our sponsor

[ad plays]

CG: Well, my friends, since the last time we talked, the more than four dozen sled dogs teams competing in the 2019 Iditarod have mushed, or are mushing, into the mountainous Alaska range. When mushers say these are the most technical sections of the trail, they mean it is an area where mistakes can be especially dangerous, and expert sled driving is of the utmost importance.

So, the Rainy Pass checkpoint on the frozen alpine Puntilla Lake, is a spot many mushers stop to prepare for the often tough trail ahead. But, not last years second place finisher Nic Petit, who stayed only a few minutes, long enough for race officials and veterinarians to check out his team and gear. In fact, looking at Petit’s checkpoint times on Iditarod.com, he hasn’t stayed more than a few minutes at any checkpoint in the face, except for Rohn, where he stayed a whopping 20 minutes. Instead, Petit has opted, as mushers will do sometimes, to avoid the hubbub of the checkpoints and camp his team out along the trail. They pick up straw, they pick up supplies from their drops bags, and they take that along with them down the trail and just do their own thing. That’s why, after having the lead earlier in the race, severals teams passed Petit on the way from Rohn down to Nikolai. That is a village on the upper Kuskokwim River, roughly 250 miles into the 1000 mile race.

While Petit rested from Rohn to Nikolai, the race GPS tracker shows the defending champ, the Norwegian by way of Willow, Joar Leifseth Ulsom, passed Petit’s team, as did several others, including Bethel’s Pete Kaiser, Montanan Jessie Royer, and Two River’s musher Aliy Zirkle. Ulsom was the first to arrive in Nikolai a little after 6:30 Tuesday morning. And, remember, the race just started Sunday in Willow with the race clock ticking, at the restart, so they’re covering a lot of ground here very quickly, as they do. And we’re looking forward to hearing more about how it went for the team’s runs from Rainy Pass to Rohn and Nikolai. While the race reached Nikolai Tuesday morning, we’re going to go back to Rainy Pass, where as Iditarod mushers make their way over the Alaska range, they find the last checkpoint for supplies and a rest at the Rainy Pass Lodge on Puntilla Lake. As Alaska Public Media’s Zachariah Hughes reports, it’s a good place to pause, maybe reflect, and definitely to prepare before heading towards the most technical sections of the trail.

[sounds of dogs and supplies moving]

Zachariah Hughes: Sarah Stokey pulls onto Puntilla Lake with a team of dogs that has been gradually climbing the Alaska Range.

Sarah Stokey: Hi

Unknown Voices: Bib number?

SS: 52

Voice 1: Perfect. We’re going to give you your bags here

Voice 2: Are you going to stay or are you going to rest? SS: I’m going to stay

V1: She’s gonna stay, ok

ZH: Stokey grabs three heavy drop bags full of supplies, and parks her dogs for a rest. She’s in good company, except for Nic Petit and Pete Kaiser, who flew through mid-morning, almost all of the teams at the front of the pack are taking a break. Checkpoint at the Rainy Point Lodge has a festive atmosphere. Frozen lake is covered with planes and helicopters that bring tourists for day trips, the rustic wooden building is ringed with picturesque mountain peaks. It’s not where Matt Hall would have chosen to stop, but he wanted a veterinarian to check out a dog’s toenail problem.

Matt Hall: Little noisy, but they rest good.

ZH: Hall came off the Yukon Quest a few weeks ago, and likes camping out with his team beyond the hubbub of checkpoints, but he knows that enough teams are likely to stop here that he can keep toward the front of the pack.

MH: It’s definitely an advantage, being toward the front early on, just because of that, you know, you get 20,000 dog feet over it, and 50 sleds, and it starts getting softer and softer, then as the heat of the day comes on to.

ZH: Hard packed, smooth trail that gets punchy and pulverized after heavy traffic is slower and more effort for the dogs. In the cool, early hours before many mushers had gone over, Linwood Fiedler says the trail heading up toward the Rainy Pass checkpoint was something to behold.

LF: I don’t think I’ve ever seen it better. It’s certainly one of the best trails ever. Yeah, I mean, it’s the Iditarod trail, but boy it’s pretty good shape.

ZH: Fiedler also wants to take advantage of the midday warmth, rest his dogs while the bright sun and relative warmth soften the trail.

LF: It’s just gonna get warmer and warmer and warmer, when it’s like this, 5 degrees, going up makes a huge difference. I mean, it’s just, you can just see that team kind of wilt [laughs] I mean, they’re like a car with no antifreeze in the radiator

ZH: After the lodge, the route keeps going up, until it hits Rainy Pass itself, it weaves back and forth, over a river, enveloped by steep mountain peaks on both sides. This year, trail crews had to build 20 bridge crossings over sections of open water. From Puntilla Lake, it’s 35 miles up and through the pass to the Rohn checkpoint. It’s a kind of dog driving that requires some finesse.

Jessie Royer: I’d have to say, my team is pretty controlled anyways.

ZH: Jessie Royer is in a good mood as she straws her dogs. It’s not just the pass that’s challenging, she says, what follows is the drops and turns of the gorge, and the bumps of the tunnels. Royer’s approach is to rest and charge her dogs, before embarking on the hours over the pass, but keep them moving, winding down their power, until all the technical stretches are behind them.

JR: I don’t stop until we get out of it all, so I do it all in one run. Cause otherwise, if you don’t if you stop in Rohn, you’re leaving with a fresh team right away on the buffalo tunnels, which is even worse. Buffalo tunnels is always worse than the gorge.

ZH: It’s a stage in the race when there’s strategy not just in reading the trail, but in using a dog teams relative restedness or fatigue to help navigate perilous terrain. From the Rainy Pass Lodge on the Iditarod Trail, I’m Zachariah Hughes.

Casey Groves: So between Rainy Pass and Nikolai, is the checkpoint of Rohn. To get there, the teams navigate some pretty treacherous sections, reaching the races highest elevation of 3,160 feet. I mean, it’s a mountain pass. You’re going on some pretty narrow trail, and there’s mountains and ravines, there are twists and turns, ups and downs, there’s some mushing on the edge of the ravine - it’s intense. If you want to get a look at it, I encourage you to google “Jeff King Dalzell Gorge”. The first video that should come up is from a very low snow year in 2014. Those sections of trail destroyed some sleds and destroyed some mushers dreams of reaching Nome that year. I first saw those sections of trail that same year, in 2014, from the safety of a helicopter. That was my rookie year on the Iditarod. But as a rookie, in the race, it must be daunting to hear the stories and then finally get up into the pass and see what you got yourself into. And, Jeff King’s a four time champion. He’s very experienced musher. He’s run the Iditarod as much as anybody competing in the race these days. But, in addition to the really competitive slate of mushers in this year’s Iditarod, which includes five past champions (King, one of them), nearly one in five Iditarod mushers this year is brand new to the race. As Ben Matheson reports, the ten rookies each set out on the trail with a deep range of skills and experiences.

Ben Matheson: 21 year old Martin Apayauq Reitan is coming off of Yukon Quest, in which he took home Rookie of the Year honors. But, he had a tough time managing his sleep during the race, something he wants to improve upon in his second 1000 mile race.

Martin Apayauq Reitan: We need to have a good time, and we’ll see if I’ll be able to race or if I’ll oversleep again, and then, you know, I’ll have to adjust my expectations, but I’ll try my best and have fun.

BM: Reitan lives on the north slope of Kaktovik, where, among other things, he guides polar bear viewing expeditions. After the race, he’ll skip the jet and instead mush his team north, to Kotzebue, where his dad will run the Kobuk 440. After that, it’s hundreds of miles north to and to the east, to Kaktovik, the same epic trip he made two years ago with his dad. Mushing is also a family affair for Jessica Klejka, who grew up the oldest of 7 kids running dogs in Bethel. Her passion for mushing also overlaps with her professional life - she’s a veterinarian. But Klejka says her professional knowledge can cause her to overthink things with her dogs.

Jessica Klejka: And so I see something happen and, you know, like if I toss a dog a piece of fish and he doesn’t eat it right away, I start going okay wait, what’s going on, why doesn’t he want to eat the fish. And I start smelling the fish, like is it okay, and - but for the most part I think it’s very advantageous because I get a lot of calls from mushers the last few weeks before Iditarod, asking a lot of questions, and it’s kind of fun.

BM: For more than two decades, Ed Hopkins from Tagish Yukon Territory, has been running the Yukon Quest, notching several top five finishes. But, after watching his wife, Michelle Phillips, running the Iditarod in recent years, he says the Iditarod temptation became hard to ignore.

Ed Hopkins: Actually, you get the itch, and I got the itch

BM: His team has already completed a 1000 mile race this year. Phillips ran the team to a 4th place finish in the Quest last months. Hopkins says the race-hardened dogs know more about the trail than he does.

EH: I’m a rookie in a lot of senses, like I don’t know some of the little hidden things that are out there that give advantage to a lot of other people, so, I’m just gonna go and do my own thing pretty much.

BM: Norwegian Niklas Wikstrand has worked with Pete Kaiser in Bethel for a few years, and gotten his race experience in brutal, Kuskokwim river conditions, and he’s been on a specific schedule to get the dogs the right racing experience.

Niklas Wikstrand: Going a little slower, rest enough, and that’s our teams main goal, to rest and run quite conservative, and make sure that as many dogs get to Nome, and just keeping the dogs happy and healthy.

BM: As the rookies navigate the races most technical and steep sections in the first couple days in the race, they’ll be one step closer to joining the elite club of Iditarod finishers. I’m Ben Matheson, in Anchorage.

Casey Groves: These rookie standings are definitely subject to change as teams leapfrog each other here in the race. At least check, Ed Hopkins was leading the rookies in 32nd place; then Richie Beattie in 34th; Sebastien Dos Santos Borges in 37th. There’s Jessica Klejka, who we just heard from, in 38th place; Niklas Wikstrand in 41st, Blair Braverman in 42nd, Ryan Santiago in 46th, Alison Lifka in 47th, Martin Apayauq Reitan in 48th, and bringing up the rear, in 52nd place, Victoria Hardwick.

At least check, all the rookies in this years race still yet to reach the checkpoint of Rohn, and I want to mention Rohn real quick. It’s not really a community or anything, they’ve listed it at population zero, it’s basically just a cabin or a roadhouse they call it, and definitely the population swells when it’s an Iditarod checkpoint. They’ve got veterinarians there to checked the dogs, they’ve got race officials - and of course, they’ve got mushers coming in. And, different Iditarod checkpoints have totally different flavors. Some are hectic, full of visitors and volunteers; others are literal ghost towns, nestled quite deliberately in the middle of the wilderness.

The Rohn checkpoint is the latter, with hardly any amenities or distractions. The volunteer staffers have to find ways to amuse themselves, in the lulls, when there are no mushers - it might be a little boring, they’re trying to entertain themselves. This year, as Alaska Public Media’s Zachariah Hughes found out, they are throwing axes.

[sound of an axe hitting wood, men cheering]

Men’s voices: Aha! That was it? That was the bullseye, dead center, that’s perfect!

Zachariah Hughes: Like, what’s the right technique for doing it? Like, when you’re giving someone an introductory lesson, how do you explain it?

Man’s Voice [Unknown]: Uh, normally I ask, you know, right or left handed. If you’re right handed, you want your left hand on the bottom, right hand on top, you know I try to keep everything in a straight line and use your whole body.

ZH: What are you guys doing right now? MV: Axe throwing? Yeah, we’re axe throwing

[sound of an axe, throwing]

MV: [loudly] Yeah! That was it, that was perfect

ZH: The Rohn checkpoint is mostly just a cabin, it’s in a clearing in a pretty wooded area, just after the Dalzell gorge, near a river, they’ve got some arctic ovens set up, some snow machines, there’s an outhouse, but - mostly it’s a one room cabin from 1910 that the Parks Service maintains. Nowadays, it’s a shelter cabin.

Woman’s Voice: We find something to do, we tell our stories

ZH: Throw weapons

WV: Well, we don’t allow guns out when the mushers are here, but pre and post race we do a little target shooting. But, I asked Mark to bring an axe, because I’ve always wanted to do this. I’ve never done this before.

ZH: Oh, and you guys knew each other before this?

WV: I met him last summer at the lumberjack show.

ZH: Mm.

[sound of axe thudding]

ZH: The volunteers here have to be a little bit more hardy than at other places, because they’re left out here mostly unsupported, it’s basically camping.

WV: Well, there’s nobody lives here year round, so we all come out for Iditarod, because we like dogs, we like going to remote places in Alaska, meeting people from all over, and it’s a satisfaction of helping people get down the trail, whether it’s snow machining, or walking, or mushing dogs, so it’s a good camaraderie feeling of Alaska.

ZH: Do you like throwing the axe? WV: Yeah, it feels good. You should give it a try.

[sound of axe thudding, woman yells “nice!”]

Man’s Voice: And when you release, you want kind of to release high so the axe carries down into the target, because it’s heavy

ZH: Do you guys always do this every year, out here? MV: This is my first year, so no, I don’t think so? But maybe from now on [laughs] I got started in college as a collegiate sport, so it’s called the woodsmen’s team in college, and so I competed collegiately. Me personally, I ended up doing well enough at the end of my four years, I was able to go pro, and then I competed professionally and also did lumberjack shows.

ZH: Is that what brought you up to Alaska?

MV: Yeah, I did a show for Great Alaska Lumberjack Show in Ketchikan Alaska, I did that for four years, one of my good friends, Tina Sheer, owns a show in May, and she’s the one that did a show at the Alaska State Fair, and she’s actually worked the Rohn checkpoint too, in the past.

[axe thuds]

Casey Groves: I still have a lot of questions about Zach throwing axes. And, that’s a contrived segue to today’s listener question! It’s actually two related questions in Aaron Knight’s language arts classes out in Unalaska

Alyssa; My name’s Alyssa, I’m also from Unalaska, and my groupmates are Michelle, Natalie, and Alyssa-Marie, and our question is have any of the mushers got hurt, and did they have to stop participating in the race?

Aaron: Hi, my name is Aaron, my groups are Matius and Zach, what happens if the dogs got hurt?

CG: Thanks for listening, and thanks for the great questions everybody. So, what happens when there are injuries on the trail? Here’s our trail reporter, Zachariah Hughes, with the answer.

Zachariah Hughes: If the dog’s hurt, his or her musher will leave it at a checkpoint. The veterinarians take care of it and the Iditarod takes over, they’ll take groups of dogs who are hurt, or dropped, or sick, and move them back to Anchorage, or somewhere where a handler or somebody who knows the musher picks up the dog and takes care of it for a while. Mushers, unless they’re really really hurt, will keep going. One time, Aaron Burmeister broke his knee coming down the Dalzell Gorge, and he finished the Iditarod hundreds of miles later, limping over the finish line, but he made it. So, other times mushers will fall of their sleds and crack ribs and maybe withdraw or maybe keep going, they are pretty tough and it’s really up to them, if they’re hurt, if they want to keep trying to finish the race.

CG: Thanks for getting that answer to us Zach, and as always I want to remind the listeners that you can send your questions to [email protected]. The best way to do that and maybe get on the podcast is to open up your smartphone, find that voice memo app, record your question in your own voice, and send that to [email protected] and that’s the best way to get your answer. Well, everybody that’s all the time we have for today, our theme music is by the band Sassafrassh, I’m your host Casey Groves, and until next time - happy tails.

Linwood Fiedler: You just gotta be ready to be game on and not be sleepy [laughs] so.

ZH: How are you gonna do that?

LF: How am I gonna do that? I’m gonna try and take an hour nap here. [laughs]

ZH: Out here, like in the sled bag?

LF: You know, I may lay down with them, or I guess there’s a little cabin we can get in if we want.

ZH: But you don’t have like an exoskeleton for the gorge?

LF: [laughs] No. My head hits a tree, is what’s gonna happen.

ZH: Well I hope you make it out in one piece, thanks a lot man, take care

4 notes · View notes

wherethestoryhasimagination · 6 years ago

Text

As a Pallet cleanser...

I’ve posted a bit to much Meat. And so before I dive on in to Candy, which, from the impressions I’ve gathered, contains terrors greater than those found in meat, I’ll be providing some ‘Candy’ of my own, hopefully in a form reminiscent of thin mint cookies.

I’ll be making as wholesome, happy, and generally carefree a post as I can possibly make.

I’m going to be BluHing out my thoughts and ideas for things I would Hope for, dream of, and expect to possibly see in various percentages of those three of-

Animal Crossing.

As Animal Crossing has progressed through the Years, more and more chances for Player agency to influence the world have come to be. even going so far as to give you an official government job where you help to plan/fund Public infrastructure & The Arts. An update was even added at one point that would let you have more control over what Villagers were in your town; something practically impossible in past games, & in the pre-update New-Leaf.

I expect this trend to continue, though how it continues may vary; my Hopes for the hypothetically possible, & Dreams for the incredibly unlikely as follows.

Furniture Creation; it can be tricky getting that last piece of a set that just never seems to be in stock. but if you had a way to get furniture pieces that are not in your catalog, such randomness would be relieved… There’s even already ways to change some pre-existing pieces of furniture by bringing it and a set of gems to an npc in retail… severely limited in that form, but… a definite precursor to being able to get the furniture you want by using resources you have. and while it is a spin off I know little about, I believe Pocket Camp actually Does have a more tangible form of ‘crafting’. it even has an official Quarry to dig in.

extensions on the new ‘burst collection’ mechanic introduced in Pocket Camp; Pocket camp introduced items such as fishing nets and honey for gathering fish and bugs faster than one could with a rod or bug net. in a new game without micro transactions, a number of things could be done to balance the effectiveness, cost, and availability of items that help make it easier to get things; like rotted turnips & candy attracting ants, but elaborated upon.

improved mail system; just a little thing here. maybe a Villager you had been best friends with, but who had to move away, could send you a postcard inviting you to visit, should you ever wish to do so, with a Picture of their new town on it.

Food options; even if they are as useless as eating has always been, more options would be nice. like actually getting to partake in the displays that appear on some holidays, or being able to actually eat some pudding, like what some Villagers claim to have accidentally eaten 23 servings of from time to time… And hey, if some villagers have favorite foods, getting it for them could be a nice thing to do. maybe going to Brewsters could serve a purpose other than buying coffee till you’re given access to Gyroid storage, or working a small, part-time job.

semi-open world feel; even if it’s just an illusion, it would be groundbreaking for The Flanking Cliffs to finally give way to nature. even if the Cliffs are just sometimes replaced by massive clusters of impassible, unchopable trees that serve the same purpose. a tiny bit of variety in world wall could help. but full, low restriction openness is the dream… maybe have rivers a little bit wider than most, that you could eventually make crossable with foot-Bridges…(trains and such have their own bridges already of course, so you can still take the train to new places) … you know what? yea… Building Bridges… uniting the World… I like that. from now on, my hypothetical Animal Crossing game will be called ‘Animal Crossing Bridge Builders’.

Wood?/new tree mechanics?; the Ax is one of the least used tools. and once you’ve got the trees you want exactly where you want them, it begins to feel like Time slows down… The World only changing when you or villagers make it change, or with the seasons. a bit more of a purpose to trees could be an incentive to experiment, or to pay more attention to The World, as you watch new saplings grow far more frequently than you ever did when planting new trees was a one-off aesthetic setup. Plus, if furniture crafting does become a thing, you got to get materials somewhere.

‘More’; exactly as it says on the tin. More fruit types, more tree types, more Villagers… a simple expectation, but one worth note.

extend on the mining thing from pocket camp?; I’m mostly thinking of this for the sake of a single gag… The mining place underground is randomly generated once a week or so… And poor Mr. Resetti… Another job change has resulted in them being tasked with helping facilitate the process that… Resets, the underground so that you’ll always have fresh access to the resources you need.

(huh… food, crafting, fishing, foraging, mining… this is starting to become more and more like Stardew Valley, only without an official farmland)

Balloon Presents; you ever wonder where those balloons come from? maybe you could give something back. Perhaps you could release things up into the air, where someone, somewhere will eventually get it.

‘Island Search’; an excuse for the ability to Design, shape and all, your very own island. after all, the Ocean is so big, that of course you’ll end up finding an island that matches what you want. The ultimate in Player agency over control over their environment; such as also being able to send invitations, or approve applications for Villagers so that they can come and live on your island. and, depending on how ‘north or south’ your island is, the seasons may pass normally, seem to always be summer, or so on.

non-real-time option; this is likely a dream that would be divisive. Real-time has always been a staple of the series. a mechanic that always has been. Well, like what was done with Breath of The Wild, even the most fundamental core aspects of the series should be open to revision and review, to see if it really is the best possible option. What if sleeping in your Bed could actually pass time? what if you didn’t have to be caught in a cycle of only being able play for however long it takes you to find the ore & money rocks, the new buried objects, and such, before the majority of everything new in the world that day has been expended, leaving the chance for you to stale the remaining time you play by running through pre-treaded ground, or for you to simply skip time anyway and change the date to, for example, see if what you want in the store or such shows up. (the ability for the gameplay loop to avoid turning stale could also be avoided with any other number of changes that could be implemented) this is just a possibility worth keeping in mind. also, next, as a possible middle ground that could help branch the two different time options…

Live events; like how Splatoon has Splatfests, and Smash has select Spirit events, there could be special happenings that follow a Real-realtime structure. like, ‘all furniture you’ll find by shaking trees will match your favorite Color this week!’ or, ‘manta-ray migration! the Villagers are going to be celebrating this event as they would a holiday sometime this week’(perhaps on the first available in-game day you play that week, so that it isn’t restricted to only a 24 hour window that some people would be more likely to miss)

more Amiibo Villagers; this might fall under ‘more’, but wouldn’t it be amazing if a majority of the amiibo released had villagers associated with them? I for one, would love to have an Octopus Guardian Villager Friend.

better character creation; the game has partially approached this, with things like beak accessories, but, what if you could be an animal like the other Villagers? And, perhaps, if you opt-in to this, The game could eventually Generate an Npc version of your Animal based on various actions and interactions the game slowly gathers as you play. An Npc that could then be found by other Players in their Worlds. so that there is always a new face to meet… there is a lot of variables here, and naturally, it would need to be monitored to prevent those with unkind intent from tainting the world, but if the game could Generate new Villagers, rather than being limited to a set of pre-made Villagers that would seem to be a drop in the bucket by comparison… and for you to know that the character you’ve met, who is kind and friendly to some degree, was created based off of a Person in the real World who is not all that different from you? To have a Worldwide Community of People able to see that no matter who you are, or where you come from, that you can be kind? That we can learn to love eachother, both despite and because of our differences? …

I’m not going to say it could lead to World Peace, but I won’t say that it won’t lead to World Peace.

Sable; ‘oh Hello! How are you doing today? My sisters can help you if you wanted to buy something, but if you wanted to make something yourself, I could help you figure it out’

Years of countless Players sharing their Love and support for Sable has grown into a warm feeling she will always have with her in her Heart… She will Never doubt herself or her value as a person ever again… And if you still choose to talk to her every day, She will still want to be your Friend.

Permanence vs drifting; It is nice to work hard, and make something of the town you live in… Developing bonds with your Villagers… Till you know every bump, crack, and turn in it… till it becomes Home… But, more and more traveler elements have been introduced… Campers, and mobile homes. even the towns of other players accessed through your dreams. Perhaps you could explore the world, like the Villagers who visit your town are, ready to see who you might meet, and what you might see… and who knows… maybe one day, you’ll stop. You’ll look around. You’ll feel the cool air against your skin. You’ll see the sun start to set beyond the mountaintop. You’ll sit by the campfire, and see smiles on faces… and just maybe… After how long it has taken you to reach this moment… You might decide…

That you are, right now, exactly where you want to be…

That you’ve finally made it Home.

#homestuck #nintendo #animal crossing #longpost #animal crossing bridge builders

1 note · View note

sophisticateddesign · 6 years ago

Text

Lies and Lunch.

INVOLVED: Mercedes Jones and Titus Wilkerson LOCATION: Lenox Mall; Atlanta, GA. TIME FRAME: Saturday NOTES: Mercedes fails to find maternity clothes. AUTHOR’S NOTE: n/a

You could call Buckhead the center of Atlanta. You may or may not be right about that. But whatever you believed, one look and you will know beyond a shadow of a doubt, there was money here. If you were to live in the black Mecca of the south and be privileged enough to be a person means, Buckhead was where you wanted to be. Truth be told, Buckhead was north of the city proper. Right before you left for all points North; Marietta, Cobb county, Alpharetta. That was where the real money was. Where the white elite dug in just off Johnson’s Ferry road. Where if you went just over the river and you found that one little secluded road. The one behind the Mc’mansions that all sat on a golf course. You’d find the estate of Ludicrous himself.

Like all the burrows in the city, Buckhead had its own shopping center, Lenox Mall. A lavish white shelled mall, boned in cremes and marble floors, that housed over 200 stores and eateries. That’s where Mercedes and Titus were. Mercedes toted a osingle small black bag from Mac. Her eyes scanned every window display they passed. Mentally giving them either her stamp of approval or her frown of rejection. Titus, on the other hand, was studying young hot ass, either smiling or sometimes waving at the ones who caught him gazing at them in approval.

“Mmm, mmm, mmm!” Titus exclaimed, as his head twisted on his neck following one man’s ass like it was a mouse and he was a hungry owl. “She has to know that man is gay.” He said, hand clutching at his heart.

Mercedes sighed, her hazel eyes unable to hide her annoyance. “You sir. don’t know that man’s life.” She said, in a fruitless attempt at challenging his gaydar as they passed Louis Vuitton. The window display was outlandish, with thirty-six cameras all pointed at 2 lone handbags. Mercedes came to a full stop to marvel at the uniqueness of the display. “I think I really want a Lou baby bag.” She said dropping more than a hint at her shopping companion.

“First of all, I might not know his life, but I know where he was two days ago.” Titus gloated, “Second, your bad and boujee ass should buy it.” He caught her hint and threw it right back at her. “if you want. Because I already know what I’m getting my Godchild. It’s called a baby shower. I’m not buying anything for your ass.”

One hand went to Mercedes hip a look of mock shock on her face. “That man was too young for you. I.. I’m speechless.” She said in a voice dripping with admiration. Titus was five years older than her, but managed to act, on most occasions, 20 years younger. At his next return Mercedes rolled her neck, and cut her eyes at him severely, walking off. Her hips swaying from side to side as she continued on her quest for maternity clothes. Only a pinch saltier then she was a second ago. “We are supposed to be finding me a new wardrobe. I’m already using a rubber band to hold these pants up. I brought my clothes to accentuate my ass and my waist trainer to ensure my stomach wasn’t a factor.” She said lifting her bag, “yet, all I have managed to get are foundation refills.”

“He too old for me to date. What we were doing, I wouldn’t consider dating.” Titus said, throwing his scarf up around his neck. He rushed forward to catch the surprisingly quick woman, which wasn’t hard considering how short her legs were. He gave her a sharp pat on the ass. “You know Lenox on a Saturday afternoon is for seeing and being seen.”

Mercedes gave him a questioning look, “Who made that a thing?”

“Everyone!” Titus said, taking a quick step away from her. “Well everyone whose head hasn’t been stuck in a hole. In the past few hours, your ass has been the star of its own one man show. A show that you have been completely oblivious of...” Titus said shaking his head.

“I have bigger things to worry about then what random men want to jump my bones.” Mercedes said reciting a well-practiced line.

Titus rolled his neck and repeated her words verbatim, adding a bored inflection to scorn her. “You have had tunnel vision since before that baby was thing.” He said eyeing her hidden belly. “It was all about taking care of your mother, sister and the kids. And now that they are gone, before you even attempt to find a person to love you. You go and create a whole new person by yourself.” He said annoyed.

He had a point, not that she was going to admit that to him. “You act as if I've never dated. As if I never tried.” Mercedes argued. “Need I remind you of John, Trevon, Jordan, Bobby…” she said with her lips curling into a hateful snarl.

Titus held his hand up silencing the woman. “I will admit you had some bad luck. But… there were some good ones. Mercedes there will be good guys in your future if I have to find them for you myself. Don't think for a second that this child is going to stop me. If Michael and I can find our bliss. I know damn well you can.” He finished wrapping his arm around the woman's shoulder and hugging her close to his side. “That is another promise I made your mother.”

Mercedes laughed and shook her head, “Adding my mother to this doesn't mean anything you know.” She lied trying to sound in control of her emotions.

Titus’ laughter bounced off the walls and echoed all around them drawing a number of pompous eyes their way. “Now we both know that’s a whole lie. You are to much. Anyway, changing the subject.” He said taking a handkerchief from his pocket with a flourish, dramatically dabbing at his forehead.

Mercedes jumped into the gap. “You can change the subject after you feed me.” She said patting her stomach. “I am starving.”

~30 minutes later ~

The shrimp flipped end over end into the air before hitting the grill top, where it sizzled. Mercedes smiled at the little trick. A faint sigh left her lips as the chef continue to cook. “I wanted food not a show.” She grumbled just loud enough for Titus to hear her over the clink of the spatula dicing through the chicken on the grill.

“It must be nice to be a beggar and a chooser.’ Titus muse tossing imagined hair back over his shoulder. “Anyway…” He said in exaggerated tones. “Tell me about him... I know you had a few meetings, dinner and when to the doctor with him. But outside of he seems nice. You haven’t said anything of real import.“

Mercedes shrugged. She held that posture for a moment, then let her shoulders fall. “There isn’t much to tell.” She said easily. “He seems nice. Owns his own business. Is smart, and reasonably caring.” She rattled off trying to deflect. She sat back a little in her seat as the chef began plating their food. “He’s basically everything I wanted in a donor. I’m lucky.” She finished, whispering thank you to the chef.

Titus listened, his face disapproving. “Mhm…” He said, completely unimpressed by the scant information the woman just offered him. “That’s a relief. I suppose.” He said as his own plate was filled. “I could run a complete background check on him if you’d like. Just so we know what you’re dealing with.”

Mercedes shook her head, “No need. I’ve already had it done.” She smiled, “He is completely on the up and up. Good family, nice home…” She trailed off taking a huge bite of chicken and rice into her mouth. She closed her eyes and almost came off how delicious it was. Sighing around the mouthful she chewed, smacking her lips a bit before taking another bite

“Even better.” Titus commented with a nod. He waited for a long moment, adding soy sauce to the dish in front of him. He glanced over at Mercedes who had already began to eat, then sat the bottle down with a hard clink on the wood. “You make me sick. You are really going to make me wild horse your ass Mercedes Jones? Is the man potential or not. For heaven sakes.” He fussed, turning the chicken, rice and shrimp over with his fork. “Here I am trying to marry your stubborn ass off and your holding out. The man owns a business, wants to be a daddy and has a house… Is he at least cute, woman? And young enough not to need dentures?”

Mercedes laughed around her mouthful, fully aware of how annoying she was being. She placed her hand in front of her mouth trying not to spit any food out of her lips. “I’m sorry. You are just too easy.” She said tucking her lips in to her mouth to let her laughter die away before she answered his question. “He’s okay.” She said trying to seem unimpressed by the man. Which even now was hard as the thought of his towering figure and massive arms caused a slight flush to run up her neck. “And no, he’s not an old man.”

Titus beamed doing a little shimmy with his shoulders, “Looks aren’t everything. If he’s not your granddaddy we may have a prospect.”

Mercedes touched his arm quieting the man. She shaking her head no, “He is not my type. And besides that, he’s white. You know how they love their stick figures.” She said as if the matter was closed. She shrugged again and went back to her food. “But he’ll make a good co-parent.” She said twisting her lips up in thought. Their argument? Still bothered her. She didn’t really know what to say. Or for that matter why the idea of him being impotent even bother her at all. She slumped a bit her mind working feverishly against what she deep down already knew. She had a crush on her baby’s daddy.

Titus’ shoulder slumped, “Damn!” He said once she laid out the facts. “I could forgive him being white if he was hot but a regular degular white guy is unacceptable. They often appreciate curves but only with the lights low.” He sucked his teeth, then settled in and started eating. He glanced at Mercedes noting that faraway look she always got whenever she was mulling something over, be it what color drapes to buy or when to dump a man. No matter what the look was always the same. “What’s that look about?

Mercedes sighed, “Nothing.” She said, “Tell me how David is doing? I can’t believe he’s almost 18. You have to get him to tell you what he wants for graduation.”

Titus rolled his eyes, “What most teenage boys want. Tickets to the playboy mansion.” He said shaking his head, “I swear he tries to be super hetero- as a way to spite me. But you!” He snapped, “Stop changing the subject. What’s the matter with you?”

Mercedes giggled, but didn’t miss adding more food to her mouth. “Change.” She said as if the word meant anything. “Changing and dealing with another person. It’s trying.”

Titus squinted, “Tell me something I don’t know.” He sighed, “Wait…” His face contoured. “What is this about?”

“We, the baby’s daddy and I...“ Mercedes shook her head and took a bite of steamed cabbage. “Let’s just say it’s hard getting to know people. Somethings were disclosed, and it’s made our interactions a little awkward.”

Titus laughed, “Your whole situation is awkward. And that’s what your ass gets. Miss I’m going to make a test tube baby.” He said loudly, “Suck it up. And find a way through.” He said knowing full well how is friend operated. “That bundle of joy is coming and try as you might it isn’t going to get any easier. Hell, it’s not like you want to fuck him.” He said eating happily.

#Thread #Thread: Mercedes Jones #Thread: Titus Wilkerson #tHread: Lunch and Lies

4 notes · View notes

lindoig3 · 6 years ago

Text

Thursday to Saturday, 14-16 February

The ‘official’ Darling Run

A late and lazy start for our Big Day/Days. Looks like we will finally head off on the section of the Darling Run that I have always regarded as the key sector: the 330-odd kilometres between Bourke and Wilcannia. We have done the rest of the Run (Walgett to Wentworth, including those parts along the Barwon River, a fair bit of it on both sides of the river) in bits and pieces at least a couple of times but our ambition to do the iconic Burke to Wilcannia section has always been thwarted by road closures due to flooding. This time, we are assured of dry weather and both the west (north) and the east (south) roads are open so with any luck, we will make room for a new item to be addedd to our Bucket List by removing this one within a few days.

Basically, this section of the Run involves just over 100 clicks Bourke to Louth (we have done that at least twice before), then another 100-odd to Tilpa and then on to Wilcannia. The road runs broadly northeast to southwest: hence the confusion about south versus east side and north versus west side - officially it is east and west even if that is not entirely congruent with my knowledge of geometry. There is a road on each side of the river and I have wanted to drive both for decades.

We are now back in Bourke after achieving our dream. It was a great experience although not at all as I had imagined it. The road is rarely close to the river, but in any case, the river is currently just an occasional string of muddy pools. It is real desert country, much of it totally devoid of vegetation although there were smallish patches of green fuzz smudging the billiard-table flat floodplain where there had been a recent brief storm. Other areas were equally grey and flat, but studded (sometimes liberally) with spindly shrubs and some slightly more decent trees. Occasionally, small areas were even wooded, not forested, but with a reasonable cover of trees and shrubs, even a little scrappy ground cover in places. There were quite a lot of big river red gums, but many more coolabahs and other unidentified vegetation (at least by me).

We had a late lunch in Louth and I reported 18 species of birds before we drove on to Tilpa: a town boasting a population of zero according to the sign. It actually consists of a couple of dilapidated houses and a pub. We had a cold drink and chatted with the manager and his partner for an hour. We had seen a very sad sight about 30 km back along the road where a couple of farmers and a woman were dragging dead cattle into a heap, presumably to burn. We assumed that they had shot them because there was no feed for them, but we were told at the pub that 80 cattle had died there overnight and 50 a bit further away after eating fodder that had been delivered to them by a truck that came through from Queensland the day before. They were still trying to save other sick cattle, but it was too late for most of them. Must be utterly heart-breaking to lose stock that way after feeding them through 8 years of drought. Before leaving the pub, we bought a cold bottle of bubbles to celebrate finally finishing the Run - cost us $10: less than we would pay for it in Melbourne.

Before leaving, I did another survey and saw only 2 birds!

We then set off, intending to have a bush camp at a campground along the way, but when we got there, it was closed temporarily due to dangerous trees. We had to continue on to the main Cobar-Wilcannia road and camped at a rest stop there, effectively completing the east-side Run.

I was feeling pretty lousy with reflux. I had run out of my pills and had been suffering a little for a few days before realising why. Nonetheless, we enjoyed our bubbles and watched The Pink Panther after dinner, having watched the denouement of Loch Ness the previous night. We had not intended doing the whole distance in one day, but given the heat and scarcity of stopping places and places to explore, it just happened that way.

Next day (Friday), we drove the final 8km to Wilcannia on the bituman, fuelled up and set off on the return trip on the west side. The road was equally as good both sides of the river and we were driving between the Darling and the Paroo rivers for part of the distance, both unfortunately devoid, or almost devoid, of water.

We stopped in at Tilpa again and ate our lunch before having another chat with the locals in the pub. I did another survey with a dramatically increased result - up from 2 to 9 birds.

Then it was on to Louth where we camped overnight. I quite liked Louth, despite the caravan park, and did a slightly longer survey there, reporting 22 species to eBird. The van park was small and a bit sad. The ablutions, such as they are, are shared with the pub and power was only available from a few places. At around 1am, I heard a guy from the only other van in the park mucking around with their power lead and discovered that our power was off too. The fridge was quite warm so it could have been off for several hours, but I went out and found another outlet that was working so got the fridge going again, even if it still wasn’t very cold in the morning. The water was also very muddy - not a big problem because we carry a lot with us, but I think it is a case of having a captive audience. It is over 100km to any alternative accommodation/power/ water so you pays your money and and takes your chances - that is all that is available. Having said that, I really enjoyed the number and variety of birds so I won’t take Louth off our visiting place list just yet.

Even had I not been wandering the van park with a power lead in my hand at odd hours during the night, I still didn’t get much sleep. My reflux was really bad, burning my chest and throat and making me feel sick as a dog so I was up numerous times and propped up in bed and sleepless most of the night. We wanted to get to the pharmacy in Bourke before it closed at noon on Saturday so we got up a bit earlier than usual and headed off on the last leg of our planned Darling excursion and made it into Bourke with time to spare. I dosed myself up and Heather stocked up on a few groceries and we refuelled the car and got set up again at the Kidman Camp, our favourite place in Bourke.

The last leg was interesting, possiby better although a bit patchier road conditions with the last 32 clicks on blacktop. According to the sign near Louth, it was 122 km to Bourke - a sign a few clicks further along said it was 150 still to go - we reckon it was 121! The road diverts quite a way from the river and joins the Wanaaring Road 32 km from Bourke although we did see a diversion at one place that may have allowed us to follow the river a little more closely. We would have gone that way except that we were very anxious to get to the pharmacy before it closed - at least I was and I very glad we made it. With a double dose of pills, by late that night I was feeling almost normal again.

This trip was actually quite a big deal for us. It was nothing like the challenge I imagined it would be and in the absence of a river to enjoy - a bit far away and no water anyway - it wasn’t as scenic as the footage we have seen of other vanners like us. It was still an achievement that has been decades in the making and we feel very satisfied having completed it in both directions even if others think it a bit trivial.

1 note · View note

alicescripts · 6 years ago

Text

Part 3, Chapter 7: “Speakers”

Keisha: In St Louis, across the street from a lunar-themed hotel with a rotating artificial moon on its roof, there is the remains of a fast food drive-through. I dunno how long it’s abandoned, but long enough that someone – the owner or the city or some street artist or who knows – covered all the windows in a stained glass patterned wrap. So you have this little church of an old fast food joint. It’s beautiful and odd. Alice and I happened by it, and for fun we hopped the fence an walked the drive-through.

Alice: The whole system is still there, though it’s missing a menu and a lot of its parts. The speaker still stands crooked, leaning into where cars full of the hungry and stoned once passed.

We stand there a moment and I dare to kiss her, and she dares to let me. It’s been better between us. We went through the drama of defeat and now we have the drive of a mission, and both have started to patch over the wounds of our past.

And just as we kiss, the speaker of this long dead drive-through crackles to life and we hear muffled voices and joyful laughter through layers and layers of static. It sounds like a message from the dead or from another world.

“This place is empty, right?” I say as the speaker burbles away at us. “I’m starting to think nowhere is actually empty,” she says.

Alice Isn’t Dead by Joseph Fink. Performed by Jasika Nicole and Erica Livingston. Produced by Disparition. Part 3, Chapter 7: “Speakers”.

Keisha: We had decided to organize. It is an overwhelming goal to organize a country, but it starts with the people around you. And so we reached out where we could. To the network of safe houses and anarchist groups that Sylvia had connected us to, if we needed to reach out to her.

We let it be known that if anyone had experiences which left them with the feeling there was something seriously wrong with this place, had encountered monsters or strange phenomena on the highways or on the quiet streets of their towns. They were to meet us. We set a date, a month from then, in a park in upstate New York. Near where I had last seen Sylvia.

Maybe I hoped it would make it more likely than Sylvia would join. But I didn’t let myself consciously think that. Instead, we tried to show up with no expectations at all. Just whatever came of it was what we had to work with, and we would start there.

There were bout 30 people. Most were fairly local, but some had driven across the country to be there. Among the crowd, I noticed the woman from the front desk of the Duchess County sheriff’s office in Poughkeepsie, the one who had slipped Sylvia and I a tape showing what really happened the night Sylvia’s mother had died. I smiled at her and she smiled too and then looked away.

There was a general sense that we were all embarrassed to be there. That nothing we were doing here could lead to any higher process. This wasn’t an army gathering, but children dressing in their parents’ clothes.

The last person to arrive was a short man in a baseball cap with a confident walk. He gave us both firm handshakes. “Hi, I’m Tanya,” he said. “We spoke once. I passed on a message from Sylvia. I have to tell you, it’s about fucking time someone did this. I’m real excited. I am real excited.” And for the first time, I allowed myself to be excited too.

Sylvia never showed.

Alice: At a fried fish place near Baton Rouge, we get to talking to a table of folks. Dyed hair, weird clothes, they stood out as much on the road as we did. It was a touring theater group. They told us that they liked to tour to the south, because in the little towns, the people that need their performances really need them. They told us that it’s good, as an artist, to be useful to people in some practical concrete way. Otherwise, what’s the point of art?

Keisha: We told them about the drive-through in StLouis and they got real quiet. “So you came across one of the speakers.” The person who spoke was tall, had said their name was (Lian) and then hadn’t said much else. “The speakers?” I said. “Some of those old fast food drive-throughs that have been out of business for a while,” said another one. “If they leave the speaker system there,” said (Lian), “the word is that it sometimes connects with other worlds.” “Aliens,” said Alice, with a degree of skepticism that frankly, I didn’t think our personal experience over the last few years gave us license to hold. “No, not that kind of other word,” said (Lian), “more like Stephen King. You know, The Dark Tower? There are other worlds than these. Those speakers transmit from other versions of our world.” “Or that’s what they say,” said one of the others, trying to laugh through the long hair over her face, but not making it convincing. “We heard it once,” said “(Lian). “We were parked by an abandoned Burger King eating some sandwiches and the speakers switched on. I got close, I listened.” “What did you hear?” I said. (Lian) bit their lip, shook their head. Soon after, the group politely said goodbye. “Well,” said Alice. “Man, this isn’t even close to the weirdest thing,” I said back.

Alice: As Keisha drove, I asked her a question that maybe had been living in both of our heads during this time. Were the Oracles even really on our side? What were their intentions? And if they were helping us, why? Keisha gave the only answer she could, which was that she didn’t know. We couldn’t know. We could only believe. And belief is an uncomfortable function, no matter how natural it may be to the human mind.

And yet I do. I believe in the Oracles. I believe that they are good. I could always be wrong.

Keisha: We were west to Lubbock when I saw the Taco Bell with the missing letters from its sign. Clearly not having served as an actual purveyor of food for quite some time. I glanced over at Alice and she nodded, and I was already turning toward the exist.

We pulled into the lot. There were no fences, just a sign in the vacant windows letting us know we could rent 1,500 square feet of restaurant space, and to call a number that had been completely scribbled over with sharpie. We walked over to the drive-through system and sat on the curb. I don’t know what we were waiting for exactly, but we waited.

Alice: And a few minutes later, we heard the soft purr of static, a signal springing to life. As one, we rose and leaned into the old mesh of the speaker, set into its little kiosk under a 90’s era bell design. For a moment, there was a scramble of voices amid the static. And then, as we moved closer, it seemed to react to our bodies and became sharper, until I heard a definable voice and I threw my hands to my mouth. Because it was my own voice.

“You wanna do pizza night tonight?” I asked from the speaker. “Sure, let’s make a shopping list.” Now it was Keisha’s voice. We met eyes, didn’t know what to do with ourselves.

Keisha: It was a conversation. A domestic conversation, like we had had so many times. But there were certain references. Mentions of what was happening on the news, it was all more or less what was currently happening right then.

And I realized, we were hearing an us in which Alice never left. In which I never had go to looking for her, in which Thistle never entered our lives.

We were hearing an us that had never gone through any of what we had gone through, and we could listen in, from this grass-studded curb off a North Texas highway.

Alice: On our third meeting, the crowd had more than doubled. We had never advertised openly past our first meeting, instead asking people to reach out to people they knew. In this way, we had grown quickly. This meeting was in the parking lot of a mostly out of business mall in the upper Midwest. Straggles tricked in over the course of an hour and we let them. Because people were mostly coming in from long distances now.

Keisha: Still no Sylvia, but occasionally I would recognize a face. One really had me wondering for a while until I put my finger on it. The cashier at the Easy Stop in Swansea, South Carolina, when Sylvia and I had come through looking for the police officer who said he would help her.

The cashier had clearly seen some aspect of Thistle, and it had affected him deeply. I greeted him and he murmured: “You asked me if I wanted to live in a world where what I saw was possible, and I thought a long time about that. And I don’t. I don’t.” He nodded, more amen than agreement, and faded back into the crowd.

Another face I knew: Laurel, a coast guard officer from the mouth of the Columbia River. A woman whose brother and nephew had both disappeared onto a black barge that swallowed the people who had gone investigating it. Laurel drew me into a hug as soon as she saw me. “I’m really glad you came,” I said. She glanced over at Alice. “Oh well,” Laurel said. “Maybe in a different life. Maybe in a kinder world.” She squeezed my arm. “I’m so glad you’re doing this.”

Alice: OK, who was that?

Keisha: Any time on our journeys that we saw an empty fast food place, which was fairly often in an economy still staggering under what was done to it ten years ago. We would stop and we would listen.

It was us. It was Alice and I, to use Laurel’s phrase, in a kinder world. A world where none of this had happened.

It would make me cry every time. Alice would just go quiet. In rain and in dry hot air, and during the day and at night, we got sucked into listening. The work we were doing, the organizing of this group, it felt less and less real to me. This was real. Our voices floating barely above the texture of the static, echoing out from speakers plugged into nothing, under menus with prices years out of date.

Alice: It scared me. It felt like a ghost story, but we – the us on the road - were the ghosts. And then there was this other us in the speakers. Those two in there were the ones who had lived. And we hadn’t somehow.

We had left our lives behind and now we haunted ourselves. We sat under a speakers in southern Utah, in a town that was hardly a town anymore, and I looked up at the full moon and heard us discuss who had lost in a TV cooking competition that night and I thought, none of this is real.

And I meant us. I meant us sitting there.

Keisha: Alice driving now, and I asked her another one of the central questions of our new lives. “What even are the Oracles? Where did they come from?” Time traveling beings with no faces, who turned strange the mundane roadside stops they lurk at. Who did they serve? Alice laughs and gives me the only answer any of us have. “How the fuck would I know?”

Alice: Finally we stopped moving around the country. Other than where we needed to go to the meetings we had set up. We would find a drive-through and then we would stay there. Because what else could we be doing but to listen to this? We ate and we slept and we listened. We hardly talked. Those other versions of ourselves talked for us.

Keisha: But then, one night. Alice had nodded off and I was still up listening to us walking back to our car after a date. Tired, easy flirtation with no stakes to it. The kind that happens after years together, where the tension can be switched on and off in any given moment.

Then I heard us get in the car and I heard the car leave. But the signal did not follow. I continued to hear the parking lot. People coming and going. Most sounded drunk. It was evening, I would guess. The signal had never left us before. It had always focused in on us. But I kept listening with a pit in my stomach, because I felt that I was being shown something, and it wasn’t something that I wanted to be shown.

I shook Alice awake.

Alice: I didn’t know what I was hearing. Keisha filled me in. it sounded like nothing, like everyday life, but we sat in dead silence, listening. And then we heard a man screaming. We heard him pleading. “Look at all those people in there,” a different voice cut through the static, as though the owner of the voice was standing next to us, and we jumped. Because it was the voice of the Thistle Man, the first that Keisha had met. “I want you to look at them in there, right through those windows in that lit building, and not one of them knows that you’re about to die.” A whimper. “No one’s going to help you,” he said. And he was right. We listened to him being right for several horrible minutes, and then the signal cut out with a squeal.

Keisha: I hadn’t thought about it, or if I did I assumed the world we were hearing was a world without troubles. That we had been able to float carefree through our lives because it was a better place. But in that moment, I knew. The world we were listening to had the same Thistle, the same monstrous problem at the heart of it. The actual difference was that in that other world, the two of us weren’t doing anything about it. We were letting it happen, so that we could live our quiet lives. In that world, we too were part of the monster.

We never listened to the abandoned drive-throughs again. This is the world we live in, so this is the world we’ll change.

Alice: Now in our tenth meeting, the size of the crowd was getting a little out of hand. People were hungry for it. they wanted someone to tell them they weren’t alone in what they had seen, and they wanted some way forward on what to do about it. We didn’t know if we had that exactly, but we thought that if we worked together, we could find it. We needed to rent sound systems to hold the meetings. The energy was amazing.

Keisha: As always, we started by calling on the crowd to share stories or what they had seen. Of strange men with sagging faces. Of powerful beings disguised as humans wearing hoodies. A thing seen on the roads that didn’t fit into the narrative this country had made for itself. There is a power in telling your own stories. The ones we knew were true, the ones we hadn’t realized anyone else would believe.

I didn’t know what we had here, not yet. But I knew it was real. I felt the crackle of it. I thought it could be what took is through to the end, whatever that end may be.

Today’s quote: “Will not a tiny speck very close to our vision blot out the glory of the world and leave only a margin by which we see the blot? I know no specifically so troublesome as self.” From Middlemarch by George Eliot. Thanks for listening.

#alice isn't dead #alice isn't dead transcripts #part 3 #part 3 chapter 7 #speakers #long post

39 notes · View notes

silentauroriamthereal · 6 years ago

Text

Thank you @thepersianslipper (it won’t let me tag you??) for tagging me! (I just did one of these, but his one has slightly different questions, so here you go!)

Rules: answer these questions then tag 20 blogs you’d like to know better! Whatevs, you’re all tagged. Bam!

• Nickname: SA

• Zodiac: Capricorn, like my beloved Sherlock

• Height: 5′4″ (stfu, I’m a hobbit, ok)

• Time: 9:34pm

• Favorite band/singer: I don’t really do pop music

• Song stuck in my head: none, happily

• Last movie I saw: Captain America: Civil War (not for the first time!)

• Other blogs: Actually, I do have another blog, on eating keto, intermittent fasting, and various other health and weight-related issues. If you’re interested, PM me. It’s not here on tumblr.

• Last thing I googled: “interestesting duvet covers”

• Do I get asks: Not often, though @i-want-to-pet-your-dog has been sending some intriguing ones of late!

Why did I choose this username: I chose “SilentAuror” way back in 2002 or 2003 for the Harry Potter fandom and when I came back into fandom life in general in 2013, I figured I might as well keep the same name, especially if there were HP folk that I knew now also in the Sherlock fandom (and there were!). When I joined tumblr five years ago, the name “silentauror” had already been taken (rude!), so I adapted it based on Benedict’s “I’m the real” sign back in the day.

• Following: I honestly don’t know. Thousands, since I follow everyone back and only remove people selectively now and then. :P

• Average amount of sleep: 5-6 hours, though frequently less :/

• Lucky number: My favourite number is 8

• What I’m wearing: Black tights with white palm trees on them and a black cami (it’s fucking HOT here)

• Dream job: Stay-at-home fic writer

• Dream trip: I don’t even remember what I said the last time I did this meme. Right now... let’s go with Bora Bora.

• Fave food: Sushi, though Indian, Thai, Vietnamese, Korean are all up there, too. Non-North American cuisine, basically. :P

• Play any instruments: Well, I’m a professional singer, so I guess you could say that I “play” my voice. I also play piano, have occasionally dabbled in flute and organ. Can make decent noises on stringed things like cellos and violins, but know very little about actually playing them. (My violin technique info for Sonatina in G Minor came from my bff, who is a professional violinist!)

• Eye colour: Green or blue, depending on my mood. Sometimes they’ll change mid-sentence as my mood does! They’re more often green than blue, though.

• Hair colour: Gold-y blond, fine, wavy/curly (depends how humid it is, lol). I used to straighten it all the time, but when I moved out east it was just too damned humid to hold it, so I relented and let it be the way it wanted to be. There’s an amusing parallel there about forcing things to be straight...

• Describe yourself as aesthetic things: Walking slowly through a grove of brilliantly red maples in autumn. A very large cup of Earl Grey with milk. Pronouncing Czech village names from the train along the Vltava river. Watching a thunderstorm at 2am with the window open. Bakudan maki. Making soup from scratch without a recipe. Taking pictures of the sun.

• Languages you speak: English, French, some German (I’ve forgotten a lot but it comes back when I’m in Germany or with Germans), little bits and pieces of Italian, Arabic, Spanish, Russian.

• Most iconic song: Brünnhilde’s Immolation (lol)

• Random fact: Most people tend to think that I’m an extrovert because I’m a performer, teacher, choral conductor, feel fine standing in front of a large group of people and telling them what to do, whether it’s teaching kids how to ride horses, doing vocal warm-ups with a big choir, teaching ESL in French, etc, but the fact is that I’m secretly an introvert. It’s why I don’t really listen to music; I get enough of that when I’m in work-mode. When I’m at home, I like it silent. :)

#memes and things

24 notes · View notes

narniakid · 6 years ago

Text

The majority of 2018 I spent educating people about the worst drought in 800 years. The Central Coast listened; we not only banded together to raise thousands of dollars, but we filled an entire truckload of donations to deliver to farmers in Western NSW.

It all began sometime around February, when I can recall seeing an article somewhere about how Australia was currently in drought. My family own and operate Mangrove Produce and Hardware, where we supply hay, grain and feed to locals in the Mangrove Mountain region. My mum had mentioned she was having a bit of trouble sourcing feed, because with no grass for cattle to eat, the demand was quickly rising – and so were the prices.

One night when I was reading statistics and stories about the drought, I stumbled across a charity called Rural Aid, who’d been running their fundraising campaign, Buy A Bale, for some time. The aim was to encourage donors to purchase a bale of hay for a struggling farmer by donating $20 or more. It was a fantastic idea, and I got in contact with them. At a time when they weren’t a very well-known non-profit nationally, they were eager to send me fundraising materials to help raise money and spread the word.

March 2018: Help my Mum & I raise money for Buy A Bale!

As I asked around friends and family, and began posting about the drought on social media, I found that most didn’t even realize the majority of our own state was in the middle of severe drought. My good friend and photographer Andrew Cooney approached me with an idea; he discussed travelling to the worst of the drought-affected areas to document the damage, and we agreed to team up with our fundraising efforts to educate the Central Coast and just how bad it really was. Below are some of his photographs from his first visit to a farm in Gunnedah, NSW, and they speak for themselves.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

His photographs caught the eye of Samuel Lentini from Eastcoast Beverages – a local juice company on the Central Coast. Sam decided that he wanted to come on board our fundraising campaign as well, and so – with me still busy collecting our donations, spreading the word, and putting together marketing materials – Andrew and the Eastcoast Beverages team headed to Gunnedah once again, where they delivered a truckload of orange peels from the factory for the cattle to eat. It was such an extraordinary site, it attracted a lot of media attention, including The Daily Telegraph, ABC and Prime 7!

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

We spent another few weeks fundraising in person and online, when all of a sudden, the national media seemed to wake up. TV stations and major news publications started to report on all the debt, all the cattle lost, and all the mental struggles the farmers were dealing with.

That was when I met a lady named Sara Evans. She came into my workplace at the radio station, after listening to the breakfast shows discuss the massive impact of the drought. A co-worker steered her in my direction, as I had already been campaigning and fundraising to support our farmers for several months. Sara basically said to me, ‘I’ve got a truck and a driver who’s willing to donate his time, I want to do something really BIG to help these farmers.’

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

We both agreed to organize a Coast-wide donation drive, which was a huge job, and we’d only given ourselves a month to plan, market and collect donations leading up to the event day. The idea was to run a drive-through drop-off zone in a central location near the freeway, as we wanted to make it as easy as possible for the public.

We both had a bit of previous fundraising experience, but nothing of this scale, and we hadn’t taken into account exactly just how much help we were going to need – pallets to pack the donations on, a place to sort and store the goods before they were loaded onto the truck, a forklift and qualified driver, traffic control on the day, a LOT of fuel money to get the semi-trailer across the state and back… we’d sort one problem, and then another would arise. And we were juggling this all while still working full-time. It was definitely a giant learning curve for both of us, but we were so incredibly grateful to have the help from dozens of local businesses.

Working for a media company, I was lucky enough to have marketing materials at my disposal – radio interviews and commercials, flyers and posters, and access to our promotional cars to draw listeners in on the day. My whole workplace was extremely supportive, and I am still so thankful to this day for all of their help. I couldn’t have pulled it off without a platform to send out the message across in the first place.

The Central Coast For Our Farmers Donation Drive was a success – while the number of people we had wasn’t as many as we were hoping, the amount that came brought an enormous amount of goods. There were donors who had collected that much dog food, groceries and water that they had to make second and third trips to bring it all to us. We had local schools collect items, business owners filling boxes and boxes of stuff at their workplaces, and families who had added extra items into their trolleys every week when they did their own shopping. It was just phenomenal how much people wanted to help. I certainly didn’t expect collecting enough donations to fill the entire truck, but we did!

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

When deciding on where we were going to deliver the donated goods, we had a look into some of the most remote parts of the state, where help hadn’t yet reached. We chose the Packsaddle region, an area about 180km north of Broken Hill. The standout feature of this barren land was a popular venue called Packsaddle Roadhouse on Packsaddle Station, where tourists and truck drivers would often stop to stay the night and grab a feed. The roadhouse was also home to the local SES Base, and Sara got in contact with the venue owner, who kindly offered up the venue for free to deliver and unpack the donations for the farmers, as well as a place for us to stay the night.

We began the road trip about 2 weeks later, with volunteers from Rotary Gosford North coming along as well. My wonderful Dad offered to drive my partner and I in his car, and on the first day, we traveled 14 hours to Broken Hill. As soon as we passed the Hunter Valley region, it was like entering a different country – the overcast weather and rolling hills of the wine country suddenly turned into flat open plains scattered with gumtrees. Everything was so incredibly dry and brown, it was hard to believe that it was once all green. We passed lots of herds wandering the roadside, with farmers leading them from behind to any patches of greenery they could find – the paddocks had turned to dust, so they were forced to look beyond their own properties for food.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

The halfway point to Broken Hill was a town called Cobar, and that was really when the effects of the drought were evidence. I almost expected a tumbleweed to roll past as we got out of the car for a stretch. From there, it got worse – we passed countless signs marking where rivers once were, now dry as a bone. The amount of dead animals on the roadside almost doubled, and as we drove the endless, straight route towards Broken Hill, there was almost no evidence that it had actually rained 50mm in the previous 24 hours. Most of the puddles had dried up already, and the sudden dump of rain had washed away the top soil on any spring crops that were planted. It was heartbreaking to think that at the time we were travelling, it was supposed to be the peak season for growth, but there wasn’t a blade of green grass in sight.

After a night’s stay in Broken Hill, we drove another 4 hours north to deliver and unpack around 60 pallets of donations. Sara and I had organized a party for all the local farming families at the roadhouse, and some had already arrived when we got there to help us set up.

The people I met were just amazing – the most hardworking, honest and down to earth people who could laugh at anything. The best part was seeing the joy on their faces. These farmers, they’d been stuck in a depression, some had really been struggling to get up to work each day. I feel so humbled and privileged to get to see first hand these people reunite with their neighbors and friends, some who they hadn’t seen for months, but had known all their life. We cooked them a free feed for lunch and dinner, treated them to plenty of free beer and set up the truck as a stage where they sang, danced and partied on till early hours of the morning.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Most of them owned well over 100,000 acres. I spoke to a beautiful woman who’d lived on the land her whole life. To give you an idea of the size, the entire city of Chicago in the USA is around 149,000 acres – she had 250,000 acres, with a few thousand head of cattle. I asked when she’d last received rain. She laughed and said the last time she can recall was late 2015 – more than 3 years ago.

She had 10 working dogs, and the bagged dog food cost too much, so she was shooting kangaroos for them to eat instead. Each dog needed about 2 kangaroos each for a decent feed, but the ammunition for the bullets cost hundreds as well, with each bullet equaling about $5 each. There were hundreds of goats on her property which she could also shoot and sell (too skinny for the dogs to eat), but their value had dropped to $2 per goat – less than the cost of the bullet needed to shoot them.

This same lady had broken down in tears when we showed her the shed full of donations, because it wasn’t the donations themselves that brought these people overwhelming joy – it was the fact that we had gone to the effort to collect them, bring them out here, and put on a big party for them.

We wanted to show them that we cared beyond just making a cash donation for a farm thousands of kilometers away, we wanted to say ‘we hear you, we know you’re there, and we’re coming to give you a well deserved break from the day-to-day stresses of the big dry.’

Every farmer would only take the bare minimum of what they needed, insisting that there were others that needed it more. It was like a big supermarket; they could grab bags and boxes and fill up their utes with whatever they needed. They put aside boxes and pallets of stuff for their friends and neighbours who couldn’t make it.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Many had told me that a major problem they’d encountered was the rise of bore water in the area. The water quality from the bore water, due to a substantial increase in bores being put in, meant they had to go deeper, and the little water that they could get was full of poisonous minerals and wasn’t drinkable. Most of the money they had went to buying bottled water and bagged feed, because hay prices had skyrocketed.(My family’s own business was suffering too, and we were getting phone calls from all over the state with people willing to travel hours and hours for any hay available to purchase). A lot had told me in terms of food, water and feed, they were down to about 3-4 weeks supply on hand at a time, because they couldn’t afford to redirect any money to stock up. The donations we brought have added another few weeks’ worth of supplies for them and – as equally as important, if not more – a well needed mental relief.

youtube

Andrew and I have continued to raise funds for Buy A Bale, long after I returned from delivering donations with Sara and the Rotary team. We just recently crossed the $19,000 mark, thanks money raised at our local Grill’d restaurants through their Local Matters program. We also raised money through selling merchandise and continuously spreading the word through an online campaign, radio commercials, money tins in our workplaces and articles in local newspapers and magazines.

Despite raising the money and delivering the donations, what truly touched my heart and made this experience stand out from other non-profit work I’ve done was actually travelling there and seeing the devastating impact of drought for myself. It’s one thing to press a button, share an article, give some money, but to actually see the difference it’s making is just extraordinary, and to this day it is one of the most challenging but life-changing things I’ve ever done.

Local businesses are doing it tough and desperately need an economic boost from visitors. A recent NSW Business Chamber survey in regional areas found the drought has negatively impacted more than 84%. Domestic tourism is the backbone of many regional communities, with 86% of domestic travel done by car.

Tourists spent $110 billion in local towns, cities and communities in regional Australia during 2016-17. However, of the international tourists that do visit, over 90% only stay in Sydney or Melbourne.

The best thing you can do to support our farmers is get out and shop in the local shops, eat at the local pubs, and get the money flowing through the local economy again, because the drought affects everyone – not just everyone in these remote towns, but our whole economy.

Drought conditions of NSW as of 24th January 2019 (Source: edis.dpi.nsw.gov.au)

How I Led A Team Of Volunteers to Deliver A Truckload Of Donations & Raise Over $19,000 For Aussie Farmers The majority of 2018 I spent educating people about the worst drought in 800 years. The Central Coast listened; we not only banded together to raise thousands of dollars, but we filled an entire truckload of donations to deliver to farmers in Western NSW.

1 note · View note