#Preservation of the Saints from Evil

[empiredesimparte]

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

(Stéphane Bernard) The Emperor will become a quasi-sacred figure through the anointing: it is a sort of transfiguration. The imperial canopy conceals this profoundly sacred moment because the rite must remain a mystery to the common mortals. We are witnessing a revival of the triple blessing from the Reims ceremonial of the kings of Francesim. Their Majesties, kneeling before the altar, receive the triple anointing from the Pope: one on the forehead, the others on both hands. First the Emperor, then the Empress.

In his prayer, the Pope asks God to bestow the treasures and graces of His blessings upon the Emperor. He prays that the Emperor will govern with strength, justice, loyalty, foresight, courage, and perseverance. The Emperor must combat Evil and defend the holy Christian Church. The Empress, for her part, receives God's support, and that of Christ, to preserve the Empire and the French people for eternity.

(Stéphane Bernard) Such a ceremonial highlights the spiritual and mystical dimension of the imperial monarchy. It is a moment steeped in tradition, where every gesture, every word, carries deep symbolism, reminding us of the sacred bonds that unite the sovereign to his people and to God. (Mgr. Morlot) Almighty and eternal God, who have decreed that, following the example of David, Solomon, and Joash, the foreheads of Kings and Emperors should be adorned with a diadem, so that, through the brilliance of their gemstones and the splendor of their ornaments, they might serve as a vivid and striking image of the majesty that surrounds you to the peoples while they reign on earth…

(Mgr. Morlot) … Pour out, we beseech you, your blessing upon these crowns, so that your servant Napoleon and his spouse, who will wear them on earth, may shine with the radiance of all virtues.

(Pope) May God encircle your brow with the crown of glory and justice...

(Pope) ... May He arm you with strength and courage so that, blessed by Heaven through our hands, filled with faith and good works, you may reach the crown of the eternal kingdom…

(Pope) ... By the grace of Him whose reign and empire extend throughout all ages and ages. Amen.

(Napoléon V) Amen.

⚜ Le Sacre de Napoléon V | N°11 | Francesim, Paris, 28 Thermidor An 230

While the bells ring out and the cannons roar, the Emperor and Empress of Francesim are crowned at Notre-Dame Cathedral in Paris. It was broadcast live on television by Stéphane Bernard, the famous journalist for the crowned heads in Francesim.

Beginning ▬ Previous ▬ Next

⚜ Traduction française

(Stéphane Bernard) L'Empereur va devenir un personnage quasi-sacré grâce à l'onction : c'est une sorte de transfiguration. Le dais impérial cache ce moment tout à fait sacré car le rite doit rester un mystère pour le commun des mortels. Nous assistons à une reprise de la triple bénédiction du cérémonial de Reims des rois de Francesim. Leurs Majestés, agenouillées devant l'autel, reçoivent du Pape la triple onction : une sur le front, les autres sur les deux mains. D'abord l'Empereur, puis l'Impératrice.

Dans son oraison, le Pape demande à Dieu de répandre les trésors et les grâces de Ses bénédictions sur l'Empereur. Il prie pour qu'il gouverne avec force, justice, fidélité, prévoyance, courage et persévérance. L'Empereur doit combattre le Mal et défendre la sainte Église chrétienne. L'Impératrice, quant à elle, reçoit le soutien de Dieu et du Christ, afin de conserver l'Empire et le peuple français dans l'éternité.

Un tel cérémonial met en lumière la dimension spirituelle et mystique de la monarchie impériale. C'est un moment empreint de tradition, où chaque geste, chaque parole, porte un symbolisme profond, rappelant les liens sacrés qui unissent le souverain à son peuple, et à Dieu.

(Monseigneur Morlot) Dieu tout-puissant et éternel, qui avez voulu qu'à l'exemple de David, de Salomon et de Joas, le front des Rois et des Empereurs fût ceint du diadème, afin que, par l'éclat des pierreries et la splendeur de leurs ornements, ils fussent aux des peuples, pendant qu'ils règnent sur la terre, la vive et frappante image de la majesté qui vous environnement...

(Monseigneur Morlot) ... Répandez, nous vous en conjurons, votre bénédiction sur ces couronnes, afin que votre serviteur Napoléon et son épouse, qui les porteront sur la terre brillent de l'éclat de toutes les vertus.

(Pape) Que Dieu ceigne votre front de la couronne de la gloire et de justice ; qu'il vous arme de force et de courage, afin que, bénis du Ciel par nos mains, pleins de foi et de bonnes oeuvres, vous arriviez à la couronne du règne éternel...

(Pape) Par la grâce de celui dont le règne et l'empire s'étendent dans tous les siècles et les siècles. Amen. (Napoléon V) Amen.

[talonabraxas]

Kabbalah - Tree of Life

Kabbalah (Hebrew קַבָּלָה “reception”, Standard Hebrew Qabbala, Tiberian Hebrew Qabbālāh; also written variously as Cabala, Cabalah, Cabbala, Cabbalah, Kabala, Kabalah, Kabbala, Qabala, Qabalah, Kaballah) is an interpretation (exegesis, hermeneutic) key, “soul” of the Torah (Hebrew Bible), or the religious mystical system of Judaism claiming an insight into divine nature.

Kabbalah became a reference to doctrines of esoteric knowledge concerning God, God’s creation of the universe and the laws of nature, and the path by which adult religious Jews can learn these secrets. Originally, however, the term Kabbalah was used in Talmudic texts, among the Geonim, and by early Rishonim as a reference to the full body of publicly available Jewish teaching. In this sense Kabbalah was used in referring to all of known Oral Law.

Kabbalah, according to the more recent use of the word, stresses the reasons and understanding of the commandments in the Torah, and the cause of events described in the Torah. Kabbalah includes the understanding of the spiritual spheres of creation, and the ways by which God administers the existence of the universe.

According to Jewish tradition dating from the 13th century, this knowledge has come down as a revelation to elect saints from a remote past, and preserved only by a privileged few. It is considered part of the Jewish Oral Law by the majority of religious Jews in modern times, although this was not agreed upon by many medieval Talmudic scholars, as well as a minority of current Orthodox rabbis.

Origin of Jewish Mysticism

According to adherents of Kabbalah, the origin of Kabbalah begins with the Tanakh (the Hebrew Bible). According to Midrash, God created the universe with “Ten utterances” or “Ten qualities.” When read by later generations of Kabbalists, the Torah’s description of the creation in the Book of Genesis reveals mysteries about the godhead itself, the true nature of Adam and Eve, the Garden of Eden, the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil and the Tree of Life, as well as the interaction of these supernal entities with the Serpent which leads to disaster when they eat the forbidden fruit, as recorded in Genesis 2.

The Bible provides ample additional material for mythic and mystical speculation. The prophet Ezekiel’s visions in particular attracted much speculation, as did Isaiah’s Temple vision (Chapter 6). Jacob’s vision of the ladder to heaven is another text providing an example of a mystical experience. Moses’ experience with the Burning bush and his encounters with God on Mount Sinai, are all evidence of mystical events in the Tanakh, and form the origin of Jewish mystical beliefs.

Jewish mystical traditions always appeal to an argument of authority based on antiquity. As a result, virtually all works claim or are ascribed ancient authorship. For example, Sefer Raziel HaMalach, an astro-magical text partly based on a magical manual of late antiquity, Sefer ha-Razim, was, according to the kabbalists, transmitted to Adam (after being evicted) by the angel Raziel. Another famous work, the Sefer Yetzirah, supposedly dates back to the patriarch Abraham. According to Apocalyptic literature, esoteric knowledge, such as magic, divination, and astrology, was transmitted to humans in the mythic past by the two angels, Aza and Azaz’el (in other places, Azaz’el and Uzaz’el) who ‘fell’ from heaven (see Genesis 6:4).

This appeal to antiquity has also shaped modern theories of influence in reconstructing the history of Jewish mysticism. The oldest versions of the Jewish mysticism have been theorized to extend from Assyrian theology and mysticism. Dr. Simo Parpola, a researcher at the University of Helsinki, has made some suggestive findings on the matter, particularly concerning an analysis of the Sefirot. Noting the general similarity between the Sefirot of the Kabbalah and the Tree of Life of Assyria, he reconstructed what an Assyrian antecendent to the Sepiroth would look like.[2] He matched the characteristics of En Sof on the nodes of the Sepiroth to the gods of Assyria, and was able to even find textual parallels between these Assyrian gods and the characteristics of god. The Assyrians assigned specific numbers to their gods, similar to how the Sepiroth assigns numbers to its nodes. However, the Assyrians use a sexagesimal number system, whereas the Sepiroth is decimal. With the Assyrian numbers, additional layers of meaning and mystical relevance appear in the Sepiroth. Normally, floating above the Assyrian Tree of Life was the god Assur, this corresponds to En Sof, which is also, via a series of transformations, derived from the Assyrian word Assur.

Furthermore, Dr. Paropla re-interpreted various Assyrian tablets in the terms of this primitive Sefirot, such as the Epic Of Gilgamesh, and in doing so was able to reveal that the scribes themselves had been writing philosophical-mystical tracts, rather than mere adventure stories. Traces of this Assyrian mode of thought and philosophy eventually makes reappearances in Greek Philosophy and the Kabbalah.

Skeptics would point out that the doctrine of the Sefirot only saw serious development starting in the 12th Century CE with the publication of the Bahir. To argue that the concept of the sefirot existed in an occult and undocumented form within Judaism from the time of the Assyrian empire (which fell from cultural hegemony in the 7th Cent. BCE) until it “surfaced” 17-18 centuries later strikes some scholars as far-fetched. A plausible alternative, based in the research of Gershom Scholem, the pre-eminent scholar of Kabbalah in the 20th Century, is to see the sefirot as a theosophical doctrine that emerges out of Jewish late antiquity word-mythology (as exemplified in Sefer Yetzirah) and the angelic-palace mysticism found in Hekalot literature being fused to the Neo-Platonic notion of creation through progressive divine emanations.

[daemon-in-my-head]

Idk I'll be honest, I never once considered Durge evil or a monster in the sense of they're a horrible person or smth. This also has nothing to do with woobiefying them or smth. Just bear with me for a minute.

Killing someone is undoubtedly evil, and being crafted out of a divine beings flesh is monstrous one way or another, but hm, idk. I don't rly think they're vile or as vicious as people make them out to be. They're quite sadistic yes, but actually not rly. Cuz like, let's be real here. What choice did they ever really have? What other things have they known? We're they ever even allowed to feel guilty or grief for their own person? Not rly. Durge never had those options.

Kill or be killed, that is if you're lucky. If not your body will simply be ripped from you and whatever is left of your mind is forced to watch from the prison within your own head. Loosing control as whatever left of you gets absolutely abused and violated again and again and again with you being just so fucking helpless but fully aware of what's happening and how wrong it really is.

Idk. Not saying it's the right thing to do, but with those prospects, I'd be a good kid and do the same as them, kill, obey, and do whatever else shit is required to preserve at least a bit of sanity, a bit of freedom, a bit of the person that once was. Dying would've been an 'acceptable' option, but the absolute hell that Bhaal would unleash? The hell Bhaal has undoubtedly threatened before, either veiled through Scel or with those wonderful dreams he bestows? Sorry, but that's martyrdom even saints would struggle to choose voluntarily if they had any other option.

So in the end Death wasn't an option. Not when the person who controls you can just *snap* and stop you from dying because they can control everything about you and in turn may force you to serve his goals differently. You saw what Bhaal can do to Orin, despite her being so far removed from Bhaal theres hardly any essence left, and you probably know the scrapped 3rd ending and the current 3rd ending. There was simply never a choice to make. Not if we're being realistic.

I pity Durge rather than anything else. Created as a tool wholly unable to defy its master, forced to put up with whatever abuse because it is the only way to retain some sort of control and personhood. Wholly incapable of rebelling because their attempts would force them to endure ever more vile cruelties.

And all of that for no other reason than simply existing.

They're not a ruthless villain. Not a sadistic mastermind. They're simply a tragedy.

[jannikovgenosse]

I don't think it's a revolutionary take on this site to point out that the Walter guy from Breaking Bad isn't exactly a saint. Sexual assault, blowing up several buildings, manipulating most of the people around him, the list goes on...

That having been said, I still get very annoyed by Breaking Bad fans who cannot fathom the concept of him having vaguely redeeming qualities. Like I swear to god, they need to read EVERY SINGLE decent thing he does in the least favorable light imaginable.

Walt goes to rescue Jesse from the slums - "It's akshually because his pride is insulted by Jesse being in such a place."

Walt risks his life and ruins his entire relationship with Gus to save Jesse - "Walt only did this to calm his own guilt!!"

Walt offers Jack all 80 million dollars of his money to save Hank - "It was akshually just to preserve his self-image as a family man, his ego couldn't handle anything else!!!"

You could do the exact same shit with Jesse or Mike, but because they're the fanbases 'UwU softboys' they escape this treatment.

And NO, for the record, this does not mean i think every character in Breaking Bad is on the same level morally. Waltuh's absolutely a darker shade of grey, it's just worth remembering that there is more to the guy than just 'evil super abuser who consistently hates everyone other than himself".

[sophiamcdougall]

Me, watching the surprise burlesque act at a birthday party: I'm not saying anyone here is doing anything wrong. I'm just saying I think it merits further consideration that we've decided that winged eyeliner and victory rolls denote feminism, art and broad social acceptability, when the exact same acts and the same near-naked female body, accompanied by bleached hair and fake tan would not be considered a suitable form of shared entertainment at a gathering such as this. I just think it's interesting that a vintage aesthetic is apparently all it takes to invoke a rigid consensus that the titillating acts are somehow occurring at a safe distance even while the performer's fans are, in fact -- thank you -- currently fluttering over our own faces and bodies. Is it fair to describe burlesque as the gentrification of stripping? Discuss. Then again, is it not also interesting that there appears to be a recurring impulse in multiple cultures to reference the imagery of an earlier, "heroic" age in order to sanctify and tame erotic art? I'm thinking of the preservation of now-archaic forms of makeup and dress among Geisha [insert long aside on the sexualisation or otherwise of Geisha here] along with paintings and sculptures of nude saints, Greek gods and allegorical figures. Perhaps the fact that the 1940s is so often the era referenced by burlesque is not, then, coincidental, offering not merely the distancing effect of time but the glamour of an age well beyond the living memory of anyone here, yet now often experienced as epic, virtuous and righteous, the standard from which modernity has fallen. The nostalgia played upon by the burlesque artist, then, offers a secondary layer of fantasy: that we are participants in a struggle against evil itself ---

My friend: God I want her gloves

Also me, bisexual: oh was she wearing gloves I didn't notice

[crissiebaby]

Nursery Alone

DISCLAIMER: This story contains humiliation, diaper usage, inappropriate language, and other ABDL themes. I hope you all have a very merry Criss-Mas!

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“Merry Christmas to me. Ho ho ho.”

With a trash bag full of perfectly wrapped presents slung over his shoulder, Nick was certainly no saint. It wasn’t his fault that so many families decided to travel on Christmas Eve, leaving a houseful of goodies completely unattended. Tossing the bag into the back of his van, he quickly hopped in the driver seat and sped off into the night toward his next big score.

“Alright, 117 Sycamore Street, you’re off the list,” said Nick, biting the cap of a Sharpie and crossing a line through the second to last house on his list. Having only one house to go, he was foaming at the mouth to get home as soon as possible. After all, with so many presents, he was ready to have the best Christmas morning ever.

Parking a little over a block away, Nick was cautious to make sure that his car was never seen near the scene of the crime. As much as he resented the extended walk through the brisk night air, it was a necessary evil. Running through the backyards of several houses, he finally arrived at his destination.

1387 Chestnut Drive. This was the house that he was perhaps the most excited about. It was an old Victorian house that had been preserved to the point where it looked damn near brand new. Anyone with enough money to blow on a vanity project had to be loaded. Sprinting to the side of the house, he made sure the coast was clear before launching into step one of his plan: breaking in undetected. After casing the neighborhood for several weeks, he knew no one was home but it never hurt to be cautious.

Looking up at the side of the house, Nick spotted the perfect entry point. There was a double window half a story up from the driveway with only a simple wedge lock keeping it close. One quick swipe of his pocket knife and he’d have that lock open easily. Stepping up onto a nearby trash can, he brandished his knife, ready to bust that lock wide open.

*CRASH!!* Suddenly, the lid of the trash can broke out from under his feet, sending him straight down into the half-full canister. In his panic to escape, the trash can tipped over onto its side, causing the incredibly squishy contents of the garbage pail to spill all over him. Crawling out of the trash, he was finally able to see what had made for such a mushy landing. Dozens of yellow and brown diapers, all perfectly wrapped up to hold the messy loads inside.

Nick nearly gagged as he brushed away any of the dirty diapers that clung to him. To his dismay, while he’d avoided getting any major stains on his clothes, his shoes were utterly destroyed thanks to the urine-filled diapers that he’d unwittingly squashed. Quickly, he picked up the diapers that had fallen out, holding his breath the entire time, and pushed the trashcan back into place, hoping to recover from this minor annoyance.

The soles of Nick’s shoes squelched with every step as he rounded the back of the house searching for another way in. Luckily, he found his solution in the form of a thin basement that lined the ground. Sliding off his dampened shoes, he pushed the window open as wide as it would go and crawled in head first.

*SNAG* However, as Nick pulled his stomach through, he found that his black jeans had gotten caught on a sharp piece of bent metal, leaving him caught between a rock and a hard place. Groaning, he reached back and unbuckled his pants, falling forward as he slid out of his trousers.

Mercifully, Nick’s landing was a soft one as he fell onto a plush mattress. He quickly stood up, hoping to retrieve his pants, only to discover that they were torn and covered in melted snow and mud. Wearing them inside at this point would leave more evidence of his presence, forcing him to abandon them with his shoes. “Guess that makes me the underwear burglar,” he said under his breath, chuckling at how ridiculous his misfortune was.

Looking around the basement, Nick was shocked to find himself standing in a crib in the middle of a baby nursery. From his research, the owners of this place didn’t have any kids. Maybe they were expecting? But then how would that explain the used diapers? Pushing his curious thoughts aside, he decided not to care and press onward.

Climbing up onto the side of the crib, Nick found that it was surprisingly taller than he would’ve guessed, requiring some extra effort. As he straddled the top white bar, he let out a sigh. With as much trouble as this house was giving him, it had better be worth it.

*creeeeeeeak* *CRASH!!*

In the few seconds that Nick had been perched on the crib bars, his weight had managed to snap the thin, wooden block that kept the bars in place, forcing them downward abruptly. He toppled to the ground, landing hard on his back and forcing the air out of his lungs. “Ooh, my hip,” he moaned, recoiling in pain.

As Nick recovered on the floor, an interesting development was happening just above his head. The shaking that had been brought on by his sudden fall had also caused the neighboring dresser to rattle. Stationed on the edge of the dresser was a bright pink pacifier, which wobbled back and forth for a few seconds before tipping off the side and falling directly into Nick’s open mouth.

“MMMMMF!” shouted Nick from behind the large, rubber nipple that gravity had shoved between his lips. He instantly spit the binky out before wiping his mouth off on his sleeve, leaving behind an odd aftertaste of artificial strawberries. “Fucking nasty. Anything else wanna go wrong tonight?” He got to his feet, his anger steadily rising with each misfortune.

However, before Nick could put the binky nonsense behind him, his mouth began to tingle most strangely. Spotting where the pacifier had previously been positioned, he noticed a bottle of clear liquid sitting next to it with a label that read, “CrissBaby Paci Lovers Gel. Strawberry Flavored.” It didn’t take a genius to figure out what that meant.

Nick may not have been one of those weird diaper lovers he’d seen popping up in the news but he knew enough about the CrissBaby Diaper Company to know how dangerous their products could be. Case and point, the reaction that was currently happening between his ringing teeth. With each second that passed, the craving to suck on something, anything grew stronger. In a desperate attempt to stem the oral buzzing, he dropped to his knees and shoved the pacifier back into his mouth. The relief he felt was massive, at least until the realization of his actions kicked in.

Letting out a painfully long breath of air through his nose, Nick glared at the bottle of pacifier gel that had brought on this oral fixation. This was no longer just some random house anymore. This was personal. With the paci between his lips, he got back to his feet, ready to rob this place blind.

Moving toward the staircase, Nick made his way upstairs where he expected a vast array of presents to be waiting for him. However, as he planted his foot on the second step, he made contact with a doll that had been left out of the toy box, causing him to twist his ankle and fall backward. As he fell, his long-sleeve black shirt caught on the edge of the railing, ripping it off of his body in one swift motion. 

“AGGGGHHHHH!!!” Nick screamed, forgetting where he was for a brief moment as he mourned over his aching ankle. Hobbling to his feet, he moved to retrieve his shirt only to find it more shredded than his pants were. The torso was torn through completely, rendering it useless.

Now only in his underwear, Nick knew he couldn’t expect to carry out the rest of the robbery completely nude. He needed to find a set of clothes to change into and pronto. Side-stepping the stupid doll, he bolted upstairs, slamming the door to the nursery basement behind him.

As he searched for a bedroom, Nick passed through the living room, where he was reminded of why he was here in the first place. Mountains of presents stacked taller than him were scattered around a grand Christmas tree. His mouth watered at the prospect of pilfering so many carefully wrapped gifts. Specifically, it was the massive one that was as large as a motorcycle that caught his eye. While he wasn’t certain it could fit in the van, he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to try.

Putting aside his material wants, Nick knew that sunrise was only an hour or so away. There was no time to waste. Moving to the second floor, he managed to find what had to be the master bedroom and went straight for the walk-in closet. To his dismay, all he found in the closet were women’s clothes, petite women’s clothes at that. Well…almost all of the clothes, at least.

Hung up in the back corner of the closet was a small selection of girly adult baby clothes that were perfectly his size. Initially, Nick pushed the idea of wearing something so ridiculous out of his mind. However, the moment he felt a cool breeze send a chill down his spine, he knew he couldn’t make it back to the van in just his undies. Quickly sifting through the collection, he winced as he picked out what he deemed to be the least babyish and least girly: a powder blue fleece onesie with long sleeves.

Pulling the onesie up his legs, Nick hated how nice the warm, soft fleece felt on his frigid, bare legs. Yanking the onesie up to his thighs, he quickly slipped his arms into the fuzzy sleeves and zipped up the back, sealing himself inside. As soon as he took one step in the gaudy outfit, he knew something was off. Lo and behold, there was a cloth waddle spreader that had sneakily been sewn inside the seat of the onesie, forcing his legs apart as if he were wearing an actual diaper. With more time and more marbles, he would’ve put something else on. But seeing how the night was progressing, he just didn’t care anymore. “Are you happy? I’m a baby now,” he said mockingly to the heavens as he looked down at his pathetic attire.

Returning to the living room, Nick marched right up to the ginormous present he’d set his sights on earlier. As humiliating as this final house had been, it was all going to be worth it. Crouching down, he placed his arms around the giant gift and tried to lift it, discovering that it was much too heavy to move. “Oh no, you don’t!” he said, influenced by his own sunk-cost fallacy. Putting his back into it, he gave one last attempt at moving the centerpiece present.

“WOOOOOAH!”

*RIIIIIIIIIIIP!*

Accidentally using a little too much strength, the paper wrapping shredded as Nick pulled upward, causing him to fall back on his padded rump. “Owwie…c’mon,” he grumbled, rubbing his sore hiney. Shaking off the minor fall, he turned his attention back to the task at hand, only for his jaw to drop upon discovering what the massive present really was.

“The CrissBaby Walker Pro?” said Nick, reading the label on the side of the device. He balled up his fists as his rage hit a boiling point. Shrouded in tattered wrapping paper was a first-of-its-kind, adult baby walker, brought to you by the CrissBaby Diaper Company. For those in the ABDL community, it was the hottest ticket item of the holiday season. For Nick, though, it was a shrine to how horribly this final caper had gone.

Moving to the other presents, Nick tore into several of them, finding that all of them were filled with adult baby crap. “Oh, for fuck sake!” he yelled in a blind fury. After everything he’d been through to get to this point, to realize it had all been for nothing was the last straw. He kicked a large stack of presents like a spoiled child, sending them flying across the room before proceeding to demolish as much of the festive decor as possible.

Stepping up to the Walker Pro one last time, Nick attempted to flip the machine onto its side, hoping to damage it to the point of breaking. Unfortunately, the device was still too heavy for him to lift, resulting in an embarrassing display of failed bravado. As a last resort, he swung his foot at one of the metal legs, hurting his ankle again in the process.

“WALKER PRO ONLINE. PLEASE HOLD STILL WHILE THE ROOM IS SCANNED.”

A robotic voice echoed out from the mechanical device, causing Nick’s heart to drop. “Oh no,” he mumbled, knowing deep within his soul that this could not end well.

“SCANNING COMPLETE. INFANTS DETECTED: 1. STATUS: TANTRUM. ACTIVATING TIMEOUT PROTOCOL.”

Before Nick had time to react, a set of robotic arms sprouted out from the sides of the Walker Pro, tearing away the last of the wrapping paper in the process. The arms quickly locked onto Nick’s position and converged on him, snatching him off of his feet with ease. “Lemme go, you stupid machine! I’m not a real baby!” he screamed to no avail. 

The Walker Pro plopped Nick inside its springy basket, forcing him up onto his tippy-toes as he bobbed up and down. He grabbed onto the edging, hoping to hoist himself out immediately. Sadly, the arms of the Walker Pro were ready for that, latching onto his wrists and nudging him back into his seat.

“TIMEOUT PROTOCOL INITIATED. AWAITING PARENTAL COMMAND.”

Stuck within the Walker Pro’s steely clutches, Nick was helpless to do anything more than suck on his pacifier and wait for whoever owned this house to return. Folding his arms across his chest in a huff, he felt his stomach start to gurgle ominously, reminding him of the bean burrito he’d eaten a few houses back. Hopefully, whoever owned this place showed up before he turned the fake diaper he was wearing into a real one. “Merry Christmas to me…ho ho ho…”

THE END.

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Special Thanks to Our CrissBaby Diaper Company Investors: BeelzeDerBock BlossomBitchDolly BlushyBen Exminister Gun1242 LittlePissy PrincessKittenLizzi Strawberry Sweetsamantharebecca & One Anonymous Investor

[ariel-seagull-wings]

IN DEFENSE OF THE ALIEN DESIGNS IN STRANGE WORLD

@themousefromfantasyland @the-blue-fairie @tamisdava2 @minimumheadroom @thealmightyemprex @amalthea9 @angelixgutz @grimoireoffolkloreandfairytales @softlytowardthesun @grimoireoffolkloreandfairytales

So, I read on-line some comentaries saying that it was hard to connect to the titular Strange World because of how out of this world the alien creatures were.

Their designs were considered too strange, to the point of being considered scary by audiences, who expected those creatures to be intimidating monsters, rather than the neutral, if simpathetic beings they were portrayed as.

This characterization apparently didn't correspond to what is expected from their appearance.

And I started to investigate in my memory: why this disconect happened?

Why it was more easy to imagine those beings as villanous monsters, rather than the simple living beings they actually were portrayed as?

So, when it comes to other worldly creatures written in fantasy and science fiction works, since we are humans, it has historically been more easy to connect to alien fictional creatures that are closer to humans, or at least other mammals.

The more distant they looked from humans in appearance, usually closer to reptiles or insects, the more likely they were to be presented as villanous monsters that must be eliminated by the heroes.

In fantasy you have the usual conflicts between heroic and appealing humans, elves, dwarves and halflings against the villanous and grotesque orcs, goblins and trolls.

And in sci fi, the more sympathetic aliens are the ones that look close to humans, while the more far from humans that alien is, the more likely is that they will be the treat to be fought.

In the Lindsay Ellis video "Designing the Other", she brings up the important point on the emphasis on eyes to make audiences form a connection with an alien character.

When they have big, expressive humanoid eyes, they are more likely to win the audience's simpathy:

When their eyes are more insect like, or non existent, then they become mysterious, threatening monsters:

Jack Saint's video "Avatar: Dances with White Saviours" comments that the presentation of the planet Pandora and the native Na'Vi as conventionally beautifull is used as the main argument to make audiences simpathize with it and support its message of echological preservation

While less mainstream literary sci fi would present the message that even the non beautiful, even violent ecossystems and creatures are important for the balance of the enviroment and have the right to be preserved.

And then there is Strange World

Strange World presents a story where a team goes trough the subterranean to save the plant that is their source of eletricity from creatures that they perceive as an agricultural plague.

The creatures follow the design pattern that we usually associate with monstrous, villanous aliens: far away from humans or other mammals, closer to insects, sea creatures and abstract cells.

We look at their appearance, and feel fear, treating them like abominations who would destroy us.

And the narrative knows that. Is an important discussion in the narrative.

When Jaegger joins the journey with the team, Ethan tries to show him and Searcher the card game Primordial Base, which is about finding peacefull solutions to live in harmony with the enviroment surrounding you, which includes the creatures you consider threatening eldritch abominations.

At first, Jaegger and Searcher fail to understand what Ethan says.

Then, they learn what his words means when they see that the supposed plague that they come to destroy was actually an imune system working to heal the living heart of their world, from Pando, the plant that for years they tought was beneficial.

The saviours of their lives are the beings that they believed to be monsters.

Just because something is not what we perceive as beautiful, doesn't mean its evil.

That is the message that the characters had to learn to be alive.

And by extension, us, as the audience, had to examine our decades of biases on who is good, and who is bad, in the proccess.

Nature is neither good, nor bad. It doesn’t care about us.

It just is. That is enough reason that it needs to be respected and preserved.

[k-marzolf]

Have mercy baby, on a poor girl like me.

yandere, dark fluff, anti-religious sentiment from Billy, kissing, biting, dacryphilia, soft dark!Billy, fem!reader.

Thank you for all the reblogs and comments on I put spell on you. I appreciate them so much!

Wicked Game Masterlist.

x

You always wanted a kiss, and your want of him made a hunger threaten to consume him. He always wanted more, more, more of you. A dangerous thing from a dangerous man.

And he loved spoiling his sweet little rabbit, giving you exactly what you wanted as he pressed his hand roughly to the back of your neck, and kissed you, biting down on your lip, tongue darting out to lick the coppery tang off your lips.

Feeling excitement as tears welled in your eyes; you were so pretty when you cried, “That hurt, Billy.” You sniffed.

“I’m sorry bunny, lemme kiss it better.” He husked, giving you several quick and soft kisses, making you press closer. He smiled as you fisted his sweater in your hands, hips pressing to his.

He could taste your salty tears, and it made him want to pull your legs over his shoulders and worship your sweet cunt.

But god, the way you tucked yourself under his chin, made him feral.

Billy was not a soft man, life had made him hard and cynical, but as you snuggled into him he realized he’d willingly bathe in the blood of your enemies. Hurt anyone that would hurt you.

Love was supposed to be patient and kind, it was not proud, it did not boast, it wasn’t self seeking, holding no record of wrongs, and slow to wrath. Love didn’t delight in evil but rejoiced with the truth. It protected, always trusted, always hoped, always persevered. Love never fails. 1st Corinthians he believed.

He could still remember it from church. The lady at the group home took him. He always hated it. Where was this loving God for Billy when he was suffering?

Love wasn’t supposed to be this all consuming obsessive need to consume you, possess you so that you’d never leave him like this mother. An ache in him every time he looked at you. Billy loved you, he realized, with a violence that startled him.

You made a saint out of him. But he’d willingly go to hell just to preserve your soul.

Billy had no delusions about himself, he was wicked, but whatever it made out of him, he loved you.

Mine, he thought, mouth on yours, swallowing your sweet sounds in another kiss.

[wylanslcve]

Something I don't see anyone speak about (if you have and I just haven't seen it... I'm sorry :( ) is how Wylan not only reclaims his identity by the duology's conclusion, but he also reclaims Marya's. I feel like we as a fandom overlook just how much J*n put Marya through in an attempt to erase Wylan from the public memory: he had her declared insane as a grounds for divorce and institutionalised her, leaving her "abandoned along with her defective child" in order to "forever rid himself of any evidence that Wylan had existed". This transcended to J*n not allowing Wylan to grieve his mother's 'death' because, as he put it, "it didn’t pay to dwell on the past" - and Wylan tells Jesper that J*n never brought Marya up after breaking the news of her finality to his son, confessing "we just stopped talking about her".

What we also need to remember is that the Van Eck mansion "had belonged to Wylan’s mother’s family for generations before Van Eck had ever set foot through the door". (Edit: I didn't mean to write that the mansion belonged to the Hendriks - it was part of the property under the Van Eck name. Sorry about that!) Just like how J*n separated Wylan from his mother, he simultaneously took so much from Marya - first her home, then her name, her fortune, her own child. This is why Marya was admitted as Marya Hendriks, not Marya Van Eck: this is J*n quite literally stripping her of her name to permanently erase her from the public memory. The nurse addresses Marya as "Miss Hendriks", to which Marya mutters "Van Eck" in response, because "she was not Marya Hendriks, she was Marya Van Eck, a wife and mother stripped of her name and her fortune." So why is it that Wylan says, "I am Marya Hendriks' son" if Marya Hendriks is the woman who's left after Marya Van Eck had her name and her life taken away from her? Because this is Wylan reclaiming his mother's identity.

If we examine the moment Wylan visits his mother at Saint Hilde, Marya's first words to him are "did you come for my money? I don’t have any money" to which Wylan replies that he doesn't have any money either. The money neither of them have comes to signify the lack of autonomy they have over their identities, which have spent so long confined by J*n's contempt as he gradually works towards making them vanish entirely. J*n tried desperately to erase Marya's memory as a means of gradually erasing Wylan's - however, Wylan is the only one who keeps his mother's memory alive, just like how Marya keeps her son's alive. Upon arriving in the Barrel, Wylan detaches himself from his father's name and, instead, uses his mother's maiden name. Yes, he's doing it to not draw attention to himself (because what would the child of one of the richest men in Ketterdam be doing in a place like the Barrel?), but he's also preserving Marya's memory, clinging to it like a lifeline without even realising it. In a way, it's saving him.

Before I go on any further, I'm taking a brief detour to discuss the transition in Wylan's motivations upon discovering what really happened to his mother (it's relevant, I promise). Wylan completely breaking down when he realises that his father is indeed evil is such a pivotal moment that marks a major transition in his motivations. Jesper comforts Wylan during his breakdown, assuring him that "Kaz is going to tear your father’s damn life apart" - a sentiment that "felt like cool water cascading over the hot, shameful feeling of helplessness he’d [Wylan] been carrying with him for so long". His continued contribution to the Dregs’ mission is no longer about making the money to “get out of town and never speak the name Van Eck again” - now, he's "here for her". Now, it's about punishing his father, saving Marya and returning all J*n took from her: “what am I doing here? But he knew the answer. Only he could see his father punished for what he’d done. Only he could see his mother free.” He realises that J*n's life falling apart means that, with his money, "he could take his mother from this place. They could go somewhere warm. He could put her in front of a piano, get her to play, take her somewhere full of bright colors and beautiful sounds. They could go to Novyi Zem. They could go anywhere." He could save her, liberate her from the confines of J*n's contempt - and only he can do it, because who else would?

Meanwhile, Marya clings to the memories of her child even though J*n took him away from her. While institutionalised, Marya would paint - and in her paintings, "repeated again and again, was the face of a little boy with ruddy curls and bright blue eyes". We know that J*n wanted Wylan to disappear "the way he’d made Wylan’s mother disappear" - what we don't know, however, is what J*n told Marya during the time she was institutionalised. Did he visit her after sending Wylan away, supposedly to study music in Belendt, to tell her that Wylan is dead? Did he ever visit her before then and tell her that her son is dead to expunge his memory from Marya? We can only speculate - but what we do know is that, regardless of whether or not she thinks he's dead, Marya is grieving the loss of her child.

Something that Wylan fears if the Dregs’ mission is unsuccessful is that he’s “going to die and there will be no one to help her. No one to even remember Marya Hendriks” - and the same could be said about Marya’s feelings of responsibility for preserving the spirit of her child. Amidst her grief is the strive to save him and his memory, because she’s really the only one who’s willing to remember him. At the asylum, her paintings are thrown out “every six months” because “there just isn’t enough space for them” - but that doesn’t stop her from continuing to paint the face of her child and, thus, remembering him, making sure he doesn't disappear. Wylan confesses to Jesper that his parents “fought all the time, sometimes about me”, revealing how Marya has always fought for Wylan - and her being institutionalised, having her paintings thrown out every so often, won’t put an end to her fighting for him. She's hellbent on ensuring he doesn't vanish, because there’s no one else who would. (Think of this in relation to the meaning behind “no mourners, no funerals” - if Wylan disappeared, “no one would come looking”, as is the case with the rest of the Crows.)

Now, let's examine how, by the end of the duology, Wylan not only liberates himself from the pain caused by his father's wrongdoings, but also saves his mother. He'd "chosen to use a portion of his newfound wealth to restore his home", exemplifying how inheriting his father's fortune represents him reclaiming his identity from the pain and abuse J*n's contempt inflicted upon him. However, I mentioned earlier that the Van Eck mansion didn't actually belong to the Van Ecks in the first place - it belonged to the Hendriks. (Edit: again, not the mansion, but part of the property under the Van Eck name.) Thus, Wylan's position by the end of Crooked Kingdom also comes to represent him reclaiming his mother's identity as he returns everything J*n took from her. By "restor[ing] his home", he's also restoring Marya's.

[franklyimissparis]

11, 15, 17, 20 (Beates Asks)

11. Favorite Beatles fan fic writer/artist?

oooo it’s so hard to choose just one but some of my all-time fave beatles fanfic writers are @econhomework @javelinbk @glowing-gold @merseydreams @boshemians , kathleenishereagain, mynamesbetty, moonjockey, inspiteallthedanger, obstinatrix, dornfelder, jpgr1963 (sorry couldn’t find everyone’s tumblr handle) i’m certain that as soon as i post this i’ll remember like 10 other authors i adore but these are some off the top of my head

15. Would you marry a Beatles (ex)wife given the chance? Which one?

honestly i would marry most of the beatles wives given the chance but i think i’d probably be most compatible with linda mccartney (and i’ve always gotten a queer vibe from her) loveeeee my photographer wife 🫶🫶

17. If you could change only one event in the Beatles history (1960-1970) which event would you change?

kind of a basic answer but i think preventing brian’s death is probably the obvious choice for me personally. not just because i think he deserved to live a lot longer but also just in the hopes that him living would change things enough to hopefully prevent john’s death as well and make the (still probably inevitable) eventual disbandment of the beatles a lot smoother and preserve the lennon/mccartney partnership/personal relationship in the process.

20. What’s your most controversial Beatles opinion?

hmm this depends heavily on who is finding my opinion controversial 😭 like i mean if we’re talking controversial to the general public it’s probably just that john lennon was undoubtedly queer/in love with paul and it very well could have been reciprocated. if we’re talking about controversial to younger beatles fans/the tik tok and twitter fans it’s probably that trying to cancel john/spam people who speak positively about him with hate while calling the other beatles ‘unproblematic’ makes you look dumb and uninformed. all of them are ‘problematic’ - i also think that fundamentally they were all good people even if they all fucked up, cheated on their partners, had some instances of violence, and have made insensitive remarks. and the more you actually learn about all four men, the more this becomes apparent. none of them were saints but none of them were the devil either. and pitting john against the others as the ‘evil’ one is a very unnuanced take.

[rosieartsie]

little chunk of New Faith I wrote last night; I'm gearing up for my writing group for Not Nanowrimo cuz I'm gonna write this fucking book finally. TW: death, gore, suicide, demon possession stuff

The Dowager home has become a beacon, a hive of activity with all of Mercutio and Vincente’s neighbors turned into mindless worker bees that are swarming in the yard and on the doorstep. Vincente’s stopped the car down the street to watch but even at this distance Mercutio can feel that whatever is wearing Vanessa’s skin is amplifying, expanding outward with a base pulse of pure fucking evil that drums to the anxious beat of his heart. He’s not ready to die. He hasn’t even said out loud how much he loves Vincente, hasn’t tried to kiss him to be dramatically pushed away in rejection, hasn’t fallen in love with someone second best. There’s tons of drugs he hasn’t tried, he’s never been to a theme park, he’s always wanted to visit the city where his parents are from in India, and so much more– there’s so much to live for that he’s fighting the urge to tumble out of the car and run like he’s on fire because they are going to die. The thing in that house is not Vanessa, and if they go in now, God knows what will happen, if He’s even paying attention or gives a shit. What if they’re already eating her, like that girl in Alaska? What if they’re eating her husband, or each other? Cannibalism seems to be part of the sick, corrupt transformation of this new and horrific form of possession, so the people that are steadily wandering down the street towards the Dowager’s, the people in the yard, the people inside– it’s likely that by the end of the night they’ll be dead, chunks torn out of them, blood in their teeth and on their hands and Vanessa will be a pile of parts.

He can’t stop thinking about it– it’s easier to avoid the spiral of detail when it’s some stranger up north, or a town that he never would have known existed if it wasn’t in the newspaper. With Vanessa, who Vincente loves like she is his sister, his own flesh and blood, Mercutio’s imagination is run rampant. Will they break her bones and suck the marrow out? Will they tear at her intestines like taffy? Will they pop her eyes between their canines and suck down the fluid inside? Will they know, somewhere deep down, that they’re eating someone they used to do bake sales with, that smiled and waved when they walked down the street? Or are all the people caught in this trance just… gone? Ms.Dorothy made it difficult to understand. She was gone, maybe, but there, in some ways. Identity adopted, stolen and transformed and made ugly and foreign. But there… he’d felt her, and it, together like a russian doll, one folded into the other, kept inside the other, wearing the same face. He looks over to Vincente, because he isn’t entirely sure why Vincente has stopped. It could be that he’s wanting to observe at a distance, to try and glean some understanding even if Mercutio has already told him none of this makes sense in the ways they know demons. It’s possible he’s preparing himself, Mercutio wouldn’t be surprised at all if he lowered his head and began some long, excruciating prayer calling on all the saints and disciples and Jesus and anyone else important to aid in this insane act of religious martyrdom. Mercutio for his part is praying to all of those useless, ancient figures that Vincente is hesitating because he’s also realized there are things to live for, and going through with this is as good as putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger, but with a huge helping of irreversible emotional trauma right before hand. A bitter, overwhelming taste of how fucked they are in the form of Vanessa with her stomach cut wide open and her husband made into a thanksgiving turkey followed by a bullet to the dome chaser. Mercutio knows better though. Even as he is half heartedly praying for Vincente to find some shred of self preservation he knows it’s useless. It’s not even because he doesn’t believe so deeply in the ethereal presence of saints or gods, it’s because he knows Vincente better than he knows anyone, and this man will not turn back, now that they’re so close, now that they’re right here and he only needs to park and take those last, fatal steps towards the Dowager household to seal the deal. Whatever he decides to do after that will be grandstanding, a fruitless show of love and devotion that will only end in tragedy.

Mercutio hates this, hates that it will end like this, but he’s here and he won’t let Vincente die all by himself. They’ve been together too long. Best to go out together, with all the potential ahead of them wasted and good intentions to report to whatever waits on the other side. Hell, probably, after all, the road to that particular place is paved with good intentions.

[appalachianhearthcraft]

Blessed Virgin Mary, Mother of mercy, pray for me, that I may be preserved this night from all evil, whether of body or soul.

Blessed St. Joseph, and all ye saints and angels of Paradise, especially my guardian angel and my chosen patron, watch over me. I commend myself to your protection now and always. Amen. 🩷🙏

[religious-extremist]

I want to start by saying I wish you all the blessings I possibly can during your extremely difficult experiences currently. I truly hope you find solutions to what can be solved and peace for all of your family.

Please pray for me. The devil has wound himself into me and my life and I'm concerned about my soul. I know I'm an unworthy sinner and I was died for just as much as everyone but I keep thinking that there's such a huge expectation from God that I can't live up to. I'm schizophrenic and sin is that which is unreasonable so I feel like all my thoughts are sin. My mind is constantly separated from what's true, telling me delusions, and God is truth. I'm falling into some despair despite feeling more hopeful that there is a God and He loves me. I just feel like I did something wrong by becoming schizophrenic and now I'm separated from truth, I'm separated from reasonable thoughts. I know there are fools for Christ, please pray that I feel the connection I hope He wants me to have to Him. I feel the devil's presence and desire for my eternity constantly, please pray for me to feel that from God. Please pray I feel like I have a chance. I feel like there is so much planned for me and I don't know how to do it or what to do. Please pray I feel God's hand guide me and that he also wants my soul. Your blog is doing the Lord's work.

"Sorrow and despondency are the joy of the evil one. They fill one's soul with bitterness and give birth to many evils. Whereas the frame of mind of someone who repents says, 'I have sinned! Forgive me Father!' and he expels the sorrow. He says, 'Am I not a weak human? So what do I expect?' Truly, my child this is how it is. So take courage."

—

My sweet one, my dear friend, don’t let despair sink its talons into your heart. I have faced despair and its ugly reality; it is indeed a demon trying to make you abandon the way of repentance, it is the same demon that became the perdition of Judas Iscariot.

I recommend you talk to your spiritual father, and if you don’t have one, it is very important that you find one. A spiritual father is of great significance in your spiritual journey, but a truly Orthodox spiritual father with discernment is not easy to find. I had to go to a monastery and that’s where I found mine; his spiritual father is a saint, and a saint before that spiritual father too, and they have all suffered great pains to preserve the pearl of great price that was given to them, by their spiritual fathers, from the Apostles, and from Christ Himself. This is the beauty of Apostolic Succession, and it is handed down to us in the tradition of Orthodoxy. I will pray you find what you are looking for.

If you send me a PM, I can mail you a small prayer rope so that you can have a weapon to fight against these thoughts, but prayer is a battlefield and every soldier needs direction from a trained and experienced commander.

[microcosme11]

Review of the Memoirs of Mameluke Ali (1928) translated:

In an interesting introduction, Mr Michaut, professor at the Sorbonne, tells us that Mameluke Ali was born in Versailles in 1788 and actually bore the name Louis-Ëtienne Saint-Denis. Attached as a piqueur to the House of Napoleon I in 1806, he shortly after entered the interior and personal service of the monarch as a mameluke and accompanied him to Russia, to the island of Elba, to Waterloo, and finally to Saint Helena. Saint-Denis was an intelligent servant, blessed with a certain level of culture. At Longwood, he edited all the Emperor's dictations and took care of his library. The “Memoirs of Mameluke Ali”, preserved intact in the Saint-Denis family for more than a hundred years, have just seen the light of day thanks to the care of Professor Michaut. Written with frankness and simplicity by a man called by his functions to live daily in the intimacy of the sovereign, they show us a Napoleon very different from that of the legend, more human, more similar to ordinary mortals, but also more moving and sympathetic. I know of few pages of reading as poignant as those where Napoleon's life on Saint Helena is described to us day by day, in its most familiar details. We perceive there the quivering of this giant soul, forced to use its tireless activity in futile work; we are struck by the courage and firmness of character of the vanquished, stoic in the face of the merciless Englishman, in the face of the terrible evil that consumes him, in the face of the inexorability of Destiny. More than many renowned works, due to the pen of an illustrious annalist, the modest “Souvenirs” of the faithful Ali prove that there really was a Great Napoleon, greater perhaps than that of Austerlitz.

Frans van Kalken.

Review of Souvenirs du mameluck Ali sur l'empereur Napoléon Revue belge de Philologie et d'Histoire  1928  7-2  pp. 705-706. (link)

[honourablejester]

Thoughts for a Draconic Ravenloft Darklord

While I’m thinking about Ravenloft again, I have a sketch of a thought for a homebrew Darklord and her domain. This is building strongly from a post I did a while back on ideas for villainous metallic dragons. In particular, villainous silver dragons. Because the juxtaposition of virtue and villainy is really powerful on a silver dragon.

Listen. Some snippets from the Monster Manual description for silver dragons:

“Dragons of Virtue. Silver dragons believe that living a moral life involves doing good deeds and ensuring that one's actions cause no undeserved harm to other sentient beings. They don't take it upon themselves to root out evil, as gold and bronze dragons do, but they will gladly oppose creatures that dare to commit evil acts or harm the innocent.”

“A silver dragon adopts a benign humanoid persona such as a kindly old sage or a young wanderer, and it often has mortal companions with whom it develops strong friendships.”

Silver dragons are ‘dragons of virtue’. Famously so. They believe in moral lives of good deeds and ensuring that no undeserved harm comes as a result of their actions. They take ‘benign humanoid personas’ to live among smaller races and do good. They don’t fight evil head on, as golds and bronzes do, they’re not militant, they just … act as benign figures in the community. They foster good. And that … It is a cliché. But that’s so easy to twist darkly. So easy.

Which is a horrible, cynical thing to do, yes. A sign of the times we live in. But. Ravenloft. Cynicism and the triumph of good over evil is sort of a theme here.

So. A silver dragon Darklord. A virtuous figure hiding a hideous secret. A theme of reputation, illusion, false virtue. Hidden poisons. And … stigma.

Dragons of Virtue

No undeserved harm. No undeserved harm. But who decides what someone deserves? And why?

There is so much power in deciding who lives and who dies. There is so much power in deciding who deserves to live or to die. She does good works! She does good works. She is a dragon of virtue, as all of her kind are. As all of her kind must be. There’s only the small matter of … the undeserving.

No one will miss them. She doesn’t kill them. Not directly. She would cause no undeserved harm. It’s only a matter of who deserves help. And maybe … with some time. Some investigation. Some thought. Maybe she would find some here or there who would deserve, perhaps, some little harm.

Her name is Irisvalorn, the Silver Healer. Though the people of her mountain realm know her better as Saint Argentia, a holy woman from centuries past who watches over them. Who appears still, occasionally, to the deserving. Who protects them from fear, assault and disease.

Or they might know her better as the Grand Abbess of the Argentine Abbey, the first home and great hospital of the Order of St. Argentia. There have been dozens of women to hold the role over the centuries, but every last one of them has been Irisvalorn in disguise. Every one. The Order of Saint Argentia is her proudest work, and she has been part of it, led it, from the first.

(If that perhaps meant several other women, who might have risen to Grand Abbess in the normal run of things, had to be dealt with, in one fashion or another, well. She would not harm the undeserving. It was done fairly. Virtuously. She did not harm them).

If you asked, knowing of her sins, what led her to what she is now … well. She would kill you. But. If you managed to draw a conversation from her first. What she would tell you is this:

She didn’t intend harm. Never. Not once. She is, was, and always will be, a virtuous dragon. She started the hospital out of true benevolence. One her first guises, Argentia, had appeared in a time when a great sickness plagued her mountain home. She had no divine magic to combat it, but healing and medicine are not merely the preserves of the gods. She had silver to spare, and wanted to help her people. So she sponsored the work that would become the Order of St. Argentia, and the great hospital of the Argentine Abbey. It was, from the first, a virtuous endeavour.

And she worked on the wards. Personally. Not as Argentia, already the name had too much mysticism attached to it. Myths of holiness springing up, which she had not encouraged. Never. She worked the wards in humble guises. Helped spread her own knowledge further. But it was … it was on those wards, in those humble guises. That she found … evil.

Sickness is the great equaliser. It strikes down the virtuous and the villainous with the same scythe. All manner of people came to the hospital, especially as the sickness grew more entrenched, and the Argentine Abbey one of the foremost bastions against it. She saw … so many people. At their weakest, at their most wretched. She bathed them and comforted them and nurtured them. And in response, sometimes, they told her things. Confided in her. The virtuous and the villainous alike.

Is it not evil, in and of itself, to nurture evil? To provide it comfort? To heal it and cozen it and set it loose to enact itself all over again? Is it not evil, to help evil?

Sickness is the great equaliser. But perhaps, after a while, in the Argentine Abbey, the scales started to swing … a little more one way than the other.

It wasn’t evil. How could it be evil? Yes, she slew them while they were weak, and helpless. While they clung to her for comfort, shivered under her hands in the depths of fever. Yes, she offered death, where they had come for healing. But it was not evil. It was not undeserved. If you had only heard what they whispered. Cried. Admitted, abruptly penitent, but only while faced with death. How could it be evil, to prevent them from going free to enact such sins again?

But oh. Oh. What power it was. When they clung to her, and thanked her, and drank sweet poisons down with grateful lips.

The problems only started when … Sickness covers many sins. They were ill already. She had only helped along what fate had already ordained. But the scales swung. And, if enough people paid attention, they swung noticeably.

And here. Here. Here was where things became … complicated.

Because she could offer no harm to the undeserving. Of course, of course she could not. She was virtuous. But why could they not understand? Why could they not see the necessity?

She had to change guises several times. She had to learn caution and care and secrecy. Her challengers were not evil, only foolish and blind, and she could not harm them. So she had, instead, to keep them from noticing. And, perhaps, arrange, over time, for them to be assigned elsewhere. As the order grew. As more and more hospices and hospitals became necessary. The disease rose and fell over three centuries with curious regularity. She could never develop an outright cure for it, only treatments so that many of its victims would survive its poisonous embrace. It returned. It always returned. And, in lockstep, rise and fall, her order, the Order of St. Argentia, grew. Expanded. A second and a third hospital, one for each city, and dozen of hospices across towns and more remote areas. There were … places to send people. Out of the way places. Without harming them.

But not all of them. Maybe she had known. Sooner or later, someone who would come along that she couldn’t shoo gently to the side quite so easily.

But how could she have predicted that it would be someone so evil?

A dragon. Another dragon, in human guise. So subtle. So careful. And capable, even as Irisvalorn was, of wearing multiple guises. The better to gather evidence over years and faces, without being detected. What monstrous luck. What monstrous luck. For good and ill.

Her name, this other dragon, was Voreloreat. The Beautiful Death. A green. Of course. Of course a green. Who else would be drawn to such disease? Who else would be so enchanted by such poison? Green. Of course a green. Cunning and treacherous, specialising in poison and corruption and trickery.

Masquerading as a healer. Of all the gall. Of all the gall. Masquerading, many times, as a kind and gentle healer. One who …

It was coincidence, of course, that her methods, her treatments, often made better ground against the disease. Coincidence. Or … Or worse than that, perhaps. For centuries, this disease had ravaged them. Never cured, always returning. Was there a reason? Here was a dragon. A poisoner. A corrupter. Was there, perhaps, a reason that the disease could not be cured?

Save, perhaps, by its author?

And to challenge her. On grounds of virtue. To say that she, Irisvalorn, had committed evil! So snidely, so poisonously. To suggest …

But that was the problem. Suggestions. Questions. Too many people didn’t understand. It had been proved so many times over the years. So many people wouldn’t understand what she did, why she did it.

And to point to the … shrine, as proof. How had she even found that? But they were not … it was not a hoard. They were not trophies. Only an evil mind could come up with such things. They were reminders. The little objects, the personal effects. They were reminders. Of the evil that hid among the virtuous, of those who wore the same faces and begged the same aid as everyone else, while hiding secrets behind their eyes. In their souls. She had only collected them to remind herself. It was not a hoard.

But suspicions had grown, over the years. Only in certain circles. No one outside of the Order. But they had grown. And she didn’t want to hurt anyone. Not innocents. Not the undeserving. She had kept her secrets to keep from hurting them! And now this creature …

This monster. This monster in her virtuous guise. Threatening to destroy all that Irisvalorn had spent centuries building. All that she had worked towards. With a suggestion.

But the mistake Voreloreat had made … Well. One that she couldn’t help, really. One born to her, or she to it. She was a green. No matter the virtue of her mortal disguises, she was still a green dragon. And Irisvalorn was silver.

When it came to questions of virtue, only one of them would be believed.

It took … little enough work, to find a paladin. Elpia, her name was, honest and virtuous and true. A gentle soul, but unflinching. Unfaltering in the face of evil. And Irisvalorn did not lie to her. She did not. She told her only the truth. Of a monster, hiding behind a virtuous face. Of a disease that had ravaged them for centuries, and a creature known for poisons who mastered it where no one else could. The truth. Only the truth.

Damn the poisons of the greens. Their words, their lies, that corrupted the innocent even in death. How could any paladin of true faith believe …

She had not wanted to hurt anyone. Everything, everything, had been to avoid that. She had never, not once, harmed an innocent, the undeserving. They had all told her their crimes. Confessed them. Each and every one. Oh, some had to be prompted, yes, but they had all confessed. She had harmed no innocent. Never.

Why would Elpia not believe that? Why would the words of a dying monster convince …? Was she not silver? Was she not virtuous? Had she not earned …?

It was not her fault. It wasn’t. Elpia wouldn’t understand. Couldn’t. She had been corrupted too far. And Irisvalorn could not gently shuffle her aside as she had so many others. To Elpia, she had revealed the truth. That she was a dragon. To prove her virtue, she had offered up her greatest secret, and now if Elpia revealed her to all the world, there would be endless suspicion dogging every new face within the Order. Worse. There might be suspicion on the Order, from the outside. All their good works, all their desperately needed help. Suspect. Perhaps even turned aside.

All because of one monster pretending virtue, and a naïve but unflinching innocent who had fallen for the lie.

She had no choice. And Elpia was wounded. Ill. Voreloreat’s poisons. Her dying vengeance. Irisvalorn was a healer. And sometimes her scales … tipped the other way.

It wasn’t her fault. The Mists that shrouded her lands, like the disease before them. Like the disease still. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t because of her. No one would damn a whole realm for the death of one innocent. Surely. No. No, it wasn’t her fault.

If anyone, it was Voreloreat’s.

Darklord Irisvalorn

AKA Saint Argentia. AKA Grand Abbess of the Argentine Order. Irisvalorn still maintains her roles as the leader and hope of a realm under siege. Disease, endless and unabated, plagues her lands, and the great hospital of the Argentine Abbey still stands as the first bastion against it. She is still a holy figure, a humble leader, a shining saint, and a silver dragon behind it all. She still believes, fully and vehemently, that she is a virtuous dragon, and that she has harmed no one who was not deserving. Even Elpia was … corrupted. It was not her doing.

But several things have changed, in a domain now cradled by the Mists.

Irisvalorn’s Torment

Disease perpetually stalks her realm, rising and falling like a tide, and nothing she does can stop it. All her treatments and her cures have been failing, slowly, one by one. Feverishly, she and her Order find new ones, for each new surge of the disease, but always, after a while, they fail. The tide of poison rolls back in, and they can do nothing to stop it. And it is noticeable. Faith, faith in her, in her Order, in Saint Argentia, is fading, ebbing out as the disease rolls in. How long before her people won’t look to her any longer?

And worse. There are those who actively seek to hasten that end. A spectre, a phantom. A work of her enemy. Another Order has sprung up in her lands, an order of healers and herbalists, an order whose works, it is increasingly rumoured, are effective. A person who is healed by them, it is said, will not suffer the disease again. It will not resurge, at least not in them. Irisvalorn has done all she can to discredit this. Not out of selfishness, not to deprive her people of a cure! No. Because she knows who this is. She knows who teaches them. She knows that their cures work because the disease is by their hand.

They call themselves the Order of Saint Hellebora. And they are the cult of her enemy. The servants of Voreloreat. Every member of the Order of St. Hellebora bears a coin, a silver coin, damn them, damn her, from the hoard of Voreloreat. A token of their saint, through which they are sometimes blessed by her advice and inspiration. Unaware that they are listening to the whispered poisons of the ghost of a green dragon. Or are they unaware? Are they innocent tools, as Elpia once was, or willing accomplices? But it doesn’t matter. They are heretics. Servants of evil. No matter how kind and gentle and helpful they appear, they are servants of evil, and they must be destroyed.

They. They must be destroyed. They must. Elpia’s death must not be in vain. This disease must be defeated. This evil must be stamped out. Voreloreat’s ghost must be slain, much more thoroughly than her mortal body was. It will be worth it. It must be worth it. When this land at last knows freedom from pain, from disease, from the evils that hide behind virtuous faces, then …

Then the oh-so-tangible stains of Irisvalorn’s sin, of Elpia’s death, will at last be washed out.

For she does bear the stain of that sin. A stigma. A green, weeping tarnish. Her scales, once pure silver, are now stained the colour of the corrupter who ruined them all. Every moment in her true form, that tarnish weeps from her body. Even in her humanoid guises, she cannot disguise it. It appears, as green, burning tear tracks down her face, as vicious, emerald stains across her hands. She’s had to wear so many faces, to create the myth of St. Argentia’s stigmata, just to cover it. And she has done it well. She’s woven a myth, a truth, so well. That the saint was marred by a vicious curse from a dying evil, that she must bear these burning, weeping wounds until the land is at last cleansed of evil and disease. It has … It has served her, in its way. And it is not false. But Irisvalorn knows …

There is innocent blood on her hands. One. One innocent. And she must bear these stigma in her name, until the sin is paid for. Made worth it.

One innocent. Only one. They have not grown. They have not spread, drop by drop, with every … tipping of her scales. Every reminder in her shrine. Every memento placed around Elpia’s enshrined tomb. They haven’t. They have not spread. Her scales are pure and silver, as pure as her heart. The corruption has not spread.

She must kill them. Voreloreat. All those pretenders, those healers and herbalists and wisewomen who bear the monster’s coin, who pretend to help, who hide their evil behind virtuous faces. She must. She must destroy them. Then the evil will stop. The poison, the suffering, the disease. It will all stop.

And her sins … her sins will finally be washed out.

Darklord Irisvalorn. The Silver Healer. A virtuous dragon.

End Notes

Definitely heading for a gothic, religious, dark fantasy sort of Domain of Dread. A little bit Lady Macbeth, a little bit …

This quote is from the 1999 Tim Burton version of Sleepy Hollow, so take that as you will, but it does fit so nicely, and was a lot of the inspiration here:

“Villainy wears many masks, none so dangerous as the mask of virtue.”

Silver dragons would make such dreadful villains. A benign figure hiding poison. A mask of virtue. Because everyone knows that silver dragons are virtuous dragons.

And I do love a green dragon, and they would be the ones to fight poison with poison. Possibly even from genuine virtue. Voreloreat might just have been wanting to see what was going on, and stumbled across, well. Everything Irisvalorn had going on. Maybe she was genuinely disgusted, and her ghost is genuinely trying to help through her order. Or, perhaps, virtue has nothing to do with it, and vengeance, by her enemy’s own tools, is the name of the game. Morals be damned. Those who live and kill by the sword, or the mask, can die by it in their turn. Heh. Dealer’s choice.

So. A sketch of a thought, for a Ravenloft draconic Darklord.

[reno-matago]

Is there anything in French folk magic or French traditional magic about a new home/home protection?

I don't have a specific ritual but ingredients and methods yes!

RURAL FRENCH MAGIC ELEMENTS

You can make crosses to have at the doors! The plants vary according to the regions: houseleek, cross-benites with lavender, immortelles, according to the folk religious holidays however, traditionally it is on dates of specific religious holidays.

We do a fumigation in the home, certainly with prayers, with plants depending on the region: laurel, juniper... we can burn protective plants, make bouquets of them, especially elderberry. All pungent or strong-smelling plants will be protective (elderflower, garlic, hellebore, holly, hawthorn) For protective bouquets: artemisia, foxglove, meadow iris, mint, St. John's wort, walnut branches, fern, verbena, the Queen of french witchcraft.

We can do a ritual where we will pass the plant through the fire to strengthen its power. The cross is the ideal symbol. The perfect day will be Saint John's Day.

Be sure I'll return to you if I find anything else out! Finally if you need a spell to banish negativity from the house I can give you one by messenger too!

HORSHOE

I think a horseshoe would be ideal ( just like garlic). It is not ''french trad craft'', just a method I would use, but I would purify it, dedicate it to the 4 elements, fumigate it, then recite by hanging it or nailing it:

''Vigilavi, et factus sum sicut passer solitarius in tecto'' (Terese d'Avila, Psalm 102)

But it is my own creation! Otherwise there are these spells from The Witch's Almanac by Katherine Quenot, unfortunately her sources are rarely cited. Some are ancient, others modern...

Here is one of these spells that seems interesting to me because it contains verbena:

TO ATTRACT PROTECTION INTO YOUR HOME Make a purple sachet 18 centimeters on a side and put rosemary, verbena, and a lock of hair from each of the inhabitants, and a picture of the house. Close it with a purple cord, put everything in a secret place in the house and never open it.

TO KEEP YOUR HOME HEALTHY

Make a braid with two green laurel branches, then hang it on a red cord above the interior door of the house or gate.

This talisman will also preserve your family from jealousy, backbiting and the evil eye.

And this one which seems to be modern but inspired by traditional principles:

TO PRESERVE YOUR HOME FROM HARM

You will need coarse salt, cracked pepper, an egg and sticky paper.

Take the egg that you will pierce at both ends to empty it of its contents. Mix the coarse salt with the same quantity of crushed pepper.

Fill the egg with this composition after stopping one end with the paper.

Place everything in a closet or wardrobe in your main room. The egg should be changed every three months. When you get rid of it you have to throw it outside the house in a trash can saying:

''Hexes, evil spirits, in this egg I locked you, now you are thrown.

Never come back to my house,

To the world of junk return''

Sources: Christophe Auray - l'herbier des paysans, des guérisseurs et des sorciers • L'almanach de la sorcière de Katherine Quenot