#The Speechmaker

[asjjohnson]

...People know that hand gestures have meaning, right?

I was watching something on TV with my dad, and he commented that it was interesting how this guy's hand gestures seemed to match what he was saying, unlike how most people's hand gestures are just random waving.

Shocked, I told him that every hand gesture meant something, and that he was just more in-tune with the way this one person thinks.

So, just to make sure, in case I was wrong to assume everyone knows this...

Hand gestures are an instinctive form of communication, trying to get across thoughts, ideas, and feelings (or possibly trying to better understand your own). It's like charades if you're allowed to speak at the same time. It's like sign language when you don't know the real signs. Every single gesture means something, even when that meaning doesn't come across.

[aiwikiweb]

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[lillipad72]

Gilbert Blythe - A Journey from Liberal to Conservative

What has always confused me when reading Anne of Green Gables and the subsequent books is why Gilbert Blythe went from a liberal 'grit' to a conservative 'tory.' So, I wanted to look into what could have inspired his change in opinions.

So our first mention of Gilbert's politics comes from about halfway through Anne of Green Gables:

"What way do you vote, Matthew?” “Conservative,” said Matthew promptly. To vote Conservative was part of Matthew’s religion. “Then I’m Conservative too,” said Anne decidedly. “I’m glad because Gil—because some of the boys in school are Grits.

Doing some quick math (and using the timeline that matches up with the 1896 election), we will find this statement was made around 1880, with Anne being about 12 and Gilbert 14. This puts a damper on my wondering because if Gilbert was a Liberal at age 14, he probably only was because his parents were, and changing political views is not uncommon as one grows up. But I will continue my investigation!

So when did things change?

Well, it happened most definitely before 1896 when in Anne's House of Dreams:

"The Island, as well as all Canada, was in the throes of a campaign proceeding a general election. Gilbert, who was an ardent Conservative, found himself caught in the vortex, being much in demand for speechmaking at the various county rallies."

(why we know it is 1896, and why the timeline is inconsistent in the series I recommend this post.)

So Gilbert is not only a conservative. By now, we know he is a well-known conservative in the area! Obviously, his political leanings changed before this point.

Backtrack to the 1891 Election: The main issue of the election was the idea of tariffs or free trade. The incumbent prime minister John Macdonald, a Conservative, was running on his National Policy (more on that soon), which had a lot to do with protective tariffs while the Liberals supported free trade with the United States. While I do think Gilbert's change to being a Conservative has to do with the National Policy I believe it probably would have occurred before this because the Conservative party had a rough year in 1891 and was thrown into chaos so it would be odd for Gilbert to become one at this time.

The National Policy, implemented by John Macdonald in 1879 was extremely popular. It included policies that would strengthen Canadian businesses against the very popular American ones, creating high tariffs. It even completed the national railway!

Overall, I expect that Gilbert became a Conservative during his university years (shocking, I know) because this perfectly aligns with the National Policy's success.

Of course, this is all speculation, and my answer was quite underwhelming. Even for myself, I did have fun researching what exactly drew people to be a Conservative during this time.

So for all you folks disappointed about Gilbert and Anne being conservatives this is a quick snapshot of what that meant during the later 19th century in Canada!

[dewofthesearosemarygrey]

Nathan And Elizabeth Vs Jack and Elizabeth

I've noticed a Lot of People saying Not another Mountie, Or that they don't want anyone Replacing Jack, or that Elizabeth Is just Jack projecting again on Nathan. I think there is some merit to that argument but a lot of the worry is Unfounded Lets look at some of the similarities and Differences and Why I think Nathan is a Good choice for Elizabeth and NOT a replacement.

Similarities.

Nathan is a Mountie

Nathan Loves Elizabeth

Nathan makes Elizabeth think deeply

Nathan is friends with Bill

Nathan has a dog

Nathan is not good at speechmaking

Nathan uses intuition

Differences

1.Nathan is Quieter than Jack

2. Nathan Has a daughter figure.

3. Nathan is a mountie by Job rather than Calling and would give it up for Elizabeth. His calling is more to be a family protector figure.

4. Nathan has only a few best friends, but loves and protects them intensely, wheras Jack was more generally friendly.

5. Nathan is a more awkwardly quiet dorky hero , Jack is more confident and bold hero

6. Nathan is more sensitive, Jack is more thick skinned.

7. Nathan is more small detail oriented, Jack is more big-picture.

8. Nathan is much less jealous than Jack he wants Elizabeth to be Happy even if its not with Him whereas Jack was more Annoyed/Angry at Elizabeth's other suitors such as Billy and Charles and Abigail had to tell him outright that he was Jealous and that the best way to Get Elizabeth Back would be to be nicer. "you catch more flies with Honey than Vinegar"!

When we first met Jack he was Bold confident and really annoyed at having to Look after Elizabeth. his relationship with Elizabeth was Hate-to-love dynamic and there was a lot of rough teasing banter and Jealousy.

With Nathan it is a Completely Different situation when he meets Elizabeth it is a shy but friendly meeting, and as we know from season 8 he had chosen by himself to come there to look after Elizabeth, The Exact Opposite of Jacks Situation. His whole goal was to protect her and leave it at that, Until he began slowly to make friends with her and find out what an amazing woman she was. then he didn't want to Love her becuase He felt Guilty about it, but slowly they overcame that and became really close Friends When she Chose Lucas he was the one to Go to Lucas WHY? Because he loved her so much he wanted her Happiness no matter what even Over his Own Happiness, Jack would never have done that for Elizabeth He Loved her a lot But not quite at the cost of his own Dreams, Goals and Happiness. Jack and Elizabeth had a healthy Balenced relationship where both could Express there own personalties and follow there callings, but I think Nathan Loves Elizabeth in a different and more Selfless way than Jack something which would be Amazing to see play out on screen, not to even get started on the mixed Family Dynamic! This difference Is why after saying Not another Mountie in season 6 I changed to Team Nathan in season 7

[vigilskeep]

If you're up for talking about your homemade blorbos again (no pressure), did Keir help set aveline up with donnic? I'm fascinated by their relationship whether they're together or not, it tells so much abt aveline's character

always up for it

keir did do that quest! he wasn’t super invested, he rivals aveline so it wasn’t exactly his idea of a good time. actually that tavern scene was in fact one of the worst social experiences of his life and he hates it here. excruciating. however, isabela seemed to be finding the whole thing very entertaining and i find it entertaining to make him suffer through a whole long-winded aveline personal quest with the Do It For Her meme in his head but the pictures aren’t even aveline it’s isabela. that’s the kind of dedication that gets your best friend to come back to you at the end of act 2

aveline/donnic is a weird one for sure. women can do workplace sexual harrassment too hashtag feminism. in my ideal world i think it would be funny if donnic figured whatever he’s got going on out and got with fenris and thus took aveline’s friendship group in the divorce despite not being in the friendship group

what’s a keir-specific thought here. oh keir asked anders to marry him at aveline and donnic’s wedding. it’s honestly lucky that anders refused all of keir’s proposals bc that would’ve been a faux pas and between elthina officiating and the bride and groom’s speechmaking skills it was already not the best night

[blueiscoool]

Ancient Roman Forum Unearthed in Spain

A Spanish Farmer Long Believed a Roman Forum Once Stood on His Land. He’s Now Proven Right

Researchers have identified the Roman ruins in Ubrique as a large venue for public gathering.

In the late 1700s, Juan Vegazo, a farmer and amateur historian in Ubrique, in the southern Spanish province of Cadiz, had a grand theory: buried within the rock and dirt of a nearby hill lay the remains of an ancient Roman forum.

News from the excavations at Pompeii was reviving interest in Roman culture across Europe and inspired Vegazo to buy up the limestone hills and begin excavating. He uncovered inscriptions related to second century emperors, a name for the city, Ocuri, and laid the foundations for future archaeologists to uncover defensive walls, baths, and a mausoleum.

Still, Vegazo’s vision of the past remained incomplete. Until now. More than 300 years on, Vegazo has been vindicated by a team of archaeologists from the University of Granada. In coordination with the town of Ubrique, researchers have uncovered architectural elements in Ocuri that point to a large, public forum that would have served as place of gathering, socializing, and speechmaking. The finding infers that Ocuri was larger and more significant than previously believed.

Key to the discovery is a 50-foot-long wall that is believed to have enclosed the Roman forum as well as architectural elements of large and public buildings. Among these buildings is a large ceremonial site, as offered by the discovery of a monumental altar, column shafts and bases, and statue pedestals. Researchers believe the site supported religious practices related to water that mixed Roman and local customs.

“The excavations outline a space that is crucial for understanding the arrival and consolidation of the Romans in the southern Iberian Peninsula, as well as their hybridization with the communities that had already settled in the area,” the University of Granada’s Department of Prehistory and Archaeology said in a statement.

With its strategic hilltop position, it’s long been believed that a settlement pre-dated the Romans with researchers suggesting the absorption was both physical and cultural. Researchers now believe the site was inhabited until the end of the 4th century C.E. based on coins that were discovered—in particular, one marked with a Christogram, which is among the earliest forms of Christian iconography and was deployed by Constantine I in 312 C.E.

This continued presence in the southern reaches of Hispania, as the territory was known following its annexation in 19 C.E., was partly due to the trade advantages it offered, as it connected the coast to the interior parts of the province. Along with showing Ocuri’s size, the discovery of North African goods, including ceramics, suggests a strong and enduring (through the late 3rd century at least) economic links across the peninsula.

Aside from Roman discoveries, researchers also found evidence of medieval defensive structures.

By Richard Whiddington.

[thepursuitofunderstanding]

I too have been misled by the Romantic concept of writing. As a youth I saw too many movies of the great Artist, and the writer was always some tragic and very interesting chap with a fine goatee, blazing eyes, and inner truths springing to his tongue continually. What a way to be, I thought, ah. But it isn’t so. The best writers that I know talk very little, I mean those who are doing the good writing. In fact, there is nothing duller than a good writer. In a crowd or even with one other person, he is always busy…subconsciously…recording every goddamned thing. He is not interested in speechmaking or being the Life of the Party. He is greedy; he saves his juices for the typewriter. You can talk away inspiration, you can destroy god-given genius with your mouth. Energy will only spread so far. I too am greedy. One must be. The only juices that can be given up, the only time that can simply be given away is the time for Love. Love gives strength; it breaks down inbred hatreds and prejudices. It makes the writing more full. But all other things must be saved for the work… I’d never advise anybody to become a writer, only if writing is the only thing which keeps you from going insane. Then, perhaps, it’s worth it.

Charles Bukowski

[gramcrackerpp]

Francis, thus encouraged, fiddled with his glass and looked across the table at her, embarrassed but determined. “I was never one for speechmaking, but there it is. She came to live among us almost while we were unaware of it. But we’ve all come aware of it in time. There’s not one among us—unless it’s young Enys here—who has not had some special benefit from her coming. That’s no more than the truth, and there’s little more I can say! But if it wasn’t for her there’d be none of us gathering here together today—and if there’s any merit in being a united family, then the merit’s not the family’s but hers. It isn’t where you’re born in this world, it’s what you do. She is proper that proper doth. So I say we should drink to Demelza, a lady of the first quality…”

[petervintonjr]

Still here; still working on more biographies and accompanying art, my friends. Dealing with some health and some website issues but nothing that can't be fixed. Much more importantly, I need you to go study the lives and accomplishments of people such as: Boston abolitionist David Walker, D.C.'s own beloved Nannie Helen Burroughs, WWII veteran Isaac Woodard, controversial speechmaker Henry Highland Garnet, gifted author Louise Meriwether (who sadly just left us earlier this month at the amazing age of 100), and unsung genomic hero Henrietta Lacks.

[knight-commander]

Reminded myself of an old WIP I had between Daeran and Emery that I think would be fun to share!

3181 words, might cross post to AO3

The Half Measure Tavern was alive and bustling, for the first time since Drezen had fallen years ago. Cheerful merrymaking echoed loud and proud throughout the warm tavern halls. Crusaders and soldiers, mercenaries and healers alike all joined together for a taste of true victory—and true respite, now that the battle was won.

Emery, who all had thought might take the moment for some vainglorious speechmaking, instead sequestered himself away to a dark table in the corner of the tavern where he could keep an eye on the comings and goings of the others. It was quieter there in the corner, out of the public eye and the declarations of loyalty and heroics and all of the other things they liked to say to him since the Crusade started. As the night wore on, he found that those of his squadron must have found themselves wearying of the same, and his table slowly grew with the chairs of his closest companions.

That didn’t mean he was paying much attention to their conversations. Inquiries about his newfound angelic powers were met with one-word answers and terse smiles—occasionally a hmm before the hint was taken and the subject was dropped. He didn’t yet know what to think about them, either, and the easiest course thus far was simply not to think about them at all. He would figure it out in time. He always did. Instead, his mind wandered to the thoughts of the road behind him. The Lost Chapel, for one—and how wretchedly he had been reminded of Ustalav beneath its dark shadows.

How many ghouls had his father made of men? Revenants, or thralls? Blood-craving and flesh-hungering beasts, the lot of them. How many had he, Ilya, his son, indulged? How expensable had he found them when hunting, riding, fighting? He had sworn to Ustalav that he would keep their borders safe from the creatures of the undead by day, while by night he rode among them, a vampire’s son and scion. Sun-spawn, the Moroi courts called him. A mockery of everything a vampire is supposed to be. He had found pride in it, once. Now there was only disgust.

The worst was when the missive came from Karcau. It hadn’t been delivered, of course. It just appeared one day, on the war table in his tent for all to see. He clenched a fist against the cool fabric of his breeches, hidden underneath the table. His father’s elegant scrawl, claiming the very thing that Emery had been hiding for months: the son of the viscount of Karcau, sworn to the nation of Ustalav; the son of Ivan Daskievic. That had been a most sobering conversation to have with Irabeth and Anevia.

“What about our Knight-Commander?” Seelah’s warm voice broke through his reverie, and he blinked. He was not standing in the cold of that camp, nor in the damp of Ustalav. He was back in the Half Measure Tavern, surrounded by his compatriots. Maybe even his friends. “Come on, Emery. Someone like you has to have someone waiting back home.”

Emery looked over, fully having not been listening to their conversation thus far. He awkwardly cupped his hands around his mug; it was warm, cider if he had to guess. After so long, it felt strange to hold something that wasn’t cold, unyielding steel.

“Me?” He asked. “No. I was always a little more, uh, studious, than… worldly.” Emery grimaced at the way he tripped over his own words. In truth, his father had never given him such leave or time for fickle things such as romance—and Emery would have been too afraid to bring anyone back to the estate, anyways. Considering what had become of his mother…

“Pssh,” Seelah scoffed. “You’re the son of a viscount! And not half bad to look at, either. I’m sure you had suitors lined up at your door.”

Emery, trying to hide the shadow that had fallen over his face at the mention of his noblesse, shook his head. He felt his teeth leave divots in his lower lip—Ivan wasn’t even his biological father. That was almost the worst part.

“No, not I. I had never been so lucky.” He doubted that he ever would; a half-living knight, noble kin or otherwise, was hardly the sort of person that anyone had an interest in bedding or wedding.

“Surely there’s a romantic bone in your body somewhere,” Camellia teased. “Unless you are saying that your heavenly ascension is setting you apart from things such?”

“Don’t speak like that, Camellia,” Emery groaned. The thoughts he had been trying to avoid came springing to the surface once more. He had tried not to ponder about what was sitting inside of him. Everything felt crisper, realer, more alive. For something half-dead, it was terrifying. The heavenly halo that spun celestial circles around his head, even more than their stubborn inquiries into his personal life. “I suppose… that I have always had a fondness for roses.”

It was a lie, really, half-thought through but not entirely dishonest. It would be far too easy to attribute it to his staunch faith in Pharasma: her blackened blooms, devoid of thorns, her symbols and a paragon of luck. That was the easy answer. He was afraid if they pressed for too much more, they would find him a boy again, pulling aside a curtain to reveal a dusty portrait of his mother in her prime. Amaryllis; the songstress, the performer, clutching a bouquet of red roses as more were thrown at her feet. It was the only painting he had ever seen where she was smiling. It was the only one that had avoided the destruction of his father’s grief.

“Roses?” Daeran interjected as he took a seat next to Sosiel. It was a less than elegant move, as the cleric had to scoot his chair over to make room for the count. “How traditional. What does Shelyn have to say about that?”

“Much more than you would care to listen to, I’m sure,” Sosiel said, glaring at Daeran as he fixed the position of his chair. “Did you finally break away from the nobility to come and drink with the rest of us?”

“Oh, no,” Daeran said. He wrinkled his nose up at the mere thought. “I’m not here to drink. I’m here for the company, don’t let me interrupt! I’m sure we’re all just dying to know what sets out dear commander’s heart aflutter. That is what we were discussing, yes?”

“Careful,” Emery said. “I might think that you were making a jest of me.”

The words slipped out with ease, but Emery’s mind was elsewhere again. Begging caution, he caught Daeran’s gaze and it was as if he were back in time, days ago. The Sword of Valor draped across his lap as he rode through the courtyard, charging against demons and Abyss-spawn. There had been a moment, then—breathless and fleeting, where he looked down at Daeran, glaive in hand, and they had exchanged…. Something. Words, yes, but something more, something tender that Emery hadn’t yet grappled with—and judging by the curious tilt in Daeran’s lips, it was something he had.

You are the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. And the most exciting.

Careful, now, or else you might just fall in love with me.

“Emery?” Camellia’s voice broke him from his thoughts again. “Is that cider getting to you?”

“What?” He said. “No. Why? What did I miss?”

“Seelah said she was going to get some sleep,” Camellia said, gesturing to their paladin companion who was bumbling her way through the crowd. “Perhaps you should do the same… it isn’t fitting for a noble to be seen out and drunk, much less the commander of our Crusade.”

“Haven’t I earned it?” Emery protested, but it was a hollow sort of laugh that escaped him. He avoided catching Daeran’s gaze again, but he could tell that the aasimar sought it. “Ah… perhaps you are right, and I wasted my chance with the party at Daeran’s estate.”

Sosiel winced. “I don’t know why you thought a drinking competition would…”

“That was the best party I’d been to in years!” Daeran protested. “Or at least the best guests were present. I don’t know. I can hardly remember.” Sosiel only took a moment to process what had been said before he also politely excused himself for the evening.

“And then there were three,” Emery said, raising his mug in farewell to Sosiel. He idly wondered if he remembered more of that party than Daeran did; the wine cart catching fire had been more of a mistake than he had liked to admit. There were other things he had tried to forget there, too. Noble estates never held much luck for Emery, it seemed.

“Two,” Camellia corrected. “I will not be caught dead alone with you two. I have my reputation to worry about. It is as if you cancel each other out.” She picked herself up and left before Emery even had a chance to respond, leaving him blinking dumbly in her wake.

He couldn’t think of anything he could have possibly done to insult her. Save existing. Emery could not help but feel as though there was something orchestrated in their quick retreat—he just could not place whether it was out of a distaste for him or for Daeran. History proved the latter.

“You know…” Daeran began, drawing out the words just long enough to get Emery to look up at him over his mug. “You always look at me like that. It’s maddening. What am I supposed to think?”

“Like what?” Emery asked, raising an eyebrow as he braced for some sort of verbal blow that had to be coming. Foolishly he hoped for something gentler.

Daeran huffed. “I don’t know. Sometimes it’s as if you look any closer at me, you’ll find the center of… whatever I am. Like I’m something dreadfully distasteful or saccharine and sweet, as if you haven’t decided. But then other times it’s as if I’m not here at all, and you’re looking right through me. Which is it? Am I so boring that you can’t pay me more than a few minutes’ attention?” He paused, and sighed, and peered back at Emery beneath his lashes. Emery felt like a mouse trapped underneath a cat’s paw. “No, that can’t be it. It can’t be me. It’s something to do with you.”

“I’m going to try and pretend that this is your attempt to show some concern for me?” Emery asked as he sat upright in his chair. His head started to spin again. He’d barely had any drink and no celestial fire burned in his veins, so it had to be something else making him so giddily lightheaded. “I don’t know what to tell you. I’m always… thinking.”

“Well, you could stop thinking, for one.” Daeran spoke so bluntly that it almost sobered Emery up. Almost. “If I’m not permitted to ‘think’ myself out of this abysmal stinkhole, then neither are you.”

“Right,” Emery said. “I’ll get right on it. Heaven forbid I ignore my advisor’s, erm, advice.”

Daeran quirked an eyebrow. “Calling on Heaven so quickly? You really are an angel.”

“Stop that. Didn’t you call me a self-righteous prig? You should make up your mind.”

Daeran laughed. Emery caught a glimpse of his smile and looked away as he spoke. “Did you really mean what you said about the roses? I thought it a bit bland, even for you.”

Emery’s head was still spinning. Was it Heaven? Or the drinks? Maybe it was Daeran, but that was a notion ill-conceived and ill-entertained. “I did mean it,” he said. “My mother… erm… red roses remind me of her. I left behind a garden of them in Karcau.”

“I see.” Daeran’s tone was almost grave, and if Emery wasn’t so sure he was about to find some snide remark waiting for him, like a thorn nestled into his side, he would have thought that Daeran sounded… considerate. “Do you miss your…? No, I shan’t start with that. You’re hardly sober as it is.” That gentle tone was quickly replaced by his usual airy lightness. “You should take a leaf out of Camellia’s book, commander. This is no good look for you.”

“Being caught out drinking?” Emery set his mug down on the table between them. He shrugged. “It’s a time for celebration. It’s just the once. Twice if we count your little… bash.”

Something strange tugged at the edge of Daeran’s smile. Emery couldn’t place it. “Something like that. Would you indulge me in a walk? The air here is unbearably stuffy and rife with the stench of… well, self-righteous prigs.”

Emery resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “As you wish.” He braced his hands on the table and stood, but the spinning had lessened. “Any particular reason? Just to goad?”

“Are you hoping for something more?” Daeran turned to meet his side-eyed glance. “I’m the most honest man you’ll meet, Emery. Like I said, I came for the company.” A few seconds of silence lingered between them.

“Let me walk with you back to the doors of the Citadel. It would be unfitting if you were just staggering about the street—if amusing to watch. How’s that tremor of yours, by the way?”

“You’d know,” Emery said. The gnawing hunger had lessened as of late. Partially due to Daeran’s assistance, he was sure, but he would never admit it. Partially, he imagined, due to whatever holy blessing had fallen upon him during the siege on Drezen. “You know, I really should be asking you where you got that.”

“A gentleman never tells,” Daeran said as he stood to join him. He gestured for Emery to lead the way in weaving through the crowd to the door.

A task, Emery soon realized, was easier said than done. It didn’t matter if the searching eyes of the patrons caught his gaze or not; he was stopped no less than a dozen times, hands clasped in his as he was showered with thanks, or praise, or the rancourious laughter of a soldier that their next battle would go just as well. Cheers and toasts in his name and honor, pats on his back and overly friendly shoves—he endured them all before he was finally able to stumble out the front doors of the tavern. Daeran, smiling less than patiently at his back, emerged unscathed.

“Wasn’t that bracing?” Daeran asked as Emery shivered in the fresh winter chill. “I almost feel like a real crusader now. Don’t go too far ahead of me, Emery, I need to bask in your holy light.”

“Daeran!” Emery protested, turning to face him. His tone was a little bit sharper than he intended, and he was met with a raised brow. When he next spoke, his words were softened. “I didn’t ask for any of this, you know.”

Rather than answering, Daeran began to walk, gesturing lazily with his hand for Emery to join him. Emery, who did not think to question it for even a moment, joined him in step.

They walked in silence for several minutes, braced against the cold wind that somehow broke through the high walls of Drezen. The streets were quieter now than they had been earlier, with many of the celebrations having been taken inside of the tavern or the homes that lined the streets. Emery could still hear cheers and shouts ringing through the air, and occasionally a few drunk merrymakers staggered past them.

Emery tried to keep his eyes on the road in front of him. Celebration and merrymaking didn’t come easy to him—and how could it? He still remembered the paved stones soaked in blood, demons and crusaders alike. It was his blade that had led them all, and heralded them to their deaths. His fists clenched at his sides, so tight he could feel his nails digging into the skin of his palm. It was different from Ustalav, certainly, but he felt no less bloodied and guilty for it.

“You’re doing it again,” Daeran said. Emery blinked, looking away from the road to look at him instead. “Thinking yourself back into your own lovely little world. Would you do me a favor and take me next time, at least?”

Emery tilted his head, trying to measure Daeran up against his own words. It wasn’t his first attempt, and he imagined it wouldn’t be the last. “Are you trying to ask what I’m thinking about?”

“I only care if it’s about me,” Daeran said. Emery laughed despite himself. Between the curve of his lips and the half-lidded gaze, Emery found something expectant in Daeran’s face. He was waiting for something, and when Emery caught the full golden glow of his eyes, it was almost suffocating in its intensity.

“I meant what I said, you know,” Daeran said before Emery had the chance to puzzle out what the wanting was. Together they walked, although now it was Daeran whose eyes were upon the road. Emery trusted him to lead without putting much thought in it at all. His eyes were on Daeran. “When I had said there was nowhere else I would rather be.”

“I thought that you hated being a crusader,” Emery said, and he chuckled at the grimace that crossed Daeran’s face. “The dust of the roads, the fights, the demon guts… No baths,” he teased.

“Oh, stop,” Daeran cut in seriously. “I’d kill for a real bath. I don’t know how many more rivers I can stand to grace with my presence.”

“Well,” Emery tilted his head, “you should have a chance here now in Drezen. There’s nowhere else you’d rather be, right?”

Daeran whipped around to face him, the smile slipping from his face. “Don’t… misunderstand me. Not intentionally. You’re cleverer than that. That wasn’t what I meant. Now, come along. I won’t be accused of keeping our commander out so sinfully late.”

Emery had to pick up his pace as Daeran set off again; his legs might have been longer, but Daeran was still taller. It was a short distance from the streets where they were walking to the lower stairway of the citadel, and it was there that they would part ways; Emery to go up to sleep and Daeran to… go wherever it was that Daeran went when he wasn’t actively causing trouble.

Emery took a few uncertain steps up the stairs before turning back to look at Daeran. “Ask me again next time. Whatever it is I’m thinking about, I’ll tell you.”

“Commander Emery,” Daeran chuckled, resting his weight on the edge of the bannister. He crossed his arms over his chest. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say that you were trying to open yourself up to me.”

Emery was grateful that he had, at least, the cider and the cold winds upon which to blame the flush on his cheeks. “Maybe I am.”

“Careful now,” Daeran said. “Or you just might fall in love with me. Good night, Emery.”

[girldraki]

i think generally to the extent jo and el would have shipping thoughts about dmsh it would be, as mentioned, heavily frcille focused whereas esda would actually be drawn to the yaois (matter of personal relation to the characters involved in both cases). obviously the way this shakes out is esda does a 45 minute apology stream titled “i’m sorry, women” composed of standard Youtube Apology speechmaking as, simultaneously, sims of the various male characters are forced to navigate a scary maze

[leftistfeminista]

“Venda Sexy” location of sexual torture of leftist women, has been seized by the Chilean state

Even the name "Venda Sexy" or "Sexy Blindfold", also known as the Discotheque, is evocative of its meaning. This was a sexual hell for women, but a place of recreation for Junta guards. With terms like Discotheque evocative of a dancing night club. For years Feminist activists in Chile have campaigned to repossess the property and turn it into a memorial museum. But the owners repeatedly refused. Even offering to sell it at a lower price to private developers rather than what the state offered. Finally the Chilean stated has forcibly expropriated the property.

The Association of Memory and Human Rights Iran 3037 reported that after long years of struggle, the State expropriated the property called "Cuartel Tacora" or "Sexy Blindfold" by the National Intelligence Directorate (DINA). 

This property was used as a center of torture and extermination by the civil and military dictatorship and had already been declared a Historic Monument by the Ministry of Housing and Urban Planning in 2016.

The expropriation decree was published on September 1 in the Official Gazette, thus culminating the desire of said association to preserve the memory of the survivors and search for justice for the victims of the dictatorship who were in this place.

Alejandra Holzapfel, survivor and spokesperson for the Association, pointed out that "after years of resistance and struggle, we welcome this achievement", pointing out that "for the first time in the history of Chilean jurisprudence we managed to have it recognized and classified as a crime the actions of sexual political violence against the prisoners during the dictatorship, since in this place bloody procedures were experimented with, aberrant procedures that included the use of animals against young people and prisoners”.

The survivor and spokeswoman Alejandra Holzapfel recalled that "33 compañer@s disappeared in terrifying circumstances from this place and hundreds of us managed to survive to continue with renewed strength the denunciations and active struggles that were necessary to recover this property as Chilean patrimony, in protection of our historical memory and prevent the misrepresentations and denial promoted by various sectors of the country”. 

A swimming pool and a luxurious dining table isn't what we usually associate with a torture chamber. But it was part of the deliberate misogynist, patriarchal, fascist tactics of the Junta to demean and demoralize leftist women. To trivialize our suffering. To reduce leftist girls to ornaments and playthings, rather than a serious political threat.

From the memoirs of a MIRista college activist-

As we heard the truck begin to slow down, all of us braced ourselves. Although naked and blindfolded, I reached out to woman sitting next to me, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. Sofia had been a real support over the past few days as we were captured and arrested, and the mere knowledge she was there calmed me as I considered what was to come. Still, we braced ourselves as we prepared for whatever torture awaited us on the other end, the cold metal of the truck freezing against our bare asses.

"Comrades." Maria began, in her usual speechmaking voice. While some of us had known her for years and others only days, we didn't even need to be able to see her for all of us to play attention when she spoke, she just had that air about her. "I don't know what awaits us outside this truck. I have no doubt that they hope to break us. That all of us may very well experience pain the likes of which we've never felt or even imagined before. But we have to fight. Cooperate and we'll find ourselves shot once we've outlived our uselessness, dying for nothing but their own vindication. If we fight then it will be hard, and we may die, but we'll die free. That's something they'll never be able to understand".

Some of us wondered if there was a bit more to Maria's speech after the pause, but the vehicle's abrupt stop meant that it was time to put those words into action. And I intended to do exactly that, as did Sofia. Like I said, Maria was the kind of woman who you'd follow into hell, and although we couldn't see we all knew that she'd no doubt have a look on her face as though she intended to singlehandedly fight every fascist alive, I think we all got a bit of her courage too. For a few moments.

All of us felt ourselves pulled out the truck by hard masculine hands, and despite a few angry grunts we couldn't offer much resistance. One of the first things I felt was sunlight and gentle wind, almost as though I were outside, leading me to believe we'd been taken to a camp. Nobody spoke, but the next thing I heard was splashing of water and panicked screams. Immediately I started preparing myself to be waterboarded, taking long deep breaths.

As the blindfold got removed, I honestly froze for a few moments, unsure what on earth to do on think. I saw in front of me what almost looked like a holiday resort, with a large pool filled with bits of cloth and sun loungers everywhere. The army of shirtless soldiers and smirking generals shattered any illusions of pleasure, but at the time it causes so many question I could barely even process what was going on.

I remember seeing the sight in front of me as Maria and the other leaders were getting dunked into the pool mercilessly, as each guard took the chance to joyously slap their rear following each dunk. I even saw one of them tear out a woman's earring, before roughly stabbing her body with it. I saw Maria's mouth move under the water, but I had no idea if that was screams or a triumphant speech.

"Listen up, whores." One of the soldiers began, pacing back and forth as he faced us and let his eyes wander over our bodies. "In the pool you'll find bikinis. Get one. You may only use your teeth. If you don't, you'll be taken to the facility, although we haven't decided yet if we'll start with whipping or electro-shocks. There aren't enough bikinis for all of you." He calmly declared, smiling at all of us as he waited a few moments for it to sink in. "Better move quickly."

I remember the panic the moment he finished, and the feeling as someone behind me pushed me out of the way, desperate to get her own swimwear first. A few of the women fell over each other. Someone tripped and went face first into the pool. In desperate panic to avoid torture, I charged forward as well, reaching down with my mouth to bite a pair of bottoms. I saw the matching bra, and moved for it, but so did Sofia.

Barely thinking, I stuck out my arm, prompting Sofia to trip into the pool as well. Without thinking, I grabbed the bra and jumped to the side, gripping the swimwear with my teeth as though it were my most prized possession, snarling like an animal who's just caught her meal. One of the guards smiled at me.

I watched the scene unfold as it slowly set in what I just did. I saw Sofia frantically splash about in the water, desperate to find her own pair as they all slowly disappeared, all the while the screams of our leaders reminding us of the alternative. Then finally, they were all gone. A large handful of women got picked up afterwards by the guards, including Maria and Sofia.

"Oh, I can't wait to hear you scream once I start shocking these tits, you Marxist whore!" One guard shouted as he roughly slapped Sofia's chest, before gripping her tightly against his body, feeling every inch of her. She screamed, but nobody cared. I couldn't take my eyes away as I watched her disappear behind the door, screaming even louder.

"Outfits on, whores. We're going to have lots of fun today!" The man from earlier shouted, and we all obediently did put on our bikinis. To be honest I was just grateful to have a bit of decency, even if it was something I'd normally never get caught dead in. As I looked around at the panicked expressions of my compatriots, things only got more complicated as we saw more men march towards us.

One of us got picked up and sat next to the pool with some old man. One rather large man picked up three girls and made them lie on top of him like he was a god. I was unfortunate to be picked up by a man easily old enough to be my father and with a burning hatred in his eyes. He dragged me along to a seat by the poolside and wrapped me over his knee.

"Get- Get your hands off..." I began protesting, not entirely sure where I was going with this but just doing it out of instinct. He responded with a firm slap on my ass through the thin fabric of the bikini, followed by the feeling of his groping hands roaming all over my body, prompting my skin to crawl.

"Watch your tongue, you little slut. You know this is your place. You know is what socialist cunts like you deserve. Tell me, that you deserve this. Tell me that a slut like you wants this." He ordered, before giving me a series of harsh slaps again, each prompting an even louder scream.

"I... I..." I was completely dumbfounded, unable to even comprehend these demands. I thought that there's no way I'd degrade myself like that for his amusement, even in this position. Right in front of me was the sight of the man from earlier with the three girls, as he groped two with both his hands as he roughly raped the third, in clear daylight. To my left was one man lying at the side of the pool, gripping a girl in either arm and letting his hands wander all over there bodies as they both looked away disgusted.

[thoughtlessarse]

Narendra Modi’s electoral success in Gujarat between 2001 and 2014 and on the Indian scene since then stems from his novel blend of populism and Hindu nationalism (Hindutva). Hindutva grew out of the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (National Volunteer Organization, RSS), a paramilitary-style nationalist group founded in 1925 to bulk up young Hindus both physically and morally so they could stand up to Muslims, who were depicted as a danger to the majority. Modi joined the RSS as a child and devoted his life to it, pursuing no other careers and even living apart from his wife. He rose through the ranks, eventually becoming the chief minister of Gujarat (his home state) in 2001. The following year, he oversaw an anti-Muslim pogrom that left some 2,000 dead— a strategy of religious polarization that won him the December 2002 regional elections. Similar successes in 2007 and 2012 made Modi the obvious prime ministerial candidate for his Bharatiya Janata Party (Indian People’s Party, BJP) in 2014. But he left behind the RSS tradition of collective decision-making, putting himself front and center and striving to connect directly with “his” people. Rather than relying on the activist network, Modi held rally after rally where he showcased his flair for speechmaking. He also founded his own television channel, worked social media, and employed a revolutionary strategy: using holograms to simultaneously lead one rally in hundreds of places. Modi even distributed masks printed with his likeness to deepen supporters’ identification with him. In short, he saturated the public arena so as to embody the masses—a task made easier by his low-caste origins, on which he has built a complete narrative. (He worked as a teaboy in his father’s shop.) However, the “masses” meant only the Hindu majority, which he was busy stirring up against one target in particular: Muslims. As in the 2014 elections, in 2019 “Moditva”—Modi’s idiosyncratic hybridization of right-wing nationalist ideology, Hindutva and a personality cult—triumphed on the strength of BJP landslides in the north and west. This success allowed him to bend to his will both the RSS and the BJP—whose MPs had ridden to victory on his coattails—fashioning a government of faithfuls and a parliament of yes-men. The other institutions soon succumbed too—even the Supreme Court, once a beacon of independence. In the summer of 2014, Modi advanced a constitutional reform that would have changed the appointment process for judges, until then picked by a collegium of peers. His co-optation, opposed by the entire political class, would have replaced the collegium with a five-member commission. The Supreme Court eventually declared the amendment unconstitutional, but Modi still got his way: Of the nominees submitted by the collegium, his government finalized appointments only for those he liked. The court thus resigned itself to proposing candidates who were apt to please him.

continue reading

[kiki-de-la-petite-flaque]

It is almost impossible to write about writing. I remember once after giving a poetry reading I asked the students, “Any questions?” One of them asked me, “Why do you write?” And I answered, “Why do you wear that red shirt?”

Being a writer is damning and difficult. If you have a talent it can leave you forever while you are sleeping one night. What keeps you going in the game is not easy to answer. Too much success is destructive; no success at all is destructive. A little rejection is good for the soul but total rejection creates cranks and madmen, rapists, sadists, drunkards, and wife-beaters. Just as too much success does.

I too have been misled by the Romantic concept of writing. As a youth I saw too many movies of the great Artist, and the writer was always some tragic and very interesting chap with a fine goatee, blazing eyes, and inner truths springing to his tongue continually. What a way to be, I thought, ah. But it isn’t so. The best writers that I know talk very little, I mean those who are doing the good writing. In fact, there is nothing duller than a good writer. In a crowd or even with one other person, he is always busy (subconsciously) recording every goddamned thing. He is not interested in speechmaking or being the Life of the Party. He is greedy; he saves his juices for the typewriter. You can talk away inspiration, you can destroy god-given genius with your mouth. Energy will only spread so far. I too am greedy. One must be. The only juices that can be given up, the only time that can simply be given away is the time for Love. Love gives strength; it breaks down inbred hatreds and prejudices. It makes the writing more full. But all other things must be saved for the work. A writer should do most of his reading while he is young; as he starts to form, reading becomes destructive—it takes the needle off the record.    

A writer must keep performing, hitting the high mark, or he is down on skid row. And there’s no way back up. For after some years of writing, the soul, the person, the creature becomes useless to operate in any other capacity. He is unemployable. He is a bird in a land of cats. I’d never advise anybody to become a writer, only if writing is the only thing which keeps you from going insane. Then, perhaps, it’s worth it.

Charles Bukowski, from The House of Horrors

[gothyanki]

I just rediscovered the Unbroken Circle of Zerthimon texts from Planescape: Torment (it has been A While) and I am SHOUTING. It's a githzerai religious text, so obviously not an unbiased source in-universe - but still very interesting wrt early gith lore and Gith-Zerthimon characterisation. Vlaakith is not mentioned, but that absence in itself gives me a lot of thoughts about where she might fit in.

Some disjointed notes, v. messy because I'm tired:

The implications and phrasing of the First Circle are disturbing in terms of where it places the blame for illithid slavery (and this is a teaching direct from Zerthimon himself, if Dak'kon is to be believed).

Early illithids didn't grasp the concept of metal weaponry because "all their weapons were made of flesh". Hmmm.

Gith and Zerthimon founded two separate rebellions using different methods - Zerth in the shadows, Gith using a more direct approach. Both were powerful leaders in their own right, but "even Zerthimon" eventually laid his sword at Gith's feet.

"In hearing her words, he wished to know war. He knew not what afflicted him, but he knew he wished to join his blade to Gith. He wished to give his hate expression and share his pain with the illithid." Oh, there's a lot going on here - the kind of leader Gith was (highly charismatic speechmaker who knew how to utilise/weaponise her followers' emotions!), Zerth's relationship to her, his mental state. He is Struggling.

Zerth had an ally named Vilquar who turned spy and helped the illithids hunt down members of the rebellion; in turn, he tricked Vilquar into thinking the uprising had been foiled, (presumably?) knowing that V would be killed once he was no longer considered useful. Which is exactly what happened! (Love this insight into Z's methods. Also, it adds some real bite to a fic line I just wrote where Gith taunts Z about his followers being less loyal than hers.)

Even though it's a biased source, it seems to be quite fair to Gith; she's described in complimentary terms as a "warrior-queen" (when/how did the gith in general adopt monarchist terminology?) and the description of the schism sounds pretty neutral/similar to how the 'yanki describe it. Definitely much kinder to her than githyanki texts are to Z and his followers! (Can we just put this one down to 'zerai philosophy, or is it an actual reflection of G and Z's feelings on each other during/after the breaking of their alliance?)

Veeeery interesting to think of the 'yanki/'zerai split not as a fracture that developed later on, but a case of two different philosophies grafted uneasily on to each other that were fraught with division from the start. Maybe not even the only two - just the core two that survived.

[thevalleyisjolly]

The shadow of Ruidus looms over the Hellcatch Valley as it has for weeks ever since the Solstice.  Red magic crackles and lightning screams as in the skies, Imogen and Liliana face each other once more; below, claws unsheathe and weapons glint and the smell of smoke chokes the air as the rest of Bells Hells make their attacks against a coolly focused Otohan Thull.  As friends and allies alike concentrate their efforts on the Malleus Key, an unbothered Ludinus continues to monologue about gods and mortals and might, seemingly unconcerned with the spitting mad monk and furious wizard doing their best to break through his defences.

All of a sudden, a strange tinny blare of trumpets, almost staticky in sound, fills the air.  There is a loud crash of something metal, a quick thump-thump like a marching drumbeat.  For the first time in his speechmaking, Ludinus pauses in confusion.  Appearing over the top of the ridge, a short figure with immaculate red victory curls and what seems like an entire one-man-band on their back scrabbles down the slope, instruments clanging and banging the whole way down, the wax cylinder on their belt continuing to proclaim the daring adventures of the Darrington Brigade.

As Ludinus stares, bemused, at this latest interruption, a large, dark shadow falls over his head.  This is all the warning anyone gets before a 9 foot tall ogre wearing goggles falls out of the sky and just misses landing on Ludinus by a hair.  It is, however, sufficient distraction for an elven woman with a mantle of dark raven feathers to dispel Ludinus’ magical shields.  Seconds later, a flurry of cobalt-blue fists and a dunamantic dragon are beating his ass to a pulp.