#Undying Umbrage

[vocabwordoftheday]

Today’s Vocabulary List

Golgotha: the place of Jesus’ crucifixion.  From the Aramaic word for “skull”

Gumshoe: a detective

Gutsy: marked by courage, pluck, or determination

Nostalgic: inspiring longing for a past time or condition

Terror: intense or overwhelming fear

Testify: to express or declare a strong belief; to bear witness

Tipsy: mildly intoxicated

Umbra: the darkest part of the shadow cast by a celestial body during an eclipse

Umbrage: offense or resentment

Undying: endless, everlasting, permanent

Uranus: the seventh planet from the sun

[mmmmalo]

Or you could take it as another instance of LARGE UTTERANCE, turning Undying Umbrage into yet another synonym of Lord English, I guess. But the shit joke takes priority

If uranianUmbra is a butthole joke (the dark of ur anus) I suppose we have a corresponding duty to draw the "umber" out of undyingUmbrage and imagine an endless snake of shit

[i0101101i]

undying umbrage 🥩

[lightdancer1]

The original pantheon I've invented turns up in only one of the ATLA AUs:

The Lightdancer is a recurring character using one of her names, the Unmaker. She's the one walking around with a constellation-gaze of nine suns, black and blue striped hair, and whose impatience with the Hundred Year War leads her to smack around her arch-nemesis in a scene that backfires abysmally and leads to the infodump chapter that's the next one to write in By Fire and Water and Earth and Air. She's the most benevolent of the cosmic entities but still rather snooty because even the most benevolent of them exists across entire multiverses and views any single planet in them with the same attention humans would give the components of a bacterium, in all truth, even when she's the most personally involved.

The Shadow-woman is the most metafictionally aware one of the bunch, a true-neutral character who can be either hero or villain. She also happens to wear American English, a language that does not exist in the ATLA-verse, trolls Admiral Zhao for funsies, and hijacks the narrative in the Ember Island Players because that's what she does in the original fiction. All the ATLA-verse knows her as is the 'shadows that come alive and have a thousand eyes and voices.' At least until the Ember Island Players scene (which will have analogues in all my ATLA stories because the metafictional satire appropriate to each universe is too tempting not to do).

And then there's the villain of the piece. The God on the Gilded Throne, Azar the Undying Flame, the Hunger that Stalks the Stars, Zezhelanzunui. In this world she first poked holes in the ATLA-verse's metaphysical foundations in the time of Avatar Salai, then pulled a Pennywise and literally fell like a meteor from the sky in the time of Avatar Yangchen. In this AU the Avatars face in addition to all the usual suspects a cosmic horror of a species that treats multiverses like humans treat marbles.....*and they actually contain this force and bind it within their universe because they're that awesome.*

Agni in this universe promises Yangchen a world of everlasting war and she eradicates war for her lifetime.

Agni tries to usurp the spirit world and use it as her first vector of infection. Avatar Kuruk completely undoes this and binds her and entraps her as a dangerous spirit with eerie eldritch abomination factors but deprives her of her full set of power and ability to tap into them (helped by her lucidity fading for a long time in this world).

Avatars Kyoshi and Roku keep her bound while being completely awesome in their own ways....and then Sozin kills Roku and Aang gets iceberged for a year after the Azar pulls a time-travel stunt to try to kill and eat Aang as an infant and targeting Korra while she was at it because the Urhalzantrani don't exist in linear time and are quantum singularities in a quantum multiverse.....and then after 100 years Aang's absence has deranged the spirit world.

Agni has had 100 years of war and the twin poles of the Dai Li and the Fire Nation Royal Family worshiping her and helping her to snap the seals and goes right back to trying to absorb and eat the entire ATLA-verse by using the Avatar's world as the infection vector to do it.

The reason that the Avatars can neatly confine the cosmic horror is that the drawback of metafictional awareness has one logical weakness. *IF* the eldritch entities can be drawn into obeying the rules of the world they're in rather than imposing their own, they become defeatable like other villains in those worlds in those terms. If, however, they remember they don't have to do this they're fucked.

And it's this intermittently lucid omniversal entity that the Ursa of the By Fire and Water and Earth and Air verse explodes an eye of twice because she had a habit of using Ursa's form to torment her children for shits and giggles and Ursa takes a *slight* amount of umbrage at it. And then it turns out that making an entity that exists beyond a multiversal level mad at you and noticing you personally is a *really,, really* bad idea.

The Avatar verse of By Fire and Water and Earth and Air is playing the Hundred Year War on hard mode and they're still winning because the good guys win, but they sure have to work for it and the Azula of that world, after encountering cosmic horrors and the like just neatly retires and disappears into obscurity raising her daughters Lin and Suyin with Toph in the swamp like Yoda.

This Azula also goes through a worse wringer than all the other ones, and has the 'I'm done, I'll finish what I started and then i quit and not even the return of Agni would drag me back into the bullshit' reaction after the latest bit of a catastrophe affecting her. Though if she were dropped into the alternate universes she'd come across as a dour and embittered person capable of extraordinarily effective violence at the drop of a hat, next to the other two Azulas.

Of course this one also gets stuck in the Fire Nation Royal Family and has a repeated experience that this family lies to itself and hurts itself and doesn't want any part of it whatsoever, and is the only one of her family smart enough to take that path....which ironically in a sense makes her more or less the parallel of canon Ursa. She just walks out of their lives, goes to spend some time with Iroh in Colonialism Inc. and then as far as her world goes she vanishes into the ether and is never seen again.

[sabraeal]

I'd like to ask for a promt about Seven suitors again...*blushes*.....It would be interesting to read about a dialogue between Haki and Izana when they're talking about the birth of the twins with relief - then they start to talk about Shirayuki and Obi and their help :3 (some appreciation of Izana like "you did well" :D )

With all his great foresight, this is one moment Izana, King of Clarines, had not ever imagined: entering his wife’s birthroom, heir in arm, to meet his son.

His second son. He has two now, just like his father.

It’s a sobering thought, easily forgotten when his brother’s – when Shirayuki opens the door, smiling bright, and just over her shoulder he can make out sweaty whorls of gold on the pillows.

“She’s tired,” Shirayuki murmurs, stepping aside, giving the first glimpse of his wife he’s had since he laid her in this bed.

She’s pale against the undyed sheets, hair limp where it winds over the flannel – but she is also radiant, the most holy thing he has seen. Even in exhaustion, her face is ethereal, every inch a mother goddess with their son in her arms. The golden curls that fan out over the pillows are merely her halo, burnished in the dim candlelight, as distinct as if each one of them were picked out in stained glass.

Shirayuki comes to stand beside him, smiling softly at the boy in his arms. “Haki’s had a big day.”

He hardly hears her, every part of him is straining towards the woman in bed and the swaddled bundle in her arms. “That,” he manages, stepping past, “is an understatement.”

He expects her to take umbrage, to take him to task for his tone after all she’s done, but instead she laughs softly. “You have no idea, Your Majesty.”

“I hope,” his wife croaks wearily from the bed, “that you do not plan to linger at the threshold all night, husband.”

He draws to the foot of the bed, uncertain of his welcome should he come closer. “I only wanted to increase my anticipation.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Did it work?”

“No,” he says, breathless, “I already missed you as much as a man could his wife.”

He doesn’t know how to read the shine in her eyes; no one has ever looked at him as she does.

Haki pats the mattress. “Well, come then. Let us trade sons. I’m eager to meet the troublemaker who caused all this.”

“He’s an angel.” The words are out of his mouth before he knows he’s spoken them, and – and he does not recall ever saying such a thing with this amount of fondness, not since his mother laid Zen in his arms.

“That little one turned his brother around in the womb,” she tells him crossly, arms outstretched. “Someone forgot to tell him his battles were done for the day.”

“My fault, I take it.” He unfurls beside her, lifting his second son from her arms.

“You are the oldest son of your mother, and you do like to torture your brother –”

“Torture is a very strong word –”

“– And I would have taken it as a courtesy if you had given our little warrior here a talk about how he did not need to kick his brother on the way out.”

“I’ll endeavor not to miss such an opportunity next time,” he tells her, with as much solemnity as he can muster. It isn’t much; his mouth refuses to stay flat with his son in his arms.

“Next time,” she sighs, following with a long groan. “Let us survive the first, and then we shall talk about next time.”

He feels a hard lump beneath the swaddle, and gingerly he pulls it from around his chubby, ruddy, grunting son, like pulling sepals from a bud.

“She says it’s too early to know,” Haki tells him, a waver in her voice, “but Shirayuki’s confident it will heal straight and true.”

He wraps the babe tightly once more, pausing only to lay a fierce kiss upon his son’s golden head. “What happened?”

“He was coming the wrong way, and the cord wrapped around his neck.” She swallows hard. “They had to pull, and not gently.”

“Oh, wife,” he sighs, leaning close to press a kiss upon her brow as well, “you have done us more than could have been asked.”

She yawns, leaning her head upon his shoulder, their first son sweetly nestles against her breast. “Us?”

He hesitates. “Me. You have done me a greater service than you will ever know.”

“Mm,” she laughs tiredly, sinking into the arm that he wraps around her, “perhaps more than you will ever know.”

“Perhaps.” He looks down at her, meeting the eyes that won’t stay open. “I’m proud of you. Immeasurably so.”

Her eyelids flutter, but still she manages, “I will always be your greatest ally.”

Izana smiles. “You are my wife.”

“They are not always the same,” she tells him.

Ah, how well he knows that. “Sleep, wife,” he murmurs against her hair. “You’ve done your work today.”

“Ah,” she sighs, half asleep. “I think the work is only just beginning.”

[seldomdrawncherubs]

uu: IT IS I. uNDYING uMBRAGE. YOuR PATRON MANBRO. AND GuIDE IN ALL THINGS RELATED. TO BEING AN ALPHA CHAD.

uu: YOu ARE SHOWING FAR MORE OF YOuR POTENTIAL. THAN MANY OF YOuR COuNTERPARTS. THANKS TO THE EFFECTS. OF THE LOLLIPOP.

uu: HELLO, JAKE HuMAN.

uu: YOu LOOK MAGNIFICENT. A GREAT IMPROVEMENT.

Caliborn from @seldomdrawncherubs

T! J: What?

T! J: Did you say-- Caliborn?

T! J: Sorry, but my memory is a bit hazy so it's not ringing any bells at the moment

T! J: But, thanks, i guess

T! J: What? When did this come back?

T! J: ugh

T! J: Alright I'll bite. Who are you?

[sntechsupport]

Do you take responsibility for the actions of Undying Umbrage and terminallyCapricious during the course their sessions that ended up effecting post scratch Beforus and both versions of earth, also including countless doomed timelines and dream bubbles. The sheer amount of paradoxes and shenagnains in those sessions are unprecedented.

No, we don’t take responsibility for that.

Blaming us for it is like blaming a gun factory for mass school shooting.

SincerelySN Tech Support (Gear)

[hypnopabinia]

In which StellarWind Elsydeon shuts down a particular brain hero.

So. Here I am, warning a n00b for a few RP forum infractions as they’ve obviously not read the rules, when it responds with these absolutely glorious PMs:

Most of the time, I don’t even bother gracing idiot children such as this with a response before dealing with them as appropriate - but this one... something about its plight clearly warranted an explanation, and so I put together a response, which I do believe is worth documentation for posterity. It went a little something like this...

"Dear clueless child.

I've received your letter of complaint, unimaginatively titled "Why", and I would like to offer a retort to the points you've brought up.

First of all, I notice that you take offense at my username - which has served me well for longer than you have been alive. I apologize that it is not up to your standards, but you must realize that it is very hard to take an insult to one's username seriously when the insult in question is coming from a garble of letters containing the word 'Ninja' and the non-word 'Da' in a combination the likes of which have been used by just about any other child around your age using an tryhard name in order to project the illusion of being far edgier and 'cooler' than they would ever hope to be. A little bit of individual thought and originality goes a long way - but that would be asking too much of your kind - so we'll let that slide for a moment.

Second, I see you take umbrage at our rules - which is mostly unfortunate for you as our rules have been serving our website and our community loyally in attempting to maintain a degree of quality and consistency between players and preventing an awful lot of unnecessary drama. You may think they are too harsh, but unfortunately for you - you don't make the rules, we do. This is not a democracy - if you do not like our rules, you are most emphatically welcome to leave.

Third, the term you're looking for is "nitpicking". If you are not familiar with the etymology of the term, allow me to direct your attention to Wikipedia. "Nitpicking is the act of removing nits (the eggs of lice, generally head lice) from the host's hair." (...) "As nitpicking inherently requires fastidious, meticulous attention to detail, the term has become appropriated to describe the practice of meticulously searching for minor, even trivial errors in detail (often referred to as "nits" as well)." 'Knitpicking' means absolutely nothing, although the idea of picking at things with knitting needles is an interesting notion for a pastime. I'll be sure to mention it to individuals with an interest in that particular craft.

Fourth, I smell because I have olfactory receptors, as do most human beings. The sense of smell is certainly important for survival. If you're attempting to imply body odour, I'm afraid that you've got that dead wrong - could you be mistaking the smell of the manure you've been spewing from your keyboard as coming from me? Easy mistake to make, for sure.

Fifth - I'm a bit confused - what are you implying we dose our rules with? The rules require no medication, and they most certainly aren't taking any controlled substances. The same cannot be said for our userbase, as clearly evident here.

Sixth - That is not even a complete sentence. Try again, in English. If you meant "Why DO you suck?", that would be due to the vacuum chamber suffering a tragic decompression. Science waits for no man!

Seventh - I am sure that episodes of Barbie would be more entertaining to you than dealing with me - because surely a blonde CGI doll designed to be conventionally attractive would be more appealing to the sensitivities of a child and/or a teenager than a biomechanical abomination from across the threshold of dimension. It is very brave of you to admit your obvious undying love to a series based around a toy usually coded for the opposite gender in this hypermasculine environment male-children are often raised in. Kudos to you!

Eighth - in regards to your secondary PM, in which you stated that "Darkness arises is not your post. You can't say whats going to happen next. Ban me, and im going to ad on every accoutant i find. Good day to you, Sir!". While it is true that this is not my RP, it takes place on a forum that I am an administrator in, and thus must comply with our rules. Thus, I'm afraid that if the thread-starter (which was not you either)'s judgment regarding something in the thread is not in line with our judgment, what we say still goes. See point #2 re: us not being a democracy.

Also, while we admire your interest in advertising accountants, you should probably do that in a place more appropriate for this particular action. We have little use for accountants.

And lastly - flaming and making threats at any member of Pokecharms is not a very wise idea, is against our global rules and generally results in moderation of one's account. Flaming a staff member, repeatedly - now that takes a particular breed of stupidity.

We hope you find this retort informative, and that you enjoy the rest of your stay on Pokecharms.com in the pile of users set permanently read only. In your own (overused) words, Good day, sir. ^^"

[enddaysengine]

Steelbound Fighter (Fighter Archetype, Eberron)

Nostalgia is a powerful force, and I've talked about it in many different contexts. One of the very first RPG books I ever bought was Song and Silence, probably because as a short paperback it was one of the cheaper ones. I still remember how that book introduced me to the singing sword. This is when the concept of intelligent weapons as being awesome finally came home to me. The steelbound fighter milks that awesomeness for all it's worth, being able to invest a portion of themselves into their weapon to make it intelligent.

Canonically, steelbound fighters arise from bloodlines that have been subjugated to extended possession. In Eberron, this does not necessarily have to be the case. It could be entirely possible, for example, that some fighters who barely escaped the Mourning channel the spirits of Cyre's dead into their weapon instead of learning how to specialize in wielding swords or axes. By the same token, a Cultist of the Dragon Below could have learned a ritual to infuse a rakshasa spirit, a broken soul, or sentient blood into their weapons of war. You could also go with a relatively simple route, such as a kalashtar fighter with a stronger than normal bond to their quori spirit, allowing the spirit to manifest within a spear. A Cannith heir tinkering with weapons to make them more like warforged also works perfectly in the context of the archetype.

The key with steelbound fighters is that the archetype is highly flexible. Don't fret over what the ultimate source of the intelligent weapon is. It could be divine, arcane, psionic, occult, or dumb luck. Whatever way you swing it, this archetype gives you a lot of flexibility in creating a fighter with occult, esoteric, or religious themes.

Professor Dyck ir'Tain at Morgrave University is quick to take an interest in the party's steelbound fighter. Some may take umbrage with the unsolicited badgering, but in truth, the professor honestly just wants to try to establish the arcane underpinnings of the fighter's intelligent weapon. If the party is willing to act as his representatives, the professor is prepared to be their patron and asks them to seek out steelbound fighters from Valenar, Droaam, Karrnath, Thrane, and even Riedra. Some of these fighters consider their weapons to be a divine gift, however, and they may not take well to the party's inquiries.

The Steelbound Captains of Farlnen are rare but legendary. The ghosts of great elven pirates are bound not to the Steelbound's ships, but directly to their bloodlines, periodically emerging in the weapons of worthy heirs to their legacy. These Bloodsails have an intense rivalry with similar traditions amongst both the Undying Court and the Tairnadal Elves, who mutually view the necromancy used in the process to be foul, and spirits as being unworthy of such an immortal honour. 

Disciples of the Lord of Blades have become more common in Aruldusk in recent months. They are lead by a fighter that calls itself Prophet. Many Thranes are quick to dismiss Prophet's claims that the Godforged speak to it, but its awakened bastard sword disagrees. The problem is that the consciousness in the sword emanates from a shard of Rak Tulkhesh's prison that was used in Prophet's creation.

Note: Want more archetype ideas? Go to @dailycharacteroption !

[superninjaviolinist]

The Girl With The Black Dragon Tattoo, Chapter 3

I would find out much, much later, what all this future-talk meant, but at that point I was overtaken by overwhelming panic. Romance and love? Big fat red flags in my book. It’s how I was lured before and I swore to myself that I’d never let it happen again.

I took a step back from the brothers. “Stay away from me.”

“Eva, wait—“ Sam started to say.

I began moving faster towards the Continental. “Both of you just stay the hell away from me!”

I’d automatically locked the door when I’d gotten out, and since my brain had gone stupid all I ended up doing was yank uselessly at the handle. Someone put their hand on my arm and I instinctively swiveled around and punched its owner in the face.

Dean Winchester staggered back a few steps and palmed his cheek. He whipped his gaze over to his brother. “Where the fuck did you pick her up?”

“Oklahoma.” I could swear Sam was trying not to laugh.

“Yeah, well, Busty Asian Beauty she ain’t.”

Oh. That tore it. I hate that magazine. My body was closer to Lucy Liu, the A-list actress, than Lucy Lee, the C-cup porn star, and I was tired of hunters trying to compare my more toned, small-breasted form to those squishy, silicone-enhanced inaccuracies. Time to take a stand.

I walked up to Dean and stabbed him in the chest with my finger. “You listen to me, you dim-witted, inbred hick. I don’t know what pool of stupid you crawled out of but I’m not some starry-eyed slut that’s going to fall into your arms just because you went and made up some sci-fi fairy tale!”

“It ain’t a fairy tale!” Dean shouted down at me.

“You expect me to believe that someone flew you into the future where not only am I dead, but I’d had some kind of relationship with your pretty-boy ass?”

“Yes.”

The conviction with which he said that single word took me by surprise. Either Sam’s brother was a complete lunatic or… well, we’re hunters. Weird and unusual is part of the gig. But time travel? That was stretching it. “Prove it.”

I’d apparently stunned the man. “Uh…”

“Something like this happened before,” Sam offered. “Angels have the power to transport people through time.”

“You expect me to believe that? On your word alone?” I threw my hands in the air. “You’re both crazy! Why the hell did I let you drive me all this way after that shit last night? For all I know you two are psycho killer rapists!”

For some reason Dean took a good deal of umbrage against what I’d accused him of. “We ain’t psycho… killer… what you said!”

“Eva,” Sam said gently, “what’s wrong?”

Everything. “Nothing.”

“What’s she talkin’ about, ‘last night’?” Dean asked his brother. “Did you two…?”

Both Sam and I vehemently cried, “No!” “Look,” Sam said to me, “we can still get you to Bobby’s. It’s maybe two hours out. After that, you don’t have to see us ever again.”

His sentiments were wrong, but there was no way he could have known what was to come. Our lives would eventually become so intertwined it would be impossible to separate one from the other without creating tremendous, vacuous spaces. Regardless, I warily accepted the offer of transportation. “Long as we’re going straight there.”

Dean was giving his brother the stink-eye. Sam, thankfully, was unrelenting. “Dean, I promised.”

“Fine,” grumbled the pretty-boy. “Get in the back, Xhang Xiyi.”

I put him on the receiving end of one of my finest glares. “I’m not from China, I’m from San Francisco. And I’m Korean, asshole.”

He threw up his hands in surrender and backed away. “Sorry.”

By the way, Dean still can’t tell the difference. It’s all tits and exoticism to him.

After Sam and I got our things we headed out. The tension in the car was thick; not only were the brothers still dealing with the issues had separated them, Dean was pointedly ignoring me. I had the feeling that he was embarrassed over his proclamation and was now pretending he’d never said it.

We arrived at Bobby’s around noon. I escaped the car as soon as it had rolled to a stop, not bothering to wait for Dean to kill the engine. “Hey!” he barked out the window.

“Fuck off,” I said loudly as I tore open the screen door and headed inside.

I expected to be able to throw myself into Bobby’s arms and give him a tremendously big hug. It had been several months since I’d been able to visit and I was very fond of him. He was sitting behind his desk when I walked in the study and rolled out to greet me. Bobby Singer was wheelchair-bound and I had no idea when or how. “What happened?”

Before he could answer, Dean yanked me out of the room, nearly tearing my arm from its socket in the process. He shoved me up against the hallway wall and pressed one of his forearms against my neck. “Don’t you know not to go barging into people’s houses like that?”

“Let me go. Now.”

“I’d take heed, son,” Bobby said. He sounded way too amused by the situation.

“You know her?” Dean asked incredulously.

Bobby didn’t bother answering. Instead, his eyes flicked downwards. When Dean complied with the silent request he found one of the small daggers I kept up my sleeves pointed directly at the V of his jeans. He grimaced at me. “Now that’s just rude.”

“Me and Eva go back a ways,” Bobby answered. “No need to get your undies in a bunch.”

Reluctantly, Dean backed away. “How?”

“None of your business,” I snapped at him. In a far more sympathetic tone, I repeated my query to Bobby. “What happened?”

“Demon,” he replied succinctly as Sam came in bearing my saddlebags. “Guess that thing down in Oklahoma didn’t go so well.”

“Steve’s dead,” Sam said quietly. “The others got away.”

“Still don’t explain why Eva didn’t come here on her own wheels.”

“Because those fuckers ran over my bike!” I exclaimed.

“On purpose?”

“On purpose.”

“Dickhead move. What did you do?”

Yeah, okay, he was right to assume it was my fault; Bobby knew my mouth tended to run faster than my brain. Except this time I had the upper hand. “Tim-fucking-Janklow sucker-punched me and then used me as bait!”

“Bait for what?”

“Me,” Sam replied. “They… Um…”

“No need, son. I get it.” The gentleness in Bobby’s tone was new to me. I’d never seen him act so paternal to anyone other than me before. Most of his relationships with other hunters were purely professional, Rufus Turner being the exception. I suppose you could call Bobby and Rufus frenemies, if you were being generous. Cantankerous old grumps with grudges would be more accurate.

The Winchesters, seeing that their duty to me was done, prepared to leave. They gave their farewells to Bobby and headed back to their car. I followed them to the porch. “Sam.”

“Yeah?”

”Thanks.”

He gave me a smile. God, the man did and still does have the cutest little dimples. “You’re welcome.”

“Say,” Dean inserted, “how do you know Bobby?”

I’d already told him to mind his business, but seeing the way Bobby acted around these two made me trust them a minuscule amount more. “He saved my life.”

“He does that a lot,” Sam said as he opened the passenger’s side door. “Well, good luck with everything, Eva.”

“See ya,” was Dean’s farewell. I waved, their engine turned over, and they were gone.

I headed back inside. “I don’t got a new bike for you, darling,” Bobby said. “But if you hang about I’m sure one’ll turn up. Unless you think you might head on home?”

Home? I didn’t have a home, not really. I had a place of origin, certainly, but San Francisco wasn’t home anymore. The old, narrow house that I grew up in was sold, its blood-spattered walls covered with thick beige paint. I wonder if the new owners know about the history of horrors their million dollars granted them. “Can I stay upstairs?” I asked. “I won’t get in your way.”

“Back in the old bedroom? Sure. You know, there’s parts and frames all around the yard. Maybe you could cobble something together.”

Put together some Frankenstein’s monster of a motorcycle? “Think I’ll just wait.”

“Suit yourself. Room and board’s same price as always.”

“Home cooked dinners and the occasional supply run. Got it.”

Bobby smiled. “Glad to have you back, Eva.”

We’d had this arrangement, at this point, for about five years. I’d get melancholy and need company, he’d get sick of canned chili, and the two of us would be housemates up until one of us needed to get on the road. Unfortunately, with Bobby’s debilitating condition the only one of us able to indulge in extracurricular activities was me, and he wasn’t shy about showing how dejected he was about it. The man found relief by plugging himself into a bottle of whiskey. Hauling up a dead weight, middle-aged, belligerent alcoholic off the floor is about as easy and delightful as it sounds.

He left at one point because of what he said was a witch. I was a little worried about the gleam in his eye, but I knew better than to pry. When Bobby got back, I was surprised to see that his spirits had risen. The older hunter merely said that he’d had a change in perspective.

A Triton motorcycle from the sixties came in shortly after the witch incident and finally answered my prayers. Some idiot had seen the handlebars and the seat as prime parts and had left the engine intact. It was going to take a bit of work, but that baby was going to be mine.

Several weeks after meeting the weirdo Winchesters I was done fixing up the Triton. The day before I’d done a test run and she moved like a dream. I was wiping the last bits of dirt and oil off it when Bobby rolled in. He gave an appreciative whistle. “That is one mighty fine lookin’ bike.”

I gave him a grin. “No backsies. She’s mine.”

“Promise is a promise.” He scratched under his hat a bit, a sure sign that whatever he had on his mind was something that made him uncomfortable. “Look, I got company coming and I don’t think you wanna be here.”

I grabbed a rag and began cleaning my hands. “What, embarrassed that some Asian chick is now King of the Scrapyard?”

He snorted derisively. “You need a couple more decades of tinkering around here before I give up that title.”

“Then what?”

“It’s Sam and Dean. They’ll be here tonight.”

Ick. “You’re right. I better get going.” I sniffed under an armpit. “Do I have time to get cleaned up?”

“Maybe. Depends on whether or not Dean or Sam is driving.”

“Better hurry then,” I said as I started jogging towards the house.

I’d showered and dressed and was putting the last of my things into my saddlebags (of course I’d gotten them replaced) when I heard a car pull up. I looked out of the window and spotted a truck. The woman getting out was around Bobby’s age: Ellen Harvelle. She strode right in and I could vaguely hear her and Bobby greet one another.

I knew the woman from when she’d managed the Roadhouse, a great bar where hunters had gathered to swap info and stories. I used to swing by whenever I was near; it was nice to talk to a woman that didn’t treat me like either a rival hunter or a stupid little girl that didn’t belong. Her daughter, Jo, and I were on friendly terms through mutual association; we both liked her mother. The place had been demolished by a demon, so I was told, and I was happy to see Ellen alive and well.

When I came down the stairs, bags in hand, I saw Bobby and Ellen in the kitchen talking quietly. I didn’t want to interrupt; I’d been brought up to respect my elders’ privacy. That all went to hell when a low, gravelly voice said from behind me, “Who are you?”

I immediately stepped forward and swung my saddlebags around to clobber whoever it was. My belongings smacked into the man’s head before bursting from their confines and scattering everywhere. Apparently I hadn’t closed them as tightly as I thought. Much to my irritation, the stranger didn’t even flinch. I drew a fist back but was arrested by Ellen shouting, “Whoa whoa whoa!” as she came rushing over.

“Cass, you idjit!” Bobby snapped as he followed her.

I let my hand drop and peered at the newcomer. He was almost the same height as Bobby, a healthy six feet, with tousled dark hair and a set of ancient blue eyes. No standard hunter gear (jeans, shirt, flannel, boots); this guy had a trenchcoat, suit, tie, and even dress shoes. It was like being stared at by a weirdly intense accountant. A handsome accountant. Which made him even more weird.

“Who is this?” the man asked, this time directed at Bobby.

“Evangeline!” Ellen cried warmly. She knew I didn’t like being hugged and settled for patting my cheeks. “It’s been a while.”

Yeah, more than a year at least. I gave her a smile. “I missed you, too. Where’s Jo?”

“Oh, she’ll be along soon. Out with those Winchester boys retrieving the Colt.” I couldn’t tell whether the woman was proud or anxious that her daughter was out with those two freaks.

Hold up. “Wait, the Colt?” I asked, astonished. “The Colt?” Everyone knew about the magical gun wrought to kill everything.

“One and only. Were you heading out? It’d be a shame if you two missed each other.”

“‘Evangeline’,” said the stranger in a thoughtful tone. “‘Bringer of good news’.”

I lifted an eyebrow without looking at him. “Someone want to tell me who special ed over here is?”

“That there’s Castiel,” Ellen replied. “He’s an angel. It’s why he doesn’t exactly have a whole lot of what you’d call ‘social graces’.”

“I’m working on it,” the angel said testily.

“Well, keep at it,” I snapped. “Learn that it’s not nice to sneak up on a girl.”

So it wasn’t love at first sight. That’s for fairy tales and silly romantic movies. In fact, it wasn’t even like at first sight. All I came away with from this encounter was the impression that he was just another big dumb idiot. It would take months, years even, for Castiel to make a dent in that thick steel wall I’d built around my heart, but when he did…

“All right, all right,” Bobby scolded, “stop trying to piss him off. Didn’t you wanna head out before Sam’n’Dean get here? Any minute now they’re gonna be drivin’ up.”

Oh shit. I immediately knelt down and started shoving things back into my saddlebags. The so-called angel stepped out of the way and Ellen joined me. I was still scrabbling for wayward arrows when the sound of an approaching engine came rumbling through Bobby’s screen door. “Sweetie,” Ellen whispered as she handed me a shirt, “you wanna tell me why you’re running from the Winchesters?”

“No time,” I answered as I zipped and buckled up. I hurried to the front door and swung it open… only to smack face first into someone’s chest.

“The hell…?” said its owner, one Dean Winchester.

I shoved passed him, nearly knocking Sam and Jo down on the way, and walked as fast I could towards the shed and my bike.

Of course, the dickhead followed me. “Eva!”

I turned around after getting my bags attached. “What?” I snapped.

“I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“For freaking you out last time! I shouldn’t have told you… you know…”

“What?” My lip curled into a sneer. “That we were destined to be? That you’re apparently going to be there holding me when I die?” I walked over to the workbench and snatched up my helmet.

Dean grabbed it out of my hands as soon as I got close enough. “Listen, we don’t know the first thing about each other—“

“You’re goddamn right.”

“—And so far the only things I know about you are that you’re hot and you’re freaking insane!”

I breezed by the first thing he said and latched onto the second. “I’m insane?”

The man gave an exasperated sigh and plunked my helmet onto the back of the Triton. “Look, we’re heading out tomorrow to take on Lucifer. Could use another hand.”

I paused. This was important. Fighting ghouls and vampires wouldn’t mean anything if Satan roasted the planet. I could be part of something big, something vital. It could be that my presence could mean the difference between someone living and someone dying.

There were, however, two big issues with Dean’s request, both of them having to do with him. For one, going up against Lucifer was suicide at best, and with Dean in attendance I had no intention of prophetically fulfilling my demise. For the other, there was no way I was going to dive into that handsome, green-eyed trap. Going into a life and death situation with the man would leave too many openings for him to show me that he was worth falling for. “No,” I said as I swung one leg over onto my bike.

Dean looked at me in disbelief, like I’d told him I hated kittens or something. “No?”

“No,” I repeated as I squished my head into my helmet. The engine purred when I turned the key and I revved the handle a few times to get Dean out of the way. He stepped back and I nearly broke the sound barrier getting away from him.

I didn’t see the Winchesters again for several months after that, thankfully. The world didn’t end but the Apocalypse kept on rolling, which meant that they’d probably failed at stopping Lucifer. When I called Bobby about it a week later he broke the news that the Harvelles had died and confirmed my suspicions about the Winchesters’ defeat.

So much time and so many hunts passed that I figured I was done with those two idiots and put thoughts of them aside. In the weeks before it all went to shit there was a werewolf in Utah and a djinn in Vegas (selling “dreams come true” of all things). Afterwards I’d headed to San Francisco and checked on my sister (still whoring it up on Geary), solved a haunting at Ghiradelli Square while I was there, drove up to Idaho for a pair of ghouls, swung all the way over to North Dakota for a nest of vamps (I loathe those assholes), and ended up in Blue Earth, Minnesota after hearing about a demon infestation.

What’s the saying? Hindsight is 20/20. If I had known how bad it was going to get I would have turned the fuck around.

Blue Earth had been taken over by the church. It’s inevitable that when you deal with Heaven and Hell you get tangled up with religious nuts. This wasn’t the first town like this I’d encountered and it wouldn’t be the last. The difference this time was that I’d ridden willingly in and now I wasn’t allowed out.

The inability to go was more due to the abnormal amount of demons surrounding the perimeter than anything else. Anyone that tried to go by freeway ended up running into a blockade. Anyone trying to go through the woods ended up dead.

I think I could have stood the isolationism if a lot of those people didn’t start seriously freaking me the fuck out. In the past seventy-two hours I’d gotten three marriage proposals, dozens of admonishments over my cleavage (you know, the minuscule amount that I had), and several lectures about my habit of using profanities. The latter two I could ignore, the first was unnerving. Couples were marching down that aisle every day, ones I suspected hadn’t even considered the other person as a viable husband/wife prior to that morning. Unfortunately, this town had more men than women, which meant that the more I refused the more frowns were thrown my way. I slept with my blade in hand just in case someone decided to rouse me in the middle of the night for a shotgun wedding.

The bartender, Paul, was the only person I could regularly stand to be around. We’d even flirted a bit, but the watchful eye of Leah Gideon and the Sacrament Lutheran Militia kept us apart.

Speaking of which: Leah Gideon, Prophet of the Lord, gave me the creeps. I don’t know how to describe it, but there was something about her that was just off. It made me want to stab her in the face.

I suppose that’s what happens when you’re the Whore of Babylon masquerading as the pastor’s daughter.

The bar Paul ran was full from lunchtime to closing due to the fact that these people knew the Apocalypse was nigh. It was strange to be around non-hunters who talked about angels and demons casually, slipping them into conversations like some people do sports teams. I suppose with the actual hellspawn around the perimeter and the Prophet talking about her connection to Heaven they had a right to be casual and supercilious about the whole thing, but it didn’t make it any less odd.

Paul was pouring me another beer when they walked in. I’d heard that strangers had rolled into town, demons hot on their tail, I just didn’t expect it to be the Winchesters. There wasn’t much I could do to hide (other than duck under a table), so I did what I could to keep my face pointed away from them. It seemed to work. Sam waltzed right on by while dialing a number on his phone and Dean plopped down at a table almost directly behind me.

I waited to see how long the giant would stay on his call. Once he started talking to Castiel’s voicemail (I didn’t know it then, but for the crime of siding with humanity Cass had been cut off from Heaven’s energy; thus the mundane communication method) I figured that was distraction enough for me to escape. I slapped a twenty down on the bar top, swiveled my stool, and took two steps towards the exit.

“Don’t think I don’t see you there.”

Shit.

“Been a while, Eva,” Dean continued. I turned around, my lips pressed tight. He was slouched in his seat facing the opposite wall and didn’t bother changing positions.

I folded my arms and glowered at the back of his head. “Not long enough.”

“How long would that have to be?”

“I was honestly hoping for, you know, forever.”

Dean gave the peanuts a wry grin. “Yeah, well, me too.”

This was weird. At the time, I didn’t know Dean very well, but I’d gotten the impression from our two rather heated encounters that he was a little more… I don’t know, alive? The way he sat, the way he spoke, it was as if whatever spark had once lit Dean Winchester had guttered out. It was disheartening, and pitiable.

What had happened to him would have been devastating to anyone, really. Dean had basically found out God had said, in terms of the Apocalypse, “Fuck it. You’re on your own.” I’m sure there were more nuances to the message He’d left, but that was the gist. Before receiving that message, Dean had already been on a steady slide towards self immolation and God’s apathy just steepened his descent. This shitstorm at Blue Earth would get him to smash right into the bottom.

Sam slipped by me to sit down with three beers. He held one up to me and gave a small smile in greeting. I’ve never been one to turn down free alcohol. “Hey, Eva,” he said as I sat. “Came here because of the same reason, I assume.”

He was at least unchanged. I nodded. “Been here couple of days already.”

“You’ve been sticking around that long?”

“It’s not a matter of ‘sticking around’. It’s a matter of ‘I can’t fucking leave’.”

Sam glanced at his brother who, I assumed, was supposed to glance back. Instead Dean kept drinking, his eye-line somewhere around his brother’s stomach.

This had passed awkward straight into excruciatingly uncomfortable. I decided to change the subject. “Who were you calling?” I asked (even though I already knew the answer).

“Cass—uh, Castiel. The angel? He said you guys met at Bobby’s and you hit him with your stuff.”

I shrugged. “That’s what he gets for sneaking up on me.”

“He probably didn’t sneak up so much as… appeared in that space.”

“Great. Do they just pop up whenever? Should I expect angels to show up in my shower at some point?” I was starting to wonder whether I could be alone and naked without fearing angelic intrusion.

Sam gave a little chuckle. “I don’t think… well…”

“The bastards are junkless,” Dean inserted. “Probably see a woman’s ass and wonder where her balls went.”

I thought back to that first encounter with Castiel. Clueless and tactless. “Well there’s one less thing to worry about.”

Sam took a swig of beer. “So any clues why the demons are circling this town in particular?”

I shook my head. “Best I could come up with was that they didn’t want the Prophet slipping through their hands.”

“Sounds reasonable.” Sam shook his head. “I can’t believe the angels are making these people do their dirty work.”

Both Dean and I asked, “Yeah? And?”

Sam blinked disbelievingly at us. “And they could get ripped to shreds!”

“They’ve got their stupid little exorcism chant,” I retorted. “Not to mention their phone line to Heaven. Believe me, these guys are a lot more prepared for slaughter than anyone else I’ve met.”

“It’s the end of the world,” Dean added dismissively. “These people ain’t freaking out, they’re runnin’ to the exit in an orderly fashion. I don’t know that that’s such a bad thing.”

“Who says they’re all gonna die?” Sam snapped back. “Whatever happened to us saving them?”

The church bells started ringing, cutting through whatever Dean was going to say (and also the biting remark I had in mind). I sighed and spent a few seconds chugging down the rest of my beer, a good three-quarters of the bottle. When I was done, I found both brothers goggling at me. Apparently girls in their world didn’t really drink. “What? Ding dongs mean Leah’s had another vision. Time for church. You two coming?”

“You know me,” Dean said with a ghost of his former spunk. “Downright pious.”

The Prophet had seen demons about five miles out all gathered nice and neat in an abandoned farmhouse. This all stank of setup and stupidity but it wasn’t like anyone was going to listen to the drunk old maid who’d rambled into town a few days ago. The only thing of any real consequence occurred when Pastor Gideon began the Lord’s Prayer. “Our Father, who art in Heaven…”

Dean was right behind me. Under his breath he muttered, “Yeah, not so much.” When I turned around, puzzled, he shifted, but didn’t acknowledge my silent query.

The raid itself went without a hitch. People running about chanting their little chant and black smoke flying out of the windows like someone had let loose really ugly balloons. It was afterwards when it all went to shit.

Most of us had already left, me included. Sam and Dean had lingered and so had Dylan, the son of some locals (Rob and Jean? Jane?). Not all the demons had hightailed it as soon as the guns started going off; one had decided to hang out underneath the Winchesters’ car. It pulled the young man underneath and slit his throat before the brothers could do shit.

They came driving back, solemn as all hell, and quietly informed the others about Dylan’s fate. His mother let out a terrible wail. I flinched, not at the mangled body in their back seat, but at that unearthly, devastating sound. I’d seen a silent version under my grandparents’ lips at my parents’ wake. No one should live to bury their own child.

Funerary services were hastily put together for that very evening. Sam, Dean, and I stood at the doorway of the church as it filled. We all felt as if going inside would be an unwelcome intrusion; after all, we were the only non-residents currently in town. A young man’s death was too intimate a tragedy to barge in upon.

Eventually, Dylan’s coffin passed by. His pallbearers, none of whom acknowledged our presence, appeared to be an uncle, grandfather, and several of his friends. Mother and father came stumbling up the steps shortly afterwards. I was staring at the grim wooden box when I heard Dean attempt to give his condolences. “Ma’am, we’re just… very sorry.”

“You know,” the woman hissed through her tears, “this is your fault.”

Her husband said her name quietly in admonishment (Jane! That was it), but before they could go any further, I stepped in front of Dean and snapped, “You can’t blame him for a damn demon. What, you think he personally stuck that thing under his car just to fuck over your son?”

“I don’t have to listen to you,” Jane snarled at me. “Blasphemous, drunken whore.”

Dean grabbed my arm and pulled me away before I could smack the bitch. Dylan’s father took the opportunity to hustle Jane inside.

As Pastor Gideon began the service, I jerked my limb out of Dean’s grip. He frowned at me. “She just lost her son,” Dean scolded. “Let her blame whoever she wants.”

I threw my hands up and let them drop. This apathy of his was starting to grate on my nerves. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

Before he could retort there was a commotion inside the church. Sam gestured us over. On the floor was Leah, seizing, her father making blandishments until the fit passed. When it did, Pastor Gideon helped his daughter sit up. “Dad,” she gasped, “it’s Dylan.”

“Just rest a minute, huh?”

“No, listen! Dylan’s coming back.”

Leah Gideon, Prophet of the Lord, stood at the pulpit and promised paradise, including the inevitable reunion with lost loved ones… if we followed the angel’s commandments. As I listened to her rattle off the list of demands my eyebrows crawled higher and higher. No gambling. No drinking. No premarital sex. In fact, no unmarried man or woman was allowed to be alone with the opposite gender without a church-sanctioned chaperone. Prayer morning, noon, and night. Curfew from nine to six.

Dylan’s parents, as well as a majority of the townsfolk, ate it up. Sam and I glanced at each other, astonished. I looked over and saw Paul staring at the girl in disbelief. Dean projected weary resignation.

The brothers split up when the congregation finally dispersed. Dean went back inside to speak to whomever while Sam started walking towards the town’s single motel. Paul had given me one of those sweet smiles of his as he’d passed. Maybe we could start following the rules tomorrow instead…?

I headed for the bar. It was nearly dark, but unlike every other night I’d been in town no one else came in. Whatever. It wasn’t curfew yet and Paul was a local. He flipped the neon “open” sign and settled behind the counter. I swung myself onto what I had privately claimed as “my” barstool and he plunked the usual down in front of me.

A few minutes into my beer and Sam walked in. He greeted us both before sitting beside me.

The boys bantered for a bit, Paul revealing the abrupt change in most of the town’s attitudes once Leah had gone Prophet. He was the only person I knew that was outspoken about the obvious fraudulence underlying everyone’s sudden piety. It’s why I liked him best.

“Not a true believer, I take it,” Paul said to Sam.

“I believe, yeah. I do.” He shrugged. “I’m just pretty sure God stopped caring a long time ago.”

We scoffed at the indifference of our supposed creator. “What about you?” Sam asked me.

I was on my third beer and my guard had slipped a bit. “Parents were devout. I believe that He’s out there but I’ll be damned if I give the son of a bitch the time of day.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Paul said. The three of us clinked mugs.

We continued to drink until curfew. Paul and Sam talked about demons and television and sports while I munched on nuts and irregularly provided my opinions. It was a comfortable spot, cushioned by alcohol, and we drew a modicum of relief after the trials of the past twenty-four hours.

Of course, shit wasn’t done yet. I’d been scrolling through news bits on my phone when my service abruptly died. “What the fuck?”

“What is it?” asked Sam. I showed him. He and Paul pulled out their own phones and, despite the varying carriers, found the same problem. “What the hell?”

“Great,” Paul grumbled. “And it’s ‘curfew’.”

Sam groaned and staggered to his feet. “Guess I’ll see you two tomorrow then.”

We ribbed him for a bit about being a good little cultist before he left. Paul sighed and picked up Sam’s empty mug. “You going too?”

“I dunno.” I gave him a (drunken) smile. “You want me to go?”

He returned the expression, eyes dipping down to the skin I had peeking out from the V of my shirt and back up again. “Not particularly.”

I reached over to grab his button-up and pulled him close. “Then what do you say you lock up that door, close the lights, and we see what happens?”

“Sounds good to me,” he replied huskily.

Sex with Paul was what I had come to expect from these small-town guys, but in his case the alliteration was in a good sense. See, when you live in a place where nearly everybody knows everybody most people end up having no more two or three sexual partners; the variety is lacking and the gossip is damning. These guys were, unfailingly so, inexperienced, with more clumsy enthusiasm than anything else. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.

Paul fell into that same, sorry category, but he had the exception of being gifted in both stamina and endowment. Good God, his was a dick to remember. He was sweet about the whole thing, too, getting all shy about putting on a condom and insisting on lapping at my folds until I was good and wet. I was the one who was pushing, eager to lose myself in the exertion, the alcohol not nearly enough to dull the effects of all the messed up shit that had gone down in the past eighteen hours.

The man obliged, eventually, after he had slid himself deliciously inside of me. We were on the edge of one of the tables and I bit my lip as I gazed into his eyes, my hand gripping his shirt as my legs wrapped around his waist, before quietly requesting he get on with fucking me. Paul grinned, gave me a few experimentally harsh thrusts, before shunting that wonderful cock of his in and out of my cunt.

We were just coming down, wrapped in post-coital bliss with his head resting between my breasts, when a rock came crashing through a window. I let out a shriek and he hurriedly drew away. Paul buttoned his pants back up as he went to investigate while I shoved my bra and shirt down and went looking for my jeans. I didn’t find them before the door smashed in and a half dozen locals, spearheaded by Dylan’s parents, marched in.

My shirt was thankfully long enough to give me a shred of modesty, but it was obvious what we had been doing. Paul was still flushed and his buttons were askew while I was, well, pantsless. Jane’s lip curled up at me. “She was right!” the woman cried. “You’re the reason why the angels are angry at us! Fornicators! Unbelievers! Blasphemers!”

I could have sworn we were in Blue Earth, Colorado, and not Castle Rock, Maine. “We’re two consenting adults,” I said as calmly as possible. “What does it matter?”

“What matters is that you are keeping us from joining our son!”

Okay, that made absolutely no sense, but when Pastor Gideon came rushing in things started to click into place. “Please!” he cried. “Calm down. There’s no reason to do this! Let’s just talk it over.”

“The angels are angry, Pastor,” said one of the other women. “If we want to enter paradise we need to be rid of these people!”

“They need to leave town now,” Rob growled. “Then we can tear apart this den of debauchery and lust.”

A chorus of agreement swept through the group. Bolstered by the support, Rob lifted the bat and smashed it down on the nearest set of liquor bottles. Seeing his livelihood threatened, Paul grabbed the weapon and began grappling with his old friend. Pastor Gideon did his best to physically come between them while shouting for peace.

Jane and another local woman tried to corner me into the bar. I still hadn’t found my pants, goddamnit! “Touch me,” I warned, “and I’ll break your face.”

My bravado was swept away by apprehension when I saw Jane reach into her jacket. There was no mistaking the black object hidden within as anything other than the handle of a semiautomatic. I was contemplating ways of disarming her when a new voice asked, “Need some help, padre?”

Fuck. Dean Winchester. I risked glancing over towards the doorway and saw the poster child for Prozac assessing the situation. My underdressed state made him blink but he was otherwise concerned by the rest. Pastor Gideon took advantage of the momentary lull in violence to plead, “Just everybody cool down for a minute.”

“‘Cool down,’ hmm?” Paul repeated angrily. He turned towards Dean. “My friends are trying to run me out of town. Do you think I should ‘cool down’?”

I lost track of the ensuing conversation as I had, with great relief, finally caught sight of my missing jeans. I was inching towards them when I heard Paul say loudly, “This is my home. You want me out of here? You’ll have to drag me out.”

I snatched up my pants and held them close to my chest. Maybe I’d get ten seconds in all this chaos to shove them back on.

Or not. I was sliding my way to Paul’s side when Dean abruptly slugged Rob. The Pastor shouted, “No no no— stop —“

There were two loud reports. Something punched me in the stomach.

Then nothing.

Acknowledgement : Some lines of dialogue are taken directly from the episode “99 Problems” (SPN 5.17).

[nebris]

Sabbatai Zevi

According to Kabbalistic tradition 1648 was destined to be a messianic year, and hopes for the coming of the messiah were raised throughout the Jewish world. It is, therefore, ironic that in 1648 a Messiah did reveal himself and gained wide popularity throughout the Jewish world – but caused a disaster of historic proportions, the results of which still reverberate through our time.

Sabbatai Zevi was born in Smyrna, Turkey, in the year 1626. His family originally came from Greece and later emigrated to Turkey. His father was a merchant and a commercial agent for European traders. The Jews generally found their occupation as middlemen between the European traders on the continent and the suppliers of the Middle East and in Asia.

He was blessed with a very charismatic personality from the time he was a young child. He also had many traits of genius, including apparently a photographic memory and a very high IQ. By the time he was 20 he had already received rabbinic ordination from some of the leading rabbis in Smyrna, and even though he was so young he was considered to be a Kabbalist of note. He therefore gained a very wide following in Smyrna and also in other Jewish communities in Turkey.

The Dark Side of Genius

He was a strange person, though. Modern psychology might classify him as a manic depressive, if not a schizophrenic. He had various flights of mood and long episodes of depressions. He practiced ascetic ways, fasting for weeks on end, only drinking water. He practiced self-flagellation, which was a common practice among the Shiite Muslims who frequented his part of the world. He would act like a hermit and go out to lonely places, like forests. He would immerse himself in ritual baths 20 or 30 times a day.

By the time he was 22 — in the year 1648 — he was already a source of concern to the rabbinical leaders.

In 1648, news of the massacres occurring to the Jews in Eastern Europe began to filter down to the Jewish communities in Turkey. In light of the messianic expectations of 1648, this triggered in his mind the idea that he could be the Messiah. In his dreams, he had an apocalyptic vision of himself actually taking revenge against the Cossacks for their terrible mistreatment of the Jews. He had dreams of leading the Jewish people to the holy land, rebuilding the city of Jerusalem and the Temple.

It was one thing to have the dream, but once he started telling them to others the rabbis in Smyrna warned him that if he continued in this fashion they would have no choice but to excommunicate him.

In 1650, he almost drowned while swimming in the Mediterranean and was miraculously saved. He used that as a proof that God saved him for great messianic purposes. He claimed to have fought with bare hands against the wild dogs, against wolves. He claimed to have killed serpents. All of these stories gained wide circulation and acceptance. The world then was extremely superstitious. And much of the superstitions of the outside world infiltrated the Jewish world. Jews were therefore gullible to Sabbatai Zevi’s claims.

In 1651, the rabbis could no longer look askance. They not only excommunicated him from Smyrna, but whipped him publicly. From 1651 to 1658, Sabbatai Zevi wandered throughout the major Jewish communities of Greece, Albania and Turkey. Wherever he went he attracted followers. He was always accompanied by bizarre behavior. He always made grand statements regarding his messianic abilities. He always stated that the apocalypse was at hand and that the Jews should prepare for it.

In many of the communities his behavior was so insulting that the rabbis banned him, flogged him and sent him out. But he always had support — monetary support, physical support and spiritual support. In 1658, he finally returned to Constantinople and from there he came home to Smyrna. The original ban against him was a seven year ban. Having now expired, he returned to his home. There he was met by mixed reception.

Nathan of Gaza

The story of Sabbatai Zevi could very well have ended there. The thing that kept his myth going was another man: Nathan of Gaza. He is to Sabbatai Zevi what Paul was to Christianity. He was the one who spread his fame throughout the world.

In 1662, when he was 36, Sabbatai Zevi left Smyrna and traveled to Egypt. From Egypt he embarked upon a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. In 1663, he finally came to Jerusalem, and there he met Nathan. Nathan convinced Sabbatai that he was the real Messiah. Sabbatai had been saying this for 10 years, but had not gotten anywhere. Now, even Sabbatai had no doubts.

Nathan was not just a self-proclaimed prophet but a great publicist as well. He wrote letters to every corner of Jewish world. He organized a team of missionaries. Within a year, the belief of Sabbatai Zevi as the Messiah had spread as he had hoped.

He was also able to explain all of the inconsistencies in Sabbatai Zevi’s behavior, including all his transgressions and non-observances of Jewish law. He explained that all of these things were only a method by which God was testing the true believers. God sent a Messiah one could find fault with so that true believers should believe in him anyway.

Chaos Breaks Loose

What happened next is indescribable. We know it from diplomatic records, from ambassadors of countries who sent records to their government describing what happened throughout the Jewish world. Sabbatai Zevi was not just a Jewish phenomenon, but an international one. His arrival affected the economy and politics of all Europe.

Wild rumors regarding the advent of the Messiah circulated all over the civilized world. Jews in Greece, Italy, Syria, Egypt and Turkey, began to sell out their properties in anticipation of moving to the Holy Land.

The Jewish communities of Amsterdam, Hamburg, Altona, Frankfurt am Main were all taken over by supporters of Sabbatai Zevi. The chief opponent of Sabbatai Zevi was a rabbi in Amsterdam by the name of Jacob Sasportas. He sent letters to the rabbis of Europe to oppose Sabbatai Zevi. Shockingly, hundreds of rabbis refused to do so. Many of them said in effect that even if Sabbatai Zevi was not the Messiah he was good for the Jews because a lot of assimilated Jews were now more religious or at least more aware and proud of their Jewish identities. One can feel in Sasportas’ writings the terrible frustration of somebody that sees a fire burning but he can’t get the fire department to put water in the hose.

By the end of 1665, the messianic fervor had moved from the Mediterranean basin to Western and Eastern Europe. In short, Sabbatai Zevi hysteria swept throughout Europe, especially Eastern Europe which was still reeling from the Tach T’tat massacres. The Jews were looking for something. Here was the solution; here was the Messiah.

Enter now the Sultan of Turkey

The Sultan of Turkey watched the Sabbatai Zevi phenomenon unfold for seven years. He did not oppose it because of all the money it was bringing into Turkey. Sabbatai Zevi was a remarkable tourist attraction. Jews came from all over the world and they left large sums of money. Sabbatai Zevi himself kept the pretense going by paying off all of the police and governors. They all had to give their cut back to the sultan, so he was happy to look the other way.

However, the success of Sabbatai Zevi eventually forced his hand, because the Muslims came to him and complained that he was going kick them out of Jerusalem, recapture it from the Turks and prove the truth of Judaism over Islam. The sultan was frightened of unloosing the wrath of the Muslim fundamentalist.

The last straw was that in 1666 Sabbatai Zevi abolished the fast days commemorating the destruction of the First and Second Temples. He said that since the Messiah had come, by next year the Temple in Jerusalem would be rebuilt. That proclamation frightened the sultan. He arrested Sabbatai Zevi, moved him to the city of Gallipoli and imprisoned him in a large castle.

However, Sabbatai Zevi was only under house arrest and he behaved as if he was a free man, an emperor in fact, and the castle was his palace. Indeed, Jews came from all over the world to see him in his “palace” prison. He proclaimed there that this was again only a temporary setback. Nathan said that it was part of the birth pangs of the Messiah. Believers should keep the faith, because everything was going to turn out all right.

End of the Charade

Even now Sabbatai Zevi was unable to control himself. One day he had a costume made for himself that closely resembled the royal robes of the sultan. The sultan naturally had spies present at Sabbatai Zevi’s “court.” When the sultan was informed that Sabbatai now dressed like him, he took umbrage. He decided it was time to end the charade completely.

In September 1666 he had Sabbatai Zevi brought to the city of Adrianople, where the sultan and his entourage were encamped. He questioned Sabbatai Zevi in front of his court. Sabbatai Zevi denied all messianic pretensions. He pledged his undying loyalty to the sultan.

That was not enough, though. The sultan then offered Sabbatai Zevi the choice of either publicly converting to Islam or to being beheaded. As the sultan so delicately put it: “Your head or the turban” (the turban being a symbol for becoming a Muslim). Sabbatai Zevi, the man who was supposed to be the Messiah of Israel, shamefully chose the turban. He agreed to convert and now adopted a new name Aziz Mehmed Effendi.

That should have ended the story. But, incredibly, it didn’t.

Nathan was able to keep the charade going for almost another decade. He claimed, again, that Sabbatai Zevi’s apostasy was the final culminating test to see who really believed in him. If you still believed in him after his conversion to Islam you were truly a true believer.

That is why until the 1670s there still were pockets of believers in Sabbatai Zevi throughout the Jewish world. Nevertheless, by now most Jews had given up on it. Most had completely seen through the charade and now were forced to deal with the debacles that had come upon them.

Reverberations

To a great extent, Sabbatai Zevi is the direct cause of the Reform movement, because he broke the back of the idea of waiting for the Messiah. The Jews in Western Europe and elsewhere were no longer willing to wait for a miraculous redemption. Having raised the expectations of the messianic time to such an extent and bankrupted it, there were vast sections of the Jewish people that were no longer willing to invest their faith in a messianic era.

Therefore, the Reform movement came and gave a completely different solution to the Jewish problem — a solution not dependent upon the land of Israel, the Messiah and supernatural events, but rather within the grasp of human reach and reason. It proved enormously popular because Sabbatai Zevi had bankrupted faith.

Even though he and his movement are forgotten, and it remains only an historic anachronism, the effects are very much alive among us today. In that transformation lays the seeds of all modern Jewish history.

http://www.jewishhistory.org/sabbatai-zevi/

[sugarandsirens-blog]

I sketched a Caliborn.

[maydayxzuke]

Some silly dirkuu practice doodles

[dersiteparasite]

[fuckyeahrole-players]

Undÿing Umbrage

alright, here we go.

Bio:

Caliborn is a tween cherub that has severe anger issues and a disposition for causing chaos and destruction. He is an obtuse, ignorant asshole but shows that he is willing to do what it takes to succeed many times in his quest to beat his dead session. His title is the Lord of Time which means he is inherently the most active class and is easily able to cause universal wide destruction. Caliborn isn't some cute little misunderstood child. He is a monster and he knows it and even encourages it. So if you want some kawaii Dirkuu yaoi smut then please get out.

I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOUR NAME IS, DARLING, BUT I APPLAUD YOU

Relationships:

Meenah Naut'aNerd: Red. (Or at least as flushed as a cherub is capable of. Constantly calls her a bitch and treats her like shit for the most part.)

sounds pretty accurate

Gamzee SoberPenis: Black. (Is absolutely sickened by getting hit on by him. And would more than likely beat him into a coma if Gamzee didn't enjoy pain.)

I'm starting to like you more and more as I read these

Pale: Empty (And will probably always be because wow. That is pushing it for Caliborn)

mmhmm

Ashen: Empty

cutting out the "what I roleplay" section

~Headcanons~

I don't have many and most of them revolve around Cherub stuff. So here they are.

1. Caliborn is always more comfortable with a female in any one of his relationships. I don't know, Caliborn strikes me as a very masculine man. And it just seems like every male in the comic that he has interacted with hasn't been treated the same way as the girls. Inasmuch as being treated like an object for Caliborn, or as a potential mate.

sounds alright. yeah you can ignore this comment is it weird that I'm imagining a human Caliborn with a trophy wife now

2. Cherub kismesitudes are much more violent than troll ones and often end up in one of them getting killed. My reasoning for this is pretty obvious. I mean, Caliborn hates pretty much everyone he meets and I think he was even considering Calliope for a mate. But with everyone of them he let them die or he killed them himself. This shows that even if he wants to be in a relationship with somebody he will kill them.

"hi I love you, now let me kill you" he's basically a female praying mantis, which sometimes eats its mate.

3. If two Caliborns meet then it would be a shitstorm. I figure it would be like Karkat's past and future selves. Except because Caliborn thinks he is right about everything it would just be them saying who is more right. So yeah. Like Karkat.

constant arguing, and, if it's in person, then one ends up killing the other. accurate.

That's it for now. Hope you like it.

short bio, but I like what you have in it. I'd actually love to see you roleplay sometime. 9/10 but add more I guess? -Lights

[majorsartblog]

Calliope and Caliborn commission for prospitmuse/knowingoverseer. It was for Halloween, but hahaha, well, uh, yeah. So as commissioned, Calliope is a witch and Caliborn is Billy the Puppet from the Saw series. ouo