#Unity Dale

[coockie8]

I can't even begin to articulate how proud of this I am!

So this is actually a scene from the series I'm writing with my sister, Cosmic Legends (draft title, subject to change). Basically, Tetsuya's (the short boy with the fox ears) abusive ex tried to extort a selfie out of him in exchange for help only Carl (the ex) could give.

Unity (the black girl) decided that fine, Carl could have the selfie, but it wouldn't be the selfie Carl wanted, so she gathered Tetsuya's current boyfriend, James (pink-haired boy), and her husband, Dorman (obviously not-human guy in the back), and took a group selfie to fuck with Carl. It's a fun scene lol

This is a particularly harsh jab btw 'Cause Tetsuya more or less left Carl for James, and Carl's jealousy over Tetsuya and Dorman's bond (they're besties, like Dorman would die for Tetsuya if he could die.) is what lead to Carl being abusive, so this selfie is basically Unity's way of saying "you can have the photo, but they'll always have the real thing!".

[randomfoggytiger]

"At Least Until the Weather Breaks"

A very Merry Christmas to you, @cecilysass: hope this piece grants you a fraction of the joy your work has endlessly given me~.

*-*-*-*-*

Post Agua Mala reflections.

*-*-*-*-*

“Agent Scully, where are you?” 

Perhaps Skinner would be surprised. He had been, mere days ago, when she and Mulder showed up outside of Kersh’s office, unity shed like snake skin. He'd been doubly surprised, she knew, when Mulder guided her out later, hand once again possessively at her back. She wasn't going to explain to Skinner then-- as she walked away, a hair from her partner’s shoulder-- why she relented. Why she had deflected Kersh in Mulder’s defense-- “Sir, I wouldn’t bet against him”, with snarling control-- and left both outsiders to stew and wonder in her wake. 

And she wouldn’t now. The stretch in her partnership was no longer taut, but the vibration still rang. Spender’s son was dead, but both X-Files inmates still imagined a rivulet of his blood drip, dripping under Mulder’s reclaimed desk. Arguments were shelved, weapons set aside, and peace wordlessly reestablished before they’d left Kersh’s office. Ease was repairing itself in the mindless act of feeling each other’s presence as they packed and toted and unpacked mementos of their past in unison. They trusted, once again, to the process of symbiosis, turning from fiery conspiracy to watery mystery as unto salvation.  

“In Florida, Sir.” 

“In Florida? Wasn’t there a record hurricane down there?” An expected pause. “Is Mulder down there with you?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Another pause. A long sigh: Skinner unable to discern them. “As soon as the skies clear, I need you and Agent Mulder on a plane and back in D.C. We have a meeting scheduled to discuss both your transfers.” 

A mere formality, everyone knew, for the Board’s pride. “I’ll let him know, Sir.” 

Scully ended the call, and was about to walk away from the burning Floridian sun when her cellphone rang. 

Leroy Walter Villarreal Suarez Jr. 

No kidding.

*-*-*-*-*

It was surprising, she owned: Mulder with flat bangs, Mulder with pater glasses. Mulder smoking. 

“Ah, everyone did it then,” Dales waved, warm and chiding. Never a thought in his soggy, besotted brain that she, too, had a naughty vice once. “What surprised me most was the ring. Everyone smoked, everyone had cheap haircuts-- everyone wore rings even. But I’d never met a guy who wore one for fun. Have you, Agent Scully?”

“Mm,” she replied, lips curling around a plastic cup Dales must have bought in bulk. Her partner with a ring. Her partner, gunshy of a normal life, aping a veneer of normalcy. Because that’s what he’d been doing, she was positive:  one look at his face now-- eyes darting, shoulders scrunching, lips pouting in mock distraction-- let her know that that act, whatever it had been, had been for himself. 

Diana Fowley, Scully winced, had watched him mime this normalcy and still left to climb the ladder. She’d smoothed his flat bangs and wiped away the lipstick on his trusting cheek and left to destroy the sameness of other women’s lives. 

Yet, here it is again, this large and fathomless thing between us: the root of Skinner’s puzzlement, the unconscious understanding and trust-- she shoved reliance quickly away-- that flowed too forgivingly between them. An unfathomable thing that clouded over when their ideals and faults clashed: her partner underestimating her abilities, she underestimating his loyalties. 

How could I forget, Scully had wondered as Mulder droned from her voicemail, “Hey, Scully, just got a call from Arthur Dales-- he says there’s a sea monster that’s just blown into Florida. If we catch the last flight tonight, we might be able to touch down before the state’s under water.” How could she forget that he’d always fought her on her instincts? On her own deathbed, when the cancer was destroying her from the inside out, he’d been right about Skinner; he’d been right about many, many more things than Skinner. But he’d been wrong about Diana; and she’d been wrong about wedging the Gunmen in her confrontation. They’d both been wrong, and right, and simultaneously right and wrong before; but not on the day the world almost ended. And, though there were still eight boxes to be unpacked, important reports to be typed up, churlish review boards to prepare for, Dana Scully had lifted her phone from its jack and called him back. “Mulder, a hurricane?”-- Mulder, I’m in. “Scully, a sea monster”-- Scully, like old times, old roads: we find the sea monster, we find each other. 

“Well… that’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Dales,” Mulder argued, fidgeting on the couch, trying to find a comfortable spot on this mummified-turned-humidified, Floridian-ified cloth bag. 

“Oh? You know another guy?” 

“My mother.” 

“Oh.” That must have made sense. “She raised hoity toity?”

“I was.” 

The crash of realization was so quick and so visceral that it struck her clammy skin like lightning: the son of broken, reclusive Mrs. Mulder, reconstructing his memories and muddying them with her excuses. His mother keenly avoiding the past; Mulder bending over backwards to appease and soothe before snapping upright and demanding the truth. Mulder wearing an older man’s glasses and taking up an older generation's quest and smoking his father’s cigarettes-- leaving off the nasty habit before Scully’s time, substituting with his father’s charm against nightmares. Her partner, clinging to the past while trying to find where he belonged.

These thoughts should depress; but they didn’t-- couldn’t, after she’d clung to Mulder’s hand in the torrent, tracked a sea monster by his side, and brought a new life into this large and complicated, small and simple world. Not after he’d given up quibbling over her victories. 

“’Hoity toity’?” she repeated instead, waiting expectantly for him to turn around and smile over the absurdity of their reality. 

*-*-*-*-*

“So, we drivin’ home?” 

They were situating in their storm-damaged rental, Dales’s head and arm swaying heartily from their rearview mirrors whenever he deemed appropriate. He’d asked if they'd wanted to keep a plastic cup each-- a noblesse oblige memento of the trailer park, Scully assumed. They’d both declined.

Mulder was not in the passenger seat, despite the wounds peppering his neck: dressing pulled up to his jaw, he’d chosen to obstinately pretend nothing was amiss. Not wanting to come down from the high of their experience, it was in his best interest-- the profound clench of his teeth telegraphed-- to ignore present uncomfortable reality.  

“If the wind kicks up, we could borrow an umbrella and fly back to the office.” She suppressed a smile at her partner’s chuckle, a delight still freshly cloaked in relief. 

“We’d have investigated her if she existed. You know that, Scully.” 

She did-- could imagine a chilly trip to England, Mulder reveling in the charm of ancient, storied folktale and superstition. Mutually exploring a turf that was no longer his. Oxford rising from the poetic fog, his college memories beating her childhood glimpses. He was so American she often forgot that he, too, traveled across the ocean. 

“I read the books when I was a child.” 

“Books?”

“Mm hm. A series,” she admitted, eager to share something from her past. Perhaps from heatstroke, perhaps to bolster the burgeoning camaraderie. 

Though why this memory she didn’t know: the tail end of one summer spent cooped up inside, Charlie coughing up a lung in the other room as her temperature stayed stubbornly high. Melissa, sick of calling her a big baby, convincing Bill to leave his friends to grab Dana a book from the library “so she’ll stop whining”. Her oldest brother spending the next two weeks biking back and forth as the book bug slowly infected the convalescents. Their fights, their frustration; their relief on returning to school.  

“I read the series religiously one year. Memorized whole passages by heart and recited them every opportunity I could.” Scully watched his head bob vaguely while he checked the gas and turned to reverse. “I was trying to prove a point, I suppose: my family loved the movie, and. And I wanted to… stand out.” Dana, you’re such a square. Dana, you’re such a pill. Dana, why won't you just admit you like it? 

“Stand out?” His eyes were curious, darting her way whenever the road could spare them. 

“Mm.” Was elaboration necessary, between them? She didn’t think so. Not for another while, anyway. “But when I went off to college, things changed. Everything was so new and so different…. It was isolating, in a way. It drove me back to the past.” 

Silence permeated as clumps of wrecked and ruined trees swept by. She needed to start calling local motels to see if there were rooms open. She needed to call her mom. She needed to turn off her phone and sleep until life no longer fuzzed at the edges. 

“What did you do?” Mulder prodded, wistfully. 

“Well….” Scully sighed, retracing the weave of her thoughts. “I bummed a ride to the local video store and rented it, over and over, when things got too lonely. That’s how I made it the first two years.” 

He said nothing, just slowly nodded as they changed lanes. 

*-*-*-*-*

There was nothing but time, now, to reflect-- something she'd purposefully avoided since that sordid night in the Gunmen's lair. Everything then was too muddled, too raw and dangerously close, to think about, let alone understand. But the lull of conversation, the empty silence between phone calls, the endless stretch of waterlogged, abandoned roads yawned and stretched and plucked an abandoned thought from her unconscious without notice.

She’d led the way to Kersh's door, stayed a half step always in front of her partner, pursed her lips at Skinner’s greeting, hedged determinedly away from Mulder’s closeness. A contrast to their ally ship the previous night: her eyes peering ahead, searching the dark for signs of life; his eyes glued to the crushed car she’d driven across the train tracks-- a striking contrast (she shotgun, he side-saddle) to their rote partnership. Smoke and ashes and the corpses of deceiving families looming over their heads like a conscience. Skinner hadn’t expected the battle to extend to their relationship; and she’d walked expeditiously away from his questioning eyes, guiding them both to Kersh's desk with brittle dignity. 

Neither had spoken to each other while A.D. Kersh spit and A.D. Kersh swore and Jeffrey Spender resigned and left them the X-Files. Perched in a getaway corner of the room, Skinner had missed their wordless exchange, the psychic transference they were capable of since that first fateful day in Mulder’s office: his softened stutter, a sorrowful admission of guilt; her twitching eyebrow and slackened mouth, an acknowledgement of his admission. Fault confessed, the breadth of temptation and cowardice became irrelevant in the weight of charred bodies and grave missteps.

It was easier, and harder, to shove it behind them. Eyes followed their backs out and into the hall, down the elevator, and down, down, down into another layer of chaos and death: the body of Jeffrey Spender, expendable in the face of yet another father's disappointment.

At least Bill Mulder had begged, "Forgive me," when he robbed his son of the ultimate truth.

*-*-*-*-*

“Are you still in Florida, Agent Scully?” 

That, or a broiling, humid Twilight Zone. 

They’d been advised off the road by another no-nonsense uniform; and, escape impossible, had panhandled around for a room at the inn. The ones available were of middling quality (save a truly deplorable toilet that was decorated, Pollock-style, with human fluids), but it was better than Mulder’s suggestion to pull off and catch some shuteye in a parking lot. That was too local for her tastes. 

“Yes, Sir-- for another eight hours or so. Agent Mulder has hope that the planes will be up and running by then.” 

“So soon?”

“It is Florida, Sir.” 

Her partner was seated on his single bed, half-listening while madly typing up notes. He looked up, once, before losing interest, deciding instead to abuse the backspace key with a vengeance. 

There was a parallel, she believed, that could be drawn from a neck-deep metaphor and his tender tentacle wounds. As if in sync with her thoughts, he fingered one absently; and winced. 

“Keep in touch, Agent.” 

“Yes, Sir.” Disconnecting the line, Scully debated whether to grab breakfast from a vending machine or sink, exhausted, onto her bed and never get up. The room’s smell-- a clash of coastal mist and dead algae, death and stymied life-- decided her: another second here and she’d have to think about mold. “I’m going to grab some food.” 

Mulder looked up, fingers stilled, hungry hope brewing in his eyes. “Change’s in my wallet.” How they even had wallets after the last twenty-four hours, Scully couldn’t venture a guess. Then again, their odds had been remarkably high lately. 

About time.

“I’m buying.” She was halfway out the door, shoes scrubbing against old, fuzzy carpet fibers, before his voice stopped her. 

“Scully. Thanks.” 

It was such a small gesture-- one that shouldn’t have moved her as much as it did. But Scully’s eyes stung, and her hands trembled as they tightened on the door knob. Tucking her head, she swallowed back a shaky breath; and, turning, swept her eyes around the room, once, for composure. “We slew the monster, Mulder.” 

He slowly smiled; slowly blinked; slowly seemed to take her in from head to toe. Slowly nodded. 

Giving a tight smile in return, Scully added, “I’ll be back,” before closing the door gently behind her. 

*-*-*-*-*

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

Tagging @today-in-fic, @poangpals.

[yuthura-banns]

i don't want to say anything about this episode

WHAT

[talonabraxas]

“Like all magical mysteries, the secrets of the Great Work have a triple meaning: they are religious, philosophical and natural. Philosophical gold in religion is the Absolute and Supreme Reason; in philosophy, it is truth; in visible nature, it is the sun: in the subterranean and mineral world, it is the purest and most perfect gold. Hence the search after the Great Work is called the Search for the Absolute, and this work itself is termed the operation of the sun.” ― Éliphas Lévi, Transcendental Magic: Its Doctrine and Ritual

Eye in the Triangle Dale Keogh

Eliphas Levi: The Triangle of Solomon

The perfect word is the triad, because it supposes an intelligent principle, a speaking principle and a principle spoken. The Absolute, revealed by speech, endows this speech with a sense equivalent to itself, and in the understanding thereof creates its third self. So also the sun manifests by its light and proves or makes his manifestation efficacious by heat.

The triad is delineated in space by the heavenly zenith, the infinite height, connected with East and West by two straight diverging lines. With this visible triangle reason compares another which is invisible, but is assumed to be equal in dimension; the abyss is its apex and its reversed base is parallel to the horizontal line stretching from East to West. These two triangles, combined in a single figure, which is the six-pointed star, form the sacred symbol of Solomon’s Seal, the resplendent Star of the Macrocosm. The notion of the Infinite and the Absolute is expressed by this sign, which is the grand pantacle – that is to say, the most simple and complete abridgement of the science of all things.

Grammar itself attributes three persons to the verb. The first is that which speaks, the second that which is spoken to, and the third the object. In creating, the Infinite Prince speaks to Himself of Himself. Such is the explanation of the triad and the origin of the dogma of Trinity. The magical dogma is also one in three and three in one. That which is above is like or equal to that which is below. Thus, two things which resemble one another and the word which signifies their resemblance make three. The triad is the universal dogma. In Magic – principle, realization, adaptation; in Alchemy – azoth, incorporation, transmutation; in theology – God, incarnation, redemption; in the human soul – thought, love and action.

There are three intelligible worlds which correspond one with another by hierarchic analogy; the natural or physical, the spiritual or metaphysical, and the divine or religious worlds. From this principle follows the hierarchy of spirits, divided into three orders, and again subdivided by the triad in each of these.

All these revelations are logical deductions from the first mathematical notions of being and number. Unity must multiply itself in order to become active. An indivisible, motionless and sterile principle would be unity dead and incomprehensible. Were God only one He would never be Creator or Father. Were He two there would be antagonism or division in the infinite, which would mean the division also or death of all possible things. He is therefore three for the creation by Himself and in His image of the infinite multitude of beings and numbers. So is He truly one in Himself and triple in our conception, which also leads us to behold Him as triple in Himself and one in our intelligence. This is a mystery for the faithful and a logical necessity for the initiate into absolute and real sciences.

The Word manifested by life is realization or incarnation. The life of the Word accomplishing its cyclic movement is adaptation, or redemption. This triple dogma was known in all sanctuaries illuminated by the tradition of the Sages.

The primeval Sages, when seeking the First of Causes, behold good and evil in the world. They considered shadow and light; they compared winter with spring, age with youth, life with death, and their conclusion was this: The First Cause is beneficent and severe; It gives and takes away life. Then are there two contrary principles, the one good and the other evil, exclaimed the disciples of Manes. No, the two principles of universal equilibrium are not contrary, although contrasted in appearance, for a singular wisdom opposes one to another. Good is on the right, evil on the left; but the supreme excellence is above both, applying evil to the victory of good and good to the amendment of evil.

The principle of harmony is in unity, and it is this which imparts such power to the uneven number in Magic. Now, the most perfect of the odd numbers is three, because it is the trilogy of unity. In the trigrams of Fohi, the superior triad is composed of three YANG, or masculine figures, because nothing passive can be admitted into the idea of God, considered as the principle of production in the three worlds. For the same reason, the Christian Trinity by no means permits the personification of the mother, who is shown forth implicitly in that of the Son. Hence, in the trigrams of Fohi, the three inferior YIN correspond to the three superior YANG, for these trigrams constitute a pantacle like that of the two triangles of Solomon, but with a triadic interpretation of the six points of the blazing star.

Dogma is only divine inasmuch as it is truly human – that is to say, in so far as it sums up the highest reason of humanity. So also the Master, Whom we term the Man-God, called Himself the Son of Man. Revelation is the expression of belief accepted and formulated by universal reason in the human word, on which account it is said that the divinity is human and the humanity divine in the Man-God. Paracelsus and Agrippa did not set up altar against altar but bowed to the ruling religion of their time: to the elect of science, the things of science; to the faithful, the things of faith.

In his hymn to the royal Sun, the Emperor Julian gives a theory of the triad which is almost identical with that of the illuminated Swedenborg. The sun of the divine world is the infinite, spiritual and uncreated light, which is verbalized, so to speak, in the philosophical world, and becomes the fountain of souls and of truth: then it incorporates and becomes visible light in the sun of the third world, the central sun of our suns, of which the fixed stars are the ever-living sparks. The Kabalists compare the spirit to a substance which remains fluid in the divine medium and under the influence of the essential light, its exterior, however, becoming solidified, like wax when exposed to air, in the colder realm of reasoning or of visible forms. These shells, envelopes petrified or carnified, were such an expression possible, and the source of errors or of evil, which connects with the heaviness and hardness of animal envelopes. In the book Zohar, and in that of the Revolution of Souls, perverse spirits or evil demons are never called otherwise than shells – cortices. The cortices of the world or spirits are transparent, while those of the material world are opaque. Bodies are only temporary shells, whence souls have to be liberated; but those who in this life obey the flesh build up an interior body or fluidic shell, which, after death, becomes their prison-house and torment, until the time arrives when they succeed in dissolving it in the warmth of the divine light, towards which, however, the burden of their grossness hinders them from ascending. Indeed, they can do so only after infinite struggles, and by the mediation of the just, who stretch forth their hands towards them. During the whole period of the process they are devoured by the interior activity of the captive spirit, as in a burning furnace. Those who attain the pyre of expiation burn themselves thereon, like Hercules upon Mount Oetna, and so are delivered from their sufferings; but the courage of the majority fails before this ordeal, which seems to them a second death more appalling than the first, and so they remain in hell, which is rightly and actually eternal; but souls are never precipitated, nor even retained despite themselves therein.

The three worlds correspond together by means of the thirty-two paths of light, which are as steps of a sacred ladder. Every true thought corresponds to a Divine Grace in heaven and a good work on earth; every Grace of God manifests a truth, and produces one or many acts; reciprocally, every act affects a truth of falsehood in the heavens, a grace or a punishment. When a man pronounces the Tetragram – say the Kabalists – the nine celestial realms sustain a shock, and then all spirits cry out one upon another: ‘Who is it thus disturbing the kingdom of heaven?’ Then does the earth communicate unto the first sphere the sins of that rash being who takes the Eternal Name in vain, and the accusing word is transmitted from circle to circle, from star to star, and from hierarchy to hierarchy.

Every utterance possesses three senses, every act has a triple range, every form a triple idea, for the Absolute corresponds from world to world by its forms. Every determination of human will modifies Nature, concerns philosophy and is written in heaven. There are consequently two fatalities, one resulting from the Uncreated Will in harmony with its proper wisdom, the other from created wills in accordance with the necessity of secondary causes in their correspondence with the First Cause. There is hence nothing indifferent in life, and our seeming most simple resolutions do often determine an incalculable series of benefits or evils, above all in the affinities of our DIAPHANE with the Great Magical Agent, as we shall explain elsewhere.

The triad, being the fundamental principle of the whole Kabalah, or Sacred Tradition of our fathers, was necessarily the fundamental dogma of Christianity, the apparent dualism of which it explains by the intervention of a harmonious and all-powerful unity. So is the Apocalypse the book of the Gnosis or Secret Doctrine of the first Christians.

‘The sacred word MALKUTH substituted for KETHER, which is its kabalistic correspondent, and the equipoise of GEBURAH and CHESED, repeating itself in the circles of heavens called eons by the Gnostics, provided the keystone of the whole Christian Temple in the occult versicle.

MALKUTH, based upon GEBURAH and CHESED, is the Temple of Solomon having JAKIN and BOAZ for its Pillars; it is Adamite dogma, founded, for the one part on the resignation of Abel and, for the other, on the labours and self reproach of Cain; it is the equilibrium of being established on necessity and liberty, stability and motion; it is the demonstration of the universal lever sought in vain by Archimedes. A scholar whose talents were employed in the culture of obscurity, who died without seeking to be understood, resolved this supreme equation, discovered by him in the Kabalah, and was in dread of its source transpiring if he expressed himself more clearly. We have seen one of his disciples and admirers most indignant, perhaps in good faith, at the suggestion that his master was a Kabalist; but we can state notwithstanding, to the glory of the same learned man, that his researches have shortened appreciably our work on the occult sciences, and that the key of the transcendent Kabalah above all, indicated in the arcane versicle cited above, has been applied skillfully to an absolute reform of all sciences in the books of Hoene Wronski.

The secret virtue of the gospels is therefore contained in three words, and these three words have established three dogmas and three hierarchies. All science reposes upon three principles, as the syllogism upon three terms. There are also three distinct classes, or three original and natural ranks, among men, who are called to advance from the lower to the higher. The Jews term these three series or degrees in the progress of spirits, ASSIAH, YETZIRAH and BRIAH. The Gnostics, who were Christian Kabalists, called them HYLE, PSYCHE and GNOSIS; by the Jews the supreme circle was named ATZILUTH, and by the Gnostics PLEROMA. In the Tetragram, the triad, taken at the beginning of the word, expresses the divine copulation; taken at the end, it expressed the female and maternity.

Tetractys. The Tetractys (also known as the Decad) is an equilateral Triangle formed from the sequence of the first ten numbers aligned in four rows. It is both a Mathematical idea and a Metaphysical Symbol that embraces within itself - in Seedlike form - the Principles of the Natural World, the Harmony of the Cosmos, the Ascent to the Divine, and the Mysteries of the Divine Realm. So revered was this Ancient Symbol that it inspired Ancient Philosophers to swear by the name of the one who brought this gift to Humanity --Pythagoras.

[y-rhywbeth2]

What would've made way more sense than splitting drow characters into 'Lolthsworn' vs 'Seldarine' drow like some kind of evil vs good drow is 'Underdark drow vs surface-born drow.' The former isn't a thing and is redundant (a drow of any culture, outlook or faith is a drow; just give drow both the dialogue options. And put them back in the elf category, they don't need a separate one.)

Like drow who grew up immersed in the constant intrigue of Lolth-dominated culture that developed after the Descent, never seeing the accursed sun, and drow who grew up in a Vhaeraunite or Eilistraeean community on the surface, dedicated to abandoning Lolth's bullshit in favour of unity and rebuilding the culture of their ancestors (or a new, better one) are significantly different things. Mechanically, one gets magic powers and the other isn't blind in sunlight. Also; different weapon proficiencies.

You can be from the underdark and embrace or resist your indoctrination, and you can be from the surface and be attempting to peacfully reconcile with surfacers or be part of a movement to rebuild the glorious imperialistic reign of Ilythiir while raiding the Dales in your off time.

[timefadesaway]

stop the far right – national day of protest today (august 10th)

here is the list of current demonstrations taking place today nationally

London - Reform UK HQ, 83 Victoria Street, London SW1H 0HW – 2:30pm

Colchester - Colchester War Memorial, High Street 1pm

Taunton - Town Centre, Market House – 2.30pm

Southall - Unity Hall, Southall Town Hall UB1 3HA – 12pm

Nottingham - Brian Clough Statute, Nottingham city centre – 1pm

Southampton - Bargate - 12pm

Hull - Queen Victoria Square – 10am

Norwich - Gentleman’s Walk - 12pm

Chorley - Union Street, Chorley PR7 1AE - 1pm

Preston - Friargate Pedestrian Area – 2pm

Sheffield - Sheffield City Hall – 12pm

Hackney - St Augustines Tower, Narrow Way, Hackney Central E8 1HR – 12pm

Leicester - Meet outside HSBC Bank, Humberstone Gate - 12pm

Shrewsbury - The Square - 12.30pm

Weymouth - Meet outside The Range, New Bond Street – 11am

Lancaster - Town Hall steps – 12pm

Stratford - Stratford Bus Station (old shopping centre side), E20 1EH – 11am

Derby - Meet Council House, marching to The Spot – 11am

Liverpool - Pier Head - 12pm

Coventry - Millennium Place, CV1 1JD – 1pm

Brixton - Windrush Square SW2 1JQ – 1pm

Abergavenny - Opposite Waterstones – 11am

Dumfries & Galloway - Planestanes - 11am

Wakefield - Cedar Court Hotel, Denby Dale Road, Wakefield, WF4 3QZ - 12pm

York - St Helen’s Square – 4pm

Cardiff - Nye Bevan statue - 1pm

Newcastle - Grey’s Monument – 9:30am

Calderdale - Outside Wilko’s, 2 Southgate, HX1 IDR - 12pm

Portsmouth - Guildhall Square - 1pm

Eastbourne - Outside Barclays Bank, Terminus Road - 1pm

Tower Hamlets - Altab Ali Park, Alder Street - 5pm

Islington & Haringey - Finsbury Park Mosque St Thomas’s Road N4 2QH – 2pm

Dundee - City Square, Dundee – 12:30pm

Hastings - Hastings Town Centre Robertson St, outside Owens - 12pm

Oxford - Bonn Square - 11am

Lincoln - Lincoln High Street, Speakers Corner - 2pm

Edinburgh - outside Scottish Parliament - 11am

Stoke - Hanley Town Hall, Stoke-on-Trent - 12pm

Manchester - Piccadilly Gardens - 11am

Harlow - The Obelisk, Broadwalk - 1:30pm

Birmingham - Outside Waterstones, Birmingham City Centre - 12:30pm

more information here, not necessarily comprehensive, so explore local organisers and groups if your area doesn't have anything! list may expand so check the link for updates.

[uwmspeccoll]

Typography Tuesday

This week we present another type specimen book from the estate of our late friend Dennis Bayuzick: Fine Ornament & Decorative Material Available to "Monotype" Users published in London by the Lanston Monotype Corporation in 1924. It includes 48 specimens intended for printers who could order their types by the indicated matrix number.

From 1923 to 1967, the British typographer and printing historian Stanley Morrison (he was a principal designer for Times New Roman) was a prominent advisor to the Lanston Monotype Corporation. He wrote the introduction to this display book where he outlines the history of the type ornament and states:

In clever hands it is possible to design with one or two units almost an infinite number of combinations. . . . It is here that the printer's flower rises to the height of it potentiality, and . . singularly beautiful results will reward the ingenious compositor. The sympathy in line and colour subsisting between the ornament and the type confers upon the composition the note of unity and consistency, always the underlying necessity of fine typography. This desideratum is joined in the present series to a supremely practical convenience: the ornaments are cast on the "Monotype" Composing Machine.

Laid into this copy is a type specimen sheet of Monotype ornaments (first image) from Hill & Dale Private Press and Typefoundry in Terra Alta, West Virginia

View more posts related to Lanston Monotype.

View a post on Stanley Morrison's Times New Roman.

View other books from the collection of Dennis Bayuzick.

View more Typography Tuesday posts.

[stephen-barry]

Fact-checker: It was a remarkably dishonest acceptance speech

CNN's Daniel Dale fact-checks former President Donald Trump's Republican National Convention speech.

[the-vast-corner-of-the-galaxy]

The Way It Comes To Be- Chapter 4 (DIRECTOR'S CUT)

Chapter summary: Everything seems to be going okay, but now Thorin has to face his own destiny.

Link on Ao3

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Thorin x Bilbo, Kili x Tauriel

***

Chapter 4: Dawning Renewal

The days in the Lonely Mountain were growing colder with each passing day. The few trees that dotted the area had nearly shed all their leaves, and snow continued to fall steadily. The harsh weather wasn’t making the rebuilding of the Kingdom Under the Mountain or Dale any easier; snow buried new constructions, and the ice threatened to deform them. This placed enormous pressure on all the workers, who were racing against time to finish everything before the full force of winter set in.

Everyone had a role to play in the restoration of the city: men, elves, and dwarves worked together on the external structures, rebuilding houses and public buildings. Many of the women and some elves focused on creating farms for agriculture and beautifying the city with plants to make it more elegant. Dáin’s surviving soldiers, along with some humans and Thorin’s Company, were hard at work restoring the palace, both inside and out.

Thorin's Company, loyal to their soon-to-be king, moved constantly between Dale and Erebor. They handled a variety of tasks: attending diplomatic meetings alongside Thorin, inspecting progress in Dale, overseeing the work in Erebor, and laboring to restore the palace.

Despite the frantic pace, there was a palpable sense of unity and determination among the workers. Dwarves and elves, once bitter enemies, now worked side by side. The men of Laketown, grateful for the refuge and aid given to them, worked tirelessly, feeling a deep sense of obligation to repay their allies.

Bilbo, though uncertain whether he would stay or leave, found himself increasingly involved in these activities. While not a builder by nature, his sharp mind and keen eye for detail made him indispensable in overseeing the progress and ensuring that nothing was overlooked. He often found himself darting be tween sites, relaying messages, and coordinating the various efforts of men, elves, and dwarves alike. His small figure became a familiar sight amidst the bustling crowds, a reassuring presence in the midst of all the chaos.

One chilly morning, Bilbo stood atop a scaffold, looking out over the bustling scene below. He could see Thorin in the distance, directing a group of dwarves as they hauled a massive stone into place. The king’s regal bearing and commanding presence were unmistakable, even from afar. Despite the challenges, Thorin's determination never wavered, and his leadership was inspiring to all. 

As Bilbo watched, he felt a surge of pride and happiness. The Lonely Mountain was slowly coming back to life, and he was a part of it. The thought warmed him against the biting wind. He knew there was still much to do, but with each passing day, the dream of a restored Erebor came closer to reality.

Below, in the bustling streets of Dale, Bard was equally busy. The townspeople respected him greatly for his leadership and bravery, and they followed his guidance as they worked to rebuild their homes. Bard’s efforts were focused not just on physical reconstruction but also on ensuring the people’s morale remained high. He often visited families, listened to their concerns, and offered words of encouragement.

Meanwhile, in the newly established farms, elves and women of Dale worked together, their hands deftly planting seeds and tending to the growing crops. The collaboration between elves and humans was a rare and beautiful sight, symbolizing the newfound alliances forged through shared hardship and respect.

Inside the mountain, Thorin’s company worked diligently. Balin, with his extensive knowledge of Erebor’s history and architecture, directed efforts to restore the grandeur of the palace halls. Dwalin, ever the warrior, took charge of reinforcing the defenses, ensuring that Erebor would be well-protected against any future threats. Fili and Kili, young and energetic, were always eager to lend a hand wherever needed, their enthusiasm infectious.

Bilbo’s frequent interactions with Thorin grew more meaningful each day. They shared brief, intense conversations about the progress and the future, their bond deepening with each encounter. The tension between them, a mix of unresolved feelings and mutual respect, simmered beneath the surface, adding an unspoken layer to their interactions.

Bilbo found himself gravitating toward Thorin more often than ever, and even more than when they were on their quest. Their exchanges had always been purposeful from the beginning, but lately, there was a bigger weight behind every single word they spoke. Thorin’s glances lingered just a moment too long, his tone even softer whenever he addressed Bilbo.

Once, while discussing the day’s progress, Thorin’s hand brushed against Bilbo’s as they both reached for the same blueprint. Bilbo felt his heart jump at the unexpected contact, but neither of them pulled away immediately. Thorin’s fingers hovered near his, a brief hesitation that sent a jolt of awareness between them.

“There’s still much work to be done,” Thorin said, his voice lower than usual, almost as if they were discussing something far more intimate than construction plans.

Bilbo cleared his throat, forcing his focus back on the scroll in front of him. “Yes,” he replied, his voice sounding steadier than he felt. “But we’ll manage.”

There was a moment of silence, the air thick with something Bilbo couldn’t quite name. Thorin stood just close enough that Bilbo could feel the heat radiating from his body, his presence grounding, yet it set Bilbo’s nerves on edge in a way he had never anticipated.

As the days passed, these small moments became harder to ignore. Thorin would stand just a little too close to Bilbo during their briefings, his gaze more intent than necessary when the hobbit spoke. Another time, after a long day, Thorin’s hand lingered on Bilbo’s shoulder just for a heartbeat longer than it should have, before he muttered a gruff “Good night” and disappeared into the darkness.

Bilbo found himself waiting for these fleeting touches, though he would never admit it aloud, and when Thorin’s gaze would meet his, steady and unyielding, Bilbo would feel something stir in the pit of his stomach—a mix of anxiety and anticipation, as if they were standing on the edge of something neither of them dared to speak of.

Then, one evening, as the sun dipped low, casting the mountains in hues of amber and crimson, Bilbo stood beside Thorin atop the palace. Below, the workers finished their tasks, the clatter of hammers gradually fading into the evening air. The silence between the two of them felt charged, not awkward, but thick with something that neither quite knew how to articulate or manifest.

“We’ve come a long way,” Thorin said at last, his voice low, almost thoughtful as his gaze fixed on the horizon.

Bilbo nodded, though his thoughts were far from the construction efforts. “And we still have a long way to go,” he replied, his voice steady despite the strange tightness in his chest. He glanced at Thorin from the corner of his eye, feeling the unspoken tension that lingered between them electrify the atmosphere.

Thorin turned then, his sapphire eyes resting on Bilbo with an intensity that made Bilbo’s heart race exponentially. There was something different in Thorin’s expression, something softer, more vulnerable. “I didn’t expect… to have come this far with you by my side,” Thorin murmured, his words deliberate, almost as though he was testing the weight of them. “Now, I cannot imagine seeing this through without you.”

The hobbit swallowed, caught off guard by the rawness in Thorin’s voice. His pulse quickened exponentially, a sudden warmth creeping up his neck. He didn’t know how to respond to that, at least not with words. “We’ll see it through,” Bilbo said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, though there was a determination in it. “Whatever comes… we’ll finish what we’ve started.”

The air between them grew heavier with the words unsaid, and the silence was charged with a tension that felt almost palpable. Thorin didn’t move, but the way he looked at Bilbo was enough to make the hobbit’s breath hitch. There was an intensity in his eyes, something that made the space between them feel smaller than it actually was. The world seemed to shrink for a moment, leaving just the two of them standing on the edge of something deeper.

Bilbo shifted, his heart pounding in his chest. The sun continued its descent, painting the sky in soft purples and golds, but neither of them moved to break the silence. It was as though they were waiting—both unsure of what exactly—but knowing that something was there, just beneath the surface, waiting to be acknowledged

“Thorin?” Balin called from afar. Thorin and Bilbo turned around and faced the white-beard dwarf. 

“Balin, is everything alright?” Thorin asked.

“Yes. There is someone waiting for you at the gates. He wishes to see you,” Balin answered.

“And who is this mysterious person you're talking about?” asked Thorin.

“Come see for yourself,” Balin teased. Thorin's expression changed to an inquisitive and serious one, but he still followed Balin. Bilbo was also really confused about who would be looking for Thorin right now. Could it be anyone dangerous?

When they got to the main entrance, both Bilbo and Thorin approached the gate carefully. A tall, lean figure was approaching them from the shadows. 

“Greetings, old friends,” the figure greeted, got closer, and revealed himself.

It was Gandalf.

Thorin and Bilbo couldn't believe their faces. He left shortly after the Battle of The Five Armies and said he would return at some point, but didn't say when. The dwarf and the hobbit ran to Gandalf and hugged him. After such a treacherous battle, the old wizard was delighted to see both of them alive and safe. 

“Gandalf!” Bilbo gasped, “I can't believe you're here!” 

“I wouldn't miss the rebuilding of the great Kingdom Under the Mountain,” said Gandalf happily. 

“It is a pleasure to have you here,” said Thorin, smiling. 

“I am honored by your hospitality, Your Majesty,” Gandalf kneeled in front of the dwarf to show him the uttermost respect. Bilbo decided to copy Gandalf, not really sure of what he was doing. Thorin was left speechless and didn't know how to react at the moment. 

“Well, thanks,” Thorin said awkwardly.

“Oh, Thorin, you haven't changed a bit,” Gandalf laughed, but the comment made Thorin feel very uneasy since Gandalf didn't know how badly Dragon Sickness affected him. Thorin and Bilbo then decided to show Gandalf around the palace. He was amazed by how quickly the construction progressed in just a couple of weeks, and congratulated both men on the efforts they placed into rebuilding Erebor.

“There is still a lot to be done,” Bilbo told Gandalf, “We haven't even started on reconstructing the back of the palace!”

“Well, I think that without Bilbo's great attentiveness to detail, the palace would be a horrendous mess,” said Thorin, looking attentively at Bilbo. The hobbit got flustered and smiled sheepishly at the dwarf king. Gandalf noticed this and simply smiled to himself, sensing the bounded connection these two men have developed. 

“Now, Bilbo, if you don’t mind, I need to have a little talk with Thorin about a very important matter and to get updated about the last few weeks I have been gone,” Gandalf told Bilbo. The hobbit simply smiled at both men and left the hallway, while the two men headed towards the great gates of the Throne Room. Once they were inside, Gandalf began speaking. 

“I can see that you two have become inseparable,” Gandalf said. Thorin slightly blushed and smiled. Thinking tenderly about his hobbit. 

“Well, you can put it that way,” said Thorin, “Bilbo was been such a skilled burglar… and an amazing person. We’ve grown close.”

“Oh, it’s very obvious,” Gandalf teased, “It looks like my decision on bringing Bilbo along with the Company on the quest has been a very asserted one.”

“It was,” replied Thorin,”At first, I underestimated Bilbo’s courage and abilities, but he proved that he was braver and more skilled than anyone I’ve fought with. He’s saved my life more times than I can count. I owe him... more than words can express.” Thorin’s voice faltered, hesitation creeping in.

Gandalf’s knowing smile widened as he watched the dwarf. “It’s clear that Bilbo means more to you than just his skill,” Gandalf said, his voice gentle.

Thorin remained silent for a moment, his thoughts veiled, but his feelings were unmistakable. In all the years Gandalf had known Thorin, he had never seen him care for anyone like this. Bilbo had become something of a lifeline for the dwarf king, and was even more valuable to him than the gold under the Lonely Mountain. 

“Well, Thorin, I did not just come to pay you a well deserved visit,” Gandalf said in a serious tone. “There are rumors circulating about another Orc attack around these lands. After the death of Azog and Borg, the Orcs seemed to have sworn revenge for the death of their leaders. There have already been a few raids down south and in the far west, near the Blue Mountains, but they will not stop until they get to Erebor no matter what.”

Thorin’s eyes filled with preoccupation and distress. Even if his features remained still, the way his blue eyes darkened conveyed the storm of emotions that just rose up from his mind. He clenched his jaw, the weight of his kingship settling heavily on his shoulders. Erebor was his responsibility— its people, his kin, the kingdom he had fought so long to reclaim. The threat of another Orc attack stirred a huge wave of anger within him, but alongside it came a pang of fear for those he cared about.

“They would dare challenge us again?” Thorin’s voice was low, almost a growl, as his hand tightened around the armrest of the throne. 

“The only thing these Orcs want is revenge, and would do anything to get it,” Gandalf said. “However… I also fear that there is something darker and more sinister behind all of this.”

Gandalf began talking about some of his discoveries in Don Guldur, how he met a being called the Necromancer, a strange entity that he later on discovered was another entity called Sauron. Gandalf did not go much into detail about Sauron, but even if Thorin did not get all of information and only heard rumors about him in the past, he could sense that the idea of his return was already very dangerous. 

“We’re… not entirely sure if Sauron is the one behind all of these attacks,” Gandalf said in a low voice. “ We are not even sure if he was the one who intentionally sent Azog to kill you, but if Sauron is indeed orchestrating all this chaos, his return is inevitable. The only question is when he will return, and how prepared we will be”

Gandalf’s words hung in the air like a stormy cloud, heavy and foreboding. Thorin remained silent for a moment, the weight of the crown feeling heavier than usual. The torches in the throne room shone against the polished turquoise walls, but the light seemed to dim with the breaking news. 

“We cannot afford another war,” Thorin finally said, his voice low but steady. “Erebor has just begun to rebuild. There’s been enough suffering for us all.”

Gandalf’s keen eyes softened, sensing the inner turmoil within the dwarf king. “I understand your reluctance, Thorin, but you must also understand that this is no ordinary war. Sauron is no ordinary foe. His power can spread like a sickness, corrupting everything in its path. We aren’t very sure why Sauron wishes to return, but no matter what happens, it will affect ALL of Middle Earth.”

He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in before continuing, “Sauron is not simply after a kingdom or gold. He craves dominion over all of Middle Earth. His darkness doesn’t merely destroy…it enslaves. Those who fall under his influence become mere shadows of themselves, twisted and bent to his will.”

Thorin’s brow furrowed deeply. "You speak of him like some kind of god. How could one being hold so much power?"

Gandalf sighed. "It is not just his mighty influence on the battlefield that makes him dangerous, Thorin. He wields fear like a weapon, preying on the weaknesses and desires of others. Once, long ago, he deceived even the most powerful of rulers with gifts: the Rings of Power. They were meant to strengthen their bearers, but in reality, they were chains, binding them to Sauron’s will."

The mention of the Rings caused Thorin to straighten, the ancient stories rising from the depths of his mind, pressing on his consciousness. “The Rings,” Thorin murmured, eyes narrowing. “I’ve heard of their power… even the Dwarves weren’t immune.”

Gandalf nodded solemnly. “Yes, the seven given to the Dwarf lords were not as easily controlled as those of Men, but they still brought ruin. Their greed became greater… that endless pursuit of wealth made them more vulnerable to fall. Your people have always been resistant to domination, Thorin, but the pull of power—of gold— can corrupt even the strongest hearts.”

Thorin’s jaw clenched as the truth behind those words stirred something within him. The memory of his own family’s fall to dragon-sickness still fresh in his heart. His own fall to that wretched sickness also gnawed at his heart, filling it with the guilt of almost making Erebor crumble completely to pieces. 

"Erebor nearly fell once to the lust for gold," Thorin said quietly, his eyes hardening. "I will not let that happen again."

“That is why you must prepare,” Gandalf urged. “The fate of Erebor and more is at stake. If Sauron indeed rises, the lands of Men, Elves, and Dwarves will all fall in turn. There will be no safe haven… not even here.”

Thorin’s gaze fell to the golden floor beneath him, his fists tightening at his sides. He had always fought for his people, for his homeland, but now, he realized the fight was larger than he had ever imagined. It wasn’t just about Erebor anymore, but about the entire world. His heart weighed heavy, but he also knew that he could not run from this fight at all. 

“And what would you have me do?” Thorin asked, his voice gruff, yet steady. “I will not abandon my people, but if what you say is true… What chance do we have against such a force?”

Gandalf smiled slightly, though his expression remained serious. “I do not ask you to fight alone, Thorin. There are others who will stand with you: Elves, Men, Dwarves, and even Hobbits. You must forge alliances, and unite with the free peoples of Middle Earth. This battle cannot be won by one race alone. The only way we can possibly fight this foe when he returns is together.”

Thorin considered Gandalf’s words, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly. "If it is alliances we need, then I will speak with more Elves and the Men. Erebor will not stand alone in this fight."

Gandalf nodded approvingly. "That is a wise course of action, Thorin Oakenshield, but remember, Sauron’s strength lies not only in his armies, but in the fear he instills. If we stand united, with courage and resolve, we can resist him, but if we let fear divide us, all will be lost."

“We must do everything to prevent that,” Thorin said with determination, though fear was installed in his oceanic eyes. “We cannot be further divided… not now.”

Gandalf’s eyes softened even more, sensing the inner conflict brewing within Thorin. He took a deep breath, knowing what he had to reveal next would strike at the heart of the dwarf king standing in front of him.

“There’s… something else, Thorin,” Gandalf said, his voice dropping to a more somber tone.

Thorin’s brow furrowed in confusion as Gandalf’s demeanor shifted.

“During my time in Dol Guldur, I encountered a tortured soul,” Gandalf began, his eyes dropping. “It was your father…Thrain.”

Thorin stiffened, his hands tightening into fists. “My father? You’ve seen him?”

Gandalf nodded gravely. “I found him imprisoned there, broken in both body and spirit. He had been taken by the Necromancer’s forces many years ago.”

Thorin’s breath caught in his throat, his mind racing. “But why…how could this happen?” His voice was thick with a mixture of disbelief and anguish. 

Thorin knew Thrain had survived the Battle of Moria because he never found his body among the fallen, but he never knew where his father went. Some said that Thrain was driven mad by greed and went missing, while others said he was dead. Either way, Thorin never found him, or even a trace of him, which limited his search for his father, and led him to think he was most likely dead. 

Gandalf began speaking again. “We all know that Thrain went missing during the Battle of Azanulbizar, but we never knew where he went. I found out that he wandered into the Dimrill gate after the battle, where he was captured by Orcs and taken to Dol Guldur as a prisoner. He was tortured by the enemy to get information about the whereabouts of the map to the Lonely Mountain, and the key to the kingdom. However, he did not want the gold…. He wanted the Ring of Power that was passed down to Thror, and Sauron captured it.”

“Why would he want that ring?” Thorin asked. “Why would Sauron even need….” Thorin’s voice faltered as realization hit him. He remembered the old Elvish poem he heard when he was a child:

Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,

Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,

Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,

One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne

In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.

One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them…

“The seven…” Thorin murmured. “Sauron… he wants them. He wants the Rings! He’s…”

Gandalf nodded gravely. “Yes. He seeks to reclaim them all, to regain his power, and the worst is yet to come, Thorin.” Gandalf’s eyes met Thorin’s deep blue, filled with sorrow. “Thrain… your father did not survive his imprisonment. He died there, in Dol Guldur.”

Thorin froze, the weight of the words sinking into him like a blade. “Dead?” His voice cracked, disbelief and grief flooding him. “He… he is gone?”

“Yes,” Gandalf said, his tone soft, yet unwavering. “I tried to save him, but I was too late. The torment he endured… broke him. By the time I found him, he had little strength left. His mind was shattered, yet he remembered you. He spoke of you before the end, Thorin.”

Thorin’s face was stone, the anguish beneath barely held at bay. His father, his blood, lost not in battle, but to Sauron’s darkness.

“And he was alone…” Thorin whispered, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. “All those years… alone.”

“I am so sorry, Thorin,” Gandalf whispered. 

Thorin’s fists clenched, his knuckles white as a storm brewed in his heart. “Alone in that wretched place, tortured for information that would only serve the Enemy. I should have searched harder, fought harder to find him.”

“Do not blame yourself,” Gandalf said gently. “No one could have known about Sauron’s demise easily.”

“At least I could have tried!” Thorin exploded, slamming his fist against the stone table with a resounding crack. His chest heaved heavily with fury and grief, which was pouring itself  out in waves. “I should have honored his memory! Instead, I let him be forgotten—let his suffering continue while I lived, while I… believed him lost to madness or death. I let him down, Gandalf. I let my father down.” 

Gandalf watched Thorin for a long moment, his heart heavy with sorrow for the dwarf before him. “You did not know, Thorin,” he said softly, his voice full of understanding. “Your father’s fate was not yours to bear alone. Sauron’s darkness has touched many, and even the bravest of us would have been powerless to prevent it.”

Thorin shook his head, his breath ragged. “But I should have been there. I should have done more. I should have known…”

“Grief clouds all our minds, even the strongest ones,” Gandalf continued, his voice unwavering but full of compassion. “But your father’s memory lives on in you, in the choices you make now. That is how you honor him, not by carrying the burden of his death, but by living in his name, by fighting against the very evil that took him.”

Thorin stood still, Gandalf’s words washing over him, but he could not shake the weight of his guilt. He could almost see his father’s face now, haggard and broken, trapped in the darkness of Dol Guldur… Alone.

“He spoke of you, Thorin,” Gandalf added gently. “He was proud of you, and he loved you. He wanted you to know that.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Thorin’s rage subsided into a heavy, aching sorrow. He let out a long, trembling breath, his gaze fixed on the floor. His father’s shadow loomed over him, but now, he knew what had to be done.

“There is still hope in this world, Thorin Oakenshield,” said Gandalf, breaking the silence, “You are hope itself. With you as ruler of Erebor, the people of Middle Earth will slowly begin to trust again. Your victory at the Battle of the Five Armies is spreading like wild fire across the lands.”

Thorin simply nodded silently, feeling the intense pressure of his role as king heavy on his back. The dwarf always desired to rule Erebor someday, but actually facing that reality felt even more daunting and intimidating than ever. 

“I know I have to do this, but I wonder how I will be able to rule over this kingdom if I do not even have hope in myself,” Thorin replied in a tone of surrender. 

Gandalf looked at Thorin with a mixture of compassion and firmness. “Thorin, the strength of a king is not measured by the absence of doubt, but by his ability to rise above it. You have faced dragons and armies with courage. Now, you must face your own fears with the same resolve. Hope is not something you find, it is something you create. And it is clear to me, and to all who follow you, that you have the power to do so.”

The wizard smiled gently, seeing the realization dawning in Thorin's eyes. “Exactly, Thorin. You have always had the strength within you. It’s the same strength that led you to reclaim Erebor and to protect those you care about. Now, that strength must guide you as a ruler.”

Thorin’s mind lingered on that thought for a while. Gandalf did have a point about how hope is something that is created, yet the task felt so difficult to Thorin. He has faced thousands of foes in the last 24 years since Erebor’s capture and today, but how? He wasn’t so sure how he actually found the strength to do so, but he actually did. That courage in him was still inside him, stirring his body and his heart. Thorin soon enough realized that he was the one who created that wave of moving energy that gave him the courage to face any threats, and he could use it to face his fears and weave veins of hope.

He was the only one who could change his destiny.

He was the architect of his own destiny (1). 

The battle was finally over, and now, it was time to face the real challenges ahead: to rule Erebor. It was finally time to do what he wished to since his use of reason, time to face what was soon to come once and for all.

Gandalf placed a reassuring hand on Thorin's shoulder. “Remember, Thorin, you are not alone. You have your kin, your friends, and allies by your side. Trust in them, as they trust in you. Together, you will rebuild this kingdom, and hope will flourish once more.”

Thorin looked into Gandalf's wise eyes and felt a renewed sense of determination. “Thank you, Gandalf.”

Gandalf nodded, his eyes twinkling with pride and affection. “Then go forth, Thorin Oakenshield, and lead your people into a brighter future. The road will be difficult, but I have no doubt that you will succeed.”

With those words, Thorin felt a surge of resolve. He turned to face the vast halls of Erebor, the kingdom he had fought so hard to reclaim. The challenges ahead were daunting, but with hope and drive, he knew he would lead his people to greatness.

***

Notes: 1. Amado Nervo, a Mexican poet, wrote "porque veo al final de mi rudo camino / que yo fui el arquitecto de mi propio destino," meaning "because I see at the end of my rough road / that I was the architect of my own destiny."

[fideidefenswhore]

Chapuys had taken up Catherine's cause upon his arrival in London after the recess of the court of Blackfriars. Until Anne's succession, her uncle often communicated with Chapuys, ingratiating himself with the diplomat in the hope that he might learn secret information concerning Charles V. In this context, the Duke [of Norfolk]'s statement that both Anne's father and he were opposed to the King's decision to marry her was significant because this information enabled the hostile ambassador to assume that Anne, presumably acting without family support, had bewitched Henry into divorcing Catherine. Following this assumption to its logical conclusion, Chapuys could then blame Anne instead of the King for the European crisis the marital dispute had created. Far from being a valid private account of the royal household, Chapuys's dispatches provide an intriguing history of what he thought, and of what others wanted him to think, about court politics. The fact is that after 1531, when Catherine of Aragon was rusticated, no major courtier was willing to plead with the king of her behalf and, with the break-up of her household, her support at court ceased to exist. Even Thomas More's continuation as Lord Chancellor rested on the assumption that King and Parliament could decide the succession, and when he resigned it was to defend a Church whose unity was under attack. In 1533, the King's councillors, including William, Lord Mountjoy, Catherine's own chamberlain, attempted to persuade her to accept the title of Princess Dowager.

Tudor Political Culture, Dale Hoak

[natteryaktoad]

Unity Prime, Day 85, Part 5

Twins! One girl (lighter skin) one boy (darker skin). Fern and Asher.

Now let's go some weird timey-wimey stuff, because the rest of this can't be the same day they were born because they were pretty premature and would be in hospital a while.

Dawn: She's so small, isn't she? Way smaller than Dale or Percy were.

Ivy: She's perfect, Lainey - they both are.

Lainey: It's just so good to have them home.

Max: Here, have a cuddle with Asher?

Ivy: Is he still smaller than Fern?

Max: Yeah, two ounces smaller last time they were weighed.

I saw on the pregnancy tracker that Lainey was expecting twins. I didn't particularly want twins, so I clicked random when she gave birth, and got... twins. It was clearly meant to be.

Fern Joyce and Asher Isaac.

[brookstonalmanac]

Holidays 5.22

Holidays

Abolition Day (Martinique)

Bălți Day (Moldova)

Bear Waking Day (Norway)

Buy A Musical Instrument Day

Canadian Immigrants' Day

Carpet Day (Turkmenistan)

Clover Day (French Republic)

Dia do Abraço (National Hugging Day; Brazil)

EMS Education Day

Ethernet Day

Ewokalypse

Find Your Soul Mate Day

Flag Adoption Day (Australia)

Goth Day

Growing Flavor in the Garden Day

Harvey Milk Day (California)

Heat Awareness Safety Day

International Being You Day

International Coco Mom Day

International Day For Biological Diversity (UN)

International Day of Syndrome 22q11

International Sherlock Holmes Day

Jumping Frog Jubilee Day (Angel's Camp, California)

Lee Rigby Memorial Day

Leiria Day (Portugal)

Loch Ness Monster Day

Manchester Arena Remembrance / 22 Angels Day (UK)

Mattie Stepanek Day (Rockville, Maryland)

Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood Day

National Boss Babes Day

National Coco Mom Day

National Curly Hair Day

National Day of First Nations Fishing Rights (Canada)

National Desert Storm Reservists Day

National Gout Awareness Day

National Heroes Day (Sri Lanka)

National Julie Day

National Maritime Day

National Psychopath Day

National Solitaire Day

National Sovereignty Day (Haiti)

National Title Track Day

National Toothpaste Tube Day

NF2 & Schwannomatosis Awareness Day

Pac-Man Day

Recliner Day

Republic Day (Sri Lanka)

Sherlock Holmes Day [also 1.6]

Toothpaste Tube Day

Translation of the Relics of Saint Nicholas from Myra to Bari (Ukraine)

Unification Day (Yemen)

United States Colored Troops Day

Unity Day (Yemen)

Watch Movies All Day Day

World Goth Day

World Pre-Eclampsia Day

Food & Drink Celebrations

Bitcoin Pizza Day

National Craft Distillery Day

Vanilla Pudding Day

World Paloma Day

4th Monday in May

Victoria Day (Canada) [Monday before 25th]

Independence Days

Dale Empire (Declared; 201) [unrecognized]

Feast Days

Basiliecus, Bishop of Corinna (Christian; Saint)

Biological Diversity Day (Pastafarian)

Bobo (Christian; Saint)

Castus and Emilius (a.k.a. Cactus and Æmilius; Christian; Martyrs)

Conall (Christian; Saint)

Elphinstone Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Fulk (Christian; Saint)

Humilita (Christian; Saint)

Julia of Corsica (Christian; Saint)

The Mackerel (Muppetism)

Mary Cassatt (Artology)

Michael Hồ Đình Hy (Christian; One of Vietnamese Martyrs)

Quiteria (Christian; Saint)

Ragnar Lodbrok (Viking)

Rita of Cascia (Christian; Saint)

Romanus of Subiaco (Christian; Saint)

St. Cyprian (Positivist; Saint)

Yvo (Christian; Saint)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Shakku (赤口 Japan) [Bad luck all day, except at noon.]

Premieres

Alien 3 (Film; 1992)

Bone Sweet Bone (WB MM Cartoon; 1948)

Bullwinkle Goes to Press or All the Moose That’s Fit to Print (Rocky & Bullwinkle Cartoon, S1, Ep. 52; 1960)

Claws for Alarm (WB MM Cartoon; 1954)

Clean Pastures (WB MM Cartoon; 1937)

Far and Away (Film; 1992)

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (Film; 1998)

The Four Seasons (Film; 1981)

The Girlfriend Experience (Film; 2009)

Great Expectations (Film; 1947)

Gunga Din, by Rudyard Kipling (Poem; 1890)

Headquarters, by The Monks (Album; 1967)

Imperial Woman, by Pearl S. Buck (Novel; 1956)

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (Film; 2008)

Mission Impossible (Film; 1996)

The Negotiator, by Frederick Forsyth (Novel; 1989)

Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian (Film; 2009)

The Opposite of Sex (Film; 1998)

Outland (Film; 1981)

Preacher (TV Series; 2016)

Rocketman (Film; 2019)

That’s What You Get, by the Castiles featuring Bruce Springsteen (Song; 1966)

Tomorrowland (Film; 2015)

Water on the Brain or The Deep Six and 7/8 (Rocky & Bullwinkle Cartoon, S1, Ep. 51; 1960)

Well Worn Daffy (WB LT Cartoon; 1965)

When Marnie Was There (Animated Film; 2015)

The Wind and the Lion (Film; 1975)

Today’s Name Days

Julia, Ortwin, Rita (Austria)

Julija, Rita (Croatia)

Emil (Czech Republic)

Castus (Denmark)

Leivo, Oliver (Estonia)

Hemminki, Hemmo (Finland)

Émile, Quitter, Rita (France)

Julia, Ortwin, Renate, Rita (Germany)

Emilios, Kodros (Greece)

Júlia, Rita (Hungary)

Rita, Valente (Italy)

Emīlija, Mile (Latvia)

Aldona, Eimantas, Elena, Julija, Rita (Lithuania)

Henning, Henny (Norway)

Emil, Helena, Jan, Julia, Krzesisława, Rita, Wiesław, Wiesława, Wisława (Poland)

Vasilisc (România)

Júlia, Juliana (Slovakia)

Joaquina, Julia, Rita (Spain)

Hemming, Henning (Sweden)

Jolee, Joleen, Jolene, Jolie, Marshall (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 142 of 2024; 223 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 1 of week 21 of 2023

Celtic Tree Calendar: Huath (Hawthorn) [Day 9 of 28]

Chinese: Month 4 (Ding-Si), Day 4 (Geng-Chen)

Chinese Year of the: Rabbit 4721 (until February 10, 2024)

Hebrew: 2 Sivan 5783

Islamic: 2 Dhu al-Qada 1444

J Cal: 21 Bīja; Sevenday [21 of 30]

Julian: 9 May 2023

Moon: 9%: Waxing Crescent

Positivist: 2 St. Paul (6th Month) [St. Cyprian]

Runic Half Month: Ing (Expansive Energy) [Day 13 of 15]

Season: Spring (Day 64 of 90)

Zodiac: Gemini (Day 2 of 32)

[swordoaths]

Éomer Headcanons

"They are proud and wilful, but they are true-hearted, generous in thought and in deed; bold but not cruel; wise but unlearned, writing no books but singing many songs, after the manner of the children of Men before the Dark Years [...]. It was in forgotten years long ago that Eorl the Young brought them out of the North, and their kinship is rather with the Bardings of Dale, and with the Beornings of the Wood, among whom may still be seen many men tall and fair, as are the Riders of Rohan." The Two Towers

I love this description on the Eorlingas, for it not only provides us details of their countenance, but also of their kinship with others of Middle-earth. So, let’s get into some of this.

First, on their countenance, of which I have already touched upon a bit here and here, we see  Éomer possess many of the above traits and descriptors. If you want to read more on those traits, please do check out the linked headcanon posts. But I have not yet discussed the descriptors of “writing no books but singing many songs” as applied to Éomer. And so, let’s get into that here...

Éomer, like his kin before him, cannot read or write. This is not a sign of a lack of intellect, only that his wisdom and knowledge (as above described) comes from another source. Oral history is the primary source of his kin, and Éomer holds that in high regard. It was how he learned the way of the world, where he came from, and what may lie ahead for his people. He also heavily associates these songs with his parents, whom he lost when he was 11 years old. Upon the death of his parents, Éomer and Éowyn become the last of their immediate family’s song. As such, there is a heavier weight upon them to carry those songs with them, ere they be forgotten. To Éomer, the songs of his family are a way to keep his parents alive, and he does have this acute understanding in his heart his parents only truly die if he and Éowyn die before passing on their song. 

It should also be said that Éomer is quite a good singer. Sometimes, when the Rohirrim is on patrol, he will sing with the other riders, giving a sense of their ancestors riding with them and a driving force to ride forth. Other times, he sings in the night with family for hope and promise. Éomer’s singing voice also calms the horses under his care, especially Firefoot. It has been said that Éomer could still the thunderous hooves of the most distressed horse with his song, for it is in his voice that they hear the future of the Mearas and the Eorlingas and the promise of a Rohan returned to greatness under his eventual rule as King of the Mark.

We also know from the books that they sing during the Rohirrim charge, and their song could not only spur on their numbers and create a sense of unity in their charge, but also evoke a great and terrible fear upon their enemy:

“ And then all the host of Rohan burst into song, and they sang as they slew, for the joy of battle was on them, and the sound of their singing that was fair and terrible came even to the City.” -Return of the King

Now onto the Eorlingas kinship. The Eorlingas come from the North, and as such, they carry ancestral ties with other Northmen, the Bardings and Beornings. Though we see the alliance between Rohan and Gondor in the series, I also want to stress that Éomer holds alliance to his kin found in the Bardings and Beornings. He stands by and with his kin, and when Éomer is King of the Mark, he strengthens those bonds with the Bardings and Beornings through aid in danger, trade, and fellowship. 

[sinsism]

Straight from the studies

Via poetryfoundation.org - Poem Guide

Ode on a Grecian Urn - By John Keats

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,        Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express        A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape        Of deities or mortals, or of both,                In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?        What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?                What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard        Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,        Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave        Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;                Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;        She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,                For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed          Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied,          For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love!          For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,                 For ever panting, and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above,          That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,                 A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?          To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,          And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? What little town by river or sea shore,          Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,                 Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore          Will silent be; and not a soul to tell                 Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede          Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed;          Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!          When old age shall this generation waste,                 Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,          "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all                 Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

Breakdown of "Ode on a Grecian Urn" from a Symbolic View of Knowledge

In John Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn," the urn symbolizes timelessness and the eternal truths of beauty and art, serving as a vessel of deeper knowledge that embodies spiritual truths beyond its physical form. The poem opens with themes of silence and stillness, emphasizing that true knowledge often lies beyond the noise of everyday life. The term "sylvan historian" refers to nature as a storyteller, suggesting that every element of the natural world holds symbolic meaning and imparts wisdom about existence. The exploration of duality—life and death, beauty and truth, desire and fulfillment—underscores the idea that understanding one aspect requires knowledge of its counterpart. The notion that "unheard melodies are sweeter" highlights the belief that the most profound truths are often felt or intuited rather than explicitly stated. The figure of the Bold Lover represents desire and the transformative power of beauty, while references to sacrifice evoke themes of renewal and spiritual rebirth. The "Attic shape" of the urn signifies classical ideals of beauty and harmony, linking aesthetics to higher spiritual realms. Ultimately, the concluding lines—"Beauty is truth, truth beauty"—encapsulate the essence of the poem, suggesting a unity of beauty, truth, and knowledge, where understanding one leads to the discovery of the others.

Several archetypes emerge that resonate with occult themes. The Artist/Creator represents the creative force, embodying the connection between the mundane and the divine, emphasizing that the act of creation is a spiritual endeavour. The Seeker is the speaker in the poem, symbolizing the journey toward self-discovery and enlightenment, a common pursuit in spiritual traditions. The Eternal Youth is reflected in the urn's scenes, depicting lovers forever in pursuit of joy, which mirrors the desire for immortality and the struggle against the passage of time. Additionally, the urn itself can be seen as a Sage, a keeper of wisdom and knowledge, guiding seekers on their paths. Together, these archetypes enrich the poem's exploration of beauty, truth, and the nature of existence, inviting deeper contemplation of the human experience.

[littlereadsandteas]

January 2019

For fans of epic fantasy adventures with strong, visionary heroines, The Fate of the Tearling by Erika Johansen is a exhilarating ride that will sweep you away to a world of magic, mystery, and high-stakes battles between good and evil, where the fate of a kingdom hangs precariously in the balance.

Royal Bastards by Andrew Shvarts is a exhilarating and adventurous tale that will captivate readers who crave stories of self-discovery, loyalty, and the unbreakable bonds of friendship, particularly those who enjoy fantasy, romance, and coming-of-age journeys, as they follow the journey of Tilla and her fellow bastards as they navigate the complexities of their kingdom and their own destinies.

The Kingdom of Little Wounds by Susann Cokal is a captivating read for fans of atmospheric, slow-burning fantasy and historical fiction who appreciate complex characters, intricate plotting, and the exploration of themes such as power, loyalty, and the resilience of women in the face of adversity.

The Fifth Ward: First Watch by Dale Lucas is a gripping and action-packed read that will captivate fans of gritty, fast-paced fantasy and science fiction, particularly those who enjoy complex mysteries, morally ambiguous characters, and dark, immersive world-building.

The Deathsniffer's Assistant by Kate McIntyre is a captivating read for fans of atmospheric, character-driven mysteries with a strong focus on relationships, personal growth, and social commentary, who will be drawn to its unique blend of steampunk-inspired fantasy and historical elements.

Mystic and Rider by Sharon Shinn is a captivating read for fans of epic fantasy adventures that explore the complexities of magic, the struggle for acceptance, and the power of unity in the face of persecution, making it a perfect fit for readers who crave rich world-building, complex characters, and provocative themes.

Love, Hate & Other Filters by Samira Ahmed is a powerful and poignant novel that will resonate deeply with readers who appreciate stories about identity, cultural heritage, and the struggles of growing up, particularly those interested in exploring the complexities of Muslim American experiences and the challenges of navigating multiple worlds.

From Sand and Ash by Amy Harmon is a poignant and powerful novel that will resonate deeply with readers who appreciate historical fiction, romance, and stories of resilience, faith, and the human spirit, making it a must-read for those who enjoy emotional and captivating tales of love, survival, and the triumph of the human heart.

Evenfall by Gaja J. Kos, Boris Kos is a captivating read for fans of young adult fantasy romance who crave a slow-burning, atmospheric tale of self-discovery, forbidden love, and the struggle to control one's inner darkness, perfect for those who enjoy complex characters, moral ambiguity, and a richly imagined world of magic and illusion.

Slayer by Kiersten White is a exhilarating and action-packed read that will captivate fans of supernatural adventures, fantasy, and strong female protagonists, particularly those who enjoy stories about self-discovery, empowerment, and the battle between good and evil.

[karaokulta]

🎮 ¡Sé el arquitecto de universos lúdicos! 🕹️ Desarrollar y gestionar videojuegos es una odisea épica que nos embarca hacia una dimensión donde la creatividad y la estrategia son la clave del éxito. 🚀 No se trata solo de escribir códigos o diseñar personajes carismáticos; es una danza entre lo imaginativo y lo técnico, un duelo entre el arte y la ciencia. - **💡 Inspira antes de expirar:** Antes de codear, debemos soñar. Un buen videojuego nace de una idea que prende chispas. Pero, ¿cómo se materializa un sueño pixelado? ¡Con una visión clara y una chispa de locura! Eso es lo que te mantiene despierto en las noches, lo que mantiene a tu equipo despierto en las noches, y definitivamente, lo que mantendrá a tus jugadores viviendo y respirando tu creación. - **🛠️ Herramientas y Talento:** No hay juego sin su hacha. Pero no hablo de romper rocas, sino de la selección de motores de juegos, plataformas y talentos que transformarán la visión en una realidad interactiva. Unity, Unreal, ¿Scratch? Bueno, cada maestro tiene su libro, ¡y cada juego su motor perfecto! - **🎨 Arte, ¿para qué te quiero?:** El arte de un juego es más que belleza visual; es como su alma. Diseño de niveles, animación, ilustración... es como pintar un cuadro que luego cobra vida, salta de la pared y te pide que juegues con él. ¡Dale pinceladas de originalidad a tu juego! - **🎼 El ritmo del éxito:** Y no olvidemos la banda sonora, ¿qué sería de nuestro viaje sin una buena dosis de notas que marquen el ritmo de la aventura? Música y efectos sonoros son los latidos de nuestro mundo digital. - **📈 Gestionar es avanzar:** Como buen pionero, conoces la importancia de la gestión. Cronogramas, presupuestos, marketing, ¡uff! Pero tranquilo, incluso el caos tiene un orden. La gestión de un proyecto es el mapa del tesoro que nos lleva al lanzamiento y éxito de nuestro juego. - **💬 La voz de los jugadores:** Y al final, ¿quién juzga nuestra obra? Los jugadores. Escuchar su feedback es como encontrar manantiales en el desierto. Sus comentarios y críticas son el elixir que nos da vida y mejora nuestro juego. ¡Presta atención a tus jugadores! 📣 ¡Comparte en los comentarios tus experiencias en el desarrollo y gestión de videojuegos! ¿Cuál es tu fase favorita? ¿Qué retos has enfrentado? ¡Ésta es una zona de bonus donde tus anécdotas construyen la partida perfecta! Y si conoces a algún ludópata del desarrollo o a un game master de la gestión, ¡etiquétales! Vamos a amplificar la conversación. 🎤🎮 #DesarrolloDeVideojuegos #GestiónDeProyectos #Creatividad #Tecnología #GamersDeCorazón #InnovaciónDigital #Juegos #ArteYCiencia en el #Gaming #EstrategiasLúdicas