#Water Bodies Census

[smestreet]

First Ever Census on Water Bodies in India

For the first time in the history of the country, under the visionary leadership of Prime Minister, Shri Narendra Modi and able guidance of Union Minister for Jal Shakti, Shri Gajendra Singh Shekhawat, the Ministry of Jal Shakti has conducted the first-ever census of water bodies across the nation. The census provides a comprehensive inventory of India’s water resources, including natural and…

[hussyknee]

Ayat Khaddura, 27, was a digital content and podcast presenter in North Gaza. She was one of the five journalists murdered by Israel's targeted air strike on Nov 20, along with her sister and grandmother in her home. She posted this video in the knowledge that these were probably her last moments.

Video description:

A young Arab woman in a hijab and abaya speaks into her camera in Arabic in a high, frightened voice. The subtitles read: "This might be the last video from me. Today the Occupation Forces dropped phosphorus bombs on the Beit Lahia residential area, and frightening sound bombs. And uhm, they dropped letters from the sky ordering us to evacuate. So of course nearly everyone evacuated for the most part. Everyone ran into the streets in a crazy way. No one knows where they're coming or going. Uhm, we're all split up and around. Me and some others stayed at home. The others evacuated and left. We don't know where they've gone, that's for sure. The situation is terrifying, the scenes are horrifying [voice breaking as she starts to cry], the situation is extremely difficult. May God have mercy on us." [She closes her eyes as she starts to cry openly. End clip.]

[New clip.] The same young woman is seated on a desk in front of a world map wearing a jacket over a t-shirt and her hijab. Large video caption reads "Message from Ayat Khaddura who was martyred yesterday". Her voice is sad and resigned, and her face is tired and tear-stained as she speaks in Arabic. Subtitles read:

"We are human beings, just like other human beings around the world. We had many big dreams, but unfortunately today our dreams are that if we are killed we will be martyred in one piece, one body (not torn to pieces) so that people can recognise us, and we will not be cut off in pieces and put in a bag. [struggles not to cry.] When we are martyred there will be a shroud for us and we will be buried in a grave. Our dreams have become that the war will stop, that we stop hearing the sound of bombing. We never imagined we would reach such a stage and live such a life that does not have the lowest basic necessities. [Blinks back tears.] There are things we can't talk about, there are things that people photographed and did not document. When the war will end, who will continue to talk to people? What happened to us, how we lived, what we saw. Everything is being destroyed before our eyes." [Looks down with a sob. End video.]

Israel dropping leaflets onto trapped and hiding people minutes before bombing them is nothing but a sick PR exercise— there's nowhere safe to go, no telling where the bombs will drop, no way to not leave family members behind while fleeing. Many people in North Gaza decided not to evacuate to the South, not only because similar calls to go South have ended in Israeli airstrikes massacring the refugees, but the possibility of being killed while trying to make the journey, the lack of food and water to sustain them, and inability to leave old and disabled family members behind. Some like Hind Khaudary, who had the opportunity to leave the Gaza strip entirely through foreign embassies, stayed behind to continue reporting the situation unfolding in the North. Meanwhile, Israel is continuing to bomb the South, despite their own evacuation orders.

Ayat is one of the fifty-three Middle Eastern journalists killed since Oct. 7. Forty-six of them were Palestinian, most massacred along with their families. Air strikes on other journalists managed to kill only their families instead. This is the deadliest period for journalists recorded by the Committee to Protect Journalists in its thirty years of existence. In fact, Israel killed one of the CPJ's own journalists documenting the murders around the same time as Ayat.

Nearly all these are targeted strikes. Israel controls the census in Gaza and therefore has information on where everyone lives. They also track journalists cellphones and use surveillance drones and quadcopters (drone snipers). Journalists and their families are known to receive threatening phone calls from unknown numbers before they're eventually attacked.

As to why Israel is so concerned about journalists? For the same reason the Biden Administration has stated openly.

But the administration remains wary about Netanyahu’s endgame and seeming lack of a plan for what to do once Hamas is defeated. There was no sense that the pause would turn into a lengthier cease-fire, a senior administration official said. And there was some concern in the administration about an unintended consequence of the pause: that it would allow journalists broader access to Gaza and the opportunity to further illuminate the devastation there and turn public opinion on Israel.

Please spread news of these journalists' murders, show their faces, say their names. While Western journalists from CNN and BCC are embedded with IOF teams to safely "report" on Gaza, Palestinian journalists who have been reporting there for years, wearing a press jacket and helmet they know won't protect them, are documenting and broadcasting the situation on the ground, watching their colleagues being picked off one by one for the last month and half, not knowing when it will be their turn. Ayat was not a combatant. She was a young woman a lot like most on this site, young and angry at injustice, armed with only a degree and internet connection to fight for her people. She wanted the world to witness her last moments: documenting the situation till the end, her terror of dying, how she clung to her faith and wanted to live. Hers and her compatriots work is to resist letting their people disappear among the vast uncounted; she resisted it to her last breath.

Empires and colonizers win wars by reducing people to numbers. When people become numbers they become collateral, cattle, "unavoidable casualties". This is what Palestinians have fought for decades to show: "We Are Not Numbers". If the West wants to kill human beings with impunity, everyone gets to see exactly which lives and loves and hopes it's snuffing out forever.

[thefisherqueen]

I came across the surname Baskerville in a text completely unrelated to Sherlock Holmes (in a book about wild camping), and it's gives some really interesting insight into the history and present state of UK inherited titles and landownership so thought I would share!

'William the Conqueror invaded England in 1066 and then made himself king. It was like any other invasion of conquest, in any other time or realm. King Harold the Second was dead. Long live the King. Life goes on. But there was a difference. New laws saw all of the land seized by the Crown - a relatively unique development in the history of conquest. Sasxon barons were replaced by the Norman lords and their allies. The Domesday Book - the most definitive land registery document every devised - was produced on William's orders in 1086 to identify the new owners and their land holding and what they might owe, in tax, favour and loyalty, to the king: the sovereign Landlord.

Landownership had worked broadly in the same way ever since our ancestors abandoned the nomadic life, and took up the shovel and plough about 10.000 BC. What the Normans changed in Britain was the communal right of access over the land. That system of non-communal access is still very much in force today amoung the modern-day descendents of the Normans. Which is why William's 1086 census - the Domesday Book (and its modern version, the Land Registry) - remains so important. It serves as a legal document that established ownership by the legal holder of the title.

My research into where I could roll out a sleeping bag today meant looking at landownership. I discovered that very little had changed sinde the Norman invasion. Just 0,6 per cent of the population still owns 50 per cent of the British land, and most of this elite are the descendants of the 11th-century Norman aristocracy.

A report - "Who owns Britain?' - by Country Life magazine in 2010 was said to be the most detailed survey of its kind in over 100 years. The research claimed that just 1200 aristocrats and their families own 20 million of Britain's 60 million acres of land. The top private landowner in Europe was the Duke of Buccleuch and Queensberry, who owned 240.000 acres in England and Scotland. Research by the London School of Economics in 2013 claimed that the Normans who conquered England - with surnames Baskerville, Darcy, Mandeville and Montgomery - still dominate the student rolls for Oxford and Cambridge universities, still make up a large proportion of the elite that holds the prime positions in professions such as medicine, law and politics. They also control a good number of the political agencies, public bodies and charitable organisations that oversee rules regulating land management and access.

But 1066 was about more than Saxon lords losing their holdings. It was how it affected the peasants that mattered most. The common rights over common lands like Sherwood Forest and the Kentish Weald were gone. Those rights included the right to roam over woodlands, marshes, moors and coasts of many common areas; to graze animals, collect wood for fuel, tools and buildings, to eat fruits, to collect water from rivers and streams, to catch fish and generally to do all the things that made it possible to live off the land."

From: Wild camping. Exploring and sleeping in the wilds of the UK and Ireland, by Stephen Neale, page 29

I've been to the UK several times for hiking trips, and I remember being puzzled by the system of access to nature at first. It is quite bewildering to be just walking on a perfecty good path, only to suddenly find it fenced off, with aggressive signs warning walkers to KEEP OUT!!! Why are hikers treated with so much suspicion even in areas famous for its good hiking? And what do you mean by Right of Way? How come there's major roads and motor cross terrains within a national park? (turns out they are largely privately owned). Myself, I've never been shy to climb the occasional wall or fence, and pitch my tent somewhere even on private lands. I consider it my own gentle way of resisting the very idea of private property, which creates so much inequality. I've never yet faced any trouble for it, by the way. Turns out land owners have little desire to actually hike on their lands, especially in rain or cold or darkness, and the people who work for them are usually not payed enough to care about a lonely hiker who is causing no disturbance or damage whatsoever xD

[murdocking]

„ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜ”

- a chishiya series. ch5 ch7

masterlist

warnings + notes: idk drowning??? burning???i cant make a fanfic guys i literally suck at writing god… the entire chapter is just the game… xoxo filler chapter. but a bit of little friendly bantering at the end. dw we gna speed this up real soon i swear.

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱɪx

-CENSUS

the air in the room is cold, removing the jacket that covered the swim-top hatter ordered you wear. the girl beside you begins breathing exercises, filling her lungs in with air before quickly exhaling a total of three times.

you attempt to raise the volume of the headset before hearing a sharp screech of connection and a string of “hello? can you hear me- hello?”’s. you simply nod as you adjust the headset and shake off your shoes. tatta sighs on the other end of the screen, and chishiya leans forward to grip onto the silver, thick mic on the panel

“tell us what you find, we can work from there. there’s too many variables on this end to figure out what the answer is”

the girl wastes no time, she deeply inhales one again before gracefully diving into the depths of the dark water. you admit you’re not as brave as her, and it takes you a second before you say ‘fuck it’ and follow after her.

the water feels strange, it makes your bones shiver- and the deeper you go, the heavier it feels against your body. if you didn’t know any better, you’d say it felt like swimming in tar.

you can barely see in the water, just shadows of kicking feet in front of you before feeling your shoulder knock into something hard. you can’t help but silently yelp out in the water- losing your precious air- but you hold onto the metal plate you slammed onto to stabilize yourself. you’re about to continue your search, until you feel indents onto the plate. you reach for the phone in your pocket, and use the countdown from 28 minutes to shine onto the dark plate.

11

there’s no way of alerting your partner that you’ve found a piece to your puzzle, she’s gone further than you’ll be able to manage- and you decide she’ll learn once she resurfaces for a breath. you turn quickly, fighting the thickness of the water to go towards the light of the opening into the room. at 27 minutes you catch a breath, and haphazardly click onto the headset- finally able to speak to your teammates.

“i found- i found something. 11, thats all it said.” the man nods, and turns to move furniture in the other room- looking amongst magazines. chishiya has a faint look of relief on his face, moving from the mic to speak to tatta. you cannot hear a single word they say- until chishiya hits the mic

“keep going.”

and you do, you dive right back in- not even bothering to get a proper breath and just begin to swim blindly. this time, you keep an arm out- searching for obstacles that will give you any clue. the girl swims past you quickly- needing to breathe badly after being underwater for over 2 minutes. you can hear her talk muffled over your headset, and hear chishiya replying. they talk for a while- and it bothers you slightly. what did she find that was so important? you came back first anyways. you ignore the questions once you feel your elbow graze a thin cut of metal. to your upper right, is a jagged edge lodged into the corner of an eroded rock- etched on-top of it is the number 6

you push yourself off the rock to gain momentum to reach the surface once again to deliver the news- feeling the bubbling air emanate from your nose the closer you get to the opening.

you grip onto the edge of the opening, just breathing, ignoring the conversation that occurs in the headset- letting your eyes focus back into the bright overhead light of the room. the girl is standing against the glass screen, locking eyes with the man as they talk about theories. you scan the room- and notice something is different. while you were gone for no more than a minute, a metal sheet in the wall has produced its own panel- assuming its for your own idea of what the code and order is.

“forget that! maybe it’s the recording studio? do they mention top artists produced here?”

“how the fuck do you expect me to know what that is? you think the gamemakers are just gonna tell us that !” the man argues with her, and she scoffs- muttering curses at him before catching you perched below.

“did you get anything ?” you just nod, shifting up before telling her ‘6’, to which she repeats in her headset.

“makes no sense to keep going back down there- i dont even know if we’re going to remember all the numbers accurately.” tatta says to chishiya, who has left the mic on. he softly nods- getting up to open a filing cabinet in the back. your hair feels as though it is going to stiffen - and you’re shivering from the cool air and the water stuck on your skin. “what are the magazines?” you speak into the headset, the men just look at you from the other end, waiting for you continue.

“are they from the same company- is it based on the issues of the magazine?” the man in the corner brings a stack of magazines to the top on the control panel, and the girl climbs ontop of the now empty headset table to see the magazines better from the other side of the glass.

he’s flipping through, at least 4- until he starts on the 5th one and stops immediately before speaking .

“different brands and topics. these three are about car sales,manufacturers, and racers. these two are social gossip ones- none of them have 11, 4, or 6 as their issue number.”

4? so thats the one she found.

you can’t help but huffing out a bit, a bit frustrated at the fact that despite it being a clubs game, its starting to feel a bit more like diamonds. you can notice chishiya focusing on a specific paragraph in one of the discarded magazines. his brows have furrowed, and his eyes are rapidly scanning the page. you know he’s finding a pattern. “chishiya”

he looks up at you, confused

“the time is running, we need to look for the other numbers.” he sighs, huffing into the mic “alright, but after you both get a number-you’re in charge of remembering it. “ “of course”

the girl and you go back in.

you pass by the number 4 plate- ignoring the way your arm begins to ache from the pressure of the water and the bruise that’s forming from before. you both go your own ways, you lean to the left side of the cove while she covers the right.

you can feel your own jolts from your body, begging for some air- but you continue to push through until you can find something. it’s until your arm comes into contact with a plate directly in front of you that you realize how deep you’ve gone. you hold onto the plate, trying to use the phone as a source of light but the light hardly hits the plate. 20 minutes left, and you put the phone back away- starting to run your fingers over the plate to feel the number.

3..? no, 8.

you can feel the obvious loop of the number and realize it is infact an 8- and immediately make your way back. you’re slightly struggling, jolting again like an injured fish as you search for the cove’s entrance before finally finding it. you break through with a gasp, throwing your headset onto the ground in front of you while you just breathe for a bit. the girl had came up before you, and she looks at you with high concern, patting your back from her place above the ground. you hoarse out an ‘8’ and she nods, relaying the message once again and you can faintly hear the yell of frustration from her headset.

you hate to admit it, but it takes you a little while to recollect yourself and tie your brain back to reality. and when you do, you make the wasted time count. your partner had went down a second time- and came back with nothing new. the only numbers you’ve found were 11, 4, 8, 6, and 12- but your counterparts are hardly figuring out the order to the 6 number code, one of which you’re missing.

you grab your headset and lunge yourself out of the water, shoving it back on and ignoring the chill of goosebumps cursing your arms as you jump onto the table against the glass, clicking onto the connection to speak on the headset microphone

“let me see the magazine articles, you guys look for other hints.” tatta switches seats with chishiya, holding the magazine shakily in front of you as you quickly skim over the details- ignoring the glares of contrasting light enveloping the pages. you dont say much- only short, curt commands of ’ turn’ and ‘next’, hoping to find a common factor.

and you think you’ve found it.

at 13 minutes, your partner is resting, rubbing her chest as she breathes in air and practices exercises before she sends herself back into the dense cove soon.

“countries.”

you say, but it doesn’t exactly resonate in your mind until a few beats later. “there’s always an article mentioning a country…”

tatta looks at you a bit confused, while chishiya just stares at you from his place- seemingly have figured it out already on his own.

“in the first two magazines- there was a writer who discussed about agricultural updates and also economics in indonesia. this one is mentioning a celebrity who talks about their home country of nigeria for at least three paragraphs. the one before that was about japan’s best international car sales and placements.”

the man who had been in his own world tunes in, practically running to the microphone “so, just look for countries? is that what you’re saying.. test our geography?”

“maybe not geography itself.. but that’s the only common factor here, if this is the only thing you guys have found then it has to be tied into this” the two young men nod, and chishiya gives you his own look of praise that makes you swell with self confidence.

“i’m going to help look for the last digit, let us know what you find”

they acknowledge your statement loosely, and you brace yourself for another encounter with the deep sea.

your partner looks at you briefly, before she dips back into the water- knowing you are to follow soon behind her.

you grip onto your headset as you kick your feet in the thick waters with newfound adrenaline at 8 minutes- ignoring the odd feeling of your sweatpants grazing against your legs. you have to run your fingers over a couple of plates- locating the 12 and 6 plates until you shuffle around and nearly head-bump into a third plate. you quickly attack the plate with your touch, feeling the tips of your fingers run over the smoothened and buffed imprint of the number 1. you’re grateful, you located the last digit for the code- but unfortunately you’re so far deep you admit you’ve forgotten which direction you came from, and you’re losing that energy. you can feel your head burn with anxiety, and try to suppress it to preserve any breaths. you flutter your eyes to gain new focus on your surroundings- just trying to poorly make out the shapes and shadows of the depths of the water. you decide to swim upwards. and follow the top of the metal cove.

it takes all your strength and self control to not give up and try to breathe under the suffocation of the water- but after 3 minutes you’re jolting again, panicking that maybe you’re following the metal hinges to the wrong place.

until you cut your knee into the number 6 plate’s sharped jagged edge- and you can finally recall the area, quickly moving in the cove to turn and see the overhead light of the recording room. you’re already bubbling and gasping before you hit the surface, feeling hot liquid come up your throat before harshly coughing up nothing but panic on the floor.

you grab for your headset, feeling it on your neck now and shakily put it up to your head and rested onto your ears

“y/n are yo-“

“its one. the last number. what are the countries?” you can’t wait to get out, you need to find the connection between them now.

they put a scribbled piece of paper to the glass wall, and your teammate helps you up to view it.

indonesia, nigeria, palestine, japan, ethiopia, brazil, india, russia, united states, mexico, italy, bangladesh.

what the hell?

none of the countries were even tied together to the same continent… and every magazine is a separate entity altogether.

it irks you how chishiya stares at you under his lashes, waiting for your move while he simply basks in the glory of observing your trial.

“what are the dates?”

the man questions you , to which you give a short reply- just eager to get it over with. “the articles! what are the dates? put them in order.” tatta and the man do as you say, and your teammate questions you after you click off the microphone on your headset

“what are you thinking? no offense but i dont exactly like the idea of us dying because its your game run” shes right, you know that even in the afterlife- you’d face eternal shame and damnation if it turned out to be your fault for causing a game over.

“hey! here quick!” the man yells into the headset- shaking off your private conversation as you both separately click the headset mic on.

you just stare at the array of paragraphs- losing yourself to the words on the pages. they were so different, talking about anything and everything that differed from the next.

“hey tatta… you read these right?” he nods and you climb back on the table. “tatta, tell me about the car sales for japan.”

“how does this even remotely help! come on a lesso-“

“sh.” chishiya’s hum of command is recognizable to you- and you can feel your ears twitch at the sound of it. the man shuts up quickly, sneering at the blonde while tatta begins his summary to you as you continue to read.

“w-well… it said that toyota continued to be the leading manufacturer… uhm somewhat over a million sales just last year here in japan. what else uhm…” he looks at his lap ,unsure “uh… like…68% of japan’s population owns a conventional vehicle? making it the reason toyota is such a-“

“wait.”

chishiyas face flickers, you can sense it even though you dont look at him

“whats indias article..?” you search for it until you find it

‘india’s homeowners census revealed that over 50% of the nation- nearly 62%- own their homes, while a staggering 13% rent!’

you run your eyes over the articles- finding that 9 of the articles all discuss one common factor

“population. its about populations.”

your teammate gasps, finally realizing it with you

“g-get rid of brazil’s article! its just a fashion recap of the show from two months ago!” she orders and the man across from her easily throws it behind them.

nigeria, japan, india, russia, united states, indonesia, bangladesh, palestine, ethiopia, and mexico are the only countries left.

“these are all in order right tatta? from when they were published?” he nods eagerly, fixing up the line-up as you humm nervously.

“india is the leading country in population- its number 1. india is the third article published… 1 is the third in the sequence.”

“united states is 3rd in world population no?” the girl says , quickly turning to you

“yes, but we didn’t find a three… so the united states isnt part of the sequence.” like clockwork, the man discards of the u.s. article, pushing the other magazines together.

“bangladesh, i remember doing a report on it for a humanities class in college” the man says, staring at the article- “its 8th in the running for population”

you continue to rack each other’s brains- putting russia, palestine, and mexico’s magazines to the side after guessing their placements.

you glance at the chicken scratch tatta managed to etch onto the paper- the code sequence there at 2minutes left on the countdown.

6 , 12 , 1 , 4 , 8 , 11

“perfect! let’s try it!” your teammate is the most excited of all, running to your control panel before you can even speak to argue with her about the choice. she enters the code, before screaming as the control panel sparks and bursts into flames on her hand- and you immediately cover her hand in the jacket you wore previously- dunking her hand into the gross water as she dryly sobs

ATTEMPT 1 USED: WRONG SEQUENCE.

ONE ATTEMPT LEFT

1 MINUTE 13 SECONDS

“you said it was right! whats wrong with you!” she screams at you with hate, and you faintly hear chishiya getting out of his chair to sit at the control panel- the other two men now gone from it as they take their frustrations and panic on the secured room

the girl shrugs your hands off her- viciously tossing her headset into the water as she loudly cries

he leans into the microphone, whispering- though you can hear his deeply raspy voice incredibly clear

“were all the numbers right?”

“of course they were right, chishiya. i saw them myself! and i triple checked the ones i couldn’t see why would it be wr-“

he cuts you off

“were they all. right? were they all…in the same way?” he stares at you, begging you to understand his desperate hint as the clock ticks.

the same way? what does that even mean

you can feel the wear and tear of this experience- your body aches, and you can tell your hair is matting. your bruise on your shoulder and cut on the knee plagues your thought process

the bruise

the cut

the only plate that stuck out to cut you

was number 6

‘were they all. right? were they all…in the same way?’

the 6… its a 9.

“oh my god!” you view the notes again before rabidly speaking. russia was the 9th in population- making it the third in the sequence-

“the code! its 12 , 1 , 9 , 4 , 8 , 11”

tatta looks at you confused, until chishiya urges him to put the code in- he clumsily hits the panel keys, entering the code at the final 42 seconds on the countdown.

you can breathe, way better than you could ever thought of even when you were nearly drowning. the voice ringing GAME CLEAR brings you joy- indescribable joy as you laugh in shock, your teammate also stunned and amazed at the congratulations by the system. she lunges at you, sobbing into a hug. the water has long stolen her scent of weed- and replaced it with a plastic-metallic smell you know you share with her. your knee buckles as you help her up, the thickened blood from your cut building up on its dried layers.

the metal door separating the rest of your crew flings open, and the man helps you with fixing her hair and clothes while she rolls her wrist over and over.

chishiya stands the furthest from you, but greets you the warmest- a smile on his face.

he can’t wait to put your skills to use in this plan.

“hey doctor-“

“don’t call me that” he says, rolling his eyes as he flips the page in his book

you just disregard his statement and continue

“would you say this is healing up pretty well?” you nearly kick your leg onto his, your now colorful knee coming into his peripheral view as he reacts with disgust. “get that away from me y/n”

“come on! seriously its super sore..” you say, fiddling with the end of the lettuce trimmed swim-skirt- and he sighs, shutting the book with a random napkin as a bookmark

he pulls the leg closer to his torso, much to your surprise, and leans to examine it stoically. you feel slightly uncomfortable- feeling his warm hands hold down your thigh and you’re secretly wondering if you should’ve shaved this morning.

“to be honest, it kind of just looks really gross.”

“thanks.”

“i mean it, it literally looks awful what are you doing to it?” you just snatch your leg from him- or at least try to. he holds the leg with random strength you didnt think this twig of a man had- his smirk adding to the damage.

“ive been wiping it with alcohol! and that shit hurts like hell! you would know!!” you successfully reunite your leg with the other, crossing your arms as chishiya reaches for his book once again

“sure, you’ll be fine then. just avoid going into the pool.”

“be serious with me chishiya,” he looks at you from the corner of his eyes “ do you honestly think id swim in that pool?” he rolls his eyes, but you continue- leaning to whisper in his ear

“do you know how many people fuck in there?? i feel like i’d be reliving my journey to the womb..” he stifles a laugh- but it transforms into a snort and he regrets reacting as a whole once the noise escapes him

“you did not-“

“shut up.”

[enddaysengine]

Yamaraj (Psychopomp, Paths Beyond)

Paizo loves to draw on real-world myth and religion to flesh out the Age of Lost Omens and these psychopomps are no exception. Yamaraj is one of the names of the Hindu God of Death, who also shows up in many, many other Asian religions and mythologies. While Yamarajes are largely created whole-cloth for Pathfinder as best as I can tell, they share their role as the afterlife's supreme judges with their namesake. 

When dealing with psychopomps in general, and yamarajes specifically, it’s critical to remember that, while they have hierarchies, these are not devils. The bureaucracy of the Boneyard is considerably more laissez-faire than that of Hell. Psychopomps follow their hierarchy because if they don’t someone further up, the chain of command might bury them under so much busy work they’d wish they could die. A psychopomp may all be the spirit of the law one day, then the letter of the law of the next, simply because it is convenient. If it gets them the results they believed to be correct, they may not have any qualms about breaking the law entirely.  

All this means the yamarajes get a high degree of latitude to deal with problems as they see fit. They are the penultimate step on the org chart, second only to the Ushers and the gods themselves. They are smart, cunning, corvid-dragons of death who heal from lightning and have the scarab swarms from The Mummy ‘99 as their breath attack. You try telling them they’re doing their job wrong. It can be tough to find inspiration for outsiders acting this way, but luckily one series does exist. Daily Bestiary recommended Garth Nix’s Keys to the Kingdom to me a while back and while it’s not a perfect fit for psychopomps (he suggested it re: rilmani), the denizens of the House are a good starting point for getting in the mindset of neutral outsiders.  

Rajit the Wayward stubbornly insists that he is not, although the nickname has stuck amongst mortals and his erstwhile colleagues. The yamaraj hasn’t set foot in the Boneyard for nearly 3000 years, proclaiming to anyone who will listen that she has merely taken a short sabbatical and will return to his courtroom soon enough. Even his fellow immortals are skeptical, but Pharasma has made no move to censure him, so the other Yamarajes put up with his truancy. Meanwhile, Rajit serves as one of the few points of stability within the First World realm of Nighthold, dispensing legal advice to those in need. Rajit is just as curious about the fey as they are about the psychopomp, which helps him endure both their shenanigans and treachery. He is one of the easier psychopomps for mortals to approach — if they can make it through the remnants of Count Ranalc’s kingdom.  

Like any body of water in the Universe, the River of Souls has its own weather. Shah Jamshid rules over the largest of these storms, riding it up and down the River as he incinerates soul thieves with lightning bolts. The yamaraj's storm doesn't usually disturb the departed, but every few years he must recruit adventurous to track down souls who get blown stray. While irritating, Jamshid justifies these minor interruptions to the River's flow as the price for ensuring daemons and powerful undead don't do worse damage. 

Lucius Census-Taker has always been fascinated by swarms. He revels in his breath attack and spends his downtime as an amateur entomologist. Not that he has much downtime - Lucius has taken it upon himself to process the souls slain in the final battles with the closure of the Worldwound. His fascination with all things swarm extends to the dead demon lord Deskari. Lucius is an invaluable resource for parties seeking information on the fallen demigod, but between the bureaucracy of the Boneyard and his dangerous sojourns into the Outer Rifts, he is hard to track down.

[radioactivepeasant]

Halloween Fic: Prologue

(This angsty little bit actually happens month before the story itself, but it's very important worldbuilding for the story. When the whole thing is done, it'll be published on AO3 as a two-chapter whole)

"This one's temperature is too high."

Damas frowned down at the pallet beside the vast Precursor statue that loomed over the dais. The survivor he'd tracked the beacon to that morning in the desert lay there, unresponsive to the whispered chanting and cooling packs of the monks. He'd been shocked to discover that what he'd taken for a young soldier was barely more than a child under the sweat and grime embedded in his pores. By the size of the bones standing out just a little too visibly against the Unclaimed's skin, and the teeth they could count, Brother Rhys reckoned the boy could be no more than three and a half lustrums: seventeen at the oldest.

Seventeen was just barely old enough for the Trials, and that was just the high estimate of the stranger's age. That complicated the usual procedures of dealing with newcomers to Spargus. If he survived -- and at the moment it wasn't looking terribly likely -- and it turned out he was younger than seventeen, some kind of arrangement would have to be made for a child-Unclaimed.

"Do you not have cooling packs?" Damas asked, gesturing to the boy and the two animals that had been found with him.

"They are inadequate, my lord," Rhys answered. "Our supplies were greatly depleted after a failed expedition of several acolytes to the Great Volcano."

Was that all? The king of the Wastelanders turned away with a dismissive gesture.

"Then keep his body submerged until his core temperature stabilizes. I have questions for this one."

Silence followed the command. When Damas turned, the monks were watching him with conflicted expressions. He frowned and paced to the edge of the dais.

"Well?" he demanded.

Another monk, lower in rank than Brother Rhys, made a pacifying gesture and said apologetically, "We cannot, my lord. It is improper."

The king curled his lip at them. "Oh? Tell me, when did it become improper to render aid to a child?"

Rhys raised a hand, silently forbidding his companion from speaking further. He bowed his head.

"He is an Unclaimed, sire. Only those who brought the Unclaimed into your city may give them the rites of Water and First Breath, by law."

His meaning was clear: if Damas wanted to this one to live, he had to deal with it himself.

But there was a problem.

The monks would not treat submersion as an emergency medical treatment. They were rigid and uncompromising in the arena of new citizens. No matter what Damas said, if the Unclaimed was submerged, even to lower his temperature, they would record it as the rite of First Breath. But the rite of First Breath was reserved for those who had earned their first amulet in the Arena; those who understood the laws of Spargus and chose to stay, sponsored by their Finders, would use the ritual to move from Unclaimed to Foundling in the city census, gaining the same legal status as any child born within the walls.

This Unclaimed would die long before he had the chance to test his mettle in the ring if his temperature was not brought down, and soon. But without that amulet, if he were to step out of line later, he would not be the only one held accountable.

Damas took one last look at the limp form, and -- with a fairly imprecatory prayer under his breath to the Six Patrons of eco -- he made up his mind.

The king tossed aside his staff with an echoing clash of metal against stone. The monks twitched, and the guards at the lift jumped. Damas ignored them. He stormed down the steps of the dais and grabbed the skinny boy's arm. For a moment, he was thrown off by the texture of scars swirling across the skin like silvery fractals. More questions without answers. He shook away his curiosity and dragged the Unclaimed from the pallet and down to the edge of the pools. The orange creature raised its head and let out a choked cry -- it likely thought he was going to harm its human.

This wasn't going to help its opinion.

Damas stepped down into the water and hauled the Unclaimed bodily in after him. Frustration boiled under his skin, making his movements rough and brusque as he pushed the boy down under the surface and held him there.

The Six were mocking him.

You couldn't handle a toddler. Try again, maybe you can keep track of one big enough to protect himself? Try try again, Damas. Try and fail again.

The frustration bubbled up into his throat and tasted of bitterness.

He hadn’t asked for this.

He didn't want another child. He wanted his son. He wanted Mar.

But he knew in his heart that he was far too stubborn to let this one die.

One of the newer guards watched, and realized soon enough that the boy was awake, yet he did not struggle.

"This one is too weak, sire," he sneered, looking down with contempt, "Let the waters claim him."

And perhaps it would have been the merciful thing to do.

But Damas hated being told what to do.

And Damas had always been the kind of man who refused to admit defeat.

The boy's body would realize it needed air soon enough, surely. Any moment now.

Usually candidates are fully lucid during this rite for a reason....

Two seconds passed. Then five. Nine. At eleven seconds, the boy's eyelids twitched like he was going to open them. Good.

"Push," Damas whispered, stubbornly willing him to fight, "Push, whelp."

The Unclaimed's body tensed as if in response and one hand slowly, ever so slowly, rose to break the surface as if he'd just realized he was underwater. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open -- horribly, familiarly blue -- and his fingers snatched at whatever he could reach, clawing weakly at Damas’s arm.

It was enough.

Damas yanked him up out of the water by the collar of his mutilated tunic and the boy coughed out a mouthful of water. There would be no going back after this. The second they'd entered the water, the Unclaimed -- the Foundling's -- fate was bound irrevocably to Damas’s.

Grimly, and as quickly as was socially acceptable, Damas recited the words that would make the ritual binding -- and would add one more duty to his endless litany of tasks.

"Take your first breath, child of the wastes. By this birth and the hands that bore you, you belong to the people of Spargus."

"To the king of Spargus," the second monk softly corrected him, cutting off the rest of the words traditionally spoken as the young man sucked in a desperate gasp of air. "It is you who has chosen to forego the First Trial to give him his birth-by-water early. His fate is solely in your hands, my lord."

Damas snarled softly. "There was no need for it to be so," he reproached.

Emotionlessly, he hauled the Foundling from the pools and dropped him back onto the pallet.

"Heal him."

"Of course, my lord," the monk murmured. "As he is now part of your household, do you consent to the use of city eco to treat your Foundling?"

"Don't call him that." Damas turned away to retrieve his staff.

"It is what he is," Rhys observed placidly. "As you are his Finder-"

"I didn't ask to find the whelp," Damas hissed, "None of you were going to give him his rites!"

He marched past his throne, towards the exit of the chamber, stonefaced.

"Put him back in the water until one of you returns with the eco. Inform me if he recovers."

Between the monks, Jak lay on the pallet and stared at the ceiling with wide, glassy eyes.

If anyone had been paying attention, they would have seen his pupils dilate unnaturally wide.

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

In the countryside, waters, forests and in cities: what are women's struggles?

With femicide on the rise, Women’s Day calls for access to land and housing as crucial to end gender violence

A babassu coconut breaker from Maranhão state. A Quilombola fisherwoman from the region known as Recôncavo Baiano. A peasant woman from Mato Grosso state. A homeless woman from the country's largest metropolis, São Paulo. According to them, the relationship between their struggles, expressed on March 8, the International Day of Women's Struggle, is the defense of the autonomy of their bodies connected to the fight to conquer or defend their territories. 

This year’s Women’s Day occurs amid a record femicide rate. A survey by the Brazilian Public Security Forum released on Thursday (7) shows that, in a growing trend over the last nine years, 2023 alone recorded 10,655 femicide cases.  

"Women are the defenders of life. I don't know of any forests devastated by women. When destruction happens, they are the first to suffer. They're the ones who live off babassu [coconut]. When a community is evicted, they are the ones who hold the line with their children," explained Maria Nice Costa Machado, a coconut breaker and Quilombola woman from the National Council of Extractivist Populations (CNS, in Portuguese).

"That's why we have to organize, be strong and unite," says Dona Nice, as she is known. She is one of the 1.3 million Quilombola individuals in Brazil, according to the most recent census by the Brazilian Institute of Geography and Statistics (IBGE, in Portuguese). Of these, almost 90% live in communities that have not yet been granted land titles.  

Continue reading.

[theredhavendelegate]

Iss. 3:

Mysteries Beneath The Rubble!

Census workers from the mayor's office continue to aid in rescue and recovery efforts following The Great Transit, cataloguing the losses and tearfully reuniting the survivors.

The work is difficult, and while it has been getting physically easier as the days go on, the emotional toll only grows higher by the hour.

Most of the casualties have been due to crushing, blood loss, and sudden trauma, but unusual cases have gradually begun to bubble up. Though the offices of the mortician and mayor have refused to make statements on the matter, an anonymous Blue Coalition volunteer has come forward with a startling report... ---

The red bricks and colorful awnings, the copper roofs and cobbled roads, smashed and shattered and tossed and mixed, have combined to form a dusty, deathly grey, a beach with no waterline: an ossuary.

Alessa's soft nose and thin lips are covered with a hand-sewn mask. She and half-a-dozen others, each with a band of blue fabric on their upper arms, crawl over the debris with shovels and picks.

One of them calls out, voice echoing over the ruins: "Found one!"

There is a pause, tinted painfully with hope. The voice calls again, slightly grey now: "They're gone."

Another volunteer shuffles over with tools and a canvas bag.

Alessa carries on, clears the doorway to a house whose roof has collapsed, knocks in the window to a shop, shouts, "Hello? We're here to help, just make a sound, anything!" Her tone is not frightened or desperate. It isn't even protective per se. It is purposeful and sure, unfazed as a lighthouse amidst a storm.

Despite the softness of her features, her hands are calloused and scarred and her body subtly muscled. She breaks off ahead of her group, leaving blue fabric flags on any building that's held together well enough to have preserved those inside, until she spots the hole.

It's vast, an entire block seemingly sucked into the ground. It runs a hundred feet across and fifty feet at its deepest. Steep walls rise on every side and water, gas, and sewer lines jut out of them like rough, toothy needles.

"Sinkhole, maybe?" Alessa wonders, then something catches her eye. All around the edge of the hole are red signs, marked with the feather of Redhaven and the phrase 'Danger, Do Not Enter!'

Alessa glower's at the nearest one, daring it to stop her, then glances back down into the chasm. There are all the components of the street within: bent and curling lampposts, shattered windows, cobbles and curbs. No victims, though.

She waits a minute longer and, just as she goes to heft her tool bag back onto her shoulder, there is a sound: a scrape, then another, then a series of rasping coughs. A man tumbles out from beneath a shaded overhang and crumples to the floor, where he lies, wheezing.

Alessa drops her tools into the hole, down the shallowest of the slopes, then navigates herself down as well. Despite the desperate condition of her target, she moves comfortably, testing each step with almost half of her body weight before taking it fully, knocking away loose ground and rubble with kicks and nudges as she goes.

Her feet hit the basin floor and she scoops up her bag, preemptively fishing for the first aid kit as she makes her way over, though she stops searching for it once the man comes clearer into sight.

He is disheveled, dusty, bloody, and his breathing is shallow. There is a splinter, reflective, like blue-ish glass, sticking out of his neck. Several more protrude from his head. Each is six or seven inches long and noticeably barbed. He rolls over as Alessa approaches, and he gurgles, "...Others...help...", even as his eyes grow glassy and still.

Alessa stares at him for a moment, her soft brown eyes growing slightly dim and her brows sinking just a hair.

She glances up and away, beneath the overhang and into a terrible darkness that lies behind the man. There is an open doorway made of cut stone, the entrance to a basement or underground utility tunnel that slopes away gently and into the earth.

Alessa takes a look back up at the red warning signs, watching her from way above like curious angels, waiting, hoping, judging.

She shakes her head, hangs a blue flag by the doorway, and enters, lighting up an large, clunky flashlight. Its flickering yellow beam barely cuts through the gloom and the buzz it emits seems to barely cover an audible aura about the place.

Alessa proceeds down the tunnel, only slightly bothered by the atmosphere. She follows a trail of blood, barely present this far in but growing thicker. More glassy barbs appear, some stuck into walls, cut right into the stone, others discarded on the floor and stained partly red.

The tunnel goes on for too long, and without any of the usual furniture of a cellar. No barrels, no shelves, just more damage and evenly spaced, unlit bulbs of a newer style. There are holes in the walls and floor at odd intervals, a foot or two in diameter and organically shaped like ant burrows. Many are scorched, sprayed with black soot and reeking of kerosene.

The tunnel turns into a hall quite suddenly, lined with steel, linoleum, and occasionally, human bodies. Each is dressed like anyone might be, in vests, suspenders, shirts, blouses, skirts and slacks. A few wear long white coats that display unfamiliar insignia. Some are gnawed, filled with spines, or missing chunks. Some bear stranger afflictions still.

Alessa closes in on one that's huddled the corner of an intersection, a middle aged woman with strawberry blond hair tied back in a bun. Half of her face and skull has turned mostly transparent and hard, like smoked glass, to reveal her brain and optical nerves. The hair on that side of the head has fallen cleanly out and onto the floor. Her expression is locked, forever more, with eyes wide and mouth agape.

For the first time this week, Alessa recoils, though she recovers herself quickly.

In the grim quiet, a sound starts to echo out, ringing down one of the corridors and bounding through the crossroads. It is heavy, thunking and shifting. Alessa darts down another hall and rounds a corner, then extinguishes her light. She is cast in total darkness.

The sound draws near at an anxious, uneven pace. It pauses. There is muffled conversation and then clanking, a heavy click, then a thick wooshing sound. Bright light carries itself down the hallway and around the corner, then comes a wave of heat, and finally, the smell, sour and sharp like rotten eggs and vomit, and kerosene too.

Alessa reaches into her shirt, lays a palm on the handle of a revolver, and leaves it there.

The thunking movement begins again, draws close to the intersection behind the dimness of flashlights. The source of the sound grows visible now, two figures dressed from head to toe in thick white suits, like enormous anthropomorphic marshmallows. Alessa cracks a slight grin.

One of them is wearing a heavy tank on their back and carrying a sort of pump connected to it via hose. A little candle of a flame glows near its tip. The other wields a pump action shotgun, something sturdy and reliable, and clearly well used. Both have lamps mounted to the shoulders of their suits.

Alessa pulls herself back around the corner. One of the men begins to speak, voice muffled, yet still clear enough to read as uncertain. "That's it for this section. Let's get out of here and seal off the northern tunnel."

The other nods affirmatively and takes half a step, then stops. He tilts his gun up and into the darkness.

A sound begins. Clicking and chirping, harsh and organic, insectoid, like from summer cicadas. Darker though, harder.

Closer.

The man pulls the trigger.

The sound is deafening. Alessa's ears ring. The flash is what matters more though, as the whole space lights up for just a fraction of a second. The hallway she'd originally come from is now filled with chitinous things. Many armed and legged, constructed like armored, pincered ponies, slick and clinging to the walls and ceiling and packed in as if a single mass.

The man with the flamethrower lets loose, the man with the shotgun racks another round, and both start screaming in sync. A racket of scraping, cackling, clattering chitin fills the air. Alessa turns on her flashlight again and bolts away from the action. The hallways are all nearly identical, some are lined with doors, some turn off into narrow, dead-end alleys, while others feature thick, valved pipes and wall access panels of unknown purpose.

Even as the frenzied sounds fade away, absorbed by tile and steel and stone, twisted and choked by the labyrinth, Alessa runs. She pounds the ground with her boot-clad feet until she's blue in the face and her lungs ache, until she rounds a corner into another long, straight hall that slopes mercifully upwards.

She crashes against the wall, slumping into it and breathing heavily. Her knuckles hurt. She pulls her hand, finally, out of her shirt, fingers white and bloodless, joints aching to return to the shape of the revolver's grip. She stretches out her hand and starts up the slope.

There's daylight at the end, misty and grey, and relief floods the volunteer like cold water. As her senses return, a gaze burns into the her neck, a presence. She doesn't face it. She only whispers, "If you want to kill me, you'd better do it now, while I'm too tired to fight back."

Nothing attacks her, and as she reaches the end of the hall, which is set into the mouth of a cave in the semi-familiar outskirts of the city, she glances back. Only darkness stares back.

Only darkness.

---

First Prev Next

[friendlyfatbee]

4th Hottest Ghost: Chambrea and Johnny Deepend

Himbo or motherly figure? Your choice 👀

Chambrea:

Looks: Based off Victorian era because of the predominance of Chambermaids (Source: Occupations: census returns for 1851, 1861, and 1871.) Chambrea scored great in this category with her natural appearance and bright eyes (Source: Victorian Beauty by the Preston Park Museum) and the bodytype of having a smaller waist in comparison to the rest of the body (Source: The Wild Beauty Standards of Victorian England by Simone Sydel.) However, the only downfall was the state of her uniform… while yes chambermaids were not meant to be seen that does not excuse a torn uniform. After all, other stereotypical hotel staff such as Steward and Chef Souffle have perfect in-shape uniforms, and at least Chef Souffle wasn’t expecting anyone to see him. Yet Chef Soufflé’s uniform isn’t torn at all… I’ve got a question or two for Hellen when I’m done with this list >:( /j

Personality: I mean, she’s both pleasant and seems to enjoy her job, or at least be in a good attitude while she’s working! However points were deducted because of her snoopy nature of going through people’s belongings (E. Gadd’s suitcase.) Points will not be deducted for her stealing the suitcase, since she most likely took it out of panic (once again, chambermaids aren’t really supposed to be seen either) considering she was face to face with a ghost hunter. She also seems hesitant to fight, she doesn’t really have any malicious bones in her body aside from self defense.

Survival Rate: Perfect score, you’d definitely survive her. What’s she gonna do? Dust you to death? Don’t answer that if you have a dust allergy— she flees most of the time apart from actually fighting.

Niceness Rate: Also perfect score! She seemed to be enjoying her job, so she at least has a form of integrity of keeping other’s rooms clean, even at the cost of snooping. She also seemed very hesitant to fight Luigi, acting either out of panic or self defense. I think the perfect way to sum this up is her constantly overused voice line of “WoOaAh” when waiting for Luigi to make any moves against her.

Johnny Deepend:

Looks: Perfect score here! Easily 1980s beauty standards. Johnny pretty much stepped out of, or floated out of, the 80s with his bigger muscles, mullet, and tanned skin (model has skin paler beneath his goggles, his skin is also freckled which can happen from being in the sun often, at least for me-) (Source: The Evolution of Men’s Beauty Ideals in Film by Keelia Clarkson)

Personality: Fairly high! Most of his flaws originate from his cockiness with sports and roughness with competing (ie doesn’t really laugh at Luigi when he throws volley balls at him, rather looks more proud of himself if anything.) After all, Johnny is seen just practicing by himself if Luigi spies through the glass at him, Johnny is just here for a good time. In the case that he spits water at Gooigi, if Johnny was more actively malicious why would he be resorting to a more childish/playful tactic than instead just splashing with his hands? I think what stands out most of all is actually his defeat animation when he is vacuumed up by Luigi, he just… poses and plugs his nose, even sounding happy and like he’s having a good time, almost as if he was being a good sport and Luigi won. Johnny himself isn’t a serious character, and could definitely lean a little into the himbo catagory.

Survival Rate: Would it get hurt to get hit by a volleyball? Yes. Would it kill you? No, but if it did I’m more concerned about your health in the first place.

Niceness Rate: Not really shown to be nice or mean toward, well, ANYONE that isn’t Luigi. His treatment toward Luigi is debateable. His competitive nature is a double edged sword that can be either friendly competition or pummeling you to the ground not just from volleyballs but from you losing to him.

Overall, while these two aren’t the sharpest tools in the shed, they certainly have their merits that make them attractive! Chambrea will ‘sweep’ you off your feet, while Johnny… could probably bench press you lovingly.

(Also thank y’all for your patience while I had academic endeavors I needed to do first!! :D )

[wolfsbanepotion]

𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐘 — got a curse i cannot lift, shines when the sunset shifts, when the moon is round and full.

[ look ] [ listen ]

calm waves lapping coolly at your ankles while you collect shards of sea glass, a rolling fog on a full moon that gives you goosebumps, treacle tart and butter beer warm against your tongue, sitting high up in the swaying boughs of a willow tree, a crinkled smile that makes your heart race, dancing late night in the living room around the neck of a bottle, watching the sunrise glint off abraxan wings, a wave taking you out at the knees, flipping you through the water and grating you cruelly across the sand.

character parallels: connell waldron (normal people), peeta mellark (the hunger games), charlie kelmeckis (the perks of being a wallflower), isaak valtersen (skam), nathan byrne (the b*stard son & the devil himself), gale dekarios (bg3), malyen oretsev (shadow and bone), kristoff bjorgman (frozen), steve harrington (stranger things), alphonse elric (fma:b), elio perlman (call me by your name)

Full Name: Louis Alphons Weasley Gender/Pronouns: Cis man | he/him Age: Twenty-three Birthdate: May 18th Parents: Bill Weasley & Fleur Weasley (née Delacour) Siblings: Victoire Weasley, Dominique Weasley. Birth place: Shell Cottage, Tinworth, Cornwall. Height: 6"1 Species: 1/8th Veela Wizard [Afflicted with Lycanthropy] Nationality: British Affiliation: Order of the Phoenix. Body Alterations/Marks: Most of the left side of Louis' body is riddled with tearing scars, hip to mid-shoulder blade. A tattoo of the order symbol, the initials of others who fell fighting alongside him, this is pretty large by now and dominates the inside of his left bicep.

Personality Traits: - unassertive, impressionable, reclusive, pessimistic, sensitive, jaded + contemplative, solicitous, cordial, charming, dutiful, pragmatic, jocular

Blood Status: Pureblood Hogwarts House: Hufflepuff Wand Arm: Right Pet: Pet Crup. Patronus: Granian Winged Horse Wand: 13 1/8 inches, Chestnut, Reasonably Supple, Phoenix feather core.

what a waste, army dreamers.

a good soldier boy, he had a head for tactics and a body to lay down for the war. so he went.

compared to many, louis knows he had luck on his side with the way they grew up. he had his siblings, both his parents, they even managed to hold onto shell cottage for most of it.

felt deep pressure to be popular and well-liked, he found it easy to amass friends but he was nauseated by stress whenever he was teased too heavily or accurately. his entire world spinning, unable to speak, to breathe until he fled. 

as a child it was simply his nature spurring him to use his veela charm to try to sow hope and camaraderie in a room, as his time on the front lines grew he started to actively hone it to stop morale from tanking after bad losses. he had a habit of making people rally with one of his freckled hands on their shoulder.

always found it difficult not to be liked so the harsh reality of war made everything seem very overwhelming. he tried to remain unperturbed and threw himself into the pragmatics of the infantry. known for charging back inside or through battlefields plucking order members off the floor and physically carrying them to healer triage. a skilled fighter, best with magics that lend to altering the mind/illusions etc.

lives in a tent nomadically accompanying a wild abraxan herd since the attack, also collects dragon census data to ensure no native species are under current threat from the enemy. collects wild herbology samples and makes sure the habitats are healthy. he is an excellent watercolourist, paints landscapes as well as fauna and flora. occasionally sketches visitors.

accomplished quidditch chaser. plays the piano.

before he turned he was obsessed with taking polaroids with his film camera, he has about 900 total that he still keeps catalogued but he looks a them far less than he used to. they cut with a keener edge now. anyone close to louis would have been given some of these.

has a crup named chipie or 'chip', who has three legs and just sort of trots along behind louis most places. very well behaved... most of the time.

two-three years ago during a battle, louis was dragged off as a trophy to be bitten by a werewolf, if this could have happened in front of other order members i'm sure the de would have made it so. keeping parts of what happened that night fluid enough that some parts are almost [wanted connections]

reticent and world-weary nowadays, he has lost some of the naive precocious, almost bolshy nature he retained beforehand. never kisses and tells but still often charms his way into beds at safehouses if he has no known enemies in residence.

something changed in him after the attack, after he survived. those who had known him watched him draw back behind an impenetrable shield overnight. the realisation that he was dangerous now, fundamentally changed.

it is interesting, as the veela magic and the werewolf curse interact the charm still perpetuates but only one person so far and those who are very sensitive will feel a threatening predatory undertone to the enticing that was never there before.

a recovering people-pleaser who finds it incredibly difficult to lay out boundaries or know how he feels about anything in the moment. trying his best.

CONNECTION IDEAS

Experimenting on his werewolf form to provide better weapons against the other side's lycanthropes. Yes, this is fucked up, yes I need it.

Honey don't feed it, (he will come back) who is letting him darken their doorway? And why do they know better babe? 

A rivalry (maybe originated in quidditch) hate? Or do they have mad chemistry? Did they used to be friends? (maybe i'm thinking about challengers MB)

Someone who used to be Lou's friend or at least neutral on him who is now terrified of him due to their own past dark experiences with werewolves.  

Magizoologist? You might rarely spot this ginger motherfucker striding quietly up and down hillsides with his quill taking notes beside him. 

Someone who he was hooking up with/closer with who he ghosted after he got mauled and came to terms with his new affliction.

there's a curse comes with a kiss, the bite that binds the gift that gives.

[dontmeantobepoliticalbut]

Texas officials on Wednesday announced a state takeover of Houston’s nearly 200,000-student public school district, the eighth-largest in the country, acting on years of threats and angering Democrats who assailed the move as political.

The announcement, made by Republican Gov. Greg Abbott’s education commissioner, Mike Morath, amounts to one of the largest school takeovers ever in the U.S. It also deepens a high-stakes rift between Texas’ largest city, where Democrats wield control, and state Republican leaders, who have sought increased authority following election fumbles and COVID-19 restrictions.

The takeover is the latest example of Republican and predominately white state officials pushing to take control of actions in heavily minority and Democratic-led cities. They include St. Louis and Jackson, Mississippi, where the Legislature is pushing to take over the water system and for an expanded role for state police and appointed judges.

In a letter to the Houston Independent School District, Morath said the Texas Education Agency will replace Superintendent Millard House II and the district’s elected board of trustees with a new superintendent and an appointed board of managers made of residents from within the district’s boundaries.

Morath said the board has failed to improve student outcomes while conducting “chaotic board meetings marred by infighting” and violating open meetings act and procurement laws. He accused the district of failing to provide proper special education services and of violating state and federal laws with its approach to supporting students with disabilities.

He cited the seven-year record of poor academic performance at one of the district’s roughly 50 high schools, Wheatley High, as well as the poor performance of several other campuses.

“The governing body of a school system bears ultimate responsibility for the outcomes of all students. While the current Board of Trustees has made progress, systemic problems in Houston ISD continue to impact district students,” Morath wrote in his six-page letter.

Most of Houston’s school board members have been replaced since the state began making moves toward a takeover in 2019. House became superintendent in 2021.

He and the current school board will remain until the new board of managers is chosen sometime after June 1. The new board of managers will be appointed for at least two years.

House in a statement pointed to strides made across the district, saying the announcement “does not discount the gains we have made.”

He said his focus now will be on ensuring “a smooth transition without disruption to our core mission of providing an exceptional educational experience for all students.”

The Texas State Teachers Association and the American Civil Liberties Union of Texas condemned the takeover. At a news conference in Austin, state Democratic leaders called for the Legislature to increase funding for education and raise teacher pay.

“We acknowledge that there’s been underperformance in the past, mainly due to that severe underfunding in our public schools,” state Rep. Armando Walle, who represents parts of north Houston, said.

An annual Census Bureau survey of public school funding showed Texas spent $10,342 per pupil in the 2020 fiscal year, more than $3,000 less than the national average, according to the Kinder Institute for Urban Research at Rice University in Houston.

The state was able to take over the district under a change in state law that Houston Democratic state Rep. Harold Dutton Jr. proposed in 2015. In an op-ed piece in the Houston Chronicle on Monday, Dutton said he has no regrets about what he did.

“We’re hearing voices of opposition, people who say that HISD shouldn’t have to face consequences for allowing a campus to fail for more than five consecutive years. Those critics’ concern is misplaced,” Dutton wrote.

Schools in other big cities, including Philadelphia, New Orleans and Detroit, in recent decades have gone through state takeovers, which are generally viewed as last resorts for underperforming schools and are often met with community backlash. Critics argue that state interventions generally have not led to big improvements.

Texas started moving to take over the district following allegations of misconduct by school trustees, including inappropriate influencing of vendor contracts, and chronically low academic scores at Wheatley High.

The district sued to block a takeover, but new education laws subsequently passed by the GOP-controlled state Legislature and a January ruling from the Texas Supreme Court cleared the way for the state to seize control.

“All of us Texans have an obligation and should come together to reinvent HISD in a way that will ensure that we’re going to be providing the best quality education for those kids,” Abbott said Wednesday.

Schools in Houston are not under mayoral control, unlike in New York and Chicago, but as expectations of a takeover mounted, the city’s Democratic leaders unified in opposition.

Race is also an issue because the overwhelming majority of students in Houston schools are Hispanic or Black. Domingo Morel, a professor of political science and public services at New York University, said the political and racial dynamics in the Houston case are similar to instances where states have intervened elsewhere.

“If we just focus on taking over school districts because they underperform, we would have a lot more takeovers,” Morel said. “But that’s not what happens.”

[sirompp]

numbat

whadda hell...

its got a tong and evrything...

its an insectivorous marsupial.... its diurnal and its diet consists almost exclusively of termites........ its endangered.............

The numbat genus Myrmecobius is the sole member of the family Myrmecobiidae, one of four families that make up the order Dasyuromorphia, the Australian marsupial carnivores.[11]

The species is not closely related to other extant marsupials; the current arrangement in the order Dasyuromorphia places its monotypic family with the diverse and carnivorous species of Dasyuridae. Genetic studies have shown the ancestors of the numbat diverged from other marsupials between 32 and 42 million years ago, during the late Eocene.[12]

Two subspecies have been described, but one of these—the rusty coloured Myrmecobius fasciatus rufus Finlayson, 1933,[13][14]—has been extinct since at least the 1960s, and only the nominate subspecies (M. fasciatus fasciatus) remains alive today. The population described by Finlayson occurred in the arid central regions of South Australia, and he thought they had once extended to the coast.[13] The separation to subspecies was not recognised in the national census of Australian mammals, following W. D. L. Ride and others.[a] As its name implies, M. fasciatus rufus had a more reddish coat than the surviving population.[15] Only a very small number of fossil specimens are known, the oldest dating back to the Pleistocene, and no other species from the same family have been identified.[15]

areyou seeing this shit? oh ym god.

The numbat is a small, distinctively-striped animal between 35 and 45 centimetres (14 and 18 in) long, including the tail, with a finely pointed muzzle and a prominent, bushy tail about the same length as its body. Colour varies considerably, from soft grey to reddish-brown, often with an area of brick red on the upper back, and always with a conspicuous black stripe running from the tip of the muzzle through the eye to the base of the small, round-tipped ear. Between four and eleven white stripes cross the animal's hindquarters, which gradually become fainter towards the midback. The underside is cream or light grey, while the tail is covered with long, grey hair flecked with white. Weight varies between 280 and 700 g (9.9 and 24.7 oz).[15][19]

Unlike most other marsupials, the numbat is diurnal, largely because of the constraints of having a specialised diet without having the usual physical equipment for it. Most ecosystems with a generous supply of termites have a fairly large creature with powerful forelimbs bearing heavy claws.[20] Numbats are not large, and they have five toes on the fore feet, and four on the hind feet.[15] However, like other mammals that eat termites or ants, the numbat has a degenerate jaw with up to 50 very small, nonfunctional teeth, and although it is able to chew,[15] rarely does so, because of the soft nature of its diet. Uniquely among terrestrial mammals, an additional cheek tooth is located between the premolars and molars; whether this represents a supernumerary molar tooth or a deciduous tooth retained into adult life is unclear. As a result, although not all individuals have the same dental formula, in general, it follows the unique pattern: 4.1.3.1.43.1.4.1.4[15]

Like many ant- or termite-eating animals, the numbat has a long and narrow tongue coated with sticky saliva produced by large submandibular glands. A further adaptation to the diet is the presence of numerous ridges along the soft palate, which apparently help to scrape termites off the tongue so they can be swallowed. The digestive system is relatively simple, and lacks many of the adaptations found in other entomophagous animals, presumably because termites are easier to digest than ants, having a softer exoskeleton. Numbats are apparently able to gain a considerable amount of water from their diets, since their kidneys lack the usual specialisations for retaining water found in other animals living in their arid environment.[21] Numbats also possess a sternal scent gland, which may be used for marking their territories.[15]

Although the numbat finds termite mounds primarily using scent, it has the highest visual acuity of any marsupial, and, unusually for marsupials, has a high proportion of cone cells in the retina. These are both likely adaptations for its diurnal habits, and vision does appear to be the primary sense used to detect potential predators.[15]

fucking. aminal

[kevin--of-desert-bluffs]

WTNV quick rundown - The Novel -

This is the post about random facts we learnt about other (non-protag) citizens of NV! Basic Plot of the Novel is here. Diane, Josh and Jackie random facts here. NV/King City and MITTJ random facts here.

The history of the town of Night Vale is long and complicated, reaching back thousands of years to the earliest indigenous people in the desert. We will cover none of this here. […] It is a friendly desert community, where the sun is hot, the moon is beautiful and mysterious lights past overhead while we all pretend to sleep. Welcome to Night Vale.

Old Woman Josie's house is a 'small tract house whose tract no longer stood' and she makes a moderate income selling items the Erikas have touched. It is a low bungalow, avocado green, with a neat lawn kept well watered in a dry climate 'at the expense of some other place'. The lawn is surrounded by a border of pebbles arranged into geometric patterns (perhaps meant to ward off evil). The fence between the lawn and the car lot is tall and chainlink. She has a metal gate and in her side yard there is an outdoor seating area made of rusted metal. There's rocking chairs with cushions whose fabric has faded nearly all the way white in the sun.

Josie walks with a cane and has long hair but also an 'olympic atheletes body' perched on an old womans' skeleton.

Josie has a cloth-wrapped bundle buried in her garden. She digs it up when she's talking to Jackie. She later reveals it's an idol to old gods she was using as 'lawn decorations' but it was 'too needy'.

Cecil considers it is job to hide dangerous knowledge from NV.

Citizens called Chris Brody and Stuart Robinson are mentioned.

Cecil conducted a 3 hours interview with himself, interrogating himself on his motivations, where he is in life, why he's not in a different place in life, whose fault that is and why he said that one embarassing thing once.

There is a woman called Sheila who sits in the Moonlite and takes notes on people as they enter. She touches a flamingo, causing her to reply her life over and over to the point of touching it, completely aware of the loop and powerless in it. She eventually breaks it by becoming an intern for Cecil, but later dies falling down a pit of the flamigos, splintering herself into many versions of herself even as the primary one hits the bottom and dies.

Laura, the waitress with branches coming out of her, also produces fruit which patrons take off and eat. However, she also bleeds from these branches including when harvested from.

When the Erika's appear and disappear or move there is a flash of blinding bright blackness, a darkness so radient it makes you feel like your heart will break. They also 'don't see gender' so have trouble telling humans gender. They are said to be made of bright black beams of light and when they shrug there is the flutter of hundreds of tiny wings. Where eyes might be on a human there is a shadowy glow that you can taste in the back of your mouth (tastes like strawberry candy covered in mud).

The Glow Cloud (all hail) opens a new roller rink downtown.

Intern Jodi accidentally or on purpose alphabatizes her self as part of the SSP's daily census of every item in NV, leaving most of the stations items un-alphabatised.

The NV PTA threatens to block the doors to the school with literal bodies they own if the school board won't prevent kids learning about dangerous topics like drug use and library science during recess. The school board responds that PTA funds should not be used to purchase so many bodies.

Cecil invites people to drop by his genius boyfriends lab if they want things explained (like clouds, which he explains earlier in the broadcast).

Scientists are 'pack animals' and Carlos is their leader in NV. His lab is on the outskirts of the 'science district' which is pretty rundown because scientists don't like gentrification. Several different kinds of scientist live together which sometimes results in public conflicts but mostly they get along. Carlos lab is clearly labelled with a simple illuminated yellow and black LAB sign and a handwritten 'we are open' sign in the front window.

Carlos describes Cecil as as overenthusiastic, consumed with his work and having very little understanding of science and he loves him a lot. Aside from Cecil and science, Carlos says there's nothing he loves more than helping people. He came to NV for what was supposed to be a short research fellowship with the community college. Scientists Nilanjana and Stan are mentioned.

Carlos says he never missed Cecil's show and that he's not been in NV nearly long enough. He also says it's unscientific for him to talk about his experiences in the otherworld/himself.

Steve Carlsberg is fond of invisible pie.

There is a guard outside of city hall but he's wearing a mask which blocks out all sound and sight.

The mayors receptionist is an elderly man who is nonverbal and communicates via gestures.

Dana openly wishes she weren't mayor and misses her intern days.

Cecil attended Earl's/Tourniquets dinner party and couldn't taste anything for weeks after which is apparently a good thing.

The TV news anchors are insectoid-like humanoid creatures called Tim and Trinh who can talk directly to Diane. There's also somebody called Ben who works at the tv station.

Cecil mentions that interns wear a tunic and have duties which include mimeographs, making coffee and editing his slash fics. He doesn't seem to remember that most of his interns die, insisting that most of them must have gone on to do good things.

According to Carlos, the four steps of scientific method are: find an object you want to know more about, hook that object up to a machine using wires and tubes, write things on a clipboard and then read the results that the machine prints.

Carlos says that the flamingos are not made of materials native to NV because plastic and metal stakes don't grow in the desert.

Carlos is part of Cecil's bowling league team.

[literary-illuminati]

Spent yesterday too busy wallowing to read but, now continuing with AMCE thoughts!

-Ninteen Adze having been entirely complicit in Yskander's murder is such a good reveal

-Related - so it was her with the flower assassination then, changing her mind at the last second, I think. Restaurant bombing and home invasion/kidnapping attempt still unclear

-So Pro Immortal Emperor - The Emperor, Six Larkspur maybe(?), Eight Loop possibly(?). Definitely anti - Ten Pearl, Nineteen Adze, One Lightning, presumably whatever the Minister of War's name was.

-I do like the ambiguity to whether the cityshocks are some nefarious deniable way to remove inconvenient people or just, like, an embarassing slowly spiralling technical fuckup Science is hoping no one notices until they figure out a fix

-'The information ministry was originally War's intelligence and analysis department. Moving it out and making it independent and civilian really reduced the frequency of coups.' is a great bit of worldbuilding

-Does also give the extremelly amusing mental image of bright young graduate all starry eyed about being spies and secret agents and ending up customs inspectors or census takers or archivists or whatever the hell

-Anyway, time for a 30-page detour into cyberpunk!

-"Fifteen Portico the dissident cybernetrician and the revolutionary neuro-imaging implant she just got thrust into her hands" deserves its own novella at minimum.

-I really adore the little asides about what seems horrifically and shockingly wasteful to Mahit - bowls of water left out as decorations, meat from an actual raised-and-slaughtered animal, carrying a pregnancy in your own body.

[queenofzan]

asked mom if she knew anything about my great-grandparents, found out a TRULY HORRIFYING piece of family lore that made the papers in racine (two of my great-grandma's children drowned, on the same day, while playing near the river; the only witness was their six-year-old brother, who. did not allow his children to hang out with mom and her brothers while they did things like "go to the lake" because presumably he was like IF THERE ARE NO TRAINED RESCUE SWIMMERS THERE MY CHILDREN DO NOT GO NEAR LARGE BODIES OF WATER and like. respect. so true, great-uncle ???).

and apparently my grandpa george didn't know how to read until he joined the service, so. possibly his parents were immigrants! unfortunately they had an ellis island special last name and might be a little hard to track down

the other ellis island special last name is a rare variant spelling in a smaller town, so a hell of a lot easier to find in census records (even discounting the fact that. they did appear in the papers on at least one occasion.)

anyway in the course of this conversation i also realized for the first time that the period of time in which i was determined to drown myself in the pool was also when tom was sneaking out of the house and jessie had just gone from "only child" to "last of three" to "last of three BUT ALSO THERE'S A BABY". and mom was getting fed up with dad's drug benders. and the a/c broke (in phoenix). and they had a pool to clean. and a car was repossessed. hell year actually!!!

[halfstack-smp]

Census and Civic Response Service

RESIDENTIAL CENSUS 1973

Listed by Head of House as “kiasu xiaoren eat my entire house le”.

Content: bureaucracy, papers, a child, 16 chickens, languages and medical conditions that don't exist

CW: referenced child neglect

Screen reader's note: Passages of Chinese text and Hokkien english.

Read from the beginning

Read Halfstack stories

Read other Halfstack writings

Support the Halfstack SMP

Ravenslove Tower, Slovenguard, Halfstack Mountains Buildings: 3

RESIDENCE Constructed: 1951 Architect: Fadir Sunn Ravenslove Foreman: Crocket-Architect [SERIAL NUMBER EXPUNGED]

Foundation: Rock-cut cobblestone Frame: Aspen Scaffolding: Bamboo Roofing: Clay Windows: Bamboo lattiice Insulation: Wool Piping: Waxed copper Paint: Clay rice Flooring: Tiled Stairs: Step tansu Schematics: 1 hearth, 8 rooms, 1 porch, 1 cellar

COOP (2) Frame: Birch Scaffolding: Spruce Roofing: Clay Fencing: Spruce, bamboo lattice Insulation: Hay Schematics: 8 nest-boxes, 1 feeding box, 1 chicken run

GARDEN -4 beehives -wisteria, hawthorn, glowberry -Tomato, basil, thyme -potatoes, parsely, chives -peppers, scallion, garlic -rose, cloudberry, lavender -pumpkin, lemongrass, ginger -sunflower, oxeye, orchid, tulip

=[]=

Fadir Sunn Ravenslove 烏鴉愛 (it/its)

Presented Origin: Transorigin indeterminate (Raventhing?) Birth Origin: Pando Raven (Corvus fusang) Birthdate: N/A (registered 1945) Education: N/A (Literate in Script, Faelic, and Galactic) Languages: Raven-Hokkien (fluent), Anglos (mid), Guanhua (low) Professions: Prophetic divination, homesteading Outstanding Conditions: -Animal Transorigin -Medical Transorigin -Complex Prophetic Tangent Syndrome (C-PTS) (medicated) -Thoracic projectile/shrapnel injury (chronic pain and nerve damage on right side of body)

RELATION TO RESIDENCE: Head of house.

“Kibble” Maravilla-Ravenslove (unknown, will answer to any used)

Presented Origin: Transorigin imp Birth Origin: Amber Chicken (Gallus gallus domesticus) Birthdate: N/A (registered 1951) Education: N/A (Literate in Shorthand Script) Languages: Español Pequeño (fluent), Anglos (fluent) Professions: Farmhand Outstanding Conditions: -Fails mirror test -Animal Transorigin

RELATION TO RESIDENCE: Listed by Head of House as “kiasu xiaoren eat my entire house le”. Maintains chicken farm.

=[]=

FREOND REGISTRY

Huginn Allay Intent: Assist F. Ravenslove during C-PTS episodes.

Munnin Allay Intent: Assist F. Ravenslove during C-PTS episodes.

Ping-guo-pai (蘋果派)  Fire salamander Intent: House heating and cooking.

Da Ren (大人) Money frog Intent: “Is frog.”

Terrachelys (兒子) Dragon Turtle Teapot Intent: Hot water for tea and medication. Adopted after death of previous owner.

Ahba-bie (啊爸别) Amabie Intent: Harvest gauge for homesteaded and market produce.

=[]=

ANIMAL REGISTRY

-Chicken, Amber (2) (Dos Equis, Coronita) -Chicken, Bronzed (2) -Chicken, Fancy (2) (Dulce, Pendejo) -Chicken, Gold Crested (2) (Maria, Suegra) -Chicken, Midnight (2) (Fadir, Suegro) -Chicken, Skewbald (2) -Chicken, Stormy (2)

(The ravens are local Pando ravens. They are not owned by the Ravenslove household and thus not counted as part of the estate.)

=[]=

CENSUS CHANGES (1973) Requesting to add new resident: “Lynel Ravenslove.”

Lynel Ravenslove (they/them)

Presented Origin: Desert-Plains Human Birth Origin: No change Birthdate: 1963 Education: Level II (Year 5) Languages: Anglos Professions: N/A Outstanding Conditions: -Child abandonment/possible prior neglect

RELATION TO RESIDENCE: In need of residence after being unexpectedly ceded by previous guardian. Petitioning to ward under F. Ravenslove or eligible local resident.

=[]=

Pending Cases Mea T. Ball, Civic Reponse Office

ASSIGNED CASE: Evaluate F. Ravenslove’s fitness to take child ward. Evaluate L. Ravenslove for school registration and need for further physical/mental attention.