#Weaver's Folly

[redhairclara]

Ziegfeld Follies girl Alive Weaver photographed by Edwin Bower Hesser, 1929. From my collection.

[oliolioxenfreewrites]

Another Sneak Peak into Novaxiom. My world of Sonoric Sorcery!

The First Chapter! I wrote this overnight as I finally finished the outline I liked. I could do a deeper dive into this if you are interested :)

I emerged not like you did—not from some warm, comforting womb but from the cold, unyielding depths of the Crystalline Expanse within the Polar Symphonies of Novaxiom. My first memory isn't a mother's lullaby or a father's proud tears. No, my first memory is a perfect chord resonating through my being, waking me from a timeless slumber.

Imagine that. A vibration jolts Your entire existence into consciousness, a note so pure it slices through the void. That’s how it all started for me. One moment, I was nothing but an inert crystal; the next, I am Syrin, a sentient carved from the essence of the Gods themselves.

At first, everything was a symphony. The world unfolded in a stir of light and sound, each note and each shimmer a part of a grand composition that I could only begin to barely comprehend. So, I roamed the crystalline caverns with a kind of naïve wonder, my every movement refracting light into dazzling displays. The ancient energies flowing through the crystals whispered secrets of the past, long-forgotten songs, and the echoes of beings who had vanished eons before my awakening.

I could sense it all: the harmony, the beauty, the balance. It was intoxicating, this perfect world of resonant energy and light. But as with all things, perfection is an illusion, a fragile construct waiting to be shattered.

I remember that first discordant note vividly. It was faint at first, a subtle vibration that didn't quite fit with the rest. But it grew stronger, more seductive, like an unfamiliar yearning in my mind. Innate curiosity or maybe a sense of enticing the hands of doom - I'm still unsure which - drove me to follow that dissonance deeper into the caverns. It led me to an ancient, forgotten shrine, a place of power and ruin.

Here’s where it gets interesting. The shrine wasn’t just a relic but a battleground, the site of a long-lost struggle between harmony and discord. The air was thick with the remnants of that ancient conflict, and the dissonance I’d sensed was its ghost, still haunting the ruins. It spoke of betrayal, power, and a curse upon my kind—those like me who were born from the very essence of Novaxiom.

In the shrine, I learned of the beings who came before me. Auralis, the master of sound; Mentis, the weaver of thoughts; Vitalis, the giver of life. These primordial forces shaped the world and, in their wisdom—or folly—created beings to guard and guide the balance. But power corrupts. And where there is power, there will always be those who seek to twist it to their ends.

The Cacophonous Wars—what a mouthful, huh? It sounds almost lyrical. In reality, it was anything but. It was a barbaric, devastating conflict that almost tore the world apart. Psillusionists, with their twisted magic, turned harmony into a weapon. Korux, the name still sends shivers down my crystalline spine, was the worst of them. His legacy of darkness and discord is a stain that Novaxiom will never fully erase.

I saw it all through the remnants of the shrine. I witnessed the echoes of history replaying within those crystalline depths. I swear it! I witnessed the rise and fall of Korux, the Psillusionists' punishment, and their subsequent transformation, which led to the birth of Dysphoni.

Now, here's where it gets a bit muddy... Dysphoni are born deaf, cut off from the natural Sonoric energies that shaped our world. Defeated, they retreated to the Shattered Saskatchewan, harnessing and developing their own dark arts, manipulating silence and discord. Isolated and discriminated against, their resentment grew with each generation.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. It sounds like a bedtime story, a cautionary tale told to frighten children into behaving. But this isn’t a joke; I shouldn’t even be telling all of this to you; it’s all too dangerous. The Dysphoni didn’t just fade into the background. They bided their time, honing their skills, waiting for the perfect moment to rise again.

And rise they did. Led by a descendant of Korux, they surged forth from the Shattered Saskatchewan, their silence a weapon, their discord a plague. They aimed to engulf Novaxiom in darkness again to finish what their ancestors had started. The Great Silence, they called it, was an era where sound would be subjugated, where silence and discord would reign supreme.

But here’s the twist. The Dysphoni weren’t just the villains of the piece. They were victims, too, shaped by a curse that wasn’t entirely their fault. Born into a world that feared and shunned them, they turned to the only power they had left—silence. It’s tragic, really. A cycle of pain and retribution that keeps spinning out of control.

So, where do I fit into all this? I’m the observer, the chronicler of this endless symphony of creation and destruction. I’ve seen Novaxiom’s beginning, witnessed the rise and fall of its most remarkable powers, and now I stand on the precipice of its future. My role as an observer allows me to share these experiences with you, engaging and connecting you to the world of Novaxiom.

I walk through the Crystalline Expanse, my faceted form shimmering in the dim light, and I wonder. What’s next for us, for Novaxiom? Can we break the cycle, or are we doomed to repeat the same mistakes, to fight the same battles repeatedly? The echoes of the past are loud, but perhaps, just perhaps, we can find a new chord, a new harmony that includes even those born of silence.

Maybe that's the answer—not more conflict but integration, acknowledging the pain and resentment, and finding a way to turn it into something beautiful. It sounds naïve, I know, but after everything I’ve seen, maybe a little naivety is precisely what we need.

For now, I have to keep wandering; there are so many more frequencies I can attune to! At least the Gods gave me something to work with on this crazy ass planet! Just gliding along these snowy hills, listening to the songs of the crystals, the whispers of the past. I’ll keep telling you the story of Novaxiom in the hope that one day, we’ll find the harmony we’ve been searching for. It’s a long shot, but what else is there to do in a world where even silence begins to sing?

Tag List! ✬

@drchenquill @illarian-rambling @kaylinalexanderbooks @leahpardo-pa-potato @slenders1ckn3ss

@somethingclevermahogony @inky-duchess @sassystyl @rotting-moon-writes @highlycosmic

@avaseofpeonies @oc-atelier @ceph-the-ghost-writer @paeliae-occasionally @davycoquette

@unforgettable-sensations @hissorrow22 @boredwritergirl @scorpiothesaint @thewrathoffemalerage

@rirori-jeorgiarn @spookyceph @enne-uni @the-golden-comet

if anyone is interested in joining or being removed from the tag list, just reply to any post & let me know! :)

[bokettochild]

Playing The Strings of Fate

Just a little thing I found in my WIP folder that I'll probably never do anything with. It's pretty though, so I thought I'd share it.

  Battle is a dance. 

  Blood is the paint that colors his world, steel a whisper familiar to his ears. The screams of the dying are the song that sings in the darkest of nights. The pleas of the lost, lonely, and scared are the pulse to which his heart beats. He’s seen more of the world than man thrice his age. Death follows in his wake on one side even as life springs up on the other. There are choices to be made at each and every turn, a burden that weighs heavy on his soul, dragging further down the light the once to clearly shone before all the world.  

  He is the Guardian of Life, Bringer of Death, the one who’s fingers play the strings of fate. The chords stretched from souls twine together before his eyes, source and destination unknown, but of little matter. What matters is the way the strings play across the Loom set before him, the tapestry of history half woven and waiting for him to build upon it, to twine together his fate with that of those surrounding him. 

  His own string, he’s found, is not the soft silk that on occasion he finds in his travels, the gentle cotton or warm wool that is so common amid the lands he’s been, nor the hardy twine of others stronger than most. It's not a string easily broken, instead, it is a string of gold that falls from the goddess’ spool, unbreakable save by her own blades, just as those before him were, and those yet to come will be. It’s a string that strengthens that which is bound about it, but, when pulled against, will snap all others. Hence, he’s long learned to weave his path with care. 

  Magic itself is akin to weaving, he has found. Like the web of a spider, it is cast out, singing with even the most minute of disturbances. The falling of a brother, the folly of a friend, they sing back across the threads he has woven himself in amidst, alerting him to the need of another, drawing him over to inspect the snag caught of fellow and not. The blade of the goddess will sever the thread of life where it must, washing in blood the world around him as another forsaken string falls aside, out of the pattern of fate and life, forgotten and left only to be trimmed out of sight for the sake of those who may look upon the greater picture at a later date.  

  Thus, the strings of fate around him are stained crimson as he dances like a spider over the web cast about him, blade cutting lifelines and singing death songs to those whose strings dare pull and snag around his own. It’s a dangerous dance, one that he must be wary to follow. A misstep will twine him to threads too weak to stand the strain put on him, will break where he does not intend, and will leave weak where his strength is needed.  

  The Shutter rests in his hand, the pattern well known. He is the weaver, it falls to him to see that the fabric of fate continues, at least until the next of his calling will take up the shutter and continue where he leaves off. 

[anastpaul]

SECOND POINT. King Hezekiah wept and said: “I have cut my life off like a weaver; . . . from day even to night, wilt Thou make an end of me.” (Isa xxxviii: 12) Oh! how many who are busy weaving, that is, planning and executing their worldly designs, which they have undertaken with such care, are overtaken by death which cuts off all. At the hour of death, all the glory of everything which is worldly, vanishes away, applause, amusements, pomps and grandeur. Great secret of death! which makes us see that which the lovers of the world do not see. Fortunes which have been envied, the grandest dignities, the proudest triumphs, lose all their splendour, when they are reviewed from the bed of death! The notions of certain false happiness which we have formed in our own minds, these are changed into exceeding great indignation against our own folly. The black and gloomy shadow of death covers and obscures all dignities even though they be Royal. Our passions now, make the things of this earth appear different from what they really are – death unveils them and makes us see, what in truth they are, nothing but smoke, dust, vanity and misery. O my God! of what avail are riches, possessions and kingdoms, in death, when nothing is needed but a coffin and a simple robe to cover the body? Of what avail are honours, when nothing remains of them but a funeral train and a pompous burial which will assist the soul in no way if it be lost? Of what avail is beauty, if nothing remains of it but worms, corruption and horror, even before death and afterwards, nothing but a little foul dust? “He hath made me also a byword of the people.” (Job xvii: 6). That rich man dies, that minister, that captain and then, he will be spoken of everywhere ; if he has led a wicked life, he will become a byword of the people and he will serve as a warning to others, being an example of the vanity of the world and also, an example of Divine justice. In the grave, his ashes will be mingled with the ashes of the poor. “The small and great are there.” (Job iii: 19). Of what use has the beautiful form of his body been to him, if now he is only a mass of corruption? What has the authority he possessed availed him, if his body is now thrown into a grave to corrupt and his soul has been cast into hell to burn? Oli ! what misery to be the object of these sad reflections to others, instead of making them for his own profit.

(via Thought for the Day – 4 September – CONSIDERATION III: Second Point “For what is your life?” – AnaStpaul)

[missizzy]

Fic: The Tempest in Winter(Critical Role, Vaxleth)

It's been a very, very long day. The couple of weeks by which Grog's folly and Vex's pregnancy delayed Keyleth's return at least meant everyone in Zephrah had already heard the full story, but gave her father more time to get very anxious about her. Since stepping back through the tree, she's spent most of her time dealing with the matters that piled up in her absence, but all the while, the people around her looked at her with sadness and pity, and offered condolences until she thought the next one might make her scream. Dinner with her poor father was agony.

They also wouldn't leave her alone. Noone has, during the day. While she was in Castle Whitestone, even its servants seemed to always be present and keeping one eye on her, as if they feared every moment she was about to collapse or something. There were places elsewhere in the city or the wilderness she could sometimes escape to, and there might be places here in Zephrah as well, but today she hasn't had the opportunity. Her father stayed with her until she finally excused herself to sleep.

But now she is alone. All alone, as she pushes open a door and just stares into a room she last saw not much more than a month ago, when she peeked in and glanced around, just to make sure she and Vax hadn't forgotten anything.

At first she keeps her eyes on the bed, as she walks in and sits on it, and wishes she was much more tired. But ultimately, she can't stop herself from looking around.

Everything in the room's been left mostly untouched, although she supposes her father would've stepped in and done a quick magical dust every now and then, and maybe another one that morning. Her and Vax's spare robes are still on top of the closet, and she knows there's a piece or two of his clothing still in there. Most of the stuff on the bedside table is hers, but amid it all there stands out a mostly empty jar of boot polish. The books on her shelf are almost entirely from her childhood, but she sees two of them on Exandria's history sitting on one end where Vax left them, his bookmarks still marking where he'd left off.

Rolled up against one wall is a tapestry they received a couple months ago now, a gift sent by a weaver in Emon. One who apparently received some account of exactly how Thordak was killed, but either it got distorted or he took artistic liberties, for it shows Vax stabbing his heart crystal, with it shattering as a result. Keyleth hadn't wanted to throw it out, but Vax hadn't wanted to look at it, so they just sort of left it there.

The bed they got to fit both of them was always a little too big for the room. Now, as Keyleth sits on it with her legs folded under her, she feels like it almost floods the place, yet another reminder.

A vivid memory hits her of the last time she and Vax made love in it, a few days before their departure. When she looks at the headboard, she can still him still sitting against it, her in his lap, them gently moving up and down together, as he held her pressed up against him, close enough for every one of their breaths to mingle.

Of course she starts crying again. How could she not?

She cries as she undresses, struggling to hang her cloak up properly with her hands shaking so hard. She cries as she dons a nightgown, one she doesn't even try to button up all the way. She cries into the pillow as she pulls the blankets around her, trying to get herself warm in the chilly night, even while feeling like she'll never be warm again.

This, she decides, will be the last night she sleeps in this room. She'll have to figure out in the morning where she'll live, but she and Vax did discuss moving out in their final months together. Of course, that was when they started discussing not only marriage, but possibly even children. It was always very hesitant, even as they confirmed it was what they both wanted. And yet Keyleth wonders if they tempted fate, talking that way, just a little too much.

Even if he'd lived to marry her, Keyleth's not sure Vax would've agreed to children, in the end. He might have still been too worried about leaving them behind.

Eventually she gives up on falling asleep, at least immediately. She goes over to the wardrobe without bothering to light anything, and it's dark enough over there it's only when she's pulling the robe she grabs on that she realizes it's Vax's. So many weeks and it doesn't smell of him anymore. Keyleth doesn't know if that relieves or disappoints her. She wraps herself up in it and goes over to the window, pushing the shutters open.

From here she can see a good deal of Zephrah, and Catha's bright enough for her to make out details, even a handful of people who are still up and outside. Next to the home she shares with Derrig, the head of the Tempest Blades, his wife Nel is standing and talking to Laney, a much older woman. Not far from them, young Torth is up his roof, probably looking for weak spots in it. There's a young couple slowly strolling up the hill hand in hand; Keyleth doesn't look at them long enough to tell who.

Up this high enough and the air isn't always entirely still at night. There's just enough of a cold breeze to prick Keyleth's cheeks, to be sharp on her ears. The tears have stopped, but they've left her skin colder. The chill fills the room; her feet are freezing. She could warm herself with her hands, of course, but right now, she doesn't want to.

Nel and Laney finish their conversation. The former goes into her home, while the latter walks off, towards her own. The couple have strolled out of sight completely. Keyleth hopes they get inside. Torth's still out there, and while he's got a good coat on, she can still see him shivering a little.

Around this time last year, Keyleth spent a few days treating the town to some snowfall. Not the easiest task, and the snow had always melted overnight, but each afternoon there'd been enough for sledding and snowmen, and Vax was among those who had led off snowball fights. The children of Zephrah all have to be hoping she'll do it again this year. And she will. Just not for a few weeks, at least. Zephrah has plenty of overcast days in winter. There'll be time.

She remembers on the last day she did it, Vax insisted on taking her sledding. They ended up crashing. Everyone who saw it came running to help, many of them laughing as they'd done so, but Keyleth found she didn't mind that so much. Her father noted afterwards that had been a little undignified of her, but he didn't push the point too much. Keyleth never wants to be above her people, and everyone now knows that very well.

Vax helped with that a lot. Keyleth's not sure he ever even realized how much goodwill he earned from them both with his behavior to everyone, the warmth and congeniality he was better at than her. She's only fully appreciating it now.

Among the things her father told her about today was that Zephrah has already done mourning rituals for him. The day they heard the news, he said, they all gathered together to remember him, and they sat and reminisced until well into the evening. It was probably the biggest mourning gathering they'd had since they heard about the devastation of Pyrah. Many wore black the next day. Since then, a number of tokens have appeared on the altar he made, likely gifts for him, rather than the Matron.

But much as they loved him, that was only going to go on for so long. For most of the Air Ashari, the mourning period for their headmaster's consort is now over.

Torth apparently finishes his work on the roof for the night; Keyleth watches him climb down. She sits there for maybe a minute or so more, before she finally forces herself to close the shutters.

Ultimately she falls asleep laid on partly on top of the covers, partly with them wrapped around her, still wearing Vax's robe. The next morning, she awakes to the sound of tapping against the shutters, accompanying by the cawing of a raven.

[formleadsfunction]

f@tt Sangfielle ep. 1 relistening post

(aka my own personal greatest hits)

Austin talking about the influences for Sangfielle and sounding SO excited <3

everybody cracking up at the rulebook telling them to establish their location in less than 25 minutes

Art repeatedly wanting his firm statements that Mining Is Bad For The Environment acknowledged and affirmed

Jack jokingly saying the people are mining for words and Austin immediately very seriously and excitedly going "Is that true??"

Jack telling the others how many nuns there were and Keith asking if they were talking about the amount of people or their ages

Austin: "Keith: How do people play games quickly. Also Keith: How old were the nuns?"

"Top Ten Anime Greatest Moments!"

Janine coming up with the Empress Lore. I will *never* forget how she was half apologizing in Marielda and saying she wasn't sure if she was gonna be Good At RPing because she never has, and then she went and immediately invented Weavers

The "hmmm Idk about your first name pitch, Eastern Folly" discussion is very funny listening a) already knowing that's Absolutely what this Haven is called, and b) even just considering the episode name

"Is it gonna be a problem that my character was gonna be Jesus Christ?"

the music, Obviously

[spiderwarden]

Words were never a strong suit of hers, of that much she was aware of in terms of the many qualities that made up her person. Of all of the skill sets that she had grown into in her busy upbringing the waxing of poetry was not one of those traits that she wasted her time on. She was no bard, she was not one to string together pretty words and even prettier sentiments when it came to the honesty she wished to convey. Such sentimental facades of those musical weavers of Menzobarranzan often came with a blade hidden behind their smiles.

No, Minthara did not come with a dagger behind her words, she came with a sentiment that she wished to convey to the wizard - as temporary as his company may be to their journey.

"You would be correct." She starts, tone forthright while she stood before Gale, upright and rigid. Every bit the solider of Lolth she was bred to be. But even in such a sentiment there is a correction in her mind - for a life long deference was hard to shirk. She was no longer a soldier of her Spider Queen, and with a vow that remained bound between her and her patron. The faith was lost, gone, betrayed ... Abandoned. Minthara's eye turns away from the wizard briefly with the ache that spurred inside of her chest. "It is confidence born of the commanding of skill, background, experience ..." Her gaze shifts back to his with the drift off of her words while she considers her next phrasing when he goads for assurances. As if he needed to be sure of anything. A gauging expression that could easily be mistaken for anything but the mystification that it was. "Believe.." She mimics for a moment, a chuff of air leaving her in a lone and low chuckle. "You do not need to believe anything. I am not here to fill your head with baseless veneration-" She lifts a hand waving the notion off. "-reiterating expertise that you already know you possess. Nor will I coddle to a mindset that only encourages self destruction. You know who you are, Wizard, you do not need an outsider to tell you that, let alone a God who dismissed you for the folly of devotion."

@recitedemise - continued from here.

[dharmarainbow]

*~IMPERMANENCE OF ALL THINGS~*    

There is no baser folly than the infatuation that looks upon the ephemeral as if it were everlasting. Amassing great wealth is gradual, like the gathering of a theater crowd. Its dispersal is sudden, like that same crowd departing. Wealth's nature is to be unenduring. Upon acquiring it, quickly do that which is enduring.  Though it seems a harmless gauge of time, to those who fathom it, a day is a saw steadily cutting down the tree of life. Do good deeds with a sense of urgency, before death's approaching rattle strangles the tongue. What wondrous greatness this world possesses--that yesterday a man was, and today he is not.  Men do not know if they will live another moment, yet their thoughts are ten million and more. The soul's attachment to the body is like that of a fledgling,  which forsakes its empty shell and flies away. Death is like falling asleep, and birth is like waking from that sleep. Not yet settled in a permanent home, the soul takes temporary shelter in a body.

._________________________________________________

From: Saint Tiruvalluvar's "Tirukural," an ethical masterpiece written over 2,200 years ago in South India. This American English translation is known as Weaver's Wisdom.

[chronivore]

Ziegfeld follies girl Alice Weaver photographed by Edwin Bower Hesser, 1929.

[swanmaids]

for the prompt list i found: ‘it was an expensive mistake’ sooo compelling!! 😁

thank you so much!

----------------------------------------------------------------------

When did I realise my error? It is a question that I have thought on much. In a way, I suppose I always knew. My uncle's Oath- it was folly, of course it was. I shan't give myself too much credit for seeing that from the start, since frankly an idiot could have realised that such a vow was only going to end in tears- so I'm not sure what it says about his sons, that they didn't.

Of course, my next actions say nothing good about me, either.

Why did I come to Middle Earth? That question too has kept me awake many nights. When my wife and I decided to leave Aman, we were thinking of our daughter. I don't deny that it sounds ludicrous, considering what I know now, but it's the truth. When the Spider killed the Trees and the Dark Enemy killed my grandfather, the Blessed Realm became a dark and frightening place, and Elenwë and I were caught in a great fear for our daughter. I suppose with all the Noldor swept in a rush to go, to go now, we came to think that Middle Earth would be a better place for Idril, too.

Perhaps we were both a little mad, back then.

Or perhaps I would simply like to think that I was mad, for how else can I explain what I did next? Surely I could not have been sane, when I followed my brother to Alqualondë, when I raised my newly-forged sword in that haven with all the grace of a toddler brandishing a stick, when I murdered my kinsman for - what? Because I followed my brother, who followed his cousin, who followed his father, and none of us stopped to question or to think? It is a poor excuse to take a man’s life.

After that, there was no turning back for me- the Doomsman was more than clear. But I could still have saved my wife and child, and I say to you this, I did try. I told my wife to take Idril and turn back with my uncle- we had thought that Middle Earth would be safer for her, but the deaths and the Doom made it clear that was folly. But Elenwë was stubborn, and said she would not be parted from me, and so together we pressed onwards.

We had never seen the Ice before. We did not know the nature of the beast that we faced.

Perhaps it was on the Ice that I knew the true nature of my error. Certainly here in Mandos, the Weaver shows me the same scenes often. Here is my wife, falling in terror, drowning and lost. Here is my father, his longsword raised to cut away the blackened stumps of my daughter's legs. As if I could ever forget!

The histories say that I hated Fëanor and his sons for the burning of the ships and the condemnation of my father's Host to the Ice, and they are true, I hated them then and I hate them still. I hate myself yet more. It is I who should have drowned then- what had my wife and child done but follow me, believing I would lead them to a better life? Yes, when Elenwë was lost to me, it was as though all that was joyful and loved the world within me drained away, and I lived each day as though through a black mist.

By the time Idril and I reached Beleriand, I knew what a mistake I had made to try to come to Middle Earth at all, but life had not yet finished reminding me. First my younger brother, butchered by orcs. My sister, held captive in darkness, then slain by the one who should have cherished her. My father killed by the enemy himself, his corpse left outside my city gates. Finrod, my friend and more than friend, betrayed by our cousins to die in darkness and despair. And finally my elder brother, cleaved almost in two by the foul balrog's axe in front of my own eyes.

My city remained- my city was safe. Gondolin had allowed Idril to reach adulthood in peace and beauty, the last of the great Elven cities in Beleriand. Even when Ulmo’s blessed messenger warned me, I still could not believe that it would truly fail her - just one last mistake, as it turned out.

So there is the sum total of my exile- myself a murderer of kin, my wife dead, my family and my dearest friend dead, my city destroyed and my people slaughtered and scattered, my daughter and my grandson left to face Morgoth’s wastelands alone. How many ways can a man fail? As a husband, a father, and a king, I failed them all. So many people paid for my failures, and the cost was high indeed.

I do not think I shall ever leave these Halls. Each of the Weaver’s tapestries of my life is one more reason why I deserve no such mercy.

[zealouscanonindeer]

The Plot Thickens

Having rid myself of any remnants of exhaustion I decided to head out for a small walk down the road yonder, running along the back of the estate before it cut off into a fork, one heading into town wherein the majority of the hansoms would preside, the other took deeper into the almost countryside, eventually ending alongside the main road.

I began my journey down the secluded road, mind you not that it was unsafe, only quiet. However, as it was not made for walking in ladies shoes, I had taken the liberty of merely borrowing some from Leopold's buttler uniform. He wouldn't mind, that is until he noticed they were missing. These were worries of a later instance for more pressing matters soon surfaced.

The advent of my disapperance beckoned me here, I noticed a quiet stranger walking a few yards behind me. He was fairly tall, with a admirable stride on him and could overtake me without any pains or restrictions of various skirts. Despite this, he chose to maintain the same pace as myself. Through my peripheral vision I gathered his scruffy beard, stick to his face rather than grown I'd wager, he held a battered walking stick in his right hand, the end of it was unpolished and scratched over the pebbles with every step.

This peculiar chance would be the perfect tool for an experiment. I slowly came to a halt, bending down, pretending to check my shoes. The grinding behind me stopped. The man had halted too! I took to walking again, another minute or so and I planted myself atop a tree stump by the edge, feigning fatigue. The man sauntered off but his stick once again failed to produce any noise just two steps after.

I found this folly on his behalf rather principal. Wondering who he could be, whether a simple stalker(not the best way to describe one that is but my abilities with the hatpin made him seem almost harmless) or something more sinister.

I quickly ran down the slope as the tree which obstructed my view of him did the same for him. and slipped past the river end taking a way over the hills back to the estate. I waited to see if my pursuer would make a reappearance but to no avail. This meant that he was unfamiliar with the area, only journeying to keep an eye on yours truly. I returned home, and to my surprise( and no it wasn't a pleasant one) Mrs Weaver had stopped by and was rendered aghast at the sight of my muddy skirts and tousled hair, having escaped their pins, completely windblown. She cleared her throat angrily and I sheepishly held out Leopold's boots.

"Dear god! Into the bath this instant! "

"I shall be delighted. "

She huffed and stormed out, I made my way up the stairs before the maid called out, blushing at my condition.

"A letter for you Miss Cartwright. "

"From whom? "

"Dunno. A gentleman left out on the threshold, making out of here in a hurry before I could inquire. "

She handed it to me, it was a fine print, neat and precise, it read on the envelope

To Emily,

The Cartwright Estate

Holmes.

The moment I lay eyes on this, I had never been surer than this was indeed not Holmes but only a preposterous imposter.

*****

I shall explain how I came to the above conclusion, it was against Holmes's nature to address his letters in such an intimate manner. I would always be Miss Cartwright along with his complete name at the bottom without fail. You see, formality was gentlemanly to him and he was nothing but that. Secondly, he was unaware that I would be at the estate, especially since he went through the trouble of finding out my new lodgings and bid me farewell only a few days prior there after which there had been a lack of correspondence to inform him of the same. The final clue however was the most important, the imposter's s curled at the bottom, slightly slanting out whereas Holmes precise hand would never adhere to such sloppiness. His s stood straight and precise. I decided to view the contents of the curious letter in the bath. Only if Mrs Weaver would leave me alone!

After almost an eternity and half, she took her leave and I was, at last disposed of her presence, free to scan the contents of the letter. It requested for a private rendezvous near the ends of the local markets,called Cheapside and hardly a place for any lady of position. The letter ran thus.

Requesting your presence at Cheapside by the third stall, in context to a recent development, possibly a case, almost urgency.

Yours truly.

That's all it said. I should write to Holmes and let him know but a trip to the post office would surely tip of my stalker and make him alert of his mishaps. No it would be better to make him believe that I was fooled. As for tomorrow, a private rendezvous to Cheapside had been arranged.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

A mineral sundering

Here comes the pain...@eunoiaastralwings, this one you might be able to read again...

-> Chapter 2 : A bronze awakening

Words: 1,8 k

Characters: Nerdanel x Anairë

Warnings: Sadness, doom, strife, the departure of the Noldor, the death of the trees

“Nerdë!”

Anairë flew along the passage as fast as her feet would carry her and pulled the other woman into an alcove for a passionate even if highly imprudent embrace.

Folly ran thick through their veins at this point though and they cried hot tears into each other’s hair as they clutched almost violently at rich robes and intricate tresses in their eagerness to feel the much-missed shape of their lover once more; while time meant little to the inhabitants of this land, they had felt every mingling gnawing at their heart and soul while apart and now found themselves able to breathe again at last.

“What have we done?” Nerdanel sobbed, cupping Anairë’s face with both hands. “We should say a prayer to the Weaver to ask for forgiveness for we have intermingled strands in our selfishness that were never meant to do more than occasionally brush.”

How blessed their marriages had once seemed to them and how cruel the realisation that they could not counteract nor temper the strife between the half-brothers they had married had been; what a bitter twist of fate to sunder their secret bond by their very attempts to secure and legitimise it.

“Her husband shall witness the consequences of our trespass,” Anairë agreed sombrely. “How presumptuous we have been in our desperate yearning to be together…to think that we could mend what Finwë – the wisest and greatest of kings – could not unite.”

Nerdanel’s face twitched as she thought of another Vala – now fled and lost – who had sown distrust and strife into the garden of their happiness; the way his seeds had thrived, choking out the tenderly cared-for saplings of their own hopes, filled her with impuissant rage and a foreboding so dark it seemed to blot out the soft light of the trees.

“Ñolo will forgive him,” Anairë then confessed hastily; she was afraid to be caught unawares while exchanging news with the one she should reasonably have met with wariness if not outright hostility.

“Of course, he will.” The sharp shadows of anger thawed into pools of depthless sadness under Nerdanel's once so-sparkling eyes; she looked tired and heartsick. “I am afeared that my own husband cannot boast the same welcoming leniency though. He has grown shrewd and distrustful, suspecting enemies at every turn.”

Her hands were trembling around the other’s shoulders as she described – in halting words – her valiant battle against the ever-progressing paranoia of Fëanáro. “I hope,” she whispered, “that seeing his siblings will tip the scales in our favour. Strange ideas of leaving have been mentioned with ever-increasing frequency and I couldn’t bear to be severed from you by the demented blend of fear and ambition that seems to have been kindled within his chest.”

It was evident from her expression that she was nowhere near certain of that; by this time, even the minutest ripple in the fabric of his surroundings threw her husband into flights of fancy that left him panting with aimless aggression.

“I shall warn Ñolo then,” Anairë smiled encouragingly; she knew that nobody could rile or soothe her brother-in-law as thoroughly as her husband whom – against all odds and despite her undying devotion to Nerdanel – she truly loved. “What about the children?”

Casting a quick glance around her, Nerdanel stepped even closer, crowding Anairë against the back wall of the small nook they were standing in and breathing in the scent of her skin eagerly. “Once again,” she whispered in sibilant accents, “we might have set too lofty an aim and shall be punished by achieving every thoughtless goal we but half-minded.”

“I shall look forward to seeing them then,” Anairë said quickly and – as the heavy footsteps of some courtier resounded at one end of the passage – she slipped out and flitted away like a ghost.

Fëanáro had brought neither his esteemed father nor the accursed stones. Even as she heard the whispers – accusing him of withholding treasures he ought to share with his half-siblings in the name of reconciliation – Anairë had to admit that she cared nothing for her father-in-law or some marvellous gems at that moment.

What he had brought to his reunion with the estranged family he had so carelessly left behind were his seven sons and his beautiful wife though; what more could Anairë ask for?

As expected, her husband could barely contain his eagerness to welcome his elusive brother back into the fold, hoping against all hope that it would bring their father back as well. Ñolofinwë could be rash when it came to the hurts and hankerings of his heart and Anairë loved him for it.

He was gentle and kind, strong, wise, and temperate. It was easy to live by his side and feel comfortable, surrounded by his discreet and yet unwavering loyalty; Ñolofinwë was a stone basin into which she could pour her fire and know that he’d nourish and protect it dutifully.

With a shiver of trepidation, Anairë let her gaze wander to her truest love now to imbibe in the poison of all the memories she had not shared.

How stern they had all grown, she thought as her eyes swept over the assembled family of her cherished Nerdanel almost obsessively, drinking in every shade of colour and every flicker of emotion.

She could discern the curve of that smile that had been the light of many a blazing day to her and the freckles that had exceeded even Varda’s stars in beauty in those serious faces, and she loved them for it as well.

A tiny smile of pride spread on Nerdanel’s lips upon seeing the wide-eyed admiration of the one for whom she had dared the impossible and might be on the verge of losing everything.

And – just as cold hands were clasped and desperate words were rebuffed by cold indifference – the light disappeared as if swallowed whole.

“Nerdë!”

Dimly, Anairë wondered whether she was doomed to call out for her lover time and time again only to find the answering whimper increasingly despondent and frail.

“Melkor!” – “The trees” – “Darkness”

Panicked cries washed over her like a tide of black dread and then, suddenly, Findekáno’s hand was holding hers tightly. “Stay here, mother,” he said, “we’ll make sure everyone is all right.”

No, she wanted to cry, you don’t understand, precious son of mine, that we have carried you and held you through the darkness before you could even name it thus.

They were grown, of course, but Anairë could not help recalling the cherished eternity – made up of tiny moments of love – of their long-lost childhood and so she pushed through the throng of motionless, stunned bodies to get to Nerdanel.

“Nerdë,” she cried again, “the children!”

Everything turned into a blur of swirling darkness, barely broken by torches and torn by flashes of unforgiving and unforgivable words, while two women strove towards each other desperately.

Time melted into a boiling, bubbling pool that threatened to sweep them off their feet; Fëanáro was his own petulant, incandescent self again and his sons returned to the state of obedient children as they stood by his side while he inflamed the crowd with a speech to which the poisoned darts of Melkor lent all the more bite.

“He’ll take them,” Nerdanel wailed, throwing herself at Anairë as soon as they had reached one another.

“Don’t let him!” Anairë replied in a choked voice, seeking her own progeny in the flickering images of a waving sea of bodies. “Reason with him!”

Nerdanel cast herself at Fëanáro, renouncing her famed pride to beg him not to take her youngest, to spare a single one of the fruits of her body to be her comfort and her haven in an obscurity that would be everlasting to her.

He refused.

Fëanáro refused her as he had merely humoured his half-brother, as he had refused the Valar’s demand, as he was about to refuse every gift bestowed upon him.

“Mother,” her oldest sighed, “I shall look after them; it shall be quite all right. Do not worry!”

Maitimo, who had her complexion and his father’s eyes, stood impossibly tall before bowing to press a kiss onto her rippling brow and pushing her back towards the safety of the milling mass of people who had turned into faceless, nameless strangers. “Don’t linger here,” he whispered urgently, “you don’t have to see this.”

“I do,” she cried, the rough edges of a voice laden with grief tearing her throat apart like unpolished stone. “You are mine as much as his. If go you must, I cannot let you go unwitnessed.”

Anairë held her – her slender arms threaded around Nerdanel’s waist – as they watched on helplessly. Those souls they had poured like liquid gold and starlight into growing bodies were vowed to a dark, relentless purpose and – in that very moment – they knew that they were lost.

“I am so sorry,” Anairë kept repeating.

“What have I done?” Nerdanel croaked in a distorted scream that had its wings cut by the clattering of her sharp teeth and would have fallen to the ground if not for the loving embrace of her friend. “This is the penance I pay for having cast myself into my sons as one pours silver into a mould.”

Anairë understood her cryptic words perfectly; her eyes fell on the one Nerdanel had named “Little Father” for being so alike in looks and in temper to the husband she had chosen so brazenly, and her heart misgave her. They had drawn from their own souls, their ancestors, and the very miracles around them to bear and birth these children, never even considering that there was a possibility that they’d ever leave them and thus bereave them of all the gifts they had bestowed upon them.

“Mother,” Findekáno’s voice sounded hollow as it echoed through the deafening roar of bodies in movement, “forgive us.”

Anairë didn’t have the strength to look up and meet those eyes that were so alike her own; younger, brighter, and much more eager, Findekáno’s gaze was a mirror of the hallowed perfection of the city he had been born and raised in, the place he would desert.

A single word – a curse, a promise, an oath of its own – fell from those soft lips that had kissed both women thousands of times in earnest, puerile affection. “Maitimo.”

“Yes,” Anairë choked out, her mind returning to the very first time she had met Nerdanel’s firstborn son. A part of her had always known that she would have to pay a price for the immensity of her devotion and the severity of her trespass, but she had never expected fate to demand the sacrifice of the most precious part of her flesh and soul.

“Forgive us! Aunt Nerdë…” Findekáno’s voice faltered, and he turned away, evidently at a loss for words.

Next up: Finarfin comes home and the world breaks asunder...

Lots of love from me (and sorry)

[silkysong]

god it's the result of gnawing at this for too long but part of it is just the title itself... what the hollow knight turned out to be (aside from. the who, an actual person who deserved so much better </3) but What they were was part of a ritual to bind a higher being. so the theory is the silksong is similar but not a person.

the "beast" in the folly poem is a higher being who was bound a long time ago. slumbering yes but also in "servitude" so maybe being themself used to produce silk or provide some other benefit? but let's say hypothetically this binding weakens one way or another, the nature of the beast has been forgotten (whatever that is please i want to know so bad), the beast is pissed at being taken advantage of (possible curse source?), and the church has drained the weavers - the bugs who would need to renew the binding via the hypothetical silksong ritual.

but all the weavers are uh. incapacitated. bc of what pharloom has done to them. so they hunt down hornet and kidnap her, hoping she can complete the ritual to fix the binding and restore the church's opulent status quo! anyway sorry this is more words than i intended

omg yeah...theres spools of silk everywhere in pharloom, just like soul in hallownest and we all Know. the soul experiments. so its not too far-fetched to think they took weavers and abused their power to upkeep a seal of binding on something that probably is probably incredibly pissed off

[lizardsfromspace]

Whenever someone says a role popularized female leads or action stars they get push back from people who rush to say "but Alien"

But the film industry's acceptance of women in roles like Ripley isn't a linear course of progress. It's weird and cyclical and panic-driven. The "lessons" taken from a hit are often bizarre. If you look at coverage from the time the industry wisdom after Alien wasn't that women could open sci-fi or action movies, it was that Sigourney Weaver, specifically, could.

You have a few furious years with a cascade of female-led movies and then you'll have a patch where the idea of a female-led movie in a 'male' (blech) genre is regarded as a utterly baffling, toxic folly that could never work (with the exception of a few actresses treated as exceptions to the rule, until they have one (1) bomb) and then eras that pride themselves on "strong female characters" who always remain subordinate to the male lead

Like, no, we haven't "always" had female-led action or sci-fi movies. They have a moment, randomly disappear when executives decide they aren't profitable, and then will have to crawl their way back up from square one to start the cycle over.

[ask-de-writer]

About KURIN’S FOLLY :

Part 10 of 15 : World of Sea

@nevermord​ READ, LIKED and

REBLOGGED

KURIN’S FOLLY : Part 10 of 15 : World of Sea

and commented :

"Due to the fact that he is competent in his Craft, the law requires us to formally accept his own decision as to the state of his sanity."

*acts mad as a hatter and am a danger to myself and others, but since I'm a good weaver and make fine sails and tapestries I can simply say that I am sane, therefore I am*

This seems like a REALLY poorly thought-out law that needs to be revisited....

It might indeed benefit the fleet if that law were adjusted. The Naral fleet is over 600 years old. The issue has only very rarely come up. The law dates to the earliest days of the fleet, a time when truly every Master of every Craft was essential to their survival. Even so, very few are or ever have been as far aground as Master Juris.

[oletus-carousel]

🕸️ What is fate to you?

Such a simple question, yet… it bore so much weight. For this individual, Fate was a folly, a friend, a foe… so many more things than could be articulated in the short time they spent with anyone.

There was nothing around to get bearings from in the mysterious pitch black, sure, but a figure in the distance seemed intent as ever to continue doing what they were doing. However, they soon beckon you closer, and you find that you're safe: each time you step forward, a spider's web cushions your footfall, slick with dew. It fades away as soon as you take your foot off.

Nothing for it but to continue…

With this phrase in mind, you soon reach "Ariadne" - the Fate Weaver, whose webbed button eyes glint in the room though the darkness seems all-consuming. She holds your gaze for a moment longer before it moves to a chair across from her. Was that really there a moment ago?

"Have a seat. As for your question… Fate is many things. But for me?"

She pauses, setting her hands down. Upon closer inspection, she held a dew-laden spider's web between her fingers, and had been passing it back and forth to weave it as if it were something as strong as the yarn of cat's cradle. It dissipates into the air within a blink. Steepling them instead, her tone grows grave.

"Fate, to me, is a more personal matter. I won't bore you with the details, of course, but it's my duty to the world. I watch over the many threads of Fate as they converge, twisting and deflecting and reflecting from and with one another. It is an endless and perpetual cycle. It is no more foreign to me than any other occupation would be to you. However, I have one thing to say to you that may be of more use than rambling. And don't challenge me for this. Face the consequences of whatever it may have in store for you yourself, and do so with confidence and pride."

She exhales through her nose, this seeming the only sound in the expanse of deep black surrounding the table.

"Fate is unchangeable."