#West Parry Sound

[jbaileyfansite]

“For me as an actor who loves musical theater and was a cast member in the Les Misérables back in the 90s, I am immensely proud of what the theater community did back then. It been a moving experience for me telling this story, there was so much I was unaware of as I was so young at that time but it’s a time of such strength compassion and resilience that we should never ever forget.”

Jonathan Bailey narrating ‘The Showstopper’, a documentary on how HIV/AIDS impacted the theatre community in the 80s, and how this community supported those affected. You can listen to this incredible emotional and powerful documentary for the next 29 days on BBC Sounds.

[apomaro-mellow]

King&Prince 2

As was well known, King Edward did have control over many creatures and beasts. Some he used to perform the most subtle of espionage. Such as the pure black raven that had traveled from the land of the Harringtons back to him, perching itself on his arm.

"And what news do you have for us?" He nodded and hummed along as the bird whispered into his ear, grinning as it got better.

"What's going on, Eddie?", Jeff asked. Their game of chess had been interrupted.

"They're shipping off their son. Get your men ready. The little prince is going to take a detour."

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

While Steve's escort party traveled north, the path took them a little west, which put everyone on edge. It was already starting to feel colder and it had little to do with the change in latitude. Every sound in the distance had the potential to a petal-faced beast. Something that would tear into their flesh while they screamed for mercy. They were about two days into the journey now.

Steve was keeping himself entertained by humming songs to himself and looking out the window when he saw a strange shadow in the trees. His eyes narrowed and just when he thought to find it odd, he heard shouts from the men and his carriage suddenly stopped. Bandits, most likely. It could be a monster but Steve heard no snarls.

He knew he was expected to stay inside and let the guards handle it. That was their job. But they could end this quickly by either just giving them what they wanted (his parents could afford it) or by having more men to fight them off. Either way, Steve couldn't just sit here while people were fighting.

He opened up the door and drew his sword, ready to take anyone on.

"Eyes on the prince!", someone shouted.

"Someone grab him!"

Steve elbowed the first one that tried right in the face and slashed towards the next one, their swords clanging together as they parried back and forth. While he kept that one at bay, Steve tried to take in the situation. No bodies on the ground yet, so no one was dead. These men didn't cover their faces in masks. So they weren't bandits. Then Steve saw a clear emblem on one of them.

It couldn't be.

"Just come with us nicely, Your Highness", the man he was currently fighting said, quite politely honestly.

"You've got manners for a mercenary", Steve grunted. "Your name?"

"Jeffery Kinsey. Not a mercenary, a knight."

"My apologies", Steve said as he pushed him off and got some distance between them. "I'm just not used to knights ambushing a traveling party."

"Oh? How about a village of innocent people?"

"You-"

"Stop chatting like it's a tea party!", a woman attacked Steve now, her sword quick and her attacks fatal if they were to hit. She was really trying to kill him.

That knocked some sense into Jeff and he started to get serious as well. Steve was no slouch but two on one was enough to overwhelm anybody, especially in a situation this disorienting. Clearly they were from the enemy kingdom and this ambush had been planned. But how did they know? What was their aim?

While he was trying to figure this out and fight the two of them back, he felt a hard blow to his head. He heard them continue to talk as he blacked out. Something about a big wheel? Getting all the credit? But a robin got the last hit? Had he been attacked by a bird in the end? All he knew was that he felt a deep sense of dread as hands touched his body while he lost consciousness.

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

The first thing he noted was the cold. He felt it down to his fingertips. Then, the hardness of stone. Steve sat up and opened his eyes but that didn't help much with how dark it was. There was a small bit of light coming from a torch that was lit from farther down, allowing him to see some of his walls. He reached out and felt the bars of a cell.

"Shit", he hissed quietly.

Then he heard a chuckle in the blackness. Steve froze. He wasn't alone. He moved away from the bars just as another torch suddenly lit up, revealing the silhouette of someone sitting just on the other side of the cell bars.

"Welcome to my home, Your Highness." His legs were crossed in his chair. He reached behind himself to grab the torch off the wall and now that the light had moved, Steve could see his face.

"You...You're..." Steve had seen his visage on tapestries, walls, illustrations in books. He had the long, curly hair, the pale skin. But he was missing a few things. "Where are your horns?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your horns? And your fangs and claws? And aren't you supposed to be bigger?" Even though he asked this, Steve kept his distance from the bars.

His question was met with raucous laughter. Even a knee slap. And wiping a tear from his eye as his laughing slowed.

"Didn't they teach you about aaall my different forms?"

"I know you can shape shift. I just never imagined you would...I just thought you'd choose to always look intimidating. Not like", Steve gestured to him. "This."

"Oh. Ouch. My pride. The little prince doesn't find me at all scary. And after I went through all the trouble of waiting in the dark to surprise you. How'd you like my welcoming party?"

So this really was the king. And he had Steve trapped. Miles from home with currently no hope for any rescue. He crossed his arms, trying to look defiant, but really just trying to keep himself warm.

"What exactly do you aim to do with me?"

"Oh it's all so very easy. I'll send a message to dear old dad, telling him I've got his precious heir. He'll either promise to stop disturbing my people and their lands, or he'll declare war. I'm ready for either."

He didn't relish the idea of war. But at this point...If that fool of a man kept on trespassing and hurting his people, then there was no other choice.

Steve let out a breath and leaned back against the wall, then came off it when he felt the cold bleed through his clothing. "So I'm a hostage for ransom?"

"In essence, yes." The king stood up and Steve saw that they were pretty much the same height. From all the stories, he thought he would be much taller. More monstrous and ugly, the kind of visage that would strike fear in all who saw it.

But he just saw a man.

"Someone will be down eventually to feed you. I suspect we won't be seeing each other again until the hand off. Ta-ta."

Steve watched him leave and waited until his footsteps faded away before sinking down to the floor. There was a cot off to the side that had seen better days. No windows to speak off. And no hope of getting out unless he suddenly developed super strength. He pulled his knees up to his chest. He imagined his father getting a letter about his capture. It was hard for him to imagine any worry, but surely he wouldn't be slow to get Steve back?

After all was said and done, he was still the prince. He wouldn't just be abandoned here. He had to believe that. He had to.

Above the dungeon level, Eddie met back up with some of his most trusted friends to debrief and prepare for the next stage. In his study there was Jeff, a long time friend and knight. Along with him was Nancy, originally a scholar but she had changed paths to warrior a couple of years ago. There were others he considered to be part of his inner circle, but they were all tending to some minor injuries or other business.

"Do you really think King Alric will avoid a war?", Nancy asked. "He's all but declared it."

"He's a king and kings avoid wars unless they know they can win", Eddie said. At least a smart one would. "Just our population of demobats outnumber their soldiers. Forget if we send anything else. Alric will ask for his son back, and we'll return to that oh-so-sweet tenuous peace for about another twenty years before little Stephen gets it in his head about attacking our lands."

Eddie fiddled with a quill as he slowly walked the room. "Such is the cycle I and the Harringtons have been in for years." He sat behind his desk and crossed his legs at the ankles while resting them on the top. "Now help me pen a letter that's just the riiight amount of condescending."

Part 4

Tag Team

[aylen-san]

Night over the plains of Angband. Maedhros, in a cloak stained with dust and blood, creeps toward Eonwë's camp. Madness burns in his eyes: he has come for the last Silmarils. A sword is at his belt, a dagger in his hands. But as he steps to the center of the camp, he finds Maglor before him, wounded and barely standing.

Maedhros: (anxious, but filled with fury) Step aside, brother! One more step, and the Silmaril will be ours! We’ll end this!

Maglor: (swaying but unyielding) No, Maedhros. We’ll end this here and now. But not as you want.

Maedhros steps forward, gripping his dagger, but Maglor blocks his path. Seeing that his brother won’t yield, Maedhros lunges forward, but Maglor draws his sword and parries the blow. Steel rings out.

Maedhros: (angry, shouting in desperation) You don’t understand! We swore an oath, Maglor! If we don’t fulfill it, it will consume us!

Maglor: (rasping with pain, but firm) The oath has already destroyed us. But there will be no more blood for these cursed stones! No more…

Maedhros freezes, seeing his brother, weakened and wounded, barely able to stand. Maglor’s sword trembles in his hand, but iron determination shines in his eyes.

Maedhros: (almost whispering, in disbelief) Why are you doing this?

Maglor: (closing his eyes in pain) Because I love you, brother. And because we deserve peace… some kind of peace.

Maedhros lowers his weapon, unable to resist any longer. He stands, broken, while Eonwë’s guards lift Maglor, taking him away for treatment. Maedhros remains alone amid the darkness of the battlefield.

---

Maglor spends a long time recovering in Eonwë's camp. When his wounds finally heal, he is sent west to the judgment of the Valar. There, Manwë awaits him. The Valar deliberate for a long time before passing judgment.

Manwë: Maglor, son of Fëanor, your repentance is accepted, yet the oath you swore and the blood spilled by your hands cannot be forgotten. There is no place for you among the immortal in Aman. But your exile will not be eternal: you will remain in Númenor until the end of the next age.

Manwë’s voice is gentle, yet unyielding.

Manwë: You shall not return to Middle-earth until its fate is decided. This is the price of your forgiveness.

Maglor nods silently, accepting his sentence. He understands that the Valar have granted him a chance at redemption, though they have taken away his ability to return to the lands he once knew and loved.

---

Númenor, a golden morning. On a shore where the crash of the waves mingles with the sounds of city streets, Maglor stands, gazing at the horizon. He has heard that Maedhros, too, has found his way to these lands and has now come to see him.

Footsteps sound behind him. Maglor turns and sees Maedhros, aged by sorrow but calm. There is none of the madness that was once there.

Maedhros: (with a gentle smile) You were always stronger than I thought, brother.

Maglor: (smiling back, though a shadow of sadness lingers in his eyes) And you were always more stubborn than I could ever imagine.

The brothers embrace in silence, finding comfort in the quiet gesture. Now, they are two exiles, having survived it all: the oath, Morgoth's fall, their pain and their mistakes. And though the way home is closed to them, they still have time. And they have each other.

Maedhros: (softly) What now?

Maglor: (gazing out at the sea) Now? We live as long as we can. And we find meaning in every day we are given.

The brothers remain standing on the shore, looking into the distance. The sea breeze brings the scent of saltwater, and for a moment, it feels as though the future is yet undecided. For both of them, there remains hope—a hope for peace and redemption.

[birgittesilverbae]

bealil, snare

The soft rustle of leaves is all the warning Lilith has before she's being wrenched up into the air, something drawn tight around her ankle, biting into the bare flesh where her thick pants have slipped out of her boots. The bough she'd been dragging behind her to obscure her tracks smacks her in the chin as it falls, and her teeth clack together sharply, making her head ring.

The knife at her belt has fallen free of its sheath in the upheaval, and Lilith fumbles with the buttons of her overcoat with gloved fingers still stiff with cold. She's biting into the tip of one glove finger, about to tug it free and loose her hand, when a blade comes to rest against her throat. 

The tribute from District Seven has secured a wealthy sponsor, to have received a snow camouflage poncho. The assigned uniforms are all well and good, as long as one ensures they don't get theirs stained with blood, but the loose folds of fabric have the girl blending right into the snowbank. 

Lilith should be dead. She should. If it were anyone else but the curious girl from Seven, with her calculating gaze and her pathetic attempts at hiding her skill with a bow. 

Only, it's not an arrow that's pressed to her neck. Lilith recognizes the shining silver of one of the throwing axes Crimson had crowed over finding in the Cornucopia. There was that question answered, then, the reason that both tributes from One had ventured into the thick forest on the west edge of the arena and only one had returned.

The boy hadn't stopped blathering about ghosts in the trees until Lilith had torn his throat out just to shut him up. 

It's hard to fix on Seven's face, slathered as it is in a tricolour mix of grease paints, but her eyes pierce right through Lilith, as though they can cut through to her core as easily as a garotte through a windpipe. There's a hint of gold in them, ringed around the edge of her pupils, and Lilith's never quite been able to suppress her fascination with shiny things.

"Do it," she challenges, glaring back just as fixedly. "Finish it."

Seven's expression is one of deep contemplation, however, and she narrows her eyes. "I've seen every single other Career in the arena," she murmurs, hand rising to hold Lilith's wrist in an iron grasp as she tries to sneak her hand towards the brace of knives under her coat. "But somehow I haven't seen you."

"You're not the only one who can haunt these woods," Lilith says sharply.

Seven laughs in her face. It's not derisive, but only lightly amused. "Two," she replies, bracing the forearm of her axe-wielding arm across Lilith's throat to stop her motion mid-swing, "I'm not sure you've ever once been subtle in your life."

Lilith twists her head around, teeth bared, but the girl from Seven parries the attempted bite just as easily as she had Lilith's try at a headbutt. "Lilith," she spits in frustration. If the girl is going to play with her before she kills her, the least she can do is have the decency to know Lilith's name.

"Lilith," Seven repeats, and Lilith abhors the frisson of delight that rises in her gut at hearing her name in the girl's quiet, steady voice. "You've been avoiding me, Lilith."

"I believed it would be a smart decision to stay out of arrow range. Though it seems the bow isn't the weapon I should have been wary of."

The girl clicks her tongue. "Oh, you truly fell for that old training ploy?"

"You got an eleven after spending days acting as though you were a poor hand with the bow. What else was I meant to believe?"

"Exactly that." Seven's grin is sharp as the blade of her axe. "An easy enough game. Though, I'm still trying to figure out what angle it is you're playing, Lilith. Reaped six times and volunteered your seventh, when you could have walked away safe and sound. You must have been desperate to enter the arena. But you're not a typical Career, are you?"

"I couldn't have walked away." It feels as though all the blood in her body is pooling in her head, making her temples thrum with the pressure of it. It must be this discomfort that drives the truth from her mouth. "Not and had anything to go home to. I was raised for this. Having done anything other than volunteer at that Reaping would have been suicide."

"And volunteering wasn't?"

"There's a thirteen year old girl safe in her bed back home because of me. Volunteering made my death worthwhile."

Seven hums under her breath and takes a step back from Lilith, then another, another, another, until the clearing separates them.

"What are you doing?"

All Lilith can make out is those dark eyes looking back at her. There's a sadness in them now that hadn't been there just a moment before. "I would say best of luck, Lilith, if it weren't a lie. I hope someone kills you before I have to." And then she melts into the treeline, leaving Lilith dangling in the air behind her, thoroughly uprooted by the entire encounter.

[xpuigc-bloc]

Sara Tyson

Joyous Greetings from Cottage Country

West Parry Sound Health Centre Foundation

2020

Holiday Greeting to Donors.

[foxboyclit]

sharp wit, dull swords

aka the sword flirting fic, special thanks to @hyenagirlbulge for helping me with Fencing Logistics

In the courtyard settled on a cliff face carved out of West Wall was the second home to House Nydalla’s swordsmen. Here, the Matron and her consort engaged in sparring-and terrible jokes. Minisstra had always sparred with a frigid air of confidence, and Iphis savored in watching her mask slip. When she flushed that brilliant violet of embarrassment and ire, how could he be blamed?

Minisstra parried his attacks as he closed in on her, blades meeting with the sound not unlike windchimes, and she knew it was a matter of time before he’d leave her an opening in a frivolous display. When he did, she crouched, twisting her blade and attempted to lunge at his torso now vulnerable, but Iphis leapt back, keeping light on his feet as he deflected Minisstra’s attack.

“You’re quite skilled with that weapon, but you’ll have to thrust harder to penetrate, my dear,” he teased, reveling in her irritated scoff. Her eyes may have been shielded by her mask, but her eye rolls were audible.

Minisstra swayed back, reassuming her open stance. He shuffled closer, but did not close the distance. He knew her moves well enough; she was goading him into making a full attack, already having played the deflect in her mind. Instead of taking the bait, Iphis tested her with a series of small jabs.

Their swords clashed again and again, and Iphis went for a full lunge, hoping to throw his opponent off her rhythm. Minisstra was quicker, however, as she swept her cloak over herself to block his maneuver. Using the closed distance to her advantage, she hooked an ankle around Iphis’, sending him stumbling.

He smirked as he regained his footing. “Oh, Mistress,” he breathed, the awful banter part of his mind somehow far from exerted, "You know it takes more to force me to my knees.”

“You’re about to lose your voice after this session,” she warned, but his smile only widened.

“That is, if you score this time.”

“Focus, Ra’soltha.” she snapped, and Iphis finally shut his mouth and traversed. She did the same, blocking his short thrusts with languid slashes. The two of them spiraled like that, caught in an elaborate dance of blades. Iphis circled in closer, his attacks picking up speed, until Minisstra let him believe he had her in close.

She retreated, and he leapt forward, blade extended out in front of him. She parried then counterattacked in a single fluid strike to his waist.

“You managed to hit,” he said, jumping backward, “always more appreciated when a partner dances with me before.”

“Sweet Lloth, how many euphemisms do you have?”

Iphis shrugged mischievously as he put away his rapier, “why, are you desperate for more?”

Minisstra rolled her eyes and leaned in for a kiss, her way of telling him shut up and good match.

[tavtime]

What the Harvest Hopes For

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Rating: M Chapter: 2/? Words: 4.7k/11.2k

Ships: Astarion/Tav, Shadowheart/Tav, Halsin/Tav, Lae'zel/Tav, Karlach/Tav, Wyll/Tav, Gale/Tav, others tba

Additional tags: Polyamory, Novelization, Canon-Typical Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, others tba

Summary: There is nothing like impending doom to make you realize how casually the powerful play dice with the lives of the small. Unfortunately for them, Sura Tav has decided she doesn't appreciate being used as currency, and she is no longer playing.

Read ch 2 below, or on AO3

The warnings about goblins proved gruesomely accurate. 

As their group moved further north, the scent of fire and torn earth that rode the air near the crash faded. Instead, a new smell overtook Sura: underneath the forest scent of loam, these trails stank of drying blood. She began to sight disturbances in the landscape. In places, branches had broken or been torn from trees near ground level, bushes had been trampled, and the forest wildlife that would have ordinarily moved through the periphery of her awareness as she hiked was conspicuous in its absence. As they neared their destination she even saw the occasional little body, slicked in gore and dirt and left to rot where it fell; apparently, goblins cared nothing for collecting their dead. Violence had touched this place, and recently. She pricked her ears up, alert for any sound. 

It was no surprise, then, that she heard the attack before she saw it. As they approached the grove the sounds of running beat down the road, heavy footfalls in soldiers’ boots, interspersed with the strangled shouts of pained men. With a hsst! and a wave of her hand, she dropped into a crouch, and bade the others to do the same. 

The path to the grove’s entrance split at a rocky knoll and meandered around it to either side. Sura motioned to Lae’zel and Astarion, pointing with her chin. They took her meaning and split off from the group, around the base of the hill to the west. Astarion trailed Lae’zel into the shadows, daggers appearing in his hands. 

Keeping low, the rest of the party crept up the hill. At its crest Sura crouched behind a boulder, and peered down at the clearing that lay before the gate.  

A tiefling—not one of the pair they’d encountered earlier—stared down from atop the wall at three humans waiting at the foot of the gate. The humans appeared to be mercenaries, or adventurers, perhaps; well armed but lightly armored. One of them crushed a rag across the tricep of her sword arm, seeping with blood. Another held a shield from which protruded two crude arrows.  

“Zevlor!” shouted the third, his face flushed with fury. His entire body shook. “Get your bloody arse over here and open the godsdamned gates! Hurry!” 

Even as he said it, it was too late. A rising cloud of dust was visible back the way the mercenaries had come along the road, gaining ground. Whoever had given chase would be on them in seconds.  

A second tiefling appeared on the wall next to the first. This man was older, spine stiff; he held himself with authority. “By the Hells, what is—Aradin! You led goblins here?!” His voice rose in pitch as he spied the approaching cloud of dust. He began to form a command: “Open the—!” But an arrow whistled past his head, and he ducked down behind the cover of the parapet.  

A wave of goblins broke over the clearing. They poured in from every direction, seemed to erupt from the very ground. Gate solidly closed and to their backs, the humans tried to form a defensive line. An act of desperation: their foes outnumbered them three-to-one. Their leader raised a club, his face grim and determined.  

One of the smallest goblins, faster than the others, closed on him. The creature leered, displaying its many wretched, pointed teeth, and brought its jagged blade up to strike. 

Before the mercenary could so much as raise his weapon to attempt a parry, another man vaulted over the wall and landed between him and the oncoming attack, brandishing a rapier. The man’s left eye emanated an otherworldly greenish hue. With a twist of his hand, the edge of his rapier took on the same ghoulish glow. He ducked the goblin’s swing with a graceful, low half-pirouette, and ran it through at the throat. Blood fountained from the creature when he shook it free of the blade. 

Enough! Sura heard Lae’zel cry in her mind. Htak’a!  

There came the pull of magic behind her. Gale...? But it was prayer, not incantation, that echoed in her ears. Shadowheart stood in the center of the hill, palms extended to the heavens, face and arms swimming in oily shadows. Thick strands of blackness oozed out of the air. They curdled in her mouth, and she smiled at Sura, gone to darkness.  

“Benedictus,” she rasped, and splayed her arms wide.  

It felt as though she was cut free of gravity, untethered from the ground. That was the only way to describe the sensation that passed over her. Sura had been on the receiving end of clerical blessings before, but those? Those were pedestrian things. This was akin to being cradled in the cupped palm of devotion itself. Shadowheart pulled the darkness of the world into herself; she was a great sink of it, a ravenous well. Her fervor resounded out of her: 

may we brandish your triumph and your blessed shadows as a mighty blade—your power be my shield—your will my dagger  

Shadowheart tore blackest night out of the fabric of brightest day, and drank it down and down and down. Power torrented forth to fill the void left behind. Sura felt herself honed, furious as an arrow, all her senses alight. Her pulse pounded in her ears—her own, and her companions’. The flex of Lae’zel’s shoulders as she brought her greatsword down to cleave the skull of a snarling worg sang gloriously in her muscles. Gale’s magic crackled along her skin. And the man before the gate, who slashed his rapier through the air in great lightning arcs—she felt him, too, dimly on the edge of her awareness, but there he was. His magic was brimstone and rot on the back of her tongue; warlock’s magic. The worm in her head heaved, trying desperately to connect with the parasite she understood at once he must also bear. 

Her fingers itched for a weapon she did not have. 

As though he understood this yearning before she expressed it, Astarion bounded up the side of the hill, and skidded to a stop in the dirt next to her. His eyes blazed with what she felt as wild exhilaration, as intimate as her own. Blood coated his hands, slashed across his cheek and down his face. Not his own blood, as it turned out. Under one arm he carried the limp body of a goblin archer, and in his other hand... 

Into her lap he dropped the most hideous bow she had ever seen—ill-used, poorly strung, the size and tension wrong for her. He cast the goblin’s body at her feet, and she saw the quiver full of arrows strapped across its back.  

She could have embraced him for the ecstasy of it. Joy burned bright in her veins. It crawled its way up her throat, tore free in a whoop. She snatched up the bow, and dove for the quiver. He bared his teeth to her in a vicious grin, free and unrestrained. She understood at once that this was the first genuine smile he had offered since he met them. 

His teeth were very sharp. 

Good hunting, he offered. In her mind it came to her as a growl, a joy to mirror her own, and then he was off again, dashing down the hill and wading back into the goblins at Lae’zel’s side.  

In truth, the fight was all but over. The humans huddled at the foot of the gate, wounded, but not mortally so. The final goblin staggered toward them. The stranger with the rapier had shattered its right kneecap, and its leg below the knee was a gruesome mess. Yet it advanced, wielding its blade as though to ask a desperate, fatal question.  

There was only one answer to be given to such a query. Sura rose to her knees and drew an arrow from the quiver in one continuous motion. Her hands moved of their own volition, unburdened by thought or decision, guided by instinct and the psychic whisper of Shadowheart’s benediction. She let the arrow fly, watched the arc it described as if in a dream. The blessing flickered in her mind, one last caress before fading away, and she knew it would strike true for what seemed like ages before the tip of the projectile buried itself between the beast’s shoulderblades. 

In the aftermath there came an unnatural stillness. It did not last. A sob broke the air: at least one of the goblins’ initial volley of arrows had found its mark, and a woman atop the wall fell to her knees next to the now-still body of the tiefling who had been stationed at the crank. 

Zevlor’s head and chest reappeared over top of the battlement. He called out, “Open the gate! Damnation take us all, get inside before more come,” and the gate began its creaking ascent. 

“Come on,” Gale said. Sura turned to find him supporting Shadowheart, her hands clutched unsteadily at his forearm. 

Sura’s eyes flitted over her for injuries, but found nothing. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” Shadowheart inhaled deeply, held it, and exhaled forcefully. She shook her head, and then stepped back from the wizard. “Just a bit dizzy, that’s all. It’ll pass.” 

“Is that... normal for you?” Sura intended the question as simple concern. Her voice grated as she asked it, though, and she got the sense that it had come out wrong. 

Shadowheart glared. “I’ve had a long day.” She started down the hill. 

Sura shot Gale an inquiring look, but he only shrugged. Together, they set off after her. 

-------------------- 

“What in the Hells do you think you’re about, leading them straight to us?! There are children here, you incompetent fool!” 

“I’d like to see you do better with a horde on your arse! But that’d require you to take a risk, Gods forbid—” 

“I have a duty to those in my care! A concept that is apparently beyond your grasp!” 

“As though you’d ever care about anything but your rotten hide.” 

The gate had barely closed behind them when the shouting started.  

“What a cordial reception,” Astarion remarked drily. “They must get scores of visitors, with hospitality like this.” 

“If that man is the leader of these—these teethlings, then he will know where to find the one we seek,” Lae’zel growled. She brushed past them all to the front of the group. Blood still dripped from the end of her sword, trailing wet splatters in the dust behind her. “He will tell me what I wish to know.” 

“Well, he might,” Sura started. She had to jog forward three paces to catch up to Lae’zel, and laid her hand on her shoulder. Lae’zel turned her head to glare at the hand, but she stopped to listen, which Sura chalked up as a tentative success. “He might also respond poorly to threats, and call a campful of terrified people down on top of us. Hold back for a moment. Show his people we stand together. It will make moving among them easier, and faster.” 

Behind her she could feel—if not see—a scowl darken Shadowheart’s face. Lae’zel searched her eyes and said nothing, her mouth pressed into a thin line. Then, with a single, affirmative jerk of her head, she fell into step at Sura’s shoulder.  

The source of the commotion was not difficult to find. A path led from the gate deeper into the grove. Zevlor and Aradin stood chest-to-chest in the center of it, snarling invectives.  

“You had one responsibility to this grove and everyone in it, and you failed it,” Zevlor said. “We were secure because of one man. One man! And you lost him to your ridiculous overconfidence!” 

The skin over Aradin’s knuckles strained bone-white, his hands balled into fists. “Overconfidence? What would you know of overconfidence, you cowardly bastard? You almost got us killed!” 

“Yet you’re very much not dead,” Sura interjected, sidling up to them. “Considering the alternatives I think that perhaps warrants a little civility? Just a touch?” 

“What Aradin knows of civility would fit in a thimble with room to spare,” Zevlor fumed. He leaned forward, menacing the smaller man. “You bring death to our doorstep, and have the audacity to—” 

Sura put herself between them, ignoring Aradin’s outraged harrumph at finding himself presented with her back. She raised her hands, palms out, and spoke quietly. “Peace. Your kin need you, ydvyr, more than you need to best a bull at a contest of stubbornness.” 

Zevlor’s shock at being so addressed washed over him in a wave. He took a deep breath, and let it out through his nose. He seemed to deflate.  

“Of course,” Aradin said snidely, over her shoulder. “Of course there’s no arguing with a foulblood except in the language it—” 

Sura spun on her heel, her face a mask of sudden fury. She brought the back of her hand swinging toward his face with her momentum as she turned, freezing a hair’s breadth from his cheek. 

Aradin blanched. His whole body flinched away from her.  

“Walk,” she breathed. She was in no doubt that he heard her. “Tend to your people... somewhere else.” 

He staggered backwards. Her companions parted around him as he receded. Gale raised an eyebrow at her. She turned back to Zevlor, feeling abruptly sheepish. 

“Apologies,” she said. “I forgot myself.” 

“No, my friend, the fault is mine,” he replied. “In all honesty I’d almost forgotten what it was like to be offered such grace by a stranger. Aradin’s an ass, but there’s no call to compound his stupidity with my own.” He shook his head, then offered her his palm. “That’s twice now you’ve intervened on my behalf. You have my gratitude. Call me Zevlor.” 

“Sura Tav,” she answered, grasping his hand in her own. “And these are my traveling companions.”  

“Adventurers, eh? I’ve met a few of those in my time. Though you’re among the more... exotic.” He eyed the group speculatively, gaze coming to rest at Lae’zel. “A strange company, to be sure, but it takes all kinds, doesn’t it?” 

“Funny you should say so. Forgive us our haste, but we need your aid. On our way up the path we met a pair of your people who said we could find a healer in this grove. My... companion is also in need of information.” She jerked her head in Lae’zel’s direction. “We think a man named Zorru might be able to help us. Can we find him here? It’s urgent." 

Zevlor’s brow clouded over, thinking. He turned away, and began walking the trail further into the grove. He motioned for them to follow. “Zorru should be helping to take inventory of our supplies. You’ll find him in our camp”—he pointed west, along a branch of trail that led down into a wide cave mouth—“in the grottoes among the cliffs. As for the healer, well. I only wish I could be of more help. There was a healer here: the archdruid, Halsin. But he went off with Aradin and his men on their expedition, and didn’t make it back with them. Halsin had an apprentice, Nettie. You could try to sneak in and speak with her. She’s retreated to the inner grove, with the rest.”  

“Why would we need to sneak?” 

Zevlor sighed. “They’ve named a new archdruid to act in Halsin’s stead, but she’s an unpleasant woman, as like to strike you down as say hello. Her name is Kagha. She blames us for the attacks on the grove, and not just the goblins—the roads in the area have been befouled with beasts for days, perhaps weeks. Not our doing, of course, but there’s no convincing her of that. The druids are preparing a ritual to seal the grove. We’re being pushed out. I don’t imagine they’ll let you stay long, either. If you leave the walls, go armed.” 

“Where will you go?” Shadowheart put in. 

“No idea,” Zevlor said. “We can’t go back the way we came. We were headed for the Gate, but... most of us aren’t fighters. We’re not likely to make it far.” 

“Where are you coming from?” 

“Elturel,” he replied gloomily. “We’ve no home left there any more. Not after... recent events.” 

“I’m sorry,” Sura said, bowing her head. 

They drew to a stop at a cross-path, and Zevlor nodded to her once more. “Again, thank you for your help. For what it’s worth—it was good to find a friendly face here.” 

“Take care of yourself, Zevlor,” Sura said. 

Immediately upon his departure, Lae’zel stepped forward. “We know our destination,” she said. “I will question this Zorru at once.”  

“Haste may serve us less well than we think in this matter,” Gale interjected. “If the roads are as perilous as we’ve been led to believe, we’d do well to gather what information we can about the journey before undertaking it. It may be that this Nettie can help us after all—and if so, she’s undoubtedly the quicker option, given that we’re already here.” 

“If she’ll see us,” Shadowheart said. “Zevlor seemed to believe that a lost cause.” 

Sura shrugged. “Won’t know until we ask.” 

“We waste time!” Lae’zel said. “There is but one cure, and the path to it is within our sight. Action, not discussion, is required.” 

“All right. What if we split up?” Sura proposed. “Lae’zel, go and find Zorru. Learn what you can. You should...” she looked around. “... someone should go with you.” 

“I volunteer,” Astarion said. His grin as he said it twisted his lips in a way that gave Sura pause. 

“Any particular reason?” 

He batted his eyes at Lae’zel. She scowled at him. “What can I say? I like her! She puts on a good show.” 

Behind her eyes she felt a headache building. Sura rolled her neck left, then right, wincing. “Right. The three of us will see if we can find this healer, and whether she has anything to offer us. Meet back here as quickly as you can. We’ll need supplies for the journey, as well. Eyes sharp for anything useful.” 

-------------------- 

After Lae’zel and Astarion had vanished into the mouth of the cave, Gale wandered up beside her, and said without preamble, “I didn’t know you spoke Infernal.” 

“You don’t know my favorite color, either,” Sura responded, shoving her hands into her pockets as she walked. “Nor how I take my toast.” 

“Fair point,” he said. “We’ve known each other for all of an afternoon, and these are hardly conducive circumstances to sharing oneself deeply. I simply appreciate learning where I encounter it. What gave you cause to study the language?” 

“Didn’t study anything. Picked it up at home.” 

“Ah,” he said. She offered him nothing further. He looked at a loss for what to do with the information.  

At the base of a rocky outcropping that rose to overlook the water, a shout pierced the air. Sura’s head whipped around, seeking the source of the noise. 

“Up there!” Shadowheart pointed up the path to the top of the hill. 

“At my flanks!” Sura huffed. She sprinted out in front of them without awaiting a response. Gale and Shadowheart scrambled to keep up. 

Atop the hill a tiefling woman was laid out on her back in the dirt. A bugbear stood straddled over top of her, brandishing an axe. The woman howled and tore at its legs, but fruitlessly: though her claws drew blood, the bugbear seemed not to notice, or care.  

Sura didn’t even slow down. She dropped her shoulder and threw herself against the creature’s chest, sending them both sprawling. They rolled to a stop in a bush, Sura astride the bugbear in a tangle of limbs. The creature howled out its rage and surprise, flailing with its axe. It opened a bright stripe of blood along her forearm as she went for her knife. She hissed in pain. But the knife was in her hands, and she brought it up in a flash, and drove it down into the bugbear’s throat with all her weight behind it. It gave a horrible, strangled gurgle; she felt its spine give, with a sickening crunch. And then it moved no more. 

“Are. You. Crazy.” Someone’s hands scrabbled at her forearm. She came back to herself to find Shadowheart gawking at her, eyes wide, face pale. Her hands tugged at the sliced sleeve of Sura’s tunic, ripping the material further back and away from the gash. “Aren’t you an archer? What were you even—though, no, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Of course you would tackle a bugbear. Why wouldn’t you? You’ve thrown yourself headfirst at everything else.” 

The fussing was... unexpectedly touching, if brusquely delivered. Sura batted her away, and rose to her feet, pausing only to wipe the gore from her knife on the bugbear’s ratty fur. 

“Leave me be, I’ll be fine.” She gingerly inspected her arm, then pinched the fabric closed around it. “It isn’t even that deep,” she lied. 

“Are you all right?” Gale asked the tiefling. He knelt next to her, helping her to sit up. She held a palm to her forehead, and winced, but nodded. 

“I think so... thanks. Glad you came along. Another minute and I’d have been a goner.” She looked from one to the other of them, and wrinkled her nose. “Hold on, I know why you’re here.” 

“... you called out for aid?” Gale said.  

She shoved herself away from him, and clambered to her feet. “Come off it, you reek of the Hells. You’re here to get your devil mistress’s prize back, aren’t you?” 

Sura sheathed her knife. “Helm’s honor, we’re not looking for anything of the kind. We’ve had a long day, and it did include a jaunt to Avernus I’m truly not keen to repeat, but we were only passing by when we heard you.” 

“Nobody takes a ‘jaunt’ to Avernus.” 

“Unfortunately,” Shadowheart said, “we also wish that were the case.” 

The woman considered them with narrowed eyes, then shook her head. She sighed. “I suppose if you really wanted it, it would’ve been easier to take it off my corpse.” She fished her hand under her collar. From some interior pocket of her shirt, she withdrew a disc, palm-sized and metal. “Damn thing’s brought me nothing but trouble. Hells, the bugbear could probably smell it on me. It has power, though. Take it, if you like.” 

As one the three of them leaned forward to examine the object. Gale sucked in a breath. “That’s a soul coin,” he murmured. “However did you come by that?” 

“Don’t ask. Do you want it, or not?” 

Sura recoiled. She had never seen one of these before, but she knew them by reputation: currency dearly coveted by the worst of men and devilkind alike. An accursed reliquary for a single damned soul. Contacts had tried to tempt her with them, once or twice, when no other price would move her to do the invariably reprehensible work they desired of her. She had always refused them.  

Gale made the decision for her. “That’s very generous of you,” he said. He took the coin delicately between his fingertips, and brought it up to his eyes. It flashed dully. He examined it a moment, then secreted it away into a pocket among his robes.  

“Just... take care with it. And with yourselves,” the woman said.  

As they turned their backs on the woman, Sura thought she felt a whisper of magic in her mind. The coin was a weight at the edge of her awareness. She had spent the vast majority of her life balking at any involvement with soul-magic, and for good reasons. Though... she had also never played host to a mind flayer parasite before. She wondered if this was an advantage they might need, considering what lay before them.  

She wondered if that justified it. 

-------------------- 

“That wound will sour if you don’t look to it.”  

“It’s fine, really, I swear.” 

“At least clean it!” 

“And reopen it? Look, the bleeding’s stopped already.” 

“Unbelievable,” Shadowheart muttered. She’d bothered Sura about it all the way back down the hill. “If your arm falls off I won’t be held responsible.” 

“Look on the bright side. If we don’t find a cure, a one-armed illithid is easier to take down.” 

“ Unbelievable .” 

Their way led them high up along the edge of a ring of standing stones, which Sura presumed to be the grove proper. They followed the outer ridge of them down and to the east. Just within the gated entrance, the path had been narrow and overgrown at the edges, but as they passed into the hollows beneath by the cliffs, it opened out, became wider and flatter.  

At a low bench to one side of the path, a halfling had established a perch for himself. Trinkets and artifacts of the grove’s daily existence surrounded him in piles on all sides; a magpie among his nest.  

“Ho there!” he greeted as they approached. “The heroes of the hour! Come here a moment, I’ve something for you.” He dug into a great canvas satchel by his feet as they approached. After a moment’s rummaging, he triumphantly produced a corked bottle of violently green liquid, which he pressed into Gale’s hands. 

Gale peered at it. “A tonic of some sort?” 

“Restorative,” the halfling smiled. “One of the archdruid’s own concoctions. In case your good deeds have left you in want of a pick-me-up.” 

“Much obliged,” Sura said. “Who can we thank for the courtesy?” 

“Call me Arron,” he replied. “Pardon my saying so, but you seem lightly equipped, for adventurers. I’d be willing to trade for anything you’re in need of, if you’ve anything to offer.” 

She held out her hand. “Sura Tav. And my companions, Gale of Waterdeep and Shadowheart.” Formalities completed, she swung her pack off her shoulder and plopped it into the dust at her feet. She crouched next to it and began digging out the day’s accumulated oddments and gold. The pile was smaller than she’d have liked, but she pushed it toward him all the same, grimacing. “I know it’s not much, but we’re in odd circumstances. We need hiking packs for three, bedrolls for five. None of it has to be nice, just functional. And a rough map of the area, if you can.” 

He looked from the pile, to her, and back to the pile. He raised an eyebrow. “Odd circumstances indeed. You brave the roads with so little?” 

“We aren’t gifted with an abundance of choice,” Gale said. “The area is truly so dangerous at the moment?” 

“Far more than usual,” Arron said. “A goblin horde has set up to the west of here; you’ve already met a few of them. They’ve been sniffing around. We’ve killed all that have come near the walls, but it’s only a matter of time until the bulk of the horde figure out where we are. There’ve been other things, too, things we’ve never seen hereabouts... ogres. Drow. All manner of unpleasantness.” 

“And you’re content turning the refugees from Elturel out into the midst of that?” Gale snipped. 

A dissatisfied grumbling sounded from the man’s throat. “Content? Certainly not. But Silvanus demands that we defend the grove, at all costs. We pray that they go forth with his protection.” 

From further down the path, there came a clamor of raised voices, the sounds of a scuffle. Sura stood and refastened her pack across her shoulders. “What’s that?” 

Arron groaned. “Doubtless another squabble between the refugees and Kagha’s aids. There’s been nothing but grief since master Halsin departed. They’ve been asked to stay out of the inner grove.” 

“Do you know of a way for us to get in there?” Sura asked. “We were told you have a healer, and we badly need her consultation.” 

Arron shook his head. “You could try speaking to the guards at the entrance, but I suspect you’ll find no luck. Here.” He dug into his pack again, and pressed another bottle of green tonic into her hands. “I’ll gather the supplies you requested; return for them in an hour or so. And may the Oak Father keep you.” 

-------------------- 

[clove-pinks]

A Very Parry Christmas

William Edward Parry, Journal of a second voyage for the discovery of a north-west passage from the Atlantic to the Pacific : performed in the years 1821-22-23, in His Majesty's ships Fury and Hecla, under the orders of Captain William Edward Parry:

On Christmas-day, divine service on board the Fury was attended by the officers and crews of both ships. A certain increase was also made in the allowance of provisions, to enable the people to partake of Christmas festivities to the utmost extent which our situation and means would allow; and the day was marked by the most cheerful hilarity, accompanied by the utmost regularity and good order. Among the luxuries which our Christmas dinner afforded was that of a joint of English roast beef, of which a few quarters had been preserved for such occasions, by rubbing the outside with salt, and hanging it on deck covered with canvass.

The men were entertained on Christmas eve "by the officers performing the two farces of 'A Roland for an Oliver,' and the 'Mayor of Garratt.'"

Parry's second voyage to the arctic sounds like an improvement on his first, which scrambled to find theatrical material:

Our stock of plays was so scanty, consisting only of one or two volumes, which happened accidentally to be on board, that it was with difficulty we could find the means of varying the performances sufficiently; our authors, therefore, set to work, and produced, as a Christmas piece, a musical entertainment, expressly adapted to our audience

— William Edward Parry, Journal of a Voyage for the Discovery of a North-west Passage from the Atlantic to the Pacific Performed in the Years 1819-20, in His Majesty's Ships Hecla and Griper, Under the Orders of William Edward Parry.

Christmas 1819 set a pattern for Parry:

To mark the day in the best manner which circumstances would permit, divine service was performed on board the ships; and I directed a small increase in the men's usual proportion of fresh meat as a Christmas-dinner, as well as an additional allowance of grog, to drink the health of their friends in England. The officers also met at a social and friendly dinner, and the day passed with much of the same kind of festivity by which it is usually distinguished at home; and, to the credit of the men be it spoken, without any of that disorder by which it is too often observed by seamen.

Officers also had preserved roast beef (did the whole ship's company get to enjoy it on the second voyage?)

Celebrate the season Captain Parry style with Adeste Fideles on Parry's barrel organ! (Better known as "O Come All Ye Faithful")

[glorioustidalwavedefendor]

Funny story

Funny story to get “that look” about … good shock value …

It‘s less funny if you know these people, if you have spend time reading their letters … their diaries … getting to know them …

It‘s less funny if you know that some of them surfived the victory expedition by the scrab of their teeth, trading with Inuit on the Boothia peninsula

That the entire Franklin expedition spend an afternoon with a group of Inuit, before entering Lancaster sound

They traded for seal pouches and some even paddled around in the Inuits canoes (much to the entertainment of both groups)

Graham Gore was so massive that he needed two canoes (one for each leg XD)

James Fitzjames almost drowned wen he tried to do a roll with the canoe … he made a funny drawing about it … in one of his letters home …

The Inuit pulled him out though, so he could perish later … with the expedition … maybe the so called “beautifull grave” on the west side of King William Island is his … he was young and strong .. and he had a fresh scar on his shoulder that would have unravelled with the scurfy … killing him years after he had survived it in china … wenn he didn't even want to be in china in the first place ... wenn he would have prefered to go maping antarctica and the navy wouldn't let him ...

That they went on at least one hunting trip with the local inuit during the Expedition (propably after they left Devon and Beechy and their first three loses (John Torrington, John Hartnell and Whilliam Brain)

These people knew what they where doing

Some where arctic veterans, most had survived expeditions around the globe because they respected the knowledge of the Indigenous people

→ That was the reason they where chosen, because they had proofed their merit

Harry Goodsir complained in a letter to his brother how expensive the full fur get up (pants and coat) was that he had to buy for the expedition, he did not however complain that he had to wear it …

→ so much for "tHeY oNlY WoRe WoOl" in the coments ...

Crozier had, among other expeditions, spend two winters at Igloolic (an Inuit settlement) mapping

He had made good friends with the Inuit, espeshially a women named Iligliuk at Winter Island

She was an extremely intelligent Inuit geographer and cartographer. She made maps for Parry‘s second N-W-Passage expedition (1821-23) which turned out to be not just correct but extremely helpfull.

He also had in generel made friends with them, had even exchanged his name with one of them

The white commander of the visited ships was known as “Aglooka” (long strider) to the Inuit. This was a common, and widely-bestowed, native nickname for a European commander. We know that during the Parry sojourn at Igloolik in 1822 midshipman Crozier, who would later be Franklin’s second in command and Captain of the Terror, had exchanged names with a small boy named Aglooka. Over forty years later Hall interviewed the adult Aglooka who was now known as “Crozier.” Although suggestive the fact that Crozier was known as Aglooka (Ross, in comparison, was consistently called Toolooah – Raven), the nickname given to the commander of the visited ships is not conclusive. Inuit Tales of Terror: The location of Franklin’s missing ship by © David C. Woodman 2016 (page 7))

Alexander McDonald, had also made friends with Inuits on his first whaling journey

He made such good freinds with one of the young men (named Eenoolooapik ), who was also extremely good at cartographie, that he invited him to come to england, to see how he lived.

Through his whaling trips, M’Donald encountered Eenoolooapik, a young Inuk from Baffin Island, who was brought to Aberdeen by Penny on the whaling vessel Neptune in 1839. (...) Eenoolooapik, or ‘Eenoo,’ having contracted a respiratory infection, spent only a single winter in Aberdeen under the care of M’Donald, who was also both his tutor and biographer (Rowley, 1986; Jones, 2004). Eenoo departed for his homeland in April 1840, transported on the Bon Accord with Penny as captain and M’Donald as the scientist/ surgeon. In his 1841 book, A narrative of some passages in the history of Eenoolooapik..., M’Donald draws upon the experiences shared with Eenoo in exploring the natural and cultural history of the indigenous peoples living in eastern Baffin Island. This book, which includes extensive passages on Inuit customs and belief systems, is reported to be the only such fulllength, contemporary biography of the Inuk from the 19th century. (…) Alexander M’Donald L.R.C.S.E (1817 – c. 1848) Ian Barrie The Hollies Oldbury, Bridgnorth, Shropshire WV16 5DY, United Kingdom ian@ianbarrie.wanadoo.co.uk

Said book about Inuit costumes was ultimately what killed poor Alexander … since it drew the attention of John Franklin and got him the commission of assistant surgeon on the HMS Terror …

Where he perished with all the others … all people chosen specifically because they had profed in the past that they got along swimmingly with the natives of their respective countries.

Oh sorry … we where laughing about those silly xenophobic Kabloonas that where so stuck in their European ways that they would rather eat each other then seal meat …

That where so racist that cannibalism seemed preferable to the uncivilised ways of those strange natives ...

Funny XD

Equally funny is the fact that the area around King William Island and the Adelaide peninsula is home to a very aggressive strain of botulism.

To this day people die each year of botulism.

Because even healthy animals are contaminated, and while healthy people can hunt and fish without problem, old and fragile people will get botulism

→ That is the reason you must never give honey to a baby, it might contain botulism toxin, which is heat stable so even cooking will not destroy it.

If you are starving to death your gut becomes leaky and botulism contaminated meat will give you botulism

which is a slow death

takes a day or longer

and you stay conscious the entire time

first your eyesight goes … then your voice … then the use of your arms … then the use of your legs … and finally the use of your lungs

slowly …

They must have watched their friends die like that

For no discernible reason

again and again

no matter how carefuller they where

How thoroughly they made sure that the animal where healthy, that the meat was fresh …

It killed

cooked or raw … it killed …

The fresh meat that was supposed to safe them … to heal them … it killed … slowly … horribly …

They learned to fear meat.

And so with two seals right there, they did not dare to eat.

And wen the first of this group finally didn‘t wake up in the morning … they ate him … having learned the hard way that human meat was safe for some reason …

Can you imagine how scared they must have been?

Funny Kabloonas … silly story … good entertainment ... great story to shock people … give them “that look” …

https://nationalpost.com/news/canada/theyre-not-human-how-19th-century-inuit-coped-with-a-real-life-invasion-of-the-walking-dead

Indigenous groups across the Americas had all encountered Europeans differently. But where other coastal groups such as the Haida or the Mi’kmaq had met white men who were well-fed and well-dressed, the Inuit frequently encountered their future colonizers as small parties on the edge of death.

“I’m sure it terrified people,” said Eber, 91, speaking to the National Post by phone from her Toronto home.

And it’s why, as many as six generations after the events of the Franklin Expedition, Eber was meeting Inuit still raised on stories of the two giant ships that came to the Arctic and discharged columns of death onto the ice.

Inuit nomads had come across streams of men that “didn’t seem to be right.” Maddened by scurvy, botulism or desperation, they were raving in a language the Inuit couldn’t understand. In one case, hunters came across two Franklin Expedition survivors who had been sleeping for days in the hollowed-out corpses of seals.

“They were unrecognizable they were so dirty,” Lena Kingmiatook, a resident of Taloyoak, told Eber.

Mark Tootiak, a stepson of Nicholas Qayutinuaq, related a story to Eber of a group of Inuit who had an early encounter with a small and “hairy” group of Franklin Expedition men evacuating south.

“Later … these Inuit heard that people had seen more white people, a lot more white people, dying,” he said. “They were seen carrying human meat.”

Even Eber’s translator, the late Tommy Anguttitauruq, recounted a goose hunting trip in which he had stumbled upon a Franklin Expedition skeleton still carrying a clay pipe.

By 1850, coves and beaches around King William Island were littered with the disturbing remnants of their advance: Scraps of clothing and camps still littered with their dead occupants. Decades later, researchers would confirm the Inuit accounts of cannibalism when they found bleached human bones with their flesh hacked clean.

“I’ve never in all my life seen any kind of spirit — I’ve heard the sounds they make, but I’ve never seen them with my own eyes,” said the old man who had gone out to investigate the Franklin survivors who had straggled into his camp that day on King William Island.

The figures’ skin was cold but it was not “cold as a fish,” concluded the man. Therefore, he reasoned, they were probably alive.

“They were beings but not Inuit,” he said, according to the account by shaman Nicholas Qayutinuaq.

The figures were too weak to be dangerous, so Inuit women tried to comfort the strangers by inviting them into their igloo.

But close contact only increased their alienness: The men were timid, untalkative and — despite their obvious starvation — they refused to eat.

The men spit out pieces of cooked seal offered to them. They rejected offers of soup. They grabbed jealous hold of their belongings when the Inuit offered to trade.

When the Inuit men returned to the camp from their hunt, they constructed an igloo for the strangers, built them a fire and even outfitted the shelter with three whole seals.

Then, after the white men had gone to sleep, the Inuit quickly packed up their belongings and fled by moonlight.

Whether the pale-skinned visitors were qallunaat or “Indians” — the group determined that staying too long around these “strange people” with iron knives could get them all killed.

“That night they got all their belongings together and took off towards the southwest,” Qayutinuaq told Dorothy Eber.

But the true horror of the encounter wouldn’t be revealed until several months later.

The Inuit had left in such a hurry that they had abandoned several belongings. When a small party went back to the camp to retrieve them, they found an igloo filled with corpses.

The seals were untouched. Instead, the men had eaten each other.

[jbaileyfansite]

In a new commission by BBC Radio 2 for BBC Sounds, The Showstopper will be available from 19 March featuring Bridgerton’s Jonathan Bailey.

40 years ago the HIV virus, and the resulting disease AIDS, were named. It devastated people’s lives all over the world, including bringing immeasurable heartbreak to the theatre community of Broadway and the West End.

Theatre, however, became a voice of awareness, rebelling against the stigma present at the time. There were plays, one-man performances and musicals highlighting the disease and its effect on people, spreading messages of hope and support and helping to quash hurtful and misleading information.

In this programme, actor Jonathan Bailey, who performed as a child in Les Miserables in the West End at the time, tells the story of HIV/AIDS impact on the theatre community, and tells how this community supported those affected. This documentary includes powerful stories from those at the heart of the theatre community at the time, including producers Cameron Mackintosh and Nick Allott, lyricist Tim Rice and Musical Director Jae Alexander, alongside performers such as actor and activist Jill Nalder (Les Miserables, Oliver!), Claire Moore (The Phantom of the Opera), Craig Revel Horwood, Stifyn Parri (Les Miserables, Brookside), and Make A Difference charity’s Melanie Tranter.

For more information, please click here.

Source

[westeroslive]

when  the  sun  rises  in  the  west,   the  gods  eyes  are  drawn.  may  the  seven  have  mercy  upon  you  as  we  welcome  you  to  court,   lady marcella baratheon, princess viserra targaryen, lord pearse sunglass, lady malenie marbrand !   now  a  victim  of  the  court,  the  bards  compare  your  beauty  to  ni ni, milly alcock, michael evans behling, dominique davenport  as  you  play  the  game  in  the  midst  of  seasoned  nobles.

behave  and  follow  the  queen's  word  written  in  our  checklist  and  submit  your  account  within  24  hours.  

࣪𓏲ּ  ֶָ  𝑤𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑠𝒕𝒗  ⁝         NI NI,  33,  female,  she/her.    announcing  the  arrival  of  MARCELLA  of  house  BARATHEON,  the  HEIR OF STORM’s END.  whispers  among  the  court  name  them  to  be  both  ASTUTE  and  INSIDIOUS  in  disposition,  and  those  closest  to  them  speak  to  their  interests  in  POLITICS.  if  we  bards  could  compose  a  song  for  them,  it  might  tell  stories  of  a vicious creature with flowing, midnight hair, hundreds of hundreds of books spread across tables and strewn across the floor, golden lighting that streaks across the sky, illuminating the world below for only a second.  the  seven  whisper  to  their  most  devout  queen  as  she  sleeps,  making  her  question  where  their  loyalties  truly  lie.  are  they  right  to  whisper?  for  their  loyalties  truly  lie  with  THE  TARGARYENS / THE STORMLANDS.          (  ooc  :  jade,  24,  she/her,  pst  )

࣪𓏲ּ  ֶָ  𝑤𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑠𝒕𝒗  ⁝         milly alcock,  26,  demi woman,  she / her.    announcing  the  arrival  of  VISERRA  of  house  TARGARYEN,  the  PRINCESS of  WESTEROS  whispers  among  the  court  name  them  to  be  both  ADVENTUROUS  and  IRASCIBLE  in  disposition,  and  those  closest  to  them  speak  to  their  interests  in  swordplay.  if  we  bards  could  compose  a  song  for  them,  it  might  tell  stories  of  bright violet eyes watching all in a quest for knowledge, clang of sword upon sword while one parries and cuts, curiosity that's yet to kill the cat.  the  seven  whisper  to  their  most  devout  queen  as  she  sleeps,  making  her  question  where  their  loyalties  truly  lie.  are  they  right  to  whisper?  for  their  loyalties  truly  lie  with  THE  TARGARYENS.          (  ooc  :  stephanie,  25,  est,  they / them )

࣪𓏲ּ  ֶָ  𝑤𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑠𝒕𝒗  ⁝         michael evans behling,  33,  cis man,  he / him.    announcing  the  arrival  of  PEARSE  of  house  SUNGLASS,  the  LORD of  SWEETPORT SOUND  whispers  among  the  court  name  them  to  be  both  WHIMSICAL  and  POSSESSIVE  in  disposition,  and  those  closest  to  them  speak  to  their  interests  in  poisons.  if  we  bards  could  compose  a  song  for  them,  it  might  tell  stories  of  laughter and boasting tones filling the air, voice so sweet one might weep, poisoned tipped daggers kept beneath pillows.  the  seven  whisper  to  their  most  devout  queen  as  she  sleeps,  making  her  question  where  their  loyalties  truly  lie.  are  they  right  to  whisper?  for  their  loyalties  truly  lie  with  HOUSE SUNGLASS.          (  ooc  :  stephanie,  25,  est,  they / them  ) - trystane tyrell's broken betrothal connection

࣪𓏲ּ  ֶָ  𝑤𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑠𝒕𝒗  ⁝         dominique devenport,  30,  cis woman,  she / her.    announcing  the  arrival  of  MALENIE  of  house  MARBRAND,  the  HEIR  of  ASHEMARK  whispers  among  the  court  name  them  to  be  both  DECISIVE  and  JUDGEMENTAL  in  disposition,  and  those  closest  to  them  speak  to  their  interests  in  archery.  if  we  bards  could  compose  a  song  for  them,  it  might  tell  stories  of  highlighted brown and blonde hair pulled back into a loose braid with a ribbon tying it back, sounds of bangles clinking together while enjoying a night of revelry, danger hiding in plain sight.  the  seven  whisper  to  their  most  devout  queen  as  she  sleeps,  making  her  question  where  their  loyalties  truly  lie.  are  they  right  to  whisper?  for  their  loyalties  truly  lie  with  THE  TARGARYENS.          (  ooc  :  stephanie,  25,  est,  they / them / king lucy  )

[kiltyswitch]

A Ride of Thanks

This may be the last ride of the season. The weather just happened to smile on us. I'm thankful for the day; for the weather; for my family; for my wife's love, generosity and support; for my near-perfect motorcycle (for the purpose); for my warm comfortable protective gear; for my ability to ride; for my interest in motorcycling; for my passion for the activity; for my good fortune to live in an area so conducive to this particular form of recreation; and the wherewithal to make it happen.

That's a lot of thankfulness.

Two motorcycles, a father and his Son. Some of the most motorcycle-conducive roads in the hemisphere. We kit up and leave from our cozy cottage on the river. Heading north out of my adoptive hometown. Bracebridge could well be the subject of a Norman Rockwell painting. This town of 16,000 souls is blessed with more waterfalls within its town limits than any other municipality of its size in North America. On our way North, our first order of business is to turn off the Main Street onto High Falls Road. This thoroughfare is the perfect blend of new smooth pavement, sweeping curves, hundreds of feet of elevation. Not to mention scenery; and this weekend, crowned by the Autumn colours at their absolute peak. A sculptor couldn't have crafted a more perfectly proportioned model to place in the middle of the prettiest cottage country in the world.

We take The King's Highway #11 north ( yes, King, that's what the sign says, crown and all), past Huntsville. We turned west onto Highway #518. This highway was resurfaced the previous year, transforming it into a physicist's dream of g-force, adhesion, velocity, gravity, and ensuing engineering. All those theories I don't pretend to understand. That Newton guy was onto something.

I tuck in behind my Son on my nimble V-Strom, bowing to his skill, and his Honda VFR's larger displacement and precise handling. The leaves dance; disturbed in the wake of his rear tire. A pirouette intended for us, as if to urge us on in support of today's endeavour. A brief reprieve after their descent from their brilliant earlier display, before their eternal sleep.

On to Orrville, and the quaintest coffee shop east of Seattle. Not a Bistro, oh no, a Barista no less. Seemly in the middle of nowhere. At the convergence of some of the most significant motorcycle roads in this, my neck of the woods. A welcome stop on our journey. Apparently we are not the only ones to claim exclusivity. We begrudgingly admit it doesn't exist solely for our pleasure. Judging from all the helmets, jackets and boots, we are not alone in our route planning. Right off the bat we are approached by three like-minded enthusiasts mounted on an eclectic mix of Yamaha, BMW and Ducati. They are already inquisitive and complimentary on their way towards us across the parking lot.

"Is that the Interceptor?"

"Oh, it's the 25th Anniversary Edition."

It doesn't hurt my feelings in the least their accolades are directed towards Sam's bike instead of mine. I'm proud of and happy for him.

Spirited banter ensues...cubic centimetres; handling; power to weight ratios; lean angles; chicken strips ( if you have to ask). The topics continue on to routes of choice; close calls; comparisons of severity of past injuries.

This age-old form of one-upmanship soon exhausts itself as we don our helmets; eager to test limits of man and machine on the next leg of today's adventure as the trio fills the void inside the Barista vacated by us. The ritual of emptying bladders and refilling of same with hot Maple Latte specialty coffee.

Where to next? Parry Sound, Rosseau, Peninsula Road towards Port Carling?

Could life get any better on this iconic Autumn day in the heart of my beautiful Province within the immense splendour of the Dominion of Canada?

Wayne Ross

p.p. Kilty Switch

[unitedbydevils]

Match Review: Manchester United Women 5-0 West Ham United Women

We've gone from scoring very little to scoring almost too many to keep up with. You love to see it.

It took only three minutes for Brazilian forward Geyse to open her WSL account; just days after finally scoring her first United goal against Everton in the Conti Cup group stage. Poor defending twice over allowed a cross in from Leah Galton on the left wing, and then a chip over the back line from Hinata Miyazawa for Geyse to nod in.

Editor's Note: It's pronounced J'eyz, as if you were making her sound French. It is not Jezz-ay as Sky Sports butchered it. No no no.

Other than an offside goal from Galton it seemed like the first half was a bit of a dead rubber; plenty of pressure from Manchester United but nothing really breaking the West Ham lines. That is until Millie Turner decided to charge up the pitch. Pointing out where she wanted the pass from Leah Galton she muscled her way into the box, cut back onto her right foot, and hit a lovely curling effort over the keeper into the far top corner of the net. A striker would be chuffed to bits with that goal, let alone a centre-back!

The flash of genius inspired Nikita Parris - herself in great goalscoring form - to bag a third before the half-time whistle, and then the stagnation of the first half came back to hinder United; a determined West Ham with a slightly complacent Manchester United and not a lot of action.

Lucia Garcia and Melvine Malard remedied this goal drought with two quickfire finishes in the 88th and 90th minutes to make it yet another rout for United this season, and a real feeling that the team is starting to grow in synergy and self-belief.

Player of the match has to be Millie Turner. The goal alone could have won it but these stats are a sensational return - and coming after recent criticism from this writer/muppet about her patchy form. Still, better to be wrong and United win than right and we lose eh.

The win puts United into 3rd Place in the Women's Super League, but a tough tie awaits at the weekend as the reds face local rivals Manchester City in a real test of their development this season. Old Trafford hosts the first of the two league derbies this season and the Etihad the second - testament to the commitment from both clubs to give the flourishing women's sides more opportunity for exposure.

[moongazeonastarfillednight]

As far as I can tell, they did everything that could be observed, even if it sounded as useless as measuring the ice floes depth from month to month.

A lot of it was meteorological, temperature, atmospheric pressure, etc. But also observations of lunar phases, auroras studies (Parry once attempted to see if they could hear it... only to end up lucky no one lost their earshell 😅)

Each published account of a polar voyage was also accompanied with information on fauna and flora but also geology, astronomy and any other natural sciences.

If it interests you, you can find the results of many of those researches on archive.org (and the narratives of pretty much every captain who went to the polar regions!)

Here's a peek:

Link

Some example of Tide markings (but all Observations look like that) (I'm so sad that Crozier's readings from August/September 1822 are not in that report because the poor guy got stranded for 4 days on a little rock in a middle of a storm to get them :') )

Some of these had direct application, such as their observation on which medium would make the better thermometer

According to Capt. George Lyon (who was in command of the Hecla and whose own narrative of the voyage I highly recommend because the man is funny (in a victorian way)), some of the observations made on the "contraction of Alcohol" was made by opening and tasting Capt. Parry's personal bottles of port that had frozen solid.

Among the fauna observations, they would describe the animals, their behavior, where they saw them, etc. But, also, during Parry's third voyage, James Ross was somehow employed in measuring the internal temperature of animals they caught and comparing it to the ambiant air? And Lyon recounts in his own journal a study they made of the length of foxes' snout.

But this is what the reported observations looked like:

Yes I chose the Ross's Gull... I do have a fave 😩

Gotta love the "summary" given by Dr. Richardson about Larus Rossii... in Latin, what a nerd!

For more expedition researches you can search for all the

Journals of a (second/third) voyage for the discovery of a North West passage from the Atlantic to the Pacific by Parry

the Narratives of a (second) voyage in search of a North-West Passage by John Ross ( the second has a fun part written by James Ross about how he found the Magnetic North Pole) and

The Narrative of a voyage of discovery by James Clark Ross for his recounts of the Antarctic Expedition (by god... this guy sure LOVES magnets...)

In conclusion; that fun experiment they showed in the show where they were trying to see how the temperature variation would affect the speed of sound? Very much in line with the kind of stuff they were doing historically.

Terror friends, does anyone have any info/resources/what have you on the kind of scientific experiments and research they would have been doing during the Franklin expedition? Or other Arctic/Antarctic expeditions as well. I know they were primarily heading out there to scout the Passage, but I also know there was some unrelated research going on and I’d love to know more

[lasriohq]

LAS RIO’S 50TH ANNUAL BLOSSOM BASH

Welcome all townspeople, tourists, and newcomers alike! We - the people of Las Rio - invite you to our 50th annual Spring Blossom Bash, where we have activities, food, and much much more. There’s truly something for everyone; Spring is in the air! 

This Blossom Bash will take place from April 3rd - April 9th and it’s always just what  the town needs to welcome the warmer months back into Las Rio. While the food is always exactly the dream come true - nothing like stations of food fit just for the occasion, sandwiches, snacks, cold and warm drink station, and as always Polly’s world famous lavender tea! Stop on by Polly’s Emporium to try the drink for yourself. 

If food and drinks aren’t your thing and you’re someone that prefers to socialize, this would be the best time to check out the art and kite festival that’s set up on the West side of the town. Booths are set up for miles wide, decorated and full of the most prized possessions, art pieces made with nothing but love, and kites made out of recycled materials and painted the most vibrant colors. Make your own kite or your own art pieces to decorate your home. If art isn’t your thing, the night of April 8th check out our hot air balloon rides that are launching at sunset on the west side of the river. All donations given for this event will go towards the businesses of Las Rio for repairs and maintenance. 

To top it all off, our annual gardening event is being held on the East side of the river, and we don’t want Mrs. Lewis to win the grand prize for the largest cactus again. Enter your most prized plant possession into the contest for a grand prize. There will be gardening classes hosted, as well as the ability to help make the town beautiful with your own area to plant things you desire! Come on out and help make this event personal, but overall a great time. 

While the event is lasting a full week both in character and out of character, you all will be able to write threads for this event starting on April 3rd at 8AM and can write until the event ends on April 12th at 8AM. This will allow you all to write as much as you want to surrounding the event, and we can’t wait to see what you come up with. 

We know you probably have a lot of questions, so below is some things that we think could be helpful when you begin writing. Gardening- Some things that are available to be grown at this time of year in New Mexico are: peas, cabbage, spinach, carrots, broccoli, kale, arugula, radishes, cilantro, scallions, cilantro, and lettuce, but be sure your characters prepared them ahead of time. We are allowing this to be for both personal use, and also if your character is more like to do it for volunteer purposes, we’re allowing you to help plant things to give to those less fortunate and really capture the inclusiveness and closeness the town is supposed to represent. If food or vegetables aren’t your thing, some flowers you can plant are: Parry's Penstemon, Firecracker, Rocky Mountain, Pineleaf, Huskers Red, Scarlet Bulgar, Rondo Mix and Pikes Peak Purple and attract things like bees, butterflies and hummingbirds. Art & Kite Festival - For this, it’s kind of as basic as it sounds. This is just some booths set up with different types of art; along with art you can buy, we think it would be cool to have your character to be able to explore making those types of art work, so feel free to explore that side of it if that’s something you wish to do! Food & Drink - There will be an assortment of food, drinks and snacks with a range from poke, a coffee stand, italian ice and more. You won't leave hungry, especially if you check out any of the food trucks parked in different areas around town to meet your needs. (Use your imagination here too! The more Spring inspired dishes the better!)

Booths - While the specifics aren't listed, if you want your character to run some sort of booth set up around town, Rancho De Plaza will be full of booths of all sorts! Join Elijah at the face painting booth or set up your own! Hot Air Balloon Rides - The price for these hot air balloons are $2 for single riders or $5 for every ‘couple’ (double rider balloons) and the donations are being collected and dispersed evenly to local businesses by City Hall. Plan a date, watch the stars, or grab a balloon and get away from reality for awhile; the sky really is the limit when it comes to this fun activity. As always, feel free to have fun and explore all the possibilities. We can’t wait to see what you guys come up with! 

[earlwilsonelectric]

North Bay Electrician

Are you looking for electrician in North Bay? Visit https://www.earlwilsonelectric.com/. Earl Wilson Electric is based in North Bay, Ontario, and serves communities as far North as New Liskeard, as far south as Parry Sound, as far West as Mattawa, and as far East as Sudbury. Explore website for more information.