#a pox on mountain view

[afroscribble]

Google had a feature like this, even built into their Assistant app. You could say "remind me to x when i get to y place" and it was pretty seamless; one of their few usecases of Assistant that worked flawlessly.

Well, had. They ripped that functionality out to go integrate elsewhere, with a turnaround time of ??? In the meantime, no location-based reminders for you.

I hate how often I go:

1. Hey I need to go to STORE and get A

2. Oh and while I'm there, I can get B

3. I then forget what A was

Like I'm here at Home Depot and I have a battery I need to recycle and I know I was thinking "while I'm at Home Depot to get A, I can just recycle this battery!"

BUT WHY WAS I GOING TO HOME DEPOT IN THE FIRST PLACE? ;_;

[cuntwrap--supreme]

Planning to go up to Kuwohi tomorrow in honor of the name change/minor step in decolonizing the only good thing left in TN

[acrossthewavesoftime]

Tumblr Dashboard Simulator, the British of the American Revolutionary War

🌊my-peggys-husband

We have a man confin'd aboard the Preston, a common scrub by the name of Benjamin Hichborn, who was caught carrying the most extraordinary letter pertaining the private dealings of one Mr G. Washington, written to him by a Mr B. Harrison:

As you can see from an etching of the original as printed above, that man is a rascal and a scoundrel. For how is a man to be trusted to keep true to his country, if he cannot remain true to his wife? Mrs Admiral says that she should not suffer such a husband, and that any man of any worth & quality should reject him.

This is your time to join the True Protectors of Moralty and Order around these parts!

#may that man washington and his cursed boot lickers rot in hell #britain #pro britain #a pox upon the continentals #boston #local politics

239 notes

🎻the-saddest-violin

This may differ slightly from my usual missives about playing the violin and new musicians to be aware of (Haydn and Boccerini are to be highly recommended, especially the latter is as yet little known in these parts, though very innovative in his compositions), but I feel I can no longer withhold what troubles me, and have no other place to speak of it:

There is a lady whom I have fixed my affection upon, and cannot forget her; yet she is wed to a scoundrel, and has a son by him. We see each other daily, and until now I have held my tongue, but my soul can no longer endure this torment.

We share an acquaintance that is too long to be recounted here, and does not signify. What is of some import is that in recent times, I have observed her grown less reticent in her intercourse with me, joking, smiling, and conversing freely. Might it be true that she may keep me in the same regard as I do her?

I knew that I held her in high affection her when first I saw her, when she was stood in my parlour at Boston, fall'n on hard times and heavy with child. That very moment, she could have ask'd me to be the Joseph to her Mary, and I would gladly have accepted her, and her child, who is dear to me also, into my home.

For I am a shy b-tch, as I have before confessed to, I ask of you:

#poll #private #henry rambles on

147 notes

🦸‍♂️gentleman-johnny

It is with sadness that I have to announce that for the time being, I will have to take a step back from social media.

Do not fret, this blog will not be taken down, and you shall not be deprived of access to my plays on my website; yet a personal emergency, and a busy work schedule demand of me to retire from my online pursuits.

Pray not for me, pray for Charlotte.

#personal #psa

623 notes

🤰🏻fromthingsgoingbaddeleytoworse

I keep thinking of a song I heard play the other day, but cannot recall it entire, I know but the first few lines of it.

If one of you could do me the immense kindness to tell me its title, and perhaps some print-shop where it might be got, I would be much obliged.

It goes:

He never speaks his passions He never speaks his views Whereas other men speak volumes The man I love is mute In truth, I can't recall Being wooed with words at all Even now He plays the violin He tucks it right under his chin And he bows, oh he bows For he knows, yes he knows

#ask #music #song #ough #never has a song felt so true to my soul

12 notes

🎭meschianza-updates-official

UPDATE: Your Knights in Shining Armour REVEALED!

Dear Friends, estemm'd Citizens of Philadelphia, my brave Brothers-in-Arms!

It is an honour to unveil to you the participants of the Meschianza's jousting tournament! Our fourteen gallant heroes will take each other on in two teams, the Knights of the Blended Rose and the Knights of the Burning Mountain. ...Can you espy Yours Truly on the list?

Guests (particularly you, ladies!) are encouraged to select their champion and cheer him to victory!

Remember, the Meschianza, our grand farewell event for General Howe and an immersive masquerade experience, will take place on 2 June 1778. There will be many exciting activities, such as a regatta, a ball, our exclusive joust, and a fireworks display!

If you have any more questions regarding the dress code or the location's anti-American security measures, you can PM this blog, or my private arts and poetry blog, @johnandree-privee!

#meschanzia #philadelphia #masque #society #party of the year #apply for tickets while some are yet left!

780 notes

🐕howo

With these new devices call'd mobile phones, it has grown much easier to do a great many things; is any here who can recommend any app or device that should allow for me to know where my dog is when I cannot see him? It appears that he has got off again, and it would be very bad indeed were it to happen in battle, and he to fall into the enemy's hands. Suggestions are welcome!

#dogs #petcare

515 notes

📗thegreencoe-t

@johnaandree-privee tagged me to share some drawings, etchings &tc., which are representative of One's character:

Having viewed mine, and should youl like to share such a composition of images of your own, consider yourself tagg'd by me!

#tag game #aesthetic #dark academia

52 notes

💂diary-of-a-lady-hessian

Es sollte einer jeden Frau, so einen rechtschaffenen Mann hat, ein Betrübniß sein, wenn er unter so einem wie dem General Burgoyne dienet.

#hot takes #for my english speaking friends #generals clinton and philipps i respect #general burgoyne i do not

302 notes

♟️howey

@ben-franklin better luck next time!

#chess #politics #soft politics #diplomacy

45 notes

🔴patrioticheroesnevergetdeactivated--deactivated

To all the people who reported me and got my old account @awesome-arnold deactivated: you're mere pathetic haters. I did what I had to do, and you cannot fault me for it.

All the missives I received that were unsigned prove the cowardice of you people in the face of one who knows what it means to risk his life, and lose his health for his cause.

We will win this war, just you wait. My blog won't go anywhere, and the British Army won't either!!!

0 notes

[mistressofduskanddawn]

Azurite Discovery; Scathecraw Of Aloe

[ID: A top down view of an aloe vera plant, a slender succulent-family plant with many triangle shaped leaves and spikes on its edges. This aloe vera has red and green colouring, with the red concentrated at the spiked edges. The plant branches out like a star, taking up the complete image with no background other than its leaves.]

ONE OF MY MAIN THINGS WITH TAMRIEL PCP IS ITS RELEVANCE TO EARTH, as that is the world we live and the one I adore. I enjoy finding the Aedra and Daedra in this world, and in many aspects, they fit right into our world—and in some ways, they do not. And this either requires the reality that Tamriel is not Earth, conversing with them, or more gnosis discovered about the world. One of these ways was the nugget of information that dearest Azura gave unto me: the Scathecraw found on her altars in Raven’s Rock in The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim are the red aloe of our world, and can be used for practical in her domain of vanity.

SCATHECRAW OF ALOE

Scathecraw has limited lore, the wiki describing it simply as:

Scathecraw is a long, tough reddish grass growing in the thermal ash regions of the Ashlands, Molag Amur, and Red Mountain regions of Vvardenfell. The plant also spread to the ashlands of southern Solstheim after the Red Year. The rieklings of Solstheim call it redgrass and ritualistically burn it. The soft inner flesh of the plant can be used in alchemy.

[ID: A side by side comparison of scathecraw from The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim and aloe cameronii. To the left is the scathecraw depicted growing on a low-resolution soil in front of a rock wall and a wooden post held by rope. Then to the right a picture of an aloe cameronii garden with dozens of plants, most of which possessing a vibrant red colour.]

Conversely, aloe cameronii is a grass aloe. Scathecraw’s name also clues to it being aloe: scathe means “hurt, injure, to hurt or injure someone” and craw meaning “the crop of a bird or insect, the lower digestive system of an animal.” Just as scathecraw is devised of spikes, so does aloe, which clues to me that it is more than appearances that Azura spoke of scathecraw being a variety of aloe.

Aloe vera is also mentioned as a genuine part of Tamriel; 

The Aloe Vera are tall and leafy plants that are found mainly in southern Hammerfell, but also in warmer climates like the Gold Coast in Cyrodiil, in pockets throughout the coastline and its hills. The Yokudans were well aware of the herb’s potential in medicine, often using it to staunch the flow of blood and to heal wounds. It can be mixed with other ingredients to create elixirs, like combining the aloe’s lacquer with a crushed leaf can lessen the effects of pox.[7] According to local legend, making a concoction with Ginkgo can boost one’s stamina.[8]

There is a variety of aloe that exists across Tamriel, among which include the Salloweed Aloe in the vicinity of Phaer on the island, Auridon. The alchemist, Hendil learned that it could be used as a powerful sedative against his vampiric son.[9] The aloe vera of Vakka-Bok have been harvested by the Root-Whisper Tribe, deep in the wilds of Murkmire. It was known for its unnaturally fast healing properties, such as keep wounds from festering and soothes burns. While many people do not know why it heals so well, it is theorized that the arcane magic of the sun had given the plant its abilities.

I do not see anything that contradicts scathecraw as a type of aloe, and besides, it is a gift from Azura to witness scathecraw as a variety of aloe. For the Elder Scrolls pagan, aloe as stated may be linked to the sun, and as such, even Meridia and Magnus. Azura’s own connection to magic—which arrives to the world from the light of Magnus’ sun—clues to me why she would reveal such a thing. Aloe vera can be used for burns, healing, potions, prayer, incense, and most fittingly for Azura: its power within vanity. 

THE USE OF ALOE AND AZURA

I find Azura fond of most beauty products that truly work to provide beauty, a shine, and promote love of the self. Aloe is a wonderful tool as a powerhouse against wounds that is readily available with its nature of being largely accessible to grow as a succulent. It is commonly applied within healthcare and skincare products for its power over wounds. Most of all, I am particularly interested in its usage and interest to Azura, who guided my hands to the flora.

Devotion wise, I may witness growing scathecraw of aloe—the red aloe—in honour of her ways of self-love and self-care. Azura cares in earnest of us, with her actively promoting my own journey into sustainable beauty practices. Aloe is also lovely for those of us who are low income, as it is cheap to obtain and easy to grow. Scathecraw of aloe also comes with stunning red flowers, which may be gifted as offerings to the mistress of dawn and dusk. It may also be applied in her wonders of magic as a usage in potion and salve making—essentially, real world alchemy—under her guidance. There is likely far more to learn of aloe, but that is for us as Elder Scrolls pagans to journey together under fair Azura’s stars and twilight. 

References

Growing Aloes in our Succulent Garden. (n.d.). https://www.mediterraneangardensociety.org/sloan.html

Lore:Flora A – The Unofficial Elder Scrolls Pages (UESP). (n.d.). https://en.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Flora_A

Lore:Flora S – The Unofficial Elder Scrolls Pages (UESP). (n.d.). https://en.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Flora_S

Skyrim:Temple – The Unofficial Elder Scrolls Pages (UESP). (n.d.). https://en.uesp.net/wiki/Skyrim:Temple

[castillon02]

“Have you thought about selling these to a millinery?” Jaskier asked. He plucked one of the griffin’s massive brown-and-amber wing feathers, waving it in the melodic shape of ‘Toss a Coin.’ What a spectacular hat accessory it would make. The flare! The vim! The height!  

Geralt harrumphed, cutting at the griffin’s neck with his trophy knife. “No,” he said. “Parasites.”  

“Like monster lice?” Jaskier asked, choosing that moment to enjoy the view of the surrounding mountains. Couldn’t do anything about the knife-y, squelchy sounds, but oh well. Such was the gore of traveling with a Witcher. “You didn’t tell me there were monster lice, Geralt! Wait. Are you giving monster lice to Roach right now, even as we speak? Does this feather have monster lice on it?” 

Roach snorted and stomped as Geralt tied the smelly trophy to her. Geralt, meanwhile, sighed a deep Witcher sigh and came to stand next to him. 

That was a ‘no’ on the monster lice, then. 

“What would happen if griffin feathers became popular?” Geralt asked, as one would of a small child.  

“Witchers would make a lot of money?” Jaskier suggested, rubbing his thumb along the feather’s soft surface. “Get paid by fashionable people to deliver more than a griffin’s head?”

“Hmm.” Geralt prodded Jaskier’s ankle with his boot. “These fashionable people would be content to wait for Witchers to deliver their product?” 

Jaskier considered the fervor with which he had sought a specific Toussaintois thread for his doublets last year. “Ah,” he said. “People would try to hunt griffins themselves and the majority of those people would promptly be massacred, which wouldn’t matter at all to the wealthy people who hired them.” 

“Right.” 

“And even if you managed to arrange some kind of Witchers-only trading license in an effort to prevent people from dying for profit, then merchants would simply say that they assumed anyone selling these feathers was a Witcher, never mind that it’s ridiculously difficult to physically impersonate one of you. Moreover, some Witcher impersonators might not stop with selling griffin feathers---they might con a town out of their money and ride off into the night, making your entire profession look bad. Hmm, I see.” Jaskier rubbed at his chin. “Parasites indeed.” 

Geralt hesitated.

“...Not what you were thinking,” Jaskier concluded, drawing on his deep well of Geraltian knowledge in order to interpret Geralt’s slightly-less-than-blank face. 

“Griffin hunters---the ones that lived---would carry felavian pox and trichomaniasis into previously isolated populations,” Geralt said. “We’d end up with sick griffins who are more likely to leave their roosts in the wild in order to attack easy prey: sheep, cattle, people. Same thing happened half a century back---fad for warg pelts. People only stopped dying when the wargs started balding from how sick they were and demand for their coats disappeared.” 

Jaskier recalled the carefully preserved collection of warg-fur coats in his family’s closet. Oh, gods. Great-grandpa Pankratz was responsible for even more deaths than he had thought! 

He looked down at the feather in his hand and swallowed. “Perhaps a griffin feather hat wouldn’t be the best idea,” he admitted. 

“Hmm,” Geralt said, somehow ironic. Anyone who thought Witchers didn’t have emotions need only listen to the oeuvre of Geralt’s interjections.   

Jaskier clasped one hand over his heart. “Farewell, beautiful hat-that-wasn’t. It’s a crime against millinery that you will never leave the confines of my imagination, but when the alternative is a crime against humanity and ecology, then I have no choice but to choose the lesser evil.” He attempted to dramatically throw the feather back onto the headless griffin corpse, but, being a feather, it merely fluttered to the ground a few feet away.  

Geralt snorted, and with a wave of his fingers, he set the griffin’s corpse and its attendant feathers alight. “Anything’s the lesser evil compared to that hat,” he muttered. 

Jaskier immediately conceived of a hat that had an entire peacock feather tucked in the brim, perhaps taller than he was, just to see Geralt’s face when Jaskier unveiled his ethical masterpiece. He would need to look for somewhere with high ceilings. 

“Yeeees,” Jaskier agreed. “That griffin hat was certainly the pinnacle of evil. Absolutely. Nothing could top it.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes. 

Jaskier smiled. 

Geralt had persuaded him against Pankratz-ing with precious words instead of with an Igni that crumbled the feather to ash in his hand; it seemed only fair that Jaskier meet his offering equally, trading a hypothetically fashionable headpiece for a grandiose in-joke. It would blow his hat budget for the rest of the season, but oh well. Such was the peril of traveling with someone you cared about. Every once in a while, you made little sacrifices to each other, offerings on an invisible altar. 

Geralt was used to offering things up; he struggled with receiving them. 

A peacock feather, Jaskier considered, was impossible for even Geralt to deny. And if Jaskier were lucky, then he’d get to hear the very specific “Hmm” that Geralt made when he was trying not to laugh. 

[midoridragonuus]

plague | ice | fire

the world of sornieth as defined by schwartz industries 

PLAGUE

the wandering contagion - plague is an incredibly populous district, filled with large (and environmentally hazardous) businesses. however, because of the growing job market and booming economy, the city has grown exponentially and continues to expand. currently, they're looking into purchasing part of the starwood strand.

the blight sanctum - one of the prestigious universities of sornieth. the blight sanctum is the leading university for medical study. it boasts an impressive immunology department as well as genetic engineering and predictive DNA studies. (rhodyle claims to have graduated from here, but this can't be confirmed).

the wyrmwound - the second most populous city in the plague district. it's home to most of the businesses that schwartz industries does business with. there's little restriction on mass production, leading to an overabundance of smog. it can be difficult to breathe in the heart of the city, yet it also produces the most results.

quarantine zone #128 - the other 127 zones remain under government secrecy. #128 is the newest, and most well-known to the general public. after a catastrophic meltdown by a testing facility, radiation and chemically permeated air make it a no-go. the zone remains closed to anyone without clearance, and what's really inside remains a government secret.

hellwell undercroft - the capital of the plague district. it's one of the most ruthless places to live. the climate has been compared to the harshest areas of the ice district. those with health problems either move away or die. unsurprisingly, morticians are in high demand.

the seedscar - much like its counterpart (the pox consulate), the seedscar was founded in an attempt to foster diplomacy between nature and plague. unfortunately, it never came to fruition. the flora brought by nature reacted harshly to the unforgiving plague environment and mutated out of control. it too has its own quarantine zone where various officials try to prevent the spread of its tendrils.

ICE

frigid floes - once a massive glacier, the landscape has begun to crack and drift apart from global warming. plague's contribution to lightning and fire's environmental issues have caused the acceleration of the floes fracturing. however, there have been many scientific discoveries based off of what has been unearthed in the ice. some are mere skeletons of creatures that once were. some are more heinous in nature.

snowsquall tundra - the most populous area of the ice district. while it maintains a winter environment, it's temperate enough to host year-round hiking and camping. oddly enough, it also lends to an agricultural lifestyle. there are various plants that can't grow outside of the snow, and are used in medical production.

cloudscrape crags - perilous mountains that are often desolate. avid hikers avoid climbing this mountain range, as they know how deadly the shifts in weather can be. more than a handful of inexperienced hikers go missing every year. (the legend of beauford the returned originated here).

the frozen sanctum - one of the prestigious universities of sornieth. the frozen sanctum frequently makes trips to the frigid floes and takes samples back to its labs to study. various medical breakthroughs have been made here, although widespread production of any vaccines it creates are allocated to plague. (robin graduated from here!)

the rimebone stockade - the ice district is rich with history, and the stockade makes it all the more apparent. many of the specimens recovered from the ice are displayed within the stockade. while most of the stockade is open for public viewing, several recovered jewels, forgotten treasures, and interesting creatures are locked away from the public eye.

fortress of the ends - the capital of the ice district, the fortress of the ends is a hostile place that many refuse to visit. it's not kind to tourists, and frequently issues arrest warrants for menial reasons. those who own property within the area are generally royalty from ages past whose lands have existed for hundreds of years. (mina hails from here).

FIRE

magmablood rebuke - one of the newest geological phenomenon in sornieth, the magmablood rebuke is an active volcano that surfaced after a particularly terrible storm. while both ice and wind tried to claim the land for their own, fire's populace got to it first. while there's debate on whom the island legally belongs to, the blacksmith guild that currently inhabits it has made it apparent that no others are welcome unless they hail from the fire district.

the flintlock fumaroles - an area of great tectonic activity, lightning has partnered with the fire district to harness volcanic activity to power the many construction firms in the area. because of the increased production and centralized businesses, the area is covered in a thick smog (not unlike that of the plague district). however, the fire district, unlike the aforementioned is currently trying to develop a green plan to reduce emissions.

molten scar - a long, wide area that is generally seen as a flat plain, though it is permeated with lava flow in several areas. it's said that this is the remnant of a battlefield of old, and that the lava flow follows the pattern of a great creature's claw marks. (this is the origin of the legend of nikandros the scarred).

blacksand annex - this is the most populous city in the fire district (and its capital). it's where any and all blacksmiths go for training, despite the existence of the magma sanctum. considered to be the home of more technical jobs, it also boasts a booming economy as various districts contract fire for its ability to construct.

the magma sanctum - one of the prestigious universities of sornieth. although it does have a blacksmithing program, the majority of students who attend the magma sanctum focus on architecture or geology. the university has partnered with the oculus for a dual meteorology program.

cinderslag - another large city in the fire district. unfortunately, because production relies on access to water, the blacksand annex has thrived while the cinderslag has not. while it borders the water district, the aforementioned is rather stingy with allocation of resources and refuses to allow access to anything near the shoredeep presage. because of this, cinderslag has become more of a slum, although many fringe groups have tried to revitalize the area in recent years.

[hikingwithjohnqgrizzly]

The Natural Wonder of Colchuck Lake

Colchuck Lake, that unreal turquoise pool of internet fame, owes its shape and shade to an earlier time.

Not as early as you might imagine.

When you’re standing on the smooth granite of the lakeshore, the natural tendency is for your mind’s eye to wander too far back in time. Mine does. I picture a massive sheet of ice that slowly carves a hanging valley out of the batholith from which it sprang. As the Pleistocene draws to a close, the glacier slowly climbs backwards, until it tucks itself into the steep slopes beneath the col. A brief hiccup in the Little Ice Age leaves a moraine above the western shore, and then it settles into its present and, by all indications, quite final retreat.

In its long, slow wake, the glacier leaves a basin for a lake, but that alone doesn’t explain what you’re looking at. Some of the credit has to go to something much less epochal: the dam-building binge of the 1930’s.

During the depths of the Dust Bowl and the Great Depression, we put nature to work. Dams sprouted like a pox across North America in the geological blink of an eye. The Tennessee Valley Authority was formed; the Columbia began to be tamed by the first phase of the Bonneville; and the Colorado was enchained behind the Hoover for something like good.

Give us electricity. Let us grow crops in the desert. Sustain our homes in the saguaro-dotted sands. It seemed like a foolproof plan at the time.

A similar bout of construction happened here, albeit on a more modest scale. In the late 1920’s and extending into the 30’s, masonry and earthen dams were thrown up in the seemingly untouched, subalpine wilds of the Icicle drainage to impound more meltwater in Colchuck, Eight Mile, Snow, Nada, Klonaqua and Square Lakes.

You’d never know to look at them that they were part of an irrigation system extending miles upvalley and down. Their levels were raised to ensure a steady flow of water during dry season and drought.

You can spot the signs of their real nature easily enough, if you care to. Far downstream, as you cross the deluxe pedestrian bridge that leads from the Snow Lakes parking lot to an unending serpentine climb, your eyes might spy an aqueduct paralleling the turgid waters of Icicle Creek. It is one of the more visible sections of 40 miles of canals that route water to farms in the valley below and to the Leavenworth National Fish Hatchery.

That hatchery, the largest in the world when it was constructed, was the byproduct of yet another adventure in irrigation and hydroelectricity: it was required as a remedy for the effects on fish of what was then the largest concrete structure ever built, the Grand Coulee Dam, one of many obstacles we placed in the way of salmon traveling upriver from the ocean to spawn.

However large that hatchery might be, the runs it produces can’t compare to what was here before those many diversions along the Columbia. Salmon spawned in great numbers in the waters of the Wenatchee River and Icicle Creek. That fishery was strong enough to sustain an entire peoples at the confluence of the two streams. They.called themselves the P’squosa.

By the time the US Government displaced them in the 1800’s to make way for the railroad that still snakes its way through the mountains nearby, they were easy to shunt aside. Their numbers had been greatly diminished by disease that followed the introduction of horses to the area. The powers that be simply disregarded a treaty signed with them in 1855 and lumped them in with the Colville and a few other tribes, moving them east and north and out of the way. Most of us don’t give them a second thought (really, any thought at all) as we make the turn from US2 and drive through their erstwhile homelands on our way to this or that trail somewhere up Icicle Creek Road.

Their lands would become the site for Leavenworth, when it was established at the end of the 19th century as a mining and logging town. It attracted farmers, too, who attempted to grow fruit trees in the valley (unsuccessfully at first, due to frost). Delivering water to that agricultural experiment was the original raison d’etre of the canals built in 1901, right before the town reached its apogee. In the early 1900’s, Leavenworth was even bigger than it is in its current faux-Bavarian incarnation: 5,500 people called it home then, versus the couple thousand permanent residents now (it might seem more populous on a summer weekend, when the town’s numbers are inflated by transient visitors turning lobster red in the baking sun).

Leavenworth’s fortunes would eventually fall, but nowhere near as far (nor with the same finality) as those of the people who first called this place home. All that seems to remain of them is a smattering of place names: Colchuck, Klonaqua, Wenatchee.

Don’t you believe it! The names aren’t right. “Wenatchi '' was the name that the Yakama knew the P’squosa by (synecdoche for the place they fished, Wenatshapam), and the US Government simply adopted the term from them. “Colchuck” sounds authentic enough, but it is not from the P’squosas’ Salish tongue, but Chinook jargon, an amalgam of Chinookan and other languages (including a heaping of French) that served as a trade language betwixt the tribes and between native peoples and fur trappers, traders, and the like who started showing up in the 1600’s.

Chinook jargon traveled from the coast, up the Columbia, into the interior. While the original Chinookan is all but extinct along its former range, the jargon survives, sustained in part by newcomers, including a certain topographer who bestowed the name “col chuck” word-for-word on the “cold waters” he found in a portion of the lands he mapped.

In the decade following the construction of the dams in the Icicle drainage, a different kind of new arrival took an interest in one of the area’s more ephemeral and quixotic resources: enter the peakbagger. It was during the 1930’s, 40’s and 50’s that ascents of the peaks surrounding Colchuck Lake were first recorded by the mountaineering types who assign credit for such things. “Let it be known that so-and-so was the first person to stand on such-and-such spot, which is higher than other such spots.”

Today, the hills are alive with the sound of “Worth it!” The lake’s primary function is the delivery of transitory self-gratification and temporary relief of FOMO for the thousands of people who follow in the settlers’ and summitteers’ footsteps to stake vain, itinerant claims of immortality in the form of selfies by the lakeshore (or sometimes in floaties they dragged up the trail). Trip reports and social posts are filled with the assessment that Colchuck “did not disappoint.” Colchuck is very protective of its Yelp reviews.

It is only possible for Colchuck to live up to its YOLO expectations by us ignoring everything that belies its status as a natural wonder. Conspicuously absent from all the online commentary are the things that abet our modern-day conquests, like the ribbon of asphalt that brings us to within a few miles of the lake. The parking lot is worthy of note only as an annoyance - because it’s full - as if this were an aberration and not an integral part of the experience. The pit toilet gets a callout for not being clean enough, which is odd: the river of waste flowing from thousands of modern humans landing on a small, dusty patch of space cleared from a forest should elicit precisely zero shock.  

Not mentioned at all are the dams or the P’squosa, who were here thousands of years before the purported first ascents or Instagram. This is likely the first you’re hearing of them. Surprise is the wrong word - they are hiding in plain sight, expunged through willful ignorance. By not asking the questions we don’t want to know the answers to, we repeat the role of the soldiers who paved our way. We sweep the P’squosa out of our collective memories to sustain the illusion we are taming a pristine wilderness, as if the last 200 years never happened.

If you would like to understand more about the tribe’s views on the promises made to them, please visit this documentary produced by the Confederated Colville Tribes. If you would like to read about the P’squosa in the words of their descendant, please visit P’Squosa Tribe by Mary Big Bull-Lewis.

[alinaastarkov]

agentrouka-blog replied to your post “You know what’s weird? The misconception that Arya is only good at...”

None of those people had an intense personal anger at Arya, they didn't know who she was, nor did they order the murder of her father. And Arya had to learn to control her rage. She nearly beat Hot Pie to a pulp before Yoren stopped her. (And beat her bloody, ugh.) Yoren stopped her from revealing herself at the execution, even.

@agentrouka-blog Intense personal hatred has nothing to do with it. I disagree that Joffrey hated Arya more than Sansa, and he threatens to kill Sansa too. He has the crossbow pointed right at her. But he didn’t because he didn’t want Robb to kill Jaime. This is an area where sense won over, and the same is true for Arya. If it was Arya in Sansa’s place, the same conditions of holding a hostage applies and he would have to abide by that. The circumstances are the same in this case, so the outcome would be the same. No-one around Joffrey would have allowed him to kill Arya, especially as they would want to marry her to a Lannister to claim Winterfell. Joffrey is a sadist, but he’s not a complete moron.

‘Intense personal hatred’ has absolutely nothing to do with it. Do you honestly think the Mountain only kills people he hates? Then how do you explain this:

The Mountain would come into the storehouse after he had broken his fast and pick one of the prisoners for questioning. The village folk would never look at him. Maybe they thought that if they did not notice him, he would not notice them . . . but he saw them anyway and picked whom he liked. There was no place to hide, no tricks to play, no way to be safe. One girl shared a soldier's bed three nights running; the Mountain picked her on the fourth day, and the soldier said nothing.  A smiley old man mended their clothing and babbled about his son, off serving in the gold cloaks at King's Landing. "A king's man, he is," he would say, "a good king's man like me, all for Joffrey." He said it so often the other captives began to call him All-for-Joffrey whenever the guards weren't listening. All-for-Joffrey was picked on the fifth day.  A young mother with a pox-scarred face offered to freely tell them all she knew if they'd promise not to hurt her daughter. The Mountain heard her out; the next morning he picked her daughter, to be certain she'd held nothing back.  The ones chosen were questioned in full view of the other captives, so they could see the fate of rebels and traitors. A man the others called the Tickler asked the questions. His face was so ordinary and his garb so plain that Arya might have thought him one of the villagers before she had seen him at his work. "Tickler makes them howl so hard they piss themselves," old stoop-shoulder Chiswyck told them. He was the man she'd tried to bite, who'd called her a fierce little thing and smashed her head with a mailed fist. Sometimes he helped the Tickler. Sometimes others did that. Ser Gregor Clegane himself would stand motionless, watching and listening, until the victim died. [...] No one ever survived the Tickler's questioning; no man, no woman, no child. The strongest lasted past evenfall. Their bodies were hung beyond the fires for the wolves. By the time they marched, Arya knew she was no water dancer. Syrio Forel would never have let them knock him down and take his sword away, nor stood by when they killed Lommy Greenhands. Syrio would never have sat silent in that storehouse nor shuffled along meekly among the other captives. The direwolf was the sigil of the Starks, but Arya felt more a lamb, surrounded by a herd of other sheep. She hated the villagers for their sheepishness, almost as much as she hated herself.  Their captors permitted no chatter. A broken lip taught Arya to hold her tongue. Others never learned at all. One boy of three would not stop calling for his father, so they smashed his face in with a spiked mace. Then the boy's mother started screaming and Raff the Sweetling killed her as well. Arya watched them die and did nothing. What good did it do you to be brave? One of the women picked for questioning had tried to be brave, but she had died screaming like all the rest. There were no brave people on that march, only scared and hungry ones. - Arya VI, ACOK

Yes, Arya had to learn, not to control her rage, but to hide it well. But, as we see, just doing that was not enough. Being silent was not enough. Even silence got you killed. And we see that it took her about 2 seconds to figure this all out. She doesn’t spend years on the run and still not know how to avoid being raped and murdered, she gets it immediately. She understands pretty much from day 1 and is even cursing herself for not giving into her impulses. Her impulses are there and we can see she makes the conscious decision not to act on them, which is a skill in and of itself. But she knows being brave will get her killed, and she chooses living over “bravery”, something the antis consistently ignore about her. And King’s Landing is a much less volatile situation, so she wouldn’t need to be as careful when she has her name to protect her. And you know who else had to learn to control her anger? Sansa.

Joffrey gave a petulant shrug. "Your brother defeated my uncle Jaime. My mother says it was treachery and deceit. She wept when she heard. Women are all weak, even her, though she pretends she isn't. She says we need to stay in King's Landing in case my other uncles attack, but I don't care. After my name day feast, I'm going to raise a host and kill your brother myself. That's what I'll give you, Lady Sansa. Your brother's head.” A kind of madness took over her then, and she heard herself say, "Maybe my brother will give me your head.” Joffrey scowled. "You must never mock me like that. A true wife does not mock her lord. Ser Meryn, teach her." - Sansa VI, AGOT

"Silence, fool." Joffrey lifted his crossbow and pointed it at her face. "You Starks are as unnatural as those wolves of yours. I've not forgotten how your monster savaged me." "That was Arya's wolf," she said. "Lady never hurt you, but you killed her anyway." "No, your father did," Joff said, "but I killed your father. I wish I'd done it myself. I killed a man last night who was bigger than your father. They came to the gate shouting my name and calling for bread like I was some baker, but I taught them better. I shot the loudest one right through the throat." - Sansa III, ACOK

So whilst Arya learns pretty early on how to keep her mouth shut, Sansa is still sassing Joffrey well into A Clash of Kings and she doesn’t get killed for it. But, doing the exact opposite, something Joffrey would have eaten up, gets you murdered with the Mountain’s men. Arya learned quickly, and clearly in King’s Landing she wouldn’t need to be as intense about her own silence. Arya and Sansa are not in equally dangerous situations, Harrenhal is far more dangerous thank King’s Landing. And when you also take into account the protection the Stark name affords, Arya would have a much easier time in her sister’s place, so it tracks that she could have easily survived in King’s Landing.

[aion-rsa]

Harlots: A Witty Blend of History and Fiction

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Like all the best TV opening titles, Harlots’ comical, brazen credits sequence announces its personality in miniature. A collage-style animation set to modern music, it shows cut-out characters from William Hogarth’s 18th-century painting series A Harlot’s Progress clustered around a giant, luridly colored female nude. They tuck into her crevices, canoodle on her mountainous behind, nestle between her buttocks, and peep out over the top of two plump hillock breasts. In the shadow between her thighs, female prisoners toil (just another day at the mine), and finally, she’s on her back, legs spread wide as the show’s title appears dead centre: Harlots. Come on in.

It’s a bold start that announces Harlots’ defiantly effervescent approach to a period and industry – sex work in the 18th century – that could in other hands be wall-to-wall syphilis and woe. It uses Hogarth’s instructive moralism (the six paintings of A Harlot’s Progress depict an innocent girl falling under the wicked spell of a city bawd, becoming a courtesan and a streetwalker, going to prison, and dying of the pox) for its own ends, wittily repurposing a historical cartoon as the entryway to a rich human drama. 

‘The whore’s eye view’

“Everything from the whore’s eye view,” is the rule on Harlots, says producer Alison Owen. Nudity and sex acts are obviously central to the show’s premise, but it presents them from a new angle. Literally.

Having noted how often sex scenes on TV are filmed with the camera looking down on a supine woman, Harlots wanted to show things differently, co-creator Moira Buffini told The Frame. Key to that approach was the use of female directors, led by head director Coky Giedroyc.

“We knew right from the word go that this would really work seen from a female gaze,” says Buffini. Unlike elsewhere on TV, Harlots’ brothel scenes wouldn’t offer titillation; they would show a workplace at work. 

After the first and second seasons went out, co-creator Alison Newman was delighted with positive feedback received from viewers in the sex industry who said they recognized their own working lives and experiences on screen. Harlots is set two and a half centuries ago, but its themes are timeless.

Buffini has described the role of sex in Harlots as the same role played by violence in The Sopranos – it’s the characters’ job, which is what makes them unusual, but not what makes them interesting. Just as The Wire’s focus on the drug trade widened to explore its impact on politics, education, and the press, Harlots’ focus on the sex trade widens to explore justice, religion, the aristocracy, and, at the root of it all, money.

‘The only safety is in money’

That’s the mantra of Margaret Wells, former harlot, now a bawd who runs her own “Disorderly House.” Played by Samantha Morton, she’s mother to celebrated courtesan Charlotte (Jessica Findlay Brown) and her beloved new-to-the-game Lucy (Eloise Smyth). Despite a backstory as terrible as they come, Margaret has emerged a fighter with a keen sense of how to survive in a world where even aristocratic women have little economic power. 

Economics is Harlots’ real subject, says Buffini. The sale and purchase of sex, its fluctuating value (virginity, real or fabricated could be auctioned off to aristocrats for £50 – closer to £1000 in today’s money – while others made shillings standing up in alleyways) and the short lifespan of those who sold it isn’t just a backdrop to these characters’ lives, it’s the fabric of them.  

Read more

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Harlots to Air on BBC Two in the UK Later This Year

By Louisa Mellor

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By Tony Sokol

Keenly aware of what her girls are up against in 18th century London, Margaret teaches that “money is a woman’s only power in this world,” and only lasting wealth can make them free. It’s a shrewd perspective from a strategic thinker. Margaret Wells is certainly no hero, but her resolve and gumption make her fascinating to watch.

Equally fascinating is Lydia Quigley, played by Lesley Manville. The owner of an exclusive and fashionable brothel, Quigley is a monster shaped by her own abusive start in life. A sadist and kidnapper who profits from feeding corrupt appetites, she’s a villain. And yet … Manville makes her human, and between them, she and Morton make the Quigley/Wells rivalry darkly layered and involving.

Elsewhere, Holli Dempsey is vibrant and thrillingly unpredictable as the headstrong Emily Lacey. Findlay-Brown is captivating as Charlotte. Dorothy Atkinson, Dougie McMeekin, Bronwyn James, Hugh Skinner… It’s a strong cast, packed with entertaining characters each on journeys of their own.

The Covent Garden Ladies

Harlots doesn’t feature real historical characters, but its ensemble is drawn from a variety of real-world sources. When Buffini and Newman began to research the period, a starting point was historian Hallie Rubenhold’s 2005 book, The Covent Garden Ladies: The Extraordinary Story of Harris’s List. The list in question was an annual directory/review compendium of London’s brothel workers that’s been described as the equivalent of an 18th-century Yelp for the sex trade. Among its entries is courtesan Charlotte Hayes, who, along with the infamous Kitty Fisher, provided inspiration for the character of Charlotte Wells.

The Old Bailey trial records provided another source of real-life cases tried against bawds and sex workers – like Ann Duck, the inspiration for Violet Cross (Rosalind Eleazar). Merely touching on real-world inspirations leaves Harlots free to rewrite history to suit the needs of the story, and not to slavishly follow a prepared path for any of its characters. 

Buffini and co. found a paucity of surviving 18th-century writing by women in the industry, so were forced to make several leaps of the imagination while planning the series. The autobiography of sex shop owner Teresia Philips offered some help. Lydia Quigley’s real-world counterpart – Elizabeth Needham – who was notorious enough to feature as a caricature in the Hogarth paintings used in Harlots’ opening credits (she’s the woman luring the freshly arrived innocent to her sordid doom) offered a little more. The inspirations that fed into the characters of Nancy Birch, Harriet Lennox, and Mary Cooper are all discussed in this excellent and detailed article by historian and Whores of Yore curator Dr. Kate Lister. 

‘The flip-side of the Jane Austen novel’

It wasn’t only real life that provided inspiration for Harlots, but also the literature of the age. In this interview, Buffini explains that the character of Anne Pettifer, a young woman in Quigley’s employ, was inspired by one of Jane Austen’s creations. “Our idea for Anne Pettifer was that she’s Lydia Bennet,” explained Buffini. 

In Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, the Bennet family experiences a scandal that, if not resolved, would stop all four of Lydia’s sisters from marrying well. 15-year-old Lydia runs away to London with an older man who has no intention of marrying her until he’s paid to do so by a wealthy benefactor.

“What would have happened to Lydia Bennet without a shadow of a doubt (if she hadn’t been rescued) is that she would have ended up in a house like Mrs. Quigley’s,” Buffini said. “Our drama is about the Lydia Bennets of this world, who don’t get rescued by men, and the girls who have even fewer economic choices than Lydia Bennet.”

‘Dancing on the edge of an abyss’

If that makes Harlots sound bleak, it isn’t. Yes, its historical period was a desperate time for many. Its characters face unmentionable hardships and almost perpetual existential threats – from the law, from poverty and disease, from their “culls,” and from each other – but this isn’t a drama mired in woe or pity. It’s about survival. Its world, just like ours (because in many ways, it still is ours), is awful and funny, terrible and warm, sad and joyful at the same time. 

That combination, pitched somewhere between high drama and comedy, is part of what made Harlots a peculiar sell. As Buffini explained to The Frame, the channels they took it to before landing on US streaming service Hulu struggled to grasp its tone. They didn’t understand the role of humor and wit in hardship. After three series, Hulu cancelled the show, after which point the BBC bought the UK airing rights.

“We think it’s about women who are dancing on the edge of an abyss,” Buffini said, “But they are dancing on the edge of an abyss. Right from the word go, we thought that we would show them dancing.”  

Harlots series one arrives on BBC Two on Wednesday the 5th of August at 9pm with a double-bill

The post Harlots: A Witty Blend of History and Fiction appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[fenrys-moonbae]

A Bright Star in Centuries of Darkness--Chapter 2

Eleanor tugged roughly at the laces of Evalin’s dress, muttering her annoyance beneath her breath.  “Of course we’re to host one of her lapdogs.  I suppose we’re to lay out a fine bed for him and perhaps a golden water bowl as well—”

“Eleanor,” Evalin chided, glancing away from the mirror and back over her shoulder, “we are to act as accommodating hosts regardless of our personal feelings toward his Queen.”

Eleanor huffed, heat rushing through her cheeks.

Like hell she’d be an accommodating host, she thought drily, she’d rather run him out of the castle with a stick, send him back to his dark mistress in the fabled land beyond the mountains where he belonged.

Even if his strong jawline and tawny eyes had stirred something . . . more . . . in her.

She ignored the phantom flicker of enticement that zipped through her and she continued to lace up Evalin’s bodice.

“Perhaps Glaston will have him sent away after dinner.” She tied off the last of the ribbons crisscrossing the back of the azure gown before reaching for the neat pile of golden hairpins beside her, easing them into Evalin’s curls one by one.  “And send along a sweet little note detailing our feelings regarding his visit: ‘Dear Maeve, thank you for making your threat more pronounced by sending one of your favored members of your harem to us immediately after returning my dear sister. In the future, kindly try to pretend to not be the heinous hag that you are and stay put in your drab city of stone.  Sincerely, The King of Wendlyn.”  She snorted. “A good start, no?”

“Eleanor,” Evalin’s voice was exasperated but Eleanor swore she heard the slightest hint of amusement and caught a glimpse of upturned lips in the mirror as she finished pinning her golden curls.  “If you’re going to send such a letter, at least be sure you include her proper title: Queen Maeve.” “Hag Maeve.” “Mistress of Doranelle.” “Unholy Witch of the North.” “Her most illustrious Majesty.” “Spider of the Wood, best dealt with by using the bottom of a boot—” Evalin coughed, trying to cover her laugh, her turquoise eyes shimmering in amusement.  Eleanor hummed her victory as she adjusted the last of Evalin’s curls and stepped back, admiring her handwork.

Where Maeve was an insufferable immortal cow, Evalin was a rare and coveted golden heron, proud and beautiful.  Prince Rhoe had never stood a chance.  

“Well, off with you,” Eleanor flicked a wrist over a shoulder towards the tall and intricately carved door that led out of Evalin’s chambers. “You wouldn’t want to keep his Majesty or his royal guest waiting.  Do pour something foul in his wine for me, perhaps a pinch of mandrake—” “Oh no, don’t you even contemplate it,” Evalin quipped, her shoulders tightening as she looked Eleanor over, an aura of command slipping into place, the aura that would one day lend itself to her rule as Queen, “If you even consider the idea of not attending this dinner . . .”

“What? Glaston will have me contained to my chambers? Force me to--” she gasped mockingly, a hand fluttering to her mouth, “--drudgery duty?  Oh no, what ever shall I do if I have to waulk more fabric?”

She waved a dismissive hand, let her cousin punish her as he saw fit.

What was the worst he could do?

Make her mop the floors?  Sit through more nasally history lessons with her childhood tutor Randor?

No, she was quite content not facing one of the warriors that poised such a threat to her dearest friend, content to remain quietly in her room so that her damnable mouth didn’t instigate something more than Glaston’s irritation.

She suspected the warrior would be wearing gravy in addition to the piss and dye if she attended this dinner.

“Elle,” Evalin’s voice was laced with warning, a sound that Eleanor was certain her future children would become accustomed to very quickly, “dress now so we can go.”

Eleanor sniffed disdainfully, sidestepping Evalin as she made her way toward the large canopy bed and gracefully eased into a lounge across the delicately embroidered duvet.  “Oh, I fear I’ve taken ill cousin, a right case of the pox.  I regret to inform you I won’t be able to attend dinner tonight.” She rolled over onto her back, staring at the canopy above her.  “Do send my best regards though.”

Yes, a cat nap and tea sounded rightly delightful, especially if she could manage to sneak a few sugar-dusted pastries from the kitchen.

Eleanor barely registered the movement beneath her before she found herself sliding off the bed as the covers beneath her fled.  She plopped unceremoniously onto the floor with a yelp, scowling at the golden bedding in Evalin’s manicured hand.

“Get dressed, Elle.”

“I do not wish to,” she quipped in return, a streak of stubbornness washing through her, “and since I am a princess, I do as I please.”

The argument she had used time and time again since she was a child.

Most times it proved successful, even against her more formidable foes.

Evalin’s brows furrowed.  Delicately, she dropped the fabric to the floor and planted her hands firmly on her slim hips before approaching Eleanor with a knowing look on her delicate features. “Get dressed or I will tell Glaston who, exactly, let that entire flock of geese into the spring masquerade two years ago. The one where Duke Marwick nearly lost an eye?”

Ouch.

Well, when she put it that way.

“Fine,” Eleanor rose, brushing bits of invisible dust off her gown, frowning at her still emerald-tinged nails.  “But I will not be happy about it.  Perhaps I’ll visit the apothecary and get a pinch of mandrake to poison his tea myself.”

--------

The water Gavriel dumped over his head was refreshingly cool in the stifling summer heat as it ran in long torrents down his bare neck and shoulders.  Gingerly, he reached for one of the vials of soap a set of young female servants had brought him, giggling and fumbling as they’d stared at him before sloppily curtsying and rushing back down the hall.

He’d sighed in quiet exasperation.

Perhaps his Queen should have sent Vaughan or Lorcan in his place, both were better suited to deal with the affections and pining of young women.  They enjoyed such attention.

Gavriel, however, would have much preferred a quiet retreat with no flirting women . . . and to not smell of . . . urine.

He sighed again.

Dumping the soap directly onto his wet hair he lathered it, relieved to find it did not smell of anything atrociously sweet.  Pulling his hand away, he was amused to find the bubbles were a rich emerald.

The young woman’s aim had undoubtedly been remarkable.

He had expected some resistance with his arrival, at least an air of distrust from the Wendlyn nobles given the nature of his visit in regard to Evalin Ashryver.  He hadn’t expected to be doused in a torrent of urine and dye, however.  And by a petite blonde with the most striking features he’d ever seen, no less.

An Ashryver noble no doubt.

She had looked like Princess Evalin but sharper and wilder, her eyes a bit smaller and more angled and her lips a plump pink line that he imagined sat in a delicate pout when she wasn’t fuming.

He’d heard her furiously grousing about his Queen as he’d approached before she’d thrown the bucket and splashed him with its contents before he could react.

He’d only been able to stare at her in disbelief as she watched him with an expression caught somewhere between horror and fury before disappearing beyond the stone, Princess Evalin’s laugh resounding across the battlement.

Honestly, he’d half expected the girl to throw the bucket at him as well.

He had felt oddly sheepish approaching the soldiers at the gate smelling of piss and dyed the color of evergreens.  The looks of disbelief and horror that had washed over their features had detracted from any of the fear that usually came with his arrival.

He’d only been relieved that Fenrys hadn’t been there to howl his amusement.

To his surprise, King Glaston had immediately welcomed him into the castle and had looked him over with quiet mortification before swearing he’d discover who had dumped refuse onto him. He’d then quietly offered him a room where he could freshen up and scrub the dye and . . . other substances from his person and clothes.

Glancing sidelong to the pile of clothing beside the wash bin Gavriel sighed, he was fairly certain his tunic would never be the same shade of grey it had been.  Fortunately, Glaston had offered him clean garments for the dinner he was to attend and had said a servant would tend to the washing.

Not that he was sure he’d ever see his clothes again if either of those young servants were assigned to the task.

He dumped another pitcher full of water over his head and found that the rivulets of the water were still a vibrant emerald.  He was going to need more soap.

 -------

Of course, Glaston had found it imperative that he seat her right across from the broad-shouldered warrior, right in the bask of the candlelight too, giving her a detailed view of his too-pretty face, the sharp planes illuminated by the soft glow.

Eleanor didn’t fail to notice the remnants of green dye that still tinged the male’s golden locks however, even if he’d successfully washed the stench of piss away.

Small victories, she thought smugly as she took a sip from her elderberry wine, the vintage that Glaston only had brought out when the most notable of guests arrived.

Too bad Evalin hadn’t given her a chance to drop down into the kitchen to look for some type of herb that might loosen his stomach a bit.

She watched him sip from his cup, his tawny eyes respectfully averted from her, roaming aimlessly across the large dining hall.  Perhaps if she bumped the table just so she might be able to send the decanter of wine spilling into his lap—

“What do you say, Eleanor?” She froze, having entirely tuned out the conversation as she glared daggers at the male before her.  She quickly took a sip of wine before turning her attention to Glaston, fixing her cousin with an easy and polite smile as she felt Evalin stiffen beside her.

“I beg your pardon, your Majesty?”

Her cousin’s lips downturned disapprovingly, his turquoise eyes flickering with annoyance.

Glaston’s broad face had only grown harsher with each year of his rule, the handsome features slowly settling into a permanent scowl.  Fortunately, his babe Galan had seemed to have taken after his olive-skinned mother, her beautiful features softening the harsh planes of his father.

“I was saying, Eleanor,” she hid the flinch from his tone well, “that it is most unfortunate that our guest Lord Gavriel,” A lord, of course, “was greeted in a such an unruly fashion upon his arrival.  Lord Dennor was strolling near the palace when he saw the incidenct occur and mentioned that you might know who the culprit could be.”

Conniving pig. Of course Dennor had been present for the event, the ruddy lord with a hooked nose and pump middle who’d been furious with Eleanor ever since she declined his proposition of marriage.  He’d fluctuated between making her life a living hell and showering her with trinkets to try and win her favor ever since.

Apparently, he was intent on having her hung this evening.  Likely hoping that Glaston would finally have enough of her and dump her into his lap just to be rid of her.

She barely resisted the urge to turn and glare at the round little man who sat at opposite the end of the table, no doubt inflated with the pride that he’d caught her doing something wrong.

Well, two could play at that game.

Eleanor straightened her spine as the king continued.

“We have been unable to discover which servant girl was so careless as to pour refuse off the wrong side of the battlement,” she felt Evalin’s hand rest on her knee, a reassuring squeeze, “and I was curious as to inquire if you might know, given there was rumor of your waulking fabric this afternoon.”

Furious.  Glaston was absolutely livid.

“I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest clue, your Majesty,” she wiped delicately at her mouth with a pressed napkin, keeping her face neutral as she spoke in a light tone, “but I assume whoever did so was likely not aiming for our honored guest and must have lost their hold on the handle when they smelt the enrapturing aroma of our dear Lord Dennor coming up the path.” She felt Evalin cringe beside her and didn’t miss the spark that went through Glaston’s gaze or the baffled, offended shriek from the lord.  She knew she’d be punished for it but the sound of the other courtiers snickering beneath their breath would be well worth it.

If she hadn’t known better she would have also thought she saw the slightest tilt of the warrior’s mouth, even as the rest of his face remained impassive, almost bored.

She sipped delicately at her wine.

If she was going to burn she was at least taking someone with her.

Gaston completely ignored the comment.

“Lord Gavriel,” the king addressed the warrior instead, the damning witness in this case. Eleanor swallowed hard as she watched him tilt his head politely in acknowledgement, the movement too smooth to be anything but predatory--and they’d given him dinner knives?  Foolish.  “Do you recall what the serving girl looked like?  Perhaps we can identify her and see to it that she is punished accordingly.” Eleanor was certain the male – Gavriel - was just waiting to sell her out so she braced herself, prepared for the hell wind that would sweep down upon her once Glaston knew for certain it was her.  Evalin’s hand dug harder into her knee.

“Your Majesty, I am a lord in title only and though I am honored that you address me as such, it is unnecessary.  I am only a soldier.”  He watched Eleanor curiously, his tawny eyes bright. “And as for the servant girl, I’m afraid I am uncertain what she looked like.  Dark hair, perhaps? Olive skin?  I cannot recall.  However, I do not believe she meant any harm and it would bring me great relief if she were not punished for a simple mistake.  I am here to build relations with your kingdom, not to incriminate your servants, your Majesty.”

Polite and succinct.

How many years had this male been waging wars not only on the battlefield but in the court as well?  He seemed well acclimated to both.

Eleanor tried not to let the shock creep onto her face as she watched the fae warrior before her.  He’d certainly known that it had been her who had dumped the bucket and had, for some gods forsaken reason, chosen to not acknowledge it.  

She could hear Dennor’s flabbergasted muttering, no doubt furious she’d gotten away with it and still recovering from his wounded ego.  She watched as the warrior dipped his chin respectfully to the king, briefly flickering his attention toward her before mildly returning to his meal.

“If you are certain, Lor—Sir Gavriel,” Glaston corrected himself, an air of confusion seeming to float about him, surprise almost.  Evalin visibly deflated, “In any case, I would still like to remedy the unfortunate accident. I would like to offer you a host for the remainder of your time here, company if you will.” Well, at least Glaston was finally talking sense, Eleanor thought in relief.  Having someone watch where the warrior prowled might make him less likely to do something foolish--

“—and I think our dear Eleanor would be ideal to escort you through our home.  I’m certain my lovely cousin would be more than happy to entertain you through the duration of your stay.” It was like a bucket of ice had be dowsed down Eleanor’s back as she openly gaped at Glaston, all sense of refinement gone.  Had he gone bloody mad?  Evalin stomped gently on her foot, trying to get her to regain her composure.

“It would be the highest honor to have a Princess of Wendlyn as an escort,” Gavriel nodded respectfully towards Eleanor, something like amusement flicking through those golden eyes.  “I thank you for your hospitality.” “It is no trouble, Sir Gavriel, we are honored to have you here.” Glaston looked a bit like the cat who had finally caught the canary, smug and content to glut himself on his kill.  He cast her a pointed look.  “She will meet you tomorrow morning at sunrise to explore the grounds and show you our noble kingdom.”

It took all of Eleanor’s control to not reach down the table and flip Glaston’s plate into his face.

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[unofficialkfamtranscripts]

King Falls AM - Episode 7: Major Tom to Ground Control

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Summary: August 1, 2015 - The boys at King Falls AM receive a phone call from a familiar voice that sends the show, as well as the residents of King Falls, into an uproar.

[podcast intro music]

Sammy And thanks so much to Vernon from Vernon’s Vermin Vestibule for that thorough and intense interview.

Ben And those slides he brought in! I- I d- I didn’t need to see that.

Sammy You and me both, Ben. So, changing gears here, we’re just gonna take a quick pause for the cause. We’ll be right back to take your calls, King Falls. [quietly] (So much rhyming) — 424-279-3858.

[classical music]

Beauregard Ladies and gentlemen, I am Howard Ford Beauregard III, and I implore you, dare I say demand that you turn off this radio station post-haste. King Falls AM used to be a place you could trust your ears to. Wholesome, family-oriented, fair and balanced. Now it’s ran by dirty, lying filth mongerers[sic] spreading rumor and dissent throughout our peaceful community. Samuel Stevens and Benjamin Arnold should be proclaimed Public Enemy Number One. In all my years, all my family’s years in our idyllic town, I can’t recall anyone being allowed to disparage our good name so open and freely and till the fertile lands of distrust… Friends, please heed my advice and turn off this impurity. Let me save you from the mire and muck King Falls AM fills you with. Do yourself a favor. Go outside, breathe the fresh mountain air, go read a book! Perhaps an e-book! more so, the e-book “King of King Falls” by yours truly. Be well, compatriots!

End this transmission Celestia!

[KFAM theme]

Sammy You gotta be sh[bleep]ng me.

Ben I hate that guy but ads pay the bills, Sammy.

Sammy We’re not gonna have bills without a show, Ben!

Ben [light and disingenuous] You don’t think this has anything to do with him coming in the studio a few weeks back, do you?

Sammy [sarcastic and annoyed] Oh, of course not, whatever could have put that bee in his bonnet.

Ben I’m just saying maybe he hated us before we kicked him out of the studio and insinuated he was the Lord Vampire.

Sammy *sigh* Moving forward—

Ben Board is lit up, Sammy! Let’s take some calls. You’re live on King Falls AM

Caller [Definitely Pete Myers doing a very bad snooty voice] Samuel Stevens, Benjamin Arnold.

Sammy [muttered]Oh this is gonna be good— uh, you’re live.

Caller You two heathens can kiss my ass and this listener goodbye. Treating Mr. Beauregard like that! I will never listen to this filth again! [pronounced “a-gAYn”]

Ben [petulant] Go watch Channel 13 then! We don’t want you to listen!

Sammy [voice-of-reason]Ben, don’t take it personally. Obviously Beauregard is a… trusted personality in this town, and he’s- gonna have some sway with people, [harsher] but it’s funny we’ve not had one complaint in the two weeks since that crackpot was on the show.

Ben Power of media man, bringing out all these sheeple.

Sammy Alright, line eight, welcome to King Falls –

Line 8 Beauregard’s right, this is filth!

Sammy Okay, sir, what exactly is the issue with the show?

Line 8 You’re muckrakers! I don’t recall King Falls being so damn torn apart before you came into town, Sammy!

Sammy I’m just doing my job! I was hired to fill this time slot with news and information that—

Ben [cutting him off] Who is this?

Line 8 None a’ ya damn business, Ben!

Ben Pete Meyers? Come on, man!

Pete N- noo. Is not!

Ben Yeah, it is. W– Would you like to explain to everyone why Beauregard’s gardener is calling in?

Pete Don’t go working your voodoo on me, alright? I’m just statin’ my opinion. I’m never listening to 660 again. [quickly] King of King Falls, buy the ebook! [click]

[dial tone]

Sammy Folks, we’re open minded here on 660. We listen to you and talk about the things that you care about. I’m sorry if a vocal minority that we’ve offended but—

Ben Line four, you’re live with Sammy and Ben.

Tim [feedback] [audio broken and distorted] Is thIS King FaLls AM?

Sammy You’re live, sir.

[feedback]

Ben Whoa! Uh, the feedback! Uh tur- t-turn off your radio, sir.

[deep, unnatural thrumming behind feedback]

Sammy Ah, you know, I hate to do this, but that feedback is just too much. Give us a call back and—

Tim [worried, there’s a slight echo to his voice] DOn’- don’t hANg up. PleASE doN’t hang Up!

Sammy Who is this?

Tim I-it’s Tim- It’s Ti-TiM JE-Nsen?

Ben Tim! Where are you?!

Tim [feedback] He-EL-LO?

Sammy Tim, can you hear us? You’re on with Sammy and Ben. Are you okay?!

Tim I’m aLI-IVe. PLEase teLL mY wI-IFe thAT I –

Ben You’re breaking up, Tim. Uh where- where are you? We’ll come to get you right now—

Tim I’m okA-aY, plEaSe don’t StoP-P—

Sammy [hurried] Ben can you call—

Ben [on it] Troy’s on hold.

Tim TheY’Re- thEy’RE doIN— so M-Any oPEr-a-ATioNs O-n m-E. Please Help m-eE.

[sound starts, a high pitched buzz, growing in volume, like a racecar accelerating, this repeats for the rest of the call, louder each time]

Sammy Tell us where you are, Tim. We’ll send help immediately.

[buzz is louder than voices]

Ben Tim!

Tim I love my wife, Mary. I miss my kids… King Falls, please hELp mEEE!

[noise stops leaving just static]

Sammy [almost shouting] Tim! Tim, can you hear us?

[dial tone]

Ben [softly] He’s gone… Deputy Troy, you’re live.

Deputy Troy I heard him, fellas. Without a shadow of a doubt, that was Tim.

Sammy I- you know I d- I don’t know what to make of it, Troy, is there anything you can do?

Deputy Troy Ben texted me all the info he had on the call but— It ain’t making any sense. Has he called since, y’know, the uh, the disappearance?

Sammy Not to us I- you know, I just couldn’t make out a lot of what he was saying.

Ben Lot of interference from something. Or… someone.

Sammy He said Mary, right?

Ben You think we should—?

Sammy Oh God, no. God. We wouldn’t wanna put that poor lady on the spot with something like this. I mean she’s just been through so much already— [slightly desperate] I mean, that could have been anyone, right?

Ben That was Tim, Sammy.

Deputy Troy I wish there were something more we could do, boys, but- I don’t even know where to start. I was just listening to the show in Rose’s Diner and… I couldn’t believe it. [police radio can be heard faintly in the bg] Dollars to donuts, dispatch is gonna be lightin’ up tonight, boys. I’m gonna go finish my French cruller and make the rounds. I’ll catch you later, boys.

[click, dial tone]

Sammy [somberly] Line one, you’re on King Falls AM.

Cynthia Sammy? Ben?

Ben You got us, ma'am.

Cynthia Was that just Tim Jensen on the air?

Ben We… we believe it was. We- we don’t wanna cause an uproar here—

Sammy Per usual.

Ben But we have every reason to believe so. Uh d- do you have any information about Tim?

Cynthia I Do Not. I was calling to voice my concerns about him coming back from God-knows-where.

Ben Is this- Cynthia Higgenbaum?

Cynthia It’s Mrs. Higgenbaum to you, Ben, and thanks for broadcasting my info all over the tri-staate.

Sammy Cynthia, you say you have some concerns about Tim being found? Why?

Cynthia “Concerns” would be putting it mildly.

Sammy Okay, he’s a missing man, Cynthia. He’s been officially gone without a trace for over three months!

Cynthia Oh, don’t give me that “official line” of Horse Hockey! We all know Good and Well he got picked up by the lights off 72.

Sammy *exasperated chuckle* With all due respect—

Ben [cutting him off] He was abducted, Sammy. You know it, I know it, Cynthia knows it. The X-Files, this ain’t. They got him.

Sammy Okay, let’s just hold it together folks—

Ben But for goodness’ sake, Cynthia, why in the world would you have an issue if we finally found him?

Sammy I- you know, I’m just happy to hear that he’s alive. We all should be.

Cynthia Yeah yeah, he’s alive, hooray and such. But I’m gonna level with you boys.

Sammy [acerbic] Uh-huh.

Cynthia I Don’t Want Tim coming back into this community after gallivanting around the galaxy for three damn months with aliens or what-have-you. Who knows what kind of diseases he’s bringing back!?

Sammy Oh stop it!

Cynthia Martian Measles, Pluto Pox- who can say? I Don’t want my kids around that. Does Obamacare even cover Jupiter Jaundice? *scoffs* Doubtful!

Ben Cynthia, I think bringing Tim home safe and sound is of the utmost importance.

Cynthia Are you gonna pay my doctor bills? I didn’t think so.

Sammy Cynthia, we are talking about a man.

Cynthia We are talking about some weird sh[bleep]t Tim is bringing back, by golly! I know Tim. I worked with Tim for a few years, and he’s a nice enough guy! But he’s not nice enough to let his Ground Control to Major Tom[1] ass quarantine my babies at Area 51. Priorities!

Ben Sammy, Mary Jensen is on line five.

Sammy I’m sorry, Cynthia, we have to take this.

Cynthia Oh, good. I’m gonna go check my shelter and inventory my air filters. I suggest doing the same.

[click, dial tone]

Ben Mary Jensen.

Sammy Hi Mary, this is Sammy and Ben at King Falls AM?

Mary [morosely] Hi Sammy. Hi Ben.

Ben Mary have you… have you been listening to the broadcast tonight?

Mary I was. That’s why I called. Since Tim’s been gone I- *sigh* I don’t know which way is up. My sleep has been turned around, the kids…

Ben I’m sorry, Mary.

Mary [shakily, clearly trying not to cry] I wanna thank you two— Sammy and Ben- for all you’ve done during this ordeal.

Sammy We don’t have to get into that.

Mary No I-I think we do. I know that there are people that think that you two shouldn’t be on the air, but since Tim has been gone? You guys at the station have checked on me and the kids at least once a week. You’ve made donations. Ben even took the kids to the library last week so I could have time to myself!

Sammy [softly sarcastic] You’re a sweetheart, Ben, and to the library no less!

Ben [almost whispered] Don’t.

Mary [probably crying] I know you want Tim back in my arms almost as much as I do.

Sammy Mary, I wish we had more to tell you but you heard exactly what we did.

Mary I just thank- God— whomever is up there- that he’s still alive. He sounded okay right? [fearfully] Didn’t he sound okay?

Sammy He didn’t sound hurt.

Ben We appreciate the kind words, but- that can’t be what you called for.

Mary It wasn’t the only reason but um… make no mistake about this: the Jensens stand with you two. No matter what.

Sammy Thank you, Mary. I mean it’s obvious that Tim has reached out to us for a reason. You’ve told us in the past that he absolutely loved listening to Chet’s Jazz Corner and loved King Falls AM in general. Let’s hope he’s listening to you now, Mary. What would you like Tim to know?

Mary *sniffs* That, um- [tearfully] we’re okay, Tim. Please don’t worry about us. *sniff* And I- I know he will anyway but, we are okay. We are safe. We’re home, but *sniff* home isn’t home without you. I love you, Tim. *sniff* I know without a doubt that one day you’ll be back with us… I can’t wait for that day, but I will wait… [clearly struggling] Please be okay… Please be safe. *sniff*

Sammy Our thoughts are with you, Mary. And Tim.

Mary [choked up] My- my little one is up. Can she say something, Sammy?

Sammy Please, of course, by all means.

Mary [aside] Come on, sweetie, Daddy’s listening.

Bella Daddy?

Mary He called Mr. Ben and Mr. Sammy tonight.

Bella Daddy!

Sammy He’s listening right now. Tell him whatever you’d like.

Bella I love you. Please come home, I don’t want Mommy to cry anymore.

Mary Thank you Sammy… Ben… King Falls.

Sammy If you need anything, you just let us know.

Mary Yeah, of course. *small sob* Sorry, bye.

[click, dial tone]

Sammy Tim— if you’re listening— godspeed.

Ben Sorry to interrupt, Sammy. Line twelve.

Sammy Good evening, you’re live on King Falls AM.

Riley Please hold the line for Mayor Grisham.

Sammy [angrily] Hey, I wanna talk to you! I have got a bone to pick with you! Hello?

Riley Mayor, you’re on with Sammy and Ben.

Grisham Boys, boys, come on. Are we live?

Sammy Mayor Grisham, you have five seconds before this call self destructs.

Grisham It’s my understanding that Tim Jensen just reached out to you guys.

Ben [quickly] Five four three two—

Grisham I come in peace, guys! I’m sure you two will get everything you can regarding the call to Sheriff Gunderson’s office. I just wanted to say “thank you,” for being there for Tim— still in his time of need.

Sammy You have my curiosity, Mayor.

Ben Sammy, my horsesh[bleep]t radar is off the charts right now! It’s, it’s hitting Seabiscuit[2] levels.

Sammy Did you just bleep yourself?

Ben Yeah, I mean, come on, man. You want fines on top of trouble, too?

Grisham I’ll be as friendly as a pen pal, gents. I just wanted to speak to King Falls. That is, if you two will allow me.

Ben Horsesh[bleep]t radar is still solidly at “circus pony.” I- I don’t know if this is a good idea.

Sammy You know, you’re ridiculous. And generally I would agree, Ben, but this is for Tim. The floor is reluctantly all yours, Mayor.

Grisham *clears throat* Thank you… Ladies and gentlemen of King Falls and everyone listening to this broadcast, I just want to let you know we are doing all we can to bring Tim back home, safe and sound. We are working day and night to make sure his lovely daughter and his wife get to hug their father and husband again. I want to reiterate that if you have any information about Tim, his disappearance, or subsequently his call tonight for help, please do not take matters into your own hands. Please call the hotline set up at–

[KFAM outro]

[CREDITS]

References

[1] “Ground Control to Major Tom” - a well known line from David Bowie’s “Space Oddity”. Major Tom is a fictional astronaut who features in several of Bowie’s songs.

[2] Seabiscuit - Seabiscuit was a champion thoroughbred racehorse in the United States who became the top money winning racehorse up to the 1940s.

[n1ghtcrwler]

Writeblr Life Week 1: About Me

Questions pulled from a list used for created fictional character biographies! Some questions have been omitted because it was 83 questions long. It’s in theme, right? Using a character bio tool to introduce a writer?

Name: Tim McLaughlin Jr

Place of birth: Alabama, United States

Parents: Both living

Siblings: 2 brothers, 1 stepsister, 1 half-brother

Ethnic background: Mostly Irish and Italian, some German

Places lived: Chatom, AL; Sharon, Sharpsville, West Middlesex, Mercer, Pittsburgh, PA; Hubbard, Ashtabula, OH; Norwood, Amherst, Greenfield, Ashby, Leominster, Springfield, Deerfield, MA

Education: Some college

Favorite subject in school: Band

Special training: forklift and cherrypicker user licenses, financial planning and life insurance sales license, automotive sales training, ServSafe Management and Allergen training, CPR and restraint training from that time I worked at a juvenile correctional facility, some other stuff

Jobs: I’ve had over 40

Travel: When I can

Friends: A bunch

Enemies: I’ve only had, I guess, 3 people/groups I would consider an enemy? But only one was actively trying to kill me

Dating, marriage: Married

Children: 3

Relationship with God: Pretty solid

Overall outlook on life: Divine mission comes first. Incidentally, I happen to believe in real-life plot armor. Nothing can kill me until God’s mission for my life is done, and once it is, nothing can keep me alive. This may occasionally look like recklessness

Does this character like himself: Why yes, yes I do

How is he viewed by others: Generally positive

Physical appearance: Sexy dadbod

Eyes: Hazel, occasionally brown or green

Hair: Mostly brown

Skin: Very light with many freckles

Tattoos/piercings/scars: a chi rho tattoo on each wrist, family crest tattooed on my upper arm, scar on head from falling injury, scar on knee from stone grinder, scar on arm from chicken pox, scars on hands from heated cleaning gel, scar on lip from that time I got my jawbone stuck on a wire fence

Right- or left-handed: Right

Clothing: A lot of black

How would he describe himself: I’m literally doing that right now

Health/disabilities: Colorblindness, scoliosis, bad knees

How much self-control and self-discipline does he have: I do alright

Fears: You know, I’m not sure. There are some I usually would say but they’ve mostly been dealt with in recent years

Political leaning: I lean conservative, I’m listed as Libertarian, but I’m pretty openly opposed to the Ayn Rand-influenced branch of libertarianism

Collections, talents: old cameras; bass, trumpet, photography, drawing

Favorite Music: The Mountain Goats, Lord Huron, ...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead

Favorite Books: Most Discworld books

Favorite Movies: Big Fish

Pets: 1 dog, 2 cats, 12 chickens

Vehicle: 2009 Suzuki SX4 named Connor

What does he care about most in the world: God and His calling on my life

Does he have a secret: Many

If he could do one thing and succeed at it, what would it be: Plant a church right here

Most embarrassing thing that ever happened to him: I don’t feel embarrassment

[pinertour]

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ĩ962 relations: $pringfield (or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Legalized Gambling), 'Round Springfield, 'Scuse Me While I Miss the Sky, 'Til Death, 'Tis the Fifteenth Season, A Beautiful Lie (song), A Better Human Being, A Bicyclops Built for Two, A Big Piece of Garbage, A Boy in a Bush, A Boy in a Tree, A Brown Thanksgiving, A Christmas Story, A Christmas Story: The Musical, A Clone of My Own, A Dog Named Christmas, A Fish Called Selma, A Fish out of Water (Family Guy), A Fishful of Dollars, A Fistful of Meg, A Flight to Remember, A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Moon, A Head in the Polls, A Hero Sits Next Door, A Hunka Hunka Burns in Love, A Jihad for Love, A Katy or a Gaga, A la carte pay television, A Leela of Her Own, A Little Bit, A Love Supreme (Dollhouse), A Man on Death Row, A Many Splendored Thing (Homicide: Life on the Street), A Midsummer's Nice Dream, A Milhouse Divided, A Minute with Stan Hooper, A Mother of a Problem, A New Day in the Old Town, A Night of Neglect, A Pharaoh to Remember, A Piñata Named Desire, A Picture is Worth 1,000 Bucks, A Pox on Our House, A Room with No View, A Short Story About Love, A Single Blade of Grass, A Sky Full of Ghosts, A Star Is Born Again, A Star Is Burns, A Star Is Torn. The Fox Broadcasting Company (often shortened to Fox and stylized as FOX) is an American commercial broadcast television network that is a flagship property of Fox Entertainment Group, a subsidiary of 21st Century Fox.

[wildinbritain-blog]

How Well Do You Know British Wildlife?

Surprisingly, three out of 10 Britons do not know there is wildlife in Britain. But the larger British Isles are teeming with wildlife including land mammals, birdlife, and marine life. There is also a wonderful variety of small animals and insects including the lovable bumblebee.        The good thing is that you can travel to any of the popular wildlife viewing sites in a short time seeing as it is that the UK is not a large country. The diverse landscape is a bonus attraction for the avid tourist. There are marshes, moor, cliffs and beaches to explore while looking for wildlife. All of it here in the UK.

What is some popular wildlife to see in the UK?

•    Scottish wildcat

This feline is to be found in Northern England, Wales and Scotland. It is almost indistinguishable from the domestic cat and can crossbreed with it. The numbers are declining because of this diminishing breeding line.

•    Pine Marten

This is a kin to weasel, and native to the Lake District. It is a nocturnal hunter and prefers to sleep in underground burrows.

•    Red squirrels

This squirrel has ginger fur and taller years than the grey squirrel. The ginger fur changes to a grey shade in winter. These cute furry animals are declining in numbers as they are decimated by squirrel pox from their larger and more numerous kin, the grey squirrel. They number less than 200,000 of them.

•    Skomer vole

This rodent is only found on Skomer Island in Wales. It is popular prey for the numerous predator birds on the island.

•    Hedgehogs

These rodents are also on the decline due to habitat destruction and changing climates. They numbered over 30 million 50 years ago but now number about a million.

•    Turtledoves

These beautiful birds have become very rare to see in the UK have declined in numbers by over 90%. The best time to see them is in the summer.

•    Natterjack Toad

It has become very rare to hear this noisy amphibian, remaining only in small numbers in Norfolk and Lincolnshire.

•    Slow Worm

This is a legless lizard that closely resembles a snake. It can be found in all parts of the UK.

•    Bumblebees

These hairy black and yellow striped bees can be found hovering over flowering plants all over the UK. Unlike the aggressive honey bees, bumblebees make are generally harmless and their gentle buzzing will be heard in many fields, gardens and parks.

Bees in general are a particular passion of mine. I recently became a beekeeper and regularly purchase products from The Humble Bumble as they donate to various bee charities and organizations. I just received a new bee charm from them for my sister which i’m over the moon with!

What are the best places to see wildlife in the UK?

Cairngorms National Park, Scotland

The Cairngorms National Park in the Scottish Highlands is a land of rare beauty with a variety of wildlife and stunning landscapes. The varied landscape consists of forests, moorlands, mountain, and grass fields. The wildlife to be found here includes pine martens, red squirrels, Scottish wildcats, and golden eagles. There is also a variety of small mammals, rodents and innumerable insects including wasps, ants and bumblebees. Tourists can walk this place on foot in guided tours.

Blakeney Point, Norfolk

This is area is world famous for its attraction as a site to see marine bird life. It is a breeding ground for grey seals with over 2,000 grey seal pups coming to life each year from October to January. This area is part of Blakeney National Nature Reserve. An organized boat trip is the only way to get here during the breeding season.

The Isle of Mull, Scotland

The white-tailed eagle has been re-introduced in the UK on this isle. This is the biggest bird of prey native to the UK. It can be spotted swooping down on fish in the sea or soaring over the forests in search of small prey. Buzzards and golden eagles can also be sighted here. Marine attractions include porpoises and dolphins.

Falmouth, Cornwall

Pendennis point is on this location. This is one of the best spots in the UK to view marine wildlife, with breathtaking sea views as the background. There are also good views of Falmouth Bay and River Mal. It is a good spot for viewing bottlenose and common dolphins.  Other marine attractions include shallow swimming sharks, grey seals and a variety of marine birds.

New Forest, Hampshire

This ancient woodland and heath is home to a herd of over 3,000 wild ponies that roam this area. Tourists can also spot all the deer species that are native to the UK. Other attractions include birds and snakes as well as insects including butterflies, dragonflies and bumblebees.

Kielder Forest, Northumberland

This is the home of the photogenic red squirrel whose numbers have dwindled dramatically. This forest is also home to bats, badgers, pipistrelle bats and other small mammals. Tourists can also see an osprey swooping down on these small prey from time to time.

Causeway Coast, Northern Ireland

This rugged coast landscape is a challenge to navigate but offers plenty to see in terms of wildlife. The cliffs are home to agile mountain hares and birds including peregrine falcons, and puffins. There are sharks, Atlantic grey seals and porpoises to be found in the sea.  Bird watchers will find an interesting variety of marine birds including razorbills, auks and guillemot heading off to fish in the sea, homing in and heading to breeding grounds.

Shetland and Orkney Islands

These isles in the northernmost point of the UK offer plenty for the tourist if you can get there. The waters off the coast hold killer whales, minke whales, humpback whales, white-sided and white-beaked dolphins. There are also sea otters and a variety of marine birds. Bird watchers will especially find Skara Brae, Noss and Sumburgh areas rich with different bird species. These isles are also interesting archaeological sites.

Gilfach Nature Reserve, Wales

This is a great spot to see otters on the hunt for salmon. They come here every year from October to December to catch easy salmon prey at the waterfalls as the salmon swim upstream. These elusive water predators can also be spotted at other times of the year although it is a bit harder to do so. Early morning and sunset hours are the best for viewing.

Skomer Island

The hugely popular Atlantic Puffin is to be found in good numbers on this island off the coast of Pembrokeshire in western Wales. This is a popular destination with birders who come here for the rich bird life and photo opportunities. Seeing about 70,000 Manx Shearwaters make a landing in the dusk is a phenomenon that is one of the rarest in the world. There are also the photogenic Atlantic puffins who are happy enough to pose for photos as they are well-used to human presence.

Dorset

This is one of the most beautiful inhabited places in the UK. The meadows of Kingcombe are perfectly kept and preserved, with over 200 years of well-maintained fields, hay meadows and hedgerows. All of it is done naturally without pesticides which makes it highly attractive to insects and other small wildlife.

There is plenty to see if you take the time to stroll leisurely through the meadows. There are buzzing bumblebees, numerous scurrying insects and different birds that make a living of these small prey. The soothing landscape holds plenty to see and photograph.

[mogadichu]

SOAST- Chapter 2: The Scholar’s Jewel

An archiver’s visit to the western monastery usually lasted under twelve minutes. For Sahn, it was over an hour. The Kelshin monks walked silently around him as he wandered up and down the rickety stairwell of the monastery library, practically gliding in their thick wool robes. Sahn breathed in the tower’s musky scent, wanting more than anything to vanish into the hundreds of scrolls that surrounded him. Every wall was covered, floor to ceiling, in octagonal shelves filled to the brim with sacred texts, all coated with a thin layer of dust. He ran his fingers along the carved wooden covers, leaving a stark trail behind him. These stolen moments were Sahn’s only opportunity to lose himself in perfect silence. Today, however, silence could not drown Aurie’s words out of his mind.

I want to see a joghon. Just once.

The phrase had repeated in his thoughts like a song ever since he left her in the fields. It was not the first time she had shown her interest in the monsters that lived beyond the horizon, the monsters whose very presence, according the sacred words written on the stone walls of the High Temple of Shianyi, perverted the very nature of the Kelshin soil.

The Only Order Is the Natural Order

They were sacred words, to swear by, to never be questioned. Yet, Aurie had practically walked out of their mother’s womb asking question after question about the monsters. “What do they look like? How do they live? Do they pull magic from the air? From the earth? Do they truly sacrifice animals? Do they truly dance naked in their blood?”

Their mother’s earlier response was tame compared to the usual slap on the ears and wild-eyed command to not ask such “heathen acquisitions.” Sahn never blamed her for it. They did not need magic curiosity to add to their oddness.

Sahn circled around the tiny scriptorium, peering over the monks’ hunched shoulders. With steel fingers, they painted a map of Kelsh along the thick beige paper.

Kelsh and only Kelsh.

A hiss from the dark-eyed men signaled that Sahn had once again overstayed his welcome. He strapped the newly-copied scrolls into the wooden pack on his back and, with a bow of gratitude, set off in his little raft. His long, thin oar pierced into the rocky bottom, pushing him along Rin River. The land on either side of him was sprawling rice terraces and grain fields, copses of birch and curved tiled roofs. No mountain, not even a hill large enough to block the view to the blurred line of the horizon.

Devoid of mountains and magic, eh, boy? Novoyai chuckled, sitting cross-legged on the braided reeds, sliding a flat rock along his ethereal cutlass. What am I going to do with my qigara blade, then?

What the exact purpose of a qigara blade was, Sahn did not know. But, he still chuckled at his imaginary friend’s quip. “Let’s hope you never have to use it.”

Oh, come now. No need to be such a pacifist. The hero’s thick black whiskers curved in a cold smile, his braided beard wrapped around his neck like a scarf. What about your grandfather?

Sahn stiffened. “What about him?”

He could use a close shave, I’m sure.

“Novoyai…”

I bet I could slice him clean in half, and I’d never hurt him half as much as-

“No,” Sahn shrieked, startling a flock of sparrows off a nearby willow. “No magic blades on my grandfather. There’s no…” His face heated again at his own silliness. Of course, Novoyai would never be able to even touch his grandfather. Still… “There’s no need for violence, Novoyai.”

Tell that to-

“No,” he said again. “No violence, and-” his teeth gritted behind his lips. His fingers drifted to the long, thin scar at his collarbone as he whispered, loud enough only for Novoyai to hear, “and no magic.”

Novoyai snorted before returning to his sharpening. Where’s the fun in a world with no magic?

 The citadel stood at the tip-top of Gleaner’s Hill, first to touch the light in the morning and last to touch it at night. The building was of rich burgundy wood carved in patterns of leaping carp and blooming water lilies swept up in lapping waves. A gleaming gold sun stood at each curved tip of the green tiled roof. The inside was paneled with dark wood, the walls varnished with oil murals of sailing ships and groves of cherry trees. The floors were inlaid with shining squares of gold and turquoise stone. Sahn’s footsteps echoed as he weaved through the maze of the same octagonal shelves, stacked atop each other like honeycomb, filled with newer, sleeker copies of Kelshin history and lore, folktales and sacred texts, from the adventures of Tuma and Moyane to simple accounts of village residents. Most of Kelsh’s books were archives of the nation’s history, retreading its many great achievements in its five thousand years of existence. Their fiction, what little there were, held no magic in them, not even their children’s stories. They held monsters and otherworldly beasts, they even held gods. But never magic.

Each citadel was meant to be a beacon of knowledge, a scholar’s jewel, a place for every Kelshin, no matter their station. Everyone of Gleaner’s Hill being illiterate was either an unfortunate accident or a cruel twist of fate.

Their citadel may have been a marvel to behold, but the scrolls remained unread, the gleaming stone never grew faded from the feet of a curious reader. All but few of the people of Katha ate and slept and plowed from the cradle to the grave without ever learning their letters. “I’ve got no time for letters,” Old Maga, a rice farmer with thin arms and a pot belly, grunted when Sahn had asked about it. “I wake up in the morning, I plow, I muck, I seed, and I go home and sleep. Besides, knowing your letters doesn’t make you smart.”

“But, my ma and da know their letters,” Sahn had protested, “and they’re smart.”

Old Maga had scoffed. “If your ma were smart, she wouldn’t have married a foreigner.”

Kale never spoke of Vyorn, never spoke of his family (if he ever had one) or what his life was at all before Kelsh. “There is nothing to tell,” he would say. All his children ever knew about his heritage was from his sheer size, all shoulders and legs and scraggly brown beard.

Of the three of them, Sahn bore the least resemblance to his gentle giant of a father. Jerra inherited his massive stature and copper skin, arms taught with hard muscle, flecked with scars from years of plow work, and a beard that grew like mad if he did not shave regularly. Even Aurie, with their mother’s kind amber eyes and clear sandstone skin, obtained Kale’s curved mouth that made her seemed to always smile, even when she was not.

Sahn, inherited everything from his mother, only in short supply. His figure was tall and wiry, his hair thin and black as mulch- kept a short, straight mop so as not to fall into his eyes as he read- and his skin the sallow yellow of aged parchment. Not to mention his rather humiliating inability to grow facial hair. His features were soft, unthreatening, “effeminate,” some said. The only thing he gained from his father were his large angled eyes, a bright, striking peridot green.

He unloaded the strapped scrolls onto a nearby table, the noise echoing off the polished walls despite his delicate touch. He noticed silhouettes showing through the paper windows of the mezzanine. Okan-Isan was pacing back and forth, flailing his arms. Another figure, hunched shoulders and bent knees, was standing still. Voices rang as Sahn silently slid the new scrolls into their shelves, his movements slow and deliberate. “… don’t care who they are and why they are here. We are under treaty.” Okan-Isan’s voice, high pitched and raspy as a crow. “How dare they come into these lands. Who do they think they are?”

Sahn blinked. He glanced at Novoyai, but he did not seem quite so interested. He pulled a scroll from the shelves and tapped it rhythmically against his forehead. Sahn gasped, nearly dropping his satchel. “What are you doing?” he cried.

I’m bored.

Sahn gently set his satchel down on the table long enough to snatch the scroll out of his imaginary friend’s hand. “Have some respect, Novoyai,” he said as he caressed its carved wooden cover, green rice terraces filled with water. It was a document of Great Batti, the lonesome shepherd who brought the groundbreaking art of irrigation to the Kelshin fields. Sahn knew every scroll in the archive forward, backward, and sideways. “This is nearly four hundred years old.”

Old. Everything is old, in here. Novoyai hopped onto the table and returned to his whetstone, his gaze lingering on Sahn. Would you hold a girl like that, boy?

Sahn put the scroll back, his face heating.

“How do you think I feel, Okan?” the stranger’s voice cried from above. “I’m the one who had to let them port.” Sahn stopped altogether. It was Matsu-Isan, of Agaoka. The last time he was in Okan-Isan’s quarters, Sahn and half the nation had been bed-ridden with pox. “I had to watch them set their filthy feet on our beautiful cobbles,” he continued. “I had to look into… look into their…” He did not finish. Moths fluttered in Sahn’s chest. “Let us hope it’s only temporary.”

“Temporary,” Okan-Isan snorted. “And how long is ‘temporary,’ Matsu? Weeks? Months?” His voice grew higher with every question. “Years?”

Matsu was silent. Sahn turned to Novoyai, who had finally ceased his sharpening. “What in the world are they talking about?”

Novoyai said nothing. He was interested now, his narrowed eyes focused on the windows. The shadows danced behind the mural of golden Tuma and silver Moyane stretching their hands to each other.

“It doesn’t matter, Okan, and it doesn’t matter what we think,” Matsu-Isan finally spoke. His silhouette shook with his voice. He was as afraid of Okan-Isan as Sahn was. “They won’t listen to the Shianyi Council, and they certainly won’t listen to us. If you want to go down there and tell them to leave, be my guest.” His figure backed away, toward the door. “See how long you last.”

He raced through the threshold, slamming the sliding doors shut, denying Okan-Isan the last word. He shuffled down the ornamental staircase, shivering like an excitable dog, his large brown eyes darting back to the mezzanine over and over. Sahn called to him from his place in the corner.

“Matsu-Isan.”

The old man jolted at the sound of his voice, his eyes widening to extraordinary size as they fell on Sahn. No doubt Okan-Isan had informed him of the Mad Darru on his arrival. “What were you two talking about?” Sahn asked, attempting to sound bold, and failing. “Who is staying?”

Matsu-Isan wrung his hands, plagued with gnarled skin from fish hooks and sea water. He was much older and thinner than Sahn remembered, bony and malnourished. His hair grew in clumps of silver fuzz. His back made a perfect curve beneath his stained, threadbare robes. He glanced once more at the murals (Okan-Isan’s silhouette was no longer there) before speaking. “Joghons,” he whispered, too softly to echo. “Joghons are here.”

Sahn’s breath caught. “What did you say?” Surely, he had not heard him right.

“Joghons are here,” Matsu-Isan whimpered. “The disgusting, defiled perversions are on Kelshin soil.”

It was as though the room no longer had a floor. Joghons, monsters, majysts, here. “Why?”

Matsu-Isan shrugged.

The scroll in Sahn’s hands twisted and creaked. There had not been a majyst in Kelsh since- a pang rippled through Sahn’s heart. So many questions suddenly crowded his tongue all at once, climbing and clambering over each other, fighting for the chance to be asked first. How long had they been here? How many were here? Were more coming? Sahn had thought the terms of the treaty were unbreakable. But perhaps they had found some sort of loophole? If that were the case-

           “All Kelshins are forbidden to approach the port towns of Orutan and Agaoka. No exceptions.”

           Sahn’s thoughts shattered like glass. “Why?” he repeated.

           Matsu-Isan loosened a sigh laced with irritation. This was a question he had been asked a lot already, a thought that surprised Sahn. “It is Moyane’s will to remain among the green, to keep to the natural order.” Sahn swallowed back a sigh. Moyane’s will. Always with Moyane’s will. “Besides, if we come to them, interact with them, it might tempt them to enter further. It is best to… leave them where they are.” Sahn knew what he had wanted to say. It is best to keep the disease from spreading. He also knew that Matsu-Isan was not a human man saying his own thoughts in that moment. He was a silver-winged kess repeating Okan-Isan’s words in a monotoned squawk. “Agaoka and Orutan are being evacuated as we speak.”

           “Why?”

           “To keep our people from the joghons,” Matsu-Isan snapped. “Moons, have you heard anything I said? Or is that the only word you know?” His mouth clamped shut as he looked away. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I haven’t really been myself lately.” His hands pressed into his stomach as though furthering his point.

           Beside him, Novoyai fidgeted in his spot. His trembling fist clutched the jeweled hilt of his cutlass. Oh, there’s no need for that. We already know a majyst. Sahn’s gaze darted between the two men standing before him, one real, one imaginary. Go on, boy. Tell him.

           Now is not the time, Sahn wanted to say. Matsu-Isan still held his stomach, gritting his teeth.

           Tell him, Novoyai pushed. What’s the matter? Are you ashamed?

           Sahn gulped.

           Ah, Novoyai said disappointedly. You are ashamed.

           Stop it, he thought.

           Don’t know why I’m surprised. After all, is it not Moyane’s will to hate anything different-?

           “Stop it,” Sahn blurted out to him, immediately thinking he might burst in flames from the heat that exploded through his face. Matsu-Isan looked in Novoyai’s direction and, when he saw no one was there, Sahn watched in horror as he turned from beige, to pale, to bone-white.

           “Stop what?” he asked slowly.

           Sahn mouth opened and closed. “Are you hungry?” he asked far too loudly. He rifled through his satchel and pulled out Aurie’s uneaten breakfast box. “Here. It’s a bit cold now, but…” His gaze remained on the checkered tiles.

           Matsu-Isan chewed on his lip, his fingers wiggling, aching to take the box, but he hesitated a moment before tentatively closing the space between them and plucking it from Sahn’s hand. He gulped at the sight of the food. When was the last time he had properly eaten? Sahn wanted to ask, but he felt he had asked this poor man enough questions, though more still burned his tongue.

           “Thank you,” Matsu-Isan croaked, gawking at the boy, wondering why he would give him such a gift. Sahn did not know himself. He only nodded, flushing a bit.

           Matsu-Isan left the citadel licking his fingers, his belly full for the first time in days. He had been in such a hurry getting his people out of Agaoka, making sure they were housed and fed, that he had entirely forgotten about himself. He glanced back through the lattice window, watching the boy reading the archive scrolls, still as a tree in dead wind, his free hand always on that little satchel. “Stop it,” he had said to the air. Matsu-Isan’s eyes narrowed into slits. What are you hiding, boy?

[bergond]

The Setting - Bergond

Bergond, the City Realm

This is a realm that was once verdant and green, but a shaman cast a curse on the first city that appeared. However, that went awry, and rather than curse the city to destruction, it brought all destroyed cities here instead. Now the damaged, destroyed, decaying, and dilapidated buildings of every realm are summarily dumped in Bergond. Some bubble up, some fall down, some just appear, but either way they all end up here, merging into one enormous urban soup. The city is overgrown with buildings stretching for miles and miles, and entire strata of older buildings down below with more coming every day. Portals are also present in various parts of the city, some random and others constructed, that allow trade and travel between other realms.

Map of Bergond

Old Heart - the oldest part of the city, considered the political hub of Bergond.

Guild Row - long stretches of smithies, artisans’ workshops, bazaars, and guildhalls.

Cloud Quarter - the homes/businesses of the richest/old money types. Elemental wizards perpetuate a fogbank on the streets to confuse anyone who tries to travel there without a rune of seeing (which are of course prohibitively expensive).

Fungal Jungle - Since there is no arable land, this is a series of dank covered or underground caves where large quantities of edible fungi and algae are grown that make up the majority of the Bergondian diet.

Wall Grove - Walls of all shapes, sizes, and styles from other realms appear here and no where else, for some reason. By sheer volume they act as a de facto barrier.

Pox Blocks - large area of slums and poorer housing, not really any worse than other places in Bergond beyond population density but seen as “dirty” by more snooty types and derided openly.

Shimmer Town - An entire district of wizards’ towers, either built there or magically moved there when they arrive. The high density of Weave makes everything glow with mystic ambiance.

Dockside - Where the majority of Bergond’s extra-planar portals are located, and therefore home to large numbers of shipping companies and warehouses. The actual sludge is not sailed due to toxicity.

The Heap - A “natural” mountain where the planar divide is very weak and the sheer volume of structures deposited there creates constant destruction, change, and ‘landslides.’ It is only inhabited by the foolhardy, outcasts, or malcontents.

The Rubble - A vast sea of all the pieces, parts, and incomplete wreckage that appears from other dimensions or is dumped as buildings collapse in Bergond proper. It seems to constantly rumble with seismic activity.

Regarding general racial views of Bergond: Generally speaking, no particular race is considered any stranger or more "cursed" than the next. Humans, Elves, Tieflings, Orcs... everybody is in this giant sprawling city and fighting to survive, and while there are some particular sections of the city that might be predominantly one race or another, it's largely pretty intermingled. 

There are some heavier racial elements to a few of the gangs, but even that is not a hard and fast rule (except for the Skittersqueaks because they eat everyone else). If you're strong, gangs want you. If you're trustworthy, people want to be your friend. It's that simple.

Now, people are pretty aggressive and antagonistic towards anything that is non-sentient, and there are a lot of bizarre superstitions and beliefs regarding such creatures (again, think of a big city and the way people think of pigeons, rats, sewer alligators, etc). But, broadly speaking, there are no macro-cultural racial stereotypes, but of course there may be particular locals or areas who treat races differently (the apothecary on the corner of Vento and New Canvian blvd might refuse to make a cake for a dragonborn hatching ceremony, or the Silvers from the 34th precinct stop and search every human no matter what) .