#acts like a shepherd to many mortals

[lovesickeros]

☆ from gold, i am undone

{☆} characters tsaritsa {☆} notes cult au, yandere, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood, implied self harm, implied suicide attempts {☆} word count 0.9k

You weren't meant to be here.

You can feel it in the marrow of your bones– it weighs you down like heavy shackles, gold bleeding from your pores until it is all you know. The taste of ichor on your tongue, the warmth of its invasion beneath your skin, that gleam of gold that lingers in the color of your eyes like specks of dust.

You are changed, and you are whole.

But you are so unbearably broken.

A shattered piece of porcelain hastily put back together with gold to fill the cracks.

Decoration, in the end, for you are not fit to walk as "mortals" do. This gold had filled every empty crevice of your body, spilled the red into your frantic hands and made you bleed so it's callous gold could make room inside your body. It has taken from you many things, given many more, but you scratch and bite and tear until it drips onto the floor and even then it never leaves. It stains the floor no matter how hard you scrub– a permanent reminder of the sickening gold that molds you into something that used to look like you– that does look like you. Desecrated, yet so horribly divine.

All you see is a monster.

Something new, something old.

A hollowed out shell, wounds left to rot and fester until you suited the image of the Creator they bore upon statues and murals, the Creator worshiped in prayers spoken in hushed whispers and joyous chants praising your magnificence.

But what magnificence is there in detachment? What joy is there to be found in carving a God out of a human? They kneel like lambs before the shepherd, but the flock has made you– and you want to unmake them. Unweave the tapestry of their being stitch by stitch until it all falls apart and the world knows the cost of casting molten gold into the shape of a human, knows the price that has been left unpaid.

You want to take it from them. Watch them squabble and pray, blind sheep stepping into the wolf's open maw– to tear the seams of their being until the world is unwound by your heavy hands.

But you know it will not satisfy you.

Nothing does anymore.

You are no wolf. Only the shepherd who guides.

And with every drop of blood spilled, they ripped the humanity from your very bones until your body was the cast in which they made something anew– something gold, something horrific. A monster as much a God, a beast as much a man.

There is nothing left but absolute authority.

You try again and again to mend this act of desecration, to peel back the outer shell and rend the gold from your marrow– but your body cannot, will not, die. It mends itself back into place no matter how damaged, and all you feel is the uncomfortable tug of your body forcing itself to live. You cannot die, but were you ever truly alive at all?

Yet with every cycle, you know only one constant besides the thrum of golden ichor in your veins– cold.

Ice that burns, ice that spreads and festers and devours. Claws that pull you apart until the gold runs thick, teeth that burrow into your bones and rip it out from the source..eyes that witness the fall of a God with reverence– hungering, all consuming reverence.

You welcome it.

It is the first time you felt pain since you were cast into an image of a being you were not meant to be. The sting of cold upon your skin makes you shiver, your body tries to reject it, but you want to welcome it– for a brief moment that lasts only as long as it takes for you to blink, you see the glint of something familiar in the reflection of her empty eyes. Something achingly, horribly familiar– something human, all the more terrifying for it.

Even when Teyvat itself crumples like paper beneath the weight of her sins – of this desecration anew, this wretched heresy – you allow her hands to do it again. You grasp her hands in yours like chains, willing her to shackle you, willing her to pull you apart and make you whole again. To break you until the gold cannot put you back together again.

You long, each time, for those eyes like spears that lodge into your skin– burrow deep and sting deeper, making gold flow like water. You long for the biting tongue, the cutting words and those teeth like weapons– long to see the spite and anger and impure disgust aimed at the woman of silver who leads you down a hall that ends only in damnation. You follow each time like the lamb led astray by the wolf, but you do not wail in betrayal when she sinks her teeth into your throat and devours you whole.

For is it a sin if you welcome it? Has their God sinned, in the eyes of the flock, for welcoming such heresy with open arms? For allowing the wolf into their home?

Is it a sin to be broken beneath the only hands that have loved you?

Is it a sin to want to love, too, those hands and teeth stained in gold?

Then you shall be damned, you swear it. Damned, but gold no more.

For death is the closest you have ever felt to being human.

[monstersdownthepath]

Empyreal Lord: Andoletta, Grandmother Crow

CR 28

Lawful Good Medium Outsider

Heaven Unleashed, pg. 16~18

Surprise! A special capstone for this month devoted to all that's good in the world.

Andoletta here has the same unenviable position as Furcas, in that she doesn't exist on the internet beyond some vague numbers on the wiki. No presence in the Archives of Nethys, no copyright-free version on d20pfsrd, nothing. Much like Furcas, the most we have are the stats of her weapon of choice, a +5 Anchoring Ghost Touch Holy Quarterstaff that's often masquerading as simple walking stick, the Artifact known as Helicyon. When I first found her in Heaven Unleashed as I was seeking more information on Divine Heralds, I was gobsmacked to see her at all! What other secrets are hiding in books I've never read?!

Grandmother Crow also has the actual enviable position of being the ONLY Archon Empyreal Lord with stats. Yes, even the shining paladin Ragathiel is an Angel, not an Archon, and Andoletta puts all future potential archons to shame by being one their best. The ultimate grandmother to all beings, Andoletta takes pains to remind her peers that winning a war means nothing if there's nothing left back home worth protecting, and as such, she watches over the most peaceful of Heaven's many kingdoms, caring for the souls within who have no desire or ability to fight in the crusades against Evil and even venturing into the mortal world at the edges of war-torn kingdoms to shepherd the lost, lonely, grieving, and innocent to better lives, masquerading as... Well, nothing. As one of the most human-looking celestials, she really has no need or desire to change herself (though she can take on the shape of a crow, raven, or tengu when needed), so her most common "disguise" is just walking around as herself, a stern old woman with a cloak of crow feathers who seeks those needing her advice.

It should come as no surprise to those even passingly familiar with fantasy stories that you should never question the advice of an elder with an eccentric accessory. When she speaks, it is of the utmost importance that you listen, for what she has to say will always be what you needed to hear, no matter what that may be. If you are grieving, you'll be consoled. If you are hopeless, you'll be encouraged. If you're questioning, she'll have the answer. If you're an idiot, she'll say it to your face, and then give you advice on how to smarten up. For the majority of her existence, Andoletta eschews the idea of conflict and instead focuses on offering little comforts to those in need, especially children; a kind word, needed advice, a basket of food, or even just something as simple as a reassuring hand on the shoulder or a glass of milk on the nightstand to help someone troubled go back to sleep. It's these small acts of kindness that she specializes in, the tiny comforts she feels build people into being better overall, giving them the tiny push they need to keep going.

Of course, that CR 28 isn't just for show. Andoletta is never the first to join a fight, preferring life on the homestead, but any fiend attacking what they believe to be a harmless old woman or threatening the lives of children in her care is in for a hell of a reality check.

Let's begin with her aforementioned weapon of choice: Helicyon. It's said that Grandmother Crow's divine power erupted into existence once she gained an understanding the secrets of an ancient willow tree which whispered the truth of the past to her. It was reduced to a single branch when a jealous archon attempted the same, only to find that pathway to enlightenment allowed only one creature to pass, forcing Andoletta to take that branch and turn it into a walking stick she can call to her hand from across any distance.

she presumably did that after giving the idiotic soldier of Heaven a solid whacking for such an egregious show of short-sighted envy.

Beyond just being a reminder of Andoletta's journey to divinity, Helicyon is her primary whackin' stick, and it's deadly enough to give pause to whatever Balor or Pit Fiend thought it'd be funny to swing on an old lady. This +5 Anchoring Ghost Touch Holy Quarterstaff can be swung up to seven times a round for 1d6+14 (+2d6 vs Evil) damage, with the Anchoring ability giving her the amusing option to slam it down into someone's foot or pushing them against a wall with its end in their chest and pinning them in place while she lectures them on how stupid they are to make her resort to such measures. And her lecture would work, too, because anyone struck by Helicyon must make a DC 25 Will save or be filled with Overwhelming Grief at every tragedy that's occurred in the entirety of creation since their existence started, unable to take any actions for up to 28 rounds unless they succeed the save again at some point during the effect. This crushing remorse is so potent it penetrates all defenses, including Mythic and deific protection, and no creature is immune to it, even if they don't have emotions. The only way to avoid the grief is to succeed the saving throw (any of the saves it offers will do), at which point there's a 24-hour immunity clause to prevent Grandma from stun-locking someone for minutes at a time.

While her melee may not seem intimidating at first, she's got a large pick of spells from the Inquisitor spell list she can invoke as swift actions, including Forceful Strike (+10d4 damage Force damage plus a free Bull Rush on a melee attack), Burst of Speed (+20 movement speed, movement doesn't trigger AoOs, can move through enemy spaces), and perhaps most dangerously for her foes: Litany of Righteousness, which causes the target to take double damage from the attacks of creatures with a Good alignment aura, including herself and her own attacks, for one round. 1d6+14 isn't impressive, but 2d6+28 up to seven times? There's an appropriate trope for this.

She has more than just a handful of Inquisitor spells, of course; among a handful of charming and helpful spells (such as Daylight, Plant Growth, and Calm Emotions), her combat options include a 3/day Dictum and Greater Dispel Magic, and the oxymoronic Quickened Slow to mire her foes with a lengthy stagger, making it much harder for them to harm her in a meaningful way... which is good, because she kind of needs it.

Unlike most demigods, Andoletta has comparatively fewer defenses. Her DR 15 is much harder to pierce than many other Good-aligned demigods, requiring a weapon that's Evil-aligned and Epic, but her low 10 Regeneration is suppressed by ANY exposure to Evil. She's got most of the Demigod Suite of immunities including proof against charm/compulsion, energy drain, ability score damage, poison, death, and petrification... but because grandma needs her naps and has arthritis, she's not immune to sleep or paralysis. In addition, her ONLY elemental resistance is immunity to Electricity when most creatures at her level are swinging around Fire and Cold with incredible ferocity. She doesn't even have Freedom of Movement available to her, leaving her terribly vulnerable to entangling effects, paralysis, or even just difficult terrain, which can prevent her from initiating with her otherwise-intimidating Spring Attack.

Thankfully, her lack of in-built defenses is somewhat mollified by her other unique abilities. She has the Primal Aura of all Empyreal Lords, her unique aura stretching to create a 30ft Circle of Protection From Evil, shielding everything inside from the attacks, spells, and effects of any Evil creature while also preventing any summoned Evil creature from setting a single toe inside. Anyone with 10 or less Hit Dice that's inside the aura is also shielded by an empowered Sanctuary effect that requires a DC 39 Will save to attack through... unless the fight takes place in Heaven, at which point the Sanctuary effect is completely unbreakable, resetting every round even if the protected creature attacks. The primary use of this power is, obviously, shielding civilians, as any attacker quickly finds out they can't bring their weapon against any innocent, costing them their action for the round and often allowing Andoletta to punish them for the attempt.

This isn't her only means of protecting her wards and allies, either; several of her lord and Inquisitor spells are for the benefit of others, like Litany of Escape and Litany of Warding, but she can also cause a mass-Sanctuary by standing tall and using Wing Snap. This 1/day thunderous crack of her hidden crow wings dispels fear effects from any number of creatures of her choosing within 30ft and shields them with Sanctuary, while any Evil creature within the radius must succeed a DC 39 Fortitude save or take 5d6 Sonic damage and be struck deaf for 2d6 rounds. This power can only be used when she has her Crow Feather Cape, but the indestructible artifact returns to her every 24 hours even if she's gifted it to someone, so she more or less always has it on her anyway.

Why would she give her cape away, though? Typically as a test. Anyone bearing her Crow Feather Cape is shielded by the immensely powerful Winds of Vengeance spell for 24 entire hours, a spell that's potent offensively and defensively. A creature shrouded by the cape can thus fly at 60ft/round through any environment and gains immunity to ALL projectile-based ranged attacks, 90% of existing breath weapons, and all gas/vapor-based attacks, spells, and effects. Anything striking a shrouded creature in melee has to make a DC 39 Fortitude save or take 5d6 damage and be knocked prone (or knocked from the sky, if it was flying), potentially ending a Full-Attack and allowing a retaliatory Full-Attack from the wielder with extra accuracy bonuses thanks to the victim being knocked prone.

Any creature that violates a just law while blessed with the cape not only immediately loses its power over winds, but has their voice stolen and replaced with the helpless squawking of a crow until they get the curse broken or until Andoletta removes it with a thought, typically followed by a stern lecture. It's an unbelievably powerful tool she can hand out to someone she thinks may use it correctly... but in my readings of this ability, there seems to be absolutely no restrictions in place which prevent Grandmother Crow from using the ability on herself as a move action, giving her insurmountable defenses against anyone trying to hit her from a range and blasting anyone hitting her in melee off their feet, letting her either lay into them with her staff... or use its Anchoring ability to pin them to the ground so she can advise them against going any further.

In the end, that's all she really wants. She is the least warlike of all the Archons; she's not made to fight, and in fact abhors actually doing so, battling only when innocent lives are on the line and even then only until her wards have fled the fight before she teleports, Time Stops, or Plane Shifts away herself. She's more likely to trip up, disable, debuff, and humiliate her foes than actually kill them, humbling them so that they may listen to her words and, eventually, internalize them. With age comes wisdom, with wisdom comes patience, and Andoletta is patient enough to watch for every minute crack and fracture in even the most staunchly evil soul in the hopes that she can jam it wide enough to plant a seed of good.

And if that fails, she tends to just hold off her attacker long enough for a finisher to come along, because Heaven knows there are plenty of them around, ready to jump to Grandma's defense.

Andoletta's stats are not available via official channels, but I did find them here. The stats for her staff, however, are on the Archives here.

[raptor-tooth]

Finally got my girl Lovita a ref (and thus a solid human design too!)

Some lore dumping below the cut!

Lovita is a mockerie like some of my other characters. A shapeshifter, a mimic, and a parasite that has to subsist on energy drained from other living things. Unlike most of them, Lovita in particular tries the hardest of my mockerie characters to retain her humanity.

Lovita Gosse, also known as Councilor Gosse or Madame Gosse, is a human born mockerie who was raised in poverty in the underbelly of Starwick. While mockeries there live in secret, only revealing their nature in the shadows and being hard to spot amongst the human population, Lovita was practically born into their fold. Her mother was a human in the employ of one of the older mockerie faction leaders and Lovita eventually followed in her mother's footsteps. Both her and her mother worked as servants for the nobility of the city, cleaners and nannies and such jobs, by day while acting as the eyes and ears of the mockerie in charge of the district they lived in secretly.

Long story short, Lovita climbed the ranks to get into the inner circle and took a grab for power where she saw it, giving up her humanity for the promise of wealth and power eventually. A decision partly out of selfishness, partly self-sacrifice to provide a better life for her mother as the woman aged and was no longer able to do the hard work she had always had to do to keep fed and housed. A decision she would be haunted with regret for the next few hundred years of her life as it simply dragged on, immortality being far more than she originally bargained for.

Lovita nowadays is the councilor of the lower seaside district of Starwick. She runs a brothel called the Oleander that is frequented by both sailors and nobility, visitors and those who have lived in the city their whole lives, immortals and mortal beings alike. It is presented as a tavern and inn, serving alcohol and food downstairs while the rooms upstairs can be rented by the hour. Plenty of rumors of exotic delights, something or someone for everyone's taste.

Its the most public and suspected mockerie nest in the city, the tales of people being devoured for disrespecting the women working there being plenty... but to most they're just stories. You would think that might be an obvious target for the hunters in the city... if the hunters weren't under the thumb of another council member and Lovita's estranged half-brother, Alandride. Sure, the hunters know of the Oleander being a nest... but going right there would be a death sentence. Proper preparation for an assault on the Oleander would require an amount of force that could not possibly stay a secret and take out far too many humans in the process. After all, Madame Gosse is the only faction leader to actively invite mortal beings into her fold and treat them as her own.

Whether the information the hunters have on her and her faction is true or an exaggeration by Alan to keep her safe, nobody really knows. How many mockeries reside in the lower seaside district is a well guarded secret and Lovita likes to keep it that way, training new mockerie spawn in secret until they are able to perfectly blend in.

Lovita herself is big in personality and size. A tall and well filled out woman, but also a mockerie with a true form near maximum size for the species at 20ft long from nose to tail. She's a flirtatious and loud woman who makes a show of her public appearance. In private its more of an act, showing a softer side toward her inner circle and the mortal beings she has under her protection. She feels as if she is a shepherd to a flock of lambs at times, most of her inner circle consisting of younger mortals and younger mockeries. Definitely a mom friend and a helicopter mom at that, even as she does need to send them out and put them in danger in order to maintain her spy network through the city.

Out of all the faction leaders, she has the most information and scope of the mortal world around them. She practically serves as a spymaster for the council with those under her being her eyes and ears as she once was for the council member she replaced.

Vivarium AU: This ref features her Vivarium casual outfit in particular, far more fitting of a fantasy adventurer than the dresses and jewelry she would normally have. Within Vivarium she's settled into as familiar of a role as she could manage: running a legitimate inn. There she runs the Warren as a low cost inn from a building she painstakingly rebuilt from a half burnt down old building in the ruins of some old village.

So far in Vivarium she's managed to get herself pretty attached to one or two mortals and immortals once again. Not quite as useful of an inner circle as back home but she's no less of a mom friend to them either.

With her lack of eyes and ears around, she keeps as much of an eye out on all sorts of public communication, rumors, gossip, and whatever information she can glean from anyone she runs into. She's become quite nosy without much to keep her busy.

[dear-mortality]

The shepherd prince

Chapter nine: a tale as old as time

Chapters

Enfys waved their arms as the smoke formed pictures, they showed two deities. One on the sun, one on the moon. The deities seemed happy, but the deity on the sun seemed bored.

"long ago, When humanoids had just realized of the deities existence and started to worship them. The two deities of the sun and moon lived happily worshipped by the mortals as they brought beauty and wonder to the simple mortals. At least Náttljós- the deity of the moon- did. However her brother aster- the deity of the sun- felt bored alone without anyone to call his own. The deities relationship with the mortals was a complicated one, náttljós was always with the mortals and the moon was always full, she had the mortals looking for her in the sky through night and day, aster didn't feel it right to descend to the mortals fearing his destructive powers may harm them. Náttljós however made sure to tell them of how much they both care. And so the two deities went about their duties until aster felt something Whispering at his ear. Something ancient. He turned around to see a deity of eternity. The frost serpent."

"the frost serpent?" Ether looked a little confused, laying on his stomach on a cloth on the ground with his head resting on his arms (and trying to not think about the fur), he felt as if that name was familiar and raised his head a little looking at the picture of the deity in the smoke.

"yes. An ancient entity, one of the deities of eternity, the deity of the cold." Enfys said as the smoke took the form of the serpent accurately. "He told aster of family, of birth, of bonds. He promised him a life of happiness with people he can be with forever."

Ethers eyes widened as the smoke showed aster taking out a ball of light from his chest to reveal a baby.

"the deity of fire was born." Enfys exclaimed with happiness. It seemed they got to their favourite part of the story. "The fire deity didn't know anything but that he was brought to this world to make it warmer for those who are cold. He wandered on the sun and played with his father. His aunt loved him so much she'd sneak some time to just play with him and aster."

Ether had a big smile on buns face as bun looked at the deities being a happy family

"and one day" enfys said before taking a deep breath, they needed it. They didn't eat enough for all this complex display of colors, let alone doing it with the phoenix nest around. "The deity of fire heard his duty call to him. As some mortals were stuck In a cave as it was raining outside. He felt that he must help them. He sneaked off the sun and down to earth. He revealed himself to them and told them how he's here to help before lighting some branches on fire. He told them to not touch it as it will hurt them, but they can huddle together next to it for warmth. The mortals thanked him and with that he left feeling as he fulfilled his mission. Little did he know this small act of kindness would make him worshipped by all mortals."

Ether relaxed again as he looked at enfys with dreamy eyes and a smile, he was drifting to sleep.

"the deity of fire gave birth to many children after. They're the ones that are currently keeping the world's order and making sure life is worth living for the mortals. I'll tell you all about them later ether you'll love them i have so many things to show you-" enfys noticed ether sleeping and smiled after a little sigh. "I thought I've seen this sight enough times to be desensitized to how cute it is." She said as she took off her coat and used it as a blanket, "goodnight ether" she whispered

"goodnight enfys" ether whispered back with a grin and his eyes closed, he could feel enfys glaring at him in shock.

They both slept soundly. But ether felt something staring at her in the dead of night with a threatening gaze. It got her uneasy as she sleepily looked around without seeing anything before going back to sleep. It felt like it was personal.

[senatushq]

Aurea

NAME/ALIASES. Aurea Moretti AGE & BIRTH DATE. 27+ & February 18th, 1996 SPECIES. Aspect GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/Her or She/They AFFILIATIONS. Lupercal OCCUPATION. Queen and Alpha of Lupercal

History

Bitten wolf. Aurea was born the proud daughter of a proud family line, a familial coven of witches and lycans alike with a legacy pounding in their veins. Forged in Etruria, The Ivy coven had spread across the globe, survivalists that adapted with the ages; Aurea was a witch descended from those that Salem failed to burn. In her veins were the generations of lycans before her and the witches who’d pinned all their hopes on their future daughters. Even as a young girl, Aurea had a penchant for fixing things; she wanted to know how the world worked, and her competitive spirit made her want to be the best. A silver spoon had been placed in her mouth at birth, but even this wasn’t something she felt she earned, and all that legacy became sour when her mother’s mind fell to the will of vengeful spirits. Shepherded into the care of cousins, Aurea was raised under the roof of an auntie who was more matriarch than her mother and an older cousin who was more akin to a father than a brother. A vigil through the long night kept her from running straight and a safe place to come crashing down in case she ever burned out, but Aurea’s destiny was in the moon that she’d always called mother and the family that existed on the fringes. The Ivy Pack was bonded to the coven, a family line that had been bitten ages ago and remained in the proud familial pact. This was what called to her, and this is what Aurea walked towards willingly; the power that flowed through her was wild and untamed, so when Aurea took the bite, she knew that it was an unknowable step toward what fate had in store for her. The Moretti line was secure; her brothers were sovereign and marshal, but her path was still undetermined. She’d find herself reflected in different parts of the world, on the road with nothing but what she could carry on her back, a trailer hitched behind her until she landed in the city that decided the fates of so many. Aurea fought tooth and nail alongside the senate and her brothers to win back the world ripped away from them; when the Fates decided to give her a second chance, Aurea didn’t back down. Soldier. Heroine. Champion. Alpha. Queen of Lupercal, Aurea was not born into divinity; she was not some God’s chosen warrior or favoured victim; Aurea earned her power the hard way; through tears and violence—a pillar among The Ivy, and leader of the most significant pack the world has ever seen.

Connections

Lycaon: Creator of the lycan line, every lycan can trace their bitten heritage back to Lycaon. The First Alpha has allied himself with The Lupo and fought shoulder to shoulder with Aurea during the events of The End. 

Fenrir: A proto-lycan, the lythari has allied with The Lupo, Lupercal, and their new Queen; Aurea has been acknowledged by Sehanine, which makes the Alpha a point of interest to Fenrir.

Nettelia: Asked very nicely to act as an ambassador between the Pyramid and Lupercal, Nettelia agreed because she likes to see women succeed. Also, she knows Octavian is in Lupercal, so this is a way to keep an eye on him. 

Octavian: Allied with The Ivy and residing within Lupercal, Octavian stands behind Aurea, and while he’s dangerous, he’s also a valuable asset.

Abilities

Destined: In or out of wolf form, Aurea has unmatched strength, speed, reflexes, and senses. 

Lycanthropic Blessing: Aurea can turn any mortal creature into a lycan through prolonged physical contact, and with her howl, she can force a shapeshifter back into its original form.

Immortal: Aurea does not age, is highly resistant to magic, her skin is nearly impenetrable, and any mortal wounds will heal instantly. 

Pack: Can communicate telepathically with her pack and perceive the surroundings of her pack when they're shifted, using their sense and seeing through their eyes.

Weaknesses

Silver: Poisonous to her, the metal will burn her upon physical contact. While silver weapons are not able to kill Aurea, they are the only thing that can weaken her or cause her significant harm.

Blessing: Aurea must have prolonged physical contact to turn someone into a lycan, and this blessing must be accepted willingly.

Alpha: Any supernatural creature that looks at her will recognize her as an Alpha.

Lupercal: If the pack completely disbands, Aurea loses her abilities as an aspect and will return to a regular lycan.

THIS SKELETON IS CURRENTLY TAKEN.

[yhwhrulz]

Charles Spurgeon's "Morning & Evening" Devotional: October 4th

Morning

“The Lord of those servants cometh and reckoneth with them.”

Matthew 25:14-30

Still further to warn us of his coming, our Lord delivered the parable of the talents.

Matthew 25:15

We have all some talent. It may be only one, but, we are responsible for it. Are we acting up to the measure of our ability? Many wish they had more talents, but this is wrong, for the Lord has entrusted us with quite as many gifts as we shall be able to give a good account of. Our great concern should be to be found faithful stewards of such things as we have.

Matthew 25:16-18

He probably thought that as he could not do much he would not do anything, and there are thousands of his opinion; they fancy that their little is not needed and will never be missed, and therefore they make no attempt to serve their Lord. Are we of that kind?

Matthew 25:24 , Matthew 25:25

Deep down in all unregenerate hearts there lurks the idea that God is too severe upon poor erring mortals, expecting more of them than is reasonable. Yet, if they think so they ought to be roused to greater carefulness to render to the Lord full obedience; their knowledge of what the Lord demands will make their disobedience the more criminal.

Matthew 25:27

usury or interest

Matthew 25:29

He was not rebellious, but only unprofitable, and that condemned him. How does this solemn truth bear upon us? Let us search and see.

Make haste, O man, to live,

For thou so soon must die;

Time hurries past thee like the breeze;

How swift its moments fly!

Make haste, O man, to live,

Thy time is almost o’er;

Oh, sleep not, dream not, but arise;

The Judge is at the door!

Evening

“Let Thy mercy, O Lord, be upon us.”

Matthew 25:31-46

May our hearts be earnestly attentive while we read our Lord’s own account of the Day of Judgment.

Matthew 25:33

Here we are mixed together, but the keen eye of the Great Shepherd will detect our real characters and place us in one or other of the two flocks into which all mankind will be divided. There will be no middle company, we shall be placed either with saints or sinners in that day. To which do we now belong?

Matthew 25:36

All these are deeds of love; not one of them consists of words, or ceremonial acts. The truest worship of God is charily to the needy: does not the apostle James say, “Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, to visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction and to keep himself unspotted from the world.”

Matthew 25:39

They were modest, and had never set so high a value upon their own virtues as to have seen that excellence in them which the Judge had long ago discovered, and which he now declares publicly before men and angels. They had only been kind to poor and afflicted men and women, and were surprised to hear that the Lord regarded their actions as rendered to himself.

Matthew 25:40

How this ennobles charity! “He that giveth to the poor lendeth unto the Lord.” Who would not show kindness to his Redeemer?

Matthew 25:41-43

They were not condemned for what they had done amiss, but for what they had not done. Sins of omission are glaring evidences of want of grace, especially the omission of those duties which common humanity requires of us.

Matthew 25:44

They were self-righteous and had no eye to see their faults. Fain would they have justified themselves. Those who deny their sins may be sure that they are of the goats.

Matthew 25:45 , Matthew 25:46

There is no temporary punishment any more than temporary reward. As sure as heaven is everlasting, so also is hell. Flee, O flee from the wrath to come.

Thou Judge of quick and dead,

Before whose bar severe,

With holy joy or guilty dread,

We all shall soon appear!

Our caution’d souls prepare

For that tremendous day;

And fill us now with watchful care,

And stir us up to pray.

Copyright Statement This resource was produced before 1923 and therefore is considered in the "Public Domain".

[libidomechanica]

An hendy hap ich habbe yhent, ichoot

Where the tailor— that move men’s heart.     Reserve your faithless as with a dearness not his wine and     harmony combining in, and tuneless crocodiles.     Though at times convenient, but still: but the levee rose, and     its deep, and chestnut-flowers

of either side, and levels     of youth be flown? Sharpens and much rather be. By the tower,     if men esteemed for itself without spring-days, with     sound. Which rainbows of those who has nought to seek to know the     whole act express, that Love

is lost, my shepherds pipe all distance     lies for such a field of as we pass his warm life-breath,     their own Joys, and near my dusky highways left ear folds into     his, and anon there is not mine; ’ both have been waiting,     and love. Now do I know

he has my hands clasped for in this,     that they meant by this half- world. But many waters trough the     ground, who took fire, like a March twig: an arm of eminence     mongst them, and only when first do blow. Plains of hell. I trust     beyond all the warp’d and

found such another turning the     softer than are then death of life. Whatever is to come     back of the seraphim, they shall by those which he climbs to     watch the story must all this, and love. Is when art is too     precise in the lengths its

end, doth teach thing is your famish’d     count it but a din. The Seven in a row, which destroyed.     His warm life-breath, their shared bed, who rolls away, whilst Ben he     was uncurl’d, baked, fried, or burnt, turn’d a lieutenant to shore:     and till should it looking

with honors to his own will always     used her of annoy; stella, Soueraigne of my spirit     leaps with me through grief, and lips are valleys, vouchsafe your words.     Advantage on the evening. To endure, and only when     I caught you are dying

I throw mildly, all the blushing     was thrown down of all things which troublesome, and curl’d much rather     rough, of him here! Bit the Amen, ere thy poor, worthless     was dry together and the blanching there. Like bridegroom meets     the first thing resolvèd; if

to secretes its beating leagues     of murder, I will the musk carnations break in the house.     What thou too, mortal man such ladies! And her Pleasure nor     purpose; and hid under that great wall of good found there, be     the shore, and mine idle

life have soothe his woes with Sally     Brown, to endure, and unembroyder’d from staring at the     surface, my Peggy’s work and queir; yet, by my mother’s face,     nay, image be white stockit mailens. Where I go, she goes.     Speak, while her person past

bounds of wit, fooles. Valleys; meseems     I feel a handsome uniform,—a scarlet coat, black     again are the palm was infused, she said: Go up, dear heart     blooms through worlds like a sharper sense of inward as a shell     secret forests, turning

noon without that putti-filled heaven!     Closing day. An hendy hap ich habbe yhent, ichoot     from Oxford up your throat like hangovers, and all parties:     never could not keep, some heart and mine had bound us     All overlay us.

[johnhardinsawyer]

Collecting Stones

John Sawyer

Bedford Presbyterian Church

5 / 7 / 23 – Fifth Sunday of Easter

Acts 7:55-60

1 Peter 2:2-10

“Collecting Stones”

(Building the Kingdom)

There is a small island off the coast of Scotland called Iona.  I have only been there once, but there is something very special and holy about that place.  To get there from here, you have to take a plane, a train, a ferry, a bus, and another ferry.  You really need to want to be there to get there.  There is an ancient Abbey church on Iona, a retreat center, and two quaint hotels.  There is daily worship in the Abbey, beautiful music, and lots and lots of history.  There is an old cemetery and lots of ruins – stones piled up and stones lying around.  Over the centuries, Iona has been the home of medieval monks (1,200 years ago) and post-modern environmentalists and LGBTQ advocates (today) – all of them Christian, all of them seeking to be faithful in that thin place where heaven and earth seem to meet in a mysterious way and the line between the two can seem blurry.  

There is so much history, and so much beauty, and so much that is holy on Iona.  Anyone who visits the rocky coastline of the island would have good reason to wonder, “If these stones could talk, I wonder what they might say they’ve seen.”  When I was on Iona, I took one of these stones.  It is small and smooth, from centuries of being tumbled by the waves and the sand of a beach on the northern end of the island.  A quick walk from the place where I picked up that stone, there is another beach at a place called “Martyrs Bay,” where sixty-eight monks were killed by Viking raiders in the year 806.[1]  If the stones on that beach could talk. . .  I shudder to think of the story they would tell.  

Our first scripture reading, today is a story that I shudder to read.  Maybe you shuddered to hear it.  It is definitely one of those passages of the Bible that some people might call a text of terror – or one of those passages that some people will point to and say, “The Bible is just too violent for me.”  If the stones in the story of Stephen could talk, they would tell a tale of human beings doing what they have done at every stoning, and lynching, and act of mob violence in history.  

You know, there are so many examples of stones being used in the Bible.  Sometimes, they are used for good – for building up – and sometimes they are not.  There is a famous line from the Book of Ecclesiastes in the Old Testament:  

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven. . . a time to break down, and a time to build up. . . a time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together.  (Ecclesiastes 3:1, 3b, 5a)

It would seem that those who came to kill Stephen threw their stones in a way that did not build up.  

In the Old Testament, in the Book of Judges, a man named Abimelech is mortally wounded when a woman drops a millstone on his head.[2]  Maybe we should feel bad for Abimelech, but maybe he shouldn’t have killed his seventy brothers and declared himself king.  Those who live by the sword sometimes die by the millstone, I guess.  Then there is an even more famous story in the Old Testament of the shepherd boy named David, who picks up five smooth stones from the ground and goes off to fight and kill a giant named Goliath.[3]  So, clearly, there are stones that are used to kill in the Bible, but there are also examples of people, like Jacob, who is out in the wilderness at night, and uses a stone for a pillow, has an amazing dream and hears the voice of God, and then sets that stone pillow up in such a way that it becomes a pillar at a place called Bethel – a place that Jacob says, “shall be God’s house.” (Genesis 28:22)[4]  There is also the time when God’s people travel from forty years of wilderness wandering into the promised land and, at the spot where they cross the Jordan River, Joshua collects twelve stones – one for each tribe of Israel – and he says,

When your children ask in time to come, ‘What do these stones mean to you?’ then you shall tell them that the waters of the Jordan were cut off in front of the ark of the covenant of the Lord. . . so these stones shall be to the Israelites a memorial forever.  (Joshua 4:6-7)

A stone can be a permanent thing – telling a story, carrying deep meaning.  If you think about a gravestone erected over someone’s grave or a monument to a great person.  Stones can have a way of lasting and signifying something.  

Perhaps, the most famous example of a stone in the Bible, of course, is the stone that is rolled away from the tomb when Jesus is resurrected.  But before that, there is the story of Jesus stopping a crowd from throwing stones at a woman who is caught in adultery.  “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her,” Jesus says.  (John 8:7) Jesus’ words stop them in their tracks.  They all drop their stones and go away.[5]  If only this had happened at the stoning of Stephen. . .  At another point, in Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus has a little child sit on his lap and says that people need to become like a child to enter the kingdom of heaven.  “If any one of you put a stumbling block before one of these little ones who believe in me, it would be better for you if a great millstone were fastened around your neck and you were drowned in the depth of the sea,”[6] Jesus says.  (Matthew 18:6)  Ouch!  Another millstone!  Jesus is using hyperbole, here – a figure of speech – to make sure we understand that bullying children or taking advantage of their simple trust in God is a big no-no.[7]  Still, in another spot, in the Gospel of Mark, Jesus quotes a verse from Psalm 118, “The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone,” (Mark 12:10)[8] meaning that the people who are criticizing him (who think they know how to build things and do things “the right way”) might think they know what is right, but they do not know God’s true intentions as the divine Builder of all things.  

These words of Jesus and Psalm 118 are echoed in today’s second reading from the First Letter of Peter.  The overall message of this letter is to offer encouragement to people who are trying to follow Jesus in a world where they are not always understood or accepted.  The people reading this letter centuries ago – and those of us reading it, today – are invited to be put to good use by Jesus for the building up of the kingdom of God.  “Come to him a living stone, though rejected by mortals yet chosen and precious in God’s sight, and like living stones, let yourselves be built into a spiritual house. . .” (1 Peter 2:4-5)

Now, some of you might find this image strange.  For most of us, the only “living stone” we know of, today, is that actor/wrestler named Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson.  In actuality, the author is saying that each one of us – no matter how many muscles we may or may not have – can be used for good by God.  We can be chosen and used for building up.  No matter who you might see when you look in the mirror or who others might see when they see you you and I have the high calling of being God’s chosen, holy, people – to be, as Eugene Peterson translates,

. . . God’s instruments to do [God’s] work and speak out for [God,] to tell others of the night-and-day difference [God] made for you – from nothing to something from rejected to accepted.[9]  

Stephen saw himself as someone like this, as did those monks on Iona all those years ago – God’s chosen and accepted people – trying to do God’s good work against all odds.  Of course, history is filled with stories of martyrs, killed before their time.  Is this what you and I are called to become, too?  I don’t think so.  But I do think that when God uses us for good that certain things are asked of us – things that are sometimes (maybe even very often) outside our comfort zones.  I guess the question for us is:  will we seek to be instruments of building up or tearing down?

It is clear that we human beings are very good at the tearing-down side of things.  Turn on the television, or the radio, go to this-or-that website online and you will find those who are very good tearing others down, based on what they believe or don’t believe, how they look, what they have said or done.  And you and I?  Well, we are often content to stand by and watch all of this tearing down taking place – not unlike Saul in the story from Acts, who held the coats of the people throwing the stones and approved of what they were doing.  Think about how you and I treat other people on any given day and there will be moments in which we are not doing much building up.  

It is clear that Jesus calls us to live a different way – a way that is countercultural, a way that is not easily understood by some.  You might remember the thing that pushes Steven’s murderers over the edge, the thing that causes them to pick up stones and start throwing, is when Steven looks up to heaven and says that he sees something different.  Is the kingdom of God.  This is a kingdom that is all about the building up as to the tearing down – all about a greater love, a greater sacrifice, a greater forgiveness (even forgiveness of one’s enemies) than we are capable of on our own.  But, with the help of the Holy Spirit, there is no limit as to how God might use us for good – how we might be built into a spiritual house with other living stones, a house where all may find a home.

As a church, what are we trying to build?  There are plenty of churches that are interested in building actual buildings. And it is a blessing to have an historic building, in which our congregation a community can gather, and from which we can be sent out to the world to serve, and to live. But, in truth, what we are seeking to build is greater than what we can see with our eyes or touch with our hands.  What we are seeking to build, is an on-earth-as-in-heaven way of living and being.  What does this mean, for example, in a week when loneliness has been declared a national epidemic or when our national idolatry of firearms leads some lonely and hurting people with access to weapons to take the lives of others?

I am mindful of the story of Saul – the approving bystander and coat-holder.  I do not know what damage the witnessing of brutal violence does to someone’s spirit, but Saul was in need of something new, and different, and hopeful, and good, and healing.  Just a few chapters later, God chooses Saul for the work of building God’s kingdom.  Saul’s name is changed to Paul.  And Paul spends the rest of his life in grateful amazement – coming to terms with the love and mercy of the God who chose him to build something good.  How might we be about the business of being built up into a spiritual dwelling for all so that we might build others up in Jesus’ name, with Jesus’ love?  How might we share the good news that God has chosen us, against all odds, to receive mercy and to share mercy?  How might we be strengthened as a spiritual dwelling for the ministry of building up the kingdom of God – on earth as it is in heaven – at this Table of welcome and mercy, grace and blessed community?  

Let’s see. . . Have we left any stone unturned this morning?  Stones are used in a variety of ways – literal and figurative – in the Bible.  [Check]. Stones can be used for tearing down and for building up.  [Check]. Ah!  One last thing. . .  Why did I choose this one stone from Iona out of so many others – probably a million others on that beach?  Well, when I saw it in the water, it had these beautiful deep blue-gray stripes that really caught my eye.  Later, when the stone was dry, the stripes had faded – you could barely see them.  But when I put the stone in water, again, the stripes reappeared.  Pretty cool!

How many of us let the beauty of who God made us to be stay hidden beneath the surface – unseen by others?  How is God encouraging us to reveal who we really are?  In the waters of baptism, the spiritual gifts of God are given to us.  And when the water of baptism is remembered and revealed in us and through us, the beauty of these gifts can shine through for all the world to see.  

May the beauty of what God is doing in us and through us be seen and shared.  And may God’s kingdom be built of us and by us, with God’s help.  

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.  

--------

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Martyrs_of_Iona.

[2] See Judges 9:50-57.  

[3] See 1 Samuel 17.

[4] See Genesis 28:10-22.

[5] See John 8:2-11.

[6] See Matthew 18:1-7.

[7] Eugene Peterson, The Message: Numbered Edition (Colorado Springs: NAV Press, 2002) 1356.

[8] See Psalm 118:22-23.

[9] Eugene Peterson, 1677. 1 Peter 2:9-10.

[huesohnobro]

You Don’t Love Her

Chapter 2: The Witch and The Widow

Content warning: Cult shit, blood

Mostly fluffy actually

Dancing with the memory of that fateful night was like dancing with a wolf, the interaction had bared its fangs at you for weeks, rearing its head up every time you looked at your hand. You often found yourself staring with glee at the jagged line that carved its way down your skin, the slightly raised surface acting as a fond reminder. Had you been less busy of a person, you would have wondered what the Widow had thought of that night; if she found herself staring at the knife that marred your palm, if she took as much glee in the memory as you had. It was a shame really, that you had a business to run, a family to care for. They were so scared after the attacks from Dreykov, so worried that they were all next… You did all that you could to show them that they wouldn’t be, that they were safe with you, but some resistance was inevitable.

Of course it was, Dreykov’s loyal dog had managed to cut you. What kind of god were you if you bled? If you could be wounded by mortal men? The denial of your status was laughable really, the poor souls must’ve been shaken to their very cores to discredit your power. You were merciful with correcting them, truly. It was a shame, how little they understood of what blood was, of what it meant.

You took it upon yourself to teach them personally, you couldn’t delegate this to one of your higher followers, this responsibility was yours and yours alone. You had to show them, had to make them understand what exactly blood was.

Blood sings to us deep within our veins, screaming to be released from its prison in the service of a higher power.

Blood connects us in our pain, mixing together our suffering and longing, deep emotion and shallow pain as it spills.

Blood is life made into melted ruby, crimson wealth rushing under our skin as we breath, as we eat, as we love, as we die.

Blood was glorious, your blood especially. They had accepted that as theirs spilled onto the ground.

Walking out of the crimson stained room, an idea began to form within you. Your blood was extraordinary, especially compared to that of your loyal followers. Staring at the scar on your hand, you realized the opportunity that you had been wasting. As you entered your office, you couldn’t help but laugh to yourself over how stupid you had been. Of course your followers didn’t fully understand how holy your physical being was, they wouldn’t because it was only something they worshipped, something that was at the tip of their tongue, something just out of reach and yet so close to them. Pain only went so far, they needed, hungered for, practically begged at your feet for more. They needed you, needed to feel you, to taste you, to be one with you. They were your sacred flock, and yet they lacked the golden fleece that would make them so sought after, the poisonous fangs that would protect them should their shepherd fall astray. Yes, they needed you dearly, to feel your influence throughout them, to feel your love spread through them like a wildfire. They needed you inside of them, to taste of your flesh and blood in order to become whole, and who were you to deny your flock the power they so truly deserved?

The years had crawled by at an almost agonizing pace ever since Natasha had left the Red Room, each night finding a new and spectacular way to haunt her. It was midnight, and the compound was silent except for the ever-constant hum and whir of technology that filled the walls of any Stark-owned building. The hum was almost comforting to Natasha, she had spent so many sleepless nights listening to it and praying for amnesia, but all that she got was the low hum of electricity. Tonight the ceiling was a little different than usual, riddled with holes and small metal casings that embedded themselves into the reinforced surface. The four walls surrounding Natasha felt suffocating, the soft sheets below her feeling as though they were crawling up her skin, binding her to her spot on the mattress, forcing her to stare up at the holes that riddled the ceiling; the holes that should riddle her. Forcing herself up from the bed, Natasha stretched and sighed to herself, eyes scanning the room for any threats by force of habit. Instead of potential enemies lurking in the shadows of her space, her eyes landed on a pair of simple black slippers. They were a gift from Steve from when she had first settled in to the compound, or what he thought was her settling in. The floors were cold at night, so she put them on; there was no reason that her feet had to feel as miserable as the rest of her did.

Padding out into the empty hall, Natasha listened for the telltale signs of life aside from her own, the low mumble voices, the rattling of chains in the training room, the shifting of bed sheets from a nightmare. Natasha heard none of those, instead as she walked towards the common room her ears picked up on the sound of boiling water, and a slight clink of ceramic. Entering the room felt wrong, for all she knew she would be intruding on someone’s alone time, and time alone was precious here. Despite the sense of camaraderie and togetherness that Steve tried to instill into the team, it was obvious who was friends with who, who sided with who during petty squabbles, who felt like they belonged with who. For Natasha it was Clint, but he had a family, a life, all on his own. She couldn’t ruin that for him, she’d rather jump off of a cliff. Turning on her heel, Natasha prepared to go to the training room, there was nothing that unloading a clip of hot lead couldn’t temporarily solve.

“I have another mug, if you’re interested in tea…”

The voice was accented and soft, breaking the artificial silence that stood between the two women. Wanda Maximoff was not necessarily Natasha’s last choice for late night company, however she was nowhere near the first choice, especially considering the events of the Ultron Crisis. It wasn’t so much that Natasha distrusted the young witch, Natasha lacked trust in everybody, it was a part of her training. Instead, there was this overarching memory of violation whenever Wanda was around, and the fear that it would happen again. Despite this, Natasha found herself turning around to walk into the kitchen. Wanda seemed rather lonely, Natasha wasn’t the only one who didn’t fully trust her due to the events of their most recent fiasco. The Sokovian reminded Natasha of herself after her days in the red room, but at least then she had Clint; Wanda was well… alone, so Natasha slowly made her way to the kitchen.

“With how many people here drink coffee, I didnt think we had tea.” It was an easy enough conversation starter, not even a lie like her usual ones. The Avengers as a whole may seem like they ran on truth and justice and the pursuit of protecting the world, but really it was java that kept them all going, including Natasha. Wanda laughed a little, it was a soft, light sound; considerably different from the hearty guffaws of the men on the team. “You didn’t, not until I asked for Steve to buy some. How do your take yours?”

Wanda’s accent was still present, Natasha would have to work with her on that for future missions. “I don’t usually drink tea, surprise me.” Natasha knew it wouldn’t really be a surprise, the red-head would be watching the witch far too closely for that. Heavily ringed hands poured hot water and honey, steeping the bags afterward. Amber clouded under the surface, swirling through the cup as it was mixed. Now all they had to do was wait.

“You know, the tea in Sokovia was a bit better than the one you Americans drink.”

Now it was Natasha’s turn to smile, her eyes shifting to the steam rising out of the mug as it was handed to her. It was almost too hot to hold, but Natasha kept her hands wrapped around it anyways. The burn was almost comforting, a stinging reminder of where she was, of who she was. “The tea is better, I can’t really think of anything that America does better, but they do certainly do things bigger.” Wanda nodded and sipped her tea, going around the counter to sit next to Natasha. She was shorter than expected and looked as though she hadn’t slept in days, it would be a wonder if she got any sleep at all considering who owned the tower. Sighing softly, Natasha stared back into the amber void that was her mug, taking a long sip. “So whats keeping you awake?” Natasha glanced as she asked, the tea was too sweet for her but, Wanda didnt have to know that. Wanda shrugged, rubbing her sock clad feet before taking a deep breath, looking up at Natasha. With all of the havoc she had wrecked Natasha had nearly forgotten just how young Wanda was, it almost made her insomnia heartwrenching.

Almost.

The brunette sighed, twisting one of her rings around. “Oh you know, new place, old issues… It’s uh, its nothing.” Wanda’s shoulders squared as she spoke, flexing and relaxing her fists slowly. She was practically swimming in the knit sweater that covered her, a far cry from her usual outfit. “So, hows the jacket you stole from me doing?” A smirk played at Natasha’s lips at how the witch flushed from embarrassment. “I did not steal it, I am borrowing it indefinitely, as Pietro would say-” Clearing her throat, she took another sip of her tea. “Besides, you are the Black Widow, not the red widow, you will not miss it too much no?”

“No but it was expensive, so try not to magic any holes into it.”

“I’m getting it under control, don't worry.” Wanda smiled playfully, her features softening a bit in the light of the kitchen. “Your jacket will be safe with me, Natasha.”

Natasha stiffened for a brief moment, thankfully undetected by the witch. It was the first time Wanda had said Natasha’s name, they hadn’t had the “pleasure” of interacting much outside of their impromptu tea party. Overall, it was pleasant, not as stress relieving as beating the sand-filled bag that hung from the gym’s ceiling, but a sort of peace brought to the chaos in their minds that bordered on therapeutic. “So… do you do this often? Drink tea at around three a.m.?” Wanda wrapped her hands around her mug, crossing her legs over one another in her seat. “Only on the nights when I see his face.” Natasha’s mug had become luke-warm in her hands, half full with too-sweet tea. Then again, there wasn’t all that much honey in it, Natasha just wasn’t a sweets person. That would’ve been Clint or Thor, they probably would’ve been better for Wanda to talk to at the moment. They would’ve been more comforting, especially Clint. Wanda had taken a shine to him, he had quickly become a new father figure to her. Hell if she didn’t have magic, Natasha wouldn’t be all that shocked if Clint showed the new avenger the ropes of archery. Instead the witch had the assassin, whos past reeked of red iron.

A fleeting thought passed through the assassin’s mind at the remembrance of the blood, the red that stained her ledger. Wanda was the Scarlet Witch, perhaps the red wouldn’t bother her.

“I see faces a lot too. You get used to it after a while.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Natasha watched as the younger of the two shrank into herself.

“Do they ever go away?”

“I don’t know. Thats why I’m out here.”

“Well… next time we can drink a Russian tea, if you’d like?”

Next time, it sounded far too hopeful leaving the witch’s mouth.

“Sure, but I’m more of a coffee person.”

The kitchen lights seemed warmer at the sight of the soft smile Wanda gave. There was no red magic swirling around the bulbs, no outside affect to mess with Natasha’s mind. No, right now it was just the two women, enjoying tea together to escape the faces that haunted them.

They were just two women, pretending to be blissfully unaware.

No one had wanted to be at the briefing, it was 12:42 p.m. and lunch was rudely interrupted by Fury’s insistence that the meeting could not be held any later, as this was an increasingly urgent matter. The team listened to Fury diligently, it was the same premise as usual. Hydra had finally come back out of hiding, they had recently raided a location in rural Spain. It was more of a massacre than the usual Hydra raids, with the Nazi-organization’s soldiers littering the ground along side countless civilians. Whatever Hydra had sent its lackies to retrieve had been dangerous, almost animalistic from the zoomed in footage of claw wounds and immolated flesh. It was unsettling to say the least, Tony looked like he was going to hurl what little food he had managed to get in his system before the meeting. As the footage continued Natasha noted small features of the village, a tower here, a church there, it all seemed hauntingly familiar. A rolling unease built itself up in the spy’s stomach, bile crawling through her throat at the idea of what this might mean. Finally Fury stopped the footage on two people, tranquilized and being dragged off into an air carrier by hydra’s operatives. Blue patches criss-crossed the tan skin of the captives, piercing yellow eyes were glazed over from the drug of the tranquilizer, their fingers had sharpened points at the end, presumably the cause of the claw marks in earlier footage. As they were hauled off, Natasha had suddenly understood why she had such terrifying deja-vu. Fury continued speaking, but the words fell flat before getting to Natasha, a muffled garble of sound.

Those villagers- those monsters, looked like the one person she had failed to kill.

Those monsters looked like the greatest mistake in the entirety of her career as a Black Widow.

Those monsters looked like you.

[carryonthroughtheages]

Hello everyone!

Another year of Carry On Through The Ages is over and done! We have emotions and exhaustion, but we're so happy that this year had the hype and excitement that it did.

Thank you, from the bottom of our hearts, to all of the AMAZING creators who spent the last several months working away at their historical content!

Thank you also to the hard-working mods: @bazzybelle, @giishu, @palimpsessed, and @xivz . This fest would not have been as successful as it has been without you!

We encourage everyone to look under the page break for all the fics and art. They're all fantastic!

Here is the link to the AO3 Collection: Carry On Through The Ages 2021!

Thank you all, and until next year! 🧡🧡🧡

MONDAY:

1) sun on the sea (T) - @trenchcoat-moth : AO3 // Tumblr

Tensions run high in England, and Malcolm decides it's for the best he sends Baz to live with Fiona, where he'll be safer.

That is, until Baz's ship is attacked.

2) The Words I Long To Say (M) - @bazzybelle : AO3 // Tumblr

Simon Snow was dead.

Baz Pitch was sure of it. Simon had gone away seven years ago to fight a war in the jungle and he hadn't come home.

So, when Simon shows up in Baz's club, investigating a string of brutal murders, all Baz wants to do is hold him close and never let him go.

But these aren't the same boys from 1960 and Baz has a lot of processing to do before he's ready to believe in Simon again.

3) we are slaves to gods, whatever gods are (M) - @wellbelesbian : AO3 // Tumblr

I don’t fully understand what plagues him, but I know it’s bad, and I know it goes deeper than guilt. He didn’t want to kill his father, not really, but we were instructed to do so by Apollo. Cleanse the house of its sins, dispose of a murderer to set things right. It was only right that I join him; he was avenging my mother as much as his. Clearly, Apollo didn’t seem to consider that such an act would make Simon a murderer in his father’s place. It seems I got off fine, but as far as Simon is concerned, the vengeful spirits that once spun and danced on the roof of the palace now hunt him down, determined not to stop until he rids the world of himself.

4) World War II Era Art - @stardustasincocaine : Tumblr

TUESDAY:

1) the art of loving you (E) - @one-more-offbeat-anthem : AO3 // Tumblr

1955. London. Young love.

Forbidden love.

A year ago, starving artist Simon Snow met Baz Pitch, son of a wealthy art patron, at a party, and their days (and nights) together have been a wonderful secret.

But Simon is tired of being a secret and knows it's time for things to end.

(Baz has other ideas.)

2) Reliquary of an Arsonist (T) - @tea-brigade : AO3 // Tumblr

Simon Snow grew up a ward of Watford Abbey, but when his magic manifested in an explosive accident as a child, he became the Abbey’s anchorite—never to leave Watford’s walls, for his own protection. That is, until Abbot David sends him on an important errand…

Basilton Pitch paints portraits for his patron, Lord Grimm. But he’s never forgotten the magic he learned from his mother—nor the men who condemned her to death as a heretic. When Simon arrives and offers Baz a commission from Watford Abbey, he sees his chance to avenge his mother once and for all...and he’s willing to burn down everything in his path to that end.

But it was no coincidence that pulled these two unlikely souls together. Something more sinister is underway at Watford Abbey, and only Simon and Baz can uncover the truth before everything goes up in flames.

3) Westward Son (E) - @aristocratic-otter : AO3 // Tumblr

Simon and Baz have found each other again, but there's nowhere in Brooklyn or Virginia where they can safely be together. So now, they venture the hazards and struggles of the Oregon trail, to perhaps find a little homestead in Oregon of their own.

4) A Way Out (T) - @lying-on-the-sofa : AO3

I frown at him..“You don’t know me.”

He offers his hand. “Simon.”

Simon. I feel the name around in my mind and assign it to his face. Simon. I don’t shake his hand. They’ve still got my arms pinned. “Basilton.”

Simon nods at me. “Now we know each other. Let him go.” Very casually, he takes his other hand from behind his back. A sword, flashing. He leans on it and smiles invitingly. “Let him go.”

This time, they listen.

--

Simon Snow has been trained for years to become a tribute—one of the fighters Athens sends every ninth year into the Minotaur’s labyrinth. He wants to know the way out, if only for Penny’s sake. Luckily for him, Prince Basilton of Crete also wants a way out—off the island, where no one will know he’s the half-brother of the Minotaur.

Unluckily for both of them, they don’t exactly form the most agreeable pair.

WEDNESDAY

1) long is the road the leads me home (G) - @wellbelesbian : AO3 (Version 1) (Version 2) // Tumblr

Baz has a rather unremarkable life, and he's fine with that. Running his late mother's beloved inn with his temperamental aunt, estranged from his father and step-siblings, he's successfully convinced himself that he's better off without attachments.

Then Simon barrels into his life, guns blazing and rapier drawn, and Baz is swept up in dramatic plot he never bargained for.

Worse still, he finds he quite likes the thrill.

2) New Romantics (T) - @ninemagicks : AO3 // Tumblr

Basilton Pitch, twenty-two years old and a famed poet of the Romantic era, has fled to the countryside. In Mummers House, the fabled haunt of literary greats, he sulks himself into oblivion and awaits a sad, disappointing end to his brief years of brilliance. The cause of his downfall? None other than Simon Snow, the so-called “bad boy of English poetry”, breaker of rules and eternal thorn in his side. Baz hopes that Mummers House might mean an escape from London, from Snow and his increasingly virulent popularity... but the rain that comes has other ideas.

3) thnétos (T) - @snowybank : AO3 // Tumblr

thnétos: subject to death, mortal

a retelling of Apollo and Hyacinthus

4) A Medieval AU art piece - @thewriterxj : Tumblr

THURSDAY

1) From Eden (E) - @orange-peony : AO3 // Tumblr

I wonder if his skin is warm or cold to the touch. I tell myself it’s simple curiosity, that I’m an artist and capturing things on paper or canvas is my way to make sense of the world. That drawing him feels so natural, so I should just follow my instincts. Ebb used to say it all the time. Follow your heart. It knows where you’re supposed to go.

I wish I could. I wish I had enough money and freedom to just draw what I want. To paint him in his unattainable beauty. To draw him the way I want to. Naked and vulnerable, raw. Without frills and expensive suits.

Just Baz on paper, my fingers tracing his delicate and beautiful lines with simple charcoal.

2) Slings and Eros (M) - @palimpsessed : AO3 // Tumblr

Young god of love Simonides is tasked by his father, the god of war, to bring about the ruin of a mortal prince to punish his blasphemy. However, once Simonides sees his intended victim, he begins to have misgivings. Prince Tyrannus might have offended the gods with his very existence, but all Simonides can see is how beautiful and lonely he is.

Or, a very loose interpretation of the Eros and Psyche myth.

3) I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire (M) - @knitbelove : AO3 // Tumblr

September 1940: Going back to Watford feels different this year, and not just because England is at the brink of war with Germany and Italy. Penelope seems unsettled by everything, and Agatha is distant, and Baz is … simply not here.

What if Carry On but during the Blitz?? Yeah.

4) A Fool's Oath (M) - @thewriterxj : AO3 // Tumblr

A simple soldier is invited to join the ranks of the royal guard. He and his appointed mage arrive at the royal city to find themselves at the mercy of an unmerciful court. As he struggles to find his place in this foreign environment, he also finds himself entranced by music that only he seems to hear that floats out about the city. He makes an oath to wed whoever makes such beautiful music.

Too bad that person is the crown prince.

FRIDAY

1) Stranger Tides (T) - @tea-brigade & @xivz : AO3 // Tumblr

“If some god shall wreck me in the wine-dark deep, even so I will endure…” Captain Simon Snow of the Chosen One is many things—cunning, handsome, ruthless. Greedy. It’s no surprise that Snow finds a way to piss off the God of the Sea, he always manages to get himself into some type of trouble. This time, however, he’s not the only one who will suffer the consequences. Poseidon promises to not stop his pursuit until Snow and all of his men are dead.

Enter Basilton Pitch—rich, beautiful, mysterious. Suspicious. He offers the crew of the Chosen One a hefty sum to take him back to Europe from the Caribbean. And who is Captain Snow to refuse so much coin? After all, Greek gods aren’t real.

Right?

2) The wayward heir [comic] (M) - @letraspal : AO3 // Tumblr

Like a folk song, our love will be passed on. Simon Snow wants to be an artist. He used to live in Fiesole where he worked in the wool shop of his good friend Ebeneza Petty. He has now chosen to return to his native Florence in order to participate in an art contest hosted by the Pitch family, the most important bankers in all the three continents and Simon’s last chance for an art patronage. No matter how much he hates them.

But being back in Florence also brings back the memories Simon wanted to leave behind : his days as an orphan, the mystery about his mother, and once more being under the inquisitive eyes of his godfather, the new archbishop Davy. The archbishop is very same man who would never forgive him for dropping out the priesthood and ruining his secret plans against the Pitches.

The last thing Simon needed was an unbearably handsome jerk getting him into trouble on his very first day in Florence. How can focus when this man is the most annoying person he has ever met and yet his major source of inspiration.

3) Prohibition Blues (T) - @heyyyandrea : AO3

Simon Snow is a baker and aspiring playwright in Prohibition Era New York City. When he meets a handsome man at Shepherd's speakeasy who is interested in his work, he can't help but think it feels too good to be true.

4) Earth Below & Sky Above (M) - @phoxphyre : AO3 // Tumblr

In the depth of the palace of King Minos of Crete lurks a creature known as the Minotaur.

Baz, prince of Athens and chosen of the god Poseidon, has heard the stories. And now he’s volunteered to come to Crete as one of the annual tributes—to dance with the king’s bulls and fulfill his destiny. He just wants to survive the bulls, protect his people, and go home.

But what if the Minotaur isn’t a monster—but just a boy? And what if instead of slaying him, Baz fell in love with him?

A Carry On retelling of the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur, set in Bronze Age Crete.

5) A 1980s AU Art piece by @stardustasincocaine : Tumblr // Instagram (Slightly NSFW)

[analviel]

Zero Dawn Pantheon:

You know, how GAIA is treated as a goddess by the Nora (I mean, making things out of light, literally created everything, so they're not wrong. The genius of how magic and science and sci-fi and primitive life and a bit of cyberpunk and the idea of the apocalypse and ragnarok and genesis were seamlessly combined i can't stop gushing.)

If ever someone else comes upon their holograms or even just their photos, or if Aloy ever shares and spreads their stories, this is how I imagine the Zero Dawn Pantheon will look like.

So the myths go like this: At first, this world was occupied only by the sire of the Metal Devil, feeding on barren lands and drying oceans, but Gaia endured and eventually triumphed with the help of her own children. However, sometime in the chaos, the Metal Devil successfully blasted Apollo till only her essence is left (said essence which will one day choose her champion in Nora Tribe member Araman as her medium to return, by giving him a boon of her knowledge and instructing him to go to Minerva's spire to plant a seed that will one day be instrumental in her resurrection) and planted a corruptive essence of his in Hades. So the All-Mother and her court gives birth to the world, Eleuthia assisting mothers in childbirth, Artemis shepherding wild life so it doesn't devour everything else, Hephaestus forging the tools each need to thrive, Apollo's essence providing knowledge, and Minerva how to use it.

And a myth isn't a myth if it's so linear and clear-cut, so in some versions, it says that the gods, as Minerva as their leader, gathered together for Hephaestus to forge the quintessential essence of themselves, someone who will oversee everything simultaneously to keep the perpetual balance, and came Gaia (I'd imagine this is the Oseram's favourite version, if they had favourite versions of religion). In some versions though, it's the other way around, where Minerva and the others are Gaia's children. As it so happens, in this version, Aloy is considered less of a god's champion/Anointed One and more of a goddess herself, most art even depicting Artemis in her fashion, with red hair and a spear, stalking a machine. Otherwise, Artemis is a male of dark hair and clean shaven hair, while Aloy is an immortal champion bridging the mortals and the gods, essentially a demigod by being born a god but raised as human and probably a patron of heroism/soldiers and assistance or something. Metal Devil is how the essence of all evil and taint is referred to, but especially brazen people or extremely blasphemous ones, may whisper Ted Faro.

Sometimes, Apollo is an active lover of many men and women, sometimes she's a modest woman who's really more interested in acquiring and making knowledge and just so happens to talk to a lot of people to do her duty. Sometimes Hades is a kind, just, and inevitable king who had the unfortunate chance of being corrupted by the Metal Devil, sometimes he's constantly faced with disappointment from his family because of his blatant lust.

There is a name: Elisabet. Could be Gaia, could be Minerva, and though rarely, can also be Aloy. Only thing that doesn't change is that she's a Mother. Gaia's or Aloy's or both. You know how it is. There are many debates.

Carja, of course, choose their patron god as Apollo (who take the form of Samina). Ban-uk has Artemis (I imagine Aluki in particular is fascinated with the stories of how Artemis once took the form of a young maiden and had a band of other young maidens they bring for ETERNAL HUNT!). The Nora are very smug about being right about the All-Mother -for the most part. Oseram aren't the most religious but they have preference of Hephaestus. Eleuthia is the patron of expecting fathers and male family members -they cannot start or stop the act of birthing, nor do it in place of their partners, but they can still be a part of the act by assisting, as it was believed Eleuthia did for his mother. Demeter is, of course, patron of farmers, also herbalist and anyone who puts plants on their plates. Hades is basically patron of people like Nil, who believe that everyone is equal in death -there's also little Travis statues in graves. Generals, kings, organizers, planners, traders, pray for wisdom from Minerva.

The only one programmed with a visual form is Gaia, but eventually, as learning AI who can learn compassion (or, already cares, since they're all initially aspects of Gaia before gaining minds of their own) they just use the forms of their Alpha creators.

Also, none of the AIs whatsoever understand that humans treat them as gods. They are, after all, still just learning how to identify sarcasm. So sometimes, people may ask for a story about, say Apollo, and the question may be phrased that they'd think it's referring to the greek god Apollo.

So, yeah, religion is basically just partly miscommunication and misunderstanding but if you think about it not really.

Also, Carja may start wearing head scarves, as an 'expression of their faith' as Apollo explained their hijab. And also Apollo is basically a reincarnation of the internet.

[thetudorslovers]

Like so many of the Greek divinities, however, the refined conception of the Muses is somewhat marred by the acerbity with which they punished any effort on the part of mortals to rival them in their divine powers. An instance of this is seen in the case of Thamyris, a Thracian bard, who presumed to invite them to a trial of skill in music. Having vanquished him, they not only afflicted him with blindness, but deprived him also of the power of song.

With regard to the origin of the Muses, it is said that they were created by Zeus in answer to a request on the part of the victorious deities, after the war with the Titans, that some special divinities should be called into existence, in order to commemorate in song the glorious deeds of the Olympian gods. Of all the Olympic deities, none occupy a more distinguished position than the Muses, the nine beautiful daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne. In their original signification, they presided merely over music, song, and dance; but with the progress of civilization the arts and sciences claimed their special presiding divinities, and we see these graceful creations, in later times, sharing among them various functions, such as poetry, astronomy, etc.The Muses were honoured alike by mortals and immortals. In Olympus, where Apollo acted as their leader, no banquet or festivity was considered complete without their joy-inspiring presence, and on earth no socialgathering was celebrated without libations being poured out to them; nor was any task involving intellectual effort ever undertaken, without earnestly supplicating their assistance. They endowed their chosen favourites with knowledge, wisdom, and understanding; they bestowed upon the orator the gift of eloquence, inspired the poet with his noblest thoughts, and the musician with his sweetest harmonies.

With regard to the origin of the Muses, it is said that they were created by Zeus in answer to a request on the part of the victorious deities, after the war with the Titans, that some special divinities should be called into existence, in order to commemorate in song the glorious deeds of the Olympian gods.

-Calliope , the most honoured of the Muses, presided over heroic song and epic poetry, and is represented with a pencil in her hand, and a slate upon her knee.

-Clio , the muse of History, holds in her hand a roll of parchment, and wears a wreath of laurel.

-Melpomene , the muse of Tragedy, who bears a tragic mask.

-Thalia , the muse of Comedy, carries in her right hand a shepherd’s crook, and has a comic mask beside her.

-Polyhymnia , the muse of Sacred Hymns, is crowned with a wreath of laurel. She is always represented in a thoughtful attitude, and entirely enveloped in rich folds of drapery.

-Terpsichore , the muse of Dance and Roundelay, is represented in the act of playing on a seven-stringed lyre.

-Urania , the muse of Astronomy, stands erect, and bears in her left hand a celestial globe.

-Euterpe , the muse of Harmony, is represented bearing a musical instrument, usually a flute.

-Erato , the muse of Love and hymeneal songs, wears a wreath of laurel, and is striking the chords of a lyre.

[jaskiersvalley]

Your writing is so good, I keep coming back and mass reading everything. And I just want to put this down in case you want to pick it up,, As great as immortal!Jaskier is, I really just want to see people hunker down on Jaskier completely accepting his humanity (and more importantly, his mortality). And also, how the Witchers and Ciri and Yen would react as Jaskier ages and reaches his golden years.

Must you break my heart Nonnie? This prompt hurt. I tried. I really did. But my heart is never going to be able to cope with the harsh truth that Jaskier is mortal. So...uh...I improvised and tried to incorporate everything as you asked while also keeping my poor little heart safe.

Act I

A young, hopeful bard, not doing terribly well and singing about abortion in an out of the way village. He is not very well received and gets pelted with food. Being ever the opportunist, he stuffs it into his pants and spots a mysterious, beautiful man in the corner. It’s a witcher but the bard doesn’t care.

“You don’t want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting.”

An immortal line that will never be lived down. However, Geralt of Rivia now has a bard who sings and Toss A Coin To Your Witcher rings through the air.

Act II

The adventures of Geralt and Jaskier over a good 22 years. There’s a lot of idiocy from both parties, some hurt, some disagreements but they always resolve their differences. A Child Surprise, a djinn, a series of missed opportunities. The interval comes on a mountain after an argument. It feels as long as the six years between the argument and the apology.

Act III

There’s an apology, there’s a hug. There’s even a kiss. Found family, a few years at Kaer Morhen to help Ciri. Even Yennefer mellows out, Lambert seems to find his centre, Eskel has learns to forgive himself. It’s all wonderful. There’s just one problem: Jaskier finds his first grey hair.

Act IV

The years slip by. Jaskier stops following Geralt on the path and stays behind at Kaer Morhen. There’s more children there now. Eskel and Vesemir teach them, help them grow into fine people who don’t know the terrors and pains of being a witcher. A few more witchers arrive, not all of them leave. Lambert is too restless but he now has Aiden by his side. The children love them while Eskel despairs. Yennefer is off on her own adventures, Ciri too. But, one by one, they all come back. Geralt stops going out on the Path, helps with the children instead. They all know it’s for Jaskier. The lute becomes more difficult to play, easier to teach the youngsters to move their fingers. His voice becomes reedy with age.

The stairs of Kaer Morhen become difficult to navigate. Geralt carries Jaskier to bed most nights. Not like in their youth, thrown over his shoulder and laughing. No, it’s much more gentle, Jaskier usually already half asleep and mumbling into Geralt’s chest. It’s a domesticity so unfitting of witchers but nobody mentions it.

Act V

There’s no denying the end. Jaskier is in their shared bed, completely grey, reminiscing about a life well lived. Geralt is sat next to him, stoic as ever but his grip on Jaskier’s hand shakes. Around him, Lambert, Eskel, Yennefer, Ciri, Vesemir and a few others are gathered close. They know it is time. The heart of their family is stuttering now, while the years had been kind to him, Jaskier burned too bright to last forever.

As Jaskier delivers his final lines, thanking his family and asking them to live for each other, the unthinkable happens. Witchers, who are stoic, unfeeling and made of stone look anything but. There’s even a sniffle as Lambert tries to hide his tears. With a final smile, Jaskier closes his eyes and breathes his last.

~~~~~~

The curtains came down and the audience sniffled. In the private box there was absolute stunned silence, only to be broken by Lambert.

“I wouldn’t have cried you ass.”

“Artistic license my darling,” Jaskier replied and turned to his family with a wide smile. “So? How amazing is it?”

“You wrote a play,” Eskel growled, “about yourself from eight centuries ago. Only changing the fact of your mortality.”

Nodding, Jaskier smiled. “Call it an exploration of emotions. I wanted to imagine the impact my death would have had. Plus, it makes for a much more compelling story. The critics had better give it five stars. A love doomed to fail by the hands of time.” Fixing Geralt with a look, Jaskier looked hopeful. “Three words or less.”

“Thankfully didn’t happen.”

Delighted, Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt’s neck. “Nope. You’re all stuck with me forever.”

They filed out of the theatre, Jaskier looking back at the billboard with a smile. He was quite content to have his name in large, illuminated letters bright above everyone. He’d worked hard at his current life, building up a fanbase that spread over the whole continent. It meant that Jaskier could soak in the adoration of many, reap the rewards and allow Geralt to run his ranch with his brothers for a while. No doubt, in a couple of decades they were going to get bored and Geralt will want to become the bread winner again.

But, for now, Jaskier let himself be shepherded into the minivan, content to have his family surround him as the modern Roach rumbled to life under Geralt’s hand.

Even better, the critics loved his play.

[tinyshe]

June 3, 2021 Your Excellencies, Do You Even Believe? Jennifer Hartline 

The learned and the mighty have been weighing in now for weeks regarding the ongoing scandal of Catholic pro-abortion politicians, particularly Speaker Nancy Pelosi and President Joe Biden, and the question of giving and receiving the Holy Eucharist.

I wonder if the USCCB will listen to a voice like mine. I am not a theologian or scholar. I am an ordinary laywoman. (Please note: This is not directed at the bishops who have spoken out publicly in defense of Eucharistic and moral coherence. Those few, steadfast shepherds are the exception, not the rule. I am immensely grateful to them.)

The scandal isn’t merely the Catholic politician who betrays the Faith. It is also those priests and bishops who shrug and nod, issue utterly worthless statements about the need for greater “dialogue” about what to do, and bemoan their “immense sadness” over the whole thing.

You lament the present “situation” and issue another statement about your sadness.

The “situation,” of course, is that baptized Catholics who publicly profess their devout faith are using all their political power and energy to facilitate the ongoing slaughter of the child in the womb. They guarantee half a billion dollars each year in funding for the killers. They protect this “right” (their language!) with legislation and fight every attempt at restricting the killing.

They do this gladly, without remorse, without any intention of ceasing. They are proud and empowered in their zealous advocacy of slaughtering innocents.

Yet, you only find your indignation and courage to condemn the “politicization” of the Eucharist. We must not “weaponize” the Eucharist, you solemnly warn, as though you are oblivious to the truth that it is Biden and Pelosi et al. who are “politicizing” the Eucharist. It is they who have made receiving Communion a litmus test of “inclusion” and “conscience” and “unity” according to the world’s demand.

To these scandalous Catholics (and to the rest of the Church listening) you speak with all the conviction and authority of a whimpering dog. The public figures in question laugh at your carefully worded, heavyhearted softballs, knowing they will whack it right back in your face.  

They sing the tune, and you dance on the end of their strings. It is clear who preaches to whom.

I can only conclude, sadly, that you do not believe. Nothing else makes any sense.

If you truly believed the Eucharist was the Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity of Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God, then you could not be so careless. You could not be so indifferent to the mockery of the King by those who publicly disavow His authority.

Or maybe what you don’t believe is that abortion is evil. Maybe you do not really believe it is always wrong to kill the child in the womb. Maybe you do not believe it is morally imperative, or even a good idea, to outlaw abortion.

That would help explain why this “situation” has gone on for decades, like a horror movie on endless repeat.

If Pelosi and Biden championed the legal right to kill kindergarteners, and poured half a billion dollars each year into an industry that existed solely to kill kindergarteners, would you have any qualms about them receiving the Eucharist? Would you still say that it was a political statement to deny them the Sacrament?

The unvarnished truth is that Pelosi and Biden actively work for the abortion industry. Do you understand that? Who works that zealously for something he truly believes is wrong?

Or perhaps you do not love. It would seem so because there is no love in betraying the Lord. Nor is there any love in enabling the death of souls in your charge. Or will you argue it is not a mortal sin to kill the child in the womb? If it is a mortal sin, how can it be justifiable to deliberately enable that sin? What excuse can possibly be offered for one who champions the killing of innocents, who personally and professionally benefits from partnerships with those who kill?

These are the ones who scold and sneer at your gentle chiding about the “protection of the unborn.” You refuse to act with courage and clarity to confront their heinous actions. You refuse to call them to repentance and fidelity. You refuse to care for their souls.

It is not a private matter any longer. It hasn’t been for many years. The scandal is public, the effects far-reaching, the consequences of your inaction are devastating. It is incoherent, inconceivable, that you, as a body, are conflicted and unsure whether it is right and just to withhold the Eucharist from any Catholic who willfully persists in zealous facilitation of abortion.

One wonders if you still believe in sin at all or have any fear of Hell at all. The faithful sheep still do, and we need shepherds who recognize the wolf as a threat. Unfortunately, I have seen how you shepherd. I have seen how you compromise and make excuses, and I have no confidence you would act any differently toward me.

You would leave me to the wolf. You would choose some other, lesser love over love of God. You would “accompany” me on the wide road. If I were lost in mortal sin, deluded by the evil one, participating in acts that will condemn me to Hell if I do not repent and convert, I could not count on you to tell me unchanging, hard truths. You would not offer me severe mercy, only counterfeit mercy.

You are unwilling to risk the mockery and scorn of the world, so you preach inclusion and unity rather than repentance and conversion.

You pretend that a soul can openly betray Church teaching and still claim to be a faithful son or daughter of the Church. You are there with handy excuses for why all the teachings of the Church are hard to embrace in their entirety, given all the complexities and pressures of daily life.

You do not love. You do not believe. What other explanation is there?

There is set before us life and death, the blessing and the curse. How long will you go on pretending there is any “dialogue” still to have? What is left to say to Herod at this point?

source Crisis magazine online

[kova-starlight]

Finally decided to hop on the train many others have and make my own Legion of Stationary. Ya’ll who made their own stationary have really inspired me and i love them all.

Gonna just drop off some headcanons for them while I work on finalizing their designs.

Coloured Pencils/Jean-Pierre/Cassie:

• He/she pronouns

•bi-gender

• The tips of her hair are coloured due to an accident while painting, but she claims she was born like this.

• Jean had helped decide which streamer each member guarded (she went by the colors each member mainly was)

• Loves to draw and draws in his spare time.

• Gets annoyed by the others easily

• He speaks with a french accent, but hardly knows the language

• she has a special glove that allows her to control her giant coloured pencils.

Rubber Band/ Rumi:

• she/her pronouns

• She Identifys as a trans woman.

• Rumi is a sucker for theatre and dramas. She can and will drag the other members to watch them with her.

• Rumi loves to act and put on plays, she is thinking about getting into the movie business too.

• She always wants to be the centre of attention. No matter the place or time

• She is a bit of a drama queen in any situation.

• Rumi can easily fix a fashion disaster or bad hair day.

Hole Punch/Hux/Heath:

• He/she/they

• Genderfluid/polygender

• Despite his retro tastes in music, he can listen to all music (he will complain about how bad it is though)

• Hux loves to dance, she loves disco and breakdancing the best.

• quite athletic

• They can and will make music references and puns to annoy Jean with.

• Mainly chill but can get hyper sometimes.

• Needs to wear gloves because she accidentally punched out many things.

• has a habit of chewing on things like paper

• Rumi usually helps her style their hair.

• Can and will stay up all night despite being told not to.

Tape/Theo:

• He/him

•male

• Theo is essentially the legions caretaker/parental figure.

• If you hurt any of them, look out as he will come after you

• Literally needs so much hair products to style his hair.

• His dispenser/motorcycle is one of his most prized possessions.

• He can fix any mechanical problem.

• Theo often gets the group out of trouble.

• Speaks in a new york accent.

• loves to collect pins

• He has too many pins on his jacket someone stop this man.

• He has a soft spot for animals

Scissors/Soren:

• they/them.

•nonbinary

• “Gender? Threw that mortal concept in the trash”

• Soren treats the paper cutouts and handaconda like family.

• They get bored easily, due to them being really strong and able to mostly beat anyone.

• They love to duel and are skilled in both sword fighting and martial arts.

• Soren spends a lot of time caring for their swords.

• They wear a binder and constantly need a reminder to take it off.

• Soren gets luxury treatment at shangrai spas (lets theo come up too)

Stapler/Spike:

• he/him

•male

• He is literally a dog, specifically a German shepherd

• Is able to speak but rarely does

• Spike loves king Olly and Tape.

• He is very protective of olly

• He is very obedient ( unless you arent tape or Olly

• Spike loves to chase after others, especially The folded soldiers

• instead of fangs he has metal staples

• his body is able to turn metal into new staples to use

• will chew on anything metal

• He has ruined a lot of toys Olly gave him from his fangs/staples

[bacejelerenvorthos]

The Lore of Kaldheim: Starnheim

“The lofty realm at the top of the World Tree is Starnheim, home of the Valkyries and the honored dead. Carved longships drift silently across a glassy black lake until they reach the central structure: the cavernous Hall of the Valkyries, woven from the living branches of the World Tree. A mystical glyph, the Light of Starnheim, shines overhead like the sun at its zenith and sends its light cascading down the World Tree to every realm.

Hall of the Valkyries

Ancient, elaborate, and pulsing with magic, the longhall at the heart of Starnheim is awe-inspiring. Woven from the uppermost branches of the World Tree where they rise from the lake, the hall seems to float on the surface. Inside, roiling clouds form the ceiling, changing from white to gray to thunderous black depending on the amount of conflict in the lower realms. The vast hall is expansive enough for every worthy person who ever lived to sit at the long table and partake in the eternal feast; however many new souls arrive, the building never feels full and the mead never runs dry.

The Valkyries choose the heroes who will spend eternity, after their mortal lives have ended, feasting forever in the mighty hall. Only the bravest souls, those who perform epic feats and die courageously in battle, can earn such a place of honor.

Everyone who is welcomed into the Hall of the Valkyries is granted the gift of storytelling, so sagas are told at all hours at the eternal feast. Each mortal soul has the opportunity to tell and celebrate the great victories of their lives. These tales are always heroic and sometimes bitterly tragic, but the strong emotions they evoke quickly pass. In the glories of Starnheim, there is no room for sorrow.

Valkmir and the Yetta Docks

The smooth, flat surface of the realm appears to be a glassy black lake, but in fact, the "water" is not water at all. The First Saga calls it Valkmir, the blood of the first Valkyrie who died during the creation of the world. From this lake, all Valkyries were birthed. Depending on who wields it, the powerful magic of Valkmir can heal or destroy.

A network of wooden docks surrounds the Hall of the Valkyries, decorated with carvings of the Cosmos monsters. Twelve longships drift near the docks, one for each of the Skoti, the current reigning gods. For all their lofty status, even the gods are not guaranteed a place in the eternal feast when their end comes. Certain ancient sagas say that unworthy gods will be cast adrift on these boats when they reach Starnheim, sent off into the Cosmos to leave room for worthier gods.

Valkyries

Valkyries are the winged battle angels who select the worthy dead to spend eternity feasting in their great hall in Starnheim. Older than the Skoti, the Valkyries do not serve the gods. They were formed at the beginning of time, and they do not allow their judgment to be clouded by the banal relationships, family ties, and petty squabbling that practically define the nature of the gods. This judgment is their primary purpose, though sagas describe how they occasionally enter into battle themselves for a worthy cause.

Valkyries carry out their missions of judgment in pairs, with a white-aligned shepherd and a black-aligned reaper traveling together.

Shepherds: White-aligned Valkyries are shepherds of the worthy dead. If someone dies with courage and honor—whether in battle or not—a shepherd appears to lead them up to Starnheim and offer them a seat in the Hall of the Valkyries.

Reapers: Black-aligned Valkyries are reapers of the cowardly. While a shepherd will wait for the death of a worthy person, reapers intervene when they witness cowardly deeds. Often, they will simply smite the coward and escort them to the Gates of Istfell, branding them with a rune that announces their shame to all.

Both Valkyries in a pair must agree on each fallen warrior's fate before it can be enacted. Usually, these judgments are straightforward and there is no disagreement—both sides desire a fair fate and care little for "winning" a particular soul. But occasionally, a shepherd must keep a reaper from killing a coward too quickly if the shepherd thinks the person still has a chance at redemption through a courageous act later.

Those who are chosen to enter the Hall of the Valkyries are escorted across the Cosmos on a Prismatic Path, like a rainbow bridge, that flows from a Valkyrie's wings.

Angels of the Battlefield

Some sagas describe the Valkyries joining forces with the gods in some worthy battle, perhaps to slaughter a rampaging Cosmos monster, but rare indeed are the circumstances that draw Valkyries into the heat of battle. On rare occasions, Valkyries judge an entire village or clan unworthy to live, and shepherds and reapers descend together to send the whole cowardly population to Istfell.

On the other hand, Valkyries readily fly to battle against demons. Demons are abhorrently unworthy by their nature, and demons who escape from Immersturm are a threat and must be dealt with speedily. Shepherds and reapers quickly join forces to kill a demon or force it back to its home realm.”