#all the singing and hawking and being with other women to make a court

[15-lizards]

Not sure if you've been asked this before but I love the detail and research you put into your ASOIAF material. What do you think ladies of various houses did for fun? What talents would they be encouraged to develop as they grew older? What did different kingdoms view as being an "accomplished" lady? I know this is HUGE, but I'm always so curious about domesticity and the interior lives of women in fantasy.

I loveeeee the domestic lives of historical women I love material culture and decorative arts that shows us how they lived

-northern noblewomen are usually taught a variety of textile arts, to repair old cloaks, embroider gowns, weave tapestries, quilting blankets, etc etc. A lot of it is practical, as everyone is needed to pitch in on household preparations, especially when it's getting close to winter, but it still functions as entertainment, like when Sansa goes to needlepoint circles to make pretty wall hangings and gossip. Other entertainments include singing and listening to traveling bards (though "refined" instruments are not common up north). An "accomplished" northern lady is one who can do a wide variety of domestic tasks in order to provide what she can for her family.

-Iron Islands womens' domestic life is as bleak as everything else on the islands :/ Women do a lot of practical sewing and weaving, but there isn't much time or product available to do it for leisure. Entertainment often comes in the form of drinking, feasting, and (oftentimes lewd) songs, but highborn women are not allowed to participate as much as the men, though they participate significantly more than mainlander women. The concept of an "accomplished" women is kinda sneered upon on the islands, as men think that kind of stuff is for uppity southerners, but there is still an unconscious expectation for noblewomen to be able to complete practical domestic tasks and be able to run the household, though not so much as they overstep the men.

-Riverlander highborn women take great pride and enjoyment in textile art especially I think. Obviously they do it for practical uses, but there is soooo much woven art in a Riverland women's household. Long, detailed tapestries that run the length of the wall and all of the pillows and gowns and blankets have cross stitch decoration. Outside of textiles, riverlander women love love love traditional songs and ballads, passing them down from generation to generation, especially the bittersweet ones about Jonquil or Simeon Star Eyes. An accomplished riverlands woman is well-rounded and able to apply her domestic talents to many areas, and creating a warm and comfortable home is the most important aspect.

-Noblewomen of the Vale are expected to be paragons of domesticity. Their leisure time is often filled with very feminine pursuits. Praying for her family in the sept. Shyly dancing with kings and lords at balls. Doing delicate lacework and needlework upon her gowns or gifts for others. Doing these things makes one an "accomplished" lady in the eyes of Vale culture. A pious and virtuous young woman who can offer her domestic talents to her family, as well as expertly navigate a complex social web full of gossip and drama, while still staying above all of said drama.

-In the Reach, noblewomen are given a masterclass in aristocratic leisure activities. Not only do they delicately sew and stitch, but they are also taught pretty songs, court dances, how to ride and hunt and hawk like a lady, and even how to gossip slyly appropriately. Because there is more room for comfort over practicality in the south, "accomplished" women are not expected to contribute as much in the way of household management. Instead they are molded into perfect ladies, who can lure in any suitor or charm any guest, one who clearly has the resources to learn so much in the way of entertaining. Overall expected to become a symbol of refinement for their father and/or husband's name.

-Westerlands women are very similar to Reach women in their leisure activities and domestic lives and what they consider to be "accomplished", due to their proximity. However I think there's more of a focus in the Westerlands for women to be more practical, so that they can be more apt in household management and "useful" domestic tasks. This is due to an underlying seriousness in western culture, which I think is the main difference between them and their neighbors. Both charming and sly and self-interested, but present themselves in different manners.

-Crownlands women have the most available to them in terms of leisure and entertainment (rivaled only by the Reach), both social and domestic. Large balls, public plays, and royal feasts are expected to be attended if you're a noble lady, but one is also free to privately garden, read, ride, bind books, make dolls, sew gowns, paint, etc etc. What counts as an "accomplished" women fluctuates on whoever has the most influence, so many nobles play it safe and teach their daughters the basics of court manners and needlepoint and dancing. However since Kings Landing especially is a large mix of cultures and values, there are many noblewomen who are differently talented and in their own right.

-Stormlands women often enjoy outdoor activities for their leisure. Even in the rainy, muggy weather, they are out on the hills to ride or hawk or hunt. They pursue domestic activities as well, like the other noblewomen of Westeros, but are also expected to enjoy the outdoors like the men, in order for their health and constitution. They feast and dance and sing and drink, and its not uncommon for them to match the men in these activities. An "accomplished" woman in the Stormlands is someone who can easily juggle domestic tasks, running a household, and be able to keep up with the men in their activities, and do it all without complaint. More "frivolous" activities are not required.

-Dornish women's domestic culture is fairly unique compared to the rest of Westeros. Due to the weather in most parts, many noblewomen do their leisure activities indoors. These include games like Cyvasse, reading fictions and Dornish poetry, arguing philosophy, playing instruments, singing, and dancing. Due to the general equality between genders (and no im not calling Dorne a feminist utopia) women are allowed to take part in more mental pursuits. Because of this, an "accomplished" Dornish woman is expected to be one who is well read and knowledgable about many fields, and can carry on intelligent conversations with anyone, as well as being charming and hospitable to all who meet her.

[histoireettralala]

A medieval housewife

To be a woman in the thirteenth century is much like being a woman in any age. Women are somewhat oppressed and exploited, as always, but as in any age, social status is the really important thing, and a burgher’s wife is no serf. She is a person of dignity and worth, important in her family and respected in the community.

Unmarried women can own property, and in the absence of male heirs they can also inherit. Women of all classes have rights in property by law and custom. Women can sue and be sued, make wills, make contracts, even plead their own cases in court. Women have been known to appear as their husbands’ attorneys. A “Portia” character is the heroine of a contemporary romance, The Hard Creditor.

Well-to-do women know how to read and write and figure; some know a little Latin, or boast such ladylike accomplishments as embroidering and playing the lute. Girls receive instruction from private teachers, or board at convents. The convent of Notre-Dame-aux-Nonnains has a school for girls dating back to the sixth century. Universities are closed to women, but they are equally closed to men except those who are being trained for the clergy, law, or medicine. Among the landed gentry, women are better educated than men. In the romance Galeran a boy and girl brought up together are given typically different schooling— the girl learning to embroider, read, write, speak Latin, play the harp, and sing; the boy, to hawk, hunt, shoot, ride, and play chess.

Women work outside the home at an astonishing variety of crafts and professions. They may be teachers, midwives, laundresses, lacemakers, seamstresses, and even members of normally male trades and occupations- weavers, fullers, barbers, carpenters, saddlers, tilers, and many others. Wives commonly work at their husbands’ crafts, and when a man dies his widow carries on the trade. Daughters not infrequently learn their father’s craft along with their brothers. In the countryside girls hire out as farm workers. The lady of the manor takes charge of the estate while her husband is off to war, Crusade, or pilgrimage, and wives run businesses while their husbands are away.

Women do suffer from an inequity in respect to wages, which are lower than men’s for the same work. An English treatise on husbandry says, “If this is a manor where there is no dairy, it is always good to have a woman there at much less cost than a man.”

Politically, women have no voice. They do not sit on the Town Council or in the courts, or serve as provosts or officials. Basically, this is because they do not bear arms. Yet women play political roles, often with distinction— Empress Matilda of England, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Queen Blanche of France, Countess Jeanne of Flanders, Blanche of Champagne, and many more. Countess Marie, wife of Henry the Generous, was asked to arbitrate claims between the churches of St.-Etienne and St.-Loup, and with her brother-in-law, William of the White Hands, archbishop of Reims, to decide important cases, including the seigneury of Vertus. In war, or at least sieges, women often play the heroine.

Women occupy positions of power and influence in the Church. The abbess of a convent such as Notre-Dame-aux-Nonnains is invested with important executive responsibilities. Usually such posts are accorded to ladies of high rank, like Alix de Villehardouin, daughter of the marshal of Champagne. Abbesses are not afraid to assert their rights. A few years hence an abbess of Notre-Dame, Odette de Pougy, will defy the Pope’s excommunication and lead a party of armed men to defend what she regards as the rights of her abbey. This establishment owes its extraordinary prestige to its ancient origins, which are believed to date from the third century. The abbess actually enjoys rights over the bishop of Troyes. When a new bishop is installed, he must lead a procession to the abbey, mounted on a palfrey that is handed over, saddle included, to the abbess’s stable. Inside the convent, the bishop kneels and receives cross, mitre, and prayer book from the abbess’s hands. He recites an oath: “I...bishop of Troyes, swear to observe the rights, franchises, liberties, and privileges of this convent of Notre-Dame-aux-Nonnains, with the help of God and his holy saints.” The bishop spends the night in the convent and is given as a gift the bed in which he has slept, with all its furnishings. Only the next day does his installation as bishop take place in the cathedral.

Women achieve distinction outside the cloister, too. Marie de France is the most gifted woman poet of the Middle Ages, and “wise Héloise” the most noteworthy bluestocking, but there are many more. The contemporary scholar Albert the Great, debating whether the Virgin Mary knew the seven liberal arts, resolves the question affirmatively.

The cult of Mary serves to elevate the image of women and to counterbalance the misogyny of ascetic preachers who bestow such epithets as “man’s confounder,” “mad beast,” “stinking rose,” “sad paradise,” “sweet venom,” “luscious sin,” and “bitter sweet,” while lingering over the attractions of the temptresses. The chivalric ideal also glorifies women. The Church recognizes the wife to be subject to her husband, as Paul recommended, but as his companion, not as mere mistress or servant. Married people are expected to treat each other with respect, and many husbands and wives never call each other anything but Sir and Madam.

Wife-beating is common in an age when corporal punishment is the norm. But wives do not necessarily get the worst of it. A contemporary observer remarks that men rarely have the mastery of their wives, that nearly everywhere women dominate their husbands. One preacher complains that formerly wives were faithful to their husbands and peaceful as ewe lambs; now they are lionesses. Another tells the story of a storm at sea, when the sailors wished to throw into the sea anything that might overload the ship, and a certain husband handed over his wife, saying that there was no object of such intolerable weight. The expression “wearing the pants in the family” is already current, and henpecked husbands are a favorite theme of the fabliaux.

Perhaps the most important point to note about the medieval housewife, in contrast to women of earlier times, is that she has a purse. She goes shopping, she gives alms, she pays fees, she hires labor; she may, if the occasion arises, buy privileges and pay bribes.

She may do many other things with her money. Women make large gifts of land, money, and chattels to church institutions; found convents, monasteries, hospitals, orphanages, and asylums; buy benefices for their sons and places in convents for their daughters; engage in trading operations. They are denounced by priests for usury, pawnbroking, and price manipulations, and for their reckless expenditures for luxury goods. They may travel extensively, sometimes as far as the Holy Land.

A woman of means is always a person to reckon with.

Frances & Joseph Gies- Life in a Medieval City

[timeless-hollywood-classics]

Rhonda Fleming (born Marilyn Louis; August 10, 1923 – October 14, 2020) was an American film and television actress and singer. She acted in more than 40 films, mostly in the 1940s and 1950s, and became renowned as one of the most glamorous actresses of her day, nicknamed the "Queen of Technicolor" because she photographed so well in that medium.

Fleming was born Marilyn Louis in Hollywood, California, to Harold Cheverton Louis, an insurance salesman, and Effie Graham, a stage actress who had appeared opposite Al Jolson in the musical Dancing Around at New York's Winter Garden Theatre from 1914 to 1915. Fleming's maternal grandfather was John C. Graham, an actor, theater owner, and newspaper editor in Utah.

She began working as a film actress while attending Beverly Hills High School, from which she graduated in 1941. She was discovered by the well-known Hollywood agent Henry Willson, who changed her name to "Rhonda Fleming".

"It's so weird", Fleming said later. "He stopped me crossing the street. It kinda scared me a little bit -- I was only 16 or 17. He signed me to a seven-year contract without a screen test. It was a Cinderella story, but those could happen in those days."

Fleming's agent Willson went to work for David O. Selznick, who put her under contract.[5][6] She had bit parts in In Old Oklahoma (1943), Since You Went Away (1944) for Selznick, and in When Strangers Marry (1944).

She received her first substantial role in the thriller, Spellbound (1945), produced by Selznick and directed by Alfred Hitchcock. "Hitch told me I was going to play a nymphomaniac", Fleming said later. "I remember rushing home to look it up in the dictionary and being quite shocked." The film was a success and Selznick gave her another good role in the thriller The Spiral Staircase (1946), directed by Robert Siodmak.

Selznick lent her out to appear in supporting parts in the Randolph Scott Western Abilene Town (1946) at United Artists and the film noir classic Out of the Past (1947) with Robert Mitchum and Kirk Douglas, at RKO, where she played a harried secretary.

Fleming's first leading role came in Adventure Island (1947), a low-budget action film made for Pine-Thomas Productions at Paramount Pictures in the two-color Cinecolor process and co-starring fellow Selznick contractee Rory Calhoun.

Fleming then auditioned for the female lead in a Bing Crosby film, a part Deanna Durbin turned down at Paramount in A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court (1949), a musical loosely based on the story by Mark Twain. Fleming exhibited her singing ability, dueting with Crosby on "Once and For Always" and soloing with "When Is Sometime". They recorded the songs for a three-disc, 78-rpm Decca album, conducted by Victor Young, who wrote the film's orchestral score. Her vocal coach in Hollywood, Harriet Lee, praised her "lovely voice", saying, "she could be a musical comedy queen". The movie was Fleming's first Technicolor film. Her fair complexion and flaming red hair photographed exceptionally well and she was nicknamed the "Queen of Technicolor", a moniker not worth much to her as she would have preferred to be known for her acting. Actress Maureen O'Hara expressed a similar sentiment when the same nickname was given to her around this time.

She then played another leading role opposite a comedian, in this case Bob Hope, in the The Great Lover (1949). It was a big hit and Fleming was established. "After that, I wasn't fortunate enough to get good directors", said Fleming. "I made the mistake of doing lesser films for good money. I was hot – they all wanted me – but I didn't have the guidance or background to judge for myself."

In February 1949, Selznick sold his contract players to Warner Bros, but he kept Fleming.

In 1950 she portrayed John Payne's love interest in The Eagle and the Hawk, a Western.

Fleming was lent to RKO to play a femme fatale opposite Dick Powell in Cry Danger (1951), a film noir. Back at Paramount, she played the title role in a Western with Glenn Ford, The Redhead and the Cowboy (1951).

In 1950, she ended her association with Selznick after eight years, though her contract with him had another five years to run.

Fleming signed a three-picture deal with Paramount. Pine-Thomas used her as Ronald Reagan's leading lady in a Western, The Last Outpost (1951), John Payne's leading lady in the adventure film Crosswinds (1951), and with Reagan again in Hong Kong (1951).

She sang on NBC's Colgate Comedy Hour during the same live telecast that featured Errol Flynn, on September 30, 1951, from the El Capitan Theater in Hollywood.

Fleming was top-billed for Sam Katzman's The Golden Hawk (1952) with Sterling Hayden, then was reunited with Reagan for Tropic Zone (1953) at Pine-Thomas. In 1953, Fleming portrayed Cleopatra in Katzman's Serpent of the Nile for Columbia. That same year, she filmed a western with Charlton Heston at Paramount, Pony Express (1953), and two films shot in three dimensions (3-D), Inferno with Robert Ryan at Fox, and the musical Those Redheads From Seattle with Gene Barry, for Pine-Thomas. The following year, she starred with Fernando Lamas in Jivaro, her third 3-D release, at Pine-Thomas. She went to Universal for Yankee Pasha (1954) with Jeff Chandler. Fleming also traveled to Italy to play Semiramis in Queen of Babylon (1954).

Fleming was part of a gospel singing quartet with Jane Russell, Connie Haines, and Beryl Davis.

Much of the location work for Fleming's 1955 Western Tennessee's Partner, in which she played Duchess opposite John Payne as Tennessee and Ronald Reagan as Cowpoke, was filmed at the Iverson Movie Ranch in Chatsworth, California, (known as the most heavily filmed outdoor location in the history of film and television). A distinctive monolithic sandstone feature behind which Fleming (as Duchess) hid during an action sequence, later became known as the Rhonda Fleming Rock. The rock is part of a section of the former movie ranch known as "Garden of the Gods", which has been preserved as public parkland.

Fleming was reunited with Payne and fellow redhead Arlene Dahl in a noir at RKO, Slightly Scarlet (1956). She did other thrillers that year; The Killer Is Loose (1956) with Joseph Cotten and Fritz Lang's While the City Sleeps (1956), co-starring Dana Andrews, at RKO. Fleming was top billed in an adventure movie for Warwick Films, Odongo (1956).

Fleming had the female lead in John Sturges's Gunfight at the O.K. Corral (1957) co-starring Burt Lancaster and Kirk Douglas, a big hit. She supported Donald O'Connor in The Buster Keaton Story (1957) and Stewart Granger in Gun Glory (1957) at MGM.

In May 1957, Fleming launched a nightclub act at the Tropicana in Las Vegas. It was a tremendous success. "I just wanted to know if I could get out on that stage – if I could do it. And I did! ... My heart was to do more stage work, but I had a son, so I really couldn't, but that was in my heart."

Fleming was Guy Madison's co star in Bullwhip (1958) for Allied Artists, and supported Jean Simmons in Home Before Dark (1958), which she later called her favorite role ("It was a marvellous stretch", she said).

Fleming was reunited with Bob Hope in Alias Jesse James (1959) and did an episode of Wagon Train.

She was in the Irwin Allen/Joseph M. Newman production of The Big Circus (1959), co-starring Victor Mature and Vincent Price. This was made for Allied Artists, whom Fleming later sued for unpaid profits.

Fleming travelled to Italy again to make The Revolt of the Slaves (1959) and was second billed in The Crowded Sky (1960).

In 1960, she described herself as "semi-retired", having made money in real estate investments. That year she toured her nightclub act in Las Vegas and Palm Springs.

During the 1950s, 1960s, and into the 1970s, Fleming frequently appeared on television with guest-starring roles on The Red Skelton Show, The Best of Broadway, The Investigators, Shower of Stars, The Dick Powell Show, Wagon Train, Burke's Law, The Virginian, McMillan & Wife, Police Woman, Kung Fu, Ellery Queen, and The Love Boat.

In 1958, Fleming again displayed her singing talent when she recorded her only LP, entitled simply Rhonda (reissued in 2008 on CD as Rhonda Fleming Sings Just For You). In this album, which was released by Columbia Records, she blended then-current songs like "Around The World" with standards such as "Love Me or Leave Me" and "I've Got You Under My Skin". Conductor-arranger Frank Comstock provided the musical direction.

On March 4, 1962, Fleming appeared in one of the last segments of ABC's Follow the Sun in a role opposite Gary Lockwood. She played a Marine in the episode, "Marine of the Month".

In December 1962, Fleming was cast as the glamorous Kitty Bolton in the episode, "Loss of Faith", on the syndicated anthology series, Death Valley Days, hosted by Stanley Andrews. In the story line, Kitty pits Joe Phy (Jim Davis) and Peter Gabriel (Don Collier) to run against each other for sheriff of Pima County, Arizona. Violence results from the rivalry.

In the 1960s, Fleming branched out into other businesses and began performing regularly on stage and in Las Vegas.

One of her final film appearances was in a bit-part as Edith von Secondburg in the comedy The Nude Bomb (1980) starring Don Adams. She also appeared in Waiting for the Wind (1990).

Fleming has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. In 2007, a Golden Palm Star on the Palm Springs Walk of Stars was dedicated to her.

Fleming worked for several charities, especially in the field of cancer care, and served on the committees of many related organizations. In 1991, her fifth husband, Ted Mann, and she established the Rhonda Fleming Mann Clinic for Women's Comprehensive Care at the UCLA Medical Center.

In 1964, Fleming spoke at the "Project Prayer" rally attended by 2,500 at the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles, California. The gathering, which was hosted by Anthony Eisley, a star of ABC's Hawaiian Eye series, sought to flood the United States Congress with letters in support of mandatory school prayer, following two decisions in 1962 and 1963 of the United States Supreme Court, which struck down mandatory school prayer as conflicting with the Establishment Clause of the First Amendment to the United States Constitution.

Joining Fleming and Eisley at the rally were Walter Brennan, Lloyd Nolan, Dale Evans, Pat Boone, and Gloria Swanson. Fleming declared, "Project Prayer is hoping to clarify the First Amendment to the Constitution and reverse this present trend away from God." Eisley and Fleming added that John Wayne, Ronald Reagan, Roy Rogers, Mary Pickford, Jane Russell, Ginger Rogers, and Pat Buttram would also have attended the rally had their schedules not been in conflict.

Fleming married six times:

Thomas Wade Lane, interior decorator, (1940–1942; divorced), one son

Dr. Lewis V. Morrill, Hollywood physician, (July 11, 1952 – 1954; divorced)

Lang Jeffries, actor, (April 3, 1960 – January 11, 1962; divorced)

Hall Bartlett, producer (March 27, 1966 – 1972; divorced)

Ted Mann, producer, (March 11, 1977 – January 15, 2001; his death)

Darol Wayne Carlson (2003 – October 31, 2017; his death)

Through her son Kent Lane (b. 1941), Rhonda also had two granddaughters (Kimberly and Kelly), four great-grandchildren (Wagner, Page, Lane, and Cole), and two great-great-grandchildren.

She was a Presbyterian and a Republican who supported Dwight Eisenhower during the 1952 presidential election.

Fleming died on October 14, 2020, in Saint John's Health Center, Santa Monica, California, at the age of 97. She is interred at Hillside Memorial Park in Culver City, California.

[talesofealdancynedom]

Feon Seabryd in fairy robes, with storm staph.

Tale 19: Meriam Craweleoth: Mage Queen of The Grand West (chapter 4.1 -  Time Stands Still: Feon 4/10) part 4. Stories of Old

Maps

none

In spring, Meriam received a letter from the Northlands. The lord of Isfisceard, caught word of Meriam and her men wandering in and out of Celticia, to speak with Helrem in Algonquia. With Francia being hostile towards all three lands, Meriam had trespassed into Celticia to avoid death. However, The Northlands of Celticia had tightened its boarders, and was sending rangers and setting up outposts; The land was strained from battles from both Algonquia and Francia. The lord requested Meriam’s presence, to deal with a specific matter, in exchange for alliance with Anglia. Meriam was eager to accept, and make another ally at Francia’s boarders; and not get punished for trespassing. The courts would not let her leave however. They had a matter of special importance for her as well. Meriam was carrying their only heir to the throne, after Eatheltwein, making her even more valuable. They had forgotten Meriam didn’t take kindly to being treated like a fragile tool. She was being a royal brood mare for them against her wishes, and they still weren’t satisfied. Meriam left with her five loyal men, a doctor, and the Celtician lord’s letter on her pillow for the king to find.

           Celticia was temperate and wet. It smelled of rain, and upon its odd rock formation and cliffs, was the hum of the soothing low pressure. The scent of the sea embraced them, as Meriam and her party approached the docks. Crossing up the north isles was the last leg of the journey. Meriam was pampered by everyone; to her appreciation and disgust. It almost tarnished the wondrous experience of the Northland kingdom. The island of Isfisceard, was radiant. It was strewn with storm wildings, rain nymphs, ridge back drakes, hydra, and more. The most intriguing and enchanting things, aside from the beaches, sea walls, ferns and sequoia, was the voices that welled up from the depths; Fish children. There are no mermaids, sirens or selkies in Anglia, but there are many in Celticia. For there are many mariners and fishers, of whom a sixth would gladly wed a questionable, thirsty, hungry, and irresistible, maidens of the sea. While Meriam’s men were bewitched by lust, Meriam was overcome with awe and wonder. As a seer, her heart was a flutter with all fey before her. Meriam, as a mage, was drawn to magic. Thus, it was more fascination than lust, that seduced her to get a closer look. Not that the Fish King’s children weren’t to Meriam’s liking as well. As they docked at their destination village, the captain said they were lucky Anglian folk don’t sing. Cheerful tunes tend to attract less lovely daughters from the deep.

           Eager for a proper sleep, Meriam went directly to the lord’s house. But he would not let her rest; he held both her hands and bowed.

“Greeting Mage Queen Meriam. I am honoured you have accepted my invitation. I can tell you are weary, but a lady as precious and fine as you, needs to be kept safe; your men will remain with me, while you retire with Lady Feon Seabryd.” The lord smiled. His accent was both chipper and confusing. Like a thick Irish dialect. Meriam stepped back; what threat would be anticipated that would require her to sleep in a lighthouse, while her trusted knights became drunk lustful decoys.

“I am here to settle my debt, and forge alliances. Tell me your bargain; I am most short these days.” Meriam snapped. Then the lord, still bowing, noticed she was with child, and looked up at her grimace. The lord shivered in fear. Her khol, drawn like a hawk’s face, emphasizing her yellow eyes.

“My apologies your majesty. Let us make haste in signing the papers. You and your men must hear why I am so desperate to protect you, and improve our lands relations.” He said, leading them into a circular hall decorated in tapestries of fish fey and knots. The greens, teal, blues and bronzes complimenting the elaborately carved wooden stools and table.

“Sit, sit.” The lord prompted. Meriam’s men looked calmer then usual; they could handle a court room, after riding dragons. Magic, and their queen’s missions to make peace, was no longer confusing or dramatic.

“Alright, were all settled down now. So, what I need from this alliance, is an army to help this town. A messenger came from the east with a warning: In one season’s time, we will have the army of the Far North at our wall. Meanwhile, Francia is stalled by our land’s rangers and fey. Algonquia is slowly advancing, and occupying Celticia; We are weak. They come to finish their take over, by coming to Isfisceard for our lands only mage; the aforementioned Lady Feon. She sing’s storms and spells, and keeps balance between us and the magic of the sea. Each kingdom has a mage these days, and killing each other’s mages seems to be a common political strategy.” The lord explained.

“You want an army to protect your nations mage?” a knight asked.

“Aye. She is a kind charmer, with four beautiful children. Isfisceard would not be the same without her. But more then her death, I fear the mages of Algonquia. For the reason they are immune to our soldiers and fey, is because their prince and princess, the nephew and niece of the king, are both mages. Edmond Monabellen: The Wolf Prince of The North. He has walked through arrows, and cut cities in half. Him and his siter can control fey in battle, and their men and women are fearless in war. He is a paladin clad in violet and gold, with the eyes of a wolf, and riding his bear familiar. His sister, Luthid Geagwulf, is a witch that works from the camps, to manipulate the battle field. Their army has yet to lose a warrior. If they come for Feon, they will kill all of Celticia’s remaining armies, and take us before Francia does.” The Lord rambled. “I hear your power over time is great Meriam Craweleoth; between you and your kingdoms cavalry, I believe prince Edmond can be stopped. The Northland’s may be in your favour against Francia, if their wolf prince is defeated.” He concluded.

Meriam absorbed the information. Helrem had said nothing about the paladin prince in the Algonquian courts. Wolf kingdom mages, who could be advocating for magic, were being used like pawns in war. This is not how magic is supposed to be used. Their king is a coward for sending his only heir into battle, and a disappointment for abusing magic. Or worse, Edmond and Luthid were skirting their natures out of familial or patriotic obligation, and were in so deep, they can not escape war, despite their better judgment. If Meriam could resolve this, everyone would win.

“I agree to your terms. We will see who is willing to come to your aid by mid harvest. Hopefully my magic will prevent us from being tardy. May I rest now? Lord of Isfisceard?” Meriam said, signing the papers.

“Yes, you may; Feon will be waiting by the beach. There is a white stone of quartz she likes to sing from. Can’t miss it.”

           Merriam approached the fogged bay, that echoed of song, along with a closer voice. Upon a random tall stone of white quarts, was a freckled woman in teal fish kingdom fairy robes, holding a wooden staff set with a large emerald. Her long hair was red as blood, and her eyes like blue pine. She sang sweetly into the water, and its flat surface sang back. Her colours were unnatural; as if changed by magic from her going dark from tragedy. She looked like she was having so much fun, that she didn’t notice Merriam watching.

“Are you Feon Seabryd? I am Queen Meriam of Anglia; your lord said I was to stay with you and your family for safety.” Meriam said.

“Aye. Wait till you meet my family-” Feon said, gazing at Meriam. She looked like a ghost dressed in her black feather and crushed velvet fairy robes. “You’re going to have a baby! That’s so exciting! I know just the way to treat you; as a mother myself!” Feon chimed. She took Meriam’s hand and gently led her to a house at the bottom of a light tower, that was carved into the sea wall of the bay.

“I hate children. I don’t want to have a baby; that could kill a woman.”

“I love my children! All four of them! They were a pain, but they are like precious jewels. I smile everyday when I see them. Speaking of children, I have a son who is also a mage, though he don’t know it yet. Lyra is his name; a charmer just like me. Possibly even a storm breaker like me too! I have many notes about mages, and magic workings. You are a seer, right? Maybe reading or copying them would be restful for you?” Feon suggested. With magic on the table, Merriam was warming up to the idea of being in a peasant’s bungalow, surrounded by wild children. The only child she ever liked was Eatheltwein; and she was not responsible for his care.

           In the cabin, Feon had her children bring her and Meriam food to study. Feon was excited to pick the brain of a seer, and Meriam was happy to finally be sitting. Feon had many books and journals in her room; it was crowded in a hurricane of organized chaos, around the two beds she shared with her husband and children. Meriam was brought back to her childhood in Francia, sharing a bed with her friend Felin.

“What type of mage are you?” Feon asked, placing a teal leather journal on the table. “For example, I am a Storm breaker; we summon and control weather when magic moves through us, from being really happy. But if we don’t have a storm staph, we will lose control and go gray dark; causing natural disasters. I got my storm staph sent to me from a warlock in Sinonia, of the Grand East, who is also a storm breaker. In fact, the lad sent me many, requesting I place them in the Fish Kingdom in the shadow veil, because The Fish Gate is down the cliff of the lighthouse…” Feon said, handing the journal to Meriam and showing off her wood and emerald staph. Meriam examined it carefully, it was wonderfully crafted. She wondered how the parcel arrived through Francia, and then recalled that they took postage seriously there; you could mail one hundred mice to a foreign land and no one would stop you. A good package, is a delivered package. Feon knocked on the table Infront of Meriam to get her attention.

“Oh sorry, you reminded me of something… I guess I’m a Memoirium de Morte; a mage who can manipulate time. I didn’t realize we had types.” Meriam laughed, melting into the reclined chair covered in plaids.

“Do share! I want to complete that teal compodium, with details about all the mages for our ancestors!”

“Why do you write texts instead of poetry? I thought you were a charmer?”

“I am. But I am also a mother and avid hobbyist. Oh, thank you Lyra” Feon said, taking the kettle and pouring tea. An older boy with ginger hair and green eyes brought it. His long-curled hair was twisted in various strands and weaved into a knot; and he seemed to almost glow with joy while he hummed.

“Ah, one of your children. The Lyra of which you mentioned…” Meriam said.

“Aye, your majesty. I hope you enjoy the tea!” Lyra bowed before dashing off. Meriam gave a cough and returned her attention to Feon.

“You hate children? Why?”

“Hate is a strong word. I prefer the phrase: ‘I am opposed to.’ As too why, maybe it’s I don’t want a dependant human to keep me away from my adventures, or worry me. Or perhaps I don’t wish to put my life at risk to appease a court of men. The reason is irrelevant, and it is no one’s business what I choose to do with my life and body.” Meriam snarled, tossing back the staph. “Give me some of your journals to copy for my records, and tell me what you want to know about my abilities; or more why I don’t just use them to resurrect people or manipulate their memories.”

“I’m sorry. Just don’t understand is all. But as for your special magic, the question in these times isn’t why you don’t use your powers, but why Anglia doesn’t make you.” Feon said.

NEXT--->

<---PREVIOUS

[project-ohagi]

Keigo Takami ღ Hawks x Reader {Greek Mythology AU}

Buy me a coffee!! <3

Being celebrated as the town's best blacksmith and master-craftsman, you had many opportunities to provide exquisite items for the royal household. You lived within the boundaries of King Enji Todoroki's castle, and you knew the inhabitants quite well. Their splendid, sharp and practical weapons were fashioned in your very forge, and seeing the guards carrying them down the labyrinthine hallways of the castle filled you with a sense of pride. The furniture, often wooden and antique, with exotic designs that no other craftsman in the realm could ever replicate, received compliments not only from the king's subjects, but the foreign ambassadors, who proceeded to inform their employers of the magnificent works. You had big dreams and a means to achieve them.

You wandered the corridors of the castle, glancing at the hand-brewed lanterns littering the walls, illuminating the red and brown bricks. Their flames flickered like the tongues of dragons - a reliable source had once told you that the king himself reared these beautiful, dangerous beasts, although you had never seen them personally. The claim went invalidated, but your songbird was a lovely girl, very gentle and trustworthy. She possessed a meagre level of magic, which impressed you to no end. She slurred potions around and carried leaves of fern and belladonna wherever she travelled. Her companions were extraordinary, as well, and you often saw them as they graced the grasses of your small town. There was a boy with stunning verdant hair and a penchant for crying, plus a knight from the land controlled by King Toshinori Yagi. He had always been lax with the laws, and there was barely ever any crime, so the castle wouldn't suffer from having one less guard.

A pleasant humming sound drifted from your lips, echoing along the walls, making it seem as though someone was tailing you. Your (e/c) eyes fluttered shut as you allowed the crackling of the small flames to guide you safely on the path. Through the flesh of your eyelids, you could see the faint glow of fire beginning to dwindle. Ceasing any movement, you cracked open both eyes and resolved to find the problem. These lanterns had been imbued with the Eternal Flame, so it was (supposedly) unheard of for them to die out. It wasn't just one, either - as your gaze lingered on the husks of your lanterns, you noticed their light slowly diminishing, until all that remained was darkness.

You shivered, the lack of warmth enabling a frigid breeze to waft over you, like a bad dream.

"Whoa, who burned out all the lanterns?" A voice called, cheery amidst the dire circumstances.

That wasn't the only issue, however. This was a strange sound, a foreign one, and you knew all the sounds of this castle. You could pick people and objects apart by noise alone, and yet this was a trial your ears could not overcome. Another thing - you hadn't even realised there was someone else in the corridor with you. The earlier humming was a sound you only made when absolutely comfortable, usually while tinkering in your little shop. You were at home around the lanterns you had manufactured yourself. Yet, they died out. Every. Last. One. You didn't design things to fail. That was the first rule of the trade, and until now, you had sworn by it.

You decided to try this stranger. "I'm not quite sure. They weren't supposed to do that, and no-one else was here."

"Well then," His bones made a clicking sound, as if he was stretching. "It must have been you, or me, but I guess we'll never know."

The arrogance lacing his tone did tick you off slightly, but you had to sigh at his words. "Impossible." You muttered, almost condescendingly.

"I was specifically entrusted to fashion lanterns that would never die."

Your last sentence was likely whispered, but it still reached your accomplice's ears. Probably because he had elected to stand right behind you, which startled you out of your skin when he started talking again. Apparently, he was the king's jester or some other such nonsense. He must have been - no other sane person would dare disrespect the greatest figures of modern times (you thought quite highly of yourself, if that's not already evident).

Whistling, he asked, "Wooow, you made these? No wonder they burned out so fast. What did you make them out of? Wood and wax?"

You huffed indignantly, trying not to rise to his taunts. "It's impossible that they all went out. One or two, perhaps I could find fault in, but all of them? What magic is this?"

"The black kind?" The stranger offered, unhelpfully. "Don't get me wrong, they looked nice - so do you, by the way - but maybe you're not as great as you think, princess."

You searched for him in the dark, but that turned up nothing. "Please don't call me that. My name is (Y/n) (L/n). I'm the town's main blacksmith and craftsman - I know what I'm doing, and if I say this isn't normal, I would like to be believed. What is your name, anyway? I don't feel like calling you 'stranger' forever."

There was a pause and a near-incoherent sound, the he spoke. "I go by Hawks, beautiful, and you didn't call me 'stranger', unless you were thinking about me? Aww, I wonder why I haven't seen you before?"

You sighed. "Honestly, I'm not sure you can see me now."

"Haha, you're right! Well, gotta find some light, I suppose. Which way to safety...?" You heard his light footfalls, followed by a muffled cry.

"That would be the wall." You muttered, astounded by the apparent stupidity of this man.

He said nothing, but continued onwards. After a few moments, a warm hand moved to cradle yours, and he pulled you alongside him. You wanted to protest, but decided against it. You would get nowhere with trivial arguments. The corridor twisted and turned, and you suddenly remembered that one section leading off from it was restricted, but you wouldn't be able to see it in complete darkness. This did worry you slightly, but instead of vocalising your discomfort, you just squeezed Hawks' hand tighter. With him as delegated leader, he bumped into a few more walls on the way out. It seemed that, like you, he hadn't been expecting the lanterns to burn out as easily as they did. When you appeared to have reached a crossroads, he stopped. It was so abrupt that you actually slammed into his back. Trickles of hair brushed against your forehead, and you realised that you were probably just a fraction taller than him. At least this gave you one advantage. He could have his jokes and flirtatious words, but you had your trade and your height.

"Ahh..." He chuckled, a tone of uncertainty present in his voice.

"What's going on? Why did you stop?" You questioned, getting kind of annoyed with this guy.

He glanced around, but saw nothing, obviously. "I might have gone the wrong way?"

"You what?!" You yelled. "We have no light source, and now no sense of direction? Oh, more black magic..."

"It'll probably be fine." He responded, once more sounding as though he commanded some divine wisdom.

His one free hand traced the wall, and just as you were pondering whether to give him two free hands, a noise of acknowledgement erupted from his throat. You supposed that meant he knew where you were, but could he really tell from touch alone? It was likely a ploy, although it did something to calm your throbbing heart. He re-established his pace, dragging you in tow. He made a degree of small talk along the way, but it was drowned out by all the thoughts swimming in your head. His palm was dangerously hot, like an oven, yet you were finding it impossible to let go. It was the kind of heat source your body craved, although you weren't entirely sure why.

Suddenly, an ear-splitting screech began to resonate like a gong, and before you had chance to ask what the hell was happening, you were tugged through the wooden frame of a door. It closed as soon as you stepped into the bright, blinding light. After all that darkness, this seemed like Hell. At least for the first few minutes. Once your eyes managed to adjust, you peered through heavy eyelids, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man calling himself 'Hawks'.

He was absolutely gorgeous.

Those tussles of hair that had previously ghosted your forehead turned out to be feathery and ash-blonde in colour. A small amount of stubble hung from his chin, and as he yawned, you saw perfect, snowy-white teeth. When he noticed the starstruck expression on your face, he grinned, the corners of his lips moving upwards. You blushed - even his cocky smile was breath-taking. He had the most awe-inspiring, chocolate-brown eyes, that twinkled in the glinting candlelight. His fluffy eyebrows made your heart weep, and the formation of those black triangles below his tear ducts reminded you of a bird. His peasant clothes were nothing to write home about, but the way he wore them certainly was. He somehow made them look more appealing and seductive than they should have been, yet you couldn't put a finger on the reason. An onyx, stud-shaped earring adorned both ears. He must have been a similar age to you - around 22 - and you wondered if he would consent to court someone so soon after meeting them. Despite his frankly irritating nature, he made your heart sing, and you instantly knew that you needed to be with him.

"Too hot for you, princess?" He smirked, arrogantly.

You flushed. "S-Sort of."

Adding moisture to his lips, he retorted, "Well, you're pretty sexy yourself, Miss."

After this comment, you immediately retracted your gaze, opting to look around the room instead. "W-Where are we, anyway?" You asked, a little confused.

"My bedchambers." He replied, laughing at your face, which was now stained red.

"W-Why am I here??"

He shrugged. "You followed me, dollface."

"You dragged me!"

--

In a district far removed from the prying eyes of royal sentries, a hoard of villainous men and women alike resided. Their sanctuary had been built in haste, as their ancestors needed a safeguard, away from anyone who might wish to hurt them. Those people, namely the kings Enji Todoroki and Toshinori Yagi, were fierce yet kind rulers, protecting their realms while simultaneously warding away the evil that lurked around the bend. Although their relationship was strained, the kings banded together for the greater good, and finally succeeded in expelling the tyrants. However, nothing was ever so simple - spies had been recruited and placed around the perimeter of the realms. They often caught wind of conspiracies, and would venture into the twisting labyrinth of a wasteland where they were never supposed to find. The mice frequently managed safe journeys, but the grand dictator, All For One, had abilities that far exceeded those of any normal human; he could hear their footsteps, smell their shallow breaths, feel those tell-tale vibrations in the air. There was never any privacy in his castle, and certainly no safety.

If he sought after your head, he would receive it. However, unlike what the rumours suggested, he never abused this power, instead deciding to reserve it for the serious threats. There was no point waging war against the kings without sufficient battle tactics, and All For One remained wounded from his encounter with the stronger of the two: King Toshinori Yagi.

"What shall we do with him, master?" A raspy voice called out, partially muffled by the detachable hand covering his face.

The large, shadowy figure he addressed reclined in his throne, looking upwards and intertwining his fingers, as if contemplating the question. This was all pretence - he had already begun putting the plan in motion, after all. To ease his pupil's mind, he replied, "Bring him in. Question him. Torture him if you have to. If he has valuable information, let him live. If he refuses to speak in three days' time, execute him."

"As you wish."

Messy blue hair whipped in all directions as he signalled for a few of the people in the room. They followed his lead, heading out of the double doors and down the nearest hallway. With him, there walked a tall, lean individual with an ebony mane and oddly-symmetrical burn marks, the skin purple and wrinkling. It was held together crudely by metal hoop piercings. Beside him, a smartly-dressed man with wisps of purple and black mist in place of a body, and a young, blonde girl with a Cheshire-Cat grin. These were apparently the people for the job. In this world of tricks and magic, these four were the ringmasters, controlling the rest of the troupe with strings of steel.

"Who do we get to kill this time??" The girl asked, almost drooling in anticipation of the hunt.

"You heard what master said." Came the agitated response. "We capture him and try to get what we need. If he manages to stay sane for three days, then you can have your fun."

The patchwork zombie spoke next. "How are we doing this, then? We can't storm Enji Todoroki's castle."

As his words echoed around the walls, a swirling vortex appeared, growing bigger and bigger until it could allow for all four to plunge into the blackness. Two, however, were commanded to hold back - the girl and the man with purple patches of flesh. The warp gate closed as soon as the others stepped through.

The hunters were on the prowl.

--

"Ah...don't be shy. Admit it - you wanted to spend the night with me." Hawks gifted you a wink, both flirtatious and amused.

He must have been savouring your embarrassment. "I can't admit what isn't true." You glanced towards one of the massive, stained-glass windows lining the nearby wall. Although it was difficult to see, you determined that it was indeed night-time. How had you spent so long in the castle? You could have sworn it was early afternoon when you arrived, and you shouldn't have been there for more than a few hours. Your detour with this cocksure fairy didn't feel as though it had taken any more than half an hour. Perhaps that was just because your brain was preoccupied, enjoying the company it was in. "I should leave now. It's late, and my shop needs guarding."

"Haven't you fashioned some defence system? Surely (Y/n) (L/n), the oh-so-talented master-craftsman would be prepared for everything?" He taunted, clearly trying to back you into a corner.

"I'm afraid I can entertain you no longer, jester. I need to leave. Something strange is happening - can't you sense it? Those lanterns were my inventions, and I need to figure out why they died." Turning on your heel, you began to walk away from the blonde-locked man and his mahogany door.

However, his laugh stopped you in your tracks. "I guess I do act like a jester, don't I?"

Mysteriously, like smoke, his voice soon trailed off. You couldn't even begin to comprehend how such a flashy, boisterous person would all of a sudden go completely quiet. It wasn't just that - you couldn't hear anything but the ear-splitting silence, like static running through your veins. The walls weren't moaning, the floor wasn't creaking, and nobody seemed to be breathing. There were no sounds. None at all. It was as if Hawks, along with the very castle, knew something you didn't, but their lips were sewn shut. You wondered if the walls would collapse around you, burying you alive, or maybe the ghosts of Enji Todoroki's victims would seek revenge, but instead attach themselves to and haunt you until the end of your days.

"What-" You tried to break the ice that had settled like stalactites on the ceiling, but felt as though a veil was slowly being wrapped around your neck, preventing any more words from reaching the surface.

Suddenly, hands as warm as a furnace grasped your ice-cold ones and dragged you through the door. When you looked at him, you saw that his face held a serious expression. He definitely knew something - something bad. You wanted to ask, but couldn't quite find the words to do so. Stepping through the door felt weird, as if your feet weren't touching wood, but rather something less material. You squeezed your eyes shut tightly, opting to trust the man you had only recently met. After a few seconds, he tumbled on to a hard surface and, still being hand-in-hand, your body crashed into his. His head slammed into the brick, eliciting a faint, pained noise. Truth be told, he was in a lot of pain, but he didn't want you to have any anxieties about the situation, so he refrained from screaming. That was so much worse than stubbing your toe.

"You were surprisingly easy to catch, despite your profession. I did not expect you to have an accomplice, however. She could prove to be troublesome." The voice resonated in your ears painfully, like white noise.

"She's not an accomplice. I met her about two minutes ago - she looked lost, so I was just pointing her in the right direction." Hawks drew out the lie, allowing more time to think of an escape.

Whoever else was out there laughed. "We have orders, Hawks. You have been flying too close to the sun for a long time, and now it is your time to fall."

"So, what's the plan?" Hawks breathed, sparing a side-glance at your trembling figure. "Are you gonna put me in chains, lock me in the dungeons? You do have dungeons, right? I mean, this place is massive, and pretty much a castle."

"This place," The voice began. "Is a labyrinth."

You tugged at Hawks' sleeve. "What are you doing? Are you trying to get us killed??" You whisper-yelled, both furious with and concerned for the man.

"Out of tricks? That's such a shame. To answer your question: we will lock you in one of the many chambers within this labyrinth. There are so many corridors, that even if you were to escape from your cell, you would never reach the surface."

The air swirled in front of you, a mixture of black and purple. Two legs protruded from within, followed closely by a slim body, clad in a suit. Behind this imposing figure, another man stepped out of the darkness. He was dressed far lighter than the former, in only an onyx shirt, baggy trousers and slip-on shoes. You didn't recognise either of these men, given that you mostly stayed in your small town, never straying further than the treeline of the surrounding forest. Despite this, it was easy to reckon that they were the rumoured tyrants. At least, two of them. That thought made your hair stand on end, as though it had been exposed to a great deal of static electricity - what if there were more, hiding in the black void, ready to pounce at any moment? As if sensing your fear, one of the men (the one who seemed as if he might tend to a bar in his off-time), turned to address you.

"Miss, if you comply, then nothing shall be done to cause you harm." His tone was polite, but by that time, you had already chosen your side. You would remain with the person who had stolen your heart in a matter of minutes, with his witty, mischievous nature, and how he laughed in the face of danger, just to keep you safe.

So, although it might have been reason enough for your head to roll, you showed a level of defiance that they weren't expecting. The other man, whose voice was a lot more sickening, muttered something you couldn't hear, scratching his neck as he did so. His partner in crime seemed to sigh (though, with him having no discernible mouth, it was hard to tell), but elected against opposing his superior. The orders had already been given, after all, and any accomplice of the target must suffer the same, horrendous fate as him. You never knew what such seemingly innocent people could be hiding. Before he was grabbed, Hawks made an attempt to snare one of the stray knifes littered on the ground. His enemies noticed the plot, however, and ensured it wasn't followed through. A set of calloused hands gripped your neck and waist, hoisting you up on to your feet. You lashed out, but the hand around your neck clamped down harder, making you choke. You were gradually running out of oxygen. Soon, you couldn't handle the strain of fighting, and your body went limp, slumping against the blue-haired man. It was uncomfortable, but your vision was dimming, just like your lanterns back in the castle of Enji Todoroki. Just before you blacked out, you made the connection - they had been responsible for your burnt-out lights.

--

A spellbinding sight awaited your tired eyes - the walls were covered in ancient carvings, spiral-designs and other such patterns. You, alongside your companion, were confined in a large room, with no obvious doors or windows. You attempted to move, and although you had no bindings, your muscles were stiff. Almost immediately, your mind went into overdrive, trying to work out a viable escape plan. You could always create something to break through the wall, but you weren't sure how deep the labyrinth ran, and it seemed appropriate to assume that you would be easily captured. Raising a hand to your mouth, you began muttering to yourself, slowly piecing together a picture of what you were going to do. You needed to be extremely careful, as there were two lives on the line. If you were discovered mid-escape, it was likely that you would be executed, since you doubted Hawks had the skills required to take flight.

"...Flight! That's it!" You silently praised your ingenuity, glancing around to see if there was anything that could be of use. "Alright...I need the framework, and then something to hold them together. The shape needs to be perfect, for the air to pass over..."

Whilst in the midst of your mutterings, Hawks awoke and contemplated his situation. Then, he noticed you had been shoved into the same cell as him. An unfamiliar feeling welled up inside his chest, tugging at his heartstrings. It was a concoction of guilt, dread, love and sadness. You appeared to be working on something, kneeling in the dirt and presiding over your art. He stood with much effort, and he thought for a moment that his legs might have been broken. He managed to hobble over to where you were stationed, giving him a better view of whatever you were trying so desperately to complete. Your hands were moving rapidly, not letting him concentrate for very long. One minute, they just looked like smashed pieces of wood, but the next, they had a proper form.

"They'd be great if we could actually get out. Did you think about that, princess?" He had been in the labyrinth before, and knew just how tricky it was to navigate - it was meant to gradually drain your sanity, and make you compliant. If that didn't work, there was always good old-fashioned torture.

You responded after a few beats of silence. "You can do something about that, then. We'll need quite a large hole, or else these things won't get through."

Hawks smirked. "You're trying to get out? Bold of you to assume you can."

"Bold of you to suggest I can't." You countered, adding the finishing touches to your work. "Okay, now listen carefully - I managed to sculpt these out of scraps of wood, and I melted the wax from those candles." You pointed to them. "They will hold long enough to get us back to the realm of Enji Todoroki, but you cannot, under any circumstance, get caught in the heat of the sun. If you do, not only will you have wasted one of my creations, but you will plummet to your death. do you understand?"

There was a mischievous glint in his chocolate orbs. "You'd make a good gypsy, y'know."

You masked your smile behind irritation. "Do you understand?"

"Oh, completely. I just have to stay away from the sun, right?" He nodded.

"Correct." You released a breath you didn't know you had been holding; this man was going to be the death of you. A speck of silver flashed in your peripheral vision, and you directed your gaze accordingly. "Why would someone leave a hammer...?" You mumbled, confused.

Hawks hummed, then looked towards the object. "Well, seems like you've found our way out."

Stepping forwards without hesitation, he picked it up and did an initial, experimental swing. It collided with the wall of the labyrinth, severing the carvings and creating a small dent. His lips twitched upwards, and he held the hammer more firmly in his hands. He swung it again and again, shattering the wall almost entirely. To your surprise, it gave way to blinding sunlight and lush green land. Your mouth fell agape - both of you had been anticipating another layer of the winding entanglement. Nodding once to yourself, you handed a pair of wooden wings over to your accomplice, reminding him of your prior warning. Clasping your own tightly on to your person, you stood on the edge, looking down. You heard an awkward gulp from beside you - Hawks must have been nervous. Just before you were about to soar to freedom, a portal, black and purple, fissured a section of previously untouched wall. Two figures began marching into the frame.

You didn't give Hawks any time to think. With a hand on the wings, you propelled him forwards. You jumped out of the labyrinth after a few seconds, tailing closely behind Hawks, who was flapping his newly-acquired wings rather awkwardly. Although you detested the idea, you spared a brief glance back to your prison, seeing those two men standing among the ashes of the wall. Their faces displayed not anger, as you expected, but glee. Disturbed, you averted your eyes. They would not silence you. The people of your town would indeed hear your voice again, purchase your goods and request specific items. You would not be trapped.

Never again.

"Hawks, are you doing okay? Remember you need to move them yourself - just like a bird." You called, swooping past the blonde-haired man. An ecstasy-streaked expression had appeared on his face. You had to smile at this.

"This feels amazing! Damn, you really are good at making things. When we get back, could you jazz these up a bit for me?" He glided in the air, riding the wind, the breeze fluffing up his hair.

Below, a vast expanse of sea stretched out, going for miles and miles. You wanted to fly down, gently touching the surface with your feet, and making it look as though you were walking on water. Your eyelids flickered shut as you relished in Gaia's soft breaths. The clouds slowly ghosted past you. By the time you opened your eyes, it was far too late. Savouring the sweet taste of fresh air, like a starved child, Hawks had been consumed by a false sense of security. He neglected to recall your warning. The bright rays of the sun beamed down on his figure, washing an unpleasant heat over him. The wax which held his wooden wings together began to drip, raining down on the surface of the ocean like snowflakes. Soon, fractures started to show in the wood. You wanted to scream at him for being so idiotic. Instead, you dove towards the falling form. You missed by a millisecond. Speed was quickly becoming an issue, but you continued descending, reaching out a hand in the hopes that he would grab it. His arms and legs were flailing, and he couldn't seem to stay still for long enough. The water was luring him closer and closer.

In one last ditch effort, you howled out his name. "Hawks!"

His body met the blue liquid, and he was dragged down further, as if compelled by a magnet.

You caressed the water, watching and waiting for any sign of him. Tears were clouding your vision, cascading down your cheeks and eventually dripping down, into the sea. You didn't know if they would ever reach him, but you whispered a few words, distorted by sobs.

"...I warned you..."

[Word Count: 4779]

[julibf]

Jonsa and the The Bear and the Maiden Fair song....

So, a few days ago @nattyslove22 wrote this meta talking about the connections of Jon and Sansa and the song  The Bear and the Maiden Fair. And I have to say this idea got stuck in my head. 

Well, someone pointed out to me that, there is another foreshadow for Jon and Sansa in   A STORM OF SWORDS chapter 7.

This is the  chapter where Lady  Olenna Tyrell invites Sansa for dinner and makes a marriage proposal to her during the meeting. She wants to marry Sansa to her oldest grandson, Willas Tyrel. The next chapter of the book? of course, JON.

But, what got my attention was no even the chapter order, it was the fact that during the meeting, where this future marriage is being discussed, Lady Olena orders the singers to sing  very loud the Bear and the Maiden Fair song, to hide their secret conversation..... the song almost drives the reader crazy for  how much in the middle of the dialogue the song gets...

The old woman called to Butterbumps. "Fool! Give us a song. A long one, I should think. 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair' will do nicely."

"It will!" the huge jester replied. "It will do nicely indeed! Shall I sing it standing on my head, my lady?"

"Will that make it sound better?"

"No."

"Stand on your feet, then. We wouldn't want your hat to fall off. As I recall, you never wash your hair."

"As my lady commands." Butterbumps bowed low, let loose of an enormous belch, then straightened, threw out his belly, and bellowed. "A bear there was, a bear, a BEAR! All black and brown, and covered with hair . . . "

Lady Olenna squirmed forward. "Even when I was a girl younger than you, it was well known that in the Red Keep the very walls have ears. Well, they will be the better for a song, and meanwhile we girls shall speak freely."

"But," Sansa said, "Varys . . . he knows, he always . . . "

"Sing louder!" the Queen of Thorns shouted at Butterbumps. "These old ears are almost deaf, you know. Are you whispering at me, you fat fool? I don't pay you for whispers. Sing!"

" . . . THE BEAR!" thundered Butterbumps, his great deep voice echoing off the rafters. "OH, COME, THEY SAID, OH COME TO THE FAIR! THE FAIR? SAID HE, BUT I'M A BEAR! ALL BLACK AND BROWN, AND COVERED WITH HAIR!"

The wrinkled old lady smiled. "At Highgarden we have many spiders amongst the flowers. So long as they keep to themselves we let them spin their little webs, but if they get underfoot we step on them." She patted Sansa on the back of the hand. "Now, child, the truth. What sort of man is this Joffrey, who calls himself Baratheon but looks so very Lannister? "

"AND DOWN THE ROAD FROM HERE TO THERE. FROM HERE! TO THERE! THREE BOYS, A GOAT, AND A DANCING BEAR!"

Sansa felt as though her heart had lodged in her throat. The Queen of Thorns was so close she could smell the old woman's sour breath. Her gaunt thin fingers were pinching her wrist. To her other side, Margaery was listening as well. A shiver went through her. "A monster," she whispered, so tremulously she could scarcely hear her own voice. "Joffrey is a monster. He lied about the butcher's boy and made Father kill my wolf. When I displease him, he has the Kingsguard beat me. He's evil and cruel, my lady, it's so. And the queen as well."

Lady Olenna Tyrell and her granddaughter exchanged a look. "Ah," said the old woman, "that's a pity."

Oh, gods, thought Sansa, horrified. If Margaery won't marry him, Joff will know that I'm to blame. "Please," she blurted, "don't stop the wedding . . . "

"Have no fear, Lord Puff Fish is determined that Margaery shall be queen. And the word of a Tyrell is worth more than all the gold in Casterly Rock. At least it was in my day. Even so, we thank you for the truth, child."

" . . . DANCED AND SPUN, ALL THE WAY TO THE FAIR! THE FAIR! THE FAIR!" Butterbumps hopped and roared and stomped his feet.

"Sansa, would you like to visit Highgarden?" When Margaery Tyrell smiled, she looked very like her brother Loras. "All the autumn flowers are in bloom just now, and there are groves and fountains, shady courtyards, marble colonnades. My lord father always keeps singers at court, sweeter ones than Butters here, and pipers and fiddlers and harpers as well. We have the best horses, and pleasure boats to sail along the Mander. Do you hawk, Sansa?"

"A little," she admitted.

"OH, SWEET SHE WAS, AND PURE, AND FAIR! THE MAID WITH HONEY IN HER HAIR!"

"You will love Highgarden as I do, I know it." Margaery brushed back a loose strand of Sansa's hair. "Once you see it, you'll never want to leave. And perhaps you won't have to."

"HER HAIR! HER HAIR! THE MAID WITH HONEY IN HER HAIR!"

"Shush, child," the Queen of Thorns said sharply. "Sansa hasn't even told us that she would like to come for a visit."

"Oh, but I would," Sansa said. Highgarden sounded like the place she had always dreamed of, like the beautiful magical court she had once hoped to find at King's Landing.

" . . . SMELLED THE SCENT ON THE SUMMER AIR. THE BEAR! THE BEAR! ALL BLACK AND BROWN AND COVERED WITH HAIR."

"But the queen," Sansa went on, "she won't let me go . . . "

"She will. Without Highgarden, the Lannisters have no hope of keeping Joffrey on his throne. If my son the lord oaf asks, she will have no choice but to grant his request."

"Will he?" asked Sansa. "Will he ask?"

Lady Olenna frowned. "I see no need to give him a choice. Of course, he has no hint of our true purpose."

"HE SMELLED THE SCENT ON THE SUMMER AIR!"

Sansa wrinkled her brow. "Our true purpose, my lady?"

"HE SNIFFED AND ROARED AND SMELLED IT THERE! HONEY ON THE SUMMER AIR!"

"To see you safely wed, child," the old woman said, as Butterbumps bellowed out the old, old song, "to my grandson."

Wed to Ser Loras, oh . . . Sansa's breath caught in her throat. She remembered Ser Loras in his sparkling sapphire armor, tossing her a rose. Ser Loras in white silk, so pure, innocent, beautiful. The dimples at the corner of his mouth when he smiled. The sweetness of his laugh, the warmth of his hand. She could only imagine what it would be like to pull up his tunic and caress the smooth skin underneath, to stand on her toes and kiss him, to run her fingers through those thick brown curls and drown in his deep brown eyes. A flush crept up her neck.

"OH, I'M A MAID, AND I'M PURE AND FAIR! I'LL NEVER DANCE WITH A HAIRY BEAR! A BEAR! A BEAR! I'LL NEVER DANCE WITH A HAIRY BEAR!"

"Would you like that, Sansa?" asked Margaery. "I've never had a sister, only brothers. Oh, please say yes, please say that you will consent to marry my brother."

The words came tumbling out of her. "Yes. I will. I would like that more than anything. To wed Ser Loras, to love him . . . "

"Loras?" Lady Olenna sounded annoyed. "Don't be foolish, child. Kingsguard never wed. Didn't they teach you anything in Winterfell? We were speaking of my grandson Willas. He is a bit old for you, to be sure, but a dear boy for all that. Not the least bit oafish, and heir to Highgarden besides."

Sansa felt dizzy; one instant her head was full of dreams of Loras, and the next they had all been snatched away. Willas? Willas? "I," she said stupidly. Courtesy is a lady's armor. You must not offend them, be careful what you say. "I do not know Ser Willas. I have never had the pleasure, my lady. Is he . . . is he as great a knight as his brothers?"

" . . . LIFTED HER HIGH INTO THE AIR! THE BEAR! THE BEAR!"

"No," Margaery said. "He has never taken vows."

Her grandmother frowned. "Tell the girl the truth. The poor lad is crippled, and that's the way of it."

"He was hurt as a squire, riding in his first tourney," Margaery confided. "His horse fell and crushed his leg."

"That snake of a Dornishman was to blame, that Oberyn Martell. And his maester as well."

"I CALLED FOR A KNIGHT, BUT YOU'RE A BEAR! A BEAR! A BEAR! ALL BLACK AND BROWN AND COVERED WITH HAIR!"

"Willas has a bad leg but a good heart," said Margaery. "He used to read to me when I was a little girl, and draw me pictures of the stars. You will love him as much as we do, Sansa."

"SHE KICKED AND WAILED, THE MAID SO FAIR, BUT HE LICKED THE HONEY FROM HER HAIR. HER HAIR! HER HAIR! HE LICKED THE HONEY FROM HER HAIR!"

"When might I meet him?" asked Sansa, hesitantly.

"Soon," promised Margaery. "When you come to Highgarden, after Joffrey and I are wed. My grandmother will take you."

"I will," said the old woman, patting Sansa's hand and smiling a soft wrinkly smile. "I will indeed."

"THEN SHE SIGHED AND SQUEALED AND KICKED THE AIR! MY BEAR! SHE SANG. MY BEAR SO FAIR! AND OFF THEY WENT, FROM HERE TO THERE, THE BEAR, THE BEAR, AND THE MAIDEN FAIR." Butterbumps roared the last line, leapt into the air, and came down on both feet with a crash that shook the wine cups on the table. The women laughed and clapped.

"I thought that dreadful song would never end," said the Queen of Thorns. "But look, here comes my cheese."

A Storm of Swords - Sansa I

During the entire conversation about the marriage, we have a singer shouting into our ears the song of the Bear and the Maiden Fair, so, lol, yes, maybe the song is all about Jon and Sansa...

[poisonappletales]

Arsenik, say a girl in a hypothetical sense wishes to court Viktor. What must she do in order to earn your respect to try and court your beloved nephew?

“Ah, Miss Livi. My nephew mentioned you. You’ve given him a beautiful gift every year for the last two Valentine Day’s, haven’t you? You’re an excellent poet. Is it strange to say that it’s inspiring me to write something?”

[His brows furrow faintly, lending his gentle smile an apologetic slant.] “Forgive me, that wasn’t a secret, was it? My nephew tells me everything he receives. It would feel stranger to put up a pretense of not knowing, but if it bothers you, I can certainly do so next time.”

[He gives a good-humored chuckle.] “Now then, you were asking for a…hypothetical friend? In my clan, it’s more common for a gentleman to initiate a courtship, but it isn’t strictly forbidden. Besides, you aren’t a Hulder, so there’s no need for you to observe our customs.

If you’re asking about how to earn my respect…do you have a sheaf of paper? Be prepared to write this down. Are you ready?

You must gather two eggs from the nest of the one-eyed hawk. They often roost in the woods by the lake. I suggest arming yourself because they’re known for breathing fire and generally being as vicious as wolves, especially to trespassers. Once you have your prize, find the hidden cave by the lake. Crush a few of the crystals there into fine powder and cover yourself with them.

Spend two nights in meditation like this, and when it is over, eat the eggs. Uncooked, they’re not really fit for consumption, so you might faint, but if you can endure it, you will have conquered a trial by fire, crystal and night.  A woman I can respect.”

[He beams at you before giving a soft laugh.] “I hope you know I’m only teasing, Miss Livi. You don’t have to earn my respect. You already have it.” 

[He taps his chin.] “Oh, wait, this is for a hypothetical person, right?”  [The corners of his mouth turn up in a smile that one might fancy as teasing.]

“Rest assured, I believe all women are deserving of respect. If anyone seeks my approval for my nephew’s match, then simply show you’re the decent person I think you are. It’s as simple as that.”  [Leaning towards you from his great height, he lowers his voice, speaking as one prepared to tell a great secret.] “Truth be told, I’m generally inclined to think well of most people, so just don’t kick unassuming rabbits or knock over any bird nests. I really was only joking earlier.

Frankly, if you ask me, my nephew’s feelings are more important in this matter. What I think shouldn’t be the deciding factor.  I’ll be happy as long as he’s happy. He doesn’t like trouble anyway, so I don’t imagine he would be drawn to someone who would hurt him. Just a small hint about his type.”  [One of his eyes flutter shut in a conspiratorial wink.] 

“Hm? Miss Livi, you didn’t actually write down what I said earlier, did you? Hehe, I didn’t mean to make you go through so much trouble. Here, let me see it…” [With a light hum, he begins to scribble something on the back of it.] “What am I doing?” [With a hint of sing-song:] “You’ll see in just a moment…there we are.” 

[He hands it back to you with another warm smile.] “Please accept this as an apology for teasing you so much. If it’s more than you can stand, just let me know. I’ll hold back even more. Oh? Are you wondering what it would be like if I wasn’t holding back at all? I don’t know if you’re ready for such horrors, Miss Livi. But if you really want it, I’ll give you what you asked for. Feel free to tell me if you ever change your mind.”

[He chuckles.] “I’m glad we had this conversation. It’s always interesting to think of hypothetical situations, isn’t it? Although, if it had been a genuine one…I might have offered an invitation to tea with my nephew and me. Introductions are the easiest way to make connections, aren’t they? For love matches, too.

Haha, come see me any time, Miss Livi. I’ve known my nephew for a long time, so if anyone was interested in holding a courtship with him, I would be more than happy to offer tips. All hypothetically speaking, of course. Don’t worry, I know how to keep a secret.

Take care, Miss Livi. Ah, it isn’t too late, is it? I’m worried I might have kept you here for too long. If I have, allow me to walk you back. If anything happened to a lady, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.”  [He smiles.] “Unless you’d like me to ask my nephew to do it instead? Hehe, all right, all right. I’ll stop.”

Whenever you turn the page over, you’ll find that Arsenik wrote on the back:

Your hand turns ink into goldFrom your page emanates the sweet, warm rays of the sun You have a heart of fair weather and white lightEarnest and pure

Your hand turns ink into goldLove and strength overflowsYou have a talent that cannot be bound or reinedSuch imagination should not be denied or restrained

Free yourselfHave confidence in who you are and all that you areHave I not said it? I believe;Your hand turns ink into gold

Beneath this poem, he adds:

“I did tell you that you inspired me to write something. A piece of advice: Don’t worry about what others think, whether it’s Viktor, another or myself. Know that you are a woman worthy of respect. I meant what I said - you are a talented artist of words and more. Don’t be afraid to express yourself.

As long as it’s coming from your heart, you can’t go wrong. Always seek to do what’s right, and don’t knock over any hawk nests. I really was kidding, Miss Livi. Don’t do anything to hurt yourself.  ◕‿◕

Hypothetically speaking, my nephew would be lucky to be with a lady like you - someone altogether lovely, creative, and loving. Such a wonderful person would already have my respect. If you don’t believe me, I’ll sign off on this paper and you can frame it on your wall.

Again, I’m teasing you, Miss Livi. But if you really want to do it, go ahead. No one will judge you for it.

With best regards from your future uncle-in-law,Arsenik of the Hulder”

[iol247]

Ramaphosa has given his enemies just enough rope to hang themselves. President has played the political chess game to perfection and his anti-corruption agenda has started to bear fruit

You’ve got to give it to President Cyril Ramaphosa. He doesn’t sing about machine guns, threatening people. Or engage in poetry reading that might confuse the enemy. But he makes sure those whose fingers are caught in the till, who mostly happen to be his rivals, face the full might of the law.

Initially dismissed as weak, doubtful, treading too carefully and too fearful of exercising his authority, Ramaphosa’s beat is now steady. If you’re Ace Magashule, the ANC’s administrative chief enjoying extended garden leave, it’s a slow burn. It’s psychological torture. For former president Jacob Zuma, it’s a heart-wrenching countdown. In about two days, Zuma will either be sitting in jail or a search party made up of the country’s top security chiefs, some of whom reported to him not too long ago, will be out trying to locate him. Jail beckons.

The funny thing is that Magashule posed for a picture as though playing chess the other day. And Zuma is reputed to be a great chess player too. But Ramaphosa, having shown them flames at the last ANC elective conference, is still showing them who’s boss of the game to this day.

The point, though, is not that Ramaphosa is using the country’s security apparatus to unfairly jail those who are opposed to him. Far from it. He is just smart enough to know that we all want a functional criminal justice cluster. A country based on the rule of law. He knows we are tired of being misled by daylight thieves and petty criminals masquerading as revolutionaries. And when Ramaphosa says to his supporters and rivals “let us fight corruption”, who will stand up and say “that’s a terrible idea, Mr President”?

Perhaps Zweli Mkhize, who is about to become a former health minister? No, chance. Or Zizi Kodwa, deputy minister of state security, considered to be in Ramaphosa’s corner, who we now know is, like Zuma, Mkhize and many others, a kept politician? “I do not come before you to pull wool over your eyes,” he said. Poor guy. Well, a cool million rand and a Jeep in the garage down the line — but a wasted political career that was, not long ago, promising. You’ve got to feel for him.

And that’s the thing about the chess-player: if you’re his ally but become prisoner to your greed, he leaves you to your own devices. He’s not about to become collateral while trying to save you. Ask Khusela Diko, his suspended spokesperson. His consistent refrain, rooted in our collective desire to curb corruption, is that government has a social compact with society to weed out any form of malfeasance. It is, after all, the ANC’s conference resolution.

The smooth player has got them where they can’t say no. He, like the rest of us, must be frustrated though that the National Prosecuting Authority’s Investigating Directorate barks more than it bites.

But a combination of the directorate with the rejuvenated Hawks and the now feared Special Investigating Unit, a unit that has given many hope, creates a veneer of progress in the fight against corruption. But much ground remains to be covered, especially on eye-watering episodes of corruption unfolding weekly at the Zondo commission — a place so dreaded by Zuma that he forced the Constitutional Court to imprison him rather than to simply go answer questions before Zondo.

For whatever time he spent doing ANC intelligence work, Zuma now knows that, as Sunday draws closer, crime intelligence and the State Security Agency are already monitoring his movements to ensure they don’t have to wonder whether to pick him up in Nkandla or Johannesburg.

In an ideal world, I suppose.

Our spies can also be sleepy sometimes, what with Shepherd Bushiri and the infamous Gupta brothers, the very people at the heart of state capture, leaving the country unnoticed while “Big Brother” was watching!

The point is that between Sunday and Monday, it will all be over. Magashule will be the only senior leader outside, awaiting his own trial for fraud and corruption related to a R250m asbestos contract, awarded during his tenure as premier of the Free State. The anti-Ramaphosa wheels are coming off the bus, with Magashule too out in the cold, spending inordinate hours with lawyers, rather than minding the ANC’s electoral machinery ahead of local government polls later this year.

Supra Mahumapelo, the former North West premier, is also busy fighting off a disciplinary hearing, preoccupied with issues around procedural fairness instead of substantive governance issues. The ANC’s disciplinary committee in North West had ruled that Mahumapelo and Bitsa Lenkopane, provincial ANC Women’s League secretary, be suspended from the ANC for five years after partaking in a “parallel rally” to one organised by the ANC.

Siyabonga Cwele, Zuma’s first-choice intelligence minister, under whose watch things started falling apart, also made an uncomfortable cameo appearance at the state capture commission. The only voice out there, which is hard to take seriously, is of the guy who once claimed his mother was dead. He speaks for MK veterans who look anything like veterans. Yes, that guy. Not worth mentioning.

This weekend, as we await uBaba to start serving time, marks the evisceration of a father figure who wrongly thought his imprisonment would lead to a revolution. It marks the end of an era of impunity. It marks the beginning of the end for many who have now come to the rude realisation that it profits no man to sing about machine guns. The rule of law is supreme.  

https://www.timeslive.co.za/sunday-times-daily/opinion-and-analysis/2021-07-01-makhudu-sefara--ramaphosa-has-given-his-enemies-just-enough-rope-to-hang-themselves/

[yasbxxgie]

The Black Book

My favorite writer of all time is Toni Morrison, which prematurely reveals much about where I stand on the major issues of modern black literature. When literary tastemaker Oprah Winfrey canonized Morrison’s Paradise in her book club years ago, I was intensely dismayed by the readers’ televised difficulty with the text. I shook my head with elitist disdain at the dumbing down of America. When it comes to black writers of the Now, I snobbishly fall out on the side of Edwidge Danticat, Colson Whitehead, and Zadie Smith rather than the intentionally less challenging, more populist E. Lynn Harris (the largest-selling black male author ever? How the fuck did that happen?), Omar Tyree, and Eric Jerome Dickey. However, success stories on both sides of my aristocratic dividing line have led to the book industry publishing more work from African American authors than ever before, as well as the recent establishment of several black-targeted imprints by major publishers.

Emblematic of the current attention raining down on African American letters, the black literary world came together at two separate events a few weekends ago: the second annual Black Writers’ Retreat, held at the Betty Shabazz Wholistic Retreat Center in upstate New York, and the third annual Harlem Book Fair and Uptown Arts Festival on 135th Street. The Black Writers’ Retreat, founded by Third World Press publisher Haki R. Madhubuti, hosted 70 writers at varied stages of their craft, honing skills in workshops led by Sonia Sanchez, Amiri Baraka, and others over a four-day weekend. The Harlem Book Fair featured panel discussions with writers like Nelson George and Colin Channer, as well as readings and expo-style booths. But the conversations and issues raised at both events were similar: Whom do black authors write for, and who should our audience be? Will the imprints of the major houses—newly geared up to reach a broad black readership—release mediocre work and ghettoize the literary marketplace, or will they prove a boon for black voices?

DAY ONE OF THE BLACK WRITERS’ RETREAT: Otisville, New York. Sixty women and 10 men—an assortment of writers from all over the country, both seasoned and aspiring—sit assembled in the ranch house conference center, surrounded by five acres of plush green land, at this opening session of the retreat. As per tradition, the eldest writer present is asked permission to commence an African libation ceremony, honoring the spirits of inspirational writers past as well as ancestors on the whole. Water is spilled; names are called out from every corner of the rambler. Zora Neale Hurston. James Baldwin. Jean Toomer. Ralph Ellison. Gwendolyn Brooks. Richard Wright. A prayer is sent up for poet June Jordan, suffering from breast cancer. The ritual is intended to place writers in a higher, literary mindset rather than focusing on the capitalistic angle (i.e., what it takes to sell a book).

“You have major publishers which are primarily owned by multinational corporations starting black imprints,” Madhubuti says in his opening address, referring to specialized presses like Strivers Row, Amistad, Harlem Moon, and Dafina Books (which are part of Villard/Random House, HarperCollins, Random House, and Kensington, respectively). “I think there are about seven now. And these publishing companies have brought in black editors and put some serious money around trying to capture that market. So when you begin to look at what they’re doing and the type of material that they’re publishing, there does seem to be some promise in terms of at least having the resources to publish writers in many different genres.”

Though black fiction stands at a promising juncture—writers are being granted the previously unavailable opportunity to realize mainstream potential, offering readers access to a wider variety of talent—the nationalistic faction of the black literati has cause to remain wary of “multinational corporations.” (Madhubuti’s own Third World Press, founded in 1967, is a political and cultural house publishing in many genres—fiction, nonfiction, spiritual—and has provided an inspirational model for the likes of Moore Black Press, Black Classic Press, Africa World Press, and Just Us Press.) Strivers Row has already kicked up a bit of controversy; ads for three new titles—placed in mags like Good Housekeeping and Family Circle—are sponsored by and double as a plug for Pine-Sol cleaner, sparking fears that these imprints will further ghettoize black fiction. A recent article in The New York Times cited contemptuous comments from authors Terry McMillan (“What does Pine-Sol have to do with books? It is really insulting. It is sad. Once again we are back where we started”) and Jill Nelson (“These ads are insulting and condescending. It’s racist, and I bet you it’s bad marketing”).

“Every other form of popular culture in this country uses some form of underwriting,” counters Nelson George, veteran music journalist and author of contemporary relationship novels like Seduced and One Woman Short. “Cross-marketing is the norm in TV, film, music. So why would books be sacrosanct? I think it’s inevitable. The next John Grisham novel may be sponsored by Lexus, and definitely I know Tom Clancy would get a big deal! The U.S. Army would be happy to underwrite his shit. It’s fascinating. All the controversy is about a black title, but the effect of this deal will affect the entire publishing industry, if it works.”

Contrary arguments notwithstanding, it still seems unlikely that a title by a new black author—Rails Under My Back, by Jeffery Renard Allen, for example—will be taken as seriously when used to hawk household cleanser. Literary agent Anna Ghosh detects an implicit differentiation between populist fiction and literary fiction where these imprints are concerned. “I think the way some of these imprints are publishing popular African American fiction is kind of like how they think about genre fiction—and literary fiction is always different: Each book is unique,” she says. “But I think an incredible number of new novels are being published every year, and many of them disappear without anybody taking any note at all. In some ways, African American writers have an advantage because they’ll stand out. It’s not yet another novel set in rural Iowa about whatever, so they can get a certain kind of attention, and there’s an audience that will find it.” This audience is confirmed by a glance at the bestseller list: E. Lynn Harris’s Anyway the Wind Blows is at No. 2, Lalita Tamedy’s Cane River‘s at No. 3, Alice Randall’s controversial The Wind Done Gone is at No. 9, and Eric Jerome Dickey’s Between Lovers is at No. 16.

DAY TWO, 1:30 P.M.: Radiant, almond-complected poet Sonia Sanchez jokes amiably with her old friend, the notoriously cantankerous author Imamu Amiri Baraka, both resilient elders of the 1960s Black Arts Movement. During the third session of the day, Sister Sanchez teases Brother Baraka about his conservative “buddies,” Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas and conservative critic Stanley Crouch, before pontificating on the state of black literature. Amid factionalism about highbrow literature versus populist, Terry McMillan trickle-down writing, Sister Sanchez takes a wider view. “Black literature is alive, and it’s singing, my brother. It depends on what song you want to hear, OK? There’s a song of tradition, there’s a song of what I call great writing, there’s a song of fun, there’s a song of romance and adventure. I’d say, support ’em all. And don’t take an attitude, but know that you must always support that song that says great tradition, great history, great herstory, great literature. There’s enough room for all kinds of literature to advance and be listened to, and be bought and read.”

DAY THREE, NOON: After a night of jovial bedlam, filled with African storytelling from the elders (tales of director Bill Duke’s hoodlum screenplay, Brother Baraka’s near-confrontation with Ralph Ellison over a book critique), every last one worth the retreat’s $450 registration fee, tensions begin to surface during a fiction-workshop session on Saturday, the last full day of the retreat. One or two of the more seasoned writers grow frustrated, as more basic advice is disseminated to the novices, cutting into time intended to demonstrate and apply techniques. Baraka heads a session that leads into lunchtime, discussing the mainstream-versus-literary-fiction issue with a more nationalistic perspective.

“They wanna push a literature and an art that’s noncontentious, that’s actually a soporific—that puts you to sleep, that makes you content with things rather than trying to find out how to transform them,” he says. “That’s something that’s been proposed by the people who rule this society. They don’t want you to think. If you start thinking, you would know that they need a better society than this one.”

Walking across the grassy expanse to the dining room, the bespectacled Baraka expounds further. “The whole intellectual life of America is suffocating. Now that the big publishers, such as there are remaining in the United States, found that black people can read, they’re publishing a whole mountain-load of essentially mediocre, useless kind of materials. I think it just goes back to the need for black and progressive writers to begin to create their own kinds of journals. Black people live in 27 different cities in this country: How do we produce the kind of journals where we can publish a maximum of people, have a maximum discussion, and get a maximum of new writers emerging? Until we begin to publish our own journals that are independent from big money, do our own publishing independent of big money, we are always gonna be stifled in terms of our development.”

More harmony exists on the subject of the black-targeted imprints sprouting from the major publishers: They ain’t likely to last in the long run. “Many of these black authors, writers who are being published today, they’re not going to be around long,” Madhubuti declares on the last day of his retreat. “You read the books and you’re not led to much of anything. At some point, it becomes the same ol’ same ol’. Now obviously, there’s gonna be junk in everything. But it’s not my responsibility to put the junk out. That’s not gonna happen at Third World Press. I think that with these seven imprints, they’re going to erase each other. If you go the next five years, we won’t be having this conversation because they won’t exist.”

Nelson George agrees in essence. “I’m sure there’ll be fallout. There’s fallout in every genre: hip-hop labels go, dotcom companies go. Not all of these things will make it. But all you need is one or two good editors to find one or two flagship artists. The opportunities that are being created by these imprints are unprecedented. If the imprints all are closed down in five years and they’ve spawned three good writers who’ll have a constituency and continue going on, then they’ll have served their purpose.”

Photograph:

The growing popularity of black books is evident on bestseller lists and at the 2001 Harlem Book Fair

[theonyxpath]

Changeling: The Lost, Second Edition has gone to manuscript approval at White Wolf Entertainment. This is WWE’s chance to look at our near-final text and specify any changes they’d like to see. After this, the book goes to editing and art direction, then post-editing development, then layout.

To celebrate, here’s a preview of the True Fae, by Meghan Fitzgerald and Travis Stout!

The True Fae

Half a hundred aliases describe them: Gentry, Good Cousins, Kindly Ones, Fair Folk,  and more. These are lies frightened women and men tell, hoping to appease the vanity of capricious gods. Such false names obscure true ones that no one dares speak, lest careless and impertinent utterance draw Their attention from across the Thorns. The Lost use the word “fae” to describe anything that comes from the Hedge or beyond it — hobgoblins, tokens, even themselves. But the True Fae are those noble, mercurial, unknowable beings that stride, larger than life, across Arcadia and rule its lands with the divine right of conquerors.

Most changelings see “Keeper” as synonymous with “Gentry,” but in truth, Faerie is home to countless Others who have no interest in humanity. They wage glorious wars over heart-bound trophies, pitting goblin hordes against one another until blood stains the sky. They plumb the ragged edges and dusty corners of their realm, seeking new voids to fill with their boundless selves. Fae explorers prowling the cold, empty wasteland beyond the borders of their Arcadia were the first to discover the Huntsmen in their barrows there, but grew bored with these new playthings until their brethren found a way to put them to better use. A changeling desperate enough to escape her Keeper could reach out to its rival who keeps no human prisoners for a hint to its weakness, though she may decide the price isn’t worth paying after all.

A True Fae is not a person, but a Name wrapped in a tapestry of vows and deals. Deep in the mists of forgotten time, the Fae bargained with Arcadia itself, declaring that they would exist — that they would own the land entire and claim it as a vessel for their Wyrd, dreams, and facets, in exchange for a web of arcane rules so complex no one of them could ever know them all. At their core, the Fae are ravenous beings that must possess. They want, and in their all-consuming wanting they strike bargains to sate their desires, whether for slaves, kingdoms, secrets, or spoils. Changelings who live and labor among them usually see only the tip of the Gentry iceberg, but those brave and foolish enough to delve more fully into Faerie’s mysteries catch a glimpse of the truth: a True Fae’s Name is its heart and its undoing, and all the vast kingdoms and beauteous treasures with which it surrounds itself are made of promises. And promises can be broken.

Names and Titles

A True Fae’s Name is its core, and rarely manifests in a comprehensible way unless its Titles have all been stripped away or lost. A Title is one of many roles a single Fae agrees to play, one face of many that it wears, granting it limited omnipotence within the confines of that role. The Princess of Red Crowns is able to nail her hats to the heads of her victims, to conjure up her great and terrible Crimson Keep, because she holds that title. She possesses near-infinite power when it comes to nailing hats to people’s heads, dragging off wicked children to her Keep, and so on, but unless she is also the Tlatoani of Crashing Serpents, she has no especial control over dragons or violent thunderstorms. No matter what form a Title takes, its nature always bleeds through: every manifestation of the Princess, on Earth or in Arcadia, features elements of torture, blood, and nails, for example, whether she appears as a blood-drenched madwoman with a hammer or a children’s rhyme about the perils of going out of doors while hatless.

The True Fae are the lords and ladies in their palaces of crystal and moonlight, but they are also the palace and the masked servants and the forest in which the castle sits. What the Courts call the “Keeper” is just one Title’s manifestation, and even if a changeling kills it, the oaths it made would simply cast a new piece of itself in that role eventually and pick up the Wild Hunt where it left off. Only breaking the deals that created a Title in the first place can permanently unravel it, although another Fae may devour it and claim it for itself.

A given Title might become a Keeper for any number of reasons, and might not be one forever. A changeling’s captor might abandon her for ten years not to inflict the torture of loneliness but just because its Keeper Title got distracted with something else for a while and forgot it was a Keeper. Some Fae take people for the exquisite flavor of their emotions, or the prizes they can extract from human dreams. With their ability to weave dream-symbols into real objects, they pluck the most valuable jewels of dreamstuff from the minds of slumbering mortals and steal them away to adorn their crowns. A beloved memory, a childhood fear, or even the certainty itself that one is only dreaming and can wake at any time — a True Fae may covet these, and only the dreams of humanity can provide. Other Gentry might love humans for their ability to present a spirited challenge or entertain them, or might simply prefer human servants to goblin ones for the smell. One Fae might plot to take more human prisoners than another, for no reason other than to compete. Some Titles may even need to capture humans as a term of their deals to exist, which means a changeling might escape by finding loopholes in those deals.

Sign on the Dotted Line

The Others have built a kingdom that conforms to their every whim, but without their age-old pledges they would be nothing. More importantly, they can’t take power away from rebellious changelings without taking power away from themselves — an inconceivable notion. Their tangled webs of pacts and obligations are what empower the Lost to oppose and evade them.

All the world-shaping power and casual immortality a True Fae possesses comes from pacts it signed when it came into being. The Contracts it wields are like a changeling’s writ large, inscribed into not only itself but its domain too — even the crystal gardens that sing enchanting songs and the treacherous bogs that devour trespassers are Contracts. The signature that seals the deal is the oath a Fae swears, and the terms of this oath are complex secrets woven into its realm and the role it plays among the other Gentry. Pacts it swears upon its Name are existentially binding, and bestow the grandest and most fundamental parts of a Fae’s nature that persist across all of its Titles. Breaking these pacts condemns it to true destruction. Lesser pacts it swears upon a Title bestow smaller-scale powers only that Title can use; breaking these pacts won’t kill a Fae, but it might destroy the Title or render one of its powers useless.

A True Fae makes deals with entire Regalia, gaining nigh-limitless power over their themes within the bounds of the Title that uses them. In exchange, it must keep a physical representation of each Regalia it masters, though not always a literal one. A Sword could very well be a weapon, but it might also be a hunting hawk, a thunderstorm, or a bulldozer. It could even be a jagged cliff that juts out into the sea — anything that expresses force and forthrightness within the purview of the Title that commands it. Some changelings think the Fae have access to more than six Regalia, deriving ever more esoteric powers from treasures rare and peculiar.

An Arcadian realm is like a theatre: the scenery and costumes and faces change, but the framework remains apparent, if an actor just changes her perspective. Anyone wishing to oppose one of the Fair Folk can do so on its terms, dueling with pistols or plotting with its goblin courtiers, and in many cases that’s the only apparent way to do it. But these are uphill battles, fought with great sacrifice to little permanent effect. A changeling who learns the true nature of Titles and their oaths can quest and scheme to discover the terms or physical key to such an oath. Clever manipulation of the Title’s manifestation, destroying the Regalia outright, or appropriating it and overriding the oath by swearing a more powerful one on someone else’s true name can force the Fae to break its pact and take power away from it.

The Fae war among themselves for countless inscrutable reasons, constantly enmeshed in rivalries, enmities, and shifting alliances. One impetus lies in the Gentry’s ability to consume each other’s Titles and add them to their own complement of roles. If a True Fae loses all its Titles and its Name is obliterated, it ceases to be; but if even one of its Titles persists as part of another Fae, it could reconstitute itself someday, regaining a Name through some convoluted set of pledge clauses and happy accidents.

True Fae Traits

A True Fae never appears in a game as anything but the manifestation of one of its Titles, or its Name if it has no Titles left. Characters can’t interact with the full breadth of one of the Fair Ones any other way. A manifestation could be a character, or it could be a sky citadel, or an enormous clockwork machine, or a flock of platinum birds. Regardless of its form, a Title has most of the same traits that a changeling does, although all of its Attributes and Skills may not be applicable in certain forms. The Storyteller doesn’t need to create traits for every Title that belongs to a True Fae; only ones the characters will meaningfully interact with.

Build a Fae antagonist with the rules for creating Changeling characters (see Chapter Three), with the following considerations and exceptions:

Character Concept and Titles: A True Fae has three Aspirations just like changelings do. Whenever it fulfills an Aspiration, it gains a Willpower point instead of a Beat, which goes away at the end of the scene if not spent unless it was earned pursuing a craving or a changeling.

Aspirations for the Gentry range everywhere from the humanly impossible to the unthinkably cruel. If the Title is a Keeper, one of its Aspirations should reflect its desire to capture — or recapture — a changeling. One Aspiration should always reflect a craving of some kind, something the Title wants to possess more than anything, such as “the love of a human” or “one million loyal subjects;” this Aspiration stays no matter how many times it’s fulfilled. Highly abstract Aspirations like “become a star” are valid for the Gentry, but the Storyteller should make sure a route to such an Aspiration exists and has something to do with characters the Fae can interact with; for instance, to become a star, the Title might first need to transform seven humans into eternal blue fires and then consume them on Midsummer’s Eve. The star then becomes just another manifestation of the Title.

A True Fae has between zero and five Titles. The Storyteller should decide up front how many total Titles the Fae has, even if he’s only creating traits for one of them; this determines how powerful each Title is. A Fae with zero Titles is like a cornered rat, consisting only of a Name, and is desperate to make deals and pick off weak Titles from other Gentry to survive. A Fae with five Titles is a god even among faeries, with power over every Regalia and a massive Arcadian domain.

Gentry have many kinds of Names, from a simple “Ayesha” or “John” to the sound of waves breaking against an ice shelf, or a picture of the wadjet. Strange sounds and images don’t especially protect True Fae’s Names. Once heard (or otherwise experienced) a substitute is as good as the Name itself, provided the speaker witnessed the faerie’s real Name and uses the substitute with an honest, true intent.

Titles are abstract (and even enigmatic) concepts, but they always refer to an emotion, sensual experience, or object. One may be the Prince of Weeping Rats, while another is the Acolyte of Screams on the Mountain. Every manifestation incorporates the Title in some distinct way. This shape or theme is called the Title’s tell. The Prince of Weeping Rats appears as a rat-headed crying man holding a scepter, or becomes an endless, filthy high-rise, whose human-looking tenants weep whenever the ruling rats eat their food or steal unattended children.

Wyrd: Determine Wyrd before the rest of a True Fae’s traits, as many traits derive from its Wyrd rating.

Even the weakest of the Gentry is powerful compared to most changelings. Each of a True Fae’s Titles has a Wyrd rating of 5, plus one dot for each Title the Fae possesses (including this one), to a maximum of 10.

A True Fae begins any scene with a full Glamour pool in Arcadia, and otherwise recovers Glamour in the same ways that changelings do. All True Fae suffer from Glamour addiction outside Arcadia or the Hedge; if they fail to regain at least their Wyrd rating in Glamour each day in the real world, they suffer the Deprived Condition. If they fall to Glamour 0, they lose Willpower and then Health at a rate of one per day until they regain at least their Wyrd rating in Glamour.

True Fae suffer from frailties just as changelings do. They also suffer the bane of iron, as detailed on p. XX.

Attributes and Skills: Rather than prioritizing categories, a Fae Title receives a number of dots equal to five times its Wyrd to distribute across Attributes, and the same number to distribute across Skills. A Title has no Skill Specialties.

Faerie Template: True Fae don’t have kiths, Courts, or Anchors. They don’t truly have seemings either, but each Title can use one seeming’s blessing and bears something of that seeming’s trappings regardless of the form it takes.

In Arcadia and the Hedge, a Title has free rein to treat reality as though it were shaping dreams (p. XX) or the Hedge (p. XX), performing any oneiromantic or Hedgespinning act that fits within the legend of its identity and treating other characters as though they were important eidolons. It automatically succeeds at these actions unless the target of its shaping magic spends a Willpower point for the chance to resist.

A Title also has access to every Contract in (Wyrd ? 4) Regalia (see Chapter Three). One of these must match its associated seeming. In the real world, it can use its Regalia and can itself take any form, but can’t otherwise shape reality.

Merits: Fae Titles can have any Merits available to changelings, where they make sense. A Fae’s Social Merits must specify whether they apply in Arcadia and the Hedge, or in the human world. A Title has Merit dots equal to twice its Wyrd rating.

Advantages: Calculate these as changelings do, but True Fae don’t have Clarity.

Mask and Mien: The Mask hides a True Fae in the real world, but imperfectly; the Title’s tell always shows through in some fashion.

Names and Pledges

Names have power. A Fae that knows someone’s true name can weave that name into a nightmare tailor-made to drive them into its waiting arms. Anyone a True Fae successfully targets with a Contract while speaking or otherwise utilizing her true name gains the Persistent Obsession Condition pertaining to that Fae, with a context chosen by the target’s player.

A changeling who learns a Fae’s true Name can speak it aloud to empower herself when she acts against any of its Titles, achieving exceptional success with any successful use of a Contract that targets that Fae.

The Gentry can make pledges just like changelings can (p. XX), but they must invest more than just Glamour. A True Fae can seal any statement, even those of changelings and other fae creatures, but to do so it must swear the sealing upon something it considers one of its possessions. This could be a captive changeling, a hobgoblin servant, a dream-trinket or token, a Huntsman who wears its livery — anything that isn’t just a manifestation of one of its Titles is fair game, as long as the Fae considers it property. If the subject of the sealing follows through on her promise, the Fae must give her the possession upon which it swore.

A True Fae’s Title or Name can swear a personal or hostile oath to any fae creature, including a changeling, but to do so it must swear upon itself. If it breaks the oath, it doesn’t gain the Oathbreaker Condition. Instead, it permanently loses access to one of its Regalia and becomes vulnerable to lethal attacks during the scene in which it broke its word. If a Title loses its last Regalia this way, the other party may choose to kill the Title permanently; demand any three tasks or wishes from it and then allow it to regain its last Regalia; or force it to inhabit the Regalia’s physical key, allowing the other party to wield it as a token. Such items retain their power even in the real world, but changelings are cautious with them, since dormant Fae Titles have been known to wake under unpredictable circumstances. Changelings who break Fae oaths gain the Oathbreaker Condition (p. XX) as normal, but the Wyrd may demand disproportionate restitution for the betrayal.

Any Title can make a bargain by swearing upon the Fae’s true Name. Fae bargains work differently than changeling bargains do. Both parties must agree to perform a task, give up a possession, abide by a rule, or something equally concrete and clearly communicated. For the True Fae, the consequences for failing to uphold its end is permanent destruction. A non-Gentry party must swear upon something crucially important to her — her own name (and thus her life), perhaps, or that of a loved one; a favorite memory; her Hollow or home; or something else. If she fails to uphold her end of the bargain, whatever she swore upon is forfeit to the Fae to do with as it pleases, and the Wyrd backs up the claim.

Since Gentry pledges have such dire consequences when broken, the Fae don’t make them often or lightly. Convincing one of the Good Cousins to make a pledge is difficult at best and usually requires a changeling to set up an untenable situation for it first. A Fae in mortal danger always has the chance to try to make a pledge and save its life before it’s consigned to oblivion, but it can’t force the other party to agree. Of course, the True Fae aren’t above extracting binding promises from others without actually pledging anything in return, if they can pull it off.

Vulnerability and Death

A True Fae never takes bashing damage from anything other than its banes (including iron), and takes lethal damage only from banes unless an attacker speaks its true Name or it breaks an oath, as above. Only cold iron weapons can deal aggravated damage to the Gentry.

The intricate web of promises and deals that govern a True Fae makes it vulnerable in other ways, too. If a changeling finds a Regalia’s physical representation and learns one of the rules that binds its Title to the Fae, she may be able to manipulate the situation such that the Title breaks its oath, as detailed above. Changelings can purchase these rules from goblins in the know, deduce them from patterns they observe after spending a long time with a Title, trick it into telling them through clever pledges, etc.

As an example, the Storm King of the Bloody Throne wears an ersatz crown and rules its domain with an iron fist. It has sworn an oath to do so forever. But the Contract that binds it to its Name says that it is a usurper, and will rule only as long as the land has no true monarch. Only one who can remove its Sword from the stone in which it’s embedded can be the true monarch, so the Storm King hides stone and Sword both deep in the belly of a dark forest, guarded by goblin beasts. When a changeling braves the forest, defeats the beast, finds the stone, and pulls out the Sword, she becomes the true queen of the land. Since the Storm King has now broken its oath to rule forever, its fate is in the new queen’s hands.

1,001 Stories

The following examples of the Gentry can serve as inspiration for players looking to create their characters’ Keepers or for Storytellers looking for principal antagonists.

Grandmother, Grandmother

Deep in the Wood, past Bone Hill and over Rickety Bridge, sits a cozy little cabin in the middle of a broad clearing. It has a little garden in the back full of dream-a-drupes and stabapples, and a pen for the piglins and milkbeast, and a stout stone tower rises from one corner. It’s here that Grandmother, Grandmother raises “her” children. She takes them from the mortals, you know; the ones who are neglected or abused, or just plain running wild and in need of a firm hand. Grandmother has specific ideas about what a family looks like, and she molds her changelings into the roles she sees fit: the Eldest Who Can Do No Wrong, the Gifted Child, the Black Sheep, the Forgotten Middle Child, and so on. Grandmother’s vision rarely matches the personality of the youths she takes, but then, that’s where the conflict comes from.

Grandmother, Grandmother’s domain encompasses the clearing, the cottage, and a vast tract of dark, spooky woodlands surrounding it. The woods are strictly forbidden to all of Grandmother’s “children,” and are fully stocked with dangerous beasts, ghosts, and any number of fairy tale appropriate dangers. They also contain the only paths from Grandmother’s domain to the Hedge and thence, back to Earth.

Grandmother herself is the manifestation of this Gentry’s third Title: a sweet, smiling old woman who always resembles the archetypal grandmother figure in whatever culture she’s preying on. When she’s angered, though, the façade slips: at first it’s just a flash of sharp teeth or burning reptilian eyes, but when she reveals herself in her full fury, Grandmother, Grandmother is a true terror. Spindly, twiglike limbs belie an unholy strength; papery, wrinkled skin deflects blows like armor; and cruel needle teeth and razor claws dish out horrifying corporal punishment.

Grandmother is choosy about the mortals she abducts: always children, never older than 16 or 17, and all from home life situations that could charitably be described as “troubled.” Street kids and those stuck in the foster-care system, children from abusive households, even latchkey kids Grandmother sees as “neglected” are all likely targets. Once she’s lured or taken them back to her cottage, Grandmother introduces them to their new “siblings” and puts them in a twisted, fairy-tale version of a family drama. Over the years, “her” kids are shaped, willingly or not, into changelings reflecting these roles: the Bossy Oldest Child becomes a Fairest while the Forgotten Middle Child becomes a Darkling, and the Wild Child who spends all her time getting punished might end up an Ogre or a Wizened.

At any given time, Grandmother, Grandmother likely has anywhere from three to five children in the cottage. Inevitably, some of them escape (though almost never all at once — it seems like every time new children arrive, at least one big brother or sister is already there to show them the ropes). Others die. Still others turn 18. Exactly what that means is something the kids debate in hushed after-bedtime whispers. Some say Grandmother lets you go, since you’re an adult and all. Others say she takes you into the forest and sacrifices you to something even more horrible than she. Still others say that, if you’re still there on your 18th birthday, you’re trapped forever, a True Fae in your own right.

Grandmother, Grandmother adheres to a decidedly old-school style of parenting: Good children get smiles and sweet treats (goblin fruits that encourage docility and pliability), while bad children provoke her wrath. Bad children are sent to bed without supper, given extra chores, or, as a final resort, sent into the Wood to cut their own switch. Since this is the only time Grandmother allows any of her children to go past the eaves of the forest, it’s often the best chance they have to escape. The Darkling might abandon her brothers and sisters to run while she can, while the Fairest refuses to leave them behind. The Ogre takes that switch right back to Grandmother and dares her to do her worst.

The Year of Plague

Under a sullen red sun, the cracked and blistered earth gives up foul vapors and poisoned waters. The dead lay uncounted in their heaps, and the dying are too ravaged by disease to seek shelter or dig graves. Changelings scurry about, seeking succor or escape or a way to stop the plague. The sun rises and sets, the seasons turn, and a year later the board resets. All is as it was, forever and ever, plague without end.

The Year of Plague is an unusual Fae Title, in that its domain isn’t a region of Arcadia so much as it is a span of time: specifically, a year of terrible epidemics and plague outbreaks. Every 365 days, the Year “resets,” returning to a zero state shortly after the outbreak. The exact plague and its environs change every year: sometimes it’s London in the midst of the Black Death, or a Ghanan village during the 1918 influenza pandemic. Other times it resembles no earthly place or disease at all.

The Year of Plague seldom manifests a character to speak with, preferring to observe its changelings at a remove. On the rare occasions that it does, it’s a tattered, empty thing of red rags and a medieval plague-doctor’s mask, from which noxious vapors spill endlessly. When it needs to act directly, whether to fetch new changelings or rein in a study subject grown unruly, it prefers to act through goblins or a Huntsman, which naturally follow the same plague doctor motif as they don his livery.

The Year of Plague casts a wide net for its changelings. Anyone who survived a brush with a deadly disease is a potential candidate, as is anyone living in the outbreak zone of an epidemic. The Year often takes doctors and humanitarian aid workers, opportunists and scavengers, and throws them all into a nightmare scenario to see how they adapt and react. Its changelings become Wizened when they try over and over to cure the incurable, or Ogres when they decide the best thing to do is put everyone out of their misery. They may unite survivors and spread hope to become Fairest, or eschew the company of others altogether to protect themselves and become scavenger Beasts.

Naturally, most of the “plague victims” in the Year of Plague are puppets, mere extensions of the Year itself and thus of no use to its studies. Every cycle, though, the Year claims a number of mortals. Sometimes it takes a small cadre and places them together to examine their group dynamics; other times it takes a larger number and scatters them across its domain so it can see how they try to survive on their own. Anyone who has not escaped before the year is up is lost in the resetting: perhaps unmade entirely, or perhaps reduced to one of the automata set dressing the next incarnation of the Year. Escape might come when a character realizes that civilization is but a thin veneer over chaos and ceases playing along, embraces the disease as his way out, or leads the survivors to work together and find a loophole. Actually curing the disease would likely end the Year entirely, ejecting any changelings still within back to the mortal realm.

The Man with the Ergot Smile

From dream to dream he walks, all dapper suits and bright red umbrella. His back is always to the dreamer, always looking toward the huge, thorny gates that loom on the horizon. It doesn’t matter if he sees you, though — once you’ve seen him, he infests your dreams, hollows them out until all you can dream of is him, the gates, and the other poor souls he’s put his mark on. The more of those he gathers, the more those gates creak open, and every night you wake up screaming.

The Man with the Ergot Smile is an exiled True Fae, cut off from his Titles and dominions by dint of some unfathomable Gentry conflict. The terms of his exile are a Contract, as are all things in Arcadia: When one hundred madmen dream as one, the Man may return to Arcadia, and not before. The Contract never said this had to occur naturally, and so the Man With the Ergot Smile slips from dream to dream, planting the seeds of his nightmare and nurturing them as patiently as any gardener. When his poisonous dreams finally bloom, he will go home.

All too aware that being fully embodied is a vulnerability, the Man with the Ergot Smile avoids the physical realm and its attendant dangers. Instead he lives in the world of dreams, skipping from mind to mind along hidden paths and Dreaming Roads, never staying too long in one dream realm. He resembles a man, slim and average height, dressed in a slightly old-fashioned black suit with a black bowler hat. The only color about him is a crimson umbrella he carries like a walking stick. Dreamers only ever see him from behind as he looks expectantly toward the gates of Arcadia, but lucid dreamers or changelings hunting him report that his face is startlingly ordinary — until he smiles, and the world cracks around you and Clarity runs like melted wax.

Though he no longer rules a realm within Arcadia and thus cannot take new changelings, the Man with the Ergot Smile once held dominion over a vast and twisty sanitarium, wherein he broke down captive mortals utterly, just to see what they would build themselves back up as. His patients ended up with any seeming, depending on what kinds of tortures he devised and how they managed to endure them.

Signs and portents follow the Man with the Ergot Smile, signs that echo the realm he once ruled. When the Man is active in the area, admittance at the local mental hospitals spike sharply. Incidences of dancing plague, sudden dissociative states, and St. Anthony’s Fire trail in his wake, and a trained occultist can use those signs to follow him and pinpoint his likely next victim.

The Three Androgenes

Once upon a time, we told stories of wicked fairies in the woods, because the woods were dangerous and it was folly to go there. Now, we do not fear the forest anymore, for we have gone to stranger places by far: the seas, the skies, and very nearly the stars. What stories do we tell to warn our young and innocent away from them? We tell stories of silvery ships and strange, gray beings, child-sized but wise beyond knowing. When you’re someplace you shouldn’t be, someplace that transgresses, they appear in a beam of blinding light, carry you off through a hole in the sky, and peel back your layers amid a galaxy of thorny stars.

Whether the Three Androgenes have always been as they are now, adapted themselves with the rise of UFO folklore, or indeed are a new Gentry altogether, born of stories of flying saucers and alien experiments, no one can say. Their realm is an endless starship, all sleek chrome and art deco fins, containing a multitude of sterile laboratories, operating theaters, and prison cells — or perhaps “zoo enclosures” is more apt. Most of the alien beasts held within are part and parcel of the realm itself, but the Androgenes pride themselves on their extensive collection of humanity. They curate it carefully, always seeking the broadest spectrum of humankind they can acquire.

The Three Androgenes themselves (and even within the nebulous concept of Gentry identity, they’re recognized as a single being) are the archetypal “grays” made popular by everything from science fiction TV shows to late night radio programs: about three feet high, slender, with bulbous heads housing enormous, solid-black eyes made all the more striking by their tiny, almost rudimentary noses and mouths. They sometimes sport silvery, one-piece “uniforms” and sometimes appear nude (though all three lack any indication of sex or gender). They’re always together, whether they’re flying their craft from the control deck or slicing an experimental subject into cross sections and rearranging the internal organs just to see what happens.

Mortals the Three Androgenes take have one purpose: to be guinea pigs and test subjects for bizarre anatomical experimentation. Some become Beasts or Ogres when their Keepers splice their genes with those of other creatures. Others become Elementals or Darklings, partially replaced with advanced mechanical prostheses or reconfigured into nothing human at all, with vast cosmic knowledge forced into their minds. Still others are rebuilt to be flawless, hailed as Fairest success stories and paraded about on display. A few are forced to participate in experimentation on other subjects in a perverse kind of medical school; these changelings become Wizened.

For all that it seems to fly about the cosmos at great speed many light-years from earth, it’s no harder (or easier) to escape the Androgenes’ realm than any other Arcadian domain. Some changelings simply fling themselves out an airlock and force themselves to endure the agony of vacuum until they “land.” Others manage to slip the containment fields on their cells, steal a small shuttlecraft, and reverse-engineer the alien control surfaces so they might escape via “wormhole” back to earth; or take control of the ship itself and crash it unceremoniously into the Hedge.

[massmurdera]

2016 Favorites/Worst

Favorite Movie: the Nice Guys TV DRAMA: Game of Thrones

TV EPISODE: Game of Thrones’ finale TV COMEDY: Veep LIFE CHOICE: getting a new double-sized bed First bed I’ve had in 30 years now. Game-changer. I guess if THIS is the best thing about my year, I suck. But it’s the simple things, really.

SHIT: messing up my shoulder   Physical Therapy for tendinitis in my shoulder—lost 15 pounds down to 165, gained it back and now back around 180. Took 9 months for my shoulder to feel right again to lift or do really any basic shit.

BEST GAMES I ATTENDED: DIVISIONAL: Pats-Chiefs

Pats-Ravens was dope and felt like a playoff game on Monday Night. 10 rows from the field. But nothing beats a playoff win though and hanging with my brother. WORST GAME: Pats-Seahawks Pats lost—plus the crowd was REALLY fucking dead, Seahawk fans are underrated for how annoying they are. I did not know they had their own chant: “Sea” “Hawk”. It’s dumb. Raven fans remain my most hated with their ‘Seven Nation Army’ chant.

Favorite Live Show: Rihanna @ TD Garden Honorable: Thrice (House of Blues) Missed out on seeing Brian Fallon & Chvrches. Bummer.

BEST STAND-UP SHOW: Bill Burr & Robert Kelly @ Comics Come Home Didn’t go to any shows this year other than that. Went to a shit ton the year before. Favorite Podcast episode: Joe Rogan’s End of the World election night podcast: just because of what Bill Burr FAVORITE PODCAST: Bill Burr’s Monday Morning Podcast BEST NEW PODCAST: 600 Hundred Dollar Podcast Best Sports Podcast: Pardon My Take Favorite Record: Brian Fallon-‘Painkillers’ FAVORITE SONG: Francis & the Lights & Bon Iver: ‘Friends’

HONORABLE… Bon Iver-’33 God’; Brian Fallon-‘Rosemary’; Car Seat Headrest-’Drunk Drivers/Killer Whales’; Chance the Rapper-’No Problem’; Thrice-’Hurricane’ OTHER… Beyonce-‘All Night’;  Desiigner-‘Panda’; Explosions in the Sky-‘Disintegration Anxiety’; Fifth Harmony-‘Work From Home’; Hotelier-‘Goodness Pt 2’; Naked & Famous-‘Higher’; Pinegrove-‘Old Friends’; Sia-‘Reaper’; Sing Street-‘Drive It Like You Stole It’; Struts-‘Could Have Been Me’; Tegan & Sara-‘Boyfriend’; Tribe Called Quest-‘We the People’; Weeknd-‘Starboy’; Zayn-‘Like I Would’ (Remix)

BEST COVER: Dustin Kensrue-‘Round Here’ (Counting Crows) & ‘Down There by the Train’ (Tom Waits) Julien Baker-‘Photobooth’ (Death Cab for Cutie); Brian Fallon-‘Atlantic City’ (Bruce Springsteen) & ‘Won’t Back Down’ (Tom Petty) JUST CAN’T GET INTO: Drake; Solange BEST SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE PERFORMANCES: Chance the Rapper (‘Same Drugs’); Tribe Called Quest WORST SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE PERFORMANCES: Lady Gaga (like watching a 50-year old woman perform: Tony Bennett aged her); Solange; 21 Pilots

Late Pass bands: Beach Slang, Lana Del Rey, Story So Far Favorite Celebrity Death: Antonin Scalia (Supreme Court Justice) Just a cancer for America for my whole life. Unfortunately, GOP’s are cunts—and they withheld long enough to nominate someone somehow worse than him probably. Least Favorite Thing in America-Donald Trump is President, Neo-Nazis somehow being a thing

Favorite Sports Moment: Tom Brady being Tom Brady—enjoying that as a Pats fan is unreal. Don’t want it to end, but it’s going to soon. Least Favorite Sports Moment: Pats losing to Denver in AFC Championship Least Favorite Sports Story: Deflategate/Roger Goodell Trash.

Favorite non-Boston sports story: LeBron bringing a title to Cleveland and near-dunk over Draymond to cement the Finals. Favorite longreads: Anonymous rape victim’s reading to Brock Turner, the Stanford swimmer rapist douche who got off with a ridiculous light sentence, is made public

-‘Voyeur Motel’ (best accompanied w/ Justin Halpern podcast) -Elizabeth Holmes/Theranos takedowns (the whistleblower and the Vanity Fair profile). Frotcast mocking Holmes’ voice/mannerisms & wannabe Steve Jobs-isms were fun to hear in association wih this.   Favorite Snapchat follow: Kelly Oxford

Favorite Other: my brother getting engaged New Year Day—and 2 of my other friends being engaged (childhood friend; former roommate) Fucked Over Moment: Dentist abruptly leaving office for San Diego—and being footed with a $2,000 dollar bill—going back to 2012 I always thought this family dentist who took over overcharged, but this capped it off. My whole family got footed with bills going back years when we thought we were all paid up. I pay TWO different dental insurances to maximize what I get. 2014, I paid $5,000 out of pocket for a root canal and to get a crown in. Less than 6 months later, same tooth was fractured and I got an implant put in: $5,000. So $10K on 1 single fucking tooth, easily more than one third of what I make a year working full time. So I think I am in the clear—no. I got it knocked down in half when protesting it and feeling like it’s fraud. Still, that is well over one month’s pay when I had money stashed away for new car tires, Christmas gifts, etc. To be blindsided just sucks. At no time did my family receive notice that we owed anything in the mail or in person when we go every 6 months or less.

Best Stand-Up Performance in person: Bill Burr at Comics Come Home (bad airplane ride bit) Honorable: Robert Kelly (Comics Come Home)

BEST COMEDY/STAND-UP SPECIALS: Roast Battle (the Wave, everything)—super fun  OTHER -Goddamn Comedy Jam—hear Bill Burr talk about this on his podcast and then to see it done? Awesome. Went overlooked. -Pete Holmes-‘Faces & Sounds’ -Kyle Kinane-‘Loose in Chicago’ -Pete Davidson-‘SMD’: some jokes felt curbed from my own life/shitty college experience. He’s this young and this good already, goddamn.

-Patton Oswalt’s clown story is real good—but it’s not his best special. I tried going to that taping in San Francisco but it was the same time as Chvrches on Treasure Island. If they were on different days, I would have purchased a flight out in a heartbeat. Bummer. -Gary Gulman’s bit on Conan with the state abbreviation bit was great.

SOMEWHAT DISAPPOINTING… Hannibal Burress (saw him live—special didn’t capture how great he is)

RANDOM SPORTS MOMENTS -Allen Iverson’s 30-minute Hall of Fame speech. He gives shout-outs to Dipset and Jada Kiss. Amazing. -Kevin Harlan’s Idiot on the Field call during 49ers-Rams game. Better than that shit game.

Favorite books 1) Stephen King-11/22/63’ Time-travel + love story in 1960s + adventure. The time travel is cool, but you find yourself caring more for the love story. It’s magical. King is super readable—the book flies the fuck by. 2) Paul Neilan-‘Apathy & Other Small Victories’ Like Jonathan Tropper said, ‘funniest book that no one has read’. Just about every line is boiling with humor. 3) Jonathan Tropper-‘This is Where I Leave You’ Movie sucked even with a loaded cast, but good book. I love this and ‘the Book of Joe’ (that SHOULD make an awesome movie—but it will probably be fucked up). Tropper is an American Nick Hornby but better: lot of heart, humor. And his TV series, ‘Banshee’, was pulp fiction action that was the shit (kind of a rated-R ‘Justified’)—except the final season sucked. 4) Gillian Flynn-‘Sharp Objects’ Amy Adams is starring in a David Fincher mystery serial killer series on HBO. It’s going to be fucked up, dark, and excellent. 5) Ben Fountain-‘Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk’ Excellent Iraq war novel. Kind of reminded me of ‘the Outsiders’ and if you kind of view it like that, it becomes cooler: the soldiers don’t TOTALLY belong in the setting they are in and are being used to promote a war. All takes place at a football game with flashbacks. 6) David Mitchell-‘Slade House’ Kind of a Sci-Fi version of ‘the Shining’. Quick book—I plan on getting more into Mitchell. I know his books all link up and I missed something in the last chapter that related to the ‘Bone Clocks’ or whatever. 7) Gillian Flynn-‘Dark Places’ Doesn’t flow as well as ‘Gone Girl’ or ‘Sharp Objects’ but it’s got killer twists and a cool plot. 8) Emily St John Mandel-‘Station 11’ Survival apocalypse + Shakespeare. 9) ‘Second Life of Nick Mason’ Solid crime thriller that could be a solid movie. 10) Lev Grossman-‘Magicians’ Didn’t get into this the way I wished. Harry Potter meets Chronicles of Narnia with some Rated-R shit; I thought that would make it more cool/fun, but nope. Like Quentin, you’re just left feeling incessantly let down. 11) Craig Clevenger-‘Contortionist Handbook’ Kind of Chuck Pahlaniuk-ish when he was on fire-ish.

OKAY… -Stephen King-‘Joyland’ MEH -‘Between World & Me’ (boring; short book—but felt like one big run-on sentence; felt like it needed an editor; I’ve read Coates stuff before that’s good, but this was boring. Like Kendrick Lamar’s music, I acknowledge this is important and doing something good, but I don’t think it was for me?) -Chuck Klosterman-‘But What if We’re Wrong’ (disappointing, forgettable, meh) -Denis Johnson-‘Jesus’ Son’ (lot of praise for this collected short stories of drugs and a lot of my favorite writers cite this as among their favorites—but didn’t do anything for me) -Drew Magary-‘the Hike’—Best online writer for a decade now. But I was glad when I finished the book that I was done with it. MOVIES THAT SUCKED -Ghostbusters Wrongfully hated before it came out for starring women by weird dudes. But, uh, no way to sugarcoat this, but this was a complete piece of shit. I want to fire Hemsworth’s character into the sun and it crescendos at the climax. Funny people are in the cast, but it’s like they wouldn’t let them be funny. Just awful idea and bad tone. Lenny Clarke, in a throwaway scene as a Sox fan, should not have the funniest moment of the movie. Movies that were as bad as everybody said they were -Batman vs Superman worth watching if only for the ‘MARTHA’ scene twist they had; holy shit, it’s stupid. I bought the uncut version just to see if it in full because Joe fucking Derosa said that this was the best Batman movie ever; so I bought it just to see how stupid he is—and I’m the moron now.

-Suicide Squad Honest Trailers breaking down Enchantress’ dancing is great. CRITIC MOVIES I Thought Sucked: the Lobster; the Witch

DISAPPOINTING SEASONS FROM GOOD SHOWS: Banshee; Mr Robot DONALD TRUMP: I don’t think I’ve felt sadder/shocked/crushed. I was in a daze/cloud for 3 days or so—luckily I took the day after the election off work in case something unimaginable happened (Trump being elected). There was always the fear it would happen, but I just didn’t think it would or even imagined how I would feel until it happened. Just complete despair and disbelief. Hillary winning would have been awful too, but Trump? THAT guy? Next 4 years are going to be interesting: there’s going to be a ton of protests/strikes to fight off madmen politicians, corporations, Neo-Nazis, everything-Occupy Wall Street never got off the ground with a unified message. But people like me just might end up protesting for the first time in my life because everything will be at stake. I don’t know what will happen, but it’s naive to not be scared and fear the worst (war; climate change; water shortage causing mass migrations/deaths in my lifetime; corporations fucking over workers; a country splitting; power being in the wrong hands in a surveillance state; violence; regressive agendas; Wall Street getting more power and another bubble collapse) HILLARY OVER BERNIE: because Bernie would have won. Democratic establishment rigged the system and chose the worst possible candidate in an election in which establishment politicians were hated and anger was tapped into (good: Bernie, Bad: Trump). Choose the candidate that people are enthusiastic about. ‘It was her turn’ is bullshit. It was her turn in 2008 but she lost to a guy with a Muslim-sounding name, basically lost to a 70-year old Socialist Jew, and then to Donald f’n Trump. When Democrats start choosing better candidates, they will win every election. Shut the fuck up about politics -oh, right.