#and before gales condition became VERY bad.

[recitedemise]

@sunderdust asked: (ward): sender is a ward at the receiver's house/home. / Royal, Fantasy Romance, and Spice: still accepting.

In ways he's to hesitant to admit, Solomon's company has become a balm. At the same time, however, as though by tragedy's permission, the man affords his heart with a terrible aching. He'd come on as a helper, an assistant in his home by Morena's suggestion. Yet, as time so faded, the gold heat of summer surrendering to fall, he'd grown in his importance toward something more considerable. All at once, he's a staver, a chaser of his home's grave dark.

Gale, newly blighted, moves mountains for a pittance of a spell. He's been soundly spurned, tattered in his heart and brined in grief, and what company has such a man so wanting in station? Better yet, what soul beyond these walls would seek him out? There's little but the quiet, little in his halls but some festering terror. However, with Solomon here, he'd granted the illusion of normalcy... That is until his chest aches have grown to split skin and gums. Damn. Gale, discreetly bleeding, knows it's time.

"It's been a couple of months now, hasn't it? I've hardly noticed, to be honest, but I suppose it's best to take that as a testament to your invigorating company." Gale spoons his dinner, both of them sat with plated fish. Solomon sits there, the afternoon light trickling gold his dark, dark hair. House Dekarios, very decadent, colors him a born noble. "There are few things as rewarding as bartering words with a clever mind. Unfortunately," here it comes, "it's time we parted. Your help with my condition has been invaluable, of course, but I've come to realize your brilliance is better placed elsewhere. Besides, being a wetnurse is too much a turn for a thrilling adventurer. As it were, there's only so many surprises my tower can provide."

Gale smiles amiably, Tara watching the two all too sharply. Beneath his sleeve, his bandaged arm cracks like a fissure. He averts Solomon's gaze to pick at his trout. Lonely, will be, doomed, doomed, doomed—! "Should I leave my payment to you this month by your bedside? Feel free to finish dinner with me. I won't deny you."

[thesweetnessofspring]

Between the time the books Catching Fire and Mockingjay were released, it was a pretty common topic of discussion wondering what one word Peeta said to Katniss after she asked him to stay with her. "Always" was a very popular answer people gave, though I remember at the time just revolting at the idea because "always" had been tainted by Severus Snape and his creepy obsession with Lily Potter.

But the thing was...none of the other suggestions seemed to work (I even wrote this scene from Peeta's POV and used "course" as in "of course" but even that...didn't land quite right). Yet it honestly took me years to accept "always" as Peeta's response to this question because Harry Potter fans consistently linked it to Snape and even got tattoos of it. At the time it felt like THG and Peeta would never be able to compete with HP's popularity. But I've come around and seen that "always" is the only response Peeta could have given and to separate it from Snape.

How can Peeta say it to Katniss, even while she'd just before claimed to have chosen Gale, and have it come off sweet and caring but it's creepy for Severus Snape to say about Lily, who had chosen James?

There's the obvious fact that Snape called Lily a slur and joined an organization set on killing people like her while Peeta's never did anything like that toward Katniss while he was in his right mind, but it's not just that. And it's not that Snape's descriptions are less than flattering while Peeta comes across as handsome and charming. And it's not even that Lily didn't choose Snape while Katniss did choose Peeta.

It's that Peeta's devotion to Katniss is unconditional, while Snape's were conditional up until Lily's death when at that point she became Snape's memory rather than someone who could act and speak for herself. Really, Severus, where was "always" when you called her a slur, when you were serving Voldemort, when you were groveling to Dumbledore to save Lily but let James and Harry die, when you were abusing children as a teacher? Is that really "always"?

Whereas Peeta, well, first when he was hurt about Katniss not being sure of her feelings toward him and acted wounded, he properly apologized for it and then never did it again. He knew Katniss would want to bring Gale if they ran away and never guilted her about it. He came in to defend Gale when he was whipped. He saved Katniss when Peacekeepers came to question her. He got them ready for the Quell and protected her with the baby bomb. He was willing to give up his life so she could have the life he assumed she wanted (or would eventually want) with Gale, Prim, and her mother. And in the Capitol as a prisoner, he made what deals he could to protect her and fought through his hijacking to warn her about the plans to bomb 13 and endured more torture because of what he did.

Of course, then the hijacking happens. He tries to kill her. He insults her. We can see how Peeta was hurt and confused and resentful of Katniss's treatment of him, even what she admitted to and not just what the Capitol put in his head. It seems like "always" could actually have an end.

But that's the thing. It doesn't. In the middle of war during a battle when his fight response was compelling him to act and kill on his conditioning, not only did he resist his hijacking, he came back to Katniss when she reached out and asked him to stay with her. He reaffirmed his promise. Always.

And he follows that up by continuing to protect her during the rest of the war, when she almost took her nightlock pill, and as soon as he was released from his treatment went to comfort her and help her heal from her sister's death. And as we see from the epilogue, he did stay with her, from the nightmares and bad days to the difficult pregnancies and the days in between. He stayed with her: the real Katniss, not a ghost or fantasized ideal.

And that's why Peeta could only respond with always. And that's why always belongs to Peeta Mellark. Because he actually meant it.

[alls-fair-in-pride-and-prejudice]

Magic Lesson

Part 6 of Weaving Constellations, a bunch of connected snippets of Gale and my Warlock Tav falling in love. Part 5 here , part 1 here, part 7 here

(A/N: These two nerds need to bone so bad why did I commit myself to a slow burn. Enjoy the first romance scene with Gale with a little bit of a twist!)

Lyra does not trust this ‘dream guardian’ that has shown up. At first she thinks Midnight is finally talking to her again, visiting her in her dreams as he often does. However, the moment he speaks she can see that he is all wrong, missing the signature sparkle of his skin. Whatever thing is speaking to her and her companions has chosen an illusion, something inspired by her patron, but distinctly not. It only sets her guard on edge.

She and Gale aren’t quite on the same page with that, much to her annoyance. One would think that she would be butting heads with Astarion more, but perhaps it’s worse because it’s Gale. He understands her like no one else in camp, more than she thought he would, which has been a pleasant surprise. Lyra smiles at the memory of her and Gale almost fighting to solve that Selunite puzzle under the temple first.

Tomorrow will be a big day. They know where the druid is now, and they need to free him and quite probably take on an entire goblin camp before they lay waste to the grove. Lyra knows she should sleep and be at her strongest, but she’s restless. Her eyes skim the words of the book in front of her but do not take in the meaning. 

She looks up to see Gale pacing, fixated on a glowing illusion in his hand. She cannot see it from this distance, so Lyra decides to approach. It’s the image of a woman, beautifully and lovingly rendered hovering over his palm. Lyra can guess who it is, and she isn’t quite sure why there’s a twinge of annoyance at that recognition.

Lae’zel and Astarion both propositioned her before it became clear that she was taken. She should feel relieved that there will be no such confusion with Gale, as this action makes it clear that he still harbors feelings for his goddess. And who could blame him?

Lyra. Lyra could blame him. His intentions were largely pure, if tainted by some ambition, and rather than help him with his condition, Mystra would leave him to suffer alone, and possibly take out a whole city with it. To end the relationship Lyra could understand, but to abandon him without a word when he is suffering so? Does he mean nothing to her? Well, what could a human possibly mean to a goddess in the long run? A blip in her immortal existence incapable of reaching a fraction of the power… why would he continue to long for her?

This line of thought is dancing dangerously close to some conclusions Lyra does not wish to come to, so she breaks the silence. “She’s very pretty.”

Gale drops his hand, the illusion dissipating into the night air. “Oh, you startled me. I was miles away.”

There’s a furrow to his brow. He really misses her, doesn’t he. “Is everything alright?” Lyra asks hesitantly, unsure of what else to say to convey that she is there to help, that he can unburden himself with her.

“Of course! Of course, I was just… practicing an incantation.”

Lyra sighs with a half smile. It’s a disappointment, but she supposes it makes sense. Despite what they have been through together, they haven’t exactly known each other long. Still. “I know you well enough by now, Gale. There’s more going on.”

He smiles sheepishly. “You’re right. I was conjuring an image of Mystra. I cannot quite describe it, the need I sometimes feel to see her, to draw the filaments of fantasy into existence. No sculpture or painting could ever do her justice, only the fabric that she herself embodies. The Weave.” There are stars in his eyes as he says the words. “Mystra is all magic, and as far as I am concerned she is all creation.”

Is that… jealousy Lyra is feeling? Why on earth would she be jealous? She’s already in a relationship, there is no need for her to be jealous of Mystra.

Though… perhaps it is not that it is Gale so much as the concept of anyone speaking with such love and reverence in their voice. Just because Lyra knows that kind of language is reserved for goddesses doesn’t stop her from wanting that kind of adoration. “I hadn’t realized the depths of your devotion.” The words come out a little more bitter than she intends them to, but thankfully Gale does not seem to notice or care.

“Magic is my life. I’ve been in touch with the weave for as long as I can remember. There’s nothing like it. It’s like music, poetry, physical beauty all rolled into one and given expression through the senses.”

This is much more comfortable territory for Lyra to sit in with him, discussing their passions of study.

“I can’t say that I know the feeling. I’m not in touch with the weave when I cast, it’s channeling my patron’s power, but the way you describe it sounds like how I feel about mathematics, or the cosmos.”

“Would you like to experience it? I could show you.”

Lyra nods, never one to deny her curiosity.

“Then follow my lead.”

He moves to stand next to her, so they’re facing the same direction, but he’s also slightly behind her… and so close. It’s almost too close for comfort, but Lyra finds she doesn’t mind quite so much. 

As he leads her through the steps, Lyra quickly adapts to his guidance and skillfully mimics him.

“I want you to picture the concept of harmony, as true as you can.”

Ah, her one weakness. She has never been terribly skilled at picturing abstract concepts, nor summoning them to form such a vivid image in her mind. Flailing for an option, she chooses the present moment. There is nothing so harmonious she can remember as working with such a good instructor.

The very air seems to come to life around them, swirling with energy that permeates through Lyra’s very soul. Gale smiles wide. “You’re channeling the weave! How does it feel?”

“It feels… like home,” Lyra cannot find a better word for it. The sensation is so very right, so true to her core that it is as if something long lost has finally returned. The world makes sense, and she can feel her place in this endless tapestry of magic as if she has always belonged there. The glowing purple breeze rustles her hair, caresses her cheek, both a new love and something ancient, something deep in her bones etched into her ancestry.

And she feels Gale, just as much a piece of this tapestry. She can feel the connection between them, stronger than the mental link of the tadpoles. This is somehow more abstract. The weave has created a tether between their souls as well as their minds, and she knows all she has to do is picture what she feels and he will know.

She wants to show her gratitude, show how she cares about him, so Lyra focuses on their hands, the hands that brought all this to life, and imagines taking them in her own, squeezing gently. Her mind runs away with her and thinks of walking with him, discussing magical theory and replicating this night with many more lessons, their magic weaving together as easily as fingers interlocking. Though that particular type of interlocking fingers that her mind is conjuring is much less like walking hand in hand and more like pinning someone down and oh gods.

The magic around them seems to puff out of existence as sharp as the intake of breath from Gale. He’s staring at her. She’s staring at him. Then they both start speaking at the same time.

“I didn’t mean-”

“I didn’t think-”

“Minds are very-”

“It was a pleasant image-”

“Such abstract things, random associations-”

“I wouldn’t assume-”

“It was a wonderful lesson-”

“Any time you’d like to replicate-”

Lyra grabs Gale’s hand, and he falls silent, a light blush coloring his cheeks. “I would very much like it if you taught me again sometime. All that time studying theory at school, I became very accomplished in the mathematics and astronomy that are associated with higher level magic, but it never felt like this. You made it come to life. You’re an excellent teacher.”

The tension incrementally eases out of Gale’s shoulders as she speaks. “You are more than welcome to avail yourself of my expertise any time you would like. Thank you for sharing a moment of magic with me.”

Lyra smiles, regretting that she must go out into the cold and empty night alone again. Alas, “I should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”

“Of course, as should I. Rest well, Lyra.”

Lyra tosses and turns in her bedroll, feeling too wired up on the energy of the weave to truly settle. When she does, she dreams of silver scales that sparkle like the stars above, of wings outstretched and soaring in the clouds, of a deep rumbling voice of an ancient slumbering beast welcoming her home.

While Lyra sleeps, something else wakes up.

[chaos-monkeyy]

Stubborn

Winter Prompt Challenge ❄️ Day 6: Hypothermia/frostbite 

Travelling back to the Chiss Ascendancy for Day 6, with some Thrakif hurt/comfort, Ba’kif being protective, and Thrawn being... well, Thrawn. 

“We’re here, sir,” the pilot called back in a tense voice. 

Ba’kif was already opening the door to climb out of the small shuttle before the pilot had quite brought them to a full stop. The wind buffeted him the moment he jumped out into the howling storm, whipping his hood off and exposing his neck and ears to the biting cold until he’d wrestled it back up again after clipping on the safety line attached securely to his belt. 

The cadets’ locator beacons were fairly precise, but they didn’t have pinpoint accuracy. And with visibility so low, Ba’kif knew he could walk right past Thrawn and not see him, even if he were only a couple meters away. 

And if he’d lost the beacon— or if he’d been injured and was buried in the rapidly deepening snow— 

Ba’kif turned and headed towards a darker shadow of a blur faintly visible through the white of the storm; a blur that resolved itself into a shallow depression in the rocky cliff face as he got closer. It was nowhere near deep enough to be considered a cave even by the broadest definition— but it would be enough to provide some limited shelter from the elements. 

And that was exactly where he found Thrawn, curled up unmoving around the remnants of a small, already burned-out fire. 

“Thrawn!” Ba’kif bellowed, the wind tearing the name from his lips and whipping it away almost before he’d finished speaking it. He forced his way through the last few paces of snow, the drifts deep enough to come halfway up his thighs, and finally stumbled into the little hollowed-out shelter. The cadet hadn’t so much as stirred. Ba’kif dropped to his knees to get closer, heart lurching with relief when he felt a faint puff of warm breath against his cheek. Thrawn was alive— but he was in bad shape. 

Ba’kif wasted no time picking Thrawn up and throwing the cadet over his shoulder. Pulling his safety line taut, he switched it back to retract and staggered through the gale, following the thin yet strong metal cable back to the waiting shuttle. 

“He’s alive, barely. Turn the heat up and get us back to base,” Ba’kif ordered the pilot the moment he’d gotten into the small vessel, still carrying Thrawn’s motionless form. “Call it in the minute we’re close enough for comms.” 

“Yes, sir,” the pilot answered crisply. 

Ba’kif could hear the worry in the pilot’s tone, but put everything else out of his mind as he lowered Thrawn to the floor and grabbed the emergency medkit off the bulkhead. Thrawn was still breathing, but his winter gear was caked with snow and ice, already starting to melt and drip in the warmth of the shuttle. As quickly as he could, Ba’kif wrestled the young man out of his frozen clothes, one layer at a time; discarding them off to the side so he and Thrawn wouldn’t just end up in a puddle of cold water as it all thawed. 

He yanked off his own snow-caked outer clothes too, until he was shirtless; then lay down with Thrawn next to the warm air vent and wrapped the emergency blanket from the kit around them both, tucking it between Thrawn and the floor as well. Thrawn’s skin was chill to the touch, cold against his front, and Ba’kif curled around him, pulling the blanket tighter to trap as much of his own body heat in there with them as possible. 

“Stubborn bloody fool of a cadet, what in the hell were you thinking… Not turning on your emergency comm until it was too damn late.” Ba’kif hardly noticed he was muttering, distracting himself from worry while he vigorously rubbed at Thrawn’s arms and chest to try and get the blood flowing again. “If you even turned the blasted thing on at all—” 

“I did.” 

Thrawn’s voice was faint, weak; barely even audible— but it was there. 

“You did what, Cadet?” Ba’kif asked gruffly. Keep him talking. Keep him conscious. He probably had frostbite, but that at least could be dealt with once Ba’kif had gotten him back to the hospital at the training base. 

“I did… turned it on.” 

“That’s good, Thrawn. You did the right thing,” Ba’kif said, but Thrawn shook his head; a feeble little twitch that Ba’kif could only feel through the tickle of Thrawn’s hair against his bare chest. 

“No. Too late. Thought it was… training.” 

Ba’kif sighed. That’s what he’d been afraid of. That blasted storm had come up out of nowhere, and Thrawn had, of course, assumed it was all intended to be part of the senior cadets’ survival field training for extreme conditions. He’d also clearly tried to last it out way too long before activating his emergency comm, because of course he was more worried about about the prospect of failure than death. 

“We’ll talk about that later,” Ba’kif said, still rubbing warmth back into Thrawn’s arms. Thrawn was starting to shiver against him, at least. That was good. It meant his own body was trying to warm him up again. “Tell me what happened.” 

“You came for me,” Thrawn said instead of answering, his voice almost dreamy despite the chattering of his teeth. “I knew it… Knew you cared.” 

Ba’kif frowned. “Of course I care, Cadet. You’re a soldier in the Defense Force—” 

“Mm. No,” Thrawn said muzzily, somehow managing to twist around far enough to nuzzle the side of his face into Ba’kif’s shoulder. “You care. About me. I could always tell…” 

He trailed off into another bout of violent shivers, curling up tightly again, and Ba’kif felt something guilty swelling in his throat. Officers weren’t supposed to play favourites. Plenty did, of course— people were people, and no amount of regulations would ever change that. Ba’kif, however, had always prided himself on not being party to that sort of political maneuvering within the CDF. 

…But somehow, with Thrawn, it was different. Ba’kif wasn’t sure he could honestly have said another cadet would have gotten his personal attention like this. He was the one who had immediately checked the logs to see if Thrawn specifically had called in for pickup yet when the furious, unanticipated storm had begun building over the training zone. And… the truth was, he’d only done that because he’d been following Thrawn’s time at the Academy closely enough to know that he probably wouldn’t try and call in until it was too late; until the storm had already gotten powerful enough to disrupt comms throughout the region. 

Thrawn shuddered again, whimpering softly— he was probably starting to get some undoubtedly painful feeling back in his extremities— and Ba’kif became abruptly aware of just how inherently intimate their position was. Thrawn, naked and clinging weakly to his arm under the emergency blanket; Ba’kif himself clad only in his long thermal underwear and curled protectively around the young man, his own body pressed against as much of Thrawn’s skin as he could manage. 

He hadn’t done it with any ulterior motives whatsoever, his intentions centered entirely around getting Thrawn’s body temperature back up. And this was, hands-down, the best way of doing that under the circumstances. But— 

I could always tell… 

Ba’kif swallowed. He’d heard about, and witnessed firsthand once or twice, Thrawn’s rather uncanny knack for reading people, and he couldn’t help wondering nervously just what Thrawn might have… seen in him but never mentioned. He’d told himself that his feelings towards the young man were nothing more than those of a proud mentor, of sorts— perhaps fatherly at most— so often he’d almost managed to convince himself that it was actually true. 

But it wasn’t true, not entirely. At the beginning, yes; but it had become less and less true over the course of Thrawn’s three years of training based out of Taharim Academy. 

Pushing those thoughts firmly out of his mind, and pointedly not noticing how well Thrawn fit in his arms, Ba’kif turned his focus back to keeping Thrawn warm, and talking, and awake— 

And tried very hard not to think about the fact that he couldn’t quite decide whether or not he hoped Thrawn would forget everything about this shuttle ride once he’d recovered. 

[simmos-blog]

Jogging on the beach.

Sunday 11th October 2020

I stepped out of the White Lodge at 9am into light rain. I had hoped to be a bit earlier but breakfast took a while. I thought I would try walking on the beach as the sea was a bit further out than I had thought looking from my bedroom window. After 10mins I stopped to put on my waterproof trousers as the rain became quite heavy. I was motoring along as I didn’t want to get caught out by the tide.

I asked a couple of dog walkers if I might make it to Reighton Gap without having to paddle but they had no idea. I then got lucky and asked a girl who was local and her answer of “yes if you get your skates on “ proved to be spot on. I must confess to getting nervous as I didn’t want to have to climb onto the cliffs to escape the sea. I wasn’t at risk of drowning, just getting stuck for a few hours waiting for the tide. It’s not easy jogging with a pack but with my concern growing I needed to push on so set off jogging (lumbering might be more accurate) to the ramp at Reighton. I got there without having to paddle at all and in truth probably had 15mins to spare but I did feel better once off the beach.

I’d done 3miles in 45 mins including a stop to put on my waterproof trousers so I was hot. I stripped off one layer and set off up the ramp into the caravan park. It’s a real maze of little roads but another dog walker came to my aid directing me through a field to pick up the coastal path. Another gear change, this time as I was cold and then I was slipping and sliding along a very muddy path.

It was blowing a gale and whilst it was predominantly from behind the wind was swirling around and I was being blown in all directions. I had an hour and a half more of these challenging conditions before I reached the Twitchers Mecca that is Bempton Cliffs. There’s a cafe here and I huddled around a coffee trying to get warmed up. I was outside but at least sheltered from the biting wind.

I chatted to a mother and daughter duo who were there to see the birds. They had walked the 1.2miles from Bempton Station (not a bad effort for Mum in those conditions) and asked where I’d come from. I told them Filey and that I was on my way to Brid. From their reaction you might have thought I’d just crossed the North Pole in my speedos so I left the cafe feeling good with my chest puffed out just a little.

I was soon brought back to reality as the wind was stronger if anything and my hands got so cold I couldn’t operate my phone or GPS or open up my maps. Still I wasn’t going to get lost walking along the coastal path. It was a bit ironic as a little earlier I had received a nice message from my sister Barbara congratulating me on completing the walk and saying at least you’ve got decent weather for your last day!

Between Reighton and Bempton I met no one, not even the dog walkers were braving the wind. At Bempton there were 20 or 30 people with cameras and binoculars but all were heavily wrapped up and none looked very cheerful. Once clear of the bird sanctuary I had the cliffs to myself apart from a group of. 6 runners who I met twice as they ran back past me.

Just as I reached the end of the cliff path I felt my foot slide and I went down with a bit of a jolt. It had been coming as the path was treacherous. As I hit the deck my phone went off. At first I thought I’d triggered it but it was my Dad calling to say my other sister Tricia was driving through to meet me at the finish. I was surprised but touched at this news though my initial response was to moan to my Dad that I’d just fallen over and my hands were freezing.

Once off the coast it became at least five degrees warmer and I started to feel better. I made good time through Flamborough and was then back on the cliffs for the walk into Brid. It was not as windy or cold on this side of the bay and I felt much better as I walked along Sewerby cliffs. I spoke to my Dad again and he and my sister agreed to meet me at the cafe at the end of his road. I arrived a few minutes after them and my sister handed me a nice hot latte.

We then walked over to my Mums bench for a little bit of reflection and a photo. My lovely sister had bought me ( and my Dad) a bottle of Timothy Taylor’s beer to mark my finishing of the walk. At least as my Dad has his own bottle he won’t be trying to pinch mine this evening.

It was 15.7 miles today, not the longest day but perhaps the toughest. It was great to be welcomed to Brid by Tricia and my Dad and I am really looking forward to a little celebratory meal tonight with Barbara and my Brother in Law Steve and of course my Dad.

What next? I’m not sure but all being well I think I’ve got another walk or two in me yet.

[scotianostra]

On December 28th 1879 the Tay Bridge disaster occurred.

The first Tay Rail Bridge collapsed while a train was passing over it from Wormit to Dundee, killing all aboard.

The fall of the Tay Bridge was a terrible blow to the self-confidence of Scottish engineering. Calculations for the bridge had failed to take into account the fierce wind speeds which could be reached in the Firth of Tay. sub-standard materials had also been used in key parts of the construction.

On the night of 28 December 1879, the bridge came down in a storm. All on board the Dundee-bound train on the bridge at the time were killed - a total of 75 persons, not 300, which was the erroneous total telegraphed out of Dundee in the first hours of the disaster. One of the first with the news in Edinburgh was the Courant. Its information came down the wire from Dundee via Perth. This is what they published.....

We have this morning to record one of the most dreadful disasters that have ever occurred in this country, through the falling of part of the Tay Bridge, and the sweeping away of a passenger train, involving great loss of life. The first intimation of the catastrophe which reached Edinburgh was a telegram received at the Waverley Station about eleven o'clock last night, stating that some of the high girders of the Tay Bridge had been blown down, and expressing a fear that they had carried with them the 4.15 p.m. passenger train from Edinburgh, due at Dundee at 7.10.

A special train was at once prepared, and it started about half-past twelve for the scene of the disaster, with Mr Walker, the manager; Mr McLaren, passenger superintendent; Sir Thomas Bouch, C.E. [the engineer who built the bridge]; and Mr Bell, engineer. Owing to the bad state of the telegraph wired, little or no information regarding the disaster was received till a late hour this morning.

Our Dundee correspondent telegraphs this morning:-

Yesterday afternoon Dundee was visited by one of the most fearful hurricanes which has ever been experienced, and has been accompanied with unparalleled destruction of property, the large centre portion of the Tay Bridge having been blown down during a fearful blast, and it is also feared that the passenger train from the south, which was seen entering on the bridge at the Newport side a few minutes before the accident, and which has not since been heard of, has, with its passengers, been carried away with the fallen girders, and with these now lies in the bed of the river. From the time the gale began it continued to increase in fury until it became a perfect hurricane from the south-south-west. The property in the western suburbs and the Tay Bridge were exposed to the full fury of the blast. The streets, especially in the West End, were literally covered with debris of chimney-cans and slates which had been blown from the roofs of houses. Every moment the slates might have been seen flying off the roofs, whirling in the air and then falling in the street below in pieces. The danger to foot-passengers was exceedingly great, and many persons narrowly escaped from being struck by the toppling masses of masonry which formed the chimneys, or by the falling slates and chimney-cans. Palings and walls in a great many places have been demolished. Trees have been uprooted, and the shrubbery in gardens terribly destroyed. Indeed, so dreadful was the gale about seven o'clock that very few people were to be seen on the streets, and those who were then seen, and who had to walk against the wind, found it almost impossible to make headway. Each one appeared to be in terror of being injured by the missiles carried about in the air by the gale from the roofs of the houses, and appeared only anxious about getting home. About half-past seven the rumour spread that a large part of the Tay Bridge had been blown down, and that a passenger train crossing at the time had fallen into the river with the structure. As this rumour passed from mouth to mouth, it was thought so incredible that very few believed it. The bridge, since its completion, has withstood many a terrific blast, and remarks were made to the effect that it could hardly be possible that such a structure, in whose stability against both tide and wind its engineers and constructors had always had the most decided confidence, could have been demolished. The news conveyed by rumour, however, was so appalling and so startling that although it was generally received with reservation, everyone who heard it made off at once, almost with bated breath to the Magdalen Yard Point, and to the Tay Bridge Station, with the view of ascertaining what foundation there was for it. In the course of a very short time the persons in quest of information could be counted by hundreds. At the Tay Bridge Station, however, the officials were unable to give any information, beyond the fact that since a few minutes after seven o'clock communication between the signal cabins at each end of the bridge had been cut off. From the station enquiries proceeded by the Perth Road and the Esplanade to the Magdalen Yard Point, where the signal cabin is situated, in order to pick up whatever particle of information could be obtained. A good many persons entered the cabin box and enquired at the signalman as to the extent of the supposed calamity, but he could throw no further light on what was a very painful mystery. The railway officials, who had naturally become alarmed, especially since they were aware that there was no communication with the south end of the bridge, resolved to satisfy themselves whether the superstructure was safe or not. Accordingly Mr Roberts, superintendent of the locomotive department, determined to go along the bridge. This he did at considerable risk, for the force of the hurricane was such that at times he was almost completely lifted off his feet, and was in great danger of being blown into the river; but urged by the anxiety within his breast to learn in what condition the bridge was, fear for the time being comparatively banished, and he with considerable courage and daring continued the prosecution of his dangerous task. Having walked along the bridge as far as he could, he then crawled on his hands and knees as far as the point where the high girders begin. Here his course was arrested; horror stricken, he found that the rumour in circulation was too true, the whole of the thirteen girders, each 245 feet in width and 250 tons in weight, and which, as it were, had formed a tunnel in the middle of the bridge, were gone and nothing remained but the bare iron piers which had supported them. Mr Smith, the stationmaster, also made a similar journey along the bridge from the other end, and found that what Mr Roberts reported as to the destruction of the middle of the bridge was absolutely true.

Four o'clock a.m.

A message just received estimates the number of passengers in the fated train at not less than 200. The man in the signal cabin at the north end of the bridge states that at about ten minutes past seven the Edinburgh train was signalled as having entered on the bridge at the south end, and that, in signalling a reply a moment or two afterwards, no communication with the south end was found to exist.

About an hour after the catastrophe had happened, several gentlemen, who reside at the West End of Dundee, and others who had been walking along the Perth Road at points commanding a view of the bridge, proceeded to the Tay Bridge station, and reported to Mr Smith the stationmaster, what they had seen of the calamity. Their testimony concurred us to the time at which the fearful accident had occurred. The evening was very clear, a full moon shedding bright light over all the town, and clearly revealing the outline of the Tay Bridge.

4.30 a.m.

Mr Walker, manager of the North British Railway, telegraphing from Leuchars, at four o'clock this morning, has communicated the following to the newspapers: - 'From reports made to us here of the terrible calamity at the Tay Bridge, it appears that several of the large girders of the bridge, along with the last train from Edinburgh, were precipitated into the river about half-past seven last night. There were, I deeply deplore to say, nearly 300 passengers, besides company's servants in the train, all of whom are believed to have perished. The cause of the accident has not yet been ascertained.'

The train was timed to arrive at the bridge at 7.08 p.m., and was signalled at 7.14, only six minutes behind time. Accounts are contradictory as to whether the bridge had given way before the arrival of the train, or whether it had succumbed under the combined pressure of the engine and carriages and the hurricane. There can be no doubt, however, as to the fate of the train and its human freight, however many or few were in it.

The centre portion of the bridge was constructed on piers of greater strength than those which supported the parts of the bridge nearer the land on either side. Here it was necessary to provide stronger columns to support the weight of the superincumbent girders, which at the navigable portion of the river have a span of 245 feet, and weigh 190 tons each. The cylinders employed for the bridge were made round, and on them were deposited great masses of brickwork up to high-water mark. From this point each pier was composed of six iron columns, constructed in 10 feet lengths, and of a proportionate thickness. Thirteen pieces of this kind carried the bridge over the navigable channel of the river, which on an average is about 45 feet in depth.

During a violent gale in February 1877, while the bridge was in process of construction, two of the largest girders, which had been raised to the top of the piers prepared for them, but had not been put in their places, were blown down from the hanging gear. About the same part the bridge has now given way under the strain of the elements, and led to a disaster the terrible magnitude of which it is impossible at the present moment to estimate.

As we have said, the water in the centre is over forty feet deep, the height of the bridge is eighty-eight feet above, and nothing is conceivable but that the train and its passengers must be lying in the bed of the Tay.

As the news did not reach Edinburgh till very late, there was of course little excitement in the city. Some of those who did hear the news would not credit it, and seeing that only private messages were received, conviction was not then forced upon any save those who were known to have friends in the train. These, by enquiries at the Waverley Station, learned that two railway officials at the Dundee station, anxious about the train, attempted to cross over the bridge, but they were driven back by a deluge of water which was escaping from the pipes employed to convey the water supply of Newport across the bridge.

Edinburgh Courant, 29 December 1879.

Of course some of the details have been proven to be incorrect since that first report, and an inquiry held that the fall of the bridge was occasioned by the insufficiency of the cross-bracings and fastenings to sustain the force of the gale on the night. If found there must have been weak points in the structure, this is true and although the designer the noted railway engineer Thomas Bouch was initially held responsible in the years that have fallen since the disaster he has been exonerated, to an extent, the main reason that contributed to the collapse has been put down to bad quality steel, the company making it cut corners to save money, having said that neither Bouch nor the contractor appeared to have regularly visited the on-site foundry where iron from the previous half-built bridge was recycled. The bridge failed because of defects in its manufacture. This meant it did not reach the standards of wind resistance intended by the designer.

[dietaku]

The Legend of Iann Stilt-Walker

For those unaware, I also run an Exalted game, and one of my PCs met an ancient hero of his tribe. To solidify this NPC, I wrote up a sort of canon version of the folk tales surrounding this guy. I thought you all may enjoy that, so here it is.

Born in the trees between the Wall of the Mountains to the East and the Plains of the ordon to the East, there lived one of the oldest heroes the Vicriuth honor; that of Iann Stilt-Walker. Even the hero's conception was legendary, for his parents meeting was pure happenstance, occurring on a rare forest flood that trapped the pair together for ten days and nights. His mother's pregnancy lasted a full year, and when born, he already had a warrior's braid and could speak, reciting his lineage to his grandparents on both lines. When three, he was given to his grandfather to train in the arts of war, and by the age of twelve summers, he killed his uncle, Oscar, for attempting treachery by way of poisoning the clan's crops with fae-magic. He was strong enough at this point to lift a great sloth and quick enough to catch a forest gazelle, meeting no end of ire from the Fae Courts that resided within the forest boughs. It is by these games that he gained the weapon most familiar to those who know him, the Spear Liathbolg, a weapon carved of a still living demonic tree which possessed the living essence of its progenitor still and would grow within those cut or stabbed with the weapon, killing them painfully and slowly. Surrounded by the Court of the Byronic Lord of the Flute, Anscylloif. Those astute in the genealogies of Faeries, such as they are, will note this is the twin of Ancsyllrie, the Sugar-Garrote Poet, although the two rarely mention the other. The Romantic Lord of Woodwinds noticed the heavy destiny within the trapped boy and his heart swelled with the opportunity to see such heroics in action. Looming over his quarry, he declared,” Child, your people are crave beasts, forced to dwell in trees to hide from My People and our hunting beasts who walk the forest floor, along with the hidden beasts of the Masters who made this place. Yet, here you are, walking along the floor like you own this place. Tell me, what drives you to such arrogance?”

“I am Iann, son of Finn the White. I am a warrior of excellent caliber! I have slain over a dozen men and even bested the Raccoon Avatar, Rohke. Of course I am proud! I see no reason to step aside to monsters like yourself who did not work for your power!” he countered, as Ancylloif tapped his chin, an evil idea forming in whatever passes for a Fae mind.

“My dear child Bedeia live in a palace upon the clouds. I will give you one week. If you are capable, bring to me a token of her's back to this spot. To flee is to break this oath I will now bestow upon you, and there is no god in this world or in Heaven who can withstand my fury. Do you understand, Boy?” the Lord of Flutes asked.

Intrigued by the notion, Iann agreed, but soon discovered he had no way of traversing to the Clouds, even as strong as he was and even after stomping on the tallest Oak Mother till she agreed to let him use her as a springboard.

“How can I get to the Clouds? He wondered, as he heard the peals of beautiful harp music. This turned out to be the work of a nearby Skald, extoling the virtues of the nearby glenn.

“Ho! Skald, what wonders do you know to sing with such power?”

The Skald rose, bowing,” Good Day to you, Lord Iann. I am Oisiin of the Horse Clan. I have been banished from my ancestor's lands for my voice is so strong that my praise of my son's borth burned down the trees we resided in. Now, I am a wanderer, who makes do with what my whispering earns me.”

“You must be a powerful magician indeed to perform such a feat. Come, join me! I am in need of a way to reach the clouds. In a week's time, I must account to a Faerie  Lord or else lose my life,” Iann explained.

“Tis a hard road you're on, indeed. Very well! I will aid you. However, let me send word to my little brother. Fergus, for he will be of great use to us,” Oisin agreed, and in a day's time, Fergus joined the pair. Fergus was a mountain of a man, a great warrior who possessed the Faerie Warbeast  Grundbachm, the Howling Grinder. Seen as a many-toothed sword, this beast would grind all it grabbed into dust, even able to slash through a mountain within minutes. Once appraised of the situation, Fergus agreed to join their quest, but Oisin brought up a new problem.

“While it would be a simple thing for me to bring us to the Clouds, we also need the permission of the Five Oaks to do so. The Skies above the forests are their domain after all.” The Five Oaks were the rulers of the Spirit Courts, and also mischief makers of the highest caliber. After their old mistress, Lively Hyacinth perished under mysterious circumstances in the days of the Falling Stars, the five took control and ran it as an active racket, extorting worship and favors from thei mortals residing nearby, even allowing Faeries to live nearby unmolested so long as they paid gifts to them. Chief among them was Mother Willow, a conniving schemer who sought to dominate the entire East as the Goddess of Trees. When approached by the band of heroes, she quickly agreed, but on one condition.

“You must take my daughter along on your errand. She is a mighty magician and a hunter of Faeries. She will surely be a boon to you,” she declared, as a white haired beauty stepped forth. This was Charming Mizzet, the daughter mentioned by Mother Willow, and therein was the trap Mother Willow set, for she desired to have such a strong warrior in her control, and if she could ensnare him into her family with her daughter, then he could be used against her enemies, like the Great Sequoia, Calphrans himself!

With the permission they needed now within their possession, Oisin used his bewitching voice to sing a song of longing and beauty. So powerful were his words that the clouds themselves drew closer to listen, and it was in this way that Iann and his allies climbed to the clouds. There, they found Ancylloif's castle, but it was also guarded by a trio of creatures; the Flame-eyed Octopus Frothou, the Stone-Skinned Armadillo Doffboi, and the Gale Mosquito Jaubronn. Fergus made short work of Deffboi, gridnign through his stone skin, while Oisiin's powerful songs drove Frothou to tears, boiling himself alive, while Mizzet's swift arrows downed Jaubronn. Inside, Iann found Bedeia as promised, a golden haired beauty wearing a gown of woven emeralds with the soft cries of happy children dancing about her garb. Ignoring her beauty and pose, Iann persisted, demanding a token from her.

“My Lord, I knew of your coming, but to possess such bravery and arrogance to march through the front gates,” she cried, as she humbly gave him her belt for his token,” My Father will recognize this, and surely grant you his pardon.”

With his prize, the quartet of heroes fled the strange lands and returned to the agreed metting place. There, Iann presented Anscylloif the belt.

“You have done as I asked, but you took two tokens from my dear child. For, although you hold her belt, she also gave you her heart. If you were to take her hand, then I would not object,” he said, as Iann agreed, for his heart of adventure had been satiated in the journey and also because Blondes were his thing. The pair were soon wed, and Anscylloif presented his new son with his greatest weapon, the spear Liathbolg. However, despite the happy future seemingly in store for the happy couple, disaster would strike. Furious at the failure of her child, Mother Willow withehled her blessing from the lands of Iann. The rain no longer fell, wild beasts fled the forests of his Clan, and the trees and plants no longer offered their bounty. Despairing for his Clan's future, Iann once more approached Mother Willow for a boon to end this hardship. Mother Willow cruelly grinned at his plea.

“Your wish is easily granted, but  nothing will come for free. I wish to take your legs, for you cut the legs out from my dear Mizzet with the marriage of yourself to that Faerie,” she sneere. Iann nodded, and with a single motion sliced off his own legs at the mid-thigh. Collapsed on the ground, bleeding, Iann looked up at Mother Willow as she clapped slowly.

“You have done as I asked, although you are a fool, to not even ask for another price. You are ruined, Hero, and now, you have your respite from your Clan's poor future, you own is ruined thanks to cleaving to that monster,” she declared, leaving  Iann to his fate. Mizzet, despairing for the Hero, dragged him back to Anscylloif, fearful for his life. Despite rejecting her advances, she still cared for him dearly, and hoped to save his life. Upon seeing his son in such a state, the Flute Lord was quick to act.

“My dear boy, to have been wounded so, you are a true Hero. I can heal your wounds, although your life will never be easy,” he offered, as Iann agreed,” Very well.”

“Once you walked upon your own legs, but now your warbeasts will propel your forward. These will be your limbs, but also a burden,” he warned, as Iann looked down at his new legs. No different from his earlier limbs, they still radiated raw power.

“Flying in Blue Sky

Claws Outstretched to Kill Mortals

I am Faubahgau.”

“Swimming in Blue Waters

Teeth Ready to snatch swimmer

I am Juubrufraq.”

And so, Iann recovered from his maiming. However, he soon discovered what his father-in-law meant. His new limbs terrorized the forests, hunting down and scaring off clan's cattle, and driving away the game of the forests. It became so bad that when Galain the Crucible Knight, a burning Faerie king approached Iann's lands, Bedeia fled with him. This in turn prompted Iann's vengence upon the invader, calling upon his allies to return his wife. After many journeys, Iann discovered his wife hiding from his rampage. Dropping to his knees before her, relieved to see her well, he pleased to her,” Why? Tel me why you left me?”

“Because you're a monster now, Iann. A man of reckless action. Your new legs only exacerbate this. I love you, but you'll spread terror around you. I'm a princess who yearns for peace, and so we'll never stay happy together. The best I can hope for is to flee, and you follow after me. That way, no one else has to suffer,” she mumbled, as he sat there, shocked by her words. In this moments she jumped through a nearby open window, flying on the morning breeze to parts unknown. Thus, this is the quest of Iann Stilt-Walker, to reunite with his beloved, no matter how far or how long she flees.

[thehikingviking]

Triple Divide Peak & Merced Peak, A Day Hike from Quartz Mountain Trailhead

I had been planning a combination day hike of Triple Divide Peak and Merced Peak for over a year. I mapped out a route and saved it to my phone, but a whole summer came and went without me actually getting the opportunity to attempt it. This year I made a mental note to prioritize it as an early season hike. While my planned loop was rather long, elevation gain was moderate which made it a good conditioning hike. I selected an open weekend and planned to do it solo, until Zach asked me if I was interested in doing a hike. I proposed my idea, cautioning him that it was about 25 miles, and Zach gladly accepted with no complaints. Now that doesn’t happen every day. We met in Livermore and carpooled together for the long drive to the Quartz Mountain Trailhead. From reading previous trip reports, I expected a rough road, but found much the opposite. I feel like a 2WD vehicle could have made it to the trailhead if driven with care. Zach slept outside in a tent while I slept in the car. My alarm went off at 3:30am the next morning and we were on the trail a little after 4am.

The hike almost ended before it got started. There was a lot of deadfall covering the beginning section of the trail, and I couldn’t uncover where it resumed. We both had headlamps, but we needed a flood light. I felt so helpless stumbling around in the dark. Finally I rediscovered the trail, and hope was reinstilled. While things were certainly better, certain sections of trail were still a little tough to follow. I really had to focus all the way until Chiquito Pass where there is an intersection and the trail becomes more pronounced. I guess this section of trail gets little maintenance as it lies just outside of Yosemite National Park.

The first mile of the hike was all downhill followed by another mile of mostly flat terrain. I spent those miles staring at the sky and admiring the stars. The third mile marked the beginning of gradual uphill climbing. The sun began to rise as the moon began to set.

After 4 miles we reached the outlet of Chain Lakes and our first reliable water source. We were entering a summer following a low snow year, so I took note of this stream with concerns that most of the hike would be dry.

We followed the creek down about a hundred vertical feet before beginning another very gradual climb through the forest. Sunrise brought about mosquitoes, and while it was nice to have light, I preferred to be left with my blood accounted for. The swarms got so bad that we couldn’t even stop for a sip of water. This did have one positive impact, as it motivated us to keep moving, for as long as we kept hiking at a brisk pace, they could not draw blood.

After 6.5 miles we reached Moraine Meadows and the South Fork of the Merced River. This qualified as another dependable water source.

I couldn’t even stop mid crossing to take a photo upstream. It was not even worth it with the bloodthirsty mosquitoes waiting for their opportunity. We turned right across the river and followed the footpath through the Sierra Shooting Star covered meadow.

Rather than continue to Fernandez Pass, we left the trail and followed the South Fork of the Merced River upstream. I was hoping to find a use trail alongside the river but found nothing of the sort.

Cross country travel up this canyon was relatively easy.

Triple Divide Peak was the first summit to come into view that morning.

We passed through some small alpine meadows, mostly sticking to the watercourse. 

I studied the map and concluded the best place to leave the stream. I don’t know why I was so concerned about water beforehand. We were following the headwaters of a major river. At any rate, I instructed Zach to fill up here before climbing out of the bottom of the canyon towards Triple Divide Peak. The water was as fresh as could be.

I picked a route up smooth granite slabs. I was very happy with the gentle nature of the terrain.

Merced Peak finally emerged from behind the curtain.

We crossed several more seasonal creeks as we made our way to the foot of Triple Divide Peak, and we eventually reached a tarn. So much for my water concerns.

We hiked along the left side of the tarn and began making our way up the final boulder field. Peak 11261 looked impressive to our south.

The following section was a classic class 2 slog. We took it in stride.

Balloon Dome became visible as we climbed higher.

This section wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. It wasn’t long before we started nearing the summit.

We reached the summit of Triple Divide Peak a little after 10am; 6 hours after starting off. To the east were Mt Banner, Mt Ritter and the Minarets.

To the southeast were too many peaks to name. The notable ones were Red Slate Mountain, Red and White Mountain, Mt Gabb, Silver Peak, Seven Gables and Mt Hooper.

To the south were the impressive Peak 11261, Gale Peak and Madera Peak.

To the northwest were Merced Peak, Red Peak, Grey Peak and Mt Clark.

To the north were the headwaters of the main fork of the Merced River. This drainage eventually leads to Yosemite Valley.

To the northeast were Mt Florence, Mt Maclure, Mt Lyell, Rodgers Peak and Foerster Peak.

Balloon Dome

We took a long, well deserved rest on the summit. A few mosquitoes showed enough perseverance to follow us up to 11,611 ft. Give them credit.

Now the interesting part was about to begin. My only beta was an old, and somewhat incorrect, trip report from Bob Burd. I had studied the topo map and the satellite images and figured a ridgeline traverse to Merced Peak would be manageable. We stated off down the ridge along very tame terrain.

I was able to move at a very fast pace. The rock was solid and I was almost jogging. However, It only takes one loose rock to change everything. I put all my weight on one rock and it shifted, leaving me perpendicular to the ground. I came down straight on my side, with my ribs smashing against an angular piece of talus. I audibly let out a grunt. I felt like an idiot. I examined my body and aside from a bruise, I was in one piece. I looked back at Zach and he was way behind me, so I took a few minutes to take in the views. Merced Peak stood defiantly to our west.

Edna Lake and the Clark Range stole the show further north.

Zach caught up to me after a few minutes. He saw my fall and heard my grunt. He was going very slow so I hope my accident didn’t scare him. The rock transitioned from a white granodiorite, to a more reddish talus and then to a dark grey talus. The ridge became a little more loose but remained mostly class 2 with a few sections of easy class 3. There was an impressive cliff to our right, so we took care to straddle the south side of the ridge.

We carefully dropped down to the saddle between Triple Divide Peak and Merced Peak. Zach was moving very slow, but I reminded myself that while he is an excellent trail walker, he is still new to scrambling. I patiently sat on a rock and went back and forth between looking at the views and the map on my phone.

We still were less than halfway done with the ridgeline traverse. It was going to be a long day. After regrouping, we began a steep climb up towards Peak 11588. This was a mix of class 2 and class 3, but I sought out the latter to make the climb more interesting. I found myself waiting a lot, so I took a selfie and again went back and forth between enjoying the views and staring at my phone.

With 100 vertical feet remaining to Peak 11588, I decided to traverse along the southern side of this peaklet to avoid unnecessary elevation gain.

This idea looked good from the topo and the satellite views, but in reality it wasn’t so straightforward. It was still class 3, but this was probably the most challenging scrambling of the day. If I had it over again, I simply would have climbed over Peak 11588.

Once beyond this obstacle, we reconnected with the top of the ridgeline and followed this carefully for the next few tenths of a mile. I went quickly to give Zach confidence, and I would wait every 50 meters or so. He was doing the right thing by taking his time and scrambling with care.

Peak 11588

Can you spot Zach?

Once I saw Zach was through the difficult section of scrambling, I went off ahead by myself.

Ottoway Lakes and Red Peak

The last quarter mile to the peak was class 2. I would have the summit to myself for the next 30 minutes. To the east were the Ritter Range and Triple Divide Peak.

To the south were Gale Peak, Sing Peak and Madera Peak.

To the west was the Buena Vista Crest.

To the north were Red Peak, Grey Peak and Mt Clark.

To the northeast was the Yosemite High Country.

I ate a late lunch on the summit. It took Zach 3.5 hours to complete the 1.5 mile traverse.

From the summit of Merced Peak, we dropped off the southern face. I did this quickly, and again had to wait for Zach to catch up. This allowed me to take a split break overlooking a beautiful tarn.

Zach showed up right after I finished. From the toe of the talus field, we dropped into a drainage with a developing stream and followed this downhill.

We followed a cross country route that aimed to take us right back to our earlier trail junction where we first encountered the South Fork of the Merced River. We passed by a beautiful tarn along the way and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity for a swim.

I felt refreshed afterwards, but Zach did not want to partake. He still has not completed an aqua challenge to this date, and I can say confidently that he is missing out.

Merced Peak

Subapline Fleabane

From the tarn we cut across some more slabs and meandered through the forest. I was getting pretty tired of all the downhill as we neared the end. My route worked almost perfectly, and we were deposited within a few hundred feet of the trail junction. I wanted to rest at the South Fork of the Merced River, but the mosquitoes were still too much for me, and I continued on without even stopping. The hike back had several meadows that were full of blossoming Sierra Shooting Stars.

Northern Alligator Lizard

The mosquitoes kept us honest and we continued most of the way back without any breaks. I wasn't that tired since I spent so much time resting along the ridgeline traverse waiting for Zach.

With two miles to go, I made some distance ahead of Zach. At Chiquito Pass, I passed the intersection and was too tired to make sure Zach knew the correct way back. Instead I got a head start on the uphill section which seemed much longer than what I remembered from the morning. Seeing the area in light made navigation much easier. Zach eventually caught up to me, and we walked out together. It was a 24.4 mile, 15 hour day, however I felt pretty good. We didn't waste much time at the trailhead and began our drive back out to civilization. We stopped for dinner in Oakhurst and drove back home that night.

[kanwaldesigns]

Climate change and affects of species (Tigers)

Animals are drastically affected by global climate change, and humans are the primary contributing factor. The rate of change is faster than the Earth has experienced in the last million years, and we must act now before it is too late.

What is global warming?

The sun’s light passes through the atmosphere and most of it is absorbed by Earth’s surface, with excess heat radiating from the surface back towards space. Greenhouse gases in the atmosphere act as a blanket and trap the excess heat. The gases are then prevented from escaping, and surface temperatures are raised as a result. The higher the concentration of greenhouse gases, the greater this “greenhouse effect” works to trap heat around the planet which means an overall increase in temperatures known as global warming.

How are global warming and climate change linked?

Global warming increases the temperatures of the Earth’s surface, including oceans. This causes changes in weather patterns over an long period of time, which should not be confused with weather in the short term. These overall weather pattern changes are known as climate change.

How have humans contributed to the climate crisis?

Humans release unprecedented levels of heat-trapping and ozone layer depleting greenhouse gases into the atmosphere, leading to global warming and climate change.

Methane, a hydrocarbon gas, is produced by human activities, including the decomposition of wastes in landfills, agriculture, and livestock raised for human consumption.

Animal agriculture is responsible for 71% of all greenhouse gases.

Carbon dioxide is released through natural processes, such as respiration and volcano eruptions, and through human activities such as deforestation and burning fossil fuels. Humans have increased atmospheric CO2 concentration by more than a third since the Industrial Revolution began.

Nitrous oxide is a powerful greenhouse gas produced by fossil fuel combustion, soil and fertilizer cultivation practices, and the burning of biomass.

Chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs) are synthetic compounds made for industrial purposes. These greenhouse gases deplete the ozone layer – the layer of the atmosphere responsible for shielding the earth and its inhabitants from a portion of the sun’s radiation. Although the industrial use of CFCs is regulated, these harmful greenhouse gases are present in air-conditioners and refrigerants, insulations and packing materials, solvents, and aerosol cans.

Water vapor, while “natural” can become lethal too. As temperatures increase, the bodies of water that cover the vast majority of Earth’s surface release larger amounts of water vapor into the air. Water vapor in the atmosphere also acts to trap heat, creating more clouds and precipitation, and accounts for nearly 80% of the total greenhouse mass in the atmosphere. Water vapor not only increases Earth’s surface temperatures through its participation in the greenhouse effect, but it also increases precipitation and alters weather patterns over time (i.e. climate change). As temperatures continue to increase, the vicious cycle of excess heat being trapped and even more water vapor entering the atmosphere continues unabated, finally ending in a planet too hot for us and most species to survive.

How does climate change impact animals?

Animals have paid the price for the human-induced climate crisis in many ways. Here are some examples.

Recent discoveries of the perilous conditions of the Earth’s oceans, which cover over 71% of the planet, show huge disruptions to marine ecosystems due to climate change. “Warmer waters impact almost every aspect of ocean welfare, from coral bleaching to fish migration patterns and even alter oceanic currents. Warming causes chaos within marine life, which takes biological cues from temperatures to know when to spawn.”

Nearly 190 sea turtles died off of the coast of Cape Cod, Massachusetts due in part to an unprecedented weather system, caused by warming sea surface temperatures and sea level rise. Gale force winds, high tides, and unusually cold temperatures disabled migrating turtles, many of whom were found frozen as they traveled south in search of warmer water to lay their eggs.

Fifty polar bears invaded a small island approximately 1,200 miles north of Moscow, Russia after melting Arctic sea ice forced them onto land in search of food, increasing the probability of deadly encounters with humans.

Approximately 23,000 speckled flying foxes died over a span of two days during a heatwave. This species, which lost one third of its population during this event, is only found in a small rainforest region in Queensland, Australia, where the foxes play a important role in pollinating native trees.

An estimated 80,000 reindeer died in Siberia from starvation. Warmer temperatures caused the nearby Arctic sea ice to melt, and exposed the warmer Atlantic water below. The newly exposed water was released as water vapor into the air, leading to increased cloud production and rainfall. When temperatures dropped drastically over 10,000 square miles of the southern part of the Yamal Peninsula, thousands of reindeer were incapable of breaking through the thick, newly formed ice to access lichen and plants below.

The Bramble Cay melomys, a small rodent species which inhabited a coral island off the coast of Australia, became the first known mammal to become extinct due to “human-induced climate change.” Rising sea levels cause widespread habitat destruction over the past decade.

Although often overlooked, human-driven habitat loss, pollution, and the climate crisis “may lead to the extinction of 40 percent of the world’s insect species over the next few decades.” The loss of nearly half of all insects would also lead to the loss of the animals who rely on them as a food source. Losing key pollinators and insects needed to pollinate crops and to keep soil healthy would have a devastating impact on agriculture and the economy, and prohibit feeding our rapidly increasing human population.

How Can We Help Animals And Protect the Planet We Call Home?

“From altering migratory and behavioral patterns and limiting the availability of food and water, to destroying habitats and wiping out entire species, humans are responsible for threatening the survival of animals by the lifestyle choices we make.”

Our rapidly increasing human population is the single greatest contributor to the climate crisis and the destruction of animal habitats worldwide. Every single person on Earth requires space, food, water, and infrastructure such as hospitals, schools as well as grocery stores. With 360,000 births per day, a staggering number that is double the number of deaths, animals will continue to be harmed and displaced at a reckless and overwhelming pace.

As Gwynn Mackellen, a California recycling consultant, who is based in California states “I work in the waste industry, and our waste is the downstream of people. It’s not people being bad; it’s just the effects of people. Just as it’s not only bad people deforesting, the trees are being cut down on our behalf. Plastic waste is being dumped and minerals are being mined not because of bad people, but because of people. Having fewer of us, there will be less of those effects.”

Human population growth is exponential, meaning that every single person has the ability to make a impact.There are also things you can do, or strive to do including living a car-free lifestyle, not flying, and eating plant-based foods that can help the planet.We can and should all work together to all do our very best to combat the climate crisis so every species can have a bright future.

Climate change and effects on animals

In the past century, 97 percent of the world’s tiger population has vanished, leaving only about 3,900 individuals left in the wild. Poaching, deforestation and development have driven this sharp decline. Now, from the pine forests of Russia to the rainforests of Indonesia, a new threat looms for these remaining tigers: climate change.

1. Rising sea levels

In India and neighboring Bangladesh, rising sea levels are shrinking coastal habitat for hundreds of endangered Bengal tigers that rely on the area’s mangrove forest, the largest in the world. Higher waters erode this patchwork of islands, called the Sundarbans, and cause salt water to migrate into fresh water, polluting the tigers’ drinking source. Tigers must find new freshwater sources and move to higher ground, escalating conflicts with communities living there.

2. Deforestation

Cutting down forests accelerates climate change while pushing species like the critically endangered Sumatran tiger to the brink of extinction. Unsustainably cultivated palm oil plantations are fast replacing Indonesia’s forests. This deforestation destroys important habitat, and could leave Sumatran tigers more vulnerable to illegal wildlife trafficking.

Keeping Indonesia’s forests intact helps protect tigers and address the impacts of climate change. CI is working in Indonesia, Brazil and other key palm-oil-producing countries to keep deforestation out of palm oil supply chains.

3. Temperature changes

Shifting temperatures are altering habitat for Siberian tigers in Russia and China, as Korean pine forests give way to fir and spruce trees — meaning less prey for hungry tigers that prefer to hunt in pine forests. Fewer than 600 Siberian, or Amur, tigers remain, heralding the possible extinction of the world’s largest cat within the next 100 years.

4. Natural disasters

As climate change accelerates, scientists predict more frequent wildfires in the remote regions where Siberian tigers live. Longer, hotter and drier wildfire seasons are the new reality, threatening Siberian tiger habitat and food supplies. Climate change also drives more worse storms and flooding that ruins crops, forcing people to travel farther from their homes and into tiger territory to make a living. In the Sundarban Islands, human-tiger conflict can result as displaced farmers gather seafood and honey in the same mangroves where tigers roam.

Climate change is threatening the habitats and food sources of tigers, making them vulnerable to poaching and to conflicts with communities. In many cases, protecting tigers — specifically by preserving their habitat, which is often forest — also helps combat climate change. By keeping forests standing, we’re giving tigers a fighting chance.

Tigers protection

To save tigers, we need to protect the forest habitats across Asia where they live. By saving biologically diverse places, we allow tigers to roam and hunt the many other endangered species that live there. As a large predator, the tiger plays a key role in maintaining healthy ecosystems.

Reason For Tiger Disappearing

Deforestation loss of Habitat-Forests are being cut down for various purposes like paper, palm, housing, furniture, firewood. Deforestation has been the cause of a truly massive number of species extinction in modern times and historical times. It always lacks the large biodiversity of its previous state. With the disappearance of the original forest, many species go extinct, and many that don’t lose a great deal of their genetic diversity and variation.

Tigers skin-Consumers demand for tiger body parts poses the largest threat to the tiger. Tigers are being illegally hunted for their skin, bones, teeth, nails, etc. which are highly valuable for medicinal use and remedies. In the past 10 years over 1000 tigers are hunted to meet the consumer demand. Chinese people use tiger skin and other body parts for medicinal use and black magic with the disappearance of the original forest, many species go extinct, and many that don’t lose a great deal of their genetic diversity and variation.

Spread of disease among the tiger population-There is a certain disease that spread like an epidemic. Diseases like Feline Panleukopenia, Tuberculosis, Sarcocystis have to lead to endangered tigers. Health Management of wildlife is neglecting.

Loss of Habitat-Tigers need an intact habitat in order to live. They like to live in the depth of the thick forests. 100 sq km area is sufficient to survive about 15 to 16 tigers. Males’ tigers run throughout the forests to hunt and mate. This then means habitat loss causes birth rate and lowers overall survive.

Tiger Hunting-There are many peoples who hunt tigers for sports and for other decorative purposes. A recent trend has been the hunting of tigers for human consumption. Many people in China believe that tiger meat and bones have medicinal elements which are beneficial for human health her body parts for medicinal use and black magic with the disappearance of the original forest, many species go extinct, and many that don’t lose a great deal of their genetic diversity and variation.

How To Save Tiger?

The tiger is not just a wild animal living in the forest. The tiger is a unique animal which plays a important role in the health and diversity of an ecosystem. If the Tigers go extinct the entire ecosystem would collapse. When a species goes extinct, it leaves behind a scar. This affects the entire ecosystem. Tigers can be saved in the following ways:

Spread the news and tell others that tigers are dying and they need to be protected. In every media, the advertisement should be given. The government should be aware of the people regarding saving the tiger.

Responsible Tourist wilderness is to be experienced not to be polluted. While experiencing the wilderness following the forest department guidelines. Don’t leave anything behind except some foodstuffs. Don’t throw garbage here and there, maintain cleanness.

Inform the police If you see any illegal activity like hunting and poaching give the information to the local police station and forest department or the people who look after the reserve.

Educate the local peoples those who live near the forest need to be educated about the importance of tigers in the ecosystem. If there are no tigers there will be no forest as all grass eaters animals will live.

The Government should give punishment to the hunters those who hunt tigers and wild animals. If somebody is hunting tigers immediately inform the local police station and forest department.

Stop poaching, don't buy goods made from tiger’s skin and bones. Sale of tiger skin and body parts is banned by the government. If somebody is doing the business of tiger body parts, inform it to the police and make sure that they receive severe punishment for this crime.

Donate Fund The easiest way to join for saving the tiger is to donate the money to the organization those who are supporting to save the tiger. Some of the well-known organization Panthera, World Wildlife Fund, International Fund for Animal Welfare, Big Cat Rescue

Spread Awareness through social media. Encourage others to support the efforts being made to save the tigers. Social media is a very handy tool for this-post links to interesting articles about the plight of the tigers, spread word about petitions that your friends and family can sign, and follow your favorite tiger organizations on Facebook, Twitter, or any of the other various platforms out there.

We’re facing the biggest environmental challenge our species has ever seen. No matter what we’re passionate about, something we care about will be affected by climate change so it’s time to take action and look after the planet we live in not only for us humans and the planet but for the animals as well.

[zhongchuusimp]

Kotonoha Project Chapter 1, Part 1, Page 5

Chapter 1, Page 5: Confronting the Tatemae Bon. There was a small noise, and then something that looked like a stuffed animal appeared.... “That one?” For a second, Tsukasa thought he had made a mistake. She too had to double check her eyes. It was a deer.  

But, it was colorful like jellybeans, and had an adhesive bandage on its forehead. “This guy is your Honne?” “Don’t ask me. Didn’t you summon this thing?” “It looks good, but..... its cheerful appearance doesn’t really suit you.” “...... I’m going to act like that wasn’t an insult,” the school prefect huffed. The deer laughed, its shrill voice ringing out in a clear “pya, pya”. Tsukasa scratched his head. “But still, it’s not really going to work when it’s like this..” She was astonished. “I thought that we might be able to use something against the monster, but I’m not so sure about this.....” “Whatever, it’s going to have to work.” Tsukasa unfolded the fan. “What? Is this my responsibility?” she blinked. “I need to break the seal. We don’t have all day here, school prefect. Kotoware’s going to catch up soon.” The Tatemae monster, Kotoware, sent its subordinates towards Tsukasa and the school prefect. It was visibly evident that the stagnation around the deer had cleared, and the air was bright, a protective barrier. But it wouldn’t last forever. While shaking the short arms springing up from their round bodies, the monster’s subordinates drew near. “Tell me how I’m supposed to break the seal!” “You have to have a Honne that you desire more than your Tatemae.” Tsukasa called it into question. “Well, then...” she spoke after a moment, reflecting on the question, and replied. “I want to eat snacks.” “Is that really the kind of..... oops.” The deer changed immediately. The bandage on its head shrank considerably, with a small boom. Tsukasa  had pointed the fan at the deer, orchestrating the changes, controlling them. The deer became a swirl of light. It became like a chrysalis. “Hey!! Did you call me☆?” It emerged. Its whole appearance had changed. The bright colors were the same, though strangely psychadelic..... it was a kid. The deer’s shrunken crossed band-aids were stuck to his nose. “What a terrible way to wake up☆! I just want to eat... I’ll kick your butt for this later☆” “What a strange little brat,” Tsukasa laughed. “I’ll call him Gaki-chan,” the school prefect murmured. “Hey you! Finish talking already!! You look like a fish☆” “Looking weird and bad-mouthing people. So this is what the school prefect is into,” Tsukasa said, grinning. “Just fight already!” screeched the school prefect, her face turning red. “Sure, sure.” Tsukasa gently moved the folding fan, speaking towards the bra―― Gaki-chan. “These are good conditions. I should be able to skip the explanation. You know what to do, right Gaki-chan?” “Sure!! I will forever throw my heart out to Kotoware☆.” “Alright, let’s let this reasonable fellow save us.” Together with Gaki-chan, Tsukasa raised his eyes up to the enemy. “Hatredmaliceenemyangerselfresentment” Instantly, a gale blew through. The color of the barrier became slightly distorted. While the Tatemae, Kotoware, took notice of the Honne’s appearance, Gaki-chan seemed not to notice its violence. Its chains moved even faster, flying about wildly in the sky, not to mention its rapidly approaching subordinates. The stagnation attacked the barrier in spots, trying to shake it. But it couldn’t break through. Without changing his colorful complexion, “Super fuuuuuuuuun!!” He raised the war cry, a spiral horn having appeared. “Go ahead.” Tsukasa’s folding fan also roared. “Selffreelibertymethodreleasefreedomunrestraintliberationmamimomamemomami――”From that trumpet came a tremendous force. An undecipherable tongue-twister, the power of words firing from the horn at a machine-gun pace, and flew like a galaxy train towards Kotoware, shooting it down. That language resounded, bending, pursuing the opponent. Impossible to avoid, they ruptured, exploded, blowing up in rapid succession as they disappeared.

“Why are you... whatever, it works.” After being able to do so much damage, Gaki-chan was out of breath. He took a deep breath, restoring his posture. He looked up. “Shadowbalanceimpermanenceordinarycomonnality,” Kotoware barked, frozen in place. Tsukasa switched to holding the fan with both hands, his expression hardening. The monster’s subordinates were annihilated. Caught off-guard, Kotoware began to tire. “Shall we deliver the finishing blow now, Gaki-chan?” “Let’s destroy it☆” Gaki-chan raised both hands over his head. A giant lollipop appeared in the place of the trumpet. “Cut off the origin’s evil.” Raising it up, “Sugar sword of judgement☆!” He brought it down. A skillful, glittering slash flew through the sky. The world was split in half. It was all an illusion. Boom.

It hit Kotoware in the front. The stagnation was eradicated. The distortion was dispersed. Diminishing laws, limitation’s death cry. What seemed to be its face became two parts. Its body was split in a similar fashion. It split in half, and then halved again, dispersing its malicious intent, becoming powdered fragments.... it disappeared with the chains it used. Gaki-chan and Kotoware’s feud was over. The glowing light inside Kotoware’s form faded, melted, and finally disappeared. The fog and mist concealing the school prefect’s face cleared away. Her face was now free of tears, and now it seemed soft and radiant. “...... let’s go back.” Tsukasa closed the folding fan again, and the Honne, Gaki-chan, returned to his deer form. The school prefect caught the deer in her arms. “That Honne is indispensable to you. Please take care of him from now on.” “Regardless of how important he is, I can’t keep a deer as a pet. He’s very cute though....” “If you don’t want people to see him, you can hide him, and summon him back whenever you want.” “Alright. I get it. By the way, earlier, I named the Honne and the Tatemae, right?” “Yeah.” “That and this, my pretended desires, and my true ones.....” “I’ll just tell you straight off the bat..... because you fought and created a match, neither good or bad, you solved the problem yourself.” “Um... I think I understand now.” He thought about the deer she held in her arms. “But.... the school prefect had desires like this.” “Huh?” “Until I saw it today, I had no idea.” Without the mist, her expression could be seen. The crisp features had a cute, childlike appearance, and her eyes resembled Gaki-chan’s. “Hey, why are you looking at me like that?” the school prefect asked. “They’re round.” “What?” “What is that look of disappointment, school prefect?” “The rules....” she muttered.”.... I’m... Ritsu Kanokawa is still a school prefect.” “I know that.” “I’m terrible.” “Terrible? What do you mean?” “I’m nothing like what you expected of me.” “I didn’t expect anything.” “....... the way I treated you, Tsukasa Kuzunoha-san.” “You know my name...? Ah, right, you’re a school prefect.” The color of the sky began to return to the usual morning blue. The students who had happened to be in front of the gate stood up and began to walk towards the school as normal. No one seemed to care about the events that had just taken place. Had they all forgotten them? However, the black iron school gate that was there before had disappeared. There were no traces of it. The teachers who had come didn’t seem to notice either, turning their heads away from the empty space. Maybe the gate, broken into half, then half, and then half again, had been left behind in the disappeared world, sucked into the light as well. Sucked in with the prejudices of the law. Where... that place had gone, Tsukasa neither knew nor cared. Morning on the campus continued as normal. *notes* Erm well i dont really own this whole thing to be honest i found it on devianart while trying to find the translations ermm link to the translator devianart is here

Original work is from maimai and i do not own the translation and the novel 

For translation of the previous chapter, plz visit http://imanoturugi.tumblr.com/contents for the first 3 page of the kotonoha project light novel and for page 4 plz  This is a original series from:http://maimai.sega.jp/kotonoha*DISCLAIMER THIS ISNT MY WORK! ORIGINAL WORK IS FROM MAIMAI AND TRANSLATION IS FROM A DEVIANART USER*

[withabackpackandcamera]

February 17th, 2017

Day 29: Goodbye Stockholm, Hello Lofoten Islands!

What a short Stockholm stay! It's been awhile since I've traveled at such a fast pace and I forgot how tiring it can be to rush through every inch of a city when you're tight on time. Because I've been situated in Reykjavik for a few weeks, I was able to take my time looking around the city without feeling rushed. Plus, when I did go around to see things, most things were outside of the city and required a car or bus, both of which expended less physical energy than speed walking. Oh well, I guess I did bring it upon myself. When I first decided that I would go to Scandinavia, I was planning on just visiting Norway. But because I found a cheap WOW Air flight to Oslo for $65 and because I probably won't be in this area again for awhile, I decided to just slip Stockholm into my itinerary and make the most of what I could in two days. Which, I dare say, I did.

And as I make my journey to Leknes Airport in North Norway, here are my quick thoughts on my short time in Stockholm:

- Stockholm is a large European city with diversity, history, good public transportation, and lots of food and shopping. - If I remember my previous Europe experiences clearly, Stockholm felt like a smaller, calmer, quieter, friendlier, and cleaner Paris mixed with some Prague-ness. - Stockholm is a city filled with art. From the ridiculous art installations in the subway system to sculpted figures seen on the side of buildings to random art pieces placed around the city, there is plenty of art and creativity to enjoy. - Traditional meatballs are so yummy. - McDonald's and Joe and the Juice are widespread throughout the city. - There are many parks and museums to see in the city. - Sweden has a different cold from Iceland, with less wind involved.

With those thoughts down, to my day!

Today, I got to the airport relatively early via Flygbussarna, the bus service to the airport. So, I decided to check if Arlanda had a lounge and surely they did! So into the lounge I went for my first official airport lounge experience! And man, feeling like I'm rich is nice! Breakfast today was cereal, cookies, pate, turkey, cheese, and bread with Nutella and OJ on the side. A great find, especially for someone who is cash-strapped and in need of being fed and saving money!

A short visit to the lounge and before I knew it, it was time to take three different flights to the Lofoten Islands in Northern Norway with layovers in Oslo and Bodø. The first two flights were fine. However, the last leg of the trip was a bit scary and nausea-inducing. With a single fixed-winged plane as our plane of choice for the 25 minute flight, turbulence from the strong storm outside was in full force. At multiple points in the flight, the plane dropped, turned, and shook in ways that had my imagination thinking the wrong things. But after 25 minutes of nerve-wracking turbulence, we finally arrived safely at Leknes Airport. Whew, we made it, despite initially landing on one wheel because the wind blew the plane sideways enough to affect the landing.

As we were getting off the plane, I realized that most of the passengers were American and that most of the passengers were photographers, or just had nice bags of camera equipment. Interesting to see that but it was not surprising once I got onto the archipelago and noticed that the only tourists in Lofoten were photographers.

Anyhow, after getting into the airport, I got my rental car, which was changed to a Toyota Auris Stationwagon from a VW Golf (sweet!), and I was on my way as the snow storm kicked it up a notch. The drive on the E10 was snowy and windy but beautiful (from what I could actually see). The roads wound through the fjords and eventually took me to Å, Norway, the last road-accessible town at the southern end of the Lofoten archipelago. Once I got there, I had a hard time checking into my hostel because the reception guy wasn’t around. Eventually, he came back and showed me to my room, a room with two beds at the end of the hostel hall that I would be sharing with a roommate. I later met my roommate, Kevin, who was an Englishman and a photographer here primarily for photography.

As the night approached, the weather didn’t look like it was going to get any better. But I decided to take a short trip out to Reine, the beautiful town next door, to see if I could get any photos. But with the snow and difficult photography conditions, I snapped a couple of shots and returned to the hostel. Once I was back, the weather continued to worsen, with tons of wind, tons of snow, and lots of building-shaking. With that kind of weather, I was ready to raise the white flag for the night and just chill and figure out my trip for the next couple of days, since I hadn’t done much planning. However, that was when the first of three Italian guys came in asking for a hair dryer in broken English. And who knew that that would be the turning point of my trip!

Later that evening, the three Italians, brothers Andrea and Luca and friend Luca came in and started up a conversation. We talked for a while about everything, from travel to the politics in Europe and the United States, our perspectives and views on our countries, and about school and work. Once the conversation started to die down around 23:00 or so, they decided that they really wanted to do something despite the weather and were itching to go out and search for the auroras. At that point, I was like… Uh, really?? It’s storming outside. And cold. And late. And I’m tired… But of course, knowing me, I decided, what the heck, I’ll just join for fun and just hang out because it would be time better spent than sitting on my bed.

The initial half hour of searching wasn’t too fruitful. Clouds were everywhere and the wind was blowing pretty hard. The only thing we had going for us was that the snow had stopped for a little bit. We drove randomly around until we found a dark place to stop along the coast and decided to leave the car and attempt to find the northern lights in the small patches of clear sky we would see from time to time. At first, nothing. Then, I noticed some wispy, different-colored clouds in the distance. That’s gotta be it, I thought to myself, since I had seen similar wispy clouds in Reykjavik. And with my camera, bam! THE NORTHERN LIGHTS! It was really subtle at this point in the night, but the fact that we could see anything at all was astonishing!

So, with that little bit of hope instilled within us, we continued driving and searching. Shortly after witnessing the first bit of auroras, we stopped and looked to the sky again. And the Lights were becoming more and more apparent through and between the cloud cover! Then they became stronger and stronger! Excitement overcame us all because who would’ve thought that tonight of all nights would be a night of auroras! Especially since we were the only ones crazy enough to go out and search for them tonight! And wow, the Northern Lights were crazy amazing!! Even though it was cloudy the entire night! And even though the weather changed every 10 minutes from a calm winter night to wind gales, hail, and snowstorms! The lights were so intense tonight that we could see them dancing around and above the clouds in the night sky! And we saw strong streaks of it everywhere, sometimes lighting up to a very visible green before disappearing into the darkness! WOW! I couldn’t believe I was seeing such a spectacular sight! And imagine what it would’ve been like had there been no clouds tonight!

And for almost 4 hours, we drove around the area and stopped for photos as we saw the Lights. At some points, the auroras were coming down in slightly different colors than the green I had been seeing! It was jaw-breakingly unbelievable! So this is what it's supposed to look like!!! And this is what I’m supposed to take a photo of! And, the funniest thing that night was that the Italians actually weren’t sure how they would capture the Northern Lights on their camera and phones. So, I stepped back and did some photography teaching so that they could capture some good photos of the Lights to provide proof that they saw what they had come up to Lofoten to see! And they learned quickly and got some awesome shots of the Lights!

What an adventure with the Italians! What a night!

5 Things I Learned Today:

1. Airport Lounge access is quite nice. A nice, comfy, relaxing space to sit in without being bothered. Food and drinks are free, saving a ton of money. It feels nice to be pampered! And this must be what it feels like to be rich!

2. Single fixed-winged airplanes are small and as a result, can feel a TON of turbulence. So much that sometimes, you pray and hope for the best.

3. “Rorbuer/Rorbu” is a word you see all over the Lofoten archipelago. They are traditional Norwegian fishing huts (most of the time red, but can be yellow and other colors too) used by fishermen and are the beautiful huts you see all over Lofoten.

4. Lofoten is similar and different in many ways when compared to the Westfjords. I think Lofoten is prettier because of the sharper peaks and shallower fjords that allow for much prettier photos to be taken!

5. When you see intense Northern Lights, they are absolutely stunning. And when they are dancing, the are absolutely amazing! And never count out the Lights in bad weather. Because if wind blows hard enough and pushes the clouds out of way quickly, you can get intermittently clear skies and auroras in between the clouds!

[xerxia31]

Gone Rogue - an Everlark ficlet

There was a great post last week, about making shitty pots. Challenge accepted ;)

This came out of a completely irreverent discussion with my fellow smutketeers @burkygirl and @peetabreadgirl, and is rated M for coarse language, sexual situations and terrible puns. Reader discretion is advised.

Gone Rogue

“This is pretty slummy, even for here,” Katniss breathed, looking up and down the deserted street. Desolation and neglect were evident in every abandoned storefront, every crumbling façade. But the marquee over the cinema, Sala de cine, had most of its bulbs illuminated.

Peeta nodded, distracted, as he triple checked his phone. He was sure this was the place, trip advisor listed it as the only English movie theatre in the province. “I can’t imagine it’s very popular,” he said, staring at the empty display boards where movie posters should have been, but where only pieces of torn paper remained, faded to unreadability by the relentless sun. “I haven’t heard a single word of English since we stepped off the bus.”

“I hope it’s air conditioned,” she grumbled, and he sighed.

It had seemed like such a good idea when they planned it. Take a semester off college, spend three months in the southern hemisphere with his best friend, rebuilding earthquake-ravaged schools and community buildings. Good karma and bonding, away from the bitterly cold Panem winter. Away from his family and hers, away from school and the day to day drudgery of his parents’ bakery and her job at the diner. Away from Gale-fucking-Hawthorne, the stupidly tall and buff asshat who had his eye on Katniss.

But four weeks in, Katniss was obviously miserable. She hated the oppressive heat and was endlessly frustrated with their inability to understand the language. Peeta suspected she was homesick too, though she never mentioned that. Even in front of her closest friend, she tried to hide her feelings behind an almost impenetrable wall. Selfishly, that was the main reason Peeta had agreed to this service trip when she suggested it. He’d hoped that being out here, away from the real world, she’d let down her defences.

Let him in.

Because as much as he loved being her best friend, he also loved her, and wanted so much more. And he wanted to tell her that, to show her that, while they were together in this new place, where maybe she’d be able to look at him with new eyes.

But he needed to lift her mood first, if there was any chance of her being receptive to his words.

So he suggested an excursion to find a movie theatre where they could watch the new Star Wars movie in English. Katniss was a huge Star Wars fan, and he knew she’d been steadfastly avoiding social media since the movie’s release, trying to avoid spoilers.

She’d jumped at the chance, the first time he’d seen her smile in days.

Peeta reached for the handle of the heavy wooden door, pulling it open and peeking inside. It was dim - everything in this country was dim - and while not airconditioned at least substantially cooler than outside. He stepped back to allow Katniss entry; she wrinkled her nose as she stepped through the door. “Smells funny in here.”

“It smells funny everywhere,” he grumbled. He was generally a patient guy, but Katniss had been whining practically since the moment they boarded the bus to the city. “Do you want to just leave?”

“No,” she said, her tone softer. She grabbed his hand, squeezing gently, and Peeta relaxed.

The lobby did smell funny, musty and old, and there was no concession stand, but they made their way to the ticket booth. The man inside eyed them both suspiciously, but Peeta managed between rudimentary Spanish and a lot of pointing to buy two tickets.

Peeta wasn’t surprised to find the actual theatre completely deserted, though he was pretty sure that the ticket seller said the show was starting in ten minutes. He and Katniss made their way to the middle of the second-to-last row, which she always said was the best place to see all of the action, and settled in the threadbare but reasonably comfortable seats.

They chatted while they waited for the movie to start, and she seemed much calmer than she had all morning, happier. Peeta told jokes, teased her. It was comfortable. It was good.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before the house lights went down and the screen flickered to life. Once his eyes adjusted and Peeta could see the title shot for the movie he frowned. It didn’t look quite right. Katniss clearly noticed it too; she snorted as she pointed to it. “It’s misspelled,” she giggled.

Peeta squinted. It was indeed misspelled. Rouge One. “Must be a bootleg,” he laughed. “That’s better than subtitles anyway.” A huge explosion filled the screen, drawing their attention, before fading to the inky blackness of space dotted with stars. She grabbed his hand, and he grinned.

But as the music started playing - that’s definitely not John Williams, he thought - it became obvious this movie wasn’t the one they were expecting. A ship that almost passed for a star destroyer came on screen, and then the scene cut to two women with their hair in side buns, a la Princess Leia, but definitely not dressed in rebel alliance uniforms. In fact, they were dressed in practically nothing at all, strips of flowing fabric and thigh-high boots that were not at all suitable for space travel. When a tall stormtrooper whipped out his rouge one, Peeta sucked in a horrified breath.

He sat frozen for what seemed like hours as his mind tried to understand what the hell was going on.

“Holy shit, look at his lightsabre,” Katniss murmured beside him, and he tore his eyes away from the screen - where a ripped Jedi was using the force to direct a scantily clad alien’s head as she blew him aggressively - to look at his best friend.

His shy, pure best friend, who he had apparently dragged into a porno theatre.

Her eyes were wide as saucers.

He finally snapped out of his stupor. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he gasped, dread knotting his gut. She was going to be so fucking pissed at him. “Let’s go,” he said.

“Yeah,” Katniss murmured, but she didn’t make any motion to leave. Her eyes remained locked on the screen, absolutely unblinking. As he watched, her tongue poked out to wet the lush lower lip he’d spent years dreaming about. She was breathing heavily, her chest heaved in the reflected glow of the screen, and her nipples were erect, sharp against her thin tank top.

Katniss was aroused.

His best friend, and the girl who’d starred in every damned one of his fantasies, was sitting beside him in a fucking porno theatre and getting hot and bothered.

He wondered if she was wet.

Nothing happening on screen was as big a turn on as watching Katniss squirm. Her hand still clutched his; through it, he could feel the way she was shifting in her seat.

He was going to blow his load in his pants. “Katniss,” he whispered, pained.

She turned to face him, her quicksilver eyes locking onto his, pupils blown wide. Her pink tongue snaked out again, slid sinuously along her lips. Under a soundtrack of guttural grunts and over-the-top moans she whispered, the barest puff of air over his lips. “Kiss me, Peeta.”

Some small, rational part of his brain offered a weak protest. It was a bad idea. It wasn't real. But maybe he’d dreamed of it long enough for it to become real?  Real enough anyway, reasoned the part of his brain that was connected to his throbbing cock. It strained against his shorts and the girl of his dreams was leaning in, lust in her eyes and a plea on her lips.

So he kissed her.

It wasn’t how he’d imagined their first kiss would be. It wasn’t gentle or tentative, it wasn’t a soft mutual exploration. It was hard, frantic. It was wet and sloppy, her tongue thrusting greedily into his mouth, taking.

It was perfection.

She groaned around his tongue, hands tangling in his hair, tugging hard - but the pain only made everything so much fucking better. Peeta growled, pulling her closer, cursing the armrest between their chairs. Her breasts pressed against his chest, pebbled but softer than he imagined. And when she shifted side to side just enough to drag those hard little nipples across his chest, the blood pounding in his temples chased decorum to the wind.

He pulled back, but not enough to separate their lips. Only just enough to snake his hand between them, sliding down into the neck of her camisole. She was braless; when his fingertips brushed against her nipple she shuddered. He cupped her breast in his large hand. It was small, but firm, the skin soft, silken. He plucked and played, rolling and teasing her taut peak while she writhed. She begged against his lips, words tumbling between kisses. More. Please. Peeta.

His name in her voice, husky and hot, was nearly his undoing. He shoved the strap of her tank top down, freeing one perfect peak, sweat-misted olive skin glistening in the faint light of the screen. Her dusky nipple stood at attention, begging for his mouth. She was breathtaking.

Wrapping his lips around her was a wet dream come true, and he knew the noises she made would be the soundtrack to his every fucking future fantasy. Her hands clawed; his hair, his shoulders, his back, grappling for purchase. Further inflaming him. And when he bit the rigid peak she buried her face in his hair, moaning more loudly than the actors onscreen.

He trailed kisses up her neck, laving the salt from her skin, listening to her breathing hitch. “Katniss,” he whispered against her ear. “I - I want to get you off. Can I?” It was a risky request he knew, but she only swallowed hard and nodded.

Peeta undid the little snap on her jean shorts one-handed, reaching in to cup her over her soaked panties, and he nearly bit through his tongue at the sensation. She lifted her hips, rocking against his hand, her head dropping back.

He shifted, slipping his hand under the fabric. Thick fingers parted her folds, sliding in all of the wetness. His groan was louder than hers.

She pressed her face against his neck, panting, hot puffs of air and whispered praise as he worked her, thumb circling her clit while two large fingers plunged and curled. High pitched whines filled the air, competing with the noises on the screen, and even though anyone could have walked in, she seemed unable to quell the sounds of her pleasure.

Peeta kissed her, claiming her lips, swallowing her moans. She rode his hand, awkward though the space was, kissing him until she couldn’t, kissing him until her lips went slack and she pulled back just enough to lock eyes with him.

She gasped his name breathlessly as she shattered, slick walls pulsing, pulling his fingers deeper. And he couldn’t tear his gaze from her face, her gorgeous face - always beautiful but more radiant than the sun as she came down from her climax. Her eyes were so soft with affection, her hand tender on his cheek, stroking the sweaty skin delicately.

Katniss leaned in to kiss him as he withdrew his fingers, and the gentle press of her lips to his was enough to make him almost forget about his aching dick. She laid soft little kisses all over his face, loving him, and he held her close. It was almost perfect.

Except that they were in a porn theatre.

The rebellion was still raging on screen, the hero in danger of being seduced by the dark side - which was apparently a euphemism for anal. Peeta carefully repositioned her tank top and Katniss laughed and fastened her shorts before grabbing his hand to tow him out of the theatre.

They practically ran out into the street, into the wall of heat, the relentless sun stabbing their eyes. Both squinted and staggered, the breathless fantasy of the theatre melting away in the face of bright sunshine and heat.

They made their way back to the bus stop slowly, almost reluctantly. She still held his hand, but there was a tension in her body. And though he was normally so silver-tongued, he found himself wordless. He wanted to ask her if what had happened between them was going to change anything, everything, but he couldn’t. She was flushed and looking everywhere but at him. Peeta’s heart sank as each step took him away from the most incredible experience of his life, and back towards reality, towards that place where he and Katniss were just friends.

By the time they were sitting side by side on the bright orange bus that apparently had no shocks, Peeta was close to despondent, and Katniss was again scowling. The tension got the best of him. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

Her entire body stiffened; he knew she would be running away if she wasn’t sitting next to the window, caged in by his larger body. “Sorry?” she asked, steel eyes glinting dangerously. “You’re sorry?”

He swallowed hard. She was more upset than he’d hoped. Not that he could blame her. He’d taken advantage of her. “I shouldn’t have-” he started, but she cut him off.

“You regret that? W-what we did?” Her voice shook a little and it gutted him.

“No! I mean, yes, sort of. A little. But…” Peeta trailed off, then banged his head against the seat in front of them, groaning loudly. An electrically-charged silence hung between them. He broke it first. “Katniss,” he said softly, turning his head to look at her. She was staring straight ahead, silhouetted by the bus window, expression tight and tense. So incredibly beautiful, fierce, proud. Fiery. But he knew her, having breached her walls at least a little he could see through the angry mask, to the hurt beneath.

He couldn't keep lying, not to her. Not to himself. Couldn't keep pretending it didn't destroy him when she dated other men. Couldn't keep wondering if there was any chance there could be more between them. “Katniss,” he tried again, more firmly. Her chin trembled. “You have to know by now, how I feel about you.” She shook her head slightly, side to side. It could have meant no, it could have meant she didn't understand. It could have meant she knew but didn't want to accept it. He tried to push that third possibility out of his mind.

“I have wanted to kiss you for as long as I can remember,” Peeta murmured. He heard her suck in a sharp breath, but she remained steadfastly facing forward. “I’ve wanted to touch you like that forever.”

“Then why are you sorry?” Her question surprised him, the lack of anger in her tone gave him hope. She was still facing forward, but her silver eyes flicked to his.

“Because you deserve so much better than a copped feel in a porn theatre,” he said, regret evident in his voice.

Katniss turned to fully face him. They stared at each other, as if perched on the precipice of the unknown.

“Why do you think I asked you to come with me?” she said softly. “I though maybe here, away from home and everyone, maybe you’d see me as more than just your buddy. Maybe you’d see me as a woman.”

“I have always seen you as a woman, Katniss,” he groaned, one hand reaching up to cup the back of her neck. “I have fantasized about you so many times.” The slow smile that spread across her face spurred him on. “But it's more than that, Katniss. I-” He swallowed hard. “I'm so in love with you.”

“Me too,” she whispered. Then she kissed him.

This was the kiss he'd always imagined, sweet and sensual. Unhurried. A confession. “Finally,” she murmured when she pulled away, and he laughed. Her fingers stroked the scruff on his jaw, ruffled his curls. His arms pulled her closer. Then they were kissing again.

She laughed against his lips when the bouncing of the bus bashed their noses together. But they were undeterred, making the most of their vehicular captivity. Stolen kisses, breathless whispered revelations. Relieved laughter and promises. A new hope filled his heart.

And when they finally reached the village where they were staying, far, far away, Katniss again took his hand and led him at light speed to the dormitories.

[george-sykes86]

Weird towns, camping and lots of penguins

This next instalment comes after a week which has been filled with action. Despite only having been away for two weeks it feels like we have already crammed in a months worth of activities and the prospect of getting up and going to work is a distant memory. The crossing into Patagonia 'proper' to Puerto Natales was impressionable. The bus stopped at the immigration point on the border to have bags searched etc. Leaving the warm comforts of the bus, we stepped out into blustering gales, rain, rather bleak seemingly endless baron landscape and a portacabin. At this point I did think.. why on earth did we leave the warm cultural splendours of Buenos Aires and central Argentina?! This thought was further emphasised when we arrived in Puerto Natales (still pouring).Probably the strangest place I've ever been... Imagine if you will a cross between a ski chalet village and a tin shantytown and that's sort of what this place looked like, and at this time of the day deserted. However, waking the next morning we were greeted with something relatively rare in Patagonia- SUNSHINE. Suddenly, this odd place seemed somewhat charming and we were ready to set on our quest to try and find a way of entering the nearby national park, whose complicated booking system made it like Fort Knox of Chile. With all the campsites full and the town filled with disconsolate visitors desperate for even one night in the park we didn’t hold out much hope. After visiting the main park office it was looking like our only options were to either pay for a couple of nights in hostels in the park at the price of a central London hotel or alternatively chance our arm and head into the park and hope the rangers took pity on us and allowed us to stay in the free campsites. As we sat in the office of Fantastico Sur, the company with the only remaining availability, desperately trying to piece together some sort of a trip and our wallets groaning in our pockets the door swung open and two Brazilian angels entered. In this brilliant bit of serendipity they had two nights camping to sell, which aligned perfectly with some other availability meaning we were going to be able to get 4 nights in the park. It’s safe to say we almost bit their hand off for the bookings. With bookings stowed away it was off to the supermarket to buy provisions then to the outdoor shop to rent some fairly ancient camping gear. We were feeling pretty smug at this point and filled with enthusiasm for what the next 5 days had in store for us. Despite a few delays getting across to the starting line, we made quick progress through to the first checkpoint and were feeling confident of being at our camp well ahead of schedule. Then the trail got steep, the footing became rocky and the wind picked up. Progress was slow! It was during this last stint that my lack of aerodynamic form led to a gust blowing me across the rocks and unfortunately her ankle took the brunt of the incident. We eventually hobbled into camp with the rain coming down and the wind howling only to be lead past the lovely sheltered woodland camp spots to our pitch for the night, a wooden platform set out in the open with full exposure to the elements and whose only redeeming feature was it’s proximity to the toilets. The tent went up quickly and we piled into the dining area of the Refugio to be treated to a delicious three course meal of log life food which even featured an old favourite, Angel delight. That was as good as the evening got. George's well honed ability to sleep served him well but I had a night to forget. With the wind gusting still gusting at 70mph and the rain coming down heavily, conditions in the tent were tense. Every few minutes you could hear the wind building from high in the valley and the noise grew louder and louder like a oncoming stampede. Then it would hit! The tent, staked down and covered in boulders to hold it down, was rattled from side to side and the wooden platform shuddered beneath our matts. A 4am call of nature was like going over the top at the Somme. Well rested and suitably smug, George woke to find me white as a sheet, huddled in every item of clothing I brought, mumbling discontent. Ah well at least it was breakfast time!! Day two was an absolute triumph- fantastic lakeside views all day, minimal aches and we strode into a fantastic campsite where the tent fairies had already set up our abode ahead of arrival. This was topped off by a warm shower- a very welcome surprise after the previous nights experience where one had to dangle each limb in the shower for a few seconds at a time to survive the glacial waters. Day three; smugness gone. Awoke with ankle feeling like someone had taken a hammer to it. The first part of the morning was a very steep scramble up uneven paths and giant boulders. OWW- enough said.All discontent was forgot when we landed at the Mirador del Torres, breathtakingly beautiful! after a night of storms we arrived to see the highlight of the park and its glistening turquoise waters in perfect sunshine. WOW- just so beautiful, 8 understand why it is considered the highlight of Chile, captured on the notes. If only we didn't have another 25km to conquer before the next campsite...! Moods varied so much that in the morning I would be discussing how much I'd like us to get our own high-end kit, and even suggesting a summer camping jaunt to WALES (a moment of weakness surely), by the afternoon the tone would be more along the lines of 'george this is a one time thing, OK?!?!' Towards the end of the day as legs and back ached, my mothers childhood nickname 'firey harriet' came into its own. Luckily george had enough provisions stowed away that he was able to cure my low blood sugar levels (otherwise known as bad mood spikes) by feeding me snacks to promptly restore my enthusiasm- like a cart horse being fed polos to retain momentum. Now, if you're thinking it was just me, while George strode around the park with glee,. think again. Even Sykes was coining phrases such as 'I think I will cry when we finally get to the campsite' and reformed the lyrics to Queens don't stop me now, 'having a shit time, having a shit time..' which I could here him belting behind me. However, our home for the night was delightful and soon all wrongs were put to right. Perfect evening sunshine, and a sheltered spot for our tent- back to my 'I love camping, let's buy that tent!'. I was unable to walk the following day so George embarked on an adventure round the backside of the mountains en solo (probably relieved to ditch his counterpart, now affectionately referred to as 'the snail'). I had a wonderful morning in the sunshine, reading and bonding with the local staff who I sat with playing his flute he'd created out of a plastic pipe. On Georges return we treated ourselves for a valentines meal of canned tuna and crackers, then playing 'who can keep there feet in the glacial river longer'. I won :) After another OK nights sleep we trudged the 4hours trek back to the bus- and eventually made it back to the luxury of indoors, delicious un-packeted food and most importantly a BED; my old friend. Hindsight is a wonderful thing. Reflecting on our time in Torres del Paine, we both say how incredible it was- insane natural beauty around every corner, and a catalogue of picture postcard photos; not to mention the sense of achievement on completing a challenging 5days hiking- totally out of our comfort zones. However, Probably best we didn't write this blog while we were walking or the language may have trouble into the slightly more vulgar. It was an experience I'll never forget and I truly thoroughly enjoyed, but next year it'll be a spa break for Valentine's Day George! On arriving further south in the large industrial town of Punta Arenas, the weird streets of Puerto Natales started to seem like a fairytale picturesque town. THIS was bleak. Maybe it was the constant rain but this is was not a charming place. On our first day, after listening to the hostel staff whinge about how much they hated the town we decided to brace the elements and check out the top sites which turned out to be a graffitied statue and a shipwreck which we got half way to and then turned back. Luckily we weren’t there for the sites but instead to catch a boat to Isla Magdalena home of 120,000 Magellenic penguins. Patagonia; the most beautiful landscapes we've ever seen, the most uninspiring architecture. But the region keeps growing on me.. I'm sure I'll be back one day.

[nomdy-plume]

Last cruise

So, dear reader, here I am on day 3 of our final 2-week cruise out of Sydney – currently under full sail towards Fiji and our last chances to get horribly drunk and sunburnt on beautiful, white sand beaches before heading back home to the UK in the middle of winter.

What a contract it has been – New Zealand was even more magical than we had been expecting, Australia was majestic (and such a privilege to have seen it before it burns to the ground) and all other sundry places (Tahiti, Samoa, New Caledonia) were as beautiful as could be imagined.

The ship currently appears to be falling apart around our ears, not helped by a week’s worth of VERY rough seas a while back when the crew recreation room was nearly shaken apart in the 25ft swells… a swell is a nautical term for waves going up and down, even on a ship as big as ours (it’s nearly 300 metres long) when you are constantly going up 25ft before letting gravity take it’s natural course, it’s a little hard not to feel it.  Feels like a good time to leave, anyway.

Our time on board wasn’t without its challenges: I tried to book my girlfriend on as a guest for the New Year’s cruise, had been assured that it was a mere formality and looked forward to celebrating both our birthdays together. Her birthday was a major milestone, so we’d asked friends and family to donate towards funding her ‘dream holiday’ to celebrate, only to be told with only a week’s notice that – because of some stupid reason which I’ll not bore you with – the request was denied. We managed to get her flights refunded but it was still pretty sucky.

Musically, well everything has been pretty good, too.  The theme sets we play (Beatles night, ABBA, Country, Rock and Roll – the usual stuff) have all gone down really well – the Aussies LOVE them a bit of ABBA! And I only sing one of those tunes (Does Your Mother Know?) so it’s a pretty easy night for me.

The open deck shows – the big evening parties we throw once a cruise to the whole ship – have been excellent, the New Year’s Eve night was EPIC with around 2500 folk up there dancing along.  The last one we played was notable, too: firstly, it should have been cancelled because the weather was clearly terrible.  But they’d advertised quite heavily as a trademark theme show.  We turned up (which was more than could be said for most of the passengers…) and started it in gale conditions, freezing our asses off.  Not only did every technical problem happen that could have happened but a few also happened which couldn’t have happened.

In soundcheck, our drummer asked to have less of the backing tracks in his ear-mix, he only needed the click track.  He was told that the click and the backing tracks were on the same track, and couldn’t be separated or mixed down. Oh well, he’d just have to suffer them both.

As we started the show, he quickly became animated and started waving frantically at the sound crew. The click track was glitchy, stuttering along in random bursts and not following the backing tracks, confusing the hell out of him – and because he was leading the band, everyone else.  Now, given that they were on the same track, how the hell could THAT happen? One by one, we eventually gave the music up as a bad idea and just let the backing tracks play on their own.

The wind blew over mic stands, half the drum kit and it took three guys clinging on to the gazebo over the sound desk to stop it from flying off over the Tasman sea.  The dancers nearly caught hypothermia in their skimpy outfits, the trombonist saw his sheet music go flying everywhere and – despite wearing three layers of clothing and a woolly hat, my fingers froze up during the last song so I had to stop playing.

DESPITE all of this, the crowd (eventually maybe a couple of hundred people showed up) LOVED it, danced like crazy and gave a tonne of positive feedback on guest comments.  So, normally if it feels like a disaster, looks like a disaster and sounds like a disaster then it can be classified as such. In this instance, because the crowd enjoyed it so much it was actually a runaway success. Go figure! It will remain both a highlight and a lowlight of my career, and is probably the strongest ‘war story’ I’ll take from my time on ships.

What I am looking forward to when I get back home is to play a re-union gig with my old originals act back in my hometown. After 4 months of playing the same 250 cover songs round and round (and round and over and over again…), it will be very nice indeed to blow the dust off the rock tunes that we used to tour around the UK.  The past couple of years we’ve only done one show a year at a micro festival on the south coast, partly as a means to keep in touch and catch up now that life has taken us off in different routes. But they went so well that our old promoter has booked us a night in a decent venue and is marketing it as a ‘one-off reunion’.

We had some great times back in the day: got ‘discovered’ by the tour manager for the Black Eyed Peas, played a bunch of festivals and recorded with some legends of the industry. In a lot of rock stars’ autobiographies they talk about the best times being when they were rattling around in the back of a transit van playing shows before they got ‘big’.  Well, the stadium gigs and personal jumbo jets never happened for us (thankfully, as it turns out) but we had all that good stuff in our ex-Royal Mail transit van and I wouldn’t swap those memories for all the world.

Still feels a bit weird seeing the adverts for the ‘re-union’ show though – but as an excuse to catch up for a rehearsal, a show and a few beers in and around that with the other lads, it’s going to be great!

So, here’s hoping for a nice, uneventful, hot and sunny last 12 days on the floating containment unit before I have to go through the ordeal of a 25hr flight itinerary back to the UK lugging 50kilos of my stuff with me. And onto the next adventure!

Cheers!

[bornfromscarletcords]

WOLF TROPE-FENRIX COMICS OR LIGHTING STARS

Cole Wyvern was reading a wolf trope comic. As a werewolf himself he often had a fascination with the subject matter. In short the artists involved expanded on a cosmic theory using, primarily, the concept of a wolf as the translational tool. It was awfully well done Cole had to say and despite the risk the artists had taken he felt well rewarded whenever he read one. Cole had dark shaggy hair down to his shoulders, skin like cocoa and the general mindset of a very precocious child. He was about 70 years old though he didn’t look a day over 25, mostly because the magic of werewolf kind couldn’t help but regenerate it’s hosts to peak physical condition. This meant that along with hair Cole had muscles in spades. He dressed like a hippie mostly because he felt a little out of place in the world and because he was often too preocupied to really put much effort into his personal appearance. He was beautiful but in such a way that he often wondered what beauty was. For example, was he good looking or just symmetrically pleasing. Was his face well structured or just almost magnetically attractive. He couldn’t say because although he could occasionally be selfish he wasn’t one to dwell on vanities. He could hold his own in a fight, was pretty dominant so most troublesome entities kept their distance, and he had been a diligent student of the anomaly called fear. He felt it’s depht and turned that understanding into an almost invincible armor.

Cole had a girlfriend, a raven woman by the name of Gale. He was suspicious that her name was a fake or at least not entirely revealed but then again he was satisfied with her humility and intelligence. It also didn’t hurt that they conjoined their naked bodies on a daily, if not, hourly basis. She had dark hair down to her waste, a pretty yet modest face, and skin like olives, almost auburn in complexion. Her heritage came from the east and perhaps she had some kin in the gypsy’s of much folklore. She could don the form of a great dark winged creature, that could look as harmless as a little black bird or as ferocious as an eagle letting death fall upon its prey. Cole liked her inner fire, though he was worried that there were too many morally questionable predispositions within her. She was not weak, but she despised the useless and clumsy expecting perfection as if she were some primal chieftess. She enjoyed beautiful things, perhaps she saw herself in them, Cole certainly did. She was not a witch, or so she claimed and perhaps the darkness within her was less evil and more like the shadow rainbow of her feathers, one of a kind. She often wore makeup and dressed herself in leathers or fringe or an adolescents supply of punk rock paraphernalia. Sometimes Cole sniffed her clothes when she was out, and if the change ever struck him by surprise, agony became bearable with her scent by his side or in his mind.

Hector Ramirez, one of the artists responsible for Fenrix-Comics was also a werewolf. He happened to be decent friends with Cole and often bounced ideas off of the younger wolf. Hector was about 180 years old. Hector had gone enough years as a moon bound wolf to know that there were few glories to being a werewolf. Constant suffering mixed with beasts berserk blood lust didn’t exactly warrant much appeal. Still there were a few advantages and it made the experience something he could smile about every once in a while. Cole’s wolf form was a deep brown color like autumn earth, whereas Hector was a timber wolf’s grey. Hector was larger in wolf form than Cole but any experienced fighter knows not to underestimate a combatant’s shorter stature. Hector was witty and charming, and deadly with about 300 common household items, so much so that Cole could rarely look at a stapler without getting the shivers. Hector had caramel skin and short military cut hair. Of the two Cole was more dominant but Hector was the more experienced fighter. Cole took his comic to Hector’s house to compare notes on the stories’ structures and to possibly get a sneak peak at the next edition.

Kevin Smith all but smelled like danger. He was one of the older wolves, about 600 years which often made him prone to short dips into madness as his memories continuously loss track with the present they could not rationalize. Still he was a fighter and he wouldn’t give in to old man death’s taunts without giving a few of his own. He had ebony skin and wavy hair he often kept tied in a ponytail. He looked like the picture of an islamic profit with the swagger of a learned knight. He enjoyed painting, but generally anything that allowed the use of his hands was fair game in his artist’s mind. He’d been a carpenter once upon a century or two. His wolf form was brown like a grizzly with black stripes. He was only about five foot four but his beast was easily the size of a pony. Kevin considered himself something of a direwolf which was one of the translations werewolf kind used for their cursed state. In fact after seeing Kevin’s beast Cole decided that his Gale must of been a Dire-Raven for all her majestic primal grace. Kevin was one of the main people responsible for the creation of Wolf Trope. Still he didn’t like to be bothered and was unstable enough to warrant very carefully assembled meetings. Today he was going to visit Juliet. Juliet was about a thousand years old, she had bleach blonde hair down her back tied back not unlike Kevin’s. Juliet’s wolf was about 300 pounds, almost bigger than Kevin’s. It was white as a star’s supernova and her eyes were as bright blue as the dawn’s sky. She had witches’ blood in her veins but she didn’t consider herself a practitioner, no in fact it seemed she hated that part of her heritage like some stain on her DNA which would never be removed. Still she was powerful. She possessed an almost effortless connection to the magic of werewolves and could weave it’s subtleties into miracles. She was barely five foot two, just managing to be shorter than Kevin’s five foot four. She was something of an engineer often creating gadgets and traps or constructing model houses in her backyard. She was pale as a ghost, with hot curves like a centerfold. The two weren’t quite mated but she and Kevin shared an unspoken connection. Perhaps it had something to do with her teaching him a number of skills in the art of war and death. She’d been something of a general in her time leading bands of holy crusaders. In fact a statue or two of her or someone wearing her likeness might still be around to this day. Kevin was going to her partly to complain about the packs demands on him, and partly to see if they could get cozy together by her fireplace. Juliet always kept it lit when Kevin was nearby.

The Delta pack circled the bonfire. It wasn’t from a campsite they would have surely haunted but set by one of their own who had a way of breathing fire into the physical world. HIs name was Nick but they didn’t always remember their mortal names. The bonds of their community transmitted information in silent colored bursts or streams of powerful sensations. Their leader was Niara a female werewolf with curly blonde hair down to her waist. She was one of their greatest fighters but that’s not why she was head Delta, she was smart and driven and kind. Kindness took strength which she had in spades, at least for her own. They were not of the mortal world, for one reason or another. They wandered the border between life and death as wraithlike frights. Sometimes they looked human, sometimes they looked like they were only pretending to be human, sometimes they looked like wolves, sometimes looked like both man and beast. Niara let her hands dance above the bonfire. Eric was nearby with his pale freckled skin and the beginnings of a red the beard stuck to his face. He was third in the pack. Nick was hanging from a tree branch, and swayed in the breeze. He had dark skin and short wooly hair, he was fourth in the pack. Second was Chris, or Christopher. He had almost bleach blonde hair down to his shoulders and seemed to bear similar features with Nick as if they could have been brothers in another life. The Delta wolves traveled with a strange fog, an element loaded with magic and sustenance for the ghosts they had become. The oldest among them couldn’t have been far past 17 when the curse took them. They were the shadows of what was left after a werewolf was changed too early or ended before his or her time. In life Niara had been witch blooded, Nick had been fathered by some fiery fae he’d never met, Chris had been born a werewolf which was as rare a phenomenon as it was dangerous to all involved. Eric had a great wizard to claim as his ancestor and he was always good at bending the dead magic of the physical world. The Delta Wolves loved to dance sing and wander from town to town. Sometimes they acted like vigilantes, burning evil from existence, other times they looked more like villains than heroes and other times still they simply scared and haunted and helped for the fun of it. To pass the time their ghostly figures flipped through pages of Fenrix Comics which had been forgotten or misplaced by their owners. They were all dangerous but if they liked art they couldn’t of been all bad.

Derrick Nightingale woke up sweating and panting. His skin was fevered as if the change was about to overtake him. He resisted even as his feet began to crack and reshape into paws. After about ten minutes he felt safe enough to get up and pace around his apartment. Derrick had been the most dominant wolf in the western hemisphere for a long time. He was about 3000 years old and had gathered many alias and resources within his time. He was ancient but he’d always told his pack that age didn’t make a great wolf, nor did it make them any more invincible than those newly turned. Still those who survive tend to have a very versatile skill set. Derrick knew more about looping, wielding , curing, and folding the magic of werewolves than most people knew about the back of their hands. He was patient, deadly, and suffered from occasional bouts of madness. He had been the alpha of alpha’s, lord of lords, the dread father of werewolf kind. Now he was just a nobody. He considered faking his own death but one of his son’s probably would have just solved that mystery within the week. Sometimes he hated how well he had raised them, they were close to beating him at his own games. Most werewolf eyes are bright gold/amber or an equally luminescent blue/fiery white. Derrick’s wolf had eyes of silver and devastation. There were few who could meet his gaze, and those that could rarely did so for long. He had left the pack in the care of one of his trusted friends and set out south to where things were calmer and where the wolf packs would leave an old man to rest in peace. Derrick was the deathly wolf of his kind’s nightmares, a great almost immortal creature. His hair was shorter these days, his posture a little more slouched, and his wolf barely contained itself as it puzzled over his forsaking of what it took to be his calling. You could say the beast wasn’t exactly happy with the change in command and was vaguely worried that these were the first steps in Derrick’s plan to actually end himself. It’s thrashing, baying and almost monstrous words kept Derrick vigilant though pained. It was just another sacrifice he made for the greater good. His wolf was around 300 pounds even though Derrick could only have been five feet and five inches. It was almost deep dark blue in color with silver fur along his legs and feet, like socks. Derrick’s magic had gotten out of control which was partly why he left his pack. If he was going to be felled by his own powers he didn’t want to drag them with him. Being something of a grim reaper Derrick had a particular affinity for death magic. He couldn’t exactly place why, it just had always been one of his specialities even in his life before he’d been turned on that dark continent humans had taken to calling africa. This meant that ghosts payed him visits, that the world around him could turn inside out at any minute if some strange spectre or ghoul wished to challenge he and his. Or perhaps it was crueler still when he was taunted by the shades of his deceased loved ones; wives, mates, children. Derrick had many people and things to mourn. He had always protected he and his but recently he wondered so many things, like had their been a better way. All werewolves were dangerous, even the most passive, they required firmness, order, discipline. But even as the flower blooms it must faced the reality of its inevitable withering. Perhaps he could have been less cruel, less demanding, less arrogant in his early days as he selfishly tried to horde the bounty’s of the world for his wolves and his wolves alone. So many things he wondered. He decided to read a Wolf Trope comic, they weren’t half bad.

The wolfhounds wandered through a fantasy’s forest full of bright colors, ripe fruit and tasty looking fauna. Trevor had just finished chasing around a rabbit when he noticed his alpha chiding one of the younger beasts about touching the fruit. Nothing was what it seemed in this place, as sweet as it was it seemed like bait, a trap. They had decided to stubbornly stick to a diet of more meaty meals. It was an intimidation tactic even with all its harmony. Eating the other creatures established them as beast to be feared and respected as a part of the terrain’s ecosystem. Still, no matter how many deer they slayed or bunny’s the filleted Trevor could shake the feeling that there were far more terrifying creatures hiding in wait along every corner. Not every region of the strange terrain was this “sugar coated” the place where they had landed was about as dark and desolate as a garden tainted by blight. The wolfhounds were large in their wolf skins, each one at least four hundred pounds. Trevor measured somewhere in the five hundreds. They were like magical tanks. They had been spawned by the union of a pack of werewolves and their fae dog lovers. Despite the knowledge that fae dog females were more likely to be able to carry a werewolf’s child to fruition, as the process was extraordinarily difficult/nigh impossible for werewolf females, no one expected the wolfhounds to turn out quite like they did. The fae dogs had a way with storm magic, rain, wind and occasionally lightning. They smelled of these elements. The wolfhounds could also claim these great powers, most of them at least. Lightning was the rarest of skills and the fae dogs only really saw a resurgence in its existence when they bonded to the werewolves. Something about the existence of the wolfhounds had unlocked a barrier within their magic, reviving forgotten talents. Trevor couldn’t claim the lightning like his alpha and his lover Lumia, though to him the rains and winds were always ready to rush to assistance.

The wolf hounds were dangerous, even more so than the traditional wolves, something about that concentration of energies within them made them prone to madness and mad wolves couldn’t be allowed to live for long. Around 17 years of age most of them had to be slain. Still their were some success, Trevor was almost four hundred years old. His wolf had brown and red fur swirling about his body. He was a berserker, and an experienced one. Few things could stand against a charging wolfhounds rampage. He could fight till the last breath. Their more human forms were mostly an illusion but their fae heritage allowed them to join illusion to reality with disturbing efficiency, Trevor had a fondness for shrinking down to about five foot one inch. The irony amused him. Trevor had witness and participated in his packs most glorious moments. They had once brought storm in the form of a tornado to one of their enemies holds, destroying them all. Yes there were few things that could compare to their packs versatility and raw destructive capability.

Trevor remembered falling, and something bursting, brightly and just before he’d been consumed in divine sun rays he’d dropped hard against solid ground again. Their pack was scattered and something was preventing them from rejoining like when two magnets create a repulsion field. Trevor couldn’t remember just how many of their members there had been, it could have been forty, it could have been four hundred. Something about the land warped logics, bending the laws of nature far past its breaking point. His alpha insisted they were in faery, which was bitter sweet. On the one hand they were in the homeland of their fae ancestors but on the other hand faery was said to be something like death’s playground. In a sort of childish sense, it couldn’t tell the differences between breaking someone and palling around with them. Well if it wasn’t one thing it was another, Trevor figured, so he and his company continued to march on. Trevor wondered if they were in some pervers book or something, he hoped it had a cool name like the House of Fenrir or something, or the Forms of Death or something.     

Andrew Stevenson had only been a werewolf for about twelve years. He was fortunate in that many werewolves tended not to survive their first seven years after the change. Still he was a complicated person with his own special brand of individual dilemmas. Andrew was as dark as the night sky with hair that may have been a tad darker. It was shaggy short and curly. Andrew was considering becoming a police officer as his job at the local bookstore was not as stable as he’d like. Still he was prone to worrying over what some might label as unnecessary concerns. HIs wolf was a dark burgundy color which was pretty rare. Andrew may not have been the best martial artists but he was a fighter and his strength made him exceptionally deadly. Something he proved when a host of fae tried to take his mate from him. He had met her outside of the bookstore, where he stopped to rummage through the current instalment of Wolf Trope comics. She had been beautiful with a charming look of lostness traversing her features. Andrew considered moving on as he was in a rush to discuss the comics with two of his friends, Kevin and Derrick. She asked him how old he was

“34” Andrew said, and she laughed making her freckles dance to the rythmn of her swaying red mane

“I’m four-hundred.” She said and it was at that time Andrew finally realized what the woman had hidden from him even from a distance of two feet. She was a werewolf too. This was something that might have happened to any werewolf, but one of the things which made this bond to be special was Andrew’s awakening ability to empathetically see the truth in his mate whatever her condition. Andrew didn’t always enjoy using fear in communication but like a knight’s squire he had taken many of Kevin, and Derricks advice to heart when it came to interacting with fellow wolves. Even if they were guised as beautiful, sultry young women.

“Good for you” Andrew said, his wolf in his eyes and scoping for danger. The woman seemed unphased by his withdrawn nature. Andrew’s beast created an aura of terror around him, it wasn’t as efficient or foreboding as Kevin or Derrick’s own but it would have sent many woodland creatures scurrying for cover. The woman just laughed and hugged him unphased.

“How did you…” “You can tell I’m special right.” She said rubbing herself against him more like a puppy drying from the rain.

“Yes, there’s fae magic bound to you, like a tattoo or scar.”

“She said only my truest friend would be able to experience all that I am, to embrace our destinies which are entwined.” She said. She melted Andrew’s resistance as he conceded to petting her softly. So that was the sorta kinda first meeting between Andrew and his mate to be. In this case To be meant a couple hours later. She had all but summoned him to bed with her using a number of beast like magics kindling a fire within him that would not soon leave. Her name was Rosalin, she had spent three hundred years traveling the expanse of Faery where she was branded with magic from many powerful creatures. They were like her badges of honor and it made her bond to the scarlet knight, her adored companion that much stronger. Apparently it was the Scarlet knight who showed her how to get around Faery’s convoluted containment patterns, assuring her escape. She had charged her to find her dearest friend as only that person would be able to reunite them in passion and happiness. Her stories gave Andrew a bit of a headache. He’d only been a werewolf for a short while and was still only getting used to it, now he had some fae scarred mate working almost nonstop on a series of planned miracles he barely half understood. Still she was beautiful and kind and strong. What she lacked in conventional intelligence she more than made up for in personal depth and creativity. She was like a sorceress or an archmage. Still, magic, even werewolf magic stressed Andrew out. He knew how to appreciate it though for him that often meant keeping his distance. Unfortunately he had to learn the awkward way that Destiny is not always convenient. He showed her his comics one day, she loved them. “There’s you and me” she said pointing to two background characters chatting up at a cafe.

“Well I’ll be damned” Andrew said, the resemblance was uncanny.

Xeraph watched the wolves with eager ambivalence. They were cute together that unlikely pair, the female Rosalin was explosive and light hearted, an odd vessel for the magics entwined to her body. Xeraph wondered what would happen if she had her love her best friend taken away from her. There would probably be an explosion. Her mate was attractive enough, though when he wasn’t using the tactics he’d obviously learned from Derrick he seemed naive or callow. Xeraph didn’t much care for infants and between Rosalin’s personality and Derricks literal youth they both seemed like babes at the hip to her. Watching them produced a similar effect that some of the animal tv shows did whenever they played an episode of raising orphaned cubs.

Xeraph had only recently awoken. She was a vampire who many thought slain or dispersed beyond sentience. Despite his somewhat hurtful efforts Xeraph had survived his victories, his vigilance, his sacrifices. He despised her, and for good reason. She was evil, she was coercive, and her opinions on weakness tended to leave most people cringing. Still everyone needed something to fear at least once and Xeraph was like the words demon teacher of the subject. She was an alchemist, like her descendant Derrick. He didn’t like that one bit, sharing a calling with his “depraved” familial relation. Xeraph was ancient. If derrick was three thousand, she was probably five or four thousand years old. Much of that time was spent in isolation, slumbering the pains of immortality away, but when she woke up she always knew how to get sparks flying, in a manner of speaking. She was a super creature, apex; the vampire of vampires. Amongst her own kind she had many aliases but one moniker that seemed to survive in most groups was the title of “Archfiend”. She was darker than night itself.

Xeraph watched the grey wolf Rosalin tease her Burgundy furred mate but eventually disinterest weaved it’s way in and she turned away from her spell of observation. She was back in her room alone except some mice she’d consume and her potions and elixirs. She’d been out for at least five centuries this time. Still walking the world was like riding a bicycle to this Archfiend. Xeraph was curvy with ochre colored skin, onyx like braids which curtained her face and breasts, she was about five foot five in height as things were. It used to be relatively tall back when man was still more ape-ish. She’d been queen, a pharaoh, a mistress, a knight, a bard, a dark crusader, once she even managed to feign goodness as a nun, that was a fun decade. Yes in body and in mind she was beautiful but her soul was tainted by evil’s corruption.  Her room was dark, which was how she liked it, her night vision making obscurity touch wither away from her almost luminescent scarlet gaze. She assembled her artifacts, her masks. They were molded with a symbol of their targets essence. Their had been much death required for the creation of each craft. Alchemy allowed Xeraph to touch many pools of the arcane mysteries surrounding the earth. Still she was a vampire however, and vampire’s hunger. So great was her hunger that she all but warped the fabric of reality itself when she was present. The masks allowed her to see the world from a different perspective, to feed on the magic within them and from their become more and more like what she could imitate. She had a wolf mask, which she enjoyed using during her confrontations with Derrick. There were other reasons why she enjoyed it of course, wolves always tasted so bittersweet, making their unique flavoring so pleasantly nostalgic. She had created a hybrid before, her child Leon had been reforged from his wolfish state into a bridge between it and the world of vampires, the world of night and blood. He had always made her proud, honored even. He still thought her dead most likely, well she didn’t want him to suffer any unnecessary harm so she’d let that ruse be his truth for a couple of years yet. At least until she was more securely on her feet at least. The world had changed so much, and she was eager to drink it all in. She moved on to another mask, it was of a fae, a mountain lord who was touched with volcanic mana. It was time to get things done, she thought to herself. Her first target was a vampire going to bookstore. Apparently she was all but compelled to seek out a certain series, it was titled Fen something, Xeraph tried not to sweat the details            

Airi Suzuki was a special agent for the FBI. This meant drawing connections and following people around wasn’t all that impossible for her, though it did make things awkward when the duties of the “other” world interfered with the logic and foundation of the “real” world. For example, at the moment she was tailing some vampiric creature which seemed to have a fondness for snakes. Airi suspected that if she could capture the youthful looking girl she’d be able to trace her orders back to the true power. Someone had been killing humans and supernaturals alike, from the patterns it looked like they did it for sport; fun. Still Airi’s penchant for justice didn’t let her forget that the killer was also trying to send a message. Something like “Here I am, arisien to bring honor to you all, bow and bask in my greatness”. She was a little to flamboyant with her killing for a person who had yet to reveal themselves.

Airi was a kitsune, a japanese fox spirit and as far as things went, out of the nine tails she was supposed train for, worship, and sacrifice for, she had five to her name. She kept them sealed mostly, in stories. Oh isn’t that weird a tale about tails, how cute. She could take the form of a fox at will, though that was the least of what she could accomplish. The world puzzled over kitsune and so their magic was often a little chaotic. It wasn’t unreliable exactly just prone to a humorous demeanor. Supposedly all their deeds, quests, journeys and talents originated in Oinari herself. Airi had often been very rambunctious as a child, some might even say boisterous. Fox spirits weren’t exactly known for their restraint from the stories she had read.

Her current dilemma was how to navigate the odd line between capturing her suspect but only so that she could question her and getting fired for hiding and letting a possible suspect escape. Luckily the “magic” department of the FBI didn’t always pay as close attention to Airi’s hunches which were mostly on the money. Perhaps it was because she was a women, perhaps it was just bravado from the more senior members, and perhaps they were just a little too stupid. Airi didn’t care, she just knew that there was a monster in sore need of slaying.

Special agent Suzuki was fit and slender. Her skin had a golden hue to it like some angel kept dancing around her. Her hair was dark, wavy and short though sometimes it would change characteristics depending on her mood. For example now it looked a little violet and curly as she all but fumed over this dilemma. She vaulted over rooftops, hopped along star wells and cartwheeled through alleys seemingly invisible to her quarry, and well everyone else. To think that morning all she wanted to do was read the new Wolf Trope comic, it was supposed to be a good one, apparently the pack was going to go toe to toe with a ninetailed fox. She felt so represented.   

Kevin was squeezing the neck of the rogue wolf when Derrick showed up. At first Kevin thought him the culprit of this insurrection but after a second of letting his beast taste the world, he knew Derrick to be innocent enough. They had been waiting around his house, but Kevin hadn’t returned there, he ghosted around the sides taking out two of them swiftly. He was mildly ashamed at how fulfilling it felt to kill another wolf; werewolves were not easy prey and their death was a glory fit for champions. The second wolf alerted the others just before Kevin snapped his neck and so the rest of the false pack came after him. The pack was false not simply because these wolves were rogues and newly turned, it was false because they were not connected, their bonds were held together by circumstances alone. Whoever “they” was they should’ve known better than to send ignorant babies to kill him. Death was Kevin’s first language. He tore his clothes as he pushed the change for speed and heat, the snow on the ground all but melted as he turned into a creature that was between man and beast. It was like a lion or a bear and it was almost perfectly designed to maim and kill. Kevin savaged the three remaining wolves in a death roll of blood, snarling, fangs and claws. One of the rogues had his throat opened up but he was too much a fool to know how to heal it, he bled out quickly, another was disemboweled in front of an oak tree. Kevin had thought he killed the third one after gouging a hole through his chest but this was not the case. The rogue wolf held onto life with what little he understood about healing as a werewolf. Kevin thought it interesting that he was one of the two wolves who decided to come in their human skins. Kevin had already shifted back by this point and he was not eager to waste energy and pain doing it again, so he crushed what remained of the rogue wolf’s life and snapped his neck at the throat.

Derrick was lounging on his fence looking deadly and a little bored, yet Kevin could still smell his beasts interest in the blood and fresh meat lying along his yard. Kevin was glad Derrick hadn’t been the culprit, he would have had a hard time trying to kill that one and probably would’ve ended up dead himself. Eventually Cole and Andrew appeared beside him.

“Did we miss the party” Cole said. Kevin growled. He appreciated the wolf’s humor but he was still more beast then person even after his change.

“Don’t worry bud, Andrew told us that Rosalin sensed you were in danger, we are hear to help.” Derrick said sounding like a camp counselor.

“There’s another problem as well.” Andrew said this time.

“Rosalin thinks someone opened up a portal in to faery. We need to work on that fast, there are some dangerous things hidden their and faery has a habit of getting attached to its potential victims. We need to close it cause I don’t see the fae moving to do anything useful.” Andrew said.

“Well aren’t we all just good samaritans.” Kevin said still half growling. “Help me burn and scatter these bodies and I’ll take a look at your portal. You’re all lucky this will make my art that much more beautiful, nothing like killing or an adventure through wonderland to give one artistic inspiration.” Kevin said breathing hard as his beast tried to rampage once again. Perhaps he should have killed those wolves with more caution, the bloodlust was on him and his wolf wanted to savage a whole town. Perhaps he needed a vacation.  

[jamesgraybooksellerworld]

Early Boston books are as rare as any books I sell, Most of these books are not represented fifty miles from the Atlantic seaboard, these examples offered here are in original condition, original Bindings, and with all faults never restored. The books have lead a life as hard as the early colonials.

I would like to sell them as a group, if you are interested please contact me .

  292G   John    Cotton            1693-1757       Two sermons preach’d at Dorchester, on the Lord’s-Day, April, 9, 1727. By John Cotton, M.A. Pastor of the Church of Christ in Newtown. Published at the repeated desire of many that heard them. With a preface by the Rev. Mr. Danforth, Pastor of the Church in Dorchester

Boston:Printed by B. Green, Jun. for S. Gerrish, at the lower end of Cornhill,1727  $2,200

Duodecimo 5 1/4 X 3 inches.  A4 (of 6) B-F  G  [  Bookseller’s advertisements, p. [65-68].                             This copy is bound in its original full sheep binding over scabbord

  W28431 Author – personal “>Cotton, John, 1693-1757. Title Two sermons preach’d at Dorchester, on the Lord’s-Day, April, 9, 1727. By John Cotton, M.A. Pastor of the Church of Christ in Newtown. Published at the repeated desire of many that heard them. With a preface by the Rev. Mr. Danforth, Pastor of the Church in Dorchester. Publisher/year Boston : Printed by B. Green, Jun. for S. Gerrish, at the lower end of Cornhill, 1727. Physical descr. [2],vi,4,63,[5]p. ;  12⁰. General note Errata note, p. [64]. Bookseller’s advertisements, p. [65-68]. Uncontrolled note Signatures: A-F⁶ G⁴ Citation/references Evans, 2862 Sabin, 17098 Surrogates Microfiche. Woodbridge, Conn. Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of Gale Group 2003. 1 microfiche. (Selected Americana from Sabin’s Dictionary of books relating to America ; fiche 42,498). s2003 ctu b Person as subject Jesus Christ — Divinity — Early works to 1800. Subject Sermons, English — 18th century. Sermons — 1727. . Added name Danforth, John, 1660-1730. Copies – N.America American Antiquarian Society

291G   Thomas          Doolittle        1632-1707       A treatise concerning the Lords Supper: with three dialogues for the more full information of the weak, in the nature and use of this sacrament. By Tho. Doolitte

Boston: Reprinted by B. Green, for Benj. Eliot, at his shop under the west end of the town-house,1708     $3,300

Duodecimo    (A1 lacking and blank) A2-G12, H11 lacking H12 final leaf of “An Advertisement”        Second Boston edition                   This copy is bound in its original full sheep binding over scabbord            Thomas Doolittle (1632–1707), nonconformist tutor, third son of Anthony Doolittle, a glover, was born at Kidderminster in 1632 or the latter half of 1631. While at the grammar school of his native town he heard Richard Baxter preach as lecturer (appointed April 5, 1641) the sermons afterwards published as “The Saint’s Everlasting Rest” (1653). These discourses produced his conversion. Placed with a country attorney he scrupled at copying writings on Sunday, and went home determined not to follow the law. Baxter encouraged him to enter the ministry. He was admitted as a sizar at Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, on June 7, 1649, being then “17 annos natus.” He could not, therefore, have been born in 1630, as stated in his “memoirs.” The source of the error is that another Thomas, son of William and Jane Doolittle, was baptised at Kidderminster on Oct. 20, 1630. His tutor was William Moses, afterwards ejected from the mastership of Pembroke. Doolittle graduated with an M.A. at Cambridge. Leaving the university for London he became popular as a preacher, and in preference to other candidates was chosen (1653) as their pastor by the parishioners of St. Alphage, London Wall. The living is described as sequestered in Rastrick’s list as quoted by Palmer, but James Halsey, D.D., the deprived rector, had been dead twelve or thirteen years. Doolittle received Presbyterian ordination. During the nine years of his incumbency he fully sustained his popularity. On the passing of the Uniformity Act (1662) he “upon the whole thought it his duty to be a nonconformist.” He was poor; the day after his farewell sermon a parishioner made him a welcome present of 20l. A residence had been built for Doolittle, but it appears to have been private property; it neither went to his successor, Matthew Fowler, D.D., nor did Doolittle continue to enjoy it. He removed to Moorfields and opened a boarding-school, which succeeded so well that he took a larger house in Bunhill Fields, where he was assisted by Thomas Vincent, ejected from St. Mary Magdalene, Milk Street. In the plague year (1665) Doolittle and his pupils removed to Woodford Bridge, near Chigwell, close to Epping Forest, Vincent remaining behind. Returning to London in 1666, Doolittle was one of the nonconformist ministers who, in defiance of the law, erected preaching-places when churches were lying in ruins after the great fire. His first meeting-house (probably a wooden structure) was in Bunhill Fields, and here he was undisturbed. But when he transferred his congregation to a large and substantial building (the first of the kind in London, if not in England) which he had erected in Mugwell (now Monkwell) Street, the authorities set the law in motion against him. The lord mayor amicably endeavored to persuade him to desist from preaching; he declined. On the following Saturday about midnight his door was broken open by a force sent to arrest him. He escaped over a wall, and intended to preach next day. From this he was dissuaded by his friends, one of whom (Thomas Sare, ejected from Rudford, Gloucestershire) took his place in the pulpit. The sermon was interrupted by the appearance of a body of troops. As the preacher stood his ground “the officer bad his men fire.” “Shoot, if you please,” was the reply. There was considerable uproar, but no arrests were made. The meeting-house, however, was taken possession of in the name of the king, and for some time was utilized as a lord mayor’s chapel. On the indulgence of March 15, 1672 Doolittle took out a license for his meeting-house. The original document, dated April 2, hangs in Dr. Williams’s library. The meeting-house is described as “a certaine roome adjoining to ye dwelling-house of Thomas Doelitle in Mugwell Street.” Doolittle owned the premises, but he now resided in Islington, where his school had developed into an academy for “university learning.” When Charles II (March 8, 1673) broke the seal of his declaration of indulgence, thus invalidating the licenses granted under it, Doolittle conducted his academy with great caution at Wimbledon. His biographers represent this removal as a consequence of the passing (it may have been an instance of the enforcing) of the Five Miles Act (1665). At Wimbledon he had a narrow escape from arrest. He returned to Islington before 1680, but in 1683 was again dislodged. He removed to Battersea (where his goods were seized), and thence to Clapham. These migrations destroyed his academy, but not before he had contributed to the education of some men of mark. Matthew Henry, Samuel Bury, Thomas Emlyn, and Edmund Calamy, D.D., were among his pupils. Two of his students, John Kerr, M.D., and Thomas Rowe, achieved distinction as nonconformist tutors. The academy was at an end in 1687, when Doolittle lived at St. John’s Court, Clerkenwell, and had Calamy a second time under his care for some months as a boarder. Until the death of his wife he still continued to receive students for the ministry, but apparently not more than one at a time. His last pupil was Nathaniel Humphreys. The Toleration Act of 1689 left Doolittle free to resume his services at Mugwell Street, preaching twice every Sunday and lecturing on Wednesdays. Vincent, his assistant, had died in 1678; later he had as assistants his pupil, John Mottershead (removed to Ratcliff Cross), his son, Samuel Doolittle (removed to Reading), and Daniel Wilcox, who succeeded him. Emlyn’s son and biographer says of Doolittle that he was “a very worthy and diligent divine, yet was not eminent for compass of knowledge or depth of thought.” This estimate is borne out by his “Body of Divinity,” a painstaking and prolix expansion of the assembly’s shorter catechism, more remarkable for its conscientiousness and unction than for its intellectual grasp. His private covenant of personal religion (Nov. 18, 1693) occupies six closely printed folio pages. He had long suffered from stone and other infirmities, but his last illness was very brief. He preached and catechized with great vigor on Sunday, May 18, took to his bed in the latter part of the week, lay for two days unconscious, and died on May 24, 1707. He was the last survivor of the London ejected clergy.                        Evans 1349; Holmes Increase Mather #2 (“An advertisement, directed to the communcants in the churches of New-England.”–p. [177-180], signed: Increase Mather. Boston, N.E. May, 10th, 1708.)

Author – personal Doolittle, Thomas, 1632?-1707. Title A treatise concerning the Lord’s Supper: with three dialogues for the more full information of the weak, in the nature and use of this sacrament. By Thomas Doolittel, M.A. Edition The six and twentieth edition. [One line from I Corinthians]. Publisher/year Boston : Printed by T. Fleet, for the booksellers, and sold at their shops, 1727. Physical descr. [8],208p. ;  12⁰. General note Running title: Of the Lord’s Supper. Uncontrolled note Signatures: A-S⁶ Citation/references Evans, 2865 Subject Lord’s Supper. >Dialogues. Added name “Fleet, Thomas, 1685-1758, printer. Copies – N.America American Antiquarian Society Boston Public, Main College of the Holy Cross General Theological Seminary, Saint Mark’s Library Harvard University Andover-Harvard Theological Harvard University, Houghton Library Historical Society of Pennsylvania John Carter Brown Library, Brown University Massachusetts Historical Society Trinity College Union Theological Seminary United States, Library of Congress

  835F    Robert            Russell          fl 1692            Seven Sermons: Viz. I. Of the Unpardonable Sin against the Holy Ghost: or, the Sin Unto Death. II. The Saint’s Duty and Exercise: in Two Parts. Being an Exhortation to, and Directions for Prayer. III. The Accepted Time and Day of Salvation. IV. The End of Time, and Beginning of Eternity. V. Joshua’s Resolution to Serve the Lord. VI. The Way to Heaven Made Plain. VII. The Future State of Man: or, a Treatise of the Resurrection. By Robert Russel, at Wadhurst, in Sussex

London: printed by W[illiam]. O[nley]. for J. Blare, at the Looking-glass on London-bridge, 1718.  $ 2,600

I recorded copy !!!

Duodecimo   6 X 3.25 inches          A-H12.                         Even the binding structure of this book seems American, it is bound in sheep over scabord and sewn on  two leather sewing supports Of Russell, I could find very little, yet he was immensely popular, especially in the colonies being reprinted in Boston in 1701, 1727 & 1728. There is no doubt that Russell’s style of sermonizing upon sin met with the Mather’s approval. All early editions are quite rare.

Author – personal

      Russel, Robert, active 1692. Title

Seven sermons: viz. I. Of the unpardonable sin against the Holy Ghost; or, The sin unto death. II. The saint’s duty and exercise: in two parts: being an exhortation to, & direction for prayer. III. The accepted time and day of salvation. IV. The end of time, and beginning of eternity. V. Joshua’s resolution to serve the Lord. VI. The way to heaven made plain. VII. The future state of man: or, A treatise of the resurrection. By Robert Russel, at Wadhurst, in Sussex. Edition The eleventh edition. Publisher/year

   Boston : Reprinted by John Allen, for John Eliot, at his shop in Orange-Street, 1718. Physical descr.    178,[2]p. ;  12⁰. Uncontrolled note           Signatures: A-P⁶ (P6 blank) Shipton & Mooney, 39691 Surrogates Digital image available in the Readex/Newsbank Digital Evans series. Available via the World Wide Web. Access limited by licensing agreements. Genre/form

Sermons — Collections. Added name

Allen, John, 1660?-1727?, printer.

Eliot, John, 1692-1771, bookseller. Copies –            N.America

American Antiquarian Society 

       Childrens Book ! 

449G   Thomas  Vincent  (1634-1678,)   &   Charles Leslie, 1650-1722.

An explicatory catechism: or, An explanation of the Assemblies Shorter catechism. : Wherein all the answers in the Assemblies catechism are taken abroad in under-questions and answers, the truths explain’d, and proved by reason and Scripture ; several cases of conscience resolv’d, some chief controversies in religion stated, with arguments against divers errors. Useful to be read in private families, after examination in the catechism it self, for the more clear and thorough understanding of what is therein learn’d.

Boston in New-England : Printed for D. Henchman, over against the Brick-Meeting-House in Cornhill, John Phillips, at the Stationers-Arms, and T. Hancock, at the Bible and Three Crowns near the town-dock., 1729.       $,1500

Octavo  5 1/2 X 3 inches. A-V  X  (X3 verso, X4 blank)   Even the binding structure of this book seems American, it is bound in sheep over scabord and sewn on  two leather sewing supports      VINCENT, THOMAS (1634–1678), nonconformist divine, second son of John Vincent and elder brother of Nathaniel Vincent [q. v.], was born at Hertford in May 1634. After passing through Westminster school, and the grammar school at Felsted, Essex, he entered as a student at Christ Church, Oxford, in 1648, matriculated 27 Feb. 1650–1, and graduated B.A. 16 March 1651–2, M.A. 1 June 1654, when he was chosen catechist. Leaving the university, he became chaplain to Robert Sidney, second earl of Leicester [q. v.] In 1656 he was incorporated at Cambridge. He was soon put into the sequestered rectory of St. Mary Magdalene, Milk Street, London (he was probably ordained by the sixth London classis), and held it till the uniformity act (1662) ejected him. He retired to Hoxton, where he preached privately, and at the same time assisted Thomas Doolittle [q. v.] in his school at Bunhill Fields. During the plague year (1665) he preached constantly in parish churches. His account of the plague in ‘God’s Terrible Voice in the City by Plague and Fire,’ 1667, 8vo, is very graphic. Subsequently he gathered a large congregation at Hoxton, apparently in a wooden meeting-house, of which for a time he was dispossessed. He did not escape imprisonment for his nonconformity. He died in his prime on 15 Oct. 1678, and was buried (27 Oct.) in Cripplegate churchyard. His funeral sermon was preached by Samuel Slater [q. v.] Among his publications were, besides many sermons: 1. ‘A Spiritual Antidote for a Dying Soul,’ 1665, 8vo. 2. ‘The Foundation of God standeth Sure,’ 1668, 8vo; against William Penn [q. v.], the quaker. 3. ‘Wells of Salvation Opened,’ 1669, 8vo. 4. ‘Fire and Brimstone,’ 1670, 8vo. Posthumous was 5. ‘Holy and Profitable Sayings,’ 1680, broadsheet. [Funeral Sermon by Slater, 1679; Wood’s Athenæ Oxon. ed. Bliss, iii. 1174; Wood’s Fasti, ed. Bliss; Reliquiæ Baxterianæ, 1696, iii. 2, 19, 95; Calamy’s Account, 1713, p. 32; Calamy’s Continuation, 1727, i. 30 sq.; Wilson’s Dissenting Churches of London, 1808, ii. 191 sq.; Neal’s Hist. of the Puritans, ed. Toulmin, 1822, iv. 451, 479; Foster’s Alumni Oxon. 1500–1714.]                        Evans, 3229: Rosenbach, A.S.W. Children’s books, 2

Author – personal Vincent, Thomas, 1634-1678. Title An explicatory catechism: or, An explanation of the Assemblies Shortercatechism. Wherein all the answers in the Assemblies catechism are taken abroad in under-questions and answers, the truths explain’d, and proved by reason and Scripture; several cases of conscience resolv’d, some chief controversies in religion stated, with arguments against divers errors. Useful to be read in private families, after examination in the catechism it self, for the more clear and thorough understanding of what is therein learn’d. By Thomas Vincent, some times Minister of Maudli Milk-Street in London. Publisher/year Boston in New-England : Printed for D. Henchman, over against the Brick-Meeting-House in Cornhill, John Phillips, at the Stationers-Arms, and T. Hancock, at the Bible and Three Crowns near the town-dock, 1729. Physical descr. [2],viii,315,[3]p. ;  8⁰. Uncontrolled note Signatures: A-V⁸ X⁴ (X3 verso, X4 blank) Citation/references Evans, 3229 Rosenbach, A.S.W. Children’s books, 23 Copies – N.America American Antiquarian Society Boston Public, Main Connecticut Historical Society Free Library of Philadelphia General Theological Seminary of the Protestant Episcopal Harvard University Andover-Harvard Theological Library Henry E. Huntington Library and Art Gallery John Carter Brown Library, Brown University Library Company of Philadelphia Massachusetts Historical Society New York Public Library Rosenbach Museum and Library United States, Library of Congress Yale University, Sterling Memorial

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46 Hobbs Roadprinceton, MA 01541https://jamesgray2.me/jamesgray2@me.comWe Specialize in Books printed befor the year 1700, we also sell early manuscript material.

Four Early Boston imprints 1708-1729 Early Boston books are as rare as any books I sell, Most of these books are not represented fifty miles from the Atlantic seaboard, these examples offered here are in original condition, original Bindings, and with all faults never restored.