#and greek gods is to match my existing copy of greek heroes

[littleblueberryartist]

YIPPEEEEEEEEEEE

[miraculouswolf99]

The Wolf And The Cat

As he watched Ladybug jump over rooftops and across the water-covered streets, Cat Noir was so done at this point. It was one thing to keep him in the dark, it was another to make him feel like this. They were supposed to be partners. He sacrificed his life for her countless times and she returns that by not trusting him like this. While he did not feel entitled to her trust, he sure as hell thought that he had earned it by now. 

He let himself be tagged by Timebreaker so that Ladybug was saved from being erased. He had multiple opportunities to find out her identities, like when they were trapped by Dark Owl, yet he did chose not to. He trusted her word when she recruited Rena Rouge instead of thinking that she was another Volpina. He knew that his flirting or jokes came at the wrong times sometimes, but that was no excuse for not trusting him after all they had been through together.

He was about to say his detransformation phrase when he heard someone land behind him on the same roof. He turned and saw White Wolf.

“Geia, Cat Noir,” the wolf hero smiled at him.

White Wolf and his partner Beautifly were two heroes from Greece. They have their own miraculous from a miracle box that was handed down through their family. Their box is known to hold the Greek miraculous, with each one being based off of the sacred animals of the Greek Olympians. The heroes were sent because there were a set of twins that come from a very rich, well-loved, and charitable family. Lyon and Vallia Garden. They were in Paris for a program for them to explore new cultures. So their government wanted the heroes to make sure that the twins were safe.

“Hey, Wolf,” Cat Noir greeted back.

The Greek hero walked up next to him and then sat down, staring out into the flooded city.

“Being Greek, I know a thing or two about sirens,” he says. “And his akuma is very insulting.”

Cat Noir could not help but laugh a little. It was like an effect that White Wolf had on him. Since he had met the two Greek heroes, White Wolf was always able to make him smile no matter what was going on. His specialty was making a lot of pop culture references which he thought were just as funny as his puns.

“At least this Syren is not spelled the same way,” Cat Noir jokes as he sits next to his fellow hero.

“Spelling means nothing,” Wolf smirked. “This Syren is a mermaid while real sirens are part bird.”

“Guess you would know about about that,” Cat Noir chuckled. 

“I’m Greek, so I know more than anyone about copies,” Wolf snickered. “Ask any ancient family of Greece. We still hold grudges against Italy for taking our gods.”

Cat Noir laughed. “Why am I not surprised. Guess it was a good thing you weren’t here when Volpina appeared. The girl that was akumatized into her was from Italy.”

“Fake heroes are the worst,” Wolf sighed. “We never let our Miraculous Book out of sight, so we never have to deal with any fakes trying to say that they have a miraculous.”

“Is it ever hard for your family to take care of all your miraculous,” Cat Noir had always been curious.

“We have always been taught that everything happens for a reason,” Wolf says. “There are those that match a miraculous and those that don’t. Sometimes there are even periods where no miraculous is even needed. Every generation is different.”

“At least it’s your family and you know that you can trust them,” Cat Noir said.

“Yeah, but being related doesn’t mean they have to care,” Wolf sighs. “One of my cousins in America was being abused by his mother after his father died. But no matter how many bruises he had or how many times he missed school because of an injury, no one ever believed that it was his mom because for the simple reason that it was his mom. She had to love him simply because they shared blood. He was adopted by my nana and papa after he woke up from a coma that his mom put him in.”

Cat Noir didn’t know what to say. Some might say that was a big clue toward White Wolf’s identity, but he didn’t care. The message was clear to both Cat Noir and Adrien Agreste. As Cat Noir, he could sympathize about feeling helpless to do something about something so horrible. As Adrien, he was hit hard as he thought about his father.

“I’m so sorry, Wolf,” he apologized. “I had no idea.”

“Family isn’t always who you’re related to,” Wolf tells him. “Blood does not make a family, love does.”

“Trust me when I say you must be the wisest person I have ever met,” Cat Noir said. “I wish I had the knowledge you did. Especially the trust you have with Beautifly. Where is she, anyway?”

“She’s working on a spell that can get her and me under the water,” Wolf tells him.

“A spell,” Cat Noir was confused.

“It’s another difference between the Greek and Chinese miraculous,” Wolf says. “Your miraculous calls for potions fed to your kwami. Mine and Beautifly’s require spells that channel the Olympian gods. Obviously, we will be channeling Poseidon for this akuma.”

“Would that work for me and Ladybug,” Cat Noir asked.

“I don’t think so, actually,” Wolf admitted. “Magic is very different all over the world and it is never a good thing to mix them. Is Ladybug getting your potion?”

“I have no idea where she is,” Cat Noir said, almost growling. “I trusted her when she left to go and recruit Rena Rouge, but now she is leaving me in the dark with no details at all. That is not what partners do. That is how a hero treats their sidekick.”

White Wolf never did like Ladybug very much. She was always the one treated as the main hero, throwing the rest of them aside. Hardly anyone ever cared about what would happen to the rest of them if they were hurt, hypnotized, or benched. It was always about Ladybug. There was a reason why Alya Cesaire’s blog was called the Ladyblog and not the Hero Blog or something else that would give all of them equal credit.

“If I could, I would use our spell to help you,” Wolf puts his hand on Cat Noir’s. “You don’t deserve to be treated like a sidekick. No one will ever understand the burden that wielding the miraculous of destruction can bring.”

“How can she not trust me enough after all we’ve done together,” Cat Noir growled. “Does me sacrificing my life for her during Timebreaker’s attack mean nothing to her. I was nearly erased from existence.”

“Oh, Cat Noir,” Wolf was not here for that, but he could hear the heartbreak in his voice.

“It’s not she has to tell me everything,” Cat Noir continued his rant. “She just has to give me the basics, not the specifics. She just has to tell me who she is meeting, not where she is exactly going. She says we’re partners, but how she acts is completely different.”

Wolf got a look on his face. “Hmmm.”

“What,” Cat Noir asked.

“The Greek miracle box just so happens to have a black panther miraculous,” Wolf smirked.

[bluesunsdusk]

✏️ Any particular reason for the names you used for your ocs?

✏️ Any particular reason for the names you used for your ocs?

–// I have a lot of ocs, so I will pick some. It’s going to be long either way… ))

Overwatch

Najma (Najma Daher)

When Naj was first made, they had Prima as placeholder name and their kit was based around light, but I struggled to really place them in the universe. They were still based in Oasis, with sumerian aesthetic, and they were an AU for a fandomless oc. I was still trying to pick where the heck they were from. I added Najma as possible name because it means star and is Arabic. As they finally developed to suit the universe more and be an own character, the name stuck, because I like it and they are a warm person and the sun keeps us alive, and Naj was made to help keep someone alive. Dunia, their owner, was named to reflect her meaning in Naj’s life. Dunia was their whole reason for existing, their world, their life. 

Najma coincidentally also works for…other reasons.

Najma’s code name, Nazar, comes from that their abilities are most effective when looking into their lights and optics, which flare up when they use their ult as well. Their optics are also blue.The evil eye, which causes harm upon those who have been struck by it.

I think Daher meant clear. Najma does’t actually have a surname, as they are not a member of the family rather than just property of said family. However, I still wanted the surname to be something with a tiny bit of a fitting meaning. Rather than doing it by naming conventions used with Mamun, I went with them just having just a family name, much in Europe and the US. I also kept it to just two names this time.

Mamun Wasif Said

Mamun had a long list of names on his hero sheet. See, the given name is an aspiratory trait, the second the father’s name, and the third the grandfather’s name or family name. In Mamun’s case, Said is his grandfather’s name. So, that means Mamun’s dad is called Wasif. Gien names he could have been Majdi (commendable, praiseworthy), Marwan, Naseer, etc. His surname could have been Assaf, Kassar, Al-Mansur (the victorious), or Nasrallah (god’s victory). Now, I am not at all close to being an expert on arabic naming conventions, so I was like let’s keep it simple. 

Now, Mamun is supposed to be a tank hero and his character design was made to emphasise that he is a soft and huggable man who deserves the whole world. He needed to look sweet,warm, trustworthy, and dependable. Mamun is a name that feels like it has soft edges. It’s gentle. There’s no hard tones in it. Mamun means dependable, which is something he wants to be and his parents would have wanted him to be as well. A good son, brother, and eventually (if he so wished) husband. 

I forgot what Wasif meant… I think I just liked how it sounded with Mamun compared to the other names listed along with it. I matched several names that were listed on his hero sheet behind Mamun and they didn’t sound nearly as good with it as Wasif did. It means ‘one who praises’.

Said was just a good name to follow Mamun Wasif with. It just wraps it up nicely when I wanted three names in there. It means happy. 

Spigel

Spigel’s name is explained in his bio, I think. The name is given because he’s able to copy the appearance of a person and uses this after eliminating them to blend into a faction he’s trying to infiltrate or wipe out. It takes observation of mannerisms, appearance, speech patterns, etc. to do a convincing guise, and once that is done, it will be like looking into a mirror for the target.

He was always called Spigel because that’s Luxembourgish for mirror. Sure, it’s not smart for the assassin to take a nickname from his own personal origin, but…it’s fine if a guy from Luxembourg gave him that nickname rather than him giving himself said nickname.

Roland Marie Schroeder 

Roland is a pretty common name in Luxembourg, and Marie is a common middle name. I liked Roland as a name, because is seems warm and strong, and Roland is a quiet dude at times, but even though he’s pretty small as well, he can take up a lot of social space just by being a little… dramatic. He would have liked the name because it is, as Monty Python would say, woody. At least, I think it was Monty Python, I’m not sure anymore and can’t find it.

Michael Abatangelo 

Michael was the general of the archangels, and putting Michael together with Abatangelo makes it sound close to Michelangelo. Though, the latter was on accident and I was like yep that’s his name now. I went through several names I don’t really remember. Michael was a strong name that also sounded pleasant.

Fable

Aidan Fawkes

Aidan is an Irish name that means fire. I didn’t know quite what to call him. I didn’t want a name that was just big strong man large energy. It needed to sound not too thick, in a way, maybe a little light to suit his personality. He also had a lot of energy growing up and was a sweet guy. 

His father’s name is actually Mac Lochlainn. That’s a reference and not chosen for the meaning because it’s not used on Aidan. Also, it’s just really nice sounding surname. His grandma on his father’s side’s surname was Kelly. A very common surname where they were from. Anyway, Aidan’s dad didn’t want his kids to have the disadvantage of having a foreign surname. The given names, however, weren’t too odd, and both of his parents did want to give him a link with his father’s heritage in their names. Furthermore, he was born with red hair. 

As such, Aidan was given as his name, and he was bestowed with the surname of his mother, Fawkes. I picked Fawkes because 1) It sounds good with Aidan 2) it means falcon, making his name fire falcon 3) Guy Fawkes. 

Duncan Reynold 

I know the hero in Fable 2 is called Sparrow. However, that is a title/nickname, not a legit name. Surely, his parents, whom Sparrow canonically knew, gave him a real name. I wanted him to have a legit name. I wanted him to be of scottish-type origin. Now, Duncan has tanned skin from being out and stuff and dark hair. He’s also a brawny guy. He would have picked himself a pretty awesome name that feels strong, also… it has can in it, because he can do it. I jest. 

Duncan is a mix of two parts. Together, these parts form a name meaning dark-haired warrior or dark warrior. Of course, he doesn’t know that. He just thinks it’s an awesome name. 

Reynold is a carry over from trying to give king Logan a surname. It’s also a mix or two elements, advice and rule. English meaning is wise/powerful ruler (or something like that. It can also be advice from a ruler or king’s advisor, but let’s ignore that). While Duncan was that, Logan eventually proved not be.

Mass Effect

Medesa Adrestis

It’s actually from Medusa, because she’s a bit of a protector who gets spun into a villain because of the methods she uses to protect herself and others, which is often violent and rather fatal, since slave traders deserve no rights. I think there was something else, but I forgot… Oh, right! Her surname, Adrestis. I saved it in my drafts and idk if it’s still there…

I looked it up to jog my mind!

It’s from Adrestia and Adrasteia, and I didn’t want to name her exactly after that despite Asari names looking painfully ancient Greek inspired and very feminine. 

Adrestia is a figure from Greek mythology, she who cannot be escaped, venerated as a goddess of revolt and just retribution. Adrasteia, “inescapable”, was a nymph charged with taking care of a child Zeus. Medesa was charged with taking care of Toreg. 

Vicarius Hzzek and Lictor Kgrln

So, I won’t explain their names, because I assume Kett names are either just ID codes or can’t be easily changed into a more human tongue. I will go for their titles, though I believe I have explained it in a hc post before. Kett ranks seem based on Roman Empire influences, as is a part of their culture in general. They have Cardinals, Archons, Anointed, Ascendants. These seem religious. A Vicarius is a word that means substitute or deputy. It’s the root of the English word “vicar” as well and is used in things like vice-president. Anyway, Hzzek is a secondary to a Cardinal, making her vice-cardinal of an exaltation facility. 

As for Lictor, this comes from another Latin thing. A Lictor is a type of bodyguard to a magistrate. Kgrln is one of Hzzek’s Destined, who is also assigned with escorting and guarding her. He does this together with other Destined who would also be of the Lictor role/title. 

Dragon Age

Kata

Kata used to be an arvaarad and he considered himself the death of many a saarebas. That, and he is an assassin type, like a katari. He brings death to those who try to oppose him with violence, so basically he’s still death, just to other people now that he’s no longer in the qun. It’s sort of a method of intimidation. If a qunari is told they’re about to meet death, they might reconsider their current course. 

Kost

Kost had another name, aban, which probably means sea, when going by “Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun.” Which means “The tide rises, the tide falls, the sea is unchanged.” He chose it, because the sea is unchanging and also clam. He was the same after leaving the qun as he was when he left. 

Eventually, however, he changed his name to Kost, after staying with a group of Tal-Vashoth who helped him become less stuck in his qun ways and more able to see himself as a person. He came to be at peace with himself and took on the task of assisting some other new Tal-Vashoth in the process. As such, he took on the name Kost, “peace”, to reflect this. 

[rhetoricandlogic]

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

While I loved Greek mythology as a kid, I had no idea that The Iliad existed. My first proper introduction to the story of Achilles and the fall of Troy was actually the 2004 film. It’s a treat, and one that you owe yourself; it’s half an interesting take on the story (pushing the realism angle) and half an enjoyably bad big budget movie (HECTOR! just… HECTOR!). Troy’s release coincided with a few years where my preteen self was obsessed with seeking out representations of queer men in media, so, naturally, the story of Achilles and Patroclus became near and dear to my heart. (“In conclusion: cousin.”) It’s been almost a decade, but picking up The Song of Achilles brought back the days when I despaired over ever getting my hands on a copy of Velvet Goldmine.

The Song of Achilles tells the story of the Trojan War through the eyes of Patroclus, Achilles’ childhood companion and lover. Patroclus, the son of a minor king, is an awkward and ungainly prince. When he accidentally kills another boy, he is exiled to the court of King Peleus and becomes close with the prince, the half-god Achilles. The two spend an idyllic childhood and adolescence with each other, but when they come of age, the Trojan War breaks out. Achilles is destined to either win glory and death at Troy or live a long and forgettable life. Achilles picks the former, and Patroclus won’t let let him go alone, even if that is the fondest wish of Achilles’ mother, Thetis, who despises all mortals.

Adapting a myth is a particular challenge unto itself. (Side note: can we do away with the idea that the book is always superior to its film adaptation? They are two different mediums! Case by case, people, case by case.) On the one hand, you’ve got your own take on the material, thus your desire to adapt instead of create wholesale. On the other hand, you have to negotiate how faithful you want to be to the original texts… after you’ve decided which ones you want to use. Do you stick with just The Iliad or do you also include earlier texts that expand on his youth? Because I’m not terribly familiar with the source materials Miller is using, I’m finding myself in a difficult position. For instance, I can’t fault Miller for having Achilles be a child of rape or Achilles going off to war as a celebrated hero without having fought a single battle; that’s on the ancient Greeks. She’s decided to stick as close to the “historical record” as possible, while highlighting how true Achilles and Patroclus’ love for each other was to the exclusion of all others.

Unfortunately, this means that Miller writes herself into a few corners. When the Trojan War breaks out, Thetis hides her son among the daughters of King Lycomedes, dressed as a woman. In the original myth, the young Achilles and the Princess Deidameia have a fling that results in a son, Neoptolemus. But because Achilles having a fling while away from Patroclus would violate Miller’s concept, she turns it into a rape arranged by his mother, instead of incorporating it as an obstacle to Achilles and Patroclus’ happiness. Honestly, in this respect, The Song of Achilles reminded me hard of my misspent youth reading super-generic boys’ love manga—heteronormative roles (Patroclus is a healer, while Achilles is a warrior), the glowing raptures of pure and true love, and the demonization of women. (And now I’m picturing The Song of Achilles as boys’ love manga. Join me, won’t you?) For most of the book, we’re only given Thetis, who tries to control her son’s every move, and Deidameia, a wailing, screaming, emotional wreck who hurls herself at Patroclus at her first real opportunity. Later, we are given Briseis, who, even if not completely developed, is kind and affectionate, but the damage is already done. Despite the fact that the culture Miller is writing about had plenty of men who had male and female lovers in their lives, there’s this weird rejection of both bisexuality and the idea that people might be attracted to more than one person in their lives. While both Achilles and Patroclus engage in heterosexual sex at least once, they’re disgusted by it. (Achilles moreso than Patroclus; he describes it as “greasy”.) It’s an odd byproduct of Miller’s devotion to depicting their relationship as all-consuming and deeply important, and it’s an unwelcome one. I’d much prefer a novel where this was a problematic affair that the couple overcame, rather than this bizarre rape scenario.

Compounding this is the fact that Miller’s Achilles is quite idealized. His shift into the glory-seeking, arrogant, and sulking Achilles familiar to readers of The Iliad feels abrupt and weird. His character development is too flat to make him feel like a fully-realized character: instead, he’s an impossibly perfect subject of love until the source material requires him to not be. It’s unfortunate, because Miller’s writing style is a lot of fun—readable, with enough of an eye for unique detail to keep things fresh. (Too little, and I don’t hear an author’s voice. Too much, and all I hear is straining style.) I’ve gotten more entries for my commonplace book out of this one than my recent reads. And Miller acknowledges that her characters are speaking a different language; part of the episode in the court of King Lycomedes hinges on Deidameia using a masculine noun instead of a feminine noun. It’s a light touch, to be sure, but it does remind the reader that this is another time, another place, and another culture. I might give her next novel a whirl as her voice develops, if the story is original. But with this as an example, I’m not too sure about her powers of adaptation.

Bottom line: Miller’s devotion to the “historical record” and portraying how true and pure the love of Achilles and Patroclus was to the exclusion of all other relationships leads her to write herself into a few corners that she solves bizarrely, as well as idealize Achilles to the point of flatness. Miller’s writing style is a lot of fun, though—readable, with a good eye for detail, and a good approach to writing about Ancient Greece. A pass.

In addition to this review from Clare: I experienced -again- that I’m extremely sensitive to weird metaphors. They throw me out of the book and it takes really a long time until I can continue. They seem to be Miller’s speciality. Like: 

... I also saw the answers. Yes, they nodded to each other, yes, yes.

How about no, no, no? If answers start running around and noddig, we’re in trouble. Or:

Iphigenia. A tripping name, the sound of goat hooves on rock ...

Look, here’s goat hooves on rock. No Iphigenia sound there.

Also: why is a boy who never faught a battle in his life ... a hero worshipped by all? I had the same problem with The Traitor Baru Cormorant. It’s just not likey that completely inexperienced individuals match the hero-specifics without even trying.

And then the main thing: why, instead of using the -at least partially bisexual- relationships as a plot-point to develop character growth and discuss a whole bunch of problems (and resolve them) - try to make this purely homosexual at all costs, even the cost of completely destroying half of what was previously built. If such was the original intent, there’s no sense in introducing Iphigenia at all.

[alchemisland]

Moors Mutt - II

Prefer Wattpad?

Rising early, if rising it was and not merely stirring from a wakened restive state, I left the tavern in secret and walked a barren stretch. At pale dawn birds like Aztec idols flighted at my stirring. Cold light stained the pasture either side. Sleepshod, the road to Cairn Cottage found me quiet company. Even the tinkers were not yet to the road in their triskeled wagons.

The air was heavy with lavender. A pebbled stretch stirred a reverie of my late father and a codex of heroic tales he had purchased for me, whose chronicles of high adventure stirred me like nothing prior. At six years old, tales of old Arabia appealed most. Kingdoms wrought of sunstones stark against a tangerine haze, swirling tarot star ever-visible, scorpions armoured like chargers; the sheer cloying madness of it all. I visited them in dreams, jumped from the paths of unruly camels, watced the impenetrable waves humbly part in the wake of royal palanquins.

Their heroes were unlike our knights. More often sulky boys preferring quill to falchion. Brooding teenagehood made me relish the stranger entries, tales without lessons existing solely to unnerve, speaking on the bleak lives of Tartarian wizards.

Into adulthood, I came to enjoy Greek tales best of all. The tragedy of Ajax in his lover's plate leaking on the golden sand. Waves, caressing the moored fleet in passing, bursting against the shale where his pyre burned. Always when I hear crunching pebbles, I think of soldiers marching on the strand near Troy.

Before long, a trap could be heard from the middle distance, the first in a network of wagons due to arrive at Cairn Cottage to transport the priceless contents of Lady Sizemore’s library back to Sperrin, where they would be carefully parcelled and carried by train to the Royal Academy Library. I waited astride the ditch until the crude plume atop the horses head appeared like the mantle of some deposed pagan lord. Ixion's disc four times divided had been fixed to bear this chariot. Its heavy trundle ground debris to powder. I hailed the driver, a wind being, every strand of hair or cloth lank enough to lift stood disarrayed. A peak stole his brow but a smile waved me aboard.

The driver never spoke. There was a sense of grim penitence about all I had met thus far. Their lines of deep regret boldened every jowl and furrowed brow. Each bore the weight of his forebears in full. A place without time and silent, where happiness and sadness could last all of forever. So silent were they, matched only by monks in their solemnity, I christened this ham the abbodrice of Sperrin.

Inside chaos reigned. Lady Sizemore's estate was measured first in paper above coin. Hundreds, thousands, of jaundiced sheets all in disorder busied every surface. Before a single penny changed hands, a great many hours I spent hauling boxes, within which were more boxes where spiders large as potatoes spun temporary wonders above the invoices.

I wonder what effect prolonged tedium has. Such thoughts are entertained in avoidance of work as should never be given lucid credence. An entire day dedicated solely to translating letters in incomprehensible cursive, it felt ridiculous. My mind, perhaps reflecting its surroundings, felt dulled, unfocused. So long I stared, when I pried my eyes I found feint margins plastered across reality.

The previous night's visitations I had pondered, ultimately chalking to anxiety. Nothing substantially portentous. Unfortunately, another day I required before I indulged  cryptozooligcal fancies.

Darkness in ravenfeather arrived premature. I ran to the track where the last impatient husbandman sat in stasis. 'Bound for Sperrin?' I called, already halfway inside.

I arrived at Lar's fiercely humoured. Tired, thirsty and caked in mud golemlike, my gladness at journey's end was quickly consumed by the fury of indignity, having endured the return trip atop a sewagesucker's swine van. Lar tended bar. I wondered had he stirred in my absence. Anticipating a thirst, two mugs were set.

I dropped my satchel and enjoyed relief akin to weightlessness by contrast. We drained tankards like soon-to-war Saxons, spoke of weather, I asked had anyone noteworthy visited, mostly from politeness. When asked had the room served, I replied it had done so more than adequately. Again, politeness.

Not wishing to appear overeager, I spared him details of my dream. If the tale was relayed to me, I should say how convenient the very man hoping to find the beast would experience a vision. Besides, in the unlikely event we found a mangy badger after I'd described a prehistoric horror.. perish the thought.

'Do we depart tomorrow?' Lar grunted as he pretended to dust.

'Short delay as it happens. I'd have said from the door, only for the ale calling. Alas, labour remains. My charges lust for satisfaction. They are at Rome's gates! Distant cousins write in droves. By air, land and sea their letters come, squeezing through grates, shimmying down chimneys. Forget the beast, if they find me I'm dead.' I said, picking at a heel of bread.

'We sank tankards enough last night. I've seen plenty pale on the dizzy morning after the night before. If this delay is to spite me, let me allay concerns, I'm the man for this job. We're the men for this job.' Lar shot a glance at Fergus. A pale lance cleft his brow through the slitted shutters.

I looked to my empty cup then longingly at his selection. Lar fingered a bottle, but reached further back and took another instead.

'My god, man. Boil a pot and toss it down your trousers. No such notions occurred to me. We're expedition mates! I didn't make a dent in the work, really.' I raised a silencing finger to hear the ale splash. 'There you have it. Mystery solved. If the mystery of the beast is this easy, we're laughing.' I inhaled its aroma. 'Listen, chap. There's something else I wanted to talk about before we go. I mean to publish an expedition diary. A chronicle of our adventures. Part scientific tome, part roaring adventure book. Your pub will be the busiest spot in the weald after this. Would you object to such?'

Lar's measured tone returned. Careful as a tiptoeing sinner, he asked 'You good?'

I smiled. 'Only Ben Adhem saw the book, ask him.'

Lar stove the ashen helm crowning his cigarette, plunging the embers into the cold bronze bowl. 'At writing.'

'You should say! I tease, I tease. To answer your question, yes. Humbly, in my hand the pen is like the master mason's chisel, from whence grand cathedrals spring forth from their less divine constituent parts.' Lar was fumbling for his tobacco already and I thought what small use that vice would be in peril.

'I'm convinced.' Lar spoke quickly, stumbling over the words to get them out. I took no offence at his zeal to change the subject. 'Do you have a manuscript at hand?' he asked.

'Not with me, unfortunately.' He stifled a sigh of relief. 'Upon returning home one story heavier, I'll ensure you receive signed copies of every one. I'll sing them My favourite tub of Lar. Yours literately, Beastman. That way you'll know it's me.'

Lar's ale, a home brew, was a swift agent, promising to travel from your mouth to the toilet's in twenty minutes. I joked he might patent it for a medicine. Call it the Midas touch. Everything it touched turns to gold: toilet seat, floor, shoes if you weren't careful.

I spied Fergus. His thumb led a blunt edge across the ribbed bark of a sprig, from which he had carved two lidded eyes and a pursed mouth.

Lar lit a cigarette from the flared end of another, then discarded it on the ashen pyre.

Lar had to raise the hatch for me, which spoiled any hope of a dramatic exit. 'Departure two days hence, on the strict proviso no unpleasant libel suit comes once my story hits print. Rest assured, I'll include nothing untoward, but I reserve the right to artistic licence. Print the myth.'

'Libel is a city crime.' Anticipating my desire, Lar walked while he spoke. I mirrored and slipped through the open portcullis to sleep, perchance to scream.

*

Lying in bed, I wondered what to include in my chronicle; exciting details only, or every charged exchange? Nobody asked how the shipwright felt constructing thousands of ships without prior notice. They only wanted Achilles. The reader will concede, I have included much of the mundane.

Well-oiled, I slept easily. Set like a star I saw things from the blind past, dark present and murky future, useless without chronology, stifling their prophetic nature. The beast came again, shaking the ground where it trod.

*

Lar, blackbird that he was, rose early. He emerged from the fugue state that best pleased his constitution and stretched, his wingspan filling the alcove. He found me in my linen cell, bewhaled as Jonah.

'Terrible day.' He drew the shutters. Groggily, I pulled the sheets down over my face to the sight of Lar's stocky silhouette in the dirty light. Tapping a cigarette loose on the sill, he plonked one cheek on the ledge and struck a match. 'Anything you want from town? I'm going to get supplies. I should be away most of the day. There won't be a return trip before we go. Speak now or forever hold your peace.'

'Ambulo in pace.' I tapped my journal, 'I have everything.'

'Do you have a mac?' he asked. The rain beat down harder.

'No, we're English, some Irish. Although I heard tell that a distant branch traded their roses for thistle stalks.' I smirked.

Lar shuddered, ill-humoured before midday despite protestations he needed no proper rest. 'I mean a waterproof.'

'Oh give me credit. That's humour.'

'We in the smiling countryside call it idiocy. There's a time for revels. Unless you've been up all night, dawn isn't it.' he said somewhat angrily.

'I don't have one and I'd like a loan if that's what you're asking, thank you. I didn't sleep well now you mention it' I tossed my feet onto the cold ground and felt for a sock.

Lar watched the rain spilling in romantic sheets. 'You'll need an ark to get back. It's like a bog when it rains. No one will be able to get you. Not me, not the constabulary, nor anyone else. If the weather worsens, make sure you get back in time. Otherwise, everything will be closed until further boatice.'

'Boatice?' I said.

'Now that is humour. Rain, boats, further notice. Get it?' Lar left, more spritely than when he entered.