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tipsycad147 · 2 years ago

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There is No Wrong Way To Smudge

So what is smudging anyway.

Smudging or Saining (as it was known to ancient Celts), is the practice of using the smoke of certain herbs to clear the energies of a space. It was most commonly used in preparation for rituals or ceremonies. Think of the Catholic priests walking around the church with the incense, wafting the smoke into the pews of parishioners.

Traditionally, way back when men were in charge and/or roles were pretty rigid, this act was done by the divinely appointed clergy of the tribe or village. But folks, in the 21rst century we know we are all divine and we are the priests and priestesses of our own lives. So that argument is null and void.

Smudging is a little controversial these days. The term is most closely associated with Native American practices however it has been used in many different cultures and traditions so I promise you, you’re not appropriating anything. You have a right to develop your own practice and use the tools and techniques that you have available.

Once again, there is no wrong way to smudge. There are no rigid rules or required learning or lineage. There are, however, common sense safety precautions and some best practices I’ve discovered along the way. Let me share my 20 years of experience.

What you Need

Three things are needed to smudge. The dried herbs, a fire source and your pure intentions.

I’ve done my research and experimented with different options and other people’s rules. After years of doing this I’ve learned a few things. The first is there’s no wrong way to smudge and the second is crack open a window so you don’t die of smoke inhalation. Other than that you’re fine.

But since you’re here, let me share my experience and point out some safety precautions. continue

Why would you want to smudge?

I smudge to clear the negative energy. When nothing is going right and everyone is in a bad mood, it’s time to get the sage. Sometimes, someone will visit with a gray cloud of negativity and it lingers when they leave. *Sometimes that someone is me.*

I’ll also smudge when we can’t seem to shake the latest bug that’s going around. Studies show that sage smoke is antimicrobial, meaning it kills those tiny things that make us sick.

I also smudge before rituals, spell work and card readings; mostly because it gets my head in the game. It was part of my ritual when I first started and its habit now.

What are your intentions?

The “Why” is going to determine your intention. Intention is everything in life. If you’re smudging because the room feels heavy and uncomfortable then your intention would be to clear the heaviness and restore a feeling of calm and peacefulness. Your thoughts should be there, imagining what you want to feel, as you waft the smoke around.

I get that sometimes you can’t get in the right head space. I’ve been there.Your so stressed out that you can’t imagine anything else but it feels awful and somethings got to give. Smudge anyway, it’ll still help. It’s more effective when you can keep your focus on the intention, but somethings better than nothing, so go for it.

What are you going to use?

There are a ton of options if you look in the right places.

White sage is the most popular and most controversial. It used to be hard to find. I could only order it from two or three on-line retailers (this was way before Amazon). Last Christmas I found it at Hot Topic, Spencers and 5 Below! I guess its really trendy with the kids. The problem with it being trendy is the risk of endangering the plant in its native habitat. It only grows in the dry arid temperatures of the American Southwest. If you happen to live in the Southwest and can forage for your own, (I’m a little jealous) know there are a variety of Sage bushes that work just as well. Varieties include blue sage, desert sage and black sage.

*Careful, black sage contains small amounts of thujone, you know, the woo-woo chemical that made wormwood notorious. *

Other Options

If you can’t get (or don’t want) White sage, there’s always Kitchen or Garden Sage. This is the kind you cook with. It works just as well as white sage although it smells a little different. It originated in Europe and grows well in gardens. I’ve been bundling and drying mine for years.

I also use Russian Sage which is good for manifesting. It’s more of a decorative shrub but smells great.

Cedar is the herb of choice for smudging new places. It offers protection and wisdom as well as clearing the area of negative energy.

Juniper is another ancient tree that can be bundled and burned. It has the added property of inviting prosperity.

Sweet grass from the Plains is believed to invoke feelings of love and kindness.

Palo Santo is wood from a slow growing tree in south America. It’s endangered from over use and some countries put a ban on its export. I use it sparingly and only when the kids are sick; it has healing properties.

If we go back to the garden we can snip some Rosemary. It smells good, clears the air and boosts your personal outlook, inspiring confidence and clarity of the mind.

Lavender is a favorite at Green Witch. It adds some calming vibes.

Lemongrass is energizing.

There are others but I haven’t used them and can’t attest to them.

To buy or create.

I’ve been making my own smudge sticks for years. (You can find them here.) I use a combination of Russian sage and kitchen sage. The Russian sage had thin wispy leaves so I wrap the fat leaves from the kitchen sage around them to keep everything in. Occasionally I’ll add other herbs like lavender and rosemary. Although I have to point out that burning kitchen sage and rosemary together smells like Thanksgiving.

Common Sense

Before I go any further, lets talk fire safety and common sense. Put all the metaphysical stuff aside. Forget about all the drama that’s got your panties in a bunch. Think about what you’re about to do. The actual physical act. In your hand is a bundle of dried leaves and sticks wrapped in string. You’re about to set that on fire. In your house. Feel me now?

Awesome. Let’s remember that your fiery bundle of herbs will be subject to all the laws of the physical universe including, and most importantly, gravity. Once you blow out the flame, your bundle will still be smoldering with hot embers. This is what you want. This is going to produce the smoke that will rid your space of negative energy.

However those embers are a fire hazard. They will fall away and drift to the ground or the pile of papers you haven’t filed yet or your duvet cover leaving little melted holes. (guilty)

Don’t give up Yet!

No worries. You’re going to designate a vessel to catch those embers before they catch your couch on fire. I have two. One is a ceramic pot the Renaissance Man made in art school the other is the mini cauldron I’ve had for years. You could also use a small ceramic bowl, a coffee cup, an ashtray or a seashell if its big enough.

As you walk through your space with your smoking smudge stick, you’ll carry your smudge pot with you, frequently tapping the ash and loose embers into your firesafe container. And even though you’re totally focused on your intentions and may even be muttering a mantra or spell, you WILL BE mindful of those embers and stop what your doing to make sure you snuff out any ambition little buggers that floated away.

Deal? Deal.

Now when your done smudging, you’re going to snuff out the embers in the vessel. Just smoosh the burning side into the bottom of the vessel and give it a few twists until it stop smoking. Now be careful, you may want to put the vessel on the table, some fire safe vessels like cast iron or ceramic will get hot. You don’t have to use the whole wand in one smudging. I can usually get 3-4 full house smudgings out of one stick. Oh! Also, save the ashes to make black salt.

Great! Now if this is all you can do. This will work. Sometimes there are time constraints, sometimes its more of an energy or emotional constraint. It’s okay. Just lighting your smudge stick and wafting the smoke around you is enough to alter the energy. Sometimes, that’s all you need to move in a better direction.

Another thing you want to keep in mind is that some people are sensitive to smoke and some herbs are more allergenic than others. Always open a window to let the smoke carry the negative energy out but also so you don’t die.

Now lets talk about Good practices.

More often than not, we’re opting to smudge because the space feels negative. We’re looking to clear out the bad juju so we can feel better.

I found that a good old fashion cleaning does wonders to boost the effects of smudging. Its mundane and boring and takes some effort but if you pick up, toss the trash, put away the clutter you’ll start feeling better before you even smudge. And you’ll have fewer fire hazards to worry about.

If you want to get really serious, purge things you don’t need, organize the things you keep, wash the floors, move the furniture to wash behind and sweep or vacuum under them. (It’s not something you can do in a day. I usually take a few weeks out of the year to do the whole property purge.)

You’ll be amazed by how much better it feels even before you smudge. Sage is believed to release negative ions that neutralizes the positive ions found in dust (dander, pollution, mould, etc). But getting rid of the dust that’s laying around allows the sage to work on the crap that’s still in the air.

Food

Some traditions frown upon smudging around open food. I don’t have much of an opinion because I don’t usually have food out when I’m smudging. It doesn’t seem to effect any offerings during rituals, at least not that I’ve noticed. My deities haven’t complained. I don’t think I would ever smudge while I’m cooking or serving dinner. Two different intentions. Also, I imagine it would make the food taste funny. Most smudging herbs have a strong odor.

Smudging around pets & small children.

Be extra cautious if you live with animals or small children. Their lungs are smaller and tend to be more sensitive to allergens. Make sure to have windows open and even confine your pets in another room while you smudge.

I’ve not had a problem with cats or dogs. The cats tend to hide until the smoke clears but afterward they’re all up in that room. Cats just naturally gravitate toward positive energy. The dogs didn’t care, but I had lazy dogs.

As far as kids, it’s never bothered my littles. They used to walk around the house with me lending their positive vibes.

The older ones, though…

My bundle is smoking what do I do now?

I’ve sat and watched heated discussions on the actual process of smudging. It’s amusing because everyone thinks they’re right but it’s totally not important. Trust your gut!

Some people believe that you have to smudge yourself first. Waft the smoke around you and let it cleanse your aura. They’re not wrong. It’s a good practice and it will also allow your to clear your head and get your brain in the right space. Sometimes you’re the one emitting the negative energy that clogging up the house.

Thanks to my diminishing estrogen levels, I find myself smudging myself often.

However, it’s not absolute law. If you feel like you just need to jump into smudging the room, go for it! Your aura is going to get cleaned because you’re in the room with all the smoke, focusing on light happy juju!

Which Way do I go, George, which way to I go.

Left or Right? Top or Bottom? My mom had a system for cleaning a room. Walk in and go right. Whatever was directly to the right of the door way, start cleaning and work your way around. Top to bottom because gravity… This is how I initially started smudging as well.

But the more I learned about the craft, the more I would incorporate it into my intentional actions. In the craft, to move clockwise is called deosil, (dee-OH-sil) We work deosil when we want to bring things to us. When were looking to attract positive vibes, abundance, joy, happiness, peace.

The opposite or counter-clockwise is called widdershins ,(pronouced like it looks). We move widdershins when we want to banish to do away with things like negative energy, poverty, depression and other heavy energies.

Hey! How does the witch find her coffee table in the dark?? ~Widdershins!!!! Sorry, not sorry.

So applying this to smudging, more often than not you’re going to be walking through your space counter-clockwise or widdershins to banish the negative energies.

However, as you become more practiced and start smudging proactively, you may want to play with other herbs and invite other energies into your life. For example, Cedar (wisdom), Juniper (prosperity), Rosemary (Confidence).

What about the Moon?

You can also take it a step further and work with the lunar energies. From the New moon to the full moon is referred to as a waxing moon. During the waxing moon we focus on growing and attracting more of what we want. So during the waxing moon we smudge in a clockwise direction (deosil) to bring positive energy into our space.

From the Full moon to the new moon as the moon is getting smaller or waning, we focus on the things we want less of. So during the waning moon, we smudge counter-clockwise or widdershins to banish the negative.

You can file this information under good practice but it is NOT LAW! Trust your intuition. If it feels like you should be doing something else, then do it.

You are Divine. You know better than anyone what’s best for you at any given moment!

How do I know it’s working or when I’m done?

Once again, trust yourself. You’re done when it feels like your done. I did read something a long time ago about interpreting the smoke stream. If the energy is heavy and full of negative energy, the stream of smoke will be thin and wispy. Once the negativity is neutralized the smoke will expand and appear more cloud like with less defined boundaries.

You’ll discover when you first light your smudge stick, the smoke is thin and wispy but as you go around the room it get less defined. You can call it working or you can call it the nature of smoke. So, basically you’re back to trusting your feelings.

Another fun thing to do with the palo santo, is to light it around sick people. The smoke will bee line to them as if it knows where to go.

Okay this only happened once. The padawan and my nephew, the teddy bear, were all snotty and gross and hovering around me because they were little and didn’t feel good but it was funny. The smoke would swing back and forth toward whoever was closer to me, which caused the child to back up allowing the other child to move in. That was a fun 15 minutes. Neither of the boys understood why I was laughing so hard.

There is No Wrong Way to Smudge

Alright back to the point, There’s no wrong way to smudge! I hope my little soap box speech cleared that up. You can’t do it wrong. Even if you half-ass it, you’re still getting some benefit. So quit freaking out, quit asking every forum and every metaphysical group how to smudge. You’re going to get a million answers. Somethings you just have to learn by doing!

https://greenwitchfarm.com/there-is-no-wrong-way-to-smudge/

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thegrandimago · 4 years ago

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This time last April, on the 50th anniversary of Earth Day, the world was coming to grips with the isolation of quarantine and the economic and travel slowdowns that defined the first wave of the Covid-19 pandemic. Even now, with the rollout of vaccines, the virus continues to affect our daily lives. And the toll keeps growing: 3 million dead and more than 140 million cases worldwide.

If anything, the worst public health crisis in a century has brought our understanding of our planet, and our place in the fragile yet resilient web of life throughout it, into stark relief.

Amid so much grief and loss and uncertainty, the biodiversity crisis paced ahead over the past year, becoming a much bigger theme on the world stage. The climate crisis worsened, too. Wildfires blazed. Ecosystems became even more fouled up than they already were.

At the same time, the marked reduction in human activity spurred by the pandemic — what some experts have dubbed the “Anthropause” — has afforded scientists and researchers opportunities to observe the natural world like never before. Coinciding with these unique observational windows has been an increase in attention on Indigenous knowledge and land stewardship as a way forward in combating ecological catastrophe.

In true Vox tradition, here are the 10 most concerning, intriguing, and — dare we say — hopeful things we learned about our planet since the last Earth Day.

1) We saw just how quickly ocean noise pollution can drop, and how much that can help marine life

For a moment last spring, things got very quiet in the oceans.

The drop in human activity that came with the pandemic resulted in drastic and voluntary sound reductions that ran the underwater gamut: from a drop in shipping noise, the predominant source of man-made ocean noise pollution, to decreases in recreation and tourism. All of it suddenly ceased.

In Alaska’s Glacier Bay National Park, the foraging grounds of humpback whales, the loudest underwater sounds last May were less than half as loud as those in May 2018, according to a Cornell University analysis. A May 2020 paper in the Journal of the Acoustical Society of America found that underwater noise off the Vancouver coast was half as loud in April as the loudest sounds recorded in the months preceding the shipping traffic slowdown.

Chronic underwater ocean noise had been rising over the past few decades, to the detriment of marine life that have evolved to use sound to navigate their world. “There is clear evidence that noise compromises hearing ability and induces physiological and behavioral changes in marine animals,” reads an assessment of marine noise pollution research published in the journal Science in February.

The majority of ocean noise pollution is a byproduct of economic activity. But compared with massively complex issues like climate change, noise is relatively easy to turn down, at least a little. Silencing it at its source has an immediate positive impact: Famously, researchers studying right whales on the East Coast measured a drop in the animals’ stress hormones in the wake of the 9/11 attacks, after shipping traffic abruptly dropped. Even tiny fish larvae are better able to locate the coral reefs where they were born, which themselves emit sound, when the oceans get quiet.

Man-made ocean noise has since ramped back up and is now stabilized near pre-pandemic levels. But it fell silent for long enough last March, April, and May that a global team of scientists is actively scrubbing through audio recordings gathered by around 230 non-military hydrophones — underwater microphones — that monitor ocean noise around the world. They aim to study the “year of the quiet ocean” in the context of ocean sounds before, during, and after the pandemic.

2) A new study found that the Amazon is likely warming — not cooling — the planet

The world’s largest and most species-rich tropical forest, the Amazon, is home to billions of trees that not only provide refuge to a diverse assemblage of organisms but also store and absorb a huge amount of carbon dioxide.

That’s what makes the conclusion of a��study published this spring so alarming: Due to human activity, the Amazon is likely contributing to — not offsetting, as one might expect— global warming. “The current net biogeochemical effect of the Amazon Basin is most likely to warm the atmosphere,” the researchers wrote in the paper.

While the Amazon is still absorbing loads of CO2, human activities in the basin, such as deforestation, are driving up emissions of CO2 and other more potent greenhouse gases like methane and nitrous oxide across the basin.

Deforestation, for one, deals a double punch: It both releases gases into the atmosphere and removes CO2-absorbing trees from the equation. That equation now sees the Amazon generating more greenhouse gases than it emits, the study suggests. (It’s worth noting, though, this is all really complicated. For more, check out Craig Welch’s story in National Geographic or read the full study here.)

3) We discovered a bunch of new species

While humans have made a mark on all corners of Earth, we’ve only discovered a small fraction of the species that occupy it. In fact, that fraction could be smaller than 1 percent. And remarkably, not all of those species are tiny microbes and insects. They’re also fish, lizards, bats, and even whales. That’s right: Even giant mammals can elude scientists.

In January, researchers at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration said they discovered a new species of baleen whale in the Gulf of Mexico. (You can find the paper describing the discovery here.) Other teams of scientists are also on the trail of what could be yet another new whale species.

Last year, researchers documented scores of new plants and animals, from geckos and sea slugs to flowering plants and sand dollars, as Vox’s Brian Resnick reported. Our favorite? Brookesia nana, a thumbnail-sized chameleon native to northern Madagascar. It may be the smallest reptile on Earth; it’s certainly the cutest.

4) We got a much clearer picture of just how much wildlife we’re losing

The numbers aren’t good.

In September, the World Wildlife Fund published a report showing that the global populations of several major animal groups, including mammals and birds, have declined by almost 70 percent in the last 50 years due to human activity.

A separate report, published in Nature this year, found that populations of ocean sharks and rays have plummeted by more than 70 percent in roughly the same period. And one-third of freshwater fish have been found to be at risk of extinction.

A number of species were also declared extinct over the last year. Those include the smooth handfish, a bottom-dweller that rests atop human-like appendages on the seafloor. It was the first marine fish species to be declared extinct in modern history. (Environmental journalist John Platt has a list of recent extinctions in 2020 at Scientific American.)

5) Protecting plants and animals hinges on a thriving ecotourism industry

In the early days of the pandemic, the popular “Nature is healing” meme overshadowed a darker reality in many parts of the world: As travel ground to a halt, so did revenue from wildlife tourism, putting some wildlife conservation efforts at risk.

The fallout was most severe in Africa. According to a new collection of research from the International Union for Conservation of Nature (IUCN), a government and civil society group, more than half of the continent’s protected areas had to pause or limit field patrols and other operations to stop poachers in the wake of the pandemic.

“Parks have emptied out to a large extent and there’s no money coming in,” Nigel Dudley, a co-author of one of the IUCN papers, told Reuters last month.

Some communities are deeply reliant on wildlife tourism. Late last year, Vox’s Brian Resnick spoke to veterinarian Gladys Kalema-Zikusoka, who is working to keep coronavirus-susceptible gorillas alive in Uganda’s Bwindi Impenetrable National Park.

When tourism dropped, “everybody was struggling,” she said. “The local economy suffered and poaching went up.” (You can read more of Resnick’s conversation with her here.)

6) Researchers uncovered more proof that a key system of ocean currents is weakening

Graphics that show changes in ocean temperature over time generally reveal one trend: The ocean is heating up. But there’s one critical exception. Just below Greenland lies a large patch of water that’s cooling off. And that patch has scientists concerned that we could be nearing a tipping point for the climate.

The cold patch, scientists say, signals that a network of currents that bring warm water to the North Atlantic — known as the Atlantic Meridional Overturning Circulation, or AMOC — is slowing down, and the melting of ice on Greenland is likely a culprit. One paper, published in the journal Nature in March, suggests that the current AMOC slowdown is “unprecedented in over a thousand years.”

The AMOC shapes weather across multiple continents, so any major slowdown will carry major consequences that could include faster sea-level rise in some regions, stronger hurricanes, and other changes in weather, to say nothing of the impacts to marine ecosystems.

But to be clear, the science on this is new and complex. For a great run-down, check out this recent visual feature in the New York Times.

7) The asteroid that killed the dinosaurs gave rise to the Amazon rainforest

The massive asteroid that struck Earth 66 million years ago may be best known for driving non-avian dinosaurs to extinction, but it also transformed entire ecosystems.

It may have even given rise to the Amazon rainforest, according to a study published in Science earlier this month. The finding is based on an analysis of about 50,000 fossil pollen records and 6,000 fossil leaf records in Colombia from before and after the asteroid crashed into what is now Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula.

The data reveals two vastly different forests. Before the event, the forests were stocked with conifers and ferns, and the trees were spread out, with plenty of room for light to stream through the canopy. After the asteroid event, however, flowering plants started to dominate the landscape and the canopy became much more tightly packed, resembling the forest we know today.

“If you returned to the day before the meteorite fall, the forest would have an open canopy with a lot of ferns, many conifers, and dinosaurs,” study co-author Carlos Jaramillo of the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute in Panama told New Scientist. “The forest we have today is the product of one event 66 million years ago.”

The idea here is that the asteroid impact somehow triggered a series of events that led to the modern Amazon rainforest. What were those events? One theory the researchers offer is that, before the asteroid, herbivorous dinosaurs prevented the forest from becoming dense by eating and trampling plants.

8) A review of more than 300 studies showed that the rate of deforestation is lower on Indigenous lands

The global conservation movement is pushing forward a plan to conserve 30 percent of the Earth by 2030 — an initiative known as 30 by 30 — and increasingly calling for Indigenous communities to be central to that effort.

These groups have historically been uprooted from land in the name of wildlife conservation. There is also greater evidence that forests fare better when they are governed by Indigenous and tribal territories.

A recent UN review of more than 300 studies found that forests within tribal territories in Latin America and the Caribbean have significantly lower rates of deforestation where land rights are formally recognized.

“In just about every country in the region Indigenous and tribal territories have lower deforestation rates than other forest areas,” wrote the authors of the report, which was published by the UN’s Food and Agriculture Organization and the Fund for the Development of Indigenous Peoples of Latin America and the Caribbean. “Many Indigenous territories prevent deforestation as effectively as non-Indigenous protected areas, and some even more effectively.”

9) Wildfire smoke can turn the sky an apocalyptic orange

If there was one day in 2020 that defined the climate emergency, it could have been September 9, when the sky above San Francisco turned completely orange.

Strong winds had carried smoke from fires burning across California to the atmosphere above the city. Particles of soot absorbed or reflected blue light from the sun, letting only orange-ish light through. (Wired has the details.)

But what made the image go viral wasn’t so much the science but what it symbolized: a growing climate catastrophe.

Climate change is making wildfires more frequent and severe, and 2020 provided more devastating evidence. Last year was California’s worst wildfire season on record. By the end of the year, nearly 10,000 fires had burned over 4 million acres — an astonishing 4 percent of California’s total land, according to the state.

10) Scientists finally solved the mystery of why wombats poop cubes

Sure, it may not have kept you up at night, but the mystery of the bare-nosed wombat’s poop puzzled scientists for decades. Why do these adorable, chunky marsupials, native to Australia and Tasmania, leave behind feces with six sides?

Thanks to a new study — published in the journal Soft Matter — we now have the answer.

Building on research published a few years earlier, a team of scientists found that wombat intestines have regions of varying thickness and elasticity that contract at different speeds: The stiffer regions contract relatively quickly, while softer sections squeeze more slowly, together forming a cube-like shape.

But there’s still a bit of mystery left: Why is their poop shaped like this? The jury’s still out, but some researchers believe it’s because wombats climb up on rocks and logs, and the cube-like shape prevents the feces from rolling away. This is key for wombats because they use piles of feces to communicate with other wombats.

What a difference a year makes, truly.

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englishchinesetranslations · 4 years ago

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Since she began posting rustic-chic videos of her life in rural Sichuan province in 2016, Li Ziqi, 29, has become one of China’s biggest social media stars. She has 22 million followers on the microblogging site Weibo, 34 million on Douyin (China’s version of TikTok) and another 8.3 million on YouTube (Li has been active on YouTube for the last two years, despite it being officially blocked in China).

Li’s videos – which she initially produced by herself and now makes with a small team – emphasize beautiful countryside and ancient tradition. In videos soundtracked by tranquil flute music, Li crafts her own furniture out of bamboo and dyes her clothing with fruit skins. If she wants soy sauce, she grows the soybeans themselves; a video about making an egg yolk dish starts with her hatching ducklings. The meals she creates are often elaborate demonstrations of how many delicious things can be done with a particular seasonal ingredient, like ginger or green plums.

There is even a Li Ziqi online shop, where fans can purchase versions of the steel “chopper” knife she uses to dice the vegetables she plucks from her plentiful garden, or replicas of the old-fashioned shirts she wears while foraging for wild mushrooms and magnolia blossoms in the misty mountainside.

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While she occasionally reveals a behind-the-scenes peek at her process, Li – who did not respond to interview requests for this article – is very private. By all accounts, she struggled to find steady work in a city before returning to the countryside to care for her ailing grandmother (who appears in her videos).

Recently, Li has been thrust into a wider spotlight by the Chinese government, who seem to have realized her soft power potential. In 2018, the Communist party of China named her a “good young netizen” and role model for Chinese youth. In September 2019, the People’s Daily, a CPC mouthpiece, gave Li their “People’s Choice” award, while last month, state media praised Li for helping to promote traditional culture globally, and the Communist Youth League named her an ambassador of a program promoting the economic empowerment of rural youth.

Revealed: how TikTok censors videos that do not please Beijing Read more

As the government increasingly champions her, Chinese citizens have taken to Weibo to question whether Li’s polished, rather one-dimensional portrayal of farm work conveys anything truly meaningful about contemporary China – especially to her growing international audience on YouTube.

They have a point: Li’s videos reveal as much about the day-to-day labor of most Chinese farmers as the Martha Stewart Show does the American working class. As Li Bochun, director of Beijing-based Chinese Culture Rejuvenation Research Institute told the media last month: “The traditional lifestyle Li Ziqi presents in her videos is … not widely followed.”

In reality, many of China’s rural villages have shrunk or disappeared completely in past decades as the nation prioritized urbanization and workers migrated to cities, with research suggesting the country lost 245 rural villages a day from 2000 to 2010. The 40% of China’s population still living in rural areas encompass a huge diversity of experience, yet life can be difficult, with per-capita rural income declining sharply since 2014 and environmental pollution often as rife as in industrial centers. That’s not to say the beautiful forests and compelling traditions of Li’s videos are not genuine – like many social media creators, she simply focuses on the most charming elements of a bigger picture.

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So what do Li’s videos reflect about modern China, if not average daily life in the countryside?

For one, they say something about the mindset of her mainland audience – primarily urban millennials, for whom a traditional culture craze known as “fugu” or “hanfu” has been an aesthetic trend for a number of years.

“Fugu”, according to Yang Chunmei, professor of Chinese history and philosophy at Qufu Normal University, reflects the “romanticized, pastoral” desires of youth “disillusioned by today’s ever-changing, industrial, consumerist society.” In practice, it looks like young people integrating more traditional clothing into their daily looks, watching historical dramas and following rural lifestyle influencers like Li. (While Li is an extremely popular example of the trend, she’s not the only young farmer vlogging in China right now, and outdoor cooking videos of people making meals with wild ingredients and scant equipment are a genre of their own on Douyin.)

Among urban millennials in the west, giving up the nine-to-five grind and living humbly and closer to nature is a popular dream. In China, the contemporary experience of burnout is compounded by the intensity of “urban disease”, an umbrella term for the difficulties of living in megacities like Shanghai or Guangzhou, which can be used to refer to everything from traffic jams and poor air quality to employment and housing scarcity.

Also at play in Li’s popularity is the particular tenor of Chinese wistfulness. “It’s called xiangchou. Xiang means the countryside or rural life, and chou means to long for it, to miss it,” says Linda Qian, an Oxford University PhD candidate studying nostalgia’s role in the revitalization of China’s villages.

“It is quite prevalent for youth living the city life. They get really sick of [the city] so the countryside” – or a fantasy of it – “looks increasingly like the ideal image of what a good life should be.”

Qian also likens Li’s appeal to that of “Man vs Wild”-style entertainment in the west. “We’ve gotten to a certain point of materialism and consumption where there’s only so much you can buy, and we’re like, ‘What other experiences can I have?’” she says. “So we go back to what humans can do.”

Yet as her fame grows internationally, some have questioned, in comments, blogposts and Reddit threads, whether Li’s channel is communist propaganda.

In addition to providing China a form of international PR, Li embodies a kind of rural success the government hopes to generate more of through recent initiatives. With the aim of alleviating rural poverty, the Communist Youth League has embarked on an effort to send more than 10 million urban youth to “rural zones” by 2022, in order to “increase their skills, spread civilization, and promote science and technology”.

“We need young people to use science and technology to help the countryside innovate its traditional development models,” Zhang Linbin, deputy head of a township in central Hunan province, told the Global Times last April.

By using technology to create her own rural economic opportunities while simultaneously championing forms of traditional Chinese culture before a huge audience, Li may seem like a CPC dream come true.

youtube

According to Professor Ka-Ming Wu, a cultural anthropologist at the Chinese University of Hong Kong: “Li represents a new wave of Chinese soft power in that she’s so creative and aesthetically good, and knows how to appeal to a general audience whether they’re Chinese or not.” And yet, “I don’t think this is some kind of engineered effort by the Chinese state,” she says.

Li’s narrative hinges on her failure to thrive in the city; that failure is antithetical to China’s overarching narrative of progress and urban opportunity. Were she a manufactured agent of propaganda, Wu speculates, “[Her failure] is something the Chinese state would never even mention.

“And I think that’s what really fuels her popularity,” says Wu. “That despair of not being able to find oneself in the ‘Chinese dream’. I don’t think she’s propaganda because one of her major successes is that she’s making that failure highly aesthetic … However, the Chinese government is very smart to appropriate her work and say that she represents traditional culture and promote her.”

According to some Chinese media, Li’s content is better than propaganda – doing more to generate genuine domestic, and especially international, interest in rural Chinese traditions than any government initiative of the past decade. “Dozens of government departments with billions at their disposal spent 10 years on propaganda projects, but they have done a worse job than a little girl,” writes the South China Morning Post’s Chauncey Jung, summarizing a tweet from journalist Jasper Jia.

However you feel about Li as a cultural force, her ability to flourish despite a unique set of contradictory circumstances is impressive. Out of the past and present, failure and success, independence and authoritarianism, she’s spun a truly pleasant vision. If only life was really so simple.

#li ziqi

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nanoland · 3 years ago

Text

am writing hellblazer fic asfdfsfff

title: The Cave

fandom: Hellblazer

characters: John Constantine, Chas Chandler, the First of the Fallen

blurb: John gets lost in a cave.

warnings: Depression, covid19, demons getting themselves Extremely murdered.

It was when the death toll had crested 100,000 that he’d snapped and made his way to Number 10 Downing Street with murder in his eyes and a briefcase full of every cursed artefact he owned.

“What are you gonna do, eh?” bellowed Chas, who’d been following behind him in his cab for the last half mile. He’d already tried to physically drag John into it and had received a bite on the hand for his trouble. “Chuck ‘em through the windows? That’s bulletproof glass, John! Fuck’s sake! Be reasonable!”

“Stop sodding shouting!” John shouted over his shoulder, wiping rain off his face. “You’ll spread sodding germs!”

“John, I already had it. Four months ago, remember?”

“You can have it more than once! Christ, does nobody in this city read the papers but me?”

It was fair to say that John wasn’t at his best. In his defence, he’d spent the last year sitting inside his tiny, poorly-ventilated, roach-ridden flat, vividly imagining what a respiratory virus would do to lungs that had suffered over forty years of heavy smoking, two run-ins with cancer, and the actual devil sticking his actual great big grubby clawed hand in ‘em. No fucking thank you.

Chas sighed heavily and climbed out of the cab again, slamming the door as he did. He splashed through a dozen puddles before coming to stand in John’s path, arms folded. “Listen, Conjob. I love you. Even when you’re a complete prick, which is most of the time. And I know you can do amazing things. But mate, hear me out; you cannot assassinate the British Prime Minister.”

“Someone bloody has to!” John Constantine, greatest wizard of his age, screamed at the top of his wretched, ragged, Satan-besmirched lungs.

Eventually, Chas managed to calm him down and get him home for a cup of tea.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” John grunted as his socks dried in front of the heater and the rational parts of his mind re-exerted themselves.

“S’alright.”

“How’s the bite?”

“Didn’t pierce the skin. John, you need a break. A holiday. You need to get out of town for a few weeks. Go breathe fresh country air, do some weird mystical shit with a goat, whatever it is that sorts your head out these days. But you can’t carry on like this, mate. I haven’t seen you this miserable in years.”

He handed John one of Renee’s strawberry-patterned towels. Dragging it across his face, John grunted, “Holiday? At a time like this?”

“Why not? Makes as much sense as any other time.”

“What if you come down with it again? Or Geraldine? Or Renee?”

“John,” said Chas, gently, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You already tried to cure me with magic. It didn’t work. At all. Just wasted a lot of chicken blood and Renee’s best spoons. Get this in your skull: there’s nothing you can do. Alright? I know you hate that, but it’s the truth.”

John swallowed thickly. “Yeah. Yeah. Alright.”

So he went home to his tiny flat, stuffed fresh socks and his toothbrush into a backpack, booby-trapped his front door, and fled London in the dead of night, feeling like one of those gits in Boccaccio’s Decameron.

“It’s called glamping.”

“Some new wizardy stuff, I’m guessing?”

Chas’s voice over the phone was distracted, like he was half-watching the telly. John was relieved; he’d wanted to hear another human speak but wasn’t feeling up to a proper conversation demanding his usual levels of sparkling charisma and staggering wit. Not right now. Not without weed, and he’d not thought to bring any.

Nestling deeper into his teak folding chair and drawing a thick woven blanket up over his knees, John said, “Nah. Not buggering about with any of that old guff until I’m back in town. Promised myself.”

“Right.”

“Don’t sound so sceptical, you git. I’ve done it before.”

“Mm-hmm. What’s your record? The longest you’ve ever gone without doing anything mystical and creepy?”

“‘Bout… hmm. Three days.”

“You’re coming up on the tail end of that right about now.”

“I know. Chas, on my word, I am going to make it to Sunday without so much as sniffing around a graveyard or wanking off a werewolf. I am on holiday.”

“Alright, alright, if you say so. Good for you, mate. So what’s this ‘glamping’ business, then?”

“It’s camping. But posh. I’m sitting up here atop a hill in Yorkshire with a tent the size of a cathedral and me chic woodburning stove and me box of white wine and feeling like the yuppiest old cunt who ever drew breath.”

“Sounds horrible.”

“It does, doesn’t it? That’s why I chose it over a nice comfy bed and breakfast. Figured I’d wake up with a cow shitting on my head and could use that as an excuse to come home early. Actually, though… it’s alright. Quiet. There’s a river at the bottom of the hill where these giggling honeymooners like to have a morning bonk but it’s far enough away that I can’t hear them unless they’re really having fun. And the weather’s been alright. It’s all surprisingly decent.”

“And you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Yep.”

“Hmph. I should have come with you. You get all weird and introspective when you’re left alone for more than a couple days.”

“I’m not alone. There’re birds. Squirrels. A few ghosts hanging out by the toilets.”

“John.”

“Ain’t gonna talk to ‘em! Mind you, one did give me a wink when I was zipping up. How’s everything back home?”

“Er – look, I won’t lie, it’s shit. It’s all shit. But it’s not any more shit than it was when you left three days ago. Not any worse, not any better, yeah?”

“Right.”

(Stupid to be disappointed. Stupid that a part of him had secretly believed that as soon as he abandoned the sinking ship that was London, things would miraculously get better for everyone, even as another part of him, on the opposite side of his brain, had been convinced – maybe even hoped – that the moment he was gone, the entire city would descend into screaming anarchy, at which he could point and laugh from a safe distance.)

“Listen, John, I’ve gotta go. Renee needs groceries. Be careful, please?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Don’t fuck about with any occult bollocks. Don’t go foraging for brain-melting mushrooms. Don’t do anything. Just stay in your tent and read your dirty books, yeah?”

“Heard and understood, Mum.”

“Bastard.”

“Love you.”

“Yeah, you too.”

John dropped his phone onto the grass and stared up at the sky. A herd of thin grey clouds drifted past. Off in the distance, he could just make out the shape of a barn – or was it a church? Either way, there were sheep next to it.

A squirrel scurried down a nearby tree trunk and then up another one.

Yawning, he scratched his chin. (Getting scruffy. Hadn’t shaved in two days now.)

“Should prob’ly do some reading,” he mumbled to no one.

A few minutes passed.

He dangled his head back behind his seat and sang quietly: “First produced my pistol… then produced my rapier… said ‘stand and deliver’, for he were a bold deceiver… mush a-ring dum-a do dum-a da…”

Heaving a sigh, he stood up and walked around his tent to dispel pins and needles, then went inside to read his book.

“I am not bored,” he muttered fiercely, staring down at pages that might as well have been blank.

“Oh, but you are, John.”

England’s greatest wizard jumped up, wielding his novel as though it were a club, and dealt a devastating blow to empty air while screaming something along the lines of, “Raargh die die die!”

Then he waited for a moment to see if the voice returned. Tried to determine whether he could sense anything. Nope. Admittedly, that didn’t mean much these days. Lots of beasties and bastards out there had learned how to hide from him.

“Either I’m hallucinating or someone’s pissing me about,” he concluded, placing his hands on his hips. “Chas, mate, I’m sure you would agree that either constitutes a fine reason to leave this fucking tent.”

And leave he did.

He went caving.

The BBC had published an article a couple years back calling the UK’s cave systems its ‘last true wilderness’. He and Chas had had a good long laugh over that, Chas suggesting that John take the caver quoted on an expedition to Faerie or maybe direct him toward any of the two hundred portals to Hell between Plymouth and the Orkney Islands.

But the article had stuck with him. Perhaps it was the obvious love the caver had for his hobby, the clean and simple joy he got out of crawling around in dark, damp holes. John was always drawn to people like that, and not just because it sounded smutty.

(Imagine if he’d loved something clean and simple; gotten into bird-watching or carpentry instead of magic. Would have saved him a lot of hassle.)

Idly, one evening, he’d poked around on the internet – now that, that really was the last true wilderness – until he’d found a map listing all the cave systems in the UK, along with a guide to which were popular, which were dangerous, which were good for a family holiday, and yes (inevitably), which had been the scenes of grisly accidents.

(Wikipedia said that historically there’d been only 136 fatalities ‘associated with recreational caving’ in the UK and that, statistically, it wasn’t a particularly dangerous hobby. Hadn’t stopped him from having vivid dreams about bodies wedged in tiny tunnels miles below ground, cooling and rotting and bloating, except how could they bloat when there simply wasn’t enough room, what happened when…

Anyway, Chas had eventually rescued him from his maudlin musings and dragged him to the pub.)

And while his memory was a messy old thing, especially these days, that just happened to be the sort of useless information that tended to hang around in his head for years, like the words to every song in Sweeney Todd or the rituals required for an exorcism spell that didn’t actually work, doing nothing but taking up space.

There was a cave only a few miles from the campsite.

When he arrived, he beheld a clumsily painted sign nailed to an oak tree next to the entrance:

CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC UNTIL SPRING

NO TRESPASSERS

HAZARDOUS! ENTER AT OWN RISK

He lingered at the cave’s mouth. Though it was big enough for him to stand up in, it made for an unassuming sight. Squirrels played in the old oak with three sets of lovers’ initials carved into it that stood at its left and the pathway leading up to it was strewn with weeds and wildflowers.

“Am I really this stupid?” he pondered aloud, before correcting himself: “Am I really this bored?”

After five minutes’ internal debate, he decided that yes, he was.

He took a step towards the narrow crevice, before stopping himself. No. This was ridiculous. What was he thinking? Shaking his head, he turned and walked away.

Three hours later he was back, now with a good pair of leather boots (stolen from an arsehole in a nearby village), a Power Rangers backpack (given to him by a kid in exchange for a cigarette and some magic tricks), a cheap flashlight, two cans of lager, and a packet of crisps (paid for with the last of his cash).

“Off we go, then,” he said, and marched into the dark.

Like a well-fed leopard on a low-hanging branch, the First of the Fallen lounged across his throne of vertebrae, long black hair dribbling off his broad shoulders and pooling on the ground. Though he was wide awake, his eyes were closed. This, combined with the corpses of three supplicants dangling from nearby steel hooks, would hopefully discourage anyone from bothering him for the next few hours.

“My liege?”

Shit.

He kept still. Said nothing. Perhaps they would go away.

“Um… my liege, I’m terribly, monumentally sorry to disturb you, but…”

With a wave of his claw, the messenger exploded into red mist.

When, ten minutes later, a second messenger summoned up the courage to approach him, he realized that it must be very serious indeed.

“You have five seconds,” he said cordially, holding them up by the neck.

“Con… constantine!” they croaked.

Brightening, the First set them down. “Indeed? What’s the little bastard up to this time, eh?”

“Nothing, my liege. He’s dead.”

A few minutes later, a fourth corpse hung from a hook and the throne of Hell was empty.

To the First of the Fallen, caves were still a novelty.

Confined spaces, in general, were still a novelty.

At 13.6 billion years, he was only slightly younger than the universe. While solid planets had come into existence around the same time, he’d not actually visited one until the emergence of homo sapiens and his subsequent quarrel and falling-out with God – a mere 300,000 years ago.

Cast from Heaven, naked and freezing cold, he’d stumbled into a rocky cranny by the shoreline and wedged himself between its slimy walls. That was his earliest memory of ever being ‘indoors’. No surprise, then, that he avoided such places when he could. He had built no castles in Hell; his throne sat atop a mountain beneath an endless red-gold sky.

But right now, it wasn’t the cave that had his attention, dark and chilly and, yes, slimy as it was.

“Stupid turd,” he grumbled, glowering at the corpse. “Ow!”

He’d bumped his head on the cave ceiling again. It was too low for the average human to stand upright, much less an eight-foot primordial being.

Constantine stared at him, blue eyes blank and glassy. His body was unmarred save for the dent in the left side of his scalp, which had stopped leaking some time ago. As far as the First could tell, his nemesis had simply tripped and fallen onto an unfortunately positioned, unfortunately sharp rock.

The First spat on his tie and snarled, “Pathetic! What the fuck are you even doing here, eh? And – God’s hairy bollocks, when did you last bathe?”

His soul was still dangling off him, like drool from a dog’s mouth. Heaven, obviously, had no interest in him and the First hadn’t yet authorised his admission into Hell.

Because he wasn’t ready, dammit.

He’d not been expecting to welcome John home for at least another thirty years.

“Always have to make it difficult, don’t you?”

When he reached down to take hold of the soul – such a grubby, tattered thing – it bit, blazing gold for a sliver of an instant before he snatched his hand back. Stuck his index finger in his mouth until the sting abated. Fumed.

He tried again, grasping it firmly, as one might a snake. It thrashed. He gave it a disciplinary shake before opening Constantine’s mouth with a claw and forcing it down his gullet.

Coming back to life was never enjoyable. Constantine spasmed and gurgled, legs and arms contorting as pink foam gathered at his lips. The First, bored, sat down beside him, reclining against the cave wall with one knee crooked. Surveyed their surroundings. The ground was – oh dear – littered with crisp crumbs, an empty foil packet, two cans, and dozens of cigarette butts. How foul.

“Disaster in your wake, as ever,” he commented, tutting.

Constantine groaned, eyelashes fluttering.

Belatedly realizing that he wouldn’t be able to see in this subterranean gloom, and very much wanting to afflict him with the identity of his saviour, the First snapped his fingers. A dozen lit candles appeared across the cavern, hovering ghost-like in mid-air.

“Urgh… fffu… whu… oh, Christ Almighty.”

Watching him sit up, the First assumed a lordly expression, tilting his head. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

Unhealthily pale skin and facial muscles stretched and twisted to an indeterminable end.

Then John Constantine set his jaw.

Growled: “I’m on holiday, you bellend.”

And passed out.

He awoke to the smell of slightly burnt waffles.

Better than burnt flesh, which was what he’d anticipated after His Infernal Bloody Majesty had popped in for a fag and a chat. Certainly better than sulphur.

“For you,” the First of the Fallen purred.

A white plate – averagely-sized but rendered absurdly dainty by the dimensions of the clawed fingers holding it – was set down in front of him.

He frowned at its golden-brown contents. “The catch?”

“No catch. I was peckish. I imagine you are, too.”

“Come on. Not in the mood. Did you piss on ‘em? Did you mix a baby’s blood into the batter?”

“Honestly, John.”

Scratching his chin, he reviewed the facts. Still in the same sodding cave, albeit far better illuminated than the last time he’d been conscious. Alive, but with that unmistakable stiffness that he’d come to associate with having recently been dead. Cold. Irritable.

Hungry.

His archenemy’s smug smile was almost enough to make him spit the first bite back out. Instinct borne from months of extreme poverty forced him to swallow instead.

“Tastes like shit,” he remarked, wiping his lips. “But I suppose you usually have minions to prepare food for you. Where’s the syrup?”

A regal sigh, before a bottle appeared beside the plate. He emptied a third of it and spent the next few minutes in delicious, sticky silence.

There were, as ever, consequences to allowing the First of the Fallen centre stage. The moment the big smelly git realised that John really wasn’t in the mood for banter, he waved a hand and conjured up a thin hardback with Into the Underworld: The Amateur’s Guide to Caving in Britain on the front.

As John rolled his eyes and stuffed another waffle into his mouth, the First cleared his throat and read: “‘According to the National Speleological Society, the minimum number of people required to safely embark on a recreational caving expedition is four – at least one of whom should have prior caving experience.’ Did you know that, John?”

John chewed sullenly.

“I did. I’d wager that most people do. At least, I’d wager that most people know that going caving in groups smaller than two – going caving alone – is wildly inadvisable. Caves are dangerous, John.”

Where were his cigarettes? Had the bastard nicked them?

“And… let’s see – ah! Here we are. ‘There is a great deal of commercial equipment available to a first-time caver, some of which is necessary, some of which is not. Two items, however, that are absolutely non-negotiable are a helmet and a helmet-mounted light.’ Do you have either of those, John?”

“Do I criticise your fucking hobbies?” he exploded, knowing better, knowing it would only encourage him. Sugary crumbs flew everywhere.

“You do, in fact. Often. And quite understandably. My favourite hobby is murdering your friends, after all.”

John threw the plate at his head.

He’d had a good sense of direction even before he’d learned how to see psychic residue coating streets and walls, left behind by previous travellers. Always scurrying around in places no kid should; subways, sewers, dirty basements, any haunted house his greedy little eye fell upon.

When he’d reached sixteen, burgeoning schizophrenia had muddled him up now and then. Occasionally, it’d even left him standing in streets he didn’t recognise with no earthly idea how he’d got there. PTSD had compounded the problem.

Even so, at fifty plus, he didn’t make a habit of getting lost. Meds, practice, and years of experience meant that he could walk from Chas’s house to Saint Paul’s with a blindfold on.

Long story short: This was embarrassing.

“I’m fairly sure we’re going in circles. That stalactite is very familiar.”

And he certainly wasn’t fucking helping.

(The floating candles, following them like ducklings, were. John’s torch had broken when he’d tripped. Still, he didn’t need the First of the Fallen for light. Could conjure it up himself, no bother. It just made sense to avail himself of a primordial being’s infinite magical resources before dipping into his own, far more limited stockpile.)

“Do you know the way out?” John asked, not breaking his stride.

“I do.”

“Will you tell me where it is?”

“I will not.”

“Then shut up.”

In his defence, John hadn’t thought the cave was big enough to get lost in. It hadn’t looked it from the outside.

But he’d wandered, then crawled, down at least a mile of twisting, increasingly narrow tunnels before getting himself killed. He’d kept meaning to stop; said to himself five times, ‘Okay, Conjob, this is getting stupid, let’s trot our arse back to civilisation’. Then he would notice another crevice wide enough for him to squeeze into.

“Curious place for a holiday,” the First of the Fallen commented after bravely keeping his tongue still for an unprecedented five minutes.

“Curious times we’re living in, innit?”

He hummed in agreement. “Are you really not here for any particular reason? Not – I don’t know – trying to find a missing child abducted by the fae? Searching for a wicked spirit who’s been cursing the local shepherds? Treasure-hunting, perhaps?”

“No.”

“You’re just here.”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“I told you. I’m on holiday. Taking a nice long break.”

“John. We’ve known one another for some time. I am familiar with the ways in which you ‘take a break’. You either go to the pub or you go to several pubs. Attempting to reconnect with nature is hardly your style.”

“Being oblivious to current events – especially shit ones – is hardly your style. Been too busy shaving your chunky arse to pick up a newspaper lately?”

“Print is dying. Besides, you try managing an entire dimension. See how much spare time it leaves you. Honestly, I’m run off my feet most days.”

“So quit.”

“Don’t be silly. What else would I do?”

“I dunno. Could be a camgirl. You’ve got the legs for it.”

“Stop trying to change the subject. Why aren’t you at home?”

John stopped walking and spun to face him. “There’s a plague, you gormless, oblivious prick. I can’t go to the pub. I can’t meet up with me mates. I can’t visit people’s homes to perform exorcisms. I can’t do anything but sit indoors, on my own, for months on end, just watching everything get worse, and that… and that’s not an option. Not for me. I crack too easy. So I got out. Before I killed someone. Now, for the last time, shut up and let me concentrate.”

He bent down to tug off his shoes and socks.

Telepathic magic tended to work best when you were naked. But sod that. Not with the First of the Fuckheads watching. Waffles or no waffles, he did not deserve a treat.

“Oh, is this what we’re doing now? Marvellous! I do love watching your quaint party tricks,” he oozed with a mocking round of applause as John dropped to his knees.

Ignore him.

Taking a deep breath, John let his awareness expand.

It was hard, with the First standing right there. His presence was staggeringly heavy, weighing on the ley lines like an iron ball on a lace hammock. And so alien; elements found nowhere on Earth, bones and muscles formed before Earth had been a glint in God’s eye.

John sneered into the darkness. Piss on that. On him. This was child’s play. Buggered as his brain might be, John Constantine wasn’t going to falter at the sound, scent, or sensation of a mean-spirited old cosmic relic.

Okay, let’s see what we’ve got.

Seven years ago, three people came this way. A family. A woman; her sister; her daughter. They were having fun. The sisters had done this before; the daughter had been begging to come along for years. Afterwards, they were going for pizza. It was a good day.

Two years ago, four people came this way. All friends from work. Well – ‘friends’. One was the company CEO, the other three wanted promotions. Everyone but the boss was miserable. One was arachnophobic.

Eight months ago, a… sheep? Yeah. A sheep. Barely more than a lamb. It was lost. There was a storm and it came down here looking for shelter. Went too deep. By the time the shepherd found it, it was half-starved.

“John? What are you-…”

Ignore him.

Ten years ago, another family. Fifty years ago, a frightened child running from a monstrous father. And others – a hundred others – a thousand. The cave had a rich and storied history. Almost against his will and entirely against his better judgement, John followed its threads through the rock layers, chasing faded ghosts, brushing up against magic so ancient it had fossilised.

“John!”

Ignore him. Ignore him. Ignore-

His head was ringing. His blood was on fire.

Fuck, I’ve gone too far, too bloody deep, fuck, oh fuck.

“Constantine! Heed me!”

His eyes snapped open.

“Ah,” he said.

“Precisely,” said the First of the Fallen, who was holding him up by his coat collar like a jizz rag in need of a bin.

The cave had changed.

It was brighter, thanks to a small, well-constructed fire in its centre.

The walls were covered in paintings. Deer. Hogs. Great red and brown bulls.

A woman sat in the corner, wrapped in furs, adding detail to what might have been a fox. She didn’t seem to have noticed them.

“Did you mean to do that?” the First of the Fallen queried.

“In thirty thousand years, a monk will come down here and find them. He’ll be horrified, believing that they’re the work of… well, me. So he’ll leave and return with water in buckets and scrubbing brushes. As he lies on his deathbed, he will be firmly under the impression that this great good deed will grant him entrance into Paradise.”

The First of the Fallen paused for effect, then added, “Alas, he will be mistaken.”

Without looking away from her work, the woman spoke several words in a language miles removed from any contemporary tongue John had ever heard.

“The young lady says she doesn’t mind spirits wandering her caves, but requests that we don’t chatter while she’s trying to concentrate.”

Crouching next to freshly-etched cow and her calf, feeling uncharacteristically dazzled, John said, “Ask her if I can take a picture. Ask her!”

“Homo neanderthalensis, John. She won’t have the faintest idea what you mean.”

Rolling his eyes, he fished his phone out of his trenchcoat pocket and waved it at her. When she deliberately ignored him, he shrugged and took the shot.

The flash won her attention. She stood – revealing a faded seashell necklace and a long, curving scar across her left thigh – and approached them, limping slightly. John held out the phone to show her the picture and, after a resoundingly unimpressed inspection, she uttered a terse sentence.

“She’s unsure why the sickly-looking spirit thinks shrinking her beasts in any way improves them,” said the First of the Fallen.

The woman raised her head (hard to tell how old she was; younger than him, definitely) and looked John in the eye, squinting. Another few sentences followed, some of which sounded like questions.

Sarcastic questions, unless he was mistaken.

“She asks if you shrink them because large beasts frighten you. She speculates that, if the only beasts you can bear to approach are scrawny ones, it’s no wonder that you yourself are such a measly creature. She says that she too was scared of bulls when she was a child, but that her mother taught her not to be. She wonders why your mother failed you in this regard. Should I tell her your mother died in childbirth, John?”

“Stick your head up your own arse and choke. But ask her name first.”

Tossing back his thick black hair, he scoffed. “Why? What does it matter? She’s a primitive, doomed creature and she’s not even really here. This is just one of the cave’s memories.”

“Christ – are you jealous I’m talking to her more than I’m talking to you? Because that’s fucking inane. This is a one-in-a-lifetime type deal. I’ve never spoken to a legit bloody Neanderthal. I speak to you all the blasted time, more’s the pity.”

Yellow eyes narrowed. “Maybe I’ll kill her.”

John laughed. “You said it, squire; she’s a memory. You can’t kill her. She’s long dead. Now shut up.”

He wasn’t able to learn her name. Still, via pantomime and pointing, he eventually managed to convey his desire to find a way out of the cave – or so, at least, it seemed.

She took a bundle of sticks from beside her fire, lit them, and walked towards the nearest inky-black tunnel.

“See?” he said to the First of the Fallen as they followed her. “Politeness. All it takes.”

“Don’t act like you have any real idea what’s going on. She could be leading you straight into a trap. You’re aware, I’m sure, that archaeologists generally agree Neanderthals practised cannibalism? Ten muscular relatives might be waiting right around the corner with clubs and a cooking pot.”

“For fuck’s sake – I have literally stood and watched you slouching on that colossally pathetic bone throne of yours and nibbling the edge of someone’s pelvis like it was a turkey drumstick. Loathsome bloody hypocrite.”

“That doesn’t remotely count as cannibalism, John. That was a human pelvis. I’m not a human. I’m the prototype. A species of one. Which, I suppose, means it’s technically impossible for me to commit cannibalism. Hmm. What an interesting philosophical notion.”

Walking a short way ahead, bare feet soundless against the rock, their new self-appointed guide said something.

“What was that?” John whispered.

“‘If you must burden my ears by bickering like children, you could at least do it in a language I can understand’. Then she called us a rude word.”

Then the First of the Fallen spoke several sentences in his usual bored, drawling cadence and, to John’s surprise, she laughed.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” the First of the Fallen said, innocently.

“I’m serious, bastard. What’re you saying to her?”

“Nothing important, John, really.”

More than once after that, he caught her glancing back at them and snickering.

The artist and the twisting stone galleries through which she led them – it couldn’t possibly have all been hers; the monk had destroyed the work of generations – were insufficient to keep John’s mind from straying back to important matters.

“Hey. Ponce. What’ve you done with my cigarettes?”

The First of the Fallen had plucked them from his trenchcoat pocket while he was unconscious. When it came to his sorcerer, he’d learned, you always wanted a bargaining chip to hand.

“We’re in the company of one whose lungs are as yet unsullied by the Industrial Revolution, Constantine. Are you really planning on exposing her to second-hand smoke?”

It was a prospect John, it seemed, hadn’t even considered. Obviously angry with himself for that (oh John), he snapped, “No! I was – it’s – look, she can’t get lung cancer, can she? She’s dead. Doesn’t matter what she breathes in now.”

Smothering a smile, the First of the Fallen said, “Oh? So the fact that she won’t actually perish upon inhaling your fumes is all that matters, is it? Never mind her comfort or dignity, I suppose; as long as you don’t have to clean up another corpse.”

Nostrils flared. Fists clenched. Blue eyes gleamed with something hotter and even more violent than divine wrath.

“Like you give a shit about her,” John growled.

So much in this miserable world reminds me of Heaven. The grass. The sky. The beauty. You alone remind me of the time before Heaven; that bizarre, unpredictable time when there were no rules, no beauty, only feelings, only sudden bursts of light, fierce and erratic, cutting through the void.

“Or anyone,” John continued, gathering steam. Nicotine withdrawal, the First of the Fallen suspected, was kicking in. “Remind me, what was that you said the day we met? ‘To be mortal is to be stupid, proud, conceited – and ultimately pathetic’. You showed your hand, idiot; you loathe us all. Ergo, any taunts that depend on you concealing that are a total bust. Forget about the ciggies. If they’ve been anywhere near you, I don’t want ‘em.”

For years, the First of the Fallen had secretly hoped John had forgotten his, in hindsight, ill-considered words.

(He’d meant every one of them, but at the time he’d been trying to come off as a Gentleman Devil, the quintessential Man of Wealth and Taste, affable and urbane, not a bitter, angry old monster.)

Should have known better. John was so foolishly protective when it came to humanity as an abstract concept, even while his attitude towards actual humans tended to be far more variable. He’d probably been furiously gnawing on that phrase – ‘ultimately pathetic’ – like a dog with a bone for thirty years.

Thirty years.

Was that really all the time they’d known one another? John Constantine, his Constantine, He Who Was Most Hated… a mere thirty year acquaintance?

“What’re you laughing at?”

“Heh. Nothing, John. Reminiscing, that’s all.”

“About what? Poor old Brendan?”

Brendan, Brendan. Who -? Oh yes. John’s friend. The one who’d sold his soul. The catalyst, in fact, for their meeting. Pity the bastard was in Heaven; he’d have liked to thank him.

“You see these?” said the artist, holding up her torch to illuminate a painted wolf pack. “My grandfather did these.”

“What’s she saying?” John demanded.

As the First of the Fallen translated, he gazed dispassionately at her.

The first time he’d encountered a human, they’d looked much the same. Small. Unremarkable. Clad in skins and hardened from a life exposed to this planet’s weather (he personally hated weather and had made sure there was no such thing in Hell).

Mind you, the ones he’d run into while naked and terrified and still injured from being swatted down to Earth like some insect had been much less hospitable. They hadn’t known what he was; only that he was wrong. When he’d tried to approach their campfire, they’d thrown stones at him. Slaying them all hadn’t even occurred to him. Father had said that they were precious and at that stage, he’d still given a toss about His rules. Instead, he’d slunk away.

Catching food wasn’t a problem. He was faster than any buck or bird. It was loneliness, not hunger, that drove him to try again, and again, and again. In time, they grew used to him. Even showed him kindness. They had an extraordinary capacity for that. (For all that it was so often conditional and withdrawn the moment one became too strange or too frightening.)

But he’d never grown used to them. They were, at heart, creatures of community. And he simply wasn’t. He was a species of one. The prototype. He’d always been alone but for God’s company, and adjusting to life as a member of a tribe had proved impossible. Their norms, their traditions, their complicated etiquette – it had all bewildered him, then intimidated him, then irritated him. That, combined with his ageless body and supernatural strength, had driven an inevitable wedge between them, and he’d returned to the wilderness to wander alone.

He considered telling John that story.

(Why not? He’d told him everything else and the idea that his nemesis might have an incomplete view of him was, for some reason, concerning.)

Then he considered John’s likely reaction. The curled lip. The scornful snort. “What, you looking for pity? ‘Boo-hoo, my rotten childhood turned me into a git’? Hah! Jog on, squire.”

No. John’s hatred was a hard-won prize. John’s contempt was to be avoided at all costs.

“You realise most people aren’t allowed down here,” the artist said, glancing his way. She was shorter than John, who himself was slightly shorter than the average man; her eyes were level with the First’s navel. “Only elders and those who’ve earned the right. There are grave penalties awaiting any who sneak in.”

“Really?” he replied, interested only in John’s furrowed brow and silent, aggravated attempts to work out what they were saying.

“Yes. Because this place is important. Sacred. When I was young, I spent years dreaming of being allowed to venture this deep. I don’t know the ways of spirits – but I’ll not pretend it doesn’t rankle that you spend more time studying your sickly friend than your surroundings.”

“You’re still young. Compared to me, everyone is.”

“He doesn’t even seem to like you very much. Why are you travelling with him?”

“I don’t know. Why do urine and semen come out the same hole?”

“‘It’s none of your business’ would have sufficed. Are you always this rude? Is that why the sickly one doesn’t like you?”

“No. No, he dislikes me for other reasons.”

“Well, well, well. Hullo,” came John’s voice, and they both realised that he’d stopped walking.

Turning, the First of the Fallen spied his nemesis standing with his hands in his pockets, studying a man dressed like a thirteenth-century peasant.

“Eh? Where did he come from?” the woman asked.

In quavering tones, the peasant said, “Are you angels?”

The First of the Fallen laughed. “John! He’s asking if-…”

“Just because I can’t speak Neanderthal doesn’t mean I don’t know sodding Middle English. Give me an ounce of credit. I’m only a cocking wizard, after all,” John snapped, before addressing the new arrival: “No. Just travellers.”

The peasant’s shoulders slumped. “Oh. I thought maybe God had sent me angels. I’ve been requesting them for several days.”

John shuddered. “Bad idea. Trust me. You don’t want to mess around with that lot.”

“But I need guidance. Protection.”

“From what?”

Eyes wide, the peasant took his hand and clutched it. “My friend, can’t you see? I am being pursued.”

“By who?”

“By demons.”

(to be continued)

#hellblazer #john constantine #chas chandler #first of the fallen #fanfic #my fic

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belladxne · 4 years ago

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i will see you where the shadow ends | chapter 4

[see notes for ao3 and ff links]

part of the put your faith in the light that you cannot see series AU: Breath of the Wild pairing: KiriBaku word count: 5,133

chapter 4: there’s a fog from the past that’s giving me, giving me such a headache

When Eijiro starfishes on the ground at the bottom of the tower, it’s not long before Inko’s leaning down over him, watching him with a fond expression. She’s content to chat with him like that for a minute or so while he gets his bearings, and when he gives an abridged, glossed-over summary of how atrocious fast travel was, she insists that if he lost his lunch he’ll just have to let her cook him a big dinner to make up for it.

“Well, if you’re gonna twist my arm about it,” he laughs gently, though he’s getting a little worried about overexerting her hospitality.

They agree again that it’s only fair he should help gather enough food for their dinner, and he figures it can’t set him back too much to hunt and forage a bit before heading for the nearest shrine. That decided, he dusts himself off from where he’d been slumped on the ground, and makes for the Forest of Spirits.

That’s where Eijiro meets his first Korok.

The little guy almost gives him a heart attack, too—Eijiro’s climbed an odd stone formation in the middle of the forest, hoping for a vantage point to hunt from, and is slightly puzzled by a large rock just… sitting there. It’s kind of huge, maybe bigger than his torso, but not quite big enough to make a good perch, so he doesn’t want to stumble over it while he’s focused on aiming his bow.

He heaves it over his head, just planning to heft it out of his way, when all of a sudden a triumphant little trumpet sounds and Eijiro drops the stone in alarm at an explosion of fairy lights in front of him. He barely hardens the dragonscales on his head fast enough to avoid concussing himself.

“Ya-ha-ha!” the forest spirit cheers, while Eijiro whines and rubs his head. “You found me!” The Korok bounces in absolute joy and utter delight for a moment, before suddenly tilting its head at him in apparent confusion. “Huh? You’re not Hestu!”

“Um,” Eijiro manages. The little spirit sounds so betrayed. “Sorry?”

“You can… see me?” the Korok asks next, apparently more concerned with this fact than with Eijiro’s apology. “I didn’t know your kind could see the children of the forest!”

“I… I guess I didn’t either?” Eijiro answers. It’s probably not strictly true—it’s more like the case of him being dragonblooded. He knows what a Korok is, recognizes one on sight—he’s probably seen them before? But he hasn’t thought about it at all, hadn’t even thought about their existence or the potentiality of meeting one, so he may as well have been blind to them before now.

“Wow!” the little plant cries, awed. Eijiro is glad to see that the betrayal has been left in the past. “You must be very special! Like the Deku Sprout!”

“Thanks?” Eijiro says, and it occurs to him that most of his contributions to this conversatiion have been in a confused and questioning tone. Might as well keep up the streak. “Um, and what is that exactly?” He feels like he should know. The term sounds familiar, like a mental sensation of a word being right on the tip of his tongue.

“Not what,” the Korok gasps, scandalized. “Who! The Deku Sprout is a person! We Koroks love the Deku Sprout. He’s the Great Deku Tree’s successor, and he’s wonderful!”

Oh. Of course—with that, the information does come flooding to mind. A long chain of heroes chosen by the Goddess Farore, with Her blessing passed down between them, tasked with protecting Her creations. Nature in particular, but She’d created all life in the land and this chosen hero was meant to look out for all of it, accordingly. Her magic would grow in them, keeping them strong and youthful until it would begin to overtake them, and they would have to settle in one place as Her magic transformed them into a giant tree—the Great Deku Tree.

And then they would pick another hero worthy of Farore’s blessing—someone to receive a mere sprout of their power, to store and cultivate on their own as they protected the land. That was the origin of the name Deku Sprout, but that name for them was probably more popular among creatures of the forest than regular Hylians. That was why it hadn’t been immediately familiar.

He was pretty sure Hylians had preferred other titles for the role, but the current Great Deku Tree, a legendary hero named All Might, had taken so long to choose a successor that most had forgotten the legends, and the titles with them. Eijiro could vaguely remember that there were tales of how All Might had prolonged his retirement and transformation for so long that he’d gone into his last few battles with bark already overtaking his skin.

“Oh—you’re right, sorry, sorry.” Eijiro nods his acknowledgement and understanding of the Korok’s words. “But… you said I’m like him? I don’t... think I’m the Deku Sprout.”

“Of course not!” The Korok uses a tone that makes it sound like he’s trying to explain a very simple concept to a very silly small child (and the irony is not lost on Eijiro), like Eijiro’s not understanding him on purpose. “The Deku Sprout is in the castle!”

“In… there?” Eijiro asks somewhat dubiously, nodding his head in the direction of Hyrule Castle, though their view is blocked by all the trees in the way. The place doesn’t exactly seem hospitable, clearly.

“Oh, yes!” the forest spirit chatters, clearly eager to gush about this topic. “He’s a hero, Mister! He’s protecting all of us! He’s been fighting the Calamity for a long, long time, but he’ll be back soon! All Might said it won’t be long anymore, and then he’ll come back to the forest.”

In the castle? Holding the Calamity off? “Huh...” Eijiro manages, but it comes out weak and distant to his own ears, as his thoughts race. The voice, his voice, he knows it’s coming from the castle—is that what the voice has been doing, too? It makes sense—he hadn’t said as much, really, but he was asking for Eijiro’s help, and he’d said he was waiting and that the monster was regaining strength. A long time… was he fighting All for One for all of those one hundred years?

“Um, I gotta... go...” he tells the Korok distractedly. He’s got a lot to think about now. For a moment he almost wonders, are his voice and the Deku Sprout one and the same? But, Farore’s associated with green, not golden light, and besides, nature powers wouldn’t let someone talk to him in his head. Unless they would, but it wouldn’t make any sense. So… are they in there together, then?

“Okay!” The Korok seems oblivious to how lost in thought Eijiro has become, dancing excitedly from foot to foot. “But wait! If you run into Hestu, please return this to him.”

Eijiro’s not sure where the seed that the Korok produces came from, since it’s not like the little guy has pockets, but he takes it and stares at it blankly. It’s… literally just a seed. There’s probably a lot of others like it. He has no idea why he’s being tasked with this. “Um… okay? But I don’t know who Hestu is.”

“Doesn’t matter! You’ll know him if you see him. You can’t miss him!”

Eijiro figures he might as well just accept it.

He returns from hunting with three Korok seeds in his pockets, and two foxes that he’d managed to catch—which he skins and cuts up for Inko to begin cooking into stew before he finally steels himself for the next shrine. Inko thanks him warmly and sees him off, but there’s something tense in her demeanor.

Her eyes seem tight with worry, but when Eijiro tries to ask what’s wrong she just waves him off and makes him promise to be safe. He doesn’t hesitate to give her his word—he couldn’t bear to make her worry, but really, as uneasy as he is about the shrines, he knows he can handle them.

The ruins aren’t far from Inko’s home at all—honestly, he’s had to pass them at a distance, a bunch. It doesn’t take him long to make his way to them, and they’re surrounded by… odd shapes of some sort, the kind he’s seen dotted around the Great Plateau in several places, but this is the closest he’s actually gotten to any of them. They’re all tarnished and moss-covered, too much so to make out what they might have looked like once, and he can’t figure out what they were for.

Not statues, surely, because their positioning is too random and too haphazard. The only thing he does know, is now that he’s close enough to make out details, they fill him with the most visceral unease and dread he’s ever felt in his life.

He spends a solid minute staring at one, throat dry and palms clammy, before he manages to convince himself to inch closer. There’s no reason he should be so—so—so scared shitless by a hunk of lifeless material. They’re stationary. What’s his problem?

Man up, he chides himself, swallowing roughly as he pokes around one. It’s… not so bad when he gets in close, because he can focus on just the area right in front of him, and ignore the whole shape. It’s made of metal, he realizes, knocking on a scuffed and dulled part of the material and hearing a hollow and muted clang as he does so. Squatting down, he leans a hand against the moss-covered material and peers into one of several openings near the bottom of the shape.

As he runs his hand around the opening, brow furrowed in thought as he tries to piece together what these things are and why they agitate him so much, something comes loose in his hand. Pulling it out, he stares at—a screw?

Something similar had come out of the automatons he’d been forced to fight in the last shrine. Looking up at the shape again, Eijiro bites his lip, his unease building again. Was this another machine just like those? Near the top, he now realizes there’s a circular indent that—that looks like the eyes of the automatons, where their lasers had fired from.

Eijiro blanches.

He can’t imagine what machines of this size would do—what kind of damage that eyes of that size could cause. He grips the screw he’d pilfered tightly to keep his hand from shaking, and suddenly his fear doesn’t seem as ridiculous or confusing to him now. He’s just glad they’re all clearly defunct. Taking in a shaky, steadying breath, Eijiro stands and backs away quickly, regardless.

He just… doesn’t want to be around them. That’s all.

He skirts around it as he moves further past the battered and half-collapsed walls of what the map tells him used to be the Eastern Abbey. Skirting through one opening, he makes his way into an area clearly far more open than it once was—there’s half of an archway in the center of the space, the only testament to whatever walls once divided this particular area. There are two more of those intimidating defunct machines lodged in the rubble on either side of that arch. Beyond them stands a complete doorway in one of the few whole walls, though its opening is sealed over with debris.

Still, these walls are all cracked and littered with ivy and plantlife, so climbing them won’t be any problem at all. Eijiro’s not worried as he makes his way forward—at least, not about how to get to the shrine. He wishes he didn’t have to walk so closely between the lifeless machines, though.

He’s hardly more than a few steps into the clearing when it happens—the machine on the right, it moves. The top of it rattles and lifts, the whole creation suddenly glowing red as it spins to face him, and then—that fucking sound, like a gong or a hand slamming down on an out of tune piano, and Eijiro—

Eijiro can’t fucking move as the eye lights up piercingly blue and stares him down. His blood turns to ice in his veins and his breath feels solid in his lungs as he tries to choke past it and every muscle in his body draws painfully tense and he can’t—he can’t—

He can’t move and can’t think and he can’t afford to run he has to stay and fight, but there’s no point it’s over he can’t do this they’re going to kill him, they’re going to kill them both, and then they’re going to kill everyone and he can’t stop it he just has to—

The eye shifts colors. The blue’s suddenly deep and dark—a line of red light beams out of it, directly onto Eijiro. A strangled gasp gets caught in his throat, and he runs. Involuntarily he scrambles, nearly tripping over his own legs. He manages to slam himself behind a ruined wall, in the same instant a white-hot beam of light flares past where he’d just been. It blasts into a wall behind him, a sob escaping Eijiro as an explosion of flame and light bursts at the impact point. It sears his skin, even fifteen feet away.

Eijiro presses himself flat to the wall, legs curled close to his chest, face buried in his knees as he struggles for breath. His heart’s pounding so painfully he thinks it’ll break his rib cage and he grips tight around his legs with one arm, his other hand gripping at his own hair tight enough to hurt.

He needs—he needs to—fuck, he has to get away from here, he can’t—he doesn’t know what that thing is but some deeply ingrained part of him must, because he still can’t control the trembling of his limbs or the stinging of his eyes. He can hear it, on the other side of the wall, a constant whirring and deep, menacing humming all paired with a mechanical grating as it turns its head back and forth, searching for him.

He has to go. He knows without trying that his sword would break on this thing before he could get any real damage done. It’s armored, heavily, and even its insides are made of metal. His sword’s fine, but he knows the difference between fine and good or even great. It could never survive an attack on that thing.

He could just… he could continue to use this wall for cover, and get as far as his legs will take him, keeping obstacles between them until he’s gone and doesn’t ever have to do this again. It would be easy. It would be easy, but…

He has to get to that shrine. He has to get off this plateau, and help the voice—fuck, the voice, he’s in the castle, with something so much worse than this stupid, stuck robot that can’t even move. Why the hell can’t Eijiro get himself together? He knocks his forehead against his knees over and over, trying desperately to manage something other than the choked, hiccuping gasps that keep escaping him.

How can—how can he even think about running away from this? If he can’t jump into action now, when it’s his own life on the line and his enemy can’t even move, how is he ever going to help anyone else? How is he ever going to face All for One? The voice… Eijiro’s going to fail him. He can’t give in here.

He still can’t even draw a full breath properly, but he can’t let it stop him. He moves to grab the hilt of his sword, starting to push himself up against the wall beside him before—before—he slumps, sliding back down the wall and onto his ass. His knees are still too weak to hold him, but even if they weren’t, it’s his resolve that failed.

Eijiro knows he can’t fight this thing. He hasn’t seen a weapon on this plateau that could even make a dent. He’s being a coward, he knows, but… but he doesn’t want to die fighting a battle he can’t win. He’ll never help the voice that way. So… so he has to figure out something else.

His mind scrambles through what he knows, trying to figure out something—any piece of information he can use. Think. He tries to comb through what just happened, to pinpoint anything…

It hadn’t targeted him right away. That’s what he realizes first. It had taken a moment, to find him, and only then did the red light flash towards him. And—and it hadn’t fired right away either. The red light had lingered on him, a strange clicking sound emanating from the machine, until a final beep. It had fired a split-second after that. But—but it also hadn’t moved. The line of red light had locked in place after the sound, while Eijiro kept moving, and then it had fired, at where Eijiro had been.

So—so if he moves fast enough…

He can get past this thing.

He doesn’t want to risk getting close to the machine, and he doesn’t want to bet his life on being fast enough to dodge only in that split-second where it can’t track him, but… there are walls littered all around them. The shrine is surrounded on all four sides. If he can just keep to cover, moving faster than the beam can focus in on him, until he can scale that last wall—it won’t be able to target him.

Eijiro has a plan. He can do this.

It goes off without a hitch, more or less, for the first sixty seconds or so. Yeah, he’s scared out of his godsdamned mind the moment he sees the flash of red, every time he sees it—but he only has to sprint through the open twice, and both times are fleeting. He makes it around a corner, out of the thing’s sight, but even as he sags with relief he refuses to believe he’s out of the woods.

The place is littered with the remains of those machines, and now he knows he needs to be wary of all of them. He finds himself at a dead end, walls around him on most sides, so he tries to loosen his muscles and gets to climbing. Despite his protesting muscles, he heaves himself over quickly.

He finds himself a little too out in the open—the machine has a line of sight on him from here, if it thinks to turn around, so he sprints again for the wall to the side of the shrine. It won’t see him from there, at least. But just as soon as he makes it, he sees—there’s another one up ahead. And it gives a shudder.

The second one lights up, its eye turning to Eijiro, and his heart stops.

His heart stops and he runs—he doesn’t freeze up this time, bolting for the wall, and he doesn’t even waste time looking for handholds. He just feels claws overtaking his hands, and he jabs them into the stone with enough force to crack it himself, making his own handholds as he claws his way up. He’s over just as the beam locks on, hurling himself past the wall heedlessly of the fall waiting.

He rolls to dispel as much of his momentum as he can, scales hardening across his skin to absorb what force he can’t, and then—

And then it sinks in. He did it. Part of him wants to whoop for joy but the rest of him is still too breathless and shaky, and he lets himself flop flat on the long grass that’s overtaken the ruins, right at the foot of the shrine. He doesn’t remember if he was the praying type before he woke up in that shrine, but he lays a hand over his pounding heart and thanks each of the Goddesses and Bakusatsuo in turn, earnest and sincere.

Ja Baij Shrine does give him another rune. It won’t get him off the plateau, but it is badass.

He can now summon bombs, two types of them, out of the slate at will. He doesn’t know how often he’ll need that, but just having the option makes him feel pretty damn powerful. Admittedly, the trial this shrine offers is just as easy—maybe easier—than the magnesis trial had been, but he keeps messing it up.

When he first comes in, the adrenaline is only just draining from his system, and all of his limbs feel heavy with exhaustion. The fear response from earlier hasn’t fully left him, either, and it makes his hands just a little shaky—the result is he keeps fumbling his grip on the bombs, not quite judging his throws correctly. Several times he has to stop to take a few deep breaths, shake his hands out, and hope for the best as he attempts the same toss he’s messed up two or three times already.

Still, he gets through it in about the same amount of time, and he endures Ja Baij’s weird purple mist and spontaneous disintegration with only some contained distaste and not outright panic this time. Progress!

When he steps out of the shrine, the same odd energy that’s been humming under his skin since the first one is there still, stronger now. He’s still unsettled by it, but—but whatever it is, the ‘strength of these monks’ spirits’, it’s supposed to help, so he tries not to let it bother him. He steps out into the beginning of sunset, and he realizes—

He’d thought there could be nothing he’d ever hate more than fast travel, and he was so wrong. Standing on the surface of the shrine, realizing he’ll have to get past those looming machines on the other side of the walls, Eijiro doesn’t have to debate long. He pulls out the slate, braces himself, and taps Oman Au Shrine on the map—it’s farther, but like hell is he going to climb down the tower a third time, in this state.

He’s in hell for all of the five seconds it takes him to be ripped across the plateau, but, hey, he doesn’t throw up this time!

Sure, he stumbles to his hands and knees as soon as he arrives, and he has to close his eyes to ride out the waves of nausea that hit him, but he doesn’t even dry heave so he’ll take the win. He takes as many deep breaths as he needs to to calm his stomach, and then he pulls himself to his feet, heading back towards Inko’s home once more.

It’s really nice, to have somewhere that cozy and safe to recoup, after all the worst of today.

Inko looks about ready to cry when he arrives back at her tiny house, two more Korok seeds in his possession. Actually, he can’t be sure she doesn’t actually start crying—he has to look away fast, just in case, before he’s in danger of his own waterworks possibly starting in response to hers.

“Oh, you’re safe, thank goodness,” she breathes, waving him in almost frantically. He can’t even get a word out before she’s ushering him into a seat at her table, and she keeps him there with a hand firmly on his shoulder, not even letting him move to dish his own meal up. She ladles the stew she’s had simmering for the past two hours or so into a bowl herself, and puts it in front of him.

He’s not sure where all the nervous energy comes from, but it doesn’t fully fade through most of the meal, even as they talk over their dinner. Every time she stands—to dish up seconds for either of them, or to grab something across the room—she finds an excuse to touch Eijiro, laying a hand on his back or shoulder. One time, she even strokes his hair, the gesture motherly and caring. It’s like she has to keep reminding herself he’s there and not hurt. Eijiro doesn’t know what to make of it.

It’s well and truly dark out by the time Eijiro finishes eating, and that’s when it finally hits him—

“Oh… I should probably figure out somewhere to camp out for the night.” He hadn’t even thought about it before, and he wishes he’d thought to get set up someplace before it was dark out. Still, he doesn’t think it’ll be too hard. It feels like something he’ll know how to do.

Inko raises her eyebrows at him. “What are you talking about? You’re staying here, of course.”

“Really?” he blurts, surprised and hesitant. “Are… are you sure? You’ve already fed me twice, and given me hair ties, and helped me out so much today, you don’t have to—”

“But I want to, and I will,” she says, firm. It’s hard to argue with her, especially with gratitude swelling in his chest, but…

“I—I really don’t want to be a burden—”

“You could never,” she insists gently, but she leaves little room for argument. “I would never forgive myself if I made you fend for yourself in your situation. You’ll stay here tonight. And tomorrow, if we haven’t figured out how to get you down from the plateau, either. I want to do this for you, and you’re going to let me, young man.”

“Okay...” He swallows, and his voice is not just a little wobbly, thank you very much. “Um… where...”

“You’ll take the bed,” she says without looking at him as she begins to gather their dishes, and Eijiro shakes his head.

“I can’t! I couldn’t make you sleep on the floor, and it’s your house!”

Inko just shakes her head, glancing his way with a warm smile. “You can. I wouldn’t be using it much, anyways. It would be a waste. Trust me, dear, getting old ruins your sleep. You can’t sleep through the night anymore, and you’ll be napping throughout the day no matter what you do. You’ll take the bed.”

“But that’s not fair,” Eijiro protests. “You keep doing so much for me, at least let me repay you by letting you keep your bed.”

Setting their stacked bowls down, Inko reaches across the table to lay a hand over his, regarding him with a fond, no-nonsense look. “Eijiro, honey, you do not have to repay me for a single thing. You deserve a good night’s sleep after the day you’ve had, and I won’t accept no for an answer. Besides, I have some things I want to work on tonight. I think I have an idea how to help you get down safely, so I won’t be sleeping much tonight anyways. I insist, and it will make me happier than any other sort of repayment you could give me.”

Eijiro presses his lips together, and he can feel a lump in his throat. She’s so kind and helpful, and he doesn’t even know what he did to deserve it. Letting him have her food, some of her things, even her bed, and on top of it all she’s planning to lose sleep working on a way to help him tonight. He doesn’t understand but he’ll never forget how much he owes her as long as he lives.

“Why—” He has to clear his throat, voice a little hoarse. “Why are you… so nice? You’re doing so much for me—and I appreciate it! I really, really do! But you don’t even know me, why...”

Inko’s expression softens, and turns just a little sad. She takes a deep breath, and the smile she offers him is heartbreaking.

“You remind me—an awful lot, actually—of my son,” she tells him quietly. She clasps her hands in front of her and her eyes grow distant, but thinking about him clearly brings her so much joy. “I haven’t seen him since he was your age, but you’re just like him. You’re both such sweet, polite boys. It’s—it’s a terribly dangerous world out there, but he’s keeping people safe, just like you want to. You both think so much about other people—and you’re so brave.”

Her voice wavers on the last word and then—and then she’s crying, tears an absolute flood, and before Eijiro realizes it he’s got tears spilling down his cheeks, too. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all r-right,” Inko says, but he can barely make it out through her tears. “Really, it is, I just—I just love him so m-much.”

“I can tell,” Eijiro says, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, but it doesn’t do much to stem the flow of his sympathetic tears. “He’s—he’s got a really great mom.”

“I have a really w-wonderful son,” she responds, and Eijiro can’t see with his hands pressed to his eyes, but he can hear that her weeping is only getting worse, and it just makes his worse in response. “I kn-know he’s thinking about m-me every day, just like I think about him. And that’s why I’m looking after you, Eijiro. I w-want to look after you the same way I’d—I’d hope someone would look after my baby. So just l-let me do that, okay?”

“Okay,” Eijiro just barely manages, his own voice wobbling and wavering just like hers. He pulls his hands away from his eyes to see her frantically trying to stem the flow of her tears with a handkerchief, but it’s not getting her very far.

“Good,” she wails, and together the two of them are a complete and utter mess.

Eventually they manage to pull themselves together, enough so for Inko to finish cleaning up after their dinner and for Eijiro to get ready for bed. He doesn’t have the heart, after all that, to argue with her further, and the complete and utter happiness on her face when he finally starts to climb into the bed makes getting past his hesitation completely worth it. He hopes that wherever her son is, he understands exactly how wholeheartedly wonderful his mother is, and cherishes her appropriately.

By the Goddesses, Eijiro hadn’t realized how exhausted he was after everything until the exact moment his head hits the pillow—he tries to stay awake long enough to plan out how to get to the two shrines left on the plateau tomorrow, but it’s in vain.

The last thing he sees before his eyes shut for good is Inko pulling out a sewing kit and something that looks like a blanket, maybe? It’s vibrant red and has the winged Triforce symbol of Hyrule on it. He doesn’t even have time to wonder how a blanket might help him get down from the plateau before sleep barrels into him with all the force of one of his newly-acquired bombs.

#kiribaku #bakushima #krbk #bkshm #kirishima eijirou #bakugou katsuki #kirishima eijiro #bakugo katsuki #bnha #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #fanfiction #fanfic #fic

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im-fairly-whitty · 5 years ago

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The Witcher Wolf 2: Geralt’s POV

It's been two weeks since Geralt drove Jaskier away from him on that mountain top and Geralt's been doing his best not to think about it by accepting every contract he comes across. But when a job goes badly he find himself cursed into the form of an injured wolf and is then saved by none other than Jaskier himself, who has no idea that the animal he's taken under his wing is his own witcher.

Geralt must now try to alert Jaskier to his real situation and adjust to his new life traveling with the bard, learning several hard but very much needed lessons along the way.

Thank you all for your lovely support and comments on [Part One]! I was going to make part two another oneshot but it keeps getting longer and it feel right to break it into two chapters so here you are, extra content for you all. :)

I wanted to try to focus on scenes that happened in between the ones in Jaskier’s POV so be sure to go back and read that one if you haven't already so you can see where the timelines weave through each other.

Chapter 1

“Good girl Roach, good girl.” Geralt said, panting as he patted the horse’s neck, leaning heavily against her side.

The mare tossed her head, ears still twitching nervously toward the massive carcass toppled in the middle of their camp. Geralt’s eyes stung as the cat elixir slowly wore off, but he could still see faint wisps of steam rising from the hot spilt blood into the cold night air.

Geralt heaved another deep breath and pushed himself off Roach, straightening his back with a crack as he tiredly made his way to the felled creature to get a closer look now that the ugly thing wasn't lunging for his jugular.

And it really was quite ugly, some twisted amalgamation that could have been part boar judging by the tusks, part griffon by the sleek winged body, perhaps even part spider by the dozens of glossy jet-black eyes scattered across its face. At first glance in the dark he’d thought it might have been a fiend, but that assumption hadn’t lasted more than an instant.

At Geralt’s age it was very rare for him to see a creature he didn’t know the name of and even rarer for it to ambush him in his own campsite. He didn’t like to think how close a call it had really been this time, he was lucky he’d already been preparing for the hunt or else it might have been him lying on the ground. Geralt had been accepting any contract he saw for the last two weeks ever since the dragon hunt, eager to get his mind off...things...but with this one he’d assumed the villager’s descriptions had been laced with exaggeration.

They quite clearly hadn’t.

“It reeks of magic.” Geralt said to Roach, placing a boot on the monster’s side and heaving it over with a hefty shove. “Whatever it is, it didn’t come about naturally, that’s for sure. But not something that’s been cursed either I think. I’d wager this was some lunatic’s pet project, magically bred from the start.”

“More pet than project, I can assure you.”

Geralt spun, his sword unsheathed and leveled in an instant, his sword tip pointed at the man who’d appeared at the edge of the clearing behind him. And he must have literally appeared out of thin air, otherwise Geralt’s heightened witcher senses would have detected him a mile off in this state, the dregs of his hunting potions still flowing through him.

“Care to elaborate?” Geralt asked warily, shifting his stance slightly as Roach wisely startled away from them, taking cover in the thick trees beyond the clearing.

The man wore what looked like two expensive outfits of very different and clashing styles mixed into one ensemble, all useless ornamentation and rich textures in swathes of periwinkle and burnt orange. Laced in between were chains dripping with bones, trinkets, and what looked suspiciously like human fingers. Geralt wasn’t sure at all how the man managed even to move in such a cluttered get-up, but his frantically humming medallion was more than enough to let him know that the man wouldn’t have to move at all in order to pose a deadly threat. That and the fact that the man’s scent matched the slain creature’s.

“I’d say the time for elaboration is far past.” The man said, something between anger and grief coloring his voice.

Geralt blinked and the man was kneeling beside the creature, stroking its bristly gold hide as if it were a beloved housecat. Geralt’s too-slow heartbeat picked up a bit at that show of speed, he hadn’t even seen the man move at all.

“You a mage?” Geralt asked, trying to cast his mind back to if he’d ever seen Yennifer display the same ability, but each mage’s favorite tricks seemed to be determined more by their personal style rather than any one curriculum.

“Don’t be crass.” The man said, squinting hatefully at Geralt. “I have far too much self respect to be counted among those political chess players. I much prefer caring for my pets, like poor Truskawka here who you’ve slaughtered. Do you have any idea how many generations it’s taken to perfect her bloodline? And now look at my poor strawberry, cut down in cold blood, just before she was about to have a litter too.”

“Your poor strawberry weighs four tons and has been disemboweling travelers for weeks now.” Geralt said dryly. “Should have kept her on a shorter leash if you really cared for her.”

“I’m not about to take advice on caring from you White Wolf.” The man said, looking Geralt right in the eyes in a way that made a sticky cold feeling drip down his spine. “Your kind only know how to harm.”

With a certain collection of songs ragingly popular across the continent it wasn’t unusual for Geralt to be recognized by his medallion and white hair alone, but he had a creeping feeling that somehow this man didn’t know his moniker because of a tavern tune. He also had the feeling that he somehow knew more about him than just his title.

“So if you’re not a mage then what are you?” Geralt asked, raising his sword a bit, quickly tiring of this increasingly unsettling conversation.

“Angry.” The man said, glaring at Geralt and snapping his fingers in a blinding flash of white light.

***

Geralt was no stranger to passing out in battle—it was something you got used to when you made a profession of competing with monsters to see who could lose the most blood last—but he had never woken up running before.

At first he thought he was dreaming as he slowly filtered back to consciousness, his senses gradually coming back to him as air whipped past him, a dirt road under his feet, but suddenly everything clicked back into place and he skidded to a stop. His chest heaved as he looked around, blinking hard to try and get the last tendrils of grogginess out of his mind.

The sorcerer. He growled as he scented the air, remembering what had knocked him unconscious.

The first rays of sunlight were starting to scrape up across the grey clouds on the horizon, signaling a dawn that meant he must have been wandering blindly for hours by now. The blasted magician must have hit him with some unusually strong spell to disorient him like that, most magic simply rolled off a witcher, but the man had seemed extremely upset at his “pet” having been dispatched. Geralt just had to hurry his way back before he-

Geralt stumbled as he took a step forward, his legs suddenly feeling strangely uncoordinated. He fell on his face, rolling onto his shoulder with a growl that suddenly sounded entirely different than his usual ones.

He looked at his hands and blinked in shock at the large white paws he found instead. He twisted around to get a look at the rest of him...

...only to see the massive white furred body of a wolf.

Geralt sat frozen in the middle of the dirt road, feeling his ears swivel back in canine shock as he struggled to process his discovery.

Well. He’d been right about it being a strong spell he’d been hit with.

A very strong spell.

Geralt got to his (four) feet and shook himself, wincing only momentarily at how disarmingly full bodied the shake was. He was a witcher, he’d seen hundreds of transformations far more gruesome and unsettling than this. He could handle a sorcerer with a sense of irony, he just had to find him and either barter or threaten his way to a cure.

He sniffed the air, nose...er...snout scrunching at how different it felt. He seemed to still have his unnaturally sharp witcher senses, which was a relief, but it still felt different. Somehow. Like...like when he had to buy a new riding saddle. It was still technically a saddle, but different feeling all the same.

He snorted at his own metaphor, the noise coming out in a huffing sneeze. He could practically feel Jaskier’s laughter at both his metaphor clumsiness and at him discovering in that moment that wolves did not roll their eyes, his head instead tipping up and to the side a bit when he tried.

Leave the metaphors to me Geralt, can’t have you putting me out of business with your unprecedented lexical brilliance.

Geralt huffed again, ears flicking back at imaginary Jaskier’s teasing. He scented the air again, searching for the sorcerer’s scent as he did his best not to think about the bard, where he was, or if he was safe. Something he’d gotten in the habit of trying very hard not to think about for the last two weeks.

Besides, he told himself yet again as he trotted down the road, following his own scent trail back the way he’d come, in the end it really was for the best that they’d split up. Jaskier was always annoying him and getting in the way, and...playing that lute incessantly...and...and getting hurt...and...

Geralt’s ear flicked as he heard footsteps approach and he lifted his head to see several men emerge from the woods. They were laughing and chatting amongst themselves, armed with bows and arrows, one had a brace of rabbits slung over his shoulder. An early morning hunting party returning from a successful forage no doubt.

They seemed harmless enough. Being a witcher meant Geralt had built up a sense for what people would end up causing him trouble or not, and with these men he could easily just-

Wait. No.

Geralt remembered the vitally important and brand-new piece of his daily social puzzle an instant too late, and one of the men spotted him.

“Wolf!” The man shouted, knocking an arrow at his bow with expert speed.

Geralt threw himself sideways into the bushes, hearing the whistling hiss and thwack of an arrow lancing into the dirt where he’d stood. He gathered up his limbs as quickly as he could and dashed into the undergrowth, pelting away from the road and the hunters.

He bared his teeth at himself as he ran. Stupid stupid stupid. He was a wolf, an animal. Had he really subconsciously assumed the men might simply ignore him with uneasy sideways glances like they did normally?

People barely tolerated him when he could speak, there was going to be no thin mercy or stiff civility extended to him in this state. He didn’t even have weapons to fight back with. No elixirs or magic signs or even opposable thumbs to save him now. If he didn’t find the sorcerer soon he was going to-

A white hot pain slammed into his shoulder, sending him tumbling into the bushes and sliding haphazardly down a rocky embankment. He gritted down a yelp of pain as he slammed against boulders at the bottom of the dry streambed, decades of training pushing him down and close to the deepest shadows of the boulders as he forced his frantic breathing quieter.

“I think I hit ‘em!” A voice shouted from above. “Dunno where the bastard went, but I swear I hit ‘em.”

“You? Hitting a running wolf?” Another voice guffawed, the bushes rustling. “Your head’s gotten too big from your flask.”

“Shove off, didn’t I get two rabbits this morning?”

“Only because one was old enough to practically roll over on your boots.”

Geralt’s ears twitched as the laughing voices slowly moved away, the sound of crashing brush receding as the hunters took their conversation back to the main road.

As his adrenaline started to ebb Geralt could feel the pain in his shoulder far more clearly, the burning ache creeping across him as he turned to get his first look at it in the growing light of the morning. He knew it was an arrow, had had arrows in him before, but it still didn’t make it much easier to see the blasted thing sprouting from his shoulder.

Especially since he was realizing with a sinking feeling that he had no idea how he was going to get it out.

He could feel a doggish whine spring to his lips as he pushed himself to his feet and accidentally put weight on his bad foreleg, but he choked it back out of habit. He was still in the middle of nowhere with enemies nearby, he couldn’t do anything to further expose himself to danger until he was somewhere safe.

Geralt felt his tail tuck between his legs a little as he looked around, scenting the unfamiliar air. There was certainly no chance of him getting back up the steep embankment, it was going to be enough of a chore to even walk at all across even the uneven rocky stream bed.

He had no way to get back to the sorcerer, no medical supplies, no equipment or way to get to a town where he would be able to find any of those things. Not in this state.

He grit his teeth as he forced himself to take an unsteady step forward. He was a witcher, he could do this. He’d survived this long, hadn’t he? All he had to do was focus on surviving one more hour, and then one more hour after that. That’s how he was going to get through this.

It took some doing to figure out walking on three legs after only having just managed with four, but soon Geralt had picked up an unsteady pace that was getting him across the riverbed in search of cover. He was going to survive this, he was going to be fine.

***

Geralt had now gone three days with that bloody arrow in his shoulder and had long since stopped pretending that things were going to be fine.

He’d managed to wander his way out of the stream bed, had managed to narrowly avoid some drowners he normally could have dispatched without breaking a sweat, and had managed to chew off half the arrow shaft in his exhausted frustration at not being able to treat his own stupid wound which had definitely only made things worse for himself.

Not that he really cared too much anymore though, because at this point he’d logically thought through his situation and had begun coming to terms with the fact that this was was how it ended for Geralt of Rivia. As a wolf he was completely cut off from both outside help and being able to help himself. No one would come looking for a witcher who had last been seen two weeks ago, he’d gone long months before without seeing acquaintances.

He curled up a little tighter in the clearing he’d settled in a few hours ago, the never-ending pain in his shoulder dully pulsing along with his heartbeat. He knew his witcher mutagens were valiantly fighting back infection as well as they could, but he wasn’t invincible. After three days with a wound that kept opening and bleeding around the arrow shaft he knew it was probably only a matter of hours before something deep and deadly finally set in, and that would be the end of it.

The only silver lining he’d been able to find was that as a wolf four days without food or water hadn’t taken the same toll it normally would have. Not that it kept him from forlornly scenting the prey animals that trailed through the brush around him, maddeningly close and completely out of reach.

Geralt stared at the ground, head resting on his useless wolf paws.

He missed Roach, having been unable to stop worrying about her being left alone in the woods with the psychopath who’d cursed him. Hopefully she’d at least stayed far enough away that he’d ignored her.

And he missed Jaskier.

Geralt let out a long whine, having given up being quiet a day or two ago. He never liked to admit it to himself, but as the years had gone by Geralt had come to enjoy his times traveling alone less and less.

As gruffly as he treated his bard sometimes he always felt more lonely than usual whenever they parted ways, somehow missing the man’s incessant prattling and singing and bothering and smiling and interfering. There was no way to count how many wounds Jaskier had stitched up for Geralt over the last twenty-two years too. His careful, even stitching and gentle chastising left far less of a scar than Geralt’s rough and hasty work always did.

And now the last time he ever saw his bard would be that awful day on the mountain, something that still made his stomach sour whenever he accidentally forgot not to think about it. Of the way Jaskier’s face had fallen. Of the immediate regret Geralt had felt, but that he’d smothered down under his anger. Of the way he hadn’t immediately tracked Jaskier back down the mountain when the bard hadn’t returned by the next morning.

Because for the first time Jaskier had actually left after Geralt had snapped at him. And how could Geralt follow after him if he’d really left?

But it didn’t matter anymore, because-

Geralt startled into a surprised snarl as his flagging senses warned him of danger too late, his attacker already nearly falling on top of him. He lurched painfully to the side, a shot of adrenaline coursing through him as he spun to see...

...Jaskier?

Geralt blinked in shock as Jaskier tumbled to the ground across the small clearing from him, yelling and clutching at his lute like a shield, looking as surprised at Geralt was.

“Sorry, very terribly sorry to bother you.” Jaskier said weakly, smelling of fear. “I was trying to find someplace to camp and I was wandering and wasn’t looking where I was going and I didn’t mean- Really that arrow business looks like it hurts, how long have you had that nasty thing stuck in you?”

Geralt’s brain scrambled to process what was happening. Jaskier was here and talking to him normally, did he recognize him despite his canine form? Had Yennifer somehow sensed what had happened and sent Jaskier to fetch him?

But no, it couldn’t be, not with the fear he could smell on Jaskier. Jaskier was frightened all the time, but Geralt had never smelled Jaskier’s fear directed at him before. It made him feel sick. Jaskier must really think he was just a regular wolf.

Perhaps it was the fact that Geralt had just resigned himself to death only to be shocked back to hope, or the fact he’d gone four days without food or water, or just the surreal feeling of it all, but instead of reacting intelligently he found himself just watching the bard, tucking his aching wounded leg closer.

“Say you’re not bad for a wolf.” Jaskier said, his voice getting softer as he started to edge closer. “What if I took a look at-”

Geralt’s habitual annoyance with the bard resurfaced all at once, resulting in a growl that stopped Jaskier’s approach. What on earth was he doing? If Geralt really was a wild injured animal then his current behavior would be the perfect way to get his face bitten off. How Jaskier survived when Geralt wasn’t around to yank him back from poor choices was truly beyond his comprehension. If Geralt could speak right now he’d be getting the lecture of his life.

But Jaskier, being Jaskier, was of course stupidly undeterred, instead keeping his voice puppy soft and high pitched as he rambled on, even digging some dried rabbit meat out of his pouch and tossing it to Geralt.

For a moment Geralt was tempted to mock lunge at the bard, give him a bit of a scare to try and teach him some badly needed self-preservation. Teach him to stay away from things that would only harm him.

…just like he’d done on the mountain?

The uncomfortable realization jolted enough common sense into him that he ate the rabbit jerky without protest and lay still, allowing Jaskier to approach. Larger concerns about Jaskier’s sense of danger aside, Geralt was not a real wolf, and he did very badly need help. If Jaskier had found him and was willing to provide that, then Geralt would be a fool not to shut up and accept it.

“That’s it, there’s a good boy.” Jaskier said gently, getting close enough to pet him, which Geralt endured long-sufferingly. “You know I’m not sure you’re much of a wolf at all. There’s no way I’d still have both my hands at this point if you were really wild. For which I thank you by the way, playing the lute one-handed isn’t a skill I have much interest in picking up. You act more like some kind of massive dog, did you have a human family that raised you? Have you been abandoned by your person?”

Geralt still smelled fear, but not nearly as strong as Jaskier’s curiosity and excitement now. The fool was probably already planning a song about this.

Geralt growled at him. Just get on with it already.

“You know you remind me very much of a friend of mine.” Jaskier said with a wry smile that quickly dropped away. “Or, acquaintance I suppose, he never did anything but growl either. In fact you’re probably much more in tune with your emotions than he is I’ll bet, although most rocks probably are if I’m being strictly honest. The man’s really a complete imbecile.”

Geralt snarled, tired and insulted. Did Jaskier bad mouth him behind his back to every woodland creature he met? It was no secret Geralt wasn’t as outwardly emotional or articulate as some people, gods knew Jaskier had never hesitated to tell him so. Albeit in far more teasing terms than this.

“Alright, so here’s my terrible plan.” Jaskier said, ignoring his snarl entirely. As usual. “I’m going to try and remove this arrow, which is going to hurt terribly, and then I’m going to patch you up. I’d be extremely grateful if you didn’t dismember me in any way while I do, but if you can’t help yourself I suppose that’s fair.” He shrugged. “I’m not in a very self-preserving mood at the moment, so I suppose a final act of misguided heroism isn’t the worst way to go. The last white wolf I hung around mauled me emotionally, so actually it would be terribly poetic if you did finish the job physically.”

Geralt’s growl trailed off at that. “Mauled” was a bit harsh... Geralt had gotten angry, had taken out his anger on Jaskier unfairly yes, after two weeks of regret Geralt was willing to admit that. But Jaskier’s wry tone of voice wasn’t the kind he used when he was exaggerating for dramatic effect.

Had Geralt been able to speak he probably still wouldn’t have, choosing to sidestep the uncomfortable emotion. Thankfully as a wolf he didn’t have to choose, instead focusing on sitting still and quiet as Jaskier finally finally set to work removing the arrow from his shoulder and treating it, rambling the entire time as he always did when he helped patch up Geralt. Geralt was too focused on gritting his teeth against the pain to hear most of what Jaskier was saying, but found himself grateful for the familiar chatter nonetheless.

“There we go.” Jaskier said as he finished wrapping the wound. “Nothing like impromptu feral veterinary care to get the old heart pumping, eh?”

Geralt sighed quietly, exhaustion and relief sweeping through him to finally have the wound cared for. He wished he could mutter his customary “thanks.”

“You’re sulking.” Jaskier accused, petting his head.

Geralt huffed, shaking off the patronizing hand. He was not sulking, he was tired. And a wolf.

“Yes you are,” Jaskier insisted with a smile. “I know that look anywhere. Probably terribly embarrassing to be the king of the forest and have to accept help from a lowly human bard eh? Well I suppose wolves aren’t really the king, not if there’s griffins or something about.”

Geralt stared at him, all kinds of blunt corrections about biologically correct monster food chain structures running uselessly through his head. Instead his annoyance had to be communicated by shifting himself to face away from the bard and his obnoxious declarations.

“That settles it.” Jaskier declared as he started to gather sticks, evidently unbothered by Geralt’s huffing. “I’m calling you Geralt Junior. The both of you would get along splendidly in your stubborn grumpiness.”

Geralt looked up. He was Geralt, if he could just get Jaskier to realize that.

“Geralt Junior? You like that name?” Jaskier asked with a grin, seeing his reaction.

Geralt hauled himself to his feet. His shoulder was already feeling better as it started to mend in earnest, but not fast enough, making him stumble when he tried walking toward Jaskier.

“Whoa whoa hey, settle.” Jaskier said quickly, dropping his armful of sticks and kneeling beside him, carefully pushing him back down. “Lay down, stay. You shouldn’t be walking any more tonight, you’ve got to heal alright? Lay down boy, do you know commands?”

Geralt stayed down with a growl, hiding his nose under his paws in frustration.

“That’s right, you go back to sulking, Geralt Junior.” Jaskier said happily, evidently none the wiser as he tried to pet Geralt’s head again.

Geralt shook his hand off, trying to focus on said sulking. If he was going to get Jaskier to realize it was really him he was going to have to try harder.

***

Geralt woke up long before Jaskier did and decided to celebrate his shoulder already feeling far better by scratching around in the ashes of the fire. It was messy, but by the time Jaskier woke up he’d managed to scratch out a decently legible “Geralt” in charcoal across the ground.

Not legible enough though apparently, since the bard of course barely even glanced at his work as he cheerfully greeted him upon waking. Geralt felt fully justified in his sulking after that, sticking around only long enough for his bandages to be removed before trotting off into the trees to find a stream for a much needed swim, not having bathed since before slaying the beast that started this whole mess nearly a week ago.

The bath ended up lifting his spirits far more than anticipated, the ashes and blood finally gone and his fur coat drying to an ivory shine in the summer sun. His upswing in mood definitely also had to do with the fact that the pain in his shoulder was quickly fading and that he was no longer hopeless and alone.

It was easy to keep tabs on Jaskier’s noisy progress down the road throughout the day, making it simple enough for Geralt to keep nearby as he wandered the woods. Now that he was finally able to move freely again it only made sense that he take a day on his own to really get used to how this new body worked.

By the time evening arrived Geralt was capable enough to hunt down a couple rabbits with no weapon but his teeth on his way back to Jaskier for the night, and the look of delighted surprise he got for it nearly made the last four days of pain worth it.

“So you’re not sick of me after all, huh?” Jaskier grinned. “I’m truly flattered you know.”

Geralt allowed himself a single tail wag in place of a smile as he dropped the rabbits at the bard’s feet. Had Jaskier actually thought he’d gone? That he wasn’t going to come back for him?

The silly bard.

***

Geralt was used to entering towns and villages with a sense of cautious unease, a lifetime of being a Witcher having taught him the hard way to be on guard around humans, but he couldn’t recall the last time he’d been afraid like he was as he went into town with Jaskier the next day.

Perhaps it was some element of animal caution that came with his new form that had him so on edge as he stuck to his bard’s side, but mostly it was the knowledge that he was literally helpless if something went wrong.

As a Witcher he could bully his way through most trouble with a stern look at best and his twin swords at worst, but as a wolf the only defense he had against the wary eyes of the villagers around him was Jaskier’s reassuring presence and the “collar” around his neck. If something went wrong Geralt wouldn’t even be able to defend himself without putting Jaskier in danger of retaliation. There would be no galloping off on Roach this time, whatever happened would result in Jaskier taking the full consequences.

And yet Jaskier still pressed on, letting Geralt even come into the inn with him and vouching for his character despite not at all knowing that Geralt wasn’t really a wild animal after all. All in all the bard’s behavior was reckless and stupid, this kind of thing never would have been allowed had Geralt been a person, but as it was he could only be grateful for it. He’d die before admitting that the thought of being left out in the yard where any number of humans could take another shot at him while defenseless terrified him. The least he could do to show his gratitude was to shoulder his pride and play along with Jaskier’s plan, acting as tame and doggish as he knew how in order to gain the innkeeper's approval.

And it worked, the innkeeper handed over a room key and Jaskier was soon leading them to their room, dumping their things on the low bed and smelling of as much relief as Geralt felt.

“Well it’ll be supper time soon, so I’d better head downstairs to earn some coin.” Jaskier said, unpacking his lute from its case and tuning a few strings. “It might be best for you to stay up here since I don’t know how many people will be around tonight.”

Geralt got to his feet from where he’d been lying by the fireplace, leaning against Jaskier’s leg and looking up at him as pleadingly as he knew how. He’d noticed himself becoming far more outwardly expressive than normal, but with no other form of communication available to him he had no other choice. Monosyllabic grunts giving way to overstated body language to get his point across in ways Jaskier would hopefully understand.

“...or you can come down with me.” Jaskier said with a wry smile at his behavior, petting his head. “Really Geralt Junior, I had no idea wolves were so clingy. I certainly wouldn’t mind the company though.”

Geralt shook himself with a whine. He wasn’t being clingy, he just didn’t want to be left alone locked in a room all night. Could he really be blamed for that?

As they descended the stairs to the main area Geralt looked around at the evening crowd of patrons, scenting the busy evening air. Normally at this point he’d leave Jaskier to set up shop in the center of the tavern area and head to the back of the room. Somewhere out of the way that he could keep an eye on the bard’s performance while being left alone to his own meal and drink in relative peace. As popular as Jaskier’s witcher-themed songs were, he knew that having a real witcher sitting beside him would only hurt his chances at getting coin. No, much better for both of them if Geralt minded his own business in the back of the room.

Besides, he didn’t mind the frequent moments he’d catch Jaskier looking for him in the crowd during his performances, meeting his eye with a smile and a wink.

But tonight was different, and as Jaskier settled on a stool and cheerily began playing his lute Geralt found himself curling up at the bard’s feet. Jaskier started off with a jaunty tune that soon got the crowd’s attention, people looking up from their conversations and meals with smiles to get a look at who was performing tonight. That didn’t surprise Geralt one bit, in his (very) private opinion Jaskier was the most talented performer he’d seen or heard in all his decades of travel, especially as the years had gone on to sharpen his talents.

What did surprise Geralt was how long the audience’s gazes lingered not on the bard but on him. Specifically kind, surprised and intrigued expressions.

Geralt fought to keep from ducking his head, forcing himself to remain stoic as onlookers started to gather as Jaskier’s performance went on, but it was starting to get downright unnerving.

Because no matter where Geralt looked in the crowd he couldn’t find a single look of disgust, annoyance, or fear. Not even a nervous attempt at casualness, the expression he was most used to seeing directed at him. It almost made Geralt wonder if he’d become invisible on top of becoming a wolf, it made far more sense for these kinds of expressions to be directed at Jaskier.

“Doggie!”

Geralt’s ears pricked and his head tilted a bit as he heard an excited young voice in the crowd, small enough that likely only he could hear it over the noise. He peered through the legs of the audience to see a little girl straining to get away from her mother, pulling toward him.

“Sarah no, you don’t know that dog and his owner is performing, you stay right here.” came the hushed voice of her mother from the back of the crowd.

“But I want to pet him!” The girl cried. “He’s nice!”

Geralt saw the moment that the little girl squirmed out of her mother's grip and as she slipped through the crowd. His eyes were still wide in shock as she threw herself right at him with a delighted giggle. Geralt sat stock still for a long moment.

He had...never...been hugged by a child...

Never.

He’d saved hundreds over the years of course, from all kinds of dangers. Had even carried them, screaming, crying, and all too often silent with death back to their parents to be handed off as quickly as possible. Sometimes in exchange for a hurried thanks, sometimes a gruff dispute over coin, sometimes for nothing more than a frightened slur thrown back in his face to get away from them.

Because everyone knew that witchers stole children, all the important bedtime stories and old wives tales said so. Children and cats always knew a Witcher was coming before adults did too, their simple natures sensing something unnatural approaching, sending them scrambling out of the way with instinctive fear. Geralt had never thought to resent children for being frightened of him, they were vulnerable and needed to be cautious in this world. This was just the way things were. It was no blow to him.

But as the little girl hugged his neck and whispered delighted childish praise in his ear he felt something inside him give way, opening an empty, hollow place in his heart he hadn’t even realized was there. But one that must have been there this whole time.

A happy whine escaped him and his tail swished across the floor as he nosed at the little girl’s ear, making her laugh. Had he ever made a child laugh?

He found himself thinking, not for the first time, about his child surprise. The promised child bound to him by an ill-worded agreement and supposedly destiny. The young prince or princess would probably be about the same age as the little girl by now, wouldn’t they?

But then all too soon her mother was there, yanking her away from him crossly, apologizing to Jaskier as she hauled her daughter back.

“Not a problem ma’am, as you can see he’s quite tame.” Jaskier said with a dazzling smile.

As Geralt came back to himself and looked up at the bard he realized the poor man reeked of well-hidden fear. If Geralt could have laughed he would have, instead panting happily. Because of course Jaskier had only seen a young girl fall on a wolf of unknown character that he’d stupidly brought into a tavern, trying to pass it off as an old pet. Geralt was glad he had, and the bard of course had had nothing to worry about, but just the same he was aching to be able to tease Jaskier for the scare he’d gotten.

Jaskier quickly picked up the rest of his song, ending his performance well enough to get a hearty round of applause that ended in a more than decent offering of coin before the crowd happily dispersed.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you for being so tame.” Jaskier said in a hushed tone, dropping to one knee in front of him and stroking his head. “Gods above, I thought we were finished for a moment there, you’re truly a magnificently patient beast.”

Geralt ducked his head away from the attention, but really only on principle at this point. His tail was still wagging as he followed the bard to the table where the innkeeper had set out a meal of stew for Jaskier, and a wooden bowl of scraps for Geralt.

Had Geralt not been in an excellent mood he might have managed to become gruff at having been reduced to eating his meals on the floor. As it was he didn’t mind terribly, and really it certainly beat some miserable excuses for meals he’d endured out in the wilds in his time.

“Can I pet your dog?” Asked the man eating across the table from Jaskier.

Geralt looked up, glancing at the man who smelled of ink and parchment, a pair of spectacles perched on his nose.

“He reminds me of a hound my father owned and he seems agreeable enough,” the man continued with a smile. “But I’d rather ask first than be bit second.”

“I...of course.” Jaskier said, pulling on a smile through a mouthful of stew. “I wouldn’t have brought him in if he weren’t friendly.” Geralt could smell a bit of nervousness from him.

“Well he certainly is a magnificent beast.” The man said, reaching over to scruff the fur between Geralt’s ears. “I bet he puts some fine catches on the table after hunts.”

Geralt accepted the petting with a stoic look, not so much as shaking off the man’s hand. He could smell the relief and happiness on Jaskier.

“Oh Geralt Junior’s not much of a hunter.” Jaskier laughed, relaxing as he launched into his fiction. “He can take care of himself well enough I suppose, but really he thinks he’s a lapdog. You know my sister used to read him bedtime stories when she was young, it’s a miracle I was able to steal him away to travel with me instead of her keeping him.”

Geralt sneezed in amusement at the tale of Jaskier’s invented sister.

“Geralt Junior?” Another man at the table said with a guffaw. “I get it now, after the witcher you sing about? That’s a clever joke if I ever heard one, white wolf indeed.”

“Well where’s his silver sword then?” A woman said cheerfully, coming up from behind Geralt and stroking his back without so much as a warning. “Such a handsome witcher wolf needs his tools of trade don’t he?”

“I’m afraid all he’s slain are the hearts of those who offer him treats. And the occasional rabbit.” Jaskier laughed, warmed up to his audience. “His silver coat is far more useful than a silver sword in his line of work.”

“Well he’s excellent at his trade.” The woman laughed, slipping Geralt a bit of sweetbread from her pocket. “Consider me slain by the mighty white wolf. Oh and look at him taking the bread all dainty-like with his teeth. Afraid he’ll bite my fingers? What a gentleman.”

If Geralt properly considered the positive attention he was currently drowning in he was going to become dizzy with it. Instead he focused on eating the sweetbread, which was followed by a bit of ham from another admirer, and a bit of jerky afterward by another.

The little girl had been one thing, but this much attention was downright mystifying. It was beginning to border on actually terrifying even, sending his heart beating faster than it did when he faced down griffins.

What Geralt was used to was people being careful not to even brush fingers as coin was exchanged, afraid they’d catch mange or worse from touching a Witcher. Aside from a hearty pat on the shoulder once in a blue moon from a particularly gutsy short-term adventuring partner, Geralt was used to only getting affection at brothels where he paid extra to girls who managed to hide their discomfort from their expressions. (But never their scents.)

But now it seemed like the entire village was trying to get their hands on him, and not even to try and drive him out.

Geralt found himself pressing against Jaskier’s leg under the table as the attention really began to become overwhelming, but luckily the bard seemed to pick up on it, looking down at him with concern and resting a calming hand on his flank. Jaskier may not realize that his wolf was enchanted, but nonetheless the bard had always had an uncanny knack for picking up on Geralt’s moods without a single word spoken.

“Well you’ve all been perfectly lovely, but I’m afraid we must take our leave for the night.” Jaskier said, getting up from his seat and bowing grandly to the table. “We wish you all a lovely evening and hope to see you tomorrow for our next performance.”

Geralt kept close to Jaskier as they climbed the stairs to their room for the night, already feeling better once they were out of sight.

“So not a huge fan of people for too long. That’s alright, we can be more careful in the future, no sense in you hanging around people if you aren’t enjoying it anymore.” Jaskier said with a smile, rubbing Geralt’s head.

Geralt tail wagged slow in gratitude as the bard looked through his pockets for the room key.

“Well tonight’s over my friend and you’ve done magnificently.” Jaskier yawned as he unlocked their door. “We’ll curl up in bed and that’ll be the end of it. I can’t tell you how excited I am for a real bed. I can only assume you’ve slept on one before, I highly recommend them.”

Geralt’s tail kept wagging as they entered the room, greeted by a warm fire and a clean smelling mattress. Over the years he and Jaskier had shared a bed dozens of times when inns were small or coin was short, even sleeping rolls out in the wilds when the weather was too cold for the bard to safely sleep alone. That was a warm and familiar kind of touch that Geralt never tired of, even though he’d never admit it.

In fact, now that he thought about it, he hadn’t exactly been as starved for touch as he’d thought. Jaskier was forever touching him whoever they were together: grabbing his arm, leaning against him, helping shuck off his armor at night, sharing a bed, stitching him up, even helping him bathe when he was particularly incapacitated, or they were to attend an important social event.

Jaskier’s touch had never felt overwhelming like the villager’s had. In fact Geralt had perhaps taken it for granted, so comfortable with it and expecting it to the point of no longer appreciating it properly.

He’d never once thanked Jaskier for making him feel like a real person who could be so casually touched.

That...seemed unfair of him...

“You perfect thing.” Jaskier said with a yawn, closing the room door behind them. He scratched between Geralt’s ears.

Geralt nearly ducked away in guilt but didn’t. After all, it seemed very likely that there wouldn’t be any other possible way than this that he could use to apologize to the bard for a long time.

[Read Chapter 2]

#geraskier #geralt #jaskier #wit writes #the witcher wolf

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saevrusarch · 4 years ago

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A hodgepodge-y analysis of why Severus fits the doe patronus very much, why he and Lily shared the same patronus form, and why perhaps the doe patronus might not be the best for Lily.

So, it is pretty much fanon knowledge that a patronus is a representation of a wizard's soul, and everyone knows that Severus' patronus is a doe ━ more specifically an albino doe. Now, I will start by describing my reasons for as to why he and Lily share the same patronus form. From the moment they met, Severus and Lily were immediately drawn to each other; aside from the whole magic thing, there was a connection there that they hadn't felt with anyone else. Almost like something had finally settled within them, like they finally belonged.

A single soul cannot inhabit two bodies, but the situation with Lily and Severus is that his soul is an echo of hers. In the same way a vengeful spirit is the echo of the person it once was in life, Severus' soul is an echo of everything Lily's is. They are two sides of the same coin, so while Lily is the positive ━ extroverted, happy, all bright colours and sunshine ━ Severus is the negative ━ introverted, melancholic, softer colours and moonlight. Severus' soul being Lily's echo is the reason why his patronus is an albino doe; this being represented by the fact that his patronus is lighter, a lot less silvery and more white ━ haunting, eerily beautiful.

The deep connection and friendship they experienced was these two parts coming together, an eclipse of sorts. Now that that's out of the way, I will point out why Severus fits with the doe patronus much more than Lily does.

There are a lot of particularities belonging to female deer that do not match with the personality Lily was given, but fit very nicely with whom Severus is described to be. There are also things that can explain their childhood and why they were so at ease with each other and became such good friends.

Let us start with the things that do match.

Does live differently than males do, they are more social, and often live and travel in groups. In these groups, they look out for one another ━ for example, a white-tail doe sensing danger will flee the area with the white of her tail exposed, serving as a silent warning signal to the others. Each social group is led by a matriarchal female, this alpha doe is in charge of the herd, and warns the others when danger is approaching by snorting loudly or stamping her front hoof.

Here we can link to their first years pre and during Hogwarts, where it was Severus and Lily against the world. Also his great respect and willingness to do whatever Lily told him to do ( him perceiving her as the alpha doe ). Lily standing up for Severus whenever James antagonized him, and how they were generally very protective over each other.

Unfortunately there is where the similarities end.

Social and shy, deer have a rigid social structure that determines territory and breeding rights as well as ensuring their safety. A doe's social status can determine her responsibilities within a herd.

From the very beginning, even before Hogwarts Severus was incredibly aware of his social status and position in which it left him, and he unlike Lily, did not try to fight it directly. He climbed his way to the top slowly, battling his way up silently. He knew his place when he arrived at Hogwarts, and acted accordingly; keeping his head down, trying to make himself useful to his housemates. And when he left, now with a better status, he no longer accepted to be mistreated.

Deer are alert to danger and will respond quickly, usually by running away and/or seeking cover but sometimes lying up in or running into wide open areas where they can assess threats.

This clashes with Lily's very confrontational personality, she would not run away from a fight, standing up to James the most popular guy and not backing down. Contrasting with Severus, who knew when he needed to back off, who was not opposed to running to reassess a situation.

Deer are great escape artists, and that is another key to their successful strategy for survival. Their style of escape is a high speed sprint which puts obstacles between themselves and their pursuer. They can also play cagey tricks: they might hide and remain hidden until the predator is very near, and then make an explosive escape —they're gone down a well known escape route before the confused predator knows it. They will cross their own path — sometimes circling and crossing many times — to make their trail confusing. They will slink away on their bellies. They will walk in water to delete their trail, and will even hide by submerging themselves in the water, using their noses like snorkels. They are also known to run near other deer trying to shuck off the predator onto another unlucky animal.

This here is the biggest divergence from Lily's personality to Severus' and why he fits so well with the doe patronus and Lily doesn't. Severus at his very core is a survivor, everything in him is about self-preservation, it is one of his most basic and core instincts that never really faded and only got exponentially bigger as he grew up. It is what makes him the best and only spy of the Order, it is what makes him 1/3 of Voldemort's best and brightest Death Eaters. He is a master at fleeing, at running circles around the most dangerous and smart wizards of his time and he has constantly succeeded. He keeps allies close and enemies even closer, and has no qualms about throwing someone under the bus to achieve the end goal.

Female deer also display aggressive behavior. Does, like bucks, use the ear drop, hard look, and sidle body language. However, since they don’t have antlers, they use their front feet to determine their dominance. If the preliminary body-language threats are not effective, the dominant doe lunges at her adversary and then strikes out with one or both front fee. As a last resort, the fighting does stand up on their hind legs and slash out at each other with both front feet. Their sharp hooves are wicked weapons, and the does do not bluff or fight mock battles.

This ferocity can be seen in Lily too, but not to extent it is seen in Severus. Lily is essentially a very good person, she is very idealistic in the way that her world is black and white, good or evil. And so I doubt she'd kill someone if she thought she could make them see the "light" or bring them to their side. Severus has no such issues, he fights to win ━ always. And he is brutal, you won't get mercy from him if you cross him, or if you're in a life or death situation and your life stops him from reaching his goal.

And here we enter the post Lily part of Severus life and how her death affected him and his behaviour.

Mother deer know that their presence near their babies alerts predators to the fawns' existence, which puts them at risk. In order to keep her young safe, a doe will leave her fawn in a secluded area, often for as long as 12 hours, distracting predators away from her baby while she forages for food.

The alpha doe of the herd is the one that teaches young deer necessary survival skills, where to find water and food and where to seek cover.

While he took the role of secret "guardian", Severus knows it is not wise for him to be close to Harry; not that he would want to anyway, but it can put him at risk. The sight of them being anything but unfriendly to each other could raise suspicion within the Dark Lord and that would ruin everything Dumbledore had planned. Severus is a teacher, he has been teaching Harry everything he had to know to defeat Voldemort and the trials he’d find since his very first day at Hogwarts whether Harry realized it or not, those were survival skills he passed onto Harry ━ the fawn.

A doe will sometimes protect her fawn if the predator is small, but more often she will not. Many fawns are lost to predators and does frequently must stoically move on without the fawns they produced, this breeding season a loss. The mother-fawn bond can also be broken in cases of starvation in which a doe will drive her own fawn away from a food source. That is nature's strict law for the species: the most likely to survive come first. A doe can make more fawns, but she must be fed, alive and healthy to do it.

Again, a Doe's survival instinct can surpass its motherly instinct, and that is why Lily shouldn't have a doe as the representation of her soul. This is the woman who laid her life down at 20-something to save her child, with no guarantee that it would work. Severus however, is much more representative of a doe, his survival instinct is incredibly high more so than anyone, and he makes sure he is always the most likely to survive. Here we can exemplify Severus pressing down on Quirrel, but remaining "passive" against the Dark Lord and his assaults to Harry's mind until the very last possible moment. Also the fact that he killed his own father to ensure his position within the Death Eaters, securing a more stable financial situation.

The Doe patronus may look soft and cute, motherly even, and I suspect that is the reason Lily was given this particular form ━ not only to match James' and his stag, but to represent her fragility ( which she had none, being a mother and a woman is not being frail ). Though the reality is very much the opposite, Does are ruthless mothers and will leave their fawns if it means they cannot survive. And that is representative of Severus, who will leave any situation that is not beneficial to him, who only allowed himself to die because he had to, otherwise the plan wouldn't have worked and Draco and Harry would have died.

#❝ . I HAVE BLED ENOUGH LOVE → headcanon .#❝ . SHIELD YOUR MEMORY FROM THE PAIN → save .#( listen.....i said what i said )

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cozycryptidcorner · 5 years ago

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Here is a monster match for the wonderful @rofax!

“Aquarius Sun/Virgo Moon/Taurus Rising. Little bit of an astrology nerd. I like to learn about it. I also think it’s totally made up and makes no logical/scientific sense, but is also right basically 100% of the time. Idk how much you know about astrology but basically I am an eccentric bitch who wants to save the world, is emotionally precise and perfectionist, and seems to really like material things and food! WAHOO. People say my sense of humor is the best thing about me and/or I make them laugh the most, big old bleeding heart, especially for animals. Easily overstimulated ): Anxiety and ADHD are a bitch lol. No self esteem to speak of. I am an atrocity before god. Speaking of: very quiet convert to and practitioner of old (would now be considered) pagan faith. Multiple gods, ancestor worship, local spirits, etc.”

You have been matched with a Huldrekall, the shy, beautiful male counterpart of the alluring Huldra. Contrary to popular belief brought to you by the patriarchy, the Huldrekall are not, in fact, shriveled and disgusting to look at, it’s just that straight men don’t like feeling sexually threatened, not even by forest spirits that they don’t ever see. Like the females, the Huldrekall are almost intangibly beautiful, with soft, glossy hair and large, innocent eyes, and have mossy, hollowed out backs. While they might easily cover up their backs with clothing, the tails are a bit less easy to hide, as the Huldrekall and Huldras use them for balance, and thus must shift them about while moving.

Like other forest spirits, the Huldra and Huldrekall can be found among the trees at a reasonable distance from human society. Oh, they do sometimes come out of their hiding places, put on a dress, and mingle, in the guise of a mysterious visitor or a passing traveler, but their home will always be back in the forest, no matter how many broken hearts they might leave behind. Besides the occasional affair, the Huldra and Huldrekall have a symbiotic relationship with coal burners, as they are willing to watch over the kilns at night in exchange for human food and the occasional piece of clothing. The coal burners don’t get the privilege of seeing their helpers, though, but sleep easy knowing their equipment is being cared for.

Shockingly, the Huldra and Huldrekall seem to respond well to things like good manners, polite exchanges, and positive interactions, almost like they are people with thoughts and opinions of their own. Though, when crossed, the Huldra and Huldrekall are terrifying when they want to be, merciless, cold, just as a human who has been horribly slighted might act. You think that their kind are, well, people, though that’s not what the fear-mongering, power-hungry humans would have anyone believe. Despite the lower, working-class people out in the country knowing better, the city folk are quick to think that what is unknown must be evil.

You met your Huldrekall while you were out gathering herbs and flowers, deep within the forest. He was laying out in the sun on a large tree root, back towards the sky, face nestled in his arms. It takes you exactly three seconds to realize what you’re looking at before you manage to step on a stray stick, the noise snapping loud enough to make your hair stand on end. Your Huldrekall sits up like a shot, his wide, sparkling eyes a light, dusty magenta, and he looks at you, fear dancing across his face, but something else, too. Curiosity? Fascination? You can’t tell before he scampers his tall but lithe body up the tree and through the leaves, hiding from you in the greenery, yet still clearly present as you try to go about your day.

Your Huldrekall follows you as you try to focus on the herbs you need, clinging to the bark of the trees like a child might hang on their mother. At first, you try ignoring him, thinking that he’s only keeping an eye on you because of fear, but there doesn’t seem to be a single essence of tenseness in his body as he slides down from one branch to another. While you focus solely on pretending to not notice his movements, he slowly, tentatively approaches, you can feel his unabashed stare burning through your back. Still, you don’t turn around, nor give him any hint that you know that he is there, because a part of you is just as interested in him as he seemingly is in you, and you don’t want to scare him off.

While you can hear him stiffen every time you accidentally make a move too sudden for his comfort, you don’t realize how close to you he really is until you risk a glance over your shoulder. He’s right there, balanced carefully on a low hanging branch, watching you work with fascinated eyes. He also doesn’t run when he catches you looking at him, either, which you suppose is a step in the right direction, he only flinches back ever so slightly. But he’s still there.

You have to go back home eventually, even though you would like for a moment so magical as this to continue on. As you walk back to the forest’s edge, your friend disappears along the way, slinking back through the trees. You don’t even know that he’s gone until you turn around to look for him, finding nothing more than the grass and leaves, and you feel… well, disappointed, you suppose, but unsurprised. Still, your work will have you back in the forest to forage again soon enough, and a part of you hopes that you will see him when that time comes.

He finds you when it does come, in the dusty rose of the early twilight sky, looking for the petal of a particular flower that only blooms during the first light of dawn. Your Huldrekall approaches with more openness this time around, no longer poised and ready flee. There are times when he is… very close, looking over your shoulder, cheek almost touching yours, becoming more and more difficult to ignore. Almost as though he’s suddenly decided to demand attention, yet is still too shy to put anything to words.

You’re on your knees, fingers digging through the ground in search of certain roots. He’s mirroring you, sitting across the thicket, hands carefully to the side as he watches you work. Absentmindedly, you begin speaking, not really sure what to do with yourself or the strange silence. “This is used for joint pain, you grind it up into a paste, then rub it in the inflamed areas.”

“Really?” He asks, the first thing he ever says to you. His voice is smooth, soft, like a sip of cool water on a hot day, and a little tingle runs down your spine.

“Y-yes,” you manage to gain your footing again, “it can ease stomach pains too if chewed and swallowed in low quantities.”

He’s a quick learner, you’ll give him that. It probably helps that his curiosity seems insatiable, and once he starts talking, he shows no signs of stopping. The chatting isn’t unwelcome, though, and you find him to be a good conversationalist, despite his immediate lack of knowledge of anything outside the forest. Well, he actually has much information when it comes to the ancient magic of the trees themselves, even showing you how to gently tease a bit of energy from the bark if needed. Prayers must be said before and after, as the spirits of the forest don’t take kindly to pillaging.

Your Huldrekall is remarkably bright, too, able to pick up your tips and tricks with little to no trouble, able to remember just about everything that comes out of your mouth. All the little remedies and medicines you make don’t seem to matter much to him or his kind, though, because of their little magic tricks that seem to do the same, just in a different manner of execution. Still, though, he’s interested in “human way of things,” as he calls it, copying your work as you forage and search for different plants. One day, though, you go home and find a little bouquet of plants tied together with a vine, a collection that you don’t remember assembling.

You’ve started making a pretty penny selling roots and herbs from the deeper center of the forest since your kind doesn’t like going very far passed the outlying trees. Thanks to your magical guide, though, you’re able to venture out much deeper than you might risk by yourself, without having to worry about finding your way back. You could blindfold your Huldrekall, shake him about, and drag him through the trees and vines for miles, and he’d still be able to lead you back to the village where you live. It’s rather convenient, you suppose, but you don’t let anyone know just how easy it is for you, people pay you more if you act like you almost died by some giant, carnivorous flower mere hours before.

The gifts keep appearing. No longer in your basket, sometimes you find a pretty stone or dried blossom in your pockets, now, too, and though you try to figure out how he managed to slip them there without noticing, you can’t. You keep everything in a little box, pressing any flowers carefully between books of medicine, and polishing the stones if you get the chance. After letting the gifts pile up a bit, you decide to return the favor, getting a little knick-knack that you’ve kept lying around your home. You don’t really have anything you can slip it in since your Huldrekall is… well, naked, so you cut out the third party and give him the gift point-blank.

He’s enthralled by it, and by the seeming lack of shyness on your part. Even though it’s just a little cheap object you’ve managed to pick up sometime in your past, he acts like it might be worth its weight in gold. While you don’t really know what he does with it, you suppose that he must have a nest of some kind, but after that day, you begin to see more of his kind out of the corner of your eye. Up in the trees, hiding between leaves, watching with careful, weary eyes. Like him, though, they warm up to you eventually, some taking longer than others.

You fell asleep, perhaps by accident, one evening. Last night and the night before had been late ones, so your brain is clouded and your movements sluggish. In your head, you only meant to lay among the flowers for a few moments, just to restore a bit of your strength, but after you open your eyes, the sun is in an entirely different position in the sky. Your Huldrekall is nearby, sitting atop a log, his vulnerable back facing you as he plays lookout. He looks back when he hears you stirring, offering a reassuring, sweet smile. You lay your head back down and continue resting, feeling the warmth of safety emanating from him.

Sometime after that, he started to gently tug at your hand when you leave the forest, a little, reassuring squeeze, one that you don’t find unwelcome. Once, he follows you through the town, wearing fairly clean clothes from god knows where, and spends the night at your home. People look and people talk, but no one’s whispers bother you or your business, and they sure as hell don’t bother your Huldrekall. His spirit is free and magnetic, those same people who would demonize you for fraternizing outside your species soon become enthralled in his stories and words.��Maybe you are a little jealous of all the attention he gets, but he makes it clear that he only has eyes for you.

The old gods in the forest are long forgotten by man, but not by your Huldrekall or his kind. They do a sort of worship that must have existed since the dawn of time, dancing and singing towards the moon whenever it is full. You get invited soon after your acceptance by his people, and even though you are nothing more than a quiet, interested viewer at first, that is quick to change. Eventually, you end up holding hands with other Huldra, aiming your face towards the sky and singing a hymn made with a language so old that the words themselves hold power.

#exophilia #monster match #huldra #huldrekall

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hercycleface · 4 years ago

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Global inventory of wonderful beer: What I drink is not wine, but creativity!

Isn't beer just yeast, barley, water and hops? Well, it's also right and wrong-for some beer, this statement is simply wrong. The brains of the beer brewer are too big, and sometimes the brewed beer-how to put it-is quite "interesting". The following wonderful beers are the best examples.

Collagen beer Speaking of weirdness, the Japanese definitely do their part. Suntory launched a collagen beer called Precious, which is said to remove wrinkles left by the years and make you look young and invincible. This 5-degree Talrag comes in 330ml cans and contains 2 grams of collagen per can.

Cat Shit Beer You must have heard of the famous cat feces coffee: a civet living in the tropics eats coffee cherries and is discharged from the other side of the body. The action of stomach acid can make coffee beans produce a different flavor. Beer Geek Brunch Weasel from Megele is a breakfast Shitao with an alcohol level of 10.9-be careful, the wine is full of strength.

Bloody (Mary) Beer Well, strictly speaking, it is not based on Bloody Mary, a good brunch partner. However, Short's Brewing Company of Bel Air, Michigan does use cherry tomatoes in its Bloody Beer, as well as black pepper and celery. Rapeseed, wasabi, and dill, so it’s similar to Bloody Mary. This "Cool Beer from Bel Air" has long been discontinued, with an alcohol content of 7, and an international bitterness index of 40.

Fossil beer The Lost Rhino Brewery in Virginia and PaleoQuest, a non-profit organization that promotes the excavation of dinosaur fossils rather than food trends, have teamed up to create a beer that will attract attention to science. They collected yeast from whale fossils 35 million years ago and made a 5.5-degree beer named Bone Dusters Amber Ale. Cool! It's a pity that the yeast is not collected from the fossils of the long extinct rhino or Tyrannosaurus.

Sheep dung beer After reading this list, you will find that Icelandic brewers really have a lot of free time and a whimsical spirit of adventure. The Borg Brugghus brewery is a good example: due to lack of wood, they lighted the sheep dung pile to smoke and roast the malt when making Fenrir Nr26. American IPA smoked and roasted with sheep dung, alcohol content 6, and international bitterness index 63.

Beer older than whale fossils Fossil Fuels Brewing Co has a product called AY108, which uses yeast found in bee fossils. This bee was wrapped in pine resin and turned into amber in the Eocene Eocene 45 million years ago (is it so shocking that it can’t close its mouth?). Professor Raul Cano figured out how to separate the yeast from above, and then wondered how to make the best use of it. Finally, he chose to brew beer instead of bread. The first result is this Dan Aier named after yeast, and there is also a Saisen.

Beer made with money The evil twins collaborated with the Norwegian craft brewer Lervig Aktiebryggeri in the port of Stavanger. The raw material is real banknotes. What's even more exaggerated is that they threw some frozen pizza into it. The alcohol content is 17.5 degrees.

Heavy beer from the toilet The Danish government and Norrebro Bryghus brewery are really fighting for environmental protection, and they even have the idea of urinating. They recovered a large amount of urine from the famous Roskilde Music Festival and used it to brew a Pearson called Pisner. Do you want to contribute to the cause of sustainable development? Then taste the piss of these hippies.

Colorful beer Abashiri Brewery in Hokkaido, Japan uses seaweed and other natural ingredients to brew red, blue and green beer. They also used beer and excess milk to produce a malt drink called Bilk. Apart from other things, at least it is colorful.

Beer made from sewage The sewage in the sewer sounds as disgusting as dirty waste oil. I'm afraid no one can drink anything made of it. The Jushi Brewery in San Diego brewed an IPA using recycled water provided by the city's water purification project. This Dan Air, called Full Circle, is limited to five barrels, but it may indicate the future of beer brewing.

Roald Dahl Beer Yeast is ubiquitous and can be collected everywhere, so why not collect some yeast from the custom desk of the late children's literature writer Roald Dahl? London creative company Bompas & Parr entrusted this task to 40FT Brewery to brew Odious Ale for a pop-up restaurant based on Dahl's "Stupid Couple".

Beer from the moon Dogfish Head Brewery is keen to challenge the limit, but often thinks too crazy and circumvents itself in, but the time when they ventured into space may be their most rebellious exploration so far. With the help of the company that makes spacesuits for NASA, they got some dust on the moon, which was taken from NASA where the moon landed on the moon—well, no more obscurations, it’s on the moon— —Collected, and then spilled into this limited edition beer called Oktoberfest. Alcohol 5, International Bitterness Index 25.

Elephant Poop Beer The Japanese brewery Sankt Gallen wanted to brew a beer that will be unforgettable, so he thought of elephant poo. How does it work? They fed coffee cherries to elephants living in Thailand’s wildlife sanctuary, and then brewed a "chocolate shitao" called Un, Koon Kuro (a pun for "poop" in Japanese) from elephant dung coffee beans. It was also selected for sale on April Fool's Day, but this is not a joke.

Beer as dark as ink Cuttlefish juice—or more precisely the juice of cuttlefish, squid and octopus, or the juice of cephalopods—can be said to be everywhere now, so you can’t help thinking that these animals are scared when they face the extinction of humans. What is it like? Anyway, the master brewer of 3 Sheeps in Wisconsin created a black IPA called Nimble Lips Noble Tongue No3, using cuttlefish juice.

Too private beer We are all adults, but the Internet will always surprise us head-on, especially when you see a page on the crowdfunding website Indiegogo for the world’s first vaginal beer fundraising-this one is called Bottled Instinct's acid ale uses lactic acid extracted from a Czech model. We don't know if anyone will drink it, because this project has not even raised 1% of the final goal of 150,000 euros, and it should be a joke on April Fools' Day at all? Otherwise, it really makes people get goosebumps.

16. Add a whole chicken to beer

Over the years, the rooster Al almost cast a layer of mystery. It is said that it was very popular in England in the 17th and 18th centuries. In fact, it is an ordinary Al, but a whole rooster was added during the brewing process. Hand Pulled Cock Ale from Willimantic Brewing Co in Connecticut-7% alcohol, only available in barrels-is a modern version of Cock Ale, but its name still implies that old joke (you got it).

Fried chicken beer As the song in "Grease" sings, fried chicken and beer are good partners, so why not add some chicken to the beer? Veil Brewing Co of Richmond, Virginia, and the evil twins teamed up to brew chicken beer. Their Fried Fried Chicken Chicken DIPA uses a lot of Fried Chicken Nuggets.

Sheep brain beer Philadelphia's Dock Street Brewing Company brewed Dock Street Walker to pay tribute to "The Walking Dead," but it was more terrifying than zombies, using smoked lamb brains. This American Pale Shitao is 7.2 degrees, and cranberries are added to create a touch of acidity.

Whale testicle beer Icelandic microbrewer Steoji has launched Hvalur 2, which is an upgraded version of Hvalur 1, which was produced in cooperation with the whaling company Hvalur and caused a huge controversy due to the addition of full whale meat (fish meat and fish bones). As the second seasonal crossover, it uses whale testicles smoked and roasted with sheep dung—well, one is added to each winemaking cycle.

Masculine beer The Rocky Mountain Oyster Stout of Wynkoop Brewing in Denver was originally just an April Fools' Day joke, but I didn't expect it to become a reality because of the public's enthusiastic response. With an alcohol content of 7.5, three cow testicles are added to each barrel-this "gourmet" is nicknamed Rocky Mountain Oysters locally. A set of two cans is quite appropriate.

Bull Heart Beer Portland's Upright Brewing and Burnside Brewing collaborated to produce this Captain Beefheart. The ingredients include 27 kilograms of charcoal grilled beef heart and a lot of spices. Similar products include the Burke In The Bottle, a collaboration between Jim Koch of Boston Beer Company and chef David Burke.

Sunday barbecue beer Conwy Brewery in Wales caters to the close relationship between locals and sheep and brews a lamb beer. Sunday Toast is a Victorian-style Porter beer with the juice from slow roasting of Welsh lamb. Perhaps lamb-ic is more appropriate.

Truffle beer Truffles are very expensive. Using them to brew beer seems a bit risky, but some people have succeeded. Chicago Moody Tongue's black truffle crumbs Pearson is highly sought after in some of the top high-end restaurants in the United States, while Miki Le has chosen to use black truffles to brew a dark beer called The Forager.

Stag semen beer Green Man Pub in Wellington, New Zealand, and local brewer Choice Bros brewed a beer with stag semen, which caused a huge sensation for a while. We will not continue to discuss the name Lu Jing Shitao to obtain such a subtle beer, let's stop here.

Mushroom beer In the past few years, the brewery seems to have used all the mushrooms imaginable. Jester King of Austin, Texas used locally grown oyster mushrooms in this Snorkel. 4.5 Alcohol, Goss style.

Oysters (really real this time) beer The encounter between Oyster and Shi Tao gave birth to many interesting stories. We used to drink Shitao while sucking oysters beautifully. Now we use oyster shells to clarify the beer, or put them in a boiling pot, or even throw whole oysters into it. Flying Dog Pearl Necklace Oyster Shitao did just that.

Natural green beer Free Tail Brewing Co of San Antonio, Texas adds blue-green algae to a 4.2-degree rye white beer to give it a charming blue-green color. If the advertisements of Mandalay Brewing in Myanmar and Red Dot Brewery in Singapore are accurate, Spirulina beer has another magical effect-anti-aging.

Seaweed beer Bladderwrack is a good name for beer, but it is actually a kind of seaweed. Williams Bros Brew in Alloa, Scotland added it to its own Kelpie Seaweed Ale. This Scottish Groot-an ancient beer style-is intended to recreate the traditional style of beer from the coastal regions of Scotland.

Real gold beer We have all drunk golden Al, but have you ever drunk gold? Golden Queen Bee brewed by Golden Bee Beer contains edible 24K gold leaf. There is no need to throw gold like this, but if you can get another bottle of The Lost Abbey's Gift Of The Magi-a golden Al with frankincense and myrrh, then you must be full of every cell in your body The joy of Christmas.

Pizza beer Mamma Mia Pizza Beer is produced by the Chicago Pizza Beer Company. The ingredients include Margarita Pizza soaked in malt. We don’t know if the crust is Chicago-style.

Donut beer Voodoo Donuts Maple Syrup Bacon Al is the first beer launched by Voodoo Donut Bakery in collaboration with Rogue Brewery, also in Oregon. The series includes six products so far. They want to use these beers to reproduce the best-selling single-product flavors of this bakery in Portland. The latest flavors currently launched are Guerrilla Grape and Mango Spaceman.

Pig head beer Mangalica Pig Porter uses the head and bones of Mangalica Pig. This breed of pig is quite precious and is known as Kobe beef in pork. Right Brain Brewery in Traverse City, Missouri uses whole pig heads when brewing this beer, and even the eyeballs are still in the eye sockets. The winery also brews a series of more delicious pork pie beers, with raw materials including whole pork pie from a local bakery.

Expired bread beer The raw material of toast air is leftover bread that cannot be eaten, and it aims to eliminate food waste. All the profits from this beer brewed with excess bread are donated to charitable organizations, and even a factory is set up in the Bronx, New York. The recipe is public, so you can try it yourself with the leftover bread you eat.

Just put your crying beer There is a resonance between Chili Control and Beer Mania, which is why countless beers have combined these two things in one in pursuit of a mixed effect. The grimace killer at the Twisted Pine Brewery in Colorado—named after the Wudang rapist of the same name—uses six different varieties of peppers. Among them, the hottest pepper is the Devil Pepper (also known as Broken Soul Pepper). Scoville's index exceeds 1 million-the pepper is only about 2000. You can imagine how spicy it is.

Bearded beer Rogge Beard Beer can be regarded as one of the most weird beers in the world. Brewmaster John Maier extracts yeast from his beard and brews an American wild ale. Maier once vowed that he would never shave his beard, so the raw material of this beer can really be said to be

#craftbeer beer beers breweries beerofinstagram instabeer beersoftheworld beersofinsta beersofig beernation cheers craftbeerlife fanaticbeer

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brajeshupadhyay · 4 years ago

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For the last decade, it was nearly impossible to get a table at Noma, widely considered one of the best restaurants in the world. A meal required a prepaid reservation (and most likely a flight to Copenhagen) that cost around $400 per person. During seasons when pollen-stuffed dried fruit partially submerged in rabbit oil was on hiatus, cod bladder simmered in quince might have been one of 18 or so courses. Then coronavirus hit. Like businesses across the globe, Noma was forced to temporarily close amid the fast-spreading outbreak. On Thursday, Noma will reopen for the first time in more than two months. When it does, one of the most exclusive and groundbreaking restaurants of the century will take walk-ins only and seat all customers outside on picnic blankets around its sprawling grounds. The menu: $15 burgers and drinks. “We were like, ‘Should we do an ant marinade with raw carrots to have that twist of who we are?’” chef-owner René Redzepi said by phone this week. “But then I’m like, ‘No, why should we do that right now?’ It’s about being together, it’s not about trying to be innovative.” The new cheeseburger from Noma, made with dry-aged bavette steak, beef garum, cheddar cheese, sliced red onion and a pickle-packed house-made mayo. (Ditte Isager) This is not the first time Redzepi, 42, has reinvented his restaurant. Three years ago, he closed the original Noma to move it from a former herring warehouse to a new lakefront home near the center of town, with three greenhouses and a state-of-the-art fermentation cellar. Noma 2.0, as he called it, opened in February 2018. Now, unexpectedly, there’s Noma 3.0. The flip to a casual outdoors-only burger-and-wine bar is a dramatic change but not a permanent one, intended as a stopgap measure bridging how things were and how things will be. Redzepi plans to sling burgers for six to eight weeks. It’s not so much about money, it’s about how do we heal and get beyond this. René Redzepi, Noma chef-owner He said the full restaurant won’t start up again until July at the earliest, which will give his employees time to adjust to new distancing rules, rework the summer menu — the theme was supposed to be vegetables but likely now will include some seafood dishes developed for the truncated spring season — and await the lifting of travel restrictions that currently prohibit tourists from entering the country. This latest iteration of Noma, forced upon it by outside circumstances instead of internal ambition, will be closely watched. Redzepi is one of the most respected figures in the global dining industry, an imaginative trailblazer who spearheaded New Nordic cuisine and popularized now-ubiquitous fine-dining trends such as foraging and fermentation. On three occasions, he has shut Noma for a few months to move his entire staff to another country — Japan, Australia, Mexico — for elaborate sold-out residencies. Chef René Redzepi, center, in 2017 during the Noma Mexico residency in Tulum. (Jason Loucas) As one of the first elite chefs to reopen a top restaurant after being ordered to close, he’s again at the forefront — this time, pioneering a potential framework for how restaurants can operate during a time of deep uncertainty. Noma is better positioned than many of its peers. The Danish government has offered substantial financial support to affected businesses, and will cover all of Noma’s fixed costs for the first two months of the shutdown and up to 80% from May 18 to July 8. Between that and a recently approved bank loan, the restaurant was able to retain its entire 85-person staff and offer free meals to its workers every day, Redzepi said, and has enough money to make it through the year. Still, he’s not quite sure what to expect next week. Noma has never served a burger before, unless you count pre-service staff meals. A la carte hasn’t been available since the aughts. The restaurant typically seats a few dozen diners a day; Redzepi is expecting as many as 500 people (60 at a time) from lunch until sunset, Thursdays through Sundays — plus takeout. “It’s an uncharted area for us,” he said. “Some people say, ‘Hey, you might sell 1,000 burgers in a day,’ and we’re like, ‘Well, maybe if tourism was open.’ But nobody really knows.” Redzepi has the sense that diners might not be in the mood for a long fancy meal right now. And he sees burgers as a way to welcome in locals — many of whom may have never eaten his cooking. After a few weeks, Noma might add more food options, such as a fried chicken sandwich, crudité, raw seafood and ice cream, Redzepi said. “But first, we open with a mighty burger.” Describing it as “fairly classic,” he said the burger will be made with dry-aged bavette steak, cheddar cheese, sliced red onion and a pickle-packed house-made mayo. It’ll come on a freshly baked potato bun from local burger joint Gasoline Grill and will be roasted in the same pan the meat is cooked in. This being Noma, the patty will be “spiced up with beef garum for umaminess.” There will also be a vegetarian version, made from quinoa and tempeh and glazed with a mix of “fermentation liquids.” The vegetarian burger at Noma is made with quinoa and tempeh and glazed with a mix of “fermentation liquids.” (Ditte Isager) In between planning the burger offshoot and gearing up for the full restaurant reopening, Redzepi has been checking in with chef friends in Asia, Europe and America — the sorts of colleagues who are a fixture of his well-regarded MAD food symposium — over the last several weeks to see how they’re faring. “One thing that has surprised me: how strongly hit restaurants are in America and how bad it seems. People are running out of money in one week, two weeks, and that’s pretty heavy to watch,” he said. On his most recent trip to Los Angeles, in January, he dropped by Auburn; the Melrose Avenue tasting-menu restaurant closed permanently last month, unable to weather the financial challenges brought on by the city’s prolonged shutdown. Despite having a “crisis plan” in place since the outbreak spread to Europe, four world’s best titles and ample government support, Redzepi is bracing for a 50% decline in revenue once Noma opens its dining room again; he projects that drop will last until next summer. He said the pandemic has highlighted long-standing vulnerabilities for restaurants regardless of accolades, geography or cuisine: profits that are too slim and prices that are too low. “We’ve been open for almost 17 years and our average profit after tax is only 3%,” Redzepi said. “That is sort of the same all over the world.” That made the industry especially ill-equipped to handle the economic devastation wreaked by the coronavirus. As chefs try to figure out a way forward, they are urging a greater understanding about the true cost of running a food business. “Restaurants are on thin ice,” Redzepi said. Selling burgers, he acknowledged, won’t make a huge difference to Noma’s bottom line but he hopes it will provide a measure of team bonding and community spirit. “From a business standpoint, it’s dumb to do pop-ups,” he said. “It’s not so much about money, it’s about how do we heal and get beyond this.” window.fbAsyncInit = function() { FB.init({ appId : '119932621434123', xfbml : true, version : 'v2.9' }); }; (function(d, s, id){ var js, fjs = d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0]; if (d.getElementById(id)) {return;} js = d.createElement(s); js.id = id; js.src = "https://ift.tt/1sGOfhN"; fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js, fjs); }(document, 'script', 'facebook-jssdk')); The post Noma, one of the world’s best restaurants, reopens next week appeared first on Sansaar Times.

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undert33th · 5 years ago

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I really like your Chara design can you talk about your interpretation of them?

First off tysm !!!!!!! I’m so glad u like them ;0

Second off yes of course ! Here’s a few things about them :

-they r mongolian-american

-they lived in northern Oregon/southern Washington for most of their life on the surface, both in civilization and out on the woods (I’ve always had this idea of Chara being a forager, super self sufficient, it’s one of the first things I developed abt my interpretation of them)

-lived in a group home as a child (along with that they love kids !)

-Chara has inattentive ADHD as well as bipolar disorder

-SpIn’s include: fungi, knives, sewing and geometry (which they suck at but it’s challenging and stimulating and fun work)

-they were 9 when they ‘fell’ underground and 12 when The Plan was enacted

And now for more game related stuff:

-i whole-heartedly support NarraChara

-I know everyone likes to think that Chara has a special connection with Frisk but I like to think that they could interact the same way with every fallen (that includes influencing their choices)

-going with influencing the choices of the fallen they initially did their best to cause the children to fail in hopes of saving their family after death

-they talk Like That at the end of NM to appear more intimidating (by Like That I mean like a walking dictionary)

-the no mercy route was NOT their doing (I like to think of the player as an entity, while Chara is more of just an outside force if that makes any sense? Chara can certainly control Frisk as a vessel, but only of A) frisk has given them that option, B) they’re anxious/angry/emotional enough that their power amps up and allows them to overtake frisks living soul, or C) the player is controlling Frisk through Chara) (I can post more of my ghost stuff if y'all want it just shoot me an ask) back on track for this one the no mercy route was not their doing, but they do give you, the player, not frisk, an ultimatum at the end of the no mercy route because they’re fucking pissed at you

-Goopy Chara? Cool! It’s congealed blood

-Chara only finds out that Flowey is Asriel in true lab which is why its so weird (i cannot for the life of me find the post but its super popular, probably a birdsareblooming or undertale-in-2k19 post)

Personality wise:

-theyre super skittish and jumpy. Startle at everything and wear headphones Everywhere

-theyre semi-verbal and have selective mutism (won’t speak in public at all, rarely in front of Toriel and Asgore, and frequently to Asriel and Frisk)

-with that, they’re super light on their feet and hardly make any noise when moving

-also; very quick and hard to catch

-they tend to fall apart under pressure . In a situation where something is expected of them they’ll either overwork themselves into a burnout or stop functioning all together .

-very logical and has a hard time processing strong emotions (mostly anger)

-does a lot of mimicking and can take a while to trust

-hyper empathetic

-they can be very charming and good at manipulation; take that how you will

Extra HC’s:

-Chara knows magic! It’s not much, and it really drains them, but Asgore taught them (it’s mostly enacted through hand signs and they know healing and self defense)

-they stim a ton! Cracking their knuckles and chewing are the big ones

-Worn Dagger is a survival knife gifted by an older human brother from before falling who I’m referring to currently as Anthony . It’s got a wood and resin handle and a seven inch blade with gold embossing of flowers (specifically daisies). The sheath is hand made and embroidered by them !

-they know sign language and are constantly making new slang terms . Their signing is so modified and personalized that a lot of people have a hard time understanding what theyre saying

-arthritis in their hands and wrists from a couple injuries that never healed right and constant use of their knife only made it worse (they have these splints designed to look like gloves that hold their wrist in place)

-listen to me . Listen to me. They get their hands on Tetris and never let go . Tetris is the coolest game to them . Have y'all seen Tetris tournaments ? If not watch one they’re addictive . Chara gets in . Chara rocks it . They don’t win but they get up there . They fucking rock at Tetris guys

-also after frisk shows them minecraft they fucking lose it okay . ‘Frisk’ starts making houses or rooms fully furnished for seemingly no-one and Tori only . raises an eyebrow

-they listen to lots of rock and early 2000′s alternative/techno once they can get their hands on it. Frisk hates it so they’ll debate about it a lot

-super sensitive to smell and textures

(ps: its worth mentioning that a lot of my chara is based around myself! chara is one of my comfort characters and so a lot of them is just kinda … me, or who i wish i was on some level owo)

and might as well throw in some thoughts on canon compliant chara:

-we dont really know much about canon chara, but theyve shown to be somewhat manipulative and have a really strong case of suicidal idealization . this sort of ties into the idea of them being a martyr, the future of humans and monsters; thats like a huge fucking load for a kid to carry that i definitely feel could have some effect on mental health. like, telling a kid that they’re the future of two separate races, while theyre also learning about 1) how horrifically humans acted towards monsters and 2) how the barrier can be broken, especially while already having a tendency towards self harmful actions (i.e: jumping off a fucking mountain), and given how presumably awfully humans treated them in comparison to all the kindness theyve been shown by monsters, I think I’d get some ideas too.

- I’ve already said that i don’t think they’re evil, and I’ll stand by that opinion until the day of my death

-that said, their plan was flawed. I mean, obvi. the things they did, such as attempt suicide on 2 occasions, and succeed on one with the help of Asriel (as well as taking him down with them !) were wrong for quite a few reasons. I think ultimately they were blinded by the pressure placed on them, whether it was intentional or not, and not having a place to diffuse that anxiety, they sort of absorbed it and honed it into a plan to save everyone important (monsters, who showed some bare minimum decency and kindness) and kill everyone who wasn’t (that being themself.) And, once the first part of that plan succeeded, they sort of exploded; being on the surface, with humans, the people who hurt them, the people they hated, was a good enough motive to release all that built up tension .

-also, i might as well go into no mercy- I think Chara winds up with a lot of power, a lot of anxiety, and anger built up, so when every monster in the underground is killed theyre sort of gaining power bit by bit- until the end, after you kill flowey, and we get to meet them for real . I think they’re pissed off, and they try to convince you that you’re in the right, they thank you, etc; they try to appeal to the player, who throughout the run weve only seen as a mindless killing machine, in an attempt to get you to erase the world and go back on your decisions . When you don’t, they get frustrated, explode, using all the power they’ve gained through the run to erase the file themself.

I just . I dunno . i could talk about chara for hours please ask me more questions about them

#man oh man !#long post #txt #chara #blease ask me about bitch of living and K9 #also would yall be interested in fic ?#i have an ask !!!!!!!!!

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solidagocm7 · 6 years ago

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Get to know me!

Thanks for tagging me, @oldcomplaintsrevisited!

Rules: answer these questions then then tag 20 blogs you’d like to know better!

Nicknames: Debby and Deborah! When I was s freshman my small friend group had nicknames/alter-egos for each other when we were fucked up. However, I’m particularly adventuous when I partake in psychoactive substances so my friends would scream “Deborah!!!” quite a lot and it eventually stuck. Now Everyone who’s queer at my school calls me Deborah casually.

Zodiac: Aries sun, Gemini moon, Aries mercury, Aquarius venus, Aries mars. Honesty I could keep going.

Height: 5′10″ approximately

Time: 23:40 because I stay up too late and I use 24-hour time because I’ve accidentally set too many alarms for 8:00pm

Favorite bands/artists: I’m still really obsessed with STRFKR and MGMT because of their new album. Been listening to a lot of Brahms and Beethoven for school and I love it. TBH I haven't been listening to a lot of music because of my tinnitus, but I could go on for a while about bands, artists, and composers I love.

Song stuck in my head: The shop music from Undertale

Last movie I saw: As Above, So Below. Very good horror movie set in the Paris catacombs. My friends and I have been watching LOTS of horror lately

Last thing I’ve googled: “Cortez Aztec” because my friend asked me if Cortez caused the fall of the Aztec Empire and I said yes but I had to make sure.

Other Blogs: Yes! Follow me at @gaymathsmajor if you like math!

Do I get asks: Not really, no :(

Why did I choose this username: “Music Speaks” was a choir piece I liked in high school and the major seventh is one of my favorite tonal chords, so yeah, musicspeakscm7.

Following: 1624

Average amount of sleep: I try for about 8 hours but I normally can’t get to sleep before midnight so usual its more like 6-7 hours when I have to get up early and like 10-11 hours when I can sleep in.

What I’m wear: My red, green, blue, gray goodwill sweater, light wash jeans, stripy socks, light pink converse, and a brown beanie.

Dream job: Mathematician and professor + part time musician

Favorite food: I could not possibly choose one but good golly I love odwalla smoothies.

Play any instruments: I play bassoon at university, as well as piano per course requirements. I also try not to suck at the ukulele.

Eye color: Mostly hazel but they change depending on what I’m wearing or my mood

Hair color: Black or like really dark brown in summer

Language you speak: My native language is english. I was almost conversational in french in high school but I’ve lost most of it from not using it. Right now I’m learning Abenaki/Wabanaki and I’d like to conversational or even fluent

Most iconic song: I’d don't really listen to “popular music” but I couldn't get “Nobody” by Mitski out of my head for like a month so that I guess

Random fact: I forage for wild plants and mushrooms!

Describe yourself as aesthetic things: Sepia photos of abandoned roads and buildings; cozying up with sweaters, blankets, and tea by a windowsill on a cold, rainy day; the smell of a wood fire and essential oils just after it rained; stacks on stacks on stacks of books; 1980′s computer-generated math textbook covers; math problems written out of music paper

I tag: @cardboard-theocracy @searching-for-words @anime-mangos @teehn-dream @3m4il @absolute-minimum @lovelylittledoubt @sen9746 @ginger-sprinkle @hella-of-niflheim @vaepormeme @spodrick @quarterpounding @startorrent02 @shostakovich11 @my-hero-measure-zero

#tag meme #tagged #me #sorry that not 20 people Im just tired of writing this post

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evolutionsvoid · 7 years ago

Photo

he first thing I have to say is that there are no drawings or paintings in this world that will ever truly capture the extreme opulence of the Regal Cockatrice. My own sketches pale in comparison to such a colorful and extravagant creature! Though its anatomy is just like that of a common cockatrice, its sheer beauty will make it hard to believe it is related to such a simple beast! It has feathers of all colors, bright patterns coating its skin and so much more! It makes sense that this creature is based in the tropics, as that is the one place where such vibrant coloration thrives! It lives in the forests, jungles and rainforests, spending its life foraging through the undergrowth. Like all cockatrices, they are flightless. Their wings have lost the ability to lift their heavy bodies, and are instead used for non-verbal communication and mating rituals. While other land beasts may walk or run, the Regal Cockatrice sticks up its nose at such plain forms of movement. Instead, they strut! Like a floral dryad showing off her best petals and blooms, the Regal Cockatrice seems to flaunt itself during every waking moment. It walks about with the utmost confidence, always presenting its beautiful plumage to the world. I am sure its appearance dazzled many explorers and travelers, who stared agape as it strode through the jungle. I fell victim to the same thing, as there is no preparing yourself for such a sight! So many colors and patterns! You can't help but stare in awe and wonder! How many have stood frozen before such a creature, taking in its sheer splendor and cocky walk. They can hardly believe their own eyes as it struts its way up to them with all its grace and beauty, and then it barfs in their face. Despite its gorgeous looks, it is still a cockatrice. Much like its blander colored brethren, Regal Cockatrices are omnivores, eating practically anything that catches their eye. Fruits, fungi, reptiles, small mammals and seeds are just some of the many things they will consume. Their long, hooked beaks are perfect for rooting through the soil or probing dense vegetation for hiding morsels. While they are happy to snap up any piece of food that scurries past them, they do have their preferences. These favorites of theirs are rather fitting, as they are just as colorful as they are! Small, vibrant frogs are one, as well as brightly colored insects. Berries of certain plants are gobbled up in a flash, and they are ecstatic to feast on rotting corpses. As you probably already guessed, these selected food groups are mainly used to fuel their toxic vomit. Parts and pieces of these morsels are stored in their crop, which breaks it down into a nasty, sickly soup. When predators dare to disrespect the Regal Cockatrice, they will get a stream of toxin-rich, disease-filled puke shot right into their face! Needless to say, those who are hit with such a foul weapon don't live very long. These weapon of theirs is so effective, that scavengers and lesser predators will follow the cockatrice around in hopes of getting an easy meal out of an aggressor. Not only do they have the looks and beauty of a model, now they have an entourage!

If you thought that these creatures were flashy and gaudy enough already, just wait until breeding season. When that special time comes around, they pull out all the stops. Males will either find or make a clearing in the jungle and claim it as their own. They will spend days nipping away intruding plants and clearing out any obstacles that may mar the area. Then they will begin to decorate, finding flowers, rocks and other pretty things to add to their territory. When all is done, they will have constructed a stage on which they will perform, and boy do they! Using their large casque and long beak, they will sing a loud, intricate song to catch the attention of nearby females. These tunes are just as extravagant as they are, and unique to each cockatrice. Tales say that certain famous composers got their inspiration from such birds, but I don't think musicians visit jungles that often. Regardless, their song will go on for hours, even days as they try to lure in females. When one of them comes around, the show begins! They will dance and sing for their new audience, doing their best to show off their bright plumage and graceful ways. Like their calling songs, each dance of a Regal Cockatrice is unique to the individual, having slight variations and twists on certain moves and struts. The taste of the females is just as diverse, as they just seem to pick whichever male has the dance they like the most. Despite years of study, no one can really say what the criteria is for a successful dance, and believe me, people have tried to solve that! Though an avid and patient researcher myself, I have respect for those who took on that study! The mating ritual of a Regal Cockatrice can last for hours, and it does not guarantee a victory! To try and decipher such a dance would take endless days of watching and note taking, only to lead to years of comparison and analyzing. If I were to take on such a project, I am sure I would despise the ideaof dancing by the end of it! It should be no surprise that Regal Cockatrices are popular creatures, just look at them! Something with that much color and beauty almost guarantees that someone is going to try and turn it into a pet! Exotic collectors and rich folk love these birds, keeping them on their grounds and showing them off to guests. While this would indeed be a pretty sight, these cockatrices are a bit more ornery and temperamental than the common ones. They adore attention and respect, and those who don't give them that should watch out. Ignoring them will earn you some hard pecks to the head, as any attention is good attention in their book. Mussing up their feathers or dirtying their looks can lead to more jabs to the noggin, or a nasty kick with their talons. Once the offender is knocked back, the cockatrice will storm off to preen its feathers for a few hours. While these insults to the cockatrice are bad, the worst thing one can do is show them up. Now, that does not mean you have to intentionally try to outdo them. You just have to appear like you are trying to compete with them when it comes to color and beauty. Quite a few lavish outdoor parties have been ruined when the owner's pet escapes its corral and chases one of the more extravagantly dressed guests. If you ever get an invitation to one of these outings and notice that there is an oddly specific dress code, then that mostly likely means the host of the event owns a few of these birds. Don't wear a super bright and frilly dress there, as it might get ripped off of you if you wind up offending the creature. Outside of pets and party crashing, Regal Cockatrices are also loved for their plumage. With so many colors and feather shapes, they are a must have when it comes to decoration. If you believe that you own a fancy hat, check to see if it has any Regal Cockatrice feathers on it. If it does not, then no, you do not own a fancy hat. The more that are on it, the better it is! You can find hats, headdresses, necklaces and even quills sporting these plumes, and those who own such items are probably quite fancy (or vain, take your pick). With the desire for these beautiful feathers, people have raised them, like the common cockatrices, to take advantage of this market. Since a change in diet can take out the deadliness of their toxic vomit, all one has to worry about is their talons, spurs, beak and nasty attitude. With their pride and temper, Regal Cockatrices are bit more of a hassle to raise. Every farm I have ever visited had an owner who wore several bandages at a time and may have occasionally walked with a limp. If you can put up with such injuries and these temperamental birds, then you have the chance to make a good chunk of money, especially if you are wise enough open a trade route with a floral dryad settlement. While those native to their homeland may love and take pride in their local fauna, I am pretty sure floral dryads love these birds even more (which is funny because I am sure one of these birds would attack them if they ever met). If they weren't so caught up worshiping themselves, they probably would do the same to these creatures. The feathers of a Regal Cockatrice are like gold to them, as they are used to make gorgeous garments and accentuate one's head flower. If one wants to look good at the ball, than they absolutely must have some of these feathers in their arrangement. Not only do they adore their plumes, but floral dryads are crazy about their meat. This comes from their superstitions and home remedies they concoct in order to better their petals and blooms. One of the most well known beliefs of theirs is that the flesh of a Regal Cockatrice can brighten your colors and add hues to your petals. I call bull on such a superstition, as I don't recall any jungle natives looking like walking rainbows. Regardless, floral dryads find the meat of these cockatrices to be the best out of them all, and it is a required dish to be served at any high society ball. If you ever find yourself being invited to a floral dryad party, expect there to be cockatrice on the menu. Also, if you find yourself being invited to one of these things, don't go. They are the absolute worst. Not only will you show up under-dressed (which is impossible not to do. You could cover yourself in glue, go streaking through a lace shop and still get comments about how it was "cute" you decided to wear your sleeping gown to the event), but the insane amount of ceremony, finesse and daintiness is absolutely maddening. The reason these balls last all night is because they eat with such delicacy and etiquette that it would make a marble sculptor impatient! Such tiny bites! And so many utensils! It's food! Your supposed to eat it with your FACE! That is why I have been to exactly half of a floral dryad ball, as I wound up being too "unsightly and foul" (Translation: I accidentally slurped my soup. Once.), and was promptly "removed" (in a rather polite fashion, which was creepy). Speaking of, that is another reason not to attend. If you offend them, then you will mostly likely be taken out back by the servants and worked over for your rudeness (which they also did politely, which was even creepier). Thank goodness our limbs heal quickly, as doing research with an arm cast was no fun at all. Chlora Myron Dryad Natural Historian

#cockatrice #monster #creature #bird #bird of paradise #mythical beasts #art #drawing

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