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themadamespod · 4 years ago

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Sharon Carter: A Study in Selfishness

The Falcon and the Winter Soldier spotlighted some hard truths. Beyond its real-world parallels, it’s changed our perspective on the MCU. And on the heels of the finale, we can’t help but reflect on how we got here.

It feels like ages ago that an alien invaded Earth believing it was his right to do so. This madman imposed his will upon a whole planet. He wielded god-like power over an entire species. He took the lives of countless people, leaving the rest to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives.

In doing so, he became one of the most beloved characters in the MCU.

So why is it that many of the people who adore a monster are now so disappointed with Sharon Carter?

Easy. Loki is a man.

Angels and Demons

Relax, everybody. This is not an anti-Loki treatise. I’m writing this post with a Loki poster behind my chair, a Loki mug on my desk, and a Loki t-shirt on my back.

To be fair, it helps that the God of Mischief is played by one of the most charming, attractive men in Hollywood. But Emily VanCamp is no slouch. She’s a beautiful, talented actor who elevates any project. So why are people upset that she’s the Power Broker?

Women aren’t supposed to veer from familial or cultural expectations.

Women aren’t supposed to put themselves first.

Women aren’t supposed to seize power in a man’s world.

The events of Civil War alone had a tremendous impact on the characters we love. Sam and Bucky’s respective ordeals changed them forever, and The Blip forced them to adapt even further. So many people are praising their growth in the TFATWS finale, and we’re among them. But it’s frustrating to then see comments like these:

“Omg wtf is wrong with Sharon? That is NOT who she is!”

“Since when is Sharon evil? That ain’t her.”

“Sharon is totally a Skrull. The Sharon we know would never turn her back on everything she stands for.”

Guess what, folks? Just like Sam and Bucky, the Sharon we once knew no longer exists. She, too, changed and grew - right out of the box that the patriarchy built for her. And people don’t know how to handle it.

Double Standards

Misogyny is so deeply woven into the fabric of our society that a lot of people, women included, often don’t see it. But it’s in almost every facet of daily life, leaching into our brains like a toxin. And TFATWS called Marvel out on it by illustrating a simple fact:

Men and women who behave in the same way are treated very differently.

A man who tramples others for a promotion is ambitious. A woman is a conniving bitch.

A man who sleeps around is held up as a ladies’ man. A woman is looked down upon as a whore.

A man who logs extra time at the office is a good provider. A woman is neglecting her family.

Despite centuries of fighting for our right to exist, women are still brainwashed to be and be seen as lesser than men. We’re expected to conform to roles meant to keep us subservient. We’re told that caring for others is more important than caring for ourselves.

Sharon Carter received the same cultural programming. And it’s likely that she felt familial pressure (either explicit or implicit) to follow in Aunt Peggy’s footsteps, whether she wanted to or not.

And follow she did.

Sharon joined S.H.I.E.L.D. She fought armed HYDRA agents. Then she sacrificed her life, her career, and her freedom for the greater good. And what did she get for it?

The same thing women always get when they put everyone else’s best interests ahead of their own.

She got fucked.

A Matter of Perspective

Let’s pretend the TFATWS finale had gone differently. The Power Broker is a previously unseen bad guy, a Wilson Fisk type. After the U.S. government branded her as a fugitive and the Avengers forgot her, Sharon has just been trying to survive in Madripoor.

Nonetheless, she helps Sam and Bucky neutralize Karli. Sam secures Sharon’s pardon and she reclaims her former post as a dutiful C.I.A. agent.

Talk about disappointing; that would be like watching a woman return to a man who beats her.

In reality, Sharon is revealed as the Power Broker. After the people for whom she gave everything betrayed her, she built a lucrative business from scratch using a canny brain and the skills S.H.I.E.L.D. taught her.

Now for those who are incensed by Sharon’s turn because she’s selling weapons, please see Exhibit A:

Even after Tony Stark stopped manufacturing weapons for the U.S. government, he continued making them for S.H.I.E.L.D. If memory serves, he also created a sentient murder-bot that leveled a city before nearly annihilating mankind.

Tony’s intentions were noble, but that didn’t make him any less responsible for a humanitarian disaster. The Sokovians would have been well within their rights to demand Tony’s arrest and incarceration.

But we love Tony, so we don’t like to go there.

And speaking of the U.S. government, let’s be real. American politicians wouldn’t condemn Sharon for illegally selling weapons to dangerous groups. They’d condemn her for cutting into their own profits.

If there’s one thing the U.S. government excels at, it’s creating and arming terrorists. Sharon’s just running their playbook.

Redefining Selfishness

In all fairness, some people’s disappointment over Sharon’s arc has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with heroism. For this discussion, see Exhibit B:

Ever since Steve Rogers got his happy ending with Peggy Carter in Endgame, the Marvel fandom has been divided into two camps.

Camp 1: Steve is a selfish bastard who abandoned his family, his country, and the world when they all needed him the most.

Camp 2: Steve did more than enough for his family, his country, and the world when they all needed him most and deserved his happiness.

I will always be a card-carrying member of Camp 2, which is one reason I exited my Endgame theater as a human ball of snot.

Steve Rogers gave enough for his country even before he was defrosted. He liberated a POW camp behind enemy lines. He defeated Red Skull. He saved countless lives by crashing the HYDRA bomber into the arctic, sacrificing his own life in the process.

And when he was resurrected after 70 years, did he stop and smell the roses? Read a book on the beach?

No. He saved the world. Again, and again, and again.

It’s incredibly noble that a life with Peggy is all Steve wanted. Think about Michael Bay’s uber-patriotic Armageddon. Those roughnecks had quite the list of demands for saving the world, all of which seemed perfectly reasonable because, hello, they were saving the world.

So what does this have to do with Sharon Carter? Well, if you’re in Steve Rogers Camp 1, you likely see Sharon as a selfish bitch. I’ll make the same argument in her defense:

She’s given more than enough for others. She has every right to now put herself first.

We as women need to redefine selfishness. It’s been weaponized against us for far too long. We have to reframe it as a positive concept whereby we simply make our needs a priority in our own lives.

If more women embraced selfishness, we would be unstoppable.

Oh, and if you’re in Steve Rogers Camp 2 but still disappointed in Sharon Carter, you’ve got some hypocrisy on your chin. Might want to wipe that off.

A Final Note

Alice Walker, who knows a thing or two about feminism, once said, “The most common way people give up their power is by thinking they don’t have any.”

When the name “Power Broker” was first dropped on The Falcon and the Winter Soldier, it felt cheesy. But now it seems like the perfect title for a woman who not only refused to give up her power, but actively sought more.

Sharon Carter is unequivocally selfish, but that doesn’t make her evil or even wrong.

It makes her one powerful woman. And we can’t wait to see her again.

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revolutionary-demosthenes · 4 years ago

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4th of July: John Laurens and Slavery, and why we shouldn’t idolize him

I’ve written several drafts of posts trying to explain John Laurens’s complicated relationship with slavery and, in a broader sense, how the hypocrisy of freedom for our country--while denying the freedom of enslaved people--has led directly to the situation we find ourselves in now, in terms of race in America.

I’ve struggled with even going there, because I’m trying to focus on the present now, not the past. But I firmly believe that America can only fix its present once we’ve faced our past. And I want this information on my blog. John Laurens was not a perfect man, not even close. He was an abolitionist, yes. But how he came to these views is complicated and his personal conduct towards African-Americans is often troubling. Too often, in fact, the racist ideas of his era are visible in his writings.

There’s lots out there about not glorifying or idolizing historical figures, such as Thomas Jefferson, Washington, and other slave-owners.

This is becoming particularly clear today, with the truth of violent systemic racism in America finally becoming more fully recognized. When people watch videos of a black man begging for his life under the knee of a policeman, that brutality becomes undeniable.

But John Laurens is often exempt from this “historical disclaimer” of sorts. In the world of the Hamilton fandom and even more broadly in history, he becomes The Abolitionist, a White Savior figure who abhorred slavery and fought for racial justice, no exceptions, no fine print.

But there is a fine print for John Laurens. And it is a vital one to examine, because it shows us the importance of carrying our beliefs into our personal lives, not just our political ones.

First, let’s acknowledge the circumstances John was born into.

South Carolina, where he was born in 1754, was a southern colony, and as such relied mainly on agriculture in its economy. The rich plantation owners were the pinnacle of society. Washington’s family is an example of one such rich and powerful plantation owning family. The wealth and standing in society of these men led to positions in the government. And a man who illustrates this perfectly is none other than Henry Laurens.

Henry Laurens, John Laurens’s father, was, despite his pleading to the contrary, a significant slave owner and slave trader. Though in his private life he claimed to dislike slavery, he co-owned the largest slave-trading house in North America, Austin & Laurens. It doesn’t matter what he thought, or claimed to think. What matters is what he did.

Henry Laurens owned between close to three hundred slaves. His attitude toward the treatment of his own slaves was dehumanizing, self-righteous, and willfully ignorant. He chose to look upon himself as a “good” slave owner, rather than actually face the horrors he was perpetrating. He wrote in a letter that he’d rather treat his slaves “with Humanity” and make “less Rice” than “submit to the Charge of one who should make twice as much rice & exercise any degree of Cruelty towards those poor Creatures who look up to their Master as their Father, their Guardian, & Protector.” What Henry is trying to say here (to my reading) is that he’d rather his plantation produce less of a crop and not work his slaves too hard than treat his slaves cruelly to produce more profit.

Henry Laurens, in an attitude that is all too familiar today, consistently chose to think of himself as an exception to the problem rather than as part of the problem. He was quick to talk up abolition and condemn cruel treatment of enslaved people. But when it came to his own slaves, he insisted that “my Servants are as happy as Slavery will admit of, none run away, the greatest punishment to a defaulter is to sell him.”

I don’t know how John’s mother, Eleanor Ball Laurens, viewed slavery, but she also came from a large slave-owning family. Even if she personally didn’t approve of the practice wholeheartedly, she benefitted directly from slavery and married someone in the slave trade.

So this is the life John Laurens was born into. A life of incredible privilege, sourced directly from the the slave trade and the labor of kidnapped and enslaved Africans. This is the first thing that needs acknowledging in terms of John’s relationship with slavery. He was able to accomplish much of what he did because of his social standing and wealth as the son of a very powerful South Carolinian, powerful mostly because of his standing in Southern society.

John was able to get his education in Europe because of slavery. He was able to use his father’s influence to become an aide-de-camp to George Washington. His social standing and quality of life all stood upon the backs of slaves.

Because of this background, John was exposed to the brutal truths of slavery since he could understand the world around him. Is this how he came into his abolitionist views? It absolutely could be. But it is more likely that John first became serious about abolition when he was taken to Europe for his education. He attended a school in Geneva, a cosmopolitan place that was very open to new ideas. Being an abolitionist was not considered as radical there as it was in the Southern Colonies, and there was more writing on the subject of abolition, including a poem by Thomas Day, an abolitionist patriot, whom John was friends with.

So John’s serious thoughts on abolition may have partly been a product of being away from a place where slavery seen as a part of life and being in a place which was more open to abolition. John may have thought slavery wrong for a long time, but lacked adequate support to be vocal about it.

Significantly though, John did not abandon his beliefs when he returned to America. He continued to be a vocal abolitionist, and unlike his father Henry, confronted actual slave owners and tried to convince them to free their slaves… including his boss, General George Washington.

He also converted Lafayette into an ardent abolitionist, and Lafayette, even after Laurens’s death, stuck to these beliefs. He later in life even bought a plantation and ran it with the labor of paid black people, to prove it could be done.

But once we get to the war, we must also talk about Shrewsberry.

John didn’t own slaves, technically. But his father dispatched two of his slaves to serve as John’s valets during the war, one of whom was named Shrewsberry. (Something to note: I am not sure if these slaves were paid or not. I would assume not, and I have yet to find a record of payment, if it did exist. But if anyone knows more about this, I would love to know the answer, as it’s an important question to think about.)

This alone would mar John’s “perfect abolitionist” image, but it gets more disturbing when you consider how John viewed and treated his valets. I should mention we don’t have a ton of evidence of their living conditions, but what we do have is distressing.

On to the primary evidence: if you read the correspondence between John and his father, a funny/not funny pattern is that John is always requesting clothes, fabric, hair powder, etc., from his father. He usually thanked his father for these items. But here is a quote from a letter John wrote to his father on December 15th, 1777: “Berry received a hunting shirt and a check shirt. If there be any difficulty in getting him winter clothes I believe he can do without.” So while John advocated for black Americans in his public life, his private conduct tells differently.

And this is further evidenced when, after Laurens’ death in 1782, Thadeus Kosciuszco wrote to Nathaniel Greene that John’s slaves (his father's technically, as explained above) were “nacked” and that they were in need of “shirts jackets Breeches.” (“nacked” meaning “naked.”)

While John Laurens was certainly more enlightened than the average man of his time on the subject of slavery, he still had trouble connecting his broader ideas of freedom and emancipation to his personal life. He also wrongly blamed Shrewsberry for the loss of a hat, writing to his father, “Shrewsberry says his hat was violently taken from him by some soldiers as he was carrying his horses to water. If James will be so good as to send him his old laced hat by the bearer I hope he will take better care of it.” The blame for this incident obviously lies upon the soldiers who stole Shrewsberry’s hat, but John acts like Shrewsberry was in the wrong, or somehow that having the hat “violently taken” indicated that Shrewsberry was not taking care of the hat. The automatic and unjust condemnation of Shrewsberry again speaks to how John did have the prejudices of his time period in his head, even as he fought against them in a broader sense.

Later in the war, John left Washington in favor of his home state, South Carolina. He wanted to raise a regiment of slaves to fight for the patriot cause, who would then be emancipated for their service. John had written his father about the idea earlier, saying,

“I would bring about a twofold good, first I would advance those who are unjustly deprived of the Rights of Mankind to a State which would be a proper Gradation between abject Slavery and perfect Liberty—and besides I would reinforce the Defenders of Liberty with a number of gallant Soldiers—Men who have the habit of Subordination almost indelibly impress’d on them, would have one very essential qualification of Soldiers—I am persuaded that if I could obtain authority for the purpose I would have a Corps of such men trained, uniformly clad, equip’d and ready in every respect to act at the opening of the next Campaign…”

Reading through this carefully, we can see some ideas expressed here that are important to note. Firstly, “proper Gradation between abject Slavery and perfect Liberty.” This means that though John did want to free the slaves, he did not think that black people should have the “perfect Liberty” that whites enjoyed. Additionally, when John writes, “Men who have the habit of Subordination indelibly impress’d on them” he is suggesting (to my reading) that because slaves were constantly treated as inferior, they would be good soldiers (I assume because soldiers have to obey their commanding officers.) Honestly, this reads to me like John wanting to take advantage of the cruelty slaves endured because “They’re used to it.”

Henry wrote back that what John was offering was hardly better than slavery, again assuming his attittude of “my slaves are happy.”

John wrote a long letter in return, explaining his reasoning and also basically being like, “dad please support me, dad, please.” But there are also some phrases here, in his letter defending his abolitionist views, that are revealing about the prejudices John harbored.

He writes, “I confess, indeed, that the minds of this unhappy species must be debased by a servitude, from which they can hope for no relief but death, and that every motive to action but fear, must be nearly extinguished in them.”

Note John’s reference to slaves as a “species” rather than a race. (And, by the way, race is a social construct, not an actual biological thing.) The belief that blacks and whites were separate species was common at the time, and often used by slave traders to justify their actions. And this bit of writing shows that even if John didn’t really believe this wholeheartedly, he at least had the idea in his head. However, later in the letter John does use “race” so it’s a little unclear what he actually believed.

And we can see the belief that black people were not as intellectually capable as white people, owing to their enslavement.

Gregory Massey puts it this way: “Young Laurens reasoned that blacks were not innately inferior to whites; rather, their apparent mental deficiencies resulted from generations of enslavement.”

John goes on, “I have had the pleasure of conversing with you, sometimes, upon the means of restoring [the slaves] to their rights. When can it be better done, than when their enfranchisement may be made conducive to the public good, and be modified, as not to overpower their weak minds?”

What sticks out here is, of course, the assertion that the slaves had “weak minds.”

Essentially, John thought that once black people were allowed to live free, “rescued from a state of perpetual humiliation” as he put it in the same letter, their nature would change to more like whites. Black Patriots and Loyalists: Fighting for Emancipation in the War for Independence by Alan Gilbert states,

“Nonetheless, John Laurens retained a slave-owner’s perspective about the psychology of blacks at the time. In a 1776 letter to his father, he ignored manifold black acts of resistance and their hunger to be free: ‘There may be some inconvenience and even Danger in advancing Men suddenly from a State of Slavery while possessed of the manners and Principals incident to such a State... too suddenly to the Rights of freedman. [T]he example of Rome suffering from Swarms of bad citizens who were freedmen is a warning to us to proceed with caution.’ [...] The son insisted, however, on the principal that slavery is simply wrong, the immoral shackling of another: ‘The necessity for it is an Argument of the complete Mischief occasioned by our continued Usurpation.’”

But the same book also says, “John Laurens was a practical abolitionist. Favored by nature and fortune, he chose no easy path. He could, for instance, have worked for Washington, recruited a company of white soldiers as his father urged, and still have advocated for the “public good.” Instead, he committed himself to the nobler course of fighting determinedly for abolition.”

However, “18th century abolitionist” usually did not mean someone who believed black and white people were equal and should have the same rights. It meant that you wanted to end slavery. The difference between these views often gets blurred for John Laurens. Saying that John Laurens was an abolitionist is accurate, but he probably did not believe that black and white people should have the exact same rights, at least not at first. That needs to be acknowledged. John was an abolitionist, but it is unclear how much equality he really wanted.

Only paying attention to his anti-slavery professional life also leads to the idea that it is safe to idolize Laurens, rather than critically examine his complex views on race. The idea forms that he is the one white man from the 18th century we can be fully proud of. The one we can say is our beautiful cinnamon roll without having to confront his relationship with slavery. The fact that John Laurens wanted to help enslaved people gain their freedom doesn’t change the ways in which he benefited from white supremacy, nor how he treated his personal servants, nor the racist ideas he expressed in some of his writings.

This does not mean Laurens was evil, or that you can’t like and admire parts of him. By the standards of other revolutionary figures, like the aforementioned Jefferson and Washington (and Madison and Hamilton to an extent*) Laurens was remarkably enlightened. But also, that in itself is terrible. Like, the idea of a “good guy” from the 18th century is still one that believed that black people had “weak minds” owing to their enslavement.

If we truly want to reckon with the racial sins of America, and how they originated, we need to see figures like Laurens for all they were. Not just the noble abolitionist, but also the inherently privileged white man whose righteous public crusade was enabled by the very system it sought to end, slavery. We also need to see him as the extremely wealthy young man who regarded the command of his servants as part of the natural order of his life.

I didn’t write this solely for history. John’s story is a reminder to all allies that actions based on our beliefs are important to make in our private lives, as well as public. Yes, it’s important to advocate for racial justice in our public and professional lives. But it’s also important to examine and be honest about our own forms of privilege and the ways in which we have internalized the racism of the world around us. All white people in America benefit from slavery and the systems it was built upon, even those whose forebears came to America long after slavery was abolished. I firmly believe that a step forward for racial justice in the US is simply to acknowledge privilege, because we cannot fix a broken system until we realize all the ways in which it is broken.

#John Laurens #slavery #abolition #Alexander Hamilton #I hope it came out okay #also I'm completely open to feedback #long post #Jefferson #Washington #Madison #founding fathers #4th of july #quotes #letters

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floater0352 · 4 years ago

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TL;DR warning: TFATWS Ep. 6 / Finale There’s a lot to unpack in this series finale, and I sure as hell am not the expert to do this, but I thought I’d highlight some particular issues I have. Much of this, admittedly, will be coming from the high character tenors of the previous episodes, whereas this episode is really where the “MCU kind of movie denouement” kicks in. If you can call/criticize something as “Disney formula” writing, this might be it. Did it hamper/dampen my enjoyment of this series? Not THAT much, but it really stands out and suggests it could have been better. So let me do a few numbers. 1. PRO: A very acceptable execution of selling not only Sam’s first outing as ‘Captain America’, not only the affirmation of Bucky Barnes’ commitment to heroism, but the apotheosis long-denied to Isaiah Bradley. I’m getting the impression much of the gushing here in Tumblr will be focusing on that--and to an extent, I am in agreement. their characters were very well fleshed out and to be honest, I wouldn’t have it any other way. There may be still other things I would recommend as a better laid-out recognition for Isaiah (something more faithful to the Truth comic miniseries), but that’s a minor quibble compared to the others below.

2. CON: Falling into the trap of a “GOT-layout” series ending Ok, that description might be too harsh. After all, point # 1 is near perfect.

However, and this is a very big HOWEVER... A really good show does not rely solely on giving your main characters the best ending possible. Their supporting cast deserves at least a fair amount of character development (understandable motivations, a good appreciation of their character arcs, more moments which make you empathize with them especially if you are trying to experiment with moral ambiguity on their characters). The fact that the action sequence ate up more than half of the final episode’s near-50 minute runtime really prevented any further character development moments. How, to some extent, this became insufficient with Karli Morgenthau and John Walker become really apparent in the end. 3. CON: Under-served Character Denouements Karli and the Flag-Smashers, in practice, were basically given the “Killmonger” treatment: they’ll have to die, but the validity of their moral argument will be recognized. As someone with a very limited set of fandoms I follow, the only other place I’ve seen this done is Mobile Suit Gundam: Iron-Blooded Orphans. The protagonist cast was left to die, but the tragedy of their situation led their world to improve things for the better. (For those familiar with this fandom, many will understand that this did not go down well.) Compare this, in turn, to how Breaking Bad gives even the supporting cast and side-characters understandable character endings.

The reason of complaint here, being, that this kind of story flow robs these characters of agency not only in their tragedy--but also how they choose to go out. Sympathetic tragic characters, to an extent, are at least given some dignity in how they go out. The fact that Karli and the Flag-Smashers are practically disposed of by a) Sharon, now fully revealed as the criminal Power-Broker and b) Zemo, whose butler is no less capable in extreme action even while he was in prison further highlights how they are basically reduced into ‘plot elements’, not a fully-realized group/faction of people.

John Walker, for his part, is also given very little to do (and indeed, what little he was able to do in the entire fight sequence is laughable). Even his one spark of “good choice” (seeking to save the falling vehicle’s occupants), even if he failed, was ultimately overshadowed by Sam’s more flamboyant rescue. One might be able to make argument, perhaps, that that is the point: Walker’s arc in this episode, perhaps, is to finally learn why exactly he can’t become Captain America: because he remains primarily a soldier, and only good at that. Witnessing Sam arguing and pontificating in front of the cameras, perhaps, is what hammers it home to him--and why perhaps his last scene in the series is him accepting his new role as U.S. Agent. If his world is going to be small and he is going to be pigeonholed into what he is good at, so be it. If he can’t be Captain America (now that he knows why exactly that symbol is powerful, and what is required of it), he’ll find his way with people who will let him be what he can be. Notice, however, how even between these two underserved characters, John Walker has a more understandable progression. I don’t think I’ll really be able to fault ‘left-wing’ viewers of the show who will be left dissatisfied by this ending (especially those who are sympathetic to the Flag-Smashers’ demands--especially as to some extent (due to my own line of work and leanings, I’m kind of one of those). And then there’s the reveal of Sharon as the Power-Broker--its own can of worms, but I’ll fold it in the next item. 4. MIXED BAG: How the show’s social layout closes

The fact that the MCU’s undercurrent politics remains to be “institutions are bad, mob/grassroots action will always be misguided, let media-chosen/private individuals and orgs show you the ‘right way’ of doing things”--it isn’t really as helpful as it could be. The show basically ends with Sam and Bucky’s individual arcs and moral world-views affirmed. It is definitely a happy ending for them. It is, however, pretty difficult to swallow that it ends well for them when the bigger picture is left unaddressed. (For those who may be interested in this line of critique, this video essay, “Imagining the Tyrant” by Kyle Kallgren / Brows Held High / oancitizen should be helpful.)

Nowhere is this better illustrated than in 2 instances: the setting of Walker’s rechristening as U.S. Agent, and Sharon’s “pardon” scene--now that we know she is in fact the Power Broker. Both events happen in the U.S. Senate Committee hearing hall--basically making the statement that even with a new Captain America that is more ‘home-grown’ and closer to the ground and common people (even as he literally flies high), the institutions of the U.S. government is still as impervious and clueless to its corruption and enabling of crime and injustice. Criminal elements like Valentina de Fontaine and the Power Broker foster the underground economy with impunity, and the U.S. government allows them to for a number of unbuilt/unestablished reasons.

It’s a valid/backed-up argument to make, and with historical/real life basis at that, but this is the kind of plot development difficult to credibly sell within a 6-episode miniseries already crammed with character arcs--and it shows. Compare this, for example, with how the Netflix series The Punisher built throughout its Season 1 run how exactly can black market profiteering grow under the CIA in a believable way. There, you see exactly what needs to happen for a previously-established upstanding character living in a grey environment to turn grey--even full on black (be it Frank Castle/the Punisher himself, Dinah Madani, or even Billy Russo). I’d want to chalk this up to the possibility of merging/reintroducing that world--and by god, imagine Jon Bernthal’s Punisher returning in this kind of gray area--interacting with Captain America AND the Winter Soldier, as this series is now likely to be titled--should be very interesting.

---- These are the top points in my head after my first watch of this finale. I may be rewatching this again--who knows if I get to come back. Still, it’s been a pretty meaningful ride. P.S. I should probably admit to my Filipino background here again, but it’s hilarious how the closing shot of this series (Sam and Bucky having a party with their family/community near the Louisiana seaside) is basically how mosts 80′s/90′s era Filipino action and comedy films end (either a beach party or a wedding/outing near a beach/swimming pool). The presence of Pinoy shout-outs in this series (”Amatz” and “Isang Tao, Isang Mundo”) really emphasize how this might not be an accident.

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96thdayofrage · 4 years ago

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A beautiful late April day, seventy-two years after slavery ended in the United States. Claude Anderson parks his car on the side of Holbrook Street in Danville. On the porch of number 513, he rearranges the notepads under his arm. Releasing his breath in a rush of decision, he steps up to the door of the handmade house and knocks.

Danville is on the western edge of the Virginia Piedmont. Back in 1865, it had been the last capital of the Confederacy. Or so Jefferson Davis had proclaimed on April 3, after he fled Richmond. Davis stayed a week, but then he had to keep running. The blue-coated soldiers of the Army of the Potomac were hot on his trail. When they got to Danville, they didn’t find the fugitive rebel. But they did discover hundreds of Union prisoners of war locked in the tobacco warehouses downtown. The bluecoats, rescuers and rescued, formed up and paraded through town. Pouring into the streets around them, dancing and singing, came thousands of African Americans. They had been prisoners for far longer.

In the decades after the jubilee year of 1865, Danville, like many other southern villages, had become a cotton factory town. Anderson, an African-American master’s student from Hampton University, would not have been able to work at the segregated mill. But the Works Progress Administration (WPA), a bureau of the federal government created by President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s New Deal, would hire him. To put people back to work after they had lost their jobs in the Great Depression, the WPA organized thousands of projects, hiring construction workers to build schools and artists to paint murals. And many writers and students were hired to interview older Americans—like Lorenzo Ivy, the man painfully shuffling across the pine board floor to answer Anderson’s knock.

Anderson had found Ivy’s name in the Hampton University archives, two hundred miles east of Danville. Back in 1850, when Lorenzo had been born in Danville, there was neither a university nor a city called Hampton—just an American fort named after a slaveholder president. Fortress Monroe stood on Old Point Comfort, a narrow triangle of land that divided the Chesapeake Bay from the James River. Long before the fort was built, in April 1607, the Susan Constant had sailed past the point with a boatload of English settlers. Anchoring a few miles upriver, they had founded Jamestown, the first perma- nent English-speaking settlement in North America. Twelve years later, the crews of two storm-damaged English privateers also passed, seeking shelter and a place to sell the twenty-odd enslaved Africans (captured from a Portuguese slaver) lying shackled in their holds.

After that first 1619 shipload, some 100,000 more enslaved Africans would sail upriver past Old Point Comfort. Lying in chains in the holds of slave ships, they could not see the land until they were brought up on deck to be sold. After the legal Atlantic slave trade to the United States ended in 1807, hundreds of thousands more enslaved people passed the point. Now they were going the other way, boarding ships at Richmond, the biggest eastern center of the internal slave trade, to go by sea to the Mississippi Valley.

By the time a dark night came in late May 1861, the moon had waxed and waned three thousand times over slavery in the South. To protect slavery, Virginia had just seceded from the United States, choosing a side at last after six months of indecision in the wake of South Carolina’s rude exit from the Union. Fortress Monroe, built to protect the James River from ocean-borne invaders, became the Union’s last toehold in eastern Virginia. Rebel troops entrenched themselves athwart the fort’s landward approaches. Local planters, including one Charles Mallory, detailed enslaved men to build berms to shelter the besiegers’ cannon. But late this night, Union sentries on the fort’s seaward side saw a small skiff emerging slowly from the darkness. Frank Baker and Townshend rowed with muffled oars. Sheppard Mallory held the tiller. They were setting themselves free.

A few days later, Charles Mallory showed up at the gates of the Union fort. He demanded that the commanding federal officer, Benjamin Butler, return his property. Butler, a politician from Massachusetts, was an incompetent battlefield commander, but a clever lawyer. He replied that if the men were Mallory’s property, and he was using them to wage war against the US government, then logically the men were therefore contraband of war.

Those first three “contrabands” struck a crack in slavery’s centuries-old wall. Over the next four years, hundreds of thousands more enslaved people widened the crack into a gaping breach by escaping to Union lines. Their movement weakened the Confederate war effort and made it easier for the United States and its president to avow mass emancipation as a tool of war. Eventually the Union Army began to welcome formerly enslaved men into its ranks, turning refugee camps into recruiting stations—and those African-American soldiers would make the difference between victory and defeat for the North, which by late 1863 was exhausted and uncertain.

After the war, Union officer Samuel Armstrong organized literacy programs that had sprung up in the refugee camp at Old Point Comfort to form Hampton Institute. In 1875, Lorenzo Ivy traveled down to study there, on the ground zero of African-American history. At Hampton, he acquired an education that enabled him to return to Danville as a trained schoolteacher. He educated generations of African-American children. He built the house on Holbrook Street with his own Hampton-trained hands, and there he sheltered his father, his brother, his sister-in-law, and his nieces and nephews. In April 1937, Ivy opened the door he’d made with hands and saw and plane, and it swung clear for Claude Anderson without rubbing the frame.1

Anderson’s notepads, however, were accumulating evidence of two very different stories of the American past—halves that did not fit together neatly. And he was about to hear more. Somewhere in the midst of the notepads was a typed list of questions supplied by the WPA. Questions often reveal the desired answer. By the 1930s, most white Americans had been demanding for decades that they hear only a sanitized version of the past into which Lorenzo Ivy had been born. This might seem strange. In the middle of the nineteenth century, white Americans had gone to war with each other over the future of slavery in their country, and slavery had lost. Indeed, for a few years after 1865, many white northerners celebrated emancipation as one of their collective triumphs. Yet whites’ belief in the emancipation made permanent by the Thirteenth Amendment, much less in the race-neutral citizenship that the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Amendments had written into the Constitution, was never that deep. Many northerners had only supported Benjamin Butler and Abraham Lincoln’s moves against slavery because they hated the arrogance of slaveholders like Charles Mallory. And after 1876, northern allies abandoned southern black voters.

Within half a century after Butler sent Charles Mallory away from Fortress Monroe empty-handed, the children of white Union and Confederate soldiers united against African-American political and civil equality. This compact of white supremacy enabled southern whites to impose Jim Crow segregation on public space, disfranchise African-American citizens by barring them from the polls, and use the lynch-mob noose to enforce black compliance. White Americans imposed increased white supremacy outside the South, too. In non-Confederate states, many restaurants wouldn’t serve black customers. Stores and factories refused to hire African Americans. Hundreds of midwestern communities forcibly evicted African-American residents and became “sundown towns” (“Don’t let the sun set on you in this town”). Most whites, meanwhile, believed that science proved that there were biologically distinct human races, and that Europeans were members of the superior one. Anglo-Americans even believed that they were distinct from and superior to the Jews from Russia, Italians, Greeks, Slavs, and others who flooded Ellis Island and changed the culture of northern urban centers.

By the early twentieth century, America’s first generation of professional historians were justifying the exclusions of Jim Crow and disfranchisement by telling a story about the nation’s past of slavery and civil war that seemed to confirm, for many white Americans, that white supremacy was just and necessary. Above all, the historians of a reunified white nation insisted that slavery was a premodern institution that was not committed to profit-seeking. In so doing, historians were to some extent only repeating pre–Civil War debates: abolitionists had depicted slavery not only as a psychopathic realm of whipping, rape, and family separation, but also as a flawed economic system that was inherently less efficient than the free-labor capitalism developing in the North. Proslavery writers disagreed about the psychopathy, but by the 1850s they agreed that enslavers were first and foremost not profit-seekers. For them, planters were caring masters who considered their slaves to be inferior family members. So although anti- and proslavery conclusions about slavery’s morality were different, their premises about slavery-as-a-business-model matched. Both agreed that slavery was inherently unprofitable. It was an old, static system that belonged to an earlier time. Slave labor was inefficient to begin with, slave productivity did not increase to keep pace with industrialization, and enslavers did not act like modern profit-seeking businessmen. As a system, slavery had never adapted or changed to thrive in the new industrial economy—let alone to play a premier role as a driver of economic expansion—and had been little more than a drag on the explosive growth that had built the modern United States. In fact, during the Civil War, northerners were so convinced of these points that they believed that shifting from slave labor to free labor would dramatically increase cotton productivity.

It didn’t. But even though the data of declining productivity over the ensuing three score and ten years suggested that slavery might have been the most efficient way to produce the world’s most important crop, no one let empirical tests change their minds. Instead, historians of Woodrow Wilson’s generation imprinted the stamp of academic research on the idea that slavery was separate from the great economic and social transformations of the Western world during the nineteenth century. After all, it did not rely upon ever-more efficient machine labor. Its unprofitable economic structures supposedly produced antique social arrangements, and the industrializing, urbanizing world looked back toward them with contempt—or, increasingly, nostalgia. Many whites, now proclaiming that science proved that people of African descent were intellectually inferior and congenitally prone to criminal behavior, looked wistfully to a past when African Americans had been governed with whips and chains. Granted, slavery as an economic system was not modern, they said, and had neither changed to adapt to the modern economy nor contributed to economic expansion. But to an openly racist historical profession—and a white history-reading, history-thinking public obsessed with all kinds of race control—the white South’s desire to white-wash slavery in the past, and maintain segregation now and forever, served the purpose of validating control over supposedly premodern, semi-savage black people.

Such stories about slavery shaped the questions Claude Anderson was to ask in the 1930s, because you could find openly racist versions of it baked into the recipe of every American textbook. You could find it in popular novels, politicians’ speeches, plantation-nostalgia advertising, and even the first blockbuster American film: Birth of a Nation. As president, Woodrow Wilson—a southern-born history professor— called this paean to white supremacy “history written with lightning,” and screened it at the White House. Such ideas became soaked into the way America publicly depicted slavery. Even many of those who believed that they rejected overt racism depicted the era before emancipation as a plantation idyll of happy slaves and paternalist masters. Abolitionists were snakes in the garden, responsible for a Civil War in which hundreds of thousands of white people died. Maybe the end of slavery had to come for the South to achieve economic modernity, but it didn’t have to come that way, they said.

The way that Americans remember slavery has changed dramatically since then. In tandem with widespread desegregation of public spaces and the assertion of black cultural power in the years between World War II and the

1990s came a new understanding of the experience of slavery. No longer did academic historians describe slavery as a school in which patient masters and mistresses trained irresponsible savages for futures of perpetual servitude.

Slavery’s denial of rights now prefigured Jim Crow, while enslaved people’s resistance predicted the collective self-assertion that developed into first the civil rights movement and later, Black Power.

But perhaps the changes were not so great as they seemed on the surface. The focus on showing African Americans as assertive rebels, for instance, implied an uncomfortable corollary. If one should be impressed by those who rebelled, because they resisted, one should not be proud of those who did not. And there were very few rebellions in the history of slavery in the United States. Some scholars tried to backfill against this quandary by arguing that all African Americans together created a culture of resistance, especially in slave quarters and other spaces outside of white observation. Yet the insistence that assertive resistance undermined enslavers’ power, and a focus on the development of an independent black culture, led some to believe that enslaved people actually managed to prevent whites from successfully exploiting their labor. This idea, in turn, created a quasi-symmetry with post– Civil War plantation memoirs that portrayed gentle masters, who maintained slavery as a nonprofit endeavor aimed at civilizing Africans.

Thus, even after historians of the civil rights, Black Power, and multicultural eras rewrote segregationists’ stories about gentlemen and belles and grateful darkies, historians were still telling the half that has ever been told. For some fundamental assumptions about the history of slavery and the history of the United States remain strangely unchanged. The first major assumption is that, as an economic system—a way of producing and trading commodities—American slavery was fundamentally different from the rest of the modern economy and separate from it. Stories about industrialization emphasize white immigrants and clever inventors, but they leave out cotton fields and slave labor. This perspective implies not only that slavery didn’t change, but that slavery and enslaved African Americans had little long-term influence on the rise of the United States during the nineteenth century, a period in which the nation went from being a minor European trading partner to becoming the world’s largest economy—one of the central stories of American history.

The second major assumption is that slavery in the United States was fundamentally in contradiction with the political and economic systems of the liberal republic, and that inevitably that contradiction would be resolved in favor of the free-labor North. Sooner or later, slavery would have ended by the operation of historical forces; thus, slavery is a story without suspense. And a story with a predetermined outcome isn’t a story at all.

Third, the worst thing about slavery as an experience, one is told, was that it denied enslaved African Americans the liberal rights and liberal subjectivity of modern citizens. It did those things as a matter of course, and as injustice, that denial ranks with the greatest in modern history. But slavery also killed people, in large numbers. From those who survived, it stole everything. Yet the massive and cruel engineering required to rip a million people from their homes, brutally drive them to new, disease-ridden places, and make them live in terror and hunger as they continually built and rebuilt a commodity-generating empire—this vanished in the story of a slavery that was supposedly focused primarily not on producing profit but on maintaining its status as a quasi-feudal elite, or producing modern ideas about race in order to maintain white unity and elite power. And once the violence of slavery was minimized, another voice could whisper, saying that African Americans, both before and after emancipation, were denied the rights of citizens because they would not fight for them.

All these assumptions lead to still more implications, ones that shape attitudes, identities, and debates about policy. If slavery was outside of US history, for instance—if indeed it was a drag and not a rocket booster to American economic growth—then slavery was not implicated in US growth, success, power, and wealth. Therefore none of the massive quantities of wealth and treasure piled by that economic growth is owed to African Americans. Ideas about slavery’s history determine the ways in which Americans hope to resolve the long contradiction between the claims of the United States to be a nation of freedom and opportunity, on the one hand, and, on the other, the unfreedom, the unequal treatment, and the opportunity denied that for most of American history have been the reality faced by people of African descent. Surely, if the worst thing about slavery was that it denied African Americans the liberal rights of the citizen, one must merely offer them the title of citizen—even elect one of them president—to make amends. Then the issue will be put to rest forever.

Slavery’s story gets told in ways that reinforce all these assumptions. Textbooks segregate twenty-five decades of enslavement into one chapter, painting a static picture. Millions of people each year visit plantation homes where guides blather on about furniture and silverware. As sites, such homes hide the real purpose of these places, which was to make African Americans toil under the hot sun for the profit of the rest of the world. All this is the “symbolic annihilation” of enslaved people, as two scholars of those weird places put it.2 Meanwhile, at other points we tell slavery’s story by heaping praise on those who escaped it through flight or death in rebellion, leaving the listener to wonder if those who didn’t flee or die somehow “accepted” slavery. And everyone who teaches about slavery knows a little dirty secret that reveals historians’ collective failure: many African-American students struggle with a sense of shame that most of their ancestors could not escape the suffering they experienced.

The truth can set us free, if we can find the right questions. But back in the little house in Danville, Anderson was reading from a list of leading ones, designed by white officials—some well-meaning, some not so well-meaning. He surely felt how the gravity of the questions pulled him toward the planet of plantation nostalgia. “Did slaves mind being called ‘nigger’?” “What did slaves call master or mistress?” “Have you been happier in slavery or free?” “Was the mansion house pretty?” Escaping from chains is very difficult, however, so Anderson dutifully asked the prescribed questions and poised his pencil to take notes.

Ivy listened politely. He sat still. Then he began to speak: “My mother’s master was named William Tunstall. He was a mean man. There was only one good thing he did, and I don’t reckon he intended to do that. He sold our family to my father’s master George H. Gilman.”

Perhaps the wind blowing through the window changed as a cloud moved across the spring sun: “Old Tunstall caught the ‘cotton fever.’ There was a fever going round, leastways it was like a fever. Everyone was dying to get down south and grow cotton to sell. So old Tunstall separated families right and left. He took two of my aunts and left their husbands up here, and he separated altogether seven husbands and wives. One woman had twelve children. Yessir. Took ‘em all down south with him to Georgia and Alabama.”

Pervasive separations. Tears carving lines on faces. Lorenzo remembered his relief at dodging the worst, but he also remembered knowing that it was just a lucky break. Next time it could’ve been his mother. No white person was reliable, because money drove their decisions. No, this wasn’t the story the books told.

So Anderson moved to the next question. Did Ivy know if any slaves had been sold here? Now, perhaps, the room grew darker.

For more than a century, white people in the United States had been singling out slave traders as an exception: unscrupulous lower-class outsiders who pried apart paternalist bonds. Scapegoaters had a noble precedent. In his first draft of the Declaration of Independence, Thomas Jefferson tried to blame King George III for using the Atlantic slave trade to impose slavery on the colonies. In historians’ tellings, the 1808 abolition of the Atlantic trade brought stability to slavery, ringing in the “Old South,” as it has been called since before the Civil War. Of course, one might wonder how something that was brand new, created after a revolution, and growing more rapidly than any other commodity-producing economy in history before then could be considered “old.” But never mind. Historians depicted slave trading after 1808 as irrelevant to what slavery was in the “Old South,” and to how America as a whole was shaped. America’s modernization was about entrepreneurs, creativity, invention, markets, movement, and change. Slavery was not about any of these things—not about slave trading, or moving people away from everyone they knew in order to make them make cotton. Therefore, modern America and slavery had nothing to do with each other.

But Ivy spilled out a rush of very different words. “They sold slaves here and everywhere. I’ve seen droves of Negroes brought in here on foot going South to be sold. Each one of them had an old tow sack on his back with everything he’s got in it. Over the hills they came in lines reaching as far as the eye can see. They walked in double lines chained together by twos. They walk ‘em here to the railroad and shipped ’em south like cattle.”

Then Lorenzo Ivy said this: “Truly, son, the half has never been told.”

To this, day, it still has not. For the other half is the story of how slavery changed and moved and grew over time: Lorenzo Ivy’s time, and that of his parents and grandparents. In the span of a single lifetime after the 1780s, the South grew from a narrow coastal strip of worn-out plantations to a sub-continental empire. Entrepreneurial enslavers moved more than 1 million enslaved people, by force, from the communities that survivors of the slave trade from Africa had built in the South and in the West to vast territories that were seized—also by force—from their Native American inhabitants. From

1783 at the end of the American Revolution to 1861, the number of slaves in the United States increased five times over, and all this expansion produced a powerful nation. For white enslavers were able to force enslaved African-American migrants to pick cotton faster and more efficiently than free people. Their practices rapidly transformed the southern states into the dominant force in the global cotton market, and cotton was the world’s most widely traded commodity at the time, as it was the key raw material during the first century of the industrial revolution. The returns from cotton monopoly powered the modernization of the rest of the American economy, and by the time of the Civil War, the United States had become the second nation to undergo large-scale industrialization. In fact, slavery’s expansion shaped every crucial aspect of the economy and politics of the new nation—not only increasing its power and size, but also, eventually, dividing US politics, differentiating regional identities and interests, and helping to make civil war possible.

The idea that the commodification and suffering and forced labor of African Americans is what made the United States powerful and rich is not an idea that people necessarily are happy to hear. Yet it is the truth. And that truth was the half of the story that survived mostly in the custodianship of those who survived slavery’s expansion—whether they had been taken over the hill, or left behind. Forced migration had shaped their lives, and also had shaped what they thought about their lives and the wider history in which they were enmeshed. Even as they struggled to stay alive in the midst of disruption, they created ways to talk about this half untold. But what survivors experienced, analyzed, and named was a slavery that didn’t fit the comfortable boxes into which other Americans have been trying to fit it ever since it ended.

I read Lorenzo Ivy’s words, and they left me uneasy. I sensed that the true narrative had been left out of history—not only American history in general, but even the history of slavery. I began to look actively for the other half of the story, the one about how slavery constantly grew, changed, and reshaped the modern world. Of how it was both modernizing and modern, and what that meant for the people who lived through its incredible expansion. Once I began to look, I discovered that the traces of the other half were everywhere. The debris of cotton fevers that infected white entrepreneurs and separated man and woman, parent and child, right and left, dusted every set of pre–Civil War letters, newspapers, and court documents. Most of all, the half not told ran like a layer of iridium left by a dinosaur-killing asteroid through every piece of testimony that ex-slaves, such as Lorenzo Ivy, left on the historical record: thousands of stanzas of an epic of forced separations, violence, and new kinds of labor.

For a long time I wasn’t sure how to tell the story of this muscular, dynamic process in a single book. The most difficult challenge was simply the fact that the expansion of slavery in many ways shaped the story of everything in the pre–Civil War United States. Enslavers’ surviving papers showed calculations of returns from slave sales and purchases as well as the costs of establishing new slave labor camps in the cotton states. Newspapers dripped with speculations in land and people and the commodities they produced; dramatic changes in how people made money and how much they made; and the dramatic violence that accompanied these practices. The accounts of northern merchants and bankers and factory owners showed that they invested in slavery, bought from and sold to slaveholders, and took slices of profit out of slavery’s expansion. Scholars and students talked about politics as a battle about states’ rights or republican principles, but viewed in a different light the fights can be seen as a struggle between regions about how the rewards of slavery’s expansion would be allocated and whether that expansion could continue.

The story seemed too big to fit into one framework. Even Ivy had no idea how to count the chained lines he saw going southwest toward the mountains on the horizon and the vast open spaces beyond. From the 1790s to the 1860s, enslavers moved 1 million people from the old slave states to the new. They went from making no cotton to speak of in 1790 to making almost 2 billion pounds of it in 1860. Stretching out beyond the slave South, the story encompassed not only Washington politicians and voters across the United States but also Connecticut factories, London banks, opium addicts in China, and consumers in East Africa. And could one book do Lorenzo Ivy’s insight justice? It would have to avoid the old platitudes, such as the easy temptation to tell the story as a collection of topics—here a chapter on slave resistance, there one on women and slavery, and so on. That kind of abstraction cuts the beating heart out of the story. For the half untold was a narrative, a process of movement and change and suspense. Things happened because of what had been done before them—and what people chose to do in response.

No, this had to be a story, and one couldn’t tell it solely from the perspective of powerful actors. True, politicians and planters and bankers shaped policies, the movement of people, and the growing and selling of cotton, and even remade the land itself. But when one takes Lorenzo Ivy’s words as a starting point, the whole history of the United States comes walking over the hill behind a line of people in chains. Changes that reshaped the entire world began on the auction block where enslaved migrants stood or in the frontier cotton fields where they toiled. Their individual drama was a struggle to survive. Their reward was to endure a brutal transition to new ways of labor that made them reinvent themselves every day. Enslaved people’s creativity enabled their survival, but, stolen from them in the form of ever-growing cotton productivity, their creativity also expanded the slaveholding South at an unprecedented rate. Enslaved African Americans built the modern United States, and indeed the entire modern world, in ways both obvious and hidden.

One day I found a metaphor that helped. It came from the great African-American author Ralph Ellison. You might know his novel Invisible Man. But in the 1950s, Ellison also produced incredible essays. In one of them he wrote, “On the moral level I propose we view the whole of American life as a drama enacted on the body of a Negro giant who, lying trussed up like Gulliver, forms the stage and the scene upon which and within which the action unfolds.”3

The image fit the story that Ivy’s words raised above the watery surface of buried years. The only problem was that Ellison’s image implied a stationary giant. In the old myth, the stationary, quintessentially unchanging plantation was the site and the story of African-American life from the seventeenth century to the twentieth. But Lorenzo Ivy had described a world in motion. After the American Revolution—which seemed at the time to portend slavery’s imminent demise—a metastatic transformation and growth of slavery’s giant body had begun instead. From the exploitation, commodification, and torture of enslaved people’s bodies, enslavers and other free people gained new kinds of modern power. The sweat and blood of the growing system, a network of individuals and families and labor camps that grew bigger with each passing year, fueled massive economic change. Enslaved people, meanwhile, transported and tortured, had to find ways to survive, resist, or endure. And over time the question of their freedom or bondage came to occupy the center of US politics.

This trussed-up giant, stretched out on the rack of America’s torture zone, actually grew, like a person passing through ordeals to new maturity. I have divided the chapters of this book with Ellison’s imagined giant in mind, a structure that has allowed the story to take as its center point the experience of enslaved African Americans themselves. Before we pass through the door that Lorenzo Ivy opened, here are the chapters’ names. The first is “Feet,” for the story begins with unfree movement on paths to enslaved frontiers that were laid down between the end of the American Revolution in 1783 and the early 1800s. “Heads” is the title of the second chapter, which covers America’s acquisition of the key points of the Mississippi Valley by violence, a gain that also consolidated the enslavers’ hold on the frontier. Then come the “Right Hand” and the “Left Hand” (Chapters 3 and 4). They reveal the inner secrets of enslavers’ power, secrets which made the entire world of white people wealthy.

“Tongues” (Chapter 5) and “Breath” (Chapter 6) follow. They describe how, by the mid-1820s, enslavers had not only found ways to silence the tongues of their critics, but had built a system of slave trading that served as expansion’s lungs. Most forms of resistance were impossible to carry out successfully. So a question hung in the air. Would the spirit in the tied-down body die, leaving enslaved people to live on like undead zombies serving their captors? Or would the body live, and rise? Every transported soul, finding his or her old life killed off, faced this question on the individual level as well: whether to work with fellow captives or scrabble against them in a quest for individualistic subsistence. Enslaved African Americans chose many things. But perhaps most importantly, they chose survival, and true survival in such circumstances required solidarity. Solidarity allowed them to see their common experience, to light their own way by building a critique of enslavers’ power that was an alternative story about what things were and what they meant.

This story draws on thousands of personal narratives like the one that Lorenzo Ivy told Claude Anderson. Slavery has existed in many societies, but no other population of formerly enslaved people has been able to record the testimonies of its members like those who survived slavery in the United States. The narratives began with those who escaped slavery’s expansion in the nineteenth century as fugitives. Over one hundred of those survivors published their autobiographies during the nineteenth century. As time went on, such memoirs found a market, in no small part because escapees from southern captivity were changing the minds of some of the northern whites about what the expansion of slavery meant for them. Then, during the 1930s, people like Claude Anderson conducted about 2,300 interviews with the ex-slaves who had lived into that decade. Because the interviews often allowed old people to tell about the things they had seen for themselves and the things they heard from their elders in the years before the Civil War, they take us back into the world of explanation and storytelling that grew up around fires and on porches and between cotton rows. No one autobiography or interview is pure and objective as an account of all that the history books left untold. But read them all, and each one adds to a more detailed, clearer picture of the whole. One story fills in gaps left by another, allowing one to read between the lines.4

Understanding something of what it felt like to suffer, and what it cost to endure that suffering, is crucial to understanding the course of US history. For what enslaved people made together—new ties to each other, new ways of understanding their world—had the potential to help them survive in mind and body. And ultimately, their spirit and their speaking would enable them to call new allies into being in the form of an abolitionist movement that helped to destabilize the mighty enslavers who held millions captive. But the road on which enslaved people were being driven was long. It led through the hell described by “Seed” (Chapter 7), which tells of the horrific near-decade from 1829 to 1837. In these years entrepreneurs ran wild on slavery’s frontier. Their acts created the political and economic dynamics that carried enslavers to their greatest height of power. Facing challenges from other white men who wanted to assert their masculine equality through political democracy, clever entrepreneurs found ways to leverage not just that desire, but other desires as well. With the creation of innovative financial tools, more and more of the Western world was able to invest directly in slavery’s expansion. Such creativity multiplied the incredible productivity and profitability of enslaved people’s labor and allowed enslavers to turn bodies into commodities with which they changed the financial history of the Western world.

Enslavers, along with common white voters, investors, and the enslaved, made the 1830s the hinge of US history. On one side lay the world of the industrial revolution and the initial innovations that launched the modern world. On the other lay modern America. For in 1837, enslavers’ exuberant success led to a massive economic crash. This self-inflicted devastation, covered in Chapter 8, “Blood,” posed new challenges to slaveholders’ power, led to human destruction for the enslaved, and created confusion and discord in white families. When southern political actors tried to use war with Mexico to restart their expansion, they encountered new opposition on the part of increasingly assertive northerners. As Chapter 9, “Backs,” explains, by the 1840s the North had built a complex, industrialized economy on the backs of enslaved people and their highly profitable cotton labor. Yet, although all northern whites had benefited from the deepened exploitation of enslaved people, many northern whites were now willing to use politics to oppose further expansions of slavery. The words that the survivors of slavery’s expansion had carried out from the belly of the nation’s hungriest beast had, in fact, become important tools for galvanizing that opposition.

Of course, in return for the benefits they received from slavery’s expansion, plenty of northerners were still willing to enable enslavers’ disproportionate power. With the help of such allies, as “Arms” (Chapter 10) details, slavery continued to expand in the decade after the Compromise of 1850. For now, however, it had to do so within potentially closed borders. That is why southern whites now launched an aggressive campaign of advocacy, insisting on policies and constitutional interpretations that would commit the entire United States to the further geographic expansion of slavery. The entire country would become slavery’s next frontier. And as they pressed, they generated greater resistance, pushed too hard, and tried to make their allies submit—like slaves, the allies complained. And that is how, at last, whites came to take up arms against each other.

Yet even as southern whites seceded, claiming that they would set up an independent nation, shelling Fort Sumter, and provoking the Union’s president, Abraham Lincoln, to call out 100,000 militia, many white Americans wanted to keep the stakes of this dispute as limited as possible. A majority of northern Unionists opposed emancipation. Perhaps white Americans’ battles with each other were, on one level, not driven by a contest over ideals, but over the best way to keep the stream of cotton and financial revenues flowing: keep slavery within its current borders, or allow it to consume still more geographic frontiers. But the growing roar of cannon promised others a chance to force a more dramatic decision: slavery forever, or nevermore. So it was that as Frank Baker, Townshend, and Sheppard Mallory crept across the dark James River waters that had washed so many hulls bearing human bodies, the future stood poised, uncertain between alternative paths. Yet those three men carried something powerful: the same half of the story that Lorenzo Ivy could tell. All they had learned from it would help to push the future onto a path that led to freedom. Their story can do so for us as well. To hear it, we must stand as Lorenzo Ivy had stood as a boy in Danville—watching the chained lines going over the hills, or as Frank Baker and others had stood, watching the ships going down the James from the Richmond docks, bound for the Mississippi. Then turn and go with the marching feet, and listen for the breath of the half that has never been told.

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sinsbymanka · 4 years ago

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This is a submission for the @cozy-autumn-prompts event, brainchild of the lovely @scharoux. Thank you for the amazing prompts! @tightassets and I submit the following art (belonging to her talented hands) and fic (my doing) for prompt #4: By The Fire.

Title: It’ll be a Hell of a Story Rating: M Pairing: Female Cadash/Varric Tethras, Maria Cadash/Varric Tethras Tags: Flirting, UST, Fantasizing, Pre-Relationship, Non-Inquisitor Cadash

Read on AO3

It should have been a simple problem.

Simpler than the breach swirling threateningly above them, at any rate.

They’d managed to survive the whole world going to shit, but that massive hole in the sky was still gonna be a problem they needed to solve. Sooner rather than later. And to do that, they needed people. Soldiers. Mages. Weapons.

Lyrium.

And whenever someone said ‘lyrium’, they always looked at the dwarf. Like the humans and their skirts and their wars hadn’t upset the whole damn lyrium trade. Varric debated throwing his hands up and washing them of the whole thing.

Demons. Holes in the sky. Templars. Mages. None of it was really his cup of ale.

But there had been red lyrium in the temple. And that… well, that was his problem. He’d put it out in the world. He was responsible for the spark that ignited the fire, and now he had to deal with the inferno. Besides. He could find a lyrium dealer with one hand tied behind his back, right?

He could kick himself for his optimism.

Ruffles couldn’t get the Merchant’s Guild or Orzammar to play ball, not a surprise. Too much risk to sell to this ragtag bunch on top of a mountain, not enough reward. Even Varric wouldn’t be able to pull enough strings to make it work, which meant he needed the Carta.

Of course, the one time in his life he wanted them to appear, they were nowhere to be found. Frankly, that was suspicious. There’d been Carta crawling all over Haven when he arrived, it didn’t take much to see their signs. Dwarven marks carved into cabins to mark drop points. Snow clearly brushed back to cover paths. Several short, shady dwarves in the tavern that kept to themselves while they played cards.

If he’d have known he’d need them later, he would have said hello. He’d been too worried about spinning tales to make the chantry dance to his tune and trying to ingratiate himself to both sides of this damn mess so he could get back to Kirkwall with his fine dwarven chest hair intact.

Maybe they’d all died in the aftermath of the temple exploding. He’d seen a couple Dwarven corpses, but not enough to make up a whole crew, and there’d been multiple operating in Haven. Did that mean the rest fled?

Varric scratched his stubble while he picked his way down the icy, gravel path. His eyes still roamed, trying to find any signs of seedy deals lingering in the shadows, but all he saw were scared refugees and soldiers not even old enough to grow a beard. The wind cut through them all and they scurried past without even looking down at the dwarf.

Well. Back to his fire to regroup and think of another plan before he froze into a nice chunk of rather handsome ice.

Honestly, it was hard to believe that somebody didn’t look at the chaos and see profit to be made. They didn’t make Carta as tough as they used to, apparently. Where were all the tough, savvy business people? The clever rogues able to stay one step ahead of all the competition? What about someone who could look at this mess and decide to chip in, if only because that hole in the world threatened everything?

Varric scoffed to himself and shoved his hands in his coat. Carta dwarf with a heart of gold? He’d grow a beard first.

He sighed and turned the corner, letting his eyes drift covetously to the fire not twenty paces away.

And almost stumbled to a complete stop. There was a woman sitting on his bench, next to his abandoned supplies, munching on a flaky pastry while flipping through his book.

A dwarven woman. One that looked like the right kind of shady he’d been trying to locate all damn day.

But the cunning tip of her head as she read, the blade on her thigh, the sheer audacity of her, was nothing notable. Not compared to the curves accentuated by her snug breeches and the tempting swell of her breasts tantalizingly framed by a shirt not quite as scandalous as his, but close. Her red hair was braided away from her face, but wisps of it danced in the wind, tickled her freckled nose.

She lifted her eyes from the page and locked eyes with him. Hers crackled with intelligence, energy, and absolutely wicked satisfaction.

At a glance he knew three things. First. She was Carta. Second. She’d been watching him look for her.

Lastly, and most importantly, she was the best kind of trouble. And that made her more dangerous than she even knew.

She didn’t break eye contact, didn’t even bother to drop his pilfered book. Instead, she raised her snack to her lips and took a slow bite, watching him watch her like she was a queen upon her throne and him some lowly petitioner.

And honestly, that was the right of it. Which shouldn’t make him think of getting on his knees and throwing those shapely thighs over his shoulders, but dammit he hadn’t expected to find the most gorgeous woman in the world in the middle of the Ferelden muck.

She lifted his book, tipped her head to the side, and smirked. “It’s not bad, but you’re sodding verbose, Tethras. You should probably get a better editor.”

Every thought in his mind screeched to a halt, replaced by one word.

Minx.

“Sorry my personal belongings aren’t up to snuff, Princess. I’ll leave better material out for you to peruse next time.” Thank Andraste his mouth was still working, because he’d lost control of his feet completely, dragged towards her like a victim of an unseen mage.

She snapped the book shut and tossed it easily onto the ground, ignoring his nickname to pat the bench beside her. It was a clear invitation, and he almost forgot how absurd it was to be invited to sit on his bench. Almost.

“I’ve been looking for the Carta all damn day.” He narrowed his eyes, making a show of grumbling displeasure to hide his ridiculous glee.

Her only answer was a sly smirk and to recline back on one palm. “I know. I was watching.”

“See something you like?” He gestured at himself, watching her stormy eyes drop from his face down his stocky body, lingering pointedly on his displayed chest. Then she swept a burning path back to his face.

“It’s not a terrible view.” She admitted.

He smiled at her. The most charming, brilliant smile he could summon. The same one that had many a fine dwarven barmaid tumbling over themselves to get him another glass of ale. His redheaded temptress only gave him a predatorial smirk in return.

“Should I assume you’re here for business?” He asked.

Or pleasure.

He didn’t dare say it. Not to her. There was something… something about her that made him pause, consider her carefully. Something that screamed if he gave her that power over him, he’d regret it the rest of his life.

It was the eyes. Must have been. He’d never seen a more endless set of eyes in his damn life.

“I’m curious.” She declared, tapping her free hand on the bench while she studied him. “I was on my way out, you know. Too much crazy religion for my taste.”

“The Chantry freaks you out more than the demons?”

“I can shoot the demons. It’s frowned upon to start murdering old women squawking at me, but they are annoying.”

She wrinkled her nose in evident distaste and something flipped in his stomach. The wind picked up again and took more of the hair from her braid, whipped it across her cheeks.

He had the sudden, maddening urge to trace his gloved fingers over her jaw and tuck it back behind the shell of her ear before cupping her cheek and drawing her sweetly towards him in a passionate kiss that-

She was either far too clever for her own good or used to inspiring a chaotic inferno of lust wherever she went, because she clearly saw the direction his thoughts veered off into. And all the woman did was bit her lower lip between her teeth to stifle a laugh he was sure would be throaty and sinful.

Yeah. He definitely didn’t need to sit down next to her on the bench. He needed three feet of space between her and him at all times to stop himself from doing something stupid.

His legs didn’t get the memo.

He plopped his ass right next to her, their thighs touching teasingly, but she didn’t bother moving. Instead, she simply eyed him with a distinct blend of wariness and interest. He sensed it would take more than his roguish charm to break down that caution, but he didn’t need to do all of it now.

He was used to playing the long game, after all.

“What’s your name, Princess?”

“Cadash.” Varric’s heart leapt in triumph. That was a good name for lyrium. A very good name. It was about time he had some good luck.

Then she added the kicker. “Maria Cadash.”

Oh. Oh they had hit the fucking vein with this one. They didn’t just have Cadash clan operating in Haven, they had one of the fucking heirs to the whole pot. A winning hand, if he played it right.

“Nanna sent me a letter telling me to get the hell out of dodge before the humans blew up the sky. Again.” She smirked, shaking her head. “But I’d just gotten comfortable.”

“We can keep you quite comfortable, Princess.” Varric insisted. Maker, he had hit the nail on that head with her nickname. He had bonafide Carta royalty on his hands and he’d do well not to lose her.

She leaned forward, her shirt dipping open with the motion, drawing his eyes for just a second and making him think of other things he could have in his hands. Because he was weak. A weak, weak man.

Maria held his gaze, brought the sweet back up to her mouth, and bit into the flaky dough. His eyes flew to the sugar dusting her pretty lips. He had half a mind to lean in and kiss it off.

“You know, those are bad for you. Not a single apple actually in them, Princess.” Varric rasped.

Maria slowly licked the sugar off her bottom lip. “I only like things that are bad for me, honestly.”

Varric leapt on her admission of weakness. “Well in that case, why not supply the Inquisition? You couldn’t make a more dangerous decision if your life depended on it. Think of the rush of danger. The cloak and dagger thrill. The late night missions and secret assignations…”

He sweetened his voice to the same low, cajoling tone he’d used on templar, guards, coterie, and all the worst of Kirkwall. She watched his mouth move with rapt attention, her snack forgotten.

Varric didn’t know how his arm slipped behind her back, but suddenly his palm was on the curve of her spine in a gesture that seemed carelessly intimate. Maria didn’t pull away. Their knees touched, her chin tipped up, and for a wild moment Varric waited for her to lean in and capture his mouth.

Instead, her smile curled up like the fire they sat beside. She tore her eyes from his to look at it with a shake of her head.

“It’ll cost you.” She warned. “This is risky. Risky isn’t cheap.”

Some things were worth paying any price for, weren’t they?

“We’ll find the coin.” He promised. “And you get to stay at the center of the action, just like you want.”

Her eyebrow climbed up her forehead. “You think I want to be underneath a spiraling hole in the bleedin’ world freezing my tits off?”

“Of course you do.” He stated, picking up an abandoned mug and holding it out to her in a silent toast. “It’s gonna be a hell of a story, Princess. Wouldn’t want to miss it.”

Just the slightest bit of her wariness fell away, revealing a wicked glint of humor and a spark of madness he’d seen too often in a dozen other brilliant women when they had made up their mind to have an adventure with or without him.

“No.” She declared with relish. “I suppose I wouldn’t want to miss it for the world.”

#co-zautumn #dragon age #dragonage #cadash x varric #maria cadash #varric tethras #varric romance #pre-relationship #meet cute #UST #flirting #tightassets art #manka writes

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scarlettrhettelizabethrichard · 4 years ago

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Chapter 1. Duncan Fashion, my GWTW fanfiction The Robillard Boutique

Charleston, May 1876

Excitement was building in Charleston's good society. At last, they would be able to meet the handsome heir to the most venerable and ancient family in the Deep South and certainly one of the wealthiest families in America.

So many mysteries surrounded Duncan Vayton, the great benefactor of the Cause and the new prince of fashion. *****

Paris, France, 1859 Duncan Vayton had left Charleston after graduating from West Point with flying colors. The future was open to him. His parents were excited to see him take over Soft South, the largest cotton plantation in South Carolina. They were even more excited about the prospect of their only son starting a family.

Duncan had other desires. Europe was opening its arms to him. American cotton from the Southern States, "King Cotton" as it was known, was wreaking havoc across the continent. Europeans imported 3,000,000 bales of the precious textile raw material every year.

It is under these favorable skies that the southern planter was welcomed with open arms by the French businessmen.

Upon his arrival, the young Duncan made an appointment with a major textile entrepreneur, Roger Dax, importer of a large quantity of Soft South's production. A first visit to the Dax woollen mill in Roubaix intrigued him. As a young man, he had ridden the miles of cotton fields to the point of mastering all the steps and hazards of growing and harvesting cotton. Therefore, he became interested in the techniques of transforming the bales into finished products.

Roger Dax was happy to show him his latest looms. He became familiar with the notions of carded cycle, beating, loader, drawing bench, spindle bench or worsted cycle. To perfect his knowledge, he visited the greatest textile factories in France and England, and was curious about the mechanical innovations of weaving.

His decision was made to join forces with his French friend, to bring him a substantial working capital and the energy of young America in order to transform the Dax family spinning mill into a textile factory aiming to compete with the largest French companies.

Of course, the master of Soft South had decided to supply himself with raw materials primarily from his family Plantation, ensuring also a substantial market share to his neighboring planters in the South. He could thus guarantee to his European customers, with full knowledge of the facts, a first quality cotton.

In order to distinguish themselves from other French linen manufacturers by the quality of the hems and trimmings, the two partners then secured the exclusivity of the best embroiderers installed in the North of France.

Vayton & Dax quickly established themselves in the lucrative market for embroidered tablecloths and monogrammed sheets. Their products were featured in the catalog of the famous Parisian store "Bon Marché". Advertising inserts were published in popular newspapers for the family. It became fashionable to enrich any wedding trousseau of young ladies of good society with the indispensable linens stamped "Vayton & Dax". ***

Charleston, 1861

At the first rumors of a probable conflict between the North and the South in early 1861, the Charlestonian enthusiastically left comfortable Europe to defend the values of his beloved South. When the Confederate States announced their entry into the war, the young man joined his army corps, swollen with confidence in the victory of the Cause.

From his first review of the troops, he realized how poorly equipped his soldiers were in uniforms. While the gray garment was adorned with flashy gold buttons, the fine canvas seemed, to the expert eyes of the textile professional, far too light to withstand the rigors of combat in what was sure to be a long war.

Unlike the Yankees, the Confederate States had a severe lack of cotton mills to transform their cotton production into clothing for their soldiers. So much so that, when the blockade no longer allowed General Lee's army to resupply itself, Lieutenant-Colonel Duncan Vayton contacted his French associate Roger Dax in Roubaix, and undertook to have his personal funds used to manufacture tightly woven pants and jackets to guarantee better waterproofing.

To repatriate this production to the battlefields of the southern army, he had to contact a blockade breaker. He was advised the best, the most intrepid, and therefore also the most expensive, a certain Rhett Butler.

An exchange of messages made him realize that invoking solidarity to the Cause among Charlestonians in order to lower the astronomical transportation rates had no chance of moving Captain Butler. Like the other blockade-breakers, he favored the transport of luxury goods which he would then sell at a high margin. Monopolizing valuable yardage for the benefit of the Army was a waste for these war profiteers. Duncan felt a deep contempt for this character.

When the defeat of the South was inevitable, Lieutenant Colonel Duncan Vayton, a great military strategist like his West Point professors, always on the front lines of battle, had won the unconditional admiration and respect of his men.

At the end of the war, Duncan helped his parents restore their plantation, which had suffered less than most of their friends.

Then he decided to go back to France. To the great despair of Cathleen and Aymeric Vayton. They had hoped so much that their only son would marry and give them an heir. Duncan would always reply, "Later, maybe someday.“

It wasn't for lack of opportunity to marry an attractive Southern belle: Duncan was, without a doubt, one of the most handsome men in Charleston. Tall, slender, with curly golden hair, deep blue eyes, a frank smile that emphasized a fine mustache, and a warm voice... In a few words, the perfect Prince Charming.

For Cathleen and Aymeric Vayton, any visit to Charleston by Duncan was an opportunity for grand receptions. Only the most respectable families were invited. Those with young daughters to marry were privileged. Any young beauty in bloom would shudder when she met Duncan's azure gaze. He would offer a smile, a dance, a compliment, a bow. With the assurance of a broken heart for his young admirer.

Yet Duncan was not dry-hearted. He loved his family deeply, his parents and his younger sister Melina, and was not stingy in his displays of affection for them. His Mammy, who had raised two generations of Vaytons, marveled at his big heart.

As for love... Duncan was discreet about his love affairs. His pre-war Parisian life had allowed him to blossom sexually... without obligation. Blondes, brunettes or redheads, they had to be sweet, loving, and above all without any desire to marry. He often preferred young married Parisian women. An exchange of pleasure guaranteed without constraint.

So Duncan was happy to resume his comfortable carnal habits upon his return to Europe in 1865. ***

Paris, 1865 His professional fulfillment was beginning to wane. Managing his flourishing textile company in France was no longer of much interest. He was only interested in creation and innovation. Roger Dax was not surprised that his American friend entrusted him with the management of their company.

The teachers who had trained him since childhood had initiated him very early to the knowledge of arts. The beauty of forms and the shimmer of colors intrigued him. The old Europe and its cradle of culture was an infinite resource of visual pleasure. Architecture, sculpture and painting, even the originality of wallpapers in vogue in private salons, everything was a pretext to titillate his intellectual curiosity.

This same attraction to beauty was of course expressed in the woman's body, her sinuous curves and the fabrics that highlighted them.

Inevitably, this thought process led him to take an interest in women's clothing. He eagerly embarked on a new adventure, luxury clothing.

To do this, the aesthete chose the most shimmering silks from India and the Far East, the softest cashmere wools, and the finely chiseled lace from the lacemakers of Calais. He selected the best milliners and mother-of-pearl button makers. A large, bright and ventilated workshop was reserved for the "little hands" responsible for inlaying pearls and brilliants on the most delicate fibers.

Designers and seamstresses were hired to join the venture. Revolutionary sewing machines made it easier for Duncan to produce handmade goods and let his imagination run wild.

The Duncan style, combining elegance, colors and sinuous curves, was born. His showroom on Rue de la Paix in Paris was named "La Mode Duncan".

Luck continued to protect him when he met the Empress Eugenie's milliner at a social dinner. The undeniable charm of the young American attracted the curiosity of the lady of the court. An appointment was made for a visit to the workshop and the presentation of the most beautiful models. The meeting was productive, followed by substantial orders. "La Mode Duncan" was launched.

Her designs were featured in the famous women's magazine "La Mode Illustrée" and in more specialized magazines such as "Le Journal des Marchandes de Mode". Other of her creations, more accessible to the budgets of the petty bourgeoisie, appeared each year in the Catalogue of « Le Bon Marché ». Dresses, petticoats and hats from this new fashion house were snapped up.

"La Mode Duncan" had finally succeeded in imposing its fame and equalled the notoriety of the greatest Parisian couturiers.

Everything was going well for him. Until that day in December 1874, and the telegram from Cathleen. His father had died of a heart attack. His duty was to return to his family.

#fanfic #fanfiction #gwtw #clark gable #gone with the wind #romance #novelist

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need-a-fugue · 4 years ago

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We Grow Together (29)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Tessa Sullivan (OFC)

Chapter Summary: Tessa finally learns what Lobe has in store for her people...

Summary: Relationships can be tough, especially when one person is a recovering-from-being-brainwashed-and-tortured former assassin and the other is an overworked mutant scientist. But hey, every couple has their struggles. Right?

“That smells awful,” she tells him as he takes a seat across from her, setting down his mug in the process.

“It’s peppermint tea,” says with a smirk.

Tessa scrunches up her nose. “That’s disgusting. Be a man and drink some coffee.”

Cal lets out a smooth sort of chuckle as he leans back in his chair. “Nah. I gave up coffee a while ago. Too many jitters.” He cocks an eyebrow at her. “Maybe you should try tea too.”

She gives him an odious look. “I’m not jittery.”

“Okay,” he drawls out amid a sardonic laugh.

“I’m not,” she protests. “What the fuck?”

“See that?” he points at her. “That is irritability. Still working too much and never sleeping?” he asks with a knowing smirk. “You should at least try to stop drinking coffee after four.”

“Thanks for the advice,” she deadpans.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. In a low voice, he asks, “Want some more advice?” She simply stares ahead at him. “Back out of this meetup with Lobe.”

“Why?”

He shakes his head, dropping his eyes to avoid her glare. “What are you doing, sweetheart?”

“Cal – ”

“No,” he interrupts, looking up and jerking his hands into a silencing posture. “What are you doing?”

There’s a very real, very palpable tension in the air that throws her off. She’d been trying to block out his energy ever since he sat down, not at all interested in reliving old times by pulling in his… essence. But she couldn’t block out the unease he was putting out now. It was a sort of anger and apprehension in one, perhaps a bit of hostility too. She looks up at him with confused eyes. “Why are you so mad?” she asks without thinking.

“Mad?” he repeats, face turning stern. He leans in even further and hisses out, “I know you’re not looking for another job. I know that Stark just asked you to run some new division.”

Taken aback, she asks, “How do you know that?”

He scoffs. “People talk, sugar.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean I’m taking it. I figure, now’s a good time to look around and see if there’s anything… better out there.”

“Better than being on the board of what is arguably the single most powerful corporation in the world?” He gives her a skeptical stare. “Bullshit.”

“You don’t know me,” she replies, sounding every bit the petulant child. “Not anymore.”

He simply smiles in return. “Yes I do.” His eyes narrow as he continues to stare her down. “Now what are you up to?”

She looks away, leans back with her coffee cup in hand, and turns her gaze out the window to the passersby on the street. With a long sigh, she mutters, “How bad is it?” When Cal doesn’t respond, she turns her eyes back toward him, sees him shift uncomfortably in his seat. “What’s he doing, Cal?”

“He’s trying to create the Third Species,” he says without preamble.

For the briefest of moments, Tessa’s breath is taken away. The Third Species. It’s something that Xavier had taught them all about. When she was still a child, she had read John Sublime’s bizarre manifesto about worthy humans who could attain special powers by reaping them from enhanced individuals. These men and women could choose the abilities they believed they deserved… and then steal them from others. From mutants. In Sublime’s mind, mutants were nothing more than some sort of crop, something to be harvested and broken down and consumed for the benefit of others. It had turned her stomach that someone would think that way. And it had given her nightmares to realize that his ideas had sparked a sort of cult following.

During her time in the X-Men, there were at least two instances when they encountered these followers. They’d dubbed themselves the U-Men. And while they certainly played the part of dangerous, radical extremists, they did not ever seem to have any sort of special powers, despite claiming that they one day would. But what if they were right? What if they could harvest mutant powers and use them to enhance themselves. That sort of thing wasn’t exactly out of the realm of possibility. After all, Dr. Sublime had been a participant in the Weapon X program that had turned Logan into the Wolverine… and the Super Soldier program that had successfully created Captain America from a sickly, spindly Steve Rogers.

“He’s part of the U-Men?” she asks hesitantly.

Cal almost laughs. “Those lunatics? No way. This guy… he’s way more dangerous than a bunch of dorky zealots.” He raises an assessing brow. “He’s a businessman. And he recognizes an opportunity.”

“To give people… super powers?” Her voice goes high at the end, taking on a disbelieving and almost fearful tone.

“Look around, sugar,” he says, falling back into his seat. “Ever since aliens invaded our planet and your boss put together a band of merry gentleman with superpowers of their own to fight it… everybody wants to be… better.”

Her brow furrows as she states, “That’s not true.”

“Okay, not everybody. Some people want everyone with super powers to be eradicated.” She gives him a horrified look and he smiles at her gently. “What happens every time there’s another mass shooting in this country?” he asks. When she doesn’t respond, only twists her face in confusion, he goes on. “People either want to ban all guns… eliminate the threat. Or they want to arm themselves to the teeth so that they can fight fire with fire.” He reaches across the table and lays his hand on top of hers. “People are scared. And they want to be able to protect themselves. Now more so than ever. And in this day and age – when aliens attack and robots plan a genocide and the number of mutants born everyday is on the rise… and now inhumans? People are looking for more than just a conceal and carry license to protect themselves and their loved ones.”

She sits with that for a long moment before shaking off his hand and sitting upright. “So he’s taking Sublime’s plans for creating the Third Species and he’s going to try to make it a reality. And then he’s going to sell it,” she states, no question in her words.

Calvin nods. “He’s already got a team of four scientists working on it. Two geneticists, including Scofield. And two bioengineers. The plan is to attack the problem from both sides.”

“Because Sublime believed that tissue transplantation would cause the genesis of mutant powers in the host,” she extrapolates.

“And there might be some validity to that,” he continues. “At least that’s what the bioengineers are saying.”

“But really, the best option would be gene therapy.”

“Which Sublime was unaware of in his day,” he supplies. “So Lobe’s thinking that between the two disciplines he can accomplish what that other lunatic couldn’t.”

Her features darken and her hands wrap so tightly around the mug in front of her that her fingers go white. “Where is he getting the… materials?”

Cal breathes out slowly. “I’ve brought him a few black market items. Ones I’ve managed to acquire through old contacts.”

She closes her eyes and tries to fight off the sudden swell of nausea. “Because you’re in acquisitions.”

“Everything’s still just getting started,” he assures her. “They’re only running preliminary tests… or something. I know they aren’t into any trials yet.” He pauses and a shadow flits across his face. “It’s only a matter of time before they start looking for candidates.” She looks up at him and he hesitates before saying, “For harvesting.”

Tessa nods her head, the movement growing more insistent as she thinks about what’s been said. And what needs to be done. “So we have to shut him down,” she mumbles, mostly to herself. “We have to make sure it doesn’t get that far.”

He reaches across the table and takes hold of her wrist. With his other hand, he wrestles the coffee mug from her grip and then holds tightly to both of her hands. “I promise you I won’t ever participate in anything like… that.” With a serious look and a more intense squeeze, he says, “But I don’t know that you or anyone else can stop this train.”

She pulls away harshly, her eyes suddenly shooting around the café cagily. “How can you say that?”

“It’s the times we’re living in, sweetheart. Look around you.”

“So I should just stand by and do nothing? Just let some… some human use my people for profit?”

He laughs bitterly. “Your people? Give me a fucking break.” He gives her a disgusted look. “When was the last time you even talked to your people? To your family?”

“That’s not…” she starts, losing the words to defend herself almost immediately.

“You’ve been hiding and denying who you are for so long…” He scoffs loudly. “At this point, I’m more in touch with mutants than you are.”

“God help them, then,” she issues out angrily.

“Look, you want to finally stop pretending you’re something you’re not, great. Go for it. I, for one, think the world could use Supernova right about now.” She visibly flinches when he uses the name. Supernova. An alias she hasn’t heard nor spoken aloud in years. “But I’m telling you, for your sake, stay away from Lobe.”

She leans across the table, positioning herself mere inches from him. “I won’t let this go,” she says. “I will bring him down. So I’m telling you, for your sake, stay out of my way.” And she rises and storms out of the café.

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #Bucky x original female character #bucky barnes x oc #marvel fanfic #avengers fanfiction #Supernova

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cleosokolova · 4 years ago

Note

MISSION: Cleopatra has clientele all over the world and is well-known for her cleverness. However, Damiano wants to further push her to her limits - he has assigned her to organize a group of two soldiers and do some reconaissance in one of the Capulet's allies -- the yakuza. He would like to ply them with coin if he could, but even so, just to let the Capulets know that nothing of theirs is sacred or safe is enough for him. Through a self para or thread, explore Calina's decisions in acting.

date: 2 may 2019 - 12 may 2019 location: verona, italy; st. petersburg, russia; sovetskaya-gavan, russia; kurume, fukuoka prefcture, japan

There’s something to be said about being picked by il Capo to swipe Capulet business partners away from them and hoard them for the Montague name. It’s the second time he’s assigned such a mission to her, what with the first having been to steal Queen Mab from the Capulets. Akin to a dragon that hoards gold, Damiano wants the Yakuza in any way he can have them--as business partners, as mere connections, as a dog-whistle used to rile up the Capulets any time they realize they’re not exclusively dealing with the group--and Calina intends to deliver and then some; already, a plan is forming in her mind to not only sway the Yakuza away from the Capulets just because, but to pull them closer to the Montague crown and fortify trading deals between the two entities.

She reaches out to her Russian contacts. Yerik is the first she calls, what with his loyalty to Faron and herself and his honesty in regards to what he thinks about her business ventures. He acts as a sounding board as she works out her plan, going so far as to offer his own opinions when she seems to get into a rut with herself. By the end of the call, the Russian man is sold on the idea of a drug distribution center on the eastern side of the country so that the Yakuza have an easier time getting things from Montagues rather than Capulets; it benefits Calina, which indirectly benefits him. The Zaitzev’s are the next pair of people she reaches out to and she eventually wins their support, too. She settles that Yerik will accompany her crosscountry and act as her second-in-command and the Zaitzev’s will act as strongholds in Russia while she works to extend Damiano’s kingdom and her own.

With that matter settled, her attention turns to which soldiers she’ll take with her to Russia. Calina combs through the list of available Montagues, paying close attention to her own weaknesses so that she may find a pair who’ll complement and complete her rather than drag her down. She thinks of Boris and then so ardently decides to not think of him. Calina still can’t trust the man as far as she can throw him, and thus cannot pull him into a plan that is meant to benefit her more than others; he’s too elegantly cunning, too unpredictable, and far too snake-like in his decision-making. Her next thought is of Faron’s рыцарь, Grace, and this sentiment, too, is quickly chased away. Grace’s tenacity and bloodlust are unmatched, but the Sokolova woman knows, perhaps too well, that too-wild things need close supervision, and she cannot afford to waste time and energy watching Grace when there are deals to be made and clients to be stolen.

In the end (perhaps selfishly), Calina settles on two nearly nondescript soldiers who’ve yet to make a name for themselves. Like Faron plucked her from Madame Kamenev’s brothel, she will do the same for them; she will lift them from obscurity and into recognition, so long as the mission goes as planned. Like chess pieces, she collects those who will vouch for her abilities and competencies within the Montagues. She’ll use these soldiers as a buffer, a shield; she’ll make sure Cleopatra isn’t nearly as easy a target as Fortinbras, whose thin buffer of relationships clearly wasn’t enough to keep him alive.

It’s Genevieve she goes to on May 1, once the plan is concrete in her labyrinthine mind. “I am a Montague,” the Russian woman says resolutely as she settles in the chair on the other side of Genevieve’s desk, “and as the months pass, sotto capo, I realize there is more that I can offer to the family that’s offered so much to me.” She ignores the bitter tang that lingers in the back of her throat, thoughts of Lawrence and Roman rushing to the forefront of the mind as she speaks honeyed praises of the Veronan family. The boy-king and his obedient servant have nearly stripped Calina bare, having taken the man with whom she was set to cultivate an empire within the city St. Petersburg whilst maintaining connections in Italy and more. The Montagues have taken so much from her, and yet now she deigns to give, to entwine her inherited syndicate in Russia with Damiano’s in Italy.

The difference? The difference now is Calina. She’s harbored so much ill will, has bared her teeth at the mention of the heir and her dearest friend’s brother more times than she can count—and what has come of it? Her grief has consumed her, but it has not destroyed her; again, akin to a phoenix, the Sokolova woman rises from the ashes of loss anew and ready to reclaim what’s rightfully hers: the favor of the king, his second-in-command, and the advisor.

But perhaps, at her core, Calina Sokolova resigns to serve the family that killed a part of her own because she wants them to need her, to come to rely on Cleopatra more than they ever thought they would. She’ll shower the Montague name with as many millions of euros as she can and she’ll succeed on the behalf of both Damiano and herself, so long as each victory unwittingly brings the mafia closer and closer to kneeling to the Queen of St. Petersburg out of its own volition rather than being cut at the knees. Let her moniker stand by itself—not Fortinbras and Cleopatra, but Cleopatra alone; let her Italian alias be drenched in Montague gold, so long as the appropriate titles and luxuries follow.

The plan she lies out for Genevieve espouses her goals: to undermine Capulet dealings with the Yakuza by offering them Ambrosia at lower rates with quicker delivery times by setting up a drug distribution center near Russia’s coast. She explains how she’ll use her own network to connect with and woo the Japanese crime syndicate in the name of the Montagues and their Ambrosia. The distribution center will be run and owned by Montagues and overseen by a handful of trusted people chosen by the Queen of St. Petersburg. Having been the entity to provide the drugs, the Montagues will take the lion’s share in regards to profits; 90% of earnings go to Damiano and his causes, while the remaining 10% is split between Yerik, the Zaitzevs, and others rooted in Russia who work closely with the distribution operation. In total, she intends to spend ten days away from Italy and in Russia and Japan.

The Underboss mulls over the proposition, Damiano’s wishes weighing heavily in the back of her mind. After their conversation, the Zhang woman gives Calina the green light she needs to begin working.

The Sokolova woman leaves for St. Petersburg the next day. The following ten days are spent as discussed and when she returns to Verona, she does so victoriously.

IN SUMMARY, Calina has successfully undermined the Capulet dealings with the Yakuza, at least to some extent. Having offered quicker delivery times, lower prices, and easier access, the Sokolova woman manages to convince a handful of the Dojin-kai to stop buying il sangue di fata and il anello di fata from the Capulets at expensive prices and to instead add the cost-effective and addictive Ambrosia to the repertoire of drugs they sell.

She is away from Verona from 2 May 2019 to 12 May 2019.

[mentioned: @brutuskovrov + @dalygrace + @gertrudezhang]

#not a soul was there to see it | self para #diveronamission #diveronarpg #act ii | scene vii #/ lowkey might write up her 10 day excursion one day idk #/ lowkey might not #/ that's how the cookie be crumblin!#/ also had to get this out since her thread w omi happens after this jfdnfjdfkerf

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chrysaint · 4 years ago

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FFXIV Shadowbringer Flavor Text from background NPC’s

Main Story Quest: Word from On High Location: The Crystarium, The Bridges, Fort Jobb, Radisca’s Round, The Ostall Imperative Excluding NPC’s locked behind side Quests

Just scripts from NPC’s that say something different during certain points of MSQ. Notable amount of non-interactive NPC’s are gone, some NPC’s who said nothing different before are now say something different after previous quest. https://ffxiv.gamerescape.com/wiki/Word_from_On_High

The Crystarium Katliss: We're mustering up all the resources we can to provide relief to our citizens. If there's something you need, just let me know.

Cassard: I saw you, Naonori─saw you fighting the eaters on the front lines. That was impressive stuff.

Irill: I have not been able to stop second-guessing myself since the battle. If only we had been quicker to send supplies, how many more lives could have been saved? I suppose I should take solace that we were able to do anything at all, but that is easier said than done...

Thickeman: You are safe!? Thank the gods! If you are injured, make for Spagyrics at once! The chirurgeons there will see to your wounds.

Rosard: All of our vaunted weaponry, and still we suffered the casualties we did. The sin eaters are a frightening foe indeed...

Valthewyl: I've never seen a sin eater attack of this scale! Medicine, bandages...we are running out of anything and everything at an alarming rate! Gods have mercy...

Emythia: Those who were wounded battling the sin eaters always beg for us to put them out of their misery before they hurt anyone. You can see it in their eyes that they don't want to die, and yet─ Damn it all! If only there was more I could do for them...

Fae-Hann: There are so many wounded that it will be a miracle if we manage to treat them all with so few staff...but it's a miracle we'll need to make happen.

Chessamile: Oh dear, we've never seen so many sin eaters before... We must make ready to receive the wounded.

Wounded Guard: I-I'm all right, I think. My injuries have been tended to.

Lesthil: I am heartened to see you return, friend. Thanks to the bravery and resilience of my comrades, we, too, live to fight another day.

Bethard: I do hope that the wounded make a swift recovery. There were so many... But fretting over it will avail us naught. What might I do for you?

Bragi: Medical supplies are selling as soon as we stock them, but the shelves are still heavy with foodstuffs and clothing. So many who won't be coming home...

Julstan: Lakeland suffered great casualties in the battle. I may be a merchant, but profit is the last thing on my mind at a time like this. I only want to do everything in my power to get the suffering the supplies they need.

Sylgham: Nothing weighs quite so heavy on the heart as cleaning the rooms of those we lost. I see their smiling faces in my mind's eye, and it is all I can do to hold back the tears...

Armilla: Whatever will become of us? My poor little girl...

Heggie: The sin eaters scare me to the depths of my soul. They show no capacity for reason, for mercy... They come, and they take everything from us. Oh, whatever can we do?

Lobarth: My father is big and strong! He fights for the guard! Or at least...he did. They told me he got hurt in the battle, and now he's resting at some place whose name I can't pronounce. They won't even let me visit him. I hope he comes back soon...

Dawkes: The immediate danger has passed, but I fear the future may only hold worse. We have lost too many good men and women today, and there is no telling what action Eulmore will take next.

Glynard: Things seem to have calmed down with the eaters, so the Stairs is back to business as usual. Why don't you stay and have a pint, if you're not too busy?

Leweralth: It was you and your companions who led the defense of the city, yes? I cannot begin to express my gratitude!

Gracine: This is no time for small talk! I must prepare the emergency foodstuffs for shipment at once!

Astrille: I saw you assist the Exarch in erecting the barrier that warded off the sin eaters. I cannot thank you enough for saving our lives.

Szem Djenmai: We witnessed your bravery, Naonori. Full many citizens are alive now thanks to your swift actions. You have our gratitude.

Melboth: Reading these records, one can see the sheer scope of the casualties and damage we have suffered. It is demoralizing, to say the least.

Ilsgor: These are grim times we're living in. And of all the days not to be able to find my what-do-you-call-it! Have you seen it anywhere? You know what I mean!

Leinneil: Improving cultivars for more efficient healing is a time-consuming task. I only wish there was more I could do to be of assistance at times like these...

Evelie: We have already mixed one batch of medicine to deliver to Spagyrics, and are currently in the process of making another. Leave it to us!

Mao-Ladd: I'm working to improve the strains of fruit we grow. There's nothing like a sweet and succulent morsel to lift the people's spirits.

Uilmet: How kind of you to come and check on our safety. We are fine, thanks to the brave men and women who protected us. As a show of gratitude, we're growing a veritable feast of fresh veggies!

Yalard: It is good to see you safe, traveler. When you stopped showing up for a while, I had feared the sin eaters got you.

Moren: We are fortunate that those who came before us had the foresight to record not only their triumphs, but their failures as well. Will you take advantage of their woeful experience...?

The Bridges Philard: Though we survived the battle, our supply shortage has reached a critical level. I have put in an order to the Crystarium, but with all of our outposts reeling, I fear that there is not much they will be able to do for us...

Shira-Kee: We escaped serious casualties in the sin eater onslaught, and suffer only from a shortage of supplies. From what I hear, the other outposts were not nearly so lucky.

Nanard: Much as expected, few sin eaters so much as attempted to breach the Bridges, and we suffered no real casualties. This is small solace, however, knowing what happened to so many of our brothers- and sisters-in-arms.

Fort Jobb Ilthri: The last sin eater attack was more costly than we could have ever imagined, and we now face a dangerous shortage of both manpower and supplies. We must restock and rebuild our numbers, and we must do it with all speed.

Bjorn: We lost a lot of men back there. Too many. But it would have been far more if you hadn't been there.

Grimcogg: Oh, it's─ It's you! I-I'm fine, thank you! Well, not fine, really, seeing as practically everyone's wounded and we barely have any medical supplies left, but...er, how are you?

Chathwick: We are living in turbulent times, but the men under my command bravely soldier on. I have my own anxieties and doubts, but I dare not show them. No, I must remain a pillar of strength for all those I lead.

Fernwren: You, too, fought in the battle against the sin eater horde, did you not? We are fortunate to be alive today, my friend.

Rae-Satt: I was fortunate to survive the sin eater onslaught, but many of the wounded I carried through these doors haven't been so lucky...

Lamlyn: I fear we suffered great casualties in the battle with the sin eaters. Countless wounded have been carried here...many of them on amaro. Oh, how I adore those glorious and heroic beasts!

Radisca’s Round Roi-Tatch: Since the recent sin eater attack, all of our outposts are suffering from shortages of supplies. We have the goods here, but with the roads as perilous as they are, delivering them is another story.

Kristinn: Heh...got pretty scratched up out there, but I'm still standing! I can't very well die now─not with the return of the night, and history being made right before our eyes!

Lewto-Sai: Lost one of my men to the sin eaters. They never even found the body. The hardest part is not even being able to say a proper good-bye...

Varlier: I lost more than a few of my longtime friends and companions in the battle. Yet all I can do is pray that their souls find peace, and fight on so that their sacrifice will not be in vain...

Menther: We suffered great losses in the battle against the sin eater horde, in manpower and supplies both. It will not be easy to rebuild and restock our resources, but we must do what we can. Anyhow, what might I do for you?

Mynes: If we had better anticipated the sin eater onslaught, we might have escaped with fewer casualties. We must be ever more vigilant...and yet, we find ourselves more undermanned than ever.

Bjarni: I've never seen anyone fight the way you did, traveler. It was fortunate for us that you came along when you did. Otherwise, I'm not sure I'd be standing here right now.

The Ostall Imperative Chadine: The sin eater onslaught claimed more than a few of my companions. Sometimes it is hard for me to accept that I am still here, and they are not. But I must soldier on and serve as best I can.

Szeli Vantheu: Those wretched sin eaters... Not even the amaro were spared their cruelty.

Atli: I've lost count of how many good men and women I've lost to the sin eaters. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, but it never gets easier...

Mosanilde: I hear that while our forces were occupied with staving off the sin eaters, a friend of the Exarch's helped to shepherd the civilians to safety. Whoever it was, I only wish I could meet them face-to-face to express my gratitude.

Seanric: Oh gods, what are we going to do!? We've fought sin eaters before, but never this many!

Tao-Tistt: We've fought back no end of sin eater attacks, but each one leaves us more depleted than the last. If they keep coming at us with such force, I fear we will not be able to hold out much longer...

Seanard: We opened the castle to house the first wave of civilian refugees during the sin eater attack. As they have many times before, the doors stood strong against even the most vicious foe. Those who fled here later we were forced to shelter at Wolves of Shadow. We could not risk opening these doors in the clear view of the enemy.

Teanna: The recent battle thinned our numbers considerably. While we are in no danger of a food and supply shortage, needless to say, I can take little comfort in this...

Cassfort: When the sin eaters attacked, I was tasked with protecting the lookouts atop the castle. As it turns out, few of them paid us any mind. I reckon my halberd would have better served us down below.

Merlath: We were able to spot the sin eaters approaching, but even then... Well, you know how things went. Updating Side Quest Completed NPC’s Pitrig: To think that all of Lakeland would be the target of an attack of that scale... And yet, the barrier will keep us safe. We must do what we can to ensure that our residents stay calm in this time of crisis.

-- After Completing, the Quest NPC’s dialogue changed

Anguished Guard: Mother... I don't want to die... Trembling Guard: I can't... I can't... Dying Guard: <wheeze>

#FFXIV #Shadowbringers Spoiler #FFXIV Flavor Text

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365days365movies · 4 years ago

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March 13, 2021: Ugetsu Monogatari (1953) (Part One)

Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society...

Ghost stories are fantastic. They’re an old hallmark of cultures across the world, in our everlasting attempt to understand what happens beyond the grave. Every civilization has their ghost stories, and their ways of telling it. The United Kingdom had Charles Dickens reading his classic A Christmas Carol on stage every Christmas, and that tradition has exploded into essentially a genre of holiday films.

The United States had my personal favorite ghost story written in book form, then adapted into various media. That story, taking bits of European and early colonial folklore, was Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

Ohhhhhhh yeah, that’s the good stuff. By the way, I use @adventurelandia’s GIFs A LOT, and I feel like I never credit them in tags or anything, so, uh...yeah, THANK YOU, you’re a goddamn legend and I wish you the best in your Disney GIF-making endeavors. Check out their pages, they’ve got a lot.

Anyway, we’re talking about Japan in this case, and DEAR SHIT, their “ghost stories” have transcended far beyond that into just being a part of everyday folklore and belief for many people. But today’s movie isn’t just about ghost stories; it’s also about how these stories are told.

Jidaigeki (時代劇) are essentially period dramas, set around the Edo period, before the Meiji Resotration. In other words, we’re talking samurai warriors - with and without masters - roaming the land, kicking ass and taking names. And in the case of this movie, the time of the samurai is about to be overlaid by a more fantastical setting.

Based on a 1776 book by Ueda Akinari, Ugetsu AKA Ugetsu Monogatari AKA Tales of Ugetsu AKA The Tales of the Wave after the Rain Moon AKA Yeah, really, that’s a legit alternate name for this movie AKA How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Ghost is a ghost story set within the Edo period, making is a jidageki as well. This’ll be the first jidaigeki I’ve ever seen, but not the last. Goddamn, I can’t wait for Western month.

With that, shall we? SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Recap (1/2)

The Criterion Collection logo brings us in, followed by your typical production logos, backed by the most Japanese music I’ve ever heard. That’s backed by that one guy that makes that one Japanese shouting noise, you know EXACTLY what I’m talking about, it’s a traditional stage kabuki thing.

We begin proper in a period of civil war, on the shores of Lake Biwa in the Omi Province in the late 1500s. A pottery maker, Genjūrō (Masayuki Mori) is set to leave his wife Miyagi (Kinuyo Tanaka) and their child Genichi (Ichisaburo Sawamura) to sell his wares in a nearby city, Ōmizo. He’s accompanied by Tōbei (Eitaro Ozawa), a dreamer and wannabe samurai who’s getting berated by his wife as he leaves.

While he’s gone, the Village Chief (Ryōsuke Kagawa ) comes to warn Miyagi about a possible attack on the village, and is upset about the fact that he’s left at such a turbulent time in order to seek profit. However, Genjūrō soon returns with a sizeable amount of money for his work, to his and his wife’s delight. They use the money to get food and new clothes, including a kimono for Miyagi. But Miyagi, ever in love with her husband, asks him not to be too greedy in seeking money, thinking of what the chief said.

Tōbei, in contrast, isn’t accepted as a samurai-in-training, and is mocked for lacking a sword and armor (which he doesn’t have the money to buy). He soon stumbles home to his wife, beaten and ashamed. He comes back to work with Genjūrō, who ignores his wife’s wishes and goes fuckin’ HAM on the pottery. This upsets Miyagi, who claims that the hunger for money has changed her once calm and sweet husband, and turns him bitter and irritable.

However, this is about to stop mattering, as the men of the enemy general Shibata Katsuie has come to the village to take the belongings of the villagers, and to take their men for forced labor. Despite forcing his wife to hep save his pottery, the family escapes, along with Tōbei and his wife, Ohama (Mitsuko Mito). Tōbei is a bit held up, though, as he tries to steal armor from one of the soldiers. Nice.

Genjūrō, despite the ardent objection of his wife, goes back to his still running kiln to obtain more of his pottery. However, the fire’s gone out when he gets there, and he and his wife are forced to hide when the soldiers come to search their house for belongings. Once again, they escae detection from the soldiers, and Genjūrō discovers that his pottery has been fully baked in the process. With the help of Tōbei and Ohama, the group grab the pots and makes it to the shore of Lake Biwa, where they go to escape from Shibata’s army. They steer their boat along the foggy lake.

While rowing, the men speak of their soon to be gotten fortunes in the city But then, they encounter a seemingly abandoned boat, eerily breaking through the mists. It belongs to a Boatsman (Ichirō Amano), who warns them of pirates on the lake, who ambushed him as he was going to sell their wares. They give him water, but he dies immediately after giving his warning.

With this bad omen, the men decide to send their wives and Genichi back to shore, as they continue towards the city to sell the pottery. However, Ohama refuses to stay behind, and only Miyagi and Genichi remain behind on the shore, as the other three continue onwards to the city.

At the market, Genjūrō is indeed successful, as the trio sells all of their wares to passerby. One of these customers is a shrouded woman, Lady Wakasa (Machiko Kyō), attended by a handsmaiden, Ukon (Kikue Mōri). She buys a LOT of wares, and instructs them to bring the pots to a large manor later that day. He agrees, and this definitely won’t result in spooky happenings.

Tōbei, on the other hand, realizes that he can now use his shar of the money to buy armor for himself. While Ohama tries to stop him, he runs off and does just that, buying armor and a spear for himself. Ohama loses him in the crowd, and comes to sit on a beach. There, she’s found by a group of samurai, and...well...samurai aren’t necessarily good people. Afterwards, the broken Ohama rightfully curses her husband for his selfishness.

Genjūrō, successful after the day’s sales, goes to look at a kimono salesman, and daydreams about giving all of these kimonos to his wife. This daydream is interrupted by Ukon, who has come to take Genjūrō to the manor. Said manor is abandoned, run-down, and DEFINITELY NOT HAUNTED AT ALL. Genjūrō, lacks common ghost sense, accompanies them to the creepy-ass manor.

However, not all of the manor appears rundown, as Genjūrō is guided to Lady Wakasa, in an intact portion of the manor. As the sun sets, handmaidens at the manor light candles throughout the manor, suddenly making it brighter and less rundown in appearance. As Genjūrō looks on, Lady Wakasa comes in to give him further praise for his pottery.

Genjūrō is deeply honored by the lady’s praise, as they drink from his cups together. She continues to praise his talent, and tells him that he must deepen and enrich his gift...by marrying her at once. And it’s at this point that Genjūrō starts to realize that something is...off. See, Wakasa’s SUPER fuckin’ into him, and she looks at him with those DEFINITELY-NOT-A-GHOST-LADY-EYES

Genjūrō, absolutely not to his credit, doesn’t say FUCK NO to this, in order not to upset her, even as she literally collapses on top of him. He continues to be attended on by her handmaidens, and she performs a traditional dance for him. The song she sings states:

The finest silk of choicest hue May change and fade away As would my life beloved one If thou wouldst prove untrue Our vow to love for a thousand years Is sealed with this cup.

And then, after that song and dance, the voice of her dead dad starts moaning from a samurai mask in the corner. You know, NORMAL NON SCARY-AS-SHIT SCARY ASS SHIT

Um...halfway point? See you in Part Two!

#ugetsu #ugetsu monogatari #tales of ugetsu #the tales of the wave after the rain moon #雨月物語 #kenji mizoguchi #jidaigeki #masayuki ori #machiko kyo #kinuyo tanaka #fantasy march #user365 #365 movie challenge #365 movies 365 days #365 Days 365 Movies #365 movies a year #gifs #mygifs #my gifs

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fire-emblem-heroes-supports · 5 years ago

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Summoner/Anna C-A Support

Written by @unsuspecting-person

C SUPPORT

(y/n): [yawns] Morning, Anna. What are you doing this early in the morning?

Anna: Perfect time, (y/n)! I need some help carrying these clothes to the Shoppe’s storage. Mind to lend me a hand?

(y/n): Sure, no biggie. Wait, are these…

Anna: Right on track, Summoner! Oboro gave me the first finished set of Earth Clothes last day and-

(y/n): Let me guess, you got so excited about putting them on sale you ended up not sleeping?

Anna: …Maybe~

(y/n): [sighs] What would I do without your shenanigans?

Anna: You’d get bored to death, since you keep helping me with them.

(y/n): Still, I’m surprised Oboro is letting you sell those.

Anna: She did, but at a couple of conditions. First, the majority of the profit goes to her to cover the time and material spent, and second, she asked to have complete monopoly over them in Hoshido, and a helping hand with marketing.

(y/n): Wait, she wants to sell those clothes in Hoshido of all places? It’s not exactly the most welcoming place to foreign culture, especially to something so… outworldly.

Anna: Don’t worry. With her determination and my wits, I’m sure they’ll be a success!

Anna: But back to the subject, I also came up with the perfect slogan! Ahem… “Inspired by the Great Hero’s mystical land of legends… A breathtaking line of clothes for all ages! Buy them now at the Shoppe of Heroes!”

Anna: So what do you think?

[(y/n) stays quiet for a moment , then starts snickering.]

(y/n): Oh my God, it’s so cheesy! [laughs loudly]

[Anna starts looking slightly annoyed.]

(y/n): Sorry. But honestly, I get hyping a product, but this is a bit too much.

Anna: [sighs] Alright, I’ll try making a slogan a bit less outlandish. But I need your help preparing the Shoppe for today.

(y/n): Coming, coming.

(y/n): (I swear, I’ve been in Askr for almost five years and I still can’t get over the Shoppe of Heroes’ name.) [giggles]

[(y/n) and Anna have reached support level C.]

B SUPPORT

(y/n): Good news, Anna! I finally managed to borrow some books on Fòdlan from another Summoner, so we won’t be completely clueless on who I just summoned anymore!

Anna: Oh, finally! This should work while we find an expansion to the library. I still don’t understand why we have literally NOTHING about that continent when Askr’s library should be the most complete in the Outrealms.

(y/n): Well, we’re not the only ones with that problem. A bunch of other Askrs I asked around didn’t have any information either.

(y/n): Should probably make some notes and send them around to help. I really wouldn’t want a fellow Summoner to get almost stabbed by Kronya too, haha…

Anna: …speaking of near-death experiences, there’s something we need to talk about.

(y/n): I’m listening.

Anna: Ever since you got ambushed by Veronica years ago you’ve been taking the backseat on leading and the battlefield. I wholeheartedly agreed to it since despite everything, you’re still a civilian that got dragged into a war without warning or consent.

(y/n): Anna, I already told you, I don’t blame you for-

Anna: I know, but you’re still in this situation because of me, and as your Commander, you’re my responsibility.

Anna: And while I wish I could just let you help around in the Castle as you did until now, we’re getting overwhelmed with tasks and missions, and since our tacticians are already working as best as they can we need all the manpower we can get.

(y/n): I see. You want to leave the simplest missions to me?

Anna: Correct. Now, I know how self-conscious you feel about your fighting and tactical abilities and I can’t or won’t pretend you’ll become a powerhouse or a tactical genius, but at the same time I want you to be able to perform some simple quests and ESPECIALLY know how to defend yourself. Understood?

[(y/n) nods.]

Anna: Good. I’m going to teach you the very basics of battle and tactics in our spare time, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to ask some of the Heroes for help after that. Meet me tomorrow in the training camps.

(y/n): Got it. I’m ready when you are, Commander.

[(y/n) and Anna have reached support level B.]

A SUPPORT

Anna: Alright, we can take a break now.

[(y/n) falls to the ground and starts breathing heavily.]

(y/n): Huff… Puff… I’m so exhausted…

Anna: Come on, (y/n). You’re actually doing well!

(y/n): …Really? I thought I sucked.

Anna: Well now, you can’t pretend too much when you’ve just started. And you know, you reminded me of my days as a squire, so how about some storytime from yours truly while you recover?

(y/n): Sure, why not…

Anna: As you know by know, I come from a family of merchants all across the Outrealms. We’ve been doing that for decades at this point, and very well if I say so myself!

Anna: Anyway, ten years ago I had to choose where I wanted to settle down my business. It's… sort of an initiation for us.

(y/n): So you went to Askr and started your merchant business there? As a kid?

Anna: Of course! It went pretty well, and I really enjoyed working on it… for a while. After almost two years my shop was relatively famous and I made a pretty good profit, but at the same time everything felt dull and uninspiring.

(y/n): You wanted something more from life than just earning money?

Anna: Don’t get me wrong , I love earning money, especially when I can get creative with planning around! But the shop, well… it didn’t give me satisfaction anymore.

Anna: Over those years I had actually grown attached to Askr and its people, so I decided to enroll in the army. And you could guess how my family reacted when I told them.

(y/n): They… didn’t take it very well?

[Anna rolls her eyes.]

Anna: Oh, that’s an understatement. They threatened tooutright dishonor me. And training wasn’t going well either. Like yourself a few days ago, I could barely lift a training weapon. It felt… horrible.

(y/n): I’m sorry for that… but why did you continue then?

Anna: Because oddly enough, I still felt the path of a soldier kind of rewarding. Not to mention seeing all the townspeople’s happy faces… and I was also dreaming of traveling the Outrealms someday, and Askr was the perfect opportunity for that.

Anna: As time went by, I got better and better, and I also slowly realized I don’t need the approval of some elders who think building an exclusive super-elite secret shop underground with outrageously high prices is a good idea.

Anna: I even started using an axe just to spite them. And while I did keep doing business from time to time it was mostly for personal fun, and not some “family legacy” or similar nonsense.

(y/n): [chuckles] Yeah, that’s the spirit!

Anna: Eventually I got promoted to Commander, I met Alphonse and Sharena and well, you know the rest.

[Anna hugs (y/n), who looks surprised.]

Anna:What I’m saying is don’t give up, okay? Even if it doesn’t seem like it now, I promise things will get better.

[(y/n) returns the hug, smiling.]

(y/n): I really needed that. Thanks, Anna.

Anna: Every time, (y/n).

[(y/n) and Anna have reached support level A.]

#fire emblem heroes #female heroes #male and female heroes #anna #summoner #kiran #summoner x anna #kiran x anna #submission

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carelessgraces · 5 years ago

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on seleny – its political history & structure

SELENY IS BASED HEAVILY ON THE RENAISSANCE REPUBLICS OF VENICE AND FLORENCE. The information used to develop Seleny comes from various books, as well as classes and lectures throughout my undergraduate and graduate degrees. Since this information has been gathered over the course of the last eight years, I can’t remember where each piece of information comes, and can’t cite appropriately (I do know that I’ve used the work of John Najemy frequently). This will be further developed as I revisit and continue my reading.

ON ANTIVA – GENERAL NOTES. As per David Gaider, inspiration from Antiva is drawn from the Republic of Venice. (source) Most of the Antivan cities that have been developed at any length in the Dragon Age canon have been cities on or near the coast (most notably, Antiva City). Seleny, however, is located in the middle of Antiva; there is a river which runs through Seleny, but the region is otherwise landlocked, and of the major cities, it is the closest to the Tevinter Imperium. As such, trade, society, and politics would have developed very differently from the port cities.

Because of this, while I am going to be using some Venetian elements in my development of Seleny, the city will be much more heavily based around the Republic of Florence. Just as a general note regarding the Antivan political system: Antiva has a monarch, who is, largely, a figurehead; the monarch has relatively little power and military might, especially compared to the merchant princes. These merchant princes, while not officially royals, serve in such a capacity and are typically the heads of extremely profitable businesses, such as banks and vineyards. (source)

ON THE POLITICAL HISTORY OF SELENY. Like the other cities in Antiva, Seleny is run by a merchant prince. There are two major families that factor into Astoria’s history – the Salviati and the Grimani.

On the Salviati. When the city of Seleny falls to the Darkspawn after a four-day siege in 5:12 Exalted, the inhabitants of the city are slaughtered, and any survivors flee wherever they can. The city remains held by the Darkspawn during the remainder of the Fourth Blight, and is only emptied of Darkspawn at the Blight’s end, in 5:24.

The members of one of the two surviving branches of the Salviati family, originally of Treviso, travel to the ruins of Seleny and begin to rebuild the city. It is a decades-long effort, but one which proves fruitful. The lands take years to recover, and the city is decimated, but through an intensive campaign of rebuilding and an alliance both with the Grey Wardens – who, immune to the taint, are vital in helping in those early stages of rebuilding – and the Chantry – whose wealth and charity is offered in return for a massive role in the running of the city.

With these alliances established, the Salviati were able to rebuild Seleny, and did much of that rebuilding with their own hands and resources. Having claimed much of the inted and abandoned land, they were able to begin selling it once the land had healed. Much of this land was found in the neighboring region of Firenze, across the river, as the Salviati had promised protection and assistance to the people of Firenze in exchange for the right to annex Firenze, which granted them greater control of the river and easier access to the Free Marches. Within Firenze were two massive vineyards which had survived. The Salviati kept the larger of the two for themselves, to serve as their primary source of income. The other was lost in a game of cards to Aurelia and Alonso Grimani, a pair of siblings who had come to Seleny to help rebuild.

Due to their work in rebuilding the city, and the effort and resources that had gone into the rebuilding project, the Salviati, who had ruled unofficially, took on an official title, and Giuseppe Salviati became the first of the Salviati merchant princes. The Salviati ruled until 6:42 Steel, when, with the sacking of Seleny and the murder of the current merchant prince, Niccolò, the Qunari conquest of Antiva was complete. Two of Niccolò’s children survived, both illegitimate, and one of whom converted. The other, Benigno, fled under cover of night to Minrathous, where he eventually married and had several children. With this, the Salviati line in Seleny officially ended.

On the Grimani. As the Salviati died out or converted to save their lives, the Grimani went underground during the Qunari occupation for as long as possible, maintaining small refugee camps in the outskirts of Firenze. The matriarch of the Grimani family, Ottavia, took up a sword and began leading guerrilla strikes against smaller parties of Qunari warriors; she took control of the refugee camp, and remained their leader until her death fifteen years later, in 6:59. Her eldest daughter, Rosina, took on her role, followed by her daughter, Eleonora. All of these women kept their family name. Eleonora was in her fifties when, in 7:01 Storm, she traveled in secret to Minrathous to forge an alliance with the rebel mages there, and in her seventies when she wielded a sword to drive the last remaining Qunari from Seleny in 7:17. When she died peacefully a year after the attack, her teenage grandson, Salvatore – named for Umberto Salviati, with whom she’d forged her alliance in 7:01 – became the first Grimani merchant prince of Seleny.

Salvatore proved himself more than worthy of his grandmother’s legacy in the decades that followed. In the first of the New Exalted Marches against the Qunari in 7:25, twenty-two year old Salvatore took up his grandmother’s sword and rode west to join the Imperial Chantry’s forces in battle. He returned home only briefly, after the loss of his left hand; he was fitted for a prosthetic of red steel, embellished with gold, which, though strictly decorative, became the central image of the Grimani crest when it was redesigned. Salvatore returned to the war, and came back to Seleny only when the Exalted March had been declared a success. In Treviso, Osvaldo Salviati was made merchant prince for his heroism in battle and his dedication to the liberation of the city, and he and Salvatore established an alliance which held for two and a half decades.

The alliance fell apart in 7:52. While under Qunari attack, Osvaldo sent word to Seleny, calling on the Grimani prince to send aid. The aid never arrived. While Salvatore claimed that the messenger never reached Seleny, Osvaldo’s son, Grimaldo – Salvatore’s godson, and named in honor of his family – insisted that Salvatore was responsible for his father’s death in the siege. Treviso was reached instead by the combined forces of the White and Black Divines, who burned the city. Salvatore was mortally wounded in battle by a Ben-Hassreth enforcer known only as the Hawk; deadly accurate with her bow, she was credited with over a hundred kills. Only luck saved Salvatore.

Weakened after his brush with death, Salvatore was not fit to serve in the third New Exalted March in 7:55. In his stead, all five of his children went. Only one returned. Two were killed in battle and another by a fever, and their bodies recovered, but the third – Salvatore’s eldest son – was never found. Grimaldo Salviati was allegedly heard boasting to the soldiers under his command that he had killed Salvatore’s son and left his body to rot. Salvatore died within the year, his grief for his children overwhelming his strength and will to live. His last surviving child, a son named Fiorenzo, vowed vengeance for his brother’s death. The feud between the Treviso Salviati and the Grimani has lasted since.

So, too, has Grimani rule. After the completion of the third New Exalted March, Fiorenzo ushered in an era of unbroken peace and prosperity, which lasted for nearly a century. The Salviati in Treviso attempted several attacks, including with the House of Crows newly under their patronage; all of these were rebuffed. The peace was only broken in 8:49 Blessed, when Orsino Grimani was attacked in the family’s vineyard ( which had, under Fiorenzo, absorbed the old Salviati lands ). Orsino died three days later, from complications of his wounds, and the assassin – who had been serving as a guard in the Grimani household for nearly a decade – was publicly executed.

Orsino’s twenty-seven-year-old widow, Mafalda, served as regent, as their only son was merely three years old. Two days after Orsino’s death, she declared war against Treviso, and two weeks after that, discovered she was pregnant. Mafalda traveled with her forces, leading them when she could, and gave birth to her second son during a pivotal battle to claim control of Trevisan territory in the Drylands. According to popular legend, mere hours after giving birth and with her newborn son being rocked to sleep by one of her advisors, Mafalda personally executed the general of the Salviati army. Two months later, Mafalda had returned to the battlefield, at which point she fought and slew the Salviati prince’s heir. She delivered his severed head to the Trevisan court personally, with the promise that unless the Salviati surrendered, she would slaughter the entire family.

The Salviati took heed of her warning and surrendered, ceding to Seleny much of the arable territory bordering the Drylands. Mafalda’s eldest son, Giovanni, showed little interest in ruling, and instead dedicated himself to the Chantry to serve as a brother; her youngest son, Alessandro, was named his father’s heir.

In 8:79, the last members of the family bearing the Salviati name returned from Tevinter. Alessandro fell passionately in love with the elder Salviati daughter, named Ileana, who loved him with as deep a fire. The two were wed in secret despite Mafalda’s refusal to give her blessing, and Ileana’s apostasy, which she kept secret during her lifetime in Seleny. Alessandro used his marriage to establish a treaty with the Treviso Salviati, leading to a new era of peace. Alessandro and Ileana had three children: Rosamaria (b. 8:82), Veronica (b. 8:86), and Giovanni (b. 8:98). The Treviso Salviati honored the treaty until Ileana’s death of a fever in 9:22, when they enlisted Ileana’s niece and nephew, Alecto and Amycus, to assassinate Alessandro and his children, and to bring Seleny under Salviati rule again. The plot was thwarted by Alessandro’s fourteen-year-old granddaughter, Astoria.

ON THE POLITICAL SYSTEM OF SELENY. Seleny is, like the other major cities in Antiva, ruled by a merchant prince (while a merchant princess could, in theory take the throne, a woman has not officially taken the title since before the Fourth Blight). Unlike the other major cities in Antiva, there is a measure of republicanism in Seleny’s government, introduced by the early Salviati merchant princes to ensure that the forces which helped rebuild the city had a say in its running.

On the merchant prince(ss). Since the Fourth Blight, the city has been ruled first by the Salviati, and later by the Grimani. The merchant prince(ss) is addressed as ‘Your Serenity,’ in the style of the Antivan merchant princes(ses). The merchant prince(ss) typically rules until their death. Their personal income comes from their ownership of the major vineyards in Seleny. The merchant prince(ss) also serves as the Gonfaloniere di Giustizia, who presides over the body of the Signoria. The full title for Astoria, when she is merchant princess, is “Astoria Grimani, serenissima principessa di Seleny, Gonfaloniere di Giustizia della Signoria, (most serene princess of Seleny)” and she is addressed either as “Serenissima Principessa (most serene princess)” or “Sua/Tua Serenissima (Her/Your Serenity).” Prior to becoming merchant princess, she is addressed simply as “Madonna (My lady).”

On the Signoria. The Signoria is a legislative and judicial body which presides over Seleny and is answerable only to the Gonfaloniere, who is also the merchant prince(ss). The Signoria is made up initially of eight members, representing the major and minor guilds of Seleny. The major guilds, or “arti maggiori,” are: of justices and lawyers, of bankers and moneylenders, of merchants and manufacturers, and of physicians and apothecaries. The minor guilds, or “arti minori,” are: of butchers and graziers, of blacksmiths, of stonemasons and woodcarvers, and of bakers and millers. The Gonfaloniere technically represents one of the arti maggiori – of vintners – as they own and run the major vineyards in the region.

In 8:44, Orsino Grimani, a staunch abolitionist who intended during his reign to eliminate trade with Tevinter and who had taken a hard line against any Tevinter slavers passing through Seleny and any Selenians who purchased slaves, lifted the restrictions against elves joining the guilds. In 8:48, he went a step farther, and created a tenth guild to be represented in the Signoria: a minor guild of elves. While this was hotly debated and loudly protested, Orsino refused to budge. There was some fear that Mafalda would revoke the elves’ status after Orsino’s death, but she was fiercely protective of her husband’s legacy, and refused to allow any changes. A violent attack on the Antivan Alienage in 8:57 was met with a vicious purge of the conspirators, and Mafalda, in part out of genuine belief in equality and in part out of spite, donated thousands in gold to rebuilding the Alienage and making it safer and more livable.

Astoria tries again to expand the guilds to be represented in the Signoria, in 9:39: a minor guild of templars, and a minor guild of mages. This is debated up until the Conclave. If Astoria is Inquisitor, her heir (her uncle, Giovanni) makes this a reality by 9:43. If she is not, she does the same.

Priori, or members of the Signoria, are elected once every six years, and can be replaced if a majority of the guild members whom the Priori is elected to serve petition for their removal. Each of the Priori has one vote. A motion passed by the Priori is then turned over to the merchant prince(ss), who can choose to reject the motion; if this happens, the motion can be brought before the Signoria again the following year. Voting in the Signoria tends to fall along guild lines, with many of the priori of the major guilds supporting one another. The same is true of the priori of the minor guilds. By creating a fifth minor guild – that of elves – Orsino Grimani struck a blow to the major guilds, stripping them of their majority. (Orsino is remembered fondly by all but the wealthiest of Seleny, called Papa Orsino and credited with liberating Seleny from the tyranny of the rich.)

#& EVERYTHING I HAVE EVER DONE HAS BEEN FOR SELENY. FOR YOU. FOR THE GREATER GLORY OF THE MAKER. ( seleny )#tw: death #tw: parental death #tw: child death #tw: violence #tw: blood

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