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darthkvznblogs · 3 years

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From His Vantage Upon the Moon #1

Thor, Doctor Strange, and the Olympians

(MCU x Percy Jackson and the Olympians x Supergiant Games' Hades)

It's rather bad form for a visiting god not to check in with the local deities; Thor's already missed two visits, so he really oughta visit Mount Olympus - though in his defense, being cast out by Odin really shouldn't count. Fortunately, Doctor Strange is willing to play mediator between the typically fickle pantheons.

(From His Vantage upon the Moon is a collection of one-shot stories set in the Kryptonverse, an MCU based crossover universe including over 16 franchises so far. You can find the original work here, but I'll also be posting each short story here on Tumblr, too! If you like what I do, and would like to support me, you can find me on Ko-fi!)

“Are you entirely certain you wish to accompany me, Sorcerer?” –Thor asks, raising an eyebrow as they stand just outside the Empire State Building. Despite the fact that they’re in street clothes, Thor’s outrageously chiseled physique keeps drawing quite a few lascivious gazes, much to Stephen’s chagrin.

“Were it truly up to me, I’d be happy to let you make a fool of yourself.” –he drawls. “My duties, however, require me to mediate your reunion.”

Thor hums. “I don’t recall requiring a mediator during my last visit.” –he grouses. “The Lords of Olympus were quite amenable to our brief presence on Midgard back then.”

“That was then, and this is now. Earth has changed quite a bit in your absence.” –Strange argues. “The Olympians and their demigod children, in particular, have suffered through quite a bit of turmoil in the past few decades – particularly so in the last five years. Compounded with the thinning of the Mist, they’re bound to be wary of anyone outside their immediate circle of trust. Even if you were a friend.”

“Ah. I see.” –Thor mutters. “Strange, is it not? Their own troubles, Loki’s betrayal and the bandit rampage throughout the Nine Realms...we’ve had centuries of peace, and now this. So much has happened in so little time.”

Strange sighs. “I’m afraid this could just be the beginning. But this isn’t the time for that.” –he says. “Let’s hurry along. You have an invasion to repel.”

The god and the sorcerer walk into the building. A security guard stands beside the elevator – less a person and more a magical security measure meant to dissuade mortals (and even some demigods) from entering the gods’ abode. The guard recognizes Strange, though, and merely waves him into the elevator – though not before shooting Thor a vaguely hostile look.

“Odd custom, this.” –Thor notes, as Strange punches in their destination – floor 600. “Moving their home around so often – seems rather a hassle. What’s wrong with the original Mount Olympus?”

“The Olympians like to chase the most powerful nations around, eager for worship as they are. Right now, America’s at the top of the food chain.” –Strange retorts. “Though I hear they’re considering moving back to Greece as part of their big PR strategy. This part of the world is getting rather crowded, rather fast – and Greece could certainlyuse the tourism it’d bring, once they reveal themselves to the world.”

“I remember their strange worship-sustenance, yes.” –Thor recalls as he raises an eyebrow. “Have the mortals truly forgotten us?”

Strange shakes his head. “It’s not like that. Your kind may have become myths, but we still retell them in many forms. That being said, very few people believe in the gods – and I’m not entirely certain that they think of you as you truly are. You and your kin, in particular, have drawn some rather nastyfollowers in the past century or so.”

Thor winces. “Jane mentioned as much, during my brief stay. Something about ‘perfect Arian men’.” –he mutters, disheartened. “Hatred and fear twist the minds of gods and mortals alike. Such it has been as long as I’ve lived.”

“Well, that’s what we’re here for. It’s up to us to set the record straight.” –Stephen says.

Thor nods as the elevator dings, opening to the golden gates and pristine marble of Olympus. “Aye, that we are.”

The duo make their way forth, magically changing into their mystical regalia. Lesser gods and nature spirits look on in surprise and curiosity as Thor cheerfully greets them, giggling nymphs and naiads huddling into gossiping circles. The throne room sits atop a small cliff, like the Parthenon in Athens, overlooking the entire realm and the hazy mortal world, barely visible below.

When they enter, Strange can’t help but be surprised; it’s been maybe a month since he was last on Olympus, and yet he can barely recognize the figures sat on each of the thirteen thrones, each of them at least thirty feet tall – the only exception being the hooded figure of Hestia, placidly sat within the flames of the hearth in the middle of the room.

“Venerable Lords and Ladies of Olympus.” –Stephen half bows. “The Mighty Thor, Firstborn of Odin, God of Thunder, Strength, and Fertility, would request an audience of you.”

The god at the head of the Pantheon leans forward. King Zeus looks very different – his skin is a few shades darker than Strange remembers, closer to the olive tones of the Greek, and his more or less sensible black hair and beard have dramatically changed to become cloud-like in appearance, billowing in the ever-present wind of the divine mountaintop. Gone, too, is his perfectly tailored suit – he is clad in a golden toga, accented in white, and a plethora of rings adorn his hands, one of which casually holds the Master Bolt. A crown of stylized lightning sits atop his head. “Master Sorcerer.” –he greets, his voice booming like distant thunder. “And the Lord Thor. Welcome to Olympus.”

“Do forgive the lack of appropriate fanfare in your reception.” –Queen Hera says, beside him, snow-white robes adorned with a golden belt and peacock feathers, sprouting like a corona behind her head. “Dragging our family together for such an impromptu visit proved a more difficult endeavor than we anticipated.”

The thirteenth god scoffs, at Zeus’ left. Lord Hades crosses his arms, ashen-skinned, bushy-bearded, and much more muscular than Strange remembers him – perhaps the most visually different of them all. A crown of burning laurels, matching his flaming feet, compliments his blood-colored chiton, and precious stones of all kinds adorn his hands and arms. “Then perhaps you should have done with the few of you who were already present, Sister Hera. Blood and Darkness, but this is a waste of my time.” –he curses, leering at their guests with black and red eyes. “Curse the day your spawn so nobly decided to include me in these affairs, Poseidon.”

Poseidon, at least, Stephen recognizes. Physically, Percy’s father looks the same as before, for some reason – even though his clothes have also regressed to what must’ve been his ancient looks. He smirks at his older brother. “We won’t keep you from your lovely family for long, Brother.” –he says, trying to placate the wrathful Lord of the Underworld. “But this is important.”

“Loathe as I am to agree with Lord Poseidon, rekindling our bonds with King Odin and his kin upon Asgard is paramount among our short-term priorities, Lord Hades.” –Athena grudgingly admits. Hades scoffs, sulking back into his throne. The virgin Goddess of Wisdom and War turns to Thor. “And I sense Lord Thor is eager to make amends for his unannounced visit and battle, earlier this year.”

Thor grins. “Indeed, Lady Athena. Though the mortals bid us worship once, Asgard recognizes Olympus’ sovereignty upon Midgard. King Odin sends his regards – and his firstborn, to aid in the protection of your world in whatever way you deem necessary.” –he says.

Zeus and Hades share a knowing look that has Strange wincing internally – they must know something about Thor that the Asgardian himself doesn’t. “There is no transgression to apologize for. And you’re allowed free transit in our domains, fellow Thunderer.” –Zeus declares, amiably enough. “Though grateful for the All-Father’s offer, we do not hold you to our service. You’ve decided to shoulder enoughresponsibilities to humanity already.”

“Your brother, I assume he is no longer a threat?” –Athena asks, narrowing her stormy grey eyes.

Thor’s smile falters. “No, he isn’t. I come fresh off his sentencing – he will live out his many, many days in our dungeons. This, I feel, does require an apology.”

“Family is a difficult matter at the best of times, Thor.” –Lady Demeter says, glaring coldly at the King of Olympus. “You have our condolences for Loki’s turn to madness.”

“Thank you, Lady Demeter.” –Thor bows. Stephen worries, despite himself, at the hint of pain in his voice.

“Madness or not, I envied your ability to challenge it alongside the mortal champions, unbound by our ancient laws as you are. Will you go join them now, in the bloodshed about to unfurl?” –Ares wonders, blood-red irises keen to see the Asgardian in action.

Thor nods curtly, his jaw set. “Indeed, Lord Ares. I do not mean to cut our meeting short, but I must aid my brothers and sisters in battle.”

“Oh, how boring.” –Aphrodite laments. Hers is the most eye-turning makeover of all – if only because she’s fully nude, pink-skinned as the day she rose from Ouranos’...remains. Only her flowing, rosy Godiva hair allows her any modesty – and even then, it’s tremendously inconsistent. Intentionally, Strange must assume. “It’s all doing battle with you warrior types. Here I thought you’d come back to see that pretty little mortal you fancied.”

Thor clears his throat. “That, uh...that is a bonus, yes.” –he admits. “But protecting the world takes priority.”

Zeus nods, approvingly – a little bit hypocritically, Strange feels, considering how hands-off the Olympians can be. “So it does, Odinson. Go with our blessing – and do join us for a spot of Nectar and Ambrosia soon. We have a few thousand years of history to catch up on, after all.”

#from his vantage upon the moon #kryptonverse #fanfiction #fanfic #crossover #hades game #percy jackson #pjo series #marvel cinematic universe #marvel #thor #doctor strange #ko fi link #ko fi

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orthodoxydaily · 3 years

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Saints&Reading: Tue., Apr., 13, 2021

March 31/April 13

Saint Innocent (Innokentii) (Veniaminov), Metropolitan of Moscow and Kolomensk (1879)

Saint Innocent Veniaminov Equal to the Apostles and Evangelizer of North America John Evseyevich Popov-Veniaminov was born August 8, 1797 in the village of Anginsoye in Irkutsk, Russia. His baptism took place in the local church [1]. His father was a church server, so it was natural that John began reading the Epistle during services at an early age [2]. When John was only six years old, his father died. Four years later, John entered the Irkutsk Theological Seminary. In 1817, he married, was ordained to the diaconate, and was assigned to serve at the Annunciation Church in Irkutsk. After his ordination to the priesthood in 1821, he taught catechism to children while serving the parish as its priest [3]. In 1823, Father John embarked on a great adventure. The Bishop of Irkutsk had been instructed to send a priest to Unalaska in Alaska’s Aleutian Islands. The clergy all refused to go – all, that is, except Father John. In May 1823, he and his wife, their infant son Innocent, and his mother and brother Stefan began the perilous journey. Fourteen months later they arrived on Unalaska Island [4] where he and his family lived in an earthen hut they had constructed themselves. A multi-talented man, he trained a group of local faithful in construction techniques and helped them build Holy Ascension Church, which they completed in 1826 [5]. Father John made numerous missionary journeys around Unalaska and the neighboring Fox and Pribilof Islands. He frequently traveled by dogsled or canoe, his tiny craft buffeted by storms in the Gulf of Alaska [6]. In 1834, he was transferred to New Archangel, later renamed Sitka, where he dedicated himself to ministering to the Tlingits. He studied their language and customs and produced scholarly notes and a dictionary. Among his other journeys was that he undertook in 1836, when he visited Fort Ross north of San Francisco and northern California’s Spanish missions. In 1838, Father John returned to Russia to report on his missionary efforts. While there, he received the sad news that his wife had died. After some time, he decided to enter monastic orders with the name Innocent, in honor of the sainted missionary Bishop of Irkutsk. Two years later, he was consecrated Bishop of Kamchatka and the Kurile Islands and the Aleutian Islands at the Cathedral of the Kazan Icon of the Mother of God in Saint Petersburg [7]. After his return to Alaska as the first resident Bishop in America, Bishop Innocent continued his missionary journeys, during which he proclaimed the Gospel in ways the people could easily understand and remember [8]. During one of his missionary journeys, Bishop Innocent encountered dangerously rough waters off Kodiak Island. Turning in the direction of Spruce Island, where Saint Herman of Alaska lived and was buried, he fervently entreated Saint Herman pray to God for assistance. Within minutes, the waters became calm [9]. His ongoing travels helped him to master local languages and dialects. He also developed alphabets for previously unwritten languages and translated Scripture and other works into Unagan and Yakut [10]. In 1848, Bishop Innocent had the joy of consecrating Saint Michael Cathedral in Sitka, which he used his talents to design and build [11]. The cathedral still serves as the main cathedral for the Diocese of Alaska. In recognition of his exceptional ministry, he was elevated to the dignity of Archbishop in 1850. Archbishop Innocent was elected Metropolitan of Moscow and Kolomna in 1868 [12]. As Metropolitan, he worked diligently to uplift the faithful spiritually and improve the living conditions of the clergy. He fell asleep in the Lord on March 31, 1879 and was buried in the Church of the Holy Spirit at the Trinity-Saint Sergius Lavra in Sergeiv Posad, near Moscow [13]. He was canonized in 1977 by the Church of Russia during the tenure of Patriarch Pimen of Moscow [14].

O Holy Father Innocent, pray to God for us! ■

Source: Orthodox Church of America

The Priest Martyr Ipatios, Bishop of Gangra,

The PriestMartyr Ipatios, Bishop of Gangra, was bishop of the city of Gangra in Paphlagonia (Asia Minor). In the year 325 he participated in the I OEcumenical Council at Nicea, at which the heresy of Arius was given anathema. When Saint Ipatios was returning in 326 from Constantinople to Gangra, followers of the schismatics Novatus and Felicissimus fell upon him in a desolate place. The heretics ran him through with swords and spears, and threw him from an high bank into a swamp. Like the First-martyr Arch-deacon Stephen, Saint Ipatios prayed for his murderers. A certain Arian woman struck the saint on the head with a stone, and he died. The murderers hid his body in a cave, where a christian who kept straw there found his body. Recognising the body of the bishop, he hastened to report about this in the city, and the inhabitants of Gangra piously buried the remains of their beloved arch-pastor. After death the relics of Saint Ipatios won reknown for numerous miracles, in particular the casting out of demons and for healing the sick.

From of old the Priestmartyr Ipatios was particularly venerated in the Russian land. Thus in the year 1330 was built at Kostroma the Ipatiev monastery, on the place of an appearance of the Mother of God with the Pre-eternal Christ-Child and saints that were present – the Apostle Philip and the Priestmartyr Ipatios, bishop of Gangra. This monastery afterwards occupied a significant place in the spiritual and social life of the nation, particularly during the years of the Time of Troubles. The old-time copies of the Vita of the Priestmartyr Ipatios were widely distributed in Russian literature, and one of these entered into the compiling of the Chet'i Minei [Reading Menaion] of Metropolitan Makarii (1542-1564). In this Vita was preserved an account about the appearance of the Saviour to Saint Ipatios on the eve of the martyr's death. The veneration to the saint consists of prayers, words of praise and teaching on the day of his memory. The pious veneration of Sainted Ipatios was also expressed in the liturgical works of Russian authors. During the XIX Century was written a new service to the Priestmartyr Ipatios, distinct from the services written by the Monk Joseph the Studite, contained in the March Menaion.

Isaiah 40:18-31

18 To whom then will you liken God? Or what likeness will you compare to Him?

19 The workman molds an image, The goldsmith overspreads it with gold, And the silversmith casts silver chains.

20 Whoever is too impoverished for such a contribution Chooses a tree that will not rot; He seeks for himself a skillful workman To prepare a carved image that will not totter.

21 Have you not known? Have you not heard? Has it not been told you from the beginning? Have you not understood from the foundations of the earth?

22 It is He who sits above the circle of the earth, And its inhabitants are like grasshoppers, Who stretches out the heavens like a curtain, And spreads them out like a tent to dwell in.

23 He brings the princes to nothing; He makes the judges of the earth useless.

24 Scarcely shall they be planted, Scarcely shall they be sown, Scarcely shall their stock take root in the earth, When He will also blow on them, And they will wither, And the whirlwind will take them away like stubble.

25 “To whom then will you liken Me, Or to whom shall I be equal?” says the Holy One.

26 Lift up your eyes on high, And see who has created these things, Who brings out their host by number; He calls them all by name, By the greatness of His might And the strength of His power; Not one is missing.

27 Why do you say, O Jacob, And speak, O Israel: “My way is hidden from the Lord, And my just claim is passed over by my God”?

28 Have you not known? Have you not heard? The everlasting God, the Lord, The Creator of the ends of the earth, Neither faints nor is weary. His understanding is unsearchable.

29 He gives power to the weak, And to those who have no might He increases strength.

30 Even the youths shall faint and be weary, And the young men shall utterly fall,

31 But those who wait on the Lord Shall renew their strength; They shall mount up with wings like eagles, They shall run and not be weary, They shall walk and not faint.

Proverbs 15:7-19

7The lips of the wise disperse knowledge, But the heart of the fool does not do so.

8 The sacrifice of the wicked is an abomination to the Lord, But the prayer of the upright is His delight.

9 The way of the wicked is an abomination to the Lord, But He loves him who follows righteousness.

10 Harsh discipline is for him who forsakes the way, And he who hates correction will die.

11 Hell and Destruction are before the Lord; So how much more the hearts of the sons of men.

12 A scoffer does not love one who corrects him, Nor will he go to the wise.

13 A merry heart makes a cheerful countenance, But by sorrow of the heart the spirit is broken.

14 The heart of him who has understanding seeks knowledge, But the mouth of fools feeds on foolishness.

15 All the days of the afflicted are evil, But he who is of a merry heart has a continual feast.

16 Better is a little with the fear of the Lord, Than great treasure with trouble.

17 Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, Than a fatted calf with hatred.

18 A wrathful man stirs up strife, But he who is slow to anger allays contention.

19 The way of the lazy man is like a hedge of thorns, But the way of the upright is a highway.

#orthodoxy #orthodoxchristian #ancientchristianity #originofchristianity #spirituality #sacred texts #oldtestament #prophets #wisdom

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tinyshe · 3 years

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still worth reading ... more now than ever:

The Kraken Unleashed: Are We Ready to Fight the Beast?

Father Richard Heilman January 14, 2015

“And I saw a beast rising out of the sea, having ten horns and seven heads; and on its horns were ten diadems, and on its heads were blasphemous names. And the beast that I saw was like a leopard, its feet were like a bear’s, and its mouth was like a lion’s mouth. And the dragon gave it his power and his throne and great authority. One of its heads seemed to have received a death-blow, but its mortal wound had been healed. In amazement the whole earth followed the beast. They worshiped the dragon, for he had given his authority to the beast, and they worshiped the beast, saying, “Who is like the beast, and who can fight against it? – Revelation 13:1-10

“In the 2010 film, Clash of the Titans, there is a scene in which Zeus, angry with the humans, is persuaded by Hades to visit vengeance upon the mortals in the form of the Kraken, a giant monster from the depths of the sea. The visual of this great evil being unleashed is something to behold:

“If this scene is evocative, perhaps it is because it’s familiar. Like a Kraken released, we have a colossal problem in our world today. There are few who are not stunned by the growing specter of evil; a darkness more profound and spreading more quickly across the globe than any civilized human being could have ever imagined. Many of those I speak with have admitted that they now abstain completely from watching the news: “It’s just too much,” they say. “It’s just so horrifying!”

“For the past two years I have been confiding to close friends my own growing sense that something is happening, that something unholy is stirring. I have spoken with others who have admitted the same suspicion. The way I have tried to describe it in the past is like the rumblings felt just before a volcano explodes.

“Now, I find myself wondering if the eruption is upon us.

“Who could ever conceive of atrocities like those we are seeing executed in the name of religion? Where once we might see coverage of a tragic conflict far away, we now face an evil that is not confined to some distant corner of the planet. With the always-on, near-instant spread of information in our digital age, your next door neighbor can be radicalized from the comfort of their living room.

“What we are facing is, first and foremost, a form of spiritual warfare. In a time where violence is rampant and the innocent are threatened, it is true that we must be ready to physically engage the malefactors. But if we deny the spiritual nature of this surge of evil we are facing, we will have no hope of victory.

“When confronted with atrocity, the immediate reaction of most people is, “What can we do to stop it?” Yes! That is the exact question we need to be asking. Summoning us to courage, St. Augustine challenges us to do battle: “Hope has two beautiful daughters: their names are anger and courage. Anger that things are the way they are. Courage to make them the way they ought to be.”

“But to begin to answer the question of what we can do, we must first properly assess where we are. What are our capabilities? How is our strength? What is the state of our conditioning? Without this kind of brutal honesty, we are likely to flounder rather than fight.

“Jesus warned, “Beware that your hearts do not become drowsy from carousing and drunkenness and the anxieties of daily life, and that day catch you by surprise like a trap. For that day will assault everyone who lives on the face of the earth” (Luke 21:34-35).

“And yet isn’t that exactly what has become of us? Consider this sobering analysis of our present condition from columnist Jeffrey Kuhner at the Washington Times:

“For the past 50 years, every major institution has been captured by the radical secular left. The media, Hollywood, TV, universities, public schools, theater, the arts, literature — they relentlessly promote the false gods of sexual hedonism and radical individualism. Conservatives have ceded the culture to the enemy. Tens of millions of unborn babies have been slaughtered; illegitimacy rates have soared; divorce has skyrocketed; pornography is rampant; drug use has exploded; sexually transmitted diseases such as AIDS have killed millions; birth control is a way of life; sex outside of wedlock has become the norm; countless children have been permanently damaged — their innocence lost forever — because of the proliferation of broken homes; and sodomy and homosexuality are celebrated openly. America has become the new Babylon.

“This cultural assessment is bleak. And I believe that underlying it all is a deeper evil, a more ancient and intractable error which gives rise to all the rest. Many have pointed to “Modernism” as the heresy of our times. Modernism, while it takes many forms, is basically a break or rejection of our past in favor of all things new. And, while it seems evident that our Church is fully infected with the heresy of Modernism, I believe that it, too, is a symptom of this more fundamental threat.

“What am I referring to? Something that impacts the very nature of human existence and the opportunity for our salvation. Lacking an official name, I call this monster, “Stealth Arianism.” Students of history know that the Arian heresy – the worst crisis in the Church before our present age – was rooted in the belief that Jesus Christ was merely a created being, not equal to God the Father. Stealth Arianism follows the same fatal error, but with a twist: while the Arians of the fourth century openly denied Christ’s divinity, today‘s Arians will profess Jesus as God, and yet through their actions deny it. In other words, they don’t even know they are heretics. Many even believe that they are doing God’s work in their attempts to elevate Christ’s humanity at the cost of His divinity.

“You see, once we diminish the identity of Christ as the Son of God, we are left to view Him as simply a historical figure that was a nice guy, a respectable teacher and a good example for how we are to live. Religion is then reduced to a nice organization that does nice things for people as we seek a kind of psychotherapy for self-actualization. And this is not only not what He came to give us, but it’s something He made sure to leave no room for.

In his Christological examination, [easyazon_link asin=”0060652926″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”onep073-20″]Mere Christianity[/easyazon_link], C.S. Lewis makes the case plain:

“I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: “I’m ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don’t accept His claim to be God.” That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic—on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg—or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God: or else a madman or something worse. You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill Him as a demon; or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronising nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.

“Over the past 50 years, the Stealth Arians have done everything within their power to remove from our lived experience of Catholicism anything that would point to the divinity of Christ, and the supernatural quality of our faith. Everything has been stripped from our churches – sacred art, sacred architecture, sacred music, and the sacred elements of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass – and we are left in the barren desert of the banal. It is no wonder many Catholics think nothing of approaching the Most Holy Eucharist dressed in a t-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, and grabbing the host like they’re reaching into a bag of chips. As Flannery O’Connor said, “If it’s a symbol, to hell with it.” It’s more surprising that these individuals even bother to attend Mass at all.

“Moreover, the Stealth Arians have deliberately chosen to keep their teachings muddled, ambiguous and elusive in an effort to increase “pastoral sensitivity” as the highest of all values, which keeps people feeling good about themselves just the way they are – though never challenged to strive for sainthood! Of course, when people like the way their church makes them feel about themselves, that keeps the money flowing into the collection basket. But whether confused and uncertain, or simply spiritually blind for lack of true pastoral care, the faithful who have been abandoned by their spiritual leaders are prone to be conformed to the world and its prince, a murderer and liar from the beginning.

“St. John Chrysostom exhorts, “Let us be filled with confidence, and let us discard everything so as to be able to meet this onslaught. Christ has equipped us with weapons more splendid than gold, more resistant than steel, weapons more fiery than any flame and lighter than the slightest breeze … These are weapons of a totally new kind, for they have been forged for a previously unheard-of type of combat. I, who am a mere man, find myself called upon to deal blows to demons; I, who am clothed in flesh, find myself at war with incorporeal powers.”

“That sounds noble for St. John, but about for us? Are we really prepared to such a fight? Just when we need mighty spiritual warriors for these dangerous times, Satan has spent the past 50 years diminishing the Church’s legions to little more than a bunch of Girl Scouts. Now that we are left in our weakened state, Satan seems to be calling out to deal the last blow, “Release the Kraken!”

“Indeed, what can we do?

“St. Paul gives us the answer in his epistle to the Ephesians (6:10-18):

“Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his power. Put on the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For our struggle is not against enemies of blood and flesh, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places. Therefore take up the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to withstand on that evil day, and having done everything, to stand firm. Stand therefore, and fasten the belt of truth around your waist, and put on the breastplate of righteousness. As shoes for your feet put on whatever will make you ready to proclaim the gospel of peace. With all of these, take the shield of faith, with which you will be able to quench all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.

“Pray in the Spirit at all times in every prayer and supplication. To that end keep alert and always persevere in supplication for all the saints.

Originally published on September 18, 2014.

Father Richard Heilman

Fr. Richard M. Heilman is a priest of the Diocese of Madison, Wisconsin, and the Wisconsin State Chaplain for the Knights of Columbus. He is a regular guest host on Relevant Radio’s The Inner Life, and is the founder of the Knights of Divine Mercy, which is an apostolate for Catholic men’s faith formation..

He is also he founder of the Ladies of Divine Mercy, which is an apostolate for Catholic women’s faith formation. He is the author of the Church Militant Field Manual and the Roman Catholic Man website, which are both dedicated to helping Catholics understand and train for their role in the mission of combating evil and rescuing the souls of our loved ones who have lost the precious gift of faith.

#catholic #fr richard heilman #be awake #be aware #be prepared #get right with God #spiritual battle #pray #are you ready to fight the beast

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wongxiexie · 5 years

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What meets the eye

Pairing: Byun Baekhyun x @ariana-ravena Genre: Angst, Demon!AU, X-EXO!AU Word Count: 2.340 words Warnings: Implied death, Mild cursing, A little violence Note: You can find the reader-insert version of this fic here.

Thank you so much @exo-stentialism for letting me use your gifs! 🌸🌸

This is for @ninibears-erigom‘s Secret Santa project! It was a nice initiative and you’re such a nice person to facilitate something like this. Happy holidays to you!

As for @ariana-ravena, this is my Secret Santa gift for you! It’s my first time to write about X-EXO and I hope it falls under the fantasy genre you wanted! Happy holidays, Ariana, and I hope you like this little gift. 🌸🌸

“Incoming!”

Sehun bellows somewhere far below, warning her and the others of an enormous blazing orb that is fast approaching the destroyed building she’s currently perched on. Exhausted as she is with her muscles aching and lungs burning, she channels what remaining power she has to forge a force field around her and the others within her vicinity.

Pouring all her concentration as she extends her palms forward, she prays to whoever god is listening for her to at least be able to slow the orb down. Begrudgingly, she acknowledges that she’s too weak to fully deflect the attack and just hope that the few seconds she stalled will be enough for Jongin to transport everybody to some place safe.

The intensity of the attack gets stronger and she feels herself being pushed backwards. Reducing the size of the force field, she focuses it on the orb in an effort to direct it to the left and at the last second she lets go before jumping towards the opposite direction.

To say that her landing was rough would be an understatement.

Involuntarily, a few drops escape her eyes as she holds her breath before she pulls out shards of glass that cut through her suit and embedded themselves on her skin.

“Fuck,” she exhales quietly as she throws the last piece away.

“Are-- okay, Arian--,” the grounded earpiece buzzes to life and she stands up before fixing it.

“Has anybody seen Ariana?” another voice chimes in, Junmyeon, clearer this time and she lets herself breathe before answering. “I’m okay, but who fired off that one?”

“It was Chanyeøl,” the original, Chanyeol, growls out. “It seems they’re here, and worse, my fire doesn’t seem to affect him at all.”

“What?!”

“I thought it was just Suhø and Sehůn?”

Disbelieving gasps filter through the device and they fire question after question about whether Chanyeol is absolute that the others are here too. And she would have asked too if it isn’t for the pounding in her ears.

Everything seems to fall out of focus and she finds that her concentration is wavering, almost to the point where she feels like she can lose consciousness any second now.

He’s here?

Slightly shaking, she lowers herself to the ground on one knee and presses both palms flat on the ground. She removes her earpiece and lets her eyes slide shut as she empties her mind of all thoughts except for one.

A few beats pass with her not being able to sense what she’s looking for and she almost allows herself a sigh of relief -- almost. That is, until she feels a familiar aura.

Instantly, she removes her hands from the ground as if burned and before she can dissolve the field she has created around her, his face flashes in her mind.

Baëkhyun.

He is here.

“Ariana...” he drawls out and she dissipates the force field she made before he says anything else.

It takes everything in her to not run to him. His voice, his face -- they are all his, but she knows it’s not him.

Standing to her full height, she puts the earpiece back in place and panic instantaneously grips her when she hears Jongdae’s frantic shouts. “Where’s Yixing? Minseok and Kyungsoo are hurt!”

A blinding flash of light erupts up above and only then does she notice the stark red and white bolts clashing up above. ‘Jongdae needs help!’ She breaks into a sprint to help him but as soon as she rounds the corner, an invisible barrier breaks her momentum.

The wind gets knocked out of her lungs as she’s thrown to the ground. Before she can get up, someone suddenly bends over her and grips her neck in a chokehold.

Struggling to break free, she scratches at the hand that’s trying to suffocate her but a harsh laugh echoes above her and she looks up to meet the blank eyes of none other than the most ruthless of the clones, Kāi.

Fear grips tighter at her, tighter than his hold upon the twisted intentions present in his eyes, and she becomes more frantic to escape from him. “Let me go!”

In her desperation, she claws on the ground as she tries to form what force field she can still make, hoping that someone would be able to sense the distress signals she’s giving off.

Sick amusement dances in the clone’s eyes and he moves his face closer to hers, about to scare her further but he gets cut off by a scoff.

“Stop playing around,” Sehůn’s bored voice sounds out. “Just kill her already.”

Kāi is about to do just that, but fortunately for her, Jongin abruptly appears and sends a kick towards his clone’s side. However, Kāi must have sensed his original’s presence because he was able to block the attack with his arms.

Nonetheless, the clone was sent a distance from her because of the impact. Sehun’s voice cuts through to her as he keeps his own clone occupied and he shouts, “get out of here, Ariana! Find Yixing so he can restore your power!”

Without hesitation, she nods at them and takes off the other way, trusting that they’ll be able to hold their own against their evil incarnates.

She runs, trying to find their healer. As much as she doesn’t want to burden Yixing, she knows she’s no help to the other soldiers if she doesn’t regain her energy.

Yixing stands a little ways away, trying to fend off the enemy with the help of Kyungsoo, and she runs faster to help them. Sprinting towards her comrades, she pushes herself to go quicker but her surroundings suddenly throb once and she’s forced to her knees from the whiplash.

As if on instinct, she looks off to the side, compelled by some unknown force, and all thoughts flee her mind upon seeing him.

Her lips curl back in hatred and disgust upon seeing the demon that stands a distance from her, his eyes closed and his posture relaxed as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. And for that, she hates him even more because she knows he really doesn’t give a fuck about whatever except for his own twisted selfish desires.

None of the clones do, especially him.

Her trembling hand subconsciously moves to clutch the metal vial attached to her necklace and her knuckles turn white from gripping it so tightly.

The anger makes her move and before she even realizes, she’s running towards him. Eyes dead set on her target, she lets the pain and hatred propel her forward, not caring about her beaten body as she accepts the lone thought occupying her whole mind.

‘End him.’

As she nears him, she swipes the silver dagger resting on her belt. She’s so near, so near, and she grips the knife tighter. His eyes are still closed but at the last moment, she sees the unmistakable upward tilt of his lips, it was minute but it was there, and only now does she realize what a reckless decision it is she has made.

Too late to back out now.

She leaps forward with the help of her force field and lands directly in front of Baëkhyun. In a flash, she raises her hand, poised to attack him, but the moment she slashes her hand down to stab his heart...

One second she’s trying to kill the clone that took her love away from her and the next she’s-- in a field of flowers?

Confusion swims through her mind and she tries to go back to what she was doing before... what was she doing before?

Ariana whips around to look for someone, anyone. Deep inside her, she has a feeling that she should feel panicked but she’s not in the slightest bit alarmed. Looking down, she sees she’s wearing the dress Baekhyun bought for her.

‘Ah, silly me, we’re on a date,’ she smiles as she remembers where she is, laughing slightly at the absurdity of her forgetting where she is.

A smile settles on her lips as she approaches the tree where her lover is hiding behind, his hair peaking as he tries to see whether she has figured out where he is hidden.

“I wonder where my wonderfully foolish boyfriend is hiding, hmm?”

At this, Baekhyun’s poorly concealed giggles reach her ears and she joins in on his laughter.

“You’re no fun, Ariana! You should’ve at least pretended to look for me!” he says in between peals of chuckles. “Can’t help it, Baek. You didn’t even try to hide.”

He opens his arms wide, gesturing for her to run into his embrace and she does just that. She snakes her arms around his middle, reveling in the smell that seems so naturally his, and she presses her face in the crook of his neck.

She hears Baekhyun chuckle above her and something about it puts an unsettling feeling in her stomach. Raising her head in slight confusion, she looks at his face but she finds nothing unusual. His face is the same, his smile, his features, nothing seems out of place, even his eyes-- wait.

Her own orbs widen upon staring into his eyes and soon enough, the sweet smile that was once on Baekhyun’s face is replaced by a cruel smirk that she recognizes all too well.

Bit by bit, her surroundings return to before and she finds herself smack dab in the middle of a battle, with her body trapped in Baëkhyun’s bruising hold.

“So easy to fool,” he whispers in amusement. “Too bad you noticed early, I didn’t know playing goody would be so fun.”

Her brows furrow in anger and she bares her teeth at him. “How dare you use him for your sick games!”

Baëkhyun doesn’t appear fazed, in fact, he looks mildly amused. He chuckles darkly and moves his face closer to hers. “Still heartbroken about the fly’s death?” he asks mockingly as he raises a brow.

“I told you I would do anything to make you mine.”

The cold leer on his lips brings her back to reality, making her bring her boot up to stomp on his foot. It’s not much, but it’s enough for Baëkhyun to let up a bit on his hold on her, granting her just enough space to rear her hand back and stab his chest with the dagger.

Baëkhyun staggers backwards and before he gets the chance to retaliate, she pounces on him and pins him to the ground. Ariana pulls the vial from her necklace and she hastily opens it to reveal Baekhyun’s blood.

The clone’s eyes widen, knowing full well what his original’s blood means, and without hesitation, she pours it on his chest, right where she stabbed him directly on the heart.

Upon contact of the blood, his body convulses wildly, almost as if his bones are breaking one by one and once again, it breaks her heart to see him hurt.

‘It’s not him,’ she reminds herself, but him having the same face, the same everything doesn’t make it easy for her.

Traitorous tears cascade down her cheeks and it takes a huge toll on her just to prevent her sobs from escaping.

After all, she has just witnessed her love die a second time, regardless if it was a sinister clone.

As Baëkhyun’s movements stop altogether, his body relaxes and the fight similarly drains from her body. “It’s done, it’s over...” she whispers as she caresses his face. “Both of your souls can rest now.”

Bringing her hands to hold his cheeks tenderly, she closes her eyes shut and allows herself one last moment of selfishness.

She lets her lips gently touch his and the moment she breaks contact, her sobs wrack her tired body. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything to save the both of you,” she rests her forehead on his as she lets the tears fall.

“Oh baby, that’s no problem for me.”

Her eyes snap wide open and she comes face to face with a very much alive Baëkhyun. Sparing a glance to his chest, she sees him devoid of any wounds.

One moment they’re lying down and in the blink of an eye, she finds herself standing an arm’s length from Baëkhyun.

Grim realization dawns on her and she gulps down the disbelief, anger, disappointment. Everything.

The smile on the clone’s face worsens the already frantic beating of her heart and the foreboding sensation inside her makes her slowly move her head to the side.

She feels it before she sees it: her surroundings turning from mid-afternoon to a dark waste of nothing. Almost as if a sheet is being lifted to reveal nothing but darkness and ruins, the sky boasting nothing but bolts of blood-tainted light.

“How beautiful it is, no? To be able to control light...”

Shaky exhales leave her mouth and it gets harder and harder for her to get some air into her lungs as the inevitable tears pool in her eyes.

“...to be able to manipulate what meets the eye...”

Baëkhyun approaches her and she doesn’t even fight, feeling herself frozen on the spot and unable to move. He turns her around slowly, tauntingly, and she lays eyes on a worse situation she didn’t know was possible.

There on the ground lay eight men in various states of bloodied and beaten, eight people she’s come to love as brothers, eight people who comforted her when she lost her love. There lay her brothers all still alive but barely holding on to the fraying threads of their existence, and standing behind them are their clones who bear the same faces but not a shred of the same heart.

The unmistakable feeling of tearing up again greeted her and this time, she lets it consume her.

“Did you really think you could win?” Baëkhyun whispers in her ear. “I thought I told you already...” he begins as he snakes a hand around her neck.

“...I would do anything to make you mine.”

#exo #exo angst #secret santa

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tomasorban · 6 years

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THE ZODIAC: GEMINI THE TWINS

Date of Rulership: 21st May-22nd June; Polarity: Positive, male; Quality: Mutable; Ruling planet: Mercury; Element: Air; Body part: Arms, hands, shoulders, collarbone and lungs; Colour: Yellow; Gemstone: Agate; Metal: Mercury.

In the first two zodiacal signs, we saw raw formative powers associated with the beginnings of complex life. Like all rudimentary organisms, Aries set the wheel of heaven into motion with a Big Bang of pure spontaneity and creative activity. Taurus then neutralized these fiery irruptions of vital life force by stitching together an earthenware blanket that funnelled them away from the rest of the cosmic banter, enough to stubbornly work up a sense of self-discipline so that Life could achieve some multiple and visionary aims. Whatever else they may be, Ares and Taurus are intensely self-focused, self-styled, self-serving, and self-motivated. For General Aries and Commander-in-chief Taurus, it’s all about self and satisfaction of self. This all changes with Gemini, a sign which forces a binocular split of life’s hitherto monocular vision; pure instinct has now relegated its position to a rudimentary intelligence acquired through observation and past experience.

Facilitated by a split into two distinct entities than inhabit the space of one conscious being, this formative power is all about mental dialogue and communication. It orientates itself in the world by observing the actions and reactions of others around it, pocketing them into airtight pigeonholes as past memories, and then calculating the direction and angle of its own movement accordingly. Gemini is uninhibited, brave, experimental and multidimensional in its habits. Why race along a straight line at the speed of a bullet train like Aries or dawdle along a perpendicular one to that like Taurus when there are innumerable other options available. Gemini won’t follow a tribal leader or top dog or father figure when it comes to paving out its own life path. Instead it might take a few vigorous little steps forward, take a lunge to the side, trace out a zigzag course diagonally and then proceed to trace out circles on the spot. It needs to experience things from different angles and vantage points; Gemini might start off swimming across an uncharted ocean one minute before deciding that’s its best to grow wings and fly over it instead. Minutes into the flight it might decide that sailing, an endeavour that didn’t quite appeal at first, is indeed a superior option. In the end it decides it doesn’t really want to embark on a lengthy journey to a foreign land and so transmutes itself into a feather which floats about for some time before settling on the surface of an oscillating sea. At any rate, the courses of action it chooses never quite last for extended periods as such, for consistency and method bore the mercurially-natured Gemini. This zodiacal sign exudes mutable energy and derives from ethereal air, and so people born beneath the stars of its constellation are likely resemble breezes and tempests, scattering bits of themselves everywhere but never quite committing or infusing themselves wholly into one specific avenue of inquiry, goal or task. Like air, the “souls” born under Gemini can be wistful, light-hearted and frivolous or tumultuous, dangerous, blind and irrational, depending on which way the daily current blows. And like all lovers of brain noise, they love talking to themselves, to one another, and to everyone else, irrespective of whether their listeners are attentive or not.

“Why would you want to be an Arian or Taurean when you can be me,” says Gemini. “I’m quite the bargain you see. I’m double trouble, two twins that think they’re the same person. With me, you get two pairs of hands, legs, brains, and anything else that tickles your fancy. You’ll never be bored, not even at Sunday Christenings or conventional weddings. Sometimes, you might even feel like you’re an honoured guest at the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party. Of course, I’m the one who gets to pick the roles and tell everyone how it’s going to work; I get to play the Mat Hatter who entertains everyone with my nonsensical riddles, entangles myself in a verbal labyrinth of speaking out aloud, and laughs at my own jokes. You, my friend, can be the passive observer who doesn’t utter a word yet pretends to be interested. Okay? A little bit of this and a little bit of that will keep things interesting and our bodies looking youthful, so let’s get stuck into it. When I want answers about why things are the way they are make certain that what comes out of your mouth is short and sweet; I don’t have the patience for verbosity, longwinded soliloquys or esoteric philosophies for that matter. I find academics, intellectuals and anyone with depth to them intimidating and sometimes excruciatingly boring. I’m a bit like a dogmatic religion sometimes; anything that stands outside my sphere of knowledge frightens me so. Hihi… I know I can be an annoying pain in the neck but I’ll make up for it by acting as your third eyes and ears. You’ll be the first to know the latest gossip on what your enemies are all up to, and that way you can remain that one step ahead of them and look twice, if not four times as bright. When I’m feeling blue, you’ll start getting all the “why” and “what” questions, one after the other. But don’t worry, seldom do I have downers and you’ll love my blasé attitude to the human condition. What of the human condition could ever be of any importance anyway…?’

Gemini is all about the law of twos–dual states of consciousness and mind, a propensity for double vision. One is inwardly turned, tuned into an internal world of thought, memory and imagination, and the other is outwardly turned, thriving in the exterior realm of verbal communication and physical contact. Geminis have an innate talent for living in both at the same time, and can flit between the subjective and objective planes as effortlessly and mindlessly as a circus clown juggling a quartet of coloured balls. This indicates a profound talent for mimicry and deception; they can counterfeit the emotions, feelings and images projected by others to perfection and wear them with such authentic conviction as to attract an Academy Award nomination. Hence Geminis usually make good actors and actresses, and can be quite successful in the denomination of visual arts.

The eternal unrest of their dual vision confers a supernal power seldom realised by any of the other zodiacal archetypes; the ability to chance upon reality through sheer intuition, or to encounter it with the aid of scientific instruments and measurements. A young Gemini is just as likely to become a shy and unobtrusive female artist as it is a dominant and poised male scientist. Sometimes, he or she might turn out to be a bit of both. In fact, the duality of being can be such a dominant characteristic in their psychic makeup that one can easily be fooled into thinking that there’s two individual and well-developed personalities trapped inside the same body. In encompassing polygonal and multilayered views of reality, they come equipped with a valuable philosophy that is easily transposed to a more practical level. Gemini understands that rationality offers the best lens through which life should be viewed. Rationality bestows upon its viewer a sense of providence, the feeling that life is a previous gift not to be wasted. Physical or emotional ideals distort it and imprison one within their own worries and troubles, so much in fact that one might begins to feel that life isn’t quite worth the struggle or effort anymore. Gemini’s inclination to avoid this way of thinking makes its existence a happy and harmonious one.

If Gemini were to be represented by a different totem, it would no doubt have been the butterfly. The latter is a symbol of transformation; it begins life as larva, grows into a caterpillar, and eventually undertakes a major transformation to become a butterfly. The soul of Gemini is like a butterfly, a light-hearted and transient winged entity that flits about here, there, and everywhere, never quite knowing what to do or where to stop. Wings imply breadth of experience and freedom, a quality quite dear to Gemini; freedom abhors law, especially laws of censorship that restrict its self-expression and development. The way of Gemini is not compatible with conservative views, or moral ones even. Like the ephemeral butterfly, people born under this sign can display flashes of ingenuity but rarely does it last. This is probably a by-product of its ruling planet, Mercury, which renders it restless, somewhat unstable, volatile, and most importantly, protean.

Like Aries and Taurus, there are also two symbols associated with the zodiacal sign of Gemini. The first, a pictorial representation of two figures holding hands, has been a subject of some controversy. Astrologers can’t seem to get their heads around whether the pair are two males, two females, a male and a female, androgynous beings, and what the nature of the relationship between the two actually is; are they fraternal twins, identical twins, or unrelated lovers? The ancient cultures were just as divided on this issue as we are today: the ancient Babylonians and Greeks perceived the respective constellation as an image of male twins; the ancient Egyptians, on the other hand, were convinced it was a male-female pair; the primordial Indians saw star-crossed lovers; and the Imperial Romans saw their gods, the Delphic twins Apollo and Diana. The renowned Tarot identifies them as two lovers. Irrespective of gender or relationship status these figures were always depicted with their arms interlinked, illuminating the concept of harmony, internal and external cohesion, and requited love. The second symbol is a shorthand version utilized by astrologers in the creation of horoscopes and is comprised of two upright columns conjoined along the top and bottom. This sign, as the exposition has thus far revealed, has everything to do with duality of being and with the conunctionis or marriage of opposites. Esoterically, one might choose to view this glyph as a conjunction of the Chinese yin and yang or the alchemical mercury and sulphur. It is also a fine representation of an inexplicable link between an upper, heavenly realm of spirits, ideas, and telepathic communication and a lower, earthly plane of concrete and clearly demarcated physical forms.

Both signs draw attention to the fundamental nature of complex life. The one becomes two and the two become one again. Everything that exists in the cosmos seeks contact, union, and co-existence with an immediate likeness without having to forfeit its own identity or personality in the process. Both signs represent opposition and conjunction, and both draw attention to a mortal state of division whose primary purpose is to reconcile all opposites within itself and unite with God. Of course the condition of being alienated from one’s source also has the adverse effect of inciting restlessness and mental agility.

#astrology #zodiac #esoteric #consciousness #alchemy

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jahaanofmenaphos · 5 years

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Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!

Of Gods and Men Summary:

When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?

Read the full work here:

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TUMBLR CHAPTER INDEX

QUEST 04: THE BATTLE OF LUMBRIDGE

QUEST SUMMARY:

Now that the gods can return to Gielinor, Saradomin and Zamorak waste little time and return to war once more. This time, Lumbridge is their battlefield. While the battle wages on, Jahaan tries to find out more about the mysterious Mahjarrat who has taken a particular interest in him…

CHAPTER 2: CHAOS THEORY

For darkness, there is light. For evil, there is goodness. For chaos, there is order.

For those that believed in the stark black and white of this world, they would say ‘for Zamorak, there is Saradomin’.

Saradomin was the most widely worshipped god on all of Gielinor, standing as the god of order, wisdom and light. His followers would also characterise him as the ‘god of goodness’, but those who were not fooled by all the propaganda would see that he exists in shades of grey. Though it is true that Saradomin is largely benevolent and strives to do things he regards as ‘righteous’, he is far from the personification of ‘good’ that his followers might have you believe. Indeed, he is relentless and ruthless in pursuit of his goals, often toting that the ends justify the means. His followers are almost fanatically loyal to him, no doubt blissfully unaware of his darker side. The Saradominist propaganda department was incredibly impressive.

Then, to contrast the supposed ‘god of order’, there was Zamorak, god of chaos. Once a Mahjarrat, Zamorak usurped his previous master, Zaros, and in doing so, ascended to godhood.

Although Zamorak is considered as a mystical infatuation of chaos by his followers, he is seen as an evil god by his rivals and their followers. However, there has been a great deal of historical ignorance with respect to the humans of Gielinor who got influenced by Saradomin. It’s true, many would have to jump far beyond their own shadow in order to deal with the foundations of Zamorak’s beliefs, but once examined closely, he is not the deity of evil so many would believe him to be. His teachings state that self-improvement, greatness, strength and purpose are brought by chaos, whereas order and constancy supposedly lead to stagnation of society, and this was ultimately the reason he turned away from the Zarosian Empire. He does not condone violence for the sake of violence, nor does he wish for the mass-slaughter of any race or religion of Gielinor, instead wanting them to liberate themselves and become truly free.

No, contrary to popular belief, things weren’t always as clear cut as they seem for the deities of Gielinor, especially when morality became a factor.

But nevertheless, the Saradominist/Zamorakian rivalry was fierce and relentless, each side desperate to do anything to make the heads of their enemies roll.

The portal in the centre of Lumbridge, right next to the canoe station, had appeared out of nowhere, a black hole punched into the air. The general response was one of apprehension and fear, although a handful took to worshipping it.

They were simple people, the Lumbridge folk.

It didn’t take long before the portal expanded, ripping through the world like it was tearing through cotton. With it, it brought darkness to the skies, turning the bright blue and crystal clear day into an overcast mess, with black ink pouring out from the portal.

Then, out from the black, Zamorak emerged.

Towering over the miniscule little buildings beneath him, Zamorak stood almost as high as Lumbridge Castle itself. Red appendages stuck out from his grey face like branches on fire, the colours matching his red and black cloak, broken up at the shoulders by black and gold plates. His symbol, something that resembled a pointed ‘W’, was woven into his robes. Dark crimson wings stretched outwards as he took in the brisk air with a contented sigh, cracked his knuckles, and sneered. “I’m back, bitches.”

Zamorak stomped through the town, master and commander of all he surveyed. At least he was courteous enough not to tread on any actual people, though a few fences felt his wrath.

Then, a pulse of blue energy at his back stopped him dead in his tracks, though the meagre blast was more of an irritation than an attack.

“Who dares?!” he whipped around, and his eyes looked down at a tiny little Saradomin glaring up at him with a challenging upturn to his mouth. Sniffing a laugh, he greeted, “Old Saradomin… come to tell me you’ve missed me?”

“Yours is a sight I’ve enjoyed living without,” Saradomin grew to the same size an Zamorak, matching his fiery stare with one of his own. “I’ve come to finish what was started all those years ago, now Guthix can no longer interrupt us.”

“Game on,” Zamorak teleported to one end of Lumbridge, while Saradomin whisked away to the other. They seemed oblivious to the people scurrying below them, ants in comparison, not even sure where shelter would be in the presence of two gods that could turn a house to dust in an instant. No, Saradomin and Zamorak’s gazes were firmly locked on one another, a rivalry everlasting, eternal until one of them was cast into the abyss. Thousands of years of fighting, millions of lives lost…

...now, they were gearing up for round two.

It was a standoff, a tense silence of scowls and clenched fists, onlookers awaiting the first move with terrified, bated breath.

Suddenly, Zamorak cast a surge of energy his foe’s way, the first move, sending the dominos falling. Saradomin countered with one of his own, and the two blasts collided mid-air with such velocity and power that the explosion and subsequent shockwave it produced decimated the centre of Lumbridge, turning it to rubble in an instant. Even the western side of the duke’s castle shattered.

When the dust settled, the sky had turned a sickly green colour, looming over the ruins of the once lovely little town. Everyone too close to the epicentre of the colliding powers felt the full effects of godly magic. Even those further away did not leave unscathed, being thrown back in the wave that followed the clash.

The two gods glared daggers into one another, teeth bared and dripping venom. Then, from out of nothing more than the rocks, dirt and rubble beneath them, they pulled up barricades around themselves, shaping hardened battlements.

With a cackle and a wash of flames, a young woman teleported in front of Zamorak, her skin a twisted blend of human and iron coloured scales. Her eyes glowed magenta, matching the short and flowing dress she sported underneath sparse golden armour.

At the same time, a flash of white lighting hit the ground, revealing an icyene warrior after the glow faded out. When they spread their wings to reveal themselves, Commander Zilyana stood resolute.

Then, from both sides, White and Black Knights teleported in front of their respective gods, legions of them.

“FOR ZAMORAK!” the woman at Zamorak’s side roared, unleashing her troops into combat, charging towards their White Knight counterparts. Zilyana ordered her troops to advance, and the two opposing sides met in the ruins of Lumbridge centre, erupting into battle.

Hours had already passed by the time Jahaan, Sir Owen, Ozan and company had made it to Lumbridge. Once they received word, the Saradominists among them sprung into life, snatching their weapons and throwing on their armour for the chance to fight in the presence of their god. Ozan, Jahaan and the Guthixians (like Ariane) were a little more hesitant to rush into battle for gods that weren’t their own. However, knowing it was important to make themselves useful at such a time, they teleported to Lumbridge with them regardless.

Sir Amik Vaze met them at the Saradominist base to the north of the city; the mill had been converted into a makeshift base of operations. They arrived under the shadow of Saradomin, darkness cast over them from his overbearing presence. Jahaan looked up and saw Saradomin’s piercing gaze staring off across the battlefield. When he followed them, they met Zamorak, who was a spectacle of crimson and black at the far end of the town.

“Sir Owen, good to see you,” Sir Amik greeted, his helmet underneath his arm.

“And you, Sir Amik,” Sir Owen returned. “I trust you’ve managed to gather our forces without resistance?”

“Of course. The White Knights and Temple Knights came instantly. Those spread out across Gielinor have all confirmed they are en route.”

Sir Amik led the small group over to a map of Lumbridge stretched out across the long table, weighed down by cutlery holders and sugar bags.

“This is the crater,” he pointed to the centre of the town. “It has green divine energy emitting from its core. While not confirmed by the Lord himself, the working theory is that it’s leftover lifeforce from Guthix. It’s increasing Saradomin’s power, and so he has asked us to deliver it to him. The Zamorakians, unfortunately, have the same idea.”

“Then that must be top priority,” Sir Owen asserted.

“What about the civilians?” Jahaan pressed, “They should be the priority. Are they being evacuated?”

“Yes, those east of the Lum have been allowed refuge in Al Kharid, though it's been a little tense at the border. West of the Lum is slightly more difficult. Draynor isn't responding to our correspondence. We're setting up camps in the north west to avoid an incident.”

Ozan shook his head, disappointed. “Why am I not surprised.”

Then, he straightened up his jacket and made for the door. “Jahaan, you coming?”

“Yep, let's go,” Jahaan agreed, following him out.

Puzzled, Sir Owen chased after him. “Where do you think you're going?”

Calmly, Ozan replied, “Home. I'm not fighting your wars. I'll help my people.”

Gobsmacked, Sir Owen growled, “And what of you, Jahaan? We need fighters! Didn’t Guthix make you a ‘world guardian’, or something? Well, do your duty - guard the world and fight for the glory of our lord!”

“Hey, he’s YOUR lord, not mine,” Jahaan returned, though with slightly less composure than Ozan. “I'll do my part, but I don't owe your god a damn thing.”

Ozan gave Ariane a sheepish little wave, who returned the motion with a heart-melting smile. Coal, ever to ruin the moment, hopped off Ariane’s shoulder and lept into Ozan’s arms, who squeezed him tightly.

“I’ll take good care of him,” Ariane assured, motioning for Coal to return to her.

Without another word, Jahaan and Ozan made for the Al Kharid border, which wasn't too far from the eastern edge of town.

It was miraculous how the bizarre climate of Gielinor operated; within one's eyesight, they could see the lush grasslands of Lumbridge transition into the sandy deserts of the Kharidian Lands. However, they weren't always deserts. No, during the Second Age, the Kharidian Lands were as full of life as anywhere, all until the battle that settled the wars in the region for the rest of the God Wars. That was the battle where Tumeken, leader of the Menaphite Pantheon and God of the Sun, sacrificed himself and his armies to push back the Zarosian forces once and for all. The explosion that occurred destroyed the land, turning it into a barren wasteland that would never recover. The shockwave stretched all the way from Uzer to the southern shores of Menaphos.

The climate never recovered, and the temperature increase as one left Lumbridge towards Al Kharid was unmistakable.

Fortunately, the two men had kept ahold of their identity papers throughout their travels, making passage through the border a lot easier. Ozan was well known among the authorities of Al Kharid, for better or for worse, which acted as a passport in its own right. Jahaan, on the other hand, was as much of an outsider as the next guy. During peace times, this wouldn’t be an issue, as anyone can pay the border fee and enter the city. During a conflict, however, they didn’t just let any random bloke with a pair of swords into the city, regardless of the origins of their name or the complexion of their skin.

There was a queue separating them from the border, with refugees from Lumbridge trying to make their passage into the city. Predominantly, they were women, and a few men looking a little worse for wear.

When they made it to the front, Ozan handed his identity papers to the guard that beckoned him over. “Marhabaan, Fahri, long time!”

The guard looked at his papers closely, a wry smile on his face. “Marhabaan. Been a while, Ozan. Causing trouble for the other kingdoms, have you?”

“I like to share myself around,” Ozan winked at him.

Fahri rolled his eyes. “We’ve already filled up two folders on you. Please don’t make me have to buy a third.”

Grinning, Ozan exclaimed, “You’ve been keeping a full record! I want to read this! Nostalgia purposes, and all.”

Handing the documents back, Fahri replied, “If you want to know what’s in your file, just think back to all the shit you did that you know you shouldn’t have done, and write it down. You’ll need a lot of papyrus.”

Then, his eye caught a look at Jahaan, who was having trouble dealing with the border guard across the way. Squinting, he ventured, “Jahaan? Jahaan Alsiyad-Abut?”

Looking for salvation in the familiar voice, Jahaan glanced around for its origins and settled on Fahri, relief spreading across his tired features. “Fahri? Is that you?”

Grinning, Fahri cheered, “How long has it been, my friend?”

“Too long,” Jahaan admitted with a sad smile. “It’s good to see you again.”

“And you. Are you having an issue, here?” Fahri looked over to the border guard Jahaan was dealing with, posing the question to him more than anything else.

With an open hand, the guard motioned at Jahaan’s rune armour. “He looks like a knight to me. He’s armed like one too. We’ve been told no knights.”

Crinkling his brow, Fahri turned to Jahaan and inquired, “You are dressed very well. Are you a knight?”

“Nada,” Jahaan replied, before correcting with a wince, “Well, I almost was, but they turned me down. The armour was compensation for the trouble. There was a battle, Mahjarrat rituals, long story. I’d love to tell you the whole thing over a drink later on, but right now, Ozan and I just want to do our part and help out the medics.”

Shrugging, Fahri turned to the border guard and said, “He’s a citizen of Menaphos, and I believe him when he said he’s not a knight. Let him in.”

Smiling gratefully, Jahaan assured the drink offer wasn’t just bluster, and they agreed to catch up after Fahri’s shift ended at sundown.

“May Het be with you, friends,” Fahri said as they passed through into the warm embrace of Al Kharid.

Al Kharid was the only desert kingdom that wasn’t separated by water from Misthalin, the kingdom Lumbridge resided in. In fact, despite their only being a mere fence between the two cities, they might as well have been separate planets for all the similarities they shared. Al Kharid was ruled by the Emir, although the vast majority of the work has been taken over by Chancellor Hassan ever since the Emir's son was kidnapped. Whilst being independent from Misthalin was a given, Al Kharid was notable for being the only city in the desert that did not kowtow to the Menaphos rulers, unlike the rest of the Khandarin Desert. Naturally, this friction erupted into a bitter war in the early Fifth Age, lasting decades. Fortunately, a peace agreement was established to protect the people and prosperity of both cities, and thus the free movement of all desert residents was permitted. Al Kharid was also the last city in the Khandarin Desert to be established, being built in the last years of the Fourth Age by settlers from the Southern Kharidian Desert. One important similarity that united all of the Khandarin Desert - with Al Kharid being no exception - is that the dominant religion was the Menaphite Pantheon. Most of the citizens of Al Kharid took to worshipping the demigod, Het, the god of health and fortitude.

While Al Kharid sent no soldiers to fight in the battle of Saradomin and Zamorak, they had agreed to help the refugees fleeing the destruction, and tend to the wounded on all sides, regardless of religion or politics. It came from the teachings of Het instilled in the residents of Al Kharid, meaning they had the desire to help and heal all that they could without hesitation. A noble people, and values Jahaan and Ozan both shared. It was the reason they decided to return to Al Kharid, to tend to the wounded. Both men knew field medicine, and felt a patriotic pull towards tending to the injured over taking up arms for gods they didn’t support.

After venturing through the bustling crowds of residents and refugees alike, they made it to the crucible of activity, the place where people seemed to be either marching towards or returning from.

From the last time he was in Al Kharid, Jahaan recollected there being a market square right about where he was standing, where the tradesmen would shill everything from silk to gemstones, pots to bowls, and LOTS of waterskins, always handy for desert travel. Now, however, it’d been converted into a makeshift military hospital, with canopies and tents stretching almost to the city walls of the western end of Al Kharid. They were still rather close to the border gate, with people being stretchered past them sickenly often.

Blood stained nurses and franctic surgeons dashed past them to run to the nearest scream or wail, carrying instruments and soaking rags as they did. Jahaan caught the eye of one woman in particular, her eyes bloodshot and red, empty of all life yet full of the desperate drive to keep going, to deliver the potions she was transporting to her next patient, to work until she collapsed from the sheer exhaustion of it all.

It was evident that they were short staffed; Jahaan noticed a few people that looked like regular merchants and priests donning protective gloves too, helping out wherever they could.

“I’m going to find the surgeon general, or anyone who can point us to where to begin,” Ozan announced, disappearing into the masses.

Jahaan was patiently awaiting his return when, from the corner of his eye, he saw people rushing towards the border as the sound of shouts and clattering built to a crescendo. The ruckus blended together the Common Tongue and the Menaphite Language quite roughly, a jagged mix of curse words and obscenities.

Curiosity getting the better of him, he went to investigate.

Crowds had gathered around the border gate, but they gave the commotion a wide berth. When he weaved through the crowds and made it to the fence, he saw four White Knights waving a piece of paper in front of one of the border guards’ faces, yelling, “These are my orders and you’re going to damn well carry them out! Do you understand me?”

“I’m not doing anything for you, effendi,” the guard, Fahri, spat the courteous title like it was bile in his mouth. “We’ve taken in your woman, your children and your injured. My orders are to let no knights through this gate.”

The White Knight squared up to Fahri, towering over him by a good few inches. For his part, Fahri didn’t act phased. “You listen to me, effendi - if Saradomin wants Al Kharid, he’s going to get it, even if we have to take it for him. All we want is a base, to protect you from the Zamorakians. Isn’t that what you want? Am I speaking in simple enough terms for you? These are orders from Saradomin himself!”

“I understand, but do you know where Saradomin’s jurisdiction stops?” Fahri smiled smugly. “This gate.”

Apparently, this was the final straw for the knight, who pushed Fahri back into the fence with such power that he almost toppled over it. The other three guards readied their scimitars for combat, while the knights drew their own longswords.

This was enough for Jahaan, who hopped the fence and demanded, “Hey, is there a problem here?”

Picking himself him, Fahri turned to Jahaan and calmly assured, “Ease, Jahaan. We have this under control.”

“Yeah, back off, sandboy,” the knight sneered, his hand on the hilt of his own weapon.

“What did you just call me?!” Jahaan charged up to the knight now, staring him with fire in his eyes.

“You heard me,” the knight rounded on Jahaan, looking him up and down. “Whose corpse did you steal that armour from anyway?”

“I’ll get my next set from you if you don’t fuck off right now.”

The knights all snickered, taking a few steps back from their leader, creating a ring around the two.

Their leader’s smirk was a challenge, his eyes an insult. “You sandboys are all the same. Scrappy and foolhardy. Walk away before you get yourself hurt.”

With a clenched fist, Jahaan leaned closer to the knight, his voice a blade. “Call me ‘sandboy’ one more time. I dare you.”

“Or what?”

“Just… do it.”

Looking around at his fellow knights, who’s looks egged him on even further, the knight turned back to Jahaan and started, “Sandb-”

But before he could finish the last syllable, Jahaan whipped his dagger out at lightning speeds and slashed the man’s throat. Lightning couldn’t have moved as fast. Those that blinked would have missed the action, left only to see the wide-eyed knight clutching desperately at his throat as blood streamed through his fingertips. Within seconds, he fell to his knees, and finally the ground, a puddle of crimson pulsing from his neck, his body convulsing sporadically until it stopped moving all together.

Jahaan watched him fall with cold eyes. Then, he calmly put the still-dripping dagger back in its sheath, and drew one of his swords as he turned to the remaining, terrified knights.

With a sigh, he stretched out the kinks in his neck and readied his stance, inviting his first contender.

“Jahaan!” a wild voice called out from behind him, but Jahaan’s gaze never wavered.

When the voice called again, it was much closer now. There was a brief murmur in the crowd, and then the next thing he knew, Ozan appeared in front of him, standing delicately between him and the knights.

If he saw Ozan, it didn’t register on his features; his deathly glare was locked onto the three knights, a cool as the blade he was holding, ready for blood.

“Jahaan, I thought we pushed past this,” Ozan whimpered, holding out his arms in a desperate effort to keep the knights and his friend at bay. When he looked closer into Jahaan’s hollow eyes, however, he noticed they were staring right through him, like he wasn’t even there.

“Jahaan,” he repeated with increased urgency. “Jahaan, look at me. Jahaan.”

A brief, fleeting glance in Ozan’s direction. Progress.

“He just murdered a Saradominist commander!” one of the knights exclaimed, but there was a slight waver in his voice. “H-He’s coming with us to answer for his crimes!”

Ozan glared through the knight, his voice deadly serious as he replied, “Try it. Each and every person here will take up arms before they allow you to hang one of our own. You’re outnumbered, effendi.”

The remaining knights looked to the crowds behind Ozan and Jahaan, and everyone they saw might as well have had a pitchfork in their hands, because they’d nailed the angry mob look to a tee. The border guards, Fahri included, saw no objection to fighting the knights to protect Jahaan, tightening the grip on his scimitar.

“Gather your man and go fight your war,” Ozan continued, quietly. “This can be dealt with later.”

Two of the knights looked to their new would-be commander for approval, and when they got it, they picked up the corpse and edged backwards, careful not to startle the mob or the angry men with scimitars as they did so.

“We’ll be back, and your man will pay!” the would-be commander shouted as soon as they were a safe enough distance away. Then, they hurried back to their camp, their tail tucked rather neatly between their legs.

Ozan felt his whole body relax with the relief of it all. However, Jahaan had yet to recover. He still had that same empty glare in his eyes, the tightness in his lips, the firm grip on his sword; it was fight or flight, and from experience, Ozan knew that unless his friend was grounded soon, things could only get worse.

“Jahaan. It’s me, Ozan. They’re gone. It’s okay now,” Ozan’s voice was soft, reassuring. “Do you know what you just did, Jahaan? You slit a man’s throat. A White Knight’s throat.”

Jahaan’s breathing changed ever so slightly.

“Jahaan, let’s look at this seriously, okay?” Ozan tried to keep his friend lucid, tried to make him see the gravity of the situation. “You just murdered a Saradominist knight. You could be hung for this. Do you understand?”

Jahaan was blinking more now, his breathing starting to become slightly slower. “I just-”

“No no,” Ozan returned to the task at hand. “Murder. Execution. YOU.”

Finally, Jahaan’s eyes met Ozan’s, and they melted with realisation. “Ya alqarf.”

Ozan’s shoulder’s sagged with relief; he had his friend back. “Yes, ‘oh shit’. Indeed, ‘oh shit’. We need to hide you in the desert. Come, quickly.”

The two hopped back over the border and made a break for the bank, knowing there was no way they’d survive the desert heat with all Jahaan was wearing. Even runite armour has its limits. Quickly undressing down to his undershirt and black trousers, Jahaan handed over the set to the banker, alongside his shieldbow and quiver of arrows, and one of his two shortswords, after providing his account name and bank PIN. Unphased, the dead-eyed banker took his armour without word, a world-weary look about him and an unspoken sigh in every breath. With a wave of his hand, the armour was teleported away to wherever items go to when banked. Jahaan didn’t really pay attention to any economics lessons growing up, so how the bank actually worked was beyond him.

Let’s just say magic and leave it at that, pretty much summed up his feelings on the matter.

Withdrawing a few more waterskins he’d deposited ages ago, Jahaan handed them to Ozan to fill up at the fountain across the way. He also withdrew a little more pocket change and a cowl to protect his neck from the beating sun.

But something was eating away at the back of his mind, and he couldn’t let it go.

With a reluctant sigh, Jahaan called out, “Ozan, you can’t go to the desert.”

Puzzled, Ozan turned around and, with a hint of urgency as he looked towards the border gate in the distance, responded, “What are you talking about? You can’t stay here right now. They could come back any minute!”

“That’s not what I said,” Jahaan clarified, softly. “I have to go, but you don’t. Al Kharid is your home, these are your people… you know you want to stay and help them. I couldn’t let myself take that opportunity away from you.”

Ozan may be a man of the world, a jack of all trades and a friend of all peoples, but despite his cavalier attitude to life and his tendency to flit from one town to another in a heartbeat, Jahaan knew how much the chance to give back to his home city meant to Ozan. He’d never say it aloud, but Jahaan knew regardless. Despite the drunken bust-up in Seers’ Village - to which Jahaan still felt overwhelming embarrassment - he did know his best friend, better than anyone.

The softening of Ozan’s eyes told him everything he needed to know, and the man broke out into a sad smile. Handing back his waterskins to Jahaan, Ozan pulled the man into a tight (but manly, totally manly) embrace.

“Will you go to Menaphos?” Ozan queried, releasing his hold.

Shrugging, Jahaan replied, “I… I don’t know. It’s been so long… I have a friend I want to pay a visit to first, in Nardah. After that… who knows?”

“And when do you think you’ll be back?”

“At least a week, maybe two. If they come for me, tell them the truth, that I went into the desert. They’d be idiots to follow.”

Ozan sniffed a chuckle. “They’d be dead in a day.”

The two said their goodbyes, parting amicably, knowing in their heart of hearts it was the right decision to make.

But before he could get too far, Ozan called out, “Hey Jahaan, one last thing.”

Turning around, Jahaan motioned for Ozan to continue.

Grinning, Ozan said, “Saradomin or Zamorak. Loser buys the rounds. Fahri’s too.”

Thinking for a brief moment, Jahaan decided, “Saradomin. By sheer force of forehead, Sir Owen will not lose.”

“Guess I’m Zammy then. Long live chaos!”

“For order!”

DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

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#runescape #sliske #zamorak #saradomin #ozan #fiction

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thisdaynews · 5 years

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Democrats want to rejoin the Iran nuclear deal. It’s not that simple.

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/democrats-want-to-rejoin-the-iran-nuclear-deal-its-not-that-simple/

Democrats want to rejoin the Iran nuclear deal. It’s not that simple.

Former Vice President Joe Biden discusses his foreign policy in New York. The 2020 Democratic presidential hopeful said he would return to the Iran nuclear agreement only if the Islamic Republic is back in compliance. | Spencer Platt/Getty Images

foreign policy

Even if Trump loses, political and logistical hurdles could make it impossible to rejoin the 2015 agreement.

Most of the Democrats running for president have promised to rejoin the Iran nuclear deal if they win the Oval Office.

It won’t be that easy.

Story Continued Below

By the time Inauguration Day rolls around in 2021, there might not even be a deal left — it has been hanging on by a thread since President Donald Trump pulled out last year. Even if it still exists, sections of the 2015 agreement are set to expire in the coming years, Trump’s punishing sanctions on Iran will be hard to fully unwind, Iran has elections that could put more anti-deal hardliners in power and Tehran has already threatened to unwind itself from the deal in the months ahead. Then, there’s the possibility that Iran and the U.S. could be in a full-blown military conflict.

Democratic campaign aides acknowledge these challenges. But they insist that the smartest move, politically and policy-wise, is for White House hopefuls to promise a return to the 2015 agreement. It’s a way, they said, for candidates to link themselves to a popular Barack Obama legacy, distinguish themselves from Trump and send a signal to the world — including Iran — that the U.S. will once again be a reliable partner.

“It’s moving away from this hysterical way that Washington talks about Iran, as this uniquely problematic actor that exists outside the realm of normal diplomacy,” said Matt Duss, an adviser to Bernie Sanders, the independent Vermont senator seeking the Democratic nomination.

Former President Barack Obama’s administration spent years negotiating the nuclear agreement with Iran’s Islamist government and global partners. The deal removed numerous international sanctions on Iran in exchange for severe restrictions on its nuclear program.

Trump quit the agreement last year, arguing that it was too narrow and time-limited and that it should have covered Iran’s non-nuclear activities, too, such as its support for terrorist groups. But despite using sanctions and other pressure, Trump has been unable to lure Iran into crafting a new deal. If anything, the two countries have been moving closer to a military confrontation, with each side shooting down the other’s drones, among other face-offs.

The nuclear deal is one of the few foreign policy issues that comes up with any regularity for the two dozen Democrats striving for the White House.

In February, the Democratic National Committee passed a resolution calling on the U.S. to rejoin the agreement. In debates and other forums since, most of the Democratic contenders have taken essentially the same position.

“Whatever its imperfections, this was perhaps as close to a true ‘art of the deal’ as it gets,” candidate Pete Buttigieg, the mayor of South Bend, Ind., said in a foreign policy speech last month.

The only serious exception so far has been Cory Booker, the New Jersey senator, who declined during a debate to “unilaterally” promise a return. “If I have an opportunity to leverage a better deal, then I’m going to do it,” said Booker, who is close to pro-Israel activists who oppose the current agreement.

Either way, former U.S. officials and Iran analysts say a reality check is in order.

After adhering to the deal for a year following Trump’s abandonment, Iran’s Islamist leaders have in recent weeks started to retaliate, taking small — albeit reversible — steps that put them out of compliance. They’ve promised more violations every 60 days going forward, unless somehow the U.S. lifts its sanctions or other parties to the deal help Iran get economic relief.

The way things are going, Tehran may be significantly out of compliance with the deal by the 2020 election, or it may have just walked away completely.

That poses a dilemma for Democrats, some of whom have hedged their pledge to return to the deal by saying Iran has to be complying with it. A paralyzing “chicken and egg” scenario could result, with Iran refusing to return to compliance until the U.S. lifts sanctions and the U.S. refusing to lift sanctions until Iran is back in compliance.

Even if that was resolved, other challenges loom.

Some hardliners in Iran have suggested that the country should not return to the agreement until the United States pays it reparations for the economic damage Trump’s snap back of sanctions has caused. That is likely to be a non-starter in Washington, with plenty of members of Congress, including some Democrats, sure to be dead set against such a payout.

“The assumption in Washington is we have gained leverage by stepping away from the deal — that we might get concessions from Iran,” said Ariane Tabatabai, an associate political scientist at the RAND Corporation. “Iranians think the same thing — that they have leverage now and will be able to get concessions from us.”

The United States isn’t the only one having an election that could determine the future of American-Iranian relations. Iran holds parliamentary elections in 2020, and anti-American sentiment stirred by Trump and his sanctions could give an advantage to Iranian hardliners who oppose talks with the United States.

Iran also holds its presidential election in 2021, and it’s anyone’s guess who will triumph.

President Hassan Rouhani, whose administration negotiated the 2015 deal, is ineligible to run again. On Iran’s political spectrum, Rouhani is considered a moderate. He took over from the more conservative Mahmoud Ahmadinejad in 2013.

Ultimately, though, the country’s supreme leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, has the final word on matters of state. The cleric has dismissed the idea of negotiating with Trump, and he appeared hesitant even to agree to the deal struck under Obama. If a Democrat becomes president in 2021, Khamenei may still find it politically challenging to talk. But Iran’s economy may be so damaged by then that he may have no choice but to negotiate — even if Trump is reelected.

Another inconvenient fact: Elements of the 2015 nuclear deal, as well as other international limits on Iran, are going to start expiring in the coming years.

A United Nations-backed ban on conventional arms sales to Iran is due to expire in 2020. By 2023, a U.N. measure that calls on Iran to constrain its ballistic missile program also sunsets. In the decade afterwards, pieces of the deal will expire, allowing Iran to use advanced centrifuges and enrich uranium above current limits, among other moves.

Under the deal, Iran has agreed to allow on a permanent basis enhanced international inspections and monitoring of its nuclear activities. Iran also is party to the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty, which took effect in 1970, meaning it has committed to the international community that it will not seek nuclear weapons. Still, critics of Iran will point to its past nuclear subterfuge and the looming expiration dates on elements of the 2015 deal as reasons not to return to the existing agreement.

“It’s a really good talking point to say ‘Trump got out of the deal. I’m going to get back in,’ but reentering an agreement when the clock is already ticking is a fool’s errand,” said Ilan Berman, senior vice president of the conservative American Foreign Policy Council. ”The message needs to be that any framework the U.S. agrees to has to be longer and better than the one before.”

Rejoining the original deal would require a new U.S. president to lift the nuclear-related sanctions that Trump has slapped on Iran. That alone is a complicated task.

And it might not be enough for Iran, because Trump has gone beyond the sanctions that were on Iran prior to the nuclear deal. The Republican president has imposed a wide array of new penalties on Iranian individuals and entities as part of his “maximum pressure” campaign, and Iranian leaders might insist that all of those sanctions get rolled back. That could be logistically, as well as politically, challenging.

For instance, Trump has designated Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps as a terrorist organization, the first time the U.S. has placed such a label on a foreign state institution. Even Democrats say the IRGC is a malign actor, and it could cause serious domestic political blowback if a Democratic president decided to cancel that designation.

Indeed, some Iran hawks havepushedTrump to impose such complex and heavy sanctions precisely to complicate a future president’s return to the 2015 nuclear agreement. And in a general election, Trump is sure to accuse his Democratic opponent of endangering America by promising to lift sanctions on Iran and rejoin the deal.

Democratic campaign aides note that, when given the chance, their candidates offer caveats to their baseline position of reentering the deal.

Former Vice President Joe Biden, for one, has said he will return to the agreement only once Iran is in compliance. But he’s also pledged to find a way to “strengthen and extend it.”

A senior Biden campaign adviser said the former vice president knows a lot can change by 2021, but he sees pledging a return to the 2015 agreement as, among other things, an important signal to send to U.S. allies in Europe who are furious over Trump’s abandonment.

“It’s a down payment on our credibility,” the aide said. “An incoming administration will have to do something to reestablish the good word of the United States.”

Variouspollshave shown that most Americans opposed Trump’s decision to quit the 2015 agreement.

For now, as they compete against each other for their party’s nomination, promising a return to the deal is a politically safe space for Democrats in part because of Obama’s continued popularity, one Democratic operative said.

“The Iran deal is popular with Democrats for the very reason that Donald Trump left it,” the operative said. “It was negotiated by Barack Obama.”

#Foreign #nuclear #Politics #simple

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eastorhild · 7 years

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youtube comment section, why

Ahh, some rest and relaxation, soap-making videos on youtube, what could be nicer

Ariane is such a sweetheart and her soaps are amazing, how could this attrack any weirdos in the comment sect--

“No SANE human being, man or woman, would ever choose to wash themsELVES with "cupcake" soap. Stupid. A genuine human does not think alien fairies are intelligent. God AND Jesus (Susie Q, lol) made all Hebrews a bunch of monk-E ghoul fools. Truth.“

Wait, she EDITED that comment? ...Did it make sense before?

“Your ears can hear moi???? And eye thought God made me invisible to your rat (demon-"angel"=alien) ears. Maybe its my tEXting you're able to see. :D Yes, Ari, I Am well aware you fairies are not sane, and that you can not "spell" correctly. Is that pretend too? Hebrew-aliens don't like to shower/clean themsElves in America, so selling bars of soap is fruitless. But it does make a great hobby.“

.... what. *squints*

Srsly. I can’t understand how some soap can unhinge someone so. “It’s soap but it looks like a cupcake but it’s soap AAHHHH HEBREW FAIRY ALIENS”

(Thankfully the other 173 comments are what she deserves: praise and awe!)

#youtube #youtube comments #soap #lunatics #life is hard

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theramblingscribe · 8 years

Text

Warden Reborn

Chapter 2: The Changeling

Nyx entered the old building. The structure appeared to date back to the Tevinter Imperium, and still stood though the area had been claimed by dragons. Ariane was still wiping off the blood from the dragonlings they’d slain on their way in. Finn was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that they’d also faced a Valterral, a creature of elven myth and legend that he was certain was not actually supposed to be real. For a mage who wielded the powers of nature in his own two hands, he had a hard time believing in the fantastic.

Nyx held up a hand as they crossed a small bridge inside, stopping her companions behind her. Morrigan stood just ahead, clearly waiting for something or someone. Nyx approached slowly, uncertain how this would go. Morrigan could be angry and choose to fight. Or Morrigan might fear the same of Nyx, and flee if she got too close.

“I thought it might be you, but I had to wait and be certain. Come no closer, or I will leave now and your questions will remain unanswered,” Morrigan said. It had been so long since Nyx had heard that voice, she nearly cried. She’d trusted this woman so much, until that one night where it seemed her trust ran to an end.

“How did you know it was me?” Nyx asked.

“You don’t expect to ask so many about my whereabouts and escape all notice, surely?” Morrigan said. “I wasn’t certain, but it seemed like something you might do. And here you are, so I was correct. To have followed me so far, there must be more important things you want answers to than that.”

“What are you planning? You take ancient elven knowledge, but for what purpose?” Nyx asked.

“You know better, Nyx,” Morrigan said. “I never trusted you with my true plans, and the one time I did you denied me the ritual that could have saved Alistair’s life.”

“Do not speak his name!” Nyx shouted. She felt her hands curled into tight fists. Nyx had spent so long heartbroken, sad, and lonely, she’d almost forgotten the pieces of her that were angry.

“I will do this, but only because I see how it pains you. I mean no torment, I am simply stating that which we both know to be true. You could not let go of petty selfishness, you could not trust me after all we had been through together, and Al- your Warden died for it,” Morrigan said.

“I know,” Nyx said, casting her eyes on the ground. “I want to fix it. That’s why I’ve come looking for you. I don’t care what you have planned. I just need your help.”

“After you refused to help me? I don’t see why I should, but you have made me curious, so I suppose I can at least hear you out,” Morrigan said.

“I heard stories, old ones, just whispers of a name. The Changeling. Said to know how to alter time itself, rewrite histories. I want to find him,” Nyx said. This, she had told no one. Not since Zevran. It was the other reason he had left her. The real reason, if Nyx was honest. He insisted she was obsessed with dark magic, forces she ought not meddle in. Zevran would have no part in Nyx’s self-destruction. He cared too much to see his friend lose herself.

“To have even heard that name… You must truly be serious about doing this,” Morrigan said. “He will not be easy to find, but I’ve left some things, just there. They will hold the information you need. As well as your Dalish book. I see no reason to stop you, though I warn you that his magic is darker than my ritual ever would have been.”

“I understand that. I intend to go back. To allow you to perform the ritual. It was a mistake to deny you,” Nyx admitted.

Morrigan scoffed. “If you’d seen it then, perhaps you would not be standing here. Though changing that moment alone will not win him back, you must be aware of that.”

“I am,” Nyx said. “But as long as I am Dalish, he would never have me.”

“No, you are correct. At best you could be a concubine, and you don’t really seem the sort for that life,” Morrigan said. “But the Changeling knows many secret magics, many ways of changing the tides of time. Perhaps you do not need to be Dalish.”

“I don’t understand,” Nyx said, brow furrowed.

“But you will. If that is all you came for, then I must go. I’ve already stayed too long, and there is much for me to do. If you succeed in changing this reality, making it to your liking, I may be a different Morrigan than the one you first met. But know this, I am not, nor have I ever been your enemy. I hoped at one time we might even be friends, but that...that does not matter now. If you fear anyone, fear Flemeth. She has fooled us all, even me. No matter what life you remain in, she will remain the same. She will remain a danger,” Morrigan warned.

“I understand,” Nyx said.

“No, you truly don’t. Be careful, Nyx. ‘Twould be a shame to see Ferelden lose its hero,” Morrigan said.

“It already has.”

“Yet you seem to be the only one who believes this,” Morrigan said. She stepped back, facing towards the eluvian again. She ran a hand over it tentatively, throwing her head back for one final warning. “Change is coming to the world, regardless of your choices. If your intent is to reclaim your Alistair, then I suggest you do so swiftly, and hold onto him tight. Soon, no one will be safe.”

Nyx ignored the use of his name, as this time it was said in kindness, rather than spite. Nyx nodded, though Morrigan’s vague warnings didn’t give her much of a clue as for what to look out for. She watched as Morrigan stepped through the eluvian, realizing only now that it worked as a portal. Its surface glowed for a moment more after Morrigan left, then faded back to looking no more special than an ordinary mirror.

Ariane and Finn ran up to Nyx right after, full of questions. They had overheard a lot, by the sound of things.

“Who is this ‘Changeling’ person? How do you know you can trust him?” Ariane asked.

“Why didn’t you tell us about this?” Finn said. His voice cracked in offense.

“Because you would have tried to stop me!” Nyx insisted, taking the materials Morrigan had left behind. “You would have tried to warn me against it, tell me to stop and think about what I was doing. But I already know. I’ve made up my mind and I am going to find this mage.”

“I’ve heard stories,” Finn said, looking even more nervous than he usually did, “of a mage by that name. He nearly tore the Circle apart in his experiments, trying to change time itself! The magic he wielded was dangerous and unusual. At least with blood magic you know what’s involved. With this...this is why the Chantry thinks of mages as cursed. The old Magisters were too proud, thought themselves more powerful than the Maker himself. The Changeling is likely the same.”

“It doesn’t matter what either of you think,” Nyx said. “I appreciate all that you have done to help me, and I’m glad we found your book, Ariane. But this is where we part ways. I’ve made up my mind and nothing can change that now.”

“I never would have dreamed that one of the Dalish, one of my own who could become a hero would be so...so arrogant! Think of the consequences this could have if it goes wrong. Just think for a moment!” Ariane insisted. A stream of angry tears were running down her cheeks. Nyx had never meant for anyone to be hurt, but she couldn’t let them stop her.

“I have. Anything that I have to face, it will be on me to deal with it,” Nyx said. She was ready to leave them behind. Perseus whined at her side. Not even her mabari approved of this plan, but she would not turn back.

“Fen'Harel ma ghilana,” Ariane spat. Finn looked puzzled, but Nyx knew the meaning. Perhaps Ariane was right, and the Dread Wolf was among the ghosts that clawed at her back and lead Nyx forward. Not even that would stop her, were it true.

“Ir abelas, Ariane,” Nyx said. “But I’ve made my choice.”

Nyx watched Ariane carefully, preparing herself to draw her bow in case the Dalish woman turned her sword on Nyx. But Ariane put up no fight, instead appearing to slump her shoulders in defeat. After so long with Nyx, Ariane could not bring herself to fight the Hero of Ferelden. Even if her actions could doom them all.

“I hope you find whatever it is you seek, lethallan,” Ariane said. The harshness of her voice before was replaced with a gentle sound of sorrow. “I know I cannot stop you.”

Nyx left them behind without another word, her mabari the only one to follow. Since Zevran had left, she knew she had to walk this path alone. Those couple of weeks spent with company, Nyx nearly fooled herself into thinking she could keep people close again. As she suspected from the start, however, there would be no one to understand the justification of her actions. Sometimes, even she had doubts, but as she thought of Alistair’s face, the soft smile he gave her on the top of Fort Drakon, she left all doubt behind.

Nyx was wrapped in furs as she approached the old cavern. Even for Ferelden, this particular area was freezing cold. She tried her hardest to keep her hands warm on the off-chance that she might need to draw her bow. It was hard to fire arrows with frozen fingers. She struck a bit of flint against the stone, holding a stick that she hoped would catch some of the sparks. Unless she had a torch, Nyx could travel no further without stumbling into darkness.

The flame came up faster than she’d expected, and Nyx nearly dropped the torch in shock as she watched it grow. With luck, she held fast, and now she had a source of light. How the Changeling could live in a cavern so dark was beyond her, but she’d studied the maps and texts Morrigan left her for days, and Nyx knew this had to be where he was. She only hoped he hadn’t moved on, or this was all for nothing.

Perseus was still with her, though she noticed the mabari growing slower. He had been an older hound at the time she rescued him in Ostagar, the caretaker had said as much. Now his age was really starting to show, though he kept up with Nyx through it all. Her constant journeying had done nothing to help his aging body.

“Hello?” Nyx called into the cavern. Both she and Perseus could use a rest, but she had to find the Changeling. Not until she was certain he was not here would she stop.

She continued to call out, crawling deeper into the dark cave. Unless her eyes were deceiving her, Nyx was approaching a light. As if someone might actually be there with more torches lit. Nyx hastened her steps, trying her best not to slide on some of the slippery patches of rock beneath her.

“Hello? Is someone there?” Nyx called again, cautiously hopeful. She whipped around a bend in the path and found a whole little living area, illuminated by nothing but glowing mushrooms and bits of full lyrium crystals set on display. An old man sat in the corner in a handmade chair, slumped over and lifeless. Her heart stopped. She’d never considered what she would do if the Changeling was dead. As long as she hadn’t found him, she could try new leads, follow new paths until she tracked him down. But dead...?

Nyx swallowed the air trapped in her mouth. She moved through the room, noting the fine rug that appeared to have Tevinter designs on it, the Orlesian silverware and plates, and the bedspread that looked as if someone’s grandmother had knitted and stitched it all together. The whole room was like that. Anything that didn’t appear to have been made by some amateur was incredibly fancy. None of it matched, and she could see signs of almost every region she knew of, and even some things from places she couldn’t name.

Nyx looked down at the old man, who had a large bald patch on the top of his head, and the barest of white wisps of hair falling around it. He was near covered in liver spots, standing out starkly against the paleness of his skin. The man’s wrinkles had wrinkles, and Nyx couldn’t tell if this man was eighty years old, or many hundreds. If he was truly dead, it would not be a terrible shock, but it would mean the end of her journey.

As Nyx reached a hand towards his shoulder, thinking to shake him gently and see if he woke, the man’s head snapped up. Nyx screamed as he grabbed her arm and squeezed his long, clammy fingers around her wrist. He grinned, his face uncomfortably close to hers.

At this angle, she could see the oddest thing about the man. His eyes, and the area around them, appeared to be at least thirty years younger than the rest of his body. Nyx pulled herself away sharply, but the man was already releasing her, causing her to stumble backwards from her own force.

The old man laughed, voice loud and grizzled. “You walk in here like you own this place, and you’re the one who’s startled?” he said. “No manners. No one has manners anymore.” He cleared his throat and started to stand.

Nyx was quick to get back on her feet, if only so she could back away from the man. He had appeared so small in the chair, but now that he stood she remembered that he was a shemlen, and she was still an elf. Not that all shems towered over her, but the height of this man rivaled even a Qunari. Perseus growled defensively beside her, but she attempted to soothe him. This man could be dangerous, whether he was who they were looking for or not.

“I apologize for the intrusion,” Nyx said. She was trying her hardest not to tremble. “My name is Nyx Mahariel. I have come here seeking a mage who goes by The Changeling.”

The old man laughed again. “You Dalish and your fairytales. You would believe anything if it sounded mystical and ancient.”

Nyx’s jaw tightened. “People will believe anything if they think they can get something out of it,” she said. Given the circumstance, she did not want to react, but hearing him insult her people was not easy to swallow.

“A wise observation,” the man said. He still didn’t sound too impressed, but he no longer sounded like he was ready to mock her. “So, you have admitted you seek to get something from this mage of yours. Entertain my curiosity. What would you ask of him?”

“I have heard that the Changeling knows how to bend time. I need to return to a time before I made a horrible mistake,” Nyx told him.

The man grinned wide. It was eerie, but more so when she looked into his young eyes, set against an old man’s smile. Nyx had to look away, though she knew it made her appear weak. He had the power in the situation, and knew it well.

“There are many mistakes one can make in a lifetime. What makes yours so dire that you would seek the aid of forbidden magic?” he asked.

“This could undo the death of the one I love,” Nyx said.

“Ah,” the man said, breathing deeply. “A noble goal indeed, though far from selfless. Unless this was someone important to Thedas. To the land of Ferelden.” Now she saw something new in the curl of his lips. He knew, somehow.

“He would have been king,” Nyx admitted, her voice choking as she said this.

“A Dalish elf and the King of Ferelden?” the man said. “Hardly a situation that would work in your favor. Perhaps it is best to leave him dead, find someone new. There is plenty left in the world for you to experience. Would you really abandon all you know for him?”

“There is just one moment,” Nyx insisted. “Just one moment to change so that he may live.”

“But you will not have him,” the man said. “You will still be Dalish.”

Morrigan had mentioned something similar. But the Changeling knows many secret magics, many ways of changing the tides of time. Perhaps you do not need to be Dalish. The words had made no sense to Nyx at the time. Yet, now she gave it more than a mere moment of thought. What could the Changeling offer her?

“The only way to remain with him…” she began, processing the idea, “...would be as a human noblewoman. But this is entirely impossible. Even if an elf could be nobility, I could never turn myself into a shemlen. I would not wish to!”

“Even if it gave you all you wanted, you would choose not to become human?”

“I...it isn’t possible, so it doesn’t matter,” Nyx said.

The man reached behind him, grabbing a shard of glass that had been resting on the table beside him. It was one of many pieces of destroyed objects that sat in the cave dwelling. He cut into his arm, and blood flowed forth. It floated, under his control, to cover his face. Nyx nearly gagged at the grotesque noises it made as it molded over him, cracking and stretching and…changing him. The blood fell from his face, covering the floor, and revealing a much younger man. He now looked like he was in his forties, and his eyes better matched the rest of his features. His hands had not changed, and remained the hands of an old man. He noticed Nyx looking at them, then ran a bit more blood over his hands, motioning as if he were washing them. Again, the blood fell from his skin and his hands were younger.

“What is a human, but a person who looks different than an elf?” the man said. “Would you truly change so much, if you were human? Inside, you would hold the same values and have the same personality. You could keep your eyes, your hair, your cheeks and lips. All of it. The only things we would change are the ears and your tattoo, which you already hide,” the man said.

Nyx could barely breathe. Her hand flew, without thought, to the bangs that covered her vallaslin, making sure the hairs were still in place. What magic she had just seen was nothing she knew. It was something she did not think any mage she’d ever met could explain. Save for, perhaps, Flemeth, but the old witch would likely not answer any question of Nyx’s in any way that made sense. The First Enchanter, Wynne, and even Morrigan would not have the knowledge to tell Nyx who or what this man was. Save for the name he went by.

“You are the Changeling after all,” Nyx said, still breathless after his display.

The man gave a slight bow. “At your service, Nyx Mahariel. Though I suppose this shall not be your name for much longer, if we can complete our task properly,” he said. “You will need a noble name, a noble house, but the right circumstances as well.”

He was drawing out vials of lyrium, sipping at one like a fine wine. Where he got all of it, Nyx hadn’t the faintest clue, but he had more than enough to sustain any mage for ten years. She also remembered the crystalline forms spread around, and wondered how he had not gone insane. Though that was, of course, assuming that he wasn’t already crazy. Perhaps he was truly a mad genius. And still he was her best chance.

“Tell me what to do, and I will see it done,” Nyx said. Determination was the only thing that remained to drive her. That, and the feeling of ghosts clawing at her back. She would be rid of those, soon.

“Patience, patience. You have all the time in the world, after all,” the Changeling said, then laughed at his own joke. Even though his features now seemed to match with one age, he terrified her. It was not just the eyes before, Nyx admitted to herself, but his presence as well. She remembered feeling a presence like this in the Archdemon, one who had the spirit of an old god. How could a mortal mage command a similar effect?

“You will need a girl, a young noblewoman whose place you can take. Someone whose circumstances align with yours in a way to bring you back to your love,” the man said. “Bring her here, to me, as well as the blood of the Archdemon.”

“Why the Archdemon?” Nyx asked.

“Even dead, the body commands power. It takes an extraordinary vessel to contain an old god,” the Changeling said.

Nyx remembered asking Riordan about creating more Wardens once. It wasn’t just a bit of darkspawn taint in her, but Archdemon blood as well, kept and preserved. It had the power to change her mind, give her the ability to sense darkspawn and this psychic connection to them. Surely, it had other uses.

“Is there anything else you require?” Nyx asked.

“You say this as if the task I’ve already given is so easy,” he said with a slight chuckle. “I require something from your past, something significant. Have the noble you select bring an object from her past as well. The rest of the...ingredients I need, I already have here. Those things should suffice. Though if you happen upon extra lyrium, it would serve well as payment.”

“Just lyrium potions?” Nyx asked. “This is no simple magic, I do not expect that you would do this for lyrium, when you already have quite the supply.”

“No, wise girl, my price is not the lyrium itself. But we can discuss these things later. First, I need to see if you can actually get the things you need before I am gone,” the Changeling said. The way his grin bared his teeth made him look like a rabid animal.

“You would leave? Getting to Denerim and back alone will take days! Not to mention the time I need to find your supplies,” Nyx said.

“You know where I am now,” the Changeling said. “If I remain too long, I risk further discovery. You know what you need to do, the limitations are your challenge to win. I suggest you get started. I will give you the time you request, but only if you are in time.”

He laughed again. She had no idea why she would trust in the word of this madman. By the amount of lyrium around him, he had to have completely lost his mind. But she remembered another strange man, the hermit in the Brecilian Forest. He had been mad, yes, but Morrigan warned he was also deadly powerful. Madness and power were not mutually exclusive to one another.

Nyx agreed, and urged Perseus to follow her back out, Her torch had, thankfully, remained lit, up until they stepped back out into the cold of the Frostback Mountains. How she would do any of this in a week she’d no idea. She at least knew she had one thing already. Nyx opened her bag to look at it again, the broken shard she’d picked up in the ruins. This eluvian had ruined her life, and at first, she kept it as a reminder of her power over it. It no longer held corruption and could not make her sick. It could not hurt Tamlen, who had been laid to rest. Now it was her connection, her piece of the past.

Nyx reached Denerim in record time. She’d barely stopped to rest, eating only when she desperately needed to, and stopping just for a breath every so often. Nyx had fought sleep with all her might, only giving into it when a caravan headed to the city saw her, looking like death as she stumbled forward, and offered to carry her and Perseus the rest of the way. She’d thanked them, and slipped them three sovereigns as insurance that they would not harm her. With luck, the noble she brought back to the Changeling had a horse or two they could ride back the other way.

Nyx knew she could not do much of anything until she’d gotten a decent meal and a bed to rest in. Keeping herself cloaked, to avoid recognition, she entered the Gnawed Noble Tavern, just by the market stalls. With all the reconstruction, she was glad to see that few things had changed. Gorim shouted his usual sales pitch, “Dwarven crafts! Direct from Orzammar!” Nyx never had the heart to tell anyone that this wasn’t entirely true.

Making her way to the counter, she was pleased to see that the same shady man was tending the bar. Familiarity was a comfort, even if she mostly remembered his associations with illegal dealings. Nyx was hardly one to judge anymore, involving herself with a known maleficar, so she didn’t. It was understood by most people that one did whatever they could to get by. Nyx had once thought she was different, that she could be better. She no longer believed in lies.

“A room, please. And have a warm meal and a pint of ale sent to it. I want to remain undisturbed, understood?” Nyx said in hushed tones. The man raised a brow, but when she produced a fair amount of coin, he nodded.

“Last one down that way, on your left. I’ll have one of the girls bring you something soon as I’m able. Anything else you’ll need?” the bartender asked.

“Privacy and quiet,” Nyx said, eyes narrowed. Her usually sweet face made it hard to look too threatening, but under the hood of her cloak, she looked mysterious enough to add to the effect. The bartender nodded again, looking slightly more nervous than a moment ago. She would take no risks in her dealings. Nyx did not wish to be discovered.

“First them bleedin’ Crows stay here, now everyone seems to think they can just push me around,” he muttered as Nyx walked away. She ignored the careless comments. He would be no threat to her as long as his mouth remained shut. No one had recognized her thus far, anyway, so perhaps the whole quest would go so smoothly. Nyx could only hope.

The food was a typical Ferelden style stew, grey and mealy. It reminded her of Alistair’s cooking, and for the first time, she found herself able to genuinely laugh at a memory of him. Nyx spent so much of her time mourning his loss, she had nearly forgotten to celebrate his life. Through the laughter she then found tears, a more familiar feeling, though this time they were bittersweet. Nyx remembered all the reasons there were to love Alistair, all the reasons she needed him back. She would sleep alone tonight, but promised herself that it would not be that way for much longer.

When morning came, Nyx pulled on her usual set of dragonskin armor, with a thick wool cloak over that, and shook Perseus awake. She had one job to do before she went to the palace, where she would look for Queen Anora. It was a good a start as any for who to ask about the nobility.

Her hound followed her out of the tavern and around to the quiet warehouse. She still held the map Riordan had once given her, leading to the secret Grey Warden cache. Nyx had been so caught up in the Landsmeet and everything that followed, she never took the time to stop by and check what was in the storage. Since she’d avoided the Wardens since the end of the Blight, they remained untouched and undiscovered. Not even the darkspawn had infiltrated the building to take what remained.

This was where Riordan said there might be stores of Archdemon blood and the Ferelden records on how to perform the Joining. The place was a dusted-over mess. Nyx sighed deeply, and got to work going through everything that remained. There were old stores of potions, armors, and weapons. She found a few extra arrows amidst the supplies, enchanted with elemental magic. Nyx packed them into her quiver, worried about what dangers she might face on her return visit to the Changeling.

Perseus barked, causing Nyx to jump. She hurried over to his side, and found that he was sniffing at a selection of vials. There was a symbol on the outside she didn’t recognize of a dragon curled in on itself. Nyx lifted one to the light to examine it. It was like darkspawn blood, thick red with thin black strands like worms constantly moving within, but had an odd sheen to it like oil. She swirled it around to watch it catch the light. This had to be the archdemon blood.

Nyx gathered a few vials, packing them carefully in a pouch, and tucked them into her bag. The glass was fairly thick, so they wouldn’t smash too easily, but the last thing she wanted were exploding and leaking vials of darkspawn blood. Her mabari whined. Even closed there was a foul smell leaking from them. Nyx scratched behind Perseus’ ear, hoping to soothe him. He couldn’t stay with her much longer.

Nyx left the warehouse, ready to make her way to the castle. At the gates, she finally removed the hood of her cloak, and introduced herself properly as the Hero of Ferelden. She might have abandoned all her duties as a Warden, but the title was still hers to carry. It helped when she needed to get into places that were heavily guarded. Nyx showed the guards a medal bestowed on the Hero of Ferelden, just in case her word was not proof enough for them. They let her pass.

“Well, when I was told who had asked for an audience with me, I scarcely believed it. But here you are, Hero of Ferelden. I am told by the Wardens at Amaranthine that you have still not shown your face there. I make no suggestion that we can tell you what to do, but they might like to see you stand with them,” Anora said, practically gliding into the throne room before she sat. She looked even more regal than she had the day Nyx last saw her. She wore her hair the same way as always, but her gown was the likes of something one might see in Orlais.

“Your majesty,” Nyx said, bowing low. “I apologize for my absence. There have been matters of great importance that needed seeing to. Secret missions of the Wardens, passed onto me from Riordan, before he died in battle. I now require your aid, in these matters.”

“This is the first I have heard of such a thing,” Anora said. She was not going to be easy to convince of the lie. Nyx had known this even before she entered Denerim. What Anora lacked in compassion, she made up for with cleverness. She was not a kind queen, but she was fierce and did what was needed to keep order in Ferelden. Nyx regretted ever thinking she was the better candidate for the throne.

“I mean no insult, my queen, but if you had heard of it, my mission would no longer be a secret,” Nyx said. Anora nodded, apparently accepting this logic. “I require the names of any noble families whom Duncan might have visited before his arrival at Ostagar. He assessed many recruits before selecting me, when he happened upon my clan by chance in the Brecilian Forest. I was told that he sought recruits amongst the dwarves as well as some of the human nobility. We Wardens hoped to look into those potential recruits once more, to get our numbers back up.”

“Interesting,” Anora said, raising a single brow. “Your fellow Wardens in Amaranthine, placed there at my behest, tell me they have received a fair number of recruits since the incidents there. They were inspired by your bravery, and that of your peers. But still you seek more to join the Grey Wardens?”

“It is not about numbers alone, your majesty. Those whom Duncan was sent to meet among the nobility were said to possess great skill in battle. These are not simply recruits for Amaranthine, but recruits for myself. I seek only the best to travel at my side,” Nyx said.

She only vaguely remembered her time alone with Duncan, on their way to Ostagar, but she remembered enough to spin this tale. Nyx had asked almost incessantly, “Why me?” Duncan would say time and again that her skill was great and that she had proved herself to him. Only once did he tell her about the others he had sought.

There were brave warriors among the dwarves, but they had such pride and many of them did not wish to become surfacers. There were those with cleverness and strength in the Alienage, but after a scandal arose with the nobles, there wasn’t much of a choice for him there anymore. There had been few amongst the nobles themselves that seemed worthy of the Joining. Duncan seemed particularly sad when he said that he’d hoped to recruit one young lady, but she had fled his side after he’d rescued her. He never explained why she might have left, or what he’d rescued her from, but she knew for a fact that there had been a young female noble who had once been worthy of becoming a Warden. That was the person Nyx hoped to find.

“I understand, though you must know that the noble families are still busying themselves with fortifying their lands after the Blight. The darkspawn do not discriminate in whom they kill. Many nobles suffered losses of their own. Do not be surprised if they turn you away,” Queen Anora warned.

“I only wish to meet them. It will be their decision whether they join me or not,” Nyx said.

Anora nodded sharply, then called for her steward to bring the records. She found what she was seeking with impressive quickness, then gestured for Nyx to approach and collect what was needed. The steward brought along parchment with a quill and some ink, so Nyx could copy the names. There was only one that Nyx needed, the very last whom Duncan had visited.

“The Couslands?” Nyx read aloud. “I don’t remember them being a part of the Landsmeet.”

“They weren’t,” Anora said simply. “By that time most of the family was slaughtered. In fact, many thought they’d all died together. Apparently Rendon Howe, the bastard, betrayed them even before my father made him Arl. He’d been a scoundrel from the start. However, after the Blight, the two young siblings of the family resurfaced. Apparently the sister had escaped the night her house was massacred, and went to find her brother. They remained in hiding for a time, uncertain that their family could see justice. They only showed up after the Blight had ended, hoping to reclaim the land that Howe had stolen.”

“How awful,” Nyx said. She had known Howe was a terrible man, but never thought him capable of going to such lengths as this. Now she could have no doubt in her mind that killing him had been the right thing to do.

“Indeed. Anyway, I granted them the land back, though I couldn’t afford to send many soldiers to help remove Howe’s men who remained there. Not after our losses at Denerim. I heard word that they gathered what coin they had to hire mercenaries and thugs to help them. They have their land back, but at a price, it seems,” Anora said, scrunching up her nose in disgust.

“That is...unfortunate,” Nyx said carefully. “Thank you, your majesty. That will be all I require. The sister still lives, is that correct?”

“Yes. Her name is Hera Cousland. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d been meaning to send a missive about their land,” Anora said, waving to her steward once more to fetch the letter. He returned a minute later with a sealed letter, the royal seal stamped in wax on the outside to seal it shut. “Bring that with you, Warden, and hand it to Fergus Cousland, Hera’s elder brother. It should also help you gain entry, as it bears my seal.”

“Thank you, your majesty. I shall see this done immediately,” Nyx said. She bowed again and was preparing to leave.

“Oh, and Warden?” Anora said, stopping Nyx in her tracks. “Please return when you are able. There is...unrest, in the Alienage once more. Perhaps if they heard from one of their own, we could make a deal to help them settle down.”

Nyx tried not to react too visibly, instead simply nodding. “As you wish, Queen Anora.” She did not mention that she would not be returning to Denerim, not as she was. Anora would not have an elf in her pocket anymore, to quell anger without needing to actually care about the plight of the elvhen.

Leaving Denerim behind, Nyx set her sights on the lands of the Bannorn, to find the home of the Couslands. With luck, Hera Cousland would be easy to convince to join her. If this was the same woman who had left Duncan to help her brother, playing the Grey Warden card was not likely to work as it did on most others. She would have to get to know this woman before Nyx could bring her along. Nyx hoped that she would not grow fond of the Cousland woman, for if what she feared of the Changeling’s ritual was true, the Cousland would not survive it.

#fanfiction #warden reborn

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