#baba fareed

[mountain-sage]

[sheltersestate]

781th Urs Hazrat Baba Farid (RA): Commemorating the Spiritual Legacy of the Sufi Saint in Pakpattan, Pakistan

The 781th Urs of Hazrat Baba Fariduddin Masood Ganj Shakar (RA) will be observed from Monday, 14th July 2023, to Monday, 29th July 2023, at the Shrine of Baba Farid (RA) in Pakpattan, Punjab, Pakistan. This sacred event commemorates the 12th-century Sufi saint of the Chishti Order, who was the successor of Hazrat Khawaja Qutbuddin Bakhtiar Kaki (RA). Hazrat Baba Farid (RA), also known as Baba…

[evilminji]

I woke up to this thought? And it made me smile~

Wrong way Au?

It's EASY to fly from point A to point B. Linear. Just on long, no traffic, straight line. And if you get lost? Go higher! There you are! But "normal" reporter families with Totally Human genetics can't exactly DO that.

Plus? It's part of the whole Americana thing!

Childhood.

Gotta do a road trip, see weird road side attractions, camp and hike a bit. Go somewhere other then the farm for once. Soooo~ everyone into the car! Yes, you too, Kon.

And don't look at Lois, kids. She hates this idea as much as you do. But it's for Dad. So we're doing it. Get in the car. Some times loving people means "suuuure, honey! I TOTALLY want to sit in an uncomfortable car for hours for your nostalgic dream trip!", so get comfy.

Problem is? He either can't navigate for SHIT (unlikely) or this patch of nowhere? Possibly haunted? Cursed? Fuckey. Very, very Reality Fuckey. Far more likely, honestly. They THINK that was the a same barn the passed four times now... but it looks... wrong? Off. Worse each time, in ways that are hard to place.

Where the FUCK are they Clark?

According to the GPS?

Here.

(You are Here. You are Here. You are He-)

Oh, THAT'S not cursed! She fucking KNEW they shouldn't have left the city. FUCK the countryside. She likes ONE(1) small town and it's where her in-laws live, THANK YOU VERY MUCH! If they die, she swear to GOD-!!!

Then Jon points to colorful tents up the road. A mix of the kind you buy at big box stores and Ren fairs. Balloons. What the fuuuuuck? "Fenton Family Reunion"?

Was... was that THERE a second ago?

Clark's very deliberate Not Too Tight Grip Of Panic ™ on the steering wheel? Confirms that No Honey, it was not. Kon points out? That eventually they ARE going to run out of gas. They should stop.

Words can not express how little the Kents want to do that. They have KIDS to protect. This feels "magical fuckery" to them. AKA? One of the few things Kryptonians very much CAN NOT handle.

And luck getting ahold of anybody back there kids? No? Emergency lines too?

Fuck ™.

Okay! Guess we're stopping! Stay behind us.

They park.

There are campers and trucks, modified tanks and trackers. A few horses grazing side by side with an honest to God moose and two mules. A Llama. Someone's anchored a dirigible. A boat with spindly chicken footed legs, like it's the house of baba yaga's sea faring love child. The name Fenton is slapped on everything. Peoples faces.

Grinning.

Everything grinning.

As they get closer, the racket gets louder. Crashes and smashes. Roaring laughter. Explosions. The screech of metal failing and the whine of energy overclocked. Fatty meats cooking. Spices from around the globe. Radios and instruments, at least one of which violently cuts off in a smash.

They pass an almost violently balloon choked arch, into chaos.

Grinning giants, everywhere. Every color, every shade, every race imaginable. The spectrum of humanity laid bare. Made large. Grinning, Grinning, Grinning. Crashing into each other, against, through. Smashing and laughing, as everything breaks around them. Titans.

Darting underfoot, children. Fast with wild eyes. Mad grins and fae laughs. Wives and husband's, partners and friends, dancing in and out of the chaos. Just as destructive. Perhaps MORE so. Grabbing meals from grills, laughing and joking, tossing children into the fray, all as they effortless hold conversations of their own.

Like a Dionysian revelry, all madness and joy.

Then they are noticed.

"Cousin!"

One of them booms. Locking eyes on Clark. He doesn't even have time to move, doesn't realize until too late, in all the chaos, that the man meant HIM. A running start is followed by a brutal, full body, flying tackle. Clark is taken skidding to the ground and into a headlock.

"LETS WRASTLE~!!"

He watches in helpless confusion as, with high-pitched war cries, a pair of twins jump Jon. They are wearing war paint. Krypto already taken out by a glowing green dog, now confused and wrestling off to the side. Lois has whipped out her tazer. Kon between her and who ever comes next.

By the time he wrestle his "cousin" off of him, he's lost sight of them both.

Dives into the fray.

Magic be damned, that's his FAMILY!

It... It's the most fun he's had in years. That any of them have. He finds Lois in a breathless, screaming, debate/fistfight with her new best friend. Samantha "call me Sam Or ELSE" Manson-Fouley-Fenton. Kon is in the mud pit, wrestling other teenagers in some sort of battle Royale. Jon? Has become king of the ferals. The other parents are impressed.

His years of Damian wrangling finally paying dividends, apparently.

By the time Clark FINALLY tracks down Krypto, there is already crowd and it apparently six heel turns deep into the WWE Grand Saga of the Fenton Pet's League. Krypto, what the hell. No. No you may NOT "form one last alliance against my sworn wrestling enemy, to prove the true meaning of Christmas!" It's the middle of SUMMER!

Clark... Clark is so tired.

He's also a Fenton now. Yes, he KNOWS that's not how anything works. YOU try explaining that! He's on the call list and card list. It's like the Addams family out here! They just... just DECIDED him and his family were related! They've apparently DONE THAT BEFORE!

They leave with directions, fudge, more leftovers then anyone could possibly eat, and a massive new extended family. One that honestly? The Justice League SHOULD have known about. The sheer destructive chaos they get up too? EVERYONE should be aware of them. It seems impossible NOT to be! But? According to THEM, it's a "family thing". Reality tries to ignore them for "it's own sanity"? What???

So yeah.... no more road trips.

How was YOUR weekend?

@hdgnj @legitimatesatanspawn @nerdpoe @the-witchhunter @lolottes @babbling-babull @dcxdpdabbles @hypewinter @mutable-manifestation

[lazycats-stuff]

Hi! I loved your male Y/N x Bruce Wayne Cadmus clone fic. Is there any way you could make a part 2? Maybe the clone comes to live with them and then they have to explain to the rest of the family who they are and help them adjust to living with the Batfamily. Also Ra’s maybe pops in from time to time and the clone starts to become protective over Y/N when it comes to others, especially Ra’s creepiness. Thx!!!

Oh I can. Sorry that this took so long though... I love the idea though. Also, PART 1 is linked to this. And it will be under Bruce Wayne masterlist, since the part 1 is there. Just so there isn't any confusion. And yes, the same GIF because I can't be bothered today.

Summary: (Y/N) is rather protective of one of his dads.

Warnings:

It has been a few months since the clone, well, the boy came to live with them to the manor. Of course, explaining to the boys who he was and how he came to be wasn't an easy task. And it turns out it wasn't. Sitting them all down was easy enough. (Y/N) broke the news and the response was not receptive.

All of them were confused, shocked, Damian was absolutely disturbed. So much so, he stormed out of the room and slamming the door of his room. And if Damian can't control his emotion like that, you know he's not okay. (Y/N) sighed, burying his face into his hands.

(Y/N) loved his sons so much and seeing them upset made him upset. At this point, he wondered if this was a bad idea. He couldn't bear to see a rift in his family. Bruce patted his back, then gently rubbed his shoulder in comfort.

" I'm going to check on him. " (Y/N) said, trying to compose himself before he went to see Damian. Bruce kissed his cheek squeezing his shoulder in comfort before letting go and turning to his other sons.

" I know this is all... Insane to say the least, but the clone is a human who deserves a shot at life. " Bruce crossed his arms and (Y/N) has left to look for Damian, knowing exactly where he went. (Y/N) gently knocked on the door, listening to inside noises.

" Dames, can I come in? " (Y/N) asked softly and he sighed in relief once he heard a yes, although a faint one

(Y/N) entered and then closed the door behind him. Damian was curled in the bed, Titus curled around him. (Y/N) smiled at the sight and sat down where there was actual space left for him. He started gently scratching Damian's scalp.

" I know that the news upset you, but he is nothing like Ra's. only by his hair and eyes. And would I ever lie to you Dames? " (Y/N) started softly and Damian sighed.

" No baba. "

" Good. The boy needs a chance in life too. Just like you had to escape the League so you can have a semi normal life with us. Okay? You know that you kiddos are my number one priority. And he is a kid in trouble. So please, don't worry about it. Okay? " (Y/N) asked and Damian nodded, gently patting Titus.

" Good. " (Y/N) kissed Damian's forehead and decided to leave him be for now. (Y/N) quickly went back down to check how Bruce was faring. The other 3 boys were simply calm. Talking to Bruce about their questions and concerns.

(Y/N) walked up to his other 3 sons, giving them each a hug. " If anyone is worried about Damian, he is fine. He was just a bit upset. Worried that the boy will be like Ra's. " (Y/N) explained and everyone nodded and Bruce turned to hold (Y/N) by the waist.

" Anyway, I can't believe that Ra's is in the mix. " Jason said and Tim nodded.

" The bastard has got more excuses to get closer to you dad. And I don't like it. " Tim said and (Y/N) gently scratched Tim's scalp.

" Tim, I can take care of myself. I understand the worry, but Bruce trained me, " (Y/N) said and Tim nodded.

" Doesn't mean we don't worry dad. " Dick stood up to get some water.

" And if Ra's shows up, you know where to find my guns. " Jason added as he took out his phone and Bruce sighed as he squeezed (Y/N)'s hips.

" I swear, everyone in this house will put me into my grave. " Bruce muttered kissing (Y/N)'s cheek. (Y/N) smile and lean on Bruce.

" I love you too. "

It has been a few months since the clone, well, the boy came to the manor. The transition wasn't really easy. The boys seeing their enemy in the poor boy wasn't easy and Bruce and (Y/N) knew that full well. It wasn't going to be easy and the two made sure that the boy felt comfortable.

And yes, the clone is still looking for a name so they don't call him, yo, bro, dude. All of these were used by the first 4 sons, not by Bruce and (Y/N), just for the record. Just a quick FYI. (Y/N) really tried to make sure that the boy was more comfortable. He made sure of it.

And the rest of the boys too, don't take it wrong.

This particular evening, (Y/N) had a rare night off and has decided to spend his time reading a book in the living room, under a blanket, on the comfiest sofa that money can buy. the clone was somewhere near, not particularly fond of being alone. The boy was working on that with Black Canary, who turned into his therapist.

Either way, it was going rather well and (Y/N) won't complain about it. As long as it's going well, although with a few bumps, he won't complain about anything. (Y/N) was well into the book, enjoying it when he heard Alfred's voice.

" Master (Y/N), Ra's al Ghul is here, " Alfred announced and (Y/N) groaned as he put a piece of paper in between the pages so he could know where to go of on. Then he closed the book, turning his head to look at Ra's. The smug bastard was there, standing near the kitchen table.

Ra's has been here a few times before, to see (Y/N) and to see the extent of the genetics at work. (Y/N) would often sneakily leave the manor at the time, not in the mood to look at Ra's or to even talk to him. He wanted to die rather than to see the old bastard.

Unfortunately, Bruce and the birds were out patrolling, so any backup, if we don't include the boy, is gone.

" Ah, it seems you are alone (Y/N). " Ra's said and (Y/N) wanted to scoff. " The detective is out and about on patrol it seems. " Ra's noted and (Y/N) forced himself not to sigh.

" Why are you here? To annoy me? "

Ra's chuckled then shook his head.

" Always blunt. I'm here to see the boy. Does he have a name at least? "

" He didn't choose one yet. " (Y/N) stood up, adjusting his shirt. He was in one of Bruce's shirts and some nice sweatpants. If he knew that the bastard was coming, he would have changed. Into something more practical to fight in. And not feel that exposed. Bruce was a huge man and (Y/N) was tall, but more lean so... Bruce's shirts may or may not expose some shoulder and some chest.

Either way, he didn't like being ogled by anyone but Bruce. This was for his eyes only. (Y/N) fixed the shirt, hiding the spot that Ra's was eyeing hungrily. The boy, the clone stilled in the kitchen, watching and listening in silence. He is ready to fight for his dad, although he hasn't called him dad, he thinks of him as a dad.

And (Y/N) could fight, after all, Ra's' genes, Bruce's genes and (Y/N)'s genes mixed in make a fighter. A great one at that.

Ra's then turned his sights on the boy who was in the kitchen, listening and watching like a hawk.

" Ah, there he is. You still have no name? " Ra's asked, moving closer to the boy.

" I do have a name. It's William. " Now William responded with confidence and (Y/N) was proud. His boy has a name and it's William. He has to let Bruce and the boys know ASAP.

" I see. It seems you got a name... A strong one it seems. "

(Y/N) rolled his eyes, knowing that Ra's wanted (Y/N) to get an Arabic name, but (Y/N) and Bruce put their foot down to anyone who tried to give now William, a name.

It was something that William should have done on his own. It's something that he should have a choice in. It's something empowering in having that choice. Something that everyone should have when their sense of individual self is pushed onto them, when they have no choice in the matter.

Giving yourself a name is something impowering.

" It seems you are doing well in here, " Ra's noted and William nodded, also put off by Ra's. (Y/N) was glad that he wasn't the only one.

" And as for you (Y/N), " Ra's turned to (Y/N), who crossed his arms, " You look lovely tonight. The casual attire you more than official attire you wear at galas and at work I must say. "

(Y/N) wanted to crawl somewhere and die. William crossed his arms, just ready to pounce at Ra's. He could sense the undertone that Ra's was using and didn't like it one bit. He stood behind (Y/N), ready to protect his dad.

Ra's simply raised his brow, but didn't comment on it.

" Well, I have more tasks here in Gotham, so I must get going. " Ra's took (Y/N)'s hand and kissed the back of it, just like he always does and then left.

(Y/N) shuddered once Ra's was out of sight and out of mind.

" You okay dad? " William asked and (Y/N)'s eyes widened, but smiled.

" You called me dad... " (Y/N) said happily, hugging William.

" Not the point dad. He is creepy. "

(Y/N) nodded in agreement. " I know son, he is creepy towards me. My guess is that he has feelings for me, but I'm loyal to Bruce and Bruce only. I can handle the old bastard. " (Y/N) patted William's cheek.

" Don't worry, okay. Now, do you want to watch a movie? " (Y/N) asked and William nodded.

" Alright, choose a movie off of Netflix while I make some snacks. "

[themalhambird]

(from the same universe as this, chronologically proceeds it. Picks up almost immediately after the final episode of Series 1)

Shahara is not going to miss her Baba’s birthday party because her taxi driver turned out to be a mad woman. She’s still not sure why she let this Iris Maplewood person keep driving her while she rambled on about time travel and quantum whatever, except that she’s been a copper long enough to have a sense for when she’s in danger, and she didn’t get that from Maplewood. So it was easier to take the taxi ride and put up with the rambling than it was to try and stop the cab, get out and walk -  and Maplewood refused to take a fare which was a bonus. So Shahara gets to the party exactly when she’s supposed to, and she revels in the hug she gets to give her son, and the hug her Baba gives to her. She revels in the crowd of family and friends- the Aunties and Uncles she can never remember if she has a blood connection to or not. That’s never been important. What’s important right now is good food and good music and good talk, and how good she’s gotten at distraction when the question of whether she has a man in her life yet or not comes up.

Except, throughout the night, at the back of her mind, is this nagging feeling- this unease about the fact that, well, this unease about the fact that she didn’t feel any unease when when some random cabby sprouting conspiracies about the Kyal corporation somehow knew a whole ton of personal details about Shahara’s life. And then there’s that sense she’s had all day, this- what’s the opposite of deja vu? The sense that suddenly you were in a place you hadn’t been mere moments before? She’d shrugged it off as tiredness- the stress of the job- she’d spoken to her inspector earlier about maybe putting in for some leave. And perhaps that’s an even better idea than she’d already been thinking. If she’s taking Iris Maplewood seriously, she’s cracking. 

I’m not taking this seriously, she tells herself firmly, sipping at the mocktail as she watches Jawad run about with the other kids.  I’m not going to think about it at all. I don’t believe-

“-a word you say,” Shahara tells Maplewood as she gets into the front of the woman’s taxi. “Just for the record. I’m agreeing to this because- I don’t know. I want to prove to myself that you’re talking nonsense, I guess.”

“I’m not, but that doesn’t matter. You’ll see for yourself soon enough,” Maplewood said. The car is sitting at the top of Longharvest Lane, headlights illuminating the alleyway. “I don’t know which of them it will be tonight, but one of them will show, I’m sure of it.”

Right. Either a detective sergeant from world war two or a detective inspector from the victorian era is going to materialise out of nowhere. Kyal, one of the biggest finance….trading….look, Shahara has never really been sure what Kyal is or does, and honestly she can easily believe that a corporation that big, handling that much money, is corrupt somehow. What she can’t believe is that it’s a Doomsday Cult and that Iris Maplewood comes from the future, and has travelled back to 2023 so she can get Shahara Hasan, and two blokes she’s sent others to fish out from the past, in to the same place to help bring Kyal down because together they already managed it once (sort of) by stopping an explosion that decimated the world…today, but also a few days in the future. Something. This is nuts.

“I hope it’s Hillinghead,” Maplewood muses. “He seemed- easy enough to reason with. I think. I don’t know, the memory’s blurry. It didn’t really happen, but also it had to have happened for it not to have happened. Bootstrap paradox, or something. I don’t know. There are echoes…I was sorry for him. I can’t remember why.” 

Shahara clenches her fist tight. She is resolutely not remembering some kid sitting at the table of a fast food place with a gun in his hand. She isn’t-

“Thirty seconds,” Maplewood says. “I’m going to just,” she switches the car headlights off. “Don’t want them exploding,” she explains. 

“Exploding?” Shahara exclaims. “You didn’t say anything about anything-”

The streetlamp outside flares white hot. Glass shatters, smashes some more as it falls to the pavement. There’s a red glow, almost like a bleeding wound, in the darkness ahead- for the briefest of moments. Shahara squints, trying to see properly, but the glow is too bright and everything else too dark…

And then it’s gone. There’s nothing but darkness and the rowdy sounds of London late at night behind them. Shahara stares, stunned, through the windscreen into the blackness beyond. Iris flicks the headlamps back on. In the two, brilliant beams of light, the blocky shape of a body can be seen crumpled in the road. “Oh my god,” Shahara breathes. 

“I’ve got a blanket, there’s a torch in the door your side,” Iris says. She’s already got her door open, pulling a blanket that had been folded up on her lap with her. Shahara fumbles to catch up, grabbing the torch and stabbing for the switch with her thumb. 

“Why a blank- oh,” there’s no need for the rest of the sentence. As they hurry over to him, Shahara can see that the man who appeared from nowhere is completely naked. He’s already stirring, running one hand through tousled black hair as he starts to bring himself onto his knees, coughing. 

“What the hell-”

His cockney accent reminds Shahara of the teenagers she’s spoken to on occasion- kids trying a little too hard to sound hard, to fit in. 

“Hillinghead?” she asks cautiously

“The hell is a Hillinghead?” He looks up at her. In the torchlight Shahara can see that he’s quite a handsome man- kind of dapper, except that there’s soot on his face. 

“Charles Whiteman?” Iris says. She hands him the blanket. Whiteman takes it with a frown- blanches when it apparently hits him that he’s naked, and hastily wraps the blanket around his waist like a towel as he wobbles to his feet. 

“Yeah? Who the hell are you? What the hell-” he looks around. “Where the bloody hell am I?”

*** 

So, time travel is, apparently, real. 

Iris has got a flat- they take Whiteman back to it, and Shahara…Shahara has to go back to work. She has to go to her job and deal and…honestly, it’s easier than it should be. The whole thing doesn’t seem real, even when she stops on her way home to drop groceries off to check in on the woman from the future and the man from the past. Even when she goes for drinks in the coppers’ pub, and she goes and finds the photograph from Whiteman’s era, just out of curiosity, and immediately finds a face she knows. Whiteman doesn’t seem bothered by the fact he’s in the future so much as grousing that his Inspector’s going to do his nut about his disappearing, and grumbling that ‘Esther’- whoever Esther is, kid sister, Shahara thinks, from the irritated-fond way of talking- is going to cause chaos if left unattended for five minutes. She likes him- she’s getting to like Iris too, truth be told- and he’s entertaining on a stakeout. Because they’re still missing a Victorian. 

By Iris’ calculations, Hillinghead should have materialised the night after Whiteman. But it’s almost a week later, and they’ve been watching each night, and there’s nothing.

***

“Hasan! Case for you! Take Rick.” She catches the slim file that’s thrown at her by the Inspector. “John Doe, Royal Hospital. Doctors reckon he’s well enough for talking. Need to find out who he is, need to find out how he ended up badly beaten and stark naked in Longharvest Lane.”

The folder drops from Hasan’s hands. “You what?” she says, but the Inspector’s already moving on, assigning other cases to other detectives, and Rick’s making his way over to her so she shakes herself and picks the folder up off the floor. She opens it, and finds a few cursory notes from the uniform officers that first attended: IC1 male, contusion to the right temple, assorted bruises, broken bones…found the night before Whiteman showed up. There’s a page of photos paperclipped in- she focuses in on the close up of a handsome face,if dishevelled face: reddish hair and a beard- a nasty bruise on his right temple. And there’s a photo of his wrist, as well, and it’s got the same mark that Iris Maplewood and Charles Whiteman both have. She manages to snag a photo of the page of photos on her phone before Rick reaches her, then hastily shoves it back in her pocket “You up for driving?” she asks. Rick grins. 

“Hell yeah. Thought I’d have to fight you for it.” 

“Nah. Jawad’s off school - stomach bug or something. To be honest, I could do with the time to message dad a bit, check in on how they’re doing.”

“Ah mate.” Rick says sympathetically as they head out to the parking lot. “Sorry. Hey, if you wanna swing by once we’re done at the hospital. We can always say we were chasing up a lead.”

“Nah, it’ll be alright. Mostly I wanna make sure he’s not conning Grandad into letting him eat nothing but ice cream all day. If we were closer maybe, but it’s out of the way. Besides, we might actually have leads.” 

She’s pretty sure that they won’t. She’s pretty sure that the man they’re about to speak to is from the 1800s and she really, really hopes he hasn’t told anyone at the hospital that because he’ll get himself sectioned faster than he can blink. She gets into the passenger side of the car, fastens her seatbelt, and sends the photo to Iris. This him? She writes underneath.

Fifteen seconds later, Iris pings a simple message back:

Fuck.

[thecozykirin]

DWC Day 2 - Tenderness

( Wanted to write a few pieces from earlier on in their relationship, I thought today's word was perfect for it! ) @daily-writing-challenge For hours, Soo-ha had occupied herself by watching the subtle rise and fall of her daughter’s chest. Occasionally, her ear would flick from the sound of the rain pouring outside the rickety shelter they had taken refuge in. Yasashi told her that the Alliance had built it during the war, and now like the memories associated with it, it festered within the depths of the Jade forest, reclaimed by vines and wood speckled with mold. Inns had been too risky, and though she didn’t particularly like this arrangement, Soo-ha couldn’t deny the wisdom in it. The Wukao were effective at getting their information, and even more at drawing up a trail they believed their goals to be taking. She could see Yasashi in the background, his image blurred and unfocused as he sat near the entrance of the shelter, eyes fixed outside from beneath the grates of his helmet. For once, his armor was off, no doubt to give him access to the deep wound in his side. A parting gift from a former comrade and friend. Soo-ha’s muzzle wrinkled slightly at the memory, her gaze darting to the hammer at his hip, and how even in the dim light of the glowflies, she could still see faint specks of crimson that clung to it. Averting her gaze, she returned it to his wound…and noted that blood had started to seep through the linen. With a light frown on her muzzle, she willed herself up as quietly as she could manage, turning to reach into the paltry sack of supplies they had amassed throughout their tense journey. Linen. Paste. The paste had been something her and her baba made one evening, a blend of honey and garlic, meant to soothe wounds and smother whatever disease tried to fester within them. Soo-ha approached the large Pandaren, letting out only a light chuff to let him know she was there as she knelt at his side, and reached for his linen.

And the behemoth flinched, as though a Mushan could be wounded by a mouse. His head snapped to her. “What?”

Soo-ha blinked, the answer should’ve been obvious but she signed back in response nonetheless: ‘You are bleeding.’

Yasashi’s head tipped down, and he paused. “It is a wound of no consequence. You should get your sleep, we will be moving at the first sight of dawn.” Soo-ha pursed her bottom lip out slightly. ‘All wounds are of consequence. Your blood will attract pests, your linen must be changed.’

“I’ve gone longer with worse.” Soo-ha’s brow furrowed slightly. ‘And how has that fared you?’

Yasashi paused for several heart beats, acquiescing with a deflated sigh. “If you wish to trouble yourself with it, fine.” ‘If I thought it troublesome, I would’ve stayed asleep.’ And with that, the small Pandaren began her work. Soo-ha’s paws were gentle, even as the stinging paste was applied, she hummed as she felt his body jolt slightly beneath her paws.

Yasashi had been tended by many healers throughout his service, and though their touch was always careful, it was swift and detached given the circumstances. Most touches in his life had been detached. But Soo-ha’s touch was careful and caring, replacing bandages that had just barely begun to bleed through the last layer.

Perhaps she was wise in seeing that they needed to be changed, after all they may not be able to stop again until they’re safely on the sea. Or perhaps, she recognized that a bit of closeness was what the male needed to provide a bit of comfort amidst the raging sea of emotion he kept locked within that helmet.

The more one looked at it, the more it looked like a prison.

The true reason would never be spoken, but the action would never be forgotten.

Not by him.

[holespoles]

'Kanchi Jigoku no Zu' (Picture of a No Busy Hell). The artist and date are unknown as it is an overseas public domain image. Probably a work from the Meiji period. This is an enjoyable work depicting a relaxed hell life.

The first image shows the ignition of a cauldron in hell. When the lid is opened to light the fire, the cauldron becomes the home of a mother cat and her kittens. Even the demons can't light the cauldron. The second image shows an ogre serving tea in a cup to his boss, who is reading a newspaper. You can feel the sadness of a lowly man.

The third one is a hellfire wheel (said to carry sinners who did wrong during their lives to hell. They also carry sinners to hell to condemn them) to extinguish the fire. You have to be very careful with fire, even in hell. The last one is a banquet between Enma (Great King of Hell, who judges the conduct of human beings in life and the lightness or darkness of their sins.), Datsui-baba (An old demon woman who strips the clothes of a deceased person who has come to the Sanzu River (a river said to be the border between this world and the next) without the six pennies she owes for the ferry fare.) and the prisoners. It teaches us the importance of communication in an organisation.

「閑地獄之図(暇な地獄の図)」です。海外のパブリックドメイン画像で作者や年代は不明。多分明治期の作品かと思われます。ゆるゆるの地獄ライフが描かれている楽しい作品です。

画像一枚目は地獄の釜の点火作業。さあ火を付けようと蓋を開けたら釜は母猫と子猫の住処に。これじゃ流石に鬼も灯を付けられません 二枚目は新聞を読む上司にカップでお茶をサーブする鬼。下っ端の悲哀を感じます。

三枚目は地獄の火車(生前、悪事を犯した罪人を乗せて地獄に運ぶという。また、地獄で罪人を乗せて責める)を消火する様子。火の扱いは地獄と言えど、慎重でないとだめですよね。最後は閻魔様と奪衣婆と獄卒達の宴会でしょうか。組織におけるコミュニケーションの大切さを教えてくれます。

[sgiandubh]

Life beyond OL - Xmas movies and a short Bucharest tour

About three weeks ago, What Else Anon prompted me to tell her what else I was reading, watching or interested in lately (https://www.tumblr.com/sgiandubh/734634576675274752/so-about-tcnd-no-im-kidding-dont-throw-me). That gave me an idea for a poll:

Should I turn this ask into a Life Beyond OL weekly, preferably on Tuesdays?

97,1% of the 35 brave people to answer said yes, so here we are.

Reading won't do it this hectic week: since Friday is my last day on the job before the holidays, I'm literally in a wrap-up frenzy, both at home and at the office. Let's say I am not exactly the type who buys her presents in July, which pretty much explains the circus.

As for watching, well: nope, I will not watch A Princess for Christmas if you'd pay me. It's both beyond and beneath my dignity, I am afraid and bless The Boy, but that is not enough for an incentive. By the same token, I shall not willingly acknowledge in public (at the blessed age of 45) that I know all the damn lines of Home Alone 1 by heart. With age, my absolute go-to Xmas movie has to be Love Actually. If only for this perfect opening scene with 0 cheesiness in it - you watch it and you are immediately hooked:

Interested in: going home for Christmas, what else? And before local exasperation hits hard (roughly two days after arrival, to be honest), I am still procrastinating on YouTube and watching those foot-in-mouth travel vlogs ('John and Jane Doe do ...'). In a sea of meh, you might find something interesting enough: I have no idea who Sammy & Tommy are, but they are smart people and they surely know a thing or two about travel. Once in Bucharest, my hometown, they followed their instinct and engaged with the natives - always the best plan.

Let's say it was worth it and probably went above and beyond their expectations: we tend to be obnoxiously hospitable. And I found the bakery people flawlessly endearing. I can confidently say it was something absolutely spontaneous and something I would do myself anytime for a total stranger:

A bit of context: the Cișmigiu Gardens look way better than the last time I ventured in there. It is probably one of the most beloved parks of the city, a stone throw away from the Old Town, and also a wannabe copycat of Munich's Englischer Garten.

The featured bakery & cake shop are actually quite decent, serving traditional pastries from Transylvania (the West of the country) and some of the local dessert mishmash fare. Despite what the very nice bakery guy is telling Sammy and Tommy, neither savarina, nor amandina are 'traditional ' Romanian cakes. Savarina is simply the Polish/French rum baba, Stohrer invented for Stanisław I Leszczyński, the exiled Polish king who was also Louis XV's father in law. As for the other one, let's say it could be the love child of a Sachertorte and a Rigó Jancsi cake - totally Austro-Hungarian (Wikipedia babbles: it has nothing to do with French cuisine!)! Both sickeningly sweet and both personal favorites, amen. The first one they tried, cozonac, is a babka spinoff: something I hate with a passion, but also something that is going to be literally every(fucking)where this Christmas ('oh, you don't like my cozonac?! huh, nonono, I do, it's so fabulous I am taking my time!').

Honestly? This is a place that suffered a lot, especially during the Eighties, when Ceaușescu thought it would be a great idea to bulldoze about 60% of the old neighborhoods, after the horrific 1977 earthquake (perfect pretext). Words could never decently describe the shock, the drama and the abuse: people throwing themselves under the first passing car as their beloved houses were torn down, people displaced in the middle of nowhere, a human chain of people holding hands in a failed attempt to stop the demolition of a beloved church. All that quiet, endearing charm suddenly replaced by a Pyongyang transplant smack in the middle of town. This explaining perhaps why Bucharest is not the best/most touted tourist destination in my country. Tourists usually choose Transylvania (absolutely deserved) or, if they really want to be adventurous, Bucovina (or Țara de Sus, literally: The Highlands, hehe) - an off the beaten track gem and a very special place to me (half of my family hails from there). Impressed to see these guys hit Timișoara - one of the most beautiful, interesting and definitely underrated cities, right next to the border with both Hungary and Serbia.

Nice guys or not, I would never take you to that bakery, though. Nah: I'd take you round the corner, at the Athénée Palace's English Bar - the red arrow marks my very own spot since, heh, forever? And we'd have the Amalfi Old Fashioned cocktails: they are mandatory, here.

PS: the Romanian guy kept his word and took them places the next day. I'd happily babble about this next week, though - from home. :)

[cosmica-galaxy]

I hope you don't mind one last one for now but this ask has been in the back of my mind forever. I saw the weaponsmith!human ask & I fell in love with the idea. Based on John Wick 2 where the Baba Yaga goes equipment shopping & meets the Sommelier, picture this:

Cameron, DJ, Vee & Veteran were called down to the armory by Doc to see something. Upon arrival, the doors opened to reveal Doc & greeting them upon arrival & the human, who was wearing a fancy looking butler uniform & tuxedo with gloves, was polishing a paralyzer rifle with a cloth. They then put it back on the rack & turn to face their friends & caretaker.

"Good afternoon guys. I'm glad you all could come here today for what I like to call a, 'tasting'. Now then, let's get started. Cameron, Vet. Now I know of both of your fondness for the paralyzer rifles but, I can whole heartedly endorse this new upgraded version (hands them both each one). A higher frequency output for longer stunning duration against normal & larger opponents, a built in plasma ballistics knife for close quarters combat, a laser function for blasting stronger toilets to dust, & I know & hope you'll both appreciate the custom design & your names signed by yours truly of course. I've also, (pulls out two cases from under the display counter & opens them, revealing pistol variants of their rifles), made these more compact breed with the same power as their larger counterparts but with much better handling & mobility."

Now then, DJ. I've noticed that while you're race is more then capable in the knife-fight-distance & self defense with your soundwaves, there's one small key area that's lacking a little bit. Range. Now don't get me wrong I've seen your matriarch, her brother & your titan blast their knives with their soundwaves & no doubt you can do the same, I've always felt you could do more. Which is why, after a ethical thumbs up from Pal, I made you this (hands DJ his new gun). The cardiac pulse blaster. Functionally very similar to a speaker mimic's blast, albeit not as strong as the real thing. But it can penetrate headphones and disrupt a foes' cardiac rhythm, however it doesn't fully kill the unit. Instead, let the stress of the battle kill those toilets. No doubt it will up your kill count my friend.

And of course, I can't forget about you Vee. I would say you arguably have the most solid combat package. But I know for a fact that it can be perfected even more. (Takes out two wrist blasters with TV remotes sticking out to form their barrels) Should your TV light not work on whatever Skibidi you encounter, these blasters should come in handy. One blast will infect the toilet allowing you to mind-control it. And of course, (takes out a custom box with his new blades in them) the finest cutlery. All freshly stemmed & designed by me. The electrical obsidian material & the remote charging feature through the pulses of your own core that these have will allow you to cleave through metal & porcelain. The "reaper" shapes they have helps for better directional swings.

Now with that said, I really do hope you guys enjoy them & find them effective."

What are all their reactions?

P.S: Sorry this is so long.

If there's one thing the alliance members LOVE, it's getting new weapons. The camera units, both Vet and Camron, each explore the new guns frames and magazines before walking over to try them out in the shooting range that was built for testing such things. The first round of shooting enabled the pair to discover that they find that the guns were nimble, smaller, and still packed a PUNCH, judging from how badly singed the dummy's further into the range fared. Plus, the dummy that appears in front of both Camron and Vet was reflexively stabbed by both in their disgusting fake neck. Cleaving through the thick-skin material like warm butter. With a brief glance of excitement towards one another, the pair give the guns an approving thumbs up. DJ is excited to finally get a weapon that fits his faction a lot more. Knives are nice, but they are VERY close range and need multiple hits to kill...as a result, DJ has to be careful and lacks a kill count that's worthy of boasting about. However, the new gun in his hands felt amazing. Upon taking it to the shooting range and lining up a headphone-equipped dummy, he fires the first blast. The recoil was there, but it wasn't horrible. Plus, he finally understood how the gun could penetrate the headphones...the plastic that the headphones were made out of cracked and crumbled from the force of the blast...as well as the entire dummy's posture changed. It even skid back a few feet! DJ lets out a whistle sfx. He LOVES this new gun! Vee was a little apprehensive of exchanging his precious combat knives, but the sheer sleekness and reaper-like design of the new ones swayed him over nearly immediately. The biggest problem the TV units have is the glasses that the enemy uses to resist their powers...if this weapon can bypass such a handicap, then the battles would become easier to win. With a quick exchange of his knives and a wiring of the new weapon into his core-line, he heads over to practice with the new ones. The first was obvious, he needed to test these knives. As soon as the round started, skibidi dummies appear in the training area and he unsheathes his new scythes. With a swing, they cut through even the thickest of material with gliding accuracy, then with a flick and rotation of his wrist, he swings cleanly in the opposite direction. Nailing the dummy that appeared behind him. He swings again and again, ripping, shredding, and demolishing the dummies. Then, he saved the last one for long range as the remaining toilet dummy was a ways away. Of course, this would need a live subject, so all he could do was check the range on the weapon. Which was...quite a distance, surprisingly. Once it was all said and done, he retracts his scythes and nods in approval.

[mariacallous]

Before Yotam Ottolenghi had British Jewry in a sumac-scented chokehold, there was Evelyn Rose. With a weekly column in the Jewish Chronicle (the U.K.’s leading Jewish newspaper) for over 40 years and 14 cookbooks, she was the face and soul of the Anglo Jewish kitchen. 

From the 1960s to 2000s, rare was a Shabbat or holiday meal where at least one of Rose’s recipes didn’t feature. In fact, many of my family’s “signature” dishes (my mother’s stuffed cabbage, my grandmother’s lemon drizzle cake) are actually Rose’s, with a couple of small tweaks. Receiving Rose’s tome, “The Complete International Jewish Cookbook” (1976), when leaving home or getting married remains a rite of passage for British Jews. Mine is stained and annotated, just as my aunt, who gave it to me, intended. “Use and enjoy,” she wrote on the inside cover. “I expect to see it, in years to come, scribbled in, spattered and sticky!”

How Rose shaped the culinary habits of British Jews and beyond is a tale of perseverance, passion and a little bit of chutzpah. 

Born in 1925 in Manchester, U.K., Rose lived there all her life except for a four-year stint in the U.S., where she was evacuated during World War II. A home economics course at her Seattle high school sparked a passion for cooking, and she studied cooking demonstration techniques at the Manchester College of Housecraft on her return to the U.K. 

In the 1950s, Rose pitched a Jewish cookery course to BBC, the largest broadcasting corporation in the world, opening the program with a recipe for cheese blintzes. She went on to become the resident cook at Granada Television and cookery editor of Family Doctor Magazine, among other accolades. 

Rose began writing for the Jewish Chronicle in the late ‘50s. At the time, Florence Greenberg was well into her fourth decade of writing the weekly cookery column that Rose would take over a couple of years later. Greenberg was influential in her own right: She’d launched the column and was the second British writer to author a Jewish cookbook. And while Rose had already set herself apart from Greenberg by proving there was an appetite for Jewish food in the U.K. outside of Jewish media, this achievement alone was not enough.

To appeal to Jewish readers, Rose branded herself as a contemporary, cosmopolitan Jewish cook. She emphasized healthy eating and portion control, with lighter takes on traditional Ashkenazi dishes, and expanded the boundaries of Jewish food by incorporating dishes from the Diaspora. In the introduction of the second edition of “The Complete International Jewish Cookbook” renamed “The New Complete International Jewish Cookbook” (1992), she writes:

“Whereas the first edition of this book was heavily weighted towards the Ashkenazi kitchen, I have since read widely, consulted, eaten, cooked and now include many dishes from the Sephardi cuisine in all its exciting manifestations. I hope this will give a more balanced picture of Jewish cuisine worldwide.” 

From recipes for baba ganoush to ma’amoul cookies to layered kibbeh,Rose was remarkably ahead of the times in her definition of Jewish food and her willingness to play with classic fare. (See: Gefilte Fish Provencal, where classic gefilte fish patties are poached in a tomato sauce with thinly sliced bell peppers and Herbs de Provence.) 

Few have made the connection between Rose and Ottolenghi, an Israeli chef who’s established a food empire in the U.K. (and beyond) in the last 20 years, including uber-successful restaurants and cookbooks. Deemed “the Ottolenghi Effect,” he’s transformed the way Britain cooks by championing vegetables and Middle Eastern ingredients. Ottolenghi’s popularity among Anglo Jews today suggests he is Rose’s natural successor, but one only has to flick through “The New Complete International Jewish Cookbook” to see that she introduced her readers to many of the dishes he would become synonymous with.

Rose was able to challenge her readers with unfamiliar recipes and ingredients because they trusted her. She weaved straightforward, quick recipes among lesser-known, modern and elaborate dishes. Most importantly, her recipes were rigorously tested and, I can confirm, stand the test of time.

Rose passed away in 2003 at age 77, but the U.K., who has always loved its culinary leading ladies, will be forever changed by her. “Evelyn has become,” wrote Mandy Ross for the Guardian, “a collective Jewish mother to Jewish mothers everywhere. She is our modern matriarch.” 

[ricardian-werewolf]

Chapter 6: Crawl Out through the fallout!

Summary:

Alina, Nikolai and Genya are on the run from the Darkling, and in order to flee his malevolent grasp, they must make a decision - go West to the safety of Novyi Zem, or return East to find Morozova's herd before the Darkling can. It is this choice that will rend them apart or bring them closer together.

Notes:

Title taken from the song: Crawl out through the fallout - References to other universes are pretty explicit in this fic, and feel free to comment if you catch any references! Swearing otters is of course owed to @rthstewart. - Serious apologies in the length between chapters of this fic - my writing muse abandoned me for two months straight and i'm only now just getting her back. Hoping this continues!

Taglist: @lordbettany, @fauxraven, @portiaadams @jammerific

Reblogs/replies appreciated, and for every kind comment, another chapter!

Chapter below the cut

3 weeks later, close to the Fold.Kiribirsk.

Alina rolled straight from her bed-roll to the hard, packed earth of the First Army tent.

At her side, Nikolai crouched, his fingers taut on the canvas flaps of their tent. They’d pitched camp here easily enough - three Grisha refugees hidden amongst the First Army. Nikolai had slipped back into his major’s uniform, with Alina clad in his hussar’s pelisse and dolman. The usual olive linen uniform’s summer skirt covered her legs, with standard issue puttees and boots. Around her neck was a scarf of Shu silk edged in gold, the colour of the scarf a blazing teal. 

With them, Genya had pinned her hair back and sat clad in the First Army medical corps’s nurses uniform. Behind the lines against the Fjerdan forces, she’d found work in a medical tent and put her work in healing the wounded with scalpels and forceps. Her tailoring had been a secondary concern, and she did so sparingly. Alina sat beside Nikolai as the three of them broke their fasts with cups of hot tea, slices of fried potatoes, smoked herring and wafer-thin slices of black rye bread with small dollops of plum jam. Typical First Army fare.

“I’d forgotten what army food tasted like.” Nikolai muttered as he swigged back his tin cup of tea. Reaching across Genya’s plate, he exchanged her smoked herring for a pile of fried potato cakes and picked up Alina’s compass. 

“We’re facing directly east.” He twigged the compass for a few moments to ensure the mercury was level, and then leaned over to watch Alina tap her pencil against the map-paper. Three weeks of hiding amongst the very people sworn to find them had made each of them jumpy in their own ways. Nikolai badly wished to run straight for the Volkvolny at the first chance he had, but doing the cowardly thing didn’t save Ravka from its own evils. Alina needed him, and Genya needed someone on the inside of the Great Palace to clear her name. No doubt the Tsarina and Tsar were hungering to plaster Genya’s face across the countryside for a fat reward. Palace servants carried more secrets of the realm than even the cabinet-ministers.

What none of them had been prepared for was the Darkling’s revolt against the Tsar, backed by the Apparat. Nikolai had learned the news from a harried runner he’d intercepted on the camp’s outskirts and taken the message directly to the commander of the fort. He’d been a mere corporal. Long-term fighting against the Fjerdans had picked off their commanding officers and the new weapons of warfare Fjerda was importing from the Soviets and rapidly re-arming (illegally) Weimar Germany made Fjerda the undisputed master against the pitiful Ravkan army. 

Nikolai swished the tea in his cup as he took another sip and examined the paper map more closely. “Baba said that the herd was here…” His finger traced a path up from Kiribirsk to Chernast, a long, difficult trek to the north. It would’ve been better to go directly, but the lack of First Army outposts from the two bases put them in direct fire of Drüskelle attack or roaming brigands. Only an army caravan would keep the threat mediated.

“Any suggestions?” Alina asked as she sniffed her potato cake and stuck it between her teeth. “We could take the Vy back to…” She studied her map more closely. “Ryevost and then head into the Petrazoi…”

“Too many people.” Genya tapped the grey expanse of space between the Sokol, breaking the capital zone with the Midlands of the plains. “But do we know if there are any places to hide on the western river's edge?” 

“We could…” Nikolai traced the Sokol’s expanse up into the Petrazoi with the pad of his finger. “Take the canal boats or barges up. Hide there amongst the traders. It’ll be easy. Obviously…” He broke off as he looked at Alina, and furrowed his brows. Alina flinched.

“I’m not being tailored to make me look less Shu.” She murmured. 

“Of course not, Sunshine.” He rushed to explain. “I was more worried because I saw things on our trip out here - they’re making icons and relics of you.”

“Relics?” Alina breathed. “O-of what?”

“Bones.” Genya scraped up the remnants of the drippings from the bacon she’d pilfered from the cook-wagon with the last of her rye bread, and popped it into her mouth. 

“My bones?” 

“Your bones.” Nikolai squeezed her hand. “Seeing your face could cause a panic. And what with their iconography of you making you more Ravkan…” He shuddered. “I don’t want you to be plucked off the street and mobbed by your followers.”

“My followers?”

“The Apparat.” Nikolai handed her a rolled-up newspaper, which Alina flipped open. The headlines were filled in a bolded typeface of the ongoing search to locate her. SUN SUMMONER MISSING, ROYAL GUARDS BROUGHT OUT TO HELP SEARCH.

She shuddered and pushed the paper away. “No more, please.” She begged. “I just want to get out of here. We’ve lost weeks already. If we don’t do it, he’ll find the herd.”

“Alright.” Nikolai reached for the paper once more. “We’ll go. Tonight.” He squeezed her hand and then Genya’s. “Does Dominik know where we are?”

She nodded. 

“Make sure he forgets. As far as he knows, we’ve disappeared off the map. I’ve gone back to my apprenticeship in Novyi Zem and taken Genya with me. Alina has gone…” Nikolai paused to consider what to say, and she provided. “I’ve fled, driven mad by the Darkling’s powers and his lust.” She paused. “And I’ve become with child.”

She could not ignore the way Nikolai’s hand tightened on hers, the crush of his fingers. She swore that in the moment, Nikolai would have bludgeoned the head of Second Army to atoms. 

Alina did not stiffen, did not draw back. She couldn’t bring herself to. Why should she? She finally had a protector. Mal had done nothing to keep her safe, nothing to keep her from being taken by the Darkling. But Nikolai had. He’d taken her into his household, subtly moulded her to be her own person. Now, she would be that person. She straightened.

“I agree with Nikolai’s plan.” She examined the scar on her palm, the one she’d made to keep the testers off her back. The mark that without fail reminded her of Mal. Distantly, she remembered an instance of seeing the peasant wives who had not received their ducal lord’s favours as children. She wouldn’t be that girl. She wouldn’t let herself take the life of a wife. If she did, it would be of her choosing, and when she wished it. Lifting her head again, she held out her palm to Nikolai and Genya.

“Can one of you remove this?”

“Are you sure?” Genya murmured, her fingers paused over her skin. 

Alina gave a firm nod. “I want it gone.”

Nikolai silently watched as Genya’s fingers twitched, moving the flesh’s cells to heal over the scarred tissue. He leaned forward as he stuffed a map into the tube case and let out a low whistle. “She’s getting better.”

“Not good enough.” Genya growled as she concentrated. “It’s as permanent as I can make it.” She swatted Nikolai’s hand away and got to her feet. Looking around the tent, the three misfits paused for a moment.

“Tell me how we’re giving this place the slip.” Alina implored as she tugged on her old cartographer’s tunic. Genya shrugged. Nikolai smirked. “We just walk out. First Army’s experiencing a notoriously high level of desertion. As far as the Crown is concerned, we’ve already been gone for weeks. Now, come along.”

He tugged on an enlistment’s worn greatcoat and hid his officer’s sword in the map tube. Genya twisted her hair up under a peasant’s headscarf. Alina stuffed the scarf and dolman out of sight over a similar worn greatcoat.

From their tent they crossed the expanse of flat, barren land given over to the cookwagons and hospital tents. Kiribirsk had spread out from its command tents to encompass an entire division of regiments. Amongst all the yelling of the sergeants and whinnying of horses in the Hussars and artillery, the three of them slipped into obscurity easily enough.

Alina paused however, for she spotted several of her old friends from the cartography tent sitting around a fire, drinking tea and eating pierogi. Their lives of drawing surveyance maps and doing scouting missions sounded so strangely safe to her own. Alina stopped dead.

“We need to go.” Genya hissed, clutching her bag of provisions close to her as a hand-drawn cart rumbled past with that day’s dead piled high. The stench of rotting flesh rolled over the air, causing officers and soldiers alike to curse out the poor souls doing the duty. Alina pressed a hand over her face and dropped her head. Squeezing her eyes shut, she turned her back on the cartographers. With them went prayers of safety and hope. 

Nikolai winced, his normally warm face turning the colour of curdled milk. Alina watched his hand pull the signet ring he wore with the king’s sea from his hand. Into his pocket it went. In its place was a simple silver band with a fox in mid-leap. Looking into his face, Alina realised that her own powers had saved her from the horrors of war. Being the Sun Summoner had been her ticket away from the war against Fjerda and now… she owed it back a thousand times over.

“Let’s go.” She hefted her pack of food, books and compass further up her back, then took Nikolai’s hand. He pressed her knuckles to his lips and she blushed, but welcomed the touch. No one gave them a second look as they passed over forged passes to the guard at the gate. Another division was arriving, armed with stolen Fjerdan repeater rifles. Two soldiers heading eastwards under the care of a nurse was routine - war fatigue. Shell shock.

The war had gotten to be too much, so they were breaking. Instead of shooting them, sending them east to the care of one of the royal hospitals was much preferred. Nevermind if they were ever seen again…

Alina shook her head, and let Nikolai take the lead. As they made work along the Vy, he broke into a whistling tune that Alina recognized snippets of. She remembered hearing it once when Mal and she had disappeared into the nearby town to see the penny operas play in the dingy theatre hall. 

Mack the Knife.

“Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear

And it shows them pearly white

Just a jackknife has old MacHeath, babe

And he keeps it, ah, out of sight

You know when that shark bites with his teeth, babe

Scarlet billows start to spread.”

Alina turned the lyrics over and over in her mind as they moved eastwards. Their back-tracking of weeks of travel forced them to realise that winter was fast drawing to a close, if one followed the Gregorian calendar. However, this was Ravka and winter lasted from October to May. There was still snow on the ground. A blizzard that swept down from the Petrazoi and through the riverlocks of the Sokol set them back another week.

“Fancy gloves, oh, wears old MacHeath, babe

So there's never, never a trace of red

Now on the sidewalk, huh, huh, whoo sunny morning, un huh

Lies a body just oozin' life, eek

And someone's sneakin' 'round the corner

Could that someone be Mack the Knife?”

Ryevost came into view on a balmy Sunday morning, and Alina realized with a jolt that it was Butter Week already. The city shimmered in the light of the morning sun, with even its poorest districts bearing clean stoops and washed windows. Such a craze of cleaning frenzy had swept the entire city that the three travellers stuck out like dirty sore thumbs as they made their way through the streets. Nikolai led in front with Alina sandwiched between him and Genya for her own protection. If anyone tried anything it would be good for Nikolai to cleave them in half or charm them back into their darkened alleyway.

Alina, who had little experience with cities, found herself soon overwhelmed by the rats-warren of streets and alleyways that double-backed or became dead ends. Genya was incredibly composed, and waved her hand at the various smells and noises emanating from alleys. 

“We leave them alone and they won’t bother us. Now, if you were alone, I’d have advised you to come into the city through the main gate. It would’ve put you into the central district near the river and out of this section. But Nikolai knows his way around.” 

“How?” Alina asked. She knew Nikolai was barely at court but the idea of him coming to a port city like Ryevost made her feel uneasy. Nikolai, who had stopped at a stand to haggle with the owner, looked at Genya. She nodded, and Alina barely had time to say anything as Genya stuffed a kepi onto her coiffure and shoved Alina behind her larger form. 

“Two bedrolls, please. And who can I ask for maps of the Petrazoi?” Nikolai asked as he felt the bag of coins in his palm. All of them were gold 10 cent pieces. His fingers reached to his wallet tucked into one of his breeches pocket as the owner handed over two bedrolls and tent-bags. 

“Thank you.” He had already calculated the amount in his head he owned along with the tax, and slid three 20 bills over the wooden tabletop. The owner counted them, looking furtively from Nikolai to the money, then back again. He shrugged, and finally pocketed the money.

“Map seller off the Sankt Grigori square should be able to offer something, Major.” His gaze skirted to Alina who had been looking over Genya’s shoulder and his face whitened. “Sankt-” He shook his head suddenly and squinted. 

Nikolai froze, the bedrolls still in his hand. Too late, he realised he’d unbuttoned his coat to reach for his wallet and the golden braid of his uniform had become apparent. Steadying his breath, the second-prince of Ravka slid a golden coin across the table.

“You didn’t see us.”

“Never did. Travel safe, Major.” The man saluted Nikolai discreetly and then went back to assessing his wares. As Alina and Genya passed, an uproar broke out. Not from the seller, but a group of First Army scouts had been taking tea from a shop on the pavement. They rose to their feet as one, voices raised in cries of shock and anger.

“She’s with me, gentlemen!” Nikolai announced, weaving his way through the serfs and peddlers who crowded the street. His tall form and broad shoulders made his appearance even more imposing. 

“Major Lantsov..” One of the scouts stammered. “Begging your pardon, sir, but we’ve got orders to take both ladies back to the Great Palace. Tsar’s orders, you must understand.”

“Tsar’s orders?” Nikolai replied blankly. Since when was his father making orders about servants and missing Grisha? Normally that would be for his ministers. Or… Nikolai hated to think that the Darkling was finally acting on his plans, that he’d delay this long until they were so close to safety. All they had to do was get to the port a few streets below this one and hop on a Gyptian barge. Then, assuming they were on the Costa’s, they could float merrily upstream till they reached the town at the bottom of the Petrazoi-

“I’m not going!” Alina hissed, coiled close to Nikolai. He shook his head, and refocused on the situation. “Soldiers, I believe there’s been a mistake. The woman here with us is a nurse from the Sisters of Mercy. She is escorting this patient to Os Alta for medical treatment.”

“Why go through Ryevost, then?” The tallest scout of the trio challenged. His friends cast one another wary glances. Challenging a Major on such a statement was a death sentence. Nikolai’s face hardened and he stepped forward, grabbing the scout by the ear. In low tones, only for the other scout’s hearing, he hissed:

“When I find out who you three are, I’ll have you court martialled so fast that you won’t even be able to find clemency with a lawyer.” He pushed the scout back, and stepped back himself. 

“Let’s go.” He hissed to Genya and Alina. The bedrolls he slung up onto his back. With a wave of his hand, the glasses of tea in the scout’s hands shattered and they began to scream. Nikolai barely spared them a second glance. Passing by little shops selling tea, clothes, knick knacks and stalls of religious wares. Alina breathed in scents of unwashed bodies, cloves, spices from Novyi Zem, saw Jade pieces from mines in Shu Han, the exquisite embroidery and odd, brutal weapons of Fjerda all laid out on tabletops much like the one Nikolai had traded over.

Looking up, she saw the rickety buildings of stone and brick of Ravka with their arched windows which merchant’s wives leaned out of to talk, hang washing and simply people-watch. She knew, with an uncanny instinct, that if anything went awry, a simple cry from one of these birds on high could send the local militia and police sweeping down to apprehend any pickpocket. She buttoned up all her pockets just to be safe, and hoped she hadn’t already been pilfered. First Army soldiers of all the regiments mingled, some on leave from the nearby fort stationed here, others en-route to be shipped West to the Fold. Some were retirees, who wore the old, faded blue uniforms of the Pre Halmhend First Army. Nikolai watched those men with hawk’s eyes and grumbled under his breath.

The slowness of their trek up a single street made Alina realise just why people loved Nikolai so. Anything they needed, from salt to cooking oil was made with an added inquiry to bless and keep the royal family in their thoughts. Even with the fact that so many of them were serfs indented to some lord or another who held their lives and family’s welfare in their hands, these people loved Nikolai like a son. Some of the older babushka pinched his cheeks and fretted over his lean frame. Other women, the wives of merchants, asked for his advice on how to make something just right. His embroidery on the cuffs of his hussar’s Pelisse were fawned over, with the seamstress (or seamster) asking how he got something so complicated to lie flat. Offers of paying for their items were waved off, and Alina and Genya found themselves being handed entire wheels of cheese or links of smoked sausage, all from Nikolai’s charm. Simply due to the fact that he was kind enough to listen to these traders' woes with landlords and offer suggestions had them on the edge of their seats.

“How do you do it?” Alina asked as she shoved the massive wheel of cheese into her pack. She’d stopped at a stall to admire a pair of fur gloves and hat. Now they adorned her person simply due to the fact Nikolai had once helped the stall owner appeal his taxes to a proper magistrate. Nikolai, who had been chewing on a stick of bingtang hulu from a sweet seller, spoke around a mouthful of sugary sweetness:

“What, sunshine?” He murmured, taking her pack. He placed another stick of the sugar-hardened fruit into her gloved hands. Alina sniffed it, her eyes widening in pleasant surprise. She’d not gotten much of a chance to try Shu delicacies, and munched on her stick as Nikolai turned them left and then right down a series of winding alleyways. Making up for a good period of lost time, he led the three of them into the port district. The smell of river-traffic only heightened the sticky-sweetness of spices and aromas permeating the city’s air, and the stench of fish from the fish-wives crowded the docks.

“Who’re we getting a boat from?” Genya asked as she bit into a powdery bun dusted in sugar, filled with jam preserves. The size of it made Alina’s massive wheel of cheese feel juvenile in comparison. Nikolai whistled a cheery tune as he led them down a set of winding sandstone stairs, across a long wooden dock made extremely cramped by long stands of tables headed by fish-wives disembowelling that day’s river catch. The river otters waiting in droves at the bottom of the docks swore at one another.

Audibly.

“Look here, you fucker! Give me that fish head or I’ll drown you with my own paws!”

“Shut up you wheezing old windbag! It’s mine!” Thus displeased, the otter armed with the fishhead dove under the water and the others gave a rapid and angered chase. Amongst this the fish-wives’s curses at the otters rang out, threatening turning several of them into gloves and stoles. Returned threats to the fish-wives consisted of telling affairs and destroying their stock, or enlisting the local beavers to eat through the wooden frames of their homes.

Alina scurried to follow after Genya and Nikolai and passed by fewer and fewer stalls until the bustle of the town had retreated into the distance. Yet the docks and jetties wove further onwards as the river slimmed down at its banks. As the ground beneath them turned to fresh planks, then worn and finally, rotting, they stopped.

“They’re here.” Nikolai slung the two bedrolls off his back and marched down the dock to a long houseboat carved and painted in a multitude of colours. Sitting on top of the boat was a boy with dark hair and eyes, a hawk at his shoulder, which in an odd way, seemed to mirror the boy himself.

“Tony.” Nikolai greeted, swinging himself up onto the rooftop of the boat. Tony stirred, and jumped to his feet. “Nikolai! We got your letter and came as soon as we could. Good too, since it’s nearly spring and we want to be back in Oxford for the Trinity term. Lots of College boys and their families wanting to sample our-” His voice broke and took on a vaguely debonair air. “Such rustic and mysterious wares.”

“That’s ‘nough out of you, Tony. Get back below deck. I’ll ‘andle ‘im.” A woman with another hawk at her shoulder had appeared out of the stern end of the rowboat. Bearing the same dark hair and eyes as her son, this woman merely had to give Nikolai a glare and he was scampering across the boat-top to kiss her hand. She pinched his cheeks more aggressively than any babushka and cast her gaze to Alina and Genya waiting on the dockside.

“Who’re they?” Tony asked, as his mother whacked the top of his head with the back of her hand. He stuck his tongue out and scurried below deck, cackling as his hawk screeched gleefully. Nikolai turned back to the woman.

“Ma Costa, this is Genya, who I’ve told you much about and you met her at the horse festival last autumn.” Nikolai explained, to which Mrs Costa nodded in recognition. “The other? Small, spry girl. One of us?”

“No, not that I think. This is Alina Starkov, the Sun summoner.”

Mrs Costa’s eyes widened and she looked at Alina more closely. “Heavens and all the stars, this is something.” She murmured. “Come below, all of you. We can talk more easily. Your blasted First Army has been having us rope up out here. Fearing ‘ell do somethin’ unpalatable.” She scoffed. 

Nikolai sighed, and sat down on a long bench-seat set into one of the porthole windows. Alina collapsed next to him and Genya next to Alina. Out of sight of anyone, Genya undid her scarf over her hair and shook out her curls. Alina yanked off the kepi and tucked it inside her bulging pack.

“Here, these are for you.” Nikolai reached into his pack and began to withdraw a whole multitude of items he’d gotten from talking to people. Alina had thought it strange when the items he was buying had begun to veer into things no one needed for an expedition to hunt a stag, and now realised this was their way north. She went to her own pack but stopped herself.

Nikolai waved his hand over all the cloths and bolts of linen, medicinal herbs, maps of the “North,” and other bits and bobs, from sewing kits to hunters knives. “Is this enough?”

“Yes.” Ma Costa examined a long bolt of Zemeni purple cloth and held it to her knee. “‘Hat’ll look lovely with your complexion, Nikolai. You should keep it.”

“It’s more important for your upcoming Roping, Ma Costa.” Nikolai pressed a hand over hers. He reached into his pack and held out something else, for her eyes only. “I got this from an informant. It’s about Billy. Use it as you wish or bring it to John Faa.”

Ma Costa seemed to pause in her work for the moment as she looked at the package. Finally, with trembling fingers, she took the package and unwrapped the paper. Out fell a small, metal disk inscribed with a person’s name and an image of the animal on the other side.

“This is what the Gobblers have been doing. They don’t know you have this.” He closed her fist around his own and squeezed tight. “Take it to John Faa, and he’ll do somethin’ I’m certain.” Alina watched this all play out with her eyes locked on Nikolai’s. 

“What do you folks need in return for all this, eh?”

“Safe passage to the mouth of the Sokol. I believe there’s a tear up there.” Nikolai raised a brow. “One that leaves you somewhere within the bounds of the Fens.”

“This boy!” Ma Costa murmured to herself. “Always one step ahead of everyone else.” She shook her head, then settled her gaze on Nikolai once again. 

“‘Eard that, Tony?” She called to her son. Tony put his head into the cabin and gave a nod. “I’ll go unrope her and we can get set off at ‘nce.”

Ma Costa got to her feet and lit the spirit flame under the little stove set into the opposite wall. Wordlessly, Genya got to her feet and came over to stand beside Ma Costa, who wrapped her arm around Genya’s shoulder. Genya leaned her head against the older woman’s, and sighed. Alina examined her pack wordlessly as Nikolai slid into Genya’s old spot.

“Who are these people?”

“Gyptians. Romani. They’re a nomadic group from England, which they call Brytian in their world.” He paused. “Genya and Ma Costa are very close since I took her to England last autumn for the Horse Fair.” He paused and looked at Alina. “You hadn’t been found yet. It…” He shook his head. “I’ll tell you later. There’s something I need to look at.” 

He got to his feet and rummaged about in the cabinets for a moment, then pulled out a long canvas tube. Alina watched him roll it open on the table and got a good look at the paper for a few moments, then looked away. For some reason, she was seized by the urge that this map, whatever it read, was for Nikolai’s eyes alone.

She had never seen anything like it, however, and she found herself taking short glances whenever she could. The map was dark blue, and instead of countries displayed multicoloured dots arranged in a circle connected with grey, almost white lines. An outer circle of more connected dots of varying colours made up the rest of the map, and vaguely shaped constellations brought it all together.

He took a pen in one hand and an abacus in the other, and set to work. While the tea brewed, the long-boat slipped its moorings and began to glide up the expanse of the Sokol, leaving Ryevost behind. Alina leaned her head back against the wall of the cabin and closed her eyes. It had been several long weeks of walking, and as she let herself fall asleep, she realised that this was the first time she’d felt safe since fleeing the Little Palace with her friends. 

As the coal-powered long-boat steamed further north, far to the east, the Darkling began to mount a rescue attempt to find the Little Saint, and capture the Stag. Too much dalliance during the long winter months had robbed him of a chance to set out a proper rescue mission. With the weather turning warmer, he knew it was needed for him to find Alina.

He had to find her, and no matter the cost, he would. Not only that, he would put the antlers of Morova’s stag onto her thin shoulders and let fate decide what came next.

 For the Darkling, fate was his servant and his lever. It was up to Alina whether she would let fate control her. 

End of chapter 6.

[lex-the-lesbiann]

NO YOU'RE SO REAL FOR THAT LEX AND YOUR FUCKING TAGS YES YES YES YES YES (also if we *really* want to get into it, one world is full of people who have actual magic and dragons and are just generally better equipped to deal with everything? Not that it fared out well for them all the same but still.) CALL ME LARK OAK GARCIA THE WAY I-

BABA YOU READ MY MINDDD i was a little too scared to put that point in my tags but i ABSOLUTELY AGREE they were better equipped to deal with the doodler

also i find it especially difficult to say Sparrow made the wrong decision when we know that the doodler made it so plants couldnt grow (evidenced by Erin needing to have a mini sun to keep her trees alive) which definitely caused MASSIVE food shortages??? also im just realizing what that couldve meant for the Oak-Garcias specifically in their vegan beliefs????

now obviously i dont think those logistics are something we’re *supposed* to think about (which is very fair, not judging at all) but they are something that *im* gonna be thinking about

[cemyafilmarsiv]

Cemil Şov (The Cemil Show)

Oyuncu olmanın hayalini kuran bir güvenlik memurunun hikayesi...

Oyuncular: Ozan Çelik, Nesrin Cavadzade, Serkan Keskin, Cezmi Baskın, Alican Yücesoy, Salih Kalyon, Şennur Nogaylar

Yönetmen: Barış Sarhan

Beğenilme ve takdir edilme arzusu her insanın nefes almak, su içmek, uyumak kadar gereksinim duyduğu bir ihtiyaçtır. Ancak bu ihtiyaç kendini olduğundan farklı olarak özel ve önemli görme, her daim takdir ve onaya ihtiyaç duyma noktasına varırsa bazı davranışsal bozuklukların ortaya çıkışına sebebiyet verir ki bu durum psikiyatride Narsistik Kişilik Bozukluğu olarak tanımlanmıştır. Reddedilişlerle, alaya alınmalar ve küçümsemelerle karşılık bulmayıp tatmin edilmeyen arzu, motivasyonunu hırs ve öfkeden alan bir obsesyona bürünür ve kişiyi öz benliğinde yıkıma hatta bazen telafi edilemeyecek hasara götürür.

ÖZ YIKIMA GÖTÜREN TUTKU: CEMİL ŞOV

Barış Sarhan, ilk uzun metrajı “Cemil Şov”da kendi iç sesini dinleyerek varoluş yolculuğuna çıkan ancak bu yolculukta ünlü olmanın karanlık cazibesine kapılan bir adamın trajedisini ele alıyor. Bir AVM’de güvenlik görevlisi olarak çalışan ve küçüklüğünden beri oyuncu olmak isteyen Cemil’in (Ozan Çelik) hikâyesine odaklanan bu film, Yeşilçam’da kötü adam karakteriyle (anti-kahraman) meşhur olmuş Turgay Göral’ın baş rolünde olduğu “Kabus” filminin siyah-beyaz sahneleriyle açılıyor, bir sonraki sahnede ise Cemil’in bu filmin yeniden çevrimi için yapılan oyuncu deneme çekiminde (audition) olduğunu görüyoruz. Oyunculuk konusunda epey kabiliyetsiz olan Cemil, o çekimde yönetmen tarafından beğenilmeyince pes etmek yerine AVM’deki odasında yönetmene ulaştırmak için sahneyi oynadığı bir demo kayıt alır. Bu sırada iş arkadaşı Burcu’nun (Nesrin Cevadzade) sosyal medyada babasıyla çektiği fotoğraf dikkatini çeker. Cemil’in gökte aradığı yerdedir, o baba Turgay Göral’dan başkası değildir. ***

Cemil: Alacağım rolü, ne diyorsun?

Burcu: Ne rolü ya? Allah aşkına Cemil, ne rolü? Sen kendini oyuncu mu sanıyorsun, ya seni kim ciddiye alır? Kimsin sen ya?

Cemil: Aktörüm ben.

Burcu: (kahkahayla): Götümün aktörü.

Cemil: Göreceksin! Göreceksin!

Ünlü olma duygusu da beğeni ve takdir görme isteğinden azade değil; görme ve görülme ihtiyacı üzerine odaklanır. Tam da bu bağlamda filmin ana karakteri olan Cemil’in AVM’nin güvenlik kameralarının görüntülerinin izlendiği bir odada çalışması ve Burcu’nun sorunlu bir ilişki yaşadığı babasıyla doğum gününde çektiği ‘selfie fotoğraf’ını görülebilirliği en çok sağlayan sosyal medya hesabı Instagram’da paylaşması tesadüfi seçimler değildir. Tüm gününü Burcu’nun ‘fare deliği’ olarak adlandırdığı o odada başkalarını izleyerek geçiren Cemil, izleyen değil izlenen-görülen kişi olmak; Burcu ise fotoğraf paylaşımıyla zamanında ünlü bir oyuncu olan babasının ününden faydalanarak ‘like almak’ derdindedir. Evli olan AVM müdürü Zafer’le (Alican Yücesoy) yaşadığı birliktelik de temelinde beğenilme-haz duygusunu tatmin etme üzerine kuruludur, kariyerinde yükselebilme ihtimalini de bu hazzın peşinden giderek sağlayacağını düşünür. Kendi varoluşsal çabasını yaratırken olduğu kişiyi yok sayarak bir persona geliştiren Cemil’in (ego), alt benliği Burcu (id), üst benliği ise Turgay Göral (süper ego)’dır; üç karakteri bir kişinin temsilleri gibi okumak da mümkündür ve üçü için de ‘tutunamayanların hikâyesi’ demek yanlış olmayacaktır.

Cemil Şov, yine aynı isimle 2015’te kısa metraj olarak çekilen ve izlediğim an “bu, kesinlikle uzun metraj olmalı” dediğim bir yapımdı; kısa metrajın ana hikâyesi ayın elemanı olmaya çalışan bir güvenlik görevlisi üzerine kuruluydu.

Grafik tasarım mezunu, markaların tasarım işleriyle yıllarca uğraşan ve aynı zamanda reklam filmleri de çeken bir yönetmenin ilk filminde çok daha estetik kaygı güderek fazlasıyla stilize resimler yaratacağını düşünür(d)üm. Oysa Sarhan, kötü adamın yok oluşa giden hikâyesini hareketli kamera ve reklam ışığının aksine sahnelerle paralel giden, kimi yerde patlayan ancak efektif ve bazen rahatsız eden bir sinema diliyle anlatma yoluna gitmiş. Görüntü yönetmeni Soykut Turan’la başarılı bir birliktelik kotararak doğru bir sinematografi ortaya koyan Sarhan’ın rejisi ve teknik tercihleri hem cesur hem bilinçli. ***

Benim de sıram gelecekti, işte şimdi başroldeyim;

kötüyüm ama başroldeyim.

Üç bölüme ayrılan filmin her bir bölümü (genç) Turgay Göral karakterinin olduğu Yeşilçam sahnesiyle açılır;

Bölüm: Yaşadığın Hayatı Hak Etmiyorsun Bölüm: Siz benim Babamın Kim Olduğunu Biliyor Musunuz? Bölüm: Davetli Değildim Ama Gelmeye Mecbur Hissettim Kendimi Yeşilçam kısımlarında ‘Film Noir’ tarzı ışığa sadık kalınırken filmin genelinde kullanılan renkler de dikkat çekici; başlangıçta mavi ve tonları hakimken ikinci bölüm ve sonrasında kırmızının daha baskın olarak kullanıldığını görüyoruz. Yeşilçam sahnelerinden ana filmin sahnelerine geçiş planları, dinamik kurgusu, müzikleri, ses tasarımı, kostüm-sanat yönetimindeki özeni ve Cemil’in obsesyonuyla paralel giden atmosferin yansımasıyla gayet başarılı ve övgüyü hak eden bir ilk film. Kamera arkasındaki bu başarıyı kamera önünde rolünün hakkını sonuna dek vererek nefis bir performansa imza atan Ozan Çelik tamamlıyor. Filmin negatif hanesine kimi seyirci için uzun gelebilecek süresini yazabiliriz, ancak anlatının temposunu hiç düşürmediğinden (ve filmi ikinci kez izlediğimde buna tam olarak emin olduğumdan) bunu bir kusur olarak görmedim. Yan karakterler daha derinlikli yazılabilse ve hikâyeye daha çok eklemlenseydi çok daha iyi bir filmin ortaya çıkması kaçınılmazdı.

Sinemamızda özgün bir yapım olarak yerini alan ve öyle de hatırlanacağına inandığım Cemil Şov, gelecek vaat eden bir yönetmeni, Barış Sarhan’ı tanımamızı sağladı. Kendisiyle bir sonraki “şov”unda buluşabilmek dileğiyle…

İyi seyirler, sinemayla kalın.

Arzu Arda Değer

[weiying-lanzhan-fics]

say it's here where our pieces fall in place by Lirelyn

Second time reading this wonderful story. Enjoyed it very, very much! Love getting both LZ and WY POVs and watching their relationship grow.

Quotes:

With Wei Ying he had to be particularly careful because there were so many things he wanted to be true. For a minute he’d thrilled to imagine Wei Ying saving a place for him every Saturday. Thinking of him. Wanting him there. He couldn’t afford to take that seriously; it would hurt too much to learn he’d been wrong.

Besides, making customers feel welcome and happy to be there was part of the barista’s job, and Wei Ying was very, very good at his job. He could appreciate it in that light: a skilled professional at work.

That settled, he returned to the next exam in his stack. The next time Wei Ying called out, “Am I right, Lan Zhan?” in the middle of a discussion with his coworker, Lan Wangji only raised his eyes briefly, causing Wei Ying to laugh and say “Sorry, sorry, I’ll stop bothering you.”

He didn’t, of course. He rarely went more than ten minutes without calling out to Lan Wangji, or catching his eye and grinning, or stopping by his table to ask how his students were faring. “Are you a strict grader, Lan Zhan?” he’d asked once. “I bet you are, I bet you’re one of those teachers that has students bragging in the halls if they get higher than a B minus.”

“I try to give clear expectations and make consistent judgements,” he’d answered, and for some reason Wei Ying had beamed at him.

————

He struck polite off his mental whiteboard of Lan Zhan Traits and replaced it with ruthless. What is your real concern, like it was an obvious evasion and he wasn’t going to waste any more time on it.

In a different world, he could have loved him for it.

“Well, what’s yours?” he said, because if they weren’t going to make this easy they could at least make it fast. “You wanted to talk.”

“Yes.” Lan Zhan paused long enough for him to pace a tight circle twice. “Why did you leave?”

That wasn’t at all what he’d been bracing for. “Why did I — on Saturday?”

“Yes.”

“Uh. I wanted to go home, I — why are you asking that?”

“You saw us, and you left. My son was distressed. As you can imagine, he has experienced abandonment too often already. I would like to understand what caused it in this case.”

Oh my god. Oh my god. He sat down right on the floor, heavy, banging his tailbone. Abandonment, this was about... this wasn’t about what kind of role model he was or any attacks on his character, this was about Lan Zhan thinking he had abandoned A-Yuan. A-Yuan who had already lost his birth parents and a sister and at least one other caregiver and...

E, 68k

Summary:

“It’s okay that you miss him,” said Lan Wangji, a familiar litany to them both by now. “Do you feel sad?”

“I feel sad,” A-Yuan repeated, shoulders hitching with tiny hiccuping sniffs. “When is he coming back?”

“I don’t know. I am not sure where he is.”

But this seemed to frustrate A-Yuan. “Xian-gege! I miss him! Please, baba?” He looked up at him with wet cheeks and a wide, quivering frown. “Please baba can you ask him? I really miss him!” He sobbed again, heartbreakingly.

It stabbed straight through him, cracking open the reservoir of loss and helplessness that was all his own. His child’s grief did that, sometimes. It always took him by surprise. He caught his breath sharply and gathered A-Yuan into his arms, holding him tight until the pain ebbed.

“I will try,” he said softly into A-Yuan’s hair, when he could speak again. He never made uncertain promises and tried not even to raise uncertain hopes, but his son was hurting. His son believed he could make it better. He couldn’t not try.

Wen Qing might at least know who this “Xian-gege” was. He would text her in the morning. It would be a start.

@ginnymoonbeam

[disneybuddy]

Why I really don’t like “Jellystone”

I remember when this show was first announced in 2019. I was really excited - finally, Warner Bros. was actually doing something with Yogi Bear, Huckleberry Hound, Snagglepuss, etc.! I love those characters and I think it's a shame that they don't do much with them (I love Scooby-Doo, but it's not the only Hanna-Barbera franchise they own). And the showrunner was C.H. Greenblatt, whose work I really like. And then, in 2021, the first trailer for the show was released, followed a few weeks later by the show itself.

I'm gonna be blunt here. I think Jellystone! is awful. C.H. Greenblatt claims that it's a "love letter to Hanna-Barbera" in interviews, but I'm convinced that he hasn't actually watched most (if any) of the shows that the characters in this show originated from, because it gets the majority of them completely wrong. Yogi, Huck, Snagglepuss, and Wally Gator made it through for the most part unscathed. But the others... they're basically the characters In Name Only. Hardy Harr Harr, for example, bears absolutely no resemblance to his original self. He's supposed to be a loveable sad sack. Here? He's a stereotypical cartoon old lady.

...WHAT? Who looks at this character:

…and thinks "Y'know what we should do? Make this character a stereotypical old lady!". Whose idea was that? I want names.

Other characters fare just as bad. Boo-Boo is Yogi's conscience. He's soft-spoken, kindhearted, and tries to urge Yogi not to do things that "Mr. Ranger" isn't going to like. Jellystone! Boo-Boo, on the other hand, is a loud, obnoxious idiot just as much of a moron as most of the other characters. Half of the characters (Jabberjaw, Loopy De Loop, Squiddly Diddly) have been gender-swapped, which in my opinion is a really bad idea. I know there aren't a whole lot of female Hanna-Barbera characters, but they DO exist. You could've just used them. You didn't have to make Squiddly Diddly a stereotypical valley girl to make the gender ratio more balanced. Quick-Draw is now "El Kabong" 24/7 and his using a guitar as a weapon has been Flanderized into HIM THINKING THAT HIS GUITAR IS A SENTIENT BEING AND BEING IN LOVE WITH IT. Magilla Gorilla is Paul F. Thompkins. Johnny Quest and Hadji are a couple (y'know, despite being adopted brothers?). The Banana Splits are criminals. And Baba Looey... what's the gender-swapped Baba Looey's personality again?

The voice cast was a massive letdown too. I'm glad they got Jeff Bergman to voice Yogi again, and I also like his takes on Mr. Jinks and Wally Gator. Jim Conroy does a great Captain Caveman and an alright Huckleberry Hound. Bernardo De Paula's Mildew Wolf is decent. Everyone else... I like Dana Snyder, but his Snagglepuss impression isn't very good, and he's not even trying to sound like Bill Thompson as Touché Turtle. Much like with the DuckTales reboot, most of the other characters are voiced by celebrities, none of whom make any sort of effort to sound like the originals. Particularly bad is C.H. Greenblatt's horrid Boo-Boo, which sounds NOTHING like Don Messick. What makes it all the more frustrating is that there are so many talented voice actors out there who can do good impressions of the characters - there is no excuse to have Boo-Boo sound like that when we live in a world where Billy West and Eric Bauza exist.

Problem number three: I really don't care for the show's art style. I don't dislike C.H. Greenblatt's art style as a whole, but it really does not fit these characters. It's hard to adapt characters into your style while still making sure they look like the characters - if done poorly, it can just result in the characters looking poorly-drawn. This is one of those cases. The animation just looks crude and sloppy-looking.

And finally, I'm sorry, but I don't find the show funny. In the episodes that I watched, there was only one joke that I was amused by ("I'm a monster! A very handsome monster!"). Every episode is just scene after scene of madcap insanity. Basically what people who don't like Chowder or SpongeBob SquarePants but haven't actually watched either show THINK those shows are like. Those two shows are silly, but they have something that Jellystone! does not: WIT. They don't just have characters acting like spazzes and random weird stuff happening in the hopes of getting a laugh.

For example, there's one episode where Quick-Draw... oh, I'm sorry, El Kabong has his guitar destroyed while fighting the Banana Splits. He tries to find a replacement, but is unsuccessful. So finally he says "I'M the guitar!" and he actually turns into a horse-headed guitar... wait, WHAT?! How the heck does he do THAT? Quick-Draw isn't a shapeshifter, and there's never been any indication that this El Kabong character is either. And it's not like this is just a one-off gag and he's back to normal by the next scene, this is an actual PLOT POINT. I know I just said cartoons don't have to explain earlier, but you need to have SOME logic. Again, Chowder doesn't just have Chowder randomly gain two heads to solve the episode's conflict or have Schnitzel turn into a leopard so he can eat the episode's bad guy or anything like that.

After having to deal with people on Twitter giving me a hard time for not liking Jellystone!, most of them actually trash-talking the original Hanna-Barbera characters and shows as part of their arguments (and claiming that these versions of the characters were more "complex"... I'm not seeing it), I figured something out. This is not a show for Hanna-Barbera fans. Rather, it's a show for people who KNOW about these characters but don't actually care about them or have even watched their shows in years (if ever). Because the show actually requires you be familiar with these characters to find most of the jokes it throws at viewers funny. Boo-Boo saying "I'm being sued for malpractice!" with a dopey smile on his face or claiming that he has experience with a machete is supposed to be funny because you wouldn't expect intelligent, kindhearted Boo-Boo to say either of those things. The Banana Splits being criminals is funny because you wouldn't expect the Banana Splits of all characters to BE criminals. Peter Potamus' sidekick So-So being George Takei is funny because in the original show So-So sounded NOTHING like George Takei. Just have an iconic cartoon character say something out-of-character or do something CRAZY and presto, you've got a joke.

In other words, Jellystone!'s humor is on the same level of intelligence as the humor in that awful Boo-Boo Runs Wild short.

[chouncazzodicasino]

Amo quando la macchina capisce il mio umore e senza che glielo chieda o che cambi canzone mi crea la colonna sonora perfetta. Oggi non ho mai dovuto mandare avanti e da casa al fornitore mi sono goduta, cantata, ballata e scimmiottata una bellissima sequenza della vergogna che è partita con gli Air e Sexy Boy per darmi un contegno, ricordando il concerto con improbabile compagnia all'Auditorium anni e anni fa, seguita da Elvis Crespo e la sua Suavemente, canzone della vera vergogna che so a memoria e ballo come nei peggiori bar di Caracas, un momento di ricordi e grande ritmo con la sigla cantata di Ok il prezzo è giusto, quella che canta Tanti auguri, tanti auguri a Ok, grande ritmo, per finire con un rientro alla civiltà direi con Baba O'Riley, uuu come ci suono bene la batteria. Che però finirò di sentire una volta uscita da questo posto. Voglia di lavorare? Zero. Voglia di fare cosa? Non lo so.