#because otherwise I know it will rot itself into oblivion

[clumsyraccoon]

Not me, angry at my own fingers because they don't want to cooperate both for playing bass and drawing, sitting at the laptop and see if at least they want to write or smth...

...and now is 1,3K words into a VERY self-indulgent one-shot with newest blorbo, and just at the very beginning of the steamy part. 😳

[thedragonagelesbian]

The Long Way Home

You watch the fire in the rearview mirror. There is a comfort in losing sight of the specifics of your mistakes: the decimated house, the buckling grain silo, the flaming wreckage of a truck, the jagged maw of split earth like Harborview itself had been trying to reach up and swallow you.

The broader picture remains, though, as a stubborn orange haze still smoldering on the horizon, streaked through with the blue and red of emergency response vehicles. It’s clinging to you too, in the ash and soil and tiny flecks of blood still caked under your fingertips. Not your blood, of course, but Gwendolynn’s, a lingering remnant from when you tried to heal her bullet wounds because that too would have been a comfort, apology and recompense all in one. To touch her there, grazing metal and copper, meant you would not have had to acknowledge the other wound.

You would not have had to acknowledge that you nearly lost control of your magic. That you would have, had she not touched you, one hand on your back to settle you and one hand on your outstretched arm to guide you. That you lost control anyway, so Gwendolynn had to take your sputtering failure into herself.

You would not have had to acknowledge any of that, were it not for the way your magic made the smear of burns along her forearm blossom into a gnarled, flame-licked scar.

Ultimately, then, the receding optics of the farm can only bring you so much comfort. For as far as you may drive, there is no distance you can put between yourself and what you’ve done. Eventually, you will have to go through it.

Knowing this, you’re ready with your response by the time that your driver, Moony, clears his throat.

“That was…” Morgen ‘Moony’ Roonie is as unlikely an acquaintance and amateur monster hunter as they come, decades older than you and constantly filtering the world, magical or otherwise, through the lens of his bizarre but harmless conspiracy theories about disappearing lawn statues. You can handle that, though, more than you’re equipped to handle Gwendolynn right now. “That was something…”

“I ought to be the first to apologize for how I behaved back there,” you reply, referring not to the fires but everything that came after. The obsidian monolith with its tendrils in everyone’s minds. The shouting as you and Moony squabbled about what to do with it. Your flailing, feeble efforts to justify preserving it without revealing that the Daybreak Corporation had asked you to. Gwendolynn throwing herself in front of the stone to keep Moony from destroying it— why she cared so damn much, you still don’t know, but she was willing to die for that stupid thing, and it was fixing to drag her into oblivion with it, so you stepped in. Saved her. Shattered it like you had broken so much else with just a touch and a thought of spark and ruin as the whole world shook above you.

Then, you pocketed that last sliver of hued rock to deliver to your betters, but you’re not apologizing for that right now.

“Things like that,” with a sower’s expertise, you weave between truth and obfuscation, “things that old and powerful, fixtures of Harborview, like the church… they give me all sorts of funny mixed up feelings. Makes it hard to know what I want.”

Attachment is a hard thing to throw away. You know because you’ve tried plenty hard. For years, you’ve nourished and cultivated the resentment inside of you until it festered into the rotted purity of hatred toward every inch of Harborview. 

But the attachment lingers. Nat reminded you of that. You spent the last three, blissful weeks with her salvaging those memories that had remained unspoiled: the store at the Docks where you bought her that big floppy sun hat she loves so much, the lighthouse the two of you used to break into with your best friend Zak, the Waffle House where the cheerleaders, the band, and the baseball team congregated after games, and the jukebox at its front where Nat used to belt rock standards and shake her hips and look oh so terribly good.

You don’t know what you want.

“Well, I still think we did the right thing, in the end,” Moony replies, and you savor the certainty of his long, slow drawl. “Still, that don’t much excuse yelling at you while waving a pickaxe in your face.”

The pickaxe did not unsettle you nearly as much as Moony shouting over and over again “there’s something you’re not telling me” or Gwendolynn spitting “is there something you’d like to share with us, Adelaide?”

You coax a smile from yourself all the same.

“Fair enough, though you’ve seen what I’m capable of. I can hold my own in a fight.”

“That you can,” he says with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t want to go up against you.”

“You handled that pickaxe pretty well, though. You really did a number on that rock.”

“We did the right thing. Trust me.”

“I do trust you, Moony.”

It almost passes for normal conversation, and not the musings of two would-be monster hunters who were at each other’s throats just minutes ago debating whether they should, in fact, be hunting this particular monster. You are inclined to crack a joke about just how bad you are at this. It is, after all, pretty fucking funny how many lives have depended on the three of you despite the group’s obvious dysfunction: your repeated defiance of Gwendolynn’s insistence that fire not be your first resort, Moony’s penchant for wandering directly into danger against express instructions, Gwendolynn’s caginess and her dogged, unerring commitment to her own martyrdom.

But for all your many crossed wires, you do trust Moony and Gwendolynn. You would never dare undermine the weight of that. You’ve not trusted anyone but yourself in a very long time. Even that trust was recently earned and hardwon: you forgot it for a bit, how to have faith in your breath, your body, your mind.

You once told Moony you got your start practicing magic with bindings and barriers. That was the first magic you encountered, yes, but it wasn’t the first you did yourself. Your real start was a trick you taught yourself to keep from drowning when the fear and loneliness and grief caught you like the undertow: how to forge a life raft of silver and blood. 

You’ve held yourself together for so many years with just the scar tissue on your thighs, and it wasn’t until you met Moony and Gwendolynn that you realized how much strength that took.

Trust means that that strength doesn’t have to be all your own anymore.

And as the faint lights of Harborview emerge from the darkness, demarcating a horizon you cannot otherwise see, it is that trust that compels you to say, “Moony, you mind if I ask you something? It doesn’t really have much of anything to do with what just happened, but… it’s been on my mind for a bit.”

“Oh? Sure. I actually got something I want to ask you too. But, you go first.”

“You went to school with my dad, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, ’course I did. Harborview High Class of… eh, gosh, what year was it again?”

“What was he…” The question starts fast, but just as soon as you begin it, you watch its end stretch out in front of you, and suddenly you cannot get your mouth around it anymore than you can keep the tide from receding. Rather, it is the question that finishes you, coming back in as the undertow wrapped around your throat and choking out your last breath as a quiet prayer: “…like?”

Who was Wyatt Dellouise before becoming the man who ruined your life?

You have the mythos you’ve built in your head. In those early days when you barely ever left your bedroom, you had little else to do but string together half-remembered anecdotes and wishful fantasies until they took the form of your infidelity. You thought he might have been awkward and gangly. Or else stoic and obnoxious, preaching to any peer unlucky enough to find themself caught in his orbit. Maybe he was even a bully and a nark who rattled off sermons for every slight transgression.

The specifics don’t matter: you’re just hoping Moony will sanctify your blasphemy.

Instead, he says, “Popular.”

You blink, hard.

“Yeah, yeah, you know,” Moony continues, “he was real popular. Wasn’t the star football player or nothing, but he was the jock everyone knew. And, y’know, he was nice enough to me and Tubbs. We didn’t interact all that much, but we got on alright whenever we did get to talking. He didn’t bully us or nothing, wasn’t an asshole athlete like some of the others.”

You are staring up at the night sky. Faint pinpricks of starlight fight to shine through wisps of smoke still curling from the fires— some of which you started, all of which somehow feel like your fault. Most nights, though, the whole Milky Way opens up above you. When it isn’t cloudy or storming, a crack runs through the universe itself, silver and blue and purple and reaching.

Back when your dad still thought he could just talk you into staying, he would take you stargazing. He once rented a boat and took you out on the ocean in the calm summer twilight to watch the sea and sky blur together.

He told you, in that soft stupid apologetic mumble, like he had never once himself enjoyed that same natural splendor he was leveraging against you, “they don’t have stars like this anywhere else, Addie.”

You can’t breathe.

How could he have ever been anything else?

“Did you—?”

“I was wondering—”

You both stumble to a stop, and you feel the pressure building in your chest, warming your cheeks and tightening your throat.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, “sorry, I suppose it ain’t fair if I get to ask you two questions and you only get the one.” And it is a stupid question anyway, with an answer you’re not sure you’re ready to hear.

“No,” Moony assures you, “no, it’s okay, you go ahead.”

You swallow, and now you cannot avoid it.

“Did you know my mom too?” When you blink, you see the smiling statue built over her grave. You’ve never been able to remember much else: the hem of a long jacket, a sly laugh, a wordless voice full of vigor. “Melanie?”

“Oh, sure! Melanie. Yeah, she was about the smartest woman I ever met. Y’know, only time Harborview High ever made it to the state quiz bowl was ’cause of her. She and Wy, well, they put up a good act, playing like they hated each other, but we all suspected something. Y’know, she used to tell him he was all brawn and no brain, and he’d call her bookworm and the like, but it weren’t much of a surprise to anyone when they got hitched.”

“That… that sounds about right.”

You say it because you don’t know what else to say. Because it sounds like the kind of thing you’re supposed to say, like the throughline should have been so obvious as to be self-evident. Of course this was who he was, who they were, of course they never hated each other the way you told yourself they did, of course he was just a boy once, and a young man in love after that.

So why can’t you see it? If the line between past and present is so neat and clean and obvious and right, why are you trembling trying to keep it straight in your head?

Is it you? Maybe it’s you who’s wrong. Maybe it’s always been you, something about you that changed him, made him do what he did to you.

Your mind flashes to that statue in the cemetery: its chiseled benevolence and granite serenity, its hands sculpted into a perpetual fold of piety. If you die here, is this how your daddy will memorialize you too? Sand down the rough edges until all that’s left is the placid smile of a dutiful daughter already six years in the ground?

Moony is driving slow now, the car trundling past the gold neons and sleek flashing signs of Daybreak’s corporate cathedral which marks the outskirts of Harborview proper.

“Now, Adelaide, I gotta ask you…” he says, just as slow as the vehicle. “You keep mentioning… barriers and binding and the like, this kinda magic that keeps folks stuck somewhere. I know you said that’s how you got your start with the whole…” He makes a low whistling sound, followed by a bassy boom imitating an explosion. He smiles at his impression of your powers, but the joy fades fast as his brows furrow and his mouth tightens. “Is there… is there something else going on that I should know about?”

“You wanna know the truth, Moony?” You don’t want to give it, but you think you can still spin this, towing the line between soul-bearing and obfuscation like you did with your motivations for destroying the rock. “When I was eighteen, just a bit after my birthday, I got in my car and I drove up this very road, got a little bit past the Madison’s farm back there, and crashed into…” you pause like you don’t know how to describe it, like you haven’t spent the last six years throwing yourself against it, “something. Some kinda magic barrier.” You shrug like you don’t know anything else, like the story ends here. “And I haven’t been able to leave Harborview ever since.”

The car rolls to a stop at the first stoplight in town, sandwiched between suburban housing and Moony’s place of work, the Yard and Sale lawn emporium. When the light flicks green, though, Moony doesn’t take his foot off the break. The car hums in place through another light cycle. When you glance at him, you see his knuckles have blanched white around the steering wheel.

“Did…?” His voice comes out phantasmal and quiet. “No… Did he…? Was it…? Was it Wyatt? Did he do this to you?”

You feel your heart like a rabid dog. It is still tethered to your chest by a fraying string, but it snarls against your throat, desperate to sink its teeth into your jugular.

What else are you supposed to say?

“Yeah.”

“Shit…”

“Yeah.”

Tears burn your eyes as you pull your knees up and curl in on yourself. You’ve held this truth so close to your chest for so long you feel something tear inside your ribcage as you loosen your grip on it. It is one thing to go through your life as a ghost, walking through hollowed-out ruins that others insist are whole, beautiful structures. It is another to finally see someone else standing with you in the debris, and that recognition still hurts. Not like drowning, not like burning, but like ripping away a band-aid while the wound underneath is still bleeding.

Your world has already ended once. This is not the end of a world but rather the impression of one, the end of a story you could once tell others about the kind of man your father is not because it’s true but because no one has ever believed anything else.

And sometimes, on your worst days, during your absolute bedridden nadirs wasted wondering if it would be easier to just give up, you tricked yourself into believing it too.

Behind you, the wail of sirens announce the ambulances that have followed you back to Harborview. Moony runs the red light and pulls over to let them stream pass, but even as the blaring recedes through the darkness, he lingers there, letting the car idle.

“I’m sorry,” he says at last. “Adelaide, I’m so, so sorry…”

What else is he supposed to say? There are no words, magical or otherwise, powerful enough to pull the glass and metal out of your eighteen year-old corpse— Wyatt already tried that trick in the hospital after the car accident. The apology can’t fix anything, not really, but it can soothe your frantic, feral heart. It can wrap itself around you and hold you tight as the tears start to fall from your eyes.

“It feels good to say it out loud,” you mumble at last. “Nice to tell someone… I’ve never told anyone… I spent so many years watching half the town show up to listen to him every week that I…” Your voice cracks with the weight of something it cannot hold as you think of them, your so-called family friends who knew you and Wyatt had been fighting, who knew how excited you were to go off to college, who didn’t so much as bat an eyelid when you didn’t. “I got so used to thinking no one else would care…”

Moony is silent as he eases back onto the road, following Main Street down toward the Docks, toward home, which currently takes the form of Gwendolynn’s inn, the Cuddly Rockfish. You don’t expect him to say anything else, though, and you don’t need him to either. It’s enough to have finally unshouldered some of the burden you’ve been carrying for so, so long. Even if it’s left your sternum popped open and your heart raw and exposed and aching in the salty sea breeze, you know that Moony cares.

You know that Gwendolynn will care too.

It is a new thing for you, to be loved without being smothered.

Or, so you thought.

“Is that what you meant by April? You wanna get out of here by April?”

At first, there is a wash of relief. You can finally admit that you have been trying to get out, and more than that, you can get Gwendolynn and Moony’s help.

And then, the fullness of Moony’s words slam into you, and the light in your stomach goes out like a blown match, all curling smoke and hard wax and cold, coiling dread.

“What do you mean by April?”

April is what Nat told you. April is when she comes back for good, when you have to be good too because you cannot get her involved in this. She can’t see the truth of this world, magic and monsters alike lurking in the shadows and you more monstrous and magical than most. April is when you have to escape because she can’t see what you do to get there.

Moony stares at you with a frown.

“It’s okay—”

“How do you know about April, Moony?!”

April is what Nat told you when you were alone with her in her old bedroom, drunk and taciturn as she pleaded with you to talk to her, clamped up around precisely this truth because you did not trust yourself not to break down and bleed out like open floodgates.

“Well, Gwendolynn told me all about—”

“She what?!”

The tether breaks. Your heart scrabbles over your lungs and up your throat, clawing at your windpipe and slicing through your tongue and pressing against your clenched jaw like it wants to pop it out of its socket and suck the marrow of your mandible.

“She let me know everything, y’know, about her listening in on that conversation you had with that old friend of yours on New Year’s Eve and…” Moony trails off, his voice growing quieter with every word until you hit the intersection where you should turn right onto the Docks. “And Gwen never told you…” 

No, you would have remembered Gwendolynn mentioning she had been spying on you. Watching you. 

You’re quaking now. 

You brought her to that party because you needed her help, because you couldn’t trust yourself but you could trust her to take care of you, and she didn’t say anything. Didn’t follow up. She saw you in Nat’s bedroom fighting not to fall apart right then and there.

And she didn’t care. Doesn’t care.

“She promised…” Moony whispers, so soft you think he’s more talking to himself. “She promised me she’d tell you… Damn it, Gwen…”

You stare out the window down the stretch of shoreside road that is the Docks. In the faint glow of a streetlamp, you can just make out the Cuddly Rockfish’s storefront, slanted and distorted at this angle, its awning casting a warped shadow across the concrete of the sidewalk. It reaches toward you, and your chest tightens.

This, this does feel like drowning.

But you’ve swallowed your fair share of salt water over the years, so you swallow another and clear your throat and say, “I think… I think I could use another place to stay the night.”

“Yeah…” Moony is turning the car around even before you finish your request, “yeah, you can come back home with me. You stay as long as you need.”

“Thank you…”

Neither of you say anything on the drive back through town. The sky is clearing up. The streets are quiet. No ambulances, no fire trucks, no fires, no nothing.

Mercy be, you hate this town.

But for the first time in six years, as you’re pulling into Moony’s driveway, someone tells you exactly what you’ve been needing to hear:

“We’re gonna get you out of here, I promise you, Adelaide, we’re gonna get you out.”

[deepintoforestwego]

Oblivion at bay

The Prince has worse day.

To explain, to those unaware- Lost Prince can only have worse days, because every day is bad day for him. Never does smile cross his features, never does laugh find it’s way from his throat, never does ache leave his bones, never does he find motivation to do anything but languish. Sometimes he spends centuries sitting in one spot, frozen silent, frown marring his face, and not a sound comes from him, not a twitch of muscle. Nothing can move him- world could burn, planes could break, and Prince would sit there, apathetic and uncaring.

So he can only get worse. There are days, ages he spends cupping his face and sobbing (none know for what, and perhaps neither does he), curling in ball and screaming, fainting from exhaustion and tearing his immortal flesh in panic (there is no blood, just darkness and dust beneath ever healing skin). His followers know this quickly- when pale, faded world around them goes gray, when kingdom that is always faraway no matter where you are going from becomes utterly hidden, when sky rains leaden tears, when broken tower starts falling apart even more, when abandoned corpse of city around it rots into dust, when shadows wail, and each inhabitant feels a gap inside themselves, something no food or treasure or person can feel, when ravens mourn and black earth bleeds.

(A note, to remember about lands of Faerie, which you may call First World, Feywild, Elphame or however you prefer- you can judge mood and fate of ldest lords by their domains. Some will tell you that power of archfey is so great that it forces capricious realms to bend to them and their feelings and wishes, others will claim that minds and lives of shapers are intervened with their kingdoms. Third will yet say that Lords and Ladies are but avatars through which land speaks, while fourth yet claim that holdings of Feywild’s almost-but-not-quite gods are just pieces of them thrown up outside. Perhaps none are right, or maybe they all are at same time, or it depends on Lord in question. It doesn’t  explain quite bit about mercurial and whimsical nature of their servants-it isn’t easy being dryad in world where sunlight and seasons depend on your ruler’s relationship stability, which is also why all of them meddle in their monarch’s personal lives far too much to be safe or sane).

As first strangled whine left his mouth, so did each thing, a fey and mortal and demigod and beast (no plants, not anymore, not safe enough) cry out in horror and warning, and rush towards throne room- which is never in same place, and in these situations tends to hide away, to shield away Melancholy Lord from prying of others, and from it’s deep seated fear of him maybe ever getting better- after all, it is house built on mourning, and abandonment, and fact there is only one being that sees value in it’s shattered walls and broken roofs. Recovery would take it away.

Still, those fresh and mortal to this land of loss and pity still hope and pray to deities so far away, that they will soon fully leave, that land is not part of Prince, and that it can be convinced to reveal him, for neither does it want him to suffer and harm himself, or if tower is a part of him that there is piece of Prince that wants to be helped, so they run and hope.

Girl who arrives, without realizing at first, is mostly human, with bit of touch of Outsiders- grandmother of her grandparent’s grandfather was a banshee, who grew too close to her clan ( it could make him some sort of divine Father, she thinks, for they say banshees were screamed in existence when Lost Prince realized his mortal followers died, bound to watch and mourn their descendants).  Her head is bald, her eyes gold and silver, her clothes wildly colourful, as if she was wearing carnival tent, and there are vials of poison around her belt, and deaths on her blade, innocent and guilty both.

,, My Lord. How can I help?’’ She asks, kneeling low before man who would look almost pretty and wholly  gaunt and mostly human if not for red markings ghastly burning on his skin, like coal slowly dying (they like to believe those are symbols, that there is meager joy left in him that they can light up again) and empty eyes, holes filled with void that predated cosmos.

‘‘Get lost!’‘ He snips at her, words as bitter and painful as taste of nightshade, a barbed wire, or thorns sinking in veins.  there is force in them, though they are quiet and cold, that makes skin ripple and wind whip at her face. She doesn’t care- Lost Prince never has kind word for anybody, but what it matters when he feeds you, helps you bury your sisters, finds you home, saves you from prison, all in different unremarkable guises until you put together pieces and find way into Feywild and beg yourself in his service.

‘‘ My Lord, what do you need?’‘ She asks again, watching man in front of her, whose age she can’t really guess, somewhere between sixteen and fifty ( in appearance at least), who is breathing harshly,  muddy tears running down his cheeks and burning and melting stone below, barely hanging on his throne, hair messy and hands around knees. It is worthless question, but still she asks- they tried everything, brought therapists from every plane and time, but nothing could help this sorrow that existed for itself, that had no name and no history. Still, they have to hope.

‘‘To leave me.’‘ He almost spits, after what might have been minutes or hours.He doesn’t know he doesn’t see, he cries and is lost in fading memories, but he can’t remember name, anything before this tiredness and pain, nothing else.

‘‘‘...I see. If you need us...’‘ he is rude, and cold Lord, but each member of his court has been saved in secrecy, and never has he tried to claim credit for that. Who knows how more he has actually saved, who never realized that. There is no creature here that wouldn’t die for him, whether in battle or by hanging themselves after his despair seeps in them too.

‘‘I won’t. Now please leave me alone.’‘ He begged them, commanded them, go, leave, leave me and this awful cursed place alone, but they wouldn’t, they insist on thanking him, on serving him, as if he wanted that, as if he would have hid his identity if he wanted to call in life debt (how many has he amassed, and let slip through his fingers as ones he saved lived good and happy lives, unlike his peers, who would have bound them unto eternal service).

,,And...sorry.’’ he whispers as doors close, and word spreads through his domain, and girl gets idea.

‘‘You are not one of mine. Not yet. Why are you here?’‘ The Green Mother asks, her bark skin perfectly chiseled, her dress of thorny vines creeping and moving, flowers growing and withering on it. She is beautiful, in way old tree near her former home was, in way flowers bursting through pavement are. Not a grandiose, elevated beauty that is glorious and frightening and overloads senses, but patchwork of ordinary and pretty thing cobbled together in something alluring and subtle. But she is a wooden statue, green thorns growing from her, with hands strong enough to crush skulls, and magic even greater.

‘‘Your Majesty, I am here to bring you information.’‘ The Feasting Flower is one of queens of Faerie. Not like Tiandra, painted by greatest artists with summer’s sun in her palm and costly spear tinged with blood of thousands, or Queen of Air and Darkness, whispered about by frightened mothers and weary travelers, winds searing through night at her command, thousands murdered by winter’s bite at her glance. She is thing of fields and deep woods, sang in ballads of peasants and bored, thief of babies and owner of hundred mortal lovers, not goddess bestowing favor upon virtuous knights and forcing Feywild to bend beneath her scorching fist, not plotter of frozen heart that topples empires, unleashing armies of dark upon world.  And not any lesser and safer for that. Just smaller and more common interest. Which may in fact be more awful.

‘‘Are you? Then go on. I hope it is worth my time-you may be rewarded for that.’‘ Or punished otherwise. They call her in mortal world many things, sometimes slut and succubus’s sister and temptress. But carnal acts of lust and seduction are just an aspect of hers. She is intrigues woven in caves beneath earth, growth and decay of plantlife, the charming appeal of evil. Even her seduction is more of that of venus flytrap. She is hungry for secrets as she is for flesh and hearts, in literal and metaphorical meaning equally. Her tight smile is that of mafia boss, of information broker, and she is covered in green and red, like emeralds and blood.

‘‘My Lord-The Lost Prince- is feeling worse then usual. Me and several others have thought that maybe..’‘‘ The thorns writhe and dance, and trees burst in fruits and sap flows freely as girl suffocates from pollen, and Green Mother smiles wide and bloody. The Eldest of fey have lived for long time, and been many things to each other.  The Green Mother has bedded each of them, and found sour and sorrowful Lost Prince worst and hardest-for hardly it could be called sex, as she laid over  his bare and unmoving body, and he stared in emptiness. Seductress she is, and creature of pride, and she vowed she will show him pleasure that will snap him out of his melancholy. A obsession and hunger that slowly twisted in need to have him adore her, to possess him by whatever means possible.

‘‘Oh? Really? Lovely, perfect in fact. Well then, that is useful information. I would be glad to help- as for you, no poison of your planet’s herb will work on you, nor shall thorns cut your skin, and neither will treants or similar raise a branch against you, and dryads will know you as friend.’‘ The girl’s eyes are wide, but she nods and quickly mutters something in gratitude (not thank you, never that, she isn’t stupid) before running away, moving through still trees, which aren’t taller then mountains or full of diamond flowers and impossible fruits, but are still thick and would tear her apart in heartbeat if their capricious mistress demanded so.

It is truth of life that it always adapts. Lost Prince’s sorrow wrecks the tower, and they learn to live around it. Some leave, some die, some remain, more come, for still Prince helps as he cries. It is one day that they feel arrival, something old and powerful and wild tearing through magics hiding their joyless kingdom from all others, forcing Feywild to reveal demiplane of Crumbling Tower to it.

The doors of tower-one of them- are old wood, rotten and broken, and realm they were grown at is not there anymore. Parts of it turn to dust, others to black mush, held together by rusting metal, but they burst open, wood stretching and shifting, growing younger and greater, rejecting it’s chains, warping until it is young and healthy and alive, with heavy crowns and roots tearing apart stone.

‘‘AND MAMA HAS ARRIVED!’‘ Voice shouts so strong every creature, from giants to microbes knows it. Green Mother stands at entrance, waving, fueled with strength of joy that still can’t make her smile seem warm or her eyes soft, each movement obvious and overly dramatic. She struts along, roots and thorns growing in her steps, cloud of pollen spreading and making everybody cry and choke and flail until they are red in face, and withering once she passes away, not decaying as plants do, turning orange and brown then drying out, but crumbling in dust in seconds, for Green Mother is creature of desire and energy, sensuality and growth, and neither can be found here.

‘‘Hello. What do you need?’‘ Lost Prince asks once it becomes clear she won’t leave, when flowers bloom from his throne. He doesn’t call her by her name, or title, but in language of archfey elder then sylvan, a set of images and impressions describing her.

A dank cave, filled with dirt and clay and dust, stench of decay of decomposing plants, ready to give birth to new life, spiders crawling across walls.

A flower rises from earth. Brilliant and soft red-green, petals wide and spotted, full of pollen. Bees and butterflies come to it, and when they fly down they can’t leave, and it swallows them whole, as it does same to humans and fiends and fey.

There is man, and he is beautiful and wealthy and liar and has voice like honey, and he plans and plots and weaves his webs, and baits unhappy wives and daughters and sisters to his bed, because he has wild urges he will never let go unsatisfied, and he makes them pawns, and he becomes king and there is sea of blood and tears and so many lost, so many unmarked graves, oh the orphans...

‘‘Me? Whatever is needed at the moment. Now, only your smile and affection, my dear.’‘ She moves slowly, but swags and shakes her body (and who knows how it may seem to him, and he to her- for archfey know the truth of each other’s forms, even as they shift themselves in strangest ways. He thinks it reasonable to her to model herself after elves and dryads, for she is closest to them and has had hand in their history many times, and she finds it quaint and sweet how he makes himself in human, for they live so short and but a few will be known and remembered). And him too she calls by his nature.

A historian, old and grey, stands alone in library combs their way through artifacts found beneath ruins of civilization whose name nobody knows, and they takes books of their predecessors and colleagues and pick information from them, and travel through past, recalling what they know and have learnt about symbols found inscribed at walls.

They called children insane, called them abnormal and weird and unnatural, because their brain was missing few steps and didn’t work the same and it was easier to scream then to figure out way to accommodate, and so they made them mad, screaming and broken and crying and never speaking, when all they needed was rest, to calm down and clear mind and filter out so many emotions.

There is a queen, and she keeps her tears inside even as her grief crushes her, for she thought her  beautiful husband loved her, but he is cruel king and liar, but she must make her  family, her line, all who came before her proud, so she swallows down her pain and lets herself become symbol of loss and pain and strength, lets people put her on pedestal as he screams and hits and cuts her, only as long as she can keep pieces of his rage away from people...

‘‘You won’t find it then. You have wasted your time.’‘ He still breathes unevenly, and cries, and his episode weight heavily on all, even on her, who would have almost shuddered from pain and loss and something like shadow of regret if her power wasn’t as great, if her hunger wasn’t as deep, and if she didn’t remember  time before this, when he could be happy. It is thankful that archfey can speak to each other by mind and meaning, for he wouldn’t be able to get a word out as much as he cries.

‘‘Are you sure? I’m good at digging out things people don’t even know they had.’‘ She shakes her body and puts her hands around his neck. Subtlety is lost on one such as him, and if she had human ideals she would have been ashamed of acting like some unskilled, fresh strumpet, but she is hungry thing and means never matter. She looks at him, and wonders whether he has sexual or romantic desires at all, which would mean she would have to make herself his best friend or surrogate sister or something. It is hard to figure him out, when he has desire for nothing, only some strange duty to help the helpless and remember forgotten. It is awful and makes her leaves turn brown at thought of help without debt, without betrayal and regret, but that is why it is so alluring-perhaps he could teach her something too.

‘‘Like this! A great kingdom, known all over it’s realm-now nothing but dust, because it’s emperor became lich, called upon Old Ones and tried to ascend to godhood. You know, classic. But I preserved it’s capitol. Only for you.’‘ She hands him a glass globe, and inside is truly beautiful capitol, and he holds it and watches ruined buildings, watches bodies covering them, hands of dead clutching each other.

‘‘ I see... I think I heard of this. Some centuries ago-yet already ti is gone from memory. had some very unusual trees.’‘ She smiles wider, grasping for compliment, feeling proud of herself, as he stares on thorns and brilliant red flowers covering city, as he stares on all dead families and destroyed buildings.

‘‘I will gift you for this. Now leave my domain.’‘ he stops crying, and she counts it as win, as he stares at globe, hands shaking. With a mimicked kiss she leaves, planning how to continue this ‘‘romance.’‘

‘‘My Lord?’‘ An old woman comes, dressed in colourful clothes, eyes silver and gold. Prince says nothing, just goes over and hugs her, tight and strong, face frowning and eyes narrowed, hands cold, but he isn’t crying as he puts his head over hers, as he gives her globe and says look.

She doesn’t regret it.

[xtruss]

“Shameless War Criminal Bloody British Bastard Blair” Lectures the World on Military Strategy, With No Word of the Deceit He Engineered For an Illegal Assault on Iraq 🇮🇶, Syria 🇸🇾 and Afghanistan 🇦🇫

— 6 September, 2021 | RT

Former War Criminal Bloody British British PM Tony Blair sees himself as a colossus on the world stage – climate hero, peace maker and thinker for our times – seemingly unaware that many people view him as a ‘War Criminal’ who deserves to be put on trial and throw him behind bars to “Stay, Rest, Rot and Burn in Hell Forever.”

Since he left high office in 2007, there really is no subject in the world on which Tony Blair is reluctant to express an opinion on, buoyed by an unsinkable self-belief and an apparently total absence of self-awareness.

He’s convinced that a huge appetite exists for his latest musings, that French President Emmanuel Macron is desperate for his help in tackling the radical Islamist problems of the Sahel, that US President Joe Biden lies awake at night asking himself, ‘What would Tony do?’ and that the British public has forgotten he took the country into a catastrophic war against Iraq that both the United Nations and even his own government inquiry determined was illegal.

His acquiescence to US demands for an attack on Saddam Hussein earned Blair the US Medal of Freedom from George Bush and 20 years of opprobrium from the British public, which has only increased as the years have passed on par with his own immense personal wealth. A poll in 2017 found a third of the British public would like to see Blair put on trial as a war criminal.

But that’s not something the ex-PM likes to dwell upon. So his speech to the Royal United Services Institute (RUSI), almost 20 years to the day since the terrorist attacks of 9/11, made no mention of what followed those unforgettable events: dodgy dossiers, suggestions of bunkers full of weapons of mass destruction or of the purposeful lying to the British people.

Rather than learn any lessons from recent history, like when to wage war, Blair’s appetite is clearly undiminished, as he moaned, “Western societies and their political leaders have become quite understandably, deeply averse to casualties amongst our Armed Forces.” This, in his view, had become, “an overwhelming political constraint to any commitment to Western boots on the ground, except for Special Forces.”

It’s all Biden’s fault apparently. Blair said, “It is clear now – if it wasn't before – that America has decided that for the foreseeable future, it has a very limited appetite for military engagement.”

‘First order security threat’ akin to revolutionary communism: Afghan war didn’t solve radical Islam, Tony Blair says. War Criminal Bloody British Bastard don’t like to talk about “Radical Christians Terrorists, Radical Saffron Hindu Terrorists, Radical God’s Fucked-up People Zionist Cunt Terrorists,” because they can give him a deep f*** and stop paying him to propagate spew filth against Muslims.

Well, yes, Mr. Former Prime Minister, it is true that the Americans have made no secret of the fact that they are sick of fighting ‘forever wars’. But us Brits also do not like to see the lives of young men and women who have signed up to serve their country sacrificed at the altar of political self-aggrandisement. We are now a little less gullible, a little less obliging when it comes to fighting unwinnable, neverending battles and somewhat more suspicious of our glory-seeking political leaders. And that’s all largely down to one person. You.

It’s strange Blair doesn’t acknowledge this. One thing’s certain, he knows his geopolitics; hell, he even has his own eponymous ‘global institute’ packed with researchers, academics and leading experts to tell him what to think and say about the key issues of our time. With one exception. Do. Not. Mention. Iraq.

The exclusion of that country’s name from the conversation is obvious. In looking forward, Blair said that Europe – insisting “for these purposes Britain is part of Europe like it or not” – faced an immediate challenge from the destabilisation of the Sahel and was “already facing the fallout from Libya, Syria and elsewhere in the Middle East.” Err, by ‘elsewhere in the Middle East’ could Blair possibly mean Iraq? Probably, but let’s not risk spoiling a pleasant chat.

And in the face of that perceived threat, which in the Sahel until now has been largely handled by France, Blair asked, “How do Europe and NATO develop the capability to act when America is unwilling?”

Blair clearly sees military action as an imperative – I’m not sure everyone else agrees – but he also thinks the capacity of Western policymakers to think strategically needs to be reinvigorated.

“For me, one of the most alarming developments of recent times has been the sense the West lacks the capacity to formulate strategy,” he said. “That its short term political imperatives have squeezed the space for long term thinking.

It is this sense more than anything else which gives our allies anxiety and our opponents a belief our time is over.”

Now the picture is starting to become clearer. While Western governments are distracted from war by the need to focus on rebuilding economies, fighting worldwide health crises and seemingly perpetual election cycles which inhibit their ability to think long-term, they need big thinkers, top-shelf statesmen and global heavy hitters to work out how to bomb the citizens of far-off places into oblivion through drone strikes, how to convince a sceptical public that it’s a good idea to send servicemen and women to their deaths and – most importantly of all – how to create the right PR buzz around those decisions, so that everyone feels comfortable about falling into line.

Those Western governments need men just like Tony Blair. He’s free most afternoons, if you’d like to schedule a Zoom call. Just don’t mention the war (on Iraq).

“War Criminal, Boak Bollocks Bloody British Bastard Tony Blair” calls US Afghanistan withdrawal ‘imbecilic’ – What, then, was the Bush-Blair invasion of 2001?

— Neil Clark is a journalist, writer, broadcaster and blogger. His award winning blog can be found at www.neilclark66.blogspot.com. He tweets on politics and world affairs @NeilClark66

— August 22, 2021 | RT

War Criminals Bush and Blair met in Washington to discuss the ongoing operations in Afghanistan, November 7, 2001. © REUTERS/Win McNamee

“Serial Warmonger and War Criminal Bloody British Bastard Tony Blair” has blasted the US decision to pull out from Afghanistan, but history tells us the real madness was invading the unconquerable country in the first place.

Former UK Prime Minister Tony Blair –aka ‘The Blair Creature’– is not a happy bunny this Sunday, folks. He has said that the decision to withdraw western forces from Afghanistan was made “in obedience to an imbecilic slogan about ending the ‘forever wars’.”

What he calls the US’ ‘abandonment’ of Afghanistan was “tragic, dangerous and unnecessary.”

In fact we could say the same about Tony Blair himself – and certainly the wars of choice he promoted.

Imbecilic? That’s the perfect word to describe what happened in October 2001 when Afghanistan was invaded in response, we were told, to the terrorist attacks of 9/11, even though none of the terrorists were Afghan nationals.

Had Blair read just a little bit of history, he would have pursued an exclusively diplomatic path to try and get Osama Bin Laden handed over and not have been so keen to send in the troops.

As I wrote in the Daily Express in 2009 in an article entitled ’Afghanistan: History repeats itself,’ “‘That men do not learn very much from the lessons of history is the most important of all the lessons of history,’ said Aldous Huxley. Nowhere is this more applicable than in the case of the many unsuccessful attempts by foreign powers to conquer Afghanistan.”

I went on: “The mighty forces of the British Empire failed three times between 1839 and 1919. The Soviet Union, which at the time had the largest army in the world, tried in 1979: they too were defeated.”

But in 2001, Blair and the then American President George W. Bush thought they would buck the trend. They could topple the Taliban (which they did) and remake Afghanistan – a deeply conservative and very religious country – in the western secular image. Afghanistan would be transformed from a ‘failed terror state’ into a ‘functioning democracy.’ What folly. What imperial arrogance.

Today, Blair is busily trying to spin the invasion of 2001 as a ‘success.’ But, while some things did improve, 'Operation Enduring Freedom' certainly didn’t bring peace to Afghanistan.

According to the UN Assistance Mission in Afghanistan, 579 civilians were killed in aerial operations between January and September 2019. That’s more than double the amount ten years earlier. Nearly 111,000 civilians have been killed or injured in the country since 2009.

Far from bringing stability, the 2001 western military invasion, just like the 2003 invasion of Iraq, was a major cause of instability.

I recall chatting to a friendly Afghan taxi driver a couple of years ago and saying to him how I’d love to visit the country to see its great natural beauty. “Don’t go,” he said. “It‘s far too dangerous. You would be targeted.”

So much for Afghanistan being ‘safe’ post-invasion.

Whenever the US withdrew, we would have had scenes of chaos. But the Americans had to pull-out at some point otherwise its forces would have been in Afghanistan forever. That doesn’t seem to concern ‘The Blair Creature’ too much. ‘Forever wars’ aren’t a great problem to him or indeed the ‘Inside the Tent‘ political and media figures who promote them. They are, though, for the soldiers who die in them, and for their grieving families.

‘But the US and British forces could have stayed in a support role,’ we’re hearing. But, as was pointed out last week, there is a word for countries whose governments only endure because of foreign military support. The word is “colony.”

Blair and his supporters are tacitly admitting that Afghanistan, billed as a ‘sovereign democratic country’, was actually a colony. I thought ‘imperialism’ was supposed to be a bad thing that we’re all supposed to be ashamed of. So why is it ok when it comes to Afghanistan?

Afghanistan is virtually impossible for foreign powers to subjugate. There’s its hostile terrain, its harsh weather, its fiercely independent people who are very brave, very tough and are highly skilled in mountain warfare. But anyone who’d read the history books would have known all this and not intervened in the first place.

Tony Blair, with his Messiah complex, thought he’d be different. He could succeed in Afghanistan where other, lesser mortals had failed. But the ‘new’ neocon empire met with exactly the same result as the old empire did. Wasn’t it ‘imbecilic’ to think it would be any different?

[sending-the-message]

My friend has been living in an alternate reality - (Part 2) by Mr_Outlaw_

So, it’s currently morning. I didn’t expect to get much sleep last night and I didn’t. We just picked up some breakfast. Clint’s been eating like an animal. Guess I can’t blame him, though. But I don’t want to get off topic. He followed up by describing a rough layout of the world beyond that island:

By his account, oceans made up 85% of the surface. There were only two continents. Well, there used to be three, but one was essentially annihilated and made unlivable by a previous world war. There were also islands scattered throughout, ones like Dusk Blue. The two remaining continents were known as “Neo-Civitus” and “Heaven's curse.” I’ll discuss the latter first. Clint estimated that he’d spent around two months there - but that’s another story. To put it simply, it resembled an apocalyptic shitshow, with the vast majority of it being a desert wasteland. “If you thought Dusk Blue sounded bad, this shit was something else entirely.” Clint explained. Apparently the life expectancy for children born there was around 6 human years. The places where people lived ranged from lawless zones controlled by warlords to totalitarian fortresses and everything in between. It had a total population of 17 billion living in an area about twice the size of Russia. And those were only what we would consider to be humans. The place was also filled with some of the most incomprehensibly horrific things he’d seen. Any place that wasn’t occupied by a majority of humans was simply referred to as “Oblivion”. If you went out into those places alone, you may last 5 minutes at most.

Now, the creatures that dwelled within oblivion were a bit tough to explain. Clint’s experiences with them were limited. However, he’d heard that people had stopped trying to label them all. There were simply too many. He told me about some of the more infamous ones:

Harbingers

These were giant winged monstrosities with sharp spikes protruding out of every inch of its body. You could barely see their skin, and even the heads was mostly covered. These things were massive, about the size of a large shuttle bus. It was rumor that the spikes coming out of their skin put them in constant agonizing pain. Because of this, they were in a constant state of rage, slaughtering anything that moved. They were called Harbingers because whenever one arrived, many others were soon to follow. That meant unavoidable mass-scale death and destruction. These things weren’t easy to kill, and people had to prepare.

Butcher knights

Nobody really knows what these are. A theory floating around was that they were members of an ancient order of knights that had been condemned by some otherworldly being. They were now forced to roam Heaven’s curse for eternity, searching for human flesh to eat. Yes, they ate people. In appearance, they were ten-foot tall humanoids covered head to toe in crude black armor, resembling that of a traditional knight. Upon close inspection, it almost seemed as if the armor was welded to their skin, which appeared to be rotting. They’d attack human outposts with extremely large, rusted pikes and axes. If the initial blow didn’t kill you, the ensuing infection sure would. Fighting them one-on-one wasn’t an option, as they could easily overpower multiple humans at once. Steam cannons had to be used to take them out.

Weeping infernos

These were also humanoid in nature, except for the fact that they were always covered in fire. They rode on top of unidentifiable creatures. They almost looked like horses, expect for the fact that they had six legs and ran at ludicrious speeds. It's unclear if the riders are physically attached to the creatures, as they seem to have their own legs, but have never been seen to dismount. The way that they kill is actually not what you'd think. While the constant stream of flames that burst out of their bodies was certainly a cause for concern, a bigger problem was their persistent, ungodly shrieks. If you got too close to them, your brain would eventually explode. That's where they got their names from.

The Hunter

This was a rare one. People were unsure if there was only one of these... or if there were more. This stems from the fact that it only ever appeared by itself. But that didn't mean it was easy to deal with. Supposedly, this thing was seemingly indestructible - until proven otherwise, that is. But so far, nobody's made a dent in it. However, it was only really pursuing one thing - the strongest entity in the surrounding area. Somehow, it could sense them. That meant the more settlements would try and protect their most capable fighters, the more people would die when the Hunter tried to get to them. Eventually, communities would just give them up and hand them over whenever it came around. They'd fight each other and the Hunter would always win. Most reports of its appearance may have been falsified, since so little people have actually seen it. However, the most agreed upon one was a being more than triple the size of a butcher knight. It had no legs, but about twelve arms that it used to attack and move. Its hands were large, covered in a caustic liquid and could grab a human, simultaneously crushing and dissolving them in seconds. It also apparently had no face, just a large mouth filled with sharp black teeth on its torso.

Ultimately, these only scratched the surface. Heaven's curse was like the ocean, mostly unexplored and the vast majority of creatures still undiscovered. This was probably good. However, these weren't the only things that the inhabitants had to worry about. There was also a perplexing phenomenon that seemed to plague everybody who lived there. Nobody could explain it away, nobody could identify the source, and nobody even knew what to call it. They just accepted it.

A good parallel for this in our reality would be the "Glitches in the matrix" some people experience. On Heaven's curse, you could be simply walking around before getting disoriented for a second. When you'd come to your senses, you'd find yourself standing outside the civilization you were just in. Out in Oblivion. People also claimed to see things that weren't there, hear things that didn't have a source, and be having conversations before realizing that there was nobody in front of them. One of the most extreme cases were times where everybody around you would stop in place, have all their heads twist to look directly at you, and then their lips would stretch ear-to-ear in the most horrific grin you'd ever seen. After a couple of seconds, everything would go back to normal. Nobody would say that they'd ever even remember doing so. This happened to Clint once.

You may be wondering how there could still be a constant population of 17 billion, considering all of this. Well, there was one thing that people living there didn't have to worry about. That was sustenance. Now, Clint admitted that the food they had to eat wasn't very good, but it WAS abundant. The bark on trees were nutritionally dense, rain came regularly and didn't have to be boiled to drink, and various - albeit strange looking root vegetables could be grown almost everywhere, with shortages being unheard of. Additionally, these medium size insects called "Salvators" were rampant all around. But they were never a nuisance, never seemed to spread disease, and if cooked, could be used as a great source of protein.

That's why there were so many people. Children were being bred at a torrid rate. Emotional connection to your offspring wasn't really a thing, and the ones that survived attacks by the Oblivion creatures could be trained to deal with subsequent assaults. Since food wasn't an issue, the more there were, the better chances a settlement would live on. However, the population always seemed to even itself out.

The climate was also favorable. While the north and south ends of the continent had extreme temperatures, nobody really lived there. In fact, nobody knows what lives there. The rest of it could probably be compared to Australia - pretty hot, but still livable. There were no seasons, and the sky was perpetually covered in what looked like an orange haze, so sunburn wasn't an issue.

With that said, everybody still wanted to get the hell out of there. The quality of life was still absolute shit. They all wanted to reach Neo-Civitus, which they nicknamed "Heaven's Promise". And that was pretty much impossible, given the fact that they were separated by as much ocean as the geography would allow.

Now, Clint had never actually been inside Neo-Civitus. He’d only heard about it and read descriptions. Supposedly, it was only a tenth the size of Heaven’s curse, and it was named after the only city on the entire continent. Clint said that a physical description of the place would be akin to Manhattan on steroids. A mega-city that was host to a population of 275 million. It was a continuous stretch of brilliant buildings and skyscrapers that lit up the night. It was also a functioning society. People had jobs, could start families, and could engage in recreational activities. Nobody had to worry about anything beyond shit like taxes and public opinion. "It sounded like the rat race all over again" Clint exclaimed.

While the area outside the city limits was still somewhat hostile, it was nowhere near the extent of Heaven's curse, or anywhere else for that matter. Besides, there was a monumental metal-based wall about 400 meters tall surrounding the entire place. There were also heavily armed military personnel called "Apex Officers" guarding it. In fact, a lot of it was comprised of the enhanced soldiers guarding Paradise X. These two places actually had an agreement where a portion of the X-Soldiers would be flown from Dusk Blue to Neo-Civitus in exchange for firearms. And yes, they were the only ones who had access to air-travel. They were also widely believed to be the sole producers of guns and ammunition. Resources were scarce in this world, and most of them were on Neo-Civitus. The few other resource rich islands around the world were essentially picked dry by recon teams sent by the government. This was that world's only superpower. They called all the shots and went unopposed in doing so.

However, there was one thing that they did have to worry about. You see, there was one thing that Neo-Civitus had in common with everywhere else - the sky. It was always cloudy. Nobody could come up with a tangible explanation of why. It was always just like that. "Well, that's just what those people think." Clint remarked quickly. Strangely, he didn't elaborate on that. That's when I really noticed how weird he'd been acting the whole time he'd been telling me this. There was an increasing urgency in his tone. Anyhow, he went on. Apparently there was a legend of sorts that had permeated every community all around that world. When the day comes where the clouds finally part, true Armageddon will soon come to fruition. And nobody could stop it.

I'd been so caught up in this that I'd forgotten I actually had work that day. My boss had texted me in the morning, telling me I had to come in later, just for a few hours. I was already late.

"Shit." I told Clint. "Look, I gotta run to work quickly. Uh... just stay here, alright? Don't go anywhere. I'll bring back some pizza or something."

He responded almost instantly. "Yeah, do what you gotta do. I'll be here." He said this in the same urgent tone he'd been using before. However, I didn't think anything of it.

I'm currently at work now, but I can't focus on anything. There were still too many things that Clint had left unexplained. I need to figure it out. I need to know.

EDIT:

I just came back and he's gone. I was somewhat afraid of this. It seems that he took a bunch of perishable rations, a few sets of my clothes, a laptop, and some cash. However, I did find something on the kitchen counter. It was an old, crusty journal covered in dirt and blood stains. There was also a sticky note attached to it. This is what it read:

"I'm sorry James. You've always been of the few people that I could actually bear talking to. Maybe you'll understand eventually. This journal should answer some of the questions that you still have. In the meantime, there's something that I need to do. Bye for now - Clint. PS: I'll pay you back sometime. You know I will. :)"

I smiled at that. It was true. He'd always kept his word. Deep down, I knew that he wasn't going to stay here forever. He just wasn't that kind of guy. Whatever he's doing... I hope he succeeds. In the meantime, it looks like I'm going to have some reading to do. Let's see what this is really all about.

[messer92]

Empire vs. Stormcloaks

Gotta admit, seeing this still raging despite literally six years passing more than amuses me.  Its not surprising to me since in the same vein I still see people wondering which Fallout NV ending is better.

But what’s really making me comment on this is the fact that a lot of folks don’t seem to look deeper into their preferred sides.  Way I see people going ‘for the Empire!’  or ‘Skyrim for the Nords!”  Highly reminds me of the days when World of Warcraft’s own ‘Alliance vs. Horde’ mindset without really taking the big picture into account. Both the former and the latter are much deeper than that and I hope to toss my two cents.

The Empire:

Once prosperous under the rule of the Septim line and even under the loyal High Elf Chancelor Ocato, it saw a period of decline when the last heir of the line sacrificed himself during the Oblivion Crisis and the good chancellor himself assassinated many decades later.  During the Mede dynasties rule, the empire itself saw itself slowly falling apart while the Aldmeri Dominion steadily grew in power via assassinations and outright propaganda carried out by the Thalmor.

During Titus Mede II’s reign the Empire saw war with the Aldmeri Dominion who made outrageous demands among them outlawing the worship of Talos, he who was once Tiber Septim and founder of the Empire who ascended into godhood among the Nine Divines.  Despite warnings from his military leaders, Titus denied their demands and soon after the Great War broke out.

The war lasted for four years and each year was an eternity of conflict that ended with a military stalemate that strategically rested with the Dominion’s favor.  His armies exhausted and realizing that the Empire could not survive this battle of attrition,  Titus finally agreed to the demands now known as the White-Gold Concordat in an effort to play the long game and to eventually turn the tables against the Dominion.

Unfortunately for Titus Mede, many were outraged.  Among those were the Redguards of Hammerfell who saw large portions of their land being given to the enemy, eventually leading them to rebelling against the Aldmeri and being denounced by the Empire. 

The rest of the Empire were forced to deny Talos, but just as many began to worship him in secret from the Thalmor who hunted the worshipers ruthlessly.  The Empire didn’t do much to aid the Thalmor, nor did it spend much effort in hunting down the Talos worshipers as it boded its time to rebuild their forces for the next inevitable clash.

Unfortunately, during this time the Empire faced an unforseen threat from Ulfric Stormcloak when he retook the Reach from the Reachmen under the promise of its Jarl to allow the open worship of Talos.  Ulfric demanded the same promise of the Empire before he would their Legions entry, a demand they had initially gave into if not for the Dominion pressuring them once they found out. 

From there began the starting point of what would eventually be the Skyrim Civil War which was kicked into full when Ulfric killed the High King of Skyrim.  While Ulfric and his supporters hold form that it was an honor duel, the Empire and its loyalists viewed it as murder and nothing more and Ulfric as an usurper.  Deeper than that they knew it would lead to weakening the empire infront of an enemy they couldn’t afford to be weak to.

With Skyrim split into two between the competing powers, the Empire is forced to focus a portion of its manpower and efforts into a war it does not want while the Thalmor now slither their way in and force the Empire to enforce the ban on Talos, less they face the second war unprepared.

What can be taken from this:

The Empire while a shadow of its former self was not some loyal mutt, and while they made plenty of unfortunate and perhaps wrong decisions they did so out of desperation against a foe they couldn’t hold out against in a war of attrition.  They needed time and the Concordat meant that for a time they’d swallow their pride while sneakily building back up their power to kick Dominion butt!  Unfortunately they didn’t do a good job communicating that to their vassal states, with many of them left in the dark and giving them the impression the Empire betrayed them and their ideals.

It was poor communication that led them ultimately into a war with Ulfric and his Stormcloaks, with many of experienced former soldiers of the Empire now under Ulfric’s banner serving as his officers.  Granted one could say they couldn’t really communicate what with the Thalmor playing their spy games, but from the begining the Empire and the Dominion knew that another war was coming and so the Empire really doesn’t have an excuse at the end of it.

Now they have to deal with diverting time and resources while also giving more leeway to the Thalmor to pull their shenanigans and hunt down Talos worshipers as they further destabilize the region.

The Stormcloaks:

To speak of the Stormcloaks is to talk about Ulfric Stormcloak himself, the son of of the previous Jarl of Windhelm himself and was to be a future Greybeard as he studied under them. Ultimately the Great War happened and due to feelings of loyalty to the Empire he joined the war against the Dominion. He fought hard in the war and for a time fell prisoner to the enemy, who tortured him for a good long time before releasing him after he gave up useless and outdated information but not before leaving him with the impression he betrayed the Empire.

After the war, Ulfric assumed his position as Jarl as his father died during his son’s incarceration.  The war veteran and newly crowned Jarl was left with bitter feelings at the treaty the Empire signed with their hated enemy, a treaty which saw the Empire subservient to the Dominion.

Ulfric would soon gather his armies at the behest of the Jarl of Markath who promised the open worship of Talos if he retook his lands from the occupying Reachmen.  Ulfric would deliver on his end of the deal, and would soon deny the Legions of the Empire entry lest they delivered the same promise.  For a brief time the Empire allowed it, but as soon as the Thalmor sniffed it out were forced to crack down on the worship of Talos.

This would serve as a turning point for when Ulfric and his army rebelled against the Empire.  Gathering up allies and resources, Ulfric challenged the High King to a duel which saw the latter’s demise.  While the Stormcloaks and their supporters held that the duel, the opposition held otherwise and viewed it as murder.  

Which ever the truth, it was here the war took to blossoming and the war for Skyrim began as Ulfric fought for a Skyrim free from a crumbling empire who would betray its own god.  With ‘Skyrim for the Nords’ as their cry, they wage a war against the Empire and their Aldmeri masters.

What we can take from this:

Ulfric, not knowing of the Empire’s long term goals, only saw a crumbling empire before him.  Even if he did know, it would be likely that he would view the Empire too weak to carry it out as the Mede dynasty did not have a good track record. In his mind they were too weak to rule and that it was time for his beloved Skyrim to cut itself from a rotting corpse.

To do this, he rallies his supporters to retake Skyrim for their people a la ‘Skyrim for the Nord’, calling for the days of a strong people that conquered the land and made it their own.  Unfortunately for Ulfric it also brought in the ones who held a dislike for the other races.  It also painted Ulfric as a a racist himself among a number of his detractor.  Of particular note Windhelm’s Dunmer population who feel ignored by the Jarl which is not helped by the rest of the local populations disdain and the majority of the Dunmer’s own lack of effort to improve their lot in life.

And while the Argonians were forced to live on the docks could be taken as Ulfric’s racial disdain, it could also be taken instead as Ulfric separating the Dunmer and the Argonians from each other as the races have a bitter history with one another.

Another matter is the fact while Ulfric has the support of many Jarls, those same Jarls do not feel loyalty to him and see him as ambitious, thus it is a tense partnership that could shatter even if Ulfric achieves victory. And even if he does attain victory he would likely have to work on consolidating his victory as well as rebuild his forces and try to establish alliances with other nations while also working on keeping the Jarl’s under him together.

  Overall:

Both sides have their justifiable intents, but both have their questionable methods.  Even if both factions achieve victory, the Aldmeri benefits even if the war ends sooner than they’d like.  If the Empire wins, they’d be delayed on rebuilding their forces as they rebuild Skyrim while also having to stamp out Talos worship in the region.  If the Stormcloaks win, they’d be busy doing much of the same except whatever they could muster wouldn’t be enough against the Dominion should they decide to capitulate on this, seeing as the Legion forces sent were only a portion faced against them supplement by Nord Loyalists.

Granted, if both played their cards right they could hold off the Dominion but as it stands the Dominion benefits from either outcome.  More so if the Stormcloaks win and the Dominion decides to take the risk of sending a force to Skyrim. 

The Empire is failing because bad decisions and lack of communication as they try to maintain the long term at the cost of the short term.  The Stormcloaks risk failing because they’re looking at the short term without taking account the long term and not a fully unified alliance of Jarls as well as bad publicity to outside forces.

Not to mention that there would be extremists of both sides giving the other hell after the war.

So yeah.... those are my thoughts...  really wish I could sort them out more but I’ll it at that.

[sasorikigai]

[ PERSEVERE ] : sender, having received a particularly bad wound, tells receiver they're fine, but ends up collapsing later on. (( for mk2021 Scorpion ))

prompts that make you go 👀 || @yetremains || accepting!

[ PERSEVERE ] : sender, having received a particularly bad wound, tells receiver they're fine, but ends up collapsing later on.

��▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || If only Hanzo could see the endless string of consequences that result from his smallest actions, but he can’t know better until knowing better is useless. Scorpion thinks he’s constantly in-between thinking that he is too big for the world and that the world is too big for him. His independent streak doesn’t change the fact that he is simply a dependent variable, walking amongst dependent variables. Scorpion looks to the future often; for the past has nothing to offer, but throes of torment and gruesome deaths and losses as he would continuously farm the rotted bones of scarred hollowness, upon a ring of fire. He would swallow the world whole, let the contained seed pill burrow into his core, fuel his already greatly disturbed Arcana as it flows through his being in rapid discharges; once rustling silk of its steady flow 

The grand scheme of things, he may have lost his everything, but he could still seek and aspire to achieve unheralded dreams, as he replaces scattered pieces of his fractured days brick by brick, suffocating his projected fears and apprehensions, replacing them with deep-seated wishes in cinemascopic scenes. How Scorpion wished everything will heal; just as his eternal, ancient body will retain multitudes of scars and lacerations and seamlessly heal as if nothing had taken place, so will his heart and mind. Even his soul will repair itself, and perhaps - his happiness too, will come back. 

Death may be what gives meaning to his life, but he doesn’t use the pleasure of the finitude of their stories, because he could live on and on forever, with embedded purpose of his existence having to live with a soulmate connection. Scorpion does not speak in subtleties, but of maddened pathos and passion. Having been left totally flabbergasted, but maintaining his austere, stern facade as the twilight angst spills beneath the gritted jaw and teeth. 

“Fatigue is a commitment of a body and heart urging you to take on a proper recuperation and repose. Or otherwise - you will never make it with enough strength to greet another new day. I should not have to urge you so, especially when the active oblivion of engulfing darkness perpetuates death as your lover,” Scorpion’s words are absolute, visceral, tinged with the ravenous storm of embedded fire. Beneath his own whirlwind of emotions, and despite having conquered Death itself, yet still very well capable of enduring the darkest of night and blackest of black, the wraith dashes as the curling smoke of his reappearing form secures Yang’s crumbling torso, as strong bulwark of his front cradling her in protective shield. Scorpion does not dare ask where she received such a deep, writhing laceration; it is of a familiar location, where stored breaths and blood would emulate to become a spilling cascade that would bring an irreversible ramification. Scorpion simply puts his tender hand, gently probes the wound in order to clamp it shut, to cauterize the wound before he could begin a proper procedure. 

How his wounded pride and sinking despair threaten to strangulate Scorpion’s entirety, impaling him with the familiar sense of hopelessness which he had futilely endured and death he resists to no avail. If he could - he would bleed oceans for her instead, and toy with the flirtation with points of no return. One should see how his dreams can burn, accelerated by promises poured onto his purified flames; fanned and bloomed without wretched destruction. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || 

[lachalaine]

📱 ☆ ☃

Random Headcannons

📱: Does your muse prefer calling or texting?

She’s good with either, but – it heavily depends on a fewsituational differences. If she’s not that close to you that much, she doesprefer to text and she’s more sorta….. demure about it. Like she’s evidentlypolite and keeps things simple and if it’s something fairly serious, she’lljust call to get it out of the way so she’ll have nipped whatever her problemis right in the bud before it could get any worse.

However, if she is in any way comfortable with you to a certaindegree, such as she would consider herself your friend – even if you don’tconsider her one at all – she will,for lack of a better term, spam your phone into oblivion. Not because shenecessarily means to half the time, but because she’s more comfortable with you– the filter she might usually have actively dissipates and her brain just endsup feeding her more information than she can put into one text, not to mention herfinger is sort of trigger happy on the send button so the messages just popthrough one after another without fail until she actively receives a response.This gets much, much worse when she’soverreacting over a situation and needs a response asap, so she’ll try to vent towhoever she’s texting but honestly putting it all into one long message is a littletoo slow for her so she just rages on with capital letters and incorrectspelling like so:

Text [11:15 PM]: I’m so annoyed

Text [11:16 PM]: I’m so so fucking annoyed like you need to getdown here before I do something I know I won’t regret.

Text [11:16 PM]: Can you fuckin g believe this DI PSHIT ??? HE’SSTILL GOING ON ABOUIT IT, LIKE NO ONE FUCKING CARES. AND HE��S LAUGHING ANDEVERYONE IS JUST FUCKING JNDJSJDBAJSJ

Text [11:18 PM]: HOW FUCNKING DARE HE HE DESERVES TO ROT !!!!

Text [11:23 PM]: THAT’S IT. I’M GONNA CASTRATE HIM

Text [11:23 PM]: MO THERFUCK ER

And to a certain degree, she does that when she’s drunk as well,but most especially when she’s tired. Her being drunk is actually safer because its predominantly just halfher wanting to text people but eventually passing out, unlike when she’s sleepy– there’s just… nothing actively holding her back. It’s like the exhaustion effectivelydrives her crazy as she’s trying to grab energy from SOMEWHERE THAT DOESN’TEXIST because her reserves are completely depleted and so she ends up textingpeople and acting out at the most godforsaken hours of the morning and that’susually when her stupidest ideas usually come to light. And that’s when shegoes searching for someone to drag into hell with her, but instead of it beingangry text messages being sent out, it’s all just a lot of:

Text [2:01 AM]: I’m coming over !!! I HAVE POPCORN. I COOKED IT.IT WON’T KILL U I PROMISE.

Text [2:07 AM]: I’m here I’m here I’m here !!!!

Text [2:07 AM]: ding dong

Text [2:08 AM]: Where art u

Text [2:08 AM]: r u asleep

Text [2:08 AM]: why u sleepin I GOTTA POPCORN

Text [2:09 AM]: BEEP BEEP BITCH

Text [2:17 AM]: Your milk is going bad.

Pity whoever wakes up to that deluge of text messages, goes intothe kitchen and finds her passed out on their table next to an empty cerealbox. You’d be lucky to find her still passed out on your front porch tbh. She’dstill be there throughout the night and effectively fuck up your morning but atleast your kitchen is in the clear.

But also she does like calling people sometimes, but that’s sortof really more reserved for people she’s closer to. It’s easier to hide how shereally feels through text messages, you see. When she ends up talking topeople, her voice can tend to crack. You can hear it when she’s sad, or whenshe’s not in the mood. It’s easier to pretend she’s happy when all she has todo is type up a few letters, but on the same token – she tends to hate it. Textingmakes her feel, to a certain degree – detached.

And Jackie searches for an actual connection sometimes, even ifshe doesn’t realize it. She won’t actively ask for help when she needs it, butif she’s feeling a little too lonely or a little too out of it and needssomething real to hold on to for that moment, that’s when she’ll usually makethe decision to call. Usually it might not be for anything in particular maybe,so she’ll prattle on about silly things for a time, but just having someone onthe other end talk to her is usually soothing enough for her to calm down andremember herself. A reminder to her that even in her own darkness, there issomeone out there who cares for her in even the simplest of ways, even thoughher mind usually tells her otherwise.

She wouldn’t prefer to meet them in person when she’s in thosemoods, because having that concern given to her point blank would make herdefenses shatter and she’d end up crying and she honestly really, really hatesthat. So doing it over the phone is just so much easier because it allows her toopen up without necessarily feeling like all her vulnerabilities are being putout on display. So if she does call you to talk, it’s something prettymomentous in itself. It means she misses you, it means she trusts you to acertain degree, and it means she needs you.

She’s just not quite sure how to say it.

☆ : Of the sun, stars, and the moon,which is your muse’s favorite?

The stars above all else, though the moon is a close contender.There’s something so captivating about the glimmer of the stars to her; athousand sparkling diamonds that flicker out in the darkness, that essentially remindsher of how small she really is in comparison to the rest of the world. Andrather than let that scare her, she tends to feel amazed by it; because itgives her some sense of peace almost – to come to the realization that theworld is so huge and there are still so many discoveries and experiences stillwaiting for her to explore. It inspires her, reminds her not to give up. It helps remind that even her current problems at the moment areoverall small speed bumps in the face of what her future could possibly bring, and anything in the world is possible - including healing – so long as she keeps moving.

She loves the stars because they remind her that even in thegloom, they still shine. They never truly disappear, and they still light the path no matter where you might wander. They watch over you though you feel like you might bealone, and they almost seem to feel like friends to her in a way. She’swhispered her secrets to them, her deepest wishes. She’s cried in theirpresence, a few too many times along empty rooftops. And always, she’s been comfortedby their presence when she looks up and sees them still in place, still twinklingdown at her and lending just a bit of their light – almost a source of strengthto remind her that she herself still sparkles no matter the darkness she’s beenthrough. And as silly as it may be, that alone keeps her going.

Because no matter how much she might burn within the oftentimes oppressivedarkness she finds herself in; like the stars, she resolves not to let her own light drown within it.

☃ : What is your muse’s favorite season? What about their least favoriteseason, if they have one?

She tends to like every season, but her favorite season above allwould be that of Summer. Not necessarily for the weather, because she hates theheat like nothing else, but more due to the fact that she loves the essence offun that it brings, the amount of energy and vibrancy that comes with allthings related to the season itself.

That usually means trips to the beach, vacations and road trips bythe truckload. Her wanderlust seems to grow even stronger and opportunities aboundas music festivals are usually more prominent during this season as well, and soshe travels, as she’s always best enjoyed being able to play those types ofevents on the beach as well. There’s a sense of freedom that comes along with thisparticular season, and she makes sure to use it to its complete potential.During this time, the sun’s rays almost seem to give Jackie a bit more vitalitythan usual, replenishing her usual vivacity into something even brighter – otherwise allowingher to give back more of her own energy to those around her.

Her fashion style somewhat tends to gets a little more ordinaryfor the general public as well, whether on the beach or off of it – which issomething she appreciates. Whether it be shorts or bikini tops, she doesn’t seemto get the usual amount of judgmental stares during this period, because it cantend to be pretty normal to wear such things with how hot it can get. That’s something sheappreciates as a reprieve from, at the very least. Not that she cares too muchabout what some people might think, but it can get her somewhat self-conscious attimes, being subjected to it for a majority of the year. So her more risque clothing can tend to make an appearance, but mostly just because she really likes being able to express herself fully more than anything. 

Her least favorite season however would probably be that ofSpring, for no reason other than it just doesn’t strike her fancy as much asAutumn or Winter would. Jackie does like the arrangement of flowers that bloomsforth during this time of the year, yet that’s about it. Otherwise, she alsotends to prefer Summer blossoms above that of those of Spring as well, so it’s not toomuch of an astounding experience for her in any case. She can appreciate the season for what it is. Anything more, and she altogether can get a bit too bored. 

Unless its cherry blossoms, at least. That part of Spring, she definitely looks forward to.

// @luseron

[hereticaloracles]

Pluto Retrograde- The Empty

“The universe is transformation; life is opinion.” – Marcus Aurelius

Effective Dates: April 20th- September 29th 2017

 Helios– What’s the point to it all? Seriously, when you get right down to it, why are we here? Why bother? More importantly, does any of it matter? None of us ask to be born, it just happens to us- We don’t get a say in our genetics, attractions, families, status, or challenges. Life is random; if you’re lucky you have some sex, and then you die. Sure, your mileage may vary, but that’s about it. Our only true reason for existence is to take oxygen and convert it into carbon dioxide through respiration, and we get no choice in that. We get precious few choices in this life, and it seems as though they are just petty appeasement in the face of all that we get no say in. Heretics, welcome to your Pluto transit: We’ve been waiting for you.

Death looms behind us all, like a shadow of some far-off colossus, dwarfing us with it’s presence. In the face of an unstoppable force, what can we do, we flickering candles in the void? These are the kinds of questions Pluto asks us when he comes to darken our doorsteps, and man is he about to. You always know when you’re under a Pluto transit- it always feels like the very earth itself has opened up to swallow you whole. This time however, it feels like… more.

Pluto is hard for almost all of us, because Pluto- the planet of Death, Sex, and Transformation- Is a part of us that is completely outside of our control. Pluto is a point of pure emotion, and facing such a raw, uncontrolled part of ourselves terrifies a lot of people. It always feels like a huge, gaping chasm opening up in front of you, roiling and boiling, and filled with eldritch horrors lurking just beneath the surface. Pluto is all that we fear, the horrors that we carry within us. He is the monster we can always become, the part of ourselves that we are always running from and looking over our shoulder for.

Pluto can also be the best friend you ever had. I always talk about how you can’t fight Pluto, and you can’t- Not without any success anyway. Pluto is an unstoppable force, and he will get what he wants for you with your help or with your struggle, either way. However, if you work with him instead of fighting him at every turn, then you get a seat at the table- a say in your own transformation. Of course, the fear can keep you from seeing this, what with that big gaping chasm that wants to swallow you whole and all… but what if I told you that there was nothing to fear?

Yes, the big gaping chasm is terrifying, but not when you realize it’s actually a pit of pure potential. This is otherwise known as the primordial force of Chaos– Anything can happen when you use it, but you have to have the cojones to actually step up and ask for it. If you are willing to dive into the pits of Hell, then and only then will you find the power to get what you want. This is not like the other times you have gone into the underworld, Heretics- This is a deep dive, right to the lowest point. It is terrifying to even consider as you stand on the edge of the cliff, but Pluto whispers one more question in your ear- “How far are you willing to go for me?”

I know it feels far easier to just abandon hope and cut out your heart so that you don’t have to be in pain anymore. Shutting down seems so much more preferable than what you feel. You don’t want to fight anymore, and you don’t want to hurt. Walking into the darkness that you think you deserve just feels like the right thing to do- better to be a wretch among demons than angels, no?

 Artemis- (Cards: The Moon [XVIII], The Fountain [∞], Strength [XI])-  I’m going to be talking big themes here, because the outer planets care very little for our personal lives – especially Pluto way out there straddling oblivion.  What we call “Pluto” doesn’t give a fuck about your paradigm.  He doesn’t give a damn about your opinions or your beliefs or any other way you decorate reality.  We all cling to mass consensus, hoping that the greater society will pull us away from this primal energy; this creeping understanding of our own mortality and the immense, crushing power of the universe.  We know we cannot control it, but we sure as hell attempt to.  And if that fails, we desperately try and hide it from view.  We allow ourselves to be lulled into thinking that if we follow society’s prescribed formula that we will be safe from this looming, savage monster.   We become numb to the terror that is fed to us each day – hoping that we can become desensitized to death, violence, suffering, and inevitable transformation.  They bombard the televisions with blood and misery 24/7, and our watered down modern religions echo their sentiments with veiled ideas of peace and light all the while cradling heavy themes of this undercurrent of undiscriminating violence.

The Moon. These images of terror are an undercurrent in our reality. They call it “the underworld” because it always sits just under the conscious mind, threatening to emerge like zombie hands – grasping at your attempts to escape and swallowing you into a pit of despair time and time again. Ominous much? Well, Pluto is ominous as fuck. He is the elephant in the room. He is that dread that creeps over your shoulder no matter how pleasant a situation may be. He reminds you that you are mortal, that you will rot on the very earth on which you stand, and that this very moment, like all moments, is absolutely temporary. We try and capture experiences on camera, on paper with ink, or any myriad of ways, and hope that somehow we can last forever. We think passing on our memory to others by doing “good” and “epic” or even “notorious” deeds may accomplish this, but even Hitler/Alexander the Great/Gandhi/Aristotle will one day fade to nothing. The primordial chaos creates, but so too must it destroy to learn from it’s own personal karma (Kali Ma).

The Fountain. The universe, like the sun (as above so below), beats like a heart. Expand, contract, birth, re-birth, and then an explosion – the death, the return to void. Eventually, the universe will return to itself, possibly to start the cycle of creation all over again. Each moment we are dying and being renewed by the infinite well of the universe – the thing that we call “primordial chaos.” Chaos feels terrifying because it is completely, and utterly, uncontrollable. Our attempts to control it, to encapsulate it and dissect it, are met with fierce resistance. What we don’t realize is that these very attempts to control chaos are reflections for the chaos on itself. We, creation, are a lucid mirror for the primordial chaos. In Astrology, Pluto in your chart shows you how you will reckon with this force – how you will reflect the universe onto itself and how you will come to realize what the true reality is. Pluto is judgement – apocalypse in the true sense of the word, an “unveiling.” This is why the We are the veil itself, Heretics, and to see what we truly are, we must suspend our ego. The only way to do this is through death, after a life of intense reflection. Pluto is our preparation for the underworld, and only through passing it’s karmic lessons for us this lifetime will we be able to vanish into the chaos in peace. Chaos must reckon with itself, and we are it’s vehicle for doing so.     

Strength. Crowley calls the Strength card “Lust” and it has been referred to as “The Power” in a lot of tarot decks. It is commonly depicted as a delicate woman overpowering a massive lion. This is a metaphor for learning to live with our own beast nature in a “civilized” society. Venus retrograde in Aries couples with this Pluto Retrograde, Heretics, meaning we have our weapon of choice – our wild nature come to make itself known again. We waste too much energy trying to suppress our animal instincts when we can be using them to our advantage. Your animal side is what tells you when you have opportunity, when you have danger, when you can smell the love and lust or even hate off another’s skin. Our beast nature is Pluto, and we must exercise it, not exorcise it, for exorcising it would destroy us in the process. This transit seems to be all about getting in touch with the dirt of the world and learning to flow with it, like a wild river, and drawing from it’s power instead of blocking it out.  The primordial chaos is an integral part of us that we can never separate from, no matter how hard we try to tie bows around it’s neck and dictate manners to it. Without this ravishing wildness, the universe couldn’t create and thus couldn’t actually see itself for what it truly is.

Harness this energy, Heretics, and remember that an infinite power resides inside of you that no one can exorcise, no matter how much they blind you with hypnotism and propaganda. Do not forget your power. Do not forget your origins. Do not forget the millions of years of instinct that got us all to this point. This is our preparation for taking back our world, and we must not fear – we must not falter – do not attempt to smother your passion just because it is something society deems invaluable – for if we cannot harness our inner chaos, we cannot move mountains and crush the faulty systems in place in society like Pluto in Capricorn demands.          

Pluto Retrograde- The Empty was originally published on Heretical Oracles