#boy boyar

[whetstonefires]

Unfortunately Laurence's family are extremely easy to locate, due to their prominence. I think his mom is in serious danger in this scenario.

Ever since that "can your fave survive castle Dracula" blog did Stephen Maturin I've been thinking about Temeraire Characters vs. Castle Dracula so here's the breakdown: Laurence: About as good odds as the average Jonathan Harker. He has similar approach to religion (and would probably take the crucifix out of social obligation) and ability to manage the social situation with Dracula. He has experience being prisoner of various groups for various motives, and he has a tendency to accidentally make arrogant tyrants fall in love with him, so he's good on the "keeping Dracula's attention" front. If he managed to get in the baby situation he'd probably die because he'd try to save it (self-sacrificial martyr streak) but it's unlikely he'd end up in that exact spot with the vampire ladies since I think he'd be a lot more military and methodical about any exploring and always return to safe zones up until his actual escape attempt. Anyway if he lives long enough to try climbing he's home free, the man might not be a born and bred aviator but he's been climbing first ships' rigging and then dragon harness his entire life and once escaped a palace that was on fire by climbing down the outside. CAN survive. Tharkay: As a major proponent of “if it sucks, hit da bricks,” Tharkay climbed out the window on night #1. Granby: Granby would take the crucifix and from there it would mostly depend on how much Dracula finds him entertaining. Granby won't be polite about being imprisoned, and is used to Iskierka who will react to his protests by overruling him instead of getting bored and killing him. So i'm inclined to think Dracula would not find him so fun, in which case he probably would kill him early on. That said he could probably make the climb even one-handed. (again, burning palace experience) Could Survive but Probably Won't. Sorry Granby. Jane Roland: I will be honest I do not see any situation in which Jane could be tempted into castle Dracula in the first place, at least not without Excidium also being there on a mission of destruction. She's more of a Quncy Morris type, only she wouldn't die because she'd be on the back of a fifteen ton dragon who will melt Dracula into a horrible goo from aloft. Survives, by virtue of not playing.

Arthur Hammond: I cannot stress enough how fast this man dies.

Temeraire: Is a dragon the size of a frigate with a sonic attack that regularly causes landslides. Castle Dracula does not survive him.

[yallemagne]

My take is that people try hard to make Dracula into The Phantom of the Opera. But it doesn't work.

And even the Phantom of the goddamn Opera is not a good love interest. He's manipulative, he's a groomer, and he's a murderer.

BUT EVEN HE HAD A TRAGIC BACKSTORY. He was born with deformities that caused the world to be cruel to him. He was once innocent. The tragic part is that, instead of trying to better the world, he was determined to make it so everyone else would have to suffer as he did. He's a villain but at least one that you could feel a bit bad for.

Dracula was a fucking warlord. He's had everything given to him on a silver platter, and the few things that were denied to him? He would kill and maim and torture anyone in his way to get what he wanted. The best people can put forward as a "tragic backstory" for him is "oh his wife died". Yeah, his wife, who was likely a glorified slave to him: living property. And when she apparently reincarnates into some random poor Englishwoman who does not love or want him, he will kill, maim, and torture anyone to steal back his "property".

I hate Erik, but holy shit, he has a reason for his cruelty. Now, there's never a good reason to be so cruel, but he at least has a defined motivation. He was denied all the comforts of life, and so now, he feels entitled to them. The people he lashes out against are people he perceives to have wronged him. But when he is shown kindness, he realizes how wrong he has been and lets Christine go.

Dracula was some entitled rich boy. Vampirism suits him because he's always been a parasite who can get away with bleeding people dry because he is their boyar. He cut off his connection with Mina because she was a threat, because he didn't realize a woman could outsmart him, and now he's running away like a coward. The only way they could stop his reign of terror was to KILL HIM.

You know a man sucks when I start defending the Phantom.

[blueiight]

kircheis spaceboys

thinking about siegfried kircheis is so uniquely painful bc if we're meant to think of lotgh as a meta narrative within a narrative then kircheis is a character who's legacy was enshrined in his death, his absence and the questions of how much better would it be if he was here (to the point that it became a joke in of itself). it rly makes me wonder what kind of character, what kind of young commoner boy would give up his whole life in every sense of the word for the sake of a minor noble's ambitions. he came from a stable home, was his parents’ only child. so its truly love for reinhard & annerose that drives him, which is the most altruistic motive of all the space generals & gunners we meet here. annerose and kircheis by virtue of being reinhard’s most cherished people occupy this saint-like quality in the narrative, but we learn annerose is a bit tortured. in talking to hilda we learn annerose blames herself for kircheis’s death, bc shes the one who told kircheis to be a good friend to reinhard, and annerose herself cant stand to even meet reinhard for 3 seasons /8 books over this. ‘now you have nothing else left to lose,’ annerose told reinhard at that juncture. which is remarkably cruel for reinhard in that shes saying kircheis is all u cared for, but also cruel for annerose bc shes essentially killing herself off metaphorically with kircheis. reinhard rationalizes annerose’s unusually cold words in these moments as her being a grieving lover. and its hard to say if she could do anything with her own love & how much of her love in the first place is rooted in annerose looking up to the only guy who didnt treat her like a concubine or a mommy. im reminded of book8 commenting on reinhard’s fraught relationship w annerose here. ‘In losing that which should not have been lost, Reinhard had allowed past to be severed from present; the brilliance of that long-ago spring light�� were now far beyond.’ which is something reinhard also says in the ova.. in reinhard’s mind, he has to place annerose as dead in the past with kircheis to bear living. he has to place annerose with the ghost of kircheis, bc confronting how he lost his two most beloved people at such a critical success in his rise to power is too painful. bc we lose out on kircheis’s voice so early, his ghost quite literally haunts the narrative bc of his significance to one of the protagonist’s reinhard. reinhard’s other half literally is what everyone, including kircheis’s killer ansbach, calls kircheis. reinhard’s entire emotional stability was quite literally built on kircheis. but u have to wonder how things wouldve went if kircheis remained alive any longer than what he did considering that this is where he was at.👇🏾

kircheis is a commoner here, whos entire rise to power was so intimately tied to his proximity to reinhard & annerose. so him asking this is not only a matter of his doubts on reinhard’s specific actions here but also implicitly meant to think on how hes dedicated more than half of his life to reinhard’s cause under the belief that reinhard was doing the right thing. a quest to overthrow a 500+ year old dynasty, to liberate ur cherished sister/friend who was sold in sexual slavery to the king, that r just causes. kircheis needs to believe reinhard is of the right character to be the steward & master of space. someone can readily rationalize their involvement in the war apparatus as fighting the ‘other’ side of the war, can readily rationalize their rise to power as a means to these righteous ends. but reinhard’s cruel acts in s1 like starving out the civillians of the fpa, cosigning the attack on westerland as political pretext , the lives of millions he couldve saved but chose to let braunschweig kill to use as proof of the boyar nobility’s evil , cannot be so easily excused , and reinhard’s hunger for power is now hardly related to liberating annerose or annerose at all bc he dont even have to do anything to free her. annerose is liberated by friedrich’s death. the ova puts the choice of ignoring braunschweig’s attack westerland on oberstein lying to reinhard about when the attack would take place. which is, weak! it makes reinhard look incompetent for keeping such a seditious subordinate, and morally whitewashes reinhard in this incident. oddly enough (or thankfully?) the ova treats it as if the book’s line of events occurred in that scene from then on, with kircheis unafraid to question reinhard for his complicity in this act & cutting no corners in their final confrontation. reinhard responds so cruelly bc he has no rebuttal to kircheis, he even says ‘kircheis will just have to understand the need for spilling blood’, and delegates him to being the ‘same as the rest’.. but the central questions kircheis raised here would not have the easy answers kircheis needed to stay as reinhard’s heart, as his other half. bc barring sending the fortress where kircheis died into the shadow realm , reinhard still wouldve done all the things he did in later seasons. and kircheis who has his own moral compass would have to diverge with reinhard inevitably. forever reminded of tanaka saying that this split was inevitable.. sad as it sounds, it was best for kircheis to die at this juncture. he is the legend inside a fictional legend, the balm to all of reinhard’s troubles forever n ever, the other half of reinhard’s heart thats left forever empty, with battle + blood used to fill reinhard’s lonely little soul. and kircheis even on the verge of death knew reinhard would destroy himself without him which is why he reminds him go take the universe. live for something without me. bc i couldnt bear to live to see what u would become.

[sabraeal]

Summer Camp 2024 prompts: 3, 19, 35

03. A leader in a time of change

Kivan folklore speaks of their first true king: in time of chaos he arrived, men and women and children alike dying as they fought each other for the land left to them as the Empire encroached. Clans would fight and make peace only to turn around and sink the knife in as soon as it might given them a single toehold, the Kivan way of life dying as the plains were soaked red with the blood of its true people.

There was to be one, last great battle, the six tribes limping to what was meant to become their grave-- but before the warriors could meet, a great shadow fell over the field. When they looked up, they saw a bird in the sky, red as flame itself, and when it landed the dried grass set alight, smoke rising up until it nearly blotted out the sun.

A great wind blew from the north, and when the smoke cleared, a man stood before all of them, calling himself Koschei. He told the khans and their great armies that today they would have the pleasure of bending down before him and calling him king.

If we have not bent to the will of the Emperor, one khan laughed, then we will not bend to the likes of yours either. The khans sent their best warriors to take him on, and Koschei dispatched with all six. You may have defeated one man from my tribe, said another, but you cannot defeat all of us.

It is then that Koschei's army revealed itself: a hundred swordsmen, surrounding the valley and the khans. As the battle began, each of them took down a hundred of each khan's warriors before the clans yielded, overwhelmed by their superior skill.

I am now your king, the man called Koschei declared, and I will stand for no other in my kingdom. In less than a year, he had expelled the Meridians from their borders-- though it would not stop their inevitable encroachment through culture, later-- and the Zhartisov dynasty was born.

19. A sub-culture considered larger-than-life by some

Koschei's first army came to be known as the Mechin; sword-sons, born and sworn to the blade, his most loyal retainers-- and feared by the new boyars he made from the old khans. His best he kept by side, marrying them off to the daughters and granddaughters of khans, starting the new lines of the Kivan nobility, and the rest he freed, allowing them to choose their own lives. Many of them chose to make their own fraternity, honing their already prodigious skills into something nearly supernatural, lending themselves out to worthy causes-- or whoever had the most coin-- and, in time, becoming the teachers of their brothers' sons, and their sons in turn.

It is said that not just any young man can become a Mechin; one must first past their rigorous tests, and even still, many of their young applicants end up crippled by the experience, unable to do more than lay in bed and wait for Maaneh to take them. But those that do pass become one of Kiva's elite, nearly good as a landed title itself.

35. A tradition that represents moral decay

With so much of their life based around the planting and reaping of harvests, the Kivans worship no one more than the Horned Pater and his earth-goddess wife, the mother goddess Easha. She is a devoted wife to her husband, and obedient wife, giving way beneath the share of his plow, allowing herself to be molded by his will.

However, in the heathen south she is known of as Eanna, earth and mother goddess still, but also that of fertility and love. Her temples are tended by the most tempting clergy, meant to aid their devotees in keeping sexual release divorced from romantic desire. Most devout Kivans find this practice barbaric, calling her southern temples bordellos at best, and whorehouses at worst, shunning the Empire for its corruption of the Horned Pater's loyal wife.

However, with only a boy prince on the throne and a Vilin regent behind him, Koshstena has become a more cosmopolitan city, welcoming more of the Empire's influence. The worst, at least in the opinion of the Paterev and their devoted parishioners, is that of a new temple to Eanna, with clergy sent up from Kentropa Mundi itself.

[coffeewithcutcaffeine]

Because I have been thinking a lot about Vlad's mother and crafting her character these days, I have been thinking about all the ways Vlad takes after her. I make them have a close bond and imagine Vlad to be a bit of a momma's boy (mostly because we know that Vlad Dracul favoured Mircea)... but what if their bond is so close because his personality is so similar to hers?

The popular interpretation is that Vlad was hot-headed, short-tempered, and passionate after Vlad Dracul. It kind of makes sense — you paint a picture of a valiant and brave hero, super masculine and badass, while the wife is more subdued and reserved, more analytical, and tame. But when you look at the facts, Vlad Dracul's rule was hardly marked by bravados and risky endeavours. In fact, he seems to be more of a cautious ruler, even a very diplomatic one. Vlad's character and ruling style actually resemble the House of Mușat a bit more. Bogdan II, Vlad's uncle, was known for his strict policies against the Moldavian boyars in a manner that Vlad later incorporated into his own agenda. Stephen the Great was also a ruler prone to taking greater risks, and the two voivodes often shared similar policies and outlooks.

We could argue that Vlad could have been greatly influenced by his mother's side of the family during his stay in Moldavia, but I feel like it would be plausible to work with the option that the philosophy and worldview he found among this side of his family closely aligned with his own... because those values came from his mother.

In my story, I want to shed more life on the women in Vlad's life, mostly because we know next to nothing about them. We know their names (if even), but they were often deemed uninteresting — yet they were living and breathing human beings, and I believe they must have possessed brave and strong personalities because of when they lived, who they lived with, and who they raised. We also have this rooted image of medieval women being soft and submissive, hiding in the shadows, even though the reality often could not have looked more different. I believe they deserve as much spotlight as the brave men whose stories are being told — obviously, more fictionalised as we lack the facts, but deserving of having a voice, too.

I love the idea of Vasilisa being a hidden little spitfire, a graceful and poised lady who, at the same time, spoke her mind and thought for herself, sharing those traits with her son and encouraging him to protect that fire within himself. Because he can. Because he does not have to hold it back the way she has to but can instead use it to reach his full potential.

[vladdocs]

Hello, I want to start off by saying I hope you’re having a good day :)

I’m here to ask if there’s any specifics about the relationship Vlad had with his brothers. It’s noted that he avenged his older brothers death, is there any documentation that gives clues to what the Dracula brothers were like? Why Radu had went against Vlad or anything? Apologies if you have answered this in the past!

Thank you for all the education you bring, truly it is a fascination and super fun to read!

Salut! Vlad had a complicated relation with his brother just like any other medieval royal family. On a hand his your kin from the same blood, on the other hand he is a future candidate for the throne. So it was quite a neutre relatioship, they didn't love eachother or hated. Radu fought Vlad because they were in the oposite sides, just like why Stefan fought Vlad. It didn't put any bad blood between them. that's how things were back then. So how his brothers were from the documents: Radu: He is quite cold and blank really, he alaways stick with the standard letters, never added something different to them so we can't make up an idea of his personality, he took as hostage the wives and children of the boyars that helped Vlad, He wasn't as respected as Vlad since the brasovans refuse to pay their debts to him, he would use treats like "I have power from the turks" and the ottomans described him as quite submissive (tho they describe everyone like that). He was a good ruler tho, improve stuff, build churches, didn't sold the country to the ottomans (always a + in my book) but quite an empty ruler. Mircea: Mircea is a little different, He was a warrior like Vlad, He wanted kinda wanted to protect his brother but also not to, he was doing what it was told to. The chronicler Jean the wavrin talked with him:

“In the meantime, the son of the lord of Wallachia went to visit the lord of Wavrin, to whom, after greeting him, had an interpreter say that he was planning an enterprise against the Turks: and, if he promised him not to judging him badly, he would tell him his secret; which the lord of Wavrin absolutely swore to him. And then the interpreter, having received instructions from the son of Wallachia, spoke in this way: "My father sent for me and told me that, if I do not avenge him of that subachi of that castle of Georgye (Giurgiu), he will disown me and he no longer considers me his son; because he is the one who betrayed him and who, with a safe conduct from the Turk, made him go to the aforementioned Turk, then took him prisoner to the castle of Gallipoli, where he held him for a long time with chains on his legs . Now the fact is that he and his Saracens have now surrendered to my father, their lives and possessions must be spared, and they must be taken to Vulgarye (Bulgaria); and I will go, along with 2000 Wallachians, two leagues from here, cross the river and set up an ambush on their path: so, when they try to go to Nicopolis, I will be in front of them, so I will put them all to death . ” A thing to which the aforementioned lord of Wavrin did not answer a single word, neither good nor bad. So the aforementioned son of Wallachia went away, to go and carry out his enterprise.“ In the same chronicle Jean the Wavrin actually tells Mircea about Radu being molested which I find quite a weird topic to talk about with a 15-year old boy in his way to butcher a garnizon of ottomans and just came back from a crusade but alright. At Varna Mircea was the only guy that did something, as much as Murad had to threaten him that will kill his 2 brothers if he continues From the chronicle of Beheim (He's a poet, the author of most of the brutal things you read on the internet about Vlad. so most likely as trustworthy as a Russian news station): " Many of them, a countless number, were killed. When the Emperor(Murad II) heard what great losses his men were suffering, he sent a message to Trakal(Dracul/Mircea): if he did not stop fighting before more messages came to him, he would kill his two brothers whom he had captured. He would do this if he did not show restraint in battle." Which Mircea did, tho this action had drastic consqueces. here is a video about Mircea I don't think Vlad was bother that much about Mircea's death but how was he killed, all people with noble blood like the boyars and ruler must be killed by sword (decapitation), when the pargars of Brasov buried Mircea alive they tehinically said they don't consider the Basarabs nobles. Vlad IV The Monk: This guy most likely was just a random monk and had nothing to do with the Draculesti, could be a step brother or something but it just speculations, Vlad mentions him in a letter from 1457 martie 14: "...But now we have heard and fully understood from the people of this priest of the Wallachians, who calls himself son of a lord..." Here Vlad IV did something unfanthomly based, he left. He quit being a pretender to the throne and went back to being a monk. He will become a ruler in 1481. He was a nice guy, didn't fight, write letters a lot, build and gifted churches (many churches), rule for 13 years, lived to be 71 (Which is the supreme proof that he was not a draculesti, all of them die in their 40s or younger, even Mircea the elder(BTW He's called "The Elder" because of Vlad's brother Mircea, there was a young one and an elder one)). So basically all of them got along pretty well, tho it was quite hard to be a brother back then, Ask Mehmed's brothers. Their relationship was sufocanting to say the least. I think Vlad liked his sister the most, Alishandra. He gave her 2 villages and married her to a boyar from prahova, pure brotherly love if you ask me.

[corvidamned]

💔

It's a simple enough question, Kira. Who did you love? "I'm 35 in two weeks. I don't really have a sizeable body count."

"I'm a demisexual. It means while I will flirt with anyone with a crumb of taste and a eye for power, I only really have sex with someone if I have an intense bond with them. The kind that exceeds that of a partner, because I am my father's son. I'm a boyar. A prince." She looks up briefly with a heavy glance, wondering if he believed her. She continued, gazing off.

"The last love was a soldier called Michael Samhain. He was my superior in our troop, and I muddied the waters, getting physical. He didn't love me back. Once he knew what I could do. What I did to save others on the battlefield from injuries that meant death. He regarded me as a monster. So when the time came that it was him out there, holding his guts, I made him into what I was. He liked it too much. A warzone is no place to begin the change. He was too volatile, so I had to put him down and go back to the world alone."

She gives a pause, just in case he wanted to run, before continuing on.

"The first love was a boy called Cere Haven. He was something I've never seen before. A demon. A naturally occurring bioweapon who was older than me and sought me out before I made the change. When I became, he revealed what he was and I was furious. It was clear he had an agenda for me and my blood that I wanted no part of. I loved him, but he needed to tear up my life just to claim me."

"I gave him my first time. I offered him the manor and my hand, but he just had to plot to have the whole world know of our existence. He killed the only girl that showed any interest in me. He wanted to mobilize his own forces. He instigated a riot. And the bodies were piling. The only way I could keep my life was to enlist my friends in his downfall, turn the crowd against him, and beat him bloody until the police came and shot to kill."

Kira frowns and finally looks up. Yeah, she doesn't blame him if he decides against starting anything with her. She's a death sentence.

[aohendo]

Prince for Hire Deleted Scenes, part 6

Amount deleted: many (this was part of a 10k swathe)

Reason for deleting: Trusov isn't a necessary character, so I've been going through and completely removing him. Also, Kiris should not be this trusting this early in the novel.

Way to fix it?: I'll need to write a similar 'oh shit contemplation/reflection'-type scene to replace this one, but without Trusov and with far more emphasis on the Turre threat.

Excerpt length: 905

Context: act 1, Kiris has just officially been adopted by Prince Nazvili, now trapped into attending the Turre's Competition for right to "rule" the Plateau, and has essentially fled to process.

Tag list (ask to be added or removed!): @whimsyqueen, @cactusmotif, @on-noon, @houndsofcorduff, @paradisiacalshroud.

“Yphant?”

Trusov was a solid mass, and Kiris ran into him. He blinked and the sun was blinding him off the water and he was outside. Trusov’s boat was behind him, still inside the gates blocking the Palace’s dock from the riffraff. He made for it. Perfect.

“Your forgery kit,” the Boots said.

Not perfect. He was barely over the gunwale when he slumped into a heap. His forgery kit. He couldn’t leave that. He could leave Yphant na Suem, but that kit—it was years in the making, even longer than the prince identity. There were handwriting samples from almost three hundred boyars and thirty princes, recreations of their personal pens, instructions on how to mix the inks they used, everything.

“Son, what’s wrong?”

He was supposed to be a prince right now, and here he was, curled up on a fishing boat, a pile of rope to one side and a bucket of fish water inset on the other. Nazvili just had this tunic washed. Tri-Life, what a thought.

Trusov’s hands clamped down over his shoulders. Kiris shot into the hull, back slamming into the ribbed wood, chest heaving and eyes wide.

“Okay. Hey.” Trusov’s hands splayed, kneeling in front of him. Kiris’ heart pounded like the night he escaped Toor Temple. It rushed through his ears and shook him against the hull. “I’m not going to hurt you. Let’s go out on the lake, how about that? We’ll come right back.”

Not freedom. The illusion; a dog returning to its master. What was the point? Kiris shook his head, mute, and slumped deeper into the hull. The water lapped below him, pushing and pulling the boat despite the security with which Trusov had fastened the knots this morning. One morning—less than twelve hours—and he’d given himself up. Six years, down the drain.

There was a thunk as Trusov settled a lid over the bucket of fish water. He sat next to him, a hand’s width between them. The gentle waves rocked the boat, and the sun rose into afternoon, and they sat.

“You want to tell me what happened?”

Until his heartbeat settled, until his breathing came in regular rhythm vice shallow gasps, Kiris didn’t answer. Then, finally, he tilted towards Trusov, letting their shoulders brush. “Nazvili made me her heir so she could send me to compete in the Turre’s Competition to rule the entire plateau.”

He didn’t want to look to see Trusov’s reaction, and so he didn’t. Instead, Kiris studied his hands. The skin was sun-tan—far more weathered than any prince was meant to have—and there were calluses from pens and paper. A thin layer of dust lined the creases on his palms.

“It’s going to kill me,” Kiris said, when Trusov was silent. “There are—” Kumarr, the Temples, anyone who knew about what he could give them. Kiris started again: “People have been hunting me for years. Vakon, I could stay ahead, but—but tied to a principality and sent to ‘L Tuola’s court? Once they hear, they’ll have me within a month.”

“I’d… imagine ‘L Tuola Turre has excellent guards.”

Kiris scoffed. “So did Prince Aatriok.”

“Ah,” Trusov said, and Kiris couldn’t blame him for not finding anything more. “Can’t say I understand really what’s going on—and I know you just said it all, and all that—but how about this. It’s coming up lunch and my boys always cook extra. You want some?”

Nazvili’s biscuits were good. Nazvili’s biscuits with the entire Boyar council when he had to sign away his freedom? Less good.

“Do you have a tunic I could borrow?” Kiris whispered, eyes caught in the fine detailing punctuating the glimmering yellow. “And a square?”

“’Course.” Trusov levered himself off the deck, groaning comically and cracking his back. He held out his hand, and, slowly, Kiris took it. There was a brief stutter of his heart, a flash of fear Trusov wouldn’t let go, he wouldn’t release him, free him, but it was gone and Trusov was across the deck. “My youngest is about your size. We keep spares for everyone onboard. Never know what a fish is gonna fight back, y’know?”

The tunic Trusov presented was soft in the way all well-loved garments were. It was patched in a menagerie of greens and greys, a colorful pattern where there was otherwise no detailing. The square was in similar state. But both were clean, and both were infinitely better than his own.

Kiris laid out the square and tucked the biscuits he’d taken from Nazvili’s war table, bundling them tightly. He emptied his pockets of everything but Trosk’s coins and replaced his tunic with Trusov’s as quickly as he could, equally quickly returning everything where it was meant to go. “Thank you.”

Trusov nodded, although there was the quirk of a frown on his lips directed at the bundle of biscuits before Kiris could put them away. Whatever it was, it passed quickly. “Now, with you not looking so royal, I’m thinking we’ll have an easier time sailing out of here than walking. You agree?”

“Yes,” Kiris said, and offered what help he could to the fisherman. He was selfish for keeping his prophecies to himself, even if he was going to have the Dargoulvga Bank give them to Toor Temple if they hadn’t received a new notebook after five years. The least he could do was this.

[angrenwen]

"As he got older, we got fonder of him, and he came to us more often. His family loved him and he loved them, he was never ill-treated, but they were poor and struggling. When Antoniu ate at our table, there was more for the others. When we gave him herbs to flavour a broth, or treat a sickness, they went into the pot and all the family benefited. When we gave him a cheese, or some vegetables, he took them home. So they never protested that their oldest son visited the witch’s cottage more often than most of the village approved of. Very poor people cannot turn up their noses at kindness, even from a witch.

He learned herb-craft from me, as he grew. For the goats, at first, and then for his family. There is no magic in a poultice to draw an infection or medicine a bruise, no magic in steeping herbs in vinegar that can clean a wound and prevent infection from setting in, and only the intrinsic magic of the root itself in all the hundred and one uses for garlic, which is sovereign against many ills and delicious as well. I gave him seeds for his mother’s garden, and taught him how to keep the soil rich and fruitful.

He never had any interest in magic, though he could have learned it. He was born wise, and that is a great part of the gift. But he loved animals and plants, and learned all he could of what we could teach. He would have made a good farmer, if the family had had any land.

Then one day, Antoniu didn’t come to collect our goats. No-one came. The next day, his younger brother came, with tears still running down his dirty face. “Antoniu said… to take your goats,” he snuffled. “He can’t be goatherd any more.”

“Why not?” Ecaterina asked sharply.

The boy burst into tears. “Soldiers came to the village. They took the older boys to be soldiers, and some men too. My Tată is too old, but they took Antoniu.”

“Antoniu is only fifteen,” Constanta said, horrified. “Only a boy!”

“He is big and strong.” The little one… I wasn’t sure if he was Timotei or Grigori, I hadn’t seen much of Antoniu’s siblings… snuffled pathetically. “That’s why they took him.”

Constantia started to cry, and Ecaterina to shout. I glared them both into silence, then leaned down until my face was level with his. “Boy, answer me this.” He nodded, eyes wide and frightened and nose still dribbling. Ignoring his nasty stickiness, I asked the only question that really mattered. “Took. Him. Where?”

The camp was some distance away. Two days’ march, for frightened boys forced along by soldiers. Two hours, perhaps, for witches with their own way of travelling and rage fuelling their magic. It wasn’t hard to find. Little Timotei or Grigori had seen which road they took, and there weren’t many places they could have gone from our remote village.

The boys were tied with ropes, lest they try to run back to their villages. There were far too many to have all come from our little village. The soldiers had been to other villages, taking boys and men to serve in their army. They were hard men, the soldiers, heavily armed and watchful. Glad enough to have this job, I thought, frightening unarmed villagers and frightened children instead of fighting for whatever boyar thought he ruled us. It changed now and then. In our remote villages, we never wondered much about them. The tax-collectors came and went, that was all.

But now they had come to take the boys, and that was different. A little money, some grain, a few sheep… we were resigned to that. But not this.

We three sisters didn’t need to use much magic, most of the time. Charms for a sick child, or a lost goat, or a good harvest. Like most witches, we were not called on often. Like most witches, we saved our power for when it was needed. And it was needed now.

The trees were first. They woke when we called them, and suddenly there was a great rustling and creaking all around the camp as the branches waved in the still air and roots flexed underground, ready to rise up to strangle and devour.

The fires were next. Fire is kin to all magical creatures, though it is a spellbreaker in its own right too. They heard us when we called to them, calling for the return of our children, and they joined in our rage. First they dropped down, hiding in their own embers, so that the dark of night filled the clearing, then they roared up, their flames blue and white, burning magic instead of wood.

The horses heard us, for all horses have a little of the magic of the wind in their blood, and they knew we meant them no harm. But they shared with us the fury of foals stolen and the herd threatened, and they screamed their fear and anger, fighting their bonds and kicking at any who came near them.

The men who thought themselves so strong and brave were already trembling when we came out of the forest, wrapped in shadow, with faces of nightmare. We leaned on twisted staffs, and clutched knives in withered fingers. Men who would not have flinched from a warrior or a giant screamed in terror when they saw witches coming out of the forest in leaping strides. Muma Pădurii, they screamed, and Baba Yaga, and other names.

Some fell to our sharp knives. More fell to the hungry roots of trees, dragged underground. Some went too near the horses, and fell to trampling hooves. Several the fires consumed, down to bone and ash. More than one died of pure terror. The conscripts cowered together, calling for their mothers like the children they were, but nothing touched them. We let nothing touch them.

When it was over, I caught the last man between my hands and lifted him up. He was young, and afraid, and he did not smell of blood as the others had. So I lifted him up, but did not harm him. “Go back,” I told him, and my voice was gentler now. “Go back, and tell whatever lord you serve that the men of this forest are not for his taking. Not now, nor ever. Go back, and tell him you are the last.”

He sobbed his gratitude and fled, not daring to even approach the horses.

When he was out of sight, we soothed the trees back to sleep, and let the fires die down to peaceful yellow again. Ecaterina went to the horses and soothed them, reassuring them that the foals were safe, and cut every rein. She bade them go home, for we meant them no harm, and to let the one messenger ride if they wished. They were good horses. All of them left by that road but three. Those three, all mares, went into the forest instead, saying they had business of their own. Perhaps another witch had called them, or perhaps they simply chose to go. We did not ask.

Then we shed our fearsome guise, and stood in our everyday forms, three women neither old nor young, hair covered by maramă, wearing the embroidered skirts and blouses of our own people. “Some people,” I said, prodding a dead soldier with my toe, “are easily fooled by illusions.”

“Bunică Minodora!” the cry was one of relief, and Antoniu staggered to his feet, though he could not straighten all the way bound as he was. “I am here!”

The other boys, silly children, cowered from him then, and I rolled my eyes at them. “Don’t be more foolish than you can help,” I told them, while Constanta bustled over to cut their bonds. “Remember this, all of you. Put more trust in the witches of your own people than the soldiers of the boyars, and remember that a witch never forgets a kindness or a good deed. Go home to your villages, and be glad that we came looking for a good boy who tended our goats and never ran from us. That boyar will not try to take children from our forests again.”

Most of them at least managed to thank us before they fled, and Antoniu hugged all three of us before he followed the others. “Thank you, grandmothers,” he said, smiling through tears of relief. “I will never forget.”

He is no longer the goatherd. A grown man, he married the daughter of a farmer with no sons, and his children will not be poor or hungry. The whole village knows that Antoniu is lucky, now, and a lucky man is a prize for any girl. But the goatherds don’t fear us any longer, and more people come to ask for help. It will be a long time before they forget that we sent their sons and husbands back to them, and gratitude comes in the form of honey, and milk, and good wool, and respect.

It is true, after all. A witch never forgets a good deed, or a kindness.

We never forget anything. And we very rarely forgive."

A trio of witches who live on the outskirts of town as outcasts befriend a neighbor child. They are annoyed at first by them but after their persistence realize they are genuine. One day they don’t show up as usual so the witches look for them and learn the town has been taken over by soldiers.

[obscurushydrae]

THE SOLDIER’S SACK, GLASS, & CARDS STATUS: GLASS: RECOVERED SACK: UNKNOWN; ASSUMED LOST CARDS: RECOVERED [ Reliquary Masterpost ]

The provenance of these relics can be proven directly– as is was given to me by its original owner.

I was never given a name, he was a very canny individual and very reserved with information. He served a Tsar for twenty five years and was rewarded with nothing more than the clothes on his back and three biscuits. (Which Tsar is difficult to tell, I suspect one of the earlier ones but I cannot say without evidence.)

He would exchange these biscuits with some beggars– the last gifting him a deck of cards and a flour sack. The deck of cards would never let the Soldier lose whenever he played, and anything the Soldier would compels into the sack, it would go in.

On his journey he bested some demons at cards with the deck, and trapped them in the sack, gaining their treasure and a boon from one of the devils in exchange for their freedom. The Soldier lived a comfortable life with the demon’s hoard, taking a wife and having a son.

When the son became deathly ill, he called upon his demon to finally free him from his contract in exchange for healing his son. The demon took a glass, and filled it with water, placing it on the child’s forehead and asking the soldier to look through. Death (one of the myriad death beings, one of my slavic cousins no doubt) sat at the child’s feet. The demon assured the boy would live, as death was at his feet and not at his head. Splashing the boy with the water, he would soon recover, and gave the Soldier the glass for his freedom.

The Soldier would soon be known as a healer, using his glass to heal boyars and generals– and even the Tsar himself. Unfortunately, death was at the Tsar’s head. Furious at the news, the Tsar ordered the Soldier to be beheaded– only for the Soldier to entreat Death to take him in the exchange of the Tsar’s life. Death allowed the Soldier time to bid his family farewell, and when it was time to go, the Soldier ordered Death into the sack, and Death was compelled to go.

Much like the situation with Sisyphus and cousin Thanatos, no death came to the lands of Russia for many years until the soldier relented. Once Death was free, they wanted nothing to do with the Soldier, letting the devils take him how they wish. However, even the Morningstar himself refused the Soldier entry. The Soldier, ever wily, offered to leave if given some damned souls for his sack. With the souls, he went to the gates of Heaven and offered their souls for his entry.

One of these souls he gave the sack and made one clear order– once in the gates he was to order the Soldier into the sack. But in his joy of entering Paradise, he forgot the explicit orders– thus leaving the Soldier immortal, left to wander the earth unwanted– until today.

The Soldier relinquished his cards and glass to me– his price for retiring into my domains. He now serves in my court among the empusae and shades, whenever he feels like it. And should the infernal court of Pandemonium ever cause me trouble… I shall use him accordingly.

[orthodoxydaily]

Saints&Reading: Tuesday, October 18, 2023

october 4_october 18

THE MONK PAUL THE SIMPLE (340)

Saint Paul the Simple of Egypt also lived in the fourth century and was called the Simple for his simplicity of heart and gentleness. He had been married, but when he discovered his wife’s infidelity, he left her and went into the desert to Saint Anthony the Great (January 17). Paul was already 60 years old, and at first, Saint Anthony would not accept Paul, saying that he was unfit for the harshness of the hermit’s life. Paul stood outside the cell of the ascetic for three days, saying that he would sooner die than go from there. Then Saint Anthony took Paul into his cell and tested his endurance and humility by hard work, severe fasting, with nightly vigils, constant singing of Psalms, and prostrations. Finally, Saint Anthony decided to settle Paul into a separate cell.

During the many years of ascetic exploits the Lord granted Saint Paul both discernment, and the power to cast out demons. When they brought a possessed youth to Saint Anthony, he guided the afflicted one to Saint Paul saying, “I cannot help the boy, for I have not received power over the Prince of the demons. Paul the Simple, however, does have this gift.” Saint Paul expelled the demon by his simplicity and humility.

After living for many years, and performing numerous miracles, he departed to the Lord. He is mentioned by Saint John, the Abbot of Sinai (Ladder 24:30): “The thrice-blessed Paul the Simple was a clear example for us, for he was the rule and type of blessed simplicity....”

THE MONKS JONA AND NECTARIUSOF KAZAN (16th c.)

Saints Jonah and Nectarius of Kazan were called John and Nestor Zastolsky before they received monastic tonsure. When Saint Gurias (December 5 ) was sent to the newly established Kazan diocese, the boyar John Zastolsky went with him. Under the spiritual guidance of Saint Gurias, John led a virtuous and pious life. He avoided sin, loved truth, and was strictly honest.

John raised his son Nestor in the fear of God. The gentle youth was an ascetic from childhood. He wore a hair-shirt, kept the fasts, and he loved to pray in church. With his father’s consent, Nestor became a monk with the new name Nectarius. He died at a young age, and was buried near the grave of Saint Gurias.

John was tonsured into monasticism with the name Jonah. Before his death, he left instructions that he also be buried near Saint Gurias.

At the uncovering of the relics of Saints Gurias and Barsanuphius in 1595, the incorrupt bodies and clothing of Saints Jonah and Nectarius were also found. They were left beneath a crypt in a chapel of the Kazan Savior-Transfiguration monastery. The chapel had been built by Jonah over the grave of Saint Gurias.

The saints are mentioned in the service to Saint Gurias, “Two monks, Jonah and Nectarius, ascetics well-pleasing to God, one born of the other, faithfully served you in the world. Upon your death, O Gurias, keeping sincere faith in you, built a chapel over your grave. These saints are buried here beside you, honored with incorruption from God above. Saint Gurias, pray with them unto Christ God, to grant us peace and great mercy.”

Source: Orthodox church in America_OCA

PHILIPPIANS 2:16-23

16 holding fast the word of life, so that I may rejoice in the day of Christ that I have not run in vain or labored in vain. 17 Yes, and if I am being poured out as a drink offering on the sacrifice and service of your faith, I am glad and rejoice with you all. 18 For the same reason you also be glad and rejoice with me. 19 But I trust in the Lord Jesus to send Timothy to you shortly, that I also may be encouraged when I know your state. 20 For I have no one like-minded, who will sincerely care for your state. 21 For all seek their own, not the things which are of Christ Jesus. 22 But you know his proven character, that as a son with his father he served with me in the gospel. 23 Therefore I hope to send him at once, as soon as I see how it goes with me.

LUKE 6:37-45

37 Judge not, and you shall not be judged. Condemn not, and you shall not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven. 38 Give, and it will be given to you: good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over will be put into your bosom. For with the same measure that you use, it will be measured back to you. 39 And He spoke a parable to them: "Can the blind lead the blind? Will they not both fall into the ditch? 40 A disciple is not above his teacher, but everyone who is perfectly trained will be like his teacher. 41 And why do you look at the speck in your brother's eye, but do not perceive the plank in your own eye? 42 Or how can you say to your brother, 'Brother, let me remove the speck that is in your eye,' when you yourself do not see the plank that is in your own eye? Hypocrite! First remove the plank from your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother's eye. 43 For a good tree does not bear bad fruit, nor does a bad tree bear good fruit. 44 For every tree is known by its own fruit. For men do not gather figs from thorns, nor do they gather grapes from a bramble bush. 45 A good man out of the good treasure of his heart brings forth good; and an evil man out of the evil treasure of his heart brings forth evil. For out of the abundance of the heart his mouth speaks.

[djuvlipen]

While this is making rounds, I'll follow this up with an excerpt from Dr. Ian Hancock's The Pariah Syndrom:

"One account tells us that “A Gypsy postillion or courier is often shot through the head or flogged to death upon any cause or no cause, without the murder being noticed, for ‘he is only a zigeuner”‘ (Chamber’s Journal, 1856:274). Colson, whose diary served as the basis of an excellent article by Roleine, described a typical visit to the home of one of these boyars:

When our traveller arrives, he is led to a couch, whereupon six young women appear. Discreetly, and with care, they wash his hands, while others serve him with refreshments. Their skins are hardly brown; some of them are blonde and beautiful. Handsome too are the boys who, in groups of three, will light his pipe. No, the domestics do not work themselves to death; it’s not unusual some times to find a hundred or more working in the same household ... could this kind of life be Heaven on Earth for them?

Let’s rejoin Colson at the dinner table: “Misery is so clearly painted on the faces of these slaves that, if you happened to glance at one, you’d lose your appetite.”

The Gypsy slaves are addressed by Christian names. Basil seems to be the most common, but they are also given house-names, such as Pharoah, Bronze, Dusky, Dopey or Toad, or for the women, Witch, Camel, Dishrag or Whore.

Never does a group revolt. In the evening, the master makes his choice among the beautiful girls - maybe he will offer some of them to the guest - whence these light-skinned, blonde-haired Gypsies. The next morning at dawn, the Frenchman is awakened by piercing shrieks: it is punishment time. The current penalty is a hundred lashes for a broken plate or a badly-curled lock of hair ... it is at this time that the abominable falagueis finally outlawed: this was when the slaves were hung up in the air and the soles of their feet were shredded with whips made of bull-sinews (Roleine, 1979:111).

            The offspring from these unwelcome sexual unions automatically became slaves. It was this exploitation, as Colson noted, which was largely responsible for the fact that many Gypsies are now fair-skinned; Cohn (1973:63) estimates the mean percentage of white genetic mixture as 60 percent. The mixing of white and Romani blood was not able to take place among the Netoci or runaway slaves (discussed at pp. 38-39), who lived as fugitives in the forests and mountains away from settled habitation; Ozanne comments on the distinct physical types amongst Gypsies in Rumania, which he visited in the 19th century:

There are two distinct types of Gypsies in Roumania. One set have crisp hair and thick lips, with a very dark complexion. The others have a fine profile, regular features, good hair and an olive complexion (1878:62).

            Ozanne wrongly attributed this difference to two separate waves of Romani migration into the area: the first, descendants of the original Gypsies, and the second, refugees from India as a result of the invasions of the ‘Tatars’ Ghengis Khan and Tamerlane in the Middle Ages, though it is clear that the lighter-skinned individuals, nearly all house-slaves, could in fact attribute their complexions to interbreeding with Europeans. While Romani women were thus used by their white owners, Romani men were evidently seen as a sexual threat to Rumanian womanhood. Among the sclavi domneshti, there was a category called the skopici, Gypsy males who had been castrated as boys and whose job it was to drive the coaches of the women of the aristocracy without their being in fear of molestation."

(...) For almost five centuries, their slave labour resulted in huge earnings for their masters: landowers, the feudal aristocracy and the Orthodox Church. Romani people's status was that of subjugated people, the absolute property of their masters: their masters' personality, faith and habits dictated their whole existence.

After 1500, even though the number of slaves decreased dramatically in Catholic and Protestant Europe - as slaves were transferred to overseas colonies to work - slavery flourished in Romanian Principalities. 'In the 16th, 17th, and 18th century we were probably the only country in Europe which had a class of people with this label of slave or bondsman', states Professor doctor Constantin Bălăceanu Stolnici.

Roma bondsmen were subjected to atrocious treatment.

For five centuries, they were denied the status of human being. Among the cruellest punishments was that of wearing a collar fitted with iron spikes on the inside that prevented the wearer from lying down to rest.

Most of the writing we have about this topic comes from foreigners travelers, staggered by this behaviour.

"The squires are their absolute masters. They sell or kill them like cattle, at their sole discretion. Their children are born slaves with no distinction on sex"

- Comte d'Antraigues.

Jean Louis Parrant, who was in Moldavia during the French revolution, asks himself: 'What can be said about this numerous miserable flock of beings (because they can’t be otherwise described) that are called gypsies and are lost for the humanity, placed on the same level with the cattle of burden and often treated even worse by the their barbaric master whose revolting (so-called) property they are?'

Mihail Kogălniceanu, a former Romanian politician who played a significant role in the abolition of slavery, remembers growing up in a provincial Romanian town and seeing people 'being with hands and feet enchained, with iron circles around their forehead or metal collar around their neck. Bloody whips and other punishments such as starvation, hanging over a burning fire, the detention barrack and the forcing to stay naked in snow or in the frozen water of a river - this is the treatment applied to the miserable gypsies.'

Legislative texts, referring to them under a double denomination - gypsies or bondsmen - stated that they were born slaves; that every child born from a slave mother was a slave; that their masters had power of life and death over them; that each owner had the right to sell or offer his slaves; and that every masterless gypsy is propriety of the state. The list goes on... (...)

In 1600, a gypsy fit for work was worth the same as a horse. In 1682, a gypsy woman was worth two mares with foals. In 1760, three gypsies were worth the same as a house, and in 1814, Snagov Monastery was selling a gypsy for the price of four buffalo. There were also cases when gypsies were sold according to their weight, exchanged for honey barrels, pawned off, or offered as presents.

The abolishment of Roma slavery began with young artistocratic Romanians leaving to study in Western Europe. Upon returning home, they gave voice to progressive ideas denouncing slavery.

At the same time, Western Europe, and France especially, exerted considerable pressure on the newly formed Romanian state regarding the abolition of slavery. In the middle of the 19th century, there were half a million slaves on Romanian territory: 7% of the population.

Unfortunately, until now, Roma slavery has not been yet included in most history school books, and there are still very few Romanians who are aware of this historical reality. (...)

[gaycocksmodels64]

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[coffeewithcutcaffeine]

Any headcanons about Vlad and Dimitrie (Rise of Empires: Ottoman) like maybe how they met or how their bond was forged?

Oooh, thank you so much for this wonderful ask, dearest! Thankfully, I have recently rewatched RoE again, so it feels great to have the opportunity to expand on their bond a little! Prepare yourself for a very extensive headcanon sksksk. 🥰️❤️️

Brotherly Bonds (Vlad & Dimitrie; Rise of Empires: Ottoman)

Amidst the ongoing war of succession between the sons of Mircea cel Bătrân, and the gradual decay of the once-thriving land, many boyars have decided to leave their voivode, Alexandru Aldea, and go into voluntary exile in Transylvania. Their plan has been simple — to go to the Saxon city of Sighișoara, search for the pretender to the throne, Vlad Dracul, and join forces with him to help him capture what rightfully belongs to him. Among those boyars is Dimitrie's father, one of the closest men of Vlad Dracul who subsequently form the circle of his most cherished dregătorii.

The world continues to move forward, even for those who have been exiled from their homes. Vlad Dracul's second son, Vlad, is born in the harsh winter of 1431. Dimitrie is born a few months later in the spring of 1432, his arrival welcoming the first green leaves on the trees. With Vlad Dracul's desire to keep his sons rooted to their land, to the sounds of their mother tongue and to the people that belong to their beloved Wallachia, he ensures that his boys remain within a tight circle of the noble children. And so Vlad and Dimitrie become friends during horse-riding lessons and childish plays.

After the Dragon claims the throne in 1436, the Wallachians are at last restored to their rightful place. The life of the royal family undergoes an immediate whirlwind of change. The most profound transformation is experienced by eight-year-old Mircea, who now dedicates the majority of his days to his father, preparing himself for the future role destined for him as the voivode. No longer able to accompany his older brother as frequently as he desires, Vlad feels the sudden absence of his beloved sibling like a wide hole in his heart. In this void, Dimitrie emerges as an even more indispensable companion, and the two young boys forge an unbreakable bond.

Unbreakable... Until a bitter gust of wind, born from the south, abruptly tears away Dimitrie's cherished companion, its sharpness and cruelty etching a permanent mark upon the young prince's soul. The two friends remain separated for six long years, their spirits moulded and fortified amidst the unforgiving trials of the harshness of life. While Vlad endures unspeakable cruelty at the Ottoman Porte, protecting his younger brother Radu, Dimitrie finds solace in the inner circle of Vlad's older brother Mircea. With Mircea now an associate ruler, Dimitrie experiences his first taste of power, though it holds no significance for him. Mircea and Dimitrie's bond strengthens through one crucial task — saving the two sons of the Dragon from the clutches of the Ottomans and seeking vengeance for the tragedy inflicted upon the Drăculești.

These plans are halted by the abrupt assassination of Vlad Dracul and the torture inflicted upon Mircea. The young associate ruler's eyes are gouged out with hot iron, and he is buried alive by the greedy boyars who have turned their backs on the Drăculești. These ambitions are abruptly crushed by the unexpected assassination of Vlad Dracul and the cruel torment inflicted upon Mircea. The youthful associate ruler's eyes are savagely gouged out with burning iron, and he is buried alive by the greedy boyars who have forsaken the Drăculești. Dimitrie's soul mourns for the fate of the valiant men, yet as the boyars align with the Danești faction and yearn to kill all who have shown allegiance to the Dragon and his heirs, the young man must patiently await his moment and retreat into the shadows. The hour of his retribution shall arrive in due time.

The world spins on its axis once more, and Vlad Drăculea storms into Wallachia leading the Ottoman army, driven by a fervour to claim what rightfully belongs to him. Their paths intertwine anew after six long years, yet their reunion is devoid of the love and warmth Dimitrie remembers. The passage of time has wrought changes, moulding them both in its relentless grip. Nonetheless, their friendship is rekindled within the month Vlad spends on the throne — no longer tethered to the frivolities of youth but forged with a resolute purpose. The very essence of their bond remains unyielding, fortified by shifting foundations, standing steadfast against the trials of life.