#brittonic gods

[poeticnorth]

Thunder-fertility-protection-death god with a hammer that isn't Thor?! Count me in!

[unproduciblesmackdown]

also upon having rewatched the pre 3.0 bmc bwaycon panel i sort of also fully processed like mike rosengarten having said that when their bway run was announced to those involved he was really taken out when will was like "we all get to do christmas" re: the timing allowing for the extravaganza; now putting two and two together about Just how spontaneous that [baby please come home Christmas!!] realization & remark was given that in will's own words upon this occasion he wept like a child at first amongst everyone & then continued from within the setpiece bathtub while calling his mom, and i cannot imagine there was some interlude there of pulling back at all to check & reflect on calendars. real [shatters + the christmas extravaganza.... + this devastates nearby guitarists] moments

[sweaterkittensahoy]

How it Started vs. How It's Going (Britton Bean, 4 years)

[livvyofthelake]

SUCH a girl that gets to leave work in an hour…. 42 minutes even….

[emilyjunk]

"Friday night lights reboot will be the same universe but new characters" just make a different show. I'm begging you. Stop the reboots please. Please

[dianaleaghmatthews]

Guest Post: Finding Peace in Each Day by Barbara M. Britton

Finding Peace in Each Day By Barbara M. Britton In a novel, conflict and tension keep readers turning pages to see what happens to their beloved characters. I am always throwing troubles in the paths of my main characters. It’s fun to send imaginary people on these adventures. But what happens when the troubles come fast and numerous in your real life? Life isn’t very fun. I send my latest…

[sleeperagentclone]

ABBY?!??!?!?!

[rigginsstreet]

“oh it’s Texas football who gives a shit”

lmao literally same and I have spent the last ~15 years repenting 🥲💀

I feel like the presence of social media could’ve really changed things lmao cuz like back then how else were we supposed to know! All we had to go off of was official marketing if somebody had told me about Tim and Jason I would’ve gone feral 😫

[myownwholewildworld]

acta, non verba - i. a badge of honour

series masterlist | main masterlist | chapter 2 pairing: conqueror!marcus acacius x ofc!reader. synopsis: scotland, 83 AD after the battle of mons graupius. the romans have come up to the boundaries of their empire with a relentless desire to conquer the savages that inhabit the highlands. they won't rest until the Caledonian tribes are subjugated. Marcus Acacius is in charge of your clansmen's fate, but if such fate is similar to your family's, you know you need to do something about it. as the only living daughter of the tribe chief, your people look to you for leadership. power plays, treason, deception, rebellion, war, love, heartbreak, betrayal. and two souls, destined to despise each other, trying to navigate it all. a/n: well, here it is! the first chapter of my new series, set in what is now scotland, during the romans' conquest of the british isles in the 1st century. hope you guys like it! as always, all interactions welcome. thank you so much for reading! <3 warnings: 18+, mdni. death, aftermath of a battle, burial of family members. reader is an original character - female, has a name (callie) and a physical description, family history, etc. i'll try to keep the references to a minimum though. age gap (callie is 26, marcus is 48). mention of infidelity and becoming a widow. marcus’ and reader’s pov. i have taken some historical licenses for ease of writing (use of "clan" as synonym for "tribe", references to irish/celtic gods, the caledonian people speak modern scottish gaelic instead of a (proto-)brittonic language). w/c: ~4.2k. dividers by @saradika-graphics i'll be tagging some people at the end of the chapter who interacted with this post. dw, i won't tag you in the next chapters unless you ask me to! also, if you want to be removed from this post, please send me a dm.

A light breeze whistled through the nearby standing stones. The dying sun provided no heat, and the ethereal landscape was cold with hues of blue and grey. Despite the shimmering wildlife that came with the first hints of spring, the meadow was uncannily silent.

The crows cackling in the distance broke such tranquil peace and woke you from your slumber.

Slowly you blinked, something wet and warm covering your eyelids. You felt it slide down your skin, pooling in the dip of your collarbone. Your limbs felt so heavy, you couldn’t lift a hand to rub your eyes clean. In fact, you were so tired that even taking a deep breath hurt.

Your orbs fluttered shut, shattered and defeated.

Dhuosnos, God of the Dead, was calling you to His side. His presence was soothing, so inviting, the most melodic sounds guiding you to Him. With the eyes of your dying imagination, He extended a welcoming hand towards you, a soft smile on His mythical features.

“Come with me, sweet child of the tribes.” A guttural voice escaped His lips, so dark and sombre it enveloped you.

You nodded, gaze down, submitted to Him.

“You can’t just take her, Dhuosnos. Callie is yet to avenge them — her purpose must be fulfilled first before she can greet you as an equal.” A second voice, feminine, otherworldly and reassuring, interrupted your exchange.

Morrígan, Goddess of War, placed Her hand on Dhuosnos’ forearm as to stop Him from reaching you. A stone of relief, but also of disappointment, sat low in your stomach when He took a step back, head bowed towards Her.

Steadily you undid your curtsy, your green eyes locking on Hers. They were black as the night sky, Her pupils and irises indistinguishable from one another. You looked into the abyss of Her sight and felt a deep-rooted longing, one you never experienced before.

“You are not done yet, mo leanabh (my child). Your people await your return.” Morrígan palmed your trembling hand, escorting you back to the earthly plane.

“But…”, you turned around to look at Her, ask for Her advice.

But She had already vanished, a sweet scent of lavander left behind.

You gasped awake, your eyes so widened, the cloudy, sunset sky above felt like it was crashing down on you. You were laying down on a pool of mud. A deep, raspy grunt escaped your lungs as you tried to move your arms. When you couldn’t, you looked down, confused.

Aengus’ lifeless body was resting on top of yours. Your father’s henchman had made the ultimate sacrifice by hiding you underneath him, away from the prying eyes of the Romans. The dense liquid caressing the skin on your face was none other than his blood. A trickle of thick red dripped from the gnarly wound in his neck on to your cheek. His eyes were staring at you emptily, his soul had already left this world when you regained consciousness.

Your father, Murdoch of Inbhir Nis, the Caledonian Overlord, had come to the aid of the Taexalian Overlord, whose territory was succumbing to the legions of Gnaeus Julius Agricola, a Roman governor with a high desire to impress his Emperor, Titus Flavius Domitianus.

Your father had gathered as many fighers as the Caledonian lands could give him. Both men and women were called to arms when the tribes were threatened. Being the daughter of the Chieftain would not spare you. You would not have chosen differently anyway, had you been given the opportunity. Fighting for land, clan and honour was your duty as much as your brothers’ and sister’s.

The journey from Inbhir Nis (Inverness) to Cala na Creige (Stonehaven) had been unforgiving, with illness and evil lying in wait. But you all had been warmly welcomed by the Taexali tribe and were fed copiously, the uisge-beatha (whisky) being served like water.

Your combined armies, shy of fifteen thousand folk, had been ambushed at Raedykes during a repositioning exercise by the Roman troops led by Agricola’s most trusted man.

General Marcus Acacius.

His mere name made you sick, anger crawling under your skin.

Fighting off your own opponents, you had seen the Roman General charge against your father like a beast, wielding a gladius over his head. The metallic impact of their swords rang loud across the landscape. The men looked into each other’s souls, an exchange of words shared between them. You were too far to listen, too far to fully see what was really happening as warriors from both sides danced through the grass.

Then you foresaw it before it happened: the heavy Roman sword fell on your father, who was struck to his knees with the General’s blade lodged in his belly.

You tried to get to him, screaming “Athair (father)!” at the top of your lungs. His eyes locked on yours before he fell sideways. You lunged forward but didn’t get to him, Aengus stopping you in your tracks.

“No, Callie, it’s too late now”, he had sorrowfully whispered in your ear before throwing you off to one side to fend off an attacker.

And then blackness swallowed you, an enemy hit you in the head so hard you lost consciousness.

That was how you came to be where you were — with your back flat on the silt and Aengus’ body blanketing yours. The grey sky above you sensed your pain, and, at Taranis’ command, it parted in the middle. The God of Thunder released a downpour to clean the blood, soot and woad’s blue dye off your face and hair.

You cried your sadness away, rainy tears sliding off the corners of your eyes — your anger, your loss, your torment, you purged it all, sobbing until you were devoid of all emotion. Taking a deep breath, which caused a needling pain on your ribs, you pushed Aengus to one side to free yourself from his weight.

The thudding sound he made almost brought more tears to your eyes.

“Sorry, uncail (uncle)”, you muttered, hovering your fingertips over his eyelids to shut them for him. Now he could finally rest.

You stood up, your knees trembling like a newborn calf. A searing pain stabbed your skull, dried blood and dirt gathering on the wound on your scalp. With a straight back, you dared to look around you. The bodies of your own men and women were scattered around the hills of Raedykes. So many lives lost, you heard all your ancestors screaming from above, their cries falling upon you in the way of rain. The green, long grass was reddened with blood, but the weeping sky had started to wash away the atrocities committed by the Romans.

Then you saw him. Your athair.

“No, no, please, no...”, you whispered as your sight became blurry again, dragging your feet towards the fallen body of your dad.

Your soul tried to tear itself apart, become its own entity. You had to summon the last drop of the royal blood that ran through your veins to keep yourself in one piece. You knelt before him, craddling his bloody hand between yours. Unconciously your body rocked back and forth until you hugged him, laying flat on top of him.

Time stood still, like a thread on the expert hands of a wool weaver. It could have been minutes, hours or days, your pain too great to bear, to comprehend.

And then you felt a hand lightly tap your shoulder.

You startled, your mind and body jumping back into survival mode, gripping your sgian-dubh (small knife) close to your chest.

“It’s okay, mo phiuthar (my sister). It’s me, Torcall”, a raspy, masculine voice forced you to focus on the man in front of you.

He was your father’s most important tacksman and also husband to your older sister Mairead — your sweet Maisie, as you always called her. She was the eldest of the four siblings while you were the youngest. Always so witty and quick with a joke, Maisie kept up the spirits even when the circumstances were dire — in fact, before your paths had parted during the battle, she jested about your H-shaped shield being larger than you.

When you turned around, Torcall flattened his hands on your shoulders, slightly shaking you so you would come back to reality.

His blue eyes pierced through you, the situation becoming clearer in your mind. Thousands of your tribesmen were dead. Your father too.

“Maisie?”, you asked in a hush. Your heart clenched when your brother-in-law shook his head no. You were afraid to speak, but you did nonetheless. “Aodh and Somhairle?”

Torcall stared at you, his silence speaking loudly. “They are all dead.”

The air evacuated your lungs, feeling as if a spear had run through you. Learning about the death of Maisie and your twin brothers broke something within you, something fundamental and primal. They were your everything, your most trusted confidants. Despite being of different ages, you all were so tight-knit it was difficult to find one of you alone.

A heart-shattering wail escaped your lips as you bent over yourself, your chest snug against your knees.

Morrígan had unashamedly claimed most of your family that day, except for your beautiful mother. Now Her words made sense: you were yet to avenge them, to fulfil your purpose. She had spared you for a reason, not so you could pity yourself, knees deep in the mud.

To avenge them, you had to kill the hand who showered this tragedy upon you.

General Marcus Acacius.

A raven’s strident, gurgling croak forced you to look up to the skies — a subtle reminder that Morrígan was watching closely. The massive bird was circling above your heads, like a vulture waiting to feast on a carcass. With resolution, you wiped away your tears, your sobs now silent, and nodded at Torcall.

“I understand. How many…?”, your voice faltered before you could finish your question.

“A couple of thousands. We have found cover in the Dunnottar Woods while we regroup and… bury our dead.” Torcall replied, his eyes averted with the last sentence.

You had lost a sister, but he had lost a wife, the mother to his now half-orphaned children. “I’m sorry”, you muttered, your lips pouting once more.

“She died fighting, the death of a warrior.” His proud voice did not waver. “And your father?”

Your heart wept at his mention but managed to control the anxious fluttering.

“The General killed him.” Your teeth gritted with hatred.

“Mo bana-phrionnsa (my princess)”, one of your father’s retinue members bowed his head to you once you walked into the circle they had formed in a meadow between the trees.

A few dozen men were scattered around the area, fires lighting the dark night while shades of red and orange flickered, creating fiery, dancing shades. You held a torch and carefully waved it in front of you, looking at the faces who watched you back eagerly.

You saw in your men what was brewing inside you: despair, defeat, sorrow. All your souls grieving in unison — all of you had lost someone that day.

At six and twenty, you did not expect to be in this position. You were the youngest daughter of the Overlord — you were never meant to lead your people. The task ahead of you felt titanic, unachievable.

But you had no other option. General Marcus Acacius had forced your hand.

He came, he saw, he conquered.

And now you had to deal with the gut-wrenching outcome of his departure.

“We’ll go back home to Inbhir Nis. But before that, we must give burial to our people.” You had to make a herculean effort to infuse your tone with steadiness.

Torcall first, and then the rest, bowed their heads to you.

“As you command, mo bana-phrionnsa”, he replied, and quickly barked orders around in your stead.

Your chest felt heavy with responsibility and grief. What pained you the most was not being able to carry your brothers and sister with you back home. They would not be buried under the cairns near you family home with the rest of your ancestors.

And what was worst — thousands of lives now depended on you. The weight of your tribe's destiny heavily rested on your shoulders now, like Atlas carrying the heavens.

Maisie, Aodh and Somhairle had been lined up on a patch of wildflowers that you had picked yourself the night prior — their arms were threaded together with your sister in the middle. Your clansmen had also surrounded the makeshift burial pit with wood to aid the combustion.

As you placed the last stone on top of them, you also deposited a bright, bloomed thistle. The flower that blossomed in every nook and cranny of your beautiful motherland, despite the harsh winter or conditions it faced. Like the phoenix rising from the ashes, it would always come back, stronger and more brightful than ever.

Devotion, bravery, determination, and strength — the thistle was a badge of honour for the Caledonians.

With a renewed brawn unbeknownst to you, you threw the lighted torch and watched as the fire consumed the bodies underneath the stones.

There were no tears left within you. Only purpose and resolution.

The way back to Inbhir Nis was tiring and soul-crushing. Hiking through the Cairngorms had been a difficult task with so many people behind you, but luckily you all managed to make it through without any losses.

With each mile covered, you saw the devastation left behind by the Romans. If this was any indication of what awaited ahead, you should start bracing yourself for what you would see. It seemed that the Romans were set towards the northwest — Inbhir Nis was right in their path.

You quickly recognised the landscape as you walked towards Loch Moy. A thick, dark column of smoke towered above the pine trees. Your heart raced as you picked up your dark green skirt and ran towards the loch, ignoring the calls of your brother-in-law.

You could run through those woods blindly — this was the land where you were born, the land you were named after. Your name was an unusual one — Caledonia, in honour of the earth beneath your rushing feet. Just a few people called you Callie, mainly your family and closest friends. With your bright, fiery red hair, green almond eyes and a face dotted with freckles, you were the epitome of your people. That was probably why when someone new learned your name, they always said it suited you.

Dodging the last few trees, you made it to the edge of the loch. In the shallows, the crannog of Naimh, your community’s healer, was burning down to its foundation. You covered your mouth with a sombre expression, your eyes itchy because of the dense smoke and unspent tears.

The Romans had gotten to your settlement before you did.

“Callie, wait up”, said Torcall behind you, struggling to catch up with you.

He halted right behind you, the silence between you was almost tangible.

“The rangers have returned from their reconnaissance mission.” His voice was plain, contained. You turned your heard towards him, slowly, hardening yourself for his next words. “Your mother is dead.”

The last glimmer of hope within you vanished. A single tear skidded through your cheek — angrily, you wiped it off.

You were alone in this world. Everyone you cared for had been taken from you.

“Is everything to your liking, Dominus (Master)?”, the male roman servant asked in a low hush, head bowed, eyes fixed on the cobblestone.

“Yes, now leave”, Marcus dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

The General looked around him with a mixture of curiosity and disgust. He was accustomed to much more elegant surroundings. Although the barbarians did try, their architecture was nothing in comparison to Rome’s.

The castle he was in was small and it only had two floors. It was mainly made of sturdy, grey rocks and dark wood. The design was not very sophisticated, all square and rugged edges. It had two towers and a barbican. The decoration inside was bare, with just enough furniture and no luxuries.

The only warmth was brought by the colourful tapestries adorning the cold, thick walls — one had caught Marcus' attention at his arrival when he first entered the dais. It told a story he had not heard before.

A dragon-like figure lurked beneath the rippling surface of a lake, attracting the attention of the villagers. At dusk it would emerge, a guttural sound echoing in the dead of night, as if it was calling another. Any bìrlinns (wooden vessel) left on the shore would appear destroyed the next morning. Fishermen were worried and called upon the town's druids, afraid of the Loch Ness monster. To appease the beast, every full moon, the druids would whorship the creature, bringing oblations and sacrificies to quench its thirst.

Marcus made a mental note of keeping his distance from that Loch Ness. As a devoted Roman, he was wary of the mystic creatures that skulked in the depths of human fear.

Although he missed his home, he had several debts to pay. The Emperor would not accept no for an answer, so he had to be a reluctant participant in this incursion — in fact, neither Domitian nor Agricola had really asked him to tame the highlanders up in Caledonia. They knew his skills would be most needed in combat, having been praised by bards and poets alike after his many years in the battlefield.

At eight and forty, Marcus Acacius had had his good share of tragedy and death, both personal and in war. His life had not been easy, having to forge a name of his own since childbirth and then having been recently betrayed by his own spouse.

The thought of Livia still angered him — she had had the audacity of blaming him for her infidelity, accusing him of always being away, of loving Rome more than his own family. Her cheating had been going on for as many years as their arranged marriage, throwing a doubtful shade on his paternity to both his children.

His life had come crumbling down in the last few months, so maybe coming to Britannia had not been such a bad idea. Female adultery was a crime penalised with death and that was a decision that Marcus had yet to make — outing Livia’s unfaithfulness would condemn her to Pluto's realm. Did he really want that for who had been his wife for more than thirty years?

Pinching the bridge of his hooked nose, Marcus walked towards the only window in the room. The roman took a deep breath and exhaled steadily — he needed to think of something else.

His mind went back to the battle of Mons Graupius. The spilling of blood never became easier with time — if anything, it had become harder, splintering his soul further. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear the piercing, pained shriek of a woman as he imparted death on Murdoch of Inbhir Nis.

Her hair was dyed with black soot and tied back, her face covered in a blue paste and ash. He was too far to catch the colour of her eyes, but he thought them dark azure. The fierceness of her expression took him aback, her voice shouting a word he did not recognise. But his eyes did not have time to linger on the feral woman a few yards away, because a savage attacked him.

His hand stilled on the rocky window’s sill. The barbarians called this place Inbhir Nis. The stone castle was that of the chief’s family, atop of a hill with views to the scenery underneath. It was rudimentary and lacked many commodities — nothing comparable to his villa in Rome. The tribal settlement was formed of huts made of stone, timber and hay.

Agricola had decided to burn down the outskirts of the town and killed the wife of the clan chief making a macabre example of her, so the people would submit to the Roman’s yoke quickly, crushing any opportunity of rebellion. The message was clear: Rome would not tolerate being challenged. Anyone who did, would face the most painful of deaths. The governor left to go northward, leaving Marcus behind to rebuild the area to Rome’s standards. The emperor had deemed the location an important enclave for his empire, being the main town in the Moray Firth.

Marcus was standing in what he thought was the bedchamber of Murdoch. With the Overlord and his family alienated, the primitive people of the highlands needed educating and he had been given the task of doing so. Not a welcomed one, but he had a duty to Rome that had to be fulfilled.

With a heavy sigh, he undid the brooch at the base of his neck, relieving himself of the heavy, white sagum (cape) that was part of his attire. He threw it on the uncomfortable bed. He unfastened the golden, laurel-shaped bracelets around his wrists, and then proceeded to undo the tight knots that held his armour in place.

Then a knock on the thick, wooden door broke the silence of the room.

“Come in”, thinking it would be his male servant, he didn’t turn around.

“Dominus, dinner is ready”, a very soft voice with a very marked accent made him look over his shoulder.

A pair of very bright, almond-shaped, emerald-green eyes locked on his, framed by what he would describe as fire hair — so red it looked like a hellish aura crowning your head.

So bright were your eyes, he almost felt his soul being examined by your hypnotising gaze. Marcus had never seen eyes like those.

How dared he stand where your father did? Anger shimmered under your skin, but you kept it in check. When you realised you were holding his gaze for longer than what was appropriate for a servant girl, you averted your eyes, inspecting the stones under your feet.

Torcall called you mad for doing this, but you had made up your mind. If you really wanted to overthrow the Roman General and win back your family’s castle and land, you would need to sew yourself into his everyday life. Gain his trust, learn his secrets and use that information against him. Your people were counting on you for freedom, and you would not allow yourself to disappoint them. Even if it was the last thing you did.

“Who are you?”, his raspy voice filled the atmosphere as he resumed the task of undoing the ties on his armour.

Did he have no shame, undressing himself in front of a maid? Mind you, you were not an innocent servant, having been widowed recently. But still. The romans had no modesty, you assumed.

You had to think quickly. You had learnt that the governor and the general both thought the whole chief’s family dead, so you could not out yourself. A very few, selected people called you Callie, almost always in the intimacy of your home, when strangers were not around. Your nickname was precious to you because it was only used by those you loved.

“My name is Callie, Dominus”, you offered your nickname in a rusty Latin. It had been a while since you had to use a language that was not your native one.

“Callie.” The way your name rolled off his tongue gave you goosebumps. You didn’t like the way he pronounced it — it lingered in his mouth for too long, dragging each letter. You wished your words back, but you couldn't change it now.

Instead of clenching your jaw, you nodded. “Yes, my lord, I’m one of the servant girls who tended to the clan chief’s family before you.” You explained, your head still bowed.

You ventured your eyes up for a second, catching a glimpse of his naked torso. Unconsciously, you pursed your lips. The way your heart pounded loud for that one second made you furrow your brows in confusion.

He might be a gorgeous man, but he was a killer. And you had no taste for soulless murderers, that much you knew about yourself.

“Call my attendant, Atticus, to help me get ready for supper. I have no need of you. And ask the kitchen staff to heat some water and bring it up here.” His tone was emphatic, unwavering.

His rejection, in other circumstances, would have been most welcomed, but you needed him to trust you, to confide in you so you could plot his demise — to destroy him. This was not a good start to your plan, but you needed to play the long game.

“I could certainly help you with a bath now, Dominus, but your wish is my command.” You forced the words out, when in reality you wanted to spit them to his murderous face.

He just nodded in your direction, his movements stiff and measured. “Just my attendant will suffice, now go.”

With your fingers laced on your back, you curtsied, walking backwards towards the door of your father’s bedchamber. You could not seem too eager, or he would become suspicious.

When you were in the corridor with the door closed behind you, you took a deep breath and straightened your back.

You would not take no for an answer. Marcus Acacius would yield to you, whatever the cost.

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[whencyclopedia]

Hilda of Whitby

Hilda of Whitby (also known as Saint Hilda of Whitby, l. 614-680 CE) was the founder and abbess of the monastery at Whitby, Kingdom of Northumbria, Britain. She was a Northumbrian princess who converted to Christianity with the rest of the court of her great-uncle, King Edwin of Deira (r. 616-633 CE), when she was 13. She was raised at Edwin's court in the tradition of Roman Catholicism, but at the age of 33 became an adherent of Celtic Christianity, tutored in the faith by Aidan of the monastery of Lindisfarne, and was abbess at Hartlepool Abbey before founding the monastery at Whitby.

She was highly educated and her wisdom was so legendary that her counsel was sought by nobility and commoners alike. Hilda was an able administrator, carefully overseeing the large estate of Whitby while also ministering to the needs of the community. She encouraged the shepherd Caedmon to share the famous hymn which came to him in a vision (Caedmon's Hymn, 7th century CE), the oldest extant poem in Old English, for which she is honored as patron saint of poetry in addition to her honor as patron saint of culture, literacy, and learning.

She hosted and presided over the Synod of Whitby in 664 CE which decided whether the traditions of Celtic or Roman Christianity would be adhered to in Britain and, even when the vote went against her side, stood beside the Church's decision and encouraged unity of vision in adhering to Roman tradition. Her story and Caedmon's Hymn is first recorded by Bede (l. 673-735 CE) in his Ecclesiastical History of the English People (published 731 CE). Hilda's virtuous life, wisdom, and unceasing care for others, no matter their social status, led to her veneration shortly after her death.

Northumbria & Early Life

The Kingdom of Northumbria (c. 604-954 CE) was originally divided between two separate, and hostile, political entities: Bernicia in the north and Deira in the south. These two were in continuous conflict until they were united in 604 CE under the reign of the king Aethelfrith (r. 593-616 CE) of Bernicia.

When Aethelfrith united the kingdoms, he disinherited the ruling house of Deira and drove the Deiran nobility, including Prince Edwin and his nephew Hereric, into exile. Hereric went to the Brittonic kingdom of Elmet (in present-day West Yorkshire) where he and his wife Breguswith had two daughters, Hereswith and Hilda. Hereric was poisoned while at the Elmet court and, after his death, the infant Hilda and her older sister were taken under the care of Edwin who was in exile in East Anglia.

When Aethelfrith died in 616 CE, Edwin returned and claimed the throne, ruling from Deira. Hereswith and Hilda were raised at Edwin's court. The peace established by Aethelfrith was threatened under Edwin by the Kingdom of Mercia at its border and the southern Kingdom of Wessex. In 626 CE, Cwichelm of Wessex (d. 636 CE) sent an assassin to kill Edwin but the plot was foiled and credit was given to the Christian god. Previously, the nobility of Northumbria was pagan but, in gratitude for his life, Edwin – and his entire court including Hilda – converted to Christianity in 627 CE.

Edwin had been victorious over the combined forces of Wessex and Mercia in late 626 CE at the Battle of Win-and-Lose Hill but King Penda of Mercia (r. c. 625-655 CE) turned on his allies, defeated them, and then struck at Northumbria. In 633 CE, Penda defeated the Northumbrians at the Battle of Hatfield Chase in which Edwin and his son Osfrith were both killed. Northumbria's power collapsed and Hilda fled with her mother and sister to Kent. Edwin was succeeded by Oswald (r. 634-642 CE), who devoted himself to turning his people from the religious errors of Roman Catholicism to what he viewed as the self-evident truth of Celtic Christianity.

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[joydoesathing]

Names for the F03 Nightmare Residents (for my Genderswap AU)

So a reblog from @gabbbyyyyyyyyyy has prompted me to go ultra-nerd mode and search up genderwapped names for the 3rd floor nightmare residents

(i find them the most interesting since they're named after various chthonic gods from different mythological pantheons)

So just to preface, most (but not all) of the names of the residents are going to be very, very different from the og but i do have a basis and explanation (most of the names are either names of other earth/life and/or death gods of the same pantheon or figures related to the original namesake)

So here's what I thought up:

F03-01

Yan Luo would still retain the same name since the namesake character is already a male being on the kings of the Underworld in the Chinese pantheon

Orcus Dis Pater => Kore Despoina

Explanation: Both names are epithets of the goddess Persephone/Proserpina, Queen of the Underworld in the Greek/Roman pantheon and wife of Hades/Pluto (kinda like how "Orcus" and "Dis Pater" are alternate names of Pluto)

F03-02

Ishtar Ereskigal => Tammuz Nergal

Explanation: Tammuz and Nergal are the primary consorts of Ishtar and Ereskigal respectively in the Mesopotamian pantheon. Nergal is one of the gods of the Underworld and Tammuz is a fertility god like Ishtar, who later gets dragged down to the underworld after upsetting her for not properly mourning her suffering in the underworld at the hands of Ereskigal.

F03-03

Teutates Taranis => Erecura Andrasta

Explanation: Both names are names of goddesses in the Gaulish and Brittonic pantheon. Erecura is the goddess of death and fertility while Andrasta is the goddess of victory in war (i was going for a deity with the same "protector of people" vibe like Teutates)

Ah Puch Xibalbá => Ix Tab Xibalbá

Explanation: Xibalbá still gets retained here since that's just the name of the Underworld in the Maya pantheon. Ix Tab is the goddess of suicide by hanging and acts as a psychopomp to those who died by that method.

F03-04

Dagda Crom Cruach=> Dana Mor Rioghan

Explanation: Both are names of goddesses in the Irish pantheon. Dana is the hypothesized mother goddess that's also tied to agriculture. The Morrigan or Mor Rioghan is a goddess that rules over aspects of life and death (also the wife of Dagda)

Izanami Yomi => Izanagi Yomi

Explanation: Yomi is retained since it's just the name of the Underworld of the Japanese Shinto pantheon. Izanagi is one of the creator gods and brother/husband of Izanami, who descends into the Underworld to find his wife .

so that's all for nerd hour 🤓

[poeticnorth]

Well, I'm now a proper writer for AlbionAndBeyond.com. Here's my first article, co-written with Drunertos

[strawlessandbraless]

I started watching 911 and I have some thoughts…

-Beginning of the first episode and Bobby is talking about his sobriety and struggle with addiction and how he and the other firefighters cope. He talks about drugs, gambling, and then sex as coping mechanisms - and all I thought was ‘please please cut to buck after mentioning sex to cope’ and sure enough next shot is him recklessly speeding in a fire truck to get laid

-Dean Winchester flash backs with the amount of times they call buck macho, get his ass

-hold the fuck up, is the Tommy that Connie Britton keeps taking about the same Tommy that kissed Buck

-Buck: ‘I think I’m a sex addict, self diagnosed’

-I wonder when Eddie gets here

-I love Hen

-I love Connie Britton but also wondering when we get Jennifer Love Hewitt

-This man choked on bread on his first date?!? And his date had to perform an emergency tracheotomy??? And people wanted to pretend like he wasn’t the disaster bisexual

-what do you mean they made chimney a cake that replicated him getting a pole through his head, thank god I know he has a wedding in season 7

-I’m enjoying myself immensely

[sunshinemoonrx]

A cold winter, an old poem, and Mabon ap Modron

Short is the day; let your counsel be accomplished.

(Image source at the end)

Mabon is a figure of medieval Welsh folklore with a relatively minor (if distinctly supernatural) role in the early Arthurian tale Culhwch ac Olwen; a hunter who must be released from a magical prison. Unlike a lot of figures floated as euhemerised deities on pretty questionable grounds, his connection to the god Maponos, worshipped in Britain and Gaul in the Roman era, is fairly sound.

Recently I've been reading Jenny Rowland's Early Welsh Saga Poetry (bear with me, this will all come together), which I was led to by my interest in the 6th-century north-Brittonic king Urien Rheged and the stories that sprung up around him and related figures (his bard the celebrated Taliesin, and his son Owain, later adapted into the Yvain of continental Arthuriana). It includes an early medieval poem called Llym Awel, which immediately struck a chord with me.

It begins with a description of the harshness of winter, then transitions into either a dialogue debating bravery/foolishness versus caution/cowardice, or (I favour this interpretation) a monologue in which the narrator debates this within himself. In the final section, the context is revealed; the narrator has a dialogue with his guide through this frozen country, the wise Pelis, who encourages him and their band to continue in order to rescue Owain son of Urien from captivity.

(There then follow several more stanzas which seems to be a totally separate poem--Llywarch Hen, a different figure with his own saga-cycle, laments the death of his son. The traditional interpretation was that all this was a single poem, the narrator of the first part was Llywarch's son, and this shift represented a 'flash forward' to after the expedition ended poorly. Rowland points out various inconsistencies that point to this whole section being a different poem altogether, motivated by a mistaken interpolation of an earlier stanza with names from the Llywarch cycle)

Where this comes back to my introduction is the book also theorises that the story the poem is telling was originally about Mabon, not Owain. Rowland points to several instances where the two were conflated; from early poetry in the Book of Taliesin to the 'Welsh Triads' (lists of things/people/ideas bards used as aids to remembering legends) to much later folklore. As mentioned, one of the only stories we have about Mabon centres around his role as an "Exalted Prisoner" (as the Triads put it) whose release bears special significance, while no other such story survives about Owain.

This is obviously all conjectural, but I feel there's even another angle of support for the idea the book doesn't consider. The Romano-British/Gallo-Roman Maponos was very consistently equated with Apollo, god of the sun, in inscriptions (most of which show worship located in the same area of Owain's later kingdom of Rheged, which could support the possibility of folklore getting mixed together). Certainly identification with a god who appears as idealised beautiful youth would fit his name--"Mabon son of Modron/Maponos son of Matrona" is basically "Young Son the son of Great Mother". This could be all there was to the connection; Roman syncretism wasn't always 1:1. But it's entirely possible both figures shared the spectrum of youth-renewal-sun associations, or that Maponos originally didn't but picked these up over centuries of being equated with Apollo.

Whatever the case (and with emphasis that this is not sound enough to be considered anything like scholarship, just an interesting "what-if"), if Apollini Mapono was associated with the sun as well as youth, wouldn't it make perfect sense for the story of journeying to release him from captivity to have a winter setting? The winter is harsh, but if the sun can be set free, warmer times will come again.

(I'm a little hesitant in writing this, because "seeing sun-gods everywhere" was a bit of a bad habit of 19th-century scholars whose work is now disproven, especially in Celtic studies, and the internet loves to let comparative mythology run wild with vague connections, but I think the case is reasonable here)

I'll put below Rowland's translation of the poem, with the Llywarch stanzas removed (so something like its 'early' form):

Sharp is the wind, bare the hill; it is difficult to obtain shelter. The ford is spoiled; the lake freezes: a man can stand on a single reed.

Wave upon wave covers the edge of the land; very loud are the wails (of the wind) against the slope of the upland summits - one can hardly stand up outside.

Cold is the bed of the lake before the stormy wind of winter. Brittle are the reeds; broken the stalks; blustering is the wind; the woods are bare.

Cold is the bed of the fish in the shadow of ice; lean the stag; bearded the stalks; short the afternoon; the trees are bent.

It snows; white is its surface. Warriors do not go on their expeditions. The lakes are cold; their colour is without warmth.

It snows; hoarfrost is white. Idle is a shield on the shoulder of the old. The wind is very great; it freezes the grass.

Snow falls on top of ice; wind sweeps the top of the thick woods. Fine is a shield on the shoulder of the brave.

Snow falls; it covers the valley. Warriors rush to battle. I do not go; an injury does not allow me.

Snow falls on the side of the hill. The steed is a prisoner; cattle are lean. It is not the nature of a summer day today.

Snow falls; white the slope of the mountain. Bare the timbers of a ship on the sea. A coward nurtures many counsels.

Gold handles on drinking horns; drinking horns around the company; cold the paths; bright the sky. The afternoon is short; the tops of the trees are bent.

Bees are in shelter; weak the cries of the birds. The day is harsh; . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . White-cloaked the ridge of the hill; red the dawn.

Bees are in shelter; cold the covering of the ford. Ice forms when it will. Despite all evading, death will come.

Bees are in captivity; green-coloured the sea; withered the stalks; hard the hillside. Cold and harsh is the world today.

Bees are in shelter against the wetness of winter; ?. …; hollow the cowparsley. An ill possession is cowardice in a warrior.

Long is the night; bare the moor; grey the hill; silver-grey the shore; the seagull is in sea spray. Rough the seas; there will be rain today.

Dry is the wind; wet the path; ?….. the valley; cold the growth; lean the stag. There is a flood in the river. There will be fine weather.

There is bad weather on the mountain; rivers are in strife. Flood wets the lowland of homesteads. ? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The stooped stag seeks the head of a sheltered valley. Ice breaks; the regions are bare. A brave warrior can escape from many a battle.

The thrush of the speckled breast, the speckle-breasted thrush. The edge of a bank breaks against the hoof of a lean, stooping, bowed stag. Very high is the loud-wailing wind: scarcely, it is true, can one stand outside.

The first day of winter; brown and very dark are the tips of the heather; the sea wave is very foamy. Short is the day; let your counsel be accomplished.

Under the shelter of a shield on a spirited steed with brave, dauntless warriors the night is fine to attack the enemy.

Strong the wind; bare the woods; withered the stalks; lively the stag. Faithful Pelis, what land is this?

Though it should snow up to the cruppers of Arfwl Melyn it would not cause fearful darkness to me; I could lead the host to Bryn Tyddwl.

Since you so easily find the ford and river crossing and so much snow falls, Pelis, how are you (so) skilled?

Attacking the country of ?. does not cause me anxiety in Britain tonight, following Owain on a white horse.

Before bearing arms and taking up your shield, defender of the host of Cynwyd, Pelis, in what country were you raised?

The one whom God deliver from the too-great bond of prison, the type of lord whose spear is red: it is Owain Rheged who raised me.

Since a lord has gone into Rhodwydd Iwerydd, oh warband, do not flee. After mead do not wish for disgrace.

We had a major cold snap here recently, and having spent day after day going "WHY is it so COLD" every time I emerged from a pile of blankets and hot water bottles--and even having come through it, I'm sure we'll be right back there in the coming months--needless to say, a lot of this stuff resonated.

Rowland discusses some ambiguous lines that suggest the narrator is ultimately overcoming their doubts to boldly press on throughout the poem, even before Pelis chimes in:

A coward nurtures many counsels. i.e. "Deliberating this isn't getting anything done"

Despite all evading, death will come. i.e. "When danger approaches, hiding won't help."

A brave warrior can escape from many a battle. i.e. "Conversely, you can survive by meeting that danger head-on."

There will be fine weather. i.e. "Amid all this description of how cold and miserable it is now, a reminder that warmer times will come again"

Short is the day; let your counsel be accomplished. i.e. "Let's hurry up and act decisively."

-with brave, dauntless warriors the night is fine to attack the enemy. i.e. "Fighting during night (much less during winter) is rarely done in this era because it's hard and it sucks, but we're built different, we'll simply handle it."

In my opinion, many of these would take on an interesting dimension with the above interpretation vis a vis Mabon; it's best to press on through the cold and difficult conditions, because success (the release of the sun from frozen "imprisonment"--a metaphor the poem uses multiple times with animals) will bring an end to those conditions. If the sun can be released, there will be fine weather.

Now, I'm not saying there was some "lost original version" of this poem itself. It's a medieval poem about Owain, and quite a moving one in that context; frankly the addition of the Llywarch stanzas, even if they change the meaning, might make it more moving still. But I do agree it's a distinct possibility that the story the poem was retelling was originally one about Mabon, and I would add that it has perhaps gone unappreciated that this could contain otherwise unattested details to the story of the Exalted Prisoner, and just why it was so important to set Maponos Apollo free.

And on a personal level, especially these past couple weeks while I shiver and glance at the mounting ice outside, I can't help be touched by the imagery of summoning up the courage to press on through the cold to find this buried god.

- - -

For further reading, Rachel Bromwich's Trioedd Ynys Prydein: The Triads of the Island of Britain, as well as going through the Triads themselves, contain an encyclopedia of every figure mentioned in them (so near enough every figure of medieval Welsh legend, literature and folklore, including all the ones mentioned here), and runs down basically everything we know about each one. An invaluable resource.

Image at the top: Winter in Gloucester, site of Mabon's imprisonment in Culhwch ac Olwen. Publicly downloadable. Link to the photographer's gallery:

[fairy-gothparent]

Generosity of Spirit. ✨️ A transmasculine figure stylized after the Celtic deity known as Cernunnos, a god of both liminality and abundance. In one hand he spills grains from an overflowing bowl, and in the other he holds the mysterious horned serpent depicted in much of the ancient iconography. Surrounding him are three curling vines like an inverse triskelion, decorative motifs from Iron Age coins of Brittonic tribes, and the Anglo-Saxon rune "gyfu" - literally "gift."

I've been working on this piece for a few weeks now and I'm pretty happy with it. The LGBT2S+ community has a long history of using art to promote growth and healing in ourselves and each other, and we often do it by the transmutation of negative energy into positive action - Generosity of Spirit is meant to represent that power.

This will be on stickers and maaaaaaybe other stuff in the next shop update on 7/7.

[wikiangela]

can't even hold buck at fault for falling for Abby. connie britton is so fucking hot. and like... I would also want to eat her out on a full moon lbr

so true lol I'd fall for her so quickly, buck's type in women and men is sooo relatable lmao

like, god connie britton is gorgeous and so hot and sameee🥵