#but either way here's lesya!!!

[alycnagr]

&&. announcing her royal highness, ( alyona  “lesya”  gavrilovna romanova ), the ( 18 ) year old ( princess ) of ( russia ). she is often confused with ( kathryn newton ). some say that she is ( complaisant & impressionable ), but she is actually ( amiable & effervescent ).

hello everyone!!!  i’m hanna, the newest rookie to join this wonderful group. i’m also shamelessly dual loyal because even though i play a russian ( albeit a sweet one who isn’t  involved in that mess ), as a finn, i’m totally rooting for my finnish babies’ success. 

anyway, enough about me — here’s my intro for lesya! pls like this or msg me or something because i’m so excited to start plotting & writing with all of you <3

QUICK FACTS.

full name: alyona gavrilovna romanova

nickname: lesya

title: princess of russia

age / birthday / zodiac: 18 / may 23 2001 / gemini

gender / sexuality / pronouns: cis female / pansexual ( closeted because she hasn’t really announced it to anyone ) / she & her

hogwarts / mbti / enneagram / four temperaments / alignment: hufflepuff. esfp. type 2w3 - the hostess. sanguine. lawful good. 

BIO / INTRO.

so my sweet darling lesya here is the oldest of irina‘s children. the big sister to tasha, tolja and vasya. niece / cousin to other romanovs. 

speaking of her family, there’s not a single one that she doesn’t like. lyosha? admires his strength because being a czar is no easy job. doesn‘t hold certain bad decisions against him because, well, we are all human. irina? although she can be quite intense sometimes, lesya knows her actions come from a place of love and therefore she just loves her darling mother. anya? kind of intense, but lesya admires her ability to handle stuff and the way she carries herself. kostya and nadya? her cool uncle and aunt that she lowkey idolizes. lenya? another intense family member, but she’s so cool! kseniya? lesya isn’t scared of her resting bitchface (she‘s grown up around romanovs. how could she be?) and enjoys spending time with her. she doesn’t mind doing most / all of the talking.

further speaking of their family, lesya knows that she’s the second-in-line to the russian throne. she knows she may end up as the czarina one day, but given that males are basically fertile until the end + her mother is the next in line of succession, she hasn’t really planned her life around it. she’s carried out her royal duties when it has been expected of her, but she‘s stayed away from the main political arena and pursued her other interests. 

those interests are wide and varied. she’s done gymnastics ever since she was a little ( a perfect way to let out that energy ), she’s gotten herself involved in moscow’s fashion circles and hopes to collaborate with a local fashion company. she loves learning new languages (fully fluent in russian and english; various degrees of fluency in finnish, spanish, dutch, french and german) and it’s an ongoing mission, a hobby of hers. 

lesya is also currently a first-year student at MSU (lomonosov moscow state university) where she studies psychology. however, now that she’s joined the royal expedition, she’s put her studies on hold, completing online classes whenever she has time.

quirks include having a massive collection of flavored lip balms. seriously, she has a lot and it’s perfectly organized (by color, flavor and alphabetized). 

also a proud hater of crocs and the sandals/socks combo. if you wear or talk positively about those near her, you better be ready to catch these hands.

personality-wise, lesya is undoubtedly the sweetest / purest of the russians currently in-game. an actual angel, a sweet miss sunshine, a ball of optimistic energy. you know that person who somehow gets along with pretty much everyone? that’s lesya. she will listen to you if you need to vent and will not gossip. it’s not in her nature to be judgmental; if you asked, she would most likely help you bury a body without asking questions. her carefree attitude and genuine joy for life has created her such aura that people can’t help but smile and want to be around her. lesya is not above learning either — whether it’s from her own mistakes or receiving advice from others. also, while she gravitates toward leadership roles, she would rather rule with kindness and have her subjects genuinely like her instead of having them obey her commands only out of fear.

while lesya is sugar and spice and all things nice, she isn’t without flaws. even though she usually apologizes if she realizes or someone brings it to her attention that she’s been rude, she can be quite bossy and stubborn. lesya can also a bit ignorant, though not maliciously. she’s simply lived a sheltered life in moscow and hasn’t felt the need to venture outside her bubble often. she also loves pleasing others which, in a combination with being a people person and trusting of others, leads her to be very easy to manipulate if you know what to do ( @ you shady mofos that are thinking of it, softer tactics work better than tough love ).

OOC / ME.

hanna. 23. she & her. gmt+2 / yet another finn. 

isfj & hufflepuff. 

mentally done with undergrad. mentally never done with shitty, cracky edits. 

i do my best to reply to IMs, but you can also find me @ discord ( will will#4067 is my name there ).

[writingwithcolor]

Blending Mythos Respectfully

@sapphicq submitted:

Hi all! I’m trying to write an urban fantasy that explores oppression in a world that is basically the same as ours, except with magic, while incorporating magical systems and mythologies of multiple cultures. I’ve done an okay amount of research on each one that I’d like to include (still need to do more for sure, especially considering how colonization has effected mythologies). However, I’m struggling a bit on how they should coexist, since in the world I’m writing about they’re present and tangible. One example of this is fox spirits in East Asian mythology. Japanese, Korean, Vietnamese, and Chinese mythologies each have a nine-tailed fox, and though my research says that the myth originates from Chinese mythology, it also says that each of the fox spirits carry different connotations of malevolence, benevolence, and how widespread they are, depending on which culture’s mythology is being referred to. 

The same sort of thing has been popping up quite a lot in a lot of my research. I started to wonder if I could explain these similarities within world as “different cultures have come up with different names and customs surrounding the ‘same’ thing,” considering mythology in the real world from an anthropological perspective. However I don’t want to overgeneralize, especially considering that these different mythological figures are meant to be present and tangible. If I went that route, I wouldn’t want to say something like ‘actually, benevolent fox spirits do exist, and Korean mythology about fox spirits is wrong since Kumiho are pretty strictly malevolent,’ which would obviously be an implication. All this to say: do you have any tips for multiple mythos coexisting in a way that respects the various cultures they come from?

Avoid Round Pegs in Square Holes

A mistake you sometimes see Western authors make when dealing with mythology in urban fantasy settings is to confine the universe’s worldbuilding to a particular mythology or force the rules of a single culture’s folklore onto other cultures. For instance, here at WWC, we get a lot of questions asking how to represent supernatural creatures from multiple cultures respectfully alongside fae from Western Europe, and it's fairly obvious that the author plans to treat all supernatural creatures as fae. Urban fantasy based on Greek mythology or Christian mythology often falls into the same trap. 

I think a writer can demonstrate greater creativity by embracing these differences. I think a potential way to deal with contradicting mythos between cultures is to come up with compelling reasons why differences exist. What world-building systems, philosophies and real-life phenomena allow for a framework that explains the simultaneous existence of commonalities and differences? As you know, in anthropology, there are theories that emphasize cultural diffusion as a way to explain similar customs within the same region, but there are also theories that hold that multiple cultures can develop the same traditions and principles independent of each other (See: existence of 0, lost-wax bronze casting, astronomical calendars and the use of wheels). The answers I’ve given are mostly technological. However myths and belief systems serve very real social functions as ways to keep people together and cultivate norms and mores. Lesya expands on the utility of intentional cultural diffusion below.

Similarly, within evolution, there are instances of species having common features because of a shared ancestor, but also instances where species without shared ancestors evolve to have similar features because they exist in the same environment. I believe flippers are examples of both types of evolution in marine animals.  Thus, I think you need to question your assumption that “different cultures have come up with different names and customs surrounding the ‘same’ thing.” As the world is daily proof, they sometimes do, but they also sometimes don’t. 

-Marika

First, props to you for sending us this ask. You have been thinking about this a lot and have done research into building an urban fantasy that doesn’t do the thing of putting all Asians under one umbrella. 

Second, I’m going to agree with Marika here. Rather than go for the generalization route, revel in everyone's differences. It's a way for you to acknowledge the variations in the mythology, that not all have the same origins though there may be some similarities. Instead, they may have reached the same conclusions. My advice for blending mythologies is to lean into it, and not create a homogeneous umbrella. You can make something amazing with that. 

-Jaya

Hybridity Through Diffusion

So a myth originated in China. This does not mean Chinese tellings have the monopoly on what a telling is. Marika and Jaya have gone into a possible solution, here, but what I’m going to examine here is a mental framework that a lot of people get stuck in that is actually ahistorical.

Cultural appropriation as we know it is shockingly recent when it comes to history. In the modern day, ownership boundaries of myths have become very strict because of primarily European colonialism picking and choosing everything it likes about a mythos, and, this is important: not letting up on the oppression of those peoples. There’s also a strong preference to kill those colonialism deems “wrong”, instead of creating a hybrid culture.

Historically, this got a lot more fluid.

What happened historically was primarily cultural diffusion, wherein open trade, intermarriage, and shared borders made it that myths, customs, and cultural practices were (mostly) freely exchanged without massive power imbalances happening, and then modified to fit local beliefs.

Key word: mostly. Because yes sometimes it happened that one place took over another place and imported all of its customs (see: China, Rome, the Mughals), but… often* the ruling power either backed off, was fought of, or otherwise left the region, leaving the common people to do whatever they wanted with the carcass of what had been imposed on them. Or sometimes, even, the imperial forces would actively create a hybridized culture in order to better rule others.

* in places where the ruling power has NOT backed off on oppression and assimilation, even if the colonialism is very old, then this is invalid and the power dynamics of appropriation are still at play.

Because, historically, there was a lot less incentive to simply genocide the peoples you took over (which is what made armies that did destroy all they took over so noteworthy). People were needed to keep providing food and materials, even if the new person got the resulting taxes. 

This meant there were a lot more common people to play with the stuff imported by the imperial culture. And there was a lot more incentive to hybridize your customs to the common people’s customs, leading to the sometimes-hilarious situations like “Rome assigns an equivalence in their pantheon for literally every mythology they encountered, which was a lot.” 

This also explains early Christianization, because it was a lot safer to simply adapt what you already had to make it better for your own ends than curbstomp everything that was “wrong” to your worldview. Ireland’s mythology survives in huge swaths, because it was either Christianized wholesale, or it was about “historical humans” and not fae. Norse mythology was similarly adapted for Christian worldviews, which means we unfortunately have no idea what the pre-Christian myths were.

So instead of thinking in terms of ownership, think instead in terms of diffusion. 

Myths get imported along with food, cloth, or anything else necessary for life. Myths were, historically, a way for people to explain the world around them, both in place of and alongside science. “Ghost marches” are really common, globally, because if you have wind howling in the forest, it’s going to sound like predators, and predators mean go inside and lock the door. Weaving goddesses are also common, because weaving was so necessary to survive the elements.

Sometimes trade relationships soured, and you get bad associations with the imported stuff. Sometimes the relationship stayed great for long enough it got completely adapted. This doesn’t mean any one myth is “right”, nor does it mean you have to erase historical trade links. It just means you look at the historical context, understand that cultural exchange often used to be a lot more two-way than it is in modern appropriation times, and figure out what that means for your worldbuilding.

~ Mod Lesya

[script-a-world]

Via Google Form: i recently just learned about the concept of closed cultures and religions.

Via Google Form: i recently just learned about the concept of closed cultures and religions. does this mean that if something like native american culture or wicca were closed cultures/religions, i absolutely cannot include them in my stories no matter what? out of curiosity, would anyone happen to have a list of all of them that i can reference before i think of writing them in my stories? -mabwry

sorry, i nearly forgot but, in addition to my previous question, if a culture or religion is closed, does that mean we cannot even include a fictionalized version of it in our stories or anything inspired by them in any way? -mabwry

Feral: We’re going to have to clear the air on a few things before we can have a real discussion.

First, I am a white, atheist, raised-Christian USian. So, what do I know about closed religions? Nothing. I don’t know anything. Because they’re closed. You don’t know anything either unless you’re a part of the community with that practice, in which case you would probably not be asking me for my permission. Anything you think you know about a closed religion was a glimpse without context stolen by an outsider or wholesale made up bullshit.

Second, there is not one, monolithic Native American culture. There are currently 574 federally recognized tribes within the United States, each with their own culture. (the “federally recognized” part of that statement is fraught with implications that I am not qualified to address, but suffice it to say that there have been and are many more individual indigenous cultures.) Each of these cultures will have their own practices, religious and otherwise, but these practices are generally understood to be for people within that tribe and only people within that tribe, so unless members of a specific nation issue you a specific invitation to learn more, err on leaving them alone.  

Third, Wicca is not a closed religion; there are initiation levels, which we will get to, but the religion itself is not closed; it is, in fact, highly publicized by practicing Wiccans. Also, even if Wicca was a completely closed religion, it makes me more than a little uncomfortable to talk about Native American religious practices in the same breath as Wicca, and this is because of the following:

Now, that we’ve gotten those clarifications out of the way we can get into why various Native American cultural and religious practices, and those of similar groups like the Romani, are closed, and it’s genocide. The actual massacre of the peoples, the extreme oppression and persecution they face and have faced, the systemic stripping away of cultural identity, and the forced assimilation into the white, European(-descent) cultures they have no choice but to exist beside. In many cases, you’ll find that closed religious practices had to go underground, essentially, to survive. And even in the time-and-space pockets where the peoples are not actively in physical danger, opening their sacred practices puts those practices in danger of ugly caricature and stereotyping and vile appropriation.

Now, there are levels. Closed communities exist on a spectrum as many things do. So, let’s talk about another level or type of closed community, that of the self-separated closed community. (note: using self-separated here to distinguish it from segregation.) Hasidic Jewish communities exist in this kind of self-separation (in the modern US; can’t speak for other places or times); they’re Jewish so it’s pretty easy to get the gist of their religious beliefs and practices, but the actual inner-workings, the politics, all that social interaction are kept closed off from the outside world. Now, with any Jewish sects, there is still a long, horrific history of genocide, but as a whole, the Jewish religion has not become closed; there isn’t an active search for converts but conversion isn’t forbidden. Still, let’s move away from genocide and talk about the Amish. They’re a Christian sect, so their general beliefs are not at all unknown, and they aren’t really cagey about what beliefs separate them from mainstream Christianity. The Amish just don’t want outsiders inside their community, messing in their affairs, and introducing unwanted influences, so their community is considered closed. Hasidic communities, the Amish, they show up in a lot of fiction, so does that make it okay despite their “closed” status? I cannot possibly answer how members of those communities feel about their portrayals in fiction across the board (I do have a guess at a few types of the portrayals, and that is appalled). What I can say is that you do not have an insider’s perspective - again, if you did, I would consider it very unlikely for you to have come to ask this question - so, thinking you can write an insider’s perspective is ludicrous.

In their* response to an ask on Native American religion, Lesya offers some advice on the portrayal of religious practices in fiction, which to me reads as “mention they exist but don’t try to describe them,” and also to take the advice of sensitivity readers who belong to the exact group you are trying to portray respectfully.

*I apologize, but I do not know Lesya’s pronouns and have erred on the side of gender neutrality.

Respect is key in all of this, and frankly, your asks tell me that you do not yet have a mature enough understanding of the issue at hand to have the respect necessary. You ask if you can create a fictional religion or culture based on one of these closed religions or entire cultures, and my question to you is how can you base a religion or culture on a religion or culture that you don’t know anything about? All you would be doing is making up more bullshit - bullshit that has often led to further persecution because of widespread belief in it by outsiders - or profiting off parts of stolen culture.

Finally, I want to touch on the concept of initiate levels, and the only reason I’m harping on Wicca specifically is because you brought it up and I can only assume you did so because it matters to you. So, Wicca has initiate levels (sometimes, depends on sect and denomination and all sorts of things; plenty of Wiccan sects do not have initiate levels and are completely open regarding their beliefs and practices.), which makes sense because it was manufactured from a lot of other belief systems, including a sort-of best-guess at the belief systems of ancient mystery cults. Wicca is certainly not the only religion to include the concept of requiring certain initiation rituals before one can gain the full knowledge contained within the religion. What this does though is creates a division within the religion itself so that all insiders are not completely inside, so to speak. So, even for a religion that is otherwise open, those specific practices are going to be closed and you won’t know what is going on inside. Why this is done is going to vary significantly by religion and will run the spectrum from benign to nefarious when you get into modern cults, but generally one can understand that in a religion that purports to have secret knowledge or to offer special interaction with a deity or even to provide supernatural powers, having initiation rites ensures that only the true believers or the cream of the crop or the ones with the inherent gifts will get access.

From your second ask, it seems clear to me that you want a rich diversity of religious worldbuilding, not just another cut-and-paste fake Catholic Church or Greco-Roman pantheon, and that’s admirable. But even when you’re working with religions that are not closed, when you’re not practicing that religion, it becomes tricky to get it right. Instead of just trying to base a fake religion on a real religion, study religion and spirituality. Read up on how religions are classified. If you understand the sociology, you can create distinct, nuanced religions for your secondary world.

I do not know of any list of all closed cultures and religions. I have included several in this response, but I would recommend just ensuring that you are always going to actual members and current practitioners as your sources for information - and to be clear, start with the written record before addressing people directly - , and if those members and current practitioners are categorically not sharing with an outsider, then it’s safe to assume that is closed.

[author-morgan]

Kryptic ↟ Deimos

thirty-six - absolution

masterlist

But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods can defend a man, not even one they love, that day when fate takes hold and lays him out at last.

Death submits to no one, not even Dread and Destruction.

They are both weapons of flesh and bone, of warm blood and beating hearts, and they cannot be controlled.

LESYA TUGS AT the ropes on her wrists, but the knots have no give. Searching the belly of the trireme, she finds him sitting across from her, his head low, armor still stained with soot, mud, and blood from the battle. The struggle against her bonds only brings back the sudden surge of pain in her bandaged thigh and bruised arm. Deimos lifts his head, catching her harsh glare. Even so, a wave of relief crashes over him. "I'm your prisoner now?" She hisses, snapping him from whatever fog had taken hold of his thoughts.

He doesn't reply, but silence is answer enough —the Cult has taken her prisoner. They will go to Delphi, or perhaps to Athens since Kleon has taken charge of both the city and Kosmos. Stilling, she looks down at the ropes, can hear the echo of burning trees mixed with the rise and fall of the Aegean's waves. "What you did was reckless," Lesya mutters. 

"Trying to save you from an inferno?" Deimos asks, raising his scarred brow as he leans toward her. There's a tinge of mirth in his tone. Even after crossing blades, he hadn't hesitated to put himself between her and a burning tree. Protecting Lesya is second nature to him. It had been for years —they could fight on and off the battlefield, but he would always try to save her from pain. 

She shakes her head, recalling their training and days long past. Biting down on her lip, Lesya glances at the hull of the ship, unable to meet the warmth shining in Deimos' tawny-gold eyes. "We were taught to save ourselves, not one another," she reminds him. 

"And when have we ever listened?" He challenges. Ever since they were children facing the trials, Enyo and Deimos always looked out for one another, and time wouldn't change that. They never took all of Chrysis' teachings to heart anyways. Elsewise, neither of them would be here now in the belly of a trireme sailing back to Athens. 

"You should have left me." Lesya's voice cracks. She thought freedom from the Cult would mean freedom from the killing and the horrors, but she still found her blades dripping with blood at every turn. There is no muting the taunting voice of Enyo in the back of her mind every time she wields a weapon, no calming the bloodlust craving monster. There is no escape from the endless cycle. It will be the same for him, no matter how much they dream or speak of a simpler life.

"Deimos," she breathes, a broken prayer, "when the game is done and all the pawns are spent, where in Hellas will we go?" Kassandra telling her not to return to Sparta after what happened in Boeotia brought the realization upon her —there is not a single polis in the Greek world that would welcome her and Deimos, if they did, it would only be to see them at the chopping block. "The Spartans would gladly have our heads, as would the Athenians." Their crimes against the two city-states are too numerous to count. "There's no place we haven't desecrated with bloodshed. Nowhere and no one will want us."

Silence settles between the two champions. Deimos weighs her words carefully, not denying the truth of it. When the Cult falls, they will have no safe haven to turn to without facing persecution. Even so, he can tell there's something different in her gaze, a new kind of defeat in her voice. He reaches for her, rough fingertips brushing across her jaw and bruised cheek. "What've you done?" Deimos asks. 

"Killed one of the Spartan generals–" her eyes flash up to meet his, despite the guilt in her tone there's still pride shining in her eyes "–your step-brother, Stentor." Deimos knows the name. He knows Stentor as the son of Nikolaos and as an informant for the Cult of Kosmos —one of the Redbloods they speak of. He doesn't say anything, just runs a hand over his face with a slight sigh. Yet another ally lost by Enyo's hand. Deimos cannot help but wonder how things would have turned out had she remained at his side. He imagines by now the Cult would have Hellas beneath their heel.

She holds out her bound hands, laurel eyes shining with something Deimos thinks he's never seen before —fear and weakness. "Take these ropes off," Lesya says, nigh pleading, but Deimos does or says nothing, just sits back with his dark gaze flitting across her face and the bruises and scars. She can see it in his expression, doubt —a voice in the back of his mind saying she will run as soon as the bonds are severed. "We're in open water–" a smile tugs at her lips, even she could not hope to swim to shore from this far out at sea "–where would I go?"

Deimos slips one of her twin blades under the ropes, cutting them loose. Lesya rubs her wrists, lost in a daze. "Lesya," he breathes, cupping her cheek —the rough pad of his thumb tracing over the scar running through her brow, a mark left by his blade. She lifts her gaze to meet his and feels her chest tighten as all their past encounters come racing to the forefront of her mind, all of them a culmination of what she'd told him on that Megarian beach. I love you. Lesya swallows the lump in her throat.

"I meant what I said," she tells him. Nothing could change the way she felt about Deimos, not after all the years they stood side-by-side, not after the things they'd done. She could never want anyone else, only the broken boy named Alexios, who grew into a twisted weapon. Lesya leans into his touch, turning her cheek to press a short kiss to the center of his scarred palm. 

He stares, lips parted, a funny feeling in his chest —he thinks it might be remorse. Remorse for not telling her sooner. Remorse for turning his back on her when she'd first told him. "I know," he whispers, leaning forward, still unable to tell Lesya he feels the same too. For now, though, it doesn't matter. She shifts, tilting her chin up so their lips brush against one another. It's hesitant, like when they were younger, but then Deimos' hand slips from her cheek to the nape of her neck, pulling her against him and swallowing the startled gasp that leaves her lips. Lesya melts against him, thinking everything feels right once again now that she's back in Deimos' arms.  

WHEN HE WAKES to the clash of thunder in the middle of the night, Lesya's warmth is no longer pressed against him. Her armor is gone, as are her blades. There are no signs she'd ever been there save for the cut rope and bloody scraps of linen. He peers around the bowel of the trireme, finding only the dark outlines of resting rowers —no need to fight Poseidon's wrath so far from land.

Sitting up, he ties his black-and-gold chiton around his waist, eyes still searching the darkness. Certain Lesya is not there, he rises, making his way above deck with the thrashing wind and pounding rain. The wooden planks are slick from water and the blood of three beheaded Cult guardians. 

Deimos strides to the commander of the guard, his face twisted in anger. They are in open water with no land in sight on any horizon, nor is there any sign of another ship. Lesya should not have slipped through their grasp so easily, should not have slipped through his grasp either. "You let her escape?!" Deimos roars, expression twisting to anger and rage.

"She killed the guards!" the commander refutes, though his tone is also a pitiful cry for clemency.

Deimos bends at the waist, picking up a spear. He surveys the point —dull but still deadly. "Apparently not all of them," he remarks, thrusting the spearhead into the man's gut and forcing him back into the dark, churning depths of the sea. Deimos ascends the steps to the quarterdeck, the wind and rain pelting his face and chest. He grips onto the rail, looking over the deckhands fighting to keep the sail from tearing and across the choppy water surrounding the trireme. Lightning flashes across the sky and far off on the horizon, Deimos sees it, a ship with dark sails emblazoned with an eagle clutching a serpent in its talons —the Adrestia. 

[taglist:  @wallsarecrumbling @novastale @fucking-dip-shit @elizabethroestone @maximalblaze @balmacedapascal @kitkitvm @dynamicorbit @thepreciouspurrsian ] it’s been a hot minute since the last update hasn’t it? 

[adelaidedrubman]

2, 4, 6, 13 for jessie beloved 💞

thank you lesya my beloved!!! sorry for the delay but you know how i be 🥲

2. Who is your best friend?  Tell us about them!

"Only the most gorgeous lady in Hope County, Ms. Tracey Lader! We could be more than friends, if she just says the word. Either way, sure as hell not gonna desert her to hang out with some freakshow cult. I know when I have a good thing going, unlike some people.

But seriously, I know Tracey has a reputation for being a little prickly at first, but she's one of the sweetest, most patient people I've met since I've been here. She puts up with me, she's understanding and doesn't judge when I tell her I've done something, uh... less than brilliant.

Alright, sometimes she judges a little, but only when I deserve it. That girl probably knows more about me than anyone. I'm lucky to have her."

4. What is your least favorite childhood memory?

"Hmm, alright, so. I'm ten years old, goin' over to my pal Kaitlyn's for a sleepover. Now, I'm nervous as shit, 'cause Kaitlyn's house isn't just any regular ol' house, her folks have money. Huge house on this huuuuuuge sprawling farm. And also because I had a huge crush on Kaitlyn, but I wasn't entirely, uh, cognizant of that yet.

But anyways, we were off explorin' the place — which like I said, was huge, especially to a kid — ridin' round on four wheelers, having a blast, and we come up on their chickens. And her family has 'em in this huge chicken coop with a big ol' free range area. I mean bigger than some people's backyard.

We stop off and she's gonna let me feed the chickens, 'cause I've never done it before, so I got a hand full of chicken feed. When don't you know it her shitass older brother and his friend are up there, sitting on top of the coop, and start throwing rocks at us, big ones, shits that hurt. So Kaitlyn starts crying, I'm pissed off, I climb my way up there to give 'em hell. Knock the first one off, feeling pretty good about that, feel like I'm looking pretty cool. Start to go for the second one, he runs off — but trips me on the way, I fall back... break right through the chicken wire and land in their little playpen. Smack dab in the middle of a huge pile of chicken shit.

And that's bad enough, right? But mind you, I still have a fistful of chicken feed, which I remember bout the time I feel something peck right between my eyes. Then my neck. And damn near every wear else on me. Had to have been at least ten of them suckers pecking the shit out of me. Still have a scar from it, right here on my wrist. Anyways, I tear down near half the chicken coop getting out, they all go running to their freedom, which is too bad, 'cause if I ever wanted to cook and eat a family of chickens...

Needless to say, I was not invited back to anymore sleepovers at Kaitlyn's. Worst part though? Her brother kept calling me 'chickenshit' everytime he saw me at school. Which is fucked, 'cause he was the one running away. Little bastard."

6. What’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do?

"Oof, well... It's been a pretty cushy ride for the most part, kinda coasted through life. I'd say the hardest thing would probably be getting through the police academy. Now, the book learning part wasn't exactly challenging, but it was fucking boring. And I thought I was in pretty good shape but... really worked my ass off physically. More than I had to, according the instructors, but... Never too careful, don't wanna be one of those assholes that just knows how to fire a gun and nothing else.

But most of all, it was hard 'cause it was full of a lot of those assholes. And lots of other kinds of assholes. Assholes everywhere. Not in a good way."

13. You’re given an unlimited budget to build anything you want!  What do you build and where do you build it?

Answered here!

[winterskywrites]

Could you write about Alex starting to date the clone of herself, which she realizes is an enormous confidence boost. And Kara is oddly supportive!

Alex’s clone is named Lesya, and you can find previous prompts with her here.

“Soooooo,” Kara says, dragging the word out for way longer than it needs to be dragged, “are you meeting up with Lesya later?”

“Why would you ask that?” Alex asks, hoping she didn’t answer too quickly. The answer is yes, but she doesn’t want to admit it if she doesn’t have to.

“Because those look like date clothes,” Kara says dryly, “and the last three times you’ve been wearing date clothes, it’s been to see Lesya.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alex says, holding earrings up to the side of her face, frowning, and exchanging them for another pair.

“Sure you don’t,” Kara snorts.

“As if you’re one to talk!” Alex protests. “You’re dating Kira!”

“I am not!”

“But you wish you were!”

Kara lifts her chin imperiously. “That’s not important. We’re not actually dating. Not like you and Lesya.”

“We’re not actually dating either!” Alex protests. At Kara’s disbelieving look, she adds, “Not really.”

“Uh, huh.”

“We’ve just been going to restaurants together, and we sit and chat for a while, and then sometimes we come back to my apartment for a glass of wine, and oh my god, we’re totally dating.”

Kara gives Alex a sympathetic look. “Told you so.”

“Look, you and Kira haven’t even admitted that you like each other yet, so don’t even try to take the moral high ground here,” Alex accuses. “Oh my god, Kara, how did I not realize that Lesya and I were dating?”

“I mean, you like her right?” Kara asks.

Alex runs a hand through her hair, which completely musses it up but makes her feel a little better. “Yeah? Is that really narcissistic of me?”

“What, just cause she looks like you?” Kara says. “No. You’re completely different people, just like me and Kira. As long as you’re not just dating her for her looks, cause yeah, that would be narcissistic.”

“I’m not just dating her for her looks!” Alex protests. “I’m dating her cause I like her! A lot! She’s smart, and she’s sarcastic, and she can be really funny, and oh my god, does she know that we’re dating?”

“I mean, you just said she was smart,” Kara says dryly. “I think someone smart would be able to put it together.”

“Oh, shut up. I’m not listening to you until you talk to Kira.”

Kara snorts. “Then we’ll both be dating our clones. What are the chances?”

“Considering how weird it is that we both have clones in the first place? I’m no Brainy, but I’m pretty sure they’re really, really slim.”

[taliwritesapps]

ageofwrath app

—– OOC INFORMATION –—

[ Name/Alias ]: Tali [ Age ]: 23 [ Pronouns ]: She/Her [ Timezone ]: CEST [ Activity Level ]: 1-10; For August, I will be busy with my two jobs but everything should calm down when September arrives and my study starts! At this moment, there aren’t certain days I’m free, as it’s random days where I work, but I always do my best to do my replies as soon as I can! [ Triggers ]: Rape [ Concerns ]: FC change to Wentworth Miller. ( Discussed with Admin Maya )

—– IC INFORMATION –—

[ Desired Character ]: Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov [ Why/how this character appeals to/inspires you ]: I am so intrigued with the half machine half man idea, and his biography got me excited the moment I read it. He’s a man that’s either terribly afraid, or impressively confident. Mostly, I feel that since I’m an emotional person, writing a character who is half machine will be a challenge, and I’m definitely up for that. [ Character Interpretation ]: Fear and pain motivates him like nothing else, and his mind is something interesting to unravel through development. I already have a headcanon that he is either warm and fuzzy – with those he trusts and/or likes –, stone cold and barbaric with those he hates and/or despises or be distant and blunt with those he doesn’t trust/know. All to protect himself and the fact that he could do terrible things should he end up in the wrong hands. Given what he is and what he knows he can do, he doesn’t trust easy, so I’m very excited to see if he can get his own walls to tumble. [ Para Sample ]:

Restless dreams stirred the man in his sleep. Lips moving to speak silent words while hands clutch onto the smooth fabric of the fabric keeping him warm during the cold Russian nights. Every morning is the same routine, and at exactly 5:21 AM, blue hues appeared from behind shut lids. Fingers twitched when his arm tensed – something he would describe as a circuit fault in his cybernetic arm – resulting in jamming sounds and ticking noises that echoed in his head, like a scratching sound that would well be able to drive him insane. It was one of the concerning things he had noticed about himself throughout the year, as well as the fact that his heart sometimes stopped beating. A thing that happened after a work out, interrogation or when he had an adrenaline worthy moment in the field. The thing he was yet unable to do was explain how he managed to keep functioning in the moment between where his heart would stop beating and start again. Perhaps another fault, like the one in his cybernetics. That alone was a frightening thought.

He would have moved with a grumble, a groan and a curse in at least five different languages had he not anticipated this moment the night before. A small breath escaped his lips when he pulled himself up into a sitting position. For someone who had experienced pain, the sensation he felt now was a nuisance, to say the least. One he fixed by pressing his opposite hand on certain spots of his shoulder, where in the course of years he had a ‘kill switch’ installed, one that would have his arm reset. A reset that could last in between ten to twenty minutes.

By the time Ivan experienced the circuits in his arm to work again – the buzzing of gears and tightening and relaxing of the wires controlling his fingers – he was already at the end of his shower. Every morning, every time Ivan ran his fingers over his lower back he couldn’t help but wonder about that dreadful period in his life. Flashes of the memories he wished he had lost instead those of his past life replaced his sight, and with effort he would be able to suppress the searing pain that belonged to them. A sigh emitted from his lips as he turned off the cold water running from the shower head, stepping into the open of his bathroom.

“Gideon, activate the surround sound – last night’s news.” Ivan commanded the virtual intelligence he had created. “Confirmed, activating channel RT.” It was a beta program, more than anything. Only able to handle simple tasks, like sound, locking doors, to weather predictions, receiving notifications from his phone and control the lights. It was as far as Ivandared to go, even setting aside the function for scanning for the far future, or perhaps even forever. In the war he was playing part in, the last thing he wanted was a virtual and potential artificial intelligence to wreak havoc and with the occasional faults in his system, the VI often lost functionality. Let alone to speak of his body functions. For Ivan, it was hard enough to deal with the dark and destructive thoughts that lingered in his head. Thoughts he had no idea if they were justified, or bred by paranoia of his current state. He didn’t need more physical problems than he already had. Like faulty functioning limbs in the morning and punctual migraines at 14:38 PM and 22:11 PM, of which the latter was the worst. With luck, he would already be in his chambers where he could make the room as dark as possible and drift into a slumber until the morning started at 5:21 AM sharp.

“Sir, Miss Proulx brought in a subject last night for you to focus on. He would seemingly be able to inform her of a weapon cache location that could benefit the Lesyas. Shall I notify her you will be there later?”

Gideon’s automated voice spoke with the chip inserted in the back of his neck – a small gadget he had help with getting in there, where only a centimetre scar is left to remember by. If he was already half machine, he didn’t see the harm in adding another two grams. “Tell her I’m on my way.” Ivan sighed, sliding his mobile phone into his back pocket and a pair of black gloves in the other while exiting the room.

“Initiate shut down.”

[ Password ]: Jack the Ripper [ Anything Else? ]: I made a moodboard here: https://talizorahwrites.tumblr.com/private/163866317243/tumblr_ou9nokIiIw1w6g8ge

and a playlist here: https://open.spotify.com/user/missesmundane/playlist/1SZjGqhMyeckIJVV0B5qZ1

[ageofwrathrpg]

Name: Larisa Tsoy Age:  31 Ability:  Empathy Faction:  ROSTEKS as a HACKER/SPY Faceclaim:  Lucy Liu Availability:  OPEN

THE STORY || CW:  Death, Violence, Blood

Even as a young girl, Larisa’s dark eyes would sparkle each time she watched the graceful figure skaters take to the ice, aspiring to one day be like them, to one day bring home multiple Olympic gold medals.  Her human parents were supportive, as they were always supportive about everything their daughter did, and even pushed her when she thought she could no longer go on, through the pains of sprained ankles and bruised hips.  Through perseverance, Larisa Tsoy and her partner, Sayoran, were an unstoppable duo that all the competitors hated yet aspired to be.  Her Human parents never would have suspected their daughter of being a Vila, so after she turned 12 and started to complain about “feeling weird” or having sudden mood swings, they chalked it up to puberty.  Sayoran, on the other hand, suspected Larisa was Vila.  Together, they determined she was an empath and could feel the emotions of others.  As partners in more than just ice dancing, they tried to find ways to help her control it.  Because they trusted each other implicitly, Sayoran promised to take her secret to the grave.  

For two years, Sayoran kept his promise.  

A bobby pin had fallen from another dancer’s hair onto the ice.  While holding Larisa in a curved lift, Sayoran’s skate struck this pin, causing him to lose balance and drop his partner as he fell. She would never forget the clash of red streaks upon white ice as the blade of her skate crashed down.  Her screams and sobs melded with his desperate gasps and gurgles as he clutched at the deep gash of his throat.  His eyes were wide with terror, terror that she could feel.  She could feel him choking on his own blood, the pain he felt.  Larissa screamed for help and while their coach ran for an EMT, she stayed with Sayoran.  She could feel it, his fear -- not just from dying, but from dying alone.  He didn’t need to speak a word as she gripped his fingers tightly, reassuring him, over and over, “I’m not leaving you.  I’m right here.”  She refused to let go of his hand when the paramedics arrived, but he was too far gone.   Larisa felt the last of Sayoran’s life drift out of his body as though it was her own, like ice water to her veins, making her numb but sensitive to everything around her.

After Sayoran’s death, Larisa wanted nothing to do with people.  She dreaded feeling that pain again, that hopelessness and fear.  Because their daughter had witnessed and been involved with something so traumatic, her parents never thought twice about Larisa locking herself away from the world.  She had seen counselors and therapists alike, but due to her empathy, she felt more judgment from them than sincerity.  She found refuge in computers; they were just things that had no feelings, but they were useful.  Eventually, she did brave the public for the sole purpose of obtaining degrees in Computer Science and Engineering.  Because she spent all her time with these machines, it wasn’t long before she was building her own computers and learning how to manipulate their uses to benefit herself and her parents.  Through forums, chat rooms, and eventually social media, Larisa learned she could still have a social life without ever having to leave her basement.  It was perfect, to just communicate with others without physical feeling what they felt.

Time and time again, she came across sites and forums created by humans who detested Vilas, some even plotted ways to destroy innocent Vila families.  Larisa would go into full-on hacktivist mode and bring these sites down, track down the users’ computers and do everything in her power not just to destroy their own machines, but their lives as well.  How dare they plot to hurt, let alone kill, innocent people?  It was through a twist of fate that she stumbled across information about the Rosteks, and agreeing with most of their Cause, did not hesitate to offer her services to them.  She now uses her hacking abilities to spy the various information exchanges between individuals and groups, and uses algorithms to track any “suspicious” activity.

THE CHARACTER

Online, Larisa is a very sociable person through messengers and video chats.  She is considered likable and has a dry wit that others find hilarious, able to defuse a heated conversation with her stellar sense of humor, not to mention knowledgeable about computers and certainly not above helping out a “nerd in need”.  Online, nearly everyone is equal and it does not matter if someone is Vila or Human and that is a large part of the appeal.  However, she takes great pride in striking down Humans who dare intend harm to Vilas regardless of affiliation.  

CONNECTIONS

Yana Czarevna Grekova - Several years ago, Larisa followed a lead that a science facility was conducting experiments on Vilas.  By happenstance, she came across Yana in the same forum discussion, quickly learning that the woman was a researcher for the Lesyas.  The hacker’s gut reaction was to investigate Yana, learning some basics … including her brief stent with the Rosteks.  Initially, Larisa thought befriending her would be her “in” to the Lesyas for the sake of obtaining information for the Rosteks, but she quickly discovered that the two had more in common than she had realized at first.  The beauty about computers was that you didn’t need to hear in order to read typed words, you didn’t need to be physically with someone to know how they felt, and you couldn’t read someone’s thoughts through a computer.  It wasn’t long at all before she considered Yana to be a true friend, though she keeps her Rostek affiliation a secret. Because Yana is a telepath, they have yet to meet in person, and Larisa prefers to keep it that way or she could risk losing everything.

Aleksey Zhu - Computer aficionados need a reliable supplier, and Zhu’s got the goods.  This technopath knows zir stuff and Larisa is happy to do business with zir.  In fact, Larisa goes as far as to not only vouch for Zhu’s authenticity and quality, but will even go as far as to organize requests and shipments for the Rosteks.  These two keep in close contact online and in person.  In fact, she sees a lot of Sayoran in Zhu, and is quite protective of zir, setting up firewalls and safety features to ensure her friend’s safety from cyber attacks.  Zhu is one of the few people Larisa doesn’t mind hanging out with on a regular basis, as she adores zir “toys” and the two will rarely run out of anything to talk about.  

Kirill Samuilovich Wolff - Larisa does know that Kirill is Shifr’s right hand man, and according to her sources, Shifr’s got his fingers in a lot of pies.  She learned that one of the reasons why he is so good at protecting Shifr is his empathy.  Looking deeper into his life, his family, his military service--and knowing her own personal experience with the same ability--she could only have respect for him coming out of it seemingly balanced … at least, in present day.  Though she does not know him personally, she respects him for his loyalty to his boss.  He actually seems like a nice guy when he’s not bashing in the heads of Shifr’s enemies.

Elena Vladimirovna Ostrovsky - One bad day was all it took and Larisa was in the Rostek gym, punching the shit out of a heavy bag. She was rusty, but she’d retained enough of her figure skating training regime to clumsily pick off where she’d started. Elena walked in on her throwing blow after blow, and suddenly she spoke: “You should go on a mission with me.” Larisa was stunned to silence, and then she was embarrassed. She started to pack her things and Elena’s expression grew defiant. Ever since, Elena’s been pestering Larisa to try being an assassin, a spy, a damn thief if that’s what it takes to get her off of her screen — but Larisa has none of it. She’d sooner chain herself to her monitor than join Elena on anything. 

Rashid Javed Bashir - Once upon a time, Larisa and Zhu visited a bar after hours, and though there were few people in attendance, they certainly were enjoying themselves … until this hunka hunka sexy cop walked through the door.  He was in his uniform, and because he was smiling and making nice with the bartender, Larisa was under the assumption (in her drunken state) that he just HAD to be a stripper.  Needless to say, they were both quite embarrassed when the bartender informed her that he was really a senior lieutenant and was just checking in after his shift.  Nevertheless, it was certainly an ice-breaker!  She finds him endearing, somewhat dorky, but always good for a laugh and a pick-me-up.  His natural optimism is something she actually enjoys being around and the two have remained good friends.  Though she can’t quite figure out if he’s Vila … or if he’s Human, and Vila police employees are notorious for lying on their records; however, she is leaning toward Vila as this cop refuses to use his gun with the Vila suppressant bullets.

[[ More Connections ]]

ETC

Because she hates crowds and being around people in general, she avoids shopping in public and will instead order everything online to have it delivered to her home.

Banks are easy targets for a woman of her skills and she will often transfer money in a Robin Hood-esque way … except she and the Rosteks are often the ones reaping the benefits. 

Larisa loves to dance and is very graceful with her movements.

Sometimes, she will dare to venture into public for the sake of a mission … though sometimes, she will do it to briefly socialize as long as it is a small group (such as after hours as a bar, restaurant, or movie theater). 

She lives in a large basement apartment at the Rostek Manor and refers to her “home base” as “The Citadel”, as an homage to her own given name.  It is filled with top-of-the-line equipment that is either extremely difficult or impossible to find anywhere else.

[azombiebooktuber-blog]

THE DREAM CHOOSES THE DREAMER, NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND

and Lazlo Strange, a war orphan and junior librarian, has always feared that his dream chose poorly. Since he was five years old he’s obsessed with the mythic lost city of Weep, but it would take someone bolder than he to cross held the world in search of it. Then a stunning opportunity presents itself, in the person of a hero called the Godslayer and a band of legendary warriors, and he has to seize his chance or lose his dream forever.

What happened in Weep two hundred years ago to cut it off from the rest of the world? What exactly did the Godslayer slay that went be the name of god? And what is the mysterious problem he now seeks help in solving?

The answers await in Weep, but so do more mysteries – including the blue skinned goddess who appears in Lazlo’s dreams. How did he dream her before he knew she existed? And if all the gods are dead, why does she seem so real?

******

Strange The Dreamer was published in March 2017 by Hodder & Stoughton. 

The one and only, Hachette kindly provided me a copy of this gorgeous novel in exchange for an honest review.

******

FIRST OF ALL.

I MEAN!! LOOK HOW GORGEOUS THIS GODDAMN BEAUTIFUL BEAUTY IS!! I LEGITIMATELY CAN’T EVEN WITH THIS CREATION. It’s actually stunning. I AM SHOOK. THIS BOOK IS SO AESTHETICALLY PLEASING. I could look at it all day.

Strange The Dreamer was selected in March via poll over at The YA Room on twitter! And I was immediately thrilled to have such an amazing story win the popular vote. And I wasn’t surprised to see it win either. Much like our March selection, which was The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas, Strange The Dreamer has a lot of perfect tangents for discussion, which bought about amazing conversations during our twitter chat as well as our book meet on Sunday!

I thought this book was absolutely incredible. I loved the writing style! Taylor has a completely different way of writing. Her style is so whimsical and fantastical and quickly pulls the reader in with the poetic prose and set up of her stories. She can easily weave the most boring of events and twist it into the best experience of a lifetime. And I love that. The fact that her writing is so different is what makes Strange The Dreamer stand out among the crowd, just like her Daughter Of Smoke And Bone trilogy did – which I STILL need to finish.

Not only did the writing stand out, the story did too. The blurb was instantly eye-catching. And I’ve heard quite a few people say they expected a very different story. I went into this novel half blind, and came out of it wanting more and more and more. I’ve never read a story like this, and I loved the mythical aspects and always adore a story with gods and goddess and an adorable romance to go along side it.

The only issue I had with the novel was the world building, and Lazlo’s rambles. At some stages, I feel like the world building was almost lost with Lazlo’s thoughts and mini flash backs in to the past. At one particular point in the book, Taylor uses Lazlo to set up the history behind one of the side characters motives. She goes back and forth between the past and present to do this that I was slightly confused and had to ask for help – That said, once I was used to the world building and reached the conflict of the book, I found that it was much easier to keep up with the world of the novel. I definitely feel like if I had read the novel cover-to-cover everything would have flowed, and felt far more fluid.

Despite not being fully invested into Strange The Dreamer straight away, I think the ending, and the cliff hangers that came with it definitely raised the bar for me. Any doubts I had with the novel dispersed once I finished it. For the longest time, all I could think was “maybe this novel is just over-hyped after all”, but it quickly changed to “I NEED MUSE OF NIGHTMARES IMMEDIATELY!!!!!!“

I also accidentally fell in love with all of the characters. OPPS.

I gave this perfect blue novel a massive five stars. This book had me in tears of laughter and heartbreak. I thought it was incredibly well written and had a unique, and amazing story with plenty of gorgeous characters ready to join the readers for the wild ride that is Strange The Dreamer.

I would definitely recommend this to lovers of young adult and fantasy and are wanting something that just stands out from all the others.

I’m super excited for the sequel and honestly have so many theories for what might happen next. Taylor left me on the edge of my seat during the last hundred pages or so, and I haven’t stopped thinking about since I finished it.

I was so in love with Sarai, that for The YA Room book meet up, I created a make up look inspired by her! And my friends loved it! Even Laini Taylor saw it *heart eyes* *for days*

Before I finish up this post, I want to say a massive thank you to Date A Book (the YA Hub for Hachette AUS and NZ) for providing Sarah and I amazing goodies for The YA Room! Thank you so much for offering to make our booking meeting even more memorable!

We were sent an abundance of Date A Book bookmarks, which you make have seen floating around the pages of new releases, as well as a few magical sets of Lesya BlackBirdInk art stickers. These four stickers are limited edition and we were able to hand them out to those who came to our bookclub as well as snag a few for ourselves.

Art by Lesya BlackBirdInk 

Also shoutout to this gorgeous human, over here at thereadingberry,  who joined The YA Room on Sunday and gifted Sarah and I with these gorgeous watercolour bookmarks inspired by Strange The Dreamer!

I hope you loved  as much as I did!

Until next time~

Strange The Dreamer | Laini Taylor THE DREAM CHOOSES THE DREAMER, NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND and Lazlo Strange, a war orphan and junior librarian, has always feared that his dream chose poorly.

[writingwithcolor]

Avoiding Anglocentric Bias with a Universal Translator, Writing a Magic School on Indigenous Land

@king-ofconfusion​ asked:

So im writing a fantasy story that mostly takes place on an island between canada and russia. The magical community is hidden from everyone else and their main land/school is on this island, and even tho there are smaller places all over the world this is the main place. Theres some sort of translation spell so everyone understands eachother but i dont want it to seem like american washed or smth? race isnt a problem plot wise but i also dont want it to be so background that it seems all white?

I’ll focus on the part about the translator, as when you say “American washed” I assume you mean the Anglocentric (English-centric) bias that could arise with the concept of a universal translator. Mod Lesya will talk about your...choice of location for this school.

As a bilingual & linguist who thinks in a quasi-combination of languages, I think I’d like to see an idea of a spell that translates to that individual’s unique linguistic interface; if your story has multiple closed POVs, you can show hints of that by having different POV characters hear dialogue differently—maybe language-unique lexemes (vocabulary) are being borrowed! Maybe there’s code-switching! If your story has a more omniscient POV then you might have a part that explains how the spell works, or show through ambiguities in dialogue that shows that characters are hearing dialogue differently depending on what languages they understand. 

As an example, think of how a character who speaks German, an agglutinative language, might create new vocabulary by stringing together morphemes, and a character who doesn’t speak an agglutinative language would hear that via the spell as a literal-translation-of-words-strung-together. 

Think of semantic differences/ambiguities that the spell might not (or might! Up to you!) catch—I give an example on the differences between answering negative yes-no questions in English vs. Japanese here. 

You might even get cases of characters who speak languages that may name borrowings with prototypical labels (English does this, but other languages like Spanish do too). An example is referring to masala chai as “chai tea.” What happens if a Hindi or Urdu speaker hears this? The translator may either literally translate and return “tea tea,” or it might apply context and return “masala chai.” Here’s some more food for thought on borrowings & prototypes! 

Assuming you’re writing this story in English, there will unavoidably be some bias towards English as the basis for your translations. But hopefully this approach gives some ideas for challenging English-as-default by representing forms and meanings that don’t exist in English, and not assuming English is necessarily the prototype for these translations.

~Mod Rina 

Here’s the elephant in the room Rina tapped me to answer: you’ve chosen Indigenous land for a magic school, without acknowledging any Indigenous peoples in your worldbuilding or ask.

The arctic is not uninhabited. That stretch of land between Russia and Alaska (Canada does not go that far West) is the region of Yupik peoples, both on the Russia and Alaska sides (it’s the only language family that is found in both the old and new world), and the Iñupiat peoples, just on the Alaska side (as far as I’m aware).

If you do mean Canada, then you’re getting onto the polar ice cap… and this is also not completely uninhabited. This territory would belong more to Inuit peoples.

In short: you’re at a pretty large risk of having this school be on Indigenous lands, and whether or not it’s a colonial outpost or simply a safe haven depends on how they go about it.

It is possible that there is a genuine, respectful relationship between the Indigenous peoples and the school. The school would have to surrender its land ownership to the people local to the region, respect hunting grounds, not muck with the ecology of the place, and help the people of the region. They would, essentially, acclimate into Arctic life, creating a cultural hybrid between their old customs and what is required to be in the Arctic.

But if you start to have this school try to recreate European ideals, foods, and have them insist their way of life is the only way that can exist, then your magic users have become colonizers. It’s, unfortunately, that simple.

The thing about this island is: Indigenous peoples would’ve known about it, probably before these magic users did.

Arctic peoples also crossed between Russia and Alaska “late” (after the land bridge sank), and very well could have found this island in the time they travelled by water between the two countries. Late is relative, because it was still at least ten thousand years ago.

That land could very well have been inhabited before the magic users got there, which means they would have had to be extremely respectful to not colonize that land. As I said above, it’s possible to be respectful, but requires the magic school default to Indigenous voices when it comes to how to live there.

If it’s uninhabited, then it’s likely known about. These magic users probably don’t have enough magic to completely alter the wave patterns of the ocean, which an ocean-navigating Indigenous people would absolutely know how to use in order to find land (this is one of the ways many peoples navigate at sea).

The other option is the school is actually Yupik or other Arctic peoples founded and uses their belief structure, which would require an intense amount of working with the peoples in question to inform your worldbuilding. 

To be clear: you still need to account for Indigenous peoples and research/talk to members of the peoples I listed above. It’s just going to be less work if you stick with a European magic system and have them be visitors working heavily with Arctic peoples, instead of having the magic system be based in Arctic peoples’ customs.

I’m not from the Arctic. The Arctic has a unique colonization history that I’m not very well educated upon, beyond the fact it’s unique, recent, and suddenly devastating. I cannot advise you on this any more than saying you are on Indigenous lands. I would strongly suggest you look at all of the other “remote, uninhabited” compounds you’ve created to see what Indigenous peoples live in those regions, as well. 

The idea that the earth is mostly barren and unused and lacks meaningful human presence is a colonialist myth that is used to perpetuate the concept (white) Europeans can move in without consequence. Many harsh climates have Indigenous peoples living there, and any magical communities need to do similar practices to the ones I outlined above.

Make sure they’re not taking land, and make sure they learn how to respect it the way the local peoples do: sustainably. That’s the bare minimum.

~ Mod Lesya

[writingwithcolor]

Justice for Regis Korchinski-Paquet, Help Toronto, Ontario, Canada

Hi everyone,

Mod Lesya here.

On May 27th, 2020, police were called on Regis Korchinski-Paquet to take her to the mental health hospital for treatment. Instead of receiving care, she was pushed off the balcony by police. The police are calling it “unfounded allegations” and have claimed her death as a suicide.

News about her death isn’t widespread, and the police coverup has been swift. There is a long racist history with Toronto police, and they are a notoriously corrupt police force even among police forces.

The story is: while her mother and brother waited in the hall, police entered the apartment. Her family heard her cry for help, silence, then police returning saying she fell to her death.

Canada has had sporadic protests in response, but I do not want her death to be downplayed by the situation in America. This is an international issue of police violence.

A History of Police Deaths in Canada

Police are just as corrupt, just as racist, and just as terrible in Canada as they are in America. This is being tagged as Black Lives Matter because it is primarily about Regis, and this section is to detail how her death is not an isolated incident of racialized violence by police.

Black and Indigenous people have been killed in Canada en masse either by police, or their deaths at the hands of others have been ignored by police. 

Toronto had a homophobic serial killer targeting black and brown men that was ignored by police for years.

Some high profile racialized deaths across Canada (primarily Indigenous and black immigrants)

Colton Boushie’s killer was allowed to walk free

While this isn’t specifically to Black lives, it shows that Canada’s justice system is not better than America’s. 

Protests

As far as I’m aware, most protests remained peaceful, and no violence has erupted. The protests are taking the form of vigils, primarily. Protests are also scheduled at later dates.

Montreal protests turned violent on June 1st at 8 pm, after 3 hours of peace, when police fired tear gas and rubber bullets into the crowd. This protest is specifically being reported as one for George Floyd.

Violence in Canada has remained minimal, but most people are not aware of the death. Canada is beginning to spark in protests in solidarity with Black Lives Matter.

Ways to Help

If you are American, please focus on American relief efforts. They need it.

If you are Canadian, call/email:

City Councillor Gord Perks - Parkdale - High Park councillor_perks@toronto.ca / 416-329-7919

MPP Bhutilla Karpoche - Parkdale - High Park BKarpoche-CO@ndp.on.ca / 416-763-5639

MP Arif Virani - Parkdale - High Park Arif.Virani@parl.gc.ca / 416-769-5072

Mayor of Toronto John Tory mayor_tory@toronto.ca / 416-397-2489

Toronto Police Chief Mark Saunders officeofthechief@torontopolice.on.ca / 416-808-2222

Solicitor General - Minister Sylvia Jones sylvia.jones@pc.ola.org / 416-325-0408 / 519-941-7751

Attorney General of Ontario Dough Downey doug.downey@pc.ola.org / attornygeneral@ontario.ca / 416-326-2220 / 705-726-5538

Special Investigations Unit of Toronto:  1-800-787-8529 OR 416-622-0748 https://www.siu.on.ca/en/contact.php Address concerns to SIU Director Joseph Martino

Ontario Ombudsman to conduct an independent investigation: info@ombudsman.on.ca

Find your local MPP https://www.ola.org/en/members/current/contact-information?fbclid=IwAR3tPJIxeYmUcc4U-GGv5shp4kFvHRbFfcT6VtqOhFhqDxJzfI_E-bWmXgk

Gofundme:

https://www.gofundme.com/f/justice-for-regis

Sign the petition:

https://www.change.org/p/justice-for-regis-korchinski-paquet

More resources:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1l0TGDdHJIO6FGkKNWBBXINUmfGSXdM8eK6eY2ZmrK8Q/mobilebasic

[writingwithcolor]

Hi! im brazilian white girl writing a story about an indigenous-african mixed brazilian family. They're all black. I mention their skin tone to make clear they're not white and i constantly make references to african-brazilian culture or indigenous-brazilian culture. (its basically about a town with magic and messages from ancestors) Should i add racism against black and indigenous considering racism in brazil is structural and the story happens in a real life town ?

Indigenous & Afro Brazilian, Ancestor Magic & Addressing Racism

Indigenous and/or Black Brazilian opinions matter the most here. 

The general rule is if it’s not a story about racism, there’s no need to go much further beyond microaggressions, which shows your acknowledgement of the issues without erasure.

Do make sure you have thoroughly researched and find beta or sensitivity readers for the cultural groups you’re writing. You should ensure the ancestor magic is written respectfully or even a topic that can be respectfully written by someone outside of the group. There are communities that would prefer not to have others write about them, especially fictional accounts. 

-Mod Colette 

I’d say it’s “and”, not “or”, when it comes to what cultures you reference. Afro-Indigenous-Brazilian is going to be unique from Afro-Brazilian and Indigenous-Brazilian, in what are probably extremely subtle ways that will require researching specifically that one group. 

I’m not a member of either group, so that’s as much information as I feel comfortable giving. But when you look at all other groups that come from strong cultures mixed together, they produce something unique. I would expect the same thing to happen here.

Also, be careful that the “constant reference” isn’t coming from a place of “oh wait, I must remind the reader they are like this!” If you have this sort of mindset, that’s a very good sign you have painted a different skin tone onto a white person and have not coded the character properly. Check out my series Properly Coded to get some tips for how to build a character that feels not-white.

Culture should come naturally with the character’s existence, and be careful you haven’t taken your own experience and social upbringing only to put different food on the table. 

~Mod Lesya

Black and Indigenous Brazilian folks, please share your thoughts! Also, we’re still seeking more Indigenous mods, if anyone is interested in applying.

[writingwithcolor]

I’m drafting a fantasy story where the main character is a native woman of color (& native tribes are present and active on the continent where the story takes place). There is a colonial kingdom who is not violent toward the natives (they usually don’t interact with each other at all) but the course of the story includes the native Mc being called upon by the gods to help out the colonial queen because the continent is being invaded by different violent colonists. (1/2)

It’s supposed to be more of an “everyone will lose magic if you don’t end up helping these people, because they’ll hurt everyone here”; I should note that the queen is also the mc’s love interest. Tl;dr the natives in the story are indifferent to a non empirical colonial kingdom they’ve coexisted with for about 30 years, & the gods tell the Mc to help save the kingdom from other colonists. If I’m writing this then I want to do it the right way, avoiding any stereotypes etc. (2/2)

Natives Helping Powerful (Colonial) Empire

Before I begin, please do not conflate “colonial” with “white.” Colonial powers are always violent, and are always an active oppressor of the people they are colonizing. It is not a word to toss around lightly. 

The reason it is used so much in modern day is because there is only one Indigenous population currently unoccupied by colonialism on the planet, and it’s on a small island. Every other Indigenous group is actively being oppressed by colonialism, and whether that violence is physical or cultural it is still violent.

If you truly mean that this is a colonial power, then I’m going to ask you please not, because Natives helping colonizers is an extremely touchy topic best left for #ownvoices. It does not matter if this colonial empire hasn’t hurt the Native populations yet (and it is “yet”; colonialism is always hungry for victims). Colonialism and our relationship to it is ours to write about.

With how America has just recently blown up a burial site for a border wall and Canada is actively invading (unceded) Wetsuweten territory for a pipeline (with full military vehicles), having any sort of colonial/Native alliance handled by an outsider would be extremely harmful and perpetuate oppression.

If, however, you meant to write “white neighbouring kingdom”…

For starters, the whole concept of “Gods called to do/be x” can be a very Christian/European pagan thing. Native spirituality is a much different beast, and each nation has different ideals and relationships to their deities. 

You’ll have to do research into how we move to action, because Native people in general have lower individualism and a higher community focus than the American ideal.

Can’t speak any more specifically than that, because each nation is different in how they relate to their spirits.

Next up, there is certain caution to be applied when you have Indigenous peoples be the most magically attuned. This tends to be dipping into the toes of Magical Native, Noble Savage, and general concepts of misconstruing our responsibility to protect the land as any sort of white person fantasy. 

I’ve talked about this at length in the Noble Savage and Magical Native tags. Tl;dr we’re also heavily scientific along with a deep spirituality, and removing our centuries of scientific advancement is a disservice to us.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, you have to be careful you don’t fall into the “Thanksgiving” kinds of narratives. Look at how nice and generous and kind Natives were, helping everyone, allowing American culture to flourish, giving away all the land America needed.

It’s a deeply, deeply weaponized narrative, and it sanitizes the active colonialism that was beginning even at the start of America’s history. Land was stolen from the start, and Thanksgiving gives thanks for massacring us.

Natives do not exist to be saviours of white people, which I think is how a lot of non-Natives view our environmental work. They see Natives as wanting to save the whole population, when we are trying to save our home. 

We are allowed to be selfish about it, and a few of us have no intention of ever working with white people from how deeply we’ve been burned. Our goal is to save our home, to save the place that gave us our lives, the place that teaches us how to live. 

Which I think, deep down, is what upsets me about the story. The whole plot (as presented here) is basically “Native person forced to save white man because I the author say they have to.” That’s how white people view us. That’s how America’s history is taught.

That is not our reality.

There’s also a ring of ahistorical to it, because Indigenous people were either at war or trading with their neighbours (and alternating between the two), so the whole “completely closed off” thing either came from the white kingdom being deeply rude to the point of basically a war/enemies declaration, or you end up painting Natives as haughty and impossible to work with. If the former, your “indifference” is wrong, and if the latter, it’s racist (based off a misconception around the Thanksgiving narrative mentioned above—they were so nice but now they’re so mean for no reason).

People were people, which meant people traded. People had wars. People got curious what was over the fence and cultural diffusion happened all the time. You can trace the trade routes Indigenous people had by tracing how corn spread across the continent, because while it’s a North American crop, it was first domesticated in the south and moved all the way up to the Great Lakes.

If you want an example of how white and Indigenous culture mixed, look up the Metis in Canada. They’re a whole nation that blends primarily Cree and French (with a dash of Scottish) culture together, thanks to intermarriage between white settler men and Native women that mutually benefited both sides for a very long while, and created a very large population of people who are all some percentage of mixed white/ Native. Whatever mix they have does not invalidate either side because they’re built off being mixed and pulling heavily from both, then making it their own.

The whole concept of “they simply coexisted without interacting” doesn’t work, not unless you create a situation that forced them to close off, and “Native person breaks code of silence to help rude-at-best white people” is starting to get back into a type of story best left in Native hands.

All in all, this story doesn’t ring true on multiple fronts. I’d go back to the drawing board based off the points I raised above, and see what a better fit for your story is.

But to reiterate: if this is truly a colonial empire, know that “non violent colonial empire” is an oxymoron, and having a Native person work with a colonizer is not your story to tell.

~ Mod Lesya

[writingwithcolor]

Destroying Imperialism to avoid Discussing Racism

Hello! I wanted to write a mostly light-hearted story about cowboys escorting a mysterious stranger to the Atlantic and the weird encounters they have along the way. I know how racist the Western genre normally is but I didn’t think I was the right person to write about the racism Native Americans faced since I’m not Native. To get around this I created a backstory for the world to explain the lack of it:

A century ago during the Age of Imperialism alien asteroids struck the earth, destroying most of Europe and mutating Earth’s flora and fauna. In the ensuing confusion the Native nations banded together and pushed the invaders out, with the freed slaves staying with the Natives. The cowboys are all descended from these former slaves, with the only white person in the entire story being the escort. Since the story involves traveling the cast will meet a lot of Native people on their adventure.

At first I thought this was okay but as I this was okay but as I thought about the idea more I grew less confident in it. I didn’t feel like it was okay for me to attempt to side-step a very serious issue like this. Is there a way to repair this premise or should I just scrap the entire story since I seem to be coming at it from the wrong angle?

I wouldn’t say “wrong angle” so much as “potentially ahistorical to a fairly extreme degree,” which might not be possible to mitigate. There’s a lot of points in here that need addressing for it to be even plausible, and I’m only covering the major ones.

Point the First: Natives Owned Slaves

Part of it was to get in good with the white man, but this is something that happened. I’m not Black-Indigenous, so I won’t speak for their struggle, but I will say that anti-blackness is fairly large in Native communities, and many Black-Indigenous people are denied any sort of place in the tribe. 

I’m not very well versed in that history, and I would rather pass the mic to Black-Indigenous folks who have in some cases experienced generations of tribal disenfranchisement thanks to prevalent colourism and anti-blackness in Native communities.

I’m sure some tribes were anti-slavery. But others very much weren’t. This is something you will have to explore, extrapolate, and listen very closely to Black-Indigenous folk for their experiences and preferences.

Point the Second: Some Nations (temporarily) Benefited A Lot

The Metis were a nation with a lot of political power and a lot of wealth, all thanks to the fur trade. They came about through political and/or love marriages between white men and Native women, then grew into their own distinct thing with an intermingling of French, Scottish, and primarily Cree settlers in Canada’s Prairie. 

This isn’t counting how relations between Quebec and the Natives in the region were actually very good for a time, the Iroquois were war allies to the British in both the Revolutionary War and the War of 1812. Texas has a treaty that has not actually been broken. 

These nations/confederacies would be hard pressed to want to throw Europeans out, because for a long period of time, they got a lot of perks. They got money, the ability to expand their territory, help against their enemies, guns, horses, metal, and resources in general.

Point the Third: Colonialism Was Slow To Boil, Or Devastated Quickly

There is no one exact spot where you can pinpoint it got bad for everyone all at once. When America got its mind on manifest destiny, that was terrible for the Plains, Mountain, and West Coast Natives. When the Spanish came (well before the Age of Imperialism in the 1400s) and enslaved practically all of Mexico and Florida, it very quickly destroyed many, many, many nations that are working on revitalization efforts but will never truly exist as they were again. 

Canada’s Prairies got hit hard from the 1800s, onward, but the Inuit were slow to connect with Europeans so their colonialism is very recent and very sudden. The Maritimes in Canada got hit devastatingly before the Age of Imperialism really took hold, but then Quebec Natives hardly had that happen until everything soured. The Iroquois might’ve had even longer in a place of status.

As a result, you cannot assume everyone would either be hurt or feel hurt. In some cases the Natives only realized how toxic settlers were when America actively cheated them out of land. Others when their children were taken to residential schools.

Point the Fourth: Cowboys Existed Because of Colonialism

Cows are a European animal, primarily, as are horses. Ranching began as Spanish and then American people wanted to buy/steal large swaths of land from Natives in both Mexico during early colonialism (I reiterate: before the period your supposed asteroid hit Europe), and the Plains during the manifest destiny era. 

Ranching and Native peoples have a hard time coexisting together, because in the plains, you’ve got rancher needs fighting with buffalo needs, just to name one example. 

It might be possible to create a respectful cowboy situation, but you’d have to think pretty long and hard about how to not push out Native peoples from their territory, and how to share the land for two very large animals and their different needs. 

Also, you’d have to account for how ranching is a Spanish thing, so if Spanish people hadn’t had a chance to import all of their practices, then the whole concept of cowboys in North America would be bust. 

Is it possible to have cowboys be adapted, maybe be influenced from a few places in Asia or Africa  (because Africa does have pastoralists) instead of the Spanish, and make them respectful? Probably. How? You’d have to do your own research on the needs of cowboys, animal husbandry in East Africa, and what tensions existed between them and Native/Indigenous peoples in both North America and whatever region you’re borrowing from.

Point the Fifth: Colonialism Became Self Sustaining Very Quickly

Aka, they wouldn’t have been impacted much at all by Europe getting wiped out, especially the older colonialism like New France (1500s), Mexico (1500s), Rupert’s Land (1670), New England (1600s), etc. They might have lost some trading partners and a reason to over-produce goods, but they wouldn’t have been devastated. These people:

1- did not rely on Europe after a generation or two, maybe 3-4 at most

2- were often already genocidal

It took all of a generation or two for colonial structures to be self-perpetuating (when families came over like in America, or the active sponsorship of girls to come such as the Files du Roi in New France), and to have killed off major swaths of Indigenous people in the area (although New France did take longer to get bad). The Pequot village massacre that is the reason Thanksgiving is annual was in the early 1600s, after all.

This is not getting into the Caribbean, Asia (British shadow-rule of India started in the 1700s, but they had been trade partners for longer), or Africa, or South America. Colonialism was a long, long, long buildup, and the Age of Imperialism was just a small portion of that. 

The likelihood of the Indigenous numbers existing to remove cities that had purposely spent all of their early time “clearing” the land of unwanted Indigenous people is… possible, but low. 

This is why non-violent colonialism is an oxymoron, which I’ve discussed at length this week. Many were violent from day one, so unless you change Europe’s history to remove their manifest destiny attitudes and just have them expand to new lands and not be colonists, then your solution is too little, too late.

Also, news travelled a lot slower at the time. People might not’ve even found out about the asteroid for months if not years.

In the End

I highly doubt it will be possible to get the kind of story you want without discussing racism of some sort. The fact you’ve only targeted the Age of Imperialism, and as a result have kinda majorly glossed over the Spanish era (starting in the 1400s), which was majorly devastating to Mexico/Florida and resulted in many peoples being rendered extinct, plus being the root of cowboys… yeah.

It sounds like you’re trying to avoid learning about our struggles/putting in the work to write respectful background characters. You’re too hung up on trying to make it all better instead of learning how to write situations without making the whole story about that situation. I’d take a look at our Can I Write About X? tag for more information on how to write background stuff.

Like I said. It might be possible to create a respectful cowboy/Western story… but I really doubt that this solution is enough. It just doesn’t account for the sheer length of time colonialism happened, and by the time Native peoples have supposedly banded together, colonialism would’ve been self sustaining in many of the regions you’re discussing.

~ Mod Lesya

[author-morgan]

Kryptic ↟ Deimos

thirty-two - striking bone

masterlist

But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods can defend a man, not even one they love, that day when fate takes hold and lays him out at last.

Death submits to no one, not even Dread and Destruction.

They are both weapons of flesh and bone, of warm blood and beating hearts, and they cannot be controlled.

EUBOEA AND ATTIKA rise from the water on either side of the pirate trireme. Five long days leads them to an abandoned wharf near the village of Dekelia and the border of Boeotia. It is here they will dock for Lesya to depart on the next bloody leg of her journey. 

Tundareos approaches his sister at the bow of the Ippalkimon —she wanted to be left to herself after what happened in Megaris, yet it did her no good to dwell on the past and heartbreak. He could see a glint of something in her laurel eyes —a lurking danger that only surfaced during battle. Lesya is at war with herself and Enyo. She glances at Tundareos, not immediately dismissing his presence for the first time in days. Her fingers curl around the railing at the edge of the ship with a white-knuckle grip. “I have to break the Cult’s hold on him.”

He struggles with what to make of Deimos. A man in torment and fighting the same battle as Lesya, no doubt, but it’s the way Deimos looks at her when they’re together —fools in love, willing to go to the depths of Tartarus for one another. Tundareos doesn’t want to believe Deimos is beyond saving, if only for his sister’s sake, yet he cannot help but wonder. “Are you sure their claws have not struck bone?” Tundareos asks.

“If they have then I will pry them off,” she grits out, fighting back the tears pricking at her eyes. Tundareos can see it in her eyes and hear it in her unsteady but determined tone —she is ready to walk down a dark path if necessary. “I love him, Tundareos,” she breathes, and for a moment, her strength is gone, and he sees a broken girl —the same one who cried out for her brothers as the Cult stole her away from Athens. “I cannot lose him.”

A faint smile pulls his scarred lips, his blue eyes shining seas of hope and love. He cannot fault her for hunting those who had stolen her innocence and trying to save the only person in Hellas who knows what it's like to be twisted into a weapon “I know,” he tells her, gripping onto her shoulder. Tundareos skims the rocky landscape. Where Attika ends and Boeotia begins is impossible to tell, for they are both ravaged by the war. “Be careful.” She nods but will make no promise. Turning, she embraces Tundareos holding fast to him for a long moment before turning to gather her bow and a repaired hunting spear. 

The path to the central road spanning from Athens to Thebes is narrow and winding, cutting through the rocky landscape. If the weather remains fair, she should see Lake Kopais glimmering on the horizon before the next sunrise as Dekelia disappears behind a hill. At the edge of twilight, Lesya hears the thunder of hooves. Looking over her shoulder, she can make out the small party of riders bearing the sigil of Sparta. 

As they draw nearer, her grip on the spear tightens —heart pounding. “I know you,” one Spartan hoplite says, slowing his horse as a small group of soldiers approaches. The blades on her back are familiar for their ornate craftsmanship, but her copper hair unmistakable. Lesya looks up at the man, hesitant. “We fought together in Megaris,” he notes. Warring on the Megarian battlefield was not a day he was likely to forget —it was his first true fight, his first time fighting alongside a demigoddess. “Our camp isn’t far–” he points to the northwest “–you can have a hot meal and rest for the night.”

“Lead on,” she tells them, happy to accept their hospitality, for it is something she has not often experienced in her travels. 

TIMOTHEUS RUBS THE raw skin of his wrists and ankles, having broken from his bonds after days, if not weeks, of capture. Though the ropes are gone, he remains caged like a beast. The Spartans are not kind to their prisoners of war —they make sure to keep his wounds fresh and little else. He prays for rain before he thinks of freedom. Leaning back, he grabs onto his ribs with a groan —a wound not tended. Head lolling to the side, he looks into the adjacent cage. His compatriot must’ve died during the night, the heat of the day having swelled the man’s stomach —come the morrow, crows would have a feast. 

A flash of copper hair catches his eye. He’s sure his eyes are playing him for madman —he’s only known one person in all of Hellas to have copper hair. Lesya. Timotheus grips onto the bars of his cage and stares at the woman sitting amongst the circle of Spartiates at the fire sharing a meal of stewed beans and flatbread —his stomach rumbles at the thought of something other than moldy bread and rotting fruit. “Lesya?” He croaks, hoping she will have heard the faint call of her name. “Lesya,” he cries, reaching through the wooden lattice toward the fire. 

She approaches the cage and crouches down, looking the Spartan prisoner in the eyes. Beneath the blood and grime and thick beard, Lesya recognizes her brother. “Timotheus,” she breathes, laurel eyes wide. Reaching through the latticework, she grasps his trembling hands, holding them tight and steady. “What happened?” She shakes her head before he can answer. It doesn’t matter what he’d done to garner capture —he will know freedom again this night. “I’ll get you out of here.” He’s seen the glint in her eyes before when their swords first locked together in the Megarid. 

“There’s too many,” he rasps, having counted no less than a score between the hoplites and the strategos. It would take an equal number of men for any hope of defeating them. Timotheus grips onto the cage. “Let me out,” he insists, “I can help.” 

She shakes her head, in his current state, Timotheus would only get in her way. “I’ll be back,” Lesya assures him, reaching behind her to free her blades. The first fall silently, but the camp rises in alarm when the central tent catches fire. Men scream and wail, the clash of iron echoes in the night. Timotheus watches as she moves, a blur of copper and iron across the camp until none are left standing save for her. 

“See?” Lesya motions toward the now silent camp with blood spattered across her face and staining her hands, panting. She sheaths the daggers in her hands on her back with her bow after slicing through the rope holding the door of the cage. “Not too many.” Timotheus stumbles out, his face pale as he looks around. One woman against a score of Spartiates. 

Timotheus huddles close to the fire, sipping broth off the stew before dunking a piece of flatbread. Lesya’s gaze darts over him. He is a far cry from the leader she met in Megaris. A dark beard tinged with grey hangs to his chest and his hair, once close-cropped, falls before his eyes. The worst is how frail he looks, cheeks gaunt with sunken eyes from weeks of torment and malnutrition.  

“I found Tundareos,” Lesya notes, and her brother looks up from the bowl of stew, surprised to hear that name again after so long, “or rather he found me.” Even before he was named a general for Athens, he and Kalanthe assumed Tundareos dead when he left during the night with nary a word. It never sat well with either of them what Leandros had done to their sister, but little Tundareos had been the one to act. “He’s a pirate sailing under Xenia’s command.”

He huffs —a dry laugh at the thought of his brother as a pirate. “That is good to hear,” Timotheus remarks, better a pirate than rotting at the bottom of the Aegean or as a Spartan prisoner. He finishes the bowl of stew and skin of watered wine, and as he rises, the blue-and-bronze of his shield catches his eye in the firelight. Now free, he does not wish to tarry any longer —it would not be long before scouts and messengers arrived to find the bloodbath. Lesya senses his unease, bringing one of the speckled mounts from a small pen to where Timotheus stands, holding his shield and kopis.  

Timotheus tightens his grip on the horse’s reins, steadying the beast and himself as he looks between his sister and the trampled path leading from the fort. Perikles is dead, as is his duty to Athens. He has no calling in Hellas any longer save for that of protecting his family. “Come with me, sister,” he asks, though he already knows her answer by the iron resolve in her laurel gaze.

“I can’t,” Lesya says, shaking her head. “I have work to do still.” She must carry the edict from Brasidas to the commander of the Spartan forces in Boeotia —and hope none of the other Spartans will suspect her of this slaughter. “Go to the dock east of Dekelia if you wish to see Tundareos–” a fleeting smile twists her lips “–his ship is there.” Timotheus nods and spurs the horse to a quick trot, leaving his sister standing amidst the carnage she wrought upon his captors —for all the death and destruction, it feels like home. 

[taglist:  @wallsarecrumbling @novastale @fjor-ok-skadi @fucking-dip-shit @elizabethroestone @maximalblaze @balmacedapascal @elizabethroestone @kitkitvm @lockonkiri]

[author-morgan]

Kryptic ↟ Deimos

twenty-six - choler of poseidon 

masterlist

But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods can defend a man, not even one they love, that day when fate takes hold and lays him out at last.

Death submits to no one, not even Dread and Destruction.

They are both weapons of flesh and bone, of warm blood and beating hearts, and they cannot be controlled.

HE DISAPPEARS BELOW the deck, shedding the bloodstained gold-and-white armor —it is a fortnight’s journey back to Phokis from Lesbos with Elpenor’s scheduled stops in the Kyklades. One of the longest reprieves Deimos and Enyo can remember having since crowned champions. “I’m so used to seeing you in your armor–” she muses, mind trailing off as Deimos sits next to her on the edge of the deck, legs dangling over the dark water. His chiton is a deep blue, accented with yellow-thread that highlights his tawny-gold eyes. Enyo reaches out —unwittingly— and smooths over a wrinkle on his chest. “Blue looks good on you.”

Deimos spares a glance at his attire —feeling naked without the protection of his cuirass, or the weight of his sword at his hip. “Better than gold?” He challenges. Enyo nods, leaning her head on his shoulder as the sun dips down into the waves. Wrapping his arm around her waist, Deimos sighs —pressing his cheek against a crown of copper. 

Swells hammering against the side of the Ippalkimon pulls Lesya from slumber and memories. Poseidon and Zeus rage above and below. But under the tarred canopy at the stern of the trireme, it stays dry and warm. She shifts, and Deimos’ arms tighten around her. Neither of them will find rest now with the raging storm. His eyes are open and focused on Lesya —it feels like a dream in itself to be able to hold her without either of them fleeing with the rising sun. She smiles, reaching up to cup his cheek. “I dreamt about you,” she whispers. 

“Did you?” Deimos asks, brushing the back of his fingers against her cheek —tracing a line down her arm. He hadn’t been able to sleep, his mind reeling with too many worries and questions. The only solace was knowing Lesya rested peacefully in his arms. “What will you tell Kassandra?” He asks, giving voice to one of the things gnawing at his conscience, given the fragile alliance she had formed with his sister. Deimos’ hand wanders around to her back —fingers pressing into one of the scars on her back. 

Lesya shifts closer to him, thumb running over the sharp line of his jaw. “The truth,” she answers. There is no point in lying about what occurred on the steps of the Parthenon. She and Deimos had both taken things too far, even so, he had tended her wounds and offered some semblance of justice for Phoibe. Deimos had done the Cult’s bidding up until her blood painted the white marble red. He presses his lips into a tight line, but draws Lesya into his chest, breathing in the soft scent of her hair —lilac, lemon balm, and salt. “Get some rest, Deimos,” she says into his shoulder, settling into his arms.   

Come the dawn, the clouds break to clear skies, and Tundareos finds his sister leaning against the bow lookout watching the bronze ram on the prowl dip and rises with the waves. The cool breeze fills the dark sails and wafts through Lesya’s copper hair. Since coming aboard, she and Deimos had nigh been inseparable, but given what each of them has endured, Tundareos cannot blame either of them for wanting to spend what little time the gods grant them together. “Poseidon’s anger has slowed us by at least a day,” he announces. On calm seas with a strong wind, it was three days to Naxos from Athens, now they would not arrive until dusk the following day. 

“For once, I may be grateful to have the gods against me,” she tells him, smiling. The gods have rarely looked upon Lesya with favor —not even on the day she entered this world pink and squalling. But now their anger has given her and Deimos more time together than they have had in years. Tundareos clasps onto her shoulder, scarred lips twisting into a smile. 

By midday, the sun beats down upon the trireme and sweat beads on both Lesya and Deimos' neck as they circle one another like hungry wolves. Most of, if not all, the crew watch the two spar —it is a spectacle, unlike anything they’ve seen. The Cult champions move as if though it is a dance, well-rehearsed and perfected by time. Deimos lunges forward, and she spins out of the way, striking his side with a swift blow. He grunts but settles back into a boxer’s stance. 

Deimos feints a low blow and throws his shoulder into Lesya’s side —sending her backward into the helm’s dais with a loud thud and crack. Tundareos darts forward from the captain’s chair. “Lesya!” he cries, but his sister jumps back to her feet and charges, shrugging off the impact as though it were nothing. Using a short barrel of arrows as leverage, she leaps into the air —wrapping her thighs about Deimos’ neck and shoulders and twists as she starts to fall. 

When they both collide with the deck, Lesya is astride Deimos —her knee pinning one of his arms in place with the other pressed into his chest. Deimos leans his head back, chest heaving beneath her. “Do you yield?” She pants, lips curving into a smile. His free hand grips onto her thigh, thumb running over the constellation of freckles beneath it. 

“Only to you,” he remarks, but the way he speaks sounds as if he is saying I love you. Fixed on them are a dozen eyes, yet Deimos only focuses on her. Lesya’s smile widens, her laurel gaze softening. She pushes off him and sits next to him —leaning onto his shoulder with a soft sigh. One day, Lesya thinks, still smiling against his neck. He wraps an arm around her waist and turns his head, lips brushing over her temple. One day, Deimos assures himself, one day, we will both be free.  

TUNDAREOS SHOUTS ORDERS to the deckhands as the trireme approaches the port of Naxos’ chief polis. Mooring lines catch on the bollards, securing the Ippalkimon next to the dock near the Adrestia. Lesya moves toward the edge of the ship, stopping shy of stepping off as she turns her gaze upward at the homes and barracks carved into the isle’s famed white marble. Nestled below the Temple of Dionysus is a large villa with Tyrian red banners adorned with a golden kantharos and grapes wave in the soft, cool breeze —the leader’s home. Deimos steps next to her, looking up at the city too with dread filling his gut. 

“Your mother is here,” Lesya breathes, catching a glimpse at him from the corner of her eye. Myrrine of Sparta resided in Naxos as its leader under the moniker of Phoenix. After two years of searching, Kassandra had come to the close of one quest and the start of another. Deimos says nothing, only stares into the city with an indiscernible expression. Even if he did seek out his mother, a piece of him doubts she could love the killer he had become. 

They both depart from the ship, walking in silence up to one of the main streets running through the polis down to a quarry workshop, but Deimos stops —this is as far as he will go. Lesya seizes his hand without warning, heart beating in her throat. She cannot say what overcome her except for her love for him and the desire to keep him at her side. “Don’t go back, Deimos,” she cries, voice cracking —laurel eyes focused solely on him, “please.” 

Deimos shakes his head, but the pain twisting his face dispels his desire to stay. “If I don’t–” his voice trails off. If he does not return, the Cult will never stop hunting them. He serves them willfully now in hopes of being able to have peace one day —for Lesya and himself. Deimos brushes a lock of hair from her face and dips his head down, lips ghosting over hers until she pushes up on her toes, sealing the small space between them —pouring her heart into the bittersweet kiss. 

Pulling back, Deimos cups her cheek —marveling at how her copper hair and skin glow in the setting sun. “Until our paths cross again,” he murmurs against her quivering lips, echoing the same words she has spoken to him before. His hand falls away from her cheek, and he steps backward, turning away back to the docks. Despair grips him as he fights the urge to look back, though he knows he carries Lesya’s heart with him —just as he had left his behind. 

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