#but you don't sell your daughter for a place in society

[bookwormchocaholic]

My response to Bertha more or less selling Gladys to that duke for a place in society.

[missmyloko]

Hi Justine,

I had an encounter with a Japanese person who hates the geisha world because of Kiyoha’s tweets, and I feel I could have responded better.

Is it ok to ask your opinion/advice? If not, please feel free to ignore my ask and I’ll understand.

I was at a reading group and I’m reading Arai Mameji’s autobiography. When I shared what I was reading, the Japanese person in our group said she hates the geisha world because they sell young girls to powerful men. I said that isn’t true, not anymore at least, and then she brought up Kiyoha’s tweets.

I got really thrown off and wasn’t sure what to say. I said I did get really upset when that news came out, and that it’s hard when you’re in an industry where the clients include politicians and rich, powerful men.

But I also said I’ve been to maiko events where the owner of the restaurant was there at all times, the guests were a mix of men and women, and the maiko were perfectly safe.

I also said that at least thanks to Kiyoha’s tweets, girls who decide to become maiko will do so with open eyes.

The facilitator of the group asked me what do I like about maiko, and I was so thrown that I couldn’t articulate it properly. I said I admire how hard they work to perfect their craft, and i love the beautiful kimono they wear. But when I expounded on how hard they work, I realized I was describing an environment that makes it easy to cover up abuse—no cellphones, only seeing their families at New Year, so I felt awkward again.

So I left that reading group with an icky feeling, and I also felt misunderstood. Though the facilitator was still nice and said he hoped to see me next time.

So, if I have a similar encounter, how can I respond without feeling like I’m defending abuse? 😰

Their environment is traditional, which can make it seem like it's an "easy" place to hide abuse, but that same environment is one that looks out for its own above all, which makes it much safer than one would think. Being in the karyukai really is like being in a secret club, whether you're a geimaiko or a customer you're vetted thoroughly before you enter, and if you go against the grain you're shown the door. It's also a world run by women who truly treat their charges like their own daughters (in 99% of cases anyway), so you know that they don't take abuse or the accusation of abuse laying down. The biggest thing to remember is that, unlike in the past, girls are free to choose the life of a geimaiko and can also leave at anytime without the fear of repercussions, so no one is going into the profession as a slave or has to endure any abuse of any kind. The girls who do this kind of hard work (and it is hard, which is why it's so admirable) are dedicated to the arts and improving themselves, which makes them such bosses. The girls who enter just to wear pretty kimono are quickly weeded out as they can't keep up with the training, but those who triumph have names that are known the world over. As to why you probably admire geimaiko, that's a fairly easy thing to articulate once you sit down and realize what they do. These women buck social norms as they say "no" to traditional gender roles and become the ones who wield power over men. They study the arts that they want, keep schedules that are pretty steady (and can then make their own schedules when they become jimae), and eventually buy whatever they want (and even when they live at the okiya they pretty much want for not). Not only that, but they are power brokers and diplomats for some of the most powerful people on the planet. It takes a special kind of strength to be a geimaiko, and those who succeed in living that life are bad asses. I mean, where else can you be a single mother earning a six figure salary, wear the best clothing, and meet people from across the globe on a nightly basis? In a society where traditional gender norms shape so much of what people can and can't do, geimaiko basically say "screw that" to everything. What happened to Kiyoha was horrible and can't be ignored, which is why the karyukai is starting to take action against that kind of behavior happening again. The good eggs look out for their own, like the events that you've gone to, and this is true in the vast majority of cases. I mean, no system is perfect and there will always be bad apples, but you can't look at Kiyoha's experience and say that the entire profession is like that or that it's tainted beyond repair because of what one girl went through. Anything worth fighting for requires effort, and it's up to people like us to put in the effort to help dispel the myths surrounding geimaiko so that this wonderful profession can continue to thrive in the future, hopefully with the necessary changes being made to ensure that it becomes a safer environment for all involved ^^

[emmis15]

Daryl's Three favorite memories.

1-

Daryl Dixon might be a very closed off person with a receptive but unfriendly personality, but even with his bad attitude or rude way of relating to his surroundings, he somehow managed to hit the jackpot amidst the walking dead and the pain.

Katherine Sánchez, the girl he met on the farm, was different from the prejudices that he had already placed on her shoulders. To think that just because of her last name or her millionaire family in New York that she would be a privileged and stupid girl was far from who she was, and one of the first nights we were all together, she could see it.

—I never said being a drug addict is a good thing, don't put words in my mouth. I'm just criticizing how you think people become addicts. It's a Disney fantasy to say 'bad people are addicts' or 'people with no future' because it's false and totally uninformed, especially for a cop. Did you know that overprescribing opioids for every damn physical problem created an entire generation of addicts, right?—Kat asked Shane as she took a long sip from the bottle of red wine.

We were all sitting around a campfire in front of Hershel's house; he was inside sleeping while his daughters, except for Beth who was inside, were outside with us. Kat was next to Maggie, who was glued to Glenn, and that made me laugh because his red face from alcohol and skin-to-skin contact with that girl made him look like a tomato. But I stopped making fun of him to listen to the conversation.

—That's what liberals say, it's the only future, more or less with money or without money, for low-income people and a very normal reality for them, girl. ¿Have you ever seen what those neighborhoods are like?—He asked her, looking at her seriously.

—No, but if you put two neurons together, people addicted to opioids, after they stop using them because they couldn't get them anymore and the authorities shut them down instead of helping them because, I repeat, THEY CAUSED THE PROBLEM they'll seek that feeling elsewhere and end up in those neighborhoods. People with incredible futures or normal people who, I don't know, break a leg, for example, end up dead from using crack or steroids.

—¿And what about the people who sell them? Drug traffickers and distributors, what happens to them? Are they good people for giving them what they need? Because I'm pretty sure those types of people aren't normal or people who got into that million-dollar business that takes lives just because they broke their damn legs or something. —Shane responded.

She sighed heavily as she shook her head. I straightened up and stopped leaning against the tree to look at her; the whole group was silent as we watched them.

—And the economic problems of this shit society and monetary organization, plus the crises we go through, don't ring a bell to you? It's much easier to sell drugs without experience than to get another job. Plus, it pays the bills and supports families, but in the same way, it discards people as if they were nothing, since putting drug dealers in prison doesn't achieve anything because it's a whole organization.

—Maybe you have a point in that, but anyway, it's better to lock up a person than to let them go when they do something against the law.

—¿And what about helping them? You were supposed to be a cop and "help people." ¿Do you think these people were there by their own choice? ¿Do you think they woke up one day and said, 'I want to sell drugs'? This isn't like Breaking Bad.

—Girl, I'm a cop, not the president. I just lock up the bad people and save the good ones. End of story.

—That's very black and white, and life isn't like that. We're gray; you can't lock people up just because they resorted to the last thing they had to feed their families. And believe me, I know you're a cop, and not much can be done, but that's where morality comes in, or thinking with your head instead of brutality. ¿Why not help people for something better and dismantle organizations? Or something simpler, ¿instead of locking up drug-addicted people on the street, take them to a hospital or clinics? Something that actually helps them.

—Why does it bother you so much, girl? I just made a joke, and everyone laughed. ¿Can't you just laugh and forget?

—No, because that's not right, since from your privileged and problem-free point of view, you think only bad people among the poor are addicts and will end up living under a damn bridge. But it's not like that. I know I was very, very privileged in life before all this shit happened, even with that, with not lacking anything and never having to worry about money, I ended up in the same boat as the addicts.

I raised an eyebrow at that; it was odd for a privileged person to defend my previous usual situation with my brother or my neighborhood, but now everything closed when she said that.

—¿To what?" I asked her seriously, leaning my elbows against my knees.

—Adderall and antipsychotics. Now I'm fine because it was like a year ago, but anyway, he can't be such a bastard to say that, and it surprises me that he's a cop, although I don't know why I do it since cops are fucking shit—she said, getting up and taking the half-empty bottle with her.

We all stopped looking at her when she disappeared into the darkness to look at Maggie, her friend since they were kids.

—Her parents pressured her to be perfect in everything she did, so she pretended to have ADHD and schizophrenia in front of a psychiatrist to get those prescribed medications after coming to the conclusion that being at the top of success cost a price. She stopped her pills when I found out, and we noticed that it was killing her, but it's still a recent wound, and besides, Kat has always been an advocate for the poor—Maggie explained as she took a long sip of water, looking at the fire.

I got up from the ground and walked the same steps where Kat's body had gone, leaving me standing in the middle of the backyard near the barn, watching her from afar sitting against the poorly painted and old wooden planks at the back with her legs to her chest and continuously taking sips while looking at the moon.

—For a mommy and daddy's girl, you turned out pretty real—I said as I approached her.

—It doesn't matter who provides you with sperm or who gives birth to you; What matters is who raises you and with what mentality those people show you the world— her gaze never left the moon

—¿Butlers and nannies?

—Workers like cooks or cleaners, my mother's assistant and just a nanny. All immigrants because 'people from difficult countries create workers who don't complain', according to my parents—she said with disgust in his voice. —I don't agree at all with what my parents did or with what they thought they had in their heads, besides it seems shitty to me that those people raised me and never had good pay for their extra work.

—The black sheep of the family, it seems—I said with a laugh in my voice.

—My parents' favorite, in case you didn't notice—the sarcasm in her voice made me laugh.

We stayed silent for a long time, both of us looking at the clear sky, enjoying the cold air.

—My brother was an addict, but he was a bad person.

—¿Didn't he make it out?

—¿Get here? No, he was even in the group before he came here and remained an addict. The pills Glenn brought were his.

—¿Did he become one of those bastards or did he go out as a lone wolf?

I chuckled at the latter.

—Rick handcuffed him to the roof of a building, and when I went to look for him, he had cut off his hand to escape — I said as I grabbed the bottle and took a long swig.

—Police brutality doesn't even wane in an apocalypse, it's not surprising, to be honest — her lips pursed.

—I don't know if he's alive, but at least I know that only one Dixon kills another Dixon.

—My father told me that once, only a Sanchez can bring down another Sanchez. He was talking about our empire as the second-largest bank in the United States and our generational wealth, but I think it applies.

We both fell silent, staring at the stars and the moon with the empty bottle between us.

Daryl thought a lot about that memory when he was trapped by Negan, thinking about Kat and how they had thought the best thing that ever happened to him helped him not to think about the images of Glenn or the loud music that deafened him, he just kept reliving moments, but that was one of his favorites.

Hello, this is my first job, and I'm not a native English speaker, so if there's any mistake, please let me know respectfully, and I hope you like it <3

(I want to clarify that I am not an expert on the topic of drugs or anything related. Everything the character says is based on the research I conducted about reality. If there is anything wrong with the topics discussed, please let me know with all due respect so that I can avoid problems and prevent causing negative feelings for others who may feel attacked by the subject matter)

[eclipsecrowned]

Knowing that most of you do not go to Sto.rmlight Arch.ive, and being as I am adding three muses from the setting, I am doing what I used to do on the old blog and giving five fast facts about each man pivotal to characterization or interaction.

Mer.idas Am.aram

The perfect man, a gentleman and a warrior. High-born, he has connections to many prominent families, and even has the favor of his king and the king's powerful brother. He is, to all accounts, a genteel, honorable, and overall good man, welcomed by high society and the common folk alike for his trustworthy nature. He has been trying to court the King's daughter for years now, and it can be assumed that as the Princess is regarded as the more capable child compared to her brother, that he and her father might have aimed to maneuver Am.aram into greater power this way.

However, the brighter the light, the deeper the shadow. A craven, arbitrary sort who will sell his honor short and slaughter innocents to reach his own aims, he will also convince himself each act of evil serves the greater good. In this case, he belongs to a fundamental group intent on releasing ancient horror to drive people back to the Church. Most of his associates are or were villains with good publicity, and he is directly responsible for a portion of a main character's suffering. He is a heel through and through, though he hides it behind a dignified air and, frankly, being an attractive man in power.

Every time you think he's down and out, he claws his way back from the edge, getting worse on each return. He has the longevity of a cockroach, and the self-righteousness of a proper church man. Despite this, he is more complicated than that. There is heresy in his zealotry. There is doubt in his actions. The key point, however, is Am.aram will always talk himself into being the right, no matter what he must do. The ends will always justify the means.

A mama's boy, surprisingly enough. We don't actually see her in book. We just know the only real time we really see his facade slip and he nearly goes beast mode is when the Princess he's pining after calls Momaram a whore in veiled language. He very nearly throws it all away right then and there. Only the threat of getting ran through in turn stays his hand. Even Evil Has Loved Ones, I guess.

He can be your muse's best friend. He can be their reliable first call in times of trouble. Canonically, he knows the names of all those in his household, even the lowest servants. It's just that he does have a point where all that care and apparent altruism runs dry, and he will throw anyone down to pave his own road to success.

The L0pen.

Yes, people really address him with a 'The' in front of is given name. He is the only L0pen anyone has ever heard of, after all, and he's asked hundreds of people. A young man whose family emigrated to the kingdom where most of the narrative takes place in his infancy, he is a part of the Herd.azian diaspora in Al.ethkar, a proud warrior race and xenophobia kind of nation. Naturally, he aligns more happily to his native culture, noted as being almost a stereotype of a Herd.azian. Sold into slavery at a young age for, I kid you not, being annoying, he ends up in the dregs of the army, a dangerous place for a one-armed man. Thankfully, he's absorbed into a main character's crew, and the rest is history. Loud, good-natured, and full of jokes, he's the slightly chaotic mouthy side character.

He cooks, he has self-deprecating humor, he's multilingual, and he can glow. Ladies, he is the perfect man, and gentlemen, he does not discriminate. In actuality, fandom pegged the L0pen as being 'awkward looking/ugly but has the rizz to pull it off.' His constant attestations to being hot were just his ego. Hysterically, he received a canonical design in a forthcoming minifigure kit and, well... He's a triple threat: Funny, loyal, and hot as fuck.

Herd.az is a nation with some societal flavoring from both Mexico and Korea based on Word of God. He has massively numbered cousins that keep cropping up along the series and swearing loyalty to the crew he's signed up with. The reason for this? Their units won't miss them. Herd.ies look all the same to the Al.ethi. They have that kind of sense of humor. L0pen, in turn, peppers his speech with lots of Herd.azian phrases in the universe-equivalent answer to Spanglish, frequently calling others Gancho/Gancha, Penhito, etc.

Starts off one-armed. Uses setting magic to regrow his arm. It's not so much 'all disability is 'fixed' in universe' as much as it is 'magic will make you the version of yourself you want to be.' Trans characters receive their ideal bodies with magic. One character retains his autism but his eyesight improves such that he no longer relies on glasses once he accesses magic. L0pen, where we don't know how he lost his arm, regains his to become the person he sees himself as. He is having to switch up his joke repertoire to compensate, as he can no longer drag himself for having one arm --

Is briefly King of Al.ethkar. This is not a joke. Part of a plot requires the actual king to lay low, so the L0pen gets the title for all of ten minutes. Yes, he is campaigning to be recorded in the official histories of his adopted nation. He was king, damn it. Acknowledge his kingliness.

Rai

One of my OC babies, a foreign Duke-equivalent who comes crawling in after life in his homeland becomes untenable. Due to ongoing conflict, his homeland of R1ra is conquered and subjugated by their neighbors and historical masters, the 1riali. Seeking a way to fight back against this, he journeys to the main characters, offering himself as a warrior and any assets he has if, once the conflict is at an end, he has the king's oath that he will back R1ran independence. People think he is completely insane for this, a s the king in question is a war criminal who most try to run away from. Rai, instead, calls him 'King Dude' and reasons that the king married a R1ran, he has to be cool, right?

He's a weird guy. Just a weird fuckin guy. Muses out loud that it's the setting-equivalent of 'cringe' that the last King of Al.ethkar got killed by a like 5' tall pacifist. Out west that culture is very peaceful and abhor violence. He's pretty but also kind of awkward in a way that makes him hard to look at. He's very stream of consciousness and relaxed, which puts him at odds with the court life and rigid military structure of the Al.ethi. However, he's also a brilliant fighter, fluid as water and always adapting for his enemy. It's the sort of thing his hosts can use, even if they're completely befuddled by the man off the battlefield.

Devoted to his family. Ensures his mom and younger sisters are brought to safety, along with his household servants, as part of the terms of his loyalty. A little more shrewd than people give the space case credit for. He may not be to the local standard, but he is no fool. He's just, again, weird as Hell. He also tries to treat everyone with respect and chafes under certain societal rules and concepts that he's now having to play a part in as part of hitching his wagon to this nation in particular.

Usually comes as part of a set with my other OCs Mithandin and Gaialia. He's the thorn in the upright and proper Mith's side, and a supportive bestie of the anxious and intellectual Gaia. In fact, saying the 'Kind of cringe your King got killed by a beet dealer wearing my grandma's curtains' is what got him his first scrap with Mith. Regardless, he and Mith work well together on the battlefield, and Gaia just needs more friends because it is very lonely being on the wrong side of the ruling family's ire.

It's pronounced Rye, not Ray. He has almost white-blonde hair, fair skin,and eyes so bright they look like molten gold. He's not that tall for a man of his background, but you don't really notice because he's so thin and wiry it seems to elongate him. He has resting =U= face.

[writingwhilecaffeinated]

Hi! I've been reading your fic for a while now, and I want to come here to just make my point that I love your writing and your fanfic (Unspooled Thread).

Can I just have this moment to say that I love how you're portraying Violet?

I mean, in the books that I read, I thought she was worse than in the TV show (I like Violet, I just mean that she's more insistent and stuff in the books). In the show, we can see she loves her family but is settled on marrying all of her children for love, because she wants them to have what she had. Which is beautiful because we're talking about love, but also too pressuring and kinda selfish, if you think about it. Because it's love, we don't see it as selfish, and because she's a mother, and a good one as they sell to us. But taking Eloise as an example, Eloise doesn't want any of this, or at least not in the way her mother wants it for her. And it's upsetting that she has to live in a certain way because society AND her mother demands her to (although Violet is very chill about it concerning Eloise. She doesn't force her to marry and all that)

EITHER WAY- MY POINT BEING:

I love that Violet is kind of a shell of what she once was. I don't know about the younger ones, but at least Anthony, Benedict, Daphne and Eloise have their problems with her. Anthony by being forced to deal with everything, Ben and Daphne kinda the same but in other aspects. And I love how you're always hinting at Benedict being fed up with it, wanting to be the child again and not the father of his siblings. Even if it's unfair, we know that Anthony already has this hole, and it's exhausting to know everyone else has to suffer the same fate, the older ones.

I loved how Daphne confronted Violet in this chapter. As a mother, Violet had failed her when she failed to prepare her for life. Of course, it's not Violet's fault. Daphne could simply not have gone with Simon into a bloody garden known to be a place where you're ravished SUHAHUSAHUSUAHHSUA She could have done it for her team. But once everything happened, Violet could have tried harder to explain things considering she was overly familiar with the notion, having EIGHT children. I know it's awkward, but good Lord, a bit more would suffice.

Also, I know Portia isn't a great mother to Penelope, but I like the TV version, and I also like that she showed concern for Marina in some extent. I like how Bridgertons and Featheringtons are opposite to each other in many aspects, and I think I really like how Portia is everything Violet can't be. She may not show affection as Violet does, but she is bloodthirsty for getting her daughters a better life. She does whatever she can, unashamedly.

I have much more to say, but I said quite a lot USHAHUSAHUSHUAHUSAHUSAUHSA So I'll apologize for this huge ask and go back to study.

First and foremost, thank you for reading!! I appreciate it immensely and I hope you will continue to like it! ♥️♥️♥️

Second, I have FEELINGS about Violet, all that you’ve seen by how well you dissected I’m portraying her in this fic and her children’s complicated feelings about her. @velvetcovered-brick and I discussed at length how do we portray this loving mother figure that also has flaws? How do we demonstrate the complicated emotions her older children might have about it?

You’ve nailed it on the head. Yes, she’s a loving mother but she cannot force her children to chase live in the way she wants them to. That’s a journey they must have on their own, it cannot be forced.

While Benedict’s character in the show hasn’t been explored via flashbacks like Anthony has, I have assumed that since Anthony has had to balance being a viscount and a father figure. When Anthony is consumed with the role of viscount, Benedict, and I have always assumed Daphne, took on parent roles.

This strikes me the most for Benedict in the way he checks on Eloise or how he wrangles the squabble between Gregory and Hyacinth at the breakfast table. For Daphne you see it in how she treats her sisters.

At the same time, I imagine they wish their mom would step up a bit more cause they want their own lives separate from the care of their siblings. They may love their family but that doesn’t change wanting to be an independent adult with your own identity.

Daphne’s bitterness needed to be… palpable. I always felt how it came through in the show, feeling so unprepared. And if I’m being honest… I have a similar feeling towards my own mother. My mom hated having tough conversations, whether it was about how my body worked or about emotions. So she preferred to never have them at all. So I identify with Daphne’s feelings deeply.

And while Portia is not my favorite character, I have no doubt she does love her daughters. Does she underestimate Penelope? Yes. Has she been a neglectful of her youngest? Yes. But I know she loves her and truly believes she is doing what’s best.

Phew, that was a lot of feelings. Anyways, thank you for reading and I hope you’ll continue to like the story!! ♥️♥️♥️

[horizon-verizon]

The idea of Bridgerton/Queen Charlotte horrifies me. Why are Black and South Asian people being depicted as the historical figures who colonized them, enslaved them, and genocided them or depicted in romances with them ? Just so unserious, they had these dark-skinned Indian girls being considered as legitimate wives for these highborn British men and I’m like in what world ??? A Black queen at the time Britain colonized most of the world and was committing crimes against humanity ??? On some level, I can understand why people of color enjoy these shows but I can’t detangle it from the blatant historical revisionism and the utter whitewashing of colonial legacy.

I never read them as full stories, but the books are not so (descriptions of characters I quickly perused). All the characters are white and European. I would have preferred this.

Still, it was a deliberate choice to do blind color casting and historical revisionism for the sake of including and centering PoCs in American TV, not necessarily because of an altruistic gail so much as this is the demand from audiences and there's money to be made from it.

The show (in-world but more BTS, in the larger American society) definitely encourages and sets up race as more become a commodity to sell that something to really confront or acknowledge as a sociopolitical/economic force of discrimination that defines the parameters of real people. Maybe not race exactly so much as making the acknowledgement of race the commodity or whatever we call the ring which makes a thing more materially valuable. Race becomes more of a decoration, I think I can say, too.

I mean they basically said the solution of all solutions for the end of racism was having a black person be the head (or intimate with) of the government....meanwhile Barack Obama was elected and racism still very much exists.

Anon, what you say in particular about Indian girls being considered legitimate wives of British men reminds me of the withdrawn brideofires' Twitter post (they are "daughter of death" there) about the same franchise. I tend to agree, yet I find myself watching the Charlotte mini story when I wanted to see what the duss was about and awaiting my Dune books and reluctantly enjoying myself. The only Brigderton story I ever independent watched (the others I watched through reactors bc I didn't want to spend money) and finally got my Netflix up (she protests too much, i know).

Point is, as a PoC myself (black), this franchise discomfited me from the start yet I watched one installment and overall liked it apart from the attempts to incorporate race only to give it the needed approach. I think that PoCs who like Bridgerton or are obsessed either do not keep the history close to their memory or that they prioritize the modern media acts of centering (or getting close to that) PoC characters in order to set up more appearances of PoC actors and characters and BTS people. Perhaps these two things inform each other, sometimes maybe not (grip to group, person to person).

I'm sure you're already aware of that, though, since you refer to it. I wish to "explain" why PoCs leave behind or set aside the colonial history and specific, harrowing events. I myself was able to enjoy it only after shoving aside all those memories or reading about colonial, dehumanizing actions against PoC societies. And then thinking about it after finishing the show. But I don't think we should continue writing like this because of the capitalist and racist implications and effects on society for the precedented literal apathy for colonialism (that's already happening, but why reaffirm it?). We don't actually need a Bridgerton or a Black Queen Charlotte. There are actually so many PoC fantasy/sci-fi books to adapt shows from, those written by and about PoC people. TV writers and or producers should head on over to AbramsBooks (the publishing house) to select those stories. There's your fantasy and actual centering of PoC people. Great place to start. Looking for a series adaptation?--look at Tomi Adeyemi's Legacy of Orisha series. One story that could be broken up to two?: Denise Crittenden's Where it Rains on Color. Reni K. Amayo's duology The Return of Earth Mother is guaranteed to draw in both black and white audiences (because that's what these producers are mainly thinking about, rake in more cash), plus literally every other person fed up with white stories and the dominance of white fantasy in TV.

I am waiting to see now if the 3rd season of Bridgerton will be as focused on "explaining" the widespread and untroubled presence of aristocratic and PoCs, but as soon as they made PoC aristocrats especially with the story of a black woman as Queen fixing race Bridgerton became ethically unsalvageable.

[psychologeek]

I mean, this is more than that.

Because saying "X is bad", while not giving any other option, is useless.

Do I think slavery is bad? Yes. Because it takes away autonomy and self control. Because the chance of abuse is too damn high. Because I don't believe that owning and/or being owned is psychologically good for people.

(Which people seem to care less when it's disabled and "crazy" people. when

But it's still can be better than starving to death, for example. Or your child starving. Or being executed for debts. Or several other things that could be a reason for someone to become a slave.

(That are still, btw, going on in places on this very day. People work in sweat shops for small payments. Mines and farms and constructions and cleaning and all the hard work that just need to be done. Parents would sell their daughters for marriage because they have no money to feed them and the family. People get addicted and do anything for the next part. People doing horrible things for a chance, for their dreams, for a passport, for money, for-)

This is, in a way, like discussions about drugs and sex work.

Are you going to prohibited it?

Or are you going to put regulations about it and standards?

Are we going to illegalise sex work, or put regulations - so if a sex worker is hurt, he/she can put charges. Can ask for sick days and medical help and yes, law enforcement included, without fear of going to prison themselves?

Are we going to say "Ew, no, junkies are evil and bad and outcasts" or are we gonna have things like free needles and needles disposal stations, with help for those who want it? Are we gonna focus on "drugs is bad you're bad", or actually look for fucking HELP? (Bc ppl don't go to drugs for the lolz. Ppl go to drugs bc they are HURT. Bc there's no other options (or so it seems). Bc it's a way out of the pain, and it's available. Bc it's familiar and easier to take a bunch of pills and go to work with a fucked up leg then ask for a day off and being scared you'll be fired being scared you can't afford daycare being just so tired of being in this fucked up cycle).

(Fuck. This is going to be very long if I put all I think and want here.)

~

Another espect you ignored, is that the Torah is ~3,500 years old. Like, there had been SOME CHANGES in the years. And that's why we have the Halacha and Psikot etc. I mean, looking at the Torah about modern stuff is like saying you know the law bc you read the constitution, or the declaration of independence.

I believe there had been some changes in the last centuries in the law system of (whatever country you live in).

So. Let's go back to the time of the Tankh, shall we?

Who becomes a slave?

Have you ever thought about it?

And like. This isn't happening in a vacuum. This is how things going that time.

Okay, so you don't buy the slave. But others will. What good do you do? Does it help the slave? Does it help you? Is it practical for the society?

Now, I'm going to talk about enslaved people (aka were free and no more).

In most cases, that's people who had no money and either sold themselves/were sold for paying debt/to get money for the family.

What the Torah says?

(well, midrash says "bought a slave to himself, bought a master to himself).

But, well: not to abuse. To feed the slave properly. The slave must have a day off once a week. There are strict rules about sex with a slave. (And more).

Like, this isn't perfect. But that was what was possible then.

In case of Eved Ivri, they would be released in a Yovel (I think maybe even shmitta).

That's why it's called "Torah" (from "hora'ah": command, tutorial, guidance).

This isn't some kind of a magic vow one must obey. This is... well, I guess you can call it a life style. It's Halacha, a way of walking.

~

And all I know about slaves in islam is about Um Al-Walid ("mother of child") - if a slave have a child with her owner, the child is considered free iirc, and she gets some privileges about it.

And also some stories from Yemen, about the slaves of the Muslims. But that's mostly from a book written by a Mari.

Why doesn’t the Torah condemn owning human beings as property?

Because they were wrong. We now recognize that they were wrong. Here is a more robust explanation into the context of slavery when Jewish texts permitted slavery, which were quite progressive for the time. Now, why doesn't the New Testament condemn any of the same shit as the Torah beyond vague "we can eat pork because Jesus showed up"? Why doesn't the Qur'an condemn Jihad against the Jews? If you want to come for the Torah you had better be giving equal weight to the immoral shit from other religions.

[abir1407]

The jokes are very short comedy stories being made those contain about facts and points to get it, and in time, it criticises things and ones in societies. I made here (the first 3 ones) and 2 at last being said in places are like where I'm in:

An amazing mom!

(A mother is busy about being amazing in choking (an expression) her girl by "no" word and orders without convincing (by force and yelling without understanding)):

The mom: What are you doing in the roof now at night right now!?

The girl: Passing amazing things from the space in watching the sky.

The mom: I don't want any stranger pass above my house without a permission from me!

My rules!

(A miserly father as usually don't understand the rights of his children in taking controlling them by the motto: My house, my rules, my money. The father bought a suit is black with grey lines that's like his hair and a white shirt is like his skin color with blue lines to be like his eyes, he bought a suit is like it to his son that has colors genetically are like him except that he's young. The miserly father had a haircut and tried to sell the hair, he didn't like the prices, he backed with the hair then connected it then he put it on the head of his son with saying: Now, solved the problem, it matches the suit very well):

The son: What are you doing my dad!? It's not professional, I don't want to have this and grey hair, and my head is like a hedgehog animal more than a head of a human being!

The father: That's my house, it's my rules and that's my money!

Have a new life!

(A father told a young girl that's a teenager in her 10s of her age to have a new life and to leave the house. A young girl would find a difficult life with less experiences would lead her to troubles in how relationships, working, dealing with others in being insecure, come to her father ones break things in being angry with telling him things are like: Have a new elegant table! Have a new vase... etc. One time, one from the east told him: Have a new brain, God damn a miserly father is like you. Then it arrived to this visitor):

The visitor: Do you know how many problems caused it your daughter because of lacking focusing?!:

The father: I can know about your problem generally from the beginning, calm down, don't break things, don't insult me and breathe.

(The visitor punched the father that broke to him some teeth.)

The visitor: Now I made an open wider to breathe more, having Oxygen, be smarter, take care of your girl as it should be and have a new life with new teeth, old fashion miserly one!

Your clothes are welcome!

(A one appeared with simple clothes got no attention in a place. Another time, he wore expensive clothes but the same people noticed him and welcomed him very much in the place then he went to the feast:

The man: Eat my sleeve, today is your day, eat and fill you!

The people: (They looked in wondering) !?

The man: I'm the same one with the simple clothes before, my clothes are welcome to what you invite to, but it's not me!

Who are you!?

(In how making a person having a miserable brain with his hand (for example), a drunk one (intoxicated), he looked at himself on the mirror and asked):

The one that in front of me, I saw him before now, but I don't remember where and when exactly!?

[ugandantales]

MINZANI - Chapter 1

WELCOME TO MINZANI!!!!

Thank you, beloved reader, for vesting your invaluable time into this book. I'm thrilled to have you hop with me on this train of reminiscing our unforgettable school days as we relate with the characters of 'Minzani'. It is a Luganda word for 'Weighing scale'. Let us see and learn how to tackle inequalities in our society that make us feel isolated.

As we ride this roller-coaster, every bit of syllable that nauseates you, makes you cry, makes you laugh, or even annoys you, any thoughts you have at any point in this story, don't forget to comment them; I would very much love to read your opinions or any harangues you have. This is my first book ever, so any thoughts and opinions are very much welcome.

Don't forget to click the star button on the chapters you love and share this book with your friends if you like it. Leesssggoo!!!! Love, Asiimire ;)

Chapter 1

A QUARTER PAST NINE O'CLOCK, I WAS ALREADY CURLED UP in the living room on my three-inch bare mattress. The lamp wick was burning low and Mama was seated at the foot of my mattress sewing her red Mushanana, the skirt was getting loose in the waistline, so she decided to reduce the size of the elastic band as she waited for Tata to arrive. Later, she would iron out the thread folds and hang it in a plastic hanger on the wall beside Tata's trousers. It would stay there until the next wedding when one of our aunties or her friends got married. Mama, wearing this red Mushanana, a sleeveless blouse topped by a matching red wrapper made her glamorous and respectable at all the weddings we attended. Guests would mistake her for the Guest of Honor or an aunt of the groom or one of the biggest contributors to that wedding. She always told those stories with a glee of self-satisfaction. One time, at Aunt Nancy's Kuhinjira, she was mistaken for being her mother, because by then she was still plump and her cut hairstyle made her look older than she really was. The organizers welcomed her respectfully and placed her in the parents' tent where timely food and drinks deliveries were made. The organizers nearly disgraced themselves when the groom's mother complained that she had not yet been served and most of the guests had already started eating. The organizers looked at Mama and were speechless, they could not accuse Mama of lying to them because they had just made their wrong assumptions and she was not to blame. She treasured this Mushanana so much that even when were started selling off our luxuries because of Tata's treatment, she insisted on keeping it, even at the cost of all her shoes: the pink trainers that she worked out in, all her stilettos of colors; Maroon, Black, and Brown. This Mushanana was her only reminder of the good life she once lived. But now, she had to tighten elastic bands in the waistline because she had lost tremendous weight, her cheekbones and jawline were sharper, and I bet this time if she were invited to any wedding, the organizers would mistake her as one of their own.

DECEMBER, LAST YEAR, when we visited Kaaka, Mama's mother, she could not recognize her own daughter. When we reached the main road where Boda Bodas stopped in Rukungiri, Ongulu and I went on to carry the bags of posho we had brought for Kaaka down to her mud-plastered store through creaking rusted iron bar gate, which was so narrow that might Mama, during the good old days when she was fat and firm, might have had to enter sideways if she ever were to visit. The compound was bare and covered in dust. One stinking Billy goat, two nanny goats, and a few chickens sauntered around, nibbling and pecking at stems of grass that rimmed the edges of the compound, beyond which was a lush banana plantation. The house that stood in the middle of the compound was small, compact like dice, and it was hard to imagine Mama and her sister, Aunty Nancy growing up there. It looked just like the pictures of houses I used to draw in kindergarten: a square house with a square door at the center and two square windows on each side, topped by a triangle iron sheet. The only difference was that Kaaka's house had a raised verandah, which acted as a resting spot for any passerby. The first time Ongulu and I visited, I had walked in looking for the bathroom, and Kaaka had laughed and pointed at the outhouse, a closet-size building of mud-overlaid blocks with a mat of entwined palm fronds pulled across the gaping entrance. She welcomed us, pinching both of our cheeks while we were weighed down by the ten kilograms of posho in our hands.

"Nyoko wanyu alahi? Where is your mother?" she said as she looked up the slope we had come from. Her Runyankole was a forced version she spoke to ensure that we understood. We could never comprehend the natural way words rolled on her tongue.

"She is sorting out the Boda guy," Ongulu replied.

"You people have refused to learn Runyankole completely. Loyce doesn't want to teach you your mother tongue," she complained.

"But Langi is our mother tongue, Kaaka," I said.

"Do you know why it is called 'mother tongue'? Because it is your mother's language, not your father's. Or else it would be father tongue" she said, feeling important.

"Jojo does not know even half a kilo of Langi," Ongulu hollered from the store where he was arranging the sacks of posho and salt that Mama had bought in Kampala.

"Ongulu!" I said, shooting daggers at him as he came out of the store, his hands tainted with maize flour.

"Ah! Maybe my name. That's the only word you know in Langi," he said.

"You kids are very lazy. With all the things you took, was this bag of salt too heavy to carry as well?" Mama said as she carried a thirty-sachet bag of salt. Kaaka turned from the banana plant that she was cutting a banana leaf from when she heard Mama's voice. She turned around and her eyes fell on a frail-looking woman she could not recognize. Her eyes welled up, I could see it, but I think she remembered that we were watching and blinked away the tears. She composed herself and went on to hug Mama. Later on, when Mama had claimed Kaaka's kitchen, and Ongulu was off to find his village buddies, I sneaked into Kaaka's bedroom. I found her sitting on her bed, facedown, and with hands in her face. She heard my footsteps and wiped away the tears with her tattered fading blue lesu. She blew her nose in it, and afterward, she asked me,

"Hilary, does Geoffrey, your father treat my daughter right?" I had never heard anyone call Tata by name, sometimes I forgot that it was his name.

"Does your father beat my daughter?" she added. I was alarmed by this notion. It had never occurred to me that Tata could ever lay a hand on Mama.

"No, not at all. Why?" I asked her.

"You people should call me to send you some Matooke every month. Mulokole comes in these parts at the end of the month. Why don't you call when you need help? Hmm! Geoffrey is too proud to ask from his mother-in-law." She said, sneering at the thought. Mama hollered from the kitchen asking me to get some ghee from the cupboard. She literally saved me from Kaaka's awkward discourse.

TATA SHOULD HAVE ARRIVED AN HOUR EARLIER but he had to do our school shopping. The third term holiday had been a full month but he always did the shopping one day before the reporting day. During the Christmas season, Tata never rested like the other fathers, he always begged his boss, he liked calling him Koja, that he would drive his taxis off duty to earn some extra money. He would work daily to save up for our school fees and shopping. Most people in the Christmas season traveled to the village by bus but Tata found a way of making them use his taxi. He worked up to the last day of the holiday but still, the money was not enough to cater for everything. I was pretending to sleep because Mama had told us that we had to wake up early the next day. My elder brother, Ongulu, was sleeping on the old coffee brown sofa which had a pile of clothes to fill up for the two missing cushions. He was already in never-never land because I could hear his snore. Not so loud, just like a silent whistle.

THERE WAS A SMALL KNOCK ON our metallic door. Tata never knocked loudly in the night, so as not to wake us. It was good timing because Mama was done with the last tear around the armpit area. She bit the thread and fixed back the needle in the yarn before she opened the bolt. I viewed everything from under Mama's yellow lesu that I used as a bed sheet. Tata moved into the house: a smallish, frail figure, the meagerness of his body merely emphasized by the oversize grey T-shirt that had the word; ARMY and his faded blue jeans that he wore every day. His naturally sanguine face was now contorted by a haggard look, his skin roughened by coarse washing soap that we used for bathing, and blunt razor blade pimples with a few sprinkles of budding grey hairs that were shaved a week ago. He carried two green biveras, I could see picfare books that outlined the green plastic bags. I knew that one was mine and the other was Ongulu's. Tata sat in his tattered one-sitter sofa with most of its sponge showing and placed the biveras on the floor. Facedown, Tata placed his large hands in his face.

"It's all I managed to get."

Mama perused through the biveras bringing out one thing at a time. Picfare books, two sets, six toilet papers, pencils, and two reams of paper.

"At least we got the reams this time," she said as she leaned them against the table that was moved over to create space for my mattress. She then took a five-liter jerrycan and the blue piece of washing soap near the door and took them to the bedroom. Tata then followed after her. He never took his showers from the bathroom outside especially when it was dark and late. Mama would place a basin for him to stand in and he would pour the water from the jerrycan. How do I know this? One day I had forgotten to get our toilet pail under Mama's bed and Tata had already arrived. I could have left it there and waited till morning, after all, Ongulu never used it, but I had stayed at Grace's place up to seven o'clock to fluke their evening tea. She was very light-skinned, with honey-colored quizzical eyes, and eyes that asked many questions and did not accept many answers. Whenever she smiled, her mouth turned up at the sides in a perpetual smile, revealing a gap between her front teeth.

With her small well- proportioned body, she walked fast, like one who knew just where she was going and what she was going to do there. And she spoke the way she walked as if to get as many words out of her mouth as she could in the shortest time. The tea backfired and I could not hold my urine. I saw something that I wish I could unsee at all costs. I saw Tata, the way he was born, with soap in his eyes, he didn't see me though. I went back immediately and opened the door and brazenly urinated on the verandah.

"Put out that lamp," Mama said from their bedroom, startling me as I perused the first green plastic bag, although her words were low and calm. How did she know that I was awake this whole time? Mama might have been a spy before she got married. I checked through the second one, maybe I had missed something from my point of view under the lesu. The first one had to be Ongulu's, he didn't need a P5 uniform because he was now in P7 and boys never had a change of design from P1 to P7. The second one still had no uniform. Something was wrong. Tata knew that we needed new uniform designs for P5, or maybe he had forgotten which class I was going to. But how could he forget? He is the one who always helped me with my Math weekend homework every Saturday. He is the one who complained that the current curriculum was staid and that it did not encourage the children to be creative. Being spoon-fed, he called it. On those Saturdays, I beamed with pride. I forgot that Tata was a taxi driver. At that moment, I wanted one of my classmates to visit and look at my dad and speak with authority as he coached me. I could care less for our ramshackle home and swim in the pride of having my Mathematician dad speak. He definitely knew that I was promoted to Primary five because he was the first person to whom I presented my end-of-year report card. I had not even planned on wearing my lower-class uniform for the upper class. I hadn't even ironed it.

"Are you fighting with the lamp?" Mama hollered again.

"No, Mama," I put out the lamp and went back to bed. I wept silently in the dark until sleep came and took me.

After what looked like a few minutes of sleep, I felt feet making dips in my mattress. I squinted my eyes and the lamp was back on. Did I mistakenly forget to put it out? I remember very well that I did. Then I saw Ongulu tucking in his white short-sleeved shirt in his pair of grey shorts. It was already morning. I got up quickly, folded my lesu, pulled the sofa, and leaned the mattress between the sofa and the wall, and we both pulled back the table to the center of the sitting room where my mattress had been. Ongulu had already lit the charcoal stove in the corner of the sitting room next to the door and on it was water in a saucepan starting to boil. We always made tea at once in the saucepan and poured it into our matching yellow plastic cups and packed the rest in our mineral water bottles for breakfast at school. Sometimes we had an escort, it would either be leftover posho or sweet potatoes or on lucky days we would have buns. This morning, I saw a kavera with two buns. Ongulu and I called them mwanakaba because they were small and rectangular and fit to soothe crying babies.

It was still dark outside and not many people had woken up. We shared the bathroom with six other tenants and I had to go through the narrow corridor to get there. I was already in a rush so I bathed from the verandah. The Grace's had just turned off their security lights and I knew that she had just woken up. They lived in Mzee Okello's rentals that were facing ours. Mzee Okello's only large residential house in the village was directly facing our house, and Mama Keisha; our neighbor next door had a retail shop, and the Graces lived just next to his house. They had a small gate that shielded two other tenants. Our compound, which also acted as Mzee Okello's driveway, was wide enough to hold ten children playing Kirindi kwepena, our local dodgeball, and anyone who would get hit by the ball, given that they were not the first ones, since the first one was always pardoned "asooka awebwa", would sit on our verandah and wait until the last person dodged the ball for the stipulated rounds, most times it would be ten, and then we would all go back at the center and play. Sometimes the last person at the center would fail to make it to the ten rounds. He/she and the second person to be hit would replace the two people who had been hitting the ball. I dreaded being the one who had to hit the ball, so I made sure that I was never the second person to be hit nor the last one at the center. Grace, my best friend, was very athletic. Whenever she was the last one at the center, the rest of us cheered her on because we were sure that we would be back in the game. She was always our kwepena messiah. Sometimes we never played Kirindi, we could play kwepena in all its different tastes we could invent. There was Kirindi kwepena, Kakebe kwepena, Kyereere Kwepena, and I know other tastes of kwepena are still underway. Kwepena was not gender-based, boys and girls would all play and the tall ones were usually the hitters. The villagers complained all the time we broke off for holidays. Some parents even took their children immediately after breaking off, but we always had a team to play kwepena, no matter how many we were. Last holiday, Grace was supposed to go to the village but I went with her to plead with her father so that she could remain. We gave excuses for doing the holiday package together and how I needed her to help me with Mathematics, but really the catch was about the holiday fun that we were on the verge of missing had she gone to the village. I was pouring water on myself when I had their small gate open. My heart jumped, praying that it might not be any of her parents or their neighbors. I hid in our iron sheet fence that acted as Mama's kitchen. Tata built it for her when he was discharged from the hospital after he had come back from Iraq. Before, Mama cooked our food from the house, saying that our hour was so much on display. She could not mingle posho and fry beans to show the whole village that we ate posho and beans every day. Yes, it would bring a lot of heat in our ceiling-less house but she would later take out the charcoal stove. When Tata came back from the hospital, building the kitchen fence on our verandah was the first thing he did, because he thought that cooking from the house was too risky. Good thing I had finished pouring water on my body and was left scrubbing my feet. I reached for the lesu I had to hang on the fence and tied it around myself.

I heard giggles and peeked only to see Grace with a toothbrush in her mouth and a one-liter yellow jerrycan that once held cooking oil. She spit out and laughed.

"Totukudde, you haven't bathed thoroughly," said Grace in between her laughs.

"You scared me, I thought it was your father." As I scrubbed my feet on the verandah's rough patch.

"What if it were my father?" Grace said, still laughing. "Would you even remember your lesu?"

"Are you done showering?" I changed the subject. "Ongulu is done with everything."

Grace spit out quickly and rushed inside without saying a word. It was my turn to laugh because I knew that Grace would do anything to please my brother. Ongulu was fifteen years old, three years older than Grace. She always said that she did not mind the age gap, after all her father was five years older than her mother. Ongulu was smart but he failed to read between the lines of Grace's submissiveness to him. Grace made every effort to be agreeable to Ongulu but he thought she was only being a good girl.

I went back inside and regretted why I never ironed my P4 uniform. I entered Mama's bedroom, just at the entrance, and searched through a pile of washed clothes in the basin. I knew that they were already awake, so I greeted them in the dark. I crawled over to their bed, bent over, and spread out my hand to search for the ironing box under the bed. I hated myself for hoping for something that I knew was close to impossible.

Ongulu was labeling his books when he glanced at me carrying an ironing box and out-of-the-goat's-mouth uniform. He shook his head in disbelief and continued with his work. He had placed my mwanakaba bun and my cup on the table. I knew he had already packed his tea and mine and placed the bottles in our MTN cross bags that Aunt Beth, Tata's sister had won in a promotion. She gave them to us when she visited Tata who had just been discharged from the hospital. She was the only in-law that Mama could get along with. She had helped Mama while Tata was still admitted to Mulago Hospital. She would go to Kalerwe market, buy foodstuffs with her own money, and bring them home to Mama so that she would cook for Tata. Later, they would leave Ongulu and me at home, and take the food to Tata, and one of them would come to sleep at the hospital while the other came back to check on us. Through our translucent purple curtain, I could see a few streaks of sun rays making slits in the dark. I definitely knew that we were going to be late this time. I laid Ongulu's green thin torn towel on it before I placed my uniform. I had tied my lesu in the form of a back-show dress and the water on my body was starting to get dried up. I went outside and lit up the ironing box with the remaining burning coals in the charcoal stove where Ongulu had boiled the tea from. Grace came out smartly dressed in her P5 uniform, still the pink and white checked dress like the P4 uniform but with a belt on it and inside pockets, not the outside big square pockets that were on the P4 uniforms. P5 uniform showed that you had officially transitioned to upper school. You could use the big canteen with no questions asked. Prefects always stopped us whenever we wanted to buy eats from the big canteen. Last year, in the first term, our class organized a study trip to visit the Coca-Cola Company in Namanve. I could not tell my parents about it because Tata had just gotten completely on his feet, and started working for Koja. Grace, on the other hand, had been given the twenty thousand for the trip. When she learned that I had not paid, she did not hand it the money to the teacher. Instead, we went together to the big canteen. I kept telling her that it was a bad idea but she would not listen, until the head boy, well dressed in his long grey trousers and a crisply ironed shirt stopped us. We could not lie that we were in P5 or P6, not even P7, because of our uniforms. We went back to class and I urged Grace to pay the money and go. She yielded unwillingly but she went for the trip.

I could not avoid the pangs of jealousy and anger stinging my chest when I saw her in that uniform.

"I thought you had left me," she said. "I waited for you, you were not coming then decided to come and check if you had gone."

I ignored her and continued to blow the coals in the ironing box.

" Eh! Grace, come inside, this one won't be done anytime soon," said Ongulu when he opened the curtain. Grace walked passed me like she had done something wrong. Her only crime was that she had the shiny Primary Five uniform that I was supposed to have, and her parents shopped two weeks into the third term holiday and a week into the first and second term holidays. I hated being a charity case whenever I lurked during their lunchtime on the days they made pork and beef. They didn't even know food combinations, how can you make atapa, dough from cassava flour and boiling water, and porridgey curry soup with chunks of pork shrouded in it? I pretended to love their cultural food, which happens to be ours too, but Mama's got better taste so that I could stay long enough for the chocolate milk tea and biscuits that they served for evening tea. She walked helplessly like a dog that had been barked at by its master and entered the house. I regretted why I had acted that way because she did not deserve it. The fire in the ironing box was ready now to iron my dreaded uniform. Grace was sitting knees pressed together fidgeting with her nails on the long sofa, Ongulu's bed, at the far end where the cloth piles had been patched. She always did that even when she spoke to teachers. I wonder why she even contested the post of class monitor when she was bound to speak to teachers all the time. She had singlehandedly solicited the votes from her class of one hundred thirty pupils. Her opponents, all boys, did not even get close to the number of votes she had. With all this tenacity, I wondered why she was still timid before teachers. She did not try to look at me. Ongulu was not in the sitting room, he was in Mama's bedroom probably begging for the day's pocket money. Last year, when he was in primary six, and I in primary four, they gave us five hundred shillings every day, two hundred mine and three hundred his. Two hundred shillings was only enough to buy two namungodis, rice balls wrapped in flour and curry paste. Luckily, Aunty Namu was my friend, she used to give an extra one and the falling debris of those that were not very intact in the ball. I wonder where Ongulu used to get extra money because at break time when I went to pick up my money. Primary one to four was lower school and primary five to seven was upper school. Each block was a class with different streams. It was quite a run from the Primary Four block to my brother's class. He was seated with a group of five boys at his desk, like a dining table, having eats that three hundred shillings could never buy. They had things you could only get from the big canteen, index-finger-size shaped sausages, popcorn, chaps, kebabs, things I could only eat with my eyes, except for one time when Ochola, Ongulu's desk mate called me and broke a thumb piece of kebab and gave me. I didn't know there was a lot of chili in it. I grimaced at the fire on my tongue and they found it funny, even Ongulu was laughing. I felt betrayed and ran out of their class.

"Jojo, Jojo, stop," my brother panted after me. "It's not you we were laughing at." I turned around, tear-drenched, and narrowed my eyes at him.

"Give me my money," I stretched out my hand to him.

"Sorry," he said.

"Give me my money," it came out louder than I intended.

He pulled out the coins from his left pocket and the inside white cloth came out with it. He put the money in my hand. I examined each coin, one had a fish, and the other a cow. This wasn't my money, this was his. I angrily threw the one with the cow and ran, the clink-clink of the coin on the cement resounding in my ears. I didn't look back but I imagined him bending over immediately to search for it in the trench. The end-of-break bell rang and I went back to lower school without having my breakfast.

I knelt before the table and ironed all the creases on my uniform, the white collar still maintained its white but it was getting torn at the folds. Mama had changed it to the back side at the first tear and now both sides were torn. The big side pockets that could cover a whole \mathematical set, were still intact because I did not over poke my hands in them like the other girls at school. Some put popcorn in them and gnawed when the teacher faced the blackboard. Others brazenly put namungodis and samosas so that you could see the oil patches. Sometimes I doubted whether they did their own laundry because that would need a lot of soap and washing. I felt Grace's eyes over my shoulders and I folded the uniform to cover the collar.

"I can give you mine. I have two," she said hesitatingly.

I did not look at her instead I folded Ongulu's towel, placed it on the chair's armrest, and held my uniform in the crook of my arm.

"I want to put on," I said. She was shocked that I was finally talking to her and that she didn't get what I said at the first hearing.

"I want to put on," I repeated. "Close your eyes or look away."

"What is happening?" Ongulu came from Mama's bedroom. "Grace come we wait for her outside."

Grace rushed to pick up her VISA FAMILY bag and went out with Ongulu. Ongulu gave me a warning departing eye on his way out. I dried the rest of the water in my half-inch hair. It's not like Kitante Primary School never allowed girls to grow hair, you just had to promise that you could maintain it. The model was to plait hair that had pink and white beads to match the pattern of the girls' uniform. I used to plait, those days when Tata was still in Iraq, primary one and two. He used to send Mama some Dollars and the little she could save after distributing the money to Tata's siblings and paying school fees and the home necessities, she used to indulge me and take me to the salon. I never liked it by then because I used to cry whenever they plaited my hair but now I miss it. Ever since Tata was brought back bedridden because of Diabetes, things never remained the same. He cut off my hair, one morning in the sitting room with his machine that he had brought from Iraq. I held my wig-like hair between my fingers while I flooded with tears. We could not keep many of our luxuries because of Tata's health. We lost our TV, shifted to a smaller house, two small rooms in Mulago UEB Zone, sold mine and Ongulu's beds, and started depending only on Mama's income from the small kiosk she had in Makerere University before they banished all hawkers and shopkeepers within the university. My hair was the least of the losses that I could complain about, and besides, most pupils in the upper classes started to cut off their hair deliberately, at least I could fit in. Grace, however, still had hers because they could maintain it. She always plaited the ponytail cornrows, with a few braids with pink and white beads dangling on her forehead. Her hair would not last three weeks because of how careless she was; in only a week, the black threads would turn brown because she did not mind dust getting into her hair. She would join us mindlessly whenever we played in the rain. Later, her mother would scold her for ruining her hair before taking her to the salon to blow dry it, but Grace did not mind; there was so much she did not mind.

MAMA KEISHA'S SHOP WAS ALREADY OPEN, Ongulu and Grace were sitting on her bench while they waited for me. We were so late. Mama Keisha always opened her shop an hour after we had left for school. Mama used to complain about her all the time when she wanted to buy tea leaves for Tata's morning tea before he left for work. Sometimes Mama was keen enough to stock some tea leaves and sugar, but there were times when she was very busy and just forgot.

Ongulu stood up when I closed the door. Grace stood up as well and I walked behind them. Our loud footsteps did the talking, Ongulu walking the fastest, we were literally running even with the baggage of our green plastic bags that carried school requirements. I was relieved when Mama Nakku's door was closed. I hated and almost feared that woman with all my heart and soul. Every time we passed, she insisted that we knelt while greeting her. Yes, I hate kneeling, but with her sort of behavior, even if I liked kneeling, it was above what she ought to have demanded. She would spend the whole day gossiping and picking fights with everyone.

One time, Ongulu was playing football with Ben, Mzee Okello's grandson, and Calvin, one of Grace's neighbors while Buda, the new kid in the village watched from their balcony, the house opposite Mama Keisha's shop, since his mother refused him to mingle with us, the village kids, The ball was accidentally kicked, I don't know by whom, but it flung into Mama Nakku's house, just next to Buda's, and hell broke loose, it was like she had been waiting for this opportunity to have something against Mama. She came heaving breathlessly at our door, knocking loudly. Mama and I were peeling cassava in the house, which we would later fry and sell the next morning when we heard a bang on the door. Her eyes were balled out shouting for Mama to get out. All the neighbors came out wondering what the matter was, some were secretly wishing for a fight. They wanted to see some live action that was always presented by Mama Nakku. With matters concerning Mama Nakku, there was bound to be one. Mama apologized but she insisted that they spank Ongulu. She could not leave without witnessing him being disciplined. Imagine she did not even go to the other kids' homes. Mama gave Ongulu fake but painful slaps so she could leave.

Every morning and evening, to and fro school, I made short prayers as I approached her house willing her to be inside or gone. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. And when it didn't, I had to kneel and greet. I wasn't as hardhearted as Ongulu. He could show off his hatred ever since the ball incident. Grace simply pretended that she had not seen her and ran off or pretended that someone was calling her while I, the well-behaved one, knelt down and muttered the greetings. I could see the triumph in her eyes and promised myself that I would be as bold as Ongulu or as blind as Grace the next time I passed. But it didn't happen. Deep inside me, I knew that this woman was either a night dancer or a witch. That boldness and brazenness had to come from somewhere. She could freely contend with Uncle Kiwa, the village chairperson, and he would let her be.

WE REACHED MULAGO Catholic Church, where we attended church, famous for its sharp pointed peak at the top of the iron sheets. It was built like a dome but for the outward curving of the iron sheets that led to the famous pointer at the top. Ongulu used the shortcut through Kapaapaali Police Station so that we could not be so late. That route was usually dangerous especially at dawn, around five to six, and under normal circumstances, we would never use it, but it was already broad daylight and safe. Two years ago, when Ongulu begged Tata while he was still in Iraq for One hundred fifty thousand shillings for their trip to Queen Elizabeth National Park Kasese, he used that route so that he could reach earlier than usual, a group of four boys not more than sixteen years attacked him and took his fifty thousand shillings for pocket money. The good thing was that the One hundred fifty was sent to the teachers directly on Mobile Money. He did not come back home, he went straight to school, with his white shirt dirtied with mud. He told us that he lied to the teachers that he had slid into a trench on his way to school. Their stay was one month and all that time he depended on his friend Ochola since he was given more-than-enough pocket money. Since that day, he has always dreaded using that route.

[photo1030]

Leather and Lace - Chapter 6: The Gala

Summary: Dutch and Hosea take you out on your first job to a fancy gala. And Arthur isn’t too happy about it.

Warnings: None, other than this is a bit of a longer read, but not too bad. 

*This image is gifted to me by @namesaretomainstream. 

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

   The Van der Linde Gang has been in this new area of Silverton for a few weeks now, making sure to lay-low and take time to scout the surroundings. A few days ago, Hosea caught wind of a high-society gala taking place at which the county’s rich and elite will be in attendance. This made the old man's heart race with excitement. Here is a perfect opportunity to get in close with prime targets. But they would not going to rob, although that is so tempting. No, Hosea wants intel. He wants information on what is happening around the area, who is involved, and when its going down. Also, this is the perfect job for him. As Hosea has gotten older, he does not partake in the more "physical" jobs anymore, leaving that to the younger men. While he prefers to rest his older bones these days, the longing for the adrenaline-rush and exhilaration of "the job" sometimes leaves his heart heavy. He never, ever wanted to be seen as useless or a burden. But, "the con"...well, that is Hosea's specialty and one that he is still able to accomplish, despite his age, and to his credit, better than anyone else.  

   Hosea and Dutch sit outside of Dutch's tent with Arthur and John, discussing options and how they are going to orchestrate this plan of theirs. They have managed to secure an invitation to the gala that will be taking place in a few days, but need to decide what to do with it. They don't want to waste the opportunity to get this close to such high-profile marks. The suggestion is made that Dutch and Hosea will sell themselves as bankers, looking to hob-nob with the local businessmen and see if they can get anyone to free-up their tongues about their business dealings. Their aim is to find out who has money and what they are doing with it. 'Oh, but of course,' you think to yourself as you listen to them go on and on. 'Surely, Dutch and Hosea carry so much charisma that everyone in that room will just naturally fawn all over them and spill their standings and secrets just like that.' You roll your eyes at them. Such bravado, such self-assurance, you muse.

“You need a woman,” you shake your head at them as you approach the small group with two cups in your hand.

“What?” asks Dutch, looking up at you, confused by your suggestion.

”A woman," you repeat yourself as you hand Hosea one of the cups of coffee before sitting down next to him with your own. "If it’s secrets and dirt you want, you bring a woman to a gala. That’s what these men do," you explain with a nonchalant waive of your hand. "They stand about, drinking brandy and bragging amongst themselves, but it’s their wives and daughters who are conniving and whispering in the corners of the room where you get the real info you’re after. Always trying to tear each other apart and gossiping about everyone and anyone. The juicier the story, the farther it carries. If it’s information you want, gentlemen, then you get it from their women," you bring your coffee cup to your mouth. "Or, their help,” you add quickly with a wink before allowing yourself to sip the steaming liquid. You then lean forward on the table, propping your chin up in your hand, scanning the four faces that are staring back at you quietly.

Dutch studies you, thinking, as a devious smile slowly spreads across his handsome face as yet another idea formulates in his head. “You're right, Miss (Y/L/N). Alright then, you’re coming too.”

“Wait, what?! I didn’t mean me!” you back-peddle, bolting upright from the table suddenly. "You ain't serious, Dutch?" asks Arthur cautiously, agreeing with you.

“Why not?” Dutch asks with a devilish smirk.

“I don’t know how to run a con, Dutch!” you protest, your eyes wide in shock at the suggestion.

"Are you goin' crazy, Dutch?" chuckles John. "What the hell does she know about hustlin'"? He shakes his head with an eye-roll that would do Abigail proud.

“Actually,” interjects Hosea, “Dutch is right. You’d be perfect, (Y/N). I mean, this is what you came from before, isn’t it?”

“Well yeah, I guess…," you hesitate. "But why not Molly or Mary-Beth? Surely they'd be better for this?”

"Yeah, they would," agrees John under his breath.

"Dutch-,"starts Arthur, but he is quickly interrupted.

“No, it’ll be you”, says Dutch decisively, striking a match on the tabletop to light his cigar as he nods your way.

   You sit there thinking over the predicament that you just got yourself into. Should've kept your mouth shut. You look at Arthur apologetically, as you can imagine that he's not happy about this idea. And you're right, he's not. You can tell by the furrowed brows and slow, exasperated sigh that he lets out. But then, you realize that Hosea is right. Out of everyone in camp, you probably are the best suited for a job like this, mingling with the local rich and high-society. And, it is probably time that you start to contribute more. Sure, you're the one who tends to the wounds and handles the other day-to-day, menial tasks, but why should everyone else put themselves at risk while you sit safely back at camp? So, you decide to go along with it. And why not? You're in a gang now, right?

“OK, fine," you agree, sitting up taller, finally making your voice more confident. "But if you’re insisting on using me for my experience, then let’s talk about this, gentlemen. A 'banker'? Really?” your eyebrows raise questioningly.

"I can’t pass for a banker?” Dutch scoffs, feigning offence.

"Bankers don’t have calloused hands and sun-tanned skin," you point-out with a smirk. "No, if these people are like the rich back East, and all rich are the same, mind you, these women are ruthless. They will tear you apart to try to find the defect." You inhale deeply as you look at Dutch, as his eyes arch expectantly at you while you consider your options. "No, you’ll be a mine owner. Worked in the mines your whole life until you could afford to buy one yourself. That will explain your…"ruggedness". You and Hosea are partners, looking for investors to cover running expenses in your newly acquired mine. These kinds of men will throw money at an investment like that, rather than try to understand how it works. Mines are a dusty and soiled venture, but can payout big. They won't question the specifics of it, so long as they get their money in return with interest without getting their own hands grimy.”

Hosea gets a big smile on his face as he listens to you spin your tale. “And what will your role be in all of this, my dear?”

“She’s my wife,” says Dutch with another grin on his face. This makes Arthur’s head snap to attention, yet he says nothing in protest. “Like you said, these men bring their wives, right?”

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"What is taking so long?" Dutch hollers irritably over to Tilly as she comes out of the tent where you are getting ready for the gala and makes her way over to the men. He paces a bit as he finishes fastening his cuff-links, the finishing touch on his black tuxedo. He is growing antsy to get this plan going and hates waiting, especially on something as trivial as a woman's appearance.

“You can’t rush a piece of art, Dutch" says Tilly with a grin. "And trust me, that’s what this is." She giggles a bit at the anticipation of your presentation to the group.

"Good Lord, how precious is this gonna get, I ask you?" huffs Dutch, rolling his eyes at Arthur, who just shrugs in response as he finishes his cigarette.

   Suddenly the flaps of the girls' tent pulls back and you slowly step out. You walk out of the canvased area, fidgeting with the gown you've donned where it falls on your hips. All eyes are on you as a hush falls across the group standing there. Arthur looks up from where he's seated on a crate and slowly stands to his feet. He can’t take his widened eyes off of you. He blinks rapidly, adjusting his eyesight. He’s never seen you dressed up like this before. And you are absolutely stunning, a true vision. The dress that you are wearing is one that Mary-Beth had scored for herself a few months ago. It is a beautiful blue empire-style, modified a-line dress with gold cap sleeves and covered in bead-work and crystals. It gathers in the middle, accenting your bust-line, and pours down over your hips. As you move, the slight train floats over the grass, the front hem dusting across your slipper shoes. The iridescent material and crystals shimmer in the fading sunlight of the day, casting you in a mystical aura. Your hair is braided into a crown around the front, and then woven behind your neck as is cascades down your back, making it look like a sculpture. Mary-Beth has really outdone herself when she styled your hair, as she also found a broach and an elegant necklace that she has managed to weave into the folds of your locks, adding the perfect accent to top it off. Somewhere off to the side, you can hear Bill let out a slow whistle in approval. You smile as you walk towards Arthur, not even noticing anyone else. But then suddenly, the corners of your mouth turn down in concern when you notice he’s just staring at you with a blank expression, not saying anything.

“What's wrong? Does it not look OK?" you ask Arthur as you nervously run your hands over the material again. "I may be as tall as Mary-Beth but surely ain’t as small, I guess” you laugh awkwardly. You have curves to begin with, and with the built-in corset being pulled in the back, the dress creates and accents an hourglass figure. “Is it too tight?," you ask tentatively. "I feel like a sausage in this thing,” you mutter under your breath to yourself, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. "No…no it’s just the right amount of…tight", Arthur finally replies clumsily, not really sure how to articulate the words in his melting brain right now, as his hand comes up to rub against the back of his neck. Its a behavior he does when he's uncomfortable and he cringes internally when he hears how ridiculous he sounds. You smile at his awkward comment before you notice Dutch off to the side and do a double-take of your own. “Well, hey! Don’t you look all snazzy, Mr. Van der Linde!,” you tease as you turn to walk over to Dutch, admiring his new look.

As you walk away from Arthur, he catches John out of the corner of his eye, smirking. "What?" asks Arthur.

“'Just the right amount of tight'?" John repeats Arthur's words with a chuckle. "Smooth, Arthur.”

“Shut up, Marston”, he snaps. They both turn to follow after you. And as they walk, John cocks his head to the side a bit, assessing you from behind. “OK…now I get it,” he says looking at Arthur with approval, who just scowls at him in response.

“My, my, look at you, (Y/N)! This job may be easier than I thought”, says Dutch with a wolfish grin as he offers you his arm to lead you towards the awaiting wagon. Suddenly Arthur’s chest tightens at the sight of you on another man’s arm. Especially when its Dutch, as Arthur catches just a hint of lust in the man's eyes as he looks you over.

   Lenny walks over at this point to join the group at the wagon as well. He is the “hired hand” for tonight's charade and is dressed in a fine suit, looking quite handsome and dignified; every bit the staff of a wealthy couple. “You’re bringing me 'cause I look like 'the help', is that it?” he asks Hosea, annoyed. “No, son, I’m bringing you because you can keep your wits about you," says Hosea.  "You’re quiet, observant, and I don’t have to worry about you getting into a fight or getting drunk. I need someone with a little class, someone I can trust in this situation.” Hosea nods in affirmation and claps Lenny on the back. That's one of the great things about Hosea: he says what's on his mind, no bull-shit, no apologies; straight to the point. He told you once that if he can manage to live as long as he has, doing what he does, then he's earned the right to speak like that. And he's probably right.

   Arthur lingers back behind the others, catching your elbow and pulls you aside for a moment while everyone else is preoccupied with getting prepared to leave. "Listen, don’t let these two talk you into anything stupid, alright? Don’t do anything that don’t feel right to you." He keeps his voice low, but it carries concern, not malice. His eyes are giving you more of a pleading look. "I won’t," you smile up at him softly. "Stick with Hosea, you’ll be alright," he nods in confirmation. He's trying to reassure himself as much as you, at this point. "I promise," you reply with a more serious demeanor. You can tell that he's worried about this plan, as its clearly set deep upon his face. It's bad enough that you are going out on your first job, but you're going without him and he won't be there to protect you if anything goes wrong. "Don’t worry Arthur, we’ll bring her back in one piece," scoffs Dutch as he waves his hand at you, motioning for you to join him on the wagon.

   The plan is to take one of the gang's wagons to meet up with Trelawny at the Merkle Farm. He's made a deal with one of his many connections in the next county over to borrow a stage coach for the evening and is stashing it at his friend's farm. (Tom Merkle is another connection of Trelawny's who promised Josiah that as long as he didn't use it too much, he could use the farm for his "work" on occasion. For a small fee, of course.) From there, the four of you will then proceed to ride in to the city to the gala. This way, you will arrive in finery, thus completing the illusion of wealth and success.  

   Its a relatively short ride, and when you arrive at the Merkle Farm, Trelawny is already waiting for you all with the carriage. "Come on, we got to get a move on," urges Hosea as he climbs down from your wagon as soon as it lurches to a halt. He is never one to be late and wants to be on the way quickly. Whenever he's running a con, the man always wants to be ahead of it, always prepared. Hosea holds his aged, but still strong hand up to you to help you down from the wagon as well, and then transfer you into the awaiting carriage. "Why, Miss (Y/L/N), I almost didn't recognize you! You look quite exquisite this evening," says Trelawny as he assists you by holding your other elbow, opposite Hosea. "Why, thank you, Josiah," giving him a coquettish little smile, drawing your shoulder to your chin in a flirtatious gesture. Once you are all in, Lenny climbs up to the driver's seat of the carriage and urges the horses forward and on to your final destination.

   As you are making the trek to the gala, the three of you go over the plan one more time. Dutch will be 'Mr. Maxim Graves, mine owner', with you as his wife, 'Lilah'. Hosea is his business partner, 'Mr. Glen Millet'. "Whatever you do, don’t break character," you warn Dutch and Hosea as the carriage rolls along, rocking in a comforting motion. "There’s always someone listening, sometimes even standing behind the curtain in the corner." "We’ve done this before, you know," says Dutch with a slight hint of exasperation and you chuckle at the ignorance of your own statement. "I know, of course. What I mean is, don’t underestimate these people. They may not carry guns, but they can be just as dangerous. People like them hire people like you to do their dirty work in order to keep their own hands clean." "Did you ever resort to such tactics, Miss (Y/L/N)?" asks Hosea. "No. My father kept his nose clean, never got involved with anything so questionable as to lead him down that path." "How sanctimonious of him," smirks Dutch, causing you to briefly arch an eyebrow in annoyance at such a flippant remark of your beloved father. "No matter how rich you are, how big your house is, or how much you own, our graves are all the same size in the end, Miss (Y/L/N). I am not intimidated by these people." Dutch states definitively, squaring his shoulders up. He just oozes self-confidence and it is easy to see why his people are so loyal to him. "Fair enough," you answer simply and leave it at that with your hands folded in your lap.

"You do bring up a good point, (Y/N)," says Hosea, pointing his finger at you as he mulls over the plan again for the hundredth time. "You two have to sell this, you know," Hosea says to you and Dutch.

"Sell this?" Dutch questions.

"Yes. If you two are going to be husband and wife, you’ll have to play the part." Hosea is a consummate con-man, an actor in another life that would have gone down a different path had he been given the opportunity.

"I think we can manage that," Dutch says dismissively, not worried in the slightest.

"We’re not talking about her and Arthur, we’re talking about her and you, Dutch" Hosea reminds him. His comment makes you stop in your tracks and eye Hosea questioningly, the vocalized statement making a blush dust across your cheeks at the mere suggestion of you and Arthur together. You divert your eyes and turn to look out the window of the carriage and wish it was Arthur that was paired with you tonight. The thought of seeing the rugged cowboy cleaned up and in a fine suit made you smile.

   The sun is just starting to set on the horizon and it doesn't take long for your carriage to arrive at the mayor's estate where the gala will take place. Its a large property, one that has been in the family for a few generations now and has grown considerably over time. You cautiously peer out the window to get a look at the crowd that you'll be maneuvering in tonight. "Just smile and nod until you know who you’re talking to, and then smile some more," you remind Dutch and Hosea. "These socialites are like pack animals. They hunt and prey on the weakest one in the herd," you state disdainfully as your nose wrinkles up at the thought of it. Your mind goes back to a time when this sort of thing was a common occurrence for you. The music was beautiful, the dancing and costumes were lovely, but you never did enjoy the social warfare that takes place at these events. "Hmm, these people may not be so bad after all," muses Dutch with a smirk. "Just goes to show you, people are the same, wherever you are," remarks Hosea.

   The estate coachman approaches your carriage and opens the door, as Lenny brings it to a halt at the front steps. Hosea is first to step out. He stands proudly, shoulders back, as he casually fixes his suit jacket. He is amazing to watch, as if he truly were one of "them". He turns to look back at the carriage as Dutch is next to follow, his larger frame landing in the gravel of the parkway. His eyes cast over the crowd of people who are slowly making their way into the house, taking in the atmosphere of it, almost as if he is surveying to make sure it is safe for you to follow. Finally, he looks back to the carriage as well, lifting his hand up. Your delicate hand and forearm emerge from the carriage and settle into Dutch's large awaiting fingers. He carefully helps you down, standing close to you as you smooth out the layers of the skirt of your gown. Smiling up at Dutch and then to Hosea, you raise an eyebrow with a grin, "Gentlemen...shall we?"

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   Upon entering the house, Hosea hands the gala invitation to the doorman, who inspects it before giving you all a once-over glance. Once satisfied, the doorman then takes a step back and opens his arm towards the awaiting room behind him, granting the three of you access. The house is large and ornate. Beautifully polished hardwood floors and carved-detail walls line the structure. Ornate tapestries and glittering silver accent-pieces adorn anything that will hold it. Bundles of flowers are everywhere, creating an indoor garden of color. Musicians are playing in the parlor, the sound of violins and cello carrying through to the great hall where the rest of the guests have congregated.  

   The three of you slowly meander through the room, observing the various people, trying to gauge where to start. You can already see a few women gathered in small circles, speaking in hushed tones as they quickly notice and eye-up the new arrivals. Your plan is already working, as they seem to have already taken a great interest in the three of you. You observe the crowd of guests that is gracefully dancing to the music that is playing.

"Would you care to dance, Wife?" Dutch quips to you. "I’d love to, Husband," you reply equally as coy. With your hand still wrapped around his arm, Dutch leads you to the center of the floor of the great hall where other people are elegantly moving about to the sounds of the stringed instruments of the small orchestra placed in the corner. He places one of his large hands just below your shoulder blades while gently taking your hand into this other one and begins to guide you in a waltz. The motion is fluid and elegant, one that may contradict a man of Dutch's stature.

"People are starting to notice us already," you note, catching the faces of the guests out of the corner of your eye as the two of you sway about the floor together.

"They should," says Dutch. "We make a handsome couple." This makes you snicker a bit as you look up at him. "I know someone who would whole-heartedly disagree. And she has the fiery green eyes to prove it." (After this plan had been decided a few days ago, you made sure that you'd had a long, long talk with Molly to make sure she understands that you have no desires for her man.)

"Miss O’Shea…yeah I’m not sure what I’m gonna do about that one," says Dutch with an uneasy sigh. He adjusts his grip on your hand and back at the mention of Molly's name.

"Well, I can tell you, she’s most smitten with you," you reassure him.

"Funny, you don’t strike me as the type to let other women mess around with her husband," jokes Dutch. This comment makes you laugh, causing even more people to notice the new couple in the room now.

   As the two of you continue to glide across the floor, you think on their relationship for a moment. Maybe Dutch would be more accommodating if Molly weren’t so desperate to be loved. Maybe she wouldn’t hover over him so much if he’d just show her some genuine affection and consideration. Either way, though, you think it best not to interfere. You look upon Dutch's face and wonder what it would be like to wake up to him every day, to lean over and kiss him good morning. But admittedly, Molly does have her work cutout for herself with being with a man such as Dutch. Dutch is very charming, indeed, and, yet he is not what you'd want for yourself. And your mind goes to Arthur yet again. You aren't jealous that Molly specifically has Dutch; you're jealous that she has her man in her bed with her every night.

   Meanwhile, Hosea slowly circles and scouts the room, but always keeps a watchful eye on you and Dutch. Seeing you together, he’s not so sure he likes this idea now. Hosea is very much aware of Arthur's affections for you, even though the man himself has never told him. He doesn't need to. Hosea knows Arthur better than anyone. But he also knows Dutch. And he knows that once Dutch sees something that he wants, he will not stop until he gets it. He notes how Dutch swirls you across the hardwood floor, the fabric of your dress swaying with the movement of your body as the music carries through the air. The two of you almost seem like a fairy tale. Hosea told the two of you to "sell" the premise of being married, but it almost seems to be going too well.

"I never realized I was so judgmental of the judgmental, looking down on those who look down upon others. Ironic isn’t it?" you muse to Dutch, looking around the room before coming back to his dark eyes which are locked on you. "You gettin’ philosophical on me now?" he asks you with a slight chuckle in his tone. Dutch moves his hand lower and onto the small of your back now, and occasionally his fingers drop to rest just above your rear. Is he just playing the part of "Mr. Maxim Graves" or is he hinting at something more there? Either way, the first part of your plan has worked as the other women in the room have taken notice of the handsome dark-haired stranger doting on his beautiful young wife as if they are the only ones in the room.

   Soon the music stops and everyone claps with their applause. "Well, I think we’ve made enough of an impression, Mr. Graves. I think it’s time to make some new friends, no?" you suggest to Dutch. "You are absolutely right, Mrs. Graves." And he brings the back of your hand to his lips for a kiss, causing you to offer him a flirtatious and playful grin. He really is very charming when he wants to be. And you both go your separate ways to join Hosea in working the room.

   You float over to the champagne table and it doesn't take long before you are approached by a young woman. "I don't think I've seen you before," the woman leans over to catch your attention. "You must be new in town?" she asks you sweetly. You can already tell she is very curious about you with her large, excited eyes and a beaming smile that could light up a dark tunnel. 'And this is my way in to their circle', you think to yourself.

   You turn to face her as you smile and greet her in return. "Yes, we are. My husband and I are here to look for investors. We had a chance meeting with, I believe a banker fellow. Didn't catch his name," you say dismissively with a waive of your hand. "Anyway, we were fortunate to be invited to this evening's event where my husband and his business partner intend to look to see who may be a compatible match for us." "Interesting," the woman says, thinking of the possibility of what juicy stories lie there, hooked by the breadcrumbs that you've just laid down for her. "My name is Cora DeLaney. My husband, David, runs the textile mill that turns out the cotton yarn at the edge of town." And she proudly points to a man standing with a drink in his hand, chatting with a few others. They are both fairly young, and obviously hungry to move up the social ladder. "Lilah Graves," as you reach out to shake her hand.  "Come Lilah, come over with me to the other ladies and I’ll introduce you!" as Cora excitedly takes your elbow and leads you over to a group of women standing by the window.

   Mrs. Delaney proceeds to introduce you to some of the other prominent women in town, who seem pleasant enough, and after standing with them for about half an hour, what you expected is certainly true:  if its inside information that you want, you can get it from a gossipy group of women. In the short time of standing there, you learn that the bank president is having an affair, that the mayor (despite this extravagant gala that he is hosting) is actually almost bankrupt, and the man that owns the blacksmith shop spends a lot of time with his male “assistant”. But, on the brighter side of things, the apothecary is doing quite well (thanks to a "miracle cream" that helps women with wrinkles that they insist that you “simply must try”) and the general-store owner, who seems quite drab and dull, is actually hoarding money like crazy. He’s dabbled in lumber on the side and apparently has "made out like a bandit". You snicker at their reference and you have to catch yourself. You also get a list of who is who and what they bring to the table by way of casual introductions and subtle finger-pointing by Cora.

And inevitably, talk in the circle eventually comes around to you and the two men you came with, as they begin to question you about Dutch and Hosea.

“He owns a mine?”, asks one of the women skeptically, raising an eyebrow as she scrutinizes your "husband". She is an bit of an older woman, older than the others at least. She has a harsh demeanor to her, carrying an air of importance. (You'd love to see a street fight between her and Ms. Grimshaw.)

"Yes, he does," you reply pridefully as you follow their sight-line and look over at Dutch who is caught-up in a deep conversation with a group of his own. "My husband can be very…persuasive. But the deal is honest, the sale is legal. And we have the deed to prove it."

"He’s quite “rough” isn’t he?" someone else in your circle questions, a slight hint of disdain in her voice.  

"That comes from the hard work his whole life. But trust me, what he lacks in social refinement he’s more than made up for in other areas," you say with a raised eyebrow and sultry grin. "He’s got a chest you can break rocks on," you whisper loudly to Cora. The women giggle and blush at your bold statement. "Is that so?" says another woman eyeing up Dutch hungrily. You can see the wheels turning in her head as she sips her champagne and wouldn’t be surprised if she approaches him at some point in the evening.

"And who is the man with him?" Cora asks you, trying to keep the conversation on track and digging for more details, which you are more than happy to feed her.

"That is Mr. Glen Millet, Max’s oldest and dearest friend," you offer affectionately, smiling as you now look over to Hosea who is standing with Dutch.

"Well, he certainly is old," one of the women snicker, causing a ripple of laughter to cascade amongt the women. You desperately try not to lash out in response as you can feel your face flush a bit in anger. You can't help the sudden desire to scratch this cat's eyes out for turning her nose up at your dear Hosea.

"That he may be, but he is also the cleverest man I’ve ever met," you reply in a thinly-veiled contemptuous tone. "And don’t let his age fool you. I’ve shared a hotel wall with the man and, let me tell you, I’ve heard many strange noises come from that room that would make a working girl blush." Your comment puts this woman in her place and the group all look on both Dutch and Hosea with great interest.

   As you look up from your conversation with these harpies, you notice that the group of rather dignified-looking men that Dutch and Hosea have engaged themselves with are suddenly all eyeing you from across the room as if you are the topic of their discussion, now. Probably fitting, as you have been doing the same on your end. So you decide to leave the women's company (you've honestly had more than you can stomach for now) and excuse yourself to walk over to the men to see what’s going on there. You confidently saunter up next to Dutch to join him. “Hello, Gentlemen” you purr, as you snake your arm through Dutch’s. Your boldness to go wherever you want is not lost on them, as the other women are content to sit off to the side, while you have no issue to walk up and stand with the men as if you belonged there. Quick introductions are made to give you a name to each face.

“Ah, Mrs. Graves. We were just discussing what a lucky man your husband is.” The man addressing you is Mr. Warren Clayfield, one of the importers of steel into the area and probably the richest man in attendance this evening. Of course, he is going to be the one that Hosea seeks out tonight.

“Oh?”, you feign innocence.

“We couldn’t help to notice how young and beautiful you are. Very young. How did you two ever meet?” Mr. Clayfield asks with a doubtful, challenging tone. He absent-mindedly swirls the amber liquid in his drinking glass with a cockiness to him that alludes that he is not accustomed to being challenged. His tall stature and preened appearance may be daunting to some. But you have seen his kind before and rarely is there much substance to it.

   You size him up, knowing that he's trying to make an example of both you and Dutch to the others. But you know this game, and have played it well before. And you aren't about to let this jackass get the upper hand. "My husband is a very handsome and charming man, Mr. Clayfield. Any woman would be lucky to be attached to such a man," your voice cool and confident. "Not that its any of your business, really, but my father was a business partner of Max's. The two were very close, actually. When my father died, Max and I sought solace in each other’s company." You pause to give Dutch a seemingly-loving gaze, as if recalling some distant, treasured memory. "That concern and care soon turned to love and we were married within the year. And we've have been inseparable ever since." You run your hand along Dutch's arm as you speak and he turns his gaze to Mr. Clayfield, gloating immensely as you just confirmed what he apparently already told the group.

“Forgive me, madame, I didn’t mean to offend you-” Clayfield stammers slightly, trying to gracefully save-face, as his intimidation tactic has clearly failed.

"Yes, you did," you cut him off abruptly. "That’s why you said it," you lift your chin slightly in defiance, now making him the example. "This is not the first time our relationship has been questioned, nor will it be the last. But it’s alright, such is the way of things," you say confidently, with a polite smile. Dutch simply stands quiet with a smug look on his face. The way you command the presence of this group is impressive. The entire circle is taking you in, and Dutch makes his possession of you tighter, as he pulls his arm out from yours and places it around your waist, pulling you in closer to him. This is a side of you that the gang has not seen before. And Dutch likes it very much.

   You turn towards Dutch, leaning into him, pressing your body up against his as you thread both your arms around his again, your hand running up his bicep to give these men the last bit of the show. “I don’t know about you, darling, but I am growing quite tired. Might we be heading out soon?” your voice carrying a slight pout and almost seductive tone to it. The act that you are putting on is amazing. And Dutch is the envy of every man in the circle at the moment. But you don't want to press your luck, and decide to end the evening while you're ahead. “Yes, of course, my love. Anything you say.” He replies, raising an eyebrow suggestively as he leans down to you ever so slightly. Dutch then nods to Hosea with a knowing glance and, with that, he wraps his arm around your waist once more, giving the other men a quick "Gentlemen" in farewell, and walks you away from the guests. The group of men all gawk as they watch the three of you head to the main doors, the blue fabric of your gown swishing sightly behind you as you leave.

-------------------------

   When the wagon arrives back to camp, Arthur is quick on his feet, in a hurry to make sure that you are OK. His muscles relax a bit as he sees that not only are you OK, but seem to be in good spirits. He sighs heavily in relief to have you back safe and sound. God only knows what you could have gotten into while in Dutch and Hosea's company.

"Well, how’d you do?" asks Arthur anxiously, as he approaches the wagon, watching as Dutch helps you down to the ground.

"It was kind of fun being 'Mrs. Dutch' for an evening," you joke as you settle your feet safely in the grass, smiling over your shoulder at Dutch as if you are sharing an inside joke between the two of you. The gesture creates a slight pang of jealousy in Arthur's stomach.

"(Y/N) did great," says Hosea, nodding approvingly as he walks up next to you and places his arm around your shoulders. "She made the right call. Perfect con, no one the wiser," he says proudly.

"She’s a natural," agrees Dutch. "Got some real good information tonight, too. We got some planning to do."

Lenny pipes up as he comes around the corner of the wagon, adding that he heard from the other porters as he worked the outside of the gala that there's a hefty gambling ring that congregates in the area, too. The gang may be able to get in on that action as well.

"There’s at least three good, strong leads out of this run," says Hosea quite pleased. "All around, a good night for once," rubbing his hands together in excitement.

   You smile brightly as you listen to the two men carry on about the evening, excitedly filling in the others of their prospects. You're proud of yourself that not only were you able to help out the gang and come through when needed, but that you were also able to hold your own with the two leaders. But admittedly, it has been a very long and exhausting night and fatigue has finally caught up with you.

"Ugh, I gotta get out of this damn dress," you huff uncomfortably as you finally turn your attention to Arthur. "I’ll meet you at the fire in a bit, yeah?" you say to him. "I'll tell you all about it." "Sure, alright," he answers, grinning with relief that you are home safe where you belong. Arthur's eyes follow you as you turn and walk away, staring after you for a minute after you disappear into your tent. He misses your presence already.

Dutch quietly walks over to stand next to Arthur, his gaze following Arthur's in your direction. "You ever gonna do something about that?" asks Dutch, a slight grin on his face.

"About what?" replies Arthur, oblivious to Dutch's meaning.

The older man just chuckles and shakes his head. "OK, so that’s how you’re gonna play it, huh?"

[festeringfae]

*skids across the floor after seeing this post on my computer with a broken keyboard & RUNNING to mobile so I can type* hi hello is it finally time to talk about how underserved by the narrative the sisters Lynesse Hightower and Averie Hightower Tyrell are, relative to how fucking cool they are in what little description we have of them???

Is it time talk about how Alerie's reaction to Joffrey's death was to IMMEDIATELY attribute it to choking rather than express concern her daughter may have been poisoned, while still subtly reinforcing the idea that there's no way Margaery was involved? "He choked, sweetling. He choked on the pie. It was naught to do with you. He choked. We all saw"?" Are we gonna finally acknowledge that "we all saw" is absoLUTELY an attempt to get the crowd to second guess their own short term memories before long term ones can form? Can we talk about how OLENNA, a woman nicknamed the QUEEN OF THORNS due to how critical she is of people-- particularly, how critical she is of their intelligence-- has never actually found anything to critique about Alerie? The best she can do-- the best OLENNA TYRELL can do-- to find fault with her is "Don't call me Mother. If I'd given birth to you, I'm sure I'd remember it." That's just making a statement of fact in a rude way. It's a lower degree burn than Olenna's dunk on "The Rains of Castamere", for God's sake. It seems, dare I say, almost perfunctory? Performative, even?

And then there's Alerie's sister, Lynesse Hightower. Can we FINALLY ACKNOWLEDGE that there is NOTHING, nada, zilch that indicates that Lynesse Hightower even KNEW about Jorah's batshit, evil slavery scheme, much less that she consented to it? Can we talk about how this gross old widower who was TWICE THE AGE of the little girl went to her the LITERAL DAY THEY MET and PUBLICLY PROPOSED, so that if she turned him down, it would be a PUBLIC SCANDAL? That when Lynesse was, overnight, taken from her family AND her hometown AND the standard of living she was used to, she was abandoned by the creep who took her for long stretches, and mocked by those remained for having pre-pubescent breasts? Can we talk about how Lynesse Hightower was called fussy & stuck up for simply fitting into the gender ideals forced upon women of their station in literally every single other place in their country besides this one island? About how eventually Lynesse is denied even her HOMELAND, because when she had the audacity to complain about missing her previous standard of living, and refusing to sell her jewels-- HER OWN SHIT, TO PROVIDE WHAT A HUSBAND BY THEIR CUSTOM IS SUPPOSED TO PROVIDE-- her dipshit husband decided that obviously the solution was treating human beings like chattel, instead of, like, letting her visit her parents or asking for a loan from THEM?

Most of all can we talk about how, holy shit, despite this Valyria-sized disaster of a situation, and the completely patriarchal society she was raised in, once Lynesse finds some place she kinda fucking likes--someplace WARM, another PORT, like HOME-- and her husband says she has to leave with him yet again, Lady Lynesse "Fuck Your Mormont" Hightower tells the loser "you know what? No. You can't fucking make me." And he can't! He fucking can't! And then she's like, "fuck no, you dipshit, im not gonna suddenly start ASKING FOR LESS after you have FUCKED ME OVER MORE"

AND THEN, once her refusing to compromise her perfectly reasonable standards gets him temporarily GONE, she's like: "you know fucking what? my reputation is already so fucking ruined, i should just do whatEVER the fuck i want now, or is more convenient for me. who the FUCK is gonna shame me out of it? FUCK shame, I'm going to find a rich, already-married-man who can clearly support MULTIPLE rich bitches," and she DOES, & she runs him, his wife, AND his concubines. And NOW, after her whole homeland decided she was dispensable, guess whose the only Westerosi bitch with a fleet big enough to take on those Krakens the Bears who bullied her hate so much? Which "whore of a sister" from the Reach is the one everyone is begging help from? Can we TALK ABOUT IT?

it’s time to admit the hightowers are objectively cool. Hightower just casually is older than the wall, old valyria, has eldritch horrors beyond belief in its basement, and Malora Hightower is practising arcane magics unknown to most of the world on the top floor like…

[myladyofmercy]

young royals rewatch

episode 4

out of the darkness and in to the light

is the dirt thing a swedish tradition?

not even at his brothers funeral wille can really cry

love hiw the credits are slow and empty in this episode

i would hate to gave my grief be televised to the nation

that kitchen/dinner table looks way to simple for a royal family doesn't it?

is that the first time his dad speaks?

the queen choking on her food. pls choke and die.

i hate how noone has any phone cases on tv shows. you could include so much more personality with that

did linda find the old letter or did simon get send a new one because he didn't pay yet

august definitely has body issues and possible ed

you can pause a chess game at any time that was unnecessary

wille needs his brothers? he just lost his real brother! fuck of august

the blue scarf of sadness

is that the dame tie as he wore during the statement in ep1?

august you insecure little shit

wille wears more hair products when he's trying to be composed (now and later before christmas)

okay did simon know remember was eriks favorite song or was it accidentally? did wille tell him?

why is the soloist always standing in the back row tho? shouldn't he be front and center?

that chandelier looks fake as fuck tbh

pink hair girl supremacy

i wonder what the official speech looked like?

blue and red contrasting colors

simon looks like a kicked puppy

willes new room. i made a whole post aboit that.

empty bed. empty heart.

i wanna hug wilhelm

why was his bed lamp on already if they just came into the room?

malin talks

panic attack incoming

i wonder what happens if you call the number?

flashbacks

negative energy i banish thee

need more wille and felice friendship in s2

why wasn't mickes door locked?

love the green walls tho

poor simon

i have no clue what all those pills say

oh no. straight sex.

he's wearing socks. she's wearing a shirt.

augusts psychosexual obsession with his second cousin. someone should tell freud about this. he would prob have a blast

was it royal?

yes give the guy who owes you money more stuff

also did he sell them for so much money he still had drugs left for the party?

love it everytime maltes curls come out

no unnecessary miscommunication i love it

love that linda saw them hug. yeah your daughter has a friend now!

august is so insecure

erik wasn't your brother he was wilhelms so fuck off

dump him

malin mvp

wille again with the pinterest lights

why isn't simon eating at the dinner table tho?

good soup

i still don't know what augusts motive was? like what did he expect to happen if sara told felice? or did he hope she wouldn't do it? and just have it be awkward between them?

still willes bedlamp is on

they propped the note up against the frog

love the acting in the confrontation scene with simon and micke

för min och saras skull. there is that word again

alexander is like an excited puppy

also where is that random building they're always going to? like does it belong to the school or is it just empty and unused?

dead poets society vibes but with much more toxic masculinity

he's getting eriks old place in the society. nice :/

love the representation of both kinds of party. the dancing one in ep1 and now the sitting around a table and playing games one

wille isn't the first born. he doesn't want to be either

love the scene where wille smiles at vincent

where did the drugs he slipped in his pocket go? lisa i need answers

the longest piss in the history of television. both wille and august should see a doctor

also they are talking about their feelings with their dicks in their hands i can't

football field here we go

playing drunk and high must be so much fun

i wanna see all the takes for this scene

also i love that it started snowing accidentally. it gives the scene that much flavor

speaking of flavor. hello astroturf

love that simon really did delete willes number

did wille remember simons number or was it still saved in recently contacted or smth?

elias i love you

the face touching probably reminds simon of micke

du är så fin

the hug!!!

i wonder how long they took to get back to hillerska

there was another bed simon did you know that

why is wille shirtless? did he throw up on himself

the loud breathing again

spooning

that track isn't on the soundtrack is it?

jag tycker om dig också

this seems kind of fruity to me ngl

the shaky ass grab

they're not even pulling their pants of properly those horny little shits

fuck off august

love the little ouch

it's going down. I'm yelling timber

fuck off august

i love the soundtrack so much

[iheartbookbran]

*shows face in shame* I watched the first episode HotD…

In my defense, my brother came to spend the week home and he wanted to watch it, so I was just roped in.

Anyways here are my thoughts, part 1:

Starting in a positive note, watching Harrenhal in all its monstrous crumbling glory was pretty exciting. I don't even remember if GoT ever managed to show it quite like that during several episodes the way it was shown here in a single scene.

But not even one of my fave castles in asoiaf could really prevent me from getting mad at seeing Sexist Grandpa Jaehaerys lmao, though it was a good call imo to have him attend the council as opposed to what happened in the book.

He also looked so resigned like “I had no choice but to disinherit my granddaughter in the most bullshit way” But the thing is, you did Jaehaerys. I hope Alysanne kicks your balls in the afterlife.

The disrespect of using Dany's name after what the GoT ending did to her. But of course HBO knows she still commands numbers.

Ok ok ok I'm over it *proceeds to rant for 45 minutes*

So no into? How disappointing because a cool intro was one of the very few redeeming qualities of that cursed OG show.

The people behind this prequel must be really confident in themselves, or be really stupid.

Really like the use of High Valyrian in this episode and kinda already love the dragonkeepers? And of course the dragons themselves. (spoilers) It's gonna be heartbreaking to see them get killed by a horde of fanatics.

Part of me doesn't want to like or get attached to Rhaenyra bc even though I'm on her side during the whole Dance conflict, her character in the book hardly does anything for me, but Young Rhaenyra feels so much like a cool combination of Dany and Arya and it's too hard for me to resist.

Also I know how her story ends which is even worse.

Milly Alcock does such a good job of selling Rhaenyra as this conflicted young girl who's intelligent and capable and yearns for freedom, but at the same time is acutely aware of the limitations society places upon her, and is hurt by the knowledge she'll never measure up enough for her father by merit of her sex alone.

I loved her one scene with her mother Aemma, how aware Rhaenyra seemed to be of how her mother is only valued as a baby factory and not as a human being. I hope they continue to explore how Rhaenyra thinks of her mother even after her death, let's not forget she includes the Arryn sigil into her own coat of arms latter in the story.

'm not really that bothered about how they turned Alicent's character into neurodivergent and a minor. Like, if everyone's getting the sympathetic fleshed out approach I don't see why she should be any different, it would hardly be entertaining otherwise. How she is now doesn't really justify any of what she does later on.

Tbh I would be more into her character if it weren't for the fact that I've seen sides of the fandom already using her as a beacon to hate on the Targaryens for shit a lot of the other great houses also do. And it's really rich to try to paint Alicent as a victim of the Targaryens as if she doesn't (spoilers) marry a Targ and becomes queen, has several dragonrider Targ children, marries said children to each other and climbs the political ladder to place her own son on the throne regardless of the consequences.

Like of course Otto is the paramount culpable of placing his young daughter in that position, and he's despicable for it, but let's not claim Adult Alicent didn't have any agency.

It's super funny to see so many people being surprised at Matt Smith being so good in the role of an overly entitled jerk prince, as if he didn't play the exact same character in the Crown.

Mind you, Daemon is still a piece of shit, and I have no interest in viewing him as sympathetic, nor do I think that's a requirement to enjoy the character. It's gonna be so funny to see him cause problems on purpose (same with Aemond).

Like… this guy literally threw an orgy to celebrate the death of a baby and then acted all surprised when word got back to his brother and he was pissed because of it. That's hysterical.

I'm really enjoying the relationship between Ser Harrold Westerling and Rhaenyra, I think it's very similar to that of Ser Barristan and Dany in the books, would've been great if GoT had shown us some of it instead of anticlimactically killing off Barristan. God, I hate Dumb and Dumber…

[mikessuffering]

*takes of Anon glasses* alright. Let's show you a different version of yourselves! I gotta do em on at a time tho-

This is princess Cassidy, around age 3. She had a very different life-

After being murdered at the age of three, she went on to possess the Springlock Freddy prototype animatronic. The animatronics in her universe have souls of their own, made of magic. Each animatronic had a different relationship with their spirits. Freddy and Gabriel had a father son relationship, Chica had a more playful version of mother and daughter relationship with Susie, Bonnie was a father figure to Jeremy and also a mentor, Fritz was Foxy's first mate and son, while Cassidy and Golden Freddy where like siblings.

The spirits don't remember who killed them, except for Cassidy. All the spirits were too scared to get close to anyone, so the animatronics killed nightguards so Cassidy would feel safe enough to check and see if it's the killer. They ended up killing thousands of nightguards before they found him. Many of those nightguards were innocent, and/or played vital roles at home, with their deaths effecting more people than just the nightguards.

But after killing William Afton, using Springbonnie. Cassidy lied and said it wasn't him. Because she and Goldie made a "friend" named Chara. Chara was a demon of Genocide, forced to feed on something called L.O.V.E that can only be obtained by murder. Afton had actually made a deal with this demon, and they're why he killed in the first place in this AU. Cassidy wanted to continue killing people so Chara would still be fed. What is "L.O.V.E" you ask? It stands for Level Of ViolencE.

After years of murder, and fruitless searches for Afton, humans find out where all the nightguards are disappearing to. They try and go to war with the machines, but the animatronics surrender and pleaded for their lives. Not wanting to explain why Freddy and his friends were killed on live TV, humans decided to lock animatronics underground with an ancient spell.

Skip a few years, and a society has been started underground. Made up of old animatronics, and nightguards possessing the suits they were stuffed in. Freddy went on to be king of animatronics, Foxy the captain of the Royal Guard, Bonnie the Royal scientist, and Chica just opened a shop that sells baked goods. Golden Freddy goes on to be like the prince of the underground.

Skip another few years, and doctor Bonnie did the impossible. He found a way to raise the dead. He brings back Cassidy, and she gets a second chance at life. She becomes the princess of the underground, and she and Golden Freddy become the underground's hope that they can right their wrongs and have peace with humans.

Here's a photo of the golden royals. In this picture Cassidy has grown, and turned ten.

Your opinions?

"Wow! Thats a really cool Au! The storyline makes sense. The only thing I didn't really understand, is why I was killing. I would never actually kill people, and once again, sorry to Mike, I thought you were William. But the fact that we were killing the nightguards to find the killer made sense. But this is an au, so I completly understand things are different. And I like the fact you made it make sense. I also love the relationship between me and golden freddy, that concept makes a lot of sense, its kind of like the relationship between me and CC. We are like siblings. And don't tell Micheal B. (Micheal Brooks) and Kelsey, but he is my favorite other soul that lives in Golden Freddy. So i'll give it a 9.5/10. Also, the rest of the Golden Freddy souls say the same." Cassidy (golden freddy) says.

"Don't mind Cassidy, she can sometimes get a little bit off topic. But she's still pretty good with reviews. I agree with her, I really like this AU and it has a good concept that makes more sense then other AUS. Also, love the drawing, I could never make something so good! 10/10" Charlie (puppet) adds on.

"I really like this AU, it makes sense unlike some other aus with stuff like 'Elizabeth is a brat' and stuff like that. Like Charlie says, I really love the artwork, and also, the plot twist with the L.O.V.E thing was really good, I wasn't expecting that. 10/10 for me." Gabriel (freddy) says.

"Aigh't mate, I'm just gon' make this simp'le 11/10. This 'AU' is great." Fritz (foxy) says.

Jeremey (bonnie) nods. "Yes, I agree with everyone. I really like this au, it makes sense, and it had a great story line. You don't see that in many aus, 12/10 for me." he adds on.

"Like everyone said, this au makes sense and has good plot points. It also sounds like something that could happen! Definitely. I also like me and Chica's relationship, I wish I had another person in this suit. As much as I know I'm lucky to have my own personal space, it gets a bit lovely sometimes, you know? So, to sum it up, i really like this au. 10/10." Suzie (chica) says.

"Thank you for asking, @glitterdragonthegreatprotector , we really appreciate your hard work on this au. Also, great drawing! I 'L.O.V.E' this au. have a good day mate!" Mike says attempting a dad joke at the end.

"CC says; that joke was terrible Mike." Cassidy replies.

"Your just jealous of my sense of humor!" Mike says jokingly. Then he laughs.

"Thanks for asking, now if you don't mind me my shift is over for the night, and tomorrow they are going to go back to killing me. See you later." and then goes out the door.

A/N

hello everyone, this is the mod. I just wanted to say, that if you want to talk to alive, soul, or undead version of a character please specify. Right now, you were just talking to undead! fnaf 1 and undead! mike afton. So yeah, just so you guys know. But I do also really like this Au. 15/10 for me. See you all later! -mod

[canis-lunaris]

Introducing: The Wandering Witch AU

(With transgirl!Remus, questioning!Sirius and endless conversations about the metaphysics of wandless magic)

This is the latest installment of our various Wolfstar AU's with August, one we came up with while we were on a mini-holiday, celebrating our third anniversary.

In this universe, pureblood-supremacy is rampant, keeping the Wizarding World in the permanent dark ages. Muggle-born wizards are only allowed a wand upon being accepted at a magic school, and most institutions favour pureblood children over half-blood, or muggle-born students. Wands are registered and heavily regulated, including tracking-spells and random spot-checks for counterfeit, or unregistered wands by Ministry officials.

After a werewolf-attack at age 4, Remus Lupin’s father tries to teach her magic using his own wand, knowing she would never be allowed into Hogwarts. However, performing magic with someone else's wand is not only dangerous and illegal, but also extremely difficult. Remus — a savant, who can sense magical currents in a way none of her peers can — realises that she doesn't need a wand to focus her power, and instead develops her own way of casting — or spell-weaving, more accurately —, tying an intricate web of knots between intent and the ambient magical currents to shape reality to her will. While admittedly crude and volatile, her technique turns out surprisingly potent, which makes her more than capable of protecting herself against the many dangers of a transphobic, werewolf-hating world.

Because her condition places both her and her family in a vulnerable position (the "werewolf-issue is an ages-old favourite talking point of mainstream wizarding politics, including a fearmongering campaign designed to marginalise intelligent magical creatures and eradicate non-human magic users), the Lupins decide to avoid registering their child after the attack, relying on the help of muggle medicine and corrupt healers to nurse her back to health after the transformations. They move frequently, bouncing Remus from school to school, but once Remus has gotten a basic education, they settle down in an isolated cottage on the Scottish highlands, and her mum takes on the duty of homeschooling her.

Having been brought up in a mixed family and lived the majority of her life as a muggle, Remus is well-versed in the matters of 21st century life. Once they settle into their new home, she starts transitioning, takes up Luna as her middle name, but keeps Remus as her first name, refusing to abide by arbitrary societal rules about names being connected to certain genders, rather than the people wearing them. After both her parents meet a tragically early death in a car accident, Remus finds herself alone in the world, with both a house and a large sum of money to her name; she sells the cottage and spends her parents' life insurance settlement on getting bottom surgery, then sets out to travel the world, looking for someone, or something to find a meaningful connection with.

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On a glance, Cassandra Black is everything her most ancient and noble house could want for an heir. She is brilliant, powerful and a downright genious when it comes to magic; the only problem is, she's a bit too smart for her own good, and no amount of discipline can keep her from asking too many questions. The only thing her bewildered parents achieve with their constant, increasingly violent punishment is that young Cassandra stops asking them, and starts looking for answers of her own.

By the time she's 11, she's thoroughly disillusioned, worlds away from the conservative, blood-supremacist doctrines she was brought up with. Upon entering Hogwarts, she spends the first free breath of her life on convincing the Sorting Hat not to place her in Slytherin, a decision she pays for with the world as she knew it. In return, she gains a new, brighter one, full of friendship, adventure and budding romance — although dark secrets, stomach-turning injustice and bitter heartbreak too. When it comes to her parents' attention that she is sleeping with a witch, their treatment turns from toxic hostility to open abuse, severing all emotional ties between Cassandra and the House of Black. She spends five years as a proud Gryffindor, but by the time her 16th birthday rolls around, she feels like she'd learnt everything Hogwarts had to offer — the good and the bad alike. She decides not to return to the castle for the sixth year: instead, she uses the start of the school year to orchestrate an elaborate escape plan, that would make it impossible for her family to find her. She breaks her wand and vanishes into the night, never to be seen again.

British Wizarding society erupts in chaos, because even one as scandalous as the Black heiress, the mysterious disappearance of a 16-year-old, pureblood-aristocrat (and a witch, for that) brings the Ministry's messaging about public safety into question, and the story keeps the tabloids busy for the better part of a year. The family puts out an enticing bounty on their firstborn's head, but regardless of the spectacular reward, no one can locate Cassandra, and without a wand to track, she proves to be impossible to trace. Eventually, the tabloids move on and the story slowly fades into the background, although, en lieu of a body, they never officially assume her dead, and the family never gives up the secret search for their wayward, blood-traitor daughter.

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Three years later:

Somewhere, hidden in the mountains of Scotland, there is a halfway-house, for magical folks who need to get off the grid, for one reason or another. Remus is a regular visitor, using the shelter's reinforced cellar for the full moon, and taking her time to recover at the quaint little house for a while thereafter. Nobody bothers her there, and while people do use the retreat — it's always clean, stocked with food, healing items and clean bedding, among other obvious signs of habitation —, she'd never encountered any other guests during her visits. This time, however, an unpleasant surprise welcomes her, in form of a backpack and a half-drunk bottle of wine on the porch, and soon, she finds the owner of the items as well, lounging on her favorite sunning spot.

The stranger looks ragged; unkempt and malnourished, and when they speak, their voice sounds hoarse, like they haven't used it for a long time. Remus is immediately weary, even though the stranger looks very young and rather unimpressive, expect for the very posh accent and the fact that despite their extremely strong magical aura, they did look startled, almost terrified when Remus walked up behind them — and yet, their hand never even twitched to draw a concealed wand.

"I’m armed!" the stranger warns — maybe they expected a muggle? —, but still doesn't move to reveal any weapon. Remus is quite certain she could take them on in one-on-one combat regardless, should it come to that, but she finds it alarming that this runaway teen would survive alone in the wilderness for what seems like a considerable period; a feat that requires a number of skills and the kind of training that does not come with the elocution training the stranger's speech suggests. Not just the accent, the face too... Under the layers of dirt, severe sunburn and a fading black eye, there is just something eerily familiar about them.

She introduces herself as Remus — it's one of her favourite ways to quickly size up a person, based on their reaction to her obviously masculine name. She does the whole cheeky, "whatchagonnado" act she perfected throughout the years, expecting anything from a spiteful comment to a confused eyebrow-raise in response, but the stranger just nods and gives her a polite "hello, Remus", like this was the most normal interaction between two people who just met at a shelter for magical misfits, in the middle of fucking nowhere.

The stranger, however, is less forthcoming about their identity, and Remus has to openly ask for their name after 10 minutes of tense, but idle chitchat. The stranger blushes a deep red, and once again, there is that flash of panic in their eyes, before they blurt out "Sirius... Black."

"Oh."

Of course, Remus thinks, wondering how she missed it before. She knows exactly who Sirius is, or who they used to be — she'd seen this face a million times before; a younger, smoother version with fewer sharp angles and without the haunted look in their bloodshot eyes, but the very same face was once plastered all over Britain — on missing flyers, in front page news, later on wanted posters... 10.000 galleons are a fine bit of money for a head like this. She gives the stranger a sideways glance, and they glare right back at her, with a defiant expression that might have betrayed their famous origins, even without the esteemed family name. The Blacks, they do all look the same...

"Well, that answers the question whether you're a muggle" Sirius remarks with a bitter chuckle. "Look, I know what you're thinking. And yes, they do have the funds, but just so we are clear on this, if you move to draw, I'll attack you, and it's gonna be over before you ever reach your wand. You will lose, most likely die, and then I'll have to spend this lovely evening digging a hole for you in the woods instead of sharing a bottle of crappy wine. So, just don't, okay?"

Remus can't help but admire the kid's bravado — they aren't stupid, she can tell that much, if from nothing else, the fact that they somehow successfully evaded one of the most powerful magical families, and their countless footmen, for over three years without ever leaving a trace; and yet, they seem to know when they're outmatched.

"Who says I'd need to draw?" she smirks, hoping to provoke a quick duel out of the youth. She likes to get the power-struggle out of the way early on, just so nobody gets ideas while she's sleeping or in recovery. The young Black might turn out to be a reluctant ally, but they could mean real trouble after the full moon, if they were to follow family tradition in wanting to rid the world of a monster like herself. Three days left until the next transformation, which means she's at the height of her power, so taking Sirius out here and now would be the wisest, and she thinks she could do it without harming them too badly. Nothing she couldn't fix in a blink afterwards.

Sirius measures her with a curious squint, slowly raising their left hand into the air. All five fingers are adorned with a variety of silver rings, from plain, thin bands to heavy signets with rune-engraved stones. A web of glowing lines flare up on the back of their hand, spreading out from an intricate magic sigil on their wrist. They emit a faint, blueish white light, running along each finger to the tip, as Sirius charges up for a wandless spell. Flashy, but creative, Remus thinks, truly impressed for the first time. She's used to wizards relying on their wands to do the work for them, and she knows seven different ways to dismantle the connection before they ever get to fire off. The stranger's magic is different — it's raw and unpolished, but brutally powerful, and very complex, in a geometric sort of way. This would be more difficult than she initially thought, and she's unsure if she could immediately disarm Sirius without having to literally dis-arm them.

To avoid confrontation, she raises a hand in front of her too, conjuring a harmless little will-o-whisp in her palm — a trick she developed as a child, tied up on the bare cement floor of her parents' basement, waiting for the curse to take hold. There was no light in the basement; she was lonely, cold and terrified, so she made herself a friend, a cold flame to keep her company while she was waiting for the moon.

Sirius' eyebrows disappear somewhere under their tangled fringe, but their face lights up with a huge, mischievous grin:

"Remus, the girl raised by the wolves... You're not boring at all, are you?"

[browncesario]

when you’re ready i’d love to hear your thoughts on the new icarly episodes 🥰🥰🥰

hi yeah ok so. i very clearly had a lil breakdown over it last night but let's jump into it objectively.

i was honestly like. preparing myself for really liking the reboot and i don't know whether i wanted to or not. and while there are some pros i think the bad far outweighs the good, and not for any particularly horrible reason, but the thing i think best describes it is it's just............messy. low energy. it feels like a rough draft.

i honestly like the first few minutes in i went from panicked anticipation to genuinely like, surprised at how much stilted exposition you could fit into one script. literally the whole thing was exposition and not exposition with any character merit, it was just telling you where the characters are now with no attention paid to how they got there or how they feel about it.

i think some of the jokes were funny. i liked spencers art show. i think skin routine baby spencer was a clever subversion. i liked millicents song a lot i think that struck gold. but it was mostly....forgettable. i'm not at all claiming that the humor should look like it did when the characters were brightly dressed teenagers chasing each other across bushwell plaza, but i am saying that icarly has a history of telling jokes that make you giggle for days after hearing them, and that wasn't there. the writing just. was not there.

the thing about carly is that carly as a character works because she's a kid. carly's funny and clever and independent, but the reason these things stand out are because of her word choices. when carly says something like "they just passed new international math laws" it's funny because she's smart enough to sell a joke with complete confidence and often with unexpected language. i absolutely did not get that in this show. i think miranda cosgrove put a lot of love and herself and work into this reboot, i do not think she sold the performance. and that made me really sad. it felt.........unfinished. it felt like rehearsal.

i felt this way about most of the other characters too, with the exception of laci mosley's character who didn't have anything to commit to. it was just like. ok cool we have a black character now, she's also the token queer! but there was no substance it was all stereotype. and like you know what! i wouldn't want that character expanded on because i don't even want her there in the first place. i want sam puckett.

which of course, means we have to circle back all the way to the exposition.

please believe me when i say my feelings about this show feeling half baked and under committed are coming from a genuine objective standpoint, because they are. i was expecting to be upset about the show, i was expected to be upset at my headcanons and acceptances and fandom experience having holes poked in it. i was not expecting to think it was bad. but bad or good, there was almost no way they could sell this characters absence that wasn't going to completely break my heart.

in the universe the show left us with: i believe spencer would trip and stumble his way into high society. i don't believe that he would think that was important. i believe that freddie would be twice divorced. i don't believe he'd ever subject his daughter to living under his mothers roof. i believe carly would be a social butterfly still desperate for love. i don't believe she would ever for one second let her best friend think she didn't need her. i believe sam puckett would get along well with a biker gang. i do not believe she would ever ever want that more than her found family.

also who the fuck ever wanted nora dershlit back??????

i give the first three episodes of the 2021 icarly reboot 2 out of 5 stars.