#canon: life day treasury

[daybreakrising]

THE NOBLE SON WHO FLED TO THE WILDS

born to a wealthy and influential noble family, varyn has always been something of a social recluse, preferring the company of wild beasts to his fellow elves. he would sneak away from his lessons to run free in the forests that surrounded the elven city, and dreamed of one day becoming an explorer or adventurer who travelled the wilds across the world.

his family, however, had other ideas for his future. as the youngest of his siblings, his purpose for the family was to secure a political and financial alliance through marriage to another noble family - varyn's worst nightmare. with a match due to be arranged, and forced to abandon his wild wanderings for a more suitable image worthy of his noble name, varyn took matters into his own hands and fled the family estate with gold from their treasury, intending to seek passage across the sea to a new life.

despite some... hurdles, he at last makes it to lands anew, and finally realises his dream of becoming an adventurer. of course, due to his somewhat sheltered upbringing, he still has much to learn of the way of the world, but he is a quick study - a good thing indeed, as he inevitably ends up wrapped up in trouble due to his habit of helping anyone in need who crosses his path.

varyn is a kind, gentle soul, friend to all living things, and a great lover of nature - but do not mistake his good heart for weakness. what he lacks in social skills he makes up for in strength and cunning, and a finer ranger you won't find. he has a love for birds in particular, and he has an owl companion, archimedes. his habit for not asking people their names stems from growing up talking only to animals - he's working on remembering that this is something he really ought to do.

originally a d&d character, i've been bullied convinced into adding him here as an OC. he is connected with charlie's therris, as their stories are entwined closely, and so therris will be referenced heavily across all verses. as well as a fantasy canon verse, he will have verses for g.enpact & h.sr, which will eventually be detailed on his directory page.

[limerental]

ficletvember 2023 - day 27

gascon/villem, background meve/reynard

Gascon's impulsive, mischievous dedication to the crown prince at a tournament leads to something vulnerable between them. content warning for referenced past underaged sexual assault. also, this assumes gascon's canon age is correct so in the context of this fic villem is ~18 and gascon ~19.

It's a whim at a tournament that starts it off.

It’s the sort with jousting and duels and girls hanging off balconies to toss their favours to preening knights, who in turn loudly dedicate their brawls to ladies of their choosing.

Lyria's treasury has been stretched thin the past year by the efforts of rebuilding the war-torn land, so the affair is less grand than it may have been. But there is dancing and feasting and spirits are high. It has been a full year since the Peace of Cintra restored liberty to Lyria, and its people are intent on celebrating appropriately.

Reynard stands stiffly at the royal dias before the start of a round of duels and solemnly dedicates the very breath in his lungs to his Queen. Publicly, the pair are so coy and bashful about their apparently secret courtship that their endearment with one another is all the more obvious. 

The Queen leans over the wooden railing and tucks her handkerchief into the collar of his gambeson, her fingers lingering a moment to inspire the hard bob of his throat.

The crowd titters and coos, but the couple seem unaware, caught up in one another.

Gascon wishes someone would come up behind Meve and push her, so they’d just publicly lock lips already instead of drawing out the farce, as though they don’t sneak into one another’s beds after dark.

He’s pleasantly tipsy and feeling mischievous and trips over himself to hurry to the dias, though partway there he changes his mind about publicly assaulting the Queen and decides on making his own scene instead. 

He gestures to Villem at his mother’s side and begins a spiel similar to Reynard’s dedication but brazen in its affected melodrama. The prince sits placidly with his hands folded in his lap, his golden curls tousled by the breeze, but as Gascon’s speech goes on, dedicating his left toe and his earwax and his solar plexus to the prince, the boy’s cheeks go pink with the attention. 

Or maybe just with the wind. But for a moment, Gascon looks, and he sees how Villem’s beauty echoes Meve’s, though he is feather-soft to his mother’s hard edges. 

He's never considered the boy like that before. Never thought much of him at all. The crown prince has a peculiar propensity for disappearing into the background. In another life, he could have been a good bandit, Gascon thinks, paying him very close attention now.

Maybe it’s the drink or some spirit of the gathering, but when Villem rises to approach him and offers out his own handkerchief, gratefully appearing amused over his antics rather than offended, Gascon bypasses the scrap of a snot-rag to kiss his offered hand.

The boy’s wide-eyed surprise and the part of his lips inspires a strange urge to see him look that way again, to fluster and bemuse him, to hold his interest.  Their fingers brush as he accepts the fine silk and stuffs it into his belt to flutter in the breeze.

Despite having little in common and no reason to linger on thoughts of the prince before then, Gascon’s eyes return again and again to the royal dias. Each time, he finds Villem watching. Owing to his distraction and general disinterest in sweaty, formal brawls where biting is soundly discouraged, he’s thoroughly knocked out of the tournament in its first round.

Villem stands to applaud him even so, his eyes bright.

Gascon thinks, tread lightly, you no good scoundrel, Meve’d have your head.

An open air banquet follows the tournament. He promptly drinks an ill-advised quantity of ale directly from the foaming tap of a cask and ignores his own warning. Courtesy and decorum and good sense ignored, he stumbles to plop himself on the bench beside Villem at the royal table. 

He leans precariously into the boy’s space and makes some crude comment about his freshly-dedicated possession of his little toe, curious of Villem’s response, and is dumbfounded when it is the prince who touches a soft hand to his thigh beneath the table and suggests they slip away early.

Even drunker than he’d like, Gascon is an expert in sneaking unnoticed into the dark, and Villem, for all his princely air, has spent much of his life overlooked and disappears just as easily. 

They make it just as far as they need to, sequestered down an alley between tournament tents.

Gascon is surprised once more, when it’s Villem who reaches for him first, who leans to kiss him with hands framing his hips. The prince is perfumed-sweet and warm and suddenly far broader through the shoulders than Gascon can recall. Had he always been a hair taller? Who had taught him how to kiss deeply with such confidence and skill?

He pulls back a moment, breathing heavily, and stops Villem’s bold hands as they unlace his trousers. Even in the dark, he sees the prince frown, inquisitive, and when he asks, Gascon must confess his most unlikely secret.

That for all his lewd bravado and years of seemingly debauched banditry, he’s never done such a thing before. He’s had his share of kissing and groping, of course, but never more than that. 

Well, he had once-- in a way, though he tells the tale with trepidation. Villem frowns more deeply as he whispers, and his hands slip around Gascon's waist to quietly hold him. He’d been only two years an orphan, working a stone mill for some sour old bastard who came back from the tavern one night and– 

Gascon scoffs at Villem’s sad eyes and assures him the bastard learned his lesson. Never done the deed since. He does not say that the miller only met his dagger years after. 

It’s all very maudlin and dull, so he leans up to resume their kissing. Villem stops him, touches his mouth to his brow instead, soft hand at his jaw as he assures him that such a violence can hardly be measured on the same scale as more pleasurable pursuits. At Gascon's doubt of Villem's personal knowledge of such things, he recounts his varied and elaborate experiences at temple school. 

Always suspected they were sordid places of debauchery, says Gascon, who thinks how at thirteen, Villem’s first giggling tumble with an older boy at school had coincided neatly with Gascon’s first kill at the same age. 

Surrounded by revelry, he’s had ample opportunities for rolls in the hay but always found ways to weasel out of suggestive conversations, never overly taken with anyone enough to consider more, never trusting even his Strays in that way. Not for something so vulnerable. 

How unlikely, to confess such a closely held thing to a boy he barely knows. Perhaps they put something in the ale. More unlikely still is that Villem responds with sober sincerity and sworn promises whispered against his hair. That if he were allowed to do so, he would demonstrate to Gascon how pleasurable vulnerability could be. 

They stand there together and the moon slips out from the clouds, and Villem's arms don't feel smothering around him and they kiss there for a long while, ignoring that the spill of moonlight no longer hides them away from wandering eyes.

No one encounters them together that night nor the many nights after.

And none would suspect the dynamic that unfolds behind closed doors. The unseemly bandit undone by Villem’s praise-heavy whispers, uncalloused fingers tightening in his curls as Gascon kneels at his prince’s feet and warms through his whole body over the repeated pleasure-drunk slur of good boy, just there, good boy.

It’s a whim that starts it but certainly no whim that sees it go on and on.

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

OOF! That was rough! @lisellelascelles I hope you're proud of yourself. 🤣 Seriously though thank you for the prompt! And let me know if you were looking for something other than Bagginshield.

It Was Only a Dream

Pairing: Bagginshield

Type of Trick: Unrequited Pining

Warnings: Angst, Canonical Character Death

Word Count: 733

Bilbo had thought after everything that had happened, things would have ended differently for him. There had been the hug after he had saved Thorin’s life, the look and nod after vouching for him in Laketown, and of course the mithril that Balin had let slip exactly the worth of such a gift. Surely it had to mean something? Bilbo’s heart ached for it to mean something beyond friendship. Yet that was the word Thorin kept repeating. 

Perhaps he had only been deluding himself. Falling for a pair of blue eyes and a singing voice that had him sprinting out his door in the first place. Thorin had always made it very clear he didn’t want him. The disdain and contempt that rolled off him through the first leg of their journey should have been more than enough of a hint. However, once he had proved himself there had been a change in Thorin, and that was the part that was most painful to acknowledge. The sheer undeniable hope that had surged in Bilbo that he could get Thorin back his home, and the dwarf king would hold Bilbo in the same regard. Yet now, standing before the throne of Erebor, Bilbo didn’t know why he ever thought something so outlandish.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin remarked kindly. “My Burglar, my dear friend.”

Bilbo felt his ears wiggle in delight at the term ‘my’ coming from Thorin’s lips.

“May we part in friendship. I forgive any and all transgressions you’ve made against Erebor, and grant you leave of anything you desire in the treasury. To take back to your books, your gardens, your armchair. Truly if more people valued home above gold, the world would be a merrier place.”

Bilbo stood there completely flummoxed even as something familiar niggled at the back of his mind.

“Wait! So…that’s it then? I just…I thought…”

Thorin tilted his head to the side as his eyebrows pulled together. “Haven’t you thought of nothing but your Bag End and your warm bed?”

“Well, I…yes…but…”

“Bilbo…” Thorin soothed with his deep melodic voice. “You don’t belong here. You’ll be nothing but a burden.”

“Thorin, please, let me just…”

“This gold is minnnnnee…”

Bilbo sat up in bed, his heavy breathing filling the quiet of the dark room. Bilbo fought the covers to light a candle, letting it reveal his bedroom in Bag End. Bilbo let his head flop backwards as he sucked in a deep breath. A dream. It was just a dream. He rubbed his hands down his face. What a terrible way to remember his friend. He couldn’t rest like this. He ought to pen Thorin a letter asking to visit Erebor soon. After all, the real Thorin wouldn’t deny him a visit, even if his feelings weren’t returned. 

Bilbo fought his way to his feet. His joints feeling stiff despite working perfectly well. However, just before his feet hit the ground, a realization occurred that somehow managed to punch the air right out of his lungs. He couldn’t write Thorin a letter. He could never write Thorin again. Thorin wasn’t in Erebor living his days as king. Thorin was dead.

A strangled sound managed to gurgle its way out of Bilbo’s throat before he was sobbing right there in his bed. He couldn’t remember being this distraught in a long time. However, there was something more painful in never knowing if his feelings would have been returned. To have been rejected was one thing, to live without the only person he’s ever loved…

“Uncle Bilbo?”

Bilbo sucked in a breath at the sleepy voice in the doorway. He hastily wiped at his eyes.

“Yes, lad. What is it?” He snapped.

Frodo stood there dumbfounded for a moment. “You were crying.”

Bilbo heaved a deep sigh as he slowly lifted his head to meet his younger cousin’s steady gaze with a weak smile.

“My dreams were poor. That’s all. May you find better ones.”

Frodo hesitated for a little while longer before nodding his head and leaving with a soft ‘good night Uncle’. Bilbo sat there a little longer in his pity before deciding to follow his own advice and chase after better dreams. He blew out his candle, tucking himself back in, and pulling out his ring as he traced the smooth piece of gold. The only treasure he could find solace in after his little tragic adventure.

Trick or treat my inbox.

[ghostbox-nostalgia]

Oh and since I've started the rough drafts of them, here's some info on the 12 disciples in my au. No I did not mean to make 12 it just sorta happened. I also want you to note that all but two had the same thought of "holy shit that's a child" when they met Eden and that's the main reason they decided to become followers in the first place to make sure he would be ok.

This is just some rough info to act as some backround

WARNING THIS IS LONG AS SHIT, MY APOLOGIES!

Starting off with canon(?) sort of characters we have:

-Webber, he/they/we: spider character from the game don't starve who was added during a collab to cotl. the youngest and a disciple in training. We first meet him at age 8 and is the last to come along. Life has been extended

-Haru, he/him: the yellow cat from the one animated short. Was a priest of leshys until he fought the lamb on a crusade and lost. Was brought back after realizing how much was censored about the slaughter of the sheep and asked if he could redeem himself. Age 24 and was the third last to become a disciple. Immortal

Now we have the not Canon characters who I have in my actual save file. I will also share their silly ridiculous names I have for them in game since I am atrocious at being serious.

-Mamer, he/him, has always been Mamer: a teal rabbit and the first follower and disciple of Edens. He was taken in by the compound that eden was born in and swore himself to protecting whoever was to become the prophesied lamb. Was captured by cultists a week before Edens execution and was about to be sacrificed when ratau and eden found him on the way to the compound. Taught eden how to fight and the traditional boxing style of the sheepfolk. Current grounds keeper. In game this man goes on hella missions and is responsible for at least 20 followers. Age 32, immortal.

-Clement, he/they, Friend Traitor in game: a big, surly orange tabby cat. He and his sister Cerise came as a pair and were found in the ruins of a village in darkwood, rummaging through their belongings to see if anything was salvageable. They had been taken temporarily on orders from kallamars clergy to aid in the construction of one of the wings of his temple. While they were away, their village started refusing to give anymore of their materials to the bishops so an attack was ordered on it. When they came back everything was gone. Both Clement and Cerise became disciples at the same time and became disciples second. Clement taught Eden how to build. Clements the head of the builders hut. In game they're just a silly feller with a silly name and I love them. Age 30, immortal

-Cerise, she/her, Amigo Treachery in game: a red and that's more magenta coloured. I said quite a bit of her backstory with Clement but the difference is that she runs the stonemines and lumberyard and taught Eden how to find and gather quality materials while on Crusading. She works in lumberyard mostly in game too but she also spends a fair amount of time at the shrine. Age 29, immortal

-Ellis, they/them, Taxes in game: a rosy maple moth and the third disciple. They were captured by helob while in darkwood and was a day away from being eaten when eden found them and bought their freedom. They had offered to walk Ellis back home but they had decided after working in Shamuras treasury for most of their life they didn't really have anything worthwhile to get back to and so decided to go back to the compound with the lamb and now work as the treasurer and tax collector. In game they're tax enforcer but otherwise kind of unremarkable. Age 34, immortal.

-Finley, she/her, Pæňïş in game (truly terrible name I'm so sorry girl): a raspberry colored raccoon and the fourth disciple along side Merrick, as they came in a pair. Both Finley and Merrick were apart on the Fox' cult and were cannibals for most of their lives. They only left after their fellow cultists turned against them while on a hunting trip. Eden found them an inch away from death and surrounded, and after killing the remaining heretics they took the two back to the compound to heal. After learning the two's story, Eden offered them a chance to redeem themselves and turn their lives around with the caveat that the cannibalism stops. They agreed and joined as followers, and earned their discipleship. Finley's the head cook and is the overseer of all the dietary restrictions, while her fellow workers take care of the compound at large. Despite the cannibalism she's actually quite lovely and very personable. Her and Merrick are just good friends and bonded after their mutual betrayal. In game I send her on missions quite a bit since her stats are good. Age 27, immortal.

-Merrick, he/him, originally Marth (my best friends a fire emblem fan and requested it. Personality doesn't match): a blue fox and the fourth disciple along side Finley. Backround info is above. He's sparky and snappish with a bit of a temper but is very good humored and lovely to be around. His job is the head butcher with a very lucrative side gig of disposing of dissenters. The lamb DOES allow the pair to partake in the occasional heretic or dissenter but by and large they both just eat regular meat now. His in game role is kept empty but he's usually the first to get to the drinkhouse when I need stuff made so there's that. Age 27, immortal.

-Azalea, she/they, was lovingly named *DJ sounds*, pronounced however the hell you want: a black koi fish and the fifth disciple. Originally from Anura and was apart of the lighthouse keeper cult. Was found calling for help just outside the cult after getting injured on the way home. Eden took them to the med bay to get patched up since the scope of the injuries was a little outside of their skill set and escorted them home once they were all fixed. They ended up going back with Eden anyway after they relit the lighthouse (they had been getting wood and Eden had firestarter on them). Her job is loyalty enforcer and assists the grounds keeper in keeping the place safe. Due to the decreased amount of heretics+high faith levels, they more just act as a welcome crew for new members and trains people in self defense. She's hard headed and blunt, and can be rude at times, but she has good intentions and has a soft spot for those close to her. Very sweet and patient with kids, less kind to adults. In the game she's also a loyalty enforcer and I desperately wish you could hide that fuckass hat. Age 28, immortal.

-Nimah, he/him, is Sonic because I had to: an albino hedgehog since I don't wanna make it SO obvious that it's just sonic. He is the sixth disciple and used to be a postman between all of the merchants and settlements outside of bishop control. He always wanted to be a doctor and kept an eye out for medical texts on his travels. He didn't have much luck in that regard until he came to deliver something to the compound and was kept there by a storm. Him and Eden got to chatting and after telling them about this little quest, Eden told him that while there's none at the compound that they could think of, they pick up books all the time while on crusades and could keep an eye out for any. One handshake and a new friend later, Nimah slowly studied and practiced to become a doctor until they got the title of head doctor. Taught some cultborn folks to do the mail route and now spends his days in the med bay. In game his only purpose is to be sonic and nothing else. His existence makes me happy :]. Age 53, immortal.

-Rowan, she/her, JAzz (I fucked up): a crow and the seventh disciple. Was a shrine maiden for Heket, and was trusted enough to be given the uncensored prophecy. After hearing it and making the very uncomfortable realization that they've all been praying for the downfall of a) an innocent race and b) a child, she dissented and fled to the cult to offer her services. Was a thief for a while, but was taken in by some followers of Heket and changed her ways. Was the second follower but had a hard time accepting the gift of discipleship for a while there. Very sweet and soft spoken, very good at quiet rage. In game she's on worship duty and is a very pretty lady and I love her. Age 30, immortal

-Florian, zey/zem/zer, named Alright in game: a silk moth and the eighth disciple. Was a primary weaver in Shamura's coterie for a good century. Zey were delivering tapestries to the main temple of Leshy when zer convoy was attacked by bandits and zey were left hiding and bleeding out. Eden found zem and took them back to their own temple since the med bay didn't exist at that point. When zey awoke, zey found zemselves bandaged in an unfamiliar place with someone they didn't recognize standing near them. Zey were suspicious until zey realized that that is a child zey were thinking of attacking, and that child is holding a med kit in their hands. Zey end up calming down and once zer'e healed, Florian offers to make a proper outfit befitting a vessel of death since zey don't like feeling like zer in debt. Eden agrees to this and they end up becoming friends, with Florian offering zer continued service in exchange for stable living. Zer personality is flamboyant but not loud. I personally imagine zer personality to be akin to one of those mob wives with the smoke pipe and the long satin feather robes. In game this fella was so unremarkable zey died of old age at level 1. Also zey get neos because I think they have so much gender that they/them simply doesn't cut it, although I understand if you use they/them for zem, it's a bit tricky to get used to. Age 33, immortal.

AND THATS A WRAP! Sorry for the length, some people are more thought out than others, not to mention I almost forgot a whole 2 people.

Their designs are coming soonish, I'm just trying to make some improvements with how I draw faces rn because Mamer looks like shit :[ I will get better and no one can stop me

[galaxythreads]

When did Thanos even attack nidavellir though? That's extremely vague. The gauntlet was IN the Treasury room in Thor 1. Was Loki the one who was in charge when Thanos attacked or was that Odin? We know for sure Loki was in charge after TDW 2013-2014-ish and Thanos HAD the gauntlet at a minimum since 2015, but I think he's had it for much, much longer.

Infinity War absolutely messed up a bunch of timelines, especially when it came to Asgard. The way it's written in the movie suggests that the attack happened a few days ago, but in MCU there's no evidence to support that. Maybe Thanos attacked after the bifrost was destroyed and Asgard couldn't do anything. Maybe Odin just didn't help. While Loki may have actively also decided not to send help to nidavellir, I just think think given canon evidence of how very very very active he was as a king, it wouldn't make sense? Plus. The weapons fault. Why would Odin, in 2011, have a gauntlet that Eitri designed for Thanos in 2011 if it was days before the attack?

Loki may have been writing plays in his downtime, but it was his downtime. He was actively involved in affairs otherwise.

There's no real way to gauge when the attack happened because there's no time for it to have happened that makes sense, unless it was genuinely the day before infinity war, but again, we know it wasn't because IW takes place in 2018-2019-ish. And AoU was 2015. And thanos had the gauntlet in 2015. And why did Odin have a gauntlet in the weapons vault?

While I'm on this subject, I know - I know that this is not canon, but it's fun to explore - what if Thanos wasn't the one who commissioned the glove and killed all the dwarves, but Odin? Eitri doesn't mention thanos by name:

Thor: what happened here?

Eitri: You were supposed to protect us. Asgard was supposed to protect us!

Thor: Asgard is destroyed. Eitri, the glove. What did you do?

Eitri: 300 dwarves lived on this ring. I thought if I did what he asked, they'd be safe. I made what he wanted. A device capable of harnessing the power of the stones. Then he killed everyone anyway. All except me. “Your life is yours.” he said “But your hands are mine alone.”

Thor: Eitri, this isn't about your hands. Every weapon you've designed, every axe, hammer sword...It's all inside your head. Now I know all hope feels lost. Trust me, I know. But together, you and I, we can kill Thanos.

Dunno about you guys, but it seems wildly out of character for Thanos to kill every dwarf instead of half and randomly take Eitri's hands. But Odin? We all know how much he likes to collect and own things. Loki is living proof of that. Odin leaves things destroyed and takes objects of power. Eitri's hands were his power. So was the forge. Odin took that when it no longer served him.

I like to think most of Asgard knew Loki was pretending to be Odin but let it slide because they were so into his bomb ass plays

[sychik-personal]

Viridis, year 1: fall

Kairos is a young man now. unfortunately, he can't move out to start a life of his own, as Zeke got the short end of the stick (again, fate in the convenient form of pneumonia, rolled 5 on the first day of the fall).

so Kairos stays at home to support his deceased older brother's family. he doesn't have a career-related LTW, but he rolled a wish to be in the Business career, so why not.

Zeke had mysteriously earned a large sum of money before his untimely death, so technically, the Viridis' can afford cremation, and I think it is a suitable choice for the head of the family. most of this money went to treasury at the end of the season, but the family was left with 15,000 simoleons to reflect their newfound wealth.

it seems I also have a bugged bag of money on the lot now, because I've used it A LOT and it just appears again, though the sum isn't big. 🤨

everyone was devastated because of Zeke's death. however... Zaria seems to have found a friend in the apartment next to them, while Kairos and Aria have... well... found solace in the arms of each other. Kairos is significantly younger, and I don't think either of them wants to make it official, but also - no one really cares about plebeian families, so they are free to just live together. I won't make them try for babies, but if it happens naturally, so be it.

Evios has grown up into a toddler.

Anais has grown up into a child. she's Playful and Active, and she's also Neat and Shy. she doesn't get along that well with Zaria, but they are not fighting either. children in this household tend to be unhappy and attention-starved, but they all have a great relationship with their uncle Kairos, because he was the one taking care of them most of the time.

Anais is a lovely girl, but her health isn't great.

in truth, these insulae are CURSED. it is a nightmare to play both of my current plebeian households. EVERYONE IS CONSTANTLY SICK. my head canon is that these apartments are good-looking but maybe something generally bad for health was used in the construction, so everyone here has lung problems. fingers crossed, no one dies but those who failed initial mortality rolls. I swear I feed everyone grandma's comfort soup, but I guess there are too many disease markers on this lot (and I also have the disease mod). I'm a masochist though, and I want some drama, so I'll leave it as it is >:)

[rauthschild]

It has come to our attention that former President of the United States, Inc., Donald John Trump, has filed a Uniform Commercial Code claim to own the Municipal franchise named after him and also to discharge all the tax debts of the franchise via assignment to the Secretary of the Treasury (Puerto Rico, we are assuming).

This leaves the question of what capacity is he acting in? He still isn't acting as a living man, but as a franchise of some other corporation. The answer as to which corporation has, at least apparently, been revealed. In the UCC filing attached, he describes himself as a member of One Heaven, which is a weird, quasi-religious Secret Society, that has once again, established a corporation calling itself "The United States of America, Incorporated" and at last report, filed for incorporation in India.

This is just a repeat of what we have seen ever since the so-called American Civil War --- a group of British Territorials forming a commercial or municipal corporation --- naming it after us or our government, and then promoting this impersonation scheme as a means to access our credit and commit crimes of personage and barratry. They must be stopped.

If indeed Donald Trump has chosen to align himself with The Reign of the Heavens Society, this is very bad news for sane people everywhere.

The Reign of the Heavens Society and its "One Heaven" offshoot, represents a group of plagiarists who are not only trying to usurp upon the identity and trademarks of the American Federation of States, our unincorporated Public Instrumentality which has been doing business under the name The United States of America since 1776, but which has liberally plagiarized the work of Frank O'Collins, a once-very-high ranking Catholic priest, who left the Church and developed a utopian model for a new social order that he called "Ucantia" and published on the internet for several years.

We became aware of Frank and his work circa 2005 and read it with great interest; he established, in theory, a new Canon Law, three new forums of government --- One Heaven, One Purgatory, One Hell --- that basically correspond to the three jurisdictions of the old system --- Air, Land, and Sea --- and adopts new time and weights and measures standards, etc., but, at the end of the day, is actually a rehash of the Roman Catholic Church and the Unam Sanctam Trust hierarchy into a more secular forum, albeit, still presided over by a group of quasi-religious elitists.

The Reign of the Heavens Society took Frank's Ucantia model, almost verbatim, plagiarizing vast quantities of it to create it's version of Ucantia --- which they call "One Heaven", and apparently, Donald John Trump counts himself a "member" of this absurd, criminal group of quasi-religious elitists.

Let us further explain that on the evening of December 20th 2012, I received a communication from this group saying that if I didn't sign up by midnight and assign all value of my personal life estate to them, I would be forever classed as a lesser being and be unable to participate as one of the "144,000" disciples of their movement who were destined to rule the world.

I wrinkled my nose as any sane person should. I also "failed" to choose a noble name for myself, such as "Lady" Hepzibah Willow Moon Doggie Starlight. And I kept my assets, too, instead of donating them to The Reign of the Heavens Society.

If this is what Donald Trump is believing in and following as his guide, spiritual or material, and trying to promote, as a "member of One Heaven" --- he is not mentally competent and must be removed from office, just as the Government of India must do it's Due Diligence and remove "The United States of America, Incorporated" or any similar corporation infringing on our identity --- such as "the American Government, Inc." --- from its registry.

Every sane person worldwide is hereby provided with Due Notice and Process that this gang of thieves, plagiarists, and co-conspirators has, apparently, numbered Donald John Trump among its members, and that he is now attempting to use their methods to discharge the tax obligations of the Municipal franchise named after him, against the very corporation that he is purportedly the "President" of, a conflict of interest if there ever was one.

All countries that maintain corporate registries are forewarned that this identity theft is being attempted against our lawful national government and our country as a whole. The same kind of identity theft by incorporated entities infringing on the names and trademarks of actual nations has led to widespread credit hacking and crimes of state by these international pirates and the banks are fully liable for allowing this to go on.

ALL banks in the central bank system are forewarned that the commercial banks were foreclosed by our actual government and these Bounders do not represent us; as a result, their claims to "own all US Banks" are invalid and False Claims in Commerce. We are the Creditors and they are not our Representatives.

This revelation of Donald John Trump's affiliation with a dreadful secret society of criminals attempting to form a rehash of the old Roman Catholic Unam Sanctam Trust structure under their own control is repugnant and frightening to say the least.

No doubt they can find 144,000 elitists willing to rule over the rest of humanity and no doubt they imagine that they can plagiarize Frank O'Collins and propose all manner of legal chicanery as an excuse for their venal activities, but the rest of us are not deaf, dumb, or blind and must take immediate action to put an end to their organization and its pretenses.

Please consider The Reign of the Heavens Society and its corporations and names, including "One Heaven" to be a national security threat against our country and all countries on Earth.

Until further notice, consider Donald John Trump to be one of the members of this dreadful Secret Society and take appropriate action.

We are attaching proof of the Uniform Commercial Claim validating our position and Mr. Trump's admission of being a "member of One Heaven". Mr. Trump should, of course, be allowed to further elaborate, confirm, or deny that he made this filing. We are dealing with pirates here, people who have no moral compass, and anything --- including a claim made "for" Donald John Trump --- is possible.

Please also bear in mind that our Commercial Claims to own and hold in trust all American Assets and to bypass all assertions of British Territorial Citizenship are fully cured and vastly pre-date all commercial claims made by anyone else. Please also bear in mind that the assets of the former Confederate States, that is, States-of-States, belong to the States of the Union, which are members of our unincorporated Federation of States.

[w-ht-w]

Paul Farmer and “saintliness”

“[Farmer] made about $125,000 a year from Harvard and the Brigham, but he never saw his paychecks or the honoraria or royalties, both fairly small sums, that he received for his lectures and writings. The bookkeeper at PIH headquarters cashed the checks, paid his bills—and his mother’s mortgage—and put whatever was left in the treasury. One day in 1999, Farmer tried to use his credit card and was told he’d reached his limit.” (1)

More than once in Mountains Beyond Mountains, people refer to Paul Farmer as a “saint.” Although Farmer always denies such a label, saying that he’d have to work much harder to become one, Tracy Kidder makes it clear that Farmer works harder (and comes closer to embodying sainthood) than anyone Kidder has ever met. Farmer barely sleeps, travels constantly to attend to his patients in Haiti, Russia, and Peru, gives hours of his time to advising other doctors on the best treatments, and, in spite of his immense prestige and lucrative fellowships, lives in a tiny apartment. Whether or not Farmer qualifies as a saint, his selflessness and generosity are worth considering more closely. Where did these qualities come from, and what does Farmer’s example—an example that’s almost impossible to follow—tell us about ourselves?

Whether Farmer intends it or not, his selfless devotion to other people often makes his friends and colleagues guiltily question their own lives and choices. This is especially clear when Kidder meets Farmer: Kidder is amazed by Farmer’s hard work and love for medicine, but he’s equally upset by his own inaction, which, relative to Farmer, looks like pure laziness. This sense of guilt is even more apparent in Ophelia Dahl, Farmer’s long-time friend and former lover. After many years of loving Farmer, Ophelia decided that she couldn’t live up to his lofty standards of right and wrong: she couldn’t entirely sacrifice her own happiness and wellbeing for others’ sake. Ophelia became so exasperated with Farmer’s saintliness that she’d secretly cheer whenever Farmer showed any negative affect or emotion, such as anger, fear, or frustration. Ultimately, Farmer’s life is something of a paradox. Although his good deeds have inspired thousands of doctors to follow his example and devote themselves to charity and nonprofit work, the handful of people who know him very well—Ophelia and, arguably, Kidder—find his example maddening as well as inspiring. As Ophelia admits, Farmer’s saintliness reminds her of her own selfishness and close-mindedness—in other words, he’s a deterrent to good deeds, as well as an inspiration for them.

Mountains Beyond Mountains also shows the limitations of a life spent traveling from country to country, curing disease. Farmer can be angry or stubborn at times, and more importantly, he neglects his wife, Didi, and his child, Catherine. As he willingly admits, he values the lives of his patients, most of whom are extremely poor, much more highly than those of his loved ones, whose cares and problems simply aren’t as important. Kidder suggests that Farmer’s unorthodox behavior may be the result of his own experiences as a child: Farmer’s father refused to show any love for him for fear that Farmer would become arrogant. Farmer is afraid of playing favorites with his own loved ones, just as his father was. As a result, he overcompensates by almost never seeing his own family. In this way, Farmer’s saintly life comes at a high cost. He embodies a form of love and compassion that few human beings could hope to imitate—and yet he’s uncomfortable with the one form of love and compassion that most humans doexemplify: love for one’s family.

Ultimately, Kidder doesn’t doubt that Farmer is a very, very good person, but Kidder never gives in to the temptation to canonize Farmer. Instead, he grapples with the definition of saintliness, and challenges Farmer’s neglect for his family even as he praises his life-saving work around the globe. The goal isn’t merely to lionize Farmer, but rather to show him in his subtle weaknesses as well as his enormous strengths. In this way, readers can decide for themselves which aspects of Farmer’s life to imitate and which to avoid. (2)

“Beyond mountains, there are mountains.” This Haitian proverb is a metaphor that means “as you solve one problem, another will present itself.” (3)

I think of what Thomas Nagel said about indulging in pleasure instead of solely dedicating your life to the reduction of suffering:

There is a great deal of misery in the world, and many of us could easily spend our lives trying to eradicate it… But how could the main point of human life be the elimination of evil? Misery, deprivation, and injustice prevent people from pursuing the positive goods which life is assumed to make possible. If all such goods were pointless and the only thing that really mattered was the elimination of misery, that really would be absurd. - Thomas Nagel, The View from Nowhere

The eradication of suffering will not happen in my lifetime. As the Haitian proverb goes, there are mountains beyond mountains. So you have to ask yourself, at what point or under what circumstances do you allow yourself to indulge in pleasure and selfishness instead of just living for others? How do you want to spend this life? 

Paul Farmer seems to hold his impoverished patients in higher regard than his own family and loved ones. But is that not a hypocrisy in itself? 

Human nature is more alike than not, though how it chooses to express itself depends on how a person was raised. So the fundamental human nature of his patients is similar to the human nature of his family or well-off people. Given the opportunity of privilege, his patients and their successive generations would likely express the same kind of selfishness that Farmer loathes so much in privileged people. I agree that we should give more time / consideration to people who are suffering now, but I don’t think that doing so is incompatible with fulfilling our ethical obligations to our immediate loved ones, as well.

This seems to be the potential pitfall of saints like Paul Farmer or Mohatma Gandhi. The world indeed benefits from their efforts to expand their compassion and consideration to a great many others. But they also alienate their family members: Paul Farmer sort of neglected his wife and children. Gandhi’s eldest son grew up resenting and rebelling against everything his father stood for.

Everyone will arrive at a different answer to the question of “how do I want to spend this life?” For some, it may be the domination of others. Demonstrating their superiority even at the expense of hurting others. They likely rate higher on spectrums for sociopathy and psychopathy, and are unlikely to change their mind unless they believe it’s in their self-interest. For those who want to spend their lives trying to reduce suffering and promote harmony, it’s unwise to expend resources trying to convince the selfish people first. It’s not about you or proving your self-efficacy by trying to win over the individual hard nuts. Better to build momentum by picking the low-hanging fruit first, or focusing on key levers of large-scale change.

1. Mountains Beyond Mountains book

2. https://www.litcharts.com/lit/mountains-beyond-mountains/themes/saintliness

3. https://cflantern.org/mountains-beyond-mountains/

[mischiefxmuses]

Silco Intro

Was that [TOM ELLIS]? Oh no no, that was just [SILCO], a [CANON CHARACTER] from [ARCANE]. They are [FORTY ONE] years old, use [HE/HIM], and [ARE] aware that they are not actually from Washington DC. Too bad they can’t stray from this city for long.

how long has your character been here

3 years 

what is your character's job**

Secretary of the Treasury - White House

where has your character been pulled from in their fandom

After his death 

has any magic affected your character

Not really 

and any other information you might find useful for us and the other members to know!!

So not a lot is known about Silco before the events of Arcane so here goes. 

Silco when he was younger was a scholar, he spent a lot of time with his nose in his books. He wanted to join the Academy in Piltover. He was hopeful and idealistic. He wanted to create a better world for the people of the Undercity. But was increasingly getting angrier and angrier. More violent and aggressive. He realized he would never be accepted into the academy because he was born and lived in the undercity. The injustices to his fellows killing his hope. His anger was taking over and making it harder to see a peaceful path. 

He had grown up with Vander, the two like brothers. Inspirable. Vander was the brawns to Silco’s brains. But as Silco began to lose himself the two started to disagree more and more. That was when Vander attacked Silco, in their fight Vander destroyed the left side of Silco’s face and tried to drown him in the toxin filled river in the undercity. While fighting for his life in the water, the water mixing with his blood in the fresh wound on his face and getting into his body. He never felt pain like that. He wasn’t just drowning but being poisoned. Part of him wanted to die right then and there, be put out of the misery of his anger. But the fighter side kicked in and made him survive. He sliced Vander’s arm with his knife and escaped. 

He found his way so Singe. Broken, bleeding and dying. Singe managed to patch him up but couldn’t save his eye or fix the scaring that was on the left side of his face. So he remained with the eye that had been permanently damaged with the toxins, creating the black eye with a red/orange iris and black iris. Plus all the scaring. In order to save him Singe put some shimmer into his blood stream, making him stronger physically. He had to continuously put the shimmer into his eye. He is stronger than your average human. He can bend metal with his bare hand, punch through a wall etc...

His anger grew and grew. He became more angry at Piltover and Vander. But was still regaining strength. Instead of growing his following by being big and aggressive he grew it through his cunning and intelligence. He was charismatic and new how to talk people into getting what he wanted. He continued to work with Singe to make the shimmer more potent and powerful. Make it into a weapon to use against Piltover. At first he would never have imagined harming Vander or going after his own but the betrayal broke him and he vowed vengeance so he unleashed his new creation on Vander. 

The destruction that ensued hadn’t been the plan. His goal had been making a point, killing Vander had to be done. To know the ultimate betrayal. What it felt like to be killed by your own brother. Silco felt he had been killed by Vander that day. He became someone just trying to survive, hope and life was gone out of him. 

Meeting Powder he did not expect to take her into his life. Her throwing herself at him and hugging him. He realized she felt the same betrayal he felt. The same pain having her sister leave her. He took her in as a daughter. At first he had no idea what to do with her. What does one do with a small child? He was a bit awkward, trying to cook for her. Do her hair. All things like that. But he realized that she was healing him. Healing that part of him that was broken. She was the piece in his life he didn’t know he needed. He spent the mornings braiding her hair, getting her what she needed to build her gadgets and do her art. His whole office became covered with her art. Anything she could paint on, it had paint on it. 

As she got older, the dependence they had on each other was maybe not healthy but he loved her as if she was his own. She remained his daughter no matter what. He was so afraid of losing her like he had Vander that he refused to see her faults. It was always something that he was made aware of by Sevika and others. That Jinx could be unpredictable but being hard on her was not something he had ever been good at. He tried to be a tough parent but he just wasn’t. He couldn’t see the sadness in her face when she was little and he got mad so he just stopped getting mad. 

Then the events of Arcane happened. Jinx remained everything to him. To him Caitlyn and Vi were not his priority. They only became a focus of his when they started interfering with his plans to create Zaun. But they were nothing to him, flies buzzing around but no risk to him. 

He was never going to give Jinx up for Zaun. When Jayce asked he was more willing to give himself up than give Jinx up. Jinx would never be part of the bargain. Of course then he was killed. He blamed Caitlyn and Vi for confusing Jinx for stressing her out instead of talking to her. Shouting at Jinx didn’t work. He paid the price. He never blamed Jinx. He remained proud of her. 

In Washington: 

Hope is back in him a little bit. Being alive again, he’s in a position of power in the government, he can make decisions and he has wealth. He can give Jinx the life he believes she deserves. He will always still braid her hair if she wants him to. He is happy. He is not going to let that be taken away from him. 

He has started to branch out, meet new people and getting to know Sarra Palpatine. He is certainly taken with her. He had never taken the time to get to know any women back at home, his focus was on his goal of Zaun and Jinx. But without that war to fight, he was able to think about his own happiness. 

[corelliaxdreaming]

And no space Christmas for any single or queer characters, bye.

...but seriously, The High Republic being so inclusive of queer characters makes it painfully stand out when other concurrent books don't include us at all.

[yubsie]

I actually had a lot of fun with the various holiday traditions in We Need a Little... so I’m going to take a moment to babble about where various things come from. A big thing I wanted to do with this one was write a Star Wars holiday fic rather than a Christmas fic.

Problem: Star Wars worldbuilding is a bit uneven and one of the things it tends to lack if cultural details. So while I dug into some DEEP lore, I also made a lot of stuff up.

Life Day: Okay, we all know about this one. It’s canon, it’s the go to holiday for winter holiday fics, but given the timeframe and the fact that it’s a Wookiee holiday, it wasn’t going to play a big role. Orga root grows on the surface of Kashyyyk, is quite perilous to harvest and is traditionally served on LIfe Day.

Solstice Tide: This was a lucky find! My husband had already suggested that the Coruscant holiday should be a commercial nightmare that Kanan hated it. Then I found out that the LIfe Day Treasury had a story set during the High Republic era where the Jedi would invite people into the Temple to share in abundance and it being a corrupted Jedi holiday? Perfect.

Sutuu pouches: Also canon! My husband patiently tromped through the book store with me looking for the LIfe Day Treasury when I realized online one of the illustrations was a Twi’lek and it might have something useful for me! The tradition they’re tied to is from Aaloth and it involves bonfires that burned longer than they should have when fighting off the Sith. So they assemble these little tinder pouches. The story in the book involved a rebel finding magnesium rich moss and throwing it at a stormtrooper at a key moment.

Sinya ek Sinya: The holiday didn’t have a name but hey I found a dictionary of Twi’leki terms! The thing about conlangs largely built from RPG supplements is they lack key grammatical features. LIke conjunctions. Though I did eventually find a word for “of”. I wanted to name the holiday Night of NIghts but there was no word for night so it translates to Dark of Dark. Eleni making sure they marked this holiday was a big part of the genesis of the entire rest of the story, and the sutuu pouches gave me a nice specific thing for her to do.

Ryshcate: This is mostly a throwaway reference because they didn’t have the ingredients, but it’s a traditional cake used to mark special occasions (birthdays, really missing Corellia, apologizing to your fellow Corellian). It is, of course, a boozy dessert. This originates from Legends but was canonized by... a cookbook, sure.

Catabar bread: Catabar is one of the few canonical cooking spices that have been established in the GFFA, and it fit the niche of sweet baking spice.

Unnamed Mandalorian Holiday: Does it actually involve fireworks, or does Sabine just want to blow something up and no one else knows enough about Mandalorian culture to argue? The galaxy may never know.

Tanaab Festival of Lights: Oh, did I ever make this one up. More specifically, I made this up for a holiday fic about Wes Janson that I wrote in high school. It is possible the fic is still findable on TF.N but I will not be doing so because I am sure I’d find it painful to read something I wrote that long ago. I did remember the candle tradition though, and thought it fit this story really well. Oddly, this is probably the most directly Christmas inspired custom in the entire story. Or rather, it was inspired by Advent with the specific coloured candles symbolizing specific things.

Night of Frozen Sand: My husband named this one. No, I have no idea what the significance of the light up bantha horns

Twenty-Eight Glimmers: This one was [Raltiir Holiday] for the first draft. I wanted to build an actual custom around ugly sweaters after reading a hilarious Twitter thread about “Your Christian students will be celebrating Yom Christmas soon” that mentioned them and I liked the idea of an ugly sweater explicitly bringing good luck. A custom about luck seemed like a good fit for Hobbie (who still managed to get injured in the fluffy holiday fic, bless him). So then I started researching Raltiir to find something I could build a holiday around. ANd it turns out that most of what we know about Raltiir involves... banking. But! It has 28 moons and while I have several questions about how big these moons are if a terrestrial planet only slightly larger than Earth has that many, it seemed obvious that the winter light based holiday had to incorporate them. You don’t just go around having TWENTY-EIGHT MOONS in your sky and not develop customs about them. (ALso the tides on Raltiir must be a freaking nightmare to predict)

Long Night: And then fairly late in the process I realized I had somehow overlooked Lothal even though that’s the most obvious holiday for the Ghost crew to mark. I’d already did a couple variations on lighting fires, so I went more sound based for driving away the night. Which had the bonus of Kanan musing about just always putting bells on the baby (a thing blind parents do in fact do!)

Tinsel: This does not tie to a specific planet, I just wanted to put tinsel on Chopper.

[meissashush]

All your WIPs sound so interesting, how am I supposed to ask about just one!?

Ok, how about ToOutliveNineRavensToRaiseJustOne?

I'm so excited for any and all of your fics!

You could.... always ask about more hahaha

Thank you for the ask, I like sharing! This one is my favorite, because its an actual monster that I have been working on for a year and a half now. It's the first in the official trilogy (which was originally just a single fic, which may soon grow more heads) of my Canon Divergence AU. It's sitting at a terrifying 30k, and should grow to about 50k by completion, making it the smallest of the three planned stories. The title (to outlive nine ravens; to raise just one) is a reference to a portion of the Precepts of Chiron

A chattering crow lives out nine generations of aged men, but a stag's life is four time a crow's, and a raven's life makes three stags old, while the phoenix outlives nine ravens...

So maybe that gives you a hint about whose POV its in. Now, onward to the excerpt! (forgive the grammar/pacing/etc, this is unedited)

He did not bother to signal this time. Bantes was still pulling himself to his feet as Cor moved to cross the bridge. Barely visible on the other side was the target. Basic concrete brutalism, windowless save for some ventilators a good three meters up and what looked like loading docks slapped on to the side; the target was underwhelming to the extreme. Harmless. Boring. The entire building screamed ‘back entrance to a strip-mall.’ Which, given the dossier, was exactly what they had been looking for. For reasons unknown even to Regis’ mysterious informant, Niflheim’s Imperial Research Minister was using a gutted commercial building as the staging ground for his most temperamental research. Half-a-dozen heavily guarded ‘facilities’ and counting had cropped up in the territory they had lost in this fucking war, all of which Cor knew to be armed to the teeth and nearly impenetrable, and somehow Cor was supposed to believe that Besithia did his most crucial work here? In an under-guarded outpost more than a half-day’s travel from Gralea? Yeah, he wasn't fucking buying it. This was a trap. He had told Regis as much when he had brought up this nonsense in the first place, but Cor’s concerns had been over-ruled. Whoever his informant was, Regis had assured Cor that their word was worth more than the whole treasury. Possibly worth more than the Crystal, if what they found could truly end the war. Cor relented at that. Regis, more than anyone, knew the weight and worth of the Crystal. Knew the price of it. Cor just hoped he was right. “Roost,” Cor called into the transmitter as they approached their entrance. “In position. Over.” Their way into the building was an employee backdoor, single wide and painted a long-faded red. Mounted to the wall next to it was a card reader, blinking faintly and covered in a thin dusting of snow. It was eerily familiar. “Not getting a lot of motion on this end,” Sedes’ voice was almost pure static in his ear. “Nothing from Canary, as expected, but I would still proceed with caution. Out.” It almost felt like a mirage. Some vague hallucination of Insomnia in the winter, of times long behind him. Cor swore he could taste the ghost of menthol as he inhaled. The glowing butt of a cigarette in the garbage-can ash tray that sat half-buried next to the stoop disappeared between blinks, replaced with nothing but snow. “Pheonix?” Bantes was closer behind him than Cor had realized. “Wilco,” Cor said belatedly into the receiver. Cor took the last two steps up to the door with more speed than strictly necessary, trying not to think about how wrong it felt to walk right up to a Nif base without seeing a single MT. Trying not to think about the smell of cigarettes or anything beyond the task at hand. He fished the key card from where it hung around his neck with numb fingers, leaning forward to press it to the pad without having to remove it from the lanyard. The mechanical lock of the door audibly clicked, the sound nearly swallowed by the snow. Cor shoved the door open with his foot, gun summoned and positioned in front of him in the same breath, and stepped forward.

[wannabeauthorclive]

Word Find I

Thank you @talesofsorrowandofruin, @zmlorenz, @vellichor-virgo, @fayoftheforest and @nikkywrites all the tags!! I think that each of you have tagged me in two tag games each, so this is gonna have a lot of words. 

@talesofsorrowandofruin words: asleep, misplace, bake, invisible, orchestra, introduce, disagree and sea

Asleep

“What is this?” Silver asks, waving a hand at the candles.

“You were half asleep when I came in here, I thought that the main light would be too harsh when you got out.” Ira answers with a small smile.

Disagree

Ira places a light kiss on Silver’s lips, “To dance, we must have music.”

Laughing, Silver says, “I disagree with you,” She spins and dips Ira, “You don’t need music to dance. You just need the right partner.”

“We may not need music, Love, but I would certainly like it.” Ira laughs as she’s lifted up again.

Sea

She heads to the stern and crosses the main deck to find Tonya. On her way, she passes Braveheart where — she checks their wrist, no bracelet — he is keeping all the ropes in place. “Aye, Captain! Where you off to? Forester is manning ship.” He calls, pulling another rope and opening the sail so they can gain more speed from the light wind. Black doesn’t worry that Forester is at the wheel, just as long someone is, all is well.

“I’m looking for Tonya!” Everyone on the ship talks loud, there’s a lot of noise on sea, with lots of enthusiasm. “You know where I can find her?” Braveheart just smiles, points up, and continues working. Black looks to where he pointed, and sure enough, Tonya is up on the spar doing a handstand.

@zmlorenz words: master, cute, foreign, leak, bite, music, frown, and fresh

Master

“Not at all, gunner!” Soberski is the Master Gunner, he runs the canons and guns, making sure they’re always prepared for a fight. But he also is the resident joker, Black hardly knows if what comes out of him mouth is a joke or not.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working, Soberski?” Canta asks.

Soberski turns to her, “Aren’t you? I got some mental problems that could use some healing.”

“We all have mental problems, Soberski.” Canta is the Surgeon and healer, always there to fix up injuries. She’s also the most soft-spoken, her little contributions mean everything to Black.

Music - TW: implied nudity

She turns on the water on, filling the big ivory tub with warm water and goes to look for the scented soap. She turns on classical music to play in the backroom and she pours the soap in the tub. She sheds her clothes and steps into the tub of bubbles and water. She sighs, letting the warm water seep into her bones. With the low music playing and the scent of jasmine filling the room, she could stay there forever and never leave. She closes her eyes and tries to forget about everything, just for a bit.

Frown

Frowning, Ironside whispers, “Why must we take the job if the last time you lost everyone?”

The darkness on Black’s face turns to fire. “Because I can’t not go!” She snaps. “I don’t want to live in fear anymore! I can’t! Every job we take I am terrified. I can’t be terrified anymore, Sal. Because someone who is afraid isn’t someone you want guarding your back. Someone who is afraid shouldn’t be there at all because…” Struggling to find the words, Black snarls at herself and stomps away, yelling. “Take the damn wheel, Ironside, I can’t fuckin’ do this anymore!”

@vellichor-virgo words: air, safe, water, ache, ink, snap, drift, and braid

Air

“Unless… we…” Another idea starts forming in Black’s mind. “Unless… Unless we were already in the building!” She says excitedly, throwing her arms in the air. “We would have to be in the building. What did Ironside say? About disguises?” Her eyes go wide as realization hits her like a truck and she loses her breath for a moment.

Water

Black tilts her head up to stare at the great expanse of the sky. Mid day and the sun is the normal too harsh blue that never seems to end. Black much prefers the dark blue expanse of the water, constantly changing yet always the same. She sucks in a harsh breath and closes her eyes, trying to forget the sky, the sea, and her past. Just for a moment. A moment to collect her mind and then to stand behind the wheel as the Captain always should. It’s where she belongs.

Ache

She sighs, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the wheel. She loves what she does, she loves her crew and each adventure they go on, she loves days like these as well, where there’s not much to do and everyone is enjoying the sun. But sometimes, her heart aches. As soon as she isn’t bustling about, her heart aches. A sad smile stretches across her face, sometimes she feels that for all that is perfect in her life, somethings missing. She shakes her head, deciding not to question what could possibly be missing. 

Ink

Silver doesn’t respond. She uncaps the ink, unrolls the letter paper, dips her feather pen into the dark ink. She twirls the feather pen across the paper, her handwriting neat and proper as it dances across the paper. Something about the cursive calms her, possibly the way that it’s all connected with no room for errors. And Silver’s print has no errors. She’s done it too long for errors to even have a slim possibility of appearing. She pauses only to dip the feather in ink and to tinkle her chin with the feather in thought.

Snap

“Of course, what must I do?” Ira hands him a glass of wine and he takes with his left hand. His posture doesn’t relax and neither does Silver’s.

“I need you to go to Viras Treasury and steal—,” She holds up the faded paper with the drawing of the artifact and a little note in the corner. She found the paper in a metal box under her parents’ bed. Her eyes snap from the paper back to Desmond when he takes a sharp breath. “Do you know what this is?” She asks, a sharpness in her tone that — with normal people — would make them do her bidding at moments notice, whatever that bidding may be.

Shaking his head furiously, he says in a rush, “No, no,” He seems to regain his composure while Silver narrows her eyes at him. “I do not know what that is. Inform me?”

Drift

“Darling, if you stay in the tub any longer you’ll become a prune.” Ira teases after much time of quiet.

Silver opens her eyes — When did they drift closed? — and looks around the room, hating the thought of even leaving the still warm water. An aggravated sigh slips out her mouth as her pulls her self out of the tub. Ira is there the moment her feet hit the tile with a towel. She looks around as she drys off, just now noticing all the candles Ira lit when she was in the tub.

@fayoftheforest words: edge, cut, knife, point and trace

Edge

After hours of dancing but only felt like minutes to the two of them, Silver whispers, pressing her forehead to Ira’s, “Do you think we’re doing the right thing? Is Desmond our best choice?”

“Darling, Desmond is our only choice. And we’re doing what we must.” Ira reassures.

“What we must.” Silver repeats, “And what is that?”

“Finding closure, love. We are finding your closure. After this, after we get the artifact, you’ll look forward and not back.” Ira assures.

“I don’t want to forget her, Ira, she was the one the saved me.” Tears glisten at the edges of Silver’s eyes.

Cut

Virow is a big city, getting to the mail post may be harder than Black thought. The further she walks from the docks and into the market, the more women and people dressed in fancy dresses and suits. Virow is the second richest place in Viras, right behind their capital, Strexmont. Captain Black stands out like a sore thumb in the sea of the rich dressed Virans bustling about their city. Their white skin and short cut dirty blond hair are their defining Viran features. Captain Black knows she stands out with her long dark blue hair, dark skin, and darker eyes. Her outfit — black trousers, grey loose tunic, long red overcoat, knee high black boots, long black leather gloves and two pistols tucked in the waistband of her pants — is also a far cry from the tight, form-fitting dresses of purples and light blue that most Viran women wear.

Point

They all get stuck in their heads, more often than is good, but Black likes to think that sometimes you need to get stuck in your head to clear it. But for many, their head is a dangerous place to be for more than a few minutes, maybe seconds.

Black stands and walks up to Ironside and gently shakes her shoulders. “Sal, Sal, it’s gonna be ok.” Ironside’s gaze is still set on a nonexistent point far away. Black steps back a few feet and snaps her fingers, not close to Ironside’s face, just close enough to startle. Ironside jumps slightly and shakes her head. “Ironside, Sal, head onto bed. It’s almost ten. You’ve been working all day, you need to be well rested for tomorrow.”

@nikkywrites words: knowledge, beautiful, wood, agree and lose.

Beautiful Beauty

The whole crew looks away from Black and shakes their heads. Black understands why they don’t want to stay on deck, they’ve been aboard for so long and they all have a little pocket coin that she is sure they want to spend. “No volunteers?” No response. Throwing her hands in the air, she says, “Golly, crew! Y’all gonna make your Captain stay aboard to make our beauty don’t get stolen?”

There was a long pause before, Lakoma raises their hand and says, “I’ll stay behind.”

Black shakes her head at Lakoma and the crew, “No, Oma, you will not stay aboard. You need,” She passes a full coin pouch into Lakoma’s hands. “You need to get us food. I’ll stay aboard, no trouble. Just be sure to stay on the look out for anything odd.”

Wood

“This is delicious Lakoma!” Black compliments. And it is, all of their food is. They’re a wonderful cook. To get them to relax a bit more, Black asks, “So what happened while we were caged up in here all day?”

The question works like a charm and the flood gates open. Lakoma is a story teller. Their passion is cooking but they are constantly telling stories without thinking about it. They start waving their hands, excitedly talking about everything that happened earlier that day. From what they cooked for breakfast to the jokes that Soberski told them. They talk about the herbs and medicines that Canta is mixing, the new wood sculpture Forester is carving, the punch that Braveheart was practicing, the tricks they saw Tonya doing on the masts, they talk about how everyone except them slept in. They mention watching people wander about the docks fishing and selling while their newest bread was cooking. Lakoma talks about anything and everything.

Agree

As soon as they leave the room, Black asks. “What do you think the person was looking for?”

“I don’t know, but it’s nothing good.” Ironside responds, her tone somber. They both know that whoever the person may be, he knows who they are and he might just try to ruin their heist.

“I agree.”

“This isn’t good, Black.” The tone of the room changes drastically. It is now rushed and worried when it was slow and nervous a minute ago. Ironside’s voices raises as she keeps talking. “What are we going to do? We can’t send y’all in there when we know someone could be waiting to ambush you! It would be a death wish!”

Lose

Ira stands a bit away, being sure to give Silver her space. While Ira can be close at all other times, when Silver is writing, she cannot. Silver has said that she can’t think when someone watches over her shoulder. Ira respects her wishes and stands far enough away that Silver can think. And only when Silver leans back in her chair and sets the feather down, does Ira go closer.

“May I?” Ira asks, waving a hand at the letter.

Whew! That was a lot of words to find! But I’m glad I caught up on all of them! I love these tags now that I have some writing that I can actually search through!

Tagging (with no pressure): @a-completely-normal-girl @fayoftheforest @mel-writes-with-her-dragons @tiredlittleoldme @teasenpaiwrites @baguettethebooklover @aligned-stars-writing @47crayons @alicewestwater and anyone else wants to!!

Your words are health, cancel, red, error and dear 

[polymathemawrites]

Hand Holds - Part 1/?

cw: wow typical violence, rogue nonsense, mentioned trauma, mathias being mathias

No beta here, this doesn’t follow the canonical plotline for them because I do what I want, if I never finish this please forgive me I am a flake

Read under the cut for the story 

He watches Fairwind work on the deck of the Middenwake, muscles shifting under the linen of his shirt, his coat thrown somewhere and not on him for once, not surprising considering the work Mathias has been watching him do for the last bit of time. Heavy ropes coil and shift, and he's doing something with the sails that the Spymaster does not pretend to understand even a little bit. The lights onboard the ship illuminate him better than the setting sun, but even then Mathias would have been able to see the familiar frame just fine. Even with his wandering focus he can still feel someone watching him in turn and seeing as it's not Fairwind, he looks down from his dark little alcove to the deck proper to see what he expected to see - Shandris Feathermoon watching him, better than the Commander at least.

To stop what he is doing would be to admit guilt, so he turns his attention away from her and back to the Captain of the Middenwake, hip shifting to rest cocked against the wall. He doesn't hear her come, no surprise there, only knows she is there when she lets him know, the exhalation of a sigh.

"Humans have such odd courtship rituals."

"I'm not courting him."

She leans against the wall next to him, her arms crossing her chest, nearly mimicking his own stance, "Are you not?"

He does not want to be having this conversation and definitely not with Feathermoon.

Leaving is conceding ground, again - guilt he isn't going to admit. "I would be far more up front about it, if I were."

"So you've been standing up here, watching him for an hour, for no reason?"

Mathias turns to level her with a look that would have sent trainees in Old Town running, but he doesn't expect it to do much to her, and it doesn't. Partial commander of their forces here, and he himself too for that matter, not much could have cowed the sentinel, and certainly not one human a fraction of her life-span. "He's easy on the eyes." It's in itself a damning confession but there are few who know him by name that do not know his predilictions. It had been a political move mostly, no one would ravel him up in their machinations for marriage plots to better their station if he was confirmed to be unwedable because he was unlikely to produce and heir.

He could swear she rolls her eyes at him. "Odd, what did I say? Why do you not just go offer him your bed?" She motions toward the Middenwake, "He would accept, if that is what worries you."

Nope, nope - not having this conversation. He takes a steady grip of the rail and swings himself up and over, landing on silent feet on the bottom deck, startling a champion on her way to report to Commander Wyrmbane. He sidesteps around the woman with an apology, catching a glimpse of movement from the deck of the Middenwake he spurs himself faster and takes the gangplank, only to hear the footfalls of a night elf doing nothing to hide herself behind him.

Cursing under his breath he swerves rounding the dock, hoping to lose her in the crush of people outside the harbormaster's office but as easily as he weaves through the crowd, so does she. Night elves and their damnable grace, it took him an entire twenty years to learn this. "Are you running from me, or from yourself?"

"I would appreciate it immensely if you minded your own business, Feathermoon. Do you not have enough to do, would you like me to set you up a target practice range, find someone who needs killing?" They break from the press of people, hitting the ramp that leads up and along, but right as he moves to round the corner, he realizes his mistake, too close to the edge, nowhere to go, he runs right into the large form of a Kul Tiran sailor.

He's seconds away from breaking the steadying hold - hands on his arms, before he realizes the surprised face looking down at him is none other than the focus of his last hour's wandering gaze. "Captain." He only just sounds this side of breathless which is embarrassing enough.

"Aye Spymaster, you're going at a right clip." His grin makes Mathias' stomach do unfortunate flips, "Were you coming to see me?"

"He was." Feathermoon pipes up behind him.

Oh that damndable elf and her meddling, this is what he gets for abandoning his paperwork. "I wished to hear your report on the Azerite shipment from earlier today, first hand. I heard there was a dragon spotted?" He does break the hold now, easily stepping back but the heat of the Captain's hands remain burning on his bare skin beneath his pauldrons.

An admirable cover, he pretends he doesn't hear Shandris' sigh to the side.

Fairwind seems to only just have noticed Shandris and he does as passable a salute he seems able, nothing at all respectful about it, and his easy grin ruins the whole pantomime. "Were you coming to hear me tell all about the dragon too, General?"

She shakes her head in the negative, bouncing on her heels in a way he's seen her do when she's at ease, an oddly childish movement for a woman so very old. It just reminds him of how different night elves are to humans, and he wonders how old she actually is, not just in terms of years but in terms of her people's maturity. His wandering thoughts are interrupted by the sweeping and dramatic bow that Fairwind gives her.

"Then do you mind if I steal the Spymaster? It's not often he comes to talk to me of his own volition you see, and I was hoping I could convince him to get a bit of kip with me."

Food. Kip was food, Mathias opens his mouth to deny the invitation, but Shandris is quicker.

"Of course Captain, and well you should - I have not seen Master Shaw eat all day."

"Like a bird he is." Flynn spins on his heel, throwing a look back at them - mostly at Shaw. "Coming Spymaster? I have some victuals in my cabin you might find enjoyable."

"I'm sure he will." Shandris Feathermoon bounces on her heels again. Damned woman.

He easily catches up with Fairwind, following him the short distance to the Middenwake, berthed as it was directly across from the Wind's Redemption. "Have you really had nothing to eat?" Fairwind's voice sounds soft with concern.

"I skipped lunch, although General Feathermoon wasn't there to see me do so." He's annoyed at that, she'd guessed and it had been correctly, which grated on him. That she probably paid close attention to his routine to know the truth of it.

"You do that too often and I'll be able to throw you around."

The glare he levels Fairwind with lacks teeth, "You would be sorely pressed to try."

He finds where the man had put his coat once they're in the Captain's quarters on the ship, slung over the back of the chair seated at the man's very messy desk. The window is open to let in the breeze and also the sounds of Boralus outside. Lighting a number of lanterns and also putting wood in the stove, Fairwind bids him to sit in-between tasks, and Mathias obliges him by perching on the only other chair in the room not piled with things.

"So the dragon-" is how the story begins and Fairwind is a consumate storyteller, Mathias finds himself enjoying the journey despite the little barbs he puts in to tell the man to hurry up with it. He doesn't hurry up with it anyway, and so Mathias has been plied with a large number of hard meats, savory cheeses, and crusty bread, as well as a bottle of wine, "And then we had to avoid the Horde chasing us halfway back to friendly waters."

"That's the part I want to hear more about." It's been an hour maybe, there is nothing but darkness outside and the weight upon his shoulders has gradually lifted with the application of wine and company. "Did they open fire on you?"

"Oh no, no. We were a good bit out from them, it would have been a waste of cannonballs, if I were to take a guess I'd assume they wanted to see if we knew any other islands in the immediate area."

A blade's edge of anxiety leaves him then, and he doesn't even realize it was there until it is gone. "Glad to hear it."

When did it happen, he wonders on his way back to his berth on the Wind's Redemption. When did he begin to fall for Captain Fairwind? Was it the treasury? Before? Was it the man's docier on his desk? In the past it had been easy to bury it, send the offending person away, or himself away. But Fairwind wasn't one of his and he had nowhere to go to escape this slow descent into familiarity. He should push away, he knows. Too much at stake and more - he is terrified of the release in it. To let go of that control and what does he have but himself to master? Too many variables and one can never control them, but himself - he was good at that. At denial and the chains of servitude. He was born for this, bred to serve the Kings of Stormwind in blade and body.

But looking at the light coming from the Captain's quarters on the Middenwake stirs something in him. Dangerous as a knife to the throat it is a hunger inside of him for something more than he had been made for. He knew where that got him in the past, it bloodied his hands and broke his heart, it resulted in a man's head on his desk and the dagger at his side instead of the man who it had belonged to. What was right and what was moral? Not for him to determine, that was the work of greater men. Ripples in a pond and Mathias was the man who monitored them, sent them in the right direction when needed. He was not meant for soft things, for a warm body to come home to, or in this case - to be the warm body to return to. He was no man's home, and never would he be, as much as he might ache for it.

He looks up the gangplank and sees Shandris Feathermoon's back and he turns on his heel, something in him aching too much to be prodded and poked at right now. His mind is far away and he pulls it back, reins it in with the spur of his own physicality. He sets off at speed, kicking off the high wall, his gloved hands finding perfect grooves in the old harbor wall to pull himself up the distance. There is an exhalation of breath behind and below him, a vendor gathering their wares for the day, but he is gone before they even fully register he'd been there and likely their surprise will bleed into disbelief for he is nothing but a shadow. He is running the length of the wall then, high but not yet high enough. Age and strife has worn the brick work - nothing like Stormwind's pristine harbor wall, it's gleaming white masonry - so when he jumps gaps he's able to actually breathe without the weight of guilt in every step, and that freedom causes each leap to carry him further, like a bird nearly in flight. Too long grounded for a roof-walker, too long at desks and buried under bureaucracy.

He takes the gap from the wall to the rooftops as if he is weightless, barely do his feet meet the tiles before he's off again, running the length of the roof's crest on the strongest part of the structure. When he jumps the next gap he looks down to see the market below for that fleeting second, the milling merchantiers and the travelers from all corners of Azeroth, with him above them all.

He's passed the trade's district, passed the Middenwake now too, he's scaling the upper level of the bridge toward Mariner's Row when his lungs turn to fire. He pushes further, further, a snarl as he forces air into iron barrel of his aching chest. One long wide gap and he soars. The landing is rough, he rolls through it and pushes himself up, staggers forward, on, on, he's not done yet. Shandris' words come back to him, 'Are you running from me or from yourself?' He flings himself forward, off the bridge, only to catch his hands against the old stone, the leather beneath them burning as he slides, down and down - but it's enough friction to slow his descent.

On his feet he shakes his hands out, casually looking up to meet the stare of the guard stationed a few feet from where he'd landed. The man has his mouth hanging open in shock. Mathias pushes the hair falling forward onto his face back. "Just testing the structural integrity of the bridge." He murmurs, turning back towards the way he came.

Luck, or something like it, is with him when he gets back to the Wind's Redemption. The only people on deck are Wyrmbane and a couple of Alliance Champions all three of them focused on the campaign map. He moves to slip past them only for the paladin to look up and catch his eye, and before Mathias can nod and dismiss himself, the man is speaking.

"Master Shaw, these two have some information you might like to hear."

There is nothing but darkness and stars above and yet the work is never done so he comes to stand by the table instead of vanishing into the hold - as much as he wanted to just curl up with a pot of tea and his paperwork. One of them is a Ren'dorei in cloth and the other a human in leathers and he leans against the table with one hip, arms crossed over his chest.

"Master Shaw," the Ren'dorei man bows with the customary flourish of his ilk that Mathias still had trouble determining was sarcastic or not, but the man's words didn't betray any disrespect as he continued, "When my partner and I were flying over toward Drustvar we saw some suspicious Horde activity in the region between Tiragarde and the coast over there."

Here the human man took up the thread, "They had a landin' part right along the coast almost up to Fletcher's Hollow." The man had a thick Gilnean accent, "We couldn't see how many there were, but it was likely enough to give someone up there trouble."

Commander Wyrmbane looked to him, "It doesn't appear to be a full incursion." There was an unspoken request for input at this point and Mathias leaned over to look at the map, tracking where Wyrmbane had put a pin in to denote the Horde sighting. The little cove was protected enough by mountains and more, and he could only imagine the havoc that might be wrought by a raiding part with a good foothold there.

"I'll send scouts." But what he really meant was that he was going to go down, pack an overnight bag, and go out himself. "Can you tell me anything about the individuals you saw?"

"I know one of 'em was an orc. There was also a couple of goblins, or extra large green mice, we were fairly high up, I'm afraid." The Gilnean man rubbed his bearded chin, "Saw a lot of crates."

Mathias excused himself after reassuring the commander he'd have something to report to Wyrmbane about come the next day. Finally slipping away to below deck he went to his office and then pushed through the door to his private quarters behind. Lighting the lamp he hung it up over his bed and began to arrange his pack. Poisons, a gnomish spyglass, and a small ration would hold him for the night. When he came back on deck the only one out was the night watch guard on duty and he gave the woman a nod as he took himself down the gangplank again.

Stopping to fill his canteen at the fountain in town and slip in a bit of cleansing powder, he let the sound of night-time revelry from the tavern nearby pour over him. It would have been easy to assign an agent to the task, there were a number of them off-duty tonight, probably finding their pleasures and daily relief in that very tavern. But the thought of the cold air against his face, the thrill of flight, and the promise of a mission to get him out of his head was too tempting.

The gryphonmaster greeted him with a wave, hands full of straw, in the middle of packing it down onto the nest of the gryphon standing nearby. The dark blue and red creature greeted him too, with a headbutt to the shoulder that would have knocked him over had he not braced himself for it. He sunk his fingers into her feathers and gave her a good scritch. "She'll miss you when you've gone, Spymaster Shaw."

"Doubt that will happen anytime soon." The war felt like it would go on forever, certainly he'd been in Boralus more than he'd been in Stormwind for the past months. "I'll need her overnight if she's rested and fed."

"Shadowtalon just had her sup, so you'll be doin' me a favor taking her out. She'll only want to fly after that meal, I wasn't looking forward to have to fluff up her nest for hours to try and get her to settle."

Drawing away from petting under her beak, Mathias took himself to saddling the gryphon, "There's a girl, we'll get you up in the clouds soon." Glancing toward the other nests he noted that one of them was noticeably empty. "When did Cadet Fordragon leave?"

"Oh 'bout an hour ago, took off toward the south."

He hummed a soft sound and slipped effortlessly into the saddle, already Shadowtalon's body was tensed beneath him so eager to take wing. With a final nod exchanged he gave her the pressure of his knees and then she was off, strong wings buffeting the ground and knocking straw about, before they were zipping up into the cold night sky. While all the gryphons he'd ridden in Boralus had been exceptionally well trained, there were two he had a fondness for, depending on where it was in Kul Tiras he needed to travel. There is a duality in the gryphons he favours too, ebon and snowy-white, both good for different cover. But for tonight's trip Shadowtalon's ebon coat would disguise him best, and that's exactly as Mathias preferred it to be.

Tiragarde unfolded beneath him, the long edge of it's coastline and the lights of various townships. He was barely at the height he liked best to travel at when the first sign of trouble became apparent. Smoke rising up from the south, near the mountains that cut off the main body of the isle from Freehold. The amount of it was reminiscent of a forest fire or a town burning and he banked Shadowtalon back down low to skin treetops, the air currents holding them steady. The source of the smoke became clear soon enough as they rose over the crest of a hill, the little hunter's lodge tucked away on the edge of the mountains was being attacked. With no sight of backup from Bridgeport in view he leaned his weight forward and Shadowtalon swooped evenly toward the ground. A less trained gryphon would have balked at the heat and smoke in the air but she just shrieked shrilly, a call for battle and blood. They hit the ground running and she bowled over a man about to strike down one of the lodge's hunters with his bully club. With an effortless motion, Mathias dismounted and then clucked his tongue and pointed toward the treeline. The look of distaste showed in her deep brown eyes but she fled the battle as directed, if she ended up hurt he'd never be able to rent a gryphon in Boralus again.

The hunter with her broken crossbow scrambled to her feet and then kicked the club away from the downed man, Mathias caught sight of her removing her skinning knife from her belt before he was turning, already slipping into the shadows.

He worked best in the dark and the fires from the inn set ablaze and various tent structures only aided in the shifting chaos of shadows, helping to even further obscure him. Humans against humans always put a bad taste in his mouth, but it was easy enough to determine between sides here. The hunters and traders of the lodge wore traveling leathers or hunting gear and were also well warmed against the falling snow - the raiders in contrast looked like burly dock workers and were trying their best to loot during the ensuing chaos caused. Ashvane dockworkers, Mathias guessed. Out of work and on the wrong side of the war.

Shadow stepping behind a truly massive mountain of a man, he struck sure with his blade into the man's lower back. Swift and sharp, he hit with a kidney shot before kicking the man in the back, only managing to stagger him to begin with thanks to his blade work. Even still it didn't prove enough to put the man down and he rounded a circle, swinging his sword wide. Easily Mathias dodged back, and the next blow he easily parried and swept to the side with the cross of his daggers. "Little Alliance dog!" Spat out along with blood and frustration, and Mathias slid under another angry swing. The crimson bloom of flowing blood was spreading through the man's shirt now, but his adrenaline was keeping him going. Soon enough even that wouldn't save him though, Mathias merely needed to wait him out.

He didn't have the patience for that tonight, not with the smoke catching in his throat and the necessity of ending this soon before the fires could do any more damage. Fielding another blow he caught it with his blades but instead of bracing himself he let the blow carry him smoothly sideways, knocking the man off balance. As he raged and stumbled forward, Mathias followed after him and with one economically placed swipe, he opened the man's throat up, the arterial spray hitting another raider in the face - likely the man had meant to aid his friend, only to then be bathed in the man's blood.

Mathias watched as terror set into the man's eyes as he watched the corpse hit the ground and lay unmoving. The scream that ripped out of that man was one that Mathias has heard many times before. Loss, fury, fear, hoplessness. He braced himself for the impact of blade but instead the man turned and ran, fleeing for the treeline. Before he even made it three yard there was a crossbolt in his back, and then two more.

The battle was over, the raiders were trying to flee, and mostly failing. The workers of the lodge had set up a chain of buckets from the nearby stream to put out the fires. He's in the middle of cleaning his blades when a well built woman with greying hair comes toward him. "Well you came down like a very pointy avenging angel. Alanna Holton, my thanks for taking out their leader."

He took her offered hand and shakes it after sheathing his blades, "Mathias Shaw."

With the widening of her eyes he can tell the name is recognized. "Wait here, please Spymaster. I've got an inn fire to put out." She was off then, rushing on to help her workers organize.

Taking himself to the treeline he was barely in range of the underbrush when Shadowtalon trampled over a berry bush to reach him, butting her head into his chest with enough force to make him catch himself or risk falling over. "There there girl, you did well."

Holton finds him in the middle of watering and feeding Shadowtalon to calm her from the excitement, tucked in next to a lightly singed caravan near the Gryphon master's stand. "Thank you for your aid again, Spymaster. We've got some help coming in from Boralus now. Is there anything we can do for you, or were you just sight-seeing?"

With Shadowtalon beak deep in chicken innards, he considers the downtime this little sidetrack is going to cost. While swift and feisty, Shadowtalon was also prone to battle-lust, and he didn't much favor the idea of taking her on a covert scouting mission with her feathers ruffled like this. She might try and divebomb the Horde and that would not suit his needs at all.

"I was scouting something along the Drustvar's edge, but I'll need to wait now for my gryphon to recover."

Carefully reaching out the middle-aged woman gave Shadowtalon a pat, holding her hand there she was obviously testing the mood of the beast. With his own hand buried in the soft feathers under her cheek he could already feel what she was looking for, the fine thrum of energy and a creature well worked up. "This one of Boralus' Gryphons?" She asked and he nodded in turn, "I'll have my man tether her to a line and send her flying to wear her out for you and then bed her down. I'd offer you our gryphon on loan but we sent him off to Boralus to call for aid and he's down for his own recovery."

"Thank you, that will have to do."

"The inn isn't likely to collapse in on itself and the fires all out now, you're hardly dressed for the weather, Master Shaw, please go settle yourself by the hearth while we take care of your gryphon." She smiled at him and gave him a bow before she was off, her shouted orders carrying across to workers and hunters alike, with a tone that commanded to be followed.

It was not until he was in the quiet of the inn that the actual chill of the outside air hit him. With the heat of the room around him closing in like a firm blanket he found himself biting down a shiver. Sweat from activity and also the abated adrenaline left him trembling and he settled down near the hearth of the fireplace, sinking into a chair with a cushion settled atop it. Around him was the bustle of many being tended to. Bandages and burn salves, a lone priest doing his best to take care of the ones worse off. He watches, letting the scene roll over him, only to find a steaming mug shoved into his hands by one of the workers. Taking a whiff proved the beverage to be hot cocoa and he sipped at it, leaning himself back to then settle the warmth of the mug over his chest.

He'd have to go on foot, likely. Which meant sending word to Wrymbane about his change of plans. Pulling his map out he balanced his mug on one knee and planned the best route to take. The Old Drust road would carry him through to Vigil Hill, and from there he could cut over to the coast. On foot it would take a number of hours all told unless he wanted to run the entire way, which he did not - only now regretting the roof-top run he'd taken after dinner with Fl- Captain Fairwind.

Bringing out his writing kit he pens first a missive to Wyrmbane and then begins the more laborious process of encrypting messages to his agents in Boralus. Thrice his mug is refilled as he works, while the bustle of the tiny inn flows over him. The fireplace was kept blazing and in no time the cold that had permeated him fled to be replaced by bone-deep warmth and contentment, he would not relish leaving his place before the fire when it was time to go.

"Shift switch!" The strong commanding voice of Holton filled up the inn after some time and Mathias looked up to see the tired forms of Boralus dockworkers and guards come in, sooty and wet. To his surprise among them was a familiar form, Fairwind's sure frame coming to slump against a wall, charming smile alighting on the lady to hand him a mug identical to Mathias' own. And as if feeling the weight of his gaze, Flynn's attention turned from the inn worker to meet Mathias and hold, a look of pleased surprise passing over his ever-expressive face. Despite the way he'd leaned on the wall looking like a cat drug from the Stormwind canals he bounded up to Mathias' chair like an energetic puppy. His cocoa splashed over his sooty knuckles as he plopped himself on the stones of the hearth.

"Fancy meeting you here, Master Shaw, come often?" Fairwind batted his lashes at him and Mathias applied himself to sealing his letters. "Shouldn't you be asleep on top of your paperwork or something?"

"There's something I needed to check up on along the Drustvar coast." Draining his mug he handed it to Fairwind who was tricked into taking it, before standing.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" Fairwind asked, peering into the empty mug. Someone was trying to put a blanket around his shoulders but he was too busy scrambling up after Mathias to let them do it properly so they gave up on him.

"Whatever you'd like." He isn't much surprised to find Fairwind following his steps out, it was too much to ask that the man be exhausted from helping out, at least too exhausted to hound him.

[hieromonkcharbel]

The Rule of St. Pachomius:

This rule of prayer was given to St. Pachomius of Egypt by an Angel. The Venerable Father Pachomius was one of the great monastic fathers. He used this rule of prayer to consecrate every hour of the day or night. This prayer rule is one that is fairly easy to memorize so you do not need a prayer book.

Through the prayers of our holy Fathers, O Lord Jesus Christ our God, have mercy on us.

Amen. Glory to You, our God, glory to You.

Heavenly King, Comforter, Spirit of Truth, everywhere present and filling all things, Treasury of Blessings and Giver of Life, come and dwell within us, cleanse us of all stain, and save our souls, O Gracious One.

Holy God, Holy and Mighty, Holy and Immortal, have mercy on us. (Three times)

Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and forever. Amen.

Most Holy Trinity, have mercy on us. Lord, cleanse us of our sins. Master, forgive us our transgressions. Holy One, come to us and heal our infirmities for Your name's sake.

Lord have mercy. (Three times)

Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and forever, Amen.

Our Father, Who art in the Heavens, hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who transgress against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil.

O Lord, Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on us. Amen.

Lord, have mercy. (Twelve times)

Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and forever, Amen.

Come, let us adore the God our King.

Come, let us adore, Christ our King and God.

O come, let us adore and bow down to, Christ our King and our God.

Psalm 50

Have mercy on me, O God, according to Your kindness; in Your compassion blot out my offense. O wash me more and more from my guilt, and cleanse me from my sin. My offenses I truly know them; and my sin is always before me. Against You, You alone, have I sinned and what is evil in Your sight I have done. That You might be justified when you give sentence, and be without reproach when You judge. O see, in guilt I was born, a sinner was a conceived. Indeed, you love truth in the heart, then in the secret of my heart teach me wisdom. You shall sprinkle me with hyssop, and I shall be made clean; You shall wash me, and I shall be made whiter than snow. Make hear me hear the sounds of joy and gladness, that the bones you have crushed may thrill. From my sins turn away Your face and blot out all my guilt. A pure heart create in me, O God, and put a steadfast spirit within me. Do not cast me away from Your presence, and deprive me not of Your Holy Spirit. Give me again the joy of Your help, and with Your governing Spirit establish me. I shall teach transgressors Your ways, and the ungodly shall turn back to You. Deliver me from blood-guilt,O God, You God of my salvation; my tongue shall rejoice in Your righteousness. O Lord, You shall open my lips, and my mouth shall declare Your praise. For if You had desired sacrifice, I had given it; with whole-burnt offerings You shall not be pleased. A sacrifice to God is a broken spirit; a heart that is broken and humbled God will not despise. Do good, O Lord, in Your good pleasure to Zion, and let the walls of Jerusalem be rebuilt. Then shall You be pleased with a sacrifice of righteousness, with oblation and whole-burnt offerings. Then shall they offer bullocks upon Thine altar.

The Creed

I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Creator of all things visible and invisible. And in one Lord Jesus Christ, the Only-begotten, born of the Father before all ages; Light of Light, true God of true God; begotten, not made; of one substance with the Father, through Whom all things were made; Who for us men and for our salvation came down from heaven, and was incarnate of the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary, and became man; He suffered and was buried; And He rose on the third day according to the Scriptures; And ascended into the heavens, and sits at the right hand of the Father; And shall come again, with glory, to judge both the living and the dead; Whose kingdom shall have no end. And in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the Giver of life; Who proceeds from the Father; Who together with the Father and the Son is worshipped and glorified; Who spoke through the prophets. In One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Church. I confess one baptism for the remission of sins. I expect the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come. Amen

The Jesus Prayer

O Lord, Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. (100 Times)

Other suitable prayers may also be inserted here, such as a Canon or an Akathist.

The Dismissal

It is truly proper to glorify you, who have borne God; the ever blessed and immaculate and the Mother of our God. More honorable than the Cherubim, and beyond compare more glorious than the Seraphim, who a virgin gave birth to God the Word. You truly the Theotokos, we magnify.

Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and forever, Amen.

Lord, have mercy. (Three times)

May Christ, our true God, for the sake of His most pure Mother, of our holy and God-bearing fathers, and all the saints, have mercy on us and save us, for He is good and He loves mankind.

[nicklloydnow]

“In this debate, parties were blamed for encouraging a form of herd mentality in politics. George Savile, 1st Marquess of Halifax, likened parties to “an Inquisition, where Men are under such a Discipline in carrying on the common Cause, as leaves no Liberty of private Opinion.” More fundamental was the concern that parties exacerbated division and turned neighbors into enemies. As Joseph Addison wrote in the Spectator, “I am sometimes afraid that I discover the seeds of civil war in these our divisions.” What made things worse was that partisanship often seemed random. “There is a sort of Witchcraft in Party, and in Party Cries, strangely wild and irresistible,” wrote Thomas Gordon, co-author of Cato’s Letters. “One Name charms and composes; another Name, not better nor worse, fires and alarms.”

Most astute political commentators, however, realized that parties were not going away. They were a price worth paying for parliamentary politics and ultimately a sacrifice for political freedom. A state without parties was a state without liberty, as Montesquieu put it in his history of the Roman republic. A government without parties is an absolute government, since rulers without opposition are autocrats. Opposition, to be effective in a parliamentary system or in any system with an assembly, must be organized.

(…)

Rapin argued that the two parties in Britain, the Whigs and Tories, represented the two pillars of the mixed and balanced constitution – parliament on the one hand, and monarchy on the other – and that both parties were necessary for the equilibrium between them. They were likewise necessary for balance in the religious sphere, which was as important as secular matters in public life at the time. The Tories favored the Church of England, the Whigs toleration for Protestant Dissenters, and the only way to achieve a sustainable equilibrium between the two extreme positions was competition and mutual checking and balancing between the parties. These parties would alternate in government and take turns to hold each other to account when out of power.

The Scottish Enlightenment thinker David Hume (1711-76), who read Rapin at an early age, wrote at length about party in general and in its British guise in a series of essays published as Essays, Moral and Political in different instalments starting in 1741. Hume believed that parties – or “factions,” terms he used interchangeably – based on “principles” were particularly pernicious and unaccountable. Religious principles had the potential of making people fanatical and ready to both proselytize and persecute dissidents. Because they were more transparent and less extreme, parties based on “interests,” meaning different economic interests, were more tolerable. His early essays on party, “Of Parties in General” and “Of the Parties of Great Britain” (both 1741) treated the phenomenon as inevitable since the British parliamentary system produced to Court and Country parties, or parties of government and opposition.

In later writings, Hume suggested that party politics could be necessary and possibly salutary for political societies. In “Of a Coalition of Parties” (1758), Hume opened by arguing that it may be neither possible nor desirable to abolish parties. This essay was an apologia for his own History of England (1754-61). In this earlier work, Hume had written that “while [the Court and Country parties] oft threaten the total dissolution of the government, [they] are the real causes of its permanent life and vigour.”

(…)

In the pages of the Craftsman, Bolingbroke justified the existence of an oppositional “Country party.” In Bolingbroke’s formulation, it would function as a constitutional party, and he argued that the government of the day (Walpole’s Whigs) had betrayed the core principles of the constitution by corrupting parliament and making the legislature dependent on the executive. In A Dissertation upon Parties (1733-4), Bolingbroke separated the political landscape into three camps: 1) enemies of the government but friends of the constitution, referring to his own Country party; 2) enemies of both, meaning the Jacobites; and 3) friends of the government but enemies of the constitution, that is, the Court Whigs. Only the first category was a legitimate party, whereas the other two were factions, according to Bolingbroke. To save the nation, he argued, the enemies of the constitution had to be opposed, and opposition must be systematic and concerted.

Burke, a Whig later in the century, was not favorable towards Bolingbroke’s Country Tory politics and even less so towards his Deistic and anti-clerical religious writings. Burke continued, however, to distinguish between party and faction in even more forceful terms than Bolingbroke, as he sought to justify his party connection, the Rockingham Whigs, in the 1760s and onwards. To defeat what he viewed as the Court cabal and the abuse of the royal prerogative in the reign of George III, Burke believed that party connection was essential to restore Britain’s mixed and balanced constitution. “When bad men combine, the good must associate,” Burke wrote in Thoughts on the Cause of the Present Discontents (1770), “else they will fall, one by one.” Politics was not about having a clean conscience but about making a difference, and party was a necessary instrument that could unite power and principle. As he famously defined party: “Party is a body of men united, for promoting by their joint endeavours the national interest, upon some particular principle in which they are all agreed.” At the heart of this definition is a distinction between party and faction. Parties for Burke are devoted to promoting an understanding of the national interest, and they are united by principle, and not exclusively by interest, although that can be a supporting principle.

The core of Burke’s party was made up of major Whig aristocratic families such as Cavendish and Devonshire. In the Present Discontents, however, Burke stated that he was “no friend to aristocracy,” in the sense at least in which that word is usually understood, that is to say, as “austere and insolent domination.” What the Whig aristocrats possessed was property, rank, and quality which gave them a degree of independence, and this enabled them to stand up to both the Court and the populace. In this sense, Burke’s conception of party was indeed aristocratic, but it was not aristocracy for its own benefit but for the sake of the whole, and part of his defence of Britain’s mixed and balanced constitution.

The British party debate left an ambivalent legacy among early American political actors and thinkers. The most famous discussion of party and faction in the early American republic is found in James Madison’s Tenth Federalist. In this canonical essay, Madison argued that differences and “mutual animosities” could not be extinguished in free governments. He further agreed with Hume that parties of interest were generally more peaceful and governable than parties united and actuated by passion. His solution to party violence resembled Hume’s argument from “Of a Perfect Commonwealth” (1752): the effects of faction can be better controlled in larger states and federations than in city states. Thanks to the greater size and the scope of the United States, the impact of each faction would be mitigated.

A less philosophical but comparably historically significant party argument surfaced in the 1790s. After Madison and Alexander Hamilton had co-operated as Publius in the Federalist Papers, they became rivals as the early American republic split into two political parties: Republicans and Federalists. Washington’s Neutrality Proclamation in 1793 led to a sharp disagreement between the two on the question of executive power in the constitutional order. In short, Madison associated with his old friend and fellow Virginian Thomas Jefferson, the Secretary of State, to oppose Treasury Secretary Hamilton’s centralizing ambitions. In this political environment, a party argument emerged which had more in common with Bolingbroke, and to an extent Burke, than it did with Hume. This was the idea of partisan opposition. The ideal for Jefferson and other opponents of the Federalists was national unity. However, because of what they perceived as the corruption of Federalists such as Hamilton, an opposition party in the shape of the Republican Party was necessary to defeat the enemies within. Jefferson believed that the Hamiltonians and the Federalists were monarchists, and he viewed the 1790s as an ideological battle between liberty and tyranny. In this struggle, partisanship became a necessary evil.

Many eighteenth-century thinkers contended that constitutional party politics were sometimes necessary to save liberty from authoritarianism and corruption. Indeed, party politics itself was a sign of liberty, since it enabled isolated individuals to participate, and thus gave life and vigor to politics. Such politics could generate “harmonious discord” and be as close an approximation of the common good as the imperfections and diversity of human society permit. But for this to materialize, the political debate must retain a degree of civility. Admittedly, most eighteenth-century partisans fell as short as we moderns in this regard. This is the reason why Hume sought to persuade partisans “not to contend, as if they were fighting pro aris & focis,” literally for altars and hearths, or for God and country.

For Hume, it was also crucial that parties were “constitutional.” According to him, “[t]he only dangerous parties are such as entertain opposite views with regard to the essentials of government,” be it the succession to the throne as in the case of the Jacobites, or “the more considerable privileges belonging to the several members of the constitution,” as with the great parties of the seventeenth century. On such questions there should be no compromise or accommodation since that type of party strife could turn into armed conflict. Eighteenth-century politics retained a civil-war edge on both sides of the Atlantic. Recent events, and indeed the nature of party politics itself, have shown that this is a history and a debate we forget at our peril.”