#church fables about the gathering together

[replicantdeviancy]

The way his date spoke of his secretiveness surrounding his occupation, it raised a myriad of questions in the detective’s mind, curiosities of why & what reasons James might have felt so inclined. Was it the church which demanded it of him? Or was it his own particular proclivity towards discretion that he believed might serve him better than candidness? Connor wanted to ask, but he felt the moment had passed with grace, that small opening slipping shut amicably between them. He didn’t want to wrench it open now with his childish demanding, so he held onto those queries, filed them away for a later time, when he might have another opportunity. Right now, he wanted to enjoy their time together, let himself bask in the attention afforded him by that hypnotic gaze & fascinating mind. Priesthood aside, James as an individual was an intriguing man - there was something mysterious about him, unrelated to that which had already been confessed. That enigmatic nature of his was captivating to the detective, who was so knowledgeable in the way of the mind, learned well beyond his years. It was a rare person whom Connor couldn’t completely decipher, & it made him want to keep this man all to himself. Selfish little thing that he was.

Assurances of how James viewed him, sought to know him without casting judgment upon things that couldn’t be helped, made Connor feel so secure in his company, like he was something precious, deserving of protection. The younger man was still astonished just how comfortable he was with James, how effortlessly the priest could quiet his hypervigilant, overthinking mind. He was sensitive & thoughtful, & there was unmistakable sincerity interlinked with sass. The detective picked at his food more than anything, as he was far more interested in what James had to say, starved in a way that would find relief not in nourishment of the body, but of the soul. While Connor had never been exposed to scripture in his youth, he could savor the little verses mixed into their conversations as morsels of intellectualism borrowed from what he assumed were a collection of fables intended to elicit thoughtfulness upon morality. At least that’s how it felt when the priest proclaimed them, peppered them into their dialogues. But this one he offered now, articulate & always chosen with what seemed like such care, felt loving.

The detective couldn’t help the sweet smile that formed with his flattery. “You have a sermon for every situation, don’t you?” he teased before shoving a chip into his mouth, that smile playing upon his features as he chewed, momentarily busying himself gathering the ketchup bottle. There was a mild disappointment when he realized that the restaurant used the glass bottles instead of the squeeze variety, yet with just a little finesse & a bit of luck, Connor was able to get just enough of the condiment out to satisfy the necessity for additional flavor without making a mess. He played it cool, as though he hadn’t momentarily fumbled, & continued to give his date bedroom eyed from across the table while he occasionally picked at his meal. “Not that I mind. It’s not something I was ever exposed to before, but I can appreciate it.” He meant that - bible quotations were a rarity in his life, as the only individuals the detective personally associated with on a regular basis who might utter one were Markus, or his adoptive father. A far different context was involved, as they spoke from a philosophical standpoint.

With James, it felt romantic. Connor suspected there was a fair bit of romance to this man, faintly masked beneath the open flirtatiousness that invited a more carnal perception of his character. The detective was there for all of it, as he had made his own intentions quite clear. He wanted this man; physically, yes, & in any other way James would let him. It didn’t feel too hurried, rushing in like this, willing to go all in. Connor wasn’t the kind of person who half-assed anything, & he wasn’t about to start now. It appeared as though the two were on the same page - James offered up yet another pretty picture of a little holiday adventure in England for just the two of them, & Connor found himself rather taken with the idea. It prompted a quietly eager response. “I’ll be sure to keep my calendar open. It would be a shame to pass up an offer for late night pub food & debauchery.” Never mind that his pulse had slightly elevated with elation at the idea of being allowed into another small piece of his companion’s world, invited to see more of the man who sat before him & eyed him with a wanting gaze. Those eyes made him feel just a little vulnerable in the most titillating of ways, as the detective knew James sought to look beyond the surface & that flawless mask he wore, unafraid to coax his way through the layers of Connors defenses built up over the years.

He really could see himself running away with this man for a time, or forever, if he so chose. Just cast aside doubts & speculations & let somebody else take control for once. Leave it all up to his handsome would-be seducer & relinquish control completely. He found himself longing to visit the cozy little villages of the northern English isle, the windswept coasts at the edge of the Irish Sea, or the stunning villas of Italy. Lounging about like some pretty little thing at the priest's side, where James could admire him freely, secure in the knowledge that the boy was his & his alone.

Such visions endured as their banter continued, as his date informed him of yet another uniquely English culinary delight. “Curry sauce?” The thought gave him pause, & Connor considered it, curious as to how it might taste. “Well, you can’t conquer half of the world & not adopt a few cultural classics,” he teased, never one to let the opportunity pass. “I don’t know. I’m a simple guy. I have an addiction to avocado toast & pumpkin spice lattes.” The remark brought forth a little laugh at his own expense - the detective had been called a basic bitch on more than one occasion, & he wore that title with pride, ever convinced that people who didn’t like cozy lattes were missing out.

But of course, his devilishly handsome companion was there to distract his thoughts, effortlessly stealing away his attention. His sultry flirtations beneath the table were met with delight, matched in fervor. No, the detective didn’t understand what James had said, but the tone in which he spoke that single pretty word had his heart skipping a beat, as did that devilish smile, the unbroken gaze. The touch was returned, causing a faint shiver as his breath caught in his throat that James’ retort. He wouldn’t have minded one bit, & his own wicked little half-smile said as much. “Patience is a virtue, James,” Connor practically cooed, his voice just a bit more hushed, a little husky. “But as a humble sinner, you have me sorely tempted.” If either of them had an ounce of shame, it wasn’t present here. So engrossed in their own little world, Connor couldn't make himself care if anyone heard. “You may just convince me into a confessional booth, yet. As long as we can share, that is.” He let James’ imagination run wild with that imagery, cutting himself another piece of fish to enjoy.

Savoring the moment along with the flavor & texture of his meal, Connor indulged openly in James’ attention. He wondered just how long this thing between them would last, if it would turn into a long distance relationship sooner rather than later. While the DPD had their own proceedings with the case which had brought them together, Rome had its own agenda. It had Connor daring to ask a question that he almost didn’t want the answer to, as the potential heartache to follow had him nervous. “How long do you think you’ll stay?” Not long, he expected. The idea made his chest ache. “I might be presumptuous here, because of Mr. Moore’s passing. But you don’t seem the type to stay in one place very long.” There & gone again like a ghost - it felt accurate, & equally disheartening. Was it too soon to admit that he wanted the priest to stay? “I’m just hopeful that you won’t suddenly disappear on me.”

"Me too. As ridiculous as it might sound... doesn't feel completely terrible to finally admit it to someone. Especially someone outside the usual conscription." By that, he primarily meant those of the supernatural community. At least, that was what James liked to call them, though he knew the Vatican and many of his peers had far more colourful terms for them. But admittedly, despite everything, despite his orders, what he was taught to think about the sometimes seedier sides of the world, he couldn't hate them. Vampires, werewolves, fae, the list was endless, but it didn't mean that every single one of them was evil. He'd met beings from either side, the good, the bad and some who seemed to linger somewhere in between, viewing the world and everything in it with a sense of neutrality. The funny thing was, he could understand every single side, they all had their reasons, he'd seen some for himself, but at the end of the day, it was their actions that really defined them and ultimately made James' decision about whether or not to hunt them down or turn a blind eye and let them go about their business.

That was another layer he may ease the detective into. Demons being real was one thing, but reminding him that it meant Heaven, Hell and angels were real was another, only to be topped by the fact that all manner of other beings existed too. He really meant it when he'd said that it all changed a person's outlook on the entire world. Darkness had a different feel to it, knowing that once the sun went down, it wasn't just mortal night owls that came out for their nightshifts, there were vampires seeping out into the world to start their day only to recoil back into the safety of their homes once the sun began to rise again. Or something as simple as looking up at the breathtaking sight of the full moon and knowing that somewhere, there were people in agonizing pain as their bodies twisted and contorted into a massive beast. That was just the surface, the most known types, the Brit could do on forever about all the different variations of those as well, then keep going for everything else that was blundering around on the planet that didn't quite fit into the human or seemingly 'normal' world.

A conversation for another time. The first hurdle was letting the guy wrap his mind around the whole exorcist thing, any further details could wait, so long as the reality of it didn't hit the guy like a train and send him scampering off as far away from the priest as possible.

Not that he'd entirely blame him, of course.

"I don't know... who am I to judge someone on how their mind works? Coming from someone who's fluent in sarcasm, I reckon there's more than a couple people out there who'd have a thing or two to say about how mine works as well." Perhaps further proven by those few sentences, as if that was even needed at this point. His wit really was the thing that kept him going, softened those hardest moments, whether for him or for others around him. It had worked so far and he wasn't about to try and shed it now. He wasn't even sure he could even if he wanted to, that old saying 'can't teach an old dog new tricks' quickly came to mind. Of course, James could pretend, he could act like someone else for a while if it got him where he needed, or the information he was looking for, but it wasn't something that could keep it up for long, that smart tongue of his was just too sharp to keep restrained for any real amount of time.

"'But the lord said unto Samuel, look not on his countenance, or on the height of his stature; because I have refused him: for the lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the lord looketh on the heart'." Even he found himself amused at how easily the words came to him, smirking a little as he prodded at the battered fish on his plate with his fork. "Sorry, seems my priestliness comes with me even when I'm not in uniform." He teased a little, an evidently amused look sweeping across his face as he cut a piece of fish and shoved it into his mouth. Though after a few happy chews of it, that smile returned again, slyly glancing back down at his food. "Just something you'll have to get used to..." If the guy decided he didn't mind it, or felt that he could stomach all of the clergyman and his little quirks.

It seemed the pair of them already had visions of seeing one another again, maybe even on something of a regular basis, something more than just friends, maybe? Or perhaps he was being too presumptuous, once again needing to remind himself that it was never that simple. For a moment, he could enjoy it though, right? Pretend as if they could go off into the sunset hand in hand and nothing could touch them? "Well, next time I pop back across the pond to the old stomping ground, I'll let you know. A night in the town, couple drinks at a local watering hole, some greasy fish and chips from a late-night takeaway then back to a hotel where we can sin to our heart's content." There was no veil about those last words, barely even an innuendo as he made it quite clear that he did indeed have somewhat -- - carnal, leaning about the man opposite him.

One more sin to add to the list. He'd soon run out of ink at this rate.

He half lamented the fact that he didn't have a house back in England now, long since selling up and making his primary residence in Rome. Most of the time when he returned to the UK, if he was nipping back home to the north of England, he'd reach out to his old friends and let them know he'd be in the area, usually being welcomed with open arms into their homes for the few days that he'd be there. When he was elsewhere in the country, or even in Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, he just booked himself into a hotel, mostly sticking to the cheaper side of things. It was mainly when the Vatican itself tried to take some control of where he stayed that he'd be thrown into somewhere a bit more luxurious, making the Brit feel rather out of place. Not that he'd say no to some luxury while it was there, maybe go for a swim, a few bottles of champagne, just to round things off.

Was it wrong that he was already toying with the idea of Connor being there with him? The pair of them lounging around in some fancy suite, wearing big fluffy dressing gowns, with a bottle of champagne on ice next to them? He really needed to slow down, ground himself, feeling not too unlike a young man again with all these fanciful notions springing to mind.

"If you think tomato sauce is beyond the pale, you should see what we put on them at three in the morning." Notably thinking back to many a night merry night that rounded off at a local chip shop where the group would drown themselves in ridiculously battered foods and sauces that would likely be the last thing someone should consume after a hefty night of drinking. "Curry sauce is usually top of the list. Pour that sucker over it and... there you have it, some fine British cuisine. Partly borrowed, mind." A smirk left him at that, not being able to hold it in any longer as he put another piece of fish in his mouth. The only reason he hadn't asked about curry sauce there was because he didn't imagine they had any, and if they did, he'd probably get some strange looks for asking. If they weren't British, there was a strong chance they wouldn't really understand it. He didn't fully understand it himself, now that he thought about it, it was just normal back home.

Yet as he looked back down at his food, going for a few chips this time, it was the foot against his ankle that had the Englishman pause for a moment, sly blue eyes lifting to stare across the table. His smile grew to match his gaze, thoroughly amused as he popped a few chips into his mouth. "Mmm, sfacciato..." The man purred in fluent Italian, not minding whether or not Connor understood him, he liked to think that his manner made it quite clear what he was saying, transcending spoken language altogether. With a growing curve of his lips, he turned his foot, running the toe of his shoe up the inside of the detective's leg a little higher, never breaking eye contact for a single second. "Keep going like that and I just might have to skip to dessert right here and now..." He'd let Connor's mind envision what he meant, already having more than a few ideas himself.

[mondoreb]

End Times Prophecy Headlines: September 19, 2022

End Times Prophecy Headlines: September 19, 2022

End Times Prophecy Report.com HEADLINES MONDAY September 19, 2022 And OPINION “And Jesus answered and said unto them, Take heed that no man deceive you.” —Matthew 24:4 ===INTERNATIONAL UKRAINE: Ukraine’s foreign minister updates state of war after seven months of fighting Russia – What the vast majority of Americans ONLY know about the ‘war in Ukraine,’  they read in the papers… RUSSIA: Putin…

[admelioraii]

The Miracles of the Animal Kingdom

Tiger

Since the dawn of civilization, humans have had a fascination for animals. After all, they are the closest living beings that link us to nature.

They interact with us and even become our daily companions. A source of food, clothing or danger, an aid, a means of transportation or a source of wonder and admiration.

They are the missing connection to the spirit realm and afterlife.

Even though every culture has realised the importance of all animals in the animal kingdom, each one of them had a favourite, a special bond with some of the spices that became particularly loved.

Animals in antiquity

When we talk about animals in antiquity we easily picture animals related to the myths, like unicorns (a horse-like animal with one spiral horn), phoenix (an immortal bird), Pegasus (a winged horse), and dragons.

These animals are generally accepted as centuries-old mythical creatures deriving from European antiquity.

Another way of expressing the human vision of animals was through fables.

Fables

A fable is a short story that teaches a lesson or conveys a moral, using animals as examples often personifying them.

European values are strongly influenced by Ancient Greece and Roman cultures, that is why these stories are well known to most westerners. One of the leading writers of fables of old Greece was the legendary Aesop and most of the best-known fables are attributed to him.

Some of these famous Aseopian fables include “the tortoise and the hare”*see end article, “the crow and the pitcher” and “the lion and the mouse”.

In Ancient Greek and Rome, fables were used as educational material, a kind of training exercise in prose composition and public speaking. Students would be asked to learn fables, expand upon them and invent their own.

Because of the vast need for fables for this purpose, they were gathered in collections like the ones of Aesop. In Europe, fables have a long tradition through the Middle Ages and became part of European high literature.

Jean de La Fontaine (1621–1695) followed in Aesopian’s footsteps. He set out to satirise the court, the church and the rising bourgeois.

Dolphins; the greeks favourite animal

Dolphins

An animal that was especially loved by the old Greeks were the dolphins, they can be traced back to ancient times where it appears in many myths. Dolphins symbolise compassion, hope, help and allegiance as well as the good side of the sea.

Etymologically speaking the word “dolphin’’ derives from the Ancient Greek “delphis” (delphus means womb), thus dolphin means fish with a womb, understandably as dolphins are mammals.

Dolphins were helpers of Poseidon, the god of the sea and they represent his presence. Dolphins even took part in some religious rituals in the Greek city of Delphi.

While hunting, dolphins produce bubbles to herd their prey to the surface. They have some of the most acoustic abilities in the animal kingdom.

They are not only the friendliest and caring creatures but also the most intelligent ones, they even have names for one another and every single dolphin has its own name. As they are highly social animals they live in groups.

Maybe because of all this together they still are Greece’s national animal.

The Romans animals

In Roman history, a mother wolf nurtured Romulus and Remus, their Roman ancestors, thus giving the wolf an important role and making it represent Rome and modern-day Italy.

Just as important was the prominent symbol of the eagle (Aquila) representing the glorious Roman army.

It symbolised the Roman army’s invincibility and assured victory.

Two birds

Birds also played an essential role in the ancient world as indicators of time, weather and season.

Hawks flying high means a clear sky, when they fly low prepare for bad weather. Generally, low-flying birds are a sign of rain.

When seagulls fly inland expect a storm and finally, birds singing in the rain indicates fair weather approaching.

Migrating birds, depending on the species and the time, reveals the beginning of one season and the end of another.

Birds were also a resource for hunting, eating, medicine and farming as well as domestic pets.

From nightingales trilling in the streets of Ancient Rome to the migrating cranes minutely observed in Athens, in antiquity everything had wings.

Ancient Greek and Roman societies were deeply connected to nature and animals. These connections went far beyond importance for mere survival.

As already established birds played a central role in these old societies, they also populated the metaphysical world of dreaming and desire (omens, magic, signs).

It was also a way for Romans to display their wealth by collecting exotic birds. For Roman women, luxurious ornaments and decorations were essential for a fine lady.

One especially appreciated ornament was caged birds, the cage could even be made of silver or tortoise shells. Birds that talked were preferred, besides making a great show they represented love.

As feathered creatures helped tell time and keep track of the calendar year in old Greece and Rome, animals on the other side of the world did the same.

The Chinese Zodiac

In the Chinese calendrical systems based on the Chinese zodiac, animals were honoured in the astrological systems as well as for counting hours, as this system was based on the zodiac.

Day and night were divided into 12 two hours blocks, each of which represented an animal. As an example the hour of the rat, the hour of the tiger, the hour of the dragon etc.*see end article.

As day and night were divided into 12 blocks, their total sum was 24hours. The duration of one block varied throughout the year depending on its position in the calendar and the season. Ex. The horse block would be longer during summer and shorter during winter. This was called the Kyung-Jeom method as the Chinese calendrical system was introduced to Korea.

The mountainous forested landscapes of the Korean Peninsula were once home to a large tiger population, such that the country was popularly known as the “Land of the Tigers”.

Moreover, Korea was once known as the “Land of the exceptional people who know how to tame the tiger” demonstrating the close relationship the Koreans had with tigers.

From ancient times through the Joseph Dynasty (1392–1897), Koreans have expressed their reverence for tigers in various ways.

Tiger

A tiger plays a prominent role in the myth of Dangun, which depicts the birth of Korean civilization.

Tigers are portrayed in Korea as magnanimous symbols of superiority as well as auspicious creatures that expel evil spirits. The tiger is the national animal of South Korea even though it is extinct from the Korean Peninsula nowadays. (Since 1921).

Oriental persimmon or Diospyros kaki is an Asian fruit.

Old Korean folktale;

A persimmon is scarier than a tiger.

Long time ago, a very long time ago one evening a child was crying his heart out.

Ah! Ah! No one knew why he was crying, his mother tried to calm him down, but the child’s cry didn’t stop.

Here she said have a rice cake with honey.

Ah! Ah! Ah! Then the mother told a lie she shouldn’t have.

Ah! Ah! A tiger has come to take you. At that precise moment a tiger who came to eat the cow the mother had in the backyard, heard what she said. Wait, how did she know that I was coming, he thought. He stayed still beside the door to listen in.

Ah! Ah! Ah! Baby, my baby, I will give you a persimmon, then the child stopped crying immediately.

The tiger was more surprised than the mother to hear that the child had stopped crying.

Even when she said I came, he continued crying but with the persimmon, he stopped. That guy called persimmon must be much scarier than I.

Before I get eaten by Mr persimmon, I will run away, quickly.

But the tiger was hungry, since I came this far already I should at least steal the cow and go.

The tiger slowly approached the stable.

At that moment a thief, who had also come to steal the cow leapt on the tiger, thinking it was the cow.

The tiger thought, this scary creature on my back must be the scary persimmon and ran for his life.

The thief held on to the tiger at first, but when the time came he jumped off.

The tiger was relieved, thank God, because the persimmon is really a terrible creature.

Ancient Egypt

Just as swift as the ferocious Korean tiger “the big cat” ran through the dense wild forests, we will move on to a much smaller but not less appreciated cat.

Cats are amongst the most iconic animals in ancient Egyptian culture and of absolute importance. The pharaonic society’s extreme fascination for felines was partially based on their enormous grain storage.

Being an agricultural country they needed to protect grains and crops from vermin and rodents, who were better for the job than a feline.

But the admiration for these furry friends went much deeper than that. Cats were adored for their complex and dual nature. Felines combine grace, fertility and gentle care with aggression, swiftness and danger.

Bastet was probably the best known feline goddess of ancient Egypt even though she was originally worshipped in the form of a lioness and later a cat.

The punishment for killing a cat was execution.

Respect and admiration for animals was fundamental in all of the ancient Egyptian traditions, as animals were given important statues throughout life and in the afterlife.

Hawk

High up, in the clear blue Egyptian skies, a powerful hawk glides mighty under the blistering sun.

Silently it makes its way through the atmosphere across deserts, mountains and steppe landscapes.

Flying at 240 kilometres per hour through the air is an amazing achievement but the key to its survival is its sharp eyesight and extreme intelligence.

The hawk lands on a rocky plateau on the horizon, it is an easy undertaking as it is equipped with strong, powerful, sharp curved talons also used for capturing prey.

While encircling the surroundings earlier, the hawk used its power of observation and focus to inspect and overlook each and every diminutive movement on the ground.

The hawk has the ability to see things from a “ higher perspective”.

It is comprehensible how these admirable feathered creatures came to be one of the pharaonic era’s most powerful gods (Ra) as if that would not be enough it even became part of their many creation myths.

The lotus flower. (Ancient Egyptian creation story)

An ancient Egyptian creation story features the lotus flower, an important flower in ancient Egyptian culture.

The creation story goes on telling that the entire universe was called Nun.

Nun was made of nothing but water- a vast ocean.

Out of Nun emerged a lotus flower together with a mound of dry land, this was Egypt, out of the lotus flower bloomed the sun god Ra, whose job was to warm the dry land each day.

Each night, the lotus blossom closed, tucking” Ra” in, for a safe and warm night’s sleep and darkening the Egyptian sky.

In the morning the lotus flower opened so that Ra could come out and work.

In ancient Egypt, everyone had a job to do, including a lotus flower.

The Native Americans

Bear Cub

For the Native Americans, the humans had a very close relationship both with nature and animals and they had enormous respect for both.

They believed each person was connected, from birth to nine different animals, from an enormous selection and that these animals would accompany him/her through life, acting as guides.

Although people may identify with several animal guides, throughout their lifetime, one of these nine totem animals acted as the main guardian spirit.

A totem is a carved, painted log representing or commemorating ancestry, individuals or events. A totem is a log carved and painted with animals one on top of another forming a spiritual being. Totems represent and commemorate ancestry, individuals or events.

A bear was a spiritual guide, thus very respected by the various tribes. The bear symbol appears across Native American cultures and reminds native people to protect their ways of life, to fight for what is right and to restore balance in communities.

The bear was a protector and its strength brought healing.

They are massive, powerful and have big, strong bodies, a perfect characteristic for a protector, another wanted attribute is their intelligence and a good memory that also come in handy for a guide.

Despite their sturdy physique, a bear deeply grieves at the loss of a cub or sibling and they are willing to risk their lives for their own.

Due to the importance and admiration of bears, there are plenty of American myths and legends about these impressive creatures.* see end article.

Mato Tipila ( Devils Tower ) (Mato means bear in Native American).

Mato Tipila is a monumental hillside that rises 386 metres from the black hills in northeastern Wyoming (USA).

The Lakota Sioux tribe tells a legend of how this monument came to be.

Six girls were out to pick flowers when they were attacked and chased by bears. The Great Spirit felt bad for them and raised the ground beneath their feet.

The bears gave chase and attempted to climb the newly formed tower, but they couldn’t get to the top. The bears fell off, clawing the sides of the mountainside.

The Indigenous Americans’ sensible relationship with nature reflects in their proverbs as well.

Beware of the man who doesn’t talk, and the dog that doesn’t bark.- Cheyenne

We do not inherit the Earth from our ancestors, we borrow them from our children.- Unknown tribe

The bird that has eaten cannot fly with the bird that is hungry.- Omaha

Butterflies

A flutter of butterflies is an explosion of joy and colours, a cheerful spectacle as a whole, individually each and everyone is a wonder by itself.

A butterfly is a colourful, fragile, classy, graceful and extravagant creature.

All previously mentioned cultures are unified when it comes to butterflies.

In Chinese culture they symbolise good fortune and a long life, being one of the most beautiful insects they are associated with females in many cultures.

Butterflies are well known for a process called metamorphosis, a transformation from larvae to a real butterfly with wings.

These wings are transparent but covered with thousands of scales that reflect light and give the winged insect its colour.

Butterflies do not eat but drink flower nectar, they have tongs like tubes to suck up liquid food thus many of them do not excrete waste but use everything they consume as energy.

Butterflies are known to have the widest visual range of all wildlife and an exceptional perception of fast-moving objects.

They can see colours humans can’t and distinguish ultraviolet and polarised light.

It was a symbol of the immortal soul in Greek and Roman mythology and can even be seen in ancient Egyptian grave murals.

Religiously speaking the butterfly represents resurrection.

These small extravagant creatures are a symbol of the purer part of the human character, often connected with nature and representing the opposite pole to our materialistic self-interest.

It is hopeful indicating renewal, rejuvenation and resurrection.

So, next time you enjoy a sunny summer day in a flourishing garden appreciate these colourful winged creatures for what they truly are, tiny little miracles.

*The tortoise and the hare.

The tortoise and the hare were going to race, to see who won. Even though the thought was ridiculous, they went on with it. A short while into the race the hare, who was confident he would win, took a nap in a place close to the end of the race. The tortoise who was slow but persistent continued running. When the confident hare woke up from his prolonged sleep he discovered that the tortoise already had reached the end line and thus won the race.

Aesop fable collections.

Moral: Never underestimate your enemy, nor be too confident!

**Kyung-Jeom method. Traditional hours;

Rat hours 자시/子時  11.00 p.m. - 01:00 a.m.  

Cow hours 축시/丑時  01:00 a.m. - 03:00 a.m.

Tiger hours 인시/寅時  03:00 a.m. - 05:00 a.m.

Rabbit hours 묘시/卯時  05:00 a.m. - 07:00 a.m.

Dragon hours 진시/辰時  07:00 a.m. - 09:00 a.m.

Snake hours 사시/巳時  09:00 a.m. - 11:00 a.m.

Horse hours 오시/午時  11:00 a.m. - 01:00 p.m.

Lamb hours 미시/未時  01:00 p.m. - 03:00 p.m.

Monkey hours 신시/申時  03:00 p.m. - 05:00 p.m.

Hen hours 유시/酉時  05:00 p.m. - 07:00 p.m.

Dog hours 술시/戌時  07:00 p.m. - 09:00 p.m.

Pig hours 해시/亥時  09:00 p.m. - 11:00 p.m.

***How Bear lost his tail (An Iroquois legend).

Legends, myths and tales of Native Americans.

[another-rogue-trevelyan]

If you liked Dragon Age Masterlist

If you’re anything like me, you’re into niche market, high fantasy, single player RPGs, preferably with a historical setting and romance options. So if you’re looking for a new game, here I am with some suggestions!

Sorted by studio:

Bethesda:

Oblivion (2006)

“In the shadow of evil, a hero will rise from the ashes of a fallen empire. The gates have been opened, and the battle has begun. Only one thing can save the world from Mehrunes Dagon and the demonic hordes of Oblivion. The true heir of the Septim line must be found and restored to the Imperial throne. The fate of the world rests in the hands of one. Find him, and shut the jaws of Oblivion.”

The Elder Scrolls series were my gateway into RPGs and hold a special place in my heart. Oblivion features a wide open world, immersive combat, and the ability to customize race, class, and gender.

Skyrim (2011)

“The Empire of Tamriel is on the edge. The High King of Skyrim has been murdered. Alliances form as claims to the throne are made. In the midst of this conflict, a far more dangerous, ancient evil is awakened. Dragons, long lost to the passages of the Elder Scrolls, have returned to Tamriel. The future of Skyrim, even the Empire itself, hangs in the balance as they wait for the prophesized Dragonborn to come; a hero born with the power of The Voice, and the only one who can stand amongst the dragons.”

I have sunk so many hours into this game and still have not experienced all there is to experience. Just like Oblivion, Skyrim offers the ability to customize your character and find a play style that suits you. A huge open world offers tons of opportunity for exploration and questing. You could play this game many, many hours and not even touch the main quest if you wanted to.

BioWare:

Mass Effect Legendary Edition (2021)

Just do it. Just fucking do it I’m still sobbing I’ve never had a game wreck me in this way. I might possibly like it more than Dragon Age which feels sacrilegious to say but it was so good. You follow Commander Shepard (customizable) for three whole games and the choices have serious consequences. Also, romance. Truthfully this might be the most well written storyline I’ve ever seen in a video game. Also, same studio as Dragon Age.

CD Projekt:

The Witcher III: Wild Hunt (2015)

I’ll let the website description speak for itself, but Witcher III was good enough that I didn’t mind being forced to play as a man (those who know me know that I exclusively prefer to play women and often dislike games where I can’t do so)! The characters that make up this story are captivating and suck you into their world, leaving you with some tough choices to make. Also, bonus points for romance! (Yen is one of my all time favorite characters, Triss never stood a chance for me. Sorry Triss fans 😂)

Larian:

Divinity Original Sin 2 (2017)

“The Divine is dead. The Void approaches. And the powers lying dormant within you are soon to awaken. Choose your role in a BAFTA-winning story, and explore a world that reacts to who you are, and the choices you make. With five races to choose from, and an adventure playable solo or as a party of up to four, lay waste to an oppressive order in a world afraid of magic. Become the God the world so desperately needs.”

Full disclosure, I have not finished playing this one yet and will update when I do, but what I’ve played so far has been great! A classic, turn-based RPG that allows you a wide range of character customization. I find this game incredibly satisfying to be a rogue (my preferred class) because it lets me live my dream of throwing knives at people. Also, romance!

Baldur’s Gate III beta (2020)

“An ancient evil has returned to Baldur's Gate, intent on devouring it from the inside out. The fate of Faerûn lies in your hands. Alone, you may resist. But together, you can overcome. Gather your party.”

Fair warning, as of my most recent update to this post (March 30th, 2021) this game is still in a beta phase, which means it is NOT complete and has aspects that are missing, glitchy, or subject to change. With that being said, I’m so obsessed. It’s so, so good already and is only getting better. Another wide open world to explore with a group of companions with strong and sometimes clashing personalities, choices are abundant in this game and will affect how your party members think of you. This game so far gives me the feeling that choices are complicated and aren’t always easy to tell which is morally right, which I personally love. Also, I can be a sarcastic ass with a good heart, which is always fun. Astarion basically owns me now, but if you can resist him there are plentiful other romance choices as well! Customization is already a wider range than I’ve seen in most RPGs and they haven’t even finished the character creator yet, which has me SO excited for the finished product. Also - good hair?!??!! I love it!

Lionhead:

Fable III (2010)

“Lead a revolution to take control of Albion, fight alongside your people, and experience love and loss while preparing to defend the kingdom against a looming threat. Your choices as ruler will lead to consequences felt across the entire land.”

I’ll be honest, this one isn’t my favorite on the list, but was good enough to still make it! This game allows you to choose between playing as the prince or the princess on a quest to save your kingdom from itself, and then a greater threat as well. The game takes place in a kingdom loosely modeled after industrial England, and what did score it some major points were (SPOILER WARNING - skip the purple if you don’t want to know!) that the last act of the game lets you play as the monarch, where you are forced to make some tough decisions in order to save your kingdom. It is very easy to back yourself into a corner, pinch pennies in order to fund the army and save the kingdom, but make your citizens hate you because of it. You’re gonna have to be very, very careful, which is something I did really enjoy about this game. (I’ve heard Fable II was better, and that’s also on my list to try, will update in the future!)

Nintendo:

Fire Emblem Three Houses (2019)

“War is coming to the continent of Fódlan. Here, order is maintained by the Church of Seiros, which hosts the prestigious Officer’s Academy within its headquarters. You are invited to teach one of its three mighty houses, each comprised of students brimming with personality and represented by a royal from one of three territories. As their professor, you must lead your students in their academic lives and in turn-based, tactical RPG battles wrought with strategic, new twists to overcome. Which house, and which path, will you choose?”

Currently playing this one and I’m so addicted! This one is slightly outside of my usual taste but it has made me interested in playing more games like it. The player controls Byleth (you can rename them if you wish), who becomes a professor of combat and battle tactics despite their young age at a monastery and finds themself in charge of a house of students. Battles are tactics and strategy based and classes are highly customizable. I sunk like 30 hours into this game in the last three days. I won’t say more about the plot to avoid spoilers, but it’s been a ton of fun and also has slow burn romance

Spiders:

Greedfall (2019)

This game destroyed my soul in the best way and when I finished it I immediately started a new game to play it again. You play as Lady or Lord De Sardet, Legate of the Congregation of Merchants and effectively the right hand of your cousin, who has been appointed governor of your new colony on the island. While I enjoy the combat in this game, which allows you the choice between one handed, two handed, magic, and pistols or rifles (save that ammo for when you really need it!), this game focuses heavily on diplomacy and relations. Be careful what information you give to whom and how you treat every decision. The enemies you make early on might be people you need on your side later. I also love that choices aren’t always clearly right or wrong, and often are more complicated than they first appear. Even the best intentions can sometimes go awry.

Ubisoft:

Assassin’s Creed, Syndicate (2015)

���London, 1868. In the heart of the Industrial Revolution, lead your underworld organization and grow your influence to fight those who exploit the less privileged in the name of progress”

Another one that I’ll admit, I haven’t finished, and is definitely the odd one out on the list because it’s set in Victorian England, but I was having fun with what I had played so far before Greedfall distracted me. In this game, you alternate between controlling twins Jacob and Evie Frye as you explore and liberate London while meeting famous historical figures and running a gang on the side.

Assassin’s Creed, Origins (2017)

“Ancient Egypt, a land of majesty and intrigue, is disappearing in a ruthless fight for power. Unveil dark secrets and forgotten myths as you go back to the one founding moment: The Origins of the Assassin’s Brotherhood.”

In the spirit of honesty, I haven’t started this one yet, but I am so confident that I’m gonna love it when I do that it’s here anyway. I’ve purchased it, and will get to it soon, I swear! In the meantime, I wanted to put it here because I’m confident some of you will enjoy it. Will come back with a review once I know more.

Assassin’s Creed, Odyssey (2018)

“Write your own epic odyssey and become a legendary Spartan hero in Assassin’s Creed® Odyssey, an inspiring adventure where you must forge your destiny and define your own path in a world on the brink of tearing itself apart. Influence how history unfolds as you experience a rich and ever-changing world shaped by your decisions.”

Y’all this game owned my soul for a while. I’ve sunk so many hours into it. You have a choice to play as either Kassandra or Alexios and navigate the wonders of Ancient Greece. The world is stunning, the choices are important, and this game took a big step for the assassins creed series in becoming a true RPG. I can’t recommend this one enough, you should absolutely go for it!

Assassin’s Creed, Valhalla (2020)

“Become Eivor, a legendary Viking warrior. Explore England's Dark Ages as you raid your enemies, grow your settlement, and build your political power in the quest to earn a place among the gods in Valhalla.”

This game is brand new, hot off the press, and has already been a massive hit. I have only JUST started playing it and am about an hour in, but so far so good! It’s here on my recommendations list because of its wild popularity and because I’ve already enjoyed other games in this series, so I feel confident that some of my fellow dragon age fans will enjoy it. Will update again once I get further in.

Other games on my To Be Played list (otherwise known as things I don’t want to recommend because I know almost nothing about them but will update here after I know more)

-Pillars of Eternity 1 and 2

-Horizon Zero Dawn

-Assassin’s Creed: Black Flag

-Fable 1 and 2

-Kingdoms of Amalur

-Breath of the Wild

-Crimson Desert (not out yet but I’m intrigued)

[vfdarkness]

AVFD Script - S2EP03 The Forgotten Man

[[Intro]]

You’re at a bus stop and your bus is late.

Finally, it pulls up, you step aboard, and for a brief moment… 

the driver’s facial features - their eyes, nose, mouth are in all the wrong places. 

As you stare, their face quickly rearranges itself to appear more normal. More human.

The door closes. There’s no one else in the vehicle.

You need my help.

[[AVFD intro music kicks in]]

This is A Voice From Darkness.

[[AVFD intro music fades out]]

Hello, this is Dr. Malcolm Ryder, parapsychologist, here to help you with all problems paranormal, supernatural, and otherworldly. And we have a wonderful show planned for tonight. There’s two national alerts for the state of Florida - one for the panhandle, and another for the everglades. After we go over these we’ll explore one of the strangest roadside attractions in American history. And of course we’ll finish our show with the phone lines open so you, our listeners, can call-in. But first, let's get to our national alerts

[[National Alerts music starts]]

A sinkhole has appeared in the middle of Kelson Ave in Marianna, Florida. The hole’s depth is currently unknown however twenty feet down, stone carvings of faces appear. The carvings continue for as far down as anyone can tell. Each is unique yet is made to grotesquely express either the emotion of fear or that of delight. A spelunker descended into the hole to gather information about its depth. Two hours into his descent contact was lost and he was pulled out. When he resurfaced he was said to be in a daze. He removed his harness and immediately jumped back into the hole. Please be careful while driving on Kelson, Ave in Marianna, Florida. 

Our second national alert is for the Florida Everglades. The Singing has returned to the wetlands. All those in the area are advised to wear hearing protection for at least the next 72 hours or until otherwise instructed. The source of The Singing is unknown but is said to compel all who hear it to walk into the wetlands and be devoured by the creatures there-in. Again, please wear hearing protection if you’re within earshot of the Florida Everglades.

And that’s all we have for national alerts this evening. 

[[NA music fades out]]

Next up we have Today In Odd America, where we’ll discuss a manifestation that once haunted every corner of this land. And afterwards we’ll open the phone-lines.

[[Today In Odd America]]

Today in Odd America we find ourselves across the highways of our country. Forty four years ago today marks the last known visit to a roadside attraction commonly called The House of Narcissus. No physical evidence of this place exists. It was never found in the same location twice - yet hundreds of oral testimonies swear to its existence. Tonight I will cobble together disparate accounts from those who claim to have toured the fabled roadside museum. My hope is this will paint you a picture of what the experience was like for those who wound up touring a space dedicated completely to themselves. 

“I was driving down Route 8,” Maise Bridges stated to the Columbus Dispatch in 1955. “It was late and dark. No other cars were on the road. Then I saw it - a billboard illuminated by a single dim light that read: Know Thyself, Next Exit. No other words. But next to them, taking up the entirety of the right side was a painted picture - of me. Unmistakably me. Done in a sort of… Norman Rockwell style I suppose. I just… What was I supposed to do? Of course I took the next exit.” 

All descriptions of The House of Narcissus begin this way. A strange billboard on a lonely road, mere seconds to decide to take the exit or not. Oddly, there are few confirmed cases of those who saw the billboard and kept driving. It’s impossible to say if that says something overall about human nature or merely the people The House chose to manifest for.

“I was overwhelmed when I first drove up to the house,” Curtis Johnson said to the Louisville Times in 1948. “I’m not ashamed to admit it, but I might have cried a bit. I mean the place was just, just magnificent. Out there, in the middle of this grassy field, in the middle of nowhere there’s this small piece of heaven, you know? I didn’t feel like I was about to tour some cheap-o roadside scam where they show you a mannequin in a five dollar gorilla suit and tell you it’s Bigfoot. I felt like I was home. Of course I rushed right outta my car up to the door. Why wouldn’t I? I was home.”

Descriptions of the museum are typically left vague. Abstract. At least when describing the exterior. Visitors will speak of the joy they felt upon seeing the house. Often they’ll say a sense of nostalgia or homecoming overwhelmed them. However no one was ever able to give a single concrete detail of what The House looked like. How many stories were there? What color was the siding? What the house looks like remains a mystery to this day. But there’s much agreement about its interior. At least in some respects.

“There’re no employees, no turnstyle to go through, nothing like a museum or roadside attraction typically has. You just go in the front door, and you’re suddenly there - in the first room. It’s filled with photographs along the walls. They were all of my family, friends, neighbors, teachers, former classmates, folks from my church, employers, co-workers. People I might have talked to only once in passing. None of these were photos I took or remember anyone else ever taking. None are in any photo album I own,” said Judge Michael Harvester in 1972, when he called into the KIRT radio station of Olympia, Washington. 

The Photo Gallery is always the first room visitors find themselves in. Under each photo is a brass plaque, on which a single sentence is etched: the last words said by whomever is touring the house to the person featured in the photograph.

Even this first room can be disarming to a visitor. As Judge Harvester said: “You don’t realize how many people you speak to, thinking you’ll do so again, but then never do. It adds up over a life. It really does. I didn’t look at all the pictures, or read all the plaques. I had to stop after awhile. I saw one in particular… the last words I said to an old neighbor of mine, lived a few houses away from the place I bought right after law school. Me, him, and some of the guys down the block would get together to play poker twice a month. Last thing I said to him, ‘I’ll see you in a few weeks.’ I don’t remember what happened after that. I guess the poker game fell apart. I don’t think either of us moved, I don’t remember us getting into any fights. But I never spoke to him again. And that’s just one example. People like to call that first room the photo gallery, and that makes sense, I guess. But that’s not what it is. It’s a monument. A monument to lost relationships.”

Most visitors to The House expressed regret coming there at all after visiting this first room. Unfortunately, the way they entered disappears after entry - replaced by a wall filled with photographs. Once you enter, The House forces you to continue through the rooms. That is, if you wish to leave.

“The second room was a full scale replica of my childhood home,” said Sara Lopez to the San Diego Tribune in 1966. “All five rooms of our house back on Balboa Avenue. “I went through the cabinets in the kitchen. The dishes… they were identical to ones we had. There were these little hand drawn designs on them. They’re abstract, hard to describe, but the plates in that museum. They matched perfectly how I remembered them. It was impossible.” Most statements regarding the second room share similar amazement at the level of detail on even the most insignificant items - stains on the carpet, entryways scuffed and dirty from children’s shoes. “What really got me about the second room, “Sara Lopez said, “were the smells. The kitchen had this overwhelming odor of garlic and cumin, spices my mother put in everything. The carpet near the entryway smelled like wet dog. Our lab, Daisy, would run through our neighbors sprinkler then come inside, right to that patch of carpet, and roll around. Little things like that, I’d forgotten about completely. Hadn’t thought of in years, but suddenly a million memories came rushing back to me.”

The average visitor reported spending somewhere between four to five hours in The House of Narcissus. There were outliers of course, in both directions. Some, after seeing the photo gallery, ran through the other rooms without lingering. Others claimed to have spent days and only left when they were near dehydration.

There are dozens of other rooms in The House. Too many to go over tonight. But I’ll end by stating what’s in the only obligatory room, the last room. The room with the only way out.

At the very end of a long hallway is a plain wooden door with a small sign above that reads: What if…

Inside is a small movie theatre. There’s a single red cushioned seat in the room with the perfect view of a small screen. To the right of the screen is a door with an exit sign above. The door will not open unless the visitor sits down in the chair and watches, truly watches and listens, to the film that plays in that small theatre.

“On the day of what was supposed to be my wedding I called my best friend - my bridesmaid. I cried and I gave her the awful job of telling my husband-to-be I’d changed my mind,” said Tonya Blanton to the Sante Fe Dispatch in 1958. “I was living in Minneapolis at the time. Born there, was to be married there, figured I’d die there eventually too. I don’t know what overcame me. But I got in my car and drove. Found myself in New Mexico and started a new life. My parents were furious. And I never spoke to the man who was to be my husband ever again. He sent me a letter when I’d settled in Santa Fe. I wasn’t brave enough to open it. But in that last room. In that last room of that awful house - a film played. It showed what my life would have been had I stayed in Minneapolis. I won’t… I won’t say what all I saw. What all I missed out on. All I’ll say is I know I made the wrong choice. I’ve thought about that every single day since visiting that terrible place.”

Tonya Blanton is not a unique case. Chicago journalist Studs Terkel in his book The American Road: An Oral History devoted a chapter to The House of Narcissus. He conducted over twenty interviews with those who'd toured the roadside wonder. When asked if they could change places and live the life they saw in that last room - would they? Every person he interviewed said they would.

The House of Narcissus only existed for some sixty odd years. The last known visit occurred in 1977, outside of Spring Green, Wisconsin. “People say I must’ve burned the place down or something,” Buddy Palmer, the last recognized visitor, said to the Madison Gazette in 1980. “I didn’t, I swear,” he went on, “but if I had some matches and kerosene on me, would I of? Sure thing. No one should ever be forced to watch the movie that plays in that last room. I’ll think of that picture the rest of my life. I’ll know I messed up early on and I’m not living my best, happiest life. You know how hard it is to get out of the bed in the morning with that hanging over you? Sometimes that movie plays in my dreams. I usually gotta call in sick to work the next day when it does. I just can’t stop thinking about it. The rest of the place too… it’s just... Just too much.”

For those of you listening to this while driving alone, rest assured, you’re unlikely to see a billboard with your own face staring back at you and the words: Know Thyself, Next Exit. But in the rare chance such an event occurs, please consider my advice: don’t take that exit. Just keep driving. There are some truths about ourselves perhaps better left unexplored.

And now back to our main show.

[[TIOA music fades out]]

​​ACT II

RYDER

And we're back and we already have a caller on the line. Why don't you tell us your name and the nature of your supernatural problem.

RENE

Hello, Malcolm. I was wondering if we'd ever get the chance to speak again.

RYDER

(uncertain)

I don't recognize your voice. Have you called into the show before?

RENE

A few times, yes. And we met once or twice in person.

A beat.

RYDER

Who is this?

RENE

My name is Rene Dupont. And though I've explained this to you before, I will kindly do so again. I exist with a peculiar condition. People can rarely retain memories of me. Not in any form. As this conversation gets to a certain point, I'll begin to vanish from your mind as well as most of your listeners. If you try to write down anything about me during this call, you'll likely only produce gibberish or the vaguest of details.

RYDER

I've read case studies of similar situations. There was a man in Utah-

RENE

(interrupts)

Yes, yes.

Nathaniel Cotwell who lived in a small town that couldn't create new memories of him past the age of eight. And so as an adult they'd still treat him as if he were a young boy. You studied him and Sarah Pullman of Butte, Montana who went missing one night in the woods. When she found her way home again, her family had completely forgotten her.

A beat.

RENE

The few times we've spoken, you've wished to demonstrate knowledge of people who've existed with Memory-related ailments and those are your two most common examples.

RYDER

It seems we have spoken before. Mr. Dupont-

RENE

Please, call me Rene. No need for formalities. We're old acquaintances after all.

RYDER

Yes. Of course. And why have you called into the show tonight, Rene?

RENE

There's been a man following me. Repeatedly.

A beat.

RYDER

(realizing what he means)

And of course that's a difficult task to accomplish, as it's so hard to remember you.

RENE

You're correct. I am Anonymity Incarnate. But there's a man in a grey suit who seems to have found my scent. A further detail about him: he's missing one of his fingers. I'll let you guess which.

RYDER

Why is The Traveling Salesman after you?

RENE

I called you in search of an answer to that very question.

RYDER

In all likelihood he wishes to strike a deal with you. That's why he seeks anyone out. That, or to kill them.

RENE

Let's assume the former for the moment: what sort of deal would he want to make with me?

RYDER

I have no idea. Perhaps he needs information from someone. But he doesn't want this person to know they've given their secrets up. I imagine with your talent that's something you'd be good at.

RENE

Before the wall was destroyed in '89 I was employed on both sides doing something akin to what you just suggested.

A beat.

RYDER

Then that might be what he wants. Or perhaps something more... metaphysical.

RENE

Such as?

RYDER

Your ability to be forgotten. Julian already has some power over memory, but not that.

RENE

Could he really take that from me?

RYDER

Not take. Trade. The Salesman doesn't steal, Rene, but his deals are often one-sided, exploitive, as he'll neglect to tell you pertent information before you agree.

RENE

So he wouldn't really be taking something from me so much as he'd be giving me the gift of being able to be remembered.

A beat.

RYDER

That's a dangerous way of viewing such a deal.

RENE

Dangerous for you, perhaps, but of great advantage to me.

RYDER

It would be dangerous for the whole country for The Traveling Salesman to be easily forgotten. One of the few weapons we have against him are the memories of devastation he's brought about by the deals he's made. The only reason anyone ever turns him down is because his reputation precedes him. Take that away-

RENE

(interrupts)

I have the means and resources to go to many other countries. Julian Holloway can have this one.

RYDER

You'd potentially sacrifice hundreds of millions of people to-

RENE

(interrupts)

To be remembered. And yes, I would. This "talent" of mine came to me when I was young. For most my life I've been unable to have a meaningful relationship with another human being.

To even have an extended conversation. What's my name?

RYDER

Rene...

Malcolm searches his mind for the surname.

RYDER

Rene Dupont.

RENE

You're close to forgetting already, Malcolm Ryder.

A beat.

RENE

If I made a deal with your friend for him to take this power away, you'd never even know.

RYDER

The Traveling Salesman is not my friend.

RENE

If your former friend might help me where no one else could before, including yourself, then I would take him up on his offer.

RYDER

That is if he even wants to help you. He could be searching for you, as I already said, to kill you.

RENE

And why would that be his objective?

RYDER

There are limitations to his power. I don't fully know what they are, but I know they exist.

RENE

Again I ask, why would this necessitate him wanting me dead?

RYDER

Because you possess power in one of his realms - Memory and Dream. And if you have more power than he does, and if he can't use you, or your power, towards his own ends, he'll want you dead. You're a liability otherwise.

A beat.

RENE

You're bluffing. Trying to stoke fear in me so I stay away from him. So I can't make a deal. If what you said was true, your friend Charlotte Price would be dead.

RYDER

Charlotte has found ways to take care of herself. She's forged alliances with things even Julian fears. Have you done the same?

A beat.

RENE

What you're telling me is that I need leverage before I allow Julian Holloway to try and offer a deal to me.

RYDER

That's not what I'm saying at all. Under no circumstances should you attempt to make any deal with him.

RENE

That's not what I took away from this conversation. Thank you so much, Malcolm. As always, you've been helpful.

RYDER

No, wait-

Dial tone.

A long pause.

RYDER

There was someone on the line just now. I swear there was.

I have notes I made, most are illegible which isn't like me. Of what I can read: Shadow, Mirror, Flesh, Spirit, and Dream. I tried to write Memory but it seems my hand was unable to. Odd...

A beat.

RYDER

I think we'll end the show there tonight. I'd like to play back the recording of the past several minutes. See if I can see what I'm missing.

A beat.

RYDER

But if you're experiencing anything supernatural, paranormal, or otherworldly, please feel free to call in next time on A Voice From Darkness.

[[AVFD outro music fades in and out.]]

[virgil-writes]

ash & soot

Long before the Winters come into play, a monster stalks the Forbidden Forest that surrounds the Village. Karl Heisenberg is sent to investigate, and heads deeper into darkness to find his prey, a thorn on his side and someone just like him. (eventual Heisenberg x OC)

on AO3: chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four | chapter five

chapter 5 - professional secrets

SFW, we finally meet our new friend. there's some slightly spicy language and blood but nothing much. around 3.2K words.

The sudden realization that he was not alone made his skin crawl.

Heisenberg instinctively reached for his hammer, scouted his surroundings for any piece of metal he could find. The pots rattled and he heard the cauldron swing violently, the stranger protesting with a sigh of frustration as she tried to steady the cooking pot. He made a sharp turn to watch her, eyes trained on her every move as he prepared to defend himself. “I am sorry to disappoint - even the nails of this house are made of wood.” She snickered, not seeming to mind him at all, having gone back to stirring the stew, humming what he recognized as a lullaby. “Take a seat, make yourself at home.”

There was something familiar about her, perhaps the way she held herself, or the tone of her voice. She looked nothing like the hag, was taller and much younger, too, but something told him they were one and the same.

She turned around and stared openly at him with a small smile, far too friendly towards a rugged stranger who had just invaded her home and knocked together all of her cast iron pans with a slight flick of his hand. Her clothes were simple, a long linen skirt the color of moss, white buttoned shirt with gathered sleeves and embroidered flowers. A colorful apron was tied around her waist, its pockets stuffed with dried herbs and wooden utensils. Her raven hair was pulled back to keep it away from her face, though a few unruly curls insisted on framing it ever so gently. She was the very picture of a peasant villager, while looking nothing of the sort. She had the garments and sheepish expression, but none of the devotion and fear. There were calluses on her hands from working the land, freckles on her face from being under the sun day after day, and despite it all her skin looked warm, soft to the touch, promised delights he had never experienced.

Eerily beautiful, mysterious, sinister. Voice of velvet with a hint of malice. If he were ever to be lured into the embrace of a mythical creature only to be eaten alive not long after, she would be the one to do it. The prospect of such a gruesome death, for some reason, only served to pique his interest.

“To what do I owe the honor of your visit? How can I be of service, Lord Heisenberg?” There was absolute certainty in her voice, like they had spoken many a time before. It was no surprise that she knew him, of course. After all, one had but to step inside the village church to see a picture of his handsome face alongside his adorable little family. He had never seen her, however, not in the fields nor the church, not in the masses nor the harvest festivals. Surely he would remember, such striking beauty and poised demeanor that would rival any noblewoman. She far surpassed the fabled Dimitrescu daughters, and that she was still alive was evidence enough to tell him she was not seen very often. Alcina did not suffer competition.

“In need of a curative or ointment?” There was homeliness in her grace, somehow, a simplicity one would not find among finery and expensive wine. She poured herself a cup of tea as she spoke, motioned in his direction as if to offer him some. The cup was neatly stacked upon others in the cabinet when he did not take it, and she shrugged her shoulders as if disappointed. The table set for two, the second teacup put away when he refused the offer. Had she been expecting him?

Like she had heard his very thoughts, the woman pulled a chair and gestured for him to sit, moving about with little discomfort for his presence. It felt as if he was no esteemed visitor, no frightening intruder, but a frequent houseguest, someone who had visited a thousand times over and needed no coaxing or guidance to make themselves comfortable. It was strangely heartwarming, the way he felt like he could kick off his boots and sit beside her on the couch to chitchat, open the cabinets to find himself a snack. He could sit cross-legged on the woven rug and pet the dog in front of the fireplace, sit by the table to study his plans with only the crackling of the fire as background noise.

She pat his shoulder reassuringly as she crossed the room to check on the stew, her touch lingering just a second too long, hips swaying to a tune only playing inside her head. The domesticity of it all was soothing, but also infuriating. He had not come for pleasantries, to sip on tea while they laughed over the latest village gossip. He had come to bind and gag her, to drag her all the way back to a castle that would become her final resting place. Somehow, he was sure the idea of being tied and manhandled would actually please her.

“Seeking a nice massage to alleviate the pressure on those shoulders?” She continued when his silence persisted, the teacup left behind on the kitchen counter as she reached up to a shelf littered with glass bottles. Crimson painted fingernails ran along the labels to pull a flask that looked harmless enough, though his knowledge of toxins was too limited to be sure. He recognized the liquid inside it as a fragrant oil, a drop hitting the skin on the back of her hand before she gave it a good rub as if to test it.

A massage would be nice, he had to admit, decades of sibling rivalry and impending doom for being part of a cult that worshiped a gross looking blob of mold taking a toll on his soul. He could picture it, his trench coat finally sliding off his shoulders after such a stressful day, her nails scratching against his skin as she pulled his shirt over his head. She would tell him to make himself comfortable on the bed or the couch, but he’d refuse it; he hadn’t laid in a bed in years, and at this point he was afraid of trying. Instead he would hold his head in his hands as he sat forward on the dining chair, for once trying to push away the thoughts that always raced through his mind. He knew he would lose his composure as soon as her hands touched the tender spots on his shoulders, a groan and his worries escaping his lips. He figured she would listen and hum appropriate responses as he wove the tales of his woes. It was hard to picture how it would all go, what relaxation truly felt like after so many decades of stress. Maybe he could stay a little longer, take her offer, and-

What the fuck was he thinking? His own inner contradictions were driving him up the wall; her friendliness was wearing on him more than Alcina’s rudeness ever did.

Once again she shrugged when he rejected her offer, made her way to the chair he hadn’t taken and sat down with her steaming cup of tea in her hand once more. They are dangerously close now, he is still frozen in place between the dining table and the fireplace - like an idiot. He could touch her from here. He could kill her from here. She scrunches her nose when again he says nothing, smells the air before saying: “Are you sure you do not wish me to draw you that bath?”

That is just about enough to set him off. The stunt with the horse, the illusions with the creature and the hag, the tricks with the lycan heads, and now this. Heisenberg saluted her fearlessness in the face of near certain death, could appreciate the confidence that exuded from her despite being in the presence of the most powerful lord of the village. Enough, however, is enough. He closes the distance between them in a flash, footsteps too loud in the silence of the cabin, and finds that his hand fits perfectly around her pretty little neck. He can hear the teacup in her hand fall and shatter somewhere beneath them, the chair comes along for a few steps as he drags her before it falls to the ground, but she wouldn’t live long enough to clean up the mess. He has her off the floor and slams her hard against the nearest wall, satisfied with the sound her body makes as the surprise knocks the wind right out of her. Teach her to shut her fucking mouth.

He watches closely for the terror in her eyes, waits for her strained voice to beg, please, Lord Heisenberg. It always made him feel dirty when they begged, made him feel like he was no better than any of his siblings, but just this once, he will allow himself to enjoy it. He seeks terror, yet all he finds is wickedness. Even so close to her demise, with his fingers tightening against her wind pipe, she does not fear him. He opens his mouth to speak, to yell, to tell her to shut it and announce that she is dying tonight, not because he wanted to, but because she had done away with his patience. Her hand snakes its way up his chest and arm to reach his own, holding it almost lovingly, nails scratching the skin ever so softly just like he had imagined, but somehow better, so much better.

“I was expecting something more romantic over dinner,” she finds the strength to speak, her voice almost a purr. “But I do like the eagerness.” His fingers clutch her neck a little tighter. In any other situation, this would have been enough to convince him to fuck her senseless. He liked himself a feisty partner, someone who didn’t bow their head to him, a challenge at last. But not now, not when he was pissed off and tired and sweating as if it was summer outside.

“Oh, you’re not going to like it when I’m done with you,” he pauses to pull her and force her back against the wall, the boards shaking with the impact. “Sweetheart.”

“Is that a promise, my lord?” Her eyes burn with something not quite like desire, contradict the deep turquoise and calmness of her irises. The hand around her neck is bloody, glove and flesh torn where the lycan had bit him, and her tongue darts out of her mouth to get a taste. The smile she gives him makes a delicious heat pool at the bottom of his stomach, sliding down dangerously close to his navel. He is deciding between choking her to death, biting a piece of her face off or bashing her skull in, lips contorted in a wicked smile, when he feels his fingers grasp at nothing, balance lost as he topples over and hits the wall with full force. There is a hollow thud when his nose hits the wooden boards, blood dripping down onto his chin. It takes him a moment to register that she has, somehow, slipped away from him, ducked under his arm to make her way back to the bubbling pot on the fireplace. She continues to hum the stupid lullaby and treat him like a harmless peasant.

“Are you staying for dinner, my lord?” She speaks as if nothing has transpired in the past few minutes. Like he hadn’t gone through the painfully embarrassing experience of threatening her with a very noticeable and contradicting bulge in his pants, right before he lost his balance - and dignity - and broke his nose against her living room wall.

He hadn’t felt this humiliated in decades. There are no words to describe the rage that courses through his body, although the snarl he pushes through gritted teeth might be good enough indication. Heisenberg braces himself against the wall, wipes the blood off his face on the sleeve of his coat. Plan B: shove her head into the fire and then choke her.

“Oh, let me take a look at that,” is all she says when he turns around, a piece of cloth in hand as she guides him to a dining chair. There is no time for his explosiveness, for his plans to be put into motion; for reasons not at all clear to him, he can do nothing but play along. She lifts his chin with such grace that he is unsure how to feel. The beast in the forest held him with the same care. He could deal with quite a range of emotions: anger, hatred, disgust, some more anger. This nobody had ever done to him - shown him kindness, cared for him. Miranda had tried, in her own awkward way, but never again after she had deemed him a failure.

It feels good to be at a loss for words, he notices, to have choice and violence taken away from him for just a few minutes. To let himself waddle in the silence of his empty mind, a tender touch to ground him and nothing else. It feels good, but awkward, and he shuffles to find something, anything, to talk about.

“You’re the monster in the woods then?” He asks as he looks away, too busy trying to justify to himself the absurdity of the situation. Here he is, sitting in a chair that is about to give under his weight, in the middle of the woods after petting a dead horse and almost being swallowed whole by a goat-human hybrid. The woman he was sent to kill is now gently caressing his jaw with the hand that holds his chin up as if to comfort him, the other busy soaking up the blood coming out of his broken nose. The embarrassment far outweighs the pain, but there is no sign of judgment in her features. It helps.

“Yes, sir.” She answers with a proud smile. “I am a healer by trade, you see. A little knowledge of plants can go a long way, especially in such a quaint, isolated little village like yours.” she smushed his nose in as if to prove a point. “Is that the reason you have come to me, my lord?”

“Funny thing,” he begins with a chuckle and ends with a whimper as she wiggles the cartilage on his nose. “I was sent to take you back to the village as a prize to the one and only Lady Dimitrescu. That, or kill you. Although she would prefer you alive.” Heisenberg observed her closely, hoping to catch a glimpse of something other than friendliness. If she had heard of him, surely she had heard of Alcina, and the horrible things she put women like her through. “Monsters don’t usually get a reputation for mixing poultices.”

She nods calmly, too busy with her ministrations to care. “Must preserve some professional secrets, now, mustn’t we? What is that you would prefer? Alive, dead? What can I help you with?” Her question is a simple one, although it feels as if it weighs far more than it was supposed to.

“Unless you can kill a century-old monster, my darling, there is little you can do for me.” His answer is pure sarcasm, and she does not seem to care. Her head tilts slightly to the side as if she is considering her options, as if, you know, maybe she can do that. “The fog in the forest - that you?” There is no hesitation when she nods. “Overgrown stallion?” Another nod. “Eldritch abomination? Sickly hag?” A throaty hum of approval. “Not bad.”

“Would you be so kind as to let me live, my lord?” She has her back turned as she speaks, perusing a tall shelf over the couch. The bleeding in his nose has stopped, and he realizes she has slipped the torn glove off his hand without him noticing. “I would be most interested in such a prospect.” There was a touch of drama in her words that he appreciated. When she turns back around, she looks and sounds more like a person than a character out of an old romance. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.” The woman returns with clean linens in her hand, a bottle of antiseptic and a pincushion in the shape of a pumpkin. He is unsure whether the needle and thread is meant to sew his glove or him back together.

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” he makes to rise from the chair but never does, a firm hand placed on his shoulder.

“Allow me to fix that at least.” He sighed in defeat as he sat back down. It crossed his mind that he had no reason to comply, but did regardless. “And I insist you take a bowl of stew.” Her hands were back on his face before the could muster a response, more determination behind her movements this time. “This will only take a moment,” she explains, two fingers pinching the sides of his nose. A wiggle and suspicious crack later, and it was like the pain had never been there. Her hands were clean, as was his face, not a trace of blood anywhere. Quite the miracle worker, wasn’t she?

They remained quiet as she worked, his injured hand splayed against the wooden table. The burn of the antiseptic was good to keep him alert, to pull him away from his embarrassment. She expertly dabs onto the wound to cleanse it, her touches featherlight. The dog awakens from its nap with a stretch and a yawn, bounds up to him with a happy tail wag. Heisenberg pets its head with his free hand, the dog’s tongue peeking out in glee as it settled down at his feet. The shaggy yet adorable fleabag manages to distract him long enough for her to finish dressing his wound. “All good.” She announces, and he turns over to stare at his hand, expecting to see vestiges of blood and a nasty bite mark. He peeks under the bandage to find that it is merely aesthetic at this point, for there is nothing but perfectly healed, clear skin under it, a very faint half-moon scar where the infection should be. He looks at her in confusion and all she offers is a charming wink. Professional secrets.

Heisenberg spotted his hat placed neatly on the couch, and his hammer right beside it, though he did not recall how they had come to be there. He once again began to feel like himself with the weight of the hammer in his hands and the raggedy hat in its rightful place atop his head. Charismatic, glib Heisenberg, confident as all hell and twice as clever. Cold, calculating Heisenberg, who had been given an opportunity and bargaining chip and wouldn’t let his anger get the best of him. His fingers had reached for the doorknob when she poked him, a small lidded pot fastened with fabric in her hands.

“Take a left at the crossroads and I trust you will have no issues finding your way back.” She handed him the bowl with a smile, as did he in return. “I hope to see you again soon. Godspeed, Lord Heisenberg!” Were her last words as she pushed the door closed, and just like that, he found himself once again in the foggy forest, nothing behind him but trees and the sound of critters roaming the night.

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

The Guardian’s Oath, Part Three

In order to make any sense of this, you’ll want to read Part One and Part Two. 

Thanks to everyone who’s read/ commented/ liked so far! My guess is that this section *maybe* represents the halfway point, although possibly a little less. I feel like I’m on the clock here since there’s at least one more “seasonal” (Halloween-type-theme) story I’m working on. 

Hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Feargal Devitt/ Finn Balor x OFC

Word count: 4,734

Content advisory: None. 

"Is everything alright, Miss? I thought I heard you cry out." 

Kate's voice startled me when I came back inside. 

"Oh yes, I'm sorry. I saw… there was a strange man at the gate just now but I told him to be on his way."

"A strange man?" She muttered something under her breath before continuing, "There's too many around this summer. You see tramps all the way down from Dublin with things being so hard there and it makes you feel like you're not safe in your own home."

"I hadn't thought of that. I assumed it was one of the village men."

Kate shook her head. "They're bad enough. But these city ruffians have a look that'll turn your blood cold."

"He was a peculiar looking fellow," I mused. "And there was certainly something about him that set my nerves on edge. But he's gone now."

I tried to sound confident but when I retired to my chambers for the night, I was haunted by visions of the dark man, filled with a foreboding that he meant harm to me or the children. During those few precious stretches when I was able to sleep, I dreamt of his pale eyes bearing down on me, of the man speaking to me without ever moving his lips. 

“I am coming,” he said, and nothing more. 

*

As the summer progressed, the children became more and more restless with their lessons. Although they did not associate much with the youngsters from town, they knew enough to be aware that schools had let out and that other children were free to spend their summers at play. I tried to keep them focused as much as possible but I found myself giving in to their wishes to go outside and, in particular, to go for long walks along the shore. 

I had become accustomed to the constant roll of the ocean in my new home but I still felt a little intimidated being next to what seemed like an endless expanse. In theory, I knew that there was land in the distance but the fact that I could not see it made me feel like it was a fantasy, as much as the monsters that the children told me of. 

“Miss Miles, can we please go around the point today?” William whined at me. 

For weeks, he had been begging me to circle around the tip of the beach crescent, around to the area just below the place where we had had our picnic. He could tell that each request was wearing me down just a little but I felt that he had reached my core and that I could not yield. The area was rocky and uneven, some of it barely above water even at low tide. I knew that, while he might be able to skip through it with impunity, I couldn’t hope to keep pace and could easily slip and injure myself, at which point I would be no help at all to him or his sister. 

“William, I’ve told you before, if we come to the beach, we stay on the sands,” I grumbled, irritable from a bad night’s sleep. “It’s too dangerous to risk going farther.”

“But there are caves! I want to go and look inside them!”

“My word is final and you know perfectly well that your father would agree with me.”

I remained nervous that the children could damage my position by complaining that I’d treated them unfairly, so I’d taken to invoking their father when I needed to enforce discipline. It worked in this case, as it always did, although every time I refused him his adventure, I could see William’s expression growing more frustrated and angrier. 

The three of us took our dinner together, William still sulking. 

“How did your family die?” he blurted as we waited on dessert. 

“Willam, be quiet,” Sophia hissed. “You’ve no right to ask her such questions.”

At the same time, I saw her dark eyes cut back to me for an instant, as if she wanted to see how I’d react without her intervention. I was exhausted and knew that no real harm could come of sharing my story. I even thought that it might generate some sympathy in them. 

“My mother died giving birth to my younger brother,” I informed them coolly. “My father loved her very much and after she died… his health began to deteriorate.”

I knew enough to avoid telling the whole truth in this case, namely that starting with my mother’s death, my father had started to drink heavily. This was not appropriate for children to hear. Then again, I mused, it was not appropriate for a child to experience. 

“He was a schoolteacher and as his health declined, he was forced out of work,” I continued. 

“So you were paupers?” Sophia asked sharply. 

“We were not so bad off. My father had some meagre savings that supported us, and he was able to take on some work tutoring.”

“Where is your brother now?” William now seemed more curious than resentful. 

I inhaled deeply. 

“My brother died when he was hardly more than a baby.”

“Was he sickly? What did he die of?”

I was not expecting the barrage of personal questions but I understood them to an extent. I likely could have scolded them and told them that they were being presumptuous. Instead, I cast my eyes down at the table and spoke. 

“He just died. No one could ever determine why. He went to sleep one night and never woke up.”

“How mysterious!” Sophia exclaimed. 

“I suppose so,” I responded softly. “After his death, my father’s health grew even worse. He grew weaker and eventually, he died too.”

“As a result of his illness?”

“He took a kind of a turn. I think he must have felt dizzy and he fell and hit his head. He died a few days later from the injury.”

“That’s horrid,” Isabella gasped. “You were left all alone!”

“Not quite all alone,” I answered with a smile. “My church took me in and made sure that my needs were met. They also made sure that I was educated enough to be able to take on a position as governess. And here I am with you.”

Sophia frowned a little. “Do churches in your area normally do that?”

“I suppose I was lucky that this one was very generous.”

The truth was that their generosity had always confused me. When I was very young, I didn’t understand why anyone should be so kind to me. As I grew older, I appreciated it more but I understood that this was not something that was normally practiced. Perhaps I had been lucky enough to be born in an especially generous parish. Perhaps the reverend there had seen some potential in me from the beginning, for he was always my champion and closest ally. I only knew that I had fared better than another in my situation could hope to. 

We all retired early, our lungs full of ocean air that soothed the brain. I read to the children from a book of fables that didn’t seem to bore them too much and was relieved when they declared themselves exhausted after just a few minutes. 

I said my prayers that night remembering my family and hoping that they had made their way to Heaven. 

At around one, I was awakened by Kate, who was in a panic. It took me a moment for me to get her to speak coherently. 

“It’s the young Master,” she sobbed. “He’s run off. She says she doesn’t know where he’s gone.”

The word “she” was said with a level of suspicion and anger that surprised me. I knew she was speaking of Sophia and that she had some dark opinions on the young Devitts, but it hardly seemed a tone appropriate to speaking of a child.

“How long has he been gone?”

“About ten minutes ma’am. I ran out to see if I could catch him because he’s run off to hide in the woods as a game before, but I couldn’t see him anywhere.”

I started to gather some clothes so that I could at least make a pretense of being presentable. 

“Was the back gate unlocked?”

“It was, although I can’t say for certain if that was done tonight.”

The two of us descended the stairs, looking out at the trees whipped around by the wind. I was aware that Sophia trailed after us but I was annoyed at her for her refusal to divulge where her brother had gone, even though I was certain she knew. 

“Kate, did you see him go in the direction of the woods?” I asked, another idea springing to mind. 

“I did not… I just assumed that since he’d gone before…”

“He’s not back there,” I told her. “He’s gone down to the water to look at the caves.” I spun to face Sophia. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

She pursed her lips, looking genuinely shocked that I had figured out the answer so quickly.

“The caves?” Kate exclaimed. “But it’s high tide! He’ll be pulled out to sea!”

“Kate, I need you to go to all the houses nearby. Wake them and tell them that you need to form a search party for Master William and tell them we think that he’s near the ocean. They can cover the ground over land in case he’s taken that route. I’m going to go down to the beach to see if I can find him there.”

“But it’s not safe!”

“It will be fine,” I assured her, far from convinced myself. “I should be able to catch him before he makes his way around the point. Hopefully, he’ll turn back on his own when he sees the water but at least I can move much faster than he does.”

Without waiting for another word, I bolted from the house, rushing down to the beach and almost falling several times. The tide was at its highest point, almost reaching the top of the rocks where William liked to collect his specimens. Even at a distance, I could see that the point of the crescent, where WIlliam would have to go in order to access the caves on the other side, was covered in water up to its vertical rise. And well ahead of me along the beach, I could see a small figure skipping along the rocks. 

“William!” I screamed, starting after him as quickly as I could. “William, stop! It’s too dangerous!”

The wind whipping off the water was too much for my voice to carry, so I continued after him as quickly as I could go, confounded that his tiny legs seemed to carry him at almost the same pace. It took me some time to close any distance between us and I was still too far behind for him to hear me calling after him. 

As he approached the end of the beach, I saw him pause and peer forward, as if he were following someone and questioning the wisdom of going further. I tried to call out his name even louder but I grew winded very quickly. 

It seemed like insanity, even for a child, but William waded out into the water, making his way towards the point. I trembled at the thought that in order to catch up with him, I would have to do the same, already imagining the weight of my clothing and the tug of the current on my legs. 

He clung as close as he could to the shore and began to gingerly make his way around the turn. Once he slipped, the rocks beneath his feet doubtless slick and deadly, but he resurfaced a second later, scrabbling his way up to the side of the rock and clinging to it as he made his way around and out of my sight. 

Terrified, I realized that in order to have any hope of overtaking him before the danger became worse, I would have to take a diagonal route, walking through the water rather than moving along the shore. I had never in my life ventured into the ocean but the need to rescue my young charge was greater than my fear. I waded out until the water reached my thighs and fought my way with all my strength. As I approached the point of the crescent beach, I stumbled, almost getting pulled under and soaked to my chest but I persevered, making my way forward until I saw the gouges in the earth that formed the caves William so wanted to see. 

As I approached the first one, I heard screaming over the wind and made my way towards it. Indeed it was William, ghost white and terrified, begging for help. 

“I can’t swim!” he shrieked. 

Of course, I couldn’t swim either, but I wasn’t about to say that. 

“I’m coming William!” I cried out, fighting my way towards him. “We’ll be safe soon!”

By the time I reached him, cowering on a ledge inside the cave, my lungs were burning from exertion. I gathered him up in my arms but my grip was weak. I was gasping and desperately trying to keep hold of him and I could tell from the look on his face that my demeanor was doing nothing to inspire confidence. Despite the cold of the water, my entire body felt like burning coals wrapped in skin. Truthfully, having made it this far, I wasn’t certain I could guide us to safety but I knew I had a better chance than the boy had on his own. And, although I felt shame at the thought as soon as it occurred to me, if I were to leave and focus only on saving myself, there was the chance that he would survive and be able to tell others that I had abandoned him. 

I wrapped my arm around him and crept forward to the mouth of the cave. I glanced over my shoulder, wondering if we might be safer heading further back, into the darkness behind us but there was no way to tell how far back the cave went, if there was a drop, or how deep the water was. So I clung as best I could to the rocky surface with my free hand, trying not to give into the panic I felt hearing William scream and cry. 

The rocks under my feet were slick and treacherous and more than once I slipped, sending both of us under the water and forcing me to expend more precious energy fighting back to the surface. After the second such accident, William ceased to cry and seemed to grow heavier. He coughed and spluttered and I found myself shaking him violently in the hopes of making him cough up the ocean water he’d swallowed. Eventually, though, I became so focused on getting back to the shore that it was all I was aware of. 

Rather than head back around the point and risk the strong current there, I took the shortest route and headed for the land nearest the caves. I remembered from our picnic on the cliff above that it was narrower and rockier but I didn’t believe I had the strength to carry William much further. I knew that there was some kind of path up because the children had taken it the day of our picnic. But I was certain what shape it would be in or how accessible it would be with the high tide. 

I felt like it took me hours to reach the point where the land rose above the water. The path up was difficult to mount but I somehow managed it, all the while pulling my young charge along. Although I managed to get us on to some semblance of solid ground, the soil there was loose and slid around, frustrating my attempts to crawl to safety. William whimpered and whined, for I was at this point dragging him like a sack behind me. I had to pause every few steps just to get more air into my body and because I felt too exhausted to continue. I gave some anguished sobs myself, desperate and furious that this boy had put us both in danger. 

About halfway up the hill, I saw some lights and thought I heard voices. I waited a moment, afraid that I was imagining things but the sights and sounds persisted and it occurred to me that there were people there: Kate had gone to raise the alarm with our neighbors and she would have sent them to the place where she knew I had headed. 

“Help us!” I cried as loudly as I could manage. I knew I was nowhere near loud enough to be heard over the wind but knowing how close rescue was, my body refused to move further up the path. “For the love of God, help us!”

I stayed in place, clinging to William and holding him close to my body in order to share what little warmth I had. I continued to scream, my voice growing louder as some of my strength returned. Although his glassy eyes told me that he had no idea what was going on, William was roused by my voice and then joined me in my calls for help. As I reached what I truly felt might be my last breath, I saw a couple of faces appear above us. I raised my arm weakly and hollered in the hopes that they would notice us. 

“They’re here!” a man’s voice cried out. 

I felt my body slump as I realized that we’d been seen. I clung as tight as I could to William and felt my head tip back. Although I never lost consciousness, I was only dimly aware of what was going on as the men descended and gathered us up to bring us back to safety. There was a cacophony of voices offering praise to God, trying to evaluate our health, barking orders on where to take us. 

Finally, one familiar voice cut through them all. 

“Oh my heavens, Miss Miles,” Kate cried, “you are a saint.”

I felt filthy and waterlogged and pain ripped through every tissue of my body. I felt like nothing like a saint but her praise felt better and more genuine than anything I had been told in my life. I tried to smile but even the muscles of my face felt heavy and I don’t know that I managed more than a twitch of my lips. 

The rescue party conveyed us all back to Wynn Cottage, throwing rugs and blankets over us as they did. I heard Kate giving orders and was quietly impressed at how her sweet, matronly demeanor changed when leadership was needed. When we reached the cottage, the group split into two. One part hurried up the stairs with William, yelling that the doctor was needed. Another group carried me to the kitchen, where Susan was standing over a washing basin filled with hot water. 

I was surprised, in light of her often grouchy mood, to see that her eyes were red from crying and that she reached out to grab hold of my hand as soon as the men brought me close to her. She held onto it hard and a strange mix of prayers and praise flowed from her lips. 

“Thank you, thank you,” Kate muttered, fighting her way to the front of the crowd. “Now please leave us, we have to get her into the bath to warm her up. Give us some privacy please.”

The men shuffled out of the kitchen and I immediately felt Kate and Susan working at the buttons of my dress. Their movements were frantic enough that a few buttons were torn clean off. Each time that would happen, I heard Susan assure us that she would take care of it. When they finally removed the last of my drenched clothing, I saw Susan gather everything up and grab the errant buttons off the floor before disappearing. Kate helped me step into the basin and lowered me into the hot water. 

It was painful, for my skin felt like I was being poached in the heat, but she stroked my hair and soothed me, assuring me that this was what I needed. 

“You’ve done more than was ever asked of you,” she told me. “You are that boy’s guardian angel and everyone in this place is going to hear of what you did for him.”

Gently, she laid my head against the edge of the basin and I looked up at her, able to focus my eyes for the first time since my rescue. 

“Thank you,” I croaked, my voice cracking with the effort of speaking. “You’re too kind.”

She huffed and shook her head. “The Young Master deserves a hiding for sneaking out that way. You are a truly godly woman and there’s not many that would have done what you did, putting your own life in danger to save him.”

I remembered that moment in the cave when I had considered abandoning William for an instant and shame washed over me. 

Some voices came from the landing above and Kate frowned a little. 

“I suppose I’m needed up there,” she sighed. “Can you hold yourself up if I go? You won’t slip under the water?”

“I’m fine,” I promised her. “Go and tend to the boy and make sure he has what he needs.”

I thought that she was going to repeat her assertion that what he needed was a hiding but she simply shook her head and left the kitchen. 

My body had adjusted to the temperature and I could feel myself relaxing. Fatigue was so heavy on me that I did need to keep a firm grip on the sides of the basin to avoid sinking to the bottom. How ironic it would be, I thought mirthlessly, to have escaped a watery ocean death only to drown in a tub of water here. 

The oil lamp that had been left to give me some light flickered a little and I wondered if there might be a draft. I couldn’t feel anything on my skin but in my state, I couldn’t be sure of anything that was happening. The lamp seemed to grow dimmer and the shadows in the room drew closer. It was my exhausted mind toying with me, I told myself. I couldn’t trust my senses under such circumstances. 

Nevertheless, a current of fear ran through me, making me feel more awake and alert than I had in hours. And as I looked around the room, I saw a figure emerge from the shadows, the low lighting casting a sheen over its dark skin and illuminating its pale eyes. It advanced until it reached the edge of the basin where I lay, helpless, its long tongue flicking over sharpened teeth like a predator discovering injured prey. 

I wanted to scream but there was no air in my lungs and my lips refused to open. My whole body was paralyzed, so that I could not escape or fight him. His face was familiar but I could not remember from exactly where. But while I was certain I had encountered him before, I knew immediately that he had not been in this form, this demonic shape, nude with an oily hide, black mottled with red and white, a deranged grin and eyes that seemed to hold me in thrall. 

Unable to move though I was, I quickly realized that I was not unable to feel. As he leaned over the edge of the tub, he took hold of my foot and lightly dragged one clawed finger along the sole. The sensation made me shiver, made me want to thrash around to free myself, but I could do none of those things. Grinning, he dipped his head low and stuck his tongue into the bathwater like a cat at a saucer of milk. Then in one smooth motion he tightened his grip on my ankle and pulled my leg forward, immediately pulling my upper body under the water. 

I wanted to push myself up again. I wanted to wriggle free of his grip. I wanted to run from him. But my body would do none of this. Instead, I was forced to feel the air escaping my lungs, to feel the desperation and panic grow in me as I realized that I could not reach the surface. At the same time, I felt the tip of the demon’s tongue touch the instep of my foot and trail a hot path over my calf. I could feel its cruel smile against my skin as it made its way higher, until its mouth came to rest at the back of my knee. There was a sharp pain as he bit down on the flesh there and I wanted to cry out but had no power to do. 

At that moment, his touch was gone and I was trapped under the water unable to move. A second later, a clawed hand grabbed a handful of my hair and jerked me back into a sitting position. I gasped, drawing in as much air as I could, touching my skull where I’d felt hairs ripped out. My body was my own again but as I surveyed the kitchen, I saw that I was alone. Had I imagined everything? Had it all just been some fevered hallucination? 

I looked at the skin under my knee and found a red mark where he had bitten me, however, as I prodded it with my finger, the mark disappeared and the flesh looked normal once again. For the first time since the demonic figure had appeared, I heard noises coming from upstairs in the house. People were bustling around, Kate was giving instructions, there were footsteps everywhere. I stayed in the tub for as long as I could stand, feeling the water grow cooler against my skin. Susan had left some towelling for me and I wrapped myself in it as I emerged from my bath, relishing the sensation of the soft fabric. 

I stood there, wrapped up, before the oven for some time, lost in thought, before Kate came back into the kitchen. 

“Oh bless you, miss,” she exclaimed. “We didn’t even remember you here.”

“It’s all right. I’m warm and I’m dry now.”

“After all you’ve done, it’s a poor return on our part to leave you all alone.”

“Kate, I’m fine.” Instinct told me that I should keep my demonic vision to myself. “If you could fetch me my nightdress, I would be most obliged.”

She hurried out of the kitchen, still fretting and returned only moments later with my gown. She helped me into it, as my arms ached so much I could barely lift them. 

“Is Master William safe?” I asked timidly. 

“He’s better than he deserves to be. He’s asleep in bed as if nothing happened.”

“I was a bit rough with him,” I admitted. “I was worried that I might have injured him on the way back.”

“A few scrapes and bruises is all. And it’s no less than he deserves.”

“You mustn’t be too harsh on him. Children are adventurous at that age, especially boys.”

She shook her head, guiding me up the stairs. “I have three brothers and let me tell you that all of them knew that if they’d run off like that, the cuts they got from the rocks would have been the least painful part of the experience.”

I smiled weakly and hugged her as she helped me into the bed. 

“We all need to sleep,” I told her, “yourself very much included. I don’t want to hear you up and about at the usual hour. You rest as long as you can.”

“You’re too kind, ma’am.”

“Nonsense. It’s the very least I can do after all your work tonight.”

As she left the garrett, I saw that she turned and looked back at me for a moment. “God bless you and keep you,” she whispered. 

I was quickly asleep, however, I woke up periodically, convinced that I felt a hand on my cheek or my throat, or that an unseen figure was hovering nearby, waiting. 

[dafukdidiwatch]

As Above So Below

This somehow both scared and bored me at the same time

<Lots Of Major Spoilers>

Overview

: After years of searching, Treasure Hunter Scarlet finds a clue that would lead her to the fabled Philosopher's Stone somewhere in Paris. She gathers together a crew to find the stone in the catacombs of Paris, but there are other things that lurk down below.

I would consider myself a big time movie/tv person. Have I seen everything? No. Do I like watching anything? Yeah, I'll give it a chance. I like most genres.

Horror though, I have mixed feelings.

Now, I'm gonna be honest, it was hard trying to go into this movie open minded. I have a love/hate relationship with the Horror genre of movies. Older classics like John Carpenter's Thing, Alien, even Scream are movies I adore. But...modern horror movies are a pain to me. I hate how they use shortcuts to try and scare me with random ass Jump-scare for no purpose other than to scare me. It's ridiculous! I can call out when the jump-scares happen, and they Still scare me because of the freaking sound track!

Anyway. I felt it would be unfair for me to say how much I like/dislike the movie without mentioning my preferences. If you like the newer horror movies, awesome, you do you, but for me, its like one of those gatchapon machines where theres a 50/50,chance you'll like it or not.

With that out of the way, lets Actually start talking about the movie.

The movie is shot in Found Footage style and that already added a tally against it in the 1st minute. I am not a fan of found footage. I know that it's popular to make it cheap and personal, but it makes it so hard to follow what is going on. When they are being chased or attacked, I don't know whats happening! Its too dark to tell, the camera is jostling around making me slightly nauseous, and if it does show something, its only for like 5 seconds unless it is stupidly close! There were parts that felt more like watching a Let's Play of a 1st person horror game. Run Run Run, Punch Monster, Run.

It is due to this 1st Person view that, not gonna lie, I barely followed how they got into the catacombs in the first place. Scarlett was in Iran...then she went to France, then...a church to pick up a reverse vandalizer, club, tunnel, catacombs. I can remember the place order, but like hell can I remember what exactly they were saying. All of that took 30 minutes and I was bored out of my mind. And the things that I do remember, they just sort of randomly popped up? Like, they were discussing on whether to jump into the hole

There are parts of the movie that I think was their attempts to build atmosphere, but sort of came out of left field. They say a pale woman walk away from a club: ok. They see her...directing the creepy ass ghost choir?? No idea what that was about. Then They ran into statues that just....came to life to bite at them??? This,was Never Mentioned as potential threats anywhere, it was as if the movie decided it needs random encounters to fill the climax, which is a shame because the tension in this in the middle was really good.

In the middle, when they are Finally going underground to when things got fucked, had a good tense build up. Showing landmarkers that shouldn't be on their route later on. Local lore of "don’t go down the cursed tunnel" (PSA: If the locals say don't do something, don't do it). They get trapped trying to crawl through a pile of bones. Now that part wasn't scary, but was Very Uncomfortable, especially if you have claustrophobia. They have just...random ass things appear like a Piano and Phone which, these people are dumbasses for thinking those things are natural to be there, but does add a good "what the hell" moment that just pikes on. I thought they might go the whole "vague supernatural tunnel turning tricks and getting them to turn on each other" route instead of "slowing pick one off one by one" type. And maybe that’s what they were trying to have, but it was still random monsters popping out to attack so... c'est la vie. 

Another thing I take issue with is part of the lore they use for the Philosophers stone. First, they use the legends and work of alchemists. And that’s pretty cool. Like mystical National Treasure, unlock secret symbols and solve chemical problems. There was a part where they had to figure out the number of celestial planets in the sky based on what century the stone came from since it kept changing over the years, that part was pretty clever. I didn’t know the information, but i appreciated the history.

But they just add random bits from around the world to be like "ooh they connected" like, ok. They have alchemist lore, 14th century Flamel. Makes sense. Then they add a mummy of a crusades guy. I don't know which crusades, but it doesn't matter since he was used more as a prop than plot device. Hell it might be Flamel himself, I don’t know. Then they throw...Ancient Egypt....Sure. Why not. Alchemists could go to Egypt to learn then stick hieroglyphics and traps in the french catacombs. Given how I don't know anything about alchemists history, I'll go with it.

What I WONT accept is them calling Dante's Inferno Mythology! That is Bullshit! I call BullShit! That! Is where I DRAW THE LINE!!

Because they carved "abandon all hope he who enter here" into the tunnel wall when things turned batshit and thats where i gave up on the lore.

Dante's Divine Comedy is not a myth! It is a poem! A poem written by Dante about Christain ideology of what heaven and hell is like! But the movie doesn't give a shit. The line just sounds cool to have as they go deeper into the tunnels!

If they just went with Dante references and alchemist lore, I would have been fine there. The main reason I got angry at that part with Scarrlet saying about "Dantes myth" is that she knows like 5 languages + 2 dead ones, all this backstory and alchemist stuff, and she doesn't know that inferno was a poem? Yes, part of that is semantics and technicalities, but it sort of pulled me out of the world a bit. Because at that point, it felt like they were picking and choosing lore to fit in because it sounded cool. Have an egyptian trap! Why? Because it was cool! Have hieroglyphic puzzle to find the stone? Sure, don’t know why it’s in France but whatever!  I dont know. It threw me off because it felt like they were adding too much, which is a shame because some of the Dante references like traveling through a pool of blood was really good.

I don't get the visions. I really don't. Like...random pianos and telephones just appear on level one of their journey, that calls out to their memory. Which is...bizzare. Especially since they actually touch the freaking things. Like, don't touch the childhood piano! It will make things worse! Seriously! White people!

You later learn that the visions come from their sins (like the one and only tormented sin they got) and it is only when I googled the end of the movie did I learn that they have to acknowledge their sins or die. Which if you have to google the movie to understand the message, the message didn't go through. And opens up to more questions.

Because there were other people that died that didn't get to see their sin visions. George and Scarlett got taunted with pianos and objects since the 1st floor. What about Benji? He was followed by the creepy ghost choir and fell down a hole. Tell me what sin that means. Do They....all have sins, or did the vague demons here have to kill off the innocent ones first before putting the focus on the true targets?

And Scarlett finding out that the power was in her all along? What? Did she...consume the power? Was it transferred? Did she have it since she was born? Does she still have it? It felt like a bad moment to throw in a self esteem psa in this movie.

I will give the movie credit though, i liked how they were forced to go down to get out. When everything turns to shit and they have to do the same things they did but in reverse order, but still forced to go down, that was good. It adds to the tension of "holy fuck how are they gonna get out is this even the right path?" And that last scene with the manhole, gorgeous. Really truly gorgeous. It just shakes you to the core with what you are seeing.

But Overall.....yeah did not like this movie. Wasn't a fan of shakey cam. Wasn’t a fan of the "gotcha" jump scares. The movie felt a little more uncomfortable than scary to me with the claustrophobia. There were a bunch of times where I had to check how long was left in the movie because I was really bored with what was happening. I did like the use of alchemist lore, the Egyptian trap scene, and the end scene, but just wished they stuck to one part than try to mash up different myths to fit.

And if they wanted to stick with Dante, fine. Apparently this entire movie was an allegory of Dantes inferno. (Thanks google) But while i can appreciate looking back on it in hindsight, it doesn't change the fact that I really didn't "get" the symbolic nature of what they were trying to do in the initial watch. Maybe if I rewatch it I would appreciate it more, but I would just skip like half the movie to the actual cave exploring part because I am not sitting through the full thing again. 

If you like horror movies with historic flair, this might be for you. But its not my cup of gatorade.

[momomomma2]

27 with Joseph? (Abo maybe? Or whatever you prefer)

Hey, so Joseph Seed + children is a shitshow in canon! And this fic doesn’t ignore what happened in the canon lore! But it doesn’t go into any real detail so I feel if you could watch Joseph’s confession in game, the fic should not trigger anything. Be mindful of your own limits

Rook knew he’d pay for it sooner or later. Nothing comes without a price attached, especially when it comes to Eden’s Gate. He should’ve thought about it more, should’ve put more foresight into his stupid fucking actions that day in the church. Should’ve been more suspicious when he was able to get inside unnoticed or shot at. When Joseph turned and greeted him, smelling like heat and need, smile shaky but placid as he reached out for him.

He’s never let himself get lost like that. Never allowed the Alpha inside to take over in a such a way. Rook hadn’t thought about the future, hadn’t thought about anything except for Joseph underneath him and sinking into him over and over until neither of them could say anything but each other’s names. It’d been so long, his body unused to having an Omega underneath it, all pliant moves and sweet whines for more, that it hadn’t occurred that Joseph wouldn’t be like the others.

Every other Omega Rook had had was self-sufficient. Understanding that it was a nice time, but it was just the one time. None of them had wanted him for more than his knot and his company, content to part ways afterwards and keep in touch every so often.

Not Joseph. Never Joseph.

Now he’s back at the church, on his knees, stripped down to just his pants with his hands behind his head. And Jacob Seed’s pistol inches from his temple.

Joseph is pacing in front of him, John a silent statue behind the pulpit, Faith giggling under her breath every so often at his side like this whole thing is too fucking funny to her.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why we’ve all gathered.” Joseph says softly, finally coming to a stop in front of him.

Rook eyes Jacob’s pistol, unwavering and aimed for a killing shot. “The thought crossed my mind, yeah.”

Joseph seems to swell from the inside, shoulders back, chin kicked up, eyes so bright behind his glasses Rook can see the glittering twinkle from where he is. His hands move slow, sliding up his thighs, over his hips, to rest gentle against his bare stomach--because Joseph Seed doesn’t ever like to wear fucking clothes, apparently. The exposed skin is a distraction, memories rising in Rook’s brain until the next words cause all thought processes to freeze and crash into rubble.

“I’m pregnant.”

Rook stops thinking. Stops breathing. It almost feels like his heart stops in his chest. The world crumbles around him, black trying to slink into his vision until Rook’s heart kick starts double time, racing under his skin, beating back unconsciousness. He opens his mouth, shuts it when words refuse to come, stares at Joseph’s stomach under the long length of his fingers.

He knows how it went last time there was a baby born to the Seed family. Knows what happened. How Joseph justified it to himself. Rook had been horrified, but removed. Not his child, not his trauma to bear.

This is his kid. His blood. Wylde genes in something that isn’t even really a person yet, probably just a bunch of cells with potential.

“I’ll take it. I’ll take it the second you give birth. You don’t have to do shit, never have to see it again.” He’s babbling, thoughts disconnected, running at mach speed through his brain. “Just don’t--don’t. Not to my fucking kid.”

“Oh, Rook,” Joseph breathes, going down to his knees too, reaching out towards him.

It’s only the bump of Jacob’s pistol against his head that has Rook remaining in place, not pulling away from Joseph’s hold. He cups the back of his head, presses their foreheads together in a nauseatingly familiar gesture. It seems like he knows what’s going on in Rook’s head, like he knows the terrible, horrible possibilities flashing up in his mind.

“No, Rook, no, no, no. That was--this is different. God took what was not mine to have because He knew I would one day have this. Have you. What is not ours in life to have is not permitted, God will find a way to rip it from our hands. But I have been Told and I have Seen. This child...this is a child meant to be. Meant to be raised by us, together, and walk into Eden’s Gate at our side.”

God didn’t take shit, Rook wants to howl, to scream at the top of his lungs. You did! You took something from someone else because you were too fucking weak to deal. To sack the fuck up and be halfway decent for once in your life.

The thought, though, gives him pause. Stops the words in his throat before he can let them free.

“You are weak.” Words repeated over and over, judgement coming down on him and anyone else that doesn’t pass muster.

He twists his head, turning in Joseph’s grip, looking up at Jacob. Not the leader, but the eldest. Devoted to his brothers until the end of time now that he has them back.

Devoted to his family.

“Promise me, Jacob.” He snarls, the Alpha inside him raging at the thought of asking another for help, for backup. “Fucking swear it to me that you’ll protect whatever child Joseph is having. Protect it from everything in this world. Or I’ll take that gun and I’ll end this shit myself and then your baby brother is gonna be a single parent whenever your fabled end of the world comes.”

Jacob looks at Joseph. Looks back at him. Bares his teeth in a snarl that says he’s not happy about the corner Rook’s backed him into. But his eyes are clear and hold Rook’s gaze, steady and unwavering.

“I promise.”

Rook sags in relief, lets Joseph huddle him in close. It feels like his world is breaking apart around him but it’s...alright. It’s okay. The Resistance will be okay without him, he’s given them enough of a foothold. He might see them again, one day. But for right now, nothing in this universe is going to tear him from Joseph’s side.

“You should be happy,” John spits from behind Joseph’s shoulder, hands clenched tight at his side. “You’re going to be a father. Crack a smile for us, Deputy.”

“Go fuck yourself.” Rook tells him, but he opens his arms. Lets Joseph tuck himself in close, chest to chest, stomach to stomach.

He doesn’t love Joseph Seed. Not even during the heat, when they were both all instinct and want and lust, did he love him. But Rook...wants something like a family. Wants something far away from his parents and brother that he can call his own. Wants to show Joseph that a family can be more than angry shouting and a fearful existence. That it can be warm and loving and comforting like nothing else in this world is.

If Joseph is presenting the opportunity, maybe he can learn to love him. Or at least learn to be content with what he has.

But if this is God’s plan for Rook Wylde, he’s gonna have some strong ass words with Him when he finally gets up to Heaven.

[heartforchrist]

The Great Falling Away... Welcoming The Signs Of The End Times

Falling Away....

The Bible indicates that there will be a great apostasy during the end times. The “great apostasy” is mentioned in 2 Thessalonians 2:3 The KJV calls it the “falling away,” while the NIV and ESV call it “the rebellion.” And that’s what an apostasy is: a rebellion, an abandonment of the truth. The end times will include a wholesale rejection of God’s revelation, a further “falling away” of an already fallen world.

Let no one deceive you by any means; for that Day will not come unless the falling away comes first. 2 Thessalonians 2:3. The Apostle did not want the brethren to confuse the Rapture of the Church with the Revelation of Jesus Christ when He comes to set up His kingdom. God’s Word tells us that certain events will transpire before Christ establishes His kingdom on earth. “Let no man deceive you by any means: for that day [the day of Christ] shall not come, except there come a falling away first, and that man of sin be revealed, the son of perdition” (2 Thessalonians 2:3). Here the Bible tells of the sign of the coming of the Antichrist—apostasy. As we look at Christendom today, we see in many circles a departure from the faith, people turning away from God and holiness, often “having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof” (2 Timothy 3:5). The falling away includes many who deny the virgin birth of Jesus Christ and deny that He is the divine Son of God. Some professing Christians have grown lukewarm, linking hands with the world. However, the Word says, “Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him” (1 John 2:15). This “mystery of iniquity” (2 Thessalonians 2:7) was already working in the days of the Apostles, but there was, and is, a hindering power—the Holy Spirit in His present office as the reprover of the world and gatherer of the Church. When this restraining One is taken from the world at the Rapture of the Church, then the Antichrist will be revealed.

Referring to the false teaching he mentioned in verse 2, Paul tells the Thessalonians not to allow anyone to deceive them concerning the day of the Lord. Obviously, some of the Christians at Thessalonica had fallen victim to an erroneous teaching: that the day of the Lord was already in progress. Paul explains in this verse that it will not begin until two events transpire.

First, there will be "the rebellion." This likely means an overt and extreme revolt against truth. The word translated "rebellion" can also be translated, "the falling away," "the apostasy," or "the departure." The use of a definite article—"the" in English, from hē in Greek—attached to the word for "rebellion" indicates a specific event previously mentioned in the passage. It may refer to Israel's revolt against Old Testament teaching when the nation turns to idolatry. Perhaps it refers to the state of the world following the departure of the church due to the rapture. It is noteworthy that Paul describes the rapture in verse 1 as "the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ and our being gathering together to him."

The second event Paul mentions in verse 3 is the appearance of "the man of lawlessness," "the son of destruction." God will punish the man of lawlessness by consigning him to eternal punishment in the lake of fire (Revelation 19:20–21).

Throughout history there have been many times when more people chose wickedness than righteousness. When this happens, people often live without prophets or priesthood authority for a time. The Great Apostasy happened after people rejected and tried to change the pure truths and organization of the Church established by the Savior. The first to speak of apostasy in the end times was the Lord Jesus Himself. He prophesied that in a coming time of tribulation this would be seen in a particular way, “At that time many will turn away from the faith and will betray and hate each other, and many false prophets will appear and deceive many people” (Matt 24:10-11). The same word is used in the parable of the sower and the four soils. From the seed that falls in stony places, it says: “But since they have no root, they last only a short time. When trouble or persecution comes because of the word, they quickly fall away” (Matt 13:21). Although the Word of God has had some effect on them, they fall away as soon as there are problems. The Lord Jesus called deception one of the most important end-time signs before His coming in glory. It is the only sign that is repeated three times in Matthew 24 (verses 4-5, 11, 23-26). And, although the culmination of the seduction will come in the last great tribulation period, we already see the harbingers of it. Elsewhere Paul says, “Now the Spirit speaketh expressly, that in the latter times some shall depart from the faith, giving heed to seducing spirits, and doctrines of devils” (1 Tim 4:1). Or, “Take heed, brethren, lest there be in any of you an evil heart of unbelief, in departing from the living God” (Heb 3:12). And, in 2 Timothy 4:4, in the context of warnings about the end times, Paul declares: “And they shall turn away their ears from the truth, and shall be turned unto fables.” Christianity as a whole not only includes the true believers in Jesus Christ, but also all those who call themselves Christians culturally, but do not believe in their hearts. The whole West and many other parts of the world were influenced by Christianity and the Bible. We see this in history, literature, laws, habits, education, values and traditions, art, and in many other things…even in the division of our era into BC (Before Christ) and AD (Anno Domini, “in the year of our Lord”). It is frightening to see just how much has been lost in the last decades. Christian values are becoming a “scandal,” a motivation for mockery, contempt, and even persecution. Unfortunately, even true believers can be influenced by these worldly tendencies. In the context of 2 Timothy, Paul warns against a very dangerous time. If we now want to know whether the coming of the Lord is near, all we have to do is read the last words of the apostle Paul. In the second letter to Timothy, which could also be described as his will, the apostle shows the qualities that will characterize people in the end times. He introduces the subject with a grave warning: “This know also, that in the last days perilous times shall come” (2 Tim 3:1). The qualities the apostle now begins to mention are not much different from those in Romans 1, where people are generally described who want to know nothing of God. Why, then, this serious warning? Not because the danger of the “last days” originates with people who are far from God, but because these evil qualities are visible where many consider (or considered) themselves Christians. The sexual and feminist revolution made fornication and infidelity something worth striving for, an expression of supposed authenticity and true love. The deliberate rejection of Christian thought exploded: on the one hand, more and more people turned to Eastern and demonic religions in their search for meaning; and on the other hand, the theory of evolution increasingly received the status of religious dogma. The decline in ethical reasoning has developed far-reaching consequences in the moral behavior of many. Drug use grew out of control. Open Satanism became “cool” (with the threadbare justification, “We don’t really believe in the devil”). All of this perverted so-called Christianity as never before. Some of the effects of this large-scale apostasy can be seen in 2 Timothy 3. When Paul speaks of the “last days,” he already means the time of Timothy (v. 5). But it is evident that the falling away has reached an unprecedented peak today. Paul starts with “lovers of their own selves.” The people of the end times are egocentric, selfish, and boastful. That is the essence of sin. The center of these self-loving people is themselves. It is the realm of the ego. And when the ego rules, there is no room for others. We see this today in many ways. Everything is about oneself, about self-discovery, about “my identity.” “I believe,” “I think,” “I want” is more important than the will of God. For self-loving people, there is no time for God and His interests. At most, He gets what still remains after the ego has been fulfilled. A profane proof of this development is self-portrayal online. We’ve become a selfie-society, where the big ego always appears first in the picture. This self-love is also expressed in an oversized love for one’s own body. Anyone today who doesn’t feel comfortable with it at best covers it with tattoos, undergoes cosmetic surgery, or, in the worst case, changes their sex. This self-love, in which man stands alone in the center and thinks himself the highest authority in heaven and earth, has long since infiltrated the churches. The feel-good theology of our time says, “God wants you to feel good. So only do what makes you feel good. It has to be right for you.” It gives license to do everything that brings fun, pleasure, or enjoyment. Whether it agrees with God’s Word is no longer important. Biblical principles such as devotion, being living sacrifices (Rom 12:2), or abstinence (Gal 5:24) are no longer modern and are barely heard from the pulpits. A steep falling away is occurring. Roman Catholics are now led by a Pope who denies cardinal doctrines and demonstrates his love for creation above the Creator. Protestants are led by mostly non-educated, self-centered, money-hungry false prophets whose only good use is to provide fodder for the Babylon Bee. Meanwhile, people in the pews are checking out, and this will only increase in the wake of the coronavirus. The mainstream media, once they start paying attention to the weakness of the modern church, will mount an all out attack. It is already beginning: "Some experts think the coronavirus could reshape the country's religious landscape and wipe out many small houses of worship." -- Washington Post, 04/24/20 This they said, I think, with glee. In spite of the fact that the Pope and the megachurch pastors get most of the religious press coverage in the world, the most common expression of the visible church is the small church, with 50-100 in regular attendance. If these can be wiped out, Christianity will be wiped out. But we will not fall or fail. The gates of Hell, the power of politics, and the mainstream media cannot stand against us. The best and strongest example of real, biblical Christianity will always be found in the small, Reformed, church. It is here that the Pastors and Elders and Deacons and Members know one another, love one another, help one another, and hold one another accountable. It is here that the Five Solas and the Doctrines of Grace provide a sure and solid theological foundation. It is here where the best defenses exist against the world, the flesh, and the devil. When it is time to come back to church, look for a small church sign in your community. It is a sign of the times. It is here you can find God, and find grace, to sustain you until the day you die, or until Christ comes again, whichever comes first.

[inapat13]

Concerning Jazz Music

A complex debate

 An important debate about jazz music affects the question of its ethnicity and its history. As jazz began to develop at the turn of the twentieth century, many people wondered how it would influence representations of white people about the African American community - with which jazz was usually associated. For some African-Americans, jazz music highlighted the contribution of black people to American culture and society, and has drawn attention to black history and culture. Others believe that music and the term “jazz” are reminiscent of an oppressive and racist society, which restricts the freedom of black people.

The various forms of music developed by enslaved Africans in North American and their descendants were rooted in Africa, particularly West Africa. There are several music behind jazz. The music genre was born from the work songs of the slaves. It also includes the music later known as the blues, which expressed hopes and pains of people. Moreover, St. Louis had been a center of ragtime, one of the musical tributaries of jazz music, at the beginning of the century. “Jazz,” according to the pianist Dave Brubeck (speaking in 1950) was “born in New Orleans about 1880” consisting of “an improvised musical expression based on European harmony and African rhythms.”

 The term of « jazz » has a contested employment. The musician Max Roach didn’t accept the word : in 1972, he said that he prefered to describe the music as « the culture of African people who have been dispersed throughout North America […] jazz meant the worst kind of working conditions, the worst in cultural prejudice, the worst kind of salaries and conditions that one can imagine … the abuse and exploitation of black musicians ». Later, it was the turn of Artie Shaw : in 1992, he said that the word « jazz » was ridiculous. Archie Shepp also explained to Franck Cassenti in Je suis Jazz that he didn’t like the word neither. Whatever the case, it appears that the first authenticated appearance of the word “jazz” in print was in a newspaper, the San Francisco Call, on 6 March 1913. Originally, the term used to describe this music was associated with sex, and it was seen as a negative connotation.

New Orleans is famous because it’s the place where brass bands were born . The first jazz recording was released in March 1917 by the Original Dixieland Jass Band, an orchestra composed exclusively of white musicians. The pianist Jelly Roll Morton calls himself "inventor of jazz". If he’s indeed a ferryman between ragtime and jazz, it’s Sidney Bechet and especially Louis Armstrong who stand out as the great soloists of the New Orleans bands, characterized by collective improvisation. Jazz categories include Dixieland, swing, bop, cool jazz, hard bop, free jazz, jazz-rock, and fusion. The first jazz-style to receive recognition as a fine art was bebop, which is mainly instrumental and was formed by black jazz musicians during the late night jam sessions. Bebop evolved in the 1940s and was said to have been created by blacks in a way that whites could not copy.

  Until recently, the question of the "belonging" of jazz music to white musicians or black musicians has been highlighted by actual jazz musicians. For example, Jacob Collier published on his Instagram account these words (on June 2020):

 In the past few days, I have seen just how much power a white voice like mine has to detract from the truth and contribute to the noise, but what I can say with certainty is this : racism is a problem – in the UK, in the USA, ans across the world at large. Those who deny this, and are unwilling to engage with it, are the fabric of the probleme. As a white musician, I walk a path each and every day that has been trail-blazed, paved and illuminated by the colossal, unshakable legacy of black musicians stretching generations before me : the master alchemists, who transformed unspeakable suffering into everlasting power and music.

 In the same way, another famous white musician, Jamie Cullum, wrote this, also on June 2020:

 I remember when Twentysomething came out in 2004 I used to receive a lot of old fashioned paper mail. There was one short letter that asked me to consider what it meant to be a non-black musician, profiting off of generations of black artistry and culture. The reason I bring it up now is because I remember so clearly how it wasn’t a conversation I was ready to have with myself, as a 23 year old. But these are exactly the kinds of conversations that need to be had by people like myself, by all of us, however uncomfortable.

 Both of them underlined that the soul of this music is connected to the roots of the generation that came before us. They explain how it’s important to considere the complexity of this culture and the history.carried for years. It’s important to not avoid or erase the question for the next generation. Of course, jazz music has created a sense of fellowship between black and white musicians. White musicians were hired to perform with several black bands (for example, Roswell Rudd was introduced to jazz audiences by Archie Shepp). It has not only integrated people in the United States but also brought them together, in the entire world, integrating international ideas into the music. But discrimination has existed, and still is.

  Social effects of jazz music

 In the 1920s, jazz became popular when the music began to spread through recordings. Some black jazz musicians believed that they didn’t get full recognition and compensation for being the inventors of jazz as African American culture. Furthermore, some people oppose the idea that jazz was invented by blacks.

Gradually, opportunities were given to black musicians by the radio and recording industry. Popular black bands were promoted as long as there was a demand for jazz music by white Americans. Some of these jazzmen (and women singers) received recognition as serious artists and several were invited to give concerts in Carnegie Hall, but still encountered criticism and racism. To some extent, jazz music would not have been widely distributed to the general public without the recording industry. However, black jazz musicians were less credited for their innovation of jazz music.

Many musicians expressed their demand for identity, self-expression and community, participating to the « Black Arts Movement » in the 60’s and rejecting the white western gaze. It consists on using slang in literature, the orality rhythm of the blues or the gospel in music. They fight for the destruction of racist stereotypes and some of them conceptualized the « blacknes ».

 Artists’ voices in the Civil Rights Movement

In 1939, Billie Holiday’s rendition of Abel Meeropol’s poem, Strange Fruit, described the horrors of Jim Crow ‘s era lynching. The song is often considered as the first and most influential jazz protest song.

 Southern trees bear a strange fruit Blood on the leaves and blood at the root Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees

Pastoral scene of the gallant South The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth Scent of magnolia, sweet and fresh Then the sudden smell of burning flesh

Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck For the sun to rot, for the tree to drop Here is a strange and bitter crop

 Decades later, while governments and individueals attempted to silence the black political voice, jazz became a way of deep expression. Many jazz musicians became outspoken activists, they made their voices heard and started creating soundtracks to support the Civil Rights movement. Indeed, huge cultural and political shifts were underway in the form of the civil rights movement, which sought to break down the existing social order. Evolving in parallel by similar cultural and historical questions, the civil rights and jazz movements (especially the avant-garde) influenced each other.

John Coltrane, Charles Mingus, Nina Simone and some jazz pioneers made their voices heard during the civil rights movement. For instance, Coltrane was deeply involved in the movement and shared many of Malcolm X’s views on black consciousness and pan-Africanism, which he incorporated into his music. In the 60’s, he was at the height of his career. He performed a song (in fact, a dirge) in 1963, called Alabama, to mourn the Birmingham church bombing that took the lives of four little girls.

In 1964, Nina Simone sang the incendiary song Mississippi Goddam (responded to the 1963 murder of an activist, Megdar Evers) in front of a white audience at Carnegie Hall. The song starts off as a jaunty musical tune, before it evolves into an documentation of racial inequality in the South. In the recording, we can understand that the atmosphere of the concert is changing, as the public realize the intentions of the song. She used her lyrics to prolong her political commitment. She has also composed another famous song, Four Women : it highlight four specific stereotypes about black women.

Charles Mingus, for his part, wrote a song called Fables of Faubus about Orval Faubus, a racist governor of Arkansas, who infamously ordered the Arkansas National Guard to prevent black students from enrolling at Central High School in 1956. Mingus’ record label, Columbia, felt the lyrics were too incendiary, so he released the full version of the song on a record for another label.

To conclude this theme, I want to share an excerpt written by Dr. Martin Luther Link about jazz, for the Berlin Jazz Festival, in 1964 :

“God has wrought many things out of oppression. God has endowed creatures with the capacity to create-and from this capacity has flowed the sweet songs of sorrow and joy that have allowed humanity to cope with the environment and many different situations. Jazz speaks for life. The Blues tell the story of life’s difficulties, and if you think for a moment, you will realize that they take the hardest realities of life and put them to music, only to come out with some new hope and sense of triumph. This is triumphant music.”

This quote, from one of the most important figure of the Civil Rights Movement, underlines how jazz music has been a powerful form of art, but also a very political one, fighting against racism and advocating social, economic and political equality.

Anne Vinet

[mondoreb]

End Times Prophecy Headlines: September 17, 2020

End Times Prophecy Headlines: September 17, 2020

End Times Prophecy Report HEADLINES THURSDAY September 17, 2020

And OPINION

“And Jesus answered and said unto them, Take heed that no man deceive you.” —Matthew 24:4

===INTERNATIONAL

MIDDLE EAST:  Saudi Air Force Leveling Yemeni Capital In Response To Houthi Strikes On Riyadh

JAPAN:  Yoshihide Suga officially named as Japan’s new Prime Minister, replacing Shinzo Abe

RUSSIA:  Putin opponent…

[thefortyeightlawsofpower-blog]

LAW # 33 : DISCOVER EACH MAN’S THUMBSCREW

JUDGEMENT

Everyone has a weakness, a gap in the castle wall. That weakness is usually an insecurity, an uncontrollable emotion or need; it can also be a small secret pleasure. Either way, once found, it is a thumbscrew you can turn to your advantage.

FINDING THE THUMBSCREW: A Strategic Plan of Action

We all have resistances. We live with a perpetual armor around ourselves to defend against change and the intrusive actions of friends and rivals. We would like nothing more than to be left to do things our own way. Constantly butting up against these resistances will cost you a lot of energy. One of the most important things to realize about people, though, is that they all have a weakness, some part of their psychological armor that will not resist, that will bend to your will if you find it and push on it. Some people wear their weaknesses openly, others disguise them. Those who disguise them are often the ones most effectively undone through that one chink in their armor.

THE LION. THE CHAMOIS. AND THE FOX

A lion was chasing a chamois along a valley. He had all but caught it, and with longing eyes was anticipating a certain and a satisfying repast. It seemed as if it were utterly impossible for the victim to escape; for a deep ravine appeared to bar the way for both the hunter and the hunted. But the nimble chamois, gathering together all its strength, shot like an arrow from a bow across the chasm, and stood still on the rocky cliff on the other side. Our lion pulled up short. But at that moment a friend of his happened to be near at hand. That friend was the fox. “What!” said he, “with your strength and agility, is it possible that you will yield to a feeble chamois? You have only to will, and you will be able to work wonders. Though the abyss be deep, yet, if you are only in earnest, I am certain you will clear it. Surely you can confide in my disinterested friendship. I would not expose your life to danger if I were not so well aware of your strength and dexterity. ” The lion’s blood waxed hot, and began to boil in his veins. He flung himself with all his might into space. But he could not clear the chasm; so down he tumbled headlong, and was killed by the fall. Then what did his dear friend do? He cautiously made his way down to the bottom of the ravine. and there, out in the open space and the free air, seeing that the lion wanted neither flattery nor obedience now, he set to work to pay the last sad rites to his dead friend, and in a month picked his bones clean.

FABLES, IVAN KRILOFF, 1768-1844

In planning your assault, keep these principles in mind:

Pay Attention to Gestures and Unconscious Signals. As Sigmund Freud remarked, “No mortal can keep a secret. If his lips are silent, he chatters with his fingertips; betrayal oozes out of him at every pore.” This is a critical concept in the search for a person’s weakness—it is revealed by seemingly unimportant gestures and passing words.

The key is not only what you look for but where and how you look. Everyday conversation supplies the richest mine of weaknesses, so train yourself to listen. Start by always seeming interested—the appearance of a sympathetic ear will spur anyone to talk. A clever trick, often used by the nineteenth-century French statesman Talleyrand, is to appear to open up to the other person, to share a secret with them. It can be completely made up, or it can be real but of no great importance to you—the important thing is that it should seem to come from the heart. This will usually elicit a response that is not only as frank as yours but more genuine—a response that reveals a weakness.

If you suspect that someone has a particular soft spot, probe for it indirectly. If, for instance, you sense that a man has a need to be loved, openly flatter him. If he laps up your compliments, no matter how obvious, you are on the right track. Train your eye for details—how someone tips a waiter, what delights a person, the hidden messages in clothes. Find people’s idols, the things they worship and will do anything to get—perhaps you can be the supplier of their fantasies. Remember: Since we all try to hide our weaknesses, there is little to be learned from our conscious behavior. What oozes out in the little things outside our conscious control is what you want to know.

Find the Helpless Child. Most weaknesses begin in childhood, before the self builds up compensatory defenses. Perhaps the child was pampered or indulged in a particular area, or perhaps a certain emotional need went unfulfilled; as he or she grows older, the indulgence or the deficiency may be buried but never disappears. Knowing about a childhood need gives you a powerful key to a person’s weakness.

One sign of this weakness is that when you touch on it the person will often act like a child. Be on the lookout, then, for any behavior that should have been outgrown. If your victims or rivals went without something important, such as parental support, when they were children, supply it, or its facsimile. If they reveal a secret taste, a hidden indulgence, indulge it. In either case they will be unable to resist you.

Look for Contrasts. An overt trait often conceals its opposite. People who thump their chests are often big cowards; a prudish exterior may hide a lascivious soul; the uptight are often screaming for adventure; the shy are dying for attention. By probing beyond appearances, you will often find people’s weaknesses in the opposite of the qualities they reveal to you.

Find the Weak Link. Sometimes in your search for weaknesses it is not what but who that matters. In today’s versions of the court, there is often someone behind the scenes who has a great deal of power, a tremendous influence over the person superficially on top. These behind-the-scenes powerbrokers are the group’s weak link: Win their favor and you indirectly influence the king. Alternatively, even in a group of people acting with the appearance of one will—as when a group under attack closes ranks to resist an outsider—there is always a weak link in the chain. Find the one person who will bend under pressure.

Fill the Void. The two main emotional voids to fill are insecurity and unhappiness. The insecure are suckers for any kind of social validation; as for the chronically unhappy, look for the roots of their unhappiness. The insecure and the unhappy are the people least able to disguise their weaknesses. The ability to fill their emotional voids is a great source of power, and an indefinitely prolongable one.

Feed on Uncontrollable Emotions. The uncontrollable emotion can be a paranoid fear—a fear disproportionate to the situation—or any base motive such as lust, greed, vanity, or hatred. People in the grip of these emotions often cannot control themselves, and you can do the controlling for them.

IRVING LAZAR

[Hollywood super-agent] Irving Paul Lazar was once anxious to sell [studio mogul] Jack L. Warner a play. “I had a long meeting with him today,” Lazar explained [to screenwriter Garson Kanin], “but I didn’t mention it, I didn’t even bring it up.” “Why not?” I asked. “Because I’m going to wait until the weekend after next, when I go to Palm Springs.” “I don’t understand.” “You don’t? I go to Palm Springs every weekend, but Warner isn’t going this weekend. He’s got a preview or something. So he’s not coming down till the next weekend, so that’s when I’m going to bring it up. ” “Irving, I’m more and more confused.” “Look,” said Irving impatiently, ”I know what I’m doing. I know how to sell Warner. This is a type of material that he’s uneasy with, so I have to hit him with it hard and suddenly to get an okay.” ”But why Palm Springs?” ”Because in Palm Springs, every day he goes to the baths at The Spa. And that’s where I’m going to be when he’s there. Now there’s a thing about Jack: He’s eighty and he’s very vain, and he doesn’t like people to see him naked. So when I walk up to him naked at The Spa—I mean he’s naked—well, I’m naked too, but I don’t care who sees me. He does. And I walk up to him naked, and I start to talk to him about this thing, he’ll be very embarrassed.And he’ll want to get away from me, and the easiest way is to say ‘Yes,’ because he knows if he says ‘No,’ then I’m going to stick with him, and stay right on it, and not give up. So to get rid of me, he’ll probably say, ‘Yes.’” Two weeks later, I read of the acquisition of this particular property by Warner Brothers. I phoned Lazar and asked how it had been accomplished. ”How do you think?” he asked. ”In the buff, that’s how... just the way I told you it was going to work.”

HOLLYWOOD, GARSON KANIN, 1974

OBSERVANCES OF THE LAW

Observance I

In 1615 the thirty-year-old bishop of Luçon, later known as Cardinal Richelieu, gave a speech before representatives of the three estates of France—clergy, nobility, and commoners. Richelieu had been chosen to serve as the mouthpiece for the clergy—an immense responsibility for a man still young and not particularly well known. On all of the important issues of the day, the speech followed the Church line. But near the end of it Richelieu did something that had nothing to do with the Church and everything to do with his career. He turned to the throne of the fifteen-year-old King Louis XIII, and to the Queen Mother Marie de’ Médicis, who sat beside Louis, as the regent ruling France until her son reached his majority. Everyone expected Richelieu to say the usual kind words to the young king. Instead, however, he looked directly at and only at the queen mother. Indeed his speech ended in long and fulsome praise of her, praise so glowing that it actually offended some in the Church. But the smile on the queen’s face as she lapped up Richelieu’s compliments was unforgettable.

A year later the queen mother appointed Richelieu secretary of state for foreign affairs, an incredible coup for the young bishop. He had now entered the inner circle of power, and he studied the workings of the court as if it were the machinery of a watch. An Italian, Concino Concini, was the queen mother’s favorite, or rather her lover, a role that made him perhaps the most powerful man in France. Concini was vain and foppish, and Richelieu played him perfectly—attending to him as if he were the king. Within months Richelieu had become one of Concini’s favorites. But something happened in 1617 that turned everything upside down: the young king, who up until then had shown every sign of being an idiot, had Concini murdered and his most important associates imprisoned. In so doing Louis took command of the country with one blow, sweeping the queen mother aside.

Had Richelieu played it wrong? He had been close to both Concini and Marie de Médicis, whose advisers and ministers were now all out of favor, some even arrested. The queen mother herself was shut up in the Louvre, a virtual prisoner. Richelieu wasted no time. If everyone was deserting Marie de Médicis, he would stand by her. He knew Louis could not get rid of her, for the king was still very young, and had in any case always been inordinately attached to her. As Marie’s only remaining powerful friend, Richelieu filled the valuable function of liaison between the king and his mother. In return he received her protection, and was able to survive the palace coup, even to thrive. Over the next few years the queen mother grew still more dependent on him, and in 1622 she repaid him for his loyalty: Through the intercession of her allies in Rome, Richelieu was elevated to the powerful rank of cardinal.

By 1623 King Louis was in trouble. He had no one he could trust to advise him, and although he was now a young man instead of a boy, he remained childish in spirit, and affairs of state came hard to him. Now that he had taken the throne, Marie was no longer the regent and theoretically had no power, but she still had her son’s ear, and she kept telling him that Richelieu was his only possible savior. At first Louis would have none of it—he hated the cardinal with a passion, only tolerating him out of love for Marie. In the end, however, isolated in the court and crippled by his own indecisiveness, he yielded to his mother and made Richelieu first his chief councilor and later prime minister.

Now Richelieu no longer needed Marie de Médicis. He stopped visiting and courting her, stopped listening to her opinions, even argued with her and opposed her wishes. Instead he concentrated on the king, making himself indispensable to his new master. All the previous premiers, understanding the king’s childishness, had tried to keep him out of trouble; the shrewd Richelieu played him differently, deliberately pushing him into one ambitious project after another, such as a crusade against the Huguenots and finally an extended war with Spain. The immensity of these projects only made the king more dependent on his powerful premier, the only man able to keep order in the realm. And so, for the next eighteen years, Richelieu, exploiting the king’s weaknesses, governed and molded France according to his own vision, unifying the country and making it a strong European power for centuries to come.

Interpretation

Richelieu saw everything as a military campaign, and no strategic move was more important to him than discovering his enemy’s weaknesses and applying pressure to them. As early as his speech in 1615, he was looking for the weak link in the chain of power, and he saw that it was the queen mother. Not that Marie was obviously weak—she governed both France and her son; but Richelieu saw that she was really an insecure woman who needed constant masculine attention. He showered her with affection and respect, even toadying up to her favorite, Concini. He knew the day would come when the king would take over, but he also recognized that Louis loved his mother dearly and would always remain a child in relation to her. The way to control Louis, then, was not by gaining his favor, which could change overnight, but by gaining sway over his mother, for whom his affection would never change.

Once Richelieu had the position he desired—prime minister—he discarded the queen mother, moving on to the next weak link in the chain: the king’s own character. There was a part of him that would always be a helpless child in need of higher authority. It was on the foundation of the king’s weakness that Richelieu established his own power and fame.

Remember: When entering the court, find the weak link. The person in control is often not the king or queen; it is someone behind the scenes—the favorite, the husband or wife, even the court fool. This person may have more weaknesses than the king himself, because his power depends on all kinds of capricious factors outside his control.

Finally, when dealing with helpless children who cannot make decisions, play on their weakness and push them into bold ventures. They will have to depend on you even more, for you will become the adult figure whom they rely on to get them out of scrapes and to safety.

THE THINGS ON

As time went on I came to look for the little weaknesses.... It’s the little things that count. On one occasion, I worked on the president of a large bank in Omaha. The [phony] deal involved the purchase of the street railway system of Omaha, including a bridge across the Mississippi River. My principals were supposedly German and I had to negotiate with Berlin. While awaiting word from them I introduced my fake mining-stock proposition. Since this man was rich, I decided to play for high stakes.... Meanwhile, I played golf with the banker, visited his home, and went to the theater with him and his wife. Though he showed some interest in my stock deal, he still wasn’t convinced. I had built it up to the point that an investment of $1,250,000 was required. Of this I was to put up $900,000, the banker $350,000. But still he hesitated. One evening when I was at his home for dinner I wore some perfume-Coty’s “April Violets.” It was not then considered effeminate for a man to use a dash of perfume. The banker’s wife thought it very lovely. “Where did you get it?” “It is a rare blend,” I told her, “especially made for me by a French perfumer. Do you like it?” ”l love it,” she replied. The following day I went through my effects and found two empty bottles. Both had come from France, but were empty. I went to a downtown department store and purchased ten ounces of Coty’s ”April Violets.” I poured this into the two French bottles, carefully sealed them, wrapped them in tissue paper. That evening I dropped by the banker’s home and presented the two bottles to his wife. ”They were especially put up for me in Cologne,” I told her. The next day the banker called at my hotel. His wife was enraptured by the perfume. She considered it the most wonderful, the most exotic fragrance she had ever used. I did not tell the banker he could get all he wanted right in Omaha. ”She said,” the banker added, ”that I was fortunate to be associated with a man like you.” From then on his attitude was changed, for he had complete faith in his wife’s judgment .... He parted with $350,000. This, incidentally was my biggest [con] score.

“YELLOW KID” WEIL, 1875-1976

Observance II

In December of 1925, guests at the swankiest hotel in Palm Beach, Florida, watched with interest as a mysterious man arrived in a Rolls-Royce driven by a Japanese chauffeur. Over the next few days they studied this handsome man, who walked with an elegant cane, received telegrams at all hours, and only engaged in the briefest of conversations. He was a count, they heard, Count Victor Lustig, and he came from one of the wealthiest families in Europe—but this was all they could find out.

Imagine their amazement, then, when Lustig one day walked up to one of the least distinguished guests in the hotel, a Mr. Herman Loller, head of an engineering company, and entered into conversation with him. Loller had made his fortune only recently, and forging social connections was very important to him. He felt honored and somewhat intimidated by this sophisticated man, who spoke perfect English with a hint of a foreign accent. Over the days to come, the two became friends.

Loller of course did most of the talking, and one night he confessed that his business was doing poorly, with more troubles ahead. In return, Lustig confided in his new friend that he too had serious money problems—Communists had seized his family estate and all its assets. He was too old to learn a trade and go to work. Luckily he had found an answer—“ a money-making machine.” “You counterfeit?” Loller whispered in half-shock. No, Lustig replied, explaining that through a secret chemical process, his machine could duplicate any paper currency with complete accuracy. Put in a dollar bill and six hours later you had two, both perfect. He proceeded to explain how the machine had been smuggled out of Europe, how the Germans had developed it to undermine the British, how it had supported the count for several years, and on and on. When Loller insisted on a demonstration, the two men went to Lustig’s room, where the count produced a magnificent mahogany box fitted with slots, cranks, and dials. Loller watched as Lustig inserted a dollar bill in the box. Sure enough, early the following morning Lustig pulled out two bills, still wet from the chemicals.

Lustig gave the notes to Loller, who immediately took the bills to a local bank—which accepted them as genuine. Now the businessman feverishly begged Lustig to sell him a machine. The count explained that there was only one in existence, so Loller made him a high offer: $25,000, then a considerable amount (more than $400,000 in today’s terms). Even so, Lustig seemed reluctant: He did not feel right about making his friend pay so much. Yet finally he agreed to the sale. After all, he said, “I suppose it matters little what you pay me. You are, after all, going to recover the amount within a few days by duplicating your own bills.” Making Loller swear never to reveal the machine’s existence to other people, Lustig accepted the money. Later the same day he checked out of the hotel. A year later, after many futile attempts at duplicating bills, Loller finally went to the police with the story of how Count Lustig had conned him with a pair of dollar bills, some chemicals, and a worthless mahogany box. Interpretation

Count Lustig had an eagle eye for other people’s weaknesses. He saw them in the smallest gesture. Loller, for instance, overtipped waiters, seemed nervous in conversation with the concierge, talked loudly about his business. His weakness, Lustig knew, was his need for social validation and for the respect that he thought his wealth had earned him. He was also chronically insecure. Lustig had come to the hotel to hunt for prey. In Loller he homed in on the perfect sucker—a man hungering for someone to fill his psychic voids.

In offering Loller his friendship, then, Lustig knew he was offering him the immediate respect of the other guests. As a count, Lustig was also offering the newly rich businessman access to the glittering world of old wealth. And for the coup de grace, he apparently owned a machine that would rescue Loller from his worries. It would even put him on a par with Lustig himself, who had also used the machine to maintain his status. No wonder Loller took the bait.

Remember: When searching for suckers, always look for the dissatisfied, the unhappy, the insecure. Such people are riddled with weaknesses and have needs that you can fill. Their neediness is the groove in which you place your thumbnail and turn them at will.

Observance III

In the year 1559, the French king Henri II died in a jousting exhibition. His son assumed the throne, becoming Francis II, but in the background stood Henri’s wife and queen, Catherine de’ Médicis, a woman who had long ago proven her skill in affairs of state. When Francis died the next year, Catherine took control of the country as regent to her next son in line of succession, the future Charles IX, a mere ten years old at the time.

The main threats to the queen’s power were Antoine de Bourbon, king of Navarre, and his brother, Louis, the powerful prince of Condé, both of whom could claim the right to serve as regent instead of Catherine, who, after all, was Italian—a foreigner. Catherine quickly appointed Antoine lieutenant general of the kingdom, a title that seemed to satisfy his ambition. It also meant that he had to remain in court, where Catherine could keep an eye on him. Her next move proved smarter still: Antoine had a notorious weakness for young women, so she assigned one of her most attractive maids of honor, Louise de Rouet, to seduce him. Now Antoine’s intimate, Louise reported all of his actions to Catherine. The move worked so brilliantly that Catherine assigned another of her maids to Prince Condé, and thus was formed her escadron volant—“flying squadron”—of young girls whom she used to keep the unsuspecting males in the court under her control.

In 1572 Catherine married off her daughter, Marguerite de Valois, to Henri, the son of Antoine and the new king of Navarre. To put a family that had always struggled against her so close to power was a dangerous move, so to make sure of Henri’s loyalty she unleashed on him the loveliest member of her “flying squadron,” Charlotte de Beaune Semblançay, baroness of Sauves. Catherine did this even though Henri was married to her daughter. Within weeks, Marguerite de Valois wrote in her memoirs, “Mme. de Sauves so completely ensnared my husband that we no longer slept together, nor even conversed.”

And while I am on the subject, there is another fact that deserves mention. It is this. A man shows his character just in the way in which he deals with trifles-for then he is off his guard. This will often afford a good opportunity of observing the boundless egoism of a man’s nature, and his total lack of consideration for others; and if these defects show themselves in small things, or merely in his general demeanour, you will find that they also underlie his action in matters of importance, although he may disguise the fact. This is an opportunity which should not be missed. If in the little affairs of every day—the trifles of life...—a man is inconsiderate and seeks only what is advantageous or convenient to himself, to the prejudice of others’ rights; if he appropriates to himself that which belongs to all alike, you may be sure there is no justice in his heart, and that he would be a scoundrel on a wholesale scale, only that law and compulsion bind his hands.

ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER, 1788-1860

The baroness was an excellent spy and helped to keep Henri under Catherine’s thumb. When the queen’s youngest son, the Duke of Alençon, grew so close to Henri that she feared the two might plot against her, she assigned the baroness to him as well. This most infamous member of the flying squadron quickly seduced Alençon, and soon the two young men fought over her and their friendship quickly ended, along with any danger of a conspiracy.

Interpretation

Catherine had seen very early on the sway that a mistress has over a man of power: Her own husband, Henri II, had kept one of the most infamous mistresses of them all, Diane de Poitiers. What Catherine learned from the experience was that a man like her husband wanted to feel he could win a woman over without having to rely on his status, which he had inherited rather than earned. And such a need contained a huge blind spot: As long as the woman began the affair by acting as if she had been conquered, the man would fail to notice that as time passed the mistress had come to hold power over him, as Diane de Poitiers did over Henri. It was Catherine’s strategy to turn this weakness to her advantage, using it as a way to conquer and control men. All she had to do was unleash the loveliest women in the court, her “flying squadron,” on men whom she knew shared her husband’s vulnerability.

Remember: Always look for passions and obsessions that cannot be controlled. The stronger the passion, the more vulnerable the person. This may seem surprising, for passionate people look strong. In fact, however, they are simply filling the stage with their theatricality, distracting people from how weak and helpless they really are. A man’s need to conquer women actually reveals a tremendous helplessness that has made suckers out of them for thousands of years. Look at the part of a person that is most visible—their greed, their lust, their intense fear. These are the emotions they cannot conceal, and over which they have the least control. And what people cannot control, you can control for them.

THE BATTLE AT PHARSALIA

When the two armies [Julius Caesar’s and Pompey‘s] were come into Pharsalia, and both encamped there, Pompey’s thoughts ran the same way as they had done before, against fighting.... But those who were about him were greatly confident of success ... as if they had already conquered.... The cavalry especially were obstinate for fighting, being splendidly armed and bravely mounted, and valuing themselves upon the fine horses they kept, and upon their own handsome persons; as also upon the advantage of their numbers, for they were five thousand against one thousand of Caesar’s. Nor were the numbers of the infantry less disproportionate, there being forty-five thousand of Pompey’s against twenty-two thousand of the enemy. [The next day] whilst the infantry was thus sharply engaged in the main battle, on the flank Pompey’s horse rode up confidently, and opened [his cavalry’s] ranks very wide, that they might surround the right wing of Caesar. But before they engaged, Caesar’s cohorts rushed out and attacked them, and did not dart their javelins at a distance, nor strike at the thighs and legs, as they usually did in close battle, but aimed at their faces. For thus Caesar had instructed them, in hopes that young gentlemen, who had nol known much of battles and wounds, but came wearing their hair long, in the flower of their age and height of their beauty, would be more apprehensive of such blows, and not care for hazarding both a danger at present and a blemish for the future.

And so it proved, for they were so far from bearing the stroke of the javelins, that they could not stand the sight of them, but turned about, and covered their faces to secure them. Once in disorder, presently they turned about to fly; and so most shamefully ruined all. For those who had beat them back at once outflanked the infantry, and falling on their rear, cut them to pieces. Pompey, who commanded the other wing of the army, when he saw his cavalry thus broken and flying, was no longer himself, nor did he now remember that he was Pompey the Great, but, like one whom some god had deprived of his senses, retired to his tent without speaking a word, and there sat to expect the event, till the whole army was routed.

THE LIFE OF JULIUS CAESAR. PLUIARCH, c. A.D. 46-120

Observance IV

Arabella Huntington, wife of the great late-nineteenth-century railroad magnate Collis P. Huntington, came from humble origins and always struggled for social recognition among her wealthy peers. When she gave a party in her San Francisco mansion, few of the social elite would show up; most of them took her for a gold digger, not their kind. Because of her husband’s fabulous wealth, art dealers courted her, but with such condescension they obviously saw her as an upstart. Only one man of consequence treated her differently: the dealer Joseph Duveen.

For the first few years of Duveen’s relationship with Arabella, he made no effort to sell expensive art to her. Instead he accompanied her to fine stores, chatted endlessly about queens and princesses he knew, on and on. At last, she thought, a man who treated her as an equal, even a superior, in high society. Meanwhile, if Duveen did not try to sell art to her, he did subtly educate her in his aesthetic ideas—namely, that the best art was the most expensive art. And after Arabella had soaked up his way of seeing things, Duveen would act as if she always had exquisite taste, even though before she met him her aesthetics had been abysmal.

When Collis Huntington died, in 1900, Arabella came into a fortune. She suddenly started to buy expensive paintings, by Rembrandt and Velázquez, for example—and only from Duveen. Years later Duveen sold her Gainsborough’s Blue Boy for the highest price ever paid for a work of art at the time, an astounding purchase for a family that previously had shown little interest in collecting.

Interpretation

Joseph Duveen instantly understood Arabella Huntington and what made her tick: She wanted to feel important, at home in society. Intensely insecure about her lower-class background, she needed confirmation of her new social status. Duveen waited. Instead of rushing into trying to persuade her to collect art, he subtly went to work on her weaknesses. He made her feel that she deserved his attention not because she was the wife of one of the wealthiest men in the world but because of her own special character—and this completely melted her. Duveen never condescended to Arabella; rather than lecturing to her, he instilled his ideas in her indirectly. The result was one of his best and most devoted clients, and also the sale of The Blue Boy.

People’s need for validation and recognition, their need to feel important, is the best kind of weakness to exploit. First, it is almost universal; second, exploiting it is so very easy. All you have to do is find ways to make people feel better about their taste, their social standing, their intelligence. Once the fish are hooked, you can reel them in again and again, for years—you are filling a positive role, giving them what they cannot get on their own. They may never suspect that you are turning them like a thumbscrew, and if they do they may not care, because you are making them feel better about themselves, and that is worth any price.

Observance V

In 1862 King William of Prussia named Otto von Bismarck premier and minister for foreign affairs. Bismarck was known for his boldness, his ambition—and his interest in strengthening the military. Since William was surrounded by liberals in his government and cabinet, politicians who already wanted to limit his powers, it was quite dangerous for him to put Bismarck in this sensitive position. His wife, Queen Augusta, had tried to dissuade him, but although she usually got her way with him, this time William stuck to his guns.

Only a week after becoming prime minister, Bismarck made an impromptu speech to a few dozen ministers to convince them of the need to enlarge the army. He ended by saying, “The great questions of the time will be decided, not by speeches and resolutions of majorities, but by iron and blood.” His speech was immediately disseminated throughout Germany. The queen screamed at her husband that Bismarck was a barbaric militarist who was out to usurp control of Prussia, and that William had to fire him. The liberals in the government agreed with her. The outcry was so vehement that William began to be afraid he would end up on a scaffold, like Louis XVI of France, if he kept Bismarck on as prime minister.

Bismarck knew he had to get to the king before it was too late. He also knew he had blundered, and should have tempered his fiery words. Yet as he contemplated his strategy, he decided not to apologize but to do the exact opposite. Bismarck knew the king well.

When the two men met, William, predictably, had been worked into a tizzy by the queen. He reiterated his fear of being guillotined. But Bismarck only replied, “Yes, then we shall be dead! We must die sooner or later, and could there be a more respectable way of dying? I should die fighting for the cause of my king and master. Your Majesty would die sealing with your own blood your royal rights granted by God’s grace. Whether upon the scaffold or upon the battlefield makes no difference to the glorious staking of body and life on behalf of rights granted by God’s grace!” On he went, appealing to William’s sense of honor and the majesty of his position as head of the army. How could the king allow people to push him around? Wasn’t the honor of Germany more important than quibbling over words? Not only did the prime minister convince the king to stand up to both his wife and his parliament, he persuaded him to build up the army—Bismarck’s goal all along.

Interpretation

Bismarck knew the king felt bullied by those around him. He knew that William had a military background and a deep sense of honor, and that he felt ashamed at his cravenness before his wife and his government. William secretly yearned to be a great and mighty king, but he dared not express this ambition because he was afraid of ending up like Louis XVI. Where a show of courage often conceals a man’s timidity, William’s timidity concealed his need to show courage and thump his chest.

Bismarck sensed the longing for glory beneath William’s pacifist front, so he played to the king’s insecurity about his manhood, finally pushing him into three wars and the creation of a German empire. Timidity is a potent weakness to exploit. Timid souls often yearn to be their opposite—to be Napoleons. Yet they lack the inner strength. You, in essence, can become their Napoleon, pushing them into bold actions that serve your needs while also making them dependent on you. Remember: Look to the opposites and never take appearances at face value.

Image: The Thumbscrew. Your enemy has secrets that he guards, thinks thoughts he will not reveal. But they come out in ways he cannot help. It is there somewhere, a groove of weakness on his head, at his heart, over his belly. Once you find the groove, put your thumb in it and turn him at will.

Authority: Find out each man’s thumbscrew. ’Tis the art of setting their wills in action. It needs more skill than resolution. You must know where to get at anyone. Every volition has a special motive which varies according to taste. All men are idolaters, some of fame, others of self-interest, most of pleasure. Skill consists in knowing these idols in order to bring them into play. Knowing any man’s mainspring of motive you have as it were the key to his will. (Baltasar Gracián, 1601-1658)

REVERSAL

Playing on people’s weakness has one significant danger: You may stir up an action you cannot control.

In your games of power you always look several steps ahead and plan accordingly. And you exploit the fact that other people are more emotional and incapable of such foresight. But when you play on their vulnerabilities, the areas over which they have least control, you can unleash emotions that will upset your plans. Push timid people into bold action and they may go too far; answer their need for attention or recognition and they may need more than you want to give them. The helpless, childish element you are playing on can turn against you.

The more emotional the weakness, the greater the potential danger. Know the limits to this game, then, and never get carried away by your control over your victims. You are after power, not the thrill of control.

[tipsycad147]

Who Are the Gods? Part 1- Monotheism, Polytheism & Archetypes

by Christopher Penczak | Aug 1, 2013

(Originally appearing in The Second Road)

The hardest thing about learning witchcraft is understanding the gods and goddesses. Most who get involved in Wicca, witchcraft, and paganism are looking for a spiritual path that makes sense. We come to the Earth based religions because they are practical, non-dogmatic and self-reliant. Independent thought, personal freedom and timeless wisdom are the watchwords of this resurrected faith, but some mythological concepts are hard to grasp for the modern person.

The difficulties arise in understanding the ancient pagan mythologies and how they apply to us today. Wicca is a modern revival of the old pagan religions, focusing on the craft of those ancient priests and priestess. Paganism, or more accurately neo-paganism, is a revival of similar practices, with less focus on the role of the clergy. As children of the twenty first century, we are all a part of the global village, with access to sacred text and myths from across the world. Wicca draws primarily on European mythology, but European myth is a large subject, spanning several cultures and time frames. The myths of Greece, Rome, Celts, and Teutons, along with their various subdivisions, are now the foundation of Wicca, though individual traditions can favor one culture over another. Modern witchcraft also draws from the ancient Egyptians and Sumerians, along with some material from India, Africa, Asia and the Americas. Although the same spiritual truths can be found all over the world, each culture and time had specific stories to tell. Learning them all, and how they fit together, is a momentous task. Polytheism & Monotheism The tallest stumbling block for the twenty-first century initiate is the concept of polytheism. Most witches I know were not raised as witches or pagans, but in traditional Judeo-Christian homes. Perhaps that will change with a new generation of pagan parents out there, but at the moment, most of us were most likely raised in a monotheistic tradition. Even if you were not taken to church services on a regular basis, most families have a default mainstream religion, even if they don’t practice it. Monotheism is a belief in one God. Pagan religions are polytheistic, meaning a belief in many gods. It is hard to go from a viewpoint of one supreme God to a view of many different gods and goddesses, with many different stories and motives. Some stories have very human acting gods and goddesses, somewhat petty and vengeful. It can be hard to relate to them as divine creative beings. For a former monotheist, it’s all very confusing. It leads an aspiring pagan to ask, “Who are the gods, really?”

We ask no easy questions. Every practitioner has a slightly different opinion on the nature and will of the gods. Such questions are the foundation for the spiritual quest. We spend our lifetimes contemplating the divine, and our place in the greater scheme of things. Hopefully this article will demonstrate some common ground.

In my opinion, both monotheist and polytheist are correct. The biggest error we make is thinking one way is superior to the other. Both views are just that, views. Everyone has a different perspective, and we need to find the one that works for us. Very few traditions are strictly one or the other. Both camps unconsciously incorporate elements that suit their view point, even if they hold onto a label.

The Judeo-Christian faiths are considered monotheistic, believing in one God, often called Yaweh. Catholics look to the same God as the Holy Trinity, as Father, Son and Holy Spirit – giving the one being three definitive expressions. Catholics have also honoured Mother Mary and the saints. Although they are not God, they are representatives, acting as bridges to God. Each saint is given a particular province, an area of expertise. Similarly we have the angels. Those of Jewish tradition, and other Christian faiths usually believe forms of angels and archangels. The Bible has several references to these divine messengers and representatives, issuing the will of God on Earth. They are extensions of God’s power. Angels do not originate in the Hebrew Bible. They can be found in the ancient cultures of Sumer, Egypt and Chaldaea. All were pagan and polytheistic by our definitions. Angels were expression of the divine, acting as extensions of divine power. The Egyptians called them neters. To many of these ancient cultures, like the Egyptians, there was very little distinction between some of the gods and these angelic forces.

The original word for God in Genesis was Elohim, a plural word meaning both male and female and roughly translated by our modern scholars as “creator gods.” The Jewish people, as a nation were quite often subjugated and enslaved by their Middle Eastern neighbours, and sought to distinguish themselves from many of the Goddess reverent and pagan cultures around them. Idols were outlawed because the pagan religions used idols and icons.

Homosexuality was outlawed because it was found in the temples of Inanna and Astarte. They focused on the male fire and storm god Yaweh as not only their supreme tribal god, but declared him creator God of all. Prior to this, he was one god of many in the Middle East. Here began a great division between the one and the many, carried on by all the Christian and Muslim faiths that used Judaism as a foundation stone.

Pagans are not strictly polytheist either. The whole concept behind polytheism, at least as interpreted by modern practitioners, is the concept that everything is alive. Everything is divine. Everything expresses life force and consciousness on some level. One of the first Hermetic teachings, reportedly given to us by the god Thoth-Hermes, is the Principle of Mentalism. We are all thoughts in the divine mind. We are all creations of the divine spirit. We are all one. Sounds very monotheistic, doesn’t it? The gods and goddesses of mythology consciously represent different aspects of the divine. The Earth has the Earth Mother. The grain has the harvest gods. The Sun is personified by one deity and the Moon another, because all these things are alive to the pagan. But they all have one unifying spirit running through them. You can call that God, Goddess, Great Spirit, all with capital “G’s,” or anything else. The polytheists look to the individual expressions of this one Great Spirit, as represented by the different gods and goddesses of mythology, with little “g’s.” These are the aspects people can relate to, because they embodied the forces more intimately in contact with hunter/gatherer and later agrarian society.

Unfortunately the recorded myths taught in most school books do not get the point of one spirit with many faces across to the reader. Most modern mythologists look to this work as story and fable, not scripture. Most people who translate and comment on the Bible historically were of the faith, but as pagans were converted to Christianity, there was not many left of the Old Religion for a first hand account and personal representation of the faiths. We are lucky they were recorded at all. Even the most valiant efforts of modern pagans are re-constructions and interpretation of past belief and ritual. No wonder neo-paganism borrows from so many sources.

Did these beings, these pagan gods walk the Earth, as we believe the Catholic saints did? Were they humans who achieved mystical enlightenment, ascended to the next level of consciousness, but remaining behind in spirit to aid humanity because of their love and compassion for us, like the eastern Bodhisattvas? Many Bodhisattvas are often considered Eastern goddesses, like Quan Yin. Did they walk the Earth as gods made flesh, as did the Hindu avatars such as Krishna, incarnated into the mortal plane to teach us, somewhat like Jesus? Did they never walk the Earth, and simply speak to us through our dreams, visions and artist, always residing on the spiritual planes? Or are they simply symbols, ways humanity uses to understand the divine? All are wonderful ideas, and part of the spiritual journey is to discover the answers for yourself, and more importantly your own personal relationship with the divine. There is no one completely correct answer. A truth can be found in each idea, but that doesn’t make the gods any less real or personal.

C.G. Jung called these individual forces archetypes, all dwelling in the collective consciousness of humanity. While he may have believed they were representations of human experience found the world over, many pagans prefer to think of the collective consciousness as a meeting ground for communicating with these vast beings of consciousness. Each one represents a face, a facet of the one Great Spirit or Divine Mind.

The Diamond I describe divinity like a diamond, beautifully cut and shining brightly. Everyone looks at the diamond a bit differently. You can look at the whole thing, but the reflection can be so bright, its hard to understand and accept it as a whole. You know its there, but it seems unknowable. Details are hard to grasp. This is a strict monotheist view. You look at the whole and nothing else.

Sometimes a particular facet of the diamond will grab your attention, to the exclusion of everything else. You feel that facet is the only one, and there are no others. You do not see the whole diamond or any faces. You feel the rest are illusions. This is a particularly zealous brand of monotheism, excluding all other possibilities and viewpoints.

You can be attracted to a few of the faces, a patch of them, and focus all your attention on them. They represent a series of archetypes, the gods and goddesses from a particular pantheon. You may focus on them exclusively, but most realise there are other faces of the diamond. This is why many pagan cultures borrowed from each other, seeing other expression of their own gods in other lands. This is also why mixing and matching in the eclectic focus of modern witchcraft works so well. Even the early voodoo practitioner learned to adopt the saints as mask for their gods, because the archetypes are so similar.

Hopefully seekers recognise the faces of the diamond, and the whole diamond itself, and understand it is all a point of view. They are both right, and both have their truth. Native American traditions have a wonderful story. The world is a dream, dreamt by the Dreamer, the Great Spirit. The Dreamer realised he/she could not dream it alone, that other must create, and created many dreamers, each in charge of their own dream. One dreamer dreams of rocks, another of trees and another of love and romance. Each has their own realm of responsibility. The Dreamer is like the diamond, while the dreamers are the facets, the gods and goddess.

Another great expression is that all gods are shadows cast from the same light. The important thing to remember in any of these analogies is that we, too, are part of the whole. We are all faces in another layer of the diamond. We are dreamers. We are shadows cast by the divine light.

Godforms Modern witches look to the archetypes as divine beings, as the dreamers. Each can take many different forms throughout the world, manifested differently to the various cultures. Each one wears different masks, though they represent the same fundamental forces in that culture. These different expressions are called godforms. An individual archetype’s many godforms may be connected through history, or may be exclusive to a particular culture. Godforms are the masks of the archetypal beings.

We have the very popular archetype of the Goddess of Love. Known most popularly as Aphrodite or Venus, from Greek or Roman myth. She actually evolved from the Middle Eastern goddesses Astarte, Ishtar and Inanna. Although all are goddess of love and pleasure, Inanna was also a goddess of war and Queen of Heaven. The Norse Goddess Freya is also considered a love goddess, but she is also a patron of magic, fertility goddess and the force of the Earth itself. She has no discernable link to the Middle Eastern goddesses. The Goddess of Love can assume many different forms, and assume other responsibilities, as the dreamers, the archetypes mix and mingle on the spiritual planes. Each godform represents a single being, or vibration. When you call upon Venus in ritual, the energy is different then when you call on Astarte or Inanna or Freya even though they are all aspects of the Goddess.

Think of the individuals deities, the godforms, as one level of divinity. Here we have the most personality and human like qualities. That’s why they can be more easily identified with and understood. Here we can relate best through the stories and the myths.

All gods lead to the God. All goddesses lead to the Goddess. The God and Goddess lead to the one spirit, though personifying spirit as male and/or female, mother or father, helps our connection. The individual archetypes are a bit more nebulous to us. They are less defined in shape and form, taking masks of the godforms to make themselves known, so we can see them better. The archetypal beings lead back to the primal spirit, the Great Spirit, who shows even less form and shape, for the Great Spirit contains all forms and no form, being the sum of all life on every level of existence.

In part 2, we will look at several different archetypes and how they are expressed as gods and goddesses of the pagan faiths.

https://christopherpenczak.com/2013/08/01/who-are-the-gods-part-1-monotheism-polytheism-archetypes/

[thedenofcaseywolfe]

27 + rondick abo

I have no idea what happened here.  Crossposted to AO3.

“I’m pregnant.”

Ron froze, the bottle of champagne halfway to his mouth.  He slowly lowered it, looking over to where Dick stood gazing out the window.  All he had on was a pair of shorts and undershirt, framed by the light of a new day.

They - along with the rest of Easy - had been celebrating well into the early morning.  At some point, they had slipped off for a room in the Eagle’s Nest.

“What?”  Ron must have heard wrong.

Dick turned then, licking his lips.  “I’m pregnant,” he repeated, eyes not meeting Ron’s.

Ron set the bottle aside, rising to meet his partner.  “Are you sure?”  He kept the question casual.

“Yeah.  I went to see Roe about it.  Been trying to find a time to tell you.”

“Dick.”  Ron’s voice was fond.  He held Dick’s hip, his other hand turning Dick’s chin so he could slot their mouths together.  Dick hesitated for only a moment before sinking against him.

“This isn’t how I wanted things to go,” Dick said when they finally parted.  “I wanted pups with you,” he was quick to assure, “but I figured…”

“We’d have a house.  Proper mating.”  Ron smirked, happy when Dick managed a little smile in return.  “Nothing about our relationship has exactly gone to plan, Dick.”

They had flirted at Toccoa.  Dick was a strong and capable omega, and he was gorgeous to boot.  It was no surprise that he had alphas stumbling over themselves trying to court him.  Ron hadn’t been quite so pushy.  He had shown an interest without initiating anything, figuring to let Dick himself make the first move.

Dick, for his part, watched Ron quite a bit.  Apparently, Ron was a mystery he wanted to solve.  They were in Aldbourne when Dick made a comment within earshot of Ron - on purpose, of course - that Ron was more his type of alpha.  Nix had practically choked on his own tongue, the alpha being not only Dick’s best friend, but had become something of Dick’s bodyguard.

Later that night, Ron stopped at Dick’s tent, politely refusing the invitation inside.  He presented Dick with a bouquet of flowers, and was delighted when Dick pulled one of the flowers out to hand back to him.

Their courtship hadn’t been the most traditional - given they were in and out of battle - and they were more forward with their affection than was technically appropriate.  Hell, when they found each other after the drop into Normandy, Dick had dropped all pretense and threw himself into Ron’s arms.  Not that he cared one bit - he’d never been one for tradition - but he wanted to do right by Dick.

That had all gone out the window once they got out of Bastogne, the pair finding some abandoned house to shack up in.  After Haguenau, when Dick’s heat hit despite using suppressants, they went even further.  Sex before mating was one thing, but to share a heat was an entirely different story.  They had made promises to mate once the war was done, but now it seemed their life would change even more.

“I love you,” Dick said, drawing Ron from his thoughts.

Ron grinned, pulling Dick even closer.  “I love you too, my precious omega.”

Dick huffed out a laugh at the sentiment.  “My father’s going to kill you, you know.”

“I’d be disappointed if he didn’t try.”

Dick gnawed on Ron’s jaw a moment before suggesting slyly, “You know, we can always get mated now.  Whirlwind romance between comrades.”

“Such a romantic,” Ron teased.  He nuzzled Dick’s cheek.  “And you know I’d bond with you wherever you wanted.  Here, Paris, back home in Lancaster.  It doesn’t much matter to me.”

“Then let’s go,” Dick said, giving Ron a little playful shove.  “There has to be a church around here somewhere.”

Ron barked out a laugh.  Dick was practically glowing and there was no way he was about to tell his partner “no.”  He did have one request though.  “Can it wait until I sober up a bit?  I would like to remember it.”

Dick smiled, stealing a kiss.  “Fair enough.  I think we should probably have Nix and Harry do the same.  They’re going to want to be there.”

“Hell, all of Easy’s gonna want to be there, Dick.  You’re their omega as much as mine.”

Dick shook his head fondly.  “Well, the pack’s going to have to learn to share.”

“At least they’ll have lots of uncles to spoil them,” Ron mentioned, hand falling on Dick’s abdomen.  His eyes followed, not finding anything that stood out.  He supposed Dick and Roe knew what they were talking about though.  Not that it mattered - Ron wanted Dick as his mate more than anything.

“We’ll have to start thinking up names,” Dick mused, giving him a chaste kiss before gathering up his clothes.

Toccoa Winters-Speirs was born about four months after the war was officially over.  And just as promised, she had a whole group of uncles clambering over each other to spoil her rotten.  It never failed to amuse Ron to watch a room full of hardened killers turn into cooing, doe-eyed saps whenever his redheaded, freckled-faced baby girl wandered in.

“She’ll never be able to date,” Nix mused, the two of them standing off to the side at Toccoa’s Sweet Sixteen party.  The backyard was filled with school friends and Easy Company family alike.

“She already has a boyfriend.”

Nix spit out his drink.  “You haven’t killed him yet?”

“Dick scared him fine on his own.”

“I believe it.  But you didn’t?”

“Why?  That’s what I have all of you here for.”  Ron nodded pointedly over to where some of the guys were already loudly telling fabled stories of Ron’s exploits during the war.

Nix grinned.  “Still the same crafty bastard as always, Sparky.”

Ron just attempted to look innocent when Dick sent an unamused look his way.  “Currahee,” was all he said.

Dick shook his head, but that didn’t stop his grin when the Easy boys shouted their battle cry in return.

/End

[ridingtheblackmountain]

DAY SEVEN – THE BLACK MOUNTAIN

They will sing of this day in the halls of heroes. Songs of victory lost and won, of dogged perseverance and of individual feats of glory. But most of all songs of a band of brothers, forged in adversity, now conquering together the daunting slopes of the Black Mountain, known as Lovcen, and there finding... well, let’s not get ahead of the story.

An early start. We leave at 8. A week of barbed comments has reduced faffing to a minimum even from the most ingrained faffers.

There are three hills to climb: 600m, 1,000m and 600m. This will be our biggest day yet. Mike and Martin decide to sit out the first climb in the van.

The rest of us, now a well drilled unit, flow through the early morning traffic, carefully avoiding the potholes and sunken ironwork.

A left turn and we are heading away from the coast and up. The road zigzags giving us ever better views of the coast.

The action starts at about 450 meters. John and Andy pull away from the leading group who have eventually left the rest of us further behind.

The climb continues relentlessly a constant Goldilocks gradient not too steep, not too shallow. Only gentle adjustments to gears required - one up, one down. It’s quiet just constant deep breathing as we struggle to fuel our legs.

Far in the distance, John and Andy can be glimpsed locked in an epic battle. John adopting the surge technique he has been perfecting all year. Andy somewhat confused but with youth on his side, fighting back time and again.

Sometimes stories have a foggy middle section where no-one is a hundred percent sure what happened. Accounts vary. And this is one such story.

What we do know is that the hill carried on beyond 600m. Our two duellists will have been pacing themselves. As they turn each bend the sight of a further long stretch uphill eats away at their confidence. Each suffering grimly in silence, their faces set impassive. Show no weakness. Surge. Respond. Surge. Respond. 700m. 800m.

Let’s leave these two locked in combat. Further down the hill. Piers is making good progress. He has let the faster climbers fight it out and gone at his own pace. He has cycled the hill mostly alone but is joined by Ali and Hamish. they form a mini group. Not a Peleton. Just cycling together.

A traffic light for some roadworks is changing and they up their pace to push through. Then, far ahead, they see a group.

The hill is continuing, but at a shallower gradient.

The gap needs to be bridged. Nothing is said. But all is understood. Piers drops down a gear and leads out. Ali and Hamish tuck in behind. The truck is parked at what clearly is the top of the hill. It’s not far away. We push on, the three tortoises left behind by the climbing elite, an elite which has decided that their race is over are now sauntering their way to the finish.

Hamish explodes past them 100 meters from the true finish line.

Gasps of amazement and dawning realisation that he had won King of the Mountain. The hares had been beaten.  Hubris has met its nemesis. Afghanistan has won the cricket World Cup...

On on on. We are under time pressure. After a big climb – the inevitable long, fast downhill.

Beautiful views over the Rocky Mountain landscape. Wild flowers everywhere. We’ve seen irises standing tall and blue everywhere we have cycled. But none as bright and healthy as here.

We are hurtling at 30mph towards Mount Lovcen. It looms among other peaks. Not as dark as fable would have us believe, but a long way up. 1,700m above sea level.

Coffee and coca-cola break in Cetinje, the old royal capital. Quick puncture repair. And we are off.

We have climbed 1000m already today. The Black Mountain promises almost a thousand more.

Martin and Mike had been released from the van at the top of the last hill and were already well on their way up. Foxes to our hounds.

Each of us found our pace and our peace. The gradient is more varied. We are all so much fitter than when we started the week, our bodies acclimatised to the climbing. It’s not a slog. It’s meditation.

The weather closes in and cools things down, a welcome development.

We will each have our own stories of the climb. Andy pushed on at a remarkable tempo, paced by Silviu. Extraordinarily, in the last stretch he overtook Martin and Mike, who both completed the climb. Andy is King of THE Mountain. Behind his back, the others take an avuncular turn: ‘hasn’t his climbing come on’, they say with admiration. Whippet thin and lithe, Andy is a born climber and his technique really has transformed from bandy-legged rocking to a strong style where all the energy is driven into his down stroke. On his new Roubaix, he is unbeatable.

Piers and Ali paired up towards the end, a quiet partnership of pain. The slope definitely got steeper and we kept on pumping. Not racing, but not able to bear the shame of being the one to relent.

And then there we all were, at the top of the mountain. Just 500 steps to climb up a stairway to heaven tunnel to the summit and a mausoleum and burial place of Petar Petrovic Njegos, Poet, Philosopher and Price-Bishop of Montenegro, the man who, in the 19th century, laid the political foundations for the nation, but who also wrote The Mountain Wreath, an epic poem and rallying cry for the Slavs to unify and throw out the Ottomans. We had reached the heart and soul of Montenegro.

We gathered for lunch in the restaurant and museum – shown to our tables by ladies in traditional dress – wrapped in blankets against the chill.

Our voyage complete, it was time to embark on our journey home.

First, the long descent of the road we had just climbed. Mike, somewhat over-enthused be a particularly enticing chicane, overcooks his swing and skids on gravel. We extricate him from his bike, and dust him down. Road-rashed, bruised and a little shaken, he has escaped otherwise unharmed, thank goodness.

We regroup at the bottom of the mountain and push on. There’s another climb, but it wasn’t big and we barely notice. Mark has to leave us here to start his complicated journey back to Jordan. Goodbyes are brief but heartfelt. As always he has brought energy and healthy competitiveness to the group.

The final descent. A sheer-sided, zig-zag road with spectacular views over Kotor and its huge fjord. No need to break the speed record. Just enjoy the ride, the scenery and the surprisingly empty road. We are on our way home. Nothing more to prove. A job well done. A journey well-travelled. Light touches on the brakes. Rolling fast but comfortably.

Tivat sea-front. The sun is shining, the sky blue again. We have arrived. Group photo. And then dive off the edge and into the sea. Bib-shorts like 1920’s bathers. Then bask in the sun on stone benches, like seals.

73 miles. 2,815m.

All good things come to an end. And a journey that goes on too long becomes a commute.

Eyes closed, skin tingling, we reflect on the past week. 350 miles traveled, 11,500m climbed. A hard country with tough people who look you straight in the eyes. Not friendly. Not unfriendly. Brutalist architecture. Political graffiti. Catholic churches, Orthodox churches, Mosques and minarets. Rough, cruel, broken, limestone mountains softened in places by verdant pastures and wild flowers. Black clouds, rain, cold. Pot-holed, mud spattering roads teeming with monster trucks travelling at unforgiving speed. Spectacular views that physically stop you in your tracks. Huge lakes that seem to hold all the sky. Ferocious dogs, trainee ferocious dogs, cows, donkeys, tortoises, snakes, werewolves, Mexicans…

We have been through a lot together. And it would not have been the same without each and every one of us. The group has been characterised by good humour, good temper, tolerance and camaraderie. A team. A band of brothers. A fellowship.