#cultural collision in fantasy

[joncronshawauthor]

How Egypt Inspired the World of "The Fall of Wolfsbane"

As a fantasy author, inspiration can strike in the most unexpected places. For me, the seed that would grow into “The Fall of Wolfsbane” was planted not in some misty forest or atop a craggy mountain, but in the arid heat of Egypt. This happened somewhere between the ancient cities of Cairo and Luxor. A Flight of Fancy It was on a domestic flight, soaring over the timeless landscape of Egypt,…

[hiveworks]

A new chapter has started on Fairmeadowcomic.com by @hagofbolding

Goma, a wayward Orcish soldier, finds herself in Fairmeadow, a commune of pacifists deep in the Cascadian wilderness. Isolation has allowed the commune to thrive in the shadow of a century-long war, but Goma’s arrival brings troubling reminders of the world outside to those who have settled there in search of respite.  Fairmeadow’s enigmatic leader, Sanctuary, finds his utopian vision challenged as he struggles to keep the peace. Their self-sufficiency exists on thin margins - margins that threaten to break if Goma cannot learn to live alongside those who she has sworn to fight.

Fairmeadow is a post-epic fantasy drama inspired by the counter-cultural movements of the late 60’s, the landscapes of the Pacific Northwest, and tabletop RPG’s. It’s about the collision of idealism against pragmatism, reckoning with the consequences of dropping out, and trying to make its readers want to go on a hike.

[hagofbolding]

Fairmeadow update!

It's the last page of chapter 5, which makes it a pretty good time to read & catch up wink wink

Read here

Start from beginning

Goma, a wayward Orcish soldier, finds herself in Fairmeadow, a commune of pacifists deep in the Cascadian wilderness. Isolation has allowed the commune to thrive in the shadow of a century-long war, but Goma’s arrival brings troubling reminders of the world outside to those who have settled there in search of respite.  Fairmeadow’s enigmatic leader, Sanctuary, finds his utopian vision challenged as he struggles to keep the peace. Their self-sufficiency exists on thin margins - margins that threaten to break if Goma cannot learn to live alongside those who she has sworn to fight.  Fairmeadow is a post-epic fantasy drama inspired by the counter-cultural movements of the late 60’s, the landscapes of the Pacific Northwest, and tabletop RPGs. It’s about the collision of idealism against pragmatism, reckoning with the consequences of dropping out, and trying to make its readers want to go on a hike.

[lexalovesbooks]

ok your posting had intrigued me… should i read the tarot sequence???

YESSSSSS (totally not biased)

But! if you want to know what it's about, the tarot sequence is an adult urban fantasy series set in "New Atlantis" (aka Nantucket island off the east coast of America). Atlanteans are a very old, not-quite-immortal society of magical people who have only recently been forced to reveal themselves to the greater human world, but some of their culture has leaked through in things like tarot cards—which are the names of the twenty-two rulers/thrones of their society.

The main character, Rune, is the heir to one of these thrones—the sun throne. Normally, this would give him a lot of privilege and power, but his family's throne fell when he was fifteen in a violent attack that left only two survivors—him, and his magically bonded Companion Brand. In the present, he and Brand are mercenaries picking up odd jobs to keep a roof over their heads, while at the same time Rune tries to investigate and discover who orchestrated the fall of his throne twenty years ago. The first book starts here, but before long Rune and Brand are given a new job that’s sets them on a collision course with people and events that will change their lives—and quite possibly the world—forever.

Some things these books have: queernormative societies, found families, overpowered MCs, unclear prophets who refuse to elaborate, characters with more snark than sense, unique magic systems, meddling teenagers, and plenty of creepy ghosts and ghouls and other paranormal creatures. They’re books about healing from your past and building a new life with the people you love, and they’re some of the most simultaneously hilarious and heartbreaking books I’ve ever read. Right now, there are three books published out of a planned nine, with one bonus published novel from the pov of some secondary characters and a ton of extra content on the author’s website.

The last two things I’d note— first off, a big tw for sexual assault. The main event in question is in the past and is never described in detail, but it’s a huge part of Rune’s past and as a result a huge part of the story as he tries to both move past it and find the people who hurt him. So just something to know and consider before you start reading. The other thing is that the main complaint that I see about the series is that the first book is pretty white and male-centric, but if you can make it to the second book it gets wayyy better from there. Overall, it’s a super fun series and I really can’t recommend them enough! :D

[hellohailu]

☽ under the moon, we collide ☾

㊐ one : collision ㊊

SUMMARY │Born and raised in a small isolated village, Ajla has never had any reason to question the beliefs and traditions she was raised to follow. Yet, on the most important day of her young life, a chance encounter with a traveler from the outside sparks a strange and haunting vision. Torn between her devotion to her village and finding the answers to her questions, Ajla must now decide the path she wants to walk.

PAIRING │Jongdae 종대 / Original Female Character

RATING │ T [SFW]

GENRE │ Fantasy!AU, Mythology!AU

LENGTH │ 7,089 words

NETWORK │ @exols-silver-christmas

MANY THANKS TO │ my two extraordinary betas, L. and C. I couldn't have done it without you !

AUTHOR'S NOTE │ This story was written for Ju (@breeze-of-sunlight) for the 2024 EXO-L Secret Santa event ! It is cut into three parts ; the remaining two will be posted sometime in the beginning of next year. This is my first story, so likes, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated ! ∼ Hailu

BEFORE YOU READ │ One of my original characters [Luan] has a name that is very similar to the name of an ex EXO member [Luhan]. Please keep in mind that these characters are not the same person ! While Luhan might end up mentioned in the other parts, Luan has a much more central role in the story and is bound to appear quite often.

Click here to listen to the little playlist I made for this story.

Grandmother once told me that this land was not always ours. It seems hard to believe, seeing how well acclimated we are to the mild weather and gentle winds of this place. Our people have lived here for a very long time: I was born and have grown up here, in this little village, as was Grandmother. The stories she tells, about foreign grounds and harder times, she learned from her own grandfather, a stern warrior who came here from the North with a few hundred others to seek shelter in a more welcoming land.

I am not sure what became of the people that were calling this place their home before we did. Grandmother said they were a peaceful kind, with strange customs and even stranger gods. I heard, most of them left, and the remaining ones adopted our traditions and practices. Eventually, our culture was the only one to remain.

A long time has passed since then, and our Holy One has allowed us to prosper and live in peace. Of all the villages my people have established in this region, I live in the smallest. Our numbers hardly reach a hundred souls, and I know that on this day, each and every one of them is going to attend the ceremony. It takes place every three years, in midsummer. On the day of the second full moon of the season, we can finally reap the fruits of our yearly labour. As a sign of devotion to our Holy One, every daughter who is at least twenty springs of age ought to enter adulthood through an entire week of uninterrupted prayer, after which she will finally be considered adult enough to marry and bear children.

“Ouch !” I say, reaching up to massage the part of my head where Mother has pulled my hair a little too hard. I stop right in my tracks when I hear a disapproving sound behind me.

“Don’t be a child, Ajla,” she sighs. I lower my hand, my scalp still throbbing. “Why is your hair always so tangled ?”

In a sudden moment of realisation, she grabs my shoulders and makes me turn around so I can meet her eyes. I instantly lower them to the ground, as I almost always do.

“You untied it for the night, didn’t you ?”

“I just… it was pulled too tight, I couldn’t sleep,” I tentatively try.

“Remember Ajla, the Holy One despises the arrogant and the vain. I should have cut your hair a long time ago,” she lets an exasperated sigh escape her. “We don’t have time now, we still have to help with the preparations for the ceremony and go get your prayer dress for tonight.” She finishes brushing my long messy blond hair in a hurry, and then braids it into a tight updo at the base of my neck. I hold back a wince at the harsh treatment she gives to my head.

“It is good you got a little sleep nonetheless. You’ll need all the energy you can get for the Prayer. Our Holy One will test your strength in a way you have never experienced before. You’ll never be quite the same after you come out of the Sanctuary, Ajla. It was the same for me.”

I listen silently. It is the first time Mother talks about how hard of a trial the Prayer can be. She is a stern woman, hardened by the trials of life, but she likes to talk about the Holy One, and she reveres Him in a way I don’t think I’ll ever really be able to understand. Our whole community, myself included, is very devoted to our divinity, but Mother believes in His power with her whole heart. She says, her faith in the Holy One is what gives her strength.

I know what the Prayer entails, everybody does, but the gap between knowledge and experience can sometimes prove to be dangerous. An entire week of prayer, locked in a small room with only enough food to keep us alive. It is complete isolation, no contact to the outside world allowed. The Prayer is supposed to test our faith and devotion to the Holy One, and no one is allowed to interrupt. Not that there would even be a possibility to interrupt, as the opening of the praying rooms get nailed shut to ensure nothing will distract the participants.

“Get dressed, we’re going to the storehouse first,” Mother says before leaving me alone in the room. I sigh, and walk towards a small hook attached to the wall. The women of our village must always walk around with their body covered to maintain modesty : for that reason, it is common that we wear a flowy upper garment on top of our dresses, that we call “kiva”. Mine is long enough for the sleeves to almost reach my fingertips. As is tradition, it also has a hood so I am able to properly cover my hair. Father mentioned once, that showing my body too much would only bring me dishonour, that what I was hiding was to only be shown inside of my home in the presence of my close family and, when I am wed, of my husband. That this was the Holy One’s will. Sometimes, I wonder if we do the things we do for the Holy One, or for the sake of some old traditions that have existed since long before my birth.

After making sure my kiva is on correctly, its hood held in place with pins in my hair, I join Mother, who is waiting for me at the doorstep. In a few short weeks, summer will yield to autumn ; the days will become shorter and the leaves will turn orange and yellow. Right now though, the heat, if not quite stifling, is still well present. We start walking slowly towards the storehouse, where we keep all our food, and apart from the bustle of the final ceremony preparations, this day feels like any other summer day.

Yet, when my eyes land on a small stall filled with strange items and foreign designs, I understand that something about today will be different from usual. Today will bring change.

They look different, misplaced in this little village of mine that is not accustomed to receiving visits from foreigners. They are dressed in various colours, some bright and some dark, a stark contrast to the sea of cream and brown coloured clothes that my people commonly wear.

I see a middle-aged woman smile gently at the passersby, showing a few of them the items she is selling. She does not look like me, or any of my people, but I find her utterly beautiful. Her hair is long and dark, draping over her shoulders in messy curls, and she’s wearing a strange embroidered headband. Her long tunic is a deep red colour and decorated at the seams with patterns I have never seen before, leaving part of her shoulders bare, exposing golden, sun kissed skin. It is a couple tones darker than my own, my kiva perpetually keeping it hidden from sun and moon alike. Her eyes all of a sudden find mine, and she smiles at me from where she stands, behind her stall. I look at her curiously, and find myself wanting to smile back.

It is at this moment that I feel Mother’s hand on my back, urging me forward. She takes her place at my other side, positioning herself between the woman and me, blocking my view.

“Do not talk to them, Ajla. I forbid you to even look at them, do you hear me ?” she whispers, her tone serious and authoritative.

“Why so, Mother ? We do not see foreigners very often and–”

“And it is best that way. They are heretics, Ajla. They are not like us.”

I can sense from the tone of her voice that she will not accept any more discussion about the travellers, so I stay quiet and we walk the rest of the way in silence. The storehouse is always a flurry of activity, especially during harvest season. My people mainly thrive thanks to the fruits and vegetables we grow within the walls of the village. While we sometimes eat meat from the small animals we raise, we no longer hunt like our ancestors did. Seeking larger prey would mean stepping a foot in the forest, and the woods are dark and scary, the foliage of the trees thick enough that it is not possible to see the sun from the ground. I have never left the village – Father says, it is best I stay where I belong, in the safety of the walls that have seen me grow – but I heard rumours once, about how the forest and the mountain are places that the Holy One cannot reach.

My thoughts are interrupted by the rumpus of men and women in the storehouse, gossiping loudly as they wash the produce we harvested a few days ago so it can be prepared in the kitchens. Had today been any other day, the presence of foreigners in the village would have surely caused a commotion, but everyone seems to have forgotten them now that the Prayer is approaching.

“Mother ! Ajla ! Over here !” my brother yells, waving his long arms to catch our attention from the very back of the room.

I shouldn’t feel this way, but it breaks my heart just a little to see Mother’s face instantly break out into a bright smile. I have no memories of her ever looking at me with that same affection in her eyes. I had an older brother once, who was Mother’s pride and joy. She was never quite the same after his sudden death at the age of six, brought on by a feat of uncontrollable fever. She cried for years, prayed for days on end, tried everything in her power to give birth to a second son. I can barely remember his face, but I’ll never forget Mother’s tears. In hindsight, I think a part of her died with Adem. Luan was the one that gave her a new breath after three long years of mourning her lost child. And then there is I, Ajla, always stuck in the middle, between Adem’s memory and Luan’s sweet smile, neither truly seen nor completely invisible.

For the next couple of hours, I help with whatever needs to be prepared. It’s hot inside the storehouse, and the effort starts to make me sweat, my kiva keeping my arms and my hair covered not helping with the afternoon heat. Luan’s chatter is a welcome distraction from my thoughts of family, faith and foreigners, even though I still feel nervous about the upcoming ceremony and Prayer. When he asks a question excitedly, I turn and smile at him, answering with as much liveliness as I can muster. He does not seem to pick up on my thoughts and somewhat sour mood, and I thank the Holy One for that. My little brother just turned twenty summers old, and by the time the next ceremony takes place, he’ll be aged enough to be married. Luan has always been adored and doted on by the whole family, including me, and despite his tall stature and long limbs, childlike features still linger on his face, giving him an uncanny resemblance to the older brother that he has never known. For that reason, and to Luan’s dismay, Mother has a hard time letting him out of her sight.

I stop working when I feel the gentle press of a hand on my shoulder. The girl looking at me is dressed in a similar fashion, with a long dress and cream-coloured kiva to match. Under her hood, her hair is some shade of blond, a characteristic shared by many of our people, though her striking grey eyes are a little unusual. She takes my wrist in her hand and smiles warmly. After hours of working here, it seems we are both ready to escape the storehouse mission we’ve been given. We just need to ask for permission first.

“Master, it is getting late and both Ajla and I still need to stop by the tailoress’ shop. I was planning to go now, would you mind if we go together ?” Ema asks, her gaze low. Father is not a bad man, but he is tall and intimidating, and even though Luan is growing up to share most of his traits, I hope he retains the gentleness that has characterised him since he was a baby.

“Rona, didn’t you want to go with our daughter?” Father asks his wife.

“I… I was planning to, but she might as well go now. We have work here still,” she says, and I would be lying if I said I am not a little glad to finally have a chaperone my age.

Luan smiles at my friend. “They will also not be able to see each other again until after the ceremony, so it’s important to enjoy each other’s company now. Right, Ema ?” he smiles at my friend. His back is turned to our parents, and his teasing wink is lost to them. Ema’s cheeks redden, but she nods politely.

Father looks at my brother and accepts without too much of a fight. Other than the fact that Luan has had our parents wrapped around his little finger since his birth, he also has the advantage of being male, which the Holy One has decided would be the stronger and wiser gender. His support is precious, even if we soon will be wed and not part of the same household anymore. Ema and I leave the storehouse, and though the walk to the tailoress’ shop is short, it is filled with excited ramblings from my friend, who seems to be in a vastly different mood than I.

“I can’t wait to prove myself to our Holy One,” she says, and I look at her a bit perplexed.

“Aren’t you scared ? That you are not going to hold up with so little food and rest ?”

“Well, there aren't really any alternatives, are there ? And then we’ll be out, and we’ll finally be able to get married !” She exclaims. “Do you have anyone in mind ?”

It wouldn't matter in the end, the decision is not ours, just like it had not been my parents’ choice to be wed. But I know that Ema is already aware of that fact, and I do not want to crush her spirits. This casual banter feels somewhat good.

“I do not,” I say truthfully. “What about you ?”

“Oh– um, yes, I actually do, you know, have someone in mind,” Ema answers, her face becoming redder by the minute.

I smile to myself. It’s Luan. My friend thinks she's good at hiding her fancy of my little brother, but I am convinced that everybody, including Luan himself, knows about it. I hope the people of my community will take Ema and Luan’s wishes into account when making their decisions. I hope they choose someone good for me, too.

Ema and I were never really close until a few years ago, around the time of the last ceremony. To participate in the Prayer, all girls must be aged of at least twenty springs, but I was born at the very end of the summer, making me half a season too young at the time. Ema was born in the autumn a couple weeks after me, and we both bonded over the knowledge that when our Prayer would come around, we would be the oldest participants.

The shop is small, but peaceful. The business used to be held by a man, until his death a decade ago. His wife has taken over the affairs of the shop since then, handling the business with an iron hand and a heart of gold. Everybody in the village likes Nona, but I like to think she and I have a closer bond. She was Grandmother’s dearest friend, and talking to Nona feels a lot like it used to feel talking to her.

I see the old woman at the back of the room, adjusting a big piece of ivory-coloured cloth. She smiles instantly when we greet her, the curve of her lips accentuating all the wrinkles on her face. Her hair is covered, like mine and Ema’s, but I can see a hint of grey where her hood is a little misplaced on her head.

“Look who’s here ! Aren’t these girls a little late ? Everybody else has collected their dresses already,” Nona says, with a tiny hint of disapproval in her voice. Nonetheless, she heads for the backroom and comes back only a minute later, carrying in her arms two identical outfits.

The shape and looks of the ceremonial outfits never change from one ceremony to another. Year after year, they stay the same simple flowy dress and kiva, and are not decorated with any patterns or symbols. They look very similar to our daily clothes, except for their colour, an almost blinding whiteness, that is meant to represent the participants’ purity, both moral and physical. I have seen this dress on so many girls, yet it’s still hard to realise that in just a few hours, I will be the one wearing it.

“They’re beautiful,” Ema gasps next to me, taking her outfit in her arms with the utmost care, as if it was some fragile thing going to break. This dress has meaning for my people, as the ceremony dates back to long before most of my ancestors were born. It is stunning, and one of the most beautiful pieces of clothing that I will ever wear. Yet, I am not sure how to react, as the weight of what such a garment means slowly but surely crashes on me. Feeling Nona’s gaze on me, I settle for thanking her for her hard work. She gives me a carefully guarded smile.

“You remind me so much of your grandmother,” she says fondly, with a hint of melancholy in her voice. “She was scared too.”

“I– I’m not scared, Nona” I stutter, a little panicked that she would doubt my faith in our Holy One, that I would dare be frightened by the prospect of honouring Him.

“Oh but you are, Ajla. We all are, before we step foot in the Sanctuary. And then we endure ; the hunger, the weariness and the weight of the confessions we make. You’ll learn to endure too. In the Prayer and in life, you’ll endure.”

She slowly grabs my hand and takes something out of her kiva’s pocket to put it in my palm. It's a white handkerchief, embroidered with beautiful pink flowers, a rarity in my community, where clothes are plain and neutral in colours.

“This belonged to your grandmother. She got it from her own mother. She was wearing it on her wrist when she did her Prayer. She wanted you to have it. Her only granddaughter. She wanted you to find your way, for our Holy One to give you strength.”

Even though it is not written in law that the participants to the Prayer must not have any additional garment or accessory, it is not conventional enough that Grandmother thought it would be safe to give me her handkerchief through my parents when my time came. I am not surprised ; for all the love Grandmother had for her culture, her people and her customs, she always found Mother, her daughter-in-law, to be a little too stern.

I thank Nona profusely, and part ways with Ema in front of the shop. We both have to return home now, and we live on opposite sides of the village. I walk slowly, as if getting home later was going to push back the time of the ceremony. With both hands busy holding my dress high in my arms to avoid creating creases, I can only lightly grasp the handkerchief with the tips of my fingers. The sun will set in a couple hours and the heat of the early afternoon is long gone, replaced by steady winds.

I gasp when Grandmother’s handkerchief slips from my fingers, stolen away by a gust of air, and I hurry past surprised passersby, trying to catch up with it as it dances further and further away from me. It seems as if the winds are having fun playing with something I hold so dear to my heart. The delicate piece of cloth swirls around, as light as a feather. Each time I come close to it, the handkerchief starts its crazy escape again, seemingly mocking me.

Eventually, it slips under a table filled with goods on sale, and one of the merchants bends down to pick it up. I stop right in my tracks. Grandmother’s handkerchief is in the hands of one of the foreigners I saw earlier on my way to the storehouse with Mother. I am still a good distance from them, but he’s undoubtedly male. The heretic cradles the cloth in his palms like it's some fragile treasure, and seems to gently brush some dust off of it before raising his head and starts looking around, obviously searching for the owner. Searching for me.

Flustered and still out of breath, I duck behind a nearby wall, a hand on my chest to calm my racing heart. What shall I do now ? Mother said not to talk to them, she even forbade me to get too close. I should let it go, pass them by without sparing a glance in their direction.

On the other hand, I do not wish to let go of the only thing Grandmother has left me. She said it would help me, she said it would bring me strength. Besides, what could happen if I just asked for it ? Surely the stranger will give it back ? I just have to make it quick, so Mother will not see me if she returns from the storehouse earlier than planned. Yes, that is what I should do. What Mother does not know, can not upset her.

I fold my uniform in my arms, forgetting all about not making any creases, and start to make my way over to the stall, with an assurance that is not quite authentic. It is not the first time I see travelers, but it is the first time Mother has explicitly forbidden me to talk to them, her earlier words of distrust engraved in my mind. It is obvious that they do not worship the Holy One ; as otherwise their women would not show their arms and their hair so openly. They could be dangerous, but our numbers outweigh theirs and we are in the heart of the village. The day of the ceremony is the best to trade and sell goods. There is a crowd in the streets, all the shops are open. Nothing can go wrong.

The heretic calmly watches me get closer, his gaze fixed on me. I stop right before the stall, a table filled with various colourful items, the only thing separating us. Up close, I am able to see him better ; he looks about my age, maybe a little older. Unlike Father or Luan, he is not very tall or imposing, only outsizing me by half a head. Like the other foreigners, he is wearing an embroidered headband, the piece partially hidden under loosely curled hair the darkest shade of brown I have ever seen. Though all headbands have similarities in design, patterns and colours differ, making each piece completely unique. He is dressed in a simple blue tunic that is creased and folded all over, and closed at the shoulders by two pins, allowing whoever is looking to see his entire arms.

Busy as I am staring at the man in front of me, I realise a minute too late that he is examining me as well, the shadow of a cheeky smile tugging at the upturned corners of his lips. Not wanting to spend more time than I must in the presence of the stranger, I extend my arm towards him, palm upturned.

“I have lost my handkerchief. I would like to have it back,” I try. He keeps looking at me with the same expression on his face, and I wonder for a moment if we speak the same language. “Please ?” I add tentatively. “Um, it seems like the winds were mocking me, making me run around like that after a stupid cloth,” I explain, conveniently forgetting to mention how dear said stupid cloth is to my heart.

This time, the foreigner’s mouth stretches into a gentle, full-blown smile that reaches his brown eyes, and I wonder for a moment what could be so funny.

When the young man before me starts speaking, he sounds strong and powerful, although not unkind. He has a very light accent I can not quite place. “The winds are mischievous, they love to play. They love to make people dance.”

I still, astounded. I was not prepared for that answer, and I do not know quite how to respond. In the end, I decide to let the conversation run its – hopefully short – course.

“Yes, um, I… guess they do ?” I whisper. “I am not sure I liked this dance very much though.”

“They’re nice enough, once you learn to know them,” he says, smiling brightly as if he did not just talk about the winds as if they were living and breathing. He’s mad. He’s mad, and my handkerchief is still in his hand.

The young man must sense my increasing discomfort, because he lowers his head. Once free from his dark gaze, I slowly exhale a breath I did not realise I was holding. The stranger absently traces the pink flowers embroidered on Grandmother’s handkerchief with his thumb.

“This is very fine and delicate work. The person who made it is very talented. Were you the one who embroidered this cloth ?” he asks.

“I– no, it is very old. It belonged to my grandmother, and to her own ancestors before that,” I finally admit.

“Then it must be very dear to you ?”

“It is,” I simply say.

“Then I’ll give it back. Here,” he says, extending his own arm, the cloth in his hand. 

He has nice hands. They are not very big, and they are more calloused than mine, but he has long and slender fingers. His nails are clean and clipped short. He’s wearing several bracelets, some of them made out of colourful threads knotted together, and some thin circles of golden metal that glint in the late afternoon sunlight. None of my people wear jewellery, or any decorative adornments for that matter. Showcasing one’s beauty is to bask in vanity, and the Holy One does not like vanity.

I frown when I notice tiny markings on the arm he’s extended towards me. Scars ? No, not scars. It’s a tattoo. A tattoo made with white ink and barely visible on his skin despite his tan. Fascinated, I let my eyes run along the length of his arm. The patterns and symbols extend from the back of his hand to the crook of his neck, swirling and intertwining delicately around his wrist and his elbow. I stop staring when I hear the man clear his throat. I close my eyes and chastise myself. I can almost hear Mother and her stern voice at the back of my head. Ogling a man – an impure heretic – like that, you should be ashamed !

“Thank you,” I finally whisper, finding nothing else to say. Our arms are both extended, as if waiting for the other to cave in and get closer first. In the end, eager for this conversation to end, I sigh and take the handkerchief in his hand, my fingers brushing his for the shortest of moments.

Time seems to slow and speed up at the same time, and I feel slightly nauseous. I close my eyes, overwhelmed, as sound surrounds me, making my ears ring painfully. Why is the world so loud all of a sudden ? After the first few seconds, I get used to the noise and notice a voice in the chaos of sounds. Sometimes, it laughs, the laugh of a young girl, so clear and soft, and sometimes, it sings songs I have never heard before. Several other similar voices then join the first one in a chorus of melodies, and I think I can hear them speak to each other. Some are surprised and some are amused, and I hear them whispering faintly about someone they call “the foreigner”.

When I feel like my heart is beating at a normal pace again, I open my eyes to find myself in a place I have never seen before. Where am I ? Why am I here and how did I get there ? I do not know this place. Trees surround me, casting gentle shadows on the water I find myself standing in. Looking around, I see I am in a forest, although I have never ventured out of the village. I do not know how to swim, yet I am waist-deep in the water of a small lake, wet and shivering. I’m cold. The voices are gone now, barring one ; the chuckle of a man coming from behind me. I turn around and raise my head. After a few moments of blur, my eyes finally focus on the silhouette before me.

The heretic stands on a big rock on the shore, dry and dressed in the same tunic I saw earlier, albeit in a different colour. It is only long enough to reach the middle of his thighs, showing off long but muscled legs. He is barefoot, and he is still chuckling – is he laughing at me ?

I should feel outraged, and angry, that he is allowing himself to be so familiar with me – we have only met for the first time today after all – but somehow, the only feeling I can muster is mild annoyance. I give him a dark glare, and I find myself speaking his name with a scolding tone. I can not quite make out what name ; unable to control my lips or hear the words coming out of my own mouth. I feel like an actress in the middle of performing a play that already has a set ending. At the sound of his name, the man stops laughing and apologises. He looks around, glaring and I find myself doing the same. There is nobody but us here.

Then his gaze is back on me and I feel his eyes slowly slide down from my eyes, to my neck, to my chest, and I wonder for a moment what he is looking at. Then I check my reflection in the water.

I am dressed entirely in white, in my ceremonial clothes, wet from head to toe ; the weight of the water has pulled my kiva off from my shoulders, leaving them almost naked. My dress is drenched, and has become transparent under the effect of the water. My lower body is thankfully still under the water line, but my neck, chest and belly are fully visible. I gasp in shock, immediately crossing my arms over my chest so I feel less exposed ; so the man before me is not able to steal glances at my body more than he already has.

My reaction seems to wake him up from a trance, and both his cheeks and mine start turning red. At least he seems to feel ashamed of his staring, of making me uncomfortable. As he starts to open his mouth and apologise, I blink, and the moment I next open my eyes, I am back at the stall, in the middle of my village. The young man is still before me, but he has taken a few steps back, clutching his tattooed hand as if the contact has burned him. His mouth is open in shock, and though I can not see myself, I can guess he is mirroring my own expression.

I clutch my handkerchief in my hand. And then panic sets in.

“I- what just happened ? Was I dreaming wide awake ?” I ask, more to myself than to the stunned foreigner before me. What sort of spell has he bewitched me with ? Was this dream a trick from the evil spirits Mother is so scared of ?

The man raises his hands before himself, obviously trying to defuse the situation but it does nothing to reduce my anxiety. I take a few steps back.

“I– I must go now. There is still much to do,” I say, on the edge of panicking. My eyes can only stare at nothing, unfocused, as I try to register what happened in the dream, and how real everything felt.

“Listen, I didn't mean… I didn't mean to– to show you anything,” he stuttered. “Don't be scared, no please–”

But I’m already running past the passersby and away from him, my dress balled up in my arms and my handkerchief tightly grasped in my fist, as I try to hold back confused tears. My tiny world feels like it has collided with something much, much bigger. Something unknown. Something frightening.

The rest of the day passes by in a blur. 

I see but I am not looking, I hear but I am not listening. I feel like I am wearing someone else's skin.

I keep moving, but it's just habits, as if my movements are controlled by some puppeteer.

Soon my family comes home. They change into their ceremonial clothes, and Mother does my hair again, pulling and twisting the tresses until they are shaped to her liking. My head is throbbing, but I do not feel the pain.

The sun is setting when I finally take my place in the line of maidens who are going to be subjected to the Prayer. I recite the oath that I have learned by heart under Mother’s supervision ; I do not stutter, and the words come out clean and well-spoken, but I feel empty. I am given a bag of provisions, that contains the only things I will be given to eat for the next seven sunrises.

As the crowd celebrates all around us, I feel the weight of someone’s gaze on me. I follow it to find the foreigner staring from a distance, unmoving as the rest of his people pack up their belongings as they prepare to leave. Tomorrow they will be long gone, and I will have forgotten all about what I saw earlier, too engrossed in prayer to care. However, today, my memories of the dream are still too fresh in my mind, and I find my lips softly mouthing the name I spoke in the lake. This time, although the crowd around me is loud and excited in celebration, I can clearly hear what is coming out of my mouth. “Jongdae,” I speak, looking at him. I have never heard of this name. From afar, his eyes seem to widen, but he does not move. We watch each other for a few more moments. He looks sad. I hope this time I am not mirroring his expression.

I am the last one to be led to the Sanctuary. It is near the entry of the village, as it was the first structure that was built here. The Prayer room that has been assigned to me is located in a corner of the building at the very end of a long hallway. I step in, and look around. The wooden walls of my room are thinner than I thought they would be. There is an altar, but no bed, as I am not expected to get much rest. Two giant eyes are painted on the wall, dark and foreboding. They, too, stare at me, intense and intimidating. The space is so small, no matter where I am, I feel seen. Vulnerable. A chill courses through my body when I hear the opening of the room being sealed shut with nails that will only be removed once the Prayer has ended.

First, I do not know what to do. I stand, as if paralysed, in the middle of the room for a long moment. Then I remember Mother, and I remember my oath. I must pray now. I lower the bag of provisions to the ground and kneel on the hard floor in front of the altar. Mother has told me what to say as the opening of a Prayer. We have recited it, again and again.

Forgive me, my Holy One, for my sins. I am here to confess and earn your forgiveness.

Yet, somehow, the words that come out of my mouth are different. More honest.

“Forgive me, my Holy One, for I am not quite sure what to say.” Then I start praying, whispering the words under my breath.

For a moment, I pray for my family. For Father's health, for Mother’s peace of mind, for Luan’s happy spirits to remain and for Adem’s soul to rest in peace.

Then I start praying for my village, and for my community. I pray for peace, for a good harvest and for a mild winter. Talking about winter makes me realise the night has fallen. I shiver and wrap my kiva tighter around me in hope of keeping some warmth.

When time comes to confess my sins, I think back to that moment in the forest ; of the evil spirits that possessed my mind and made me imagine this unholy scene of me almost bare in front of a man. I am ashamed, but I am not sure this vision was my own doing. Do I need to confess if it was not my fault ? In the end, I decide to keep my mouth shut about this event and instead to ask for forgiveness for untying my hair last night.

After that, I realise I have nothing more to say. I try to think, but nothing comes to my mind. As I search for something to pray about, I sit with my back against the wall opposite from the altar. Instead of looking at His eyes, I start looking at my hands. Grandmother’s handkerchief is tied around my wrist, the only touch of colour in my entirely white outfit, and I start thinking of the foreigner.

This dream was not my fault, I am sure of that. Otherwise, why would he have apologised ? The look in his eyes makes me think that he might have known what was going on. Does he know what I have imagined ? Or worse – has he seen the things that I have seen ?

And this place, what was it ? Where was it ? Never would I have dived into water without knowing how deep it was first. Did he push me ? Why would someone do that ?

The more I think about the events of the afternoon, the more I realise my fright is turning to curiosity. Mother said it is not right to be curious, that I must wait for our Holy One to provide the answers. Like a poison, it runs slowly through one’s veins and takes over the mind. It pushes people to do things they would not normally do. Then I realise something else : in this room where I am alone with the Holy One, Mother can not reach. What she does not know, can not upset her.

In between the quiet of prayers, I hear people outside my room, one of which I recognise as the village chief. However, the voices are not coming from inside the Sanctuary ; this building is sacred and not a place for gossip. Instead, the voices come from beyond the wall that is directly to my right, which means they are standing outside the village. The chief is speaking to several people,but I can not make out what they are talking about, nor do I recognise any of the voices he is conversing with ; not until I hear a familiar voice, strong, powerful, and slightly accented, start thanking my leader.

“I would thank you a thousand times if I could, village chief. Our provisions were running low for the rest of our trip and it was urgent we exchanged some of our belongings for food and money. I know you do not welcome strangers often within the walls of your village, and for your generosity I will forever be grateful.”

Jongdae ? He must be leaving the village with his people now.

“You are very welcome,” my leader says, seemingly pleased by the compliments. “Had today been any other day, you would have been quite the sensation. I hope you got what you wanted, for as gracious as I am, I will not be able to let you in the village tomorrow,” he grumbles.

The young foreigner hardly waits a second before replying, probably louder than one should be during a private conversation.

“This is no problem, my community is already grateful for your help. We are going to stay a few more days in the small clearing we saw in the forest, only long enough to allow us to hunt and replenish our provisions.”

They exchange a few more words after that, but I am not focused on their conversation anymore. I simply stare at the painted eyes on the wall.

“What do you think ? What should I do now ?” I wonder out loud, my voice barely louder than a whisper.

Before the dream, I would have listened to Mother and stayed put. I would have prayed about anything and everything, I would have confessed my sins.

But I can not help but feel like something important occurred this afternoon. Who is this man, and who are these people ? Is he working with the evil spirits to plant seeds of doubt in the minds of innocent young women ? And if so, why did he apologise to me ? I have to know what happened, I have to know if he saw the same vision I did, and if so how was it possible ?

Today, my tiny world has collided with something bigger, much bigger than anything I could have ever envisioned. But this time, I am not frightened anymore. I will find this foreigner, and defend myself and my honour. I am in need of answers, and I know there is only one way to get them.

I must leave the village.

[theresattrpgforthat]

Hello,

I apologize in advance if you've already answered something like this but my cursory look didn't show anything. I am looking for a game system that has an emphasis on the feeling of a wild west movie while still retaining general fantasy elements from DND. The wild spaces are slowly becoming tamed, increasing technological/magical advancement are pushing disparate communities together, and of course cocky assholes with guns (or a magical equivalent).

Thanks in advance

Theme: Wild West Fantasy

Hello friend, you might want to check out my Fantasy Westerns rec post, to see if anything there fits what you’re looking for. I especially recommend checking out the rec for We Deal In Lead and Clink. For the rest of this post, I try to span a very broad range, so I don't expect everything to stick - but perhaps one or two do!

Inevitable, by Soul Muppet Publishing.

Knights and wizards have defended the Kingdom of Myth for centuries. These lands have known peace and prosperity, but soon the kingdom shall be destroyed. The Prophets have declared that your city shall burn and Myth will fall. All those who follow your King shall die. It is INEVITABLE.

But you shall defy fate. Myth will not end while you bear arms. You will fail, but as long as there are still stories, they will sing of you!

Inevitable is a Arthurian Western roleplaying game for 2-6 players and a GM, where your party of disastrously sad cowboy knights fail to stop the apocalypse. This 284 page book contains all the rules, character creation and the setting for your campaign, thoroughly and evocatively detailing The Barren, the lands surrounding the Kingdom of Myth.

This game might be way you’re looking for: it describes itself as a fantasy kingdom, with western aesthetics. There are wizards, prophets, and rune-carved revolvers. Your reputation in the kingdom is important; it determines how well you can face challenges, and roll pools of d6 on a table of staggered success. If you want a taste before you buy, there’s a Quickstart with some evocative set pieces, a quick overview of the rules, and a quick adventure to run through with a list of pre-generated characters.

Far West, by Adamant Entertainment.

Imagine a fantasy setting that shatters the tropes of Medieval Europe. Imagine a collision of Spaghetti Westerns and Chinese Wuxia by way of Steampunk. Imagine a world where gunslingers and kung fu masters face off against Steam Barons and the August Throne. Imagine fantastic machines powered by the furies comprising the fabric of the universe. Imagine an endless frontier where wandering heroes fight for righteous causes while secret societies engage in shadow wars. Imagine…

This game is a combination of Wild Western tropes and Wuxia fantasy. Your characters are wandering heroes, defending the small and helpless against the strong and powerful. I look at this game and I think of movies like The Magnificent Seven. Mechanically, it’s its own system, but it draws heavily from Fate, using positive and negative aspects to boost rolls and spark complications.This game relies on some tropes that require entire table buy-in: I’m not sure how many assumptions the game makes about the cultures it takes inspiration from.

Holler: An Appalachian Apocalypse (Savage Worlds), by Pinnacle Entertainment.

In Holler, the mysterious “Big Boys” own the mines, mills, and logging operations. They rule over every aspect of their workers’ lives—subjecting them to extraordinary dangers on the job and crushing oppression outside of it. The Big Boys have transformed the land of the Holler—rivers bubble with strange chemicals, strip-mined mountains crumble into valleys, and the air is choked with a toxic fog known as the Blight. The flora and fauna of the Holler grow more monstrous by the day. Demons of every description lurk in the forests. Mutant cryptids haunt villages with their strange cries and appetites. Vengeful haints leer from abandoned shacks and lonely cliffs. No one is coming to save the people of Holler.

The goal of the resistance is to build a coalition, to bring together diverse factions—humble workers, roustabouts, mountain men, dirt track racers, cultists, and even strange creatures of myth and legend to raze the works of the Big Boys and drive them from the Holler forever. Holler draws deeply on Appalachian history, mythic folklore, and culture to create a dark fantasy world of apocalypse and vengeance.

This sounds a little more grim and gritty, with cryptids, toxic fog and demons lurking in the forest. It uses the Savage Worlds system, so you’ll have to pick up the codebook to play with it, but the setting is very very fleshed out. This is a little less Wild West and a little more Appalachia, and the setting is a bit more on the horror side than most of the other games on this list, but there’s certainly a lot of wildness out there for you to fight!

TROUPE, by TheOriginalCockatrice.

A game about travel, discovery, and outsiderness, a combination of the best of Old-School and Story Games. Complete with 6 Jobs, including the Ghelf, the Hedge, and the Ogra, and includes a system for holistically coming up with a character from scratch.

The designer describes this game as an exploration of the road; the odd and unknown of the wild, what it means to belong, and what it means to be on the outside. You’re not heroes - you’re entertainers, jokers, healers and bards. There isn’t exactly magic, but there is myth and legend. This is a great game for folks who want plenty of challenges that exist outside of combat. Each character playbook comes with a balance of mechanical elements and descriptive options, and you’ll be rolling 2d6 plus your stat in order to determine success.

I’m not sure how much of a Western this is, but the designer actually hacked this game for BXLLET, a game about gunslingers in the apocalypse, in the zine Bxllet Clip, so it might be worth checking out!

Shotguns & Sorcery, by Full Moon Enterprises.

Welcome to Dragon City, a grim, gritty metropolis ruled over by the Dragon Emperor, with legions of zombies scratching at the city walls by night.

Whether in the streets of Goblintown or the prestigious halls of the Academy of Arcane Apprenticeship, people try to scrape by, make a living, and survive from one day to the next. You, however, are looking for something more than simple survival. And in this city, if you don’t make your own adventure, another adventure is sure to find you.

Shotguns & Sorcery is a fantasy noir game complete with Dragon City Intrigues, roving hoards of undead, and unexplored mountains rife with magical creatures. You’ll see magical staffs alongside light pistols, bows alongside submachine guns, and greatswords alongside canteens, playing cards and a camp stove. The game uses the Cypher System, with an additional character option alongside the three-part character sentence: your race. This includes the signature hafling, elf, dwarf etc.

Games I’ve Recommended in the Past

Knights of the Road, by bordercholly.

[wheelscomedyandmore]

“Dandy” Dick Landy and Miss Hurst: A Racing Fantasy Unfolds

On April 10, 1967, at the roaring Riverside International Raceway in California, it wasn’t just the engines heating up the pavement. Standing next to a supercharged Dodge and a grinning “Dandy” Dick Landy was the woman who made gear-shifting look glamorous — Linda Vaughn, Miss Hurst Golden Shifter.

Wearing a custom-made white-and-gold mini-dress tighter than a carburetor bolt, Linda didn’t just represent a brand — she embodied an era. She was part model, part mascot, and full-blown marketing revolution, standing at the intersection of speed, sex appeal, and Southern charm. When she walked out beside Landy, heels dug into the racetrack, crowd cameras went wild — and not just for the cars.

Landy, the cool-headed Dodge man and NHRA favorite, knew that racing wasn’t just about performance. It was about presence. And nobody had presence like Linda Vaughn.

By 1967, she was already a legend in the making. Chosen by Hurst Performance as their ultimate promo queen, Vaughn had one job: make shifters look s*xy — and sell muscle with a smile. But what people didn’t realize? She was calling her own shots behind that perfect lipstick.

Off the track, Linda negotiated appearances, pushed for pay increases, and refused to be treated like just another pretty face. She rode convertibles through parades, straddled giant gear shifters at car shows, and smiled through sexist press interviews — only to steal every headline by the end of the day.

That day at Riverside wasn’t just another drag meet. It was a full-throttle collision of motorsport bravado and 1960s Americana pin-up fantasy. While Landy burned rubber on the strip, Linda torched the concept of a passive track girl. She owned every frame, every glance, every rev of the engine that roared behind her.

And the legacy stuck. Vaughn became a racing culture icon, her name inseparable from the golden age of muscle cars. Even now, mention “Miss Hurst” at any classic car meet, and you’ll hear grown men sigh like they’re seventeen again.

P.S. Fun Fact: That same year, Linda posed next to a Hurst shifter so large it had to be towed onto the stage. She climbed it in heels — and didn’t miss a step.

#LindaVaughn #DandyDickLandy #HollywoodScandal #Celebrity #hollywood #History

[woeplushbeuponye]

Artist showcase! Three cheers for Maya! ✨🎨 Maya is a Wellington-based artist and designer with a passion for storytelling. They love to design characters and creatures that fit into the whimsical worlds they imagine. She loves to create work inspired by history, mythology and nature, from a queer and women-centric point of view. Maya is currently working on her Master’s degree in Design at Massey University, looking into disability representation in video games. When not engrossed in their studies, Maya becomes a professional media consumer. She enjoys horror fiction podcasts, historical and fantasy books, metal and indie music, and of course cartoons and anime. Maya plush @lamasia_creations Mayas portfolio: https://www.mayalouw.art/portfolio Graphic design @sifzapata Coming your way 24th-30th March 2025, 293 Cuba St, Thistle hall art gallery, Wellington, New Zealand. Woe Plush be Upon Ye is a surreal collision of the internet meme landscape and the gallery space; a fun display of mixed media artworks by twelve local and international artists that aims to celebrate internet pop culture through one viral anime plush toy.

[overthinkinglotr]

oh wow, great to find someone else enjoying Fairmeadow!! amazing art, and I've loved the worldbuilding/designs for Goma and the orcs.

Yay another Fairmeadow fan! A friend recently recommended it to me and I now recommend it to anyone else looking for good thoughtful fantasy webcomics that play with the genre's conventions. :3 Here's the pitch for the other people reading this post who haven't read Fairmeadow yet: "An orcish warrior joins an isolated pacifist commune-- can she learn to live alongside those she swore to fight?"

Goma, a wayward Orcish soldier, finds herself in Fairmeadow, a commune of pacifists deep in the Cascadian wilderness. Isolation has allowed the commune to thrive in the shadow of a century-long war, but Goma’s arrival brings troubling reminders of the world outside to those who have settled there in search of respite.  Fairmeadow’s enigmatic leader, Sanctuary, finds his utopian vision challenged as he struggles to keep the peace. Their self-sufficiency exists on thin margins - margins that threaten to break if Goma cannot learn to live alongside those who she has sworn to fight.  Fairmeadow is a post-epic fantasy drama inspired by the counter-cultural movements of the late 60’s, the landscapes of the Pacific Northwest, and tabletop RPG’s. It’s about the collision of idealism against pragmatism, reckoning with the consequences of dropping out, and trying to make its readers want to go on a hike.

It also has gorgeous art, especially the landscapes/backgrounds! I've noticed a lot of webcomic artists are either good at drawing expressive characters or expressive backgrounds, but this artist is great at both. The worldbuilding is conveyed pretty subtly/naturally through dialogue, and the good writing in combination with the beautiful detailed background illustrations really helps sell the story's fantasy world as a 'real' place. It's also pretty queer, though it's far more focused on 'the emotional and societal consequences of war' than on romance. tl;dr: I know half of all fantasy webcomics try to do a 'what if the monsters/orcs were Sympathetic" storyline, but this is genuinely one of the best-written examples of that!

[fiendishthingee]

"Everything will be fine..."

Most creative ideas begin with something very simple. It could be someone unusual you meet, somewhere strange you find yourself, a turn of phrase heard in conversation, or a news article you stumble on one morning while trying to roust yourself with coffee. Or it could be cracking open your parents’ high school yearbook on a visit to them in St. Louis and seeing a photo of your father, only to wonder if you would’ve been friends with him had you lived back then. This is what happened to Bob Gale, who immediately thought it was an interesting hook for a comedy and lobbed it over to his longtime writing partner, Robert Zemeckis, who was then in the midst of trying to salvage a chaotic adventure movie with two temperamental stars in the Mexican jungle. Bob Z, in turn, had been thinking of the character of a mother who always told her children what a prim and proper young woman she was when it fact she had been as promiscuous as all get out. The pair quickly fused the two ideas with the concept of traveling through time and set about building the story for what would become one of the truly perfect film comedies of all time, “Back To The Future.”

When the film was released in the summer of ’85 (after considerable script changes and the MASSIVE casting swap of changing the lead actor midway through shooting), I knew nothing about it beyond the fact that it was led by that pipsqueak Alex P. Keaton from “Family Ties” and the effervescently loopy Reverend Jim from a favorite sitcom, “Taxi.” Back then personal computers weren’t a glint in the eye, and all you had to go on were the tidbits you could find in Starlog magazine. One lazy summer day, though, I heard a song from the film on the radio at Lake Nacimiento. This was, of course, the undeniable pop classic by Huey Lewis and The News, “The Power of Love,” and after that I was IN. The film itself was, in retrospect, the perfect summer moviegoing experience. Brilliantly written and structured, flawlessly paced and performed, and shot through with that genuine, indefinable sense of magic that only happens very rarely in films (and as I always say, almost never these days).

On its face, the film’s plot of sounds like something the Big Three networks of the time might’ve based a wacky family sitcom around. What elevates it (and indeed the whole wild and imaginative trilogy) above just being a clever male adolescent fantasy is the way Bobs Zemeckis and Gale took their inspired collision of genres and layered it with heart, captured it with visual ingenuity (humble genius Dean Cundey again) and added a sense of bite and eccentricity to the humor to build something timeless and endlessly rewatchable. They were also gifted with a cast, led by the boundless energy and Harold Lloyd-esque physical comedy of Michael J. Fox and the magical, sentient dervish that is Christopher Lloyd, that included the winsome horniness of Lea Thompson, the fumbling oddball charisma of Crispin Glover and of course the proto Trump, psychotic bully idiocy of Thomas F. Wilson. Topping off the whole grand Lou’s Café milkshake of it all was a sweet, sweeping score by Zemeckis’ longtime musical voice, Alan Silvestri.

For the film’s 40th anniversary, Universal Studios brought the story to life as part of their new “Fan Fest Nights.” The centerpiece of that experience was undoubtably spending time on the small town set of Hill Valley, which still stands on the fabled backlot as a testament to how ingrained in our culture the exuberance of Zemeckis and Gale’s story remains. With prop cars, carnival booths, old fashioned summer food, Marvin Berry’s band and a host of actors breathlessly recreating parts of the film with guests, it was like the block party 10 year old me only dreamt of back in little ol’ Cayucos. The warmth and reverence for the film, and its place in pop cinema history, was palpable and infectious. Whether the films have the same currency in today’s “here today, gone tomorrow” disposable way of engaging with “content” remains to be seen. But for me it will always stand, like “Jaws,” “The Godfather,” and “It’s A Wonderful Life,” as a perfect model of imagination, a loving contraption from some of film’s most creative minds, who came together at a singular point in time and left us all with something joyfully ingenious to share, far into the future.

[grandhotelabyss]

Which books influenced the way you think about politics the most?

The worth of this question can be measured by how difficult I'm finding it to answer. On the one hand, far too many books come to mind, reputable and disreputable and in-between, fiction and philosophy, journalism and polemic, comic book and conspiracy theory, plus 20+ years on the internet. On the other hand, there's no one book, or even several books, I could recommend to demonstrate the way I think about politics; I learned most about politics from watching politics, in the ages first of cable television and then of the internet not primarily a bookish enterprise. And because politics is famously the art of the possible, and because what's possible changes year by year, neither politics in general nor my politics in particular can stand still. I learn something every year, though not always from books. I don't mean by this to be cynical; one has one's values, but they vary in their expression with the affordances of the moment. For me, the deepest hope—not belief, but hope; not yet a reality but an aspiration—is in the potential of human freedom against all totalizing systems. I doubt I got that from a book, though. More likely it came from somewhere else, in early experience, and prepared me to recognize the theme whenever I did encounter it in books. Nor have I been wholly dead to the genuine sublimity of those totalizing systems, given what I have jokingly called my protracted education at the hands of Catholics and Marxists.

Anyway, the spirit of the question calls for a list, so I'll provide one. It's a narrative list arranged chronologically by my age when I read the book in question with a little summary of what it taught me. I've avoided the temptation of pretending that canonical political philosophy has taught me more than it did: with respect to Plato, Hobbes, Marx, Mill, Foucault, and the like, mostly I read that material in too abstract a mood for it to matter or too late for it do more than confirm what I'd already learned elsewhere.

Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons, Watchmen (read age 12) - The world is comprised of systems in dynamic interaction with individuals and ideologies; art may replicate this in significant form; the proper attitude of the artist is an implied sardonic skepticism, albeit open to apolitical spiritual rapture and cosmic consciousness.

William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar (read age 14) - The political winds can shift like that, between the acts; when power is at stake, you can't depend on personal loyalties; a smooth speech is better than a good cause; the crowd will always kill the poet; those who plead their freedom often have, beneath their own awareness, an envious resentment of power; the artist can manipulate the audience's political sympathies for pedagogical purposes.

George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four, and John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath (both read age 15) - The modern problem is the reconciliation of individual and collective such that neither is enslaved to the other, the populace starved by the rich, the citizen trampled by state and society; the novel (unlike nonfiction forms) is almost unlimited in its ability to examine this theme, encompassing fantasy and naturalism, sermon and treatise, journalism and prophecy.

Camille Paglia, Sexual Personae (read age 18) - We are ruled by darker forces than we know, especially if we refuse to know it; the whole complex problem of sex and sexuality is primordial, infinitely more fundamental than the comparative superficies of race and class that political philosophers and pundits prefer to discuss; art and politics both are contra naturam—sex, by contrast, is the tragic collision of art and nature—and therefore under the sign of beauty; the critic's sensibility should be cosmic and unyielding, itself a mark carved hopelessly into nature's loam.

Edward W. Said, Culture and Imperialism (read age 21) - Empire is the primary political fact, inescapable even for artists and angels; the most powerful move a critic can make is to ally art to empire, the more improbably or counterintuitively the better, this to establish the critic's own cultural empire; the critic may rhetorically take the side of the oppressed in a suave rhetoric the oppressed could never master, and charisma will dispel (almost) the consequent air of fraud.

Max Horkheimer and Theodor W. Adorno, Dialectic of Enlightenment (read age 27) - Our genius is our tragedy: the laws we codified to escape and then to master nature have enslaved us precisely because we identify them with nature; we have strangled everything spontaneous and tender in ourselves—and have projected out of ourselves and "other" and slaughtered that, too—in the name of this conquest, necessary to progress as in fact it was, with consequences even including the modern reduction of culture to the machinic product of industries consecrated to entertainment propaganda.

Fyodor Dostoevsky, Demons (read age 32) - Liberalism is not innocent; in destroying every metaphysic but freedom and utility it has cleared the path of psychotic anarchy and brutal tyranny; the artist must understand every inch of this dilemma from the inside.

Albert Camus, The Rebel (read age 35) - The urge to rebel against tyranny and its dialectical concomitant in the urge to become a tyrant in turn are structures of human consciousness traceable through the whole of human culture from ancient myth to modern art, with political philosophy in between; the artist's abundant vision may teach the moderation that preserves the impulse to freedom and holds in abeyance the drive toward tyranny.

Hannah Arendt, The Origins of Totalitarianism (read age 39) - The enemy is the reduction of the human to a calculus, any calculus, with whatever alibi (liberal, fascist, communist; race, class, nation); the solution is collective creativity.

Finally, for a wild card:

Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter (read and reread between ages 15 and 40) and Sacvan Bercovitch, The Office of the Scarlet Letter (read age 25) - This is how American politics in particular works: it doesn't; it is sublimated as a cultural conflict about the limits of freedom and necessity waged over open-ended and contested symbols, including Hawthorne's own text; the proper ambition of the American writer is to write a text of such permanently productive ambiguity.

[mitchipedia]

Project 2025 is “neofeudalist fanfic shit out by the most esoteric Fedsoc weirdos the world has ever seen.”

Donald Trump will never be able to implement Project 2025 because the document is rife with contradictions, reflecting fault lines in the Republican Party that Democrats can take advantage of, writes Cory Doctorow @pluralistic@mamot.fr. One such fracture will likely be tested soon, as bird flu spreads: RFK Jr. is of course anti-vax, as are other top MAGA leaders, but this is a view not shared by other top Trump health picks, who “emphatically support vaccines.”

The Trump coalition is a coalition of single-issue advocates. Cory calls them “cranks,” explaining he means the term non-pejoratively and says he, too, is a crank: “someone who is overwhelmingly passionate about a single issue, whose uncrossable bright lines are not broadly shared. Cranks can be right or they can be wrong, but we’re hard to be in coalition with, because we are uncompromisingly passionate about things that other people largely don’t even notice, let alone care about.”

Money quotes:

Project 2025 is “neofeudalist fanfic shit out by the most esoteric Fedsoc weirdos the world has ever seen.”

“Project 2025 isn’t just a guide to the masturbatory fantasies of the worst people in American politics – far more importantly, it is a detailed map of the fracture lines in the GOP coalition, the places where it is liable to split and shatter. This is an important point if you want to do more about Trumpism than run around feeling miserable and scared. If you want to fight, Project 2025 is a guide to the weak spots where an attack will do the most damage.”

“Cranks make hard coalition partners. Trump’s cranks are cranked up about different things – vaccines, culture war trans panics, eugenics – and are total normies about other things. The eugenicist MD/economist who wants to ‘let ‘er rip’ rather than engage in nonpharmaceutical pandemic interventions is gonna be horrified by total abortion bans and antivax. These cranks are on a collision course with one another.”

“The lesson of Project 2025 is that the entire Trump project is one factional squabble away from collapse at all times.”

[pantelisvitaliotismagneto]

Pantelis Vitaliotis: "Wake me from sleep, open the gate"

All my past and all my treasure All my tastes against nature My attacks of aphasia I look back and see the future Wake me from sleep, open the gate*

Curated by: Panos Giannikopoulos

Space 52 presents the second solo exhibition by Pantelis Vitaliotis, Wake Me from Sleep, open the Gate, featuring a compelling showcase of paintings, ceramic sculptures, and sound that span the culmination of the artist's silent practice over the last few years.

This body of work invites visitors to explore another world, rich with symbols and secrets, where organic forms undergo a metamorphosis, blurring the lines between representation and abstraction. The artistic choices made by the painter serve as a reflection of the intricate interplay between his psychological state and the unique circumstances in which he finds himself. The brush stroke, colour selection, and compositional arrangement manifest the artist's inner world, capturing the nuances of his emotions, moods, and personal experiences. This intricate dance between the external and internal worlds results in a visual tapestry that resonates sincerely and offers a glimpse into the artist's soul. The canvas, then, is transformed into a visual diary that evolves with every layer of paint applied.

Vitaliotis skillfully disassembles and reassembles his painting objects, allowing parts of his imagery to reappear, moving fluidly through the canvases. This process introduces new formal elements while others are lost or transformed, echoing the historical roots of surrealism and modernism. Additionally, his exploration of religious iconography, both Byzantine and Western, converges with a contemporary narrative around sleep and dream, creating a dialogue with surrounding landscapes that embrace archetypal monuments, rock formations, and domestic intimacy.

The arrangement of works at the gallery entrance immerses viewers in a spatial interplay between the painterly and the sculptural. In Wake Me from Sleep, open the Gate, Vitaliotis uproots religious iconography from cultural metaphors, creating a flatness of perspective that inverts and dimensionally takes shape with ceramics, providing a tangible depth connected with a sense of spirituality.

Vitaliotis opts to capture the essence of objects and scenes in his landscapes. Colours and patterns take precedence, creating a collision of sharp and round shapes that establish a rhythmic sense. Each artwork contains a hidden escape, a keyhole or door, inviting viewers to glimpse a dream world not yet here or one left behind. It is a door towards an inner world of utopian possibilities of queer world-making and also an escape. The artist's interest in constructing narratives leads to the representation of symbolic or metaphoric confined spaces. Vitaliotis often incorporates getaways where elements break down or fall apart.

In Wake Me from Sleep, Open the Gate the paint becomes principal, integral to the narrative and subject itself, with light strokes and almost invisible painterly gestures, while everything blends in total harmony and balance. Including sound in his art practice adds a musical dimension to the works, offering a multisensory experience for the audience. The eye, repeatedly depicted in the paintings, serves as a central element that symbolizes seeing and being watched, visually exploring the world and sharing optical perspectives. Ultimately, brightly coloured and painted with care and affection, the paintings act as a stage, challenging the viewer's perception and encouraging a reading based on dream, memory, fantasy and myth. Vitaliotis explores displacement, disarticulation, and reiteration, inviting visitors to participate actively in decoding the message conveyed by his artworks.

* Joege Socarras, Contre Nature, San Francisco, 1980 (Indoor Life)

[hagofbolding]

Fairmeadow update!

Fairmeadow is a post-epic fantasy drama inspired by the counter-cultural movements of the late 60’s, the landscapes of the Pacific Northwest, and tabletop RPG’s. It’s about the collision of idealism against pragmatism, reckoning with the consequences of dropping out, and trying to make its readers want to go on a hike.

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[satoshi-mochida]

Xuan-Yuan Sword: Mists Beyond the Mountains launches July 26 for PC, later in 2023 for Switch

Gematsu Source(from July 12th)

Xuan-Yuan Sword: Mists Beyond the Mountains will launch for PC via Steam on July 26, followed by Switch later in 2023, publishers Eastasiasoft and Gamera Games, and developer Softstar Entertainment announced.

Here is an overview of the game, via its Steam page:

The Journey of a Frankish Knight in the Tang Empire

Xuan-Yuan Sword: Mists Beyond the Mountains is a classic turn-based RPG. Under the orders of Pepin III, the Frankish Knight Septem has embarked on a long journey to seek the Invincible Arts of War. Starting from the canals of beautiful Venice, the great knight’s path has spanned the Middle East, Western Regions on his way to the mystical orient. In his adventures, Septem has drawn into the intricate power disputes between local powers, along with the decade-spanning ambitions of the dark lord, Satan.

China enjoys peace and prosperity under the rule of the Tang Empire, Europe finds itself embroiled in the Dark Ages, the Arabian Empire is ascendant, and all the while, the march of progress brings these disparate cultures together. From ancient times, Chinese legends have spoken of the Xuan-Yuan Sword and Spirit Fusion Pot, along with the rise of great legends in the new era…

A Symphony of Western and Eastern Culture

The scope of Xuan-Yuan Sword: Mists Beyond the Mountains covers a wide range, spanning all of Eurasia and covering the Arab World, Francia, and China. From the canals of Venice, Damascus to the beautiful Chang’an, the story introduces unique architectural styles, clothing, food, and customs.

A Fusion of History and Fantasy

The story of Xuan-Yuan Sword III takes place in an era of collision between East and West, covering a range of historical events that include the Battle of Talas, the Arabian Civil War, and An Lushan Rebellion interspersed through character dramas. Xuan-Yuan Sword III perfectly integrates history with Chinese and Western mythology. Players will encounter unique historical enemies such as Merovingian soldiers, the Venetian navy, the Abbasid Caliphate, Tang soldiers, and Taoists along with unique mythical creatures such as centaurs, Medusa, the Black and White Reapers, and the Xuannü of the Nine Heavens.

Unique Spirit Fusion Pot System

Players can use the Spirit Fusion Pot to capture enemies in battle. Items and monsters can be used to craft a new item or monster from the codex. Users can craft items and monsters from the Eastern or Western altars, which the resulting item differing based on the selected altar.

Unique Ink Painting Art Style

The game features a beautiful traditional Chinese style, with the game map, battle backgrounds, and characters all painted in unique oriental ink.

Improvements and Changes

16:9 high-resolution graphic.

User interface rework.

High-resolution item texture.

Controller support.

China Episode, originally added in mobile version.

[alefarben]

Iran-e Man

Naghmeh Pour directs a visual poem woven from the richness of Iran, collaborating with Iranian artists to support the women’s revolution.

While a women-led revolution preludes a new era of change in Iran, the political unrest that hangs heavy over the fight tells just one side of the story. Among the horrors and means of control opposed through protest, the situation spotlights women united by a passionate connection to their country and their culture – and the possibility of an independent future for the women and girls still to come.

Identifying the beauty found in collectivity as an alternate form of defiance against modes of suppression, Copenhagen-based Iranian director Naghmeh Pour envisions short film, Iran-e Man – a collaboration between Scandinavian production company new–land and The Women’s Life Freedom project. Initiated by emerging Iranian/Italian brand PAIRI DAEZA, the project invited twelve Iranian artists from across the globe to imprint messages capturing the spirit of revolution, materialized as the trailing scarves that punctuate the film.

"The scarves intend to turn a symbol of suppression into a symbol of empowerment and independence."

Shot in rural Morocco to evoke the rolling Iandscape of Iran, Iran-e Man takes a meditative journey through classic Iranian cinema, emulating its distinct visual quality in a collision of past and present, fantasy and realism. A celebration of the rich cultural history of Iran, and the inherent beauty found outside of the media reports, Pour offers a message of empowerment to future generations, in the hope that the world they inhabit stands as a positive imprint of today’s fight for freedom.