#did he write another book just about the cardinal? because if so that's probably the book i read

[coquelicoq]

just read the words "je suis accourue" in les trois mousquetaires and went omg accourir (auxiliaire être) from my dictionaries 😍😍😍

the great thing about reading the french dictionary cover to cover is that now whenever someone says a word i don't know i can be like "no spoilers please! i'm still in the A's!!"

[crater-lake]

118

5/21/24

I have 20 days until I leave Austria. J'ai vingt jours jusqu'à je m'aille d'Autriche.

Reasons for Staying

That a season to speak through me has to shout but I am quiet. 

I’m vulgar enough to dissect this body. The one right here. Meaning is more long term than pleasure and I am an investor, a good American. 

Become sufficiently sacreligious let us understand how the body’s systems folds into and feeds itself to sustain itself. 

That I cried on this flight, reading other words, better words. Dreams feel thrilling two armlengths way. 

Six poetry books for a weekend trip. Because I am 17 and 71. 

That I am still deciding between love and mercy. I do not have a cleverer subject or ultimatum currently. I want to be forgiven before I grieve. I wonder if I can be more curious about grief than it is about me. 

And a list of verbs I have yet to unlock. And my wordlist with warbling, eclipsis, and passerine. Why do you have a face? 

What an eclipse does to a half-sprung chorus. Lenition. 

Blue jays, northern cardinals, mourning doves transmit from my phone into crumple space of my room and I find it hard to feed myself many days of the week though it embarrasses me to say. 

Mourning doves oppress Spring air with death and Mom hears it for 32 years to have it be born in me. I found it and now I am speaking with intention for probably a few years before what is next. Obsession is very useful because everything is terrifying. When everything is not terrifying, it feels like a Sudoku board that went wrong somewhere. I am not sure if a good friend likes me or not as well. I think in saying this I hear something else, deeper, speak. 

That I cannot rhyme this story. That the cool boy with dark eyes in Seventh Grade ruined magic. That he said there was no such thing, only science, facts. That the 3 blocks to the Walgreens was impossible. It felt like a voyage that could drown me.I have too many words and not enough ideas. No, the conviction behind my ideas is wavering. No, I have just chosen the wrong story to sculpt. No, I am not sure who will listen and I am not sure if there is a story in the first place and I am not sure if it is worthwhile if it is mine. If I did not have to be inside a paragraph for it to hold my attention. 

I might be a bad poet on Instagram soon if it means holding a name and conviction. Tuh! 

I posted the above to my online journal because it seemed to fit the canon of the other writings that I waver inside of me every minute of every day and I cannot stand it. I distract myself by staring at it and seeing if it changes. I will occupy the inside of the feeling for a long time, even if it makes me insane or stupid, just to see. Fuck you, Lorenz.

I also want to talk about how I think Molly is generally annoyed with me and I want to broach that with her soon. I don't mind it but I am feeling insecure and am wondering what an appropriate course of action would be. Which is fair.

I also have talked to Anna about moving into her apartment for next year so I can get out of here because I am unable to stand living here unfortunately. This apartment has a pretty stifling atmosphere to me, and I do recognize how I contribute to it by isolating myself, but I isolate myself because of anxiety and shame, and me and Bettina's modi operandi and personalities do not glom well and I DO NOT WANT TO GO TO SLEEP. I WANT TO WALK AROUND ALL DIE AND EAT MYSELF IN THE MOUTH OF THE SUN. THE PIANO IN VOTIV PARK DISAPPEARED. I AM USELESS DURING BAR TRIVIA. ONE WINDMILL IN A FOREST OF WINDMILLS. A LIGHT ON A HORIZON NO ONE IS LOOKING AT. A WINDOW IN THE CITY OF GLASS. Bettina and I will talk about next year tomorrow and I will explain that I am going to look for another place and am likely going with Anna's apartment because it would just be easier for me given how I feel in here. And I will not assign blame at all, actually, but will just be honest because I actually do appreciate her efforts to communicate with me. I am just particular and I accept that about myself and I forgive myself for not having done a better job. I write this last sentence because I feel Lorenz shaming me in my head. And I am noticing also how things fester from High School onwards: baggage. Problems begin to stick and feel more permanent, like identity markers, stones becoming boulders.

Without Grindr the smallness of myself, the fretting and anxiety, the difficulty with planning, and my general neutrality has become abundantly clear. I may be slightly depressed generally but it feels like a good way to right off not having pleasure all of the time. I think I am very accustomed to satisfaction or I find dissatisfaction to be uncomfortable and stressful so I do everything I can to avoid it but it usually is fruitless. I wonder why Molly likes Lisa more than me even when I am writing these sentences. I want to text Molly and apologize if little things about me bother her but what would that accomplish actually? I will try to make sense of this feeling and offer forgiveness towards it. Later I will not go insane about devotion but I have to distract myself for 65 years and then I get to have a great break. I wish my brain was normal and I wish it was not contrived to speak that way. I want things to be easier. I wish I had more clarity inside my head and that I didn't stay stupid things and that I just was smarter about my surroundings and, tasks, and that I did not get bizarrely stressed about board games. I do charge myself with these things and each word bleeds a little bit as my fingers tap them out. Right where my stomach pouch folds a little evil feeling is nestled inside that makes me want to stay awake for the joy and terror and agency of it. Transitioning between sleep and awakeness is literally hard for me because it is hard to live in this apartment. I am writing because moments where I do not wish to be someone else are mystifying and enough to believe in hope, and I can use the word alders, the cold hush of it like smoke rising from a chimney in iron clad winter. I know about the magic of it. I am realizing how when I was 18, all of this, what I am getting out now was literally already inside of me but I could not translate it and I have known since I was 15 that I will need to spend a lifetime trying to perfect the projection of the craziness inside. Not craziness. Not incorrectness. Not agony. I can do it as soon as my story stops being my own. As soon as I see more of myself and use the word Alders and share the right things with the right people and the right things with nobody else. I think about so many things at once that some people would not call that clarity but that is where they would be wrong. The Highland Park Dunkin' Donuts where the Hasidim would frequent, an old man donning a Yarmulke drinking his large coffee on an iPad, his white frizzy beard, big ears and glasses, who had no idea that I was also Jewish. The coffee there tasted like smoke and mud and put lightning in my fingers. My story is my story. At 18, I was obsessed with the sentence, "I know more than I know" because I knew I could only be 18 when I was 22 and I know I can be 22 when I am 25 but one day I will be faster than the whirring and when I stand tall looking down at it, it will bend trying to get a look at me. I do not miss Murod I miss how I was not afraid to die for any other reason than to be beat the zenith of my grandiose suffering. In the summer when Julian and I exchange nervous glances and try to both be big when no one leaves their hometown completely if they have lived right and my parents grow older and I am squandering privilege and uniqueness and I should be more concerned about politics so that I can get a good job in the UN one day. I mostly rather be beautiful because I am clever enough to know what it means. It feels inane to touch and challenge my voice as much as I do.

This is not Golden Hour anymore, this is Crater Lake. My voice is wings fastening themselves to flying and the perfect description of the sky and the pithy phrases of my dying father. I know what to do with three fingers of scotch and starting a fire in Winter in the slow death of my home. My dead cat still sits on the white green arm chair and why not be obsessed with myself?

I AM ADDICTED TO GRINDR BECAUSE HOW I AM WRITING IS A BRIEF DEPICTION OF WHAT THE WHIRRING LOOKS LIKE FROM DAY TO DAY TO DAY TO DAY AND THE GENERAL REQUIREMENT OF ME TO MAINTAIN MYSELF WITH THE 55 THINGS THAT DO THEIR WHIRRING IN MY HEAD WHEN ALL IS QUIET. BEING AROUND PEOPLE IS A GIFT AND LORENZ IS DEAD. LORENZ IS DEAD THIS STORY HAS DIED LIKE A BIRD.

I will fasten wings to flying a story to my name. I do not forgive my pimples for existing and I am here and know how to talk about footsteps leaving a place. Thanks magazine for projecting my voice into sorry people now I am bit more whatever I have been being. Conviction is a really good story and pretend I am shooting a gun at credentials. Now that everyone is really listening I am here in a scary way. Okay, now that your toes are twitching, eyes brows raised, mouth dry, I am lying in bed smelling the fuck out of myself and a bit too sweaty and 20 days from remembering. Who is not plagued by whatever the fuck is going on in there? I am lying when I say I do not like it. I feel clever for having been plagued because cleverness is still what is somehow most valuable. Here is a suggestion: write a poem with kindness instead of cleverness. Having just written that, I felt a pang of something strange because I write to feel more stable. I do feel like I am writing all for the wrong reasons: not virtuous, not healthy. I give things away too quickly or use too many words, I am garrulous.

I'll grow up in a few years goodbye

[niseamstories]

10 Lessons on Realistic Worldbuilding and Mapmaking I Learned Working With a Professional Cartographer and Geodesist

Hi, fellow writers and worldbuilders,

It’s been over a year since my post on realistic swordfighting, and I figured it’s time for another one. I’m guessing the topic is a little less “sexy”, but I’d find this useful as a writer, so here goes: 10 things I learned about realistic worldbuilding and mapmaking while writing my novel.

I’ve always been a sucker for pretty maps, so when I started on my novel, I hired an artist quite early to create a map for me. It was beautiful, but a few things always bothered me, even though I couldn’t put a finger on it. A year later, I met an old friend of mine, who currently does his Ph.D. in cartography and geodesy, the science of measuring the earth. When the conversation shifted to the novel, I showed him the map and asked for his opinion, and he (respectfully) pointed out that it has an awful lot of issues from a realism perspective.

First off, I’m aware that fiction is fiction, and it’s not always about realism; there are plenty of beautiful maps out there (and my old one was one of them) that are a bit fantastical and unrealistic, and that’s all right. Still, considering the lengths I went to ensure realism for other aspects of my worldbuilding, it felt weird to me to simply ignore these discrepancies. With a heavy heart, I scrapped the old map and started over, this time working in tandem with a professional artist, my cartographer friend, and a linguist. Six months later, I’m not only very happy with the new map, but I also learned a lot of things about geography and coherent worldbuilding, which made my universe a lot more realistic.

1)  Realism Has an Effect: While there’s absolutely nothing wrong with creating an unrealistic world, realism does affect the plausibility of a world. Even if the vast majority of us probably know little about geography, our brains subconsciously notice discrepancies; we simply get this sense that something isn’t quite right, even if we don’t notice or can’t put our finger on it. In other words, if, for some miraculous reason, an evergreen forest borders on a desert in your novel, it will probably help immersion if you at least explain why this is, no matter how simple.

2)  Climate Zones: According to my friend, a cardinal sin in fantasy maps are nonsensical climate zones. A single continent contains hot deserts, forests, and glaciers, and you can get through it all in a single day. This is particularly noticeable in video games, where this is often done to offer visual variety (Enderal, the game I wrote, is very guilty of this). If you aim for realism, run your worldbuilding by someone with a basic grasp of geography and geology, or at least try to match it to real-life examples.

3)  Avoid Island Continent Worlds: Another issue that is quite common in fictional worlds is what I would call the “island continents”: a world that is made up of island-like continents surrounded by vast bodies of water. As lovely and romantic as the idea of those distant and secluded worlds may be, it’s deeply unrealistic. Unless your world was shaped by geological forces that differ substantially from Earth’s, it was probably at one point a single landmass that split up into fragmented landmasses separated by waters. Take a look at a proper map of our world: the vast majority of continents could theoretically be reached by foot and relatively manageable sea passages. If it weren’t so, countries such as Australia could have never been colonized – you can’t cross an entire ocean on a raft.

4)  Logical City Placement: My novel is set in a Polynesian-inspired tropical archipelago; in the early drafts of the book and on my first map, Uunili, the nation’s capital, stretched along the entire western coast of the main island. This is absurd. Not only because this city would have been laughably big, but also because building a settlement along an unprotected coastline is the dumbest thing you could do considering it directly exposes it to storms, floods, and, in my case, monsoons. Unless there’s a logical reason to do otherwise, always place your coastal settlements in bays or fjords.

 Naturally, this extends to city placement in general. If you want realism and coherence, don’t place a city in the middle of a godforsaken wasteland or a swamp just because it’s cool. There needs to be a reason. For example, the wasteland city could have started out as a mining town around a vast mineral deposit, and the swamp town might have a trading post along a vital trade route connecting two nations.

 5)  Realistic Settlement Sizes: As I’ve mentioned before, my capital Uunili originally extended across the entire western coast. Considering Uunili is roughly two thirds the size of Hawaii  the old visuals would have made it twice the size of Mexico City. An easy way to avoid this is to draw the map using a scale and stick to it religiously. For my map, we decided to represent cities and townships with symbols alone.

 6)  Realistic Megacities: Uunili has a population of about 450,000 people. For a city in a Middle Ages-inspired era, this is humongous. While this isn’t an issue, per se (at its height, ancient Alexandria had a population of about 300,000), a city of that size creates its own set of challenges: you’ll need a complex sewage system (to minimize disease spreading like wildfire) and strong agriculture in the surrounding areas to keep the population fed. Also, only a small part of such a megacity would be enclosed within fantasy’s ever-so-present colossal city walls; the majority of citizens would probably concentrate in an enormous urban sprawl in the surrounding areas. To give you a pointer, with a population of about 50,000, Cologne was Germany’s biggest metropolis for most of the Middle Ages. I’ll say it again: it’s fine to disregard realism for coolness in this case, but at least taking these things into consideration will not only give your world more texture but might even provide you with some interesting plot points.

 7)  World Origin: This point can be summed up in a single question: why is your world the way it is? If your novel is set in an archipelago like mine is, are the islands of volcanic origin? Did they use to be a single landmass that got flooded with the years? Do the inhabitants of your country know about this? Were there any natural disasters to speak of? Yes, not all of this may be relevant to the story, and the story should take priority over lore, but just like with my previous point, it will make your world more immersive.

 8)  Maps: Think Purpose! Every map in history had a purpose. Before you start on your map, think about what yours might have been. Was it a map people actually used for navigation? If so, clarity should be paramount. This means little to no distracting ornamentation, a legible font, and a strict focus on relevant information. For example, a map used chiefly for military purposes would naturally highlight different information than a trade map. For my novel, we ultimately decided on a “show-off map” drawn for the Blue Island Coalition, a powerful political entity in the archipelago (depending on your world’s technology level, maps were actually scarce and valuable). Also, think about which technique your in-universe cartographer used to draw your in-universe map. Has copperplate engraving already been invented in your fictional universe? If not, your map shouldn’t use that aesthetic.

9)  Maps: Less Is More. If a spot or an area on a map contains no relevant information, it can (and should) stay blank so that the reader’s attention naturally shifts to the critical information. Think of it this way: if your nav system tells you to follow a highway for 500 miles, that’s the information you’ll get, and not “in 100 meters, you’ll drive past a little petrol station on the left, and, oh, did I tell you about that accident that took place here ten years ago?” Traditional maps follow the same principle: if there’s a road leading a two day’s march through a desolate desert, a black line over a blank white ground is entirely sufficient to convey that information.

10) Settlement and Landmark Names: This point will be a bit of a tangent, but it’s still relevant. I worked with a linguist to create a fully functional language for my novel, and one of the things he criticized about my early drafts were the names of my cities. It’s embarrassing when I think about it now, but I really didn’t pay that much attention to how I named my cities; I wanted it to sound good, and that was it. Again: if realism is your goal, that’s a big mistake. Like Point 5, we went back to the drawing board and dove into the archipelago’s history and established naming conventions. In my novel, for example, the islands were inhabited by indigenes called the Makehu before the colonization four hundred years before the events of the story; as it’s usually the case, all settlements and islands had purely descriptive names back then. For example, the main island was called Uni e Li, which translates as “Mighty Hill,” a reference to the vast mountain ranges in the south and north; townships followed the same example (e.g., Tamakaha meaning “Coarse Sands”). When the colonizers arrived, they adopted the Makehu names and adapted them into their own language, changing the accented, long vowels to double vowels: Uni e Li became “Uunili,” Lehō e Āhe became “Lehowai.” Makehu townships kept their names; colonial cities got “English” monikers named after their geographical location, economic significance, or some other original story. Examples of this are Southport, a—you guessed it—port on the southernmost tip of Uunili, or Cale’s Hope, a settlement named after a businessman’s mining venture. It’s all details, and chances are that most readers won’t even pay attention, but I personally found that this added a lot of plausibility and immersion.

I could cover a lot more, but this post is already way too long, so I’ll leave it at that—if there’s enough interest, I’d be happy to make a part two. If not, well, maybe at least a couple of you got something useful out of this. If you’re looking for inspiration/references to show to your illustrator/cartographer, the David Rumsey archive is a treasure trove. Finally, for anyone who doesn’t know and might be interested, my novel is called Dreams of the Dying, and is a blends fantasy, mystery, and psychological horror set in the universe of Enderal, an indie RPG for which I wrote the story. It’s set in a Polynesian-inspired medieval world and has been described as Inception in a fantasy setting by reviewers.

Credit for the map belongs to Dominik Derow, who did the ornamentation, and my friend Fabian Müller, who created the map in QGIS and answered all my questions with divine patience. The linguist’s name is David Müller (no, they’re not related, and, yes, we Germans all have the same last names.)

[jackalgirl]

Telling vs. Showing

I had posted an excerpt from the Turkey City Lexicon a while back, about "Telling Not Showing", which is one of those things that writers are recommended not to do.

Violates the cardinal rule of good writing. The reader should be allowed to react, not be instructed in how to react. Carefully observed details render authorial value judgments unnecessary. For instance, instead of telling us "she had a bad childhood, an unhappy childhood," specific incidents--involving, say, a locked closet and two jars of honey--should be shown.

I was thinking about this the other night -- and I stress that it came to me by itself, please please don't anyone think I'm calling you out on this, because I am not -- and thought it might be fun* to provide an example. Stick around (under the cut) if you're interested.

* I lie. Aethel and Felix told me to write this, and woke me up early to do so. Fine. I'm done, you two, may I please go get some more coffee? Thank you.

Telling

Felix found Aethel in the galley, reading one of Max’s books. He made a face, wondering why she was reading it. When he’d first met her, it probably would have never occurred to him to ask her why — she’s weird and more than a little scary — but he had come to understand that she put all that weirdness and scariness to service in the way she cared for people, and he knew she cared for him, so he sat down and asked anyway. She looked, he thought, a little relieved to be interrupted, which did not really surprise him. She was very much willing to tell him about it, and in fact confirmed his suspicion that she found the text…how did she put it? Tedious. But she was reading it to better understand the way the people in the Order think, so she was determined to read it anyway. Good luck with that, he thought, and got himself something to eat out of the fridge.

versus Showing

Felix found Aethel in the galley, a book open before her on the common table and a line between her eyebrows. It must be one of Max’s books, he thought. He sat down and she looked up. Perhaps he was imagining it, but it appeared to him that she had a look of relief on her face. “Watcha readin’, Aethel?” He asked her. When he’d first met her, it probably would have never occurred to him to ask her a question like this — she’s weird and more than a little scary — but he had come to understand that she put all that weirdness and scariness to service in the way she cared for people, and he knew she cared for him, so in this particular moment, he hadn’t hesitated. “One of the vicar’s books on Scientism,” she said, confirming his guess. He made a face. “Ugh. Why? You’re always arguing with him about it.” And driving him nuts. Another point in her favor, actually. “It’s important to him,” she said. “And what’s more, it’s important to this colony. It would be foolish for me to dismiss it. I want to understand it better.” Felix gestured at the book. “Is that helping?” Aethel let out a sigh. “Alas, no. It is tedious.” “That’s why I like serial books,” Felix grinned. He tilted his head. “Why is it, ah, tedious, though?” “The author uses words like a collector,” she said. “But not like an artist.” Felix tilted his head and his expression must have told her he didn’t get it — I don’t get it — because she leaned back and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Do you remember the Sprat Fancy party in Byzantium?” She asked. Felix felt his face screw up again. “It was awful.” At first, Byzantium had impressed him. It was so clean! But eventually he realized it was as full of trash as the rest of the Colony — just higher-class trash, is all. Plus, the people there were always looking down on him — worse than the crew of the Groundbreaker, if that was possible. Or worse than the crew had been, before I helped Aethel fix the heat. Now they liked him well enough. But in Byzantium, nothing the crew had done had changed the Byzantines’ attitudes towards them. Their disdain is baked in, Aethel had said at the time. And speaking of baking, Aethel said, “do you remember the food?” “Ugh. Do I ever. The prettiest food you ever saw. Tasted like shit, though.” “What would those people have thought of a Boarst Pocket?” Aethel asked. “Ha!” Felix drummed the table with his hands in amusement. “They’d hold up their noses, for sure. Something that plain and simple?” “And yet, it is delicious?” “Yes,” Felix spoke with the conviction of a dedicated cultist. Aethel nodded. She tapped the pages in front of her. “This book is like the food in Byzantium. It is concerned about its appearance, and about all the different colors it can show you — it is very pretty. But it tastes like shit.” “So why are you eating it?” Felix asked, then remembered she’d answered him earlier. “Because you want to understand the system,” he said. She nodded. “I think of it as reconnaissance,” she said. “At some point, I’m going to have to deal with Order people who are higher ranked than Max. I need to understand what they think — or at least, what they’re telling people they think, which may not be the same.” “I wouldn’t be surprised at all if they all turned out to be a pack of hypocrites,” Felix said. “I’ll bet it’s all a show for power.” “Perhaps it’s not all a show for power,” Aethel suggested. But then she relented. “But yes, I tend to think that in the end, that’s the Order’s primary goal.” All that talk about Boarst Pockets made him want one, so he got up and got one out of the fridge. “Would you like one, boss?” He said, waggling the packet, knowing her answer in advance: “No thank you, Felix,” she said politely. He chuckled to himself. I don’t get how she can like spratwurst and not like boarst. Some things just defied understanding. I hope she has better luck with that book.

I liked writing this, because it gave me a little epiphany for another scene (the "Sprat Fancy" party) and an opportunity to put Sprat Fancy magazine into the actual fic, as opposed to it remaining as something of a joke.

[ Image description: cover of "Sprat Fancy", showing an adorable pink-splotched, white sprat from above, looking up at the camera with her gorgeous black eyes. Text reads: "Sprat Fancy Magazine - your guide to Halcyon's Fancy Sprats" and "Volume 22, Issue 8, 2 bits" with article leads: "Sacred Beasts: The Role of Sprats in the Faith", "Refuge: Keeping your precious sprat safe from marauders (and hungry neighbors)", "Ooo La La! Jolicoeur Haberdashery releases an all new line of fancy sprat fashion! Get a sneak peak of the latest on the Byzantine spratwalk!", "Place Your Bets: Your comprehensive guide to this season's All-Colony Fancy Spratstravanaza - who's in? Who's out? You may just be surprised by this year's contenders!" and a corner flag: "Ask Doctor Sprat". The cover image is captioned: "'Bakonu' by Captain Pearl Jenkins. With this large beauty take 'Best in Show' from Lord Reginald Kim III?" End ID. ]

Sometimes, having to write stuff out like this (especially between major scenes) is really daunting, because it generally doesn't come to me all at once like the major scenes do. I know, right from the get-go, that this is going to be a time-consuming process (I call it "sausage making"), and it's scary when I don't immediately see a clear way forward or understand how it will turn out. But I find that once I get going, the characters are happy to cooperate. And it's always worthwhile, because most of the time, I get some kind of revelation or epiphany (as above) that makes the story better, or maybe it's just neat and makes me giggle. But that's reason enough.

This is part of the pros of showing versus telling, in addition to giving the reader more to discover, understand, and react to on their own (rather than simply telling them how to react, which is what you want to avoid). The obvious con is that it takes so much longer. I would think that telling would be useful in contexts where you just don't have the column space, or are limited in the number of words you can provide. And I think it could also be useful -- used judiciously -- if you're deliberately trying to hide something from the reader.

But if you've been telling instead of showing because the amount of work you can see in front of you daunts you (or you just can't envision how it's going to go), I can only say: give it a try. You'll be surprised at what the characters are just waiting to tell you, if you only give them the chance.

[shadowdianne]

A/N: -Quietly leaves these here.- Given what I’m writing at the moment I’m still on the fantasy side of things but not entirely about this particular topic so I’m having a blast whenever I think of these little snippets. This is still done in pair with a friend that asked me to follow her throughout the month as we both wrote small snippets of the word prompts. The rules being hardly any editing and more of a string of consciousness workshop than anything else.

They do not follow a particular logic but some are interconnected. Somewhat. Leaving the link for the first batch in case anyone is feeling curious.

14.-Cardinal

The virtues and sins are patiently listed down, just below the saints that you are supposed to follow blindly whenever you cross the portal between the world outside and what lies inside. You usually read up on the names with contrite expression, hoping others would understand your worry for devotion. There is very little to say to those who consider both penance and reward as unavoidable truths that can be condensed so neatly on written stone. Never pay any mind to the scorch marks around each and every pew, they seem to say with those unblinking eyes. The lines that have been there ever since the building was found amidst a set of others on the old part of town after all; why should they pay them any mind?

15.-Entrance

The door creaked as the boy made its way inside, worn boots scuffing against the panels so old they were half-covered in cobwebs so thick they could form entire architectures. He tried his hardest not to damage any of it, worried of spiders that would crawl their way up his bedroom window, find his eyes and ears, and made their way inside of him. It was no use, however, so rich they had grown, and so he mumbled a quiet prayer to the ground that surrounded him before making its way further into the foyer, leaving behind the main entrance and finding its way to the old silo in where the bones, yellowed by time, awaited him with the echo of a murmur growing ever-present with every step he took.

16.-Bell

The metal has long ago been corroded and left to rot, the wooden beams that held the structure together have been eaten or destroyed by both fire and wind but there’s still a firm layer of oil and grease around it, from the times in where it was taken care of, from the times in where its sound marked time and days and nights. They look up towards it, expecting almost to see it, moving, silent, silent, until a single note resonated through them all. It never came, of course, neither the sound of the movement: the old bell had long ago ceased to sound. Why then, the youngest of them would whisper, sometimes it almost seemed as if they called for them? Names like whispers through the nighttime sky.

17.-Book

The process of binding can take up hours; patience is a virtue that one needs to solidify within one self before even trying to accomplish anything with the pages that threaten to wrinkle and tear without the protective barrier the binding provides. The master is always gentle when he binds, always attentive, and well-mannered. There’s a fervor to his words, however, a particular tremor if one looks well enough. As if the process would, indeed, be sacred. The apprentices are always bored when he explains the process, however, promising that they would be slow, soft, but when the time comes, neither of them is capable of doing it like the master requires. And so, another book finds its bindings and another apprentice is asked for.

18.-Candle

The wax melted so very slowly that if it wasn’t because she kept an eye on it, she would have never seen how it started to disappear, the earth below sipping on the molten liquid as time passed. She knew she needed to go back; others would probably start to get worried if she didn’t, of course, but she had been tasked with the fire the candle represented and hold, she merely needed to wait. The door would be closing as soon as the last drop was consumed, but she still had time, did she not? Time for a little more waiting, for a little more, just a little more. She didn’t even realize when she fell asleep.

19.-Nonsense

Fragment disappoint finance engine finger limited allocation man encourage mask reduction interest army comedy grand height release referee flag shake convenience reverse spill delete cold plagiarize smile instruction mud terrify raw afford stimulation sigh fate guideline haunt sentiment track hip training export midnight moral win muscle layer intention stomach train desperate

20.-Wizened

The flowers dried as the adventurer walked, the cold starting to bit into his skin and, not for the first time, he found himself thinking back to the old woman’s cottage, next to the silo, he had passed last while trying to get any food for the path that awaited him. She had been kind, stubborn, even, while trying to sell him a bag even if he had refused it. “I have a backpack.” He had said, and the old woman had narrowed her eyes, her wizened face moving as she whispered something in a language he had been unable to follow; accent so thick it didn’t seem like any dialect he had tried to learn previous to his travel. The strap of his backpack had frozen some hours ago, his belongings scattered, and the decision of needing to pick the bare essentials one he hadn’t made lightly. He now wondered if she had known.

She had, of course, but she would never tell.

21.-Feline

The cat purrs, the sound of quietly bubbling soup filling the silences the creature leaves, the sound of wood against wood, of brushing brooms against hard soil a cacophony that feels welcoming even when eyes are slow to open, senses not quite still there to return. Mouth feels like ashes and sleep and stagnant water about to be flushed down. There’s smoke somewhere, an open flame, a set of rosemary drying to it, some tea that is not quite as tangy as you would remember, some runes written on the insides of your wrists. The cat is atop your lap, eyes closed, tail coiled around your fingers as you try to move for your mind only to fall back, back to a dream that is not yours to begin with. You try to say it to the first figure you come across, made out of ink and letters written by bards so far away from you their voices are echoes of odes that you would never get to listen to. The shadow does not answer, for it is unable to. The cat keeps on purring.

22.-Musical [Bonus points if you know the creature this is based from]

They chant, always chant, as you follow their voices through the bushes and the undergrowth of the forests that are closer to home, they always smile as your eyes follow the trickle of rivers that weren’t there the day before. Their hair is always long and limpid around their forms and they kept on brushing it as you move closer and closer still. Their feet are of those of the duck, you would later say to those around you with eyes glazed by the water, a portion of your soul gone like the wind that carries on the tune of their throats. They look at you as if mad, but they nod, either way, hoping for your own voice to stop singing a tune that is for the dead.

23.-Wicked

And the treatise was broken, and the kingdom fell for the souls of those who inhabited to transform and twist and reform into something that wasn’t human any longer as the mountains kept on growing, the blue of their color transforming into grey and then into green as they formed new hills, smaller in height than what it had been before. Eroded, would the scholars say, by time. And so, the grass grew longer and greener and the faults of those who had lived grew distant in time as their bodies fed the rivers and the trees, the paths once taken by wolves now devoured by ivy and loneliness. And the historians spoke of witches and kings and magic that had been once been thought true as others would say that wicked was just a form of the energy the land took in order to survive. But she never quite believed in that, not when time came to be precious, imperfect, as every clock began a new tune, the moon rising bloody and blue and purple and yellow, marked by the hexes once given to the land and soil she now lived and breathed.

[josefavomjaaga]

Helfert, Joachim Murat, Chapter 5, Part 4

We’re still not finished with the Bourbon stuff, after their return to Naples.

Otherwise, Naples had nothing but praise for the attitude of the returned royal family. By their very nature, the loyal followers of the royal family who had come with him to the old homeland and those who had remained there, who had been of some value under the foreign rule, who had acquired positions and wealth, constantly had cause for jealousy and friction; "fedeloni" and "murattini" was the name they gave each other, not without a certain ironic flavour. The King and Prince Leopold, however, showed a sincere desire not to make any distinction between the two categories, which became apparent, for example, in the composition of the supreme war college. Both of them behaved condescendingly, even kindly, towards the Murat generals, if there was nothing else to reproach them for, and distinguished some of them. Guglielmo Pepe was very pleasantly surprised at the way in which Leopold, at the first introduction he had with his brother Florestan, behaved towards them, how he spoke of Caroline Murat as "Queen", indulged in eulogies about the Neapolitan army, called on him, Guglielmo, to write a memorandum about the last campaign, which, in order to do justice to the honour of the defeated army, could be printed somewhere in London or Holland. The same was the case with the higher civil officials of the overthrown regiment, who were by no means entirely removed from their posts and replaced by "Fedeloni". However, it was not possible to remain silent about everything that had happened recently, especially in the army. A commission was set up to investigate the conduct and abilities of some 200 officers against whom complaints had been lodged in connection with the last campaign, and also to examine the legality of the most recent promotions and decorations, for which the relevant patents had not yet been issued. But here, too, the sense of justice of Ferdinand and his councillors was revealed, in that he composed this commission under the chairmanship of Guglielmo Pepe from generals and commanders of the disbanded army and gave it instructions that met all the requirements of fairness. Much that was done to promote the internal conditions had an even more favourable effect. A commission headed by Prince Cardito had to place public education from rural schools to universities on a new footing. The charitable institutions, the Monte di Misericordia, the Committee for Public Charity, which were often paralysed as a result of the efforts of the last Murat campaign, were remedied by generous contributions from the King's private coffers. All this had a charitable effect on public traffic. "Our trade", it was said in a Neapolitan correspondence of the "Wiener Zeitung" (No. 267 p. 1059), "receives new life; in our harbour, where it has been quiet for many years, there is a completely different appearance, domestic and foreign ships are constantly leaving and others arriving". A very delicate, even spiteful point was the "donations of goods and revenues granted during the military occupation of Generals Giuseppe Buonaparte and Gioacchino Murat", which, if the royal promises of 1 May and 4 June were interpreted generously, would have been conserved, while the government now claimed that those clauses, on the basis of the Vienna Treaty of 29 April, referred only to the purchase of state estates, not to the gifting of them to mere favourites. Even before the arrival of Prince Jablonovski, Count Saurau, Imperial and Royal Court Commissioner to Bianchi's army, had repeatedly demanded clarifications from the Royal Cabinet on this matter, to which he had not received an answer. Jablonovski followed in Saurau's footsteps, although he did not conceal to himself the fact that it would be hard for the king to accept favours from the two intermediary regents which had been made at the expense of his most loyal supporters. He insisted that at least those donations be respected which Murat had entered in the "great book" and which consequently formed part of the public debt undoubtedly guaranteed by Austria and conceded by Ferdinand, and in this sense a royal resolution of 14 August was indeed passed.

But now came the further question concerning those donations which were not entered in the great book of the public debt and which were consequently subject to royal confiscation.  It seems that Ferdinand wanted to have complete freedom of disposal over them, either to give them to the crown or, as Murat had done before him, to give them away to his followers, whereas the Austrian envoy argued before the king that the property confiscated in this way should revert to those from whom it had been taken by the previous government. Ferdinand was somewhat embarrassed, but finally said: "You are right, I will think it over", and soon afterwards the order was given to the Minister Tommasi to set up a commission to examine the principles laid down by the former feudal committee and to work out a plan for offering some compensation to the old families who had suffered most. The two presidents of the Court of Cassation and Accounts, Prince Sirignano and Marchese Vivenzio, Dr. Giacinto Troysi and Marchese di Vigo, were members of this committee, which soon showed itself anxious to give the royal right of confiscation the widest possible extension. In a memorandum, Vigo tried to prove that monastery estates were not to be regarded as state property, from which it should follow without doubt that the king was not bound by the treaty of 29 April and could therefore confiscate them and dispose of them as he pleased. Jablonovski also resisted this view until he received instructions from Prince Metternich that, once the royal decree of 14 August had become a fact and the Neapolitan government was determined to implement it, he should not interfere any further in the whole matter so as not to expose himself to a final refusal or, in the other case, to have to bear joint responsibility for what might happen next. In the midst of these tasks and conflicts of opinion, which touched so many and so profound interests, stirred up such fierce and ugly passions, came the news of a visit of several weeks which Lord and Lady Bentinck intended to pay to Ferdinand's regained capital. The decrepit Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs was struck with terror, while the news did not ring at all unpleasantly in the ears of reform-minded Medici. The king was on Circello's side and no longer wanted to have anything to do with His Lordship, with whom he had been on such good terms during his last stay in Sicily. One did not have to look far for the reason for this reluctance. Ferdinand had never been a friend of constitutional institutions; after the experiment he had had to undergo in Sicily, they were anathema to him. Since the recent turn of events, however, the noble lord had become the object of other suspicions: he was presumed to be in secret communication with all the free-thinkers of the peninsula, especially with the Carbonari, and to have a hand in all the machinations which emanated from that quarter. For the same reason, Lucian Buonaparte's stay in Rome was a thorn in the side of the Neapolitan cabinet, because they considered him to be one of the heads of the Carbonari, a comrade-in-arms of Bentinck, and were convinced that he would be encouraged and supported by the latter. Austria had to promise his best services to obtain Lucian's removal from Rome and to arrange another place for him to stay. In Naples, they did not dare to appeal directly to the papal chair, since they were, as it seems, on no better terms with it than they had been under Joachim Murat.

Inserted footnote (pointless, but kinda funny):

But the Viennese Cabinet and its representative in Rome also had their incessant frictions with the Curia, as can be seen from a highly piquant passage in Jablonovski's dispatch of 12 July: "Å Rome je suis descendu chez le Chevalier de Lebzeltern que j'ai trouvé tourmenté par la fièvre et par le Cardinal Consalvi, je ne sais lequel des deux maux lui paraissait plus facile à supporter. J'ai appris à mon arrivée ici qu'il avait été soulagé, et que le Comte de Saurau avait tâché de calmer le courroux et d'assouvir l'insatiabilité du Ministre de Sa Sainteté". It was probably the Cardinal's stubborn insistence that the principalities of Benevento and Pontecorvo of Naples be handed over to the Papal States that is alluded to here.

The French passage in English: »In Rome I stayed with the Chevalier de Lebzeltern, whom I found tormented by fever and by Cardinal Consalvi, I do not know which of the two evils he found easier to bear. I learned on my arrival here that he had been relieved, and that the Count of Saurau had tried to calm the wrath and to satisfy the insatiability of His Holiness' Minister.«

One might argue that if the new government did not get along any better with their neighbours than the old one had, they might have just kept Murat.

Even in the delicate Bentinck question, our envoy was taken into confidence. Jablonovski advised Minister Circello to write a very kind letter to Florence, where Lord William was staying at the time, describing the immense joy the King would feel at seeing him again, i.e. at any other time, but not now "when the evil-minded might take advantage of his presence and use his name for the scattering and spreading of opinions which it would be impossible to tolerate". The letter, however, did not meet Bentinck either at the right time or in the right mood. His lordship, never accustomed to be disturbed in his intentions by foreign objections, gave nothing to Circello's chosen phrases and dropped anchor on the quay at Naples on one of the last days of September. Now danger was imminent and Count Nugent, being half Bentinck's compatriot, took the risk of convincing the noble lord that the air was more favourable for him anywhere than here between the sea and Mount Vesuvius. After two hours of negotiation, an agreement was reached: Lord William would not set foot on land, but his lady would stay in Naples until arrangements had been made for her accommodation in Rome.

Jablonovski hurried to Circello with the good news. The Marchese was about to sit down to dinner without having any sense of its pleasures, for he looked very dejected and thought that the British troublemaker might enter at any moment. Then the Austrian envoy arrived and Circello now knew no end to his joy and expressions of gratitude. An express messenger was immediately dispatched to Caserta, from where Ferdinand wrote back the next morning: "I recognise Prince Jablonovski in this! Thank him in my name and tell him that if he has given you back your appetite for your dinner, he has given me a peaceful night".

It’s somewhat refreshing to see that even Ferdinand couldn’t stand Bentinck. That’s what you get for picking a semi-literate dimwit like Ferdinand over Joachim, your Lordship.

Unfortunately, we’re now approaching the last chapter. And there will not be a happy ending.

[lucyreviewcy]

The Three Three Musketeers (or Where The F*ck Did All The Stupid Hats Go)

I read The Three Musketeers and then I watched the 1973, 1993 and 2011 adaptations. Which one wins tho?

Adaptation is a fascinating concept, especially of texts which are frequently adapted or parodied. After I rewatched the 2005 Pride and Prejudice I was reminded how weirdly divisive the two dominant adaptations of that book are. A lot of people consider the 2005 to be an inferior betrayal of the 1990s BBC version. I actually prefer the 2005 because I think Matthew McFadyen’s Mr Darcy is a wonderfully complex character. McFadyen imbues Darcy with social awkwardness and anxiety, which Lizzie misinterprets as his pride. To overcome the “Lizzie doesn’t fancy him ‘til she sees his house” debate, director Joe Wright includes a moment where Lizzie glimpses Darcy alone with his sister. He’s comfortable, his body language is completely different, and he’s smiling broadly. That moment really sold me on the entire film because it made Darcy a full character and was a really simple addition that rounded out the story. I still like the 90s version but for me, it’s the 2005 that takes first place.  (Although an honourable mention for Pride and Prejudice and Zombies because it is an excellent romp.)

Look: adaptation is always a complicated topic. You can’t untangle one adaptation from another, because it’s pretty rare that somebody adapting a classic text like Pride and Prejudice or The Three Musketeers is not already familiar with existing adaptations. The most recent adaptation of any classic text is not simply an adaptation of that text, but the next step in a flow chart that includes all the previous adaptations and the cultural context of the newly created product. These three adaptations of Dumas’ 1844 novel are all texturally and stylistically very different, and two of them diverge significantly from the original text. What I found truly fascinating was what all of them had in common, and what each new era (these were made at around 20 year intervals) decides to add or remove. What do all these movies agree are the essential parts of the story, and what are some adaptations more squeamish about including from Dumas’ original narrative?

Before we dive in, no I have not seen every single adaptation of the story, that would be a dissertation level of research and I do actually have things to do right now (although, I will admit...not many.) I’m looking at these three Hollywood adaptations because they all had star studded casts (for the era they were made in), they’re all English language, and (crucially) they were all easily available on the internet for me to stream.

What are the essential ingredients of a Three Musketeers adaptation?

Firstly, there should be at least three musketeers. Secondly, D’Artagnan (Michael York 1973, Chris O’Donnell 1993, Logan Lerman 2011) should be a young upstart who is introduced part way through a sword fight. He should also have silly hair. He is also consistently introduced to the musketeers in all three films by challenging them each individually to duels at noon, one o’clock and two o’clock. 

The films all maintained some elements of the original “Queen’s Diamonds” storyline, and featured the Queen, Milady and Constance. The characterisation of these three varied a lot.

Our villains in each case are invariably the Cardinal, his pal Rochefort (who always has an eyepatch, although this trope is not in the book and is actually attributable to the way Christopher Lee is styled in the 1973 film), and Milady de Winter. Satisfyingly, at least two of the villains usually wear red because they’re bad. Red is for bad. 

All three are very swashbuckling in tone, have elements of physical comedy, and two of them include one of the three valet characters Dumas wrote into the original story, Planchet (1973 Roy Kinnear, 2011 James “ugh why” Corden). They also all bear the generic markings of the movies made during the same era, our 70s D’Artagnan feels like a prototype Luke Skywalker. The 90s version features a random martial arts performer. The 2011 version has CGI and James Corden in equal measure (read: far too much of both.)

What are the big differences?

I’m going to divide this category into three main segments: character, story and style. My own three musketeers, the three musketeers of movie making.

Character

D’Artagnan

D’artagnan in the book comes across as a pretty comical figure. He’s nineteen and there’s something satisfying about how similar Dumas’ caricature of a nineteen year old is to a modern character of the same age. He’s overconfident, has a simplistic but concrete set of morals, and falls in love with every woman he sees. If D’Artagnan were a 2021 character, he’d really hate The Last Jedi, is what I’m saying. He’d definitely have a tumblr blog, probably a lot like this one, but perhaps a scooch more earnest. He really loved The Lighthouse but he can’t explain why. Isn’t it nice to know that awkward nineteen year olds have been pretty much the same for the last three hundred years at least? 

In all three films he’s kind of irritating, but at least in the 1973 this feels deliberate. This version has a certain “Carry On Musketeering” quality to it and D’Artagnan is your pantomime principal, he’s extremely naïve and he takes himself very seriously. This is the closest D’Artagnan to the book, and the 1973 is, in general, the film which adheres most faithfully to that source material. 

The 1993, which is (spoiler alert) my least favourite adaptation, has Chris O’Donnell as the least likeable D’Artagnan I’ve come across. I’ve only seen O’Donnell in one other thing, the Al Pacino movie Scent of a Woman. He’s bearable in that because he’s opposite Al Pacino, and so his wide-eyed innocence makes sense as a contrast to Pacino’s aged hoo-ah cynicism. Rather than being introduced in a practice sword fight with his father, as in the other two films, D’Artagnan is fighting the brother of an ex-lover. This captures the problem with the film in general: this adaptation wants D’Artagnan to be cool. He is not. The comedy of the 1973, and indeed the book, comes from D’Artagnan being deeply uncool, and from his blind idolisation of the deeply flawed Musketeers who actually are cool, but not necessarily heroic, or even good people. Their moral greyness contrasts with D’Artagnan’s defined sense of right and wrong, but he still considers them to be role models and heroes. 

2011′s version also suffers from “Cool D’Artagnan” syndrome, with the added annoyance of that most Marvel of tropes: the quip. One of the real issues with this film is that the dialogue has a lot of forced quippery that doesn’t quite land, and the editing slows the pace of the entire film. D’Artagnan’s first interaction with Constance is a bad attempt at wit which Constance points out isn’t very funny. The problem is that Constance has no personality so there’s no real indication that she’s in any position to judge his level of wit. She’s just vague, blonde and there: three characteristics which describe an entire pantheon of badly written female characters throughout the ages. Cool D’Artagnan also means that Constance should be additionally cool, because in the book, Constance is older than, smarter than and over-all more in charge than D’Artagnan. 

Female Characters

Let’s go into this with an open mind that understands all these films were made in the sociological context of their decade. The 1973 version would absolutely not be made in the same way now. Constance is a clumsy cartoon character who is forever falling over and accidentally sticking her breasts out. This is not the character from the books, but does at least leave an impression on the viewer one way or another. 

In contrast, the 1993 has a Constance so forgettable I literally cannot picture her. I think she holds D’Artagnan’s hand at the end. That’s all I can say on the subject. 

The 2011 has Gabriella Wilde in the role, and absolutely wastes her. Anyone who’s seen her in  Poldark knows that she can do sharp-tongued beautiful wit-princess with ease. It’s the writing of this film that lets her down, in general, that’s the problem with it. The storyline and design are great, but the actual dialogue lacks the pace and bite that a quip-ridden star vehicle needs. This Constance is given simultaneously more and less to do than the Constance of the original book, who demonstrates at every turn the superiority of her intellect over D’Artagnan, but doesn’t get to pretend to be a Musketeer and whip her hat off to show her flowing golden hair like she does in the 2011. 

The best character, for my money, in The Three Musketeers is Milady de Winter. Even Dumas got so obsessed with her that there are full chapters of the book written from pretty much her perspective. In the book, she’s described as a terrifying genius with powers of persuasion so potent that any jailor she speaks to must be instantly replaced. My favourite Milady is absolutely Faye Dunaway from 1973. She’s ferocious and beautiful and ruthless, but potentially looks even better because the portrayals in the other films are so very bad. 

The 1993 version has your typical blonde 90s baddie woman (Rebecca De Mornay), she wouldn’t look out of place as a scary girlfriend in an episode of Friends or Frasier. 2011 boasts Milla Jovovich who presents us a much more physical version of the character, even doing an awkwardly shoe-horned anachronistic hall of lasers a la Entrapment except instead of lasers its really thin pieces of glass? The “yeah but it looks cool” attitude to anachronism in this film is what makes it fun, and Jovovich’s Milady isn’t awful, she’s just let down by a plot point that she shares with 1993 Milady. Both these adaptations get really hooked on the fact that Athos used to be married to Milady at one time (conveniently leaving out the less justifiable character point that Athos TRIED TO HANG HER when he found out she had been branded as a thief - doesn’t wash so well with the modern audiences, I think.) Rather than hating/fearing Milady, the two modern adaptations suggest that Athos is still in love with her and pines for her. This detracts from Athos’ character just as much as it detracts from Milady’s. Interestingly, and I don’t know where this came from (if it was in the book I definitely missed it), both films feature a confrontation between the two where Athos points a gun at Milady but she pre-empts him by throwing herself off a cliff (or in the 2011, an air-ship.) I think both these versions were concerned that Milady was an anti-feminist character because she’s so wantonly evil, but I disagree. Equality means it is absolutely possible for Milady to be thoroughly evil and hated by the musketeers just as much as they hate Rochefort and the Cardinal. If you want to sort out the gender issues with this story, round Constance out and give her proper dialogue, don’t make Milady go weak at the knees because of whiny Athos (both Athos characters are exceedingly whiny, 1973 Athos is just...mashed).

The Musketeers

These guys are pretty important to get right in a film called The Three Musketeers. They have to be flawed, funny but kind of cool. Richard Chamberlain is an absolute dish in the 1973 version, capturing all those qualities in one. Is it clear which version is my favourite yet?

Athos is played variously by a totally hammered Oliver Reed (1973), a ginger-bearded Kiefer Sutherland (1993) and a badly bewigged Matthew McFadyen (2011). They all have in common the role of being the most level-headed character, but the focus on the relationship between Athos and Milady in the 93 and 11 editions undermines this a lot. Athos should be cool and aloof, instead of mooning over Milady the entire time. The 2011 gives Athos some painfully “edgy” lines like “I believe in this (points at wine) this (flicks coin) and this (stabs coin with knife.)...” which McFadyen ( once oh so perfect as Mr Darcy) doesn’t quite pull off. 

Porthos seems to be the musketeer who is the most different between interpretations. A foppish dandy in the 1973, a pirate (!?!) in the 1993, and then just...large in 2011. I think the mistake made in the 2011 is that large alone does not a personality make. There are hints at Porthos’ characterisation from the book: his dependence on rich women for money and his love of fine clothing, but these are only included as part of his introduction and never crop up again through the rest of the film. Pirate Porthos in 1993 is... you know what, fine, you guys were clearly throwing everything at the wall and seeing what stuck. 

Aramis is our dishy Richard Chamberlain in 1973, followed by womanising Charlie Sheen in 1993 and then strikingly suave Luke Evans in 2011. I actually didn’t mind Luke Evans’ interpretation, his dialogue is forgettable but his sleek charm stuck in my head. For some reason, this version has Aramis working as a parking attendant for horses, it worked for me as a fun A Knight’s Tale-esque bit of anachronistic character development. Charlie Sheen has never managed to appear likable or attractive to me and so his role in the 1993 falls flat. In fact, in that edition there’s not much distinction between the musketeers as characters and they’re all just very 90s and American. As anyone who’s read this blog before will expect, I think Keanu Reeves as Aramis would have really upped this film’s game. In fact, Keanu Reeves as Aramis, Brad Pitt as Athos and Will Smith as Porthos could have been the ultimate 90s adaptation, throw in DiCaprio as D’Artagnan and Roger Allam as the Cardinal and I’m fully sold. 

The King and Queen

All three films try and do the “Queen’s Diamonds” storyline, but only the 1973 actually includes the Queen’s affair with Buckingham. The queen, played by Geraldine Chaplin, is a tragic romantic figure (she doesn’t have a tonne to do besides being wistful and sighing over Lord Buckingham). The king is played as a frivolous idiot by Jean-Pierre Cassel (voice dubbed by Richard Briers). He doesn’t really think of the queen as a person, more as a possession that he doesn’t want Buckingham to have. 

In the 1993 version, Buckingham doesn’t really feature, and it’s the queen’s refusal to get off with the Cardinal that prompts his fury at her. The book does touch on the Cardinal’s desire for the queen, but it’s placed front and centre in 1993. This is definitely the boobsiest version, with quite a lot of corsetry on show and a cardinal who hits on literally all the women. The king is shown as a stroppy teenage boy under the thumb of the cardinal, who just wants to ask the queen to the dance but doesn’t have the nerve. The king is, essentially, a Fall Out Boy lyric. 

The 2011 also seems to be really squeamish about the idea of the queen having an extramarital affair. It paints Buckingham (played with excellent wig and aplomb by Orlando Bloom) as a stylish villain, who’s advances the queen has rejected. Like the 1993 version, the King is a feckless youth rendered speechless by the presence of his wife. Both these versions want the King and Queen to be happy together, while the 1973 doesn’t give a fuck. 

The Cardinal and his Cronies

The cardinal is kind of universally an evil creepy guy. One of the characters from the 1973 version who actually left the least impression on me, played by Charlton Heston. I think he’s overshadowed in my recollection by cartoonishly evil Christopher Lee as Rochefort. Lee’s Rochefort is dark, mysterious and wonderfully bad, and so influential that all other incarnations’ design is based on him. The 1993 version had truly over the top Michael Wincott as a character I could honestly refer to as Darth Rochefort from the way he’s framed, while 2011 boasts a chronically underused Mads Mikkelsen in the role. 

Cardinal-wise, 1993 was my favourite with Tim Curry in all his ecclesiastical splendour. It was disappointing that everything about this film, including the Cardinal’s sexual harassment of every single female character, really didn’t work for me. Tim Curry is a natural choice for this role and gives it his campy all. 

2011 has not one but two trendy bond villain actors, with Mikkelsen working alongside Christoph Waltz who was...just kind of fine. I was really excited when he appeared but he didn’t really push the character far enough and left me cold. 

Story

The story is where the different adaptations diverge most completely. 1973 follows the plot of the novel, D’Artagnan comes to Paris, befriends the Musketeers and becomes embroiled in a plot by the Cardinal to expose the Queen’s affair with Buckingham through the theft of two diamond studs. D’Artagnan, aided partially by the musketeers, must travel to London to retrieve the set of twelve studs gifted by the King to the Queen, and by the Queen to Buckingham. He does so, the plot is foiled, he’s made into a musketeer! Hurrah, tankards all round.

The 1993 version drops D’Artagnan into the story just as the Cardinal has disbanded the Musketeers. I found the plot of this one really hard to follow and I think at some point D’Artagnan ended up in the Bastille? There was this whole plot point about how Rochefort had killed D’Artagnan’s father. In the original, and in the 1973 version, D’Artagnan’s entire beef with Rochefort is rooted in a joke Rochefort makes about D’Artagnan’s horse. I guess for the producers of this one, a horse insult is not enough motivation for a lifelong grudge. That is really the problem with the entire film, it forgets that the story as told by Dumas is set in a world where men duel over such petty things as “criticising one’s horse”, “blocking one’s journey down a staircase” and “accusing one of having dropped a lady’s handkerchief.” The colour palette and styling are very 90s “fun fun fun”, but the portrayal of the cardinal and the endless angst about D’Artagnan’s father really dampen the mood. 

The 2011 version, this is where the shit really hits the fan. We meet our musketeers as they collaborate with Milady to steal the blueprints for a flying ship (it’s like a piratecore zeppelin). Milady betrays them and gives the plans to Buckingham, they all become jaded and unemployed. D’Artagnan arrives on the scene (his American accent explained by the fact that he’s from a different part of France) and befriends the Musketeers. The cardinal tries to frame the queen for infidelity by having Milady steal her diamonds to hide them in Buckingham’s safe at the tower of London. Something something Constance, something something help me D’Artagnan you’re my only hope. MASSIVE AIRSHIP BATTLE. The king and queen have a dance. James Corden cracks wise. 

It seems like as time has passed, producers, writers and directors have felt compelled to embellish the story. I think, specifically in the case of the two later versions, this is because they wanted the films to resemble the big successes of the period. Everybody knows no Disney hero can be in possession of both parents, so D’Artagnan is out to avenge his father like Simba or Luke Skywalker. In the 2011 version, the plot is overblown and overcomplicated in what seems like an attempt to replicate the success of both the Sherlock Holmes and Pirates of the Caribbean franchises. Remember the plot of Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End? No, me neither. 

Style

The style of these films grows increasingly wild along with the plots as time passes. The 1973 features a lot of slapstick comedy, some of which really made me cackle, and some of which was cringeworthily sexist (Constance’s boobs through the window of a litter.) That’s the 70s though! I love The Godfather but Diane Keaton’s character is unbelivably dull and annoying. Star Wars features a pretty good female character but she does end up in that bikini. The 70s seems to be a time of movies that were great except for their occasional headlong dive into misogyny. That doesn’t mean the entire movie is bad, it just means it’s suffering from the consequences of being made in the 70s. There were other consequences of this, I doubt many modern productions could get away with physically injuring so many of it’s cast members. From a glance down the IMDB trivia page, this film yielded a higher casualties to cast ratio than the My Chemical Romance Famous Last Words music video, and that’s a hard figure to top. 

The 1993 version is a Disney feature and suffers from having a thin sheen (not Charlie in this instance) of “Disney Original Movie” pasted over every scene. It looks like The Parent Trap might be filming in the adjacent studio a lot of the time. The vibrancy of the colours makes the costumes look unrealistic, while the blandness of the female characters means this movie ends up a bit of a bland bro-fest. Also occasionally the sexual and violent moments really jar with the overall tone making it an uneven watch. One minute it’s Charlie Sheen cracking jokes about trying to get off with someone’s wife, the next minute you see Milady throw herself off a cliff and land on the rocks. Weird choices all round. 

The 2011 version, as I’ve already mentioned, was trying to borrow its style from the success of Sherlock Holmes and Pirates of the Caribbean, with a little Ocean’s 11 thrown in. The soundtrack flips between not quite a Hans Zimmer score and not quite that other Hans Zimmer score, and after the success of Stardust it ends with a Take That song (for it to match up to the story it should have been Take That feat. Harry styles imho). Visually, there’s some fantastic travel by mapping going on, there’s far too much CGI (one of my friends pointed out that the canal in Venice seemed to be full of Flubber). Everyone is dressed in black leather, and there are not enough big hats at all. One of the best things about Musketeers films is that they’re an excuse for ridiculous hats, and in a film with a quite frankly insane visual style, I’m surprised the hats didn’t make it through. The cast, unfortunately, really lack chemistry which means the humorous dialogue is either stilted or James Corden, and the editing is just very strange. It’s one of those films that feels about as disjointed as an early morning dream, the one where you dream you’ve woken up, gotten dressed and fed the cat, but you actually are still in bed. 

Conclusion

Adaptations focus on different things depending on the context they were created in. The 2005 Pride and Prejudice is deliberately “grittier” than its 1990s predecessor, at a stage when “grit” was everywhere (The Bourne Identity, Spooks, Constantine). The Musketeers adaptations demonstrate exactly the same thing: what people wanted in the 70s was bawdy comedy and slapstick with a likeable idiot hero, the 90s clearly called for... Charlie Sheen and bright colours, and the 2010s just want too much of everything and a soundtrack with lots of banging and crashing. The more modern adaptations simplified the female characters (although the 1973 version definitely is guilty of oversimplifying Constance) while over-complicating the plot. There’s a lot of embellishment going on in the 2011 version that suggests the film wasn’t very sure of itself, it pulls its plot punches while simultaneously blindly flailing its stylistic fists. 

The film that works the best for me will always be the 1973 because it’s pretty straight down the line. Musketeers are good, Milady is evil, falling over is funny and the King’s an idiot. The later adaptations seem to be trying to fix problems with the story that the 1973 version just lets fly. The overcorrection of Milady and the under characterisation of Constance is the perfect example of this. If you want your Musketeers adaptation to be more feminist, don’t weaken Milady, strengthen Constance. Sometimes a competent female character is all that we need. A Constance who is like Florence Cassel from Death in Paradise or  Ahn Young-yi from Misaeng could really pack a punch.

I adored the energy of the 2011 adaptation, I loved how madcap it was, I loved how it threw historical accuracy to the wind. I thought the king was adorable, and I really enjoyed seeing Orlando Bloom hamming it up as Buckingham. I was genuinely sad that the sequel the ending sets up for never came, because once they got out of the sticky dialogue and into the explosions, the film was great fun. It was a beautiful disaster that never quite came together, but I really enjoyed watching it. I love films that have a sense of wild chaos, some more successful examples are The Devil’s Advocate, Blow Dry and Lego Batman. I think the spirit of going all out on everything can sometimes result in the best cinematic experience, it’s just a shame the script wasn’t really up to muster for 2011 Musketeers. 

I’m excited to see what the next big budget Musketeers adaptation brings, even if I’m going to have to wait another ten years to see it. I hope it’s directed by Chad Stahelski, that’d really float my boat (through the sky, like a zeppelin.)

[fencesandfrogs]

cloudtail’s daughter: hollyleaf

alright, continuing my long running deluge of words, we move on to hollyleaf.

ah, hollyleaf. canon did you dirty. luckily, given your lifespan, i can do whatever i want with you. as long as you end up in starclan. also i haven't read squirrelflight's hope so i don't know the deal with that.

right. but as far as i'm concerned, i get to do whatever i want to do with her, and that means i'm...less making tweaks to her character and more giving us more of her, and smoothing out her character arc, because it's all a mess, you don't need me to tell you that.

alright, as per usual, warnings/disclaimers/we: this is for my cloudtail's daughter au. this goes pretty off the rails from canon, so i suspect it'll be coherent, but i still think either the main au explanation or the dovewing post is a better place to start.

2.5k words, 10min read. the least organized of all of these (no section headers).

right so i'm not really sure where to begin with hollyleaf, but i think the best place is the earliest one yet: roughly the fire scene. because hollyleaf is breaking one of my cardinal rules: don't mess with what came before, and so it's best we start there, i think.

right, so hollyleaf, as we know, takes the news about her parentage badly. and i'm not taking that away, mostly, but she doesn't devolve quite so quickly. because i just. don't like it.

hollyleaf is smart, she's loyal, it's a reasonable decision for her to fall of the rails as such, but i just really don't like it. i want hollyleaf to fall apart and come back together. i want her to have to deal with the consequences of her actions. and in this essay i will.. no but i'm getting ahead of myself, we'll do all that. first things first, though, hollyleaf keeps herself together, until she realizes ashfur isn't going to let this stay secret.

so she kills him.

and the truth comes out pretty fast. like no one is 100% sure but everybody knows.

and that? that is what really cracks hollyleaf.

right so remember in my worldbuilding post when i said something-something-i-don't-care-about-hollyleaf's-story? yeah turns out that was a fucking lie.

because i realized that i couldn't really make this work unless i knew why hollyleaf came back because well it's kind of a big deal. so i had to figure it out, and i was hyper proud of myself for realizing she could save dovepaw from the tunnels, and then i was like "well people have a lot of questions for her," to the point where one of the chapters in fading echoes is titled "questions" and it's just straight up people questioning what happened to her.

so. she still goes into the tunnels. and she meets fallen leaves. and they hit it off, probably a little faster. (tbh i'm still not interested in writing this, just what happens).

and she chills walright, continuing my long running deluge of words, we move on to hollyleaf.

ah, hollyleaf. canon did you dirty. luckily, given your lifespan, i can do whatever i want with you. as long as you end up in starclan. also i haven't read squirrelflight's hope so i don't know the deal with that.

right. but as far as i'm concerned, i get to do whatever i want to do with her, and that means i'm...less making tweaks to her character and more giving us more of her, and smoothing out her character arc, because it's all a mess, you don't need me to tell you that.

alright, as per usual, warnings/disclaimers/we: this is for my cloudtail's daughter au. this goes pretty off the rails from canon, so i suspect it'll be coherent, but i still think either the main au explanation or the dovewing post is a better place to start.

right so i'm not really sure where to begin with hollyleaf, but i think the best place is the earliest one yet: roughly the fire scene. because hollyleaf is breaking one of my cardinal rules: don't mess with what came before, and so it's best we start there, i think.

right, so hollyleaf, as we know, takes the news about her parentage badly. and i'm not taking that away, mostly, but she doesn't devolve quite so quickly. because i just. don't like it.

hollyleaf is smart, she's loyal, it's a reasonable decision for her to fall of the rails as such, but i just really don't like it. i want hollyleaf to fall apart and come back together. i want her to have to deal with the consequences of her actions. and in this essay i will... no but i'm getting ahead of myself, we'll do all that. first things first, though, hollyleaf keeps herself together, until she realizes ashfur isn't going to let this stay secret.

so she kills him.

and the truth comes out pretty fast. like no one is 100% sure but everybody knows.

and that? that is what really cracks hollyleaf.

right so remember in my worldbuilding post when i said something-something-i-don't-care-about-hollyleaf's-story? yeah turns out that was a fucking lie.

because i realized that i couldn't really make this work unless i knew why hollyleaf came back because well it's kind of a big deal. so i had to figure it out, and i was hyper proud of myself for realizing she could save dovepaw from the tunnels, and then i was like "well people have a lot of questions for her," to the point where one of the chapters in fading echoes is titled "questions" and it's just straight up people questioning what happened to her.

so you know everything is fine until a thunderclan apprentice stumbles into the tunnels, hurt and scared, unable to protect herself.

hollyleaf and fallen leaves protect dovepaw, a flood happens, i haven't worked out the details and i'm fairly tired ATM, so please forgive my handwaving.

so yeah, dovepaw is with them for three days.

hollyleaf basically gets caught by cinderheart when they're going back, so she's like "well guess now i gotta see my family" and cinderheart is like "yeah u idiot we all miss u n i love u but i am dating ur brother now" and hollyleaf is like "fair enough i have a ghost boyfriend" and they're all good

everyone has a hell of a lot of questions for hollyleaf. i have a whole chapter dedicated to it. here are some of them, and some of the answers.

brambleclaw: why didn't you tell me? (no, he hasn't learned from squirrelflight how unhelpful this question is) hollyleaf: because you're the deputy and there's no guarantee you wouldn't out me, considering you were still disowning me

dovepaw: yo so there was another cat with you wasn't there? hollyleaf: ohhh yeah i have a ghost boyfriend sorry forgot to tell you that

squirrelflight: do you still hate me? hollyleaf: mom i'm so sorry i love you so much

and then hollyleaf is home. i mean jayfeather won't talk to her but that's a few books from now, when they have ghost partners, okay?

but before that, she has to go do beavers, and she never gets a real proper chance to make up with everyone

(don't worry, she'll get the chance before she dies.)

right so dovepaw has her beaver stuff and hollyleaf tags along because Nine Is A Holy Number

really, i just need a narrator on the beaver quest, and for reasons i've mentioned but will explain in a moment, it can't be cinderheart.

so i have this symbolism going where dove/ivy start and end the series (what, i'm big on structural symbolism. i put thought into everything. especially since i'm limited in these books with what/how i accomplish, so the things that are entirely mine, like who narrates what, is carefully thought out). anyway that's because they have turning points in their relationship in the first and last book. they fall apart at the midpoint of growing shadows, and they aren't fully repaired ever, but they get closest at about the midpoint of the last hope. that's a symbolic thing, that they've come back to where they've started, but not quite. can't go back, even if you regret.

regret is a big theme in this series. ivy and dove are a pair in part because they're bound by all of these regrets that keeps stacking up.

now, the natural choice for a narrator of the beavers would be cinderheart. she's a substitude lionblaze as far as this book is concerned. however, cinderheart needs to be the main narrator when she takes dovepaw to the tribe. she just does. so we could do two cinderheart books in a row, but then where do we put lionblaze? he's not really a major character in the second arc, he basically does nothing. i guess we could have him deal with sol, but cinderheart's arc is supposed to be she learns how to solve problems in different ways, and that's why she's able to tackle sol. so, like, fine, what if we make cinderheart and lionblaze arc one narrators, and have sol be a background thing? i mean, if i did it for the dark forest, i could definitely do it for this.

so that does create one problem: regret doesn't bind cinderheart to lionblaze. regret is a theme through cinderpelt and cinderheart. lionblaze is a sexy lamp. he doesn't mean anything, he's just a love interest to challenge cinderheart. so. it feels bad to me to artifiically pair them together and imply they have a dynamic like that.

and the larger problem is what it does to hollyleaf and jayfeather.

see, hollyleaf and jayfeather have this aborted forgiveness arc, that plagues jayfeather. i'm going to write a jayfeather super edition so help me god, but that's for another time. anyway, hollyleaf is trying to make up with everyone, but jayfeather won't let her.

and he's never going to get the chance to make amends, because she dies in the last book.

but anyway, if we make hollyleaf and jayfeather the exclusive narrators of books 4 and 5, we imply their character arc happens. there. and that's...not what happens.

it's aborted. they're decoupled, desynched. they have a moment of synchrony, where they have this shared experience, but it's not enough. hollyleaf is in jayfeather's past, and he's tryign so hard to move forward. it's all ~very symbolic.~

right. back to the present day, hollyleaf has to go to do the beavers mostly because i said so, but also because i'm cautious about drawing false parallels. i think it was cinderheart's essay where i said this is the only part of it i have control over (was it earlier in this essay i've worked on this for like 3 days) and so i want to do it right. but also, she's going to be a good narrator, becuase she's covering a lot of ground, and i think hollyleaf is pretty interesting.

so hollyleaf, my dear, terrified of breaking the code, hollyleaf, watches dovepaw and tigerheart get...close.

and this is. well, hollyleaf has seen what happened when people date illegal options. and it's not good.

so she spends most of the book just kinda panicking, waiting for the moment this goes south.

beavers happen, it's the same as the books, i'm super uninterested in that plotline to the point of memery. hollyleaf is fine, everything is fine, dovepaw is sad now because cats died, everything is fine.

so i mentioned at some point or the other that dovepaw begins sleeping on top of tigerheart. dovepaw, at this point, is fully grown, but she's on the smaller side. she's a standard to small cat. tigerheart is a tigerstar clone, and tigerstar has some maine coon genes or something because he's massive. so uhh you know she probably could literally sleep on top of him but it's not quite that, it's more she's curled up and he's kind of curled up around her, but not as a concious thing. it's similar to when u accidentally wake up cuddling someone bc u shared a bed and that's that. but less awkward.

anyway hollyleaf is like "cinderheart cinderheart we should do something this is a problem," but if u remember from cinderheart, cinderheart is also being nagged by cinderpelt about this.

so cinderheart doesn't want to hear it and hollyleaf is pretty much "whelp guess i'll just die" and by die i mean quietly glare at tigerheart and shower dovepaw in love and affection.

anyway yeah after that hollyleaf does nothing for like two books.

or one book? i guess beavers is book two anyway look she misses her gf but cinderheart is in the mountains and then she's like "oh wait i have a ghost bf i should talk to"

so hollyleaf spends more and more time in the tunnels. this book actually takes place at about the same time as distant whispers. there's not 100% overlap, but it's close.

right so jayfeather (i swear i wrote dovefeather this is the problem with having 3 linked aus god) follows hollyleaf into the tunnels and he has his whole time travel sequence/half of it i still haven't decided what i'm doing with it.

and hollyleaf and fallen leaves have good ole interpersonal drama, where they're trying to be a thing but hollyleaf belongs in thunderclan and yes, this means that hollyleaf is the character who gets the singular book, because jayfeather is extremely isolated from the main plot. in fact, the only reason i keep the time travel plot is because canon. not that i don't like that it exists but for it to have been executed well it needs to be less disjoint. which is why i think i'm breaking A Rule so i can put it all in oots so it's more logical. but that's a different rant.

anyway, there's a quasi-religious conflict where hollyleaf is like "just go to starclan" and fallen leaves is like "my whole problem is how i can't do that"

uh yeah idrk exactly what happens it is once again 3am so uhhh yeah ghost cats she considers leaving thunderclan bc jayfeather won't talk to her lionblaze is away she's still mad at leafpool and squilf is in an abusive relationship and hollyleaf is still pretty young, y'know? that's a lot.

firestar is like "grand daughter i love you dearly but can u maybe uh can u maybe make up your god damn mind"

anyway so hollyleaf and fallen leaves have a bit of a fight, he's like, "i'm keeping u back," she's like "ur not" but she knows he is, etc etc it's very sad and dramatic

so they kind of break up? it's a lil complicated but basically they're not talking to each other for a while, they're on the cat equivalent of "taking a break" ig

alright, so then book 5 happens, and it's jayfeather and cinderheart prepping for the great battle. idk. hollyleaf chills w lionblaze in BGCH and makes friends with ivypool. it's chill. i mean, it's not, but it is.

book six, hollyleaf is the only one to stay in thunderclan. she's kinda j chilling til the battle. and then. and then. oh this is the good part.

she sacrifices her self for ivypool.

yeah. okay, this is super disjoint, so i'm going with it. hollyleaf? done.

[wirewitchviolet]

How not to Write a Campaign

I have been playing RPGs for a very long time. Back in the day, I avoided any and all pre-written adventures of any sort because my limited experience with them was... just frankly terrible. Weird inconsistencies in tone, unfair encounter setups, too many assumptions about PCs’ motives and actions, etc. Then much later I discovered a group of writers who actually got it, wrote things perfectly in line with how my friends like a game to go, and we’ve been all in on those for a decade and change. But I just finished running a ROUGH one, and I want something good to come of it.

I don’t want to make this a specific review, because... I’m in the industry, I know the people who wrote this campaign, I can guess at some of the problems involved, and I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings or reputation, so let me just refer to the offending prewritten campaign here as the Amnesia Campaign. It’s for a big fantasy RPG, it riffs of a particular author’s work, you can probably guess what it is from that, but, I’m trying.

The first problem I need to bring up with the Amnesia Campaign is that it just commits the cardinal sin of long term RPG campaign writing- The mustache-twirling villain who always manages to escape from the PCs at the last minute. I cannot convey just how important it is that you never, ever do this. The worst sort of example is when you plan around the PCs actually confronting your villain multiple times, and failing to kill them, which is a terrible idea because there really is no way to ever stack the deck and account for every contingency to make an unwinnable fight, or even one where escape is always possible, and especially if you’re publishing adventures, some number of groups will kill the villain too early, either shorting things out or forcing a handwave to keep an ineffectual villain in play and pretend they’re still a threat.

The Amnesia Campaign doesn’t quite go there. Having an actual chance to go toe to toe with the villain is reserved for the very end, but it does use another variant, where no matter what happens, the PCs arrive just after the villain they’re chasing has left. Now... there’s a way you can make that work. If you have a villain who cannot be reached in practical fashion, and can launch attacks anywhere within a huge region, you can build a whole campaign out of characters reacting to the aftermath of evil actions they could not be expected to even learn about until the villain has left the scene. Here, meanwhile, we have a villain with a big elaborate plot that requires traveling all over the world gathering things, based on research he does at the very start which the PCs can, and indeed are expected to do, quickly pick up on these research notes, and basically know everything the villain plans to do from nearly the start of a very long campaign. And... frankly, the villain has no real edge to keep him believably one step ahead. He is a mildly wealthy man hiring goons, mundane forms of transportation, and having to negotiate and fight his way through to various sub-objectives needed for his plan, and it is at least strongly implied that he doesn’t have a lot of lead time. When presented with a scenario about someone needing to be chased down and stopped, PCs can pretty reliably be counted on to constantly be rushing forward, coming up with clever ways to accomplish what they need to in less time, and cut down if not completely nullify their travel time. But, like with battles the villain somehow keeps escaping from, I am forced to continuously state to my players in running this that no, somehow even after avoiding this whole side quest by reading the mind of the person with important information, and directly teleporting to where the villain left for by riverboat, he somehow beat them there, and once again, just left. It’s frustrating, and implausible. We end up with a villain who seems overwhelmingly outmatched, but keeps succeeding because... well, he has plot armor so we’re railroading this.

Admittedly, having a good villain when writing a full campaign in advance can be tricky. The safe and tested formula is generally to start off with minions of your main villain, starting with some who don’t even know who they’re ultimately working for, gradually build up to who’s calling the shots and to what end, have a big side trip to prepare for the final confrontation not directly involving the villains, than cap it with a big showdown. If the PCs know who the main villain is from the very start and where to find them, it becomes hard to rationalize anything between. Sometimes you can pull it off if they’re leading an army or ruling a country, but even then, you want to work up a food chain to them.

A similar problem, which crops up a bit towards the end of the Amnesia Campaign, is making too many assumptions about how the PCs react, and who they befriend. In RPG writing, you need to make as few assumptions as possible about the specifics of what the PCs will do in any situation. You can count on the real broad strokes. The party will investigate the situation described in the adventure, they’ll explore the area, find the villains, fight them, win, learn something to keep the larger plot growing, but that’s it. You can’t assume they’re going to team up with this NPC, enter this room from that direction, or otherwise reenact what you’d imagine you’d do in their place, or what happened in your test play of your adventure. This is particularly important when you include a little sidequest unconnected to their primary goal, or you’re presenting an open-ended investigation.

Ideally, you just have a sensible location, have some villains in it with clear goals and personalities laid out, and you scatter around some things to enable various clever tricks if players think to try them, without mandating any of them. Mention where windows are, and chandeliers, and holes just too small for the average human to fit through, but don’t, as part of the Amnesia Campaign does, invest heavily in the assumption that the PCs will start investigating a sewer system when investigating how a cult gets around a city and go sparse on other possible clues. Also don’t waste adventure background note space on thousands of years of history at the expense of what the actual current problem in the area is and who or what is behind it.

The next problem is one that, were I the average consumer just buying this book would bother me a hell of a lot more than it does as someone who knows how the sausage gets made. Put mildly... you do not want to play a rogue in the Amnesia Campaign. Nor do you want to play a swashbuckler, a critical-hit focused character of any stripe, really any class out of the... roughly 25% of all classes who rely on knowledge of where to make a hit count the most to do the full amount of damage with their attacks, because practically everything is immune.

Now, again. I partly understand how this happens. We have several different authors writing different chapters of the campaign, simultaneously, in pretty unforgiving crunchy conditions, with just a rough outline to go off. Nobody really has a chance to confirm notes and say “hey, did your chapter totally invalidate one of the foundational character archetypes, because I was thinking of doing that and having two of those back to back would be a bit much.” And while the publisher of the Amnesia Campaign does throw out little booklets of tips for players on what sort of character concepts will/won’t work, they’re not written last, so this sort of tip is missing there too. On the other hand, it’s a huge problem within nearly any given chapter just on its own. If you’re making the call on what all monsters to include in a multi-level stretch of a campaign, you should generally avoid choosing nothing but monsters immune to one of the most common bread and butter class features. And honestly, given how the subject matter naturally lends to the deployment of a particular monster type, erring on the side of assuming everyone else is heavily deploying them wouldn’t be a bad assumption for any author to make.

This though, unlike the rest of my gripes, is ultimately a high level problem that needs a high level solution. When you’re publishing a whole campaign, and you’re doing it in a game where several foundational character concepts kinda live or die based on things like whether things are properly harmed by particular flavors of damage, or whether a decent percentage of enemies fall under a certain classification, that really shouldn’t be a double-blind. Coordinating to get all authors to use a decent spread, or include outline notes like “it’d make sense for about half the enemies in this chapter to be fire elemental themed in various ways, but keep a good variety otherwise,” and/or trying to get a rough handle on emergent themes to adjust for/warn about in player-facing pitch material. Even the best-written campaigns are prone to rude awakenings or hilarious reductions in challenge as turns out, say, going all in on cold damage does indeed pay off for the one with Fire in the title.

Meanwhile, on the other side of that coin, more or less, huge swaths of the Amnesia Campaign really just completely break down by failing to account for some basic standard issue capabilities of a typical party. Particularly the fact that past a certain point, you need to account for the fact that the PCs are almost certainly capable of flight. It’s a thing that happens. If you are really keen on writing adventures where local warlords are chilling out on the open-air rooftop patios of their otherwise heavily fortified fortresses, or melee-oriented monsters plan an ambush in a canyon in a vast wasteland, or a dangerous leapfrog between a series of elevated platforms over something dangerous, you want to make those low-level adventures, or else a typical party, possibly even accidentally, will just completely circumvent the whole thing. There is a whole lot of that in the back of the Amnesia Campaign. My group... literally skipped giant swaths. Heck, there was a whole side quest in the last book where the PCs are rewarded with the location of a giant obelisk which I had to cut because... it was in the middle of a big open outdoor space, and they flew over the city on the way in. They definitely had a view over those hedges.

This sort of dovetails into the next issue, consistently escalating threats. The whole fantasy RPG gimmick is that at level 1, you’re a helpless peasant barely capable of doing anything remarkable, and by level 20 you’re literally punching gods in the face and have more money in your pocket than everyone else in your home country combined (with the obvious exception of the other people in your party). Now, mechanically, balancing around that is a very easy math problem. Characters of level X are meant to deal with threats of level Y, either pull a Y level monster out of the book, or slap levels on something lower to bring it to that point, or spread that out over more enemies, then they drop Z amount of fancy loot. Easiest thing in the world. But you also need things to fit together thematically. You can absolutely throw fighter levels onto the local chicken-stealing goblins to make them mechanically as threatening as a demigod bursting through from another plane of reality, but when a group of characters is at a level where they can be expected to handle the former, it’s just plain weird for them to end up dealing with the latter. Like, yes, these particular goblins have 200 HP instead of the usual 4, so the local town guard can’t handle them, but that should never be true of chicken-stealing goblins. You don’t get that tough stealing chickens, and once you’ve gotten that tough, you should have your sights set a good deal higher than that. At least be stealing rocs or something.

The 4th chapter of the Amnesia Campaign is a particularly blatant example of not getting this, featuring a large number of “please be aware the party can fly at this level” moments mentioned above, and also just demanding the PCs deal with problems that really are beneath them at that point. Seeking out local guides, impressing petty local warlords, getting challenged by giants they must impress to rest safely when crossing a huge desert. These are... not appropriate speed bumps at a point in the narrative where the party is traveling to a location where they are going to literally fight a god, weakened or otherwise. The whole setup would be wonderful as the first chapter of a campaign, but that far in, it just doesn’t work. Particularly when the actual opening of the Amnesia Campaign sets the tension very high right off the bat, with extradimensional threats, shapeshifters, an evil cult, things that typically come later as things start to escalate.

This isn’t to say you can’t mix things up a little. Dealing with threats well below a party’s capabilities can be really nice as a chance to just sort of flex, and get some perspective on how much more capable they’ve grown over time, but you have to do it in a low-tension point of the narrative, and a little self-awareness about it doesn’t hurt.

Finally, while I really kinda hate modern wealth-by-level assumptions, they are baked into the design of the game, so if you’re running with it, you really need to make sure you’re really giving the players something they can use. The Amnesia Campaign really leans heavy on treasure being weird oddities that may be of value to a collector... while also being set, generally, in places so totally removed from civilization that shopping trips aren’t really practical. Much less those needing the party to really find the right sort of buyer.

Really, you want to give out entirely practical loot (really hard to do without knowing the party makeup, but variety can work), big piles of cash/sellables along with sufficiently large cities along the way for viable shopping, or raw materials suitable for crafting plus ample time to really do something with them.

Anyway, hopefully this has come across more as practical constructive advice for anyone writing a campaign, either as a printed product or just for your home game, not just me tearing into the Amnesia Campaign at length.

[shalebridge-cradle]

Historical References in What Are You Going to Do With Your Life - Chapters 10-12

Chapter 10

Boleyn mumbles something about a priest. W. S. Pakenham-Walsh (1868 - 1960), Vicar of Sulgrave, Northhamptonshire, had a strong interest in Anne Boleyn. He claimed to have a series of spiritual experiences after praying at Boleyn’s burial site, and contacted clairvoyants to channel her spirit in the hopes she might become his guardian angel. He also claimed in his diary that he had contact with Henry VIII and other notable members of the Tudor court.

While witchcraft was often punished via the death penalty, Henry VIII made the law explicit in 1542 (though it was later repealed no later than 1547, under Edward VI). Several witchcraft laws were made in the UK over the years, in 1563, 1604, 1649 and 1735. These were all repealed and replaced with more general consumer protection laws, and the last person to be indicted for witchcraft (under the 1735 act) was imprisoned in 1944.

Tarot was a regular set of cards for most of its history, used in various, but similar, trick-taking card card games. It became associated with ancient wisdom in 1781, when Antoine Court de Gébelin wrote an essay claiming (with no evidence) that ancient Egyptian priests had distilled the mystical Book of Thoth into the cards.

“Psychic is Greek, and clairvoyant is French. One is about thinking, and the other is about seeing.” Psychic comes from the Greek word psychikos (‘of the mind’) and clairvoyance is a combination of two French words (‘clear’ and ‘vision’). Catherine of Aragon was known to speak both French and Greek, as well as Latin, her native Spanish, and English.

Cunning man (or woman) was another word for folk healers.

In 1532, Catherine Parr’s brother-in-law from her second marriage, William Neville, was accused of treason for allegedly predicting the king’s death and his own ascension as Earl of Warwick (a title made extinct during the Wars of the Roses, but would be recreated in 1547 and twice after that). He went to at least three magicians to confirm this prediction, all of which agreed that it was meant to be true (it wasn’t). One of these magicians was Richard Jones of Oxford, who was imprisoned and questioned on the matter. He did his best to exonerate himself of responsibility. I have found five references confirming his existence – but many of them claim he had a sceptre he used to ‘summon the four king devils’, which he used for divination purposes.

Chapter 11

Jones of Oxford was taken in for questioning as part of the Neville affair, and he did his best in his confession to exonerate himself. Neville’s claims of a prophetic dream showing himself as Earl of Warwick were now a “fair castle” which Neville assumed must be the castle of Warwick, and a shield with “sundry arms I could not rehearse”. He did admit to writing “a foolish letter or two according to [Neville’s] foolish desire, to make pastime to laugh at”. No treason, just jokes, please don’t execute me Thomas Cromwell. Jones claimed to take his alchemy seriously, however, and wrote that “To make the philosopher’s stone I will jeopard my life, so to do it,” if the king so wished. He would require twelve months “upon silver” and twelve and a half “upon gold”, and was willing to be imprisoned while he worked. Jones made a similar offer to Cromwell, but there is no evidence either man accepted. Jones was released in exchange for revealing incriminating evidence against another figure of interest. The other magicians caught up in this incident, William Wade and a man known only as ‘Nashe’, had perfected their disappearing act and were not sent to the Tower.

There is a story that Elizabeth I attributed the destruction of the Spanish armada in 1588 to John Dee’s wizardry. Given that, as mentioned, Dee was out of favour with Elizabeth at the time, this is likely untrue.

Elizabeth I’s death was in March of 1603, after she became sick and remained in a “settled and unmovable melancholy”, sitting on a cushion and staring at nothing. The death of a close friend in February of that year came as a particular blow – that of her second cousin and First Lady of the Bedchamber, Catherine Howard.

James I (or James VI, depending on where you’re from)… James I of England was also James VI of Scotland. His mother was Mary Queen of Scots, who was executed by Elizabeth I, and his great-grandmother was Margaret Tudor, Henry VIII’s sister.

“Anna, born Duchess of Jülich, Cleves and Berg.” This was how Anna signed hers’ and Henry’s marriage treaty, known as the ‘Beer Pot Documents’, because someone drew a stein at the bottom.

Bowling, as a game, can trace its origins back to ancient Egypt, and has been quite popular the world over throughout history. Henry VIII was an avid bowler himself (when Hampton Court was remodelled, bowling alleys were included with tennis courts and tiltyards), but banned the sport for the lower classes. The law against workers bowling (unless it was Christmas and in their master’s presence) was repealed in 1845.

We return to the ground, because from it we were taken. Paraphrasing of Genesis 3:19.

The (possible) first appearance of the word ‘alligator’ in the English language is from Romeo and Juliet. The description of The Apothecary’s shop mentions “a tortoise hung, an alligator stuff’d, and other skins of ill-shaped fishes”. Traditionally, medieval apothecaries and astrologers kept skeletons, fossils, and/or taxidermied pieces on display to demonstrate their worldliness.

The anger over calling the alligator ‘William’ could come from Parr, or from Anna. Her brother’s name, Wilhelm, is often anglicised as William.

Midsomer county does not exist and never has. It’s the setting for the long-running mystery TV show Midsomer Murders. Incidentally, Catherine Parr’s native county of Westmorland existed at one point, but no longer does (the area is now in the county of Cumbria). She is not the only English-born queen who this applies to; Jane Seymour’s Wiltshire and Anne Boleyn’s Norfolk still exist (and have since antiquity), but Katherine Howard was most likely born in Lambeth, which would have been in the county of Middlesex at the time. The area is now under the ceremonial county of Greater London.

“Honestly? Margaret Pole’s was worse.” Margaret Pole, Countess of Sailsbury and the last of the House of York, was kept in the Tower of London for two and a half years for her supposed support of Catholicism’s attempts to overthrow the king, before being informed of her death ‘within the hour’ on the 27th of May, 1541. She answered that she did not know the crime of which she was accused (and had carved a poem into the wall of her cell to that effect), but went to the block anyway. It allegedly took eleven blows from the inexperienced axeman to separate her head from her body. There is another story that she tried to run from the executioner and was killed in the attempt, but this is likely a fabrication. Regardless, pretty much everyone thought this was not only a bad idea on Henry’s part (killing Margaret removed any leverage the king had on her rebellious son, Cardinal Reginald Pole), it was also pointlessly cruel and a painfully undignified end.

(She was also Catherine of Aragon’s lady-in-waiting, and governess to Mary at several points.)

That everyone around her, bar a few visitors, would actively benefit from her death… Yet another quote of Elizabeth Tyrwhitt’s testimony: Parr, on her deathbed, claimed she was “not well-handled” by those around her; “for those that be about me careth not for me, but standeth laughing at my grief, and the more good I will to them, the less good they will to me”.

Chapter 12

According to a lady-in-waiting, Anne Boleyn claimed she would rather see Catherine of Aragon hanged “than have to confess that she was her queen and mistress”. This incident is probably the origin of the lyric “somebody hang you!” from Don’t Lose Ur Head.

Catalina uses a few Spanish phrases in this chapter, which don’t get directly translated. The first, No se hizo la miel para la boca del asno, directly translates to ‘Honey is not made for the donkey’s mouth’, and essentially means ‘Good things shouldn’t be wasted on those who won’t appreciate them’. Lavar cerdos con jabón es perder tiempo y jabón is ‘Washing pigs with soap is a waste of time and soap’, and is meant to indicate some things aren’t worth the energy.

…like that dream she has where she is cut up by a servant… An autopsy was done on Catherine of Aragon as part of the embalming process, which revealed the growth on her heart. This was done by the castle chandler (a dealer or trader) as part of his official duties.

Jane Seymour got rid of most of the hallmarks of Anne Boleyn’s tenure during her own queenship. The extravagance and lavish entertainments were banned, along with the French fashions Boleyn had introduced – including French hoods, which Boleyn is wearing in the portrait we have of her. Jane, as mentioned, wore a gable hood in her portraits.

“I don’t know why I’m so surprised that people care about what I say.” In the words of nineteenth century proto-feminist Agnes Strickland, Jane “passed eighteen months of regal life without uttering a sentence significant enough to warrant preservation”, which is kind of a mean thing to say. Seymour certainly said things during this time, we know this from reports, but there aren’t any direct quotes from her during her time as queen.

Here’s the painting mentioned, from 1545, during Catherine Parr’s tenure. Jane is on Henry’s left.

It was only after her death that Henry ‘loved’ her, but she is certain that he mourned for only for his own loss. There are reports that, during Jane’s labour, doctors advised Henry he might lose either Jane or Edward. Henry is claimed to have replied, “If you cannot save both, at least let the child live, for other wives are easily found.”

Countdown is a British television game show that revolves around word and number puzzles. It has been going for almost forty years, and is one of the longest-running game shows in the world, with over 7000 episodes.

“I saw a ghost bear kill someone, once.” Anne isn’t making this up. Supposedly, the incident occurred in 1816, when a Yeoman Warder saw a ghostly bear somewhere in the Tower of London. Terrified, he tried to stab it with his bayonet, only for the weapon to go through the image and strike the door behind it. The guard died of shock later on. A similar event happened in 1864, where two guards witnessed “a whitish, female figure” gliding towards one of the soldiers. The soldier in question charged this figure, only to go straight through it, upon which he fainted.

Elizabeth was imprisoned in the Tower of London for a little over two months in 1554, as a result of Wyatt’s Rebellion against Queen Mary. The rebellion was also the likely reason for the execution of Lady Jane Grey – both she and Elizabeth were Protestants in line for the throne, and therefore ‘more suitable’ as ruler. Both Elizabeth and Jane Grey denied any involvement, but the latter’s father and brother (also executed) were direct contributors.

“… you did die, Elizabeth was really upset about it…” Elizabeth took the news of Parr’s death badly. She refused to leave her bed, and was unable to go a mile from her residence, for five months following Parr’s passing.

Not because she liked that bearded potato man, God no… I found this deeply cursed engraving (first produced in 1544) in one of my books on the six wives, and now I want you all to suffer with me.

Anne of Cleves reacted poorly to being told her marriage would be annulled – some accounts say she fainted, others says she cried and screamed. Both could be true. The reasons given were threefold – One, the marriage was unconsummated (From testimony given by two servants, Anne thought a kiss goodnight counted as consummation – likely untrue, but this is the only reason that actually has merit). Two, Anne was precontracted to Francis of Lorraine (Untrue – the betrothal would only take effect if Anne’s father paid the dowry, and he didn’t). Three, Anne was not a virgin as claimed, based on the description of her ‘breasts and belly’, a Tudor way of saying Anne had previously given birth (untrue, and conflicts with the testimony for reason one). The annulment went through without Anne’s involvement, but (probably looking at the examples of her three predecessors) she accepted the ruling and kept herself from being banished, beheaded or otherwise.

(Other fact that has no bearing on reality – while researching Anne of Cleves, one of the pages that came up was The Simpsons Wiki. Apparently she’s the only wife who can claim the honour of having been in two episodes. :/)

Dogs don’t need to answer for their sins, they don’t have any. Katherine Howard was reportedly fond of animals in general, but had a particular soft spot for dogs.

She did the right thing. She told the truth. She died for it. Katherine Howard insisted, to the end, that she had no pre-contract of marriage to Francis Dereham. Would she have survived if she said she did?

[warsofasoiaf]

You said some of your opinions on some thing in asoiaf are unorthodox. Which opinion do you have that you feel is mainly against the hive mind? Also, what tumblrs do you read that are still active?

Well, it’s not a hive mind, that’s one of the things I like about the ASOIAF fandom. When I said that hive mind is a bad thing, that doesn’t mean that I think the fandom is a hive mind, just that it’s a good thing to be contrarian because hive minds aren’t conducive to good discussion and analysis

Some of my most unorthodox opinions regard certain characters who I find completely unsympathetic. Jon Connington is one of the big ones, I find him an utterly pathetic man whose emotional drama falls completely flat; he’s a man who openly wishes to have committed war crimes upon the innocent, wishes to install a claimant who he knows isn’t who he is claimed to be, and he’s hiding his dangerous disease from his comrades in arms all to indulge in a fantasy. That’s something I fought with PoorQuentyn about. Rhaenyra is another, she is not turned into a monster from the war or from the loss of her child, nor was she someone who could have been great but for all of these things. She was a vain and petty tyrant who ruled awfully and in an alternate universe where the war never happened, she still would have ruled awfully. Daeron II as a king deserves a lot of criticism for mismanaging his early reign, although props to @racefortheironthrone who wrote on both him and Bloodraven before I did. I find Doran to not be as noble as is commonly thought, heck I find Edmure Tully more sympathetic. Part of that though is that I find the Targaryen restoration plot and his wish to undo Robert’s Rebellion to be unsympathetic motivations, I’d probably have more sympathy for him if he was advocating for Dornish independence since he’d no longer be such a raging hypocrite. Varys is not sympathetic nor a well-intentioned extremist with altruistic visions, he’s a egotistical zealot who believes that the path to salvation is complete and absolute obedience to his vision and that he can craft a perfect ruler because of his own absolute wisdom, same with Bloodraven.

Other things involve events. Daeron I’s murder at a peace conference is unequivocally an atrocity. The First Blackfyre Rebellion was not a black-white affair, neither was Daeron I’s War of Dornish Conquest. I mean, hell, I disagree with GRRM himself who said that the turning point of Robert’s Rebellion was at the Ruby Ford (I say it was the Battle of the Bells, because it permitted the rebels to link up and consolidate their forces). If that’s not unorthodox, I don’t know what is!

And of course, one of my cardinal sins depending on who you ask, I think A Dance with Dragons is the worst book of the novel series.

So as you can see, I go all over the place at times. Sometimes I’d like to think I was part of a re-examination of some characters, particularly when it came to Rhaegar, the Kingsguard, etc. from way back when I became a part of this fandom in 2013 when I published my first essay. But I think that’s too egocentric, one person cannot change the mindset of a group as large and diverse as the ASOIAF fandom. Even a brilliant essay needs to be read, shared, discussed, debated in comment section, talked over drinks at fan conventions, etc. I’m a part of that, and if you’re reading this, chances are you are too. Don’t think of yourself as more or less important or more or less worthy. You don’t need to hold unorthodox opinions, write gigantic essays, or attend conventions to be a part of the fandom. All you need to do is enjoy the work and participate to your comfort level. Hold whatever opinion you hold. Read what you’d like. Write what you’d like. Debate who you want. Create art from pictures to cosplay. Hell, play boardgames or mods for computer games that give things an ASOIAF skin. It all counts. It all qualifies. It’s all worthy, and you are too.

Thanks for the question, Anon.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

[thiswasinevitableid]

For the meet ugly prompts: #27? I feel like it has a lot of potential to be really funny for the OT4 :)

27: we have one night stands with roommates and sneak out of the house at the same time.

I interpreted “sneak out” kinda broadly. This is right on the line between SFW and NSFW: No sex, but it gets hot and heavy at the end.

Duck wakes up under moth-patterned covers, rubs his forehead as he grabs his phone from his pants on the floor. Shit, he didn’t mean to sleep this late, that could make things awkward if the guy from last night wanted him gone.

The bedroom door open and closes and Indrid, his hookup, enters in a yellow and pink bathrobe, holding a silver packet. 

“Good morning.”

“Mornin’. Uh, sorry, guess I was real tired.”

“We did do rather a lot last night.” Indrid grins, sitting down on the bed next to him, “here, my roommate is making breakfast sandwiches. I had him make you one. Do not take the pack as a sign you must leave, I just asked him to wrap it in case you were in a hurry.”

“Thanks. I should be gettin goin’, Winnie’s probably missin’ breakfast.” 

“One musn’t keep such a noble creature waiting.” Indrid hands him the sandwich. He’d shown the taller man photos of his cat last night both because he dotes on the flufflball and because it got Indrid to scoot closer to him. 

“Yeah, she can get in a mood....uh, you seen my underwear?”

Indrid scans the room, red glasses sitting on his forehead and giving Duck a perfect look at his brown eyes. 

“Ah, here we are.” He reaches under the small desk covered in art supplies, “my, those got some distance.”

“You were naked, I was in a hurry.” Duck mumbles, making Indrid bark a laugh as he brings him the rest of his clothes. 

When he steps out of the bedroom, he spots a tall man with a short, coppery beard standing at the kitchen stove. That must be the roommate, but Duck’s eye is drawn to the man exiting the other bedroom. His short black hair is mussed, there’s a pillowmark beneath his high cheekbone on one side, and his dress shirt is rumpled. 

The other man does not seem pleased to be seeing three people in front of him instead of one.

“Oh hey babe, you’re up.” The roommate turns, beaming, “made you breakfast, do you want some coffee? I can put it in a to-go up if, uh, if you need to leave.”

“Yes, thank you. I, um, I should be going.” 

The roommate smiles, quickly puts together a sandwich and coffee cup, complete with cream and sugar. The other man sips it and sighs, “you remembered.”

“‘How do you like your coffee’ isn’t just a cheesy line for me, babe. Gotta make sure you enjoy yourself start to finish.”

“Damn, that was smooth” Duck whispers as Indrid walks him to the door.

“Agreed. Though I rather enjoyed your one about pollination last night. By far the most creative response to these I’ve received” he points to the tattooed moth just visible on his shoulder. His wide grin goes shy, “I did really have a wonderful time, Duck.”

“Me too. Lemme, uh, lemme know if you wanna meet up again?”

Indrid nods, waves goodbye as Duck heads off the porch and down onto the sidewalk. He eats as he walks, decides Indrid has good taste in roommates because that one makes a mean breakfast sandwich. 

He gets to the bus stop, late September morning still crisp with the coming fall. Pulling out his phone, he discovers it’s dead. He did use it a lot last night, on their date, but only because Indrid was so clearly interested in what he had to show him. Why a guy who does tattoos for a living thinks a fella who’s a nerd for plants is interesting, Duck will never know. He’s just glad he does. 

Music out of reach, he sits and listens to the cardinals and kinglets calling in the trees. Someone sits down next to him, aluminum foil reflecting the sun off their hand and into his face. 

It’s the guy. The one from Indrid’s apartment. 

Should Duck tell him he has a big bruise on his neck? He probably knows, right? Then again, he was in a hurry?

“Hey, uh, don’t mean to be weird or nothin’, but you got a little uh-” He taps his neck and the man whacks his hand over the mark. 

“Shit” 

“Someone you’re worried’ll notice?”

“What exactly are you implying?” The man glares at him, blues eyes going from charmingly flustered to suspicious in an instant.

“Nothin, just seem real worried for somethin that happens to almost everyone some time or another.”

“I like keeping my private life private. I don’t want random people knowing what I like in bed.” He snaps

“Okay, okay, jeez man, sorry I mentioned it.”

They fall silent as Duck’s bus approaches, and both stand to board it. Just his luck, this is route to the capitol square with the massive farmer’s market, so he and the mister touchy end up squished in next to each other. 

Two stops in, the man murmurs, “ I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been so rude. I’m, uh, I don’t usually do things like, well, like hooking up with someone I meet on Grindr.”

Something about the way he says it, like he’s afraid he’ll get in trouble, brushes away Duck’s annoyance.

“No shame in havin a good time with someone. Wait, shit, was it a good time? Did somethin happen?”

“Oh no, nono,” the man hurriedly shakes his head, “it was just what I needed. Barclay is a great guy. I just feel like it was too easy, that getting that lucky on my first try is a sign something will go wrong.” He gives Duck a resigned smile, “in case you havent noticed, I’m an overthinker. Are you, damn it what’s his name, Indrid’s boyfriend?”

“Nah. He comes to draw in the arboretum where I work, we been kinda flirtin the last few weeks, and yesterday I finally said fuck it and asked if he wanted to get a drink later.”

“He’s certainly...distinct looking. In a good way, I mean.”

“Yeah, he is.” Duck smiles, thoughts drifting off to the memory kissing him gently as they finally fell asleep, his face captivating in the dim of the room, “probably see him again. Assumin’ he wants to see me, I guess.”

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

“I am supposed to wait until he arrives home to text him, correct?” Indrid pushes his phone as far away as possible to remove temptation.

“Maybe? I dunno man, all those rules about texting and shit are designed to sell books and bad youtube channels.”

“But I don’t want to come off as possessive or clingy.”

“Believe me bud, I know.” Barclay turns his phone around so Indrid can see the two lines sitting in the “draft” section, “I’ve been writing and re-writing this for five minutes because I want Joseph to know I’d for sure be down to see him again but there’s no pressure.” He sets Indrid’s refilled coffee down on the table. They trade a look, then burst out laughing. 

“Fuck, guess we both had a good time last night huh?”

“Very. Duck remains as wonderful as I hoped and I have not enjoyed sex that much since, hmmm, well, since the last time you and I were together.”

“That poor desk.”

“May it rest in peace.” Indrid sips from his mug, “Joseph is quite charming. You have excellent taste in men.”

“That a compliment to him or to you?” Barclay fluffs Indrid’s hair as he passes by him. 

“Mostly him.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, little moth.” A kiss on the head this time before Barclay heads to the shower. Indrid gets his sketchbook, turns on some mindless cooking show and settles on the couch.

Eventually Barclay calls from his room, “Indrid? Been about forty-five minutes, bet he’s home by now.” 

Indrid springs up, grinning, and grabs his phone. 

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

Duck was out downtown when the rain started, which is why he’s now hunkered down in the cafe by the capitol in hopes of waiting out the storm. He’s not the only one with this idea, and he’s made sure to make the chair across from him obviously empty in case someone needs a spot. 

“Hello again. Do you mind?” It’s the blued-eyed guy again, dressed for work in a suit and dress shoes. Duck hasn’t seen him since that first morning, in spite of going back to Indrid’s place multiple times over the last three weeks. 

“Go for it.” Duck scoots his coffee to the side so the man can set his mug down. He pulls out his phone, but can’t quite focus; he keeps wanting to look across the table. 

“How are things going with Indrid?”

“Real good--wait, how did you know he an I were still-”

“Barclay’s mentioned you once or twice. And your name is pretty memorable.”

‘It’s a nickname.” 

“That makes a bit more sense. Mines on the other end of things; there are a lot of Josephs in the world.” He sips his cinnamon-scented drink, sets it down again, “so, what do you do?”

“I’m a ranger over in the arboretum. You?”

“I work for an organization that checks up on businesses to be sure they’re meeting worker health and safety laws.”

Duck watches the rain out the windows, wondering if Joseph wants to keep talking or is just being polite. 

“Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Did Indrid tell you about him and Barclay?”

“Yeah, ‘bout a week ago. He said he was hopin’ he and I could get more serious, but that he wanted me to know the two of them had a sorta, uh, fuckbuddies thing goin’ so I could make an informed choice.”

“That’s more or less where Barclay and I are at. Um, how do you feel about it?”

“I’m okay with it. I ain’t interested in anyone else right now, but when I thought about it, Indrid havin a thing with Barclay ain’t stopped him from bein’ amazin’ to me and I’m fallin’ hard for him. I don’t feel like some kind of side piece or whatever. I just feel like I’m headin for somethin good with a guy who has a casual partner. Did it bug you?”

“No” Joseph shakes his head, “which confuses me. I, um, I have trouble releasing control in much of my life. I assumed it would freak me out to learn I wasn’t the only partner in someone’s life. But when Barclay told me it didn’t really bother me. He even offered to talk to Indrid about being only friends if that was what I needed. It’s been awhile since someone was so quick to think about my wants and feelings when dropping unexpected news on me. Plus, I’ve spent a little time with Indrid when we’ve been over there, and I like him. He clearly cares about Barclay, just like I do, and in some way that makes me happy. Is that weird?”

“Not really an expert on weird. But I think you’re overthinkin’ things again.”

A small laugh, “True. Help me think about something else. Tell me...tell me what your favorite part of work is.”

Duck’s surprised at the interest, but gets glimpse of pleading hope, og someone a little hungrier for connection than he’s letting on, and finds no desire to refuse.

“Prairie restoration, it’s fascinatin….”

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

Duck’s not surprised to see Joe’s name come up on screen; the two of them have been hanging out more, both as friends and on double dates with Barclay and Indrid. He’s learned that his friend is a stealth-nerd beneath his professional veneer, that he likes game nights as much as Duck does, and that he makes a certain sound when he cums (that last one he learned on accident; he was snuggled up with an under-the-weather Indrid in the living room when Joe and Barclay got home from a date).

Joe: Are you busy tonight?

Duck: Nope. 

Joe: Do you want to go to the “Adult Swim” at the children’s science museum? I got tickets a week ago, but Barclay got called in to work tonight.

Duck: Sure, sounds lie a good time. 

Joe: See you at the museum at 7?

Duck replies in the affirmative, goes to pick out something less grubby than his crossfit clothes to wear. Maybe the short-sleeve button up with the whales; Joe mentioned he like it. 

His phone buzzes.

Sugar: Busy tonight?

Duck: Yeah, going to the museum with Joe since Barclay has to work. 

He realizes how this might sound, begins rapidly typing several explanations or offers to not if Indrid doesn’t want him too, but his boyfriend beats him to it. 

Sugar: Oh yes, I remember him mentioning that. Good, I’m glad the tickets won’t go to waste. Have fun, my sweet, please take picture of any interesting bugs for me if there is an entomology section <3

Duck: Will do, sugar.

He signs with a kissy face, gets two black hearts and a kissy face back. 

The Adult Swim is wonderful; the museum is artfully lit, there’s snacks everywhere, and even a fancy cocktail included with admission. He and Joe clink glasses, wander through the exhibits, laughing and playing with the interactive exhibits. There are no bugs, but Duck takes pictures of the light exhibit, which feature interesting color patterns he might like for tattoo inspiration. 

They’ve just finished fucking around in the paleontology exhibit, and Joe is looking through a viewfinder that shows him how a triceratops saw the world. Duck sneaks up behind him, growls in his ear, “didn’t spot the t-rex in time.” 

“If you plan on eating me, we should at least head into the bathroom.” Joe winks as he turns, heading out onto the balcony to look out on the city. Duck knows that if he follows him out there right now, he’ll kiss him. 

“Be right out, gonna go grab some more of those mini-pies.”

Joe nods to show he heard him as he pushes open the door. Duck hopes he doesn’t see him take several deep breaths to get his imagination under control before he goes off in search of an edible distraction. 

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

“Doors open!”

“Oh, hey man, Indrid home yet?”

“No, it’s Thursday the 12th, so the studio is prepping like crazy for tomorrow.”

“Shit, that’s right.”

“Cookie? I just made them.”

“Thanks--holy shit that’s good.”

“Thanks, I’ve been trying to nail the chocolate chip and potatoe chip recipe.”

“Think you might--aw fuck, ‘Drid just texted, he’s gonna be another hour.”

“You can chill here if you want. Uh, I’ve got Super-Smash Bros, if you wanna play.”

“Aw hell yeah.”

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

“Good morning, Joseph.”

“Gahoh, hi Indrid. I’ll be out of your way in a few minutes.”

“There’s no rush. I certainly don’t mind your company. I believe there are left over cinnamon rolls in the fridge, if you would like.”

Joseph gathers a coffee cup and a roll on a plate, sits down on the couch, and finds his pocket buzzing. 

“Here” Indrid takes the plate.

“Thank you. Looks like it’s my sister...oh, she got a new dog, do you want..” He stops as Indrid holds out a piece of the cinnamon roll on the fork. Hesitates, then opens his mouth and lets Indrid feed him. He starts showing him pictures as he does, Indrid commenting and laughing and, every so often, murmuring, “good boy” when he takes a bite.

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

“Ohfuck, shit, sorry!” Duck covers his eyes as Indrid quickly closes the front door. 

“Nono, fuck, sorry, that’s on us, thought you guys weren’t home until later.” Barclay’s apology is underscored by the sound of a zipper closing. 

“It’s quite alright, no harm done, Joseph you look very nice like that, carry on.” Indrid pulls Duck into his room, both of them snickering and blushing as Duck pushes him down onto the bed.

“My my, someone’s wound up.”

“Makes two of us.” Duck grinds down on him, Indrid gasping and grinning as he arches his back. 

“Indeed. Now get that handsome face down here. I have some things I wish to do to it.”

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

The giant stop motion monster continues rampaging on the screen as Duck loops his arm over Indrid’s shoulder. The first snowstorm of the year has come early, so they opted to switch their double date to a monster movie double feature (curated by Joe) in the apartment. Beneath their shared blanket, Indrid’s hand strokes his belly, skating down to the front of his jeans in teasing bursts. 

On the other side of the couch, Barclay has started kissing Joe’s cheek, the blue-eyed man sighing and turning to kiss him back. 

This is not a new situation for them. The last few weeks they’ve gotten more comfortable cuddling and making out in the same space as each other. Duck’s not complaining; hearing both Indrid and Joe gasping and sighing near him makes him hotter than a July afternoon. 

Indrid bumps his cheek with his nose, and Duck turns for a kiss. He gets one, but he also gets a firmer stroke down his cock, making him moan. Indrid smirks into the kiss, does it again, then a third time, Duck gripping the front of his white tank top with a groan. 

“Maybe we, uh, should dip out on the movie.” He murmurs. 

“We can” Indrid purrs, kissing him again, “but Joseph seems to be enjoying the show.”

Duck whips his head around; Joe is looking at the two of them as he leans against Barclay’s chest, between his legs, expression moving from desire to surprise to hope over and over again. Barclay, unbothered, continues kissing his neck and murmuring in his ear, the blush on his cheeks rising each time the larger man does so. 

“Or perhaps he’s envious?” Indrid cocks his head, “would you like your hand to be here instead of mine, Joseph?”

Joe’s normal eloquence is nowhere to be found, his eyes flicking between the three other men so quickly Duck worries he’ll sprain something. 

“I asked you a question, pet.” Indrid sharpens his tone on the last word and Joe whimpers. Duck has zero interest in Indrid ever calling him that name; but hearing it in his lilting, gently demanding tone directed at Joe sends desire zinging through him. 

“C’mon, babe, be a good boy and answer.” Barclay nips his boyfriend’s ear.

“Yes. Or, or, more accurately, I’d trade places with either of you. If that’s, would it be, do either of you?” He looks back at Barclay, who smiles tenderly and runs a thumb up his cheek. 

“Okay with me if it’s okay with them.”

“Do you want it as well, my sweet?” Indrid tilts up his glasses so he can look Duck in the eye. The affection in those brown eyes makes the T.V, the moon, the stars look dim. 

“Hell yeah.”

Indrid crooks his finger and Joe clambers the short distance on the couch to kneel by Duck.

“How shouldMMmmmmm!”

Duck gets a whiff of aftershave as Indrid yanks Joe forward by his shirt, kissing him and squishing Duck between them. The angle is awful but he doesn’t give fuck, buries his face into Joe’s neck, kissing the point where he feels his pulse moving like mothwings, mouthing and nipping at the skin as he slides one hand up the front of his shirt and the other down the back of his pants. When he squeezes his ass Joe squeaks and Indrid breaks the kissing, laughing. 

“I didn’t know you had such noises in you, pet. It’s quite endearing.”

“Indrid, Duck, please, I want, I want to, oh fuck it.” He pulls back just enough to not jab his knee into Duck’s belly as he falls on him, kissing him so hard and so long Duck’s chest tightens and his vision narrows. The taller pulls away long enough to breathily moan his name before feasting on his mouth again. 

“Yes, he does elicit such feelings, oh, hello.” Indrid giggles, and Duck can just see that Barclay is now on the floor, kneeling before the pale-haired man, kissing the skin exposed by his shirt before rubbing his beard across it, making Indrid laugh harder. 

“Can’t let you have all the fun, little moth.” Barclay rumbles

“I can think of many things you can let me haveAH, oh, oh goodness, I forgot how much you like to bite.” 

Barclay growls, reminding Duck of something important. He pushes Joe backwards, clambering atop him and pulling his shirt up as he does, stuffing the hem of it between those perfect lips. 

“Christ lookit you” he runs his palms up Joe’s body, the man arching and writhing beneath him, “you look like a goddamn fuckin centerfold, you’re so fuckin perfect.”

Joe’s moan is loud even through the shirt, and much needier than before. He grins, crawling onto him , “guess I ain’t the only one who likes praise in bed.”

Joe shakes his head, whining eagerly through the make-shift gag. Duck growls again, attacks his chest with bites, leaving an especially hard one when Indrid grabs his ass without warning. 

While Joe clearly enjoys the increase in pain, his responding thrash is sudden enough to send him and Duck rolling off the couch in a jumble. Someone’s foot catches Barclay in the shoulder, knocking him back onto the rug. 

“Whoops.” Duck says to the ceiling, laugh bubbling up from his chest and bounding about the room. 

“Sorry.” Joe says to the floor, chuckling as he sits up.

“That was very graceful.” Indrid teases from his spot on the couch, only for Barclay to rear up and pull him down on top of him, the thinner man squawking indignantly. As they all disentangle and sit up, Duck looks around their little circle of flushed skin and mussed clothes.

“So, uh, that happened.”

“Indeed.” Indrid scoots next to him, resting his head on his shoulder. 

“Is everyone, like, okay that it did? I mean, we seemed okay and said yes and shit but is okay in like a bigger sense?” Barclay holds out his hand and Joe takes it. 

“Yeah.”

“Yes.”

“Yep.”

“Do we, uh, wanna talk about what this is gonna look like?”

They all nod, and spend the next two hours hashing out the details of their newly forming polycule. Duck and Barclay agree they’d rather be metamours, everyone else will be partners, and that everyone should probably get some sleep before diving into the do’s and don’ts of what they each want from sex. 

Barclay and Indrid build a makeshift bed on the floor by the T.V, Joe and Duck on the inside with Barclay and Indrid on the outside. 

Duck drifts off to sleep with his head on Joe’s chest and Indrid’s arms around him. He knows they still have things to work out, that there will be hiccups. But for now, he’s happy to lay here, safe and loved, with his boyfriends. 

[nancypullen]

Snow Days

I haven’t shared much lately about our snow and ice, mostly because we’ve been enjoying it and it seemed a bit tone deaf to crow about it when so many were suffering elsewhere. But since many of you kind folks have asked how we’re doing, if we’re without power, etc  I’ve decided to share our week with you. First of all,  we never lost power, water, or anything that would have made life miserable. We did a grocery pickup at Kroger on Saturday so the freezer, pantry, and frig were fully stocked. On Saturday night (the 13th) a wintry mix arrived quickly turning solid on surfaces and freezing everything in place like ice sculptures.  Once we were encased in ice the snow arrived, and it snowed and snowed and snowed and snowed. 

 It’s been absolutely beautiful.   Needless to say, everything ground to a halt.  We haven’t had mail, UPS, or even Amazon deliveries for a week. We were practically Amish, except for, ya’ know, all of the electricity and internet we used. We’ve stayed toasty, we’ve eaten like kings, and we enjoyed being snowed in.  I love the way that snow insulates and quiets the world. Well, at least it does out here - remember that we get a snow event like this maybe once a decade, so the state doesn’t invest in snow removal equipment and supplies.  We just wait for it to melt.  And that’s exactly what it’s doing right now.  We’re up to 39 degrees today and the sun is shining.  Icicles are dripping, snow is sliding off the roof, and roads are getting slushy.  Tonight we’ll dip back down to the low 20′s but tomorrow’s forecast is even warmer than today.  By the middle of next week we’ll be at 60 degrees and it won’t be long before we start to see daffodils nodding their cheerful, yellow heads along the roadsides. Winter doesn’t linger in these parts. Over the last week I’ve cooked, made a few cards, and buried myself in genealogy research.  The mister has worked, eaten my cooking, and tromped around in the woods snapping pictures and flying his drone.  We’ve watched some movies, played some Jeopardy, and read some books.  In other words, it was pretty much like any other week we’ve passed during the pandemic.  This was the view from my desk most of the week.

That’s Peter Ostroushko playing Medicine Bow, with that view and the beautiful music I could gaze out the window for days.  I watched the deer come and feed.

And the action at the bird feeder picked up, one afternoon I counted SIXTEEN cardinals.  This frosty guy looks a bit disgruntled. Zoomed in through a window doesn’t provide a clear photo, but you can see his expression. I feel like I should have invited him in. 

 I was working on this card...

and had plenty of help from the nosiest cat on the block.

And the snow kept blowing. Finally, on Friday, the sky cleared and we started to see some sunshine. I told the mister that I loved the way the shadows of the trees looked on the snow and sent him out to snap pictures. 

While he did that I stayed inside and peeled carrots for the crockpot.  I kept an eye on him though.  Can you see him out there?

At one point I watched a rabbit scamper up behind him and then hit the brakes and speed off in another direction.  Mickey never saw it.  When he’s looking through his camera he tunes out the world.  Glad it wasn’t a bear.  I asked him about it later and he shrugged and said, “I heard some stuff.”  That’s why I keep an eye on him.   Most weekends he goes out for an early morning hike and some zen photography.  I make him give me a decent description of where he’ll be because I fully expect him to step off a cliff or go over a waterfall in pursuit of a shot. His last words will be “I heard some stuff.” So that’s it, we’ve survived a full week of real winter weather in Tennessee without losing power or a pound.  Again, I almost feel guilty writing about this because so many have suffered from this winter storm.  But I appreciate the people who reached out and now you know how we’ve been.  Our neighborhood Facebook page has been informative and entertaining.  People have been great about everything from sharing groceries to getting the kids together for sledding and snowball wars.  At one point there was a big trade of chocolate for toilet paper. These are probably my favorite posts from the week.

Not exactly Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood, but still friendly. And when you live in the south, these are the kinds of warnings that the highway patrol puts out.

 FOR THE LOVEOF GOODNESS, PLEASE STAY HOME!  So that’s what we did.

I’m keeping myself busy this afternoon by making fairy cards.  These are in the works,  still lots to do before I choose a favorite.

I’m partial to #2. A certain black and white cat has absconded with some ribbon, and the clock is telling me that it’s 5pm already.  That means I should wrap this up and rattle some pots in the kitchen.  Turkey burgers tonight, that’ll make for a warm, full tummy on a chilly night.  I hope you’re all staying warm and that if you were caught in this big freeze that you have come through it unscathed.   Stay safe, stay well, stay cozy. XOXO,

Nancy

[flyingblackhawk]

Lists

Clintasha fic

1,359 words

-

The room isn’t exactly as he left it. Clint isn’t surprised, given that it’s been five years. Someone’s been through and picked everything up off the floor, neatened the shelves, even the long-forgotten clothes in the hamper have been laundered and put away. There’s only been one person at the facility for years now, so it’s not much of a stretch to guess that Natasha is the one who’s been in here. The thought twists his chest, and out of sheer instinct he shoves that emotion down, works it into a cold knot of anger. Then he stops. He doesn’t have to do that here. Not here, and not with her.

He showers, and gets into bed. After five years of sleeping rough most nights, it’s a pleasant feeling to be somewhere he knows he’s safe, and to be able to lie here without planning his next assassination. Without those processes, though, his mind drifts, and after an hour of tossing and turning Clint gives up on sleep and sits up in bed.

He flicks on the lamp, and reaches out to open the drawer in his nightstand. He has a vague recollection of a novel he was reading all those years ago. Maybe it’s still here. He grasps something book-shaped, and pulls it out of the drawer. It’s not a novel. It’s a notebook, and there’s a pen clipped to the cover. Clint blinks, trying to remember if this is his. He opens the cover.

The first page is a list of names, with his right at the top. Several are crossed out, some are circled. His own name is circled heavily and followed by three question marks. As he reads down the list, he realises that this is Natasha’s handwriting, and it’s a list of the dead. He turns the page, and the list goes on. It takes up the first eight pages of the notebook, front and back. She must have written this in the first days of the Snap, Clint realises. He imagines what it must have been like - writing out a list of all the important people in her life, and finding out one by one that they were gone. Each page of the list makes his heart sink further. He flips to the page after the list.

Canada??

Sighting at Montreal, report from Quebec border agent - matching description.

No fake passport reported.

Belarus Airport - CALL ALIAKSIEJ.

Kiev??

Where next?

He knows what this is too. She must have been charting his movements. There are no notes after Kiev, and he knows why. He dumped every fake document he had into a furnace, and walked across the Russian border at Nikanorovka. There would have been be no way to follow him after that, not even with the best technology the Avengers had access to. Clint turns another page.

Central comms room.

Move tables into storage & set up conferencing center against South wall.

Call Tony?

Reroute security feeds to CR.

That matches the changes Clint noted when he arrived earlier. He feels guilty reading this. It’s clearly Natasha’s notebook. So why was it in his nightstand?

Marigolds

Ox-eyes

Milkweed

Cardinal Flower (Laura’s favourite)

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this. Even if it’s just lists, it’s personal.

Ask Steve about moving everyone to the same building

Help Steve pack

Help Bruce pack

Call Rhodes?

Clint bites his lip.

I wish you were here.

Close off unoccupied block

Call Pepper

Baby shower present?

Conference call

Where the hell are you?

A couple of subsequent pages are filled with little shapes and doodles. Clint recognises them as the product of Natasha being on a phone call and not being able to say what she wants to say. Lots of the little drawings have been scribbled over so heavily that the pages underneath are indented.

5 7 mile run

SHIELD drills

Gym back room - pull up mats (could be a studio?)

He knows she only dances when she’s in turmoil. He knows that because he’s the only person on this planet she trusts to know everything about her. Reading these pages, and knowing she was doing all this on her own - it’s a lot to take in. He reads on.

Birthday present for Morgan

Plant out cardinals for Laura

Call Steve (Brooklyn cell)

Clint

2 years, Clint. Not one message.

Bring extra monitors up from Bruce’s lab

Order coffee beans

2020, then, he thinks. Three years ago. Even then, he was barely thinking of her. He hates himself for it.

This is the longest stretch I’ve had no visitors.

Steve called the city ‘home’ last time he called.

Rhodes has info on you- Korea, this time.

I miss you.

Clint blinks. For the first time in a long while, he has to swallow a lump in his throat.

The last time I could do this many push-ups, I was in the Red Room.

The cardinals are blooming. I checked up on the farm a few days ago. Everything’s fine.

You left clothes on the floor. I washed them for you. Your hoodie is mine now.

The next few pages are blank. Then-

18.6.21

Happy Birthday. You’d better come back before next year. I don’t think I could make fun of a man in his forties in good conscience.

I saw what you did in Riyadh. I probably would have done the same.

If you’re worried about what I’m going to think, don’t. I just want you to come back.

I’ve been the only one here for two years.

I miss you.

Clint blinks away tears. He knew he’d feel guilty if she caught up with him. He didn’t expect to feel so ashamed.

8.2.22

Security footage from a bank in Seoul. It’s only the back of your head, but it’s nice to know you’re alive. At least, you were alive four days ago.

He remembers Seoul. He wishes he didn’t, but he does.

29.7.22

I slept in your bed last night. Some nights I sleep in the lounge. It doesn’t matter. There’s no one here to worry about me. Steve still comes once every few months. He’s busy now. I call Pepper on her birthday, and on Morgan’s. Tony made me her godmother. How weird is that?

I realised today that I haven’t said anything out loud for three days. I only talk when the conferences are up and running, and we don’t have much to report these days. Rocket mostly emails. Carol tries, but she’s busy most of the time. I can’t ask anyone to come and live here. They’d be crazy to.

He wants to stop. This isn’t right.

17.10.22

Clint, I

Clint

If you knew how it felt to be alone in this giant empty compound, you’d be back here in a heartbeat.

He can’t change what he’s done. He wants to cry.

“Clint?”

He looks up. Natasha is standing in his doorway, frozen at the sight of the notebook in his hands. He sets it down on the nightstand, and gets out of bed.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, but her voice wavers for a moment. Clint crosses the distance between them like it was never there at all, and wraps her in his arms. She doesn’t hesitate, and hugs him back as tightly as she’s wanted to for five years. It’s not over yet, and they have so much left to do, but just for a moment, everything is alright again.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“It doesn’t matter now,” she tells him, finally pulling away enough to breathe. “We can talk about this after we’ve done what we have to do. Just… get some sleep, okay? We’ve got work to do in the morning.”

She goes to his nightstand and takes the notebook, then she leaves him alone in his room. She’s right. Tomorrow they will attempt what no human has ever done before, and if they succeed, well- Clint doesn’t want to think about that just yet. Hope is not a feeling he’s felt in a long time. He settles down to sleep. Nothing can go wrong tomorrow, not as long as Natasha is by his side.

[orenstern]

I’d like to admit that I’ve never in my life read the Diary of Anne Frank. I’ve stood outside her house before, almost 14 years ago, and could feel something of her echoes, but never had before or since seen her words or witnessed her mind.

Up until a week ago, that is, when I chanced upon a copy of her diary. I picked it up the very moment I saw it, an instant reaction and so quick I forgot to realize I’d always been innately afraid to read her work, her letters to self. Because it somehow always seemed to me like, of all the work available by now-dead writers, her diary entries would feel the most like ghost stories, like real life talking to a ghost. It’s always scared me, the notion of talking to this particular ghost. No other ghost ever proposed to raise in me the slightest feather of a concern let alone fear.

But she always had.

And I can’t even remember having seen a portrait of her until last week. As hard as that might be to believe.

Where she was concerned, it has been like living in a house where all of the mirrors had blankets covering them. And believe you me, I’ve been in many houses where real life people were still living there and it was just precisely that, blankets over the mirrors, and the inhabitants were just looking at me without a hint of shame, sorrow or remorse in their eyes. Without any hint of knowledge of the display they had erected. If it fact it was them who had erected it. Just, this is the way it is here looks in their eyes.

The fucking things you see over a life. The understated non-plussed near-miss, oh boy did it hit though I am yet unstruck, horror you sometimes see. And how often it doesn’t even faze you. You just step over it like you would any old mound of dirt, not at all an active grave, except the low key and surpressed knowledge reminding you that all the earth is an active 5 billion year old Grave and Tomb and Monument and Pyre all wrapped into one, and all the universe a 20 billion year old same thing.

So I picked up the book. And I gazed at the front cover for a good long while. At her portrait. At Anne. I looked at her portrait for the first time, and I transported my mind back to her house, and I imagined she and I were standing there together, side by side. Outside. Looking at her own house in silence, together. And we both walked away, together, headed for a fast train to Paris, by way of a stroll along the Prisengracht, and short interlude at the Van Gogh museum. No other manifestations than that. I did not even imagine our bodies or our faces. I just remembered having done that before, peering out from the windows of my own eyes, with a companion by my side, and imagined this time, Anne was there with me doing the same.

And then after these thoughts, I opened the book. But I turned immediately to her very final entry. And I read only this Tuesday, August 1st, 1944 entry.

I’m sure I am not the only one who has read her writings and recognized themself in her words. But for certain, what she had written seemed and felt like something I’d written at least a thousand times. Her precise sentiments, and word choices, her very style. Parts of her style is my style. I must have picked that up either from writers who were familiar with her writings or just plucked it out of the wind somehow or some other way. But still that was not the eerie part.

The eerie part was the last two paragraphs. Which I copied down by hand into one of my own journals, with a blunt non-sharpened 3 inch pencil with no eraser no less, was all I had at the time. It was eerie because for at least a decade but more and more lately like the curvings of a quadratic formula, I’ve been hearing the phrase “Set Intentions” like you might hear during guided meditation or whenever someone wants to Exalt the Secret of Manifestation to you.

And I wasn’t at all going to share any of this with anyone. I had no plans to say any of this outloud to write anything on it or engage it any further or even ever again. I wrote the passage in my journal and I’d figured I was fully intending to never ever look back at that passage, or talk about it, or allow myself to recall it, and otherwise resolved to keep the blankets over this mirror forever.

But then I was scrolling this evening and just saw someone had shared a picture of Anne. And that too was a first for me to witness. Now I saw her face twice in a week, at the bookends of the week, both on Wednesdays at roughly about the same time of day. Happy to call that coincidence. Very happy to call it that.

But, I had also been just on a smoke break from my own writings, a letter I was writing to a loved one and the tenor of the letter of where I had left off when I stopped for my smoke break had just moved onto omens.

Oh boy, right?

Well now, still happy to be coincidentally maybe now just only synchronistically having this experience. But given it all, I’d resolved to share.

And by share, I’m not sure I can bring this all into any firm sense of things that could make it any less eerie. Though I will try. And if I don’t fully strike the right note in this attempt, I will know it, you won’t have to tell me, but I will publish the attempt anyway as an earmark of this encounter, and double back on it maybe whenever it is that I have found the right note or chord to strike or strum.

I’m thinking of two things, one I was going to save for my letter when I moved past omens. And one I was going to tell a friend of mine after watching a movie he recommended that I still have not told him. So I will choose neither and tell you both of them in this writing.

Most importantly, this is not at all about victim blaming, please have the courage to see past that, as Anne apparently might say that, at least, one of your two voices, if you only had two, would have such ability. And this, even if that means this courageous voice disappears after only 15 minutes.

First, I can remember back to a time when I am not more than a few months older than my son is now, maybe six months older. I am lying in my little boy bed, in my little boy bedroom in the house I grew up in, a little cape style enhanced cottage. It is night. The walls are blue. The headboard is all white and soft and plush to the touch, and riveted by silken buttons, smooth to the touch and shiny to the eye, though woven round by very fine white thread.

I am laying on top of the covers. This is colorful Snoopy and the Peanuts bedding. It’s not exactly yet bed time. But it must still be before the Vernal Equinox because the sun has been down for a good while and its not yet past my little boy bedtime. And the room is lit golden by a single 40 maybe 60 but really probably 40 watt incandescent bulb. It’s gold in there, it’s almost orange that low gold glow. And I’m laying at angle on the bed. And I’m pointed feet first at the east corner of the bedroom, which is also precisely lined up with Cardinal East. And I shit you not, but on this evening, a few weeks before my actual birthday and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was on my original due date, I was thinking to myself, “I must be dreaming in this life. I am going to remember this moment forever. When I get older. And I believe I am going to wake up someday from the distant future back here in this moment, back here in the age, back here just the way I am now.”

I’ve not tampered with this memory at all since then. I’ve remembered it precisely and often ever since. I’ve referred back to it thousands of times. In a sense, I in fact have never left that room or that night. I built it into every single night since. Like one of Tom Riddle’s horcruxes. And this before I had ever heard Row Row Row Your Boat. And this before I had enough speaking skills to say these thoughts outloud even if I wanted to but enough language understanding to think them and remember.

So that’s the first thought.

The second thought, it’s about that movie my friend suggested I watch over the summer. It was a horror movie, a new one. You may have watched it yourself. Called Ghosts of War.

My feedback to him the day after I watched it was pretty simple. A. I enjoyed it. B. The sniper I think is my favorite. C. It reminds me I have another horror movie That I do not mention to him by name then, but I only say that it is in the genre of horror that is not shriekingly scary, or rather does not rely on shriekingly scary moments. Because it does contain a couple of those potentially frightful jolts. But that is not it’s best foot forward. This type of horror is not the exciting amusement park kind. This type of horror is the kind that enters your bloodstream and stays with you and haunts you over a long period of time, long afterwards. The kind of horror you might find yourself waking up from sleep even a year or more later and not feeling right and having witnessed. D. I might get back to him someday with more commentary. Oh and E. I really enjoyed seeing Billy Zane. Particularly as the dichotomy of American Doctor and SS Colonel.

But wouldn’t you know shortly after I finished writing down that passage from Anne Frank’s final entry, pledging to not look at it ever again, I found myself in another room talking to a person about that actual movie that ghost of war reminded me of that I didn’t tell my friend what that movie was. To this new person I did say its name. It is paranormal activity. The first one. I said that movie is the first time I had witnessed a genuine horror film, That has the capability of genuinely haunting me for a long long period of time, in my adult years. And it doesn’t contain hardly any,if at all, shriek moments.

The horror of that movie is it’s power to slowly and steadily and surely wrap itself around your heart with fear and anxiety, and with full command, Sustain you in that state while flexing and relaxing it’s own valves, to show you who’s boss and who is in command.

Furthermore I told this person, that such a film as this paranormal activity is is not a film to watch when you are in a heightened state of consciousness. You’ve got to be half asleep at the wheel half dead inside to properly survive that film. Because in the final moment, and I admitted this to that person, when you see the demon at last, he jumps straight into your eyes. Straight into you. That movie is perhaps the ultimate act of transgression, that I’d ever seen to that date. And I admitted to this person that it took me a good long while of concerted and methodical effort, to rid myself of that motherfucking demon. Such is the exquisite accomplishment of that particular horror movie. I spared my friend this story, because I’m pretty sure he would’ve shit his pants if I told it to him in person. I think I’m only about 30% joking about that.

But tomorrow being that some stories stay with you longer than others. Some stories you actually have to exorcise from your mind. it’s very good training. Especially if you happen to frequently find yourself in other peoples houses and those houses have all the mirrors draped over by blankets. And those other people walk about aimlessly as though they have no idea how odd that appears to be. if you know what I’m saying. And if you can believe what I’m saying is actually true.

But no I don’t think I’ll ever tell my friend about the paranormal activity story. What I will tell him is another thought I had about ghosts of war. That I think on some level in someway we are all ghosts of every war. Wars that we’ve seen and wars that we haven’t seen, either depicted in books or movies or for trade for real on the news both of foreign lands and domestic. And even wars in our own mind, common place words with our neighbors or friends or family or loved ones. I think in someway we just are ghosts of it. Carrying the crosses of it.

And I remember a story I wrote or a poem maybe it was about a universal snake and a universal monkey. The universal snake head swallowed the universal monkey. Seemingly defeated him in battle. Seemingly killed him. Seemingly was digesting him. But unseeming to the universal snake, the universal monkey to this day will not die. And for all eternity the universal snake has had indigestion on account of the universal monkey’s eternal will not to be extinguished. They say it ain’t over til it’s over. They say don’t stop believing. I say that’s probably very good advice and we should all listen to it. The Monkey is listening to it right now, and has been forever. That monkey won’t quit. That monkey is in a pickle but he’s got a slim to none chance and yet he won’t quit.

How this works back to ghosts to war and how we’re ghosts of war with everyone, and how this works back to Anne Frank. It’s up to you what you wanna believe in, I believe in the fact that God won’t ever let us really kill each other. We might see it happen with our own eyes. Right before us. But I believe that even as it happens it also instantly unhappens.

We have the ability to look backwards in time and forecast forwards in time but we only have the ability to live in one moment of time at a time and that we called the present. We have no idea what actually happens in previous moments of time once we’ve moved past them. Except how they exist in our mind. But for all we know in a moment that someone apparently kills another, whether it’s a person to a person or an animal to an animal. How do we know it doesn’t on happen once we’ve left that moment? Natural law has a place in this world. So natural law gets its way in this world. But there are such things as the overlapping thesis of all the different laws. And divine law is a thing in that overlapping thesis. Just as well as natural law is. So it is totally possible that once we make a mess of things, the Custodian comes along to fix it.

It’s possible along the same probabilities or maybe even slightly better than Lloyd Christmas’ chances of getting the red head which he eventually did.

To another person who overheard me talking to that first person last week about paranormal activity, the next day she came to me with concerns. I listened to these concerns. And my response was what you do is up to you. Including whether or not you trust yourself or not. If I were in your shoes I would try to trust myself. Even as everyone around me might seem intent on leading me to betray my own trust. if I were in your shoes, I would choose to believe that no one actually has the power to do that. No one actually has the will to want to see you fail, to fail yourself. Because that would be them wishing them to fail themselves. And while they might get away with that in one moment in the next that moment is wiped clean. If I were in your shoes I’d be telling that to myself every moment I had these concerns you are telling me about.

I further said, and I stop talking about if I were in her shoes. I further said what you think is happening is happening. What you understand about what is happening is only ever coming into focus more and more. You may not have all the Time in the world, but you do always have the luxury of patience. There’s no rush when it comes to the process of understanding. Something tells me we’ll repeat the lesson infinitely if necessary. something also tells me that won’t actually be necessary. The lesson will come clear eventually. Have faith in that and likely all of your fears and concerns will be abolished. The probability of it being otherwise, however great it seems, as Pascal very effectively demonstrated, infinitely pales to the seemingly tiny probability, the Boson particle infinitesimally small and impossible to fathom yet there it is nonetheless almost something you can now actually reach out and grab but even still something you can see if only by way of prediction probability, of it not being otherwise.

So that in other words no sword actually ever really falls upon the neck but he’s only ever caught by the Hand.

I’ve been waiting to wake up to this reality ever since my two-year-old self woke up to that reality and said I will be waking up here someday again.

But I did tell that second person, be careful the stories you tell yourself. They could be like that movie demon that enters your mind and poisons your body, like that story I told last night. The mind can make almost anything real. That’s a quote from a movie also, but it comes from somewhere. Didn’t it? So possibly probably in all likelihood whatever story you tell yourself whatever imaginary though you have as an objective: if somewhere in this universe. Somehow manifest itself. Somehow find a way to be born and become true. Often a lot faster and more hellishly than you thought possible.

The mind is it’s own place. It can make heaven out of hell and hell a heaven. I don’t need to read the whole diary of Anne Frank, to know beyond what her final entry says. That she was equally gifted at doing both. And that, my friends, is not victim blaming. That is just what it is.

And so behold the final two paragraphs of her final passage:

As I’ve told you, what I say is not what I feel, which is why I have a reputation for being boy-crazy as well as a flirt, a smart aleck and a reader of romances. The happy-go-lucky Anne laughs, gives a flippant reply, shrugs her shoulders and pretends she doesn’t give a darn. The quiet Anne reacts in just the opposite way. If I’m being completely honest, I’ll have to admit that it does matter to me, that I’m trying very hard to change myself, but that I I’m always up against a more powerful enemy. A voice within me is sobbing, “You see, that’s what’s become of you. You’re surrounded by negative opinions, dismayed looks and mocking faces, people, who dislike you, and all because you don’t listen to the advice of your own better half.”

Believe me, I’d like to listen, but it doesn’t work, because if I’m quiet and serious, everyone thinks I’m putting on a new act and I have to save myself with a joke, and then I’m not even talking about my own family, who assume I must be sick, stuff me with aspirins and sedatives, feel my neck and forehead to see if I have a temperature, ask about my bowel movements and berate me for being in a bad mood, until I just can’t keep it up anymore, because when everybody starts hovering over me, I get cross, then sad, and finally end up turning my heart inside g out, the bad part on the outside and the good part on the inside, and keep trying to find a way to become what I’d like to be and what I could be if… if only there were no other people in the world.

Yours, Anne M. Frank

[militant-holy-knight]

We have been paying dearly for China's lies.

"This is one of the worst cover-ups in human history, and now the world is facing a global pandemic," said Rep. Michael T. McCaul, the ranking Republican member of the House Foreign Affairs Committee, before the US intelligence community concluded, in a classified report to the White House, that China has concealed the origin and extent of the catastrophic global coronavirus outbreak.

The Chinese Communist Party's "failure has unleashed a global contagion killing thousands", wrote Cardinal Charles Maung Bo, president of the Federation of Asian Bishops' Conferences, on April 1. "As we survey the damage done to lives around the world, we must ask who is responsible?"

"... there is one government that has primary responsibility for what it has done and what it has failed to do, and that is the CCP [Chinese Communist Party] regime in Beijing. Let me be clear — it is the CCP that has been responsible, not the people of China... Lies and propaganda have put millions of lives around the world in danger... In recent years, we have seen an intense crackdown on freedom of expression in China. Lawyers, bloggers, dissidents and civil society activists have been rounded up and have disappeared."

One more person has just disappeared: Ai Fen, a Chinese physician who was head of the emergency department at Wuhan Central Hospital, had worked with the late Dr. Li Wenliang. Ai, who claimed that her bosses silenced her early warnings about coronavirus, appears to have vanished. Her whereabouts, according to 60 Minutes Australia, are unknown. The journalists who saw what happened inside Wuhan have also disappeared. Caixin Global reported that the laboratories which sequenced the coronavirus in December were ordered by Chinese officials to hand over or destroy the samples and not release their findings. "If I had known what was to happen, I would not have cared about the reprimand, I would have fucking talked about it to whoever, where ever I could", Ai Fen said in an interview in March. Those were her last recorded words.

There is no record at all, however, about how this pandemic began. Wet market? A cave full of bats? Pangolins? Or a bio-weapons laboratory? No foreign doctors, journalists, analysts or international observers are present in Wuhan. Why, if the virus came out of a wet market or a cave, did China suppress inquiries to such an extent? Why, in December, did Beijing order Chinese scientists to destroy proof about the virus? Why did Chinese officials claim that US soldiers brought the virus to Wuhan? Why should it be scandalous that a US President calls a virus that began in China a "Chinese virus"?

Who announced on January 11 that Wuhan's wet market was the origin of this epidemic? The Chinese regime. It was later discovered that the first known case of coronavirus traced back to November 17, 2019.

The same Chinese regime later claimed that this coronavirus "may not have originated in China". What respected scientist or institution can now trust anything that comes out of China?

Many leading scientists have dismissed the claim that the Covid-19 virus was an engineered pathogen. This conclusion was seemingly based on the fact that Wuhan has two major virus research labs: the Wuhan Center for Disease Control and Prevention, which is apparently less than a mile from the market, and the Wuhan Institute of Virology, a biosafety level 4 (BSL-4) laboratory, handling the world's most deadly pathogens, located just seven miles from the market. The story was immediately and emphatically trashed as a "conspiracy theory".

Those scientists claim that the virus likely originated among wildlife before spreading to humans, possibly through a food market in Wuhan. They say that, through genetic sequencing, they have identified the culprit for Covid-19 as a bat coronavirus. End of story? Science, thankfully, begins by asking questions and then seeking answers.

Bats were not, it seems, sold at Wuhan's wet market. The Lancet noted in a January study that the first Covid-19 case in Wuhan had no connection to the market. The Lancet's paper, written by Chinese researchers from several institutions, detailed that 13 of the 41 first cases had no link to the market. "That's a big number, 13, with no link," commented Daniel Lucey, an infectious disease specialist at Georgetown University. So how did the epidemic start?

"Now it seems clear that [the] seafood market is not the only origin of the virus, but to be honest we still do not know where the virus came from now", notes Bin Cao, pulmonary specialist at Capital Medical University, and the corresponding author of the Lancet article.

US Secretary of State Mike Pompeo has said that China's Communist Party is withholding information about the coronavirus.

If we do not know, it is necessary be open to all possibilities.

"Less than 300 yards from the seafood market is the Wuhan branch of the Chinese Center for Disease Control and Prevention" wrote David Ignatius of the Washington Post.

"Researchers from that facility and the nearby Wuhan Institute of Virology have posted articles about collecting bat coronaviruses from around China, for study to prevent future illness. Did one of those samples leak, or was hazardous waste deposited in a place where it could spread?".

"Collecting viruses" presumably does not exclude the possibility of a "leaked virus". Worse, if China is not able to protect its laboratories, it needs to be held accountable and made to pay for the devastating global damage.

"Experts know the new coronavirus is not a bioweapon. They disagree on whether it could have leaked from a research lab", stated The Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists. Professor Richard Ebright of Rutgers University's Waksman Institute of Microbiology, and a major biosecurity expert, agreed with the Nature Medicine authors' argument that the coronavirus was not manipulated by humans. But Ebright does think it possible that the Covid-19 started as an accidental leak from a laboratory, such as one of the two in Wuhan, which are known to have been studying bat viruses:

"Virus collection or animal infection with a virus having the transmission characteristics of the outbreak virus would pose substantial risk of infection of a lab worker, and from the lab worker, the public."

Ebright has also claimed that bat coronaviruses are studied in Wuhan at Biosafety Level 2, "which provides only minimal protection" compared with the top BSL-4.

"We don't know what happened, but there are a lot of reasons to believe that this indeed was a release of some sort", China expert Gordon Chang said to Die Weltwoche.

"No one has been able to study it. How can you say it's not a release from a lab if you can't go to the lab? Indeed, we have seen Beijing do its best to prevent virologists and epidemiologists from actually going to Wuhan. The World Health Organization team went to Wuhan for like half a day with only part of the team."

That is another major problem. The potential major investigator of the Wuhan coronavirus pandemic's origin, the World Health Organization (WHO), is now accused of being "China's coronavirus' accomplice". As late as January 14, the WHO quoted Chinese health officials claiming there had been no human transmissions of the coronavirus within the country yet.

China poses a biosecurity risks for the entire planet. One year before the first coronavirus case was identified in Wuhan, US Customs and Border Protection agents at Detroit Metro Airport stopped a Chinese biologist with three vials labeled "Antibodies" in his luggage. According to an unclassified FBI tactical intelligence report obtained by Yahoo News:

"Inspection of the writing on the vials and the stated recipient led inspection personnel to believe the materials contained within the vials may be viable Middle East Respiratory Syndrome (MERS) and Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome (SARS) materials."

Why is China trafficking in dangerous viruses in the first place?

According to Yanzhong Huang, a senior fellow for Global Health at the Council on Foreign Relations:

"A safety breach at a Chinese Center for Disease Control and Prevention lab is believed to have caused four suspected SARS cases, including one death, in Beijing in 2004. A similar accident caused 65 lab workers of Lanzhou Veterinary Research Institute to be infected with brucellosis in December 2019. In January 2020, a renowned Chinese scientist, Li Ning, was sentenced to 12 years in prison for selling experimental animals to local markets".

In February, Botao Xiao and Lei Xiao, from Guangzhou's South China University of Technology, wrote in a research paper:

"In addition to origins of natural recombination and intermediate host the killer coronavirus probably originated from a laboratory in Wuhan. Safety level [sic] may need to be reinforced in high risk biohazardous laboratories".

Xiao later told the Wall Street Journal that he had withdrawn the paper because it "was not supported by direct proofs".

Chinese laboratory mistakes have happened before. By 2010, researchers published as fact: "The most famous case of a released laboratory strain is the re-emergent H1N1 influenza-A virus which was first observed in China in May of 1977 and in Russia shortly thereafter". The virus may have escaped from a lab attempting to prepare a vaccine in response to the U.S. swine flu pandemic alert.

In 1999 the most senior defector in the US from the Soviet biological warfare program, Ken Alibek, revealed that Soviet officials concluded that China had suffered a serious accident at one of its secret biological plants, causing two major epidemics of fever that had swept China in the late 1980s. "Our analysts", Alibek stated in his book, Biohazard, "concluded that they were caused by an accident in a lab where Chinese scientists were weaponizing viral diseases".

In 2004, the World Health Organization disclosed that the latest outbreak of "severe acute respiratory syndrome" (SARS) in China involved two researchers who were working with the virus in a Beijing research lab. The WHO denounced Chinese breaches of safety procedures, and director of the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, Li Liming, resigned. Science magazine also stated that "for the third time in less than a year, an outbreak of SARS seems to have originated from a failure in laboratory containment".

Moreover, three years ago, when China opened the laboratory in Wuhan, Tim Trevan, a Maryland biosafety specialist, told Nature that he worried about the safety of the building because "structures where everyone feels free to speak up and openness of information are important." Free speech and open information: exactly what Chinese regime fought against in December and January.

A Chinese video about a key researcher in Wuhan, Tian Junhua, which was released a few weeks before the outbreak in Wuhan, shows Chinese researchers handling bats that contained viruses. In the video (produced by China Science Communication, run by the China Association for Science and Technology), Tian says:

"I am not a doctor, but I work to cure and save people... I am not a soldier, but I work to safeguard an invisible national defense line".

Tian is also reported as having said:

"I can feel the fear: the fear of infections and the fear of getting lost. Because of the fear, I take every step extremely cautiously. The more scared I feel, the more care I take in executing every detail. Because the process of you finding the viruses is also when you can be exposed to them the easiest. I do hope these virus samples will only be preserved for scientific research and will never be used in real life".

For a month, the Chinese Communist Party, instead of fighting the contagion, did everything possible to censor all information about the Covid-19 outbreak. After President Xi Jinping declared "a people's war" on the epidemic on January 20, Chinese security services pursued 5,111 cases of "fabricating and deliberately disseminating false and harmful information". The Chinese Human Rights Defenders documented several types of punishment, including detention, disappearance, fines, interrogations, forced confessions and "educational reprimand".

After that, China lied about the real number of deaths. There are photographs of long lines of stacked urns greeting family members of the dead at funeral homes in Wuhan. Outside one funeral home, trucks shipped in 2,500 urns. According to Chinese official figures, 2,548 people in Wuhan have died of the Covid-19. According to an analysis by Radio Free Asia, seven funeral homes in Wuhan were each handing out 500 funeral urns containing remains for 12 days, from March 23 to the traditional tomb-sweeping festival of April 5, a time that would indicate up to 42,000 urns, or ten times higher than the official figure.

In February, it was reported that Wuhan crematoriums were working around the clock to cope with the massive influx of infected bodies. Wuhan's officials are apparently pushing relatives of the victims to bury the dead "quickly and quietly".

"Natural virus" does not exclude its fallout from a laboratory where pathogens are collected and studied. The Nature Medicine authors "leave us where we were before: with a basis to rule out [a coronavirus from] a lab construct, but no basis to rule out a lab accident", Professor Ebright commented.

"Debate may rage over which center it is, but at this point it seems undeniable that a center has been directly involved with research on viruses, although not necessarily on the creation of a virus" wrote Father Renzo Milanese, a longtime Catholic missionary in Hong Kong.

"In other words, the virus passed from a research center in Wuhan early on. More importantly there is also no question that the authorities were aware of the dangerousness of the virus, that they did not inform anyone and that they tried to keep the facts hidden".

US Senator Josh Hawley has introduced a resolution calling for an international investigation into China's handling of the spread of the virus. According to Hawley:

"The Chinese Communist Party was aware of the reality of the virus as early as December but ordered laboratories to destroy samples and forced doctors to keep silent. It is time for an international investigation into the role their cover-up played in the spread of this devastating pandemic".

Admitting a fault, as the Japanese did after the Fukushima nuclear accident in 2011, might be one way for a country to be accepted again by the international community. Censoring, denying and covering up, as China is doing, will not.

"China claims that the deadly virus did not escape from its biolab," said a China specialist with the Population Research Institute, Steven W. Mosher. "Fine. Prove it by releasing the research records of the Wuhan lab".