#elemental quarters spread

[windvexer]

versatile tarot spreads: elemental quarters (4, 5, 8, 9, 16, 17, 32, 33, 36 or 37 cards)

This post is part of a short series on "tarot spreads which require you to bring your own questions to the table."

This is a very nice one for those who like to work with the elements. The true benefit of this spread (as indicated by the card count) is that it is designed to add more and more cards to continue exploring the issue or gain greater clarity of depth.

Because of this, there are a few versions, which I will endeavor to cover.

Its primary function is as an overview spread that gives information on various parts of a situation - and those parts are divided up according to elemental correspondences.

So the card in your Earth quarter may deal a lot with money and housing, while the card in your Water quarter may deal a lot with relationships and emotions, and so on.

Beforehand, write down what directions you associate with each element. It may help to have a resource handy to review what you believe each element is associated with.

Assuming that west is at your left hand and east is at your right hand, lay down four cards in a diamond shape to represent each element.

If you like, lay one card sideways in the center to represent "spirit."

Read each card in turn, assuming that the card is linked with that elemental quarter. If utilized, the center "spirit" card may refer to overall themes or greatest advice.

The spirit card is read sideways to represent both its upright and reversed positions, but if this is not preferred, it may be drawn normally and read upright or reversed as fate provides. I find the reading is improved if "spirit" is flipped over only after all other cards have been read.

This spread also functions well as a timeline - starting with East (at the right hand) as the beginning, and going clockwise until North (at the top of the diamond) functions as the ending.

For those that cannot get enough of large, out-of-control spreads, try this modification:

At some point ten or so years ago I asked myself, "if fire is fire of [subject], then if the subject itself is fire, doesn't that mean there is fire of fire, earth of fire, and so on?" and this lead to me developing what's pictured above - one of my favorite spreads.

Place four cards at every quarter, also in a diamond shape (for a total of sixteen cards). Each quartet has an internal elemental system. For example, in the quarter of fire, there are four cards - the rightmost card is Fire of Fire, the lower card is Earth of Fire, the leftmost card is Water of Fire, the top card is Air of Fire.

Read each quartet as a single unit before combining the spread as a whole. Especially explore the associations between all elemental cards (all four Water of ___ cards; all four Fire of ___ cards; and so on). Give special consideration to when elements agree (Water of Water is a cups card) or disagree (Water of Water is a fiery wands card).

In the infographic I did not include any spirit cards, but they can be added to each quartet if desired.

(Please note, Readers, that I provide my own elemental directions for demonstration purposes - your own should be freely substituted).

Now, of course, I hear what you're saying - "if the simple four card spread got to use the cross-quarter ways, we should be able to do it for this one, too!"

And of course you can, and should, if you've got a couple of hours to spend on just one reading:

[misswynters]

Ambessa/Sevika ignoring you in public, affectionate in private

warnings. suggestive, ambessa lowkey crushing you on the bed but who cares,

requested by @schlagglovr (everyone thank them <3)

ambessa medarda

Murmurs and laughter spread across the grand. A sea of sharp-dressed politicians and councilors, their voices filling the room. Ambessa Medarda was in her element, towering over most of the crowd. With her presence commanding attention without even trying. You, on the other hand, were left to hover at her side, your hand occasionally brushing against hers. So desperate for a small chance of acknowledgment. But as always, Ambessa's focus was razor-sharp. Her words spilling out in calculated precision as she discussed trade routes and alliances. It was as if you weren't even there. Like a ghost.

She didn't glance at you, not even once. It caused a sting in your heart as her disregard grew sharper with every passing second. You swallowed your frustration, telling yourself it wasn't personal. That you knew her well enough to understand this was her battlefield, her war to win, and her affection couldn't bleed through here. Still, it didn't stop the ache in your chest as her laughter rang out. It was so warm and inviting but it was directed at someone who wasn't you.

Countless hours passed by and by the time the last diplomat was shown out, your patience was wearing thin. You slipped into your shared quarters ahead of her, fuming silently. But when the door finally creaked open, there she was. Discarding her armor as her gaze locked on you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. "Come here," she rumbled, her voice softer now, devoid of its earlier sharp edges.

You didn't hesitate, the fight draining out of you the moment her arms encircled your waist. Pulling you flush against her. "You ignored me all night," you muttered, your voice muffled against her chest.

"I know," she admitted, her lips brushing against your temple as she guided you to the bed. "I hate that I have to. However out there, I'm a general. Here.." Her hands tilted your chin up, her golden eyes meeting yours with a smoldering desire. "Here, I'm just yours."

She kissed you slowly with passion, her lips lingering as if to make up for every second of neglect. How much you missed her lips on yours.

Ambessa’s lips crushed against yours with an intensity that stole your breath, her hands large and possessive as they gripped your hips. The need between you was palpable, her every touch sparking something wild in you. With a low growl, she hoisted you effortlessly, your thighs wrapping tightly around her waist. The cold press of her armor against your skin was a stark contrast to the searing warmth of her body, and it only made you want her more.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?” she rasped against your lips, her voice rough and dripping with hunger. Her teeth grazed your lower lip before she claimed your mouth again, deepening the kiss. She carried you toward the bed as if you weighed nothing, her presence utterly dominating.

“You’re the one doing this, Ambessa,” you breathed against her, your fingers tangling in her short hair, tugging hard enough to draw a soft groan from her. “I can feel how much you want me, right now.”

Her smirk was wicked, her lips finding the sensitive curve of your neck as her teeth scraped along your skin. “Oh, I don’t just want you,” she murmured, her voice low and teasing. “I’m going to have you, all of you.”

Your back hit the mattress, and Ambessa didn’t hesitate to press you down, her powerful body pinning you beneath her. The weight of her, the sheer strength in the way she handled you, made your pulse race. She leaned down, her lips brushing against your ear as her voice dropped to a sinful whisper. “Tell me, do you enjoy driving me to madness? Watching me lose control over you like this?”

“You’re the one who’s in control,” you replied, your voice trembling as her hands roamed your thighs, her thumbs digging into your skin to pull you closer. “You always are. Isn’t that how you like it?”

Her chuckle was dark and full of promise as her lips moved to your collarbone, her teeth nipping at the sensitive skin there. “Careful now,” she said, her voice dripping with suggestion. “Keep talking like that, and I might not stop at just kissing you.”

“Who says I want you to stop?” you countered boldly, your hands sliding over her broad shoulders, pulling her closer. The challenge in your voice made her pause, her dark eyes locking onto yours with a heat that stole your breath.

“Bold little one,” she said, her tone edged with a mix of warning warning and desire. Her hand slid up your thigh, gripping it firmly as she pinned you even tighter against the bed. "You're making it very hard for me to stay patient."

"Please don't," you whispered, your lips brushing against hers in a teasing kiss.

Ambessa growled, before claiming your mouth again with a ferocity that made your head spin. As her hands roamed your body and her weight pressed you deeper into the mattress, the world outside her chambers melted away. Here, underneath her, you were hers. There was no place you'd rather be.

Her hands roamed your chest, strong and steady. When you tried to pull away to tease her again, she caught your lower lip between her teeth, stopping you in your tracks. "Stop with the teasing, darling," she murmured, her voice low. "Just let me show you how much little patience i have."

sevika

Smoky haze filled The Last Drop. It was as suffocating as it was intensifying, the crowd's cheers echoed through the bar as Sevika sat at her usual corner table. Her sharp eyes scanning the room. She was stoic as always, her posture a mix of casual confidence and barely restrained menace. You sat at her side, nursing your drink in silence. Silently hoping for even the smallest flicker of recognition from her. But she didn't look your way. Not once.

Instead, Sevika was all business. Barking orders to her lackeys and exchanging brief words with Silco's former enforcers. The air around her was heavy and her mechanical arm was gleaming under the dim light as she tapped her cigarette against the ashtray. It was like you didn't exist at all. While you knew this was her world and her job, it didn't make it hurt any less. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, trying not to let the frustration show on your face. Unfortunately you hid it horribly. Much to your distaste.

When the meeting finally ended, Sevika stood and stretched, her gaze finally landing on you. "Come on," she said gruffly, motioning for you to follow. You bit back the urge to snap at her, deciding instead to trail behind her as she led you through the winding corridors to her private quarters.

The second the door shut behind you, the shift in her demeanor was quick. "Alright," she said, her voice softer now, her lips quirking up into a half-smile. "Let me have it."

"Let you have it?" you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. "You ignored me all night, Sev. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was?"

She stepped closer, her warm hand curling around your wrist as she tugged you toward her. "Embarrassing, huh?" Her tone was teasing, but there was a glimmer of something genuine in her eyes as she leaned in towards you. Her breath warm against your cheek. "Didn't seem to bother you when you were sitting all pretty beside me."

"Don't start," you snapped, but your voice wavered as she closed the remaining distance between you. Her metal hand rising to trail a cold line down your arm. Her touch sent a shiver racing down your spine, and she knew it.

"You're cute when you're mad," she murmured, her voice dropping lower as her lips brushed the shell of your ear. "But I think you're forgetting something."

"And what's that?" you shot back, even as your breath hitched when her warm hand slid to your waist, pulling you against her.

"That you're mine," she growled, her lips crashing against yours before you could respond. The kiss was searing, her teeth grazing your bottom lip as her hands roamed your body. Her touch overwhelming as she backed you up against the wall. "I don't ignore you because I want to," she rasped, her lips trailing hot kisses along your jawline. "I ignored you because if I didn't, l'd drag you into my lap in front of everyone and let them know exactly who you belong to."

Your breath caught as her words sank in, her hands gripping your thighs to hoist you up against the wall. Instinctively you wrapped your legs around her waist, locking them together. "Sevika..." you whispered, your voice trembling as her mouth moved to your neck. Her teeth scraping against the sensitive skin below your jaw. “You're such a-"

"Say it," she demanded, her lips curving into a smirk against your skin. "Go on. Tell me how much you hate me right now."

You groaned, threading your fingers through her hair and tugging hard, earning a low growl from her. "I hate how good you are at this," you admitted, your words barely more than a breath as she bit down lightly, soothing the mark with her tongue.

Her laugh was low and dark, her breath fanning over your collarbone as she pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. "You love how good I am at this," she corrected, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

You rolled your eyes, but the small smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

"Maybe," you conceded, your voice softening as she set you down gently, her hands lingering on your hips.

"Definitely," she teased, brushing her lips against yours one more time before pulling away slightly, her forehead resting against yours. "Now, let me make up for tonight in a more proper manner."

taglist. @blckbny @ch-bl0gsss @b-lossm @fortluocha @ekkosh @limereance @wolfessa @themostlesbianever @simonapietra @1-800-fantasy @saikikittykusuo @sevikaishot @sugarplumz100 @chaostudi @wxwrites @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 @robzo4 @puppyphia @xreadersarchive @boom58 @d3adbrainer @kylorey25 @slutmeoutfortoge @yaeil @sapphicarribean @randomperson291 @mvistl @hellokittyfeenie @literallyimthenerdemoji @nikaachuuuu @prettysupplicant @iamaboringrattat

[she-who-fights-and-writes]

how do i get my character out of the corner i wrote myself in without a dues ex machina😭

How to Not Write Yourself Into a Corner (and How to Write Yourself Out of a Corner if You’re Already In One)

One of a writer’s WORST fears is writing themself into a corner.

It’s easy to write your characters into death-defying situations…but it’s not as easy to write the actual “defying death” part.

Some writers, in their desperation to get their characters out of a bind, employ the use of a Deus Ex Machina, as mentioned by anon:

Deus Ex Machina: (Translates to "god from the machine") A plot device where a seemingly unsolvable situation is fixed by an out-of-the-blue occurrence. The term “deus ex machina” is a reference to Greek plays, when actors playing a god would literally be lowered into the scene via a machine to magically solve any situation.

Unfortunately, this plot device is often ridiculed by readers, cited as a hack-job solution for a writer out of ideas.

How do we avoid this situation, then? Here are some tips and tricks on how to not write yourself into a corner, and how to write yourself out of a corner if you’re already in one!

Note that these tips may not work for everyone, so make sure to use your own intuition as a writer— you know your story best.

1. NIP IT IN THE BUD— OUTLINES ARE KEY!

I’m sorry to all of you pantsers out there, but the key to prevent writing yourself into a corner is to already have an idea of how each scene is going to turn out; don't make a problem without making a solution! If you keep on top of your outline, you should have no worries about writing your characters into a situation they can't get out of it.

It may be easiest to jot down ideas about a couple of scenarios and then select the one that works best, especially when it comes to dire climax scenes that have a lot of moving parts. 

Check out my posts below for more in-depth advice about outlining!

How to Outline

Plotting for Pansters and Pantsing for Plotters

This advice, although essential, does require a ton of foresight and time to plan…and if you’ve sought out this post, it may mean that it’s too late for preventative measures. The subsequent tips in this post are going to be for people who are already in the thick of it and need a way to save all of their writing progress. 

2. FORESHADOWING IS YOUR FRIEND (AKA “CHEKHOV’S GUN YOUR WAY OUT OF THAT SHIT”)

Foreshadowing: A narrative device wherein a writer gives an advance hint of what is to come later in the story. It helps maintain believability while subverting expectations and making plot twists.

Chekhov’s Gun: A narrative device wherein a seemingly insignificant element or object in the story becomes useful later on. Sometimes used synonymously with foreshadowing, but usually refers to a specific object.

Examples of Foreshadowing/Chekhov’s guns in media:

The 1981 Quarter (Or Extra Life Quarter) in Ready Player One

“Don’t Cross the Streams” in Ghostbusters (1984)

Winchester Rifle Hanging over the Bar in Shaun of the Dead (2004)

The Rita Hayworth Poster in The Shawshank Redemption (1994)

The Water Bottle in Bullet Train (2022)

In my opinion, a Chekhov’s Gun is the more refined twin of the deus ex machina; although it may seem like it comes out of nowhere, observant readers or those who go back into the story will realize that this event was set up from the beginning.

Foreshadowing is the key to turning a deus ex machina into a Chekhov’s Gun. It’s spreading breadcrumbs to maintain believability even when unbelievable things happen.

My advice: plant a line here and there referring to the object/element that will get you out of the corner.

These lines can be about a healing potion that a character carries around to save them when they’re at the brink of death, the fact that the city they’re fighting in often suffers from sinkholes, or that a character has a seemingly useless skill. 

However, haphazardly inserting foreshadowing into your story may come across as heavy-handed; make sure it aligns with the narrative beats. Particularly big Chekhov’s Guns, especially ones that “save the day," may require multiple foreshadowing elements.

It can take a lot of work to incorporate the foreshadowing smoothly, so make sure it actually saves you time in comparison to rewriting the whole scenario/plot point.

3. TAKE A BREAK

Sometimes, the solution to your problem may not come to mind because you’re too immersed into the writing process and not thinking of the bigger picture. Or maybe it might just be good old-fashioned writer’s block. Take a step back, reassess, and return with the scene properly re-evaluated. Maybe start a new book or TV show to get some inspiration, or check out one of my posts below!

How to Overcome Writer’s Block

How to Get Inspired to Write and Regain Creativity

4. ASK FOR HELP

Sometimes, it might be best to have another set of eyes on your story! A situation that may seem unsolvable to you may have an obvious solution to a writing buddy.

5. KNOW THAT SOMETIMES RE-WRITING IS NECESSARY

I know this sounds horrible. It’s something that I wouldn’t wish upon any writer.

Sometimes, however, no amount of foreshadowing can get your characters out of the debacle they’ve put themselves in. Either that, or the work that it would take to insert the foreshadowing would be more than it’d take to rewrite the scene or the plot point.

My suggestion would be to search for the last place that you didn't feel lost, and then cut out everything after that.

(NEVER DELETE MAJOR CHUNKS OF YOUR WRITING! ALWAYS CUT IT AND SAVE IT IN A SCRAP DOC—IT COULD COME IN HANDY LATER!)

Then, take the time to outline the scenario and figure out the solution to your problem beforehand. It will suck, but trust me, it'll be worth it in the end.

HOPE THIS HELPED, AND HAPPY WRITING!

[mariacallous]

Glad people are finally finding out that these Pro Palestine protestors are ratfuckers-by-design at best (and Republicans at worst) and that's why they support Trump:

https://www.theatlantic.com/politics/archive/2024/08/dnc-palestinian-gaza-protests/679524/

One month ago, an NBC News headline reported:

Protesters made a tiny footprint at the RNC in Milwaukee. Other than a modest daytime march on Monday afternoon, the first day of the Republican National Convention, there were virtually no protests over the event’s four days and nights.

Obviously, the story from the Democratic National Convention in Chicago is already proving different.

This is part of a pattern. Gather any large number of Democrats together, in almost any city or state, whether at rallies, fundraisers, or presidential appearances, and pro-Palestinian protesters will try to wreck the event. These actions have been building to threats of outright violence. Pro-Trump and Republican events, meanwhile, are almost always left in peace.

Of the two big parties, the Democrats are more emotionally sympathetic to Palestinian suffering. The Biden administration is working to negotiate the cease-fire that the pro-Palestinian camp claims to want. The administration has provided hundreds of millions of dollars of humanitarian assistance to Palestinians in Gaza. President Joe Biden’s terms for ending the fighting in Gaza envision a rapid movement to full Palestinian statehood.

By contrast, former President Donald Trump uses Palestinian as an insult. His administration moved the U.S. embassy in Israel to Jerusalem, and recognized Israel’s annexation of the Golan Heights. In 2016, Trump campaigned on a complete shutdown of travel by Muslims into the United States; Trump now speaks of deporting campus anti-Israel protesters. He has pledged to block Gaza refugees from entering the United States.

Trump wants to tell the story that he and his party will enforce public order. He alleges that Democrats cannot or will not protect Americans against chaos spread by extremist elements. The pro-Palestinian movement works every day to create images that support Trump’s argument. As a visibly annoyed Vice President Kamala Harris asked protesters in Detroit earlier this month: Do they want to elect Donald Trump?

Not all pro-Palestinian demonstrators are thinking about the election. Many seem driven by moral outrage or ideological passion. But for those who are thinking strategically, the answer is obvious: Yes, they want to elect Trump. Of course they want to elect Trump. Electing Trump is their best—and maybe only—hope.

To understand why, cast your mind back a quarter century.

In the election of 2000, Vice President Al Gore faced Texas Governor George W. Bush. Gore probably would have won in a straight two-way contest. But that same year, the progressive advocate Ralph Nader entered the race as a third-party challenger—and he pulled just enough of the vote to tip the Electoral College and the presidency toward Bush.

Nader later professed regret for running as a third-party candidate. But at the time, Nader understood exactly what he was doing. Defeating Gore and electing Bush was the intended and declared purpose of Nader’s candidacy. Nader detailed his logic in many speeches, including this one to the summer-2000 convention of the NAACP:

If you ever wondered why the right wing and the corporate wing of the Democratic Party has so much more power over that party than the progressive wing, it’s because the right wing and the corporate wing have somewhere to go: It’s called the Republican Party. And so they’re catered to and they’re regaled—like the Democratic Leadership Council, they’re catered to and they’re regaled. But if you look at the progressive wing … they have nowhere to go. And you know when you’re told that you have nowhere to go, you get taken for granted. And when you get taken for granted, you get taken.

To paraphrase his argument even more bluntly: If progressives caused the Democrats to lose the presidency in the election of 2000, then Democrats would take progressives more seriously in all the elections that followed.

Nader’s logic was not altogether wrong. In many ways, the post-2000 Democratic Party has shifted well to the left of where the party was in the 1980s and ’90s. But catering to the party’s left has cost Democrats winnable races, and with them, key priorities: The Iraq War and 20 years of inaction on climate change head the list of progressive disappointments since the 2000 election, and the list extends from there. Whether or not the shift was worth the price, Nader was neither ignorant nor deceived. He identified his goal and willingly accepted the risks for himself and his movement.

So it is now with the pro-Palestinian demonstrators of 2024.

They start with a fundamental political problem: Their cause is not popular. Solid majorities of Americans accept Israel’s war in Gaza as valid and fiercely condemn the Hamas terrorist attacks as unacceptable. The exact margin varies from poll to poll depending on how the question is asked, but when presented with a binary choice between Israel and the Palestinians, Americans prefer Israel by a factor of at least two to one.

The brute fact of those numbers makes it very difficult for pro-Palestinian activists to win elections. In this cycle, despite all the emotion stirred by the Gaza war, two of Israel’s fiercest critics in Congress lost their primaries to pro-Israel challengers.

From the point of view of any practical politician: If a cause is so unpopular that it cannot help its friends, why listen to its advocates?

The only answer to that question, again from the practical point of view, is the message of the protesters in Chicago: Maybe we can’t help you if you do listen to us, but we can hurt you if you don’t!

Think of it another way. Since the bloody attack by Hamas on October 7 and the Israeli response, pro-Palestinian protesters have marched and agitated all over the United States. They have occupied college campuses. They have impeded access to Jewish schools, businesses, and places of worship. They have posted impassioned words and images on social media.

Yet all of their militant action has barely budged U.S. policy. Arms, intelligence, and economic assistance continue to flow from the United States to Israel. U.S. military forces cooperate with Israel against Iranian proxies in Lebanon and Yemen. Although the U.S. has imposed restraint on some Israeli operations, Israel has mostly been allowed to fight its own war in its own way.

These were President Biden’s decisions, not Vice President Harris’s. But she was the second-highest-ranking member of the administration. If Biden’s deputy inherits Biden’s office, the message is clear: His administration’s record of support for Israel carried no meaningful political price. All of those street demonstrations and campus occupations will have amounted to so much empty noise. All of those articles arguing that Gaza explained Biden’s troubles with young voters would be exposed as ideological wishcasting.

If Harris wins, the pro-Palestinian movement will have lost.

If Harris loses, however, pro-Palestinian protesters can claim that they were responsible for her defeat. That claim might not be true—in fact it probably would not be true—but try disproving it. The pro-Palestinian movement would have at least some basis to argue: You lost because you alienated us.

If Harris wins, she may want to do something about the pro-Palestinian cause—for humanitarian reasons, for reasons of diplomacy and geopolitics, for reasons of Democratic-constituency management in particular congressional districts. But she won’t have to do it. She’ll know that the protesters tried to beat her, and they failed.

If Harris loses, however, future Democratic candidates will tread more carefully on Israeli-Palestinian terrain. Even if they privately doubt that the party’s position on Gaza explains anything truly important, they will be worried by advisers and donors who will believe it or who will want to believe it.

But what about Trump? Why aren’t the pro-Palestinian demonstrators in Chicago more fearful of Trump’s possible return to the presidency?

Although the pro-Palestine cause attracts support from progressives, it is not exactly a progressive cause. Americans associate progressivism with secularism, feminism, and gay-rights advocacy, among other causes. The Palestinian national movement, especially now that Hamas has effectively replaced the Palestine Liberation Organization as leader of “the resistance,” has become markedly religious, patriarchal, and socially reactionary. But it is also a movement fiercely opposed to American global hegemony—and that is its “anti-imperialist” appeal to Western progressives.

If you oppose American global hegemony, Trump is your candidate (as a long list of anti-American dictators have already figured out). Trump fiercely opposes the alliances and trade agreements that magnify American power and make the U.S. the center of a huge network of democratic, market-oriented countries. Trump’s “America First” bluster is actually a pathway to American isolation and weakness that will further remove American power from the world.

If you wish America ill, of course you wish Trump well. The far left and far right of U.S. politics may disagree on much, but they agree on that.

The protesters in the streets of Chicago are not acting aimlessly or randomly. The people on the receiving end of their protests would benefit from equal clarity. The protesters want chaos and even violence in order to defeat Harris and elect Trump. They are not ill-informed or excessively idealistic or sadly misled. They are not overzealous allies. They are purposeful adversaries.

The Chicago-convention delegates should recognize that truth, and act accordingly.

[thus-spoke-lo]

Dr. Feelgood // Portgas D. Ace x afab!reader // NSFW/18+ Kink: Roleplay

A/N: thanks to law's patient anon for the concept and story elements! CW: afab!reader [no pronouns used for reader]; doctor/patient roleplay with light medical exam; oral sex [m receiving]; vaginal fingering; unprotected vaginal intercourse WC: 2.1k // Fictober Masterlist

You sit expectantly on the edge of the bed, swinging your legs, waiting patiently for…something.

Ace had approached you earlier, a cheeky grin stretched across his lips, and said he had a special surprise in store for you—but you had to be in his quarters exactly at noon.

“And don’t be late, cutie,” he’d growled as he grabbed at your ass with a warm hand.

And so you sit, and you wait, time crawling slowly towards midday as you huff and try to ignore the pounding in your chest, wondering what in the hell kind of surprise Ace has in store for you. You hear shuffling outside, then a soft knock comes at the door—who would be stopping by Ace’s quarters right now?

“Uh, come in?” you mutter, suddenly glad you hadn’t tried to surprise Ace back by reclining on the bed nude like you’d briefly considered.

The door slowly opens and in walks Ace, and your eyebrows raise as you look him up and down: he’s shirtless, in cargo shorts and boots as he so often was, but over his bare torso he wears a doctor’s coat that seems just a little too big for him, with a stethoscope hanging around his neck and a clipboard held tightly in his hands. You smirk and wonder exactly how much shit Marco must have given him to hand all this over—there was no way he got away without at least a friendly interrogation that probably left his cheeks burning.

“Hello. I’m—um…” Ace trails off and nervously adjusts his hat, clearly unprepared for his introduction. He closes the door behind him, straightening his back a little and clearing his throat before continuing. “I’m...Dr. Feelgood.”

You blink a few times at him and grin, trying to keep yourself from asking him what in the world has possessed him. “Well, good afternoon, doctor.”

“I see you’re here for, uh”—he glances down at the clipboard and you can almost see the wheels turning in his head as he determines the most appropriate malady to give you—“you’re here for ‘pussy problems’?”

“Y-yeah.” You flatten your lips together to suppress the chortle that rumbles in your chest and nod slowly. “That’s exactly it, doctor.”

“I see.” He furrows his brow, placing a finger on his lips in thought while he saunters towards you. “Why don’t you tell me about your symptoms?”

It’s all so damned cheesy, and you’re on the verge of a laughing fit, but you have to admit—there is something sexy about seeing Ace so serious, the open front of the white coat framing the corrugated leanness of his abdominal muscles perfectly as he pretends to be deep in thought, trying to maintain the illusion of professionalism despite the fact you know he’d rather be on top of you already, pounding you into the mattress.

“Well, you see, doctor,” you murmur, fixing your mouth in a pout, “I have this ache that won’t go away.”

“Is that so?” Ace’s eyes trail over your body, watching your every movement. “And where might this ache be?”

“Well it’s, ah—it’s down here.” You uncross your bare legs and slowly spread them apart, your shorts riding up your thighs as you do. You slide your hand down your torso, until your fingertips reach the apex of your thighs; you softly press against the seam of your shorts, feeling the stiff fabric push against your clit. “Right here—this is where it aches the most, doctor.”

Ace inhales sharply and licks his lips as he watches you fondle yourself. “That sounds serious. Why don’t you go ahead and undress for me, and I’ll do a very thorough exam.”

You stand and start to pull your shirt over your head, glancing up at Ace who is leaned against the wall, gripping the clipboard in one hand while the other moves down to the front of his shorts.

“Are you just gonna watch me get undressed, doctor?” you tease as you unhook your bra.

“Well, I think I should see that hot bo—um, your body in motion.” A deep blush begins to spread across his tanned cheeks, and he grips himself through the fabric of his shorts, a low hiss leaving his lips. “You know, to check your bones and muscles.”

“Right, of course.” You wink and begin to slowly unbutton your shorts, making a show of sliding them down your hips nice and slow along with your panties and kicking them to the side. You sit back down on the edge of the bed, leaning back on your palms, your thighs spread just enough for him to catch a glimpse of the wetness that coats your slit—you’d been thinking of nothing else but him for hours leading up to this, and you were frustratingly wet and needy by now.

“Alright, let’s get started.” Ace sets the clipboard down and slowly approaches you, grasping your chin in between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head to one side and then the other, up and then down. “Hm, everything looks fine here—just a pretty face is all I see.”

Next, he inserts the earpieces of the stethoscope in his ears and gently places the shining chest piece against your sternum, just between your breasts; you let out a sharp gasp as the cool metal hits your skin.

“Are you okay?” Ace quickly asks, a look of genuine concern in his eyes.

“I’m fine, baby” you whisper, trying not to break the immersion, finding that you’re almost starting to get wrapped up in your role. “That’s just a little chilly.”

Ace nods and bites his lip as he slides the metal across your skin, watching your body respond to the cold while he listens to your heart race inside your chest. His pupils grow as your skin tightens, goosebumps spreading across your breasts. He groans and runs the pad of his finger over your pebbled nipple, watching the way you squirm under his touch.

“Very responsive,” he says in a husky whisper, breaking through his thin veneer of professionalism to place his lips on your other nipple, swirling his tongue around it, moaning against your skin while you writhe in your seat, pressing your thighs together to try to find relief for the burning ache in your core. Ace’s warm hand trails down your stomach, landing on your mound, his fingers lightly running through your pubic hair. “And this is where it hurts, right?”

“E-exactly,” you stutter, watching as he kneels down on the floor and sits back on his heels, needing him to touch you, to give you relief in the way only he knows how.

“I’m gonna touch you and you tell me right where it is, okay?”

“Sure thing, doctor.”

Ace can barely contain the desire building inside him, and he slides his thumb down, pressing it on your swollen clit, watching with fascination as you instinctively buck your hips to rut against his hand. “Right there, huh?”

“Yeah,” you softly moan, your eyes closing as he starts to make circles over your aching bundle of nerves. “That’s it, right there.”

“Mm, I see.” He exhales and continues his ministrations, moving his other hand up your leg, caressing the plushness of your thighs. “Well, let me see if I can give you a little temporary relief.”

He pushes one finger past your glistening pussy lips, sliding it inside you, then adding a second before slowly pumping them in and out, stroking your velvet walls while he teases your clit. It’s maddening how well he knows your body, how his heated hands know just how to move, how he crooks his fingers upwards to press against that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble and your body pulse with electricity. It’s not long before the tension in your belly snaps and you reach your peak, your cunt spasming around his unrelenting fingers as wave after wave of pleasure courses through you.

Ace moves his hands from between your thighs and stands, licking your wetness off his fingers; you can easily see his arousal straining against his shorts, and you resist the urge to reach out and stroke him through the fabric. This was his little game, and you were but his eager patient, waiting for your next instructions.

“One last thing we need to do.” He slowly drops his shorts to the floor and steps out of them, stands before you in only the white coat and his boots, his hard cock twitching as he meets your gaze. “I need to take your temperature. Now stick out your tongue and say ‘ahh.’”

You do as you’re told, parting your lips and letting your tongue flop out of your mouth. He grips his throbbing cock by the base and guides it into your mouth, gently gliding his length along your tongue. He places one hand on the back of your head to hold you still and holds his cock in your mouth for a moment, letting you feel every throb, every pulse, on your tongue. It seems almost torturous for Ace to pull away from you, as he quickly mutters, “Okay, okay, that’s enough,” under his breath as he slides out of your mouth, taking a moment to run the reddened, leaking head along your lips before stepping back.

“Alright,” Ace manages to blurt through heavy breaths, “I think I have a diagnosis.”

“Oh?” You lick the precum off your lips, grinning up at him. “And what is it?”

“You seem to have a bad case of ‘Need Dick-tivitus.”

You mock-gasp. “Is it—is it terminal?”

“Luckily, no.” He lets the white coat slide off his broad shoulders, down his sinewy arms, until it drops to the floor. “There is a cure.”

“What could it be, doctor?”

Ace gives you a wide, toothy grin—the kind that would have your clothes off in an instant if you weren’t already undressed. “Sex with a hot guy in a hat.”

“I think it must be my lucky day then, isn’t it?”

“You’re damn right.” He strokes his length and lets out a shuddering sigh, his eyes trailing over every inch of your bare body. “Now why don’t you bend over for me so I can administer your treatment?”

You eagerly stand and turn around, placing your hands on the mattress and leaning over until your ass is in the air and your legs are spread apart, inviting him to ruin you. Ace aligns his hips with yours and swipes the head of his cock through your folds, gathering your copious slick and coating his length with it. He positions the tip at your drenched entrance, teasing you with a few shallow thrusts that barely penetrate you before sliding into your warmth fully, a feeling that elicits a keen from you and a quiet gasp of his name.

His hands grip your hips tightly, burning-hot fingertips pressing into your soft skin, pulling you against him with each thrust, using your soft, wet warmth to stroke himself. He fucks you with a deep-seated need, his thick cock stretching you deliciously with every movement, delving deeper into you with every rhythmic push. Every sigh, every moan, every little whine and whimper that he pulls from you only make him throb harder, move his hips against you faster, fuck into you with even hotter abandon as he begins to reach the edge of his own pleasure.

“That’s it baby,” he groans as his thrusts start to become erratic, his breathing heavy, his voice low and thick with lust. “Take your medicine for me.”

With a stutter of his hips and a long moan of your name, he spills himself inside you, filling you until it’s leaking out of you with his every last desperate thrust, warm rivulets dripping down the insides of your thighs. Ace leans forward and places his palms on either side of you, resting his weight on your back until you start to sink down into the mattress.

“So, am I cured now, doctor?” you murmur into the bed, relishing the sensation of his scorching skin on yours, feeling his heart pounding against you as he nuzzles your neck, his hat tumbling onto the bed beside you.

"Afraid not.” He kisses down your back, his lips burning against your damp skin. “I’m going to need to see you for regular treatments.”

“Mm, if you insist.” It doesn’t even matter that your words are slurred, too fucked-out by your dutiful doctor to try to bother with speaking clearly.

“I do. I think next time though, we should administer your medicine orally.” You can hear the smirk in his voice as he grinds against you, fucking his cum back into you with a few last shallow thrusts. “Doctor’s orders.”

[partycatty]

bi-han > returning without him

reader is the wife of bi-han but is crushed to find out he sided with shang tsung

notes: womp womp

masterlist <3

•being the long-time wife of bi-han

•kissing him goodbye before he heads out with his brothers on a mission to gain intel on the construction of the soul beacons

•you're a ninja of the lin kuei as well, a more than capable fighter on your own. with no elemental powers but all the strength you'd need. liu kang just did not ask for your aid this time around for reasons unknown.

•tending to your own homely duties as well as being the temporary grandmaster for the lin kuei in your husband's absence though you don't need to do too much as he's already trained them to near perfection.

•so incredibly excited for his return, sure to make your living quarters even more perfect than it was before he left. you find yourself smoothing the sheets down each time you pass by.

•the ninjas utter excitement as well, hoping that quan chi and shang tsung's toying with souls ends soon and things may return to peace.

•but then the portal opens, and you only see your brother-in-laws, one of which bearing a new, thick scar down his face. they look solemn. you know immediately.

•to betray his clan is one thing, but to betray his spouse and brothers... how could he be so evil, when he was the symbol for protection? perhaps, he only sought to protect himself. perhaps you... weren't enough for him, and the thought tears your chest open.

•scream-sobbing in tomas's arms as kuai liang rubs a hand around your back, neither one of them saying much because they're fighting back devastation of their own.

•they partially hold themselves responsible for not being able to stop bi-han from siding with evil, but they also know deep down he was a corrupted leader with malicious intentions, which you turned a blind eye to in hopes that he'd become a better man.

•you sit by the pond with the brothers, staring blankly into the still water. you ask, hoarsely, if he showed any signs of hesitation. you take their silence as a no, which makes your sobs burn your chest.

•you channel this disappointment into anger, and anger into hatred as your punches become harder and kicks swifter. the lin kuei disbands and reforms into the shirai ryu, and the brothers offer you a spot at the top alongside them.

•your life becomes completely engulfed in taking down your husband and those who wish to spread evil. you're hardened. some of the ninjas even say you've become as cold as sub-zero. you would've been proud of this before, but now it feels like the deepest, sharpest insult.

[oddmawd]

THE ART OF QUEEN SACRIFICE - A Dark Doflamingo Romance

SUMMARY: In chess, a player commits “queen sacrifice” by intentionally giving up their queen to gain a significant strategic or material advantage upon the board. But life is not a game of chess, and such strategies are easier prescribed than practiced — a lesson the princess of Mary Geoise will personally learn when she offers her hand in marriage to the infamous pirate warlord Doflamingo in order to spare her beloved kingdom from his wrath. [Pirate!Doflamingo x Princess!OC. Unnamed/undescribed OC for x-reader fans.] [Pirate AU. Yes, a pirate AU for One Piece. It makes sense in context, promise.]

TAGS & CONTENT WARNINGS

AO3 Link - This fic is hosted in its entirety exclusively on AO3

FANDOM: One Piece

PAIRINGS: Doflamingo x OC (can be read as Doffy x Reader)

RATING: E(xplicit)

WORD COUNT: 8 chapters total, 75k+ words

GENRE: Dark Romance

TAGS: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Stalking, Manipulation, Emotional Manipulation, Intrigue, Corruption, Chess, Chess Metaphors, Strategy & Tactics, Yandere, Yandere Donquixote Doflamingo, Pirates, Princes & Princesses, Eventual S m u t, Romance, Dark Fantasy, Non-Linear Narrative, Fairy tale vibes, Cis Female Reader, Cis Female OC

WARNINGS: Canon-typical violence, s m u t in chapters 6-8, Doflamingo is a manipulative bastard

CHAPTER 1 - EXCERPT

The princess of Mary Geoise stood upon the balcony to watch her beloved kingdom burn.

She dressed plainly for the occasion. No finery, no frills, no fuss. That night she wore but a simple gown and plain shoes, bare of all regalia but the bauble she never took from around her pretty neck. She clutched this necklace in her shaking hands for comfort. Most days she hid it beneath her clothes, tucked under modest necklines and away from the prying eyes of her maids and watching father, but the time for such caution had passed.

They were almost at the end, now. Her father could levy no punishments graver than what awaited her come dawn.

“My lady.”

The third and newly appointed general of her father’s armies — for their enemies had slain the first and his replacement alike — bowed upon the flagstones at her feet. Distant fire reflected in the depths of his worried eyes. The princess could not remember his name, though she recalled the black tattoos upon his hands well enough. She bade him stand with a nod, gaze returning to the tableau of destruction playing out before her. Fire had not yet touched the noble quarter, but sparks rose to the stars at the city’s edge, spreading inward through the other districts in a sullen, rust-red ring.

“What news?” she asked with the taste of ash upon her tongue.

“Our blockade has fallen. Pirate forces breached the city walls.”

She closed her eyes. “How many?”

“A-all of them.” The general swallowed. “The Pirate Warlord sent them all.”

From his rightful place atop the conquered throne, her weary father murmured, “Don’t…don’t call him that.”

The wan-faced king sat slumped, mouth slick with wine, fingers clasped around the neck of the seventh bottle he’d downed since news broke of the pirates reaching his kingdom’s shore. He did not look like a king that night. Tonight, he was just a man, the dignity of his station crumbling in the face of imminent defeat.

And like a diamond that had lost its luster, he was ignored. “Pirate ships block the harbor,” said the general. He answered to her, now — a princess in name but the kingdom’s queen in practice.  Especially after the secrets that had recently come to light. “There can be no escape. Not anymore.”

He needn’t have said it. The princess already knew. A game of Monarchic Chess sat behind her, half complete, tiles of the board arranged in the shape of her kingdom, the game of this attack splayed out upon them in perfect, miniature detail. But although the game was not yet finished, she could already predict the outcome. The number of ships, the element of surprise, the pirate warlord’s tactics…her forces were outgunned, and with no warning to aid them, they were outmaneuvered, too. The blockade had been naught but a desperate, last-ditch effort to repel his forces, her final attempt to save them — to save not only herself and the monarchy, but to save the people she had vowed to protect. Her people were the ones who truly mattered in this scenario. She had known her efforts would fail from the outset, and that she acted on their behalf in vain, but hope compelled her try for one last chance at victory.

A chance now slipping through her fingers, as impossible to grasp as hope itself.

“Thank you, General.” She turned from him, and from her father, and returned her attention to the kingdom she had failed. “You are dismissed.”

But he did not leave. Instead he said: “There’s more.”

Bitter laughter charred her throat. “What more could there possibly be?”

“Messengers from the Pirate Warlord — from the enemy.” He corrected himself with a sideways glance at her father. “They came to tell us citizens have been taken hostage.”

Her blood ran cold. “How many?”

“Hundreds. Our operatives have confirmed it. They are gathered in groups, held at gunpoint.”

She considered this for a time. “And the Warlord’s demands in return for their safe release?”

“He…” The general looked as stunned as she felt. “He hasn’t made any.”

“So far,” the princess murmured. “There is still time yet.”

And so she waited. The general left. In his absence, advisors slinked from their hiding places in the shadows of the throne room to stand about like carrion, black-cloaked and beady-eyed, waiting for the corpse to pick clean with their sharp beaks. They wrung their hands, watching her. Whispered in her father’s ear, though he was too drunk to heed them. Many though they numbered, and brilliant in their own right, they were no help to the princess. They never had been, she ruefully mused. She alone had been their savior for many years, unknowing all the while, fighting their battles for them atop the Monarchic Chessboard. But now, even with eyes at last open to the truth, she was helpless to deliver them from this hell on earth.

It was over. It was well and truly over.

High in her tower above the city, the princess’s eyes burned as she gazed at the burning kingdom, lids heavy and thick in their struggle to remain open. So many sleepless nights. So many games played. So many tears spilled that evening, and in the many evenings before the Pirate Warlord attacked her borders outright. But all had been for naught, and now he marched upon her shores. Her enemy, her foe, her villain — he would be here soon. Soon, she would look the devil in the eye, and fall.

Unable to resist, she allowed her tired eyes to close. Smoke and ash rose from the burning city. Wind caressed her cheeks, her throat, even her hands as they clutched the necklace she loved so much. But the cold comfort of the jewel on her palm could not guard against the distant screams of her people as they were menaced by the pirates who had laid her father’s armies to waste. There could be no comfort for the princess as the noose prepared to pull tight around her throat. There could be no stopping the ring of fire sweeping toward her.

Closing her eyes was an insult to the citizens she had failed to protect. They did not have the luxury of awaiting their fate from the impersonal height of a palace tower. 

Thus, she opened them again to stare into the heart of her burning, beloved capital…but to her surprise, the image before her did not match the horrors in her head. The fiery horizon had not moved. The ring of fire had not closed. No, it somehow held steady, a constant halo of destruction that had moved not an inch deeper into the capital city and the palace waiting at its heart. The onslaught had been held at bay by…she knew not what. Had the invasion halted? But why?

What was the pirate warlord waiting for?

Her hands left the stone parapet along the balcony as she whirled to face the throne room.

“You there,” she asked, but the advisors scattered like crows under the stone of her gaze. She turned instead to the guard at the door. “Where is the general?”

“I can find him, Princess,” the guard said, scrambling. “I can — ”

He vanished through the huge oak doors. She returned her stare to the line of fire. Her knees ached from standing on the cold flagstones for hours on end. The princess had not moved since they received word of the unified pirate army’s invasion of the capital, but she refused to sink into despair alongside her wilting father. The bauble in her hand gave her strength. Oh, that beloved pink jewel she wore on its delicate chain — it gave her courage even when weariness clawed her eyes and dug sharp teeth into her psyche. She rolled it through her fingers, weighing it on her palm and giving the sparkling gem the smallest kiss when she thought no one was looking. The diamond held more than mere glitter or monetary value. It held the very core of her dreams in its facets, glinting back at her with a thousand possibilities and all the lives she might have lived had the unthinkable not occurred.

But the unthinkable had occurred. The war had been lost. The pirates had won. She would never be able to tell the person who had given her the gem how much his words had haunted her since their parting. She would never be able to tell him she wanted to reconsider the offer she had rejected. She would never be able to take his hand and say yes as she so longed to. That possibility had gone dark the moment the fires lit. If only she had met him in some other life, perhaps — 

The door opened, and the general said: “He has stopped advancing, Princess.”

She spun in a tangle of skirts. Once again the general knelt upon the stones behind her. Her father moaned atop the throne, but she hardly heard his cry of despair.

“Have our forces rallied?” she asked, but there was no hope in her heart. “I did not think they would be capable — ”

“No. They are not capable.” He passed a tattooed hand over his weary face. “He could press forward again at any time. He has the forces to destroy us in an instant.” But here he paused. “And yet.”

“And yet he has not.” Her hands fisted, fingernails scraping soft skin. “Why has that monster — ?” She shook her head. “He is just a man.”

“Princess?” asked her general.

“Never mind.” She dropped her hands and turned, head held high, tired eyes unyielding as they dragged her scattered advisors from the shadows. “Tell me again. Tell me everything you know about him.”

“We have told you everything already, Princess,” they whispered.

“Then tell me again,” demanded the princess, “about the Pirate Warlord Doflamingo.”

READ THE REST OF CHAPTER 1 ON AO3. CLICK HERE!

[survivalove]

Air Temple Island, the Water Tribes & the Real Life Influences that bring them together

I was gonna screenshot a post I saw and add it to my post but I don’t feel like giving that individual attention (and the 300+ notes they got), so I just decided to make my own standalone post debunking this narrative that air temple island is this fully air nomad brothel (yes they said this) with ZERO water tribe motifs which katara is forced to live in until aang passed away.

frankly it just reminded me of how little people in this fandom actually bother to analyze the actual content, instead preferring to write entirely made up scenarios of katara being reduced to an air nomad incubator along with dozens other female acolytes (yes they also said this lmao. also them acting like both male AND female acolytes weren’t living on the whole other side of the island 😭)

when in truth, i’ve come to find a lot of elements of both water tribes as well as traditional inuit elements across air temple island:

1. the paifang

a traditionally chinese element that for some reason is exclusively found in the northern water tribe (why do they have a gate inside a throne room, you ask? ask the white people that made this show). the one on the left is actually one of two aang BUILT, at the main entrance and another at the temple entrance. this is just one example of water tribe design on the island.

2. the bagua mosaic

another structure is the bagua mosaic on the training grounds. bagua is a set of traditional chinese symbols of the cosmology, taoism. the bagua composes of 8 sets of broken or unbroken lines that represent yin and yang. where have we seen yin and yang in the original series? oh yeah, as tui and la of the water tribe! (because atla is a mess of asiatic and indigenous motifs joined together and spread out across each nation, mainly traditionally chinese elements at that.) aang building this right next to the air nomad training grounds is a symbol of the dual bending heritage their children will have.

3. gold and blue accents

now, gold and blue are the main colors of the exterior structures but is also very strong inside the air temple itself. note, the massive air nomad symbol designed fully in blue in the center and the blue banners and rugs throughout the temple. this is no doubt, for me, a visual depiction of both katara and aang’s representative cultures, but of course this is not limited to color only.

4. cloud carvings

now, this is a slight detour since clouds aren’t a significant part of either of their individual cultures (that we know) but i love the kataang monopoly they have on clouds as a couple so i’m talking about it. if you look at these images very closely what do you see? CLOUD CARVINGS!! specifically near the ceiling of the pavilion (left) and the arches and walls of the temple (right) just imagining aang painting and etching these very consistent swirls, like he’ll never be the selfish inconsiderate unromantic loser you people want him to be, but let’s get more into the southern water tribe style interior.

5. interior design

so here is a southern water tribe white lotus outpost vs the air temple island main dining room. first thing, the seat cushions and rug! while we don’t see air nomad eating quarters we do get to see enough SWT customs both in atla and lok, to know this is how they traditionally eat compared to the north (limiting myself on pics cuz mobile).

another thing is the dining table itself. both have what i believe to be built in fire pits (i couldn’t actually tell for the air temple island one cuz of the quality but if you zoom in you can see the lines go in the table plus the hanging kettle on it makes it obvious to me idk). the southern water tribe one however is clear and likely a more traditional version of what aang and katara have.

thirdly, the exposed timber on the ceiling. i actually looked it up and found this is a common element of these two inuit structures: left is an aasiaat peat house and right is an igloolik turf house. all this for me to believe not only did aang build air temple island to be a haven for the TWO of them but also that katara herself had a lot of input on the interior than people care to notice lol.

maybe instead of projecting these loser fantasies of katara being some unwilling air nomad baby making machine so you can feel better about your fantasies of katara living in a red palace with people that tried to wipe her out for a whole century, you all can go study the actual canon you were shown and the real life cultures the franchise takes from.

6. lastly, some of my own headcanons/stuff i want to see in the movie

the bathroom because I LIVE for a white marble tiled bathroom. i just know katara has to have a HUGE tub and they have one of those insane glass showers that can fit like 3 people, with cloud swirls everywhere because aang clearly got it like that

the KITCHEN, i imagine it being timber like the dining room and is probably on the other side behind the built-in shelf (get into the details like hello). in a perfect world, it would be open plan but hey

the bedroom, now we saw it in lok a bit but i wanna see it in the gaang movie too. i’m on pic limit but there’s a lot of artwork and flowers throughout the whole house which i give katara credit for because I can. like the desk, the bookshelf, that fancy looking vase thing? these two clearly have taste like don’t talk to me rn

I also didn’t show the rooms and aang’s study but there’s a lot of blue decor in those places which makes me think katara decorated the whole house, even the acolytes’ hall has blue sitting cushions and columns which i think is such a nice detail.

if you guys have any air temple island headcanons of your own please reply with some i’m feening lol

big shoutout to this user:

atla-annotated (their page is so great and filled with a lot of incredible information if you guys like this sort of stuff)

[feudalconnection]

Get Ready...!!

It's the start of the 2nd Term 2024 Inuyasha Fandom Awards!

We hope everyone has had a good start to the year! A huge shout-out to everyone who participated last term and made it such a huge success! We look forward to all of the amazing new fanfiction and fanart to be shared with this beautiful community!

A special thank you goes out to @elevenharbor for donating her time and talent to creating banners for everyone! (If you have not received your award banner for last term, please reach out to one of the mods asap!)

We also wanted to let you know that the lovely @yukinon-writes has stepped down as being a moderator for FeudalConnection. She has brought such amazing elements to our awards, and we will always keep a mod-spot open should she wish to return.

With her parting, we've had a seamless transition in welcoming @the-lone-huntress into the fold, and we look forward to all of her ideas and innovations she brings with her.

At the end of last term, the voting form also included the possibilities of the Roulette Categories for this term, and we have taken the top choices for both Fanart and Fanfiction:

The Fanfiction Roulette Category for this term will be Best Rising Author. This is defined as: A piece crafted by an Inuyasha fandom creator who has not placed first, second, or third in any previous quarters. A category to recognize lesser-known authors and show them some love.

The Fanart Roulette Category for this term will be Best Underappreciated Fanart. This is defined as: An Art piece with under 100 notes or retweets, designed to highlight some of the newer or lesser known artists.

In addition, we are adding a Roulette Romance category for both Fanfiction and Fanart. This term the pairing chosen will be Inuparents (Inu no Taisho x Izayoi).

For Fanfiction, it will be defined as: Stories that have developed a believable romance between Inu no Taisho and Izayoi (aka Inuyasha's parents). "Believable" is subjective, and it is up to those nominating/voting to draw their own line on that quantifier and vote their "Best". This includes canon universe and AU/AR settings. A thruple can be included, but only if the focus is on Izayoi and Inu no Taisho's relationship.

For Fanart, it will be defined as: Any romantic depiction of Inu no Taisho and Izayoi (aka Inuyasha's parents).

The original Best Romance categories will remain, so all other pairings, including LGBTQ+, can be nominated into those categories. All other pairings will be up for voting again next term.

If it wasn't mentioned above, chances are it hasn't changed. Please be aware that the moderators always take suggestions regarding how the awards are run and category changes into consideration, and each new term may bring about new changes. You can read up on the most recent FAQs, Rules of Eligibility, and Categories for more information [these links are only available on desktop].

For ease of access on mobile, the FAQs, Rules of Eligibility, and Categories can be accessed through this link.

As nominators, please make sure that each term you take a peek at our list of creators who can’t be nominated to make sure you are staying current with who is eligible to be nominated.

Here you can find the mobile-friendly link for all current nominations for this term.

The 2nd Term 2024 nomination period will begin on May 1st and go until the end of the day May 15th. Please send your nominations in through the submit button! If you have any other questions or concerns, please don't hesitate to send in an ask or reach out to one of the mods! We are also frequently available on the FC Discord!

Mods: @classysassy9791, @ruddcatha, @dchelyst, @the-lone-huntress

Please reblog to spread the word of the start of the new term!

[skykidsam]

Symbology in Statues

Isle Elder - Dawn - Daleth

Statue sits in the middle of a spacious room; once revived, the room opens up and birds fly freely through the space

Has one singular white candle to light

Face has a diamond element; in the elder's memory, this element seems to attract the boat-shaped mask (which also has a similar diamond-shaped element in the middle) to the elder's forehead like a magnet

Paint includes a standard line down the middle, below the diamond cutout, and two more lines on either side. The outline around the diamond is incomplete, missing only the top

Prairie Elder - Day - Ayin

The statue sits atop an uneven grass-covered mound, littered with large jars

There are three white candles in front of the statue, which are replaced by (or encompassed in) a large jar once the spirit is revived; there are also a few clusters of red candles leading up to the statue

Face has a diamond element

Paint includes the same standard line down the middle, along with the two lines on either side - but this time the diamond outline is complete

There are two engraved lines spreading diagonally upward on either side, emanating from the center diamond cutout

Forest Elder - Rain - Teth

The only statue that, within their temple, is hidden before being revealed via an unlocking mechanism that opens the floor and triggers the platform with the statue on it to rise

Platform is painted with a diamond symbol that resembles the one on map shrines

Has three white candles

Diamond emblem on the doors behind the statue resemble the mask this elder wears, but could also have other symbolic meaning

No diamond element on face

Same standard paint, but the top half of the diamond outline is missing

I didn't get to photograph it in the other statues but we can also note how the eyes are a shade of blue/cyan/aquamarine after lighting the candles but before meditating to revive the elder

Valley Elders - Sunset - Samekh

Statue is elevated on its own platform in the middle of the room

Three white candles in front, as well as many red candles surrounding the statues themselves

No diamond element

Just like the elders, everything is split in half - each side has one eye, and the paint is also split down the middle.

The diamond outline is also missing its top

Once the spirits are revived and the doors open, Eden sits menacingly behind the statues and seems to hint at... something

Wasteland Elder - Dusk - Tsadi

Statue sits just before the halls of the Vault, carrying a spear (engraved with a diamond) and a shield (engraved with a sun)

Three white candles in front, with several red candles bordering a map shrine behind

Diamond element on face

Same exact paint and engravings as Day/Ayin

Huge crack that severs the statue in half (but the statue is still standing)

From the front, depending on where you stand, two things line up perfectly with the diamond cutout - the map shrine, and the diamond in the gate leading to Vault

Vault Elder - Night - Lamed

The only elder whose statue only appears with all the other elders' statues

Five white candles, with some red ones leading up to it and a candle cake directly behind the statue

Diamond element on face

Standard paint with no engravings, except the top right quarter of the diamond outline is missing

Diamond cutout lines up perfectly with Rain's/Teth's directly behind

No way to see statue once revived because you're automatically transported to the top room of Vault, just before Eden

Theories

Statues are built to represent the elders, their temples, and potentially things that are very important to them

White candles may signify a level of power or influence. Dawn, having not received any elemental light from Alef/The Prince after he completed the Trials (and also being the only elder dedicated to the old ways of light worship and shepherding light creatures) likely had the least influence, and so they only have one candle. Night, being the closest in proximity to the king and also being shown in TTE communicating directly with the king would likely have had the most influence. All the others may have shared similar or equal influence

Diamond elements on faces may or may not mean anything at all. The only theory I have is that those represent our "third eye" and our connection to our intuition/higher selves/the Light. They may also serve the function of attaching masks to faces. I truly don't know

The paint, to me, just looks like it further highlights the diamond cutouts - the bottom center stripe looks like a candlestick and the lines on either side look like the light around a candle flame (or even hands cupping the flame)

Unsure of what the diagonal indentations mean

The central diamond cutouts may represent their inner light, hearts, or even souls. I also think whatever we see through that cutout matters. I think it shows us what was most important to them.

Dawn would likely have cared most about shepherding creatures toward the light

Day cared about storing light (even to the point of it blocking their inner light/heart)

Rain cared for their forest - specifically, they hold a special place in their heart for the sunny forest clearing that hasn't been tainted by polluted rain. Notably, this is also where Rain is featured next to the Nesting Guide in the painting from that season

Sunset, the twins, cared for Valley and competition - but they also care for the kingdom and the King himself, perhaps to their detriment

Dusk cared so much about conflicting interests that they were practically split in two; on one hand, they wanted to protect the vault and the kingdom from attack, but on the other, they cared for everyone across all of the realms and desperately wanted to protect them too

Night cared for all of the elders, but especially Rain, who is said to be related to Night in some way

And that's all I got for now!

[funishment-time]

🔵 Kodaka BlueSky Q&As: Rain Code Characters (All)

⚠️ DISCLAIMER: Please be advised! Translations of all Japanese answers derive from a combination of Google Translate and my manager's three-quarters-remembered Japanese. We've tried our best to work out what he's saying, but there will be mistakes here and there. Do not take this as gospel!

To avoid spreading too much misinfo, where we're completely boggled about an answer, we've decided not to even make an attempt. We'll still list the post, but mark it accordingly.

➡️ AN IMPORTANT NOTE FROM KODAKA BEFORE READING:

First of all, the questions answered here are not official. Everything that is official is what is said within the work. In contrast, this is simply what Kodaka, the creator, thinks, and it is not the correct answer. Use this as a starting point to enjoy the depth of each character, or to say, "That's not right!" and enjoy it with your own interpretation. I think of this as a way of communicating with the characters who live in fiction. This is important, so please spread the word.

💕 FEBRUARY 2024:

Q: I love shinigami chan. Please make games forever!

A: YES

/////

Q: What happened to everyone at Amaterasu Company after the main story?

A: Yomi [Hellsmile] is growing magmatically angry with the opportunity to revolt while imprisoned…!

/////

Q: Why does Vivia wear such stringy underwear? Does he untie it every time he takes a bath or something?

A: I feel like he just goes in like that.

/////

Q: Was Vivia's umbrella tattoo done in Kanai? I was curious because that was the only tattoo related to rain.

A: I think he likes the gloomy rain. I'm sure he doesn't think Kanai Ward is so bad.

/////

Q: The pattern on Director Yakou's uniform is really cool, is there a reason for that?

A: I leave that up to Komatsuzaki-kun, but being a detective is, after all, a job in the underworld, so I think it's better to have that sort of shady side to it.

NOTE: Komatsuzaki is the guy behind Danganronpa and Rain Code's art.

/////

Q: [the question has since been deleted, but I remember it was about the ages of Master Detectives in Rain Code]

A: It varies quite a bit, but let me just say that most are in their 20s to late 30s. By the way, I'm 45. Oh, you didn't hear that.

/////

Q: How much does the director smoke in a day? That ashtray is disgusting.

A: That's probably three packs a day. I smoke half a pack a day. Oh, you didn't hear that.

NOTE: This is about Chief Yakou.

/////

Q: I would like to hear about your impressions of the masked man, and what you were conscious of when writing. I will continue to support your work☔️

A: He's nonchalant, talks about himself without listening to what the other person has to say, but seems intelligent. That's the impression I get.

NOTE: This is about Rain Code's Makoto.

/////

Q: Kodaka-san!! Thank you for your wonderful works as always ₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎⊹ Amaterasu is exactly my type of organization (especially the head of security...!) Even if it's not a sub-story, I'd like to know if you have any small details that haven't been made public 🙏🏻💞

A: Thank you! Of all the Amaterasu characters, Komatsuzaki-kun was most enthusiastic about the robot researcher.

NOTE: We're pretty sure this is about either the character known as "Akira." The one weird about the Ama-pals.

/////

Q: A question about Rain Code: Are there plans to release a book that delves deeper into the backstories of the people who appeared in Chapter 0?

A: If there's a demand, I'd like to see a spin-off novel or something...

/////

Q: Excuse me for asking a question about Yuma, the main character of Raincode! What type of woman does Yuma like?

A: I wonder...! I think he's a pushover. lol

/////

Q: The names of the characters in Rain Code are sprinkled with elements of Japanese mythology, but is there any inspiration or backstory for this? Is there a reason why you named Makoto after the god of fire?

A: It all started with me wanting to incorporate a Japanese flavour.

/////

Q: Rain Code was really fun! I wonder if there will be an "if" story where the five train detectives (all real) arrive in Kanai Ward!? I'm ready to buy all the DLC and whatever else it takes👍

A: I would love to depict stories of their success. It would add more depth to Chapter 0.

/////

Q: Are there any characters who are certain that Halara's gender is this or that?

A: I don't think anyone can ask. Even if they did, Halara would probably think there's no point in answering. They might tell someone they like...

/////

Q: Mr. Kodaka, what is your impression of Director Yakou of Rain Code?

A: He's caring but also lazy, sloppy but cool... I think he's a very human detective.

/////

Q: Is Vivia's name a reference to the movie "Ghosts of the Sierra de Cobre"? Are there any other works that the names of the other characters are also based on?

A: I'm ashamed to say that I hadn't heard of that movie. The characters in Rain Code were named with an emphasis on giving them a stateless feel, and on the sound of the name.

/////

Q: Was there a deciding factor in casting Uchida Yuuma for the role of Seth?

A: I basically leave the casting up to the sound company. They did a very good job.

/////

Q: I'm sure Desuhiko has picked up as many women as there are stars in the sky, but does he actually have much experience in love?

A: Although he is not unpopular, he is most likely rejected quickly.

🍀 MARCH 2024:

Q: I'd like to know the ages of the Resistance members (even a rough estimate is fine if you haven't thought about it)! Since Iruka is planning to receive a birthday present from her parents, is she the youngest member?

A: Judging from his voice, Shachi sounds like he's 52 years old.

/////

Q: Excuse me. Who is most given chocolates on valentine day in raincode ?

A: Maybe, Vivia.

/////

Q: Why did Shinigami-chan give Halara-san the nickname "Hellara"?

A: I wanted Halara to be so stoic it drew Shinigami's attention.

/////

Q: There may not be sushi in Kanai Ward, but I'd like to know what your favorite sushi toppings are, folks at the detective agency.

A: Desuhiko likes sea urchins, Yakou likes mackerel, Vivia doesn't feel like eating, Halara likes maki rolls, and Fubuki tries to save the fish with time reversal.

/////

Q: [The question has since been deleted, but I believe it was about Seth's childhood.]

A: His childhood must have been similar to that of Jataro [Kemuri]...

/////

Q: I would like to hear about Martina's "calculation" of Yomi, which came up in a previous Rain Code interview. Did you have any stories in mind, Mr. Kodaka?

A: She thought she could use Yomi's favor to advance her own career.

/////

Q: I'd like to know the name of the Amaterasu Researcher who appears in Director Yakou's DLC!

A: His wife? It's a secret! I only tell people when I'm drunk, so... nope. (said cutely)

/////

Q: I'm guessing the age order of the train detectives is Zange > Melami > Zilch > Aphex > Pucci, is that correct?

A: There are various theories about the location of Melami [in that order].

🥬 APRIL 2024:

Q: Do special abilities have a genetic component? (e.g., Vivia's family is more likely to see spirits)

A: Sometimes it is and sometimes it is not. It is said that the Clockford family will rarely produce a child like this due to genetics.

/////

Q: Sorry if this has already been mentioned❗️ Harara Nightmare's gender is unknown, but do they ever wear feminine clothes like skirts as fashion?

A: "No. I only wear clothes that are easy to move in."

/////

Q: Halara is often depicted holding a lollipop, but do they have a favorite flavor?

A: Anything as long as it's sweet. It's to get the sugar needed for that person's brain.

/////

Q: I played Raincode to the end ☔️ I love the masked man...! I'd be happy if you could tell me anything about him.

A: "I made the masks myself. I made them suspicious on purpose to scare people away."

NOTE: This is about Rain Code's Makoto again.

/////

Q: A question! I'm curious about what method the Raincode super detectives used to get into Kanai Ward! What other routes could they have taken besides the Amaterasu Express!? I'd be happy if you could tell me who got there and how!

A: I'm saving [this info] so I can make a special edition someday! lol

/////

Q: who would you choose to solve a mystery and why? kirigiri, saihara or halara?

A: It would be great if the three of them performed together!

🌺 MAY 2024:

Q: What do you think about animals other than dogs and cats, Halara?

A: "More precious than humans."

/////

Q: Can Chief Yakou cook?

A: "I can make lazy meals."

☀️ JUNE 2024:

n/a

🎇 JULY 2024:

n/a

🌭 AUG 2024:

Q: I want to know how Yomi Hellsmile is doing after the main story of Raincode. Also, how is Seth Burroughs doing?

A: In his luxurious cell, his desire for revenge boils.

🍁 SEPT 2024:

Q: Is there any reason why the masked man in Rain Code has one eye?

A: Apparently he chose the most suspicious mask possible, so that no one would like him.

NOTE: This is about Rain Code's Makoto once more.

🎃 OCT 2024:

Q: Even though Fubuki is a rich girl, why does she have a chin piercing...? Did she get it on her own or was it recommended to her by those around her?

A: “I was born and raised in a place with that kind of culture.”

/////

Q: Excuse me for asking a question! If you were to rank everyone at the Night Detective Agency in order of ←big eater, small eater→, what order would they be?

A: It's confirmed that Fubuki eats the most and Vivia eats the least.

/////

Q: How did Halara, Fubuki, Desuhiko, and Vivia reach Kanai Ward without getting caught or killed like the Master Detectives on the Amaterasu Express? How did they evade the Peacekeepers?

A: Each of these episodes would make a long and thrilling story that could be made into a movie.

🦃 NOV 2024:

n/a

🎄 DEC 2024:

Q: Is Dominic Fultank based on Adam Smasher from Cyberpunk 2077? Seeing as they're both scarred veterans?

A: It is similar, but unrelated, as it was already designed before the launch [of Cyberpunk].

/////

Q: How did Makoto fake and fabricate the WDO HQ bombing?

A: He created the video in CG.

/////

Q: What is the name of the woman, childhood friend, and Amaterasu Researcher Yakou wed? And how did she die? All we know thus far is that she was killed 4 years ago, and Dr Huesca was involved, but how exactly? I also noticed Yakou went on to wear her glasses. Does he miss and love her that deeply? 💙💜

A: Yes, he [does]. His glasses belong to his loving wife.

[windvexer]

Smaller tarot spreads aren't necessarily easier or more beginner friendly. They can actually be more difficult, IMO

Drawing large spreads as soon as you begin learning tarot has a lot of advantage. Studying individual cards and working slowly with 1 or 3-card draws may work for some people, but this isn't the only or even the best way to learn tarot.

Reading fewer cards isn't always easier!

To me, the "magic" of tarot is linking cards and seeing patterns of information across a spread.

The job of a tarot reader is not memorizing cards. Memorizing card meanings is not required to be an effective reader.

IMO, the job of a tarot reader is to find patterns and narratives within a spread.

This can be easier to do with larger spreads, and harder with small spreads.

The purpose of a 3 card draw is not to individually interpret 3 cards.

The purpose is to discover a pattern within the cards. If it's a beginning/middle/end spread, do the cards seem to start off in a dreary way, and develop into a good/positive outcome? Is the middle card a road bump, while the beginning and end cards are smooth sailing?

Once you find patterns within a spread, the narrative can make itself readily apparent.

In a beginning/middle/end spread, if the general portent of the cards appears to be poor/better/best, then we might say that the general shape of the reading is an upwards trajectory.

So, what meanings of the cards fit the shape of an upward trajectory?

Almost all tarot cards have contradictory, mutually exclusive, or unrelated sets of meaning.

If a card's meanings include responsibility/drudgery/burden/mistake/success after work, then which meaning applies?

If that card is at the beginning of the upwards trajectory, the specific meanings that fit in might be meanings of burden or mistake.

If that card is at the end of the upwards trajectory, then it is more likely that the meaning of success after work applies.

But it would not be possible to use the pattern of the spread to shape the narrative in a 1 card draw. There are not enough cards to form a pattern.

The purpose of a spread is to facilitate linking the cards in such a way that patterns of information rise to the surface like cream.

This makes discovering the meanings of each card easier, not more difficult.

This can also mean that for beginners, larger spreads can be easier to read because patterns can be more apparent and easier to rely on when choosing narrative themes.

I have a particular favorite spread which I have been using for almost 17 years; my elemental quarters spread.

This spread has a few variations, one of which is the 12 card variation.

12 cards may seem like a heck of a lot for a spread, but it actually gets really simple when you start using tarot to read patterns instead of trying to recall memorized definitions.

In this colorful elemental spread, there are four cards that represent fire, and one quartet that represents fire.

Suppose that you believe fire represents things like passion and drive.

You are reading this spread for someone, and every single fire card is reversed.

Despite the clutter of so many cards, an immediate pattern jumps forth: this person has a serious blockage in the passion and drive in their life, that is permeating every area of their life.

Now that we know this, we can start looking at the meanings for each fire card relating to blockage, delay, or obstacles.

Because of the size of the spread, patterns can be much easier to see, and each card can be more quickly refined.

As a reader, a large spread gives you the ability to say, "I may not know what this card in particular means, but based on the pattern I am seeing in your emotion/relationships section, there is a lot of hope on the horizon."

Larger spreads reduce the need to perform an in-depth reading on each card.

If you have a 3 card draw and one card isn't speaking to you, then you are only interpreting 2/3 of a reading. And that's not a lot.

If you have a 7 card spread and one card isn't speaking to you, then you don't need to beat your head against a wall trying to unlock the secrets of that one guy. You can just say, "I don't know for sure, but based on the pattern, it seems like something bad vibes will happen before you get to the good events coming up."

There is no minimum amount of information you are supposed to get from each card.

You can draw 1 card and write a paragraph on it. Or, you can draw 10 cards and choose one key word from each, representative of the pattern(s) that you see.

The second reading may provide more information using fewer words, and be more accurate too - because the interplay of cards influences what key words best fit, instead of grappling with many meanings of a single card without direction.

You can get less than 1 key word from a card.

You can draw 3 cards, find the pattern in them, and choose 1 key word for all three.

You can draw 12 cards and get a 4 word reading.

And I stand by my belief that this 4 word reading may well ring more true than a paragraph of generic definitions pulled from a single card (shaped, if the reader is lucky, by context clues the querent has provided when they submitted their question).

I've been reading tarot for almost 2 decades (err... going on 17 years) and only in recent years have I been able to successfully read 3 card draws.

In my opinion, smaller spreads and draws can be significantly more challenging.

If you are getting stuck with your tarot practice, try moving on from "card meanings" and into "pattern-shaped narratives".

(Which is the term I made up for it)

[thatdruidgal]

00.01 table of contents

Grimoire Table of Contents

This is my personal Grimoire, so it will be focused just on the information that I need/use! If you’d like more info on anything that I haven’t included, please do more research!

00.00 introduction

00.01 table of contents (you are here)

00.02 book list

00.03 advice

01.00 correspondences

01.01 triquetra Druid elements

01.02 quarternary elements

01.03 crystals

01.04 herbs

01.05 waters

01.06 colors

01.07 metals

01.08 chakras

02.00 lunar magick

02.01 lunar ingredients

02.02 dark moon

02.03 new moon

02.04 black moon

02.05 waxing crescent

02.06 first quarter

02.07 waxing gibbous

02.08 full moon

02.09 blue moon

02.10 waning gibbous

02.11 last quarter

02.12 waning crescent

02.13 lunar eclipse “blood moon”

02.14 solar eclipse

02.15 moon void

03.00 tarot

03.01 numbers 1-10

03.02 court cards

03.03 suits

03.04 major arcana

03.05 yes/no/maybe

03.06 spreads

04.00 basic spells

04.01 warding/protection spell

04.02 cleansing spell

04.03 safe travels satchet

04.04 luck/prosperity tea

04.05 fire cider + chutney soup

See this post for all of my favorite recipes

05.00 favorite ingredients

05.01 quartz

05.02 amethyst

05.03 obsidian

05.04 citrine

05.05 sodalite

05.06 salt

05.07 rosemary

05.08 cinnamon

05.09 lavender

05.10 moon water

06.00 spirits + fae

06.01 signs of fae

06.02 attraction/offering + repelling fae

06.03 (some) types of fae

06.04 spirit guides

06.05 spirit signs/omens

06.06 working with spirits

07.00 calendar

07.01 yule / dec 21st

07.02 imbolc / feb 2nd

07.03 ostara / mar 21st

07.04 beltane / may 1st

07.05 litha / june 21st

07.06 lughnahsadh / aug 1st

07.07 mabon / sept 21st

07.08 samhain / nov 1st

07.09 history cycles

08.00 druidry

08.01 druidry overview

08.02 bard

08.03 ovate

08.04 druid

09.00 science and magick

09.01 quotes

09.02 matter and energy

09.03 placebo effect

09.04 energy and physics

09.05 more matter, energy, and theoretics

09.06 measuring energy

09.07 psychometry and "imprinting"

09.08 aether

09.09 green magick and plants

09.10 synchronicity

10.00 theism + beliefs

10.01 witchcraft practices

10.02 deist quotes

10.03 deism workings

11.00 margin notes [upg]

11.01 low budget options

11.02 how to practice around burnout

11.03 small ways to practice

11.04 notes

12.00 worldview [upg]

May or may not include this

12.01 personal beliefs

12.02 creation of the universe

12.03 death + otherworld

12.04 time

12.05 institutionalized religion

12.06 magick

12.07 aspects of world

12.08 spirits

13.00 library

13.01 Viridarium Umbris

[ruiniel]

Mononoke Karakasa art symbolism:

the kokeshi dolls

Throughout the movie there is the theme of renouncing something precious (i.e. pieces of oneself, individuality) in order to serve an amorphous whole. The Ōoku, in this instance, could be seen as an organism thriving on the sum of its 'parts'.

Karakasa is saturated with visual elements among which flowers and dolls are prevalent from what I noticed on first watch. The symbolism and comparison with 'flowers' or 'dolls' isn't much of a mystery when considering the strict hierarchical roles the ~2000 women must play in the Ōoku.

And despite the numbers, there's a sense of pervasive loneliness throughout (at least for me), a nod to very real and relatable psychological states of being such as mourning, emotional estrangement and abjectification of self. But on a wider and still very relatable social level to the modern audience, the Ōoku is basically a prison. There's an entire essay to be written on systemic oppression and the way it changes the individuals (women) trapped within. Will pause interpretation here for now since it's incomplete and stream-of-consciousness mostly.

What of the dolls?

We see dolls known as kokeshi dolls.

Kokeshi dolls in the movie are 'dento-kokeshi', or traditional style, dento meaning something along the lines of 'transmitting that which is fundamental'.

Kokeshi dolls originated in the Edo period and were first made by craftsmen called kijishi, single-wood carvers in Northern Japan and were first sold as souvenirs at hot spring resorts.

Artisans preferred to work in dogwood, Japanese maple, cherry wood among others since they were good for carving and still carried the right softness. The local craftsman would choose the shapes and colors specific to their region.

Different types of kokeshi dolls (source: pinterest)

Mainly they became children's toys and there are different styles of kokeshi, but their characteristics are slender bodies and lack of arms and legs. Along the years artisans evolved designs to reflect the area the dolls were made in, thus preserving cultural motifs throughout history. They symbolized hope, good luck, and fortune. Each dento-kokeshi is supposed to be unique.

In Mononoke Karakasa, we see many kokeshi dolls, mainly in Mugitani's quarters:

There's a veritable collection, spread across the room, some even hung from the ceiling, acting as silent watchers to her misery, her loneliness, her actions.

On the walls we also see depictions of temari balls, such as the one Mugitani was made to throw away as her precious item, starting the process of yielding her self to the Ōoku:

Side note: traditionally temari balls are also works of art in their own right, following specific crafting principles. They were a typical gift to children on New Year's day. Girls would receive these from their mothers and grandmothers for happiness and fortune (here we see a similarity with Kame's comb gifted from her grandmother).

(Addition to side note: as @ekwallace pointed out, temari ball symbolism is also present in the 2007 Mononoke series, specifically in the Noppera-bou arc. There too was someone who renounced herself since her early years to support someone else's ambitions while yearning for childhood freedom (symbolized by the vision of playing with a temari ball).)

Where did Mugitani obtain the dolls? Were they bought by her at regular fairs, or given as gifts by women who were close to her but are no longer here? Are they an indirect attempt to assuage the lack of fulfillment she feels being here or a subconscious expression of her need for an average, perhaps family centered life outside the confines of the Ōoku (some dolls are grouped in clusters suggesting families)?

The kokeshi dolls could have a specific meaning or even, why not, represent the silenced spirits of women who died there before, become the eyes of the mononoke (but that's one of many far-fetched theories I have).

[jgthirlwell]

Top 10 Cats 2024

Top 10 Cats 2024

by Dora Blount

Scratch and Sniff, Brooklyn Scratch and Sniff, world’s best cats, had an exciting year. They moved to new digs for the first time since being adopted. They weren’t too sure about it at first- there were a lot of new noises to get used to. But now they love it, they can spread out more, there are a variety of spaces for hanging out, hiding or sleeping, windows to look out of, and sun beams to catch all day.

Sir Indiana Bones, Skulls Unlimited International, Oklahoma City,OK Sir Indiana Bones is a superstar black cat with 74k followers on Instagram. He lives in the office behind the Museum of Osteology on the outskirts of Oklahoma City. He has a line of merch available in the museum gift shop and his own page on their website. We were lucky that he was receiving visitors when we stopped by and we got to go to the back and meet him. We signed his visitor log and he gave us two buttons! Thank you for your service, Sir Indiana Bones.

Little One (Losash), East Village, Manhattan The kitten formerly known as Losash, now referred to as “little one,” is a Devon Rex who came from Russia with his own passport and a stylish wardrobe, though his true origin may be an unknown dimension or galaxy in another universe. He now lives in the East Village but doesn’t have a proper name yet. According to Wikipedia, the Devon Rex is a “tall-eared, short-haired breed of cat that emerged in England during the late 1950s.” The breed is known for its atypical appearance, with an oddly shaped head, large eyes, and a short, wavy coat with whiskers and eyebrows that are crinkled and twisted. He’s a cool little alien dude.

Flower Market Cats, Marché aux Fleurs, Paris This charming and beautiful flower market has been located on the Ile de la Cité for over 100 years. Among the market’s wrought iron and glass pavilions, and abundance of flowers and plants and good smells, we found two cats in one of the shops.

Alice, Le Petit Prince Store, Paris We happened upon Le Petit Prince store in the Latin Quarter, stopped in to check it out, and were delighted to discover the shop cat Alice on her chair! Even though a fox, not a cat, is a character in the Little Prince, Alice is very good a reminder of the book’s themes of unconditional love and the preciousness of friendship. The velvet chair is appropriately regal for Alice.

Dove, Brooklyn Cat Café, Brooklyn Heights, Brooklyn The Brooklyn Cat Café is a volunteer-run storefront providing cat interaction, as well as coffee, tea, and snacks. All the cats are available for adoption so the cat distribution system can work efficiently.

Harmonica, Health Food and Vitamin City, Chelsea, Manhattan Harmonica is the Queen of 23rd Street. Enough said.

Zuzu & Winston, Kansas City, KS Zuzu (charming ginger tabby) and Winston (gray beauty) are Kansas City kitties who live in a picturesque Victorian gothic manor high on a hill overlooking Downtown KC.

Smokey, Treasures and Books, Guthrie, OK Smokey manages the Treasures and Books antique store in downtown Guthrie, Oklahoma. Smokey is long-haired chocolate-colored beauty with a lion’s mane who likes to catch sun beams in the storefront window. She came in off the street as a little lonely kitten on a cold day in 2018 and the kind owner of the store took her in and helped her learn to trust people. Now she lives a comfortable life where she is very loved and treasured.

Siete & Nueve, Marvel Design Studio Annex, Tribeca, Manhattan Siete (tabby) and Nueve (black) live in Marvel’s studio annex space in Tribeca. They are two amusing rescue cats who enjoy corporate sabotage and office hijinks. They bring a refreshing element of chaos to otherwise staid professional meetings, of which I approve. Marvel is an architectural and urban design studio based in New York and San Juan that designed the new Animal Care Centers of NYC adoption, clinic, and office facility in the Bronx, currently in construction. So Marvel is doing good work for animals at both the micro and regional scales. Thanks Marvel!

[lesmisletters-daily]

The Bishop In The Presence Of An Unknown Light

Les Mis Letters reading club explores one chapter of Les Misérables every day. Join us on Discord, Substack - or share your thoughts right here on tumblr - today's tag is #lm 1.1.10

At an epoch a little later than the date of the letter cited in the preceding pages, he did a thing which, if the whole town was to be believed, was even more hazardous than his trip across the mountains infested with bandits.

In the country near D—— a man lived quite alone. This man, we will state at once, was a former member of the Convention. His name was G——

Member of the Convention, G—— was mentioned with a sort of horror in the little world of D—— A member of the Convention—can you imagine such a thing? That existed from the time when people called each other <i>thou</i>, and when they said “citizen.” This man was almost a monster. He had not voted for the death of the king, but almost. He was a quasi-regicide. He had been a terrible man. How did it happen that such a man had not been brought before a provost’s court, on the return of the legitimate princes? They need not have cut off his head, if you please; clemency must be exercised, agreed; but a good banishment for life. An example, in short, etc. Besides, he was an atheist, like all the rest of those people. Gossip of the geese about the vulture.

Was G—— a vulture after all? Yes; if he were to be judged by the element of ferocity in this solitude of his. As he had not voted for the death of the king, he had not been included in the decrees of exile, and had been able to remain in France.

He dwelt at a distance of three-quarters of an hour from the city, far from any hamlet, far from any road, in some hidden turn of a very wild valley, no one knew exactly where. He had there, it was said, a sort of field, a hole, a lair. There were no neighbors, not even passers-by. Since he had dwelt in that valley, the path which led thither had disappeared under a growth of grass. The locality was spoken of as though it had been the dwelling of a hangman.

Nevertheless, the Bishop meditated on the subject, and from time to time he gazed at the horizon at a point where a clump of trees marked the valley of the former member of the Convention, and he said, “There is a soul yonder which is lonely.”

And he added, deep in his own mind, “I owe him a visit.”

But, let us avow it, this idea, which seemed natural at the first blush, appeared to him after a moment’s reflection, as strange, impossible, and almost repulsive. For, at bottom, he shared the general impression, and the old member of the Convention inspired him, without his being clearly conscious of the fact himself, with that sentiment which borders on hate, and which is so well expressed by the word estrangement.

Still, should the scab of the sheep cause the shepherd to recoil? No. But what a sheep!

The good Bishop was perplexed. Sometimes he set out in that direction; then he returned.

Finally, the rumor one day spread through the town that a sort of young shepherd, who served the member of the Convention in his hovel, had come in quest of a doctor; that the old wretch was dying, that paralysis was gaining on him, and that he would not live over night.—“Thank God!” some added.

The Bishop took his staff, put on his cloak, on account of his too threadbare cassock, as we have mentioned, and because of the evening breeze which was sure to rise soon, and set out.

The sun was setting, and had almost touched the horizon when the Bishop arrived at the excommunicated spot. With a certain beating of the heart, he recognized the fact that he was near the lair. He strode over a ditch, leaped a hedge, made his way through a fence of dead boughs, entered a neglected paddock, took a few steps with a good deal of boldness, and suddenly, at the extremity of the waste land, and behind lofty brambles, he caught sight of the cavern.

It was a very low hut, poor, small, and clean, with a vine nailed against the outside.

Near the door, in an old wheel-chair, the armchair of the peasants, there was a white-haired man, smiling at the sun.

Near the seated man stood a young boy, the shepherd lad. He was offering the old man a jar of milk.

While the Bishop was watching him, the old man spoke: “Thank you,” he said, “I need nothing.” And his smile quitted the sun to rest upon the child.

The Bishop stepped forward. At the sound which he made in walking, the old man turned his head, and his face expressed the sum total of the surprise which a man can still feel after a long life.

“This is the first time since I have been here,” said he, “that any one has entered here. Who are you, sir?”

The Bishop answered:—

“My name is Bienvenu Myriel.”

“Bienvenu Myriel? I have heard that name. Are you the man whom the people call Monseigneur Welcome?”

“I am.”

The old man resumed with a half-smile

“In that case, you are my bishop?”

“Something of that sort.”

“Enter, sir.”

The member of the Convention extended his hand to the Bishop, but the Bishop did not take it. The Bishop confined himself to the remark:—

“I am pleased to see that I have been misinformed. You certainly do not seem to me to be ill.”

“Monsieur,” replied the old man, “I am going to recover.”

He paused, and then said:—

“I shall die three hours hence.”

Then he continued:—

“I am something of a doctor; I know in what fashion the last hour draws on. Yesterday, only my feet were cold; to-day, the chill has ascended to my knees; now I feel it mounting to my waist; when it reaches the heart, I shall stop. The sun is beautiful, is it not? I had myself wheeled out here to take a last look at things. You can talk to me; it does not fatigue me. You have done well to come and look at a man who is on the point of death. It is well that there should be witnesses at that moment. One has one’s caprices; I should have liked to last until the dawn, but I know that I shall hardly live three hours. It will be night then. What does it matter, after all? Dying is a simple affair. One has no need of the light for that. So be it. I shall die by starlight.”

The old man turned to the shepherd lad:—

“Go to thy bed; thou wert awake all last night; thou art tired.”

The child entered the hut.

The old man followed him with his eyes, and added, as though speaking to himself:—

“I shall die while he sleeps. The two slumbers may be good neighbors.”

The Bishop was not touched as it seems that he should have been. He did not think he discerned God in this manner of dying; let us say the whole, for these petty contradictions of great hearts must be indicated like the rest: he, who on occasion, was so fond of laughing at “His Grace,” was rather shocked at not being addressed as Monseigneur, and he was almost tempted to retort “citizen.” He was assailed by a fancy for peevish familiarity, common enough to doctors and priests, but which was not habitual with him. This man, after all, this member of the Convention, this representative of the people, had been one of the powerful ones of the earth; for the first time in his life, probably, the Bishop felt in a mood to be severe.

Meanwhile, the member of the Convention had been surveying him with a modest cordiality, in which one could have distinguished, possibly, that humility which is so fitting when one is on the verge of returning to dust.

The Bishop, on his side, although he generally restrained his curiosity, which, in his opinion, bordered on a fault, could not refrain from examining the member of the Convention with an attention which, as it did not have its course in sympathy, would have served his conscience as a matter of reproach, in connection with any other man. A member of the Convention produced on him somewhat the effect of being outside the pale of the law, even of the law of charity. G——, calm, his body almost upright, his voice vibrating, was one of those octogenarians who form the subject of astonishment to the physiologist. The Revolution had many of these men, proportioned to the epoch. In this old man one was conscious of a man put to the proof. Though so near to his end, he preserved all the gestures of health. In his clear glance, in his firm tone, in the robust movement of his shoulders, there was something calculated to disconcert death. Azrael, the Mohammedan angel of the sepulchre, would have turned back, and thought that he had mistaken the door. G—— seemed to be dying because he willed it so. There was freedom in his agony. His legs alone were motionless. It was there that the shadows held him fast. His feet were cold and dead, but his head survived with all the power of life, and seemed full of light. G——, at this solemn moment, resembled the king in that tale of the Orient who was flesh above and marble below.

There was a stone there. The Bishop sat down. The exordium was abrupt.

“I congratulate you,” said he, in the tone which one uses for a reprimand. “You did not vote for the death of the king, after all.”

The old member of the Convention did not appear to notice the bitter meaning underlying the words “after all.” He replied. The smile had quite disappeared from his face.

“Do not congratulate me too much, sir. I did vote for the death of the tyrant.”

It was the tone of austerity answering the tone of severity.

“What do you mean to say?” resumed the Bishop.

“I mean to say that man has a tyrant,—ignorance. I voted for the death of that tyrant. That tyrant engendered royalty, which is authority falsely understood, while science is authority rightly understood. Man should be governed only by science.”

“And conscience,” added the Bishop.

“It is the same thing. Conscience is the quantity of innate science which we have within us.”

Monseigneur Bienvenu listened in some astonishment to this language, which was very new to him.

The member of the Convention resumed:—

“So far as Louis XVI. was concerned, I said ‘no.’ I did not think that I had the right to kill a man; but I felt it my duty to exterminate evil. I voted the end of the tyrant, that is to say, the end of prostitution for woman, the end of slavery for man, the end of night for the child. In voting for the Republic, I voted for that. I voted for fraternity, concord, the dawn. I have aided in the overthrow of prejudices and errors. The crumbling away of prejudices and errors causes light. We have caused the fall of the old world, and the old world, that vase of miseries, has become, through its upsetting upon the human race, an urn of joy.”

“Mixed joy,” said the Bishop.

“You may say troubled joy, and to-day, after that fatal return of the past, which is called 1814, joy which has disappeared! Alas! The work was incomplete, I admit: we demolished the ancient regime in deeds; we were not able to suppress it entirely in ideas. To destroy abuses is not sufficient; customs must be modified. The mill is there no longer; the wind is still there.”

“You have demolished. It may be of use to demolish, but I distrust a demolition complicated with wrath.”

“Right has its wrath, Bishop; and the wrath of right is an element of progress. In any case, and in spite of whatever may be said, the French Revolution is the most important step of the human race since the advent of Christ. Incomplete, it may be, but sublime. It set free all the unknown social quantities; it softened spirits, it calmed, appeased, enlightened; it caused the waves of civilization to flow over the earth. It was a good thing. The French Revolution is the consecration of humanity.”

The Bishop could not refrain from murmuring:—

“Yes? ’93!”

The member of the Convention straightened himself up in his chair with an almost lugubrious solemnity, and exclaimed, so far as a dying man is capable of exclamation:—

“Ah, there you go; ’93! I was expecting that word. A cloud had been forming for the space of fifteen hundred years; at the end of fifteen hundred years it burst. You are putting the thunderbolt on its trial.”

The Bishop felt, without, perhaps, confessing it, that something within him had suffered extinction. Nevertheless, he put a good face on the matter. He replied:—

“The judge speaks in the name of justice; the priest speaks in the name of pity, which is nothing but a more lofty justice. A thunderbolt should commit no error.” And he added, regarding the member of the Convention steadily the while, “Louis XVII.?”

The conventionary stretched forth his hand and grasped the Bishop’s arm.

“Louis XVII.! let us see. For whom do you mourn? is it for the innocent child? very good; in that case I mourn with you. Is it for the royal child? I demand time for reflection. To me, the brother of Cartouche, an innocent child who was hung up by the armpits in the Place de Grève, until death ensued, for the sole crime of having been the brother of Cartouche, is no less painful than the grandson of Louis XV., an innocent child, martyred in the tower of the Temple, for the sole crime of having been grandson of Louis XV.”

“Monsieur,” said the Bishop, “I like not this conjunction of names.”

“Cartouche? Louis XV.? To which of the two do you object?”

A momentary silence ensued. The Bishop almost regretted having come, and yet he felt vaguely and strangely shaken.

The conventionary resumed:—

“Ah, Monsieur Priest, you love not the crudities of the true. Christ loved them. He seized a rod and cleared out the Temple. His scourge, full of lightnings, was a harsh speaker of truths. When he cried, <i>‘Sinite parvulos,’</i> he made no distinction between the little children. It would not have embarrassed him to bring together the Dauphin of Barabbas and the Dauphin of Herod. Innocence, Monsieur, is its own crown. Innocence has no need to be a highness. It is as august in rags as in fleurs de lys.”

“That is true,” said the Bishop in a low voice.

“I persist,” continued the conventionary G—— “You have mentioned Louis XVII. to me. Let us come to an understanding. Shall we weep for all the innocent, all martyrs, all children, the lowly as well as the exalted? I agree to that. But in that case, as I have told you, we must go back further than ’93, and our tears must begin before Louis XVII. I will weep with you over the children of kings, provided that you will weep with me over the children of the people.”

“I weep for all,” said the Bishop.

“Equally!” exclaimed conventionary G——; “and if the balance must incline, let it be on the side of the people. They have been suffering longer.”

Another silence ensued. The conventionary was the first to break it. He raised himself on one elbow, took a bit of his cheek between his thumb and his forefinger, as one does mechanically when one interrogates and judges, and appealed to the Bishop with a gaze full of all the forces of the death agony. It was almost an explosion.

“Yes, sir, the people have been suffering a long while. And hold! that is not all, either; why have you just questioned me and talked to me about Louis XVII.? I know you not. Ever since I have been in these parts I have dwelt in this enclosure alone, never setting foot outside, and seeing no one but that child who helps me. Your name has reached me in a confused manner, it is true, and very badly pronounced, I must admit; but that signifies nothing: clever men have so many ways of imposing on that honest goodman, the people. By the way, I did not hear the sound of your carriage; you have left it yonder, behind the coppice at the fork of the roads, no doubt. I do not know you, I tell you. You have told me that you are the Bishop; but that affords me no information as to your moral personality. In short, I repeat my question. Who are you? You are a bishop; that is to say, a prince of the church, one of those gilded men with heraldic bearings and revenues, who have vast prebends,—the bishopric of D—— fifteen thousand francs settled income, ten thousand in perquisites; total, twenty-five thousand francs,—who have kitchens, who have liveries, who make good cheer, who eat moor-hens on Friday, who strut about, a lackey before, a lackey behind, in a gala coach, and who have palaces, and who roll in their carriages in the name of Jesus Christ who went barefoot! You are a prelate,—revenues, palace, horses, servants, good table, all the sensualities of life; you have this like the rest, and like the rest, you enjoy it; it is well; but this says either too much or too little; this does not enlighten me upon the intrinsic and essential value of the man who comes with the probable intention of bringing wisdom to me. To whom do I speak? Who are you?”

The Bishop hung his head and replied, <i>“Vermis sum</i>—I am a worm.”

“A worm of the earth in a carriage?” growled the conventionary.

It was the conventionary’s turn to be arrogant, and the Bishop’s to be humble.

The Bishop resumed mildly:—

“So be it, sir. But explain to me how my carriage, which is a few paces off behind the trees yonder, how my good table and the moor-hens which I eat on Friday, how my twenty-five thousand francs income, how my palace and my lackeys prove that clemency is not a duty, and that ’93 was not inexorable.”

The conventionary passed his hand across his brow, as though to sweep away a cloud.

“Before replying to you,” he said, “I beseech you to pardon me. I have just committed a wrong, sir. You are at my house, you are my guest, I owe you courtesy. You discuss my ideas, and it becomes me to confine myself to combating your arguments. Your riches and your pleasures are advantages which I hold over you in the debate; but good taste dictates that I shall not make use of them. I promise you to make no use of them in the future.”

“I thank you,” said the Bishop.

G—— resumed.

“Let us return to the explanation which you have asked of me. Where were we? What were you saying to me? That ’93 was inexorable?”

“Inexorable; yes,” said the Bishop. “What think you of Marat clapping his hands at the guillotine?”

“What think you of Bossuet chanting the <i>Te Deum</i> over the dragonnades?”

The retort was a harsh one, but it attained its mark with the directness of a point of steel. The Bishop quivered under it; no reply occurred to him; but he was offended by this mode of alluding to Bossuet. The best of minds will have their fetiches, and they sometimes feel vaguely wounded by the want of respect of logic.

The conventionary began to pant; the asthma of the agony which is mingled with the last breaths interrupted his voice; still, there was a perfect lucidity of soul in his eyes. He went on:—

“Let me say a few words more in this and that direction; I am willing. Apart from the Revolution, which, taken as a whole, is an immense human affirmation, ’93 is, alas! a rejoinder. You think it inexorable, sir; but what of the whole monarchy, sir? Carrier is a bandit; but what name do you give to Montrevel? Fouquier-Tainville is a rascal; but what is your opinion as to Lamoignon-Bâville? Maillard is terrible; but Saulx-Tavannes, if you please? Duchêne senior is ferocious; but what epithet will you allow me for the elder Letellier? Jourdan-Coupe-Tetê is a monster; but not so great a one as M. the Marquis de Louvois. Sir, sir, I am sorry for Marie Antoinette, archduchess and queen; but I am also sorry for that poor Huguenot woman, who, in 1685, under Louis the Great, sir, while with a nursing infant, was bound, naked to the waist, to a stake, and the child kept at a distance; her breast swelled with milk and her heart with anguish; the little one, hungry and pale, beheld that breast and cried and agonized; the executioner said to the woman, a mother and a nurse, ‘Abjure!’ giving her her choice between the death of her infant and the death of her conscience. What say you to that torture of Tantalus as applied to a mother? Bear this well in mind sir: the French Revolution had its reasons for existence; its wrath will be absolved by the future; its result is the world made better. From its most terrible blows there comes forth a caress for the human race. I abridge, I stop, I have too much the advantage; moreover, I am dying.”

And ceasing to gaze at the Bishop, the conventionary concluded his thoughts in these tranquil words:—

“Yes, the brutalities of progress are called revolutions. When they are over, this fact is recognized,—that the human race has been treated harshly, but that it has progressed.”

The conventionary doubted not that he had successively conquered all the inmost intrenchments of the Bishop. One remained, however, and from this intrenchment, the last resource of Monseigneur Bienvenu’s resistance, came forth this reply, wherein appeared nearly all the harshness of the beginning:—

“Progress should believe in God. Good cannot have an impious servitor. He who is an atheist is but a bad leader for the human race.”

The former representative of the people made no reply. He was seized with a fit of trembling. He looked towards heaven, and in his glance a tear gathered slowly. When the eyelid was full, the tear trickled down his livid cheek, and he said, almost in a stammer, quite low, and to himself, while his eyes were plunged in the depths:—

“O thou! O ideal! Thou alone existest!”

The Bishop experienced an indescribable shock.

After a pause, the old man raised a finger heavenward and said:—

“The infinite is. He is there. If the infinite had no person, person would be without limit; it would not be infinite; in other words, it would not exist. There is, then, an <i>I</i>. That <i>I</i> of the infinite is God.”

The dying man had pronounced these last words in a loud voice, and with the shiver of ecstasy, as though he beheld some one. When he had spoken, his eyes closed. The effort had exhausted him. It was evident that he had just lived through in a moment the few hours which had been left to him. That which he had said brought him nearer to him who is in death. The supreme moment was approaching.

The Bishop understood this; time pressed; it was as a priest that he had come: from extreme coldness he had passed by degrees to extreme emotion; he gazed at those closed eyes, he took that wrinkled, aged and ice-cold hand in his, and bent over the dying man.

“This hour is the hour of God. Do you not think that it would be regrettable if we had met in vain?”

The conventionary opened his eyes again. A gravity mingled with gloom was imprinted on his countenance.

“Bishop,” said he, with a slowness which probably arose more from his dignity of soul than from the failing of his strength, “I have passed my life in meditation, study, and contemplation. I was sixty years of age when my country called me and commanded me to concern myself with its affairs. I obeyed. Abuses existed, I combated them; tyrannies existed, I destroyed them; rights and principles existed, I proclaimed and confessed them. Our territory was invaded, I defended it; France was menaced, I offered my breast. I was not rich; I am poor. I have been one of the masters of the state; the vaults of the treasury were encumbered with specie to such a degree that we were forced to shore up the walls, which were on the point of bursting beneath the weight of gold and silver; I dined in Dead Tree Street, at twenty-two sous. I have succored the oppressed, I have comforted the suffering. I tore the cloth from the altar, it is true; but it was to bind up the wounds of my country. I have always upheld the march forward of the human race, forward towards the light, and I have sometimes resisted progress without pity. I have, when the occasion offered, protected my own adversaries, men of your profession. And there is at Peteghem, in Flanders, at the very spot where the Merovingian kings had their summer palace, a convent of Urbanists, the Abbey of Sainte Claire en Beaulieu, which I saved in 1793. I have done my duty according to my powers, and all the good that I was able. After which, I was hunted down, pursued, persecuted, blackened, jeered at, scorned, cursed, proscribed. For many years past, I with my white hair have been conscious that many people think they have the right to despise me; to the poor ignorant masses I present the visage of one damned. And I accept this isolation of hatred, without hating any one myself. Now I am eighty-six years old; I am on the point of death. What is it that you have come to ask of me?”

<i>“Your blessing,”</i> said the Bishop.

And he knelt down.

When the Bishop raised his head again, the face of the conventionary had become august. He had just expired.

The Bishop returned home, deeply absorbed in thoughts which cannot be known to us. He passed the whole night in prayer. On the following morning some bold and curious persons attempted to speak to him about member of the Convention G——; he contented himself with pointing heavenward.

From that moment he redoubled his tenderness and brotherly feeling towards all children and sufferers.

Any allusion to “that old wretch of a G——” caused him to fall into a singular preoccupation. No one could say that the passage of that soul before his, and the reflection of that grand conscience upon his, did not count for something in his approach to perfection.

This “pastoral visit” naturally furnished an occasion for a murmur of comment in all the little local coteries.

“Was the bedside of such a dying man as that the proper place for a bishop? There was evidently no conversion to be expected. All those revolutionists are backsliders. Then why go there? What was there to be seen there? He must have been very curious indeed to see a soul carried off by the devil.”

One day a dowager of the impertinent variety who thinks herself spiritual, addressed this sally to him, “Monseigneur, people are inquiring when Your Greatness will receive the red cap!”—“Oh! oh! that’s a coarse color,” replied the Bishop. “It is lucky that those who despise it in a cap revere it in a hat.”