#footnotes on foes

[dailyadventureprompts]

do you have anything on the Neogi?

Coincidentally this ask came in around the same time as I'd watched the above video and had a lot of disagreements with it (in addition to being annoyed out of my brain by the editing style).

In my opinion: the Neogi are actually a great villain monster because in their role as merchants/slavers of the cosmos they embody the most monstrous aspects of capitalism IE the willingness to reduce other living things into commodities for the sake of self enrichment.

Several lore entries on the Neogi refer to their mindset as "utterly alien" because they see all life as property. This makes me laugh because all you have to do is spend any time around Anarcho-capitalists and you'll hear people who are so far up their own profit-driven-asses that they'll not only defend the property rights of slave holders, but the "rights" of impoverished people to sell themselves and their families into slavery.

We live in a world today where people who need medicine that costs pennies to make have to go into life-ruining debt in order to afford living another month, year, etc. None of us are truly free when all of us need water, food, shelter, and yet all of these things cost money, forcing us to work to continue our existence. In this way, you can see the funhouse mirror logic of Neogi thinking it's reasonable to use magical compulsion to force others to do their bidding. What's the difference between the Spider-merchants using their mindbeams to force someone into indenture, and a grain merchant who jacks up their prices during a famine? It's just good business, and at least the Neogi are honest about it.

Conversely, their position as merchants puts them in an interesting place in the monstrous rogue's gallery. Unlike most other enemies the party is going to fight, the Neogi are willing to cut a deal. You could probably pay them to stop their villainous plan, or even outright help the heroes... it's all just a matter of whether or not the party is capable of meeting their price ( materially or ethically). Failing that, they can just show up as sketchy merchants provided you avoid any and all comparisons to Watto

They also have great utility in causing other adventures to happen, whether it be in transporting strange creatures that will inevitably escape, or kidnapping the party to sell off on a hostile world.

While I'm at it, check out my take on umberhulks, the default Neogi henchman.

[resplendent-ragamuffin]

Six Months Since

By Shoshana bat-Yehonatan

A poem for the six (Hebrew) month anniversary of the Simchat Torah Massacre. With thanks to the JPS, Koren, Metsudah, and other translations on Sefaria.org. Footnotes link to sources of quotes. Footnotes connect to sources which will be in reblog, because otherwise it's too long to post.

TW: RAPE

Six months has it been

Since the fields turned red without flowers

Now calaniot bloom where once my darlings danced

But still, my precious ones are gone.

I have no prophets to comfort me

No visions from God [1]

My king remains in exile [2]

How can I sing a song of God on alien soil [3]

In an alien tongue?

Yet I have been too long a stranger in a land not mine[4]—

Two thousand years, to a paltry hundred and twenty—

And I forgotten even how to speak the Holy Tongue

Let alone write in it.

I have neither wit nor words to sing my grief.

And so I turn to those before me

As they turned to those before them

And say,

“God, open my lips, and let my mouth declare my grief.” [5]

Oholiva cries [6]

And Ohola wails [7]

This year was pregnant[8] with a second month of joy

Instead she wails in travails unending

“When will my children return?” [9]

Oh wall of Fair Zion [10]

Shed tears like a river [11]

Cry out in the night and pour your heart out like water [12]

Rachel’s eyes are red as her sister’s [13]

As she weeps over the fate of her children [14]

Six months it has been

Since they ravaged women in Zion [15]

Maidens in the towns of Judea [16]

Since their hands tore my princes apart

No deference shown to elders [17]

On this day six months ago

My infants were taken captive before the enemy [18]

The joy of our hearts was seized

And our dancing turned to mourning [19]

For the youths are gone from their music [20].

Now my eyes shed rivers of water [21]

Over the ruin of my people’s daughter [22]

Bitterly I weep in the night [23]

My cheeks wet with tears [24]

There is none to comfort me: my friends have betrayed me [25]

I cry:

Behold my agony! [26]

My priests and my elders have perished in the city [27]

The elders strewn like dust on the ground [28]

Those whom I dandled and reared my foe has consumed [29]

“This is the day we hoped for! We have found it, we have seen it!” [30]

My maidens and youths have gone into captivity! [31]

“It is your doing.” [32]

Blood on her legs, her nakedness seen, [33]

Zion reaches out for comfort [34]--

“Away! Unclean!” [35]

She can only shrink back and sigh [36]

“May it never befall you.” [37]

The nations have resolved “They shall stay here no longer” [38]

We wander and wander [39]

But where are we to go?

How can I bear to see the destruction of my kindred? [40]

“My life as my wish, my people as my request,” [41]

I begged my Husband [42]

“For we have been targeted, my people and I, to be destroyed, massacred, and exterminated.” [43]

But the King turned His face from me.

My dear ones were purer than snow [44]

Ruddier than rubies or coral [45]

Their bodies lovely as sapphire [46]

Now their faces are darkened with ash [47]

Unrecognizable amid the ruin of the streets [48]

See, God, and behold to whom You have done this! [49]

Look at me, answer me, Oh God! [50]

How long will You hide Your face from me? [51]

I have no prophets now to comfort me

And must take my comfort from those before:

You promised “God will restore your captives.” [52]

Return them, God, and let them come back [53]

Renew our days as of old. [54]

[ardafanonarch]

Wait, so like, does Fingolfin's son Argon exist or not?

The Argon Element

He does! Christopher Tolkien tells us (though regrettably does not show us) that his name first appeared in a genealogical table of the House of Finwë dating to 1959, which Tolkien was still revising in 1968 when he wrote the 'Shibboleth of Fëanor'.* It is in that essay that Argon's story appears, in the "excursus on the names of the descendants of Finwë":

Arakáno was the tallest of the brothers and the most impetuous, but his name was never changed to Sindarin form, for he perished in the first battle of Fingolfin's host with the Orks, the Battle of the Lammoth (but the Sindarin form Argon was often later given as a name by Noldor and Sindar in memory of his valour).

A footnote on this passage reveals more about him. (This is also the only mention in Tolkien's published writings of the Battle of Lammoth.)

When the onset of the Orks caught the host at unawares as they marched southwards and the ranks of the Eldar were giving way, [Argon] sprang forward and hewed a path through the foes, daunted by his stature and the terrible light of his eyes, till he came to the Ork-captain and felled him. Then though he himself was surrounded and slain, the Orks were dismayed, and the Noldor pursued them with slaughter.

But his death at Lammoth was not the only fate Tolkien considered for this short-lived (on multiple levels) character. Christopher Tolkien comments (note 38):

[The third son of Fingolfin, Arakáno (Argon), emerged in the course of the making of the genealogies. A pencilled note on the last of the four tables says that he fell in the fighting at Alqualondë; this was struck out, and my father noted that a preferable story was that he perished in the Ice. It is curious that this third son, of whom there had never before been any mention, entered (as it seems) without a story, and the manner of his death was twice changed before the remarkable appearance here of 'the first battle of Fingolfin's host with the Orks, the Battle of the Lammoth', in which he fell. In the account in the Grey Annals (XI.30) Fingolfin, after the passage of the Helkaraxë, 'marched from the North unopposed through the fastness of the realm of Morgoth, and he passed over Dor-Daedeloth, and his foes hid beneath the earth'; whereas in the present note his host was attacked in Lammoth 'at unawares as they marched southwards'.]

Confusingly, in the same essay Arakáno ('high chieftain') is said to be the mothername given by Indis to Fingolfin. It's not clear if Tolkien intended for Fingolfin and his youngest child to share a name or if he was simply throwing names at the wall to see what would stick.

What are you thoughts on Argon? Did he exist? How do his existence and tragic fate change how you think about the characters closest to him? Any wild Argon headcanons? And most importantly, how do you feel about him being taller than Turgon?

*The 'Shibboleth' is published in The History of Middle-earth Vol. 12: The Peoples of Middle-earth.

[sinelanguage]

38. multiverse/alt self

Reiju knew to expect something off. A simple footnote in her mission file warned her about this possibility. Expect visions of other realities. Likely Devil Fruit user. Can cause lasting damage, prepare for powerful foes. She hadn’t asked any additional questions on the matter; any question would run the risk of being read as fear, so she’s learned to handle her concerns privately. 

So instead, she’d prepared to run into a version of herself. That in itself wasn’t hard; antidotes, disguises, and the like should be enough to handle herself. At her worst, she expected to deal with a worse version of Niji; emotionless and cruel but clever enough to punish her in interesting ways. 

She certainly hadn’t expected this. 

“You’ve been looking at the menu for quite some time, ma’am,” says a version of herself. Her bright pink hair is the same, as are the eyebrows. It’s definitely Reiju herself, as shocking as it is to see herself dressed as a simple waitress. “Do you have questions about anything? Would you like to start with an appetizer, a drink?”

The only preparation that’s been helpful has been her disguise. The alternate Reiju is regarding her like she would any other customer, apparently, with sweet politeness and fraying patience. Her smile is strained, and her eyes keep darting back to the kitchens.

“Oh, I’ll have whatever you recommend,” Reiju says with a smile, pushing her menu across the table. “The chef’s special.”

Alternate Reiju’s eyebrow twitches, emotions plain and unexpected on her face for just a moment. “I see,” she says slowly, like she’s getting a handle on herself. “Thanks for taking both of our precious time to come to that conclusion. I’ll let the chef know.”

Then, she snatches up the menu and turns back to the kitchen, her heels clicking loudly on the floor as she does. 

She’s irritable and impatient, her own mask failing easily like she's never learned to properly maintain it. Reiju tries to place her age– maybe seventeen at best. She’s always been much better at shielding her reactions, though, even as a child. This version of herself is oddly easy to read, considerably less on guard than she should be. 

How strange. 

Reiju only stopped at this restaurant to collect some intel unrelated to the potential Devil Fruit user and their alternate reality powers, but she seems to have walked straight into the vision itself. She watches herself take orders from nearby tables, and she watches as her polite, masked expression falters just a little, each and every time. 

She’s never faltered like that herself; she hasn’t been given the chance to. And yet here alternate Reiju is, showing her emotions at the mere irritation of customers. Like her only worries these days are irritating customers, rather than– well, rather than acting as the perfect, cruel crown princess of Germa.

Reiju had prepared for a monster, but instead, she’s faced with a girl. 

A girl who is shrinking on her job. Reiju watches as her alternate self keeps favoring going back to one table in particular, a group of young Marine recruits. There’s one of them she keeps picking on in particular, seeming to delight in riling her up until her face is red and her glasses falling off her face. 

It takes a yell from the kitchen for her to move, and she walks away with a self-satisfied smug grin that only fades when she hurries back to the kitchen for another order. 

Her alternate self is happy, Reiju realizes. Despite the annoyance at acting as a waitress, she’s unguarded in a way that Reiju herself never is. There’s a light laugh from the kitchens, when Reiju barely recognizes as her own, the sound being so unfamiliar to her. 

It’s almost like looking at an entirely different person. If it weren’t for the bright pink hair and recognizable eyebrows, Reiju wouldn’t even recognize herself. Is this what she’d be like, if she hadn’t been raised in Germa? 

She can’t help but frown. Seeing herself with a chance is worse than seeing herself as a monster. Reiju would have much rather fought someone with the disposition of her brothers, at least that would be satisfying.

Instead, she’s left feeling completely carved out; she’s watching a better version of herself lead a life she hadn’t ever thought about ever having. 

She's long since accepted her lot in life; to a vision of something else playing out in front of her like this is cruel.

After considerably longer than expected, alternate Reiju arrives with her chef’s special. It’s a warm stew, something that her own mother would have made when Reiju was much younger. It so strongly resembles it that Reiju has a bad idea that she knows who’s in the kitchen. 

She doesn’t want to see. She doesn’t want to confirm it.

“Oh, I haven’t had a dish like this since I was in the North Blue,” Reiju says. “Are you and the chef from there?”

There’s a flicker of something more recognizable on alternate Reiju’s face; fear. Now that’s finally familiar. 

“No, the chef’s not from the North Blue,” she says. “We're from–” Her alternate self pauses, hands fidgeting on the table. “Not the North Blue.”

Lying is a skill this Reiju has never had to practice. It makes her unexpectedly jealous.

“That’s a shame,” Reiju says. She pauses, watching her alternate self freeze up. “Could you give me compliments to the chef, regardless?”

“Of course,” she says in a rush. Fear still marks her expression, looking Reiju up and down. “I’ll– I’ll go inform the chef. Enjoy your meal.”

Then, she scurries away, her heels clattering as she does. 

The dish is filling, but Reiju can’t bring herself to finish it. There’s a life she needs to go back to, one that is considerably less kind. If this vision isn’t going to be a threat, she needs to cut this short. 

And, if she's honest with herself, she needs to cut this short before she's attempted to take a page out of her alternate self's book.

Picking herself up, she leaves a bundle of Berri on the table, pushes her chair in, and walks out without confirming any more information on the life she could’ve had.

[allyofavonlea]

Perhaps it is always restful to be around someone who does not expect anything from you beyond what is in your nature.

Emily Wilde’s Encyclopaedia of Faeries

by Heather Fawcett

★★★★★

A comforting, romantic, winter adventure reminiscent of Lady Cottington’s Pressed Fairy Album… but BETTER.

We follow gloriously curmudgeon Miss Emily Wilde, faerie scholar extraordinaire, as she fastidiously researches the fae in the remote village of Ljosland. Along with her trusty dog companion, Shadow, whose every scene brings a smile to the face, and her curiously charming friend Wendell Bambleby (who sends her drawings he’s done of her!!! So cute!!!) during countless treks through the magical wilderness, encountering all sorts of fae friend and foe.

I cannot recommend this enough for a winter read, as this book brings the same feelings of being swaddled in hundreds of blankets, just as Wendell loves to be. The characters are lovable and memorable, from the townspeople to Emily and Wendell themselves. You can’t help feel a rosy glow of happiness reading the exchanges between these two, and the ever-present love that exists between them.

The story is told in the form of journal entries with countless footnotes about other faerie related scholarship that brings such a gorgeous touch to the book. Appeals to both the inner child and the inner romantic, and to anyone who wishes for a wintry adventure along with a nice cup of tea.

I cannot wait for the sequel to be out this upcoming January!!

[thevindicativevordan]

I don't think I've seen you talk about him but what are your thoughts on Captain America (Steve Rodgers)? Seems for all of Marvel's various Superman expies, he's the one most fans from what I've seen will say is Marvel's equivalent to Superman.

Spider-Man is the real Marvel equivalent while Hulk is the real Marvel contrast, which is probably why I've never been too enamored with Cap. He's a fine enough character but never one I've considered myself a devoted fan of.

Don't get me wrong, Cap has loads of excellent comics, including the oft cited Brubaker run. No doubt in my mind he has a much higher stack of quality comics than Iron Man does. Other than wearing a red and blue costume and being seen as the moral paragon however, he and Superman don't have much in common. Superman is a superpowered alien whose heritage is foundational to who he is. Cap is a superpowered human whose immigrant heritage is frankly little more than a footnote. You could easily make Steve the descendant of Pilgrims and it wouldn't change much. All that matters is that Steve Rogers was a weak, sickly kid who was pure of heart and embodied the best of America's ideals, with the Serum giving him the body to match his spirit. Defining what those ideals actually are is totally subjective and arbitrary because America itself is an inconsistent bag of hypocrisy.

Another feature of Cap's character is that at heart, he is a war comics protagonist. Even when his "wars" are set in the present, they always tie back to the events of the 20th century. If Superman is about the hopes and fears of the future, as befitting the Man of Tomorrow, Cap is about the sins of the past returning to haunt us, as befitting the Man Out Of Time. His greatest foe is fascism's counter-icon, the Red Skull. America's 20th century conflicts with Nazi Germany and Soviet Russia form the ideological foundation for most of the foes Cap fights against. Lex Luthor might have fascist elements, but he is not an outspoken proponent of fascism in the way that Skull is. There's no avoiding that America as a nation and a concept is central to Steve in a way it isn't for Clark. Steve's relationship with America - including it's past and present actions good and bad - is the central component of his character, whereas for Superman it's his relationship or lack thereof with Krypton.

Even as a contrast I don't think Supes is the best DC character to pair with Cap. Oddly enough, Batman is the better choice:

Steve and Bruce were both orphaned at a young age, but Bruce had money whereas Steve grew up in poverty. Bruce is a WASP whose roots stretch back to America's founding, whereas Steve is the son of Irish Catholic immigrants. Batman is the dark and cynical one who never kills, where Captain America is the bright and optimistic one who sometimes does. They both lost partners who returned as antagonists. They both are master tacticians, fighters, and leaders who transformed themselves into the peak of human perfection in order to win a war. Tellingly it's Batman with whom Steve shares a moment of empathy in the JLA/Avengers crossover, and I believe there's more to be mined from comparing and contrasting these two.

Short version? Interesting enough character, not one of my favs.

[fjorn-the-skald]

Harald Fairhair: Unification and Cultural Migration

This post was originally delivered as a virtual lecture to the New York Ancient Cultures MeetUp on September 20th, 2020. It was a group effort between myself (fjörn) and Joshua Gillingham (author of The Gatewatch). Below is the transcript I used while giving my portion of the talk. As such, I don’t have any footnotes, so I must apologize for my past neglect. I may return to add what I can, but for now I ask that you have trust in my own academic background.

Historical Sources

Poetic Propaganda?

Contemporary evidence about King Harald Fairhair, from the late-9th century, comes from his entourage of poets, who were called skáld in Old Norse. In the words of Bruce Lincoln, who wrote a wonderful (but somewhat expensive) book on this subject, they were his “propaganda corps.” But to speak of them with those terms alone would be an injustice, I think, to their actual reputation in Norse society, because they weren’t actually just hired goons spreading misleading information. Their craft actually required incredible skill, as Joshua will soon tell, and the importance of words, especially when skillfully sown, in shaping reputations cannot be understated.

The key to power and prestige in the medieval north was, more or less, a matter of public perception. This meant that poetry was a precious commodity in Norse society, because it could either enhance a person’s reputation or utterly destroy it. For instance, a skald might praise a person’s valor in battle, claiming that they had Odin’s blessing for victory and slew many of their foes without breaking a sweat. The result would be an image of a courageous warrior who ought not be lightly challenged. Yet, a skald could also slander a person, asserting that they were bested by their foe in an embarrassing or shameful way. This would therefore have the opposite effect, painting their foe as the heroic leader instead.

What made their poetry even more significant, though, was its connection to a specific occasion. Skalds acted as supposedly first-hand witnesses to great events, and it was part of their job to relay those events for others to hear. The results partially depended, rather cynically, upon who was giving them more coin—but also to protect themselves from potentially life-threatening wrath. Skalds thus recorded historical events, but often colored them to best suit their patrons. In other words, their poetry was less about recording history as an unbiased, uninvolved party, but rather about influencing public memory about an event and thus shaping the perception of the people it concerned. 

[. . .]

☞ Continue reading (6,534 words / 35 minutes reading time) at fjorntheskald.com

[dubiousduskwight]

Day 1: Steer

When he was a kid and things had been better, Rorogino’s mother had made a point of telling bedtime stories to he and his siblings in that fraction of years when they were young enough to demand and be enthralled by such moments. She never told them anything of Sharlayan origin; after the first few attempts, the attitude among the Papagino family was that stories should be about more than excelling at schoolwork and certainly shouldn’t require footnotes. Instead, they settled on the kind of insomnia-inducing Gridanian beditme story about clever boys and girls coming upon wildlings and witches in the woods. Though menaced by dark magics and a dangerous forest, quick wits let them bargain with their foes and good hearts let them get what they wanted while skirting the consequences and reach their happy ending.

At the time, he’d loved those stories. Twenty years, one expulsion, and two major changes in life circumstances later, and he was now of the opinion that the kids in those tales were a pack of worthless ingrates.

“You’re asking too much,” Emyr said. Rorogino wasn’t looking at him, focused on comparing the small cameo portrait he held in one hand and sketching out its likeness across canvas with a cheap piece of charcoal in the other, but he could hear the quiver in the man’s voice, and guessed that his hands trembled in his lap. It wasn’t fear in Emyr’s tone, he was certain of that.

“I’m asking exactly what I said I’d ask, what we agreed on, what you paid for.” He squinted at the cameo, taking in the details of a handsome-looking elezen, with strong ears, sharp nose, and a warm and friendly expression, even with a set mouth, that one didn’t often see in miniature. Granted, his chin was a bit on the absent side, but perhaps the artist had missed a detail somewhere. He was somebody that almost certainly wouldn’t be seen anywhere near Emyr’s scraggly ass in any other circumstance. “Do you want it or not?” “I do!” Emyr looked up from his hands in protest, trying to catch Rorogino’s gaze. “But I can’t even get close enough to converse, most days, just a few scant words, and he’s always got his staff, they’re watching – I don’t think I can get it, Gino, not this time.”

Heaving a heavy and deep sigh, Rorogino put his charcoal away, set the cameo where it would fit on the tiny stand that he kept near his canvas, and rubbed his broad forehead. He swivelled in his stool, which gave a loud squeak in protest, and looked up at Emyr, scrutinizing him with bright blue eyes. There wasn’t much worthwhile about the man except his net worth: His father had done well in copper speculation and landed them comfortably in the middle tier of the Monetarists, and Emyr was content to live on the family wealth and waste it to the best of his ability. His hands shook, his eyes were constantly bloodshot, his voice had a quality not unlike that of a frightened shrew, and his chin and cheeks seemed scarred from a disease in his youth. Fortunately, his personality was repellent to compensate. Rorogino had no doubt he would do well in an unhappy marriage in his distant future, and wished he could deal with that version of Emyr instead of this one.

Nevertheless, this was the version that had paid him half up-front, as prompted, and he would very much like to have the other half in his possession, thank you very much. Aetherially-conductive paints were expensive in the best of times.

“Tell me about his eyes.” The prompt made Emyr blink in surprise, his eyes shining and watery enough to drop a tear.

“What?”

“His eyes, tell me about them. The cameo’s too small,” He lied, “And all I can see are a couple of black dots.”

“Yes, well. They’re a sort of a brown, but not so dark as that. Leaning into amber.” As Emyr spoke, Rorogino watched the man’s hands where they lay in his lap, trembling. “They’re warm,” he said. “Like the rest of his face. And kind. When he told me ‘mind the stairs’ in the ballroom, it felt like my minding them was the only thing that mattered to him. And when he asked for a glass of water?” The trembling had stilled. “The way they squinted around the edges, little wrinkles in the skin like he is wiser than his age. I wish I could show you, Gino.” “Thanks, but I get the picture. I can work out the rest. Now.” Placing his hands on his knees, Gino kept looking straight ahead, only tilting his eyes upwards. “You want those eyes looking at you and nobody else? That’s what you want, right? That’s what you asked for when you came here. That still true?” “Yes,” There was that quiver in his voice again – not fear, but a desperation, that he might not be desired.

“Then get me his godsdamned eyelash. Pigment won’t make itself. And don’t come back until you do.” With another horrible squeak, Rorogino turned back to his canvas. Emyr could see himself out, and, seeing him rise from his chair out of the corner of his eye, was satisfied that he’d do so.

He picked up the cameo again, squinting at the expression in the elezen’s face. Emyr had certainly gotten the color right, but they didn’t seem so warm to Gino. Then again, he’d said the same thing about the last two commissions as well. He was always after warmth. One of these days, one of these men would actually have it.

“Ingrates,” he muttered to himself, thinking back to the old stories. They always got their boon from people like Gino with clever wits and good hearts. One of these days, he thought, he might get a patron with either quality.

[nitroglycerin-flavored-coffee]

His Blue Serge Chapter 2:

Alastor was impressed. That seemed to be happening a lot lately. This little Demon Belle, her determination, her will.

Her power.

The princess had taken control of their deal. In making deals, usually only one person holds the contract. If you were to ask dear old Husker the specifics of his deal, he would surely be able to tell you the gist of it, how he had fallen to the Radio Demons' misconstrued offer of ‘help’. If you were to ask Alastor, well he could pull out the signed contract composed of his magic and read off every little footnote, details of the initial encounter listed there, even footnotes about how body language can be interpreted as consent for certain aspects of the deal not quite spoken out loud. It was all there, recorded thanks to the magic that comes with making deals.

But Charlie, oh Charlie! She had gripped his hand, and by simple willpower, split the power of the deal between them. Due to the switch-up of power, there was no physical manifestation of the deal, no contract that could be manifested, just the bond of their spoken word. That may make things more difficult for Alastor later on when he would choose to cash in his favor, but he was not deterred by the risks that insinuated.

No, he was simply overjoyed at the display of power. Charlie would be a truly formidable foe if she chose to make herself one. Luckily, Alastor planned to keep her on his good side for quite a while longer. Oh, how could he not when she proved to be just too entertaining? Even Rosie was able to see the potential just under the surface of the princess's kind demeanor, and Dearest Rosie was quite the judge of character.

Though since the battle, the dear princess seemed to be gloomy. She wasn't going so far as to lock herself in her room again, but it was very clear that the Doll would make herself scarce at the sight of a particular winged gal. He took notice one day when the main staff was gathered together, working the logistics of some of the cannibal colony staying after the battle had concluded. Apparently, Charlie had charmed them so well they’d like to stick around!

The short stack of a king wasn’t around, not used to being around so many people for extended periods. He had locked himself away in his suite, luckily on the other side of the hotel as the Radio Tower in which Alastor resided. He listened into the meeting taking place a few stories down through a hidden shadow.

Angel had excused himself, after a call from Valentino in which the moth claimed to be struck by inspiration, and needed the spider fella for an impromptu shoot. Husker was passed out at the coffee table, in this little lounge where they had originally gathered for the meeting.

Nifty had scurried off, chasing a bug that had landed on the window sill from outside. This was a pest-free house and she damn well intended to keep it that way. No one was particularly worried when this endeavor ended up with her physically leaving the window to chase the bug up the side of the building.

And that left the Darling Princess and her former lover. And the Shadow that lurked where no one knew of its presence, quietly listening in for the Radio Demon. He often felt inclined to tune in for the meetings they had, even if he didn’t feel the need to be there to contribute.

Vaggie had stopped trying to wake up Husker when she realized that this was probably the first time she and Charlie were ‘Left Alone’ since before the battle. Charlie noticed a beat after her and quickly scrambled to her feet, gathering up the papers and crayons that she could, some being trapped under Husker's prone form.

“Well, I guess let's call it there for today. See you guys later.” The princess said to the room, not addressing Vaggie despite her being the only one in the room who would probably hear her. To her knowledge that is. Alastor smirked, still glad to have the occasional upper hand over his colleagues. Relaxing back into his plush chair and lifting his coffee mug to his face, he listened in to what he hoped would be an embarrassing stumble on the angel's part.

“Wait, Charlie-” there it was. “I really think we should talk.” Oh, how delicious. This should be absolutely heart-wrenching for the two.

“Now really isn’t a good time Vaggie. I have paperwork to do.” The princess was rubbing her forehead beneath her short horns, trying to smooth out the stress lines forming there. “Maybe later.” She left no room for discussion as she walked towards the door, hoping to flee to her own little part of the hotel, where Dazzle was surely waiting for her. She stopped, stepping back when she saw Vaggie blocking the path with an outstretched wing.

The grey-pallor woman looked more ashen than usual as she breathed out a plea. “It’s been weeks.” Alastor could hear the quiver in her voice. “We need to talk.”

Charlie lightly stomped her hoof in irritation, holding her papers closer to her chest. “And I said not now . So, if you’ll excuse me.” She went to walk around the wing but it strained further as Vaggie pushed herself in between the Princess and the exit.

“Charlie, please. You haven’t even let me explain-” The angel was quickly cut off.

“I have heard plenty. I have heard your tale when you told Angel in the lobby; explained it to Nifty over and over every time she asked; when you sent Husk after me as an unwilling middleman.” Tears came to the princess's eyes, carrying a bloody sclera with them.” I have heard what you have to say, and it doesn’t change the fact that you lied. I am done. I am over it. I am moving on.”

She attempted again to walk past the outstretched wing, but this time, since it could stretch no farther, Vaggie pushed herself in the way. “Charlie-”

“I said,” The princess's black-tipped nails turned into claws, “Leave me alone.”

It wasn’t so much as a roar, as a low growl. But the power of it sent a burst of magic through the room. Invisible as it was, it knocked Vaggie over to the side and out of the way, poor Husker off the table and out of his nap, and even dispersed the lurking shades. Much to the surprise of Alastor.

He jolted up from his chair, dropping his coffee mug as he felt winded. His shadow crawled up from him, looking just as confused as his counterpart. Now what under Hell’s red skies was that?

Ever the curious cat, Alastor found his way through the shadows to a hall nearby, that may just happen to be on Charlie's way to her room. He could feel that it was her magic that had dispelled him, so clearly she was the one to approach for information. He casually made his way in the right direction, humming a sickly sweet tune to himself as he practically waltzed right into the crying princess.

“Oh! Why Charlie, Dear! I didn’t see you there! How did the-” Alastor stopped himself. He was never at a loss for words, but they seemed to flee as he looked down at the poor doll he had knocked over. As expected, she had tears of frustration in her eyes, but less expected was the torn sheets of paper in her clutches, held tightly under extended claws, her palms swollen and blackened. He had noted that the little horns were now an ever-present feature upon her head, but he noticed the way they seemed shifted to red as they extended past her bangs. She glared up at him- the gall of this gal! And stubbornly pushed herself right back up. “Well dear, you look a mess. What is that all about?” He asked, ignoring her razor-sharp claws and taking the ripped sheets from her grasp.

Alastor looked over the now hardly legible sheets- just a shame, too. Charlie, even though she used crayons of all things to scribe with, had such neat handwriting. Charlie gawked at him and moved as if to take the pages back, but seeing the black engulfing her forearms, resolved to tuck her hands under her armpits and glare once more.

“As if you don’t know.” Her glare turned into more of a pout and she moved around the taller demon and marched towards her room.

Alastor raised an eyebrow at her, stuffing the torn sheets into his lapel as he moved to follow her. “How would I know why you are missing that beautiful smile of yours? I am just now coming downstairs.” The demoness's claws seemed to shrink as she took deep breaths, but the discoloration had yet to recede. Alastor mistook this as her feeling guilt for throwing accusations at him but was immediately corrected.

Charlie turned to him, her arms still crossed to (poorly) hide her still receding claws. “You can sit in in the meetings you know. It might be nice to have your input every now and then as a partner of the hotel.” She scoffed and blew a chunk of hair over her horn. “Unless your shadows can talk and not just listen.”

He worked very hard not to let the surprise show on his face. So the Princess could sense his shadows now? Or had she always been able to and had just not said anything until now? Nevertheless, he took the new information in stride.

“If I feel I have input, I will certainly give it.” He fixed the piece of hair that Charlie was still blowing at, refusing to move her hands out from where she hid them. Once it was tucked decently to the side, Alastor made a show of getting in her space. He leaned in close, ignoring the way her red eyes almost faded into her sclera. The Princess valued truth, so he would give it. “While my shadows are decent for listening in to keep me filled in on important matters, they are not great for showing what is actually happening.”

Alastor produced his radio staff- or at least the top half of it. He had been unable to repair it after his scuffle with that loud angel fellow, but he could still hear his broadcasts from the head of it if it was at the right angle. He held it up to Charlie as if that explained everything. Finally, the red faded from her sclera, as her horns receded into her head until they were barely poking up at her bangs. The taller demon smiled down at her as she shook out her palms, the black finally receding to the tips of her fingers once more as she sighed in relief.

“There we are! You really mustn’t work yourself up so, Darling.” After brushing her cheek with the back of his own clawed hand, he moved further down the hallway. Holding the broken staff behind him as he walked, he led the way to another sitting room which would hopefully be empty. He considered for a moment just going to the princess's room, but as much as he loved irritating her, he was wary of her on-edge mood.

Charlie sighed and followed him, making his smile grow wider as he heard the steps echo his own. He took comfort in being in control of the situation, the location of discussion, and now even the Princess's mood. Even if she was still upset, she was considerably in more control of herself than she had been moments ago.

Alastor played the role of comforting friend quite well. He had settled the Princess down on the couch that was near a fireplace, igniting the embers and summoning a fresh glass of honey lavender tea. It did wonders for the headaches you received after crying, you wouldn’t believe! His mother would make him some when he was a lad after he threw one of his fits, and it would put him at ease as she soothed him.

Although he didn’t share any of that with the blonde now curled up against the arm of the couch, she still gratefully went for the cup, and sipped at it as though it were ambrosia, and to spill a single drop would be a sin.

“Now,” Alastor said much softer than he normally would, keeping in mind the fragile state of the creature before him. “What on earth was all that?”

He wouldn’t deny that he was listening in, just as much as he would deny how lost he was at the display of power after the angel had tried to force Charlie to talk to her.

With a sigh and another long sip, Charlie moved the cup to her chest and began to rub around the base of one horn. “I’m not sure actually.” She shrunk in on herself as Alastor made himself comfortable in a recliner across from her. “I was just mad- I don’t know. Frustrated that Vaggie was trying to- to. Well.” another heavy sigh brought the tea back to her lips.

The Radio Demon considered the Demoness across from him. Such a kind and pure soul; such raw, unadulterated power. She could probably strike him down with a single finger, a thought, and a breath. But did she know that? He watched her with careful eyes and she searched the contents of her drink, as though it may carry the words she was looking for. Charlotte Morningstar, heir to the throne of Hell, child of an Archangel, and the original Demon, was like a toddler holding a loaded gun. The safety was off, and while she might understand the danger the weapon posed, she didn’t know how to hold it or fire it without injuring herself.

“Oh, dear.”

Charlie threw her head up at the man, eyes wide as he looked at her, smiling small and cocky as he tutted and shook his head.

“You have no clue how to control those powers of yours, do you?”

Charlie shrunk in on herself, as impossible as it seemed, knees to her chest and chin resting between her knees so she could still see the sinner. She was smart to not take her eyes of him. Why she looked so much like a cornered animal, a hunter standing before it ready to take the kill. But Alastor was smart, too. He knew to be wary of an animal who feels cornered.

Charlie refused to let words escape her lips, but it was just as much a confirmation as Alastor needed in order to steer the conversation. He considered the short and adorable horns peeking from the Princess's temple. Of course, he had noted that they never went away, but he thought about what they could mean. She had formally only shown them during brief moments of weakness and frustration, and the appearance of them was intense but brief. While they usually shot up to a foot, they never lingered for more than a few seconds.

“Perhaps you are too stressed lately, my dear.” Alastor coaxed her, rising from his seat to take her glass. She reluctantly handed it over, not feeling satisfied that she hadn’t been able to finish it, but feeling better even with the little she had received.

“Well, it’s not like I can do anything about it. We finally have patrons coming in. If I can’t handle this then what was the point of it all.” She pushed her hand into her hairline, getting caught on a horn and unmistakably surprising herself with it. She went back to rubbing soothingly around the bases of them. “Of the war, of the death! Of-” She choked, forcing herself to take a deep breath. Alastor put a finger up to his chin, thinking for a moment before summoning a blanket to his hands and dramatically draping it over the princess. Still curled up, it covered her completely, draping over her frame and the back of the couch. She uncurled a little from her ball and poked her head out of the side, the blanket stopping to hang over her face by the pull of her horns. “Al?”

“Sweet Charlie! You really haven’t even had a second since the battle have you?” He danced away towards the door. “I recommend you take the rest of the day to yourself. No paperwork! No patrons! No pesky Vagatha to upset you.” He spun around and gestured as Charlie adjusted the blanket off from her head, causing it to fall down onto her shoulder. “You know, I just checked and she is on her way to your chambers. I doubt you’d get any peace if she found you! Ha!” He laughed heartily as he held his middle. At Charlie's panicked face- and the way her horns grew ever so slightly he relaxed his shoulders and made his way back over to her.

“What am I supposed to do?” she asked quietly, and Alastor couldn’t help thinking of how wonderfully helpless she looked, wrapped up in the blanket with tears in her eyes. He casually shrugged and gestured to the princess buried on the couch.

“You could stay here! I doubt dear old Vagatha would think to look in this random Lounge for you.” He laughed again. “It’s the perfect place to have a good rest don’t you think?” He had hardly turned to move towards the door again when Charlie called for him again.

“Alastor! But what about what happened?” She withdrew any pause she had regarding delving her secrets to the dangerous demon. “I don’t know how I did it, or how to avoid doing it again!” Tears broke from her eyes as she clutched the blanket around her tightly, wishing it could suffocate her worries away. “What do I do?” She cried to the demon who stood frozen for only a moment. He corrected himself and relaxed his smile once more.

“Why I already told you, my dear!” He made his way over to her, an animalistic glint in his eyes as he kneeled before her, causing her to hold her breath in anticipation. He reached for her face, causing her to screw her eyes shut. She felt his palm rest over her eyes, the light from the fireplace no longer reaching her through her eyelids. “Rest.” He said as he ran his palm up off of her eyes, and to her forehead. The darkness remained though his hand was no longer there, and as his hand reached them, her horns finally retracted into her scalp. Releasing the tension she had been carrying for weeks there, her brows finally unfurrowed as the darkness spread from her vision to her mind. She was completely relaxed now, sleep quickly finding her. “ Rest .”

[lionofchaeronea]

Current nonfiction reading is Hadrian: The Restless Emperor by Anthony Birley. It's a compelling biography of a complex and elusive figure, one of the most interesting (I think) of all the emperors. The literary sources for Hadrian's life and reign are nowhere near as good as we would like them to be--with Cassius Dio existing only in epitome for that period, we're thrown back on the always problematic Historia Augusta--but Birley is virtuosic at making sense of what evidence we do have, whether textual, epigraphic, or numismatic. He argues for Hadrian's love of Greek culture as a defining feature of his personality, while also pointing out that there were precedents for such attitudes in the reigns of Nero and Domitian--both of whom, like Hadrian himself, had poor relations with the Senate. Even if one sometimes gets bogged down in detail--be prepared for a crash course in prosopography as you try to follow the careers of Hadrian's many friends and foes--it's still well worth reading.

(I have only one real complaint. This volume, like its fellows in Routledge's series of imperial biographies, uses endnotes. I hate endnotes. Why, oh why, can't we use footnotes instead?)

[tc-doherty]

The Hildspel of Athelhyrst | Chapter One

I don't know what else I would do with this if not share it here, so here is Chapter 1, the culmination of an entire year's worth of work!

I don't know how easy it will be to read both because, well, it's a language that doesn't exist and also because I can't exactly do footnotes. But you're more than welcome to try! I did put notes for things that may not have needed them because some of them are still words we have but either we use them very rarely or use them in a different way than they would have been. And some things were executive decisions or me explaining world building I can't get to yet. I figured it was better safe than sorry.

I'm genuinely very proud of not only the fact that I wrote this whole chapter, but of some of the sentences in particular. I think it still manages to have a little flair! Also before you say "but isn't this familiar…" yes, it is sort of me filing the serial numbers off of my Binding Blade fanfiction. But only kind of. I am going to be taking the plot and story in a very different direction, because in the end my fanfiction didn't really resemble the original plot that much anymore anyway.

Edit: I'm in the process of updating this to have a glossary instead so my notes will be disappearing. I will link the glossary below.

Tagging the people I know or think are interested, even if you just want to look at it.

@almedha @thegoddesswater @emilyoracle @magefaery @outpost51 @sam-glade @did-i-do-this-write

2,226 words.

Anglish Wordbook

Cynefrith stood next to her father, gazing out over the heathfield. Under the bright sun she could wellsee the witherwin heer, their swords gleaming with witting evil. The sight chilled her, although she knew that to them, her own shire's heer must look the same.

"Why would they set here?" She asked him.

The witherwin's motherland, Hyllworth Rich, was all highlands - full of barrows and firrows. Their heer fought afoot, horses not being behooveful in such a land, and so a flat lowland field was far from a wise kir. A gouth like this could only be won with fullbore work and hardship. Cynefrith may be young and seldom acosted, but she knew that their king was said to be cunning, and this was not.

Lord Wulfric, frea of Lindingham and highfrea of all the Weared Shires, laughed. "My beloved daughter," he said, "they know we would never bestir our heer to meet a foe cowering amongst the barrows of their motherland."

"But-"

He held up a hand to forestall her. "Yet just as true, such mistrust is the burden of a highfrea. Sunngifu!"

At his call, a harwickner hied to his side from a gathering of ferdmen standing afar. Sunngifu was a tall woman of middling years, a stern demeanor, and seldom seen skill with spear and bow. She dropped to one knee in front of them. "Yea, my lord?"

Lord Wulfric kept looking at the field in front of them. "This land should have been well sifted, is this true?"

"Down to every blade of grass, my lord. High harwickne Osgar saw to it."

"And is aught amiss?"

"Nothing, 'tis but a field."

"Mayhaps King Lanzo is not so clever as he thinks. That is as it is with most men." He ruffled Cynefrith's hair, as he had been wont to do all her life. "Still my lass, keep your wit about you. Lo! Sunngifu, I entrust you, also, to keep my daughter hearty and hale."

“As you say, my lord.”

"Father!" Cynefrith said. "Don't bid such a needless thing! Who will wield Sunngifu's horse?"

It was needless indeed to her. Sunngifu belonged where all of the harwickners belonged - on the heathfield. Cynefrith on the other hand was a dry, and her stead was to be afar, helping the ferdmen with her drycraft. There was little plee to her life, nor was she so frough as to need unyielding warding. To bangle away Sunngifu's time with such a behest was truly hyeless.

But in this she and her father were unthwear.

"As erfward to the highseld of highfrea, you are always a worthwhile target. Any ferdman would be happy to put a witherwin harfrea to the sword. Never forget this. And your anlet, my daughter, is well known to them."

Indeed she could not withsake this soothquid. More than being Lady of Lindingham, more than being the next highfrea of the Weared Shires, she was known because of her mother. The wedlock of a frea to a sellsword would alone be tidings. But that sellsword also happened to be from the eastern eltheed of Skulata. Cynefrith shared some of her mother's outlander looks, being smaller of build and lighter of skin and hair than oftseen. Yea, she was known everywhere. Anyone who saw a girl of Skulatan look outfitted in high Lindingham godweb would know it was her.

Sunngifu broke in. "My underwickner will stand-in to wield my horse for me. There is no hitch in this."

"Yea, I understand."

Wulfric laughed again. "My clever daughter! But look there, they begin to stir. It is time for me to speak to the men." He strode away back to the main body of the heer, leaving Cynefrith and Sunngifu alone.

Lord Wulfric spoke to his men from atop his horse, cutting a truly helethish ansen outfitted as he was in thick gouthhedden fratowed with markings in hues of dark hewn and whelkred, bright iron cloth peeking from beneath, a hackle slung about his shoulders, his great poleaxe at his side.

She did not stop to listen to his speech but went to stand with the other dry who stood aside from the main body of the heer. Drycraft needed clear sightlines, it would not do for them to be fanged by the dwolm of a gouth in full swing. Sunngifu followed after her.

She would not be the only ward standing by the dry that day, indeed not, for dry were often main targets. Why not, when they fought so well from afar, full farlen of even the strongest, swiftest arrows. Some dry were also arade in healcraft and could undo even the most dreadful of heathglembs.

She was not one of them. Indeed, how could she be? Cynefrith was the child of gouthrink on both sides of her blood. Her drycraft was never that of frith, but that of the dwolm of the heathfield.

There were not many dry, only some few handfuls. Many of them were known to her, if only by anlet. She nipped her head to them the barest whit – she was, after all, the daughter of a frea. Those who saw byed in anqueath.

Cynefrith watched her father and looked over the heer. It was not small. She knew that over half the heer of the Weared Shires came from Lindingham alone. Lord Wulfric wielded five high harwickners, each of whom wielded three harwickners.

She misliked it, this happening. She asked of Sunngifu, "King Lanzo's heer was sifted, yea?"

"Yea, my lady."

"How many men does he wield?"

"To my knowledge, nigh on twelve thousand."

Twelve thousand, to abide a witherwin of nigh on fifteen thousand. Cynefrith misliked it. King Lanzo was wise, and sarecrafty, of this he was namecouth. But his deeds now were hyeless. To strike a bigger heer, on land they well knew, in weather which could only give them the upperhand? It must have shown on her anlet, because Sunngifu spoke.

"Lord Wulfric is oft accosted on the heathfield."

"Of this I am aware. But to my kin, overmood is no comeling. It fells great men and lackwits alike. Indeed, more of the latter, as all men are lackwits under its yoke."

"Shall you speak to your father again?"

Her hands clenched the woof of her rooc, rimpling it, but she shook her head. "Much may it misqueme me, I have spoken and he has not heeded. To do more is not yet my bailiwick."

Her father had stopped speaking, and now shied his horse to stand forward from his men. She could see him watching the foe, seemingly at eath. He was hewed in fire and iron, the winner of a thousand heathfields alike to this one.

Overmood, Cynefrith thought to herself sourly. She could not wile the days to come, nor could anyone. But there was a trap here, she knew it. Something was wrong, and there was nothing that she could do about it.

The lift wended then, in the way it does before a storm breaks. It was neither leven nor thunder but the long, low call of a horn. Both heer bestirred, alike nothing so much as two great wilders from the folktales, roaring to seethe their alderdom.

It was not her father who stirred first, but when the men of Hyllworth overflowed from their barrows thwarst the plain like so many ants, his own horn sang out sweet the call to take up weaponing.

The horses' great hooves shook the ground as they raced forward, making Cynefrith's heart bever in her chest. She did her best not to heed, her craft needed as much mindfulness as that of any swordsman, mayhap more. A swordsman may see his weapon as a stitch of himself, and wield it as such. A dry could call upon all the might of the earth and sky, but it was ever itself - its true hearsomeness never was to man.

Of all the world's many showings, leven most eathfully came to her hand, and it was this she now called. On a day with a hoder sky, leven seemed made wholly for this end.

It came willingly this day, prancing about her in the wary wise of all half-tame wild things – throwing off sparks from her hands as it did so. It would not bide long, nor would she ask it to.

She set her sights on a seemingly worthwhile man – one with a loth of bright goldbloom about his shoulders, a great sword at his hip, and a rooc of iron cloth. The leven saw him too and flew to his side, sword and iron cloth both made an outstanding roost for it to land upon.

She could not hear him scream, but she saw him jerk and fall, bringing about a fit of groor in his horse. That would spread, as would the leven – leaping from copper to iron to brass, anything that would hold it. It may hit fere as well as foe were they near, but such was a plee of drycraft. At least she could say leven did not outlast its welcome as did some. Leven would soon tire of this game she set and flee, unlike hungry fire, who could always find more to eat.

She went to her wicken with a willing heart, but it was not long before she once again felt something was amiss.

On the heathfield beneath her the heers were stirring – both wending towards the barrows afar. As they did, her father and his men drew further and further from their starting set – far enough that her drycraft could no longer reach.

When first her spell did not land, she felt a hard lump of dread make in her a home, though she could not give steven to why. But then she heard once more the mournful call of a horn which seemed to her a roop from death itself, so unalike was it to the horns up until that brightomwhile.

At first nothing happened.

But then, from behind those sharp fangs of the earth they rose – drakes in sere score, with riders weaponed for gouth.

"Nay!" She did not underyet her reard until it throughwent her lips, but she knew – lo, how well she knew – that her father's heer was not reacon of withstanding drakes.

How had Hyllworth Rich gotten them? They did not live there, they were from – as her mother had been – far eastern Skulata.

In truth it did not dow. The drakes were here, and making for her father and his heer at speed.

"My lady." It was Sunngifu, who grabbed her arm and fanded for her to heed.

Cynefrith shook her off.

"We must leave."

"I cannot! My father-" Cynefrith took a few steps and fanded to raise a strong wind. Wind did not care for her ofttimes, but to-day it came, to no freem. They were too far. They were too far, and she was not strong enough. Was she or was she not the daughter of Lord Wulfric, of the namecouth sellsword Arite? Was she or was she not the afterbear of a hundred or more gouthrink?

She fanded anew, to the same outcome.

"My lady," Sunngifu said again. Her reard was frithful, but her grip was not as she hent once again Cynefrith's arm and began to pull her away.

"I cannot, I beseech you, let go!"

Sunngifu was stronger by far, and drycraft was not behooveful so near lest she wish to hit also herself. Cynefrith had naught but her words – which fell on deaf ears.

"Your father may yet live, but you cannot fall here, my lady. It was his behest of me. We must eftcome to Lindingham Borough."

Arrows and spells flew and the drakes swooped low as Sunngifu both pulled and shoved Cynefrith to where their horses stood.

"Unhand me at once!" Cynefrith yelled as Sunngifu lifted her into the saddle.

"Nay, my lady. For now I still must follow your father's hests."

She swung with eath into the saddle and, upon grabbing the leads of both horses, gave hers a mighty kick which sent them both leaping away in the bearing of home.

Cynefrith could only watch as the drakes – now quickly growing small – began to land.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Any opinions/ideas about the Nagpa? They’re basically just Skeksis so I like ‘em

You hit the nail on the head friend, Nagpa are Skeksis with the serial numbers filed off, along with some extra details that we can use for some delightful adventure hooks. Here's some Nagpa lore, with some of my own revisions:

Originally a coven of thirteen wicked mages, The Nagpa sought power above all things, eventually getting it into their heads that if they devoured the flesh of a god, they could ascend to a state of semi-divinity. This led them to attempt to summon, bind, and slay a god/throw their lot in with a divine civil war/whatever blasphemous action works with the backstory of your campaign

For this action, they were cursed so that their appearance befitted their monstrous character (withered vultures) and forced to wander eternally, abandoning their fine holdings and preventing them from easily congregating in one place. Still in possession of their great magic however, it's not unusual to find a Nagpa in possession of a number of lairs, a portable fortress, or flying domicile, skirting the rules of the curse while allowing them to maintain their opulence.

Because of their secretive dealings pre-curse, all Nagpa have an ability to detect when anyone within 100 miles speaks of them or any of their conspirators. They usualy hunt and kill those who are loose lipped about their existence, allowing them to remain secret for centuries and making them amazing narrative boogymen.

Maintaining schemes that last for generations at a time, it's not uncommon for a down-on-their-luck Nagpa to attach itself to some group using its lifetimes of knowledge and magical ability to bargin for what it desires.

Before We get into the adventure hooks, I wanted to share this amazing youtube comment that I found while doing research for this post:

Phileas Liebmann:

This is such a great scene. In just a few shots we learn everything we need to know about the Skeksis: they're decadent, they're cruel, they hold themselves higher than all other life, they despise each other, but are obligated to dine together nonetheless, hinting that they are traditional folk. Show, don't tell at its finest!

Hooks:

The locals speak of a withered figure who stalks about the badlands, trading treasures for secrets and enacting powerful magic at terrible prices. After dealing with one or two knockon effects of this entities dealings, the party end up meeting it through dumb luck or desperate need, at which point the vulture headed man introduces himself with humble modesty as "Your humble Grandfather Greatest". Grandfather can pay in rare treasures if they're willing to do him some favours, each a small step towards his return to true power.

A beloved sage is dead, murdered by magic, and his young apprentice is on the run. The bounty is steep, but when the party catch up to their quarry they hear a very different tale from her recounting: She and her teacher had spent years delving into a trove of lore from a fallen elven kingdom, but were attacked by some kind of vulture-witch after finishing their latest translation. Apparently the creature is still after her, and by telling them she's put them in danger as well.

Finding that a rover's life quite suits her, one of the nagpa has set herself up as advisor to a clan of travelling marauders, making herself indispensable by using her sorcery to aid their raids on various settlements. Convinced that the initial nagpa ritual still could have worked, she steers these brigands towards temples and other holysites looking to strip the meat off demigods and knaw the marrow of saintly relics.

Art

[kariachi]

Made the mistake of watching OSP's 'Noodle Incident' video and while it's not the same thing ended up reminded that I hate hate hate how they handled Kevin's scar.

Cause like here's this little bit of additional intrigue added to his future self's character design. A self that is first seen, I would like to point out, at a point over twenty years post-OV in universe. Like, Alternate universes or no, we first see that scar on a Kevin who is in his forties. He's barely if eighteen in OV. So it's not like any of us were really expecting to get to see what happened. Especially when the show gives us shit like 'Kevin fights Vilgax' and 'Kevin is murdered' and 'Kevin gets a hand taken off' with no lasting effects, it rather sends the message that this is 1) something that did serious fucking damage to leave the first visual scar on our mains, and 2) not something we're liable to see because it couldn't live up to expectation and has twenty-odd years to happen in.

So what do we fucking get? What do they do when they decide to show us how this intriguing scar happened? Do we get Kevin fighting some great foe? Some scene that gives an impressive character moment to go with a very notable scar on a character who was a villain the first time we saw it and is now a treasured friend? A stupid moment that wouldn't have lived up to people'd imaginations but would have been funny and let the shipping people write patch-up fics where people tease him about 'oh Vilgax can't leave a mark on you but a toaster oven-'?

No.

Do they at least, if they're so big on having this happen during the Rooters arc, make it happen in Rooters of All Evil, to showcase that this is a different sort of danger they're dealing with while symbolizing the mark Servantis already left on Kevin's life? Using the scar and the fact that the kids' Rooter uniforms are the same outfit Kevin 11k wears in Ken 10 to try bolster the idea that this is the point in the timeline where we lose Kevin?

No.

He gets kicked in the face by his bestfriend while trying to reveal that he hadn't actually turned on him.

That's it. There's no fucking weight to it, it just happens. It doesn't have any reason to do more damage than anything else we've seen happen to him, it's not at some emotional moment, it doesn't have any symbolic significance, it's not a character moment. It just happens.

And yes, scars do just happen in life, but this is fiction. This is fiction, and a scar that'd had the fandom's imagination for years. You can have it just happen, but you can't have it just happen between big important points. Because you know what happens then? Fans go 'that's fucking it?!', as they have every right because you decided something that had their imaginations didn't deserve the fucking effort. It can be a footnote within the big important points, but after a point you have to do something with it. There's gotta be some sort of weight.

And the thing is, it falls under the same problem that happened with BenKai. The scar, the uniform, Ben and Kai, all of it is the result of somebody deciding that all that shit from Ken 10 1) had to be given an explanation, 2) had to be canon to what was very clearly a changed timeline given Kevin wasn't evil anymore, 3) had to be shown as happening during this time period however they could shove it in, 4) with the exception of giving us Devlin's mom because gods forbid we touch the Holy Gwevin.

Kevin in Ken 10 was in the Null Void, wore a distinctive outfit, and had a distinctive scar? Well clearly we have to show him having been part of a group stationed in the Null Void where that was his uniform, and he'll gain the scar fighting Ben- because Ben's always the most important- before being revealed as still a good guy because we can't actually double down and let him be evil again (he's popular and besides it might hurt the Holy Gwevin).

Ben has kids with Kai like a decade from the present? Better reintroduce her to the show.

Ben is already seeing someone and he and Kai's personalities haven't matured to the point they work yet? Better bring Kenny in from the future to push them at each other and then have his current girl just casually drop him so he and Kai can be a thing.

And all this could be done well, is the worst part. Not the way they did it, but it could have been done. But it wasn't. It was rushed in at the end without proper care given, leaving us with shit that should have been big deals or fun moments that instead are just kinda there at best and annoying at worst. Like they learned they only had so many seasons left, realized there were things from Ken 10 that had never been touched on, and panicked.

By all right Kevin's entire future should have been changed? Doesn't matter, shove it all in at once so we can say we answered the questions.

Ben ends up with Kai sometime in the next decade? Jam them together, put pressure on with their future son, just make it a thing don't worry about proper development.

Hell, even with Gwen. Gwen ends up being able to work with Charmcaster's stone beasts and such in twenty-off years? Fuck it, she's got Charmcaster in a bag on her shelf and goes from there.

It was unnecessary. They were loose ends that could have been left hanging with no ill effect. Even if you really wanted to show shit like 'hey remember Kai, Ben has kids with her someday' you could just reintroduce her in the show without having to push them at each other right then. 'Gwen's going to learn Charmcaster's tricks someday' you can have the last time they're shown together involve them parting on decent terms or some shit without having her hold the woman in isolation against her will until she decides otherwise. But no, they were so fucking desperate to clean up any loose end that didn't risk pissing off fans too bad that they just threw out what I assume was whatever first idea came to somebody's mind.

It's a waste of potential, a waste of intrigue, and it aggravates me to my fucking core.

[cantsayidont]

February 1964. Lex Luthor learns the true origin of Brainiac: as a humanoid "computer-spy" created by the tyrannical computer rulers of a distant planet (later called Colu).

This story, which appeared in SUPERMAN #167, was a rather dramatic retcon: In his previous appearances, there was no indication that Brainiac wasn't just a green-skinned humanoid alien. His debut in ACTION COMICS #242 described his origins quite differently:

So, why would National-DC and Superman editor Mort Weisinger make such a radical change to a fairly well-established villain? The explanation lies in an editorial footnote omitted from later reprints of SUPERMAN #167:

As the letters column to which the footnote refers explains:

And now let us go behind the scenes and unveil a remarkable coincidence. The fictional character, "Brainiac," was created for us by Otto Binder, a famous science fiction writer who is currently the editor of "Space World," a magazine for rocket experts. (Otto also created "Bizarro" and wrote the great Superman novel, "Krypton Lives On." [SUPERMAN #132]) Shortly after the first "Brainiac" story first appeared in ACTION COMICS, in 1956 [sic; actually 1958], we learned that a REAL "Brainiac" existed … in the form of an ingenious "Brainiac Computer Kit" invented in 1955 by Edmund C. Berkeley. Mr. Berkeley is a distinguished scientist and a world authority on automation, computers and robots. In deference to his "Brainiac," which pre-dates ours, with this issue of SUPERMAN we are changing the characterization of our "Brainiac" so that the master-villain will henceforth possess a "computer personality." We are confident that our readers will approve of this transformation; it should make "Brainiac" a mightier adversary for the Man of Steel. Readers will be interested to learn that they can build their own "Brainiac" by purchasing one of Mr. Berkeley's computer kits and assembling the parts.

The latter paragraph also provides the address of the company, noting, "'Brainiac' kits cost less than $20.00 and make an ideal educational hobby."

This retcon stuck, and, as the editorial explanation suggested, did serve to make Brainiac a more formidable foe, although it created some discrepancies that were never adequately explained. The most important feature of the original Brainiac story in ACTION COMICS #242, of course, was Superman's discovery that the villain had previously stolen and shrunk the Kryptonian city of Kandor, which Superman recovered and brought to Earth at the end of that story. However, nothing in this revised origin suggests that shrinking cities and storing them in bottles to repopulate Brainiac's homeworld was part of Brainiac's original mission, or even a logical extension of it.

Years later, the early issues of L.E.G.I.O.N. '89 presented a post-Crisis version of how the computer uprising of Colu was finally resolved, which formed part of an even more convoluted origin of Brainiac.

[khaicrafts]

"Is this what being Catholic feels like?" Khai mumbles to himself as he makes his way into the temple housing the statues of the Greek Pantheon. It felt like he was going to a confessional; except he had a gift in hand. A small cardboard box. He didn't have much time to bring all the possessions he wanted with him to camp but he gathered those most precious to him. He just didn't know it would be required of him to have one of his most cherished items be given as an offering to the parent who never knew.

So there he stood before the statue of Hephaestus. A glint of admiration in his eyes; though it couldn't be helped that he felt a tinge of resentment. Wasn't that natural for any child who had been discarded by his parents? Well at least Hephaestus was doing better than Khai's biological mother.

"Last time I was here, I tripped balls and got blonde hair. I'm not mad at it though." he snerks. "So this is a heart to heart and an offering. I can say you've never done anything for me in my life but I don't think that's completely true. If it wasn't for your essence, I wouldn't have gotten as far as I did before even getting powers." He had to attribute his intuitive brilliance for building to the master smith of the olympians. If he never had that, he would have probably ended up another statistic of foster kids whose lives went into the gutter.

"So they said I had to offer you something? I asked if you had Cashapp or Zelle but the disturbingly sexy centaur guy didn't seem to get the joke." he shook his head with a soft 'tsk'. He hoped some of the others had a sense of humor. He lowered to his knees before the statue and slowly opened the box. "My first project when I was in 6th grade, The first mechanical thing I ever built." he pulled out a tiny drone with solar panels.

"I called myself wanting to be the first line of defense against anyone who wanted to break in and kidnap ups to be used for child labor. It took me a few weeks to actually find the parts I needed from the scrap yards, but yeah!" he says excitedly as he takes out the small controller/tablet that had camera feed as he activated the small device to begin flying. Upon pressing one of the buttons, the little drone fired off rubber bullets that bounced off of the statue of his father.

"My bad. Well, you wouldn't have felt that anyway but still." he chuckled as he flew the drone around the temple a bit more until landing it at the statue's feet. "I know it's not the most impressive thing I've built but it's what made me realize what I could be capable of. Kind of a reminder that I could literally build towards a better future. That was before knowing I was your kid." he looks back up at the statue, smiling softly. "It's definitely not much compared to what you've created in myths but...it personally means a lot to me. Please accept it and pour your knowledge and strength into me so I can be a solid footnote in your legacy." he sets the controller down as well and now he has both hands crossed over his heart. Then one more thing crossed his mind...

"...Also if you know how to build magitech-mecha so the others and I can form a Megazord to step on our foes, feel free to bless me with the schematics. It would be appreciated. You're the best."

[dailyanarchistposts]

The Bottom Line

The effectiveness of our actions cannot be measured in the same terms we measure the decline of our ecosystems. Life, and especially living resistance, is so much more than actions taken to influence a scientists’ interpretation of climate meta data and feedback loops. Measuring our efforts by their effectiveness on the scales of dominant society is falling for the same ‘return on investment’ paradigm that has allowed the looting of our habitats.

As long as we do not see our struggles as the continuation of an age-old fight against domination and state coercion [R.F. – see 23 Theses Concerning Revolt], we will be setting forth on half measures leaving the old powers alive underneath the surface, which has only led to an intensification of authoritarianism, ecological degradation and now climate crisis.

Decentralized organizing, non-hierarchical networks and joyful resistance have been and will be the most effective tools to fight the builders of this ecocidal world and to live a life free of oppression. We don’t need political parties or professional leaders to pacify these struggles. We need to support them, help them grow and connect, and show how they already contain the solutions to the interrelated problems of ecological collapse, poverty, and exploitation.

Situations of desperation and perceived emergency create opportunities for authoritarians to increase their power [R.F. – see ‘The Difference Between “Just Coping” & “Not Coping at All”’], and mislead efforts of decentralized movements towards tech-fixes that accelerate neo-colonial extractivism. If people have a desire to attempt to appropriate the state to create more favorable policy conditions for land defenders and ecosystems or become lawyers, this is understandable. The battle against ecological and climate catastrophe already exists, the problem is there are few actually fighting it and taking this battle seriously.

If you are reading this, you are the resistance to ecological catastrophe and the authoritarianism that put the world in this desperate situation.

...“Just as we

refuse to be ruled,

we refuse to rule

over anyone else”...

(Peter Gelderloos)

Footnotes

[1] medium.com/@fulalas/from-dispersion-to-apathy-how-technology-makes-us-lonely-1d489ee6004f

[2] Hickel J. (2020) Less is more: How degrowth will save the world, London: Random House.

[3] versobooks.com/blogs/4450-it-is-time-to-try-out-an-ecological-leninism-interview-with-andreas-malm

[4] researchgate.net/publication/328887527_Contemporary_Questions_on_Eco-terrorism_with_Michael_Loadenthal

[5] Leslie Pickering (2003) Earth Liberation Front 1997–2002

[6] kersplebedeb.com/posts/ecological-leninism-friend-or-foe

[7] Anonymous. (2018) Against the World Builders. Black Seed #6 : 84–108.

[8] youtu.be/8LSQLBFQruo?t=1675

[9] portal.research.lu.se/ws/files/96341244/HM_DAC.pdf

[10] reuters.com/article/us-usa-energy-carbon-capture-idUSKCN2523K8

[11] ecostandard.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/06/CCS-false-solution-food-water-action-europe.pdf

[12] cleantechnica.com/2019/06/12/best-carbon-capture-facility-in-world-emits-25-times-more-co2-than-sequestered

[13] Andreas Malm, (2020) Corona, Climate, Chronic Emergency – War Communism in the Twenty-First Century, p. 89

[14] ibid.

[15] Fairhead, James, Melissa Leach, and Ian Scoones. 2012. “Green Grabbing: a new appropriation of Nature?”

[16] Duffy, Rosaleen. 2016. “War, by Conservation.” Geoforum 69 (1): 238–248.

[17] Kelly, Alice. 2013. “Property and Negotiation in Waza National Park.” Land Deal Politics Initiative (LDPI), UK.

[18] Gelderloos P. (2017) Worshiping Power: An Anarchist View of Early State Formation, Oakland: AK Press. theanarchistlibrary.org/library/peter-gelderloos-worshipping-power

[19] Dunlap A. (2020) The Politics of Ecocide, Genocide and Megaprojects: Interrogating Natural Resource Extraction, Identity and the Normalization of Erasure.

[20] euobserver.com/nordic/150287

[21] offshore-energy.biz/saipem-lays-more-than-100km-of-baltic-pipe-pipeline

[22] energinet.dk/Anlaeg-og-projekter/Projektliste/Groen-gas-Lolland-Falster

[23] tv2east.dk/guldborgsund/sukkerfabrikker-udleder-naestmest-co2-i-danmark-er-gas-eller-el-loesningen

[24] canfor.com/sustainability-report/environment/canadian-boreal-forest-agreement

[25] totalenergies.com/media/news/press-releases/total-acquires-maersk-oil-for-7-45-billion-dollars-in-share-and-debt-transaction

[26] greenpeace.org/usa/maersk-stands-up-for-the-oceans

[27] Shiva V. (2002 [1989]) Staying Alive: Women, Ecology and Development, Carolyn Merchants (1983) The Death of Nature, Sullivan S. (2010) ‘Ecosystem service commodities’ – a new imperial ecology? Implications for animist immanent ecologies, with Deleuze and Guattari.

[28] marxists.org/archive/ruhle/1939/ruhle01.htm

[29] marx.libcom.org/library/russian-revolution-communist-party-alexander-berkman

[30] P. Gelderloos (2010) Worshipping Power

[31] Scott JC. (2017) Against the Grain: A Deep History of the Earliest States, New Haven: Yale University Press. Gelderloos P. (2017) Worshiping Power.

[32] A. Dunlap (2020) Compost the Colony: Exploring Anarchist Decolonization, see theanarchistlibrary.org/library/alexander-dunlap-compost-the-colony-exploring-anarchist-decolonization

[33] theguardian.com/environment/2021/jul/16/climate-scientists-shocked-by-scale-of-floods-in-germany

[34] grist.org/protest/dakota-access-pipeline-activists-property-destruction grist.org/protest/dakota-access-pipeline-activists-property-destruction [R.F. It turns out that Ruby has turned snitch, and is cooperating with cops and investigators.]