#greylander

[moratoirenoir]

[justsimroarks]

Back on the grind.

[void-snakat]

@dragonsfire010

Here's my interpretation of Balamesea(?) i was designing it while drawing it so the proportions are all f'ed up. Some of my worst work but <3

Receiving drawing asks!!

Just send in an ask and I'll draw it!

I'm prioritizing asks with my characters in them.

Also I'm stuck traveling for like 6 hours so this is valid until I get out of this car!

let's fill this paper!!!!

[salemsdog]

faut faire danser les femmes.

My story begins in the end. With the sun beginning to char my porcelain, riding red and violet over miles of atomic mass. By the end of the road, my shoes were worn with broken nature. But before my death, I rode a mountainous sea away from a barrel-chested man, namely put as my husband. The rock first came to me in a nightmare while aboard the SS. Mary. I had traveled overseas before, and it was a quirk of fact that the ship, no matter how goldy, always cradled like a misrun carriage, bumping over unpolished granite. So shook the landscape in my nightmare as well. There was a mincer in front of me. It was placed beside a rock. In the dream, the widescape was covered in thin sheets of sand. The trees were wild and howled like wolves strewn into the raging sky. Careful she crept; she was not me because the I in my dream had no feet. Simply an eye of the mind that granted a view of myself from whatever window looked down onto this horacescape. I directed her to walk closer to the mincer. It was then that the rock started to bellow out in simple waves of anguish. It was yelling to be set free against its ugly titanium restraints. She almost pitied it. The woman would take the mincer with a static, almost illuminary hand but stare at the rock with an unmoving notion. Salt wavered into the air as her limbs began to feel spent; she could feel the boat pulling her back to the shores of minimal consciousness closer every nanosecond, grappling her away from the original deed. The rock was lying dead like a cold fox, claiming its early spot in hell. Waiting for the final gut of termination. She could crush the rock, but what then?

It didn’t make her a predator.

I would have vowed to never harm my husband once I had awoken in my saddened condition and out of that harsh story. For it would bring me lower than the man himself. I knew I was now truly running, running away from the midwave heat that bit close to my clothes and flamed the cage that once housed my books, my telescopes that let me talk to the stars late in the evening when my husband singed tableside decks with his less than pleasant cigars. That did not stop the wafting from following up to my attic window desk of cinnamon and sage. My hand would soon slip during a Sunday night preparation. Sending the iron stove into flames. I had no children and no cathel. Only the prophetic nightmares that came with sniffing the dark herb that crawled its way around our lowly manor of the Greylands. This city chewed with iron teeth and ordered around symmetry like no other grandiloquent beast of the nile. My husband’s old trophies of gunfire gave proof to that undeniable fact of discord that harbored no matter what section of the earth you journeyed forth. They sit stacked mildly rusted under his mantleplace, topped with fleets of dust and mice shit. Before settling, I knew no bounds to fiction. I was as free as a clipped animal could ever get. But once trapped inside a new hellish biome, those old newspapers and telegraphs of the world above became my primary resource as another additive to my perpetual escape. Meconium, isocyanate, the air of another hellnever roadside three thousand miles from ours. All futile in my grand ruse of escape. So I ran, caught to the nearest station west of that long country road. Farther and farther till the SS. Mary was no longer a dream on a yellow postcard lost among the plethora of letters sent in from faraway ports of the world. A secret subscription I had along with the many other secrets I kept from my man.

It rose above anything I had ever seen in my life and took me far, far away.

There was a shortage of oil on our land being stolen by a neighboring townscape just north of the rolling hills. The red men they were called. Their thieves would hound every plant that drenched oil from the underearth. Weaning in heinesy and destruction caused an uproar in an already fatale patriarchy. Our people were starting to see straight through tradition and into welfare. It took the turn of a thousand tides—the crease in the economy—to fully shelter this idea of severity. Our foundation was losing itself. Soon there were no more ports to transfer goods, no more fleets to deliver those postcards I so greatly admired per month. So there I sat, perched between litters of luggage and briefcases of fine men and women boarding the middle-class section of Mary’s idiom. Watching as the moon followed our ship to the enemy lands. Waiting for the sky to shift into a new sun, waging a war blessed foul. A great woman once said sweat is the tears from God shedding down a lubricant for the wind. It took running from my husband to fully furnish the belief and inspire a devil within me to work this war like it was my bitch. Down a winding road and past crowds of townsfolk once I had reached beyond the Pillsbury pines and down crossroads over the next.

Once I had pitted rest, I could breathe into an air of freedom. Though this was the land of thieves, I had never felt such liberation. It had been shrouded by a hand of doubt along the journey, but once I set food on that port, the sky seemed to smile, though it was dark. Lines of people stretched beyond the dock. I bristled my way through the red men and women, most likely refugees from our gray land, returning with the upcoming tension. For it was better to die in your homeland than in a foreign region of gray.

My first pit stop arrived at a little colosseum of wine and scum. A harlet house off the ends of the coast, needing but a small stroll to reach. There I thought more about the rock in the dream, furrowed the lace fabric between the tips of my fingers and composed a conversation with a stranger. I introduced myself to the other woman by the name of Aerodromea. She returned with Venetia Lamauth. Venetia wore the dress of service, a reminder of another blast upon destiny the more she spoke of her life in a mellow, rustic voice, strands of blonde curtaining her cresed forehead. Though she’d chuckle and promised matters of satisfaction with her life, there were patches of fur on her coat. Her Greek nose tinted pink and a swooping tail tucked under the bench. This she could not see. She would speak of hellhounds and endless labor while I poured additional liters into her glass cup, eyeing her hawk-eyed husband all the while. Locals seemed to take my untimely visit rather cautiously. For good reason, of course. By the time dawn was heaving shots of navy into the dark skies, I had visited more women than postcards had ever visited the steps of my manor in those five years of unbearable habitance. Their tails were always tied messily, some with oozing blisters and painful-looking creases where the fold had been tied. Their noses were sometimes swollen or greased with expensive lotions in an attempt to mask the protruding fact, etching closer and closer to the surface of realism.

In the dark hours, they’d complain of an instrumental burden. God, it was loud they’d say, leeching my hands as if I had been the only acknowledgement of liability in centuries. The screeching strings blended against the howls of wind in a sorrowful juxtaposition. Waning restless nights for them all.

The first I took was Venetia. I instructed her to leave her coat and wreath of restlessness. She brought forth her finest Jane shoes and let down her honey lemon hair. We plowed hand in hand through the forest. I begged God to keep this opportunity close in hand as we followed those breathing strings through shrubs and dry logs left for dust in the dark. The first glimpse of the violin-wielding beast appeared behind the shade of a red willow. For it had been my first time seeing the thing face to face as well. My grip only tightened in Venetia’s hand as she held still, her breath shallow. For I had but a dream to go off of; this was a foreign sight to Venetia’s eyes I had to remember. Soon the plains were not reliant on the two of us. Both the houses were empty and scarce of life. The grasslands are blooming with thin-nosed critters. The beast’s violin became rushed and ridgid throughout the nights to come. Weaving in knowledge to me that we were improving and changing as a people. The hunt persisted and, in turn, the absence as well. Left for catharsis in the wind and rid us of this ancient rigorous distraction on the forest floor. Pooling like thick oil.

“Who am I if not misunderstood?” her gayety was sweet as jewels.

Venetia murmured in a hushed tone as she clasped my hand in hers, her gaze lingering over the carcass. We welded the night together as air raids rang out, shaking the dirt around our feet. Every limb of the beast was strewn in a puddle of rubicund. By dawn, Venetia’s eyes were glassy and her fingers blistered and bruised in destined work. A morning croaked, and a chorus of silence followed. Charing my skin and lacing back the cradle of the Mary. Both lands were quiet now; not even the rock under us spit a tune.

[queer-ragnelle]

I read Mists of Avalon as a teen and I remember feeling very uncomfortable at the time but I couldn't place why. Do you have any recommendations for reviews/essays dissecting how specifically it is flawed?

At this point it is probably best to just let the book's legacy die and not engage with the works of that awful person, but I still feel like reading someone else's dissection of it would help me process those emotions.

Sorry if this is a weird thing to ask

Hi anon.

I’m sorry I honestly don’t have anything to offer you as I have refused to look further into it. The articles that do exist aren’t as critical as they could be in my opinion. (Warning: there is a disturbing passage from the novel in the article and obviously talk of Marion Zimmer-Bradley’s crimes as well as her husbands, who was a convicted child molester and died in prison.)

All I can say is people seriously need to stop buying the books. Zimmer-Bradley has been dead for 25 years, sure, but her girlfriend is the beneficiary and still gets those royalty checks. The same girlfriend whom Moira Greyland, Zimmer-Bradley’s daughter and victim, alleged knew about the abuse and did nothing, not to mention defends Zimmer-Bradley. Zimmer-Bradley’s other fantasy series Darkover also has pedophilic themes. So this was not only a pattern in her fiction but one based on her lived reality. It’s fucking disgusting.

Anyway I’m sorry again I don’t have anything to aid with your own closure. All in all we need to do a better job killing the legacy. If someone makes a gifset of the show don’t share it, don’t reblog quotes, for the love of god people please leather bind a different book I’m begging you. It’s getting so old.

[maeve-99]

Don’t mind me, just thinking about Mirror’s Edge...

again.

Of all the games I loved in past years this one makes me sad. I loved the gameplay & vibe in both games (Original game + Catalyst), and although Catalyst had some problems with a rushed ending, I loved it dearly. The concept, the gameplay, the music, the characters, the visuals, the story - it was all set up to be something more, something truly phenomenal.

Faith as a main character has so much potential, the whole city and lore begs to be explored. Tell me about the citizens, Faith’s friends Icarus and Nomad, the people in power, the struggles, the greylands, the world beyond the city.

I wanted to know so much more about this world and the characters as well as Faith’s personal story. It’s an absolute tragedy that this franchise got thrown under the bus. Maybe it was too niche but I think a more elaborate and longer story and a better ending could have increased sales by a lot. I honestly don’t know. Maybe it was the wrong place and the wrong time.

I think I would be less mad, if Catalyst had a more “conclusive” ending. But it’s ending was a straight setup for a sequel. It was practivally saying “to be continued” & “see you in the sequel”. And then ... NOTHING.

Faith deserves a sequel, or at least a reboot. Or something else?! A Book?! I don’t know, maybe an anime? ANYTHING.

Or maybe some other studio can snatch the rights to this franchise and actually do SOMETHING with it, since EA/DICE isn’t capable of it.

[epitome-the-burnkid-viii]

Apocalyptic news updates revealing good, evil, and much more!🔥 Come find my show #SupplementalBroadcast 🎱 #youtuberecommendedchronicles🔮 on YouTube & Rumble! New episodes posted regularly!!! 🧩 #Censorship #Politics #Prophecy #Commentary #Science #TheGreatAwakening 🙏

[tlaquetzqui]

Is it actually possible for feminist analysis of incest and CSA not to ignore that women do it just as often as men?

My favorite quote about feminism is when Moira Greyland said that although both her parents raped her and her brother, her father actually thought he was expressing his love, whereas her mother tried to drown her for resisting.

Her mother of course being Marion Zimmer Bradley, the St. Paul of feminist neopaganism (and neopagan feminism).

[moratoirenoir]

[justsimroarks]

Weekend away

Eden and Maren decided to visit Willow and check out life at UBrite. They ate dinner at Darby's*, then dutifully sat down to do their endless homework. After about an hour, Maren rolled her shoulders and closed her book.

Maren: So what's fun to do around here on a Friday night?

Willow, raising a brow: Well, unfortunately UBrite can't really boast of a rich and varied social life... there's mainly two types of get-togethers: the debate guild and The Street.

Eden: What's The Street?

Willow: Oh, just a bunch of people crammed into a house, drinking swill, dancing badly, and hoping to hook up with someone. We can go to the Zeta house and you can see for yourself.

*I love this renovated Darby's Den Commons by @catsaar - it really showcases the classic, gothic university style!

[oseknoke]

Wanderer of the greylands

[jewfrogs]

started to read moira greyland’s the last closet: the dark side of avalon (because i was reminded of marion zimmer bradley) and. g-d. i feel horrible for what she went through but it is really unpleasant how she uses that as rationale for her bigotry

[tlaquetzqui]

IIRC a bunch of people called C. J. (“Carolyn Janice”) Cherryh a misogynist for one of her scifi novels featuring an older woman sexually abusing a teenage boy. Not even because they were claiming it normalizes abuse, because they were claiming that doesn’t happen. Like…aside from, to restrict ourselves to scifi, Mark Greyland, son of Marion Zimmer Bradley, how about at least like half a dozen cases a year of female middle-school teachers getting caught with seventh- and eighth-grade boys?

Fandom Problem #5322:

No matter how much an author or other creator puts abuse in a bad light and has the narrative clearly communicate that, there are always people who crash through the woodwork and scream the story normalizes/romanticizes abuse. No wonder stories become sanitized, who wants to deal with the army of self righteous buffoons who will make Tik Toks or angry tumblr posts about how horrible you are

[perasperaadpasta]

fair point about Gaimen but to the best of my knowledge Zimmer-Bradley's accusations are hotly contested, as the accusing child joined a fundamentalist Christian congregation and it's been impossible for the greater Pagan community of which I am part to discern "my mother abused me" from "my mother was a Satanic Jew bent on taking over the world", as all accusations came out after her death.

just thought it was relevant x have a good one

Basic corollary of believing victims is that bad people can be abused too. I don't see how Greyland's political or religious affilitations are of substance in this matter any more than Bradley's own would be. Bradley converted to christianity herself in late years.

Greyland's descriptions of her parents' abuse were steeped in religious fanaticism and homophobia but were also far from being limited to it. It is off-putting that she frames her suffering as being associated or directly consequential of homosexuality, feminism, paganism, etc, but not nearly as off-putting as the actual abuse she suffered. It seems to me her distorted views are intrinsically linked to her trauma and she hasn't since then broken from that framework (I imagine that would be extremely difficult while still inside the church).

I'm not excusing her bigotry. I'm a gay woman and I understand perfectly the dimension of the harm her views support. I'm also a victim of childhood sexual assault in a religious upbringing and I know what kind of pain she's sustained from both.

I hope she breaks free of religious indocrination someday, for the sake of those she continuously maligns and her own.