#guild charters

[racefortheironthrone]

Please tell me more about neighbourhood PMCs in renaissance Italy

It would be my pleasure! (My research into this owes a lot to the excellent Power and Imagination: City-States in Renaissance Italy by Lauro Martines.)

The first thing to note that, unlike the condottieri, these were not private military companies. Rather, the neighborhood military companies (in the sense of a military unit, rather than a profit-making entity) were self-defense organizations formed as part of a centuries-long political struggle for control over the urban commune between the signorile (the urban chivalry)/nobilita (the urban nobility) and the populo (the guilded middle class, who claimed to speak on behalf of "the people").

This conflict followed much the same logic that had given rise to the medieval commune in the first place. Legally, the communes had started as mutual defense pacts between the signorile and the cives (the free citizens of the city) against the rural feudal nobility, which had given these groups the military and political muscle to push out the marquises and viscounts and barons and claim exclusive authority over the tax system, the judicial system, and the military.

So it made sense that, once they had vanquished their enemies and established the commune as the sovereign, both sides would use the same tactic in their struggle over which of them would rule the commune that ruled the city. The signorile and nobilita formed themselves into consorteria or "tower societies," by which ancient families allied with one another (complete with dynastic marriage alliances!) to build and garrison the towers with the knights, squires, men-at-arms, and bravi of their households. These phallic castle substitutes were incredibly formidable within the context of urban warfare, as relatively small numbers of men with crossbows could rain down hell on besiegers from the upper windows and bridges between towers, even as the poor bastards on the ground tried to force the heavy doors down below.

To combat noble domination of communal government, achieve direct representation on the political councils, establish equity of taxation and regulate interest rates, and enforce legal equality between nobility and citizenry, the populo formed themselves into guilds to build alliances between merchants and artisans in the same industries. However, these amateur soldiers struggled to fight on even footing with fully-trained and well-equipped professional soldiers, and the guild militias were frequently defeated.

To solve their military dilemma, the populo engaged in political coalition-building with the oldest units of the urban commune: the neighborhoods. When the cities of medieval Italy were originally founded, they had been rather decentralized transplantations of the rural villages, where before people had any conception of a city-wide collective their primary allegiance was to their neighborhood. As can still be seen in the Palio di Siena to this day, these contrade built a strong identity based on local street gangs, the parish church, their traditional heraldry, and their traditional rivalries with the stronzi in the next contrade over. And whether they were maggiori, minori, or unguilded laborers, everyone in the city was a member of their contrade.

As Martines describes, the populo both recruited from (and borrowed the traditions of) the contrade to form their armed neighborhood companies into a force that would have the manpower, the discipline, and the morale to take on the consorteria:

"Every company had its distinctive banner and every house in the city was administratively under the sign of a company. A dragon, a whip, a serpent, a bull, a bounding horse, a lion, a ladder: these, in different colors and on contrasting fields, were some of the leitmotifs of the twenty different banners. They were emblazoned on individual shields and helmets. Rigorous regulations required guildsmen to keep their arms near at hand, above all in troubled times. The call to arms for the twenty companies was the ringing of a special bell, posted near the main public square. A standard-bearer, flanked by four lieutenants, was in command of each company."

To knit these companies organized by neighborhood into a single cohesive force, the lawyers' guilds within the populo created a state within a state, complete with written constitutions, guild charters, legal codes, legislative and executive councils. Under these constitutions, the populo's councils would elect a capitano del popolo, a professional soldier from outside the city who would serve as a politically-neutral commander, with a direct chain of command over the gonfaloniere and lieutenants of the neighborhood companies, to lead the populo against their noble would-be overlords.

And in commune after commune, the neighborhood companies made war against the consorteria, taking the towers one by one and turning them into fortresses of the populo. The victorious guilds turned their newly-won military might into political hegemony over the commune, stripping the nobilita of their power and privilege and forcing them either into submission or exile. Then they directed their veteran neighborhood companies outward to seize control of the rural hinterland from the feudal aristocracy, until the city had become city-state.

(Ironically, in the process, the populo gave birth to the condottieri, as the nobility who had lost their landed wealth and political power took their one remaining asset - their military training and equipment - and became professional mercenaries. But that's a story for another time...)

[raging-soul-of-fire]

The instructions of the local lord were quite specific. The Warriors Guild we’re chartered to escort his winter Seer to the coastal lands, where she would tend to a new court. The guard contingent was to be as small as necessary, and they were to meet at the bridge at the edge of town. The Seer would be waiting there, ready for travel ( @thecrystalchoreographer )

Aura sighed when she got the orders. A combat mission, and one that would take her away from her home. Despite the prestige, she knew none of the others wanted to 'babysit the foreigners' and so pushed the task onto her.

Still, she wasn't in a place to complain. Food, shelter, and steady work. Not a lot of call for creative work among them, but at least their weapons and armor would be maintained. No one would complain about that, even if it meant they weren't doing it themselves.

As she packed her things, she wondered who the winter Seer was. She kept her head down and didn't bother herself with matters of the lord's court. The guild master got the jobs and assigned them to the members. For a job like this, needing as small a group as needed, only one or two might normally be assigned, although the guildmaster always advised 1 per escort with more for more vital targets.

Most of the bad jobs went to her, and she always did them. Even after she started hiding what she was, they never let her forget.

At least there would be fresh air on the journey. Hopefully the person who she was escorting wasn't too demanding or harsh. One pack of supplies, rations, bedroll, torch. Everything she owned, really. Anything else she kept to herself. Slinging her shield over her shoulder, she headed to the bridge. She would be early. Punctuality was important.

@thecrystalchoreographer

[mclalan]

A small estate map of Northeast Wolderness, a wapentake within the County of Humbershire.

Pentascarth Peaks

River Wyn

Bridburn Orchard

Bridburn Abbey

Firley Village

Grinholm Mill

Skunlington Town

Skunlington Castle

Pentascarth Peaks

Pentascarth Peaks is an ancient evergreen woodland that once dominated Wolderness, but centuries of agricultural expansion have driven it back to the five hilltop peaks. Some say that Wyrms slumber within each of the five peaks, while others more accurately claim that the peaks mark the boundary of the Wolderness wapentake.

Both Bridburn Abbey and Skunlington Minster claim rights to the forest, leading to obvious land disputes. But while mortals argue over who owns what, the woods remain home to forgotten, ancient goddesses— though the monastics seem to agree on this being just superstition.

River Wyn

Leading down from Pentascarth Peaks is the River Wyn, cutting through Humbershire on its journey east to the Lyre Estuary. The Wyn boasts giant crabs with some allegedly growing to a formidable fifteen feet. But if you're tempted to go crabbing, beware of the water spirit Catharine Wart, who drags unsuspecting victims beneath the Wyn's currents.

Bidburn Orchard

Nestled within an oxbow is Bridburn Abbey's apple orchard. The monks began with the principle of ora et labora, or 'pray and labour,' but if it also produces apples so delicious and plentiful that kings from across the seas are willing to pay a pretty sum for them, then who are the Valynites to say no? Whether it's Wyn's blessed waters or the lay brothers' tireless work, the orchard certainly hasn't hindered the abbey's rise to fame and fortune. Just don’t get caught scrumping from it, or the monks will have your hand off.

Bridburn Abbey

Bridburn Abbey houses the Valynite Order, which seems more preoccupied with power and business than strictly worship. With extensive landholdings and significant influence in the region, the abbey functions as the principal rural manor of Wolderness. As a result, it has become the largest and wealthiest abbey in all of Humbershire. But beyond just collecting tithes from the surrounding peasants, the monks are skilled in land management, particularly in assarting the land of trees and marshes.

Firley Village

Firley Village, named after the fir trees that once grew in the area, is an agricultural settlement situated on the glebe of Bridburn Abbey.

A large plot of common land lies to the west of the village, while smaller plots are located south on the opposite bank of the River Wyn. While the villagers grow a rotation of barley and vegetables, they're best known for they're prized oxblood-coloured sheep, whose wool appears black but shines red when catching the light. You'd think the village would grow fat from the wealth of this highly sought-after wool, but as the village falls under the manorial holding of the abbey, it is the abbey that reaps the wealth.

Grinholm Mill

Grinholm Mill, a growing hamlet owned by the Rolleston family, offers a much more reasonable miller's toll compared to the one up by Bridburn Abbey. They've become quite popular amongst the peasants of Wolderness, (well at least by miller standards), as well as wealthy. Although they pay their tithe to the abbey like everyone else on this side of the river, they are perceived to have undermined the abbey’s milling soke monopoly—much to the abbey displeasure.

Skunlington Town

Skunlington is a prominent market town, both wealthy and influential, with a history that stretches back to the First Age. It's located behind a small range of hills that shield it from harsh weather and provides a natural defence, with an added Royal Castle on the highest peak for good measure.

The castle is about the only Royal influence in the town however, as Skunlington holds charters that grant it a degree of autonomy from the Crown. The town is governed by a council of Merchant Guild Aldermen in coalition with the Provost of Skunlington Minster. But despite this apparent independence, the town is practically in the pocket of the Archbishop of Humberthorpe, the capital city of Humbershire.

South of Bridburn Abbey, across the River Wyn, lies the land controlled by Skunlington Minster’s estate (marked in purple on the map). The large tract of empty land between Skunlington and Bridburn Abbey is an ongoing contention, as both estates claim it for their own. The bickering has gone on so long that the land has turned fallow. But the biggest source of contention is how Skunlington controls the river toll for use of its docks, with particularly extortionate prices for Bridburn Abbey. Rumour has it that Bridburn Abbey might just build a whole new town of its own, south of Skunlington, just to avoid paying this toll!

Skunlington Castle was strategically built in the First Age atop the highest hill on Pen-y-Skun for its vantage point overlooking the whole of North Wolderness Dale—crucial in the Woodsy War against the pagans. However, these days it’s the Crown's administrative center for Wolderness, run by the Under-Sheriff. Here, secular law is enforced, tasks such as collecting taxes for the Crown, raising levies, chopping off heads, that sort of thing. There’s a lot of overlap with the ecclesiastical courts however, sometimes resulting in collaboration and other times in clashes.

Skunlington Castle

But it’s not all work. The castle also serves as the hub for the gentry afterall, and they're not exactly know for their hard work. So the castle hosts games, jousts, fairs, that sort of thing, and a bed for when the King comes to visit.

[cookie-nom-nom]

A timeline of events for a small resistance:

Like two days ago: A random girl singled me out of room with 80 people and tried to get me (and only me?) to join a pro life organization. Afterwards I resolved to dress more blatantly queer.

Today 11:00: Email sent out to all college students for the Young Conservatives club hosting a chalk art demonstration at 4:30 riddled with pro life messaging and protestors. It will be outside of the hall where the scholarship conference is being held. It’s a massive event for the school, afternoon classes are cancelled so everyone can go, many prospective students will attend. Many would see the pro life messaging, massive influence on how the college is seen. I’m in class and can’t do anything.

11-12:00: I finish a massive essay.

12-1:00: Tabling for our UN climate ambassadors program, I catch wind of what’s going on and we begin scheming.

1-1:30: We build a coalition of students that are pro choice inspired to take action. Make connections with multiple faculty to gain support for counter action including supplies and advice for the rules and procedure regarding demonstrations. Draft a proposal. Gather a group of independent students to contact student affairs president, hold a meeting. We bat our eyes and smile and talk a lot about how we just want to present the diversity of campus values to prospective students, and show how our college facilitates civil intellectual dialogues about human rights. It goes smoothly. As per rules they require a chartered organization to sponsor the event, so I use my position as a Guild head (admittedly one not related to politics, and I’m furiously texting my co president under the table for permission/forgiveness). Submit the proposal, with the student affairs president trying to sound very neutral but subtly relieved that counter action was occurring. Contact the president of the campus democrat organization and slap their name on the proposal for more credibility. With permission, I email the entire student body about a concurrent event for ‘bodily autonomy positivity’.

1:30-4:30: After that hectic 30 minutes, I run over to the scholarship conference because I am presenting my academic endeavors for the UN Climate Ambassadors program. Literally walk in on the others venting about the Conservative event going on, show them the plan and get them on board. As the conference goes on I subtly advertise to people I know. Large number of people saying they’d already planned to sabotage it lol. Mid conference, turns out of the other Ambassadors literally Knows the guy whose name is slapped on the Conservative event, calls him. Love this girl, she plays an AMAZING ditz when she needs to, and was like ‘heyyy I heard you’re doing some kind of event what’s that about teehee’ to draw out the dude’s story. And he was weirdly evasive?? Like saying it wasn’t a protest, that it’s just about art, very much not how the email was set up idk. Very. Odd. Rather spineless.

4:30: We start, blasting music on the speaker. Conservatives show up like 20 minutes late to their own event. There’s only five of them. We have well over 6 times that with only 3 hours notice and a small campus. A single chalk line separates our areas. The pro choice messages took up over 2.5 side walk blocks (after which we were restricted from doing more space, far more concentrated). They barely fill 1 and only have 9 messages/drawings compared to our well over a hundred. Things are mostly civil and fully safe, I make sure everyone has a buddy. Aside from some chalk arguments across the line, it’s not bad. Everyone had fun stayed safe.

I really, really enjoyed giving a water jug to the conservative girl (only one on their side) who tried to get me to join the pro life organization, so I could watch her erase their measly muster of chalk messages.

(Trying to avoid posting pictures w people of course lol)

[angelseraphines]

THE PHANTOM MENACE | CHAPTER TWO

“hollow corridors, burning skies.”

the grand room was carved for ceremony.

its domed ceiling stretched high above, carved with the emblems of naboo’s noble houses, suns, leaves, spirals, and stars, all gilded in soft gold and lacquered cream, reflecting the pale light that filtered through the vertical panes of the arched windows. at the center of the chamber, surrounded by marble columns and veils of red and bronze silk, sat queen padmé amidala.

she was motionless, poised upon her throne in the elevated seat of state, her dark robes shaped in sculpted folds like the wings of some regal bird. her headdress towered above her crown, edged with golden beads and nacre, her face painted in the traditional white of the queens of naboo, a red stripe centered on her lower lip and two rouge dots beneath each eye. the folds of her sleeves draped nearly to the floor, and a gleaming collar of jet beads encircled her throat. she looked distinctly not young, although she was hardly fourteen years of age. she looked timeless.

at her side, seated on a lower platform just beside the royal dais, was vasharre rharrellis. merely eight years old, she was dressed in robes of deep violet silk over silver-grey underlayers, the hem embroidered with curling motifs of starlight and moons, her house’s ancient symbols. her long black hair, parted and curled into a coiled half-crown, had been pinned with narrow silver clasps shaped as if they were nova stars. her pale hands rested, folded neatly, in her lap. she said nothing. she watched everything.

to most, she would have appeared ornamental, a noble girl in ceremonial dress. but those within the court knew better. she was the heiress of house rharrellis, daughter of the noble lord naem rharrellis, and since the departure of her brother for the jedi temple three years prior, she had become the sole heir to the family’s political legacy. her education had begun early. she had been present at meetings of the planetary council. had spoken once before the trade guild on the matter of treaty language. she knew the titles of every house lord on naboo. she could recite verbatim the peace charter of the galactic core systems.

and today, she was to observe.

the chamber was brimming with tension. ministers stood along the curved perimeter of the council tier. guards from naboo’s royal security forces lined the walls in burgundy and bronze armor. aides with dataslates moved between tables, whispering to each other in near silence. and near the foot of the queen’s throne, standing in guardianship, stood a tall, tanned woman with green eyes and dark brown hair twisted into a single heavy braid.

ebos. vasharre’s handmaiden. her guardian. her shadow. when lady darmah, her mother, had fallen ill, she would become a guardian figure to the young girl. she had never left her side since.

“there is no proof,” came the voice, sharpened by mechanical transmission.

viceroy nute gunray.

his hologram wavered in the center of the chamber’s projection circle, sinewy, robed, his angular neimoidian face unreadable, voice distorted through the translator. the hologram flashed in the sun-filtered gleam.

“we are innocent of this invasion,” he continued. “you have no evidence.”

queen amidala did not move.

her voice, when it came, was commanding.

“you will not be so easily absolved, viceroy,” she said. “our system is under siege. the trade federation’s ships have surrounded our world. and now you claim ignorance.”

“we do not recognize your accusations,” gunray replied. “there are no jedi here. no ambassadors were ever sent.”

a glint passed through the room, barely perceptible. vasharre saw the way padmé’s fingers tightened against the embellished edge of her throne. the queen’s breath remained calm. her expression betrayed nothing. but vasharre had known her since before she wore the paint of the crown. she recognized the silence for what it was, fury held still by duty.

and then the central console lit with a new transmission.

a shimmer of blue took shape within the holoprojector.

senator sheev palpatine of naboo.

the image crackled into view, his robes elegant and unassuming, his voice familiar and polished.

“your highness,” he said smoothly, his tone honeyed, “we have received your transmission. the chancellor is livid. i have been in contact with the jedi council. they assure me that two ambassadors were dispatched days ago. master qui-gon jinn and his padawan.”

queen amidala’s tone remained level.

“we have received no contact from them.”

palpatine offered a look of carefully calculated concern.

“then something is terribly wrong.”

naem rharrellis stood among the queen’s inner council, his hands folded before him. he did not speak, but vasharre saw the tension deepening the wrinkles etched on his face. she knew that he, once the senator of naboo himself, would have spoken already had the queen not requested extreme caution among the council for this session. but his eyes remained sharp. his stance coiled, prepared.

palpatine continued.

“there is concern among the senate. many are eager to avoid escalation. but i have already spoken on your behalf.”

“as has crown princess breha organa of alderaan,” a minister murmured from the side tier. “she and statesman bail prestor condemned the federation’s actions this morning.”

palpatine nodded.

“they were… passionate. but you must be careful, your highness. if you speak too forcefully, you will provoke accusations of aggression. you are known as a pacifist. let us not allow them to paint you as anything else.”

padmé said nothing.

and neither did vasharre.

but the queen’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

beneath the throne platform, her hands curled in despair in her lap.

the queen of naboo would not be painted. she would speak with the colors she chose.

and no blockade, no council, no federation would prevent her from protecting her people.

as the transmission faded, the image of senator palpatine dissolved into pale static and then vanished entirely, the holoprojector darkening with a soft hum.

the room did not stir.

no one spoke.

for a long period of time, only the distant whine of an outer corridor’s security system could be heard, and the muffled whir of a data console cycling through failed transmission logs.

padmé amidala remained seated, elegant and poised, though her painted expression betrayed nothing. her fingers, folded in her lap atop the heavy beading of her robe, trembled so steadily that only someone watching very closely would have noticed.

vasharre did.

from her position at the queen’s side, she could feel the change, not in the atmosphere, but in the people. ministers exchanging glances without moving their heads. the governor’s chief aide biting the inside of her lip. one of the palace guards repositioning his stance a little too deliberately.

it was not fear.

not yet.

but it was its beginning.

lord naem rharrellis was seated at his place in the queen’s inner circle, hands folded within the long sleeves of his robe, his posture formal but taut. his gaze was on the console, though his eyes were distant. vasharre, watching him in her periphery, saw the minute way his shoulders had drawn inward. he had not spoken during the transmission, out of respect for the queen’s authority, but she knew her father. knew that he had once raised his voice against half the senate to protect the integrity of naboo’s neutrality in the border disputes. and he was not one to silence himself without cause.

the cause was trepidation.

not of war.

but of what he did not yet understand.

“this is a trap,” one of the councilors murmured, voice hardly audible beneath his breath.

padmé’s gaze veered subtly toward him, then back to the blank space where palpatine’s image had hovered only moments ago.

“we must appeal again to the senate,” she said.

the minister of transport spoke next, his tone more strained than before.

“we’ve sent multiple transmissions already. the trade routes have been jammed. they’re delaying recognition of our position, stalling until we give them a reason to legitimize the blockade.”

padmé lifted her head by a degree, voice tranquil, as always.

“then we will not give them one.”

vasharre’s hands folded more securely in her lap.

she had heard this tone in padmé before. it was not pride. not naivety. it was resolve.

resolve that did not waver, even when all logic said to bend.

ebos moved quietly to vasharre’s side. she did not speak, only placed one hand lightly on the back of the girl’s chair. it was a gesture meant to reassure, but vasharre’s spine remained stiff.

the nova star at her collarbone felt heavier than it should.

the doors to the chamber slid open with a hiss.

a palace security officer stepped in, helmet under one arm.

he approached the queen’s dais, bowed once at the waist, and spoke low.

“your highness… long-range comms have failed again. and we’ve detected atmospheric entry signatures.”

padmé stood.

slowly.

and the entire room began to move.

vasharre followed as ordered, standing from her seat and falling into formation behind the queen with the other handmaidens.

and as they moved together toward the exit of the chamber, toward the storm that had not yet broken but already surrounded the, vasharre felt, for the first time in her young life, the future narrow to a single point.

they were going to lose something quite precious.

they did not yet know what.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the light of theed had changed.

once bright and dappled through the high columns of theed’s royal square, it had grown grey, muted behind the veil of heavy clouds and the thick metallic shadow cast by the blockade vessels overhead. outside the grand windows of the royal palace, the skyline of naboo had shifted from elegance to occupation. the wide plazas and flowering archways were silent now, patrolled by rows of bronze-plated battle droids. the air smelled faintly of scorched stone and ozone.

the capital had fallen.

the droid army had moved swiftly through theed, their tanks flattening the outer districts in waves of mechanical precision. resistance had been brief, scattered. the royal security forces had fought valiantly, but they were outmatched, and the chain of command had fractured within hours. transmission lines were severed. government channels silenced. and before noon, the palace had been surrounded.

they had come for the queen.

and they had taken them all.

vasharre rharrellis stood among the captured delegation now, the young heiress, dressed no longer in the full regalia of ceremony, but still wearing the violet silks of the court, her hair pinned in the half-crown that ebos had styled that morning. her pendant, the nova star, still rested against her collarbone. she clutched it now without even thinking, the silver warm in her palm from the heat of her skin.

her breath was shallow.

they were being marched through the corridor beneath the grand staircase, flanked by droids on both sides, each clanking step echoing off the stone. vasharre tried not to show fear, but her throat was tight, and her stomach burned with the cold churn of dread.

she had not seen her father since the alarms had sounded.

she had not seen lady hiarmen either, or the young lady avella ortikus, hedna kanve, or the other members of naboo nobility who had stayed within the walls of the theed palace.

all of them had been within the council chamber when the invasion began. the last she had heard, they had sealed themselves in the inner wing of the palace along with the governor and several of the senior advisors. but that was hours ago. the power had flashed. the comms had cut. and then there was nothing.

she worried what that that absence meant.

a hand brushed hers lightly.

vasharre turned.

padmé.

or rather, the handmaiden who was padmé, but not truly.

padmé naberrie, her sister in all but blood, now played the role of a royal attendant, head bowed, eyes forward. her real identity remained hidden behind the face of sabé, who stood ahead in full regalia, draped in red and black with the white-painted mask of sovereignty. no one but vasharre, and perhaps only the most trusted of the other handmaidens, knew the truth.

but even now, padmé’s hand hung beside hers, a serene tether.

“they will not harm you,” she murmured, her voice soft so that the droids would not hear. “keep walking. do not be afraid.”

vasharre did not answer.

she could not.

the dread in her chest was not for herself.

it was for her father, lord naem rharrellis, who had once stood at the heart of the galactic senate, who had once held her hand beneath the high banners of their estate and told her she would one day know the balance between words and power.

it was for her cousin, lady hiarmen, mysterious and steel-tongued, who had whispered sharp truths at formal dinners and taught vasharre how to see past smiles.

it was for ebos, who even now walked a step behind her, tall and still, her green eyes tracking every droid as though daring them to so much as raise a weapon.

it was for her world.

naboo was beautiful.

and she could feel that beauty slipping from her reach akin to breath from glass.

the queen, sabé, pretending, walked ahead, back straight, lips sealed in an expression of imperial calm. beside her, the viceroy’s envoy hovered, voice gliding with well-rehearsed courtesy.

“your highness,” nute gunray intoned through the thick distortion of his translator device, “we assure you, we are here only to bring order. the treaty is a formality.”

sabé did not respond.

she walked as a queen should, unchanged, unmoved.

the viceroy continued.

“it will be easier,” he said, his tone oily, “if you cooperate. the galactic senate will recognize the treaty if you sign it.”

they had reached the base of the staircase.

vasharre looked up.

she knew these steps well, the golden marble inlay, the torch sconces spaced evenly along the walls, the high dome at the landing overhead with the stylized sunburst of naboo carved into the stone. it had always felt like a place of safety.

now it was a cage.

one of the droids barked a mechanical order in its warbled dialect.

the group halted.

sabé turned slowly, robes trailing, her headdress catching the dim light.

vasharre’s heart was pounding so loudly she could feel it in her fingertips.

the viceroy stepped forward once more, this time with a datapad in hand.

“we simply need your signature, your highness. then we can ensure your people’s safety.”

padmé’s fingers tightened lightly around vasharre’s hand.

sabé’s voice came calm, formidable.

“i will not cooperate with a criminal occupation.”

gunray hesitated.

even he had not expected defiance spoken aloud.

the droids stiffened.

but sabé, queen in mask, did not flinch.

vasharre watched in silence, and behind the mask of her composure, her terror sharpened.

her father might already be gone.

her people might already be broken.

and the queen she served might already be risking her life for a choice that would lead to their demise or save them all.

one of the battle droids at the head of the column turned abruptly toward the grand staircase, its mechanical hands clutching its rifle in sudden alert. others followed, craning their heads toward the wide archway above the steps. the red glow of scanning sensors pulsed as they read motion, heat, the unmistakable presence of something alive.

there was a hiss.

not of steam, nor machine, but something fiercer, more final.

the queen, sabé, donning the disguise of queen, halted. the handmaidens stopped behind her. captain panaka, standing to the side of the party, altered imperceptibly, one hand easing toward the grip of his sidearm, though the surrounding droids had not yet given clearance to draw.

vasharre, close at padmé’s side, held her breath.

they dropped from above.

two figures, cloaked and swift, descended through the archway in a flurry of fabric and movement, landing on the polished marble with the poise of creatures long trained for war. their boots struck the floor with resounding force, and before the droids could compute the action, the first of the two ignited his weapon.

a shaft of green light erupted from the hilt in his hand.

it split the shadows of the chamber like lightning.

the second followed, blue blade extending with a low hum.

the battle droids began to raise their rifles, but the blades were already in motion.

the one with the green saber, a tall man, long-haired and composed, robes dusty from travel, moved first, cutting through the first droid in a single strike, then pivoting on his heel to sever the weapon from a second before slicing it clean through the torso. his movements were disciplined, controlled, as though his very breath was in rhythm with the force itself.

master qui-gon jinn.

vasharre recognized the name the instant she heard the others call to him.

she had known the name through political memory, through court whispers and council transcripts. the last padawan of grandmaster soluke rharrellis, her great-uncle. a link to her own bloodline, and to the temple that had taken her brother. but until this day, she had never seen him.

and she had never seen him.

the second fighter, no, not a jedi master, a padawan, was younger. leaner. his hair was cropped short, save for the thin padawan braid behind his right ear. his jaw was set with focus, his blue eyes trained not on one enemy, but all of them. his saber moved in elegant arcs, cutting through droid limbs, redirecting bolts with precision. his movements were not as raw as his master’s, they were precise, methodical, deeply trained.

he moved without reluctance.

he stepped in front of vasharre.

only for a beat.

one of the droids had leveled its blaster at the queen’s platform. she did not see it. nor did padmé.

but he did.

he adjusted his stance, angled his shoulder, and with one clean sweep of his blade, he deflected the bolt. it struck the wall behind them. and then his saber cut through the droid’s rifle and chassis in the same breath.

he turned, eyes sweeping the royal line to ensure all were safe.

and vasharre looked up at him.

his features, even amid the chaos, were unmistakable, clear blue eyes, focused and serious, a mouth drawn tight with concentration but not anger, hair that caught the ambient light in copper-brown glints, a face not yet marked by age but already shaped by discipline. he was no older than his early twenties, but there was something deeply still in his presence. not cold. only peaceful. only honed.

her breath caught in her throat.

not because he was handsome, though he was, undeniably, but because he had placed himself between her and death without hesitation.

the battle ended in mere seconds.

the final droid collapsed with a screech of split metal, its torso sparking as it fell in two pieces.

the queen’s guard stood stunned.

captain panaka moved first, drawing his weapon fully now.

“master jedi,” he said, breath intense with relief.

qui-gon, blade smoldering and lit, turned to sabé.

“my padawan learner, obi-wan kenobi and myself are here to protect you, your highness,” he said. “we’ll take you to coruscant.”

sabé did not break character.

“thank you, ambassador,” she said.

obi-wan moved toward panaka.

“we must make for the main hangar,” he said briskly. “we can fly past the blockade if we move now.”

panaka nodded.

“this way.”

ebos placed a hand on vasharre’s shoulder, steadying her.

but vasharre’s eyes remained fixed on the jedi who had shielded her.

qui-gon turned to the group.

“stay close. we leave now.”

and together, they moved.

the queen. the handmaidens. the heiress of house rharrellis. the guard. the jedi.

they passed through the lower archways and toward the palace’s inner corridor.

and as the light from the hangar doors came into view, the world began to change.

the split second they stepped through the final archway, the scale of it opened around them, an enormous domed chamber of stone and durasteel, lined with royal starfighters and maintenance scaffolds, fuel pods, and the polished chrome gleam of the royal starship anchored at the far end. above, the tall hangar doors were half-drawn, their great panels groaning faintly as the afternoon wind swept dust and ash through the open slats.

and they were not alone.

a squad of battle droids had already formed a perimeter.

more were filing in from the southern corridor, their heads pivoting in sharp clicks toward the incoming group. the hiss of servos, the sound of heavy mechanical feet striking the metal flooring, vasharre heard all of it in rising waves. her heartbeat quickened again, but this time she kept her head high. not because she was not afraid, but because she had seen what the jedi could do. because she had seen what he had done.

qui-gon’s voice rang through the hangar.

“stay behind us.”

he did not shout.

he did not need to.

captain panaka lifted his blaster and fired the first shot.

the droids returned fire instantly, and then the hangar roared with the pulse of combat.

green and red bolts crisscrossed the open floor. one struck the wall just above the queen’s shoulder, leaving a scorching black mark in the otherwise pristine duracrete. handmaidens scattered to the side, drawing small concealed blasters from beneath their robes. they did not panic. they had trained for this.

vasharre saw padmé move with stable control, her hands steady, eyes observant. she was young, but she moved like someone who had already decided her courage would outweigh her terror.

and ahead of them, the jedi moved.

qui-gon surged first, saber cutting through the nearest wave of droids. his blade was a blur, deflecting blaster fire back into the chests of the machines who had fired it. sparks burst like fireflies. limbs fell smoking to the floor. he advanced without hesitation.

obi-wan flanked him to the right, faster, closer to the ground, striking with swift, decisive strokes. his cloak had come loose at the shoulder, trailing behind him as he moved. his eyes remained fixed on the advancing line of droids, his saber catching bolt after bolt and returning them with clean, sharp counterstrokes. his expression was unreadable, focused to the point of stillness. vasharre could not look away.

in the frenzy, another figure stood near the edges of the group, awkward, towering, and visibly alarmed. the gungan the jedi had rescued earlier in the swamps outside theed had remained close to master jinn throughout the escape. his long ears drooped in agitation as he shuffled after the group with clumsy urgency, muttering anxiously beneath his breath. he flinched at every blaster mark scorched into the floor and nearly tripped over a fallen droid limb before catching himself. she watched him hurry after the jedi, clearly unsure where he should be, but unwilling to be left behind. the others paid him little mind, but he stayed close all the same, his webbed hands flailing whenever he stumbled.

the skirmish was over in under a minute.

the last droid fell in two pieces at qui-gon’s feet.

the hangar fell quiet again, save for the buzzing whirr of engines powering up across the floor.

panaka was already waving them forward.

“this way,” he called. “get to the ship.”

they moved as one, sabé continued to lead, the handmaidens followed close behind, padmé walked at her side. vasharre trailed between them, her breath ragged in her chest.

the royal starship stood gleaming in the far alcove of the hangar, its surface polished to mirror-finish, a ship built for diplomacy and statecraft, not war. the landing ramp had already begun to descend, hydraulics whining softly.

sabé slowed as they neared.

she turned, pausing at the base of the ramp.

“we should not leave,” she said. her voice was forceful, but laced with something that pulled at the tension around her. “our people are suffering. i cannot abandon them.”

“your highness,” panaka warned. “we must go. now.”

sabé’s eyes swept the forlorn hangar.

“we are needed here.”

padmé stepped forward.

“your highness,” she said, and though she kept the tone of a servant, her words held significance. “the handmaidens are prepared. we are not afraid. you must go. the people need you alive. if we stay, we will be captured. if we leave, we can return with help.”

sabé held her gaze.

for a minute, the decision trembled in the balance.

then she nodded.

vasharre had not realized she had stopped moving until she felt ebos’s hand touch the center of her back, urging her forward. she turned slightly, her eyes falling on the high entry corridor they had emerged from.

her father.

her family.

her lineage.

the capital.

all of it was still there.

but she was not.

she felt the ache in her chest expand, twisting upward into her throat. she said nothing. she had no words for this kind of fear. she had read of war. had spoken the names of treaties. had recited the histories of conflicts and successions. but she had never known what it was to leave behind the people you loved, uncertain whether they would survive the hour.

she faltered for a juncture at the base of the ramp.

he was beside her.

obi-wan kenobi did not speak.

he only stood between her and the fading corridor, blue saber grasped in hand, eyes on the horizon of the open hangar.

she looked up at him.

and despite everything, she felt the fright lessen.

only scarcely.

but enough.

she stepped ahead.

the ramp groaned beneath their feet as they climbed.

and the door sealed behind them with a low hydraulic hiss.

the royal starship shuddered as it rose into the atmosphere.

vasharre held tightly to the curved brace of the observation railing, her fingers gripping the cool steel as the ship’s ascent tilted her balance. the chamber around her vibrated with the mounting pressure of acceleration. the smooth naboo floor, once hushed, once ceremonial, now thrummed with the violence of propulsion.

outside the window, the pale blue sky of naboo had turned silver with clouds. those clouds broke into black. the shadow of the blockade loomed above them.

the ship pushed through the clouds, past the stratosphere, toward the waiting line of trade federation vessels. their massive structures hovered like floating citadels, geometrically perfect and impossibly cold. vasharre had seen them in holograms. but nothing had prepared her for the size of them in the sky. they were not ships. they were prisons.

the first shots came before they breached orbit.

a tremor ran through the hull.

a red warning sigil blinked into view along the wall-mounted display, followed by a secondary alert in the pilot’s chamber.

captain panaka’s voice broke across the comm.

“incoming fire, portside shields active, holding for now.”

the floor vibrated sharply.

vasharre stumbled, catching herself against the far end of the bench behind her.

padmé, still in handmaiden disguise, steadied the tray she had been carrying. across the room, ebos moved fast to shield her from the bulkhead, her willowy frame instinctively placing herself between her charge and the exterior wall.

a second blast hit, harder this time.

the lights blinked.

outside, brilliant streaks of green light cut across the dark expanse of the upper atmosphere. fighter drones peeled from the blockade’s flanks, twisting toward them with predatory precision. turbolaser fire struck across their shield perimeter in flashes that left afterimages across the viewport.

inside the ship, the air had grown heavier.

vasharre could feel it.

not terror.

not entirely.

something deeper, something closer to gravity.

the shields trembled again.

this time, they beamed.

a chorus of voices rang through the ship’s systems, alerts, damage assessments, system fluctuations.

“main shield generator is hit, outer deflection matrix compromised…”

“rerouting power…”

“loss of secondary shield layer…”

impact.

a jolt ripped through the vessel, knocking several of the guards from their footing.

a panel on the upper wall sparked.

the artificial gravity momentarily destabilized before stabilizing again with a low pulse from the subfloor unit.

sabé, acting as queen amidala, gripped the edge of her seat.

panaka’s voice, urgent now, crackled over the comm again.

“we’ve lost the deflector shield, direct line to the hyperdrive exposed, repeat, shields are down!”

for one long minute, the ship dropped.

only meters.

but it dropped.

the air inside thickened with the sound of klaxons and system diagnostics. every passenger on board knew what that drop meant.

they were no longer protected.

vasharre looked up swiftly, her stomach clenched. she could feel the panic crawling at the edge of her throat, but she did not allow it to reach her eyes.

she was of house rharrellis.

she did not weep in front of strangers.

abruptly, a voice, one of the engineers, half-incredulous, rang out from the chamber below the corridor.

“we’ve got a droid on the hull, astromech, he’s stabilizing the unit!”

sabé turned her head.

obi-wan entered from the command deck, followed closely by qui-gon and panaka.

beside them rolled a small, dome-headed astromech droid—burnished silver and blue, panels slightly scorched from exposure, his domed head spinning in steady beeps and chirps of status confirmation.

panaka looked toward the queen.

“we had four astromechs,” he said. “this one was the only one that made it.”

obi-wan nodded, his face marked with soot, his hair wind-swept from the emergency deployment.

“he restored auxiliary power. realigned the deflection coupling manually. the ship would not have survived the next blast otherwise.”

the little droid made a low chirrup.

sabé stood.

she walked toward the droid, her heavy ceremonial sleeves trailing as she did. her painted face did not betray surprise, nor emotion, only the calm regality expected of her.

“he is to be commended,” she said.

she turned to the handmaidens.

“clean this droid,” she said curtly. “see to it that he is repaired and polished.”

padmé stepped to the front without waiting.

“yes, your highness.”

qui-gon approached the queen.

“we need to land,” he said. “the hyperdrive is leaking energy. we will not make it to coruscant without refueling and repairs.”

“where?” sabé asked.

“tatooine,” he said. “a small outer rim world. remote. no federation presence. local merchants. enough to find a part.”

“that planet is dangerous,” panaka said. “the hutts control the system.”

qui-gon met his gaze warily.

“so do the traders. and it is outside the federation’s control. it’s our best chance.”

sabé was still for a moment.

then she gave a single nod.

“very well. proceed.”

padmé had already exited toward the auxiliary deck, r2-d2 rolling at her side.

vasharre watched her go.

the ship rumbled again as the course correction began. the stars outside shifted slowly as the vessel angled toward its new vector.

vasharre paused only shortly before she turned, following the hall in the direction padmé had gone.

when she reached the droid maintenance alcove, the hum of tools greeted her.

padmé had a cloth in hand, wiping the soot from the side of the droid’s chassis. r2 whistled contentedly, blinking and rotating his head as she worked.

vasharre walked closer, her steps devoid of sound.

“he saved us,” she whispered.

padmé looked up.

there was soot smudged at her wrist.

“he did.”

vasharre placed a hand tenderly on the edge of the workbench.

“does he have a name?”

“r2-d2.”

the droid let out a low, proud trill.

vasharre smiled, the expression small but sincere.

she reached forward, ran her fingers along the newly-polished edge of his dome.

“thank you.”

r2 turned his head toward her.

chirped once.

and for the first time in what felt like hours, vasharre felt something settle in her chest.

not relief.

but the first trace of hope.

the transmission alert blinked faintly on the side console.

it was nearly missed among the navigation reports and automated course corrections now flooding the ship’s systems. the royal starship had leveled from its steep escape climb, and the noise of battle had long since faded into a steady hum of interstellar passage. most aboard had retreated to their chambers or assigned alcoves. engineers were buried in maintenance reports. the handmaidens had begun checking the supplies that remained. padmé, still in her veil of servitude, had returned to the astromech chamber to continue tending to r2-d2.

vasharre had stayed behind near the corridor hub, her hands loosely clasped, her mind circling the images of that afternoon, her father’s last glance across the throne room before the palace fell, the last words she had heard from the ministers, the sudden thrum of escape beneath her feet. it was not silent in her mind. nothing about this journey was quiet.

but then the console light pulsed again.

soft.

green.

incoming.

her eyes moved to it without expectation.

and then she saw the identification line.

rharrellis-seal-transmission-alpha.

her breath stopped.

padmé was at her side in seconds, alerted by the shift in vasharre’s expression. she followed her gaze to the console and recognized the seal at once.

without words, without hesitation, the two of them turned and made for the private viewing chamber at the rear of the ship.

they entered without summoning anyone else. the guards remained stationed in the corridor. ebos, ever vigilant, allowed the girl her moment. the chamber lights dimmed automatically as the door sealed behind them, leaving only the low metallic glow of the holographic pad.

vasharre pressed the activation key with fingers that trembled more than she meant them to.

the projection flashed into being.

and there he was.

naem rharrellis, lord of house rharrellis, former senator of naboo, once guardian of the galactic senate floor, now a trapped voice beneath a field of static and light.

his face was weary. the hardships of sleepless hours pulled at his features, and the wrinkled lines around his eyes had deepened. but he was alive.

and he was speaking.

“vasharre,” his voice echoed, stable and serious. “padmé.”

the sound of his voice broke something beneath her ribs.

padmé took a step forward.

“you’re alive.”

naem bowed his head.

“for now. theed has not fallen completely. the central wing is sealed. the palace is occupied, yes, but we remain fortified in the governor’s hall.”

vasharre moved forward so that the projection caught her full face. her hands were now at her sides, clenched in trembling fists.

“father,” she said, her voice breaking softly, “we thought… we didn’t know if…”

“i know,” he said gently. “i feared the same of you.”

his pale eyes passed between her and padmé.

“you are both safe?”

padmé nodded once.

“the jedi rescued us. we are en route to coruscant.”

“and the others?” vasharre asked quickly. “hiarmen?”

naem’s expression softened with vague surprise, then reassurance.

“she is unharmed. she’s taken shelter with pavanak at their estate in the southern lake provinces. his age makes travel difficult, so they have not attempted evacuation. for now, they are thankfully untouched.”

vasharre exhaled once. the tension in her chest shifted, but did not release.

padmé’s voice came next.

“and avella?”

naem’s gaze moved to her.

“she is with me. as are hedna kanve, the governor, and several others, ministers, nobles, aides. we are holding ground within the primary council chamber. the trade forces have locked the corridors, but they’ve not breached the doors. the blockade is preventing communication from reaching beyond naboo. i am sending this message through an encrypted senate relay, piggybacking off the queen’s vessel signal. it may be the last message i can send.”

padmé’s hands clenched in the folds of her skirt.

“she was frightened,” padmé said, her voice sorrowful. “avella. before we were taken. she looked at me before the doors closed. i promised her i would return.”

the mention of avella conjured something nebulous in vasharre’s thoughts. she could picture her, brown-haired, with round eyes akin to indigo crystals, always standing a few feet apart from the court yet never forgotten within it. though she had been raised by the naberrie family after the death of her parents, avella carried herself with the soft dignity of someone born to nobility and tempered by grief. she was delicate in the way a decorated window was dainty, elegant, rare, but not easily broken. vasharre had at times caught sight of her in the council halls and garden promenades, sensing in her a gentler strength that most failed to bear.

naem’s eyes, grave and understanding, rested on her a while longer.

“she will wait,” he said. “she is strong. raised by your kin, is she not?”

padmé nodded her head once. she did not speak. not yet.

vasharre felt the next question forming before she could stop it.

“are they… hurting anyone?”

naem’s expression changed, subtly. the kind of change that came not from deceit, but from withholding pain.

“they are enforcing martial presence. shipments are blocked. docks are closed. food is scarce in the city proper. the outer settlements are faring worse. i receive no reports from the western continent. it is likely the blockade has severed all aid corridors.”

padmé looked up immediately.

“they are starving our people.”

“yes.”

vasharre’s became agitated. her fingers wrapped unconsciously around the pendant at her neck, the nova star glowing against her white skin.

“we must return,” she said. “we cannot leave them…”

“you must not return yet,” naem interrupted. “i say this as your father. as the leader of house rharrellis. surrender cannot happen. if we sign anything under their terms, it will not be peace. it will be precedent. the trade federation will devour world after world behind the mask of bureaucracy. this must be challenged before the senate.”

padmé nodded.

“we go to coruscant for that reason.”

naem’s projection faded as the transmission weakened.

“padmé,” he said. “you are as a daughter to me. i trust you. with her. with our planet. do what must be done.”

he turned his gaze to vasharre once more.

“sharre.”

the name, soft and delicate, spoken only in times where duty did not interfere with love.

she stepped closer.

“i am proud of you,” he said. “and i am with you. forever.”

the projection shivered again.

vasharre wanted to speak, but the light collapsed before she could.

the chamber darkened.

emptiness returned.

padmé placed a hand softly on her shoulder.

vasharre did not turn.

but she did not cry.

she only stood motionless.

and the glimmering stars outside the ship kept moving.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

from the vantage of the starship, high above the outer rim hyperspace lanes, the view beyond the curved durasteel windows no longer shimmered with the silver sheen of naboo’s skies. now, the cosmos was endless, an ocean of darkness, broken only by the faint blue pulse of passing starlight and the wide, luminous trails of hyperspace drifting in long, ghostly ribbons across the void. it was a silence that bordered on unnatural. a silence that pressed against the windows and sealed itself across the hull, as though the galaxy were holding its breath.

inside the ship, the lights had been dimmed.

most aboard had long since gone to rest, their forms tucked into modest sleeping chambers scattered across the inner deck. the engineers had powered down the repair systems. the handmaidens, exhausted by the weight of the day, had retired without ceremony. even r2-d2 had been placed in a corner alcove, his blinking sensors dimmed to a soft, idle rhythm. the royal quarters remained sealed, the false queen still cloaked in ritual rest, her face scrubbed clean of ceremonial paint for the first time in days.

and beneath the solitude, in one of the smaller diplomatic guest rooms near the aft corridor, vasharre slept.

the room was modest in size but finely appointed. smooth walls of cream-tinted durasteel were inlaid with bronze moldings, carved in floral motifs. a slender silver fixture at the ceiling’s center gave off a soft amber glow, now dimmed to narrowly a glint. beneath it, a narrow bed was set into the wall, framed by curved paneling and a velvet-wrapped headboard, pale violet in tone. one small desk rested against the far end, beside a polished drawer table and a vast, shuttered window looking out into space. there were no personal decorations. only the presence of a warm blanket, folded neatly at the end of the mattress, and the figure curled beneath it.

vasharre’s midnight-black hair spilled across the silken pillowcase, her breathing slow but uneven.

she did not sleep deeply.

she did not sleep peacefully.

beneath the weight of her lashes, her eyes blinked, small, rapid movements. her fingers meandered in toward her palms. her breath caught and became erratic, intense and unsettled.

and within her dreaming mind, there was no comfort.

only heat.

darkness.

and red.

she did not know what it was she saw.

it had no name, no shape.

only color, burning black, impossibly deep, and streaked through with veins of crimson, pulsing like blood. it moved without rhythm. it breathed without air. it surged around her like fire and smoke, but there was no flame, no warmth. only fury. it howled not in sound, but in sensation, a rage so vast it drowned the air from her lungs and pressed against her chest with the weight of something ancient and cruel and unrelenting.

she tried to scream.

but her voice was sealed.

she tried to run.

but there was no floor beneath her feet.

only space.

only stars.

only pain.

she woke.

her body jerked and she lurched forward. her shoulders tensing, a cry caught sharp behind her teeth.

the room was dreadfully dark.

the silence was real again.

for a period of time, she could not breathe.

her chest rose in short, shallow gasps, her eyes wide and unfocused as they adjusted to the dim light. the nightmare clung to her, not as a memory, but as a burden, festering around her lungs like a whisper that had not yet finished speaking. her pale skin was cold, her hands damp with sweat. the pillow beneath her had fallen askew.

she turned her head.

ebos was there.

her handmaiden sat beside the door, not in a bed but in the old soldier’s rest, a straight-backed chair, her long frame tilted slightly, chin tucked to her shoulder. her braid had loosened at the end, one hand resting near the handle of the small blaster holstered discreetly beneath her cloak. she had fallen asleep sitting up, watchful to the last.

vasharre didn’t call out to her.

she didn’t speak.

instead, she turned around, drawing back the blanket from her lap. the room was frigid, but she did not tremble. her feet touched the smooth floor with no sound. she rose, adjusting the hem of her nightrobe, and stepped cautiously toward the corridor door. her hand passed over the sensor panel, and the metal slid open with a faint hydraulic hiss.

ebos did not wake.

vasharre stepped into the darkened hallway.

the air was cooler here, tinged with the antiseptic smell of well-maintained ships, polished metal, filtered oxygen, the faintest trace of engine plasma and recycled heat. overhead, the lights had been dimmed to their nighttime setting, deep violet panels casting low shadows across the corridor floor, creating a dreamscape of hollow silence and shifting gleam.

she walked gradually.

barefoot.

alone.

the nightmare seared in her thoughts.

but now the anguish was reality.

and the ship carried her onward into stars that did not speak.

the corridor outside the navigation deck was long and dim, brushed in soft blue light that spilled from the hyperspace current beyond the curved transparisteel windows. no noise accompanied her footsteps. the floor beneath her was smoothed durasteel, cool beneath the soles of her feet, and the air smelled somewhat of ozone and oiled mechanics. the ship was quiet, truly quiet now, not only with sleep, but with the kind of silence that settles over a vessel between stars, when the engines are stable, the course is clear, and nothing on board stirs without purpose.

vasharre strode slowly, her robe trailing lightly behind her. she had not dressed for wandering, nor had she intended to leave her quarters for long. but her feet, once set in motion, had carried her forward without resistance. she had passed through the sleeping corridor, turned past the starboard auxiliary cabin, and followed a passage she had never studied, her hand grazing the wall as though it might guide her somewhere safer than the echo of the nightmare lodged in her chest.

it was there, at the end of the corridor, that she saw him.

he stood near the central control console of the maintenance alcove, his posture upright but unhurried, his head bowed as he examined the monitor before him. he was alone. the glow of the console bathed his face in faint silver, the light catching the edge of his cheekbone and the subtle bronze-gold tones in his short hair. his cloak was folded over one arm, and his free hand rested near the base of the communication display. a thin band of blue light flickered up from the base of the transmission disc, revealing the translucent figure of a man vasharre recognized only by voice.

“we cannot allow this delay to cost us what little ground we have,” the hologram said. “the blockade’s presence in the mid-rim is shifting. we must remain ahead of it.”

the voice was serious and purposeful.

it belonged to master qui-gon jinn.

the younger man responded with calm precision, though there was a dryness to his tone, the kind that carried the faintest edge of unspoken opinion.

“we are not delayed, master,” he said. “we are en route to coruscant with the queen, the delegation, and the surviving nobility. we have adapted to every shift in your path.”

the hologram spoke nothing, but the change in its posture suggested restraint.

the young padawan deactivated the communication panel a moment later, ending the exchange without ceremony. the hologram flickered out. the alcove dimmed again. the only sound remaining was the ambient thrum of the starship and the distant hum of the reactor core.

he turned then.

his eyes landed on her.

he did not startle.

he assessed her with the kind of poised vigilance that suggested he had already sensed her presence moments before his eyes confirmed it. the blue light caught the slope of his jaw and the curve of his shoulders. his silhouette was lean and composed, shaped not by idle strength but by years of measured training. his tunic was worn without ostentation, his lightsaber clipped precisely to the leather of his belt.

when he spoke, his voice was hushed, formal.

“my lady.”

his tone held no amusement, but neither was it cold. there was something stable about it, something trained, as though every word was placed with care. he inclined his head slightly, not bowing, but acknowledging her presence with a reverence appropriate to her title.

she did not answer immediately.

her breath caught in her throat. she had not meant to see him again, not like this, not alone. he was not what she had expected a jedi to be. she had imagined someone older. someone remote. someone towering and unapproachable. instead, he was young, perhaps only two decades or so in age, and yet carried himself with the unshakable calm of someone far beyond his years.

his eyes, a crystalline blue, held no condescension. only inquiry.

“you could not sleep?” he asked, softly.

she shook her head. her voice felt thin.

“no.”

he did not press her for more.

“that is not uncommon,” he said. “dreams often grow troubled when the soul is unsettled.”

she hesitated, her hands curling at her sides. she had not expected him to speak as though her fears were valid. she had expected dismissal, perhaps even mild rebuke. instead, he looked at her with the expression of someone who understood that sleep could be broken by things words could not name.

she looked at him more carefully now.

his hair, short but neatly parted, bore the traditional padawan braid, auburn with a streak of gold near the end, tied with grace. his features were refined, but not delicate. there was a kind of carved strength to them, a discipline that showed not in his physique, but in the way he held his shoulders, in the set of his mouth. there was no boyish arrogance in him. he was not unkind, but he was not soft.

“you are padawan kenobi,” she said.

he inclined his head again, an obscured trace of acknowledgement in his expression.

“obi-wan kenobi, apprentice to master qui-gon jinn. at your service, my lady rharrellis.”

her throat tightened.

“you… you saved me.”

he did not respond with pride.

“i protected a child in danger,” he said simply. “that is the duty of any jedi.”

“so i was only a duty.”

he looked at her now with a touch more clarity. not sternness. not pity. something more delicate. something more understanding than she had expected from a warrior.

“you are a citizen of naboo. you are a noble daughter of one of the oldest houses in the galaxy. you are your father’s child. that makes you many things. it does not make you only a duty.”

her breath caught again, but for a different reason.

he had not raised his voice.

he had not reached for reassurance.

but something in his words settled the painful ache in her chest that the nightmare had left behind.

he straightened, the folds of his tunic moving with the transition of his posture.

“it is not safe to wander the ship alone,” he said. “even in peace, it is easy to lose direction. would you allow me to walk you back to your quarters?”

she thought twice, then nodded.

he moved beside her, adjusting his pace so that it matched hers, neither too slow nor too fast, perfectly even. they walked without speaking for a time. the corridor lights shifted gently as they passed, illuminating the blue-silver sheen of the ship’s walls and the smooth elegance of its design.

she glanced at him once, from beneath her lashes.

his gaze was set forward, his shoulders square, his presence calm.

and she felt, for the first time in hours, that she was safe.

not because the danger was gone.

but because he had stood between her and it.

and he would again.

their footfalls were muffled by the corridor’s cushioned flooring, the ship humming low around them in its gliding passage through hyperspace. the artificial lights overhead remained dim, softened to a gentle golden hue that barely brushed the upper edges of the walls, casting elongated shadows that flickered and disappeared with each step they took. ahead, the curve of the passage bent toward the sleeping quarters assigned to the royal attendants and honored guests.

vasharre remained half a pace behind him, watching how he moved. there was something precise in the way he walked, not stiff, but impossibly measured. every step taken with confidence, his hands folded behind his back, posture straight but never performative. there was no vanity in the way he carried himself. only a practiced stillness, as if every breath he took had once been part of a lesson.

she wanted to ask him something else, anything, really. wanted to find a reason to make the walk last longer. but the words clung to the edge of her mouth and refused to cross.

as they neared the chamber doors, he stopped.

he turned towards her, the lights catching again at the fine line of his brow and the pale gleam in his eyes. his expression, though unchanged, had softened somewhat, not in emotion, but in recognition of her presence, her trepidation, her composure.

he bowed his head.

“you are safe now, my lady,” he said. “should you need anything, there are guards posted nearby. your handmaiden is close.”

she nodded, her heart stammering against her ribs.

“thank you,” she said gently, her voice scarcely above a whisper.

he stepped aside, allowing her to approach the door.

she turned once before it opened, the dim light from the panel casting a warm glow across her face.

“good night, padawan kenobi.”

his expression did not change, but he inclined his head once more.

“may your dreams be gentler, lady rharrellis.”

the door whispered open.

she stepped inside.

the room was dismal, unchanged from when she had left it. the overhead lights remained dim, the air cool from the climate control systems. across the room, ebos remained seated in her chair, still asleep, her figure folded gracefully in the low curve of the backrest, arms crossed, her long braid draped across her chest like a ribbon of shadow.

vasharre closed the door behind her, the sound so soft it might have been imagined.

her fingers lingered at the panel for a moment before she turned, her feet soundless as she crossed the room. she moved slowly, carefully, as if any sudden motion might betray her or wake her guardian. the memory of his voice still echoed in her ears, may your dreams be gentler, and she felt her face warm, though there was no one to see it.

she slid beneath the covers, the sheets were cool against her skin. her heart was still fluttering, soft and strange. she closed her eyes. and for the first time since they had left naboo, her mind was at peace.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the celestial beings in orbit had aligned themselves with the living force.

outside the hull of the ship, the bright tunnel of hyperspace shuddered once, then fragmented, breaking apart in long splinters of color that faded into darkness. the gentle thrum of the drive systems quieted as the vessel emerged from hyperspace, its sleek frame gliding into the void beyond.

ahead, a large yellow planet hung in the stillness of space, its surface rough and weathered, the edges rimmed in scorched light.

tattooine.

dry, desolate, dangerous.

but untouched by the reach of the trade federation.

inside the ship, the crew moved with bustle, the jedi moved toward the command deck, the queen prepared for descent, and lady vasharre rharrellis stood behind her, poised and wordless, her dark eyes fixed on the sands rising beyond them.

[kaihuntrr]

The Sea Prince; Hunting Party announcement!

okay maybe this isn’t the oneshot I promised but it’s gonna be good I promise-

SO! As of recent, I finished up the revised outline to The Sea Prince’s act one, named Hunting Party! The plot has a lot more going on and I’m in love with this story so much more. This means sooner or later the prologue will come out! As soon as it does, we’ll come to the next important thing;

Beta readers!

Preferably, I’d want three! I have one already, so two more would be great!

What do beta readers do?

They help give feedback and act as a sort of test audience! I’ll need it with all the things packed into this storyline ehehe. There’s a lot in store! I’d want to make sure I’m giving off the right impression with my writing and the like.

I will give the summary of The Sea Prince (and Act One!) under the cut, and as a treat, here is a doodle I’ve made of Act Two Scott and Martyn, they get little changes in their designs <3

There’s one doodle under the cut that has blood (it isn’t red, but blood is blood!) so here’s your warning for it!

THE SEA PRINCE.

In a world full of deadly, man-eating sea monsters there are specialized teams of people who’s job and legacy is to eradicate the horrors of the deep. Monster hunters, hunters for short, are funded by guilds to personal employers to seek out the dangerous beasts and let the sea live in a peaceful, monster-free environment for the animals and humans to thrive.

A notorious hunter group, the Canaries, are led by brothers Joel and Grian Solidarity and are personally funded by His Royal Majesty as one of the best hunters the kingdom has to offer. Such luxuries give them the access to powerful weapons and a rivalry with the best naval commanders, known as TIES. These two groups are summoned to a meeting as the King sends them on their most daring commission yet; find and capture a sea prince.

Sea Princes are, by nature, mythological. They don’t exist. They’re hunter stories meant to scare children and keep the population from wanting to explore the seas, if not for the very real monsters that infest the waters. Capturing one, not to mention proving they exist would be a challenge. This is the King they were working under though, and if he says to find a sea prince and capture it, they’ll do it. Besides, if they were able to, they would be put down in the history books.

Martyn always believed they existed. A child born from hunters, stories about their bloody past and murderous rage haunts and excites him. From the god-like treasure they hide underneath the waves to the feuding war against the mermaids, he’s made it his goal to kill a sea prince. It’s what he wants the most after all.

Well. There was also Scott.

Scott Major is a beautiful man who works in a tavern, never in his life has he been out to sea. Martyn swears to him that once his life goal is complete, he’ll stay. The call of the sea is somehow always there, as if it was right in front of him. Martyn risks his life every single moment he boards the ship, but he always comes back in one piece. He has to.

He can’t risk losing Scott too.

ACT ONE: HUNTING PARTY.

Being sent on a mission to capture a sea prince, the Canaries and TIES form a bet; whoever finds evidence of a prince first can lead the mission. Agreeing under pride, they set out. Martyn has his heart set on fulfilling his dream, but it doesn’t look like Scott is too thrilled with the idea. He’ll understand.

What the hunters don’t know is that their goal charters out of their control and they are forced to seek refuge on an island everyone believes to be cursed. The Scarlet Witch haunts the isle, and every hunting ship that enters will never exit.

They’ll be the first to prove that wrong.

Elements/ general themes the story will contain;

- Nightmares

- Sea horror (monsters attacking ships, fear of the ocean, those types of things)

- fights and injuries (they bleed!)

- character death

- slow burn. really slow burn but a lot of flirting and sweet moments between the two

- worldbuilding

- found family

- there’s likely more to which I’ll add unto!

This story has become a very big passion of mine and I’d love to be able to tell this with the most clarity and enjoyment I can provide! If you’re interested in becoming a beta, I’d like you to comment under the post or reblog it to why you’d want to beta read it and the like :D it’s not a first come first serve basis and it will be open until I finish the prologue, which is in about a week or two from now. Goodluck in applying! I and @mewhoismyself are going to look through what you guys got, but no pressure, seriously! <3

With the beta readers and synopsis out of the way, here’s some sneak peeks to the next batch of designs along with some sketches I made for Act One! I wonder if you can figure out the context behind those words ;)

Just some minor changes with Martyn and Scott! Scott’s hair is more red tinted and darker so he’s more ginger, while Martyn is more clean-shaven! Maybe he has some stubble the next time I sketch him, but he looks more youthful here! I also realize that these are all the winners, but it does make sense with how important they are to the story :0!

Now, unto the designs! Can you guess who’s who?

Super excited to finish this batch and work on their lore; I’ll finish this before the prologue!

And that’s all i got for now, I hope you’re all just as excited as I am as the project gets to come to life after all these months. Act One is coming soon!

[communist-manifesto-daily]

Manifesto of the Communist Party

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A spectre is haunting Europe – the spectre of communism. All the powers of old Europe have entered into a holy alliance to exorcise this spectre: Pope and Tsar, Metternich and Guizot, French Radicals and German police-spies.

Where is the party in opposition that has not been decried as communistic by its opponents in power? Where is the opposition that has not hurled back the branding reproach of communism, against the more advanced opposition parties, as well as against its reactionary adversaries?

Two things result from this fact:

Communism is already acknowledged by all European powers to be itself a power.

It is high time that Communists should openly, in the face of the whole world, publish their views, their aims, their tendencies, and meet this nursery tale of the Spectre of Communism with a manifesto of the party itself.

To this end, Communists of various nationalities have assembled in London and sketched the following manifesto, to be published in the English, French, German, Italian, Flemish and Danish languages.

I. Bourgeois and Proletarians*

* By bourgeoisie is meant the class of modern capitalists, owners of the means of social production and employers of wage labour. By proletariat, the class of modern wage labourers who, having no means of production of their own, are reduced to selling their labour power in order to live. [Engels, 1888 English edition]

The history of all hitherto existing society† is the history of class struggles.

† That is, all written history. In 1847, the pre-history of society, the social organisation existing previous to recorded history, all but unknown. Since then, August von Haxthausen (1792-1866) discovered common ownership of land in Russia, Georg Ludwig von Maurer proved it to be the social foundation from which all Teutonic races started in history, and, by and by, village communities were found to be, or to have been, the primitive form of society everywhere from India to Ireland. The inner organisation of this primitive communistic society was laid bare, in its typical form, by Lewis Henry Morgan's (1818-1861) crowning discovery of the true nature of the gens and its relation to the tribe. With the dissolution of the primeval communities, society begins to be differentiated into separate and finally antagonistic classes. I have attempted to retrace this dissolution in The Origin of the Family, Private Property, and the State, second edition, Stuttgart, 1886. [Engels, 1888 English Edition and 1890 German Edition (with the last sentence omitted)]

Freeman and slave, patrician and plebeian, lord and serf, guild-master‡ and journeyman, in a word, oppressor and oppressed, stood in constant opposition to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open fight, a fight that each time ended, either in a revolutionary reconstitution of society at large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes.

‡ Guild-master, that is, a full member of a guild, a master within, not a head of a guild. [Engels, 1888 English Edition]

Our epoch, the epoch of the bourgeoisie, possesses, however, this distinct feature: it has simplified class antagonisms. Society as a whole is more and more splitting up into two great hostile camps, into two great classes directly facing each other – Bourgeoisie and Proletariat.

From the serfs of the Middle Ages sprang the chartered burghers of the earliest towns. From these burgesses the first elements of the bourgeoisie were developed.

The discovery of America, the rounding of the Cape, opened up fresh ground for the rising bourgeoisie. The East-Indian and Chinese markets, the colonisation of America, trade with the colonies, the increase in the means of exchange and in commodities generally, gave to commerce, to navigation, to industry, an impulse never before known, and thereby, to the revolutionary element in the tottering feudal society, a rapid development.

The Communist Manifesto - Part 1

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[basedonconjecture]

I have this loosely held headcanon that the Crow Houses do operate like guilds in the sense that they do rely on their relationships with the royal family to provide them with charters and that the internal structure is largely based on political and economical reasons. A House’s ranking then being determined, largely, by power and influence as well as profit they bring in through contracts or other means. The relationship between Crow Houses and merchant Houses then being somewhat symbiotic as there’s crossover there and we know the merchant houses have more influence over the politics of Antiva than the Crows do. Also, then, controlling the number of influential assassin houses as well as the number of cuchillos seeking to establish themselves as houses, thereby keeping the balance of power sort of precariously balanced. Feeding into the question of who really rules Antiva: the king, the merchant princes, or the Crows?

If you take Viago’s word as the prevailing sentiment among the entire faction, then it’s the Crows. Perhaps the Antaam invasion and occupation of Treviso did tip the scales in their favor and this is true. Perhaps it did not but it is their aim after the events of Veilguard. It certainly seems to be Viago’s. At any rate, I do think the relationship between all three of these sides is much more entangled and the Crows do still rely on the ruler to allow them to operate, ultimately. And I think it might also explain why Viago and Teia retain their positions at 5th and 8th if they weren’t able to operate normally and/or suffered losses to their houses during the period of occupation. Also, too, if any new houses replaced old houses, it’s possible they were slotted in, to be evaluated later if things were changing too fast for it to be feasible to keep rearranging the ranks. In the same vein, it’s also why I don’t think House Dellamorte was all that diminished as a house regardless of what was going on with the family members at its center. They were all seemingly focused on responding to the Antaam (very sensible of them) but after? Hmmm hmm hmm. Could be messy.

(This headcanon also kinda ties into being part of the reason Viago really rankles when it’s implied he gets any special favor from Fulgeno, since we know he communicates with him directly and reports to him.)

[sailorspica]

short of making a whole other s/i this is the only way sabokat can have a glimmer of happening:

cross guild and revolutionary army encounter of some sort. shit gets wack and iva calls croc for a "favor," probably harboring them for a while or tbh chartering the big clown ship a la buggy's delivery's old mercenary activity. crocodile? stressed. this is the time for wanidragon. he's distracted but this is comfortably polycule times so i leave him alone, probably stick to buggy, but sabo walking in brings back my Big Old Crush From The Newspaper tbh like i can't even flirt with him or look him in the eye to perona and co's bewilderment and mihawk is the one who amuses himself trying to get us alone

meanwhile sabo is exactly what mimi said, charming and clueless but genuinely interested in getting to know me because i think my ancestral grand line island is not a world gov't member nation either so even though i haven't been yet sabo's ears perk up at hearing a coherent, non-libertarian, actually anti-imperialist worldview from a pirate with a similar interest in material history to robin so mihawk's efforts are more stopping me from hiding and telling me to get my pussy up

[theygotlost]

so basically red admiral's appearance on the scene pisses the monarch off SO bad that he momentarily forgets about dr venture and declares her his new arch enemy and theres probably some rule in the guild charter about villains arching each other but whatever. and red admiral doesnt have the haters temperament like the monarch does so she thinks its just a silly game and has fun absolutely kicking the monarchs ass over and over again. and outside of this gary and aditi have been seeing each other for a couple months now and neither knows anything about the other being a henchman cause they keep making up increasingly ridiculous excuses. so i have this vivid sequence in my mind of 21 and swallowtail having to face off against each other during one of these archings and swallowtails god her badass knife and 21 has his arm blade thing and theyre both taking the fight super seriously until 21 says or does something that causes swallowtail to recognize him and shes like WTF GARY????!!!! and hes like WTF ADITI??!!!? and ofc the monarch is pissed off that his henchman is sleeping with the enemy but red admiral treats it like a gotcha of "MY underling has seduced YOUR underling to weaken your defenses! all a part of my plan!"

[racefortheironthrone]

You mentioned that GRRM is weaker on the sociological aspects of Medieval times. Does this include the severe neglect/abuse of the lower classes? It works well to explore his theme of 'True Knighthood' and existential heroism in the books, but what could a real peasant count on his lord to actually do for them during siege or chevauchee? (Even if only in a self-interested sense of 'I need X peasants alive to work my fields and tax myself into splendor.')

As we might expect from a writer of his generation, GRRM does better with class than he does with race or gender or sexuality. He's still imperfect - one major non-noble POV in a book made up largely of noble POVs isn't exactly representative - but you do see his depiction of class inequality through the impact of the War of Five Kings on the Riverlands, the Broken Man speech about the War of Ninepenny Kings, the King's Landing riot and the Sparrow movement, etc.

At the same time, while GRRM certainly knows what town and city and guild charters are, he doesn't really show the burgher class as an active force in Westerosi politics (outside of the Antler Men) the way they should be given the degree of urbanization that's supposed to exist.

[ellynneversweet]

So one of the things I have been thinking about is how charter magic in the old kingdom is a form of literacy. A very complicated form of literacy, full of synonyms and obscure symbols, the ability for the signifier to literally call the signified into existence, and, theoretically, a unique signifier for every conceivable thing. It works, arguably in at least two ways — some very powerful things might have a single signifier but could also be called forth using a long compounded string of signifiers that amount to the same signified item, depending on the skill, power, and knowledge of the charter mage doing the thing (think, say, Chinese written language vs German compound words vs a long and rambly post in English.)

This has some interesting implications. First, language in the OK is probably fairly consistent over time, because the meaning of charter marks do not change, and, while there is mundane written and spoken language, this would make consistency in spelling, meaning, and pronunciation important. You want to describe a subtly different concept? You need a new word.

Second, because widespread literacy has a complicated symbiotic relationship with complex and consistent culture (the existence of schools and the ability to attend them, educated teachers, complete-ish written references that have not been destroyed) periods where charter magic is on the wane should coincide with and maybe accelerate more general loss of civilisational knowledge, literacy generally and peacetime habits. There’s a nod to this in the gestured-at extensive guild and apprenticeship systems we see throughout the books. And, of course, the frequent, loving references to librarians.

Third, it requires active maintenance. It’s very, very difficult to revive a language you don’t know, especially if you have no or little concept of literacy generally. Archeologists with PhDs will spend whole careers attempting it. The state of the kingdom in Sabriel isn’t just the result of the broken charter — it’s the result of the loss of institutional knowledge. Characters might be baptised into the charter, but unless they’re unusually instinctively talented (Elinor arguably is like this, like someone who has a natural ear for languages) they can only do as much as they can find someone to teach them how to do, or how much they can guesstimate themselves (with the risk of burning off their tongues or fingers if they get their estimations wrong).

Just, y’know. Culture is an ecosystem and everyone’s responsible for maintaining it. (This may be a bit of a rant about attitudes towards AI. I am not a complete Luddite, AI is interesting and sometimes useful, but the amount of people who are outsourcing all their thinking to it and thinking they will never have to learn again, because their AI girlfriend will use an AI voice to read them an ELI5 on how to build a bridge built to AI schematics is…concerning.)

[transgenderer]

The liver bird (/ˈlaɪvərbɜːrd/LY-vər-burd) is a mythical creature that is the symbol of the English city of Liverpool. It is normally represented as a cormorant, and appears as such on the city's arms, in which it bears a branch of laver seaweed in its beak as a further pun on the name "Liverpool".[1]

King John founded the borough of Liverpool by royal charter in 1207. The borough's second charter, granted by Henry III in 1229, gave the townspeople the right to form a guild with the privileges this came with, including the right to use a common seal.[2] Liverpool's ancient seal probably dated from this time, though the earliest surviving impression (kept in the British Museum) is from 1352.[2] The seal depicted a generic bird with a plant sprig in its beak, together with a scroll inscribed (in shaky letters) "JOHIS" - an abbreviation for Johannis, Latin for "John's".[2] The bird was almost certainly intended to be an eagle, the symbol of John the Evangelist, who was both the namesake and the patron saint of King John.[2] The plant sprig is interpreted as broom (planta genista in Latin), a badge of the Plantagenet dynasty.[3] Also visible on the seal is a star and crescent, one of King John's personal badges.[4]

The shoddy draughtsmanship of the seal has given rise to other theories. Richard Brooke, a 19th-century Liverpudlian antiquary, surmised that the bird was a dove with an olive branch, and that the scroll read "NOBIS" or "VOBIS".[5]

By the 17th century the bird's real identity had been forgotten: it began to be interpreted either as a cormorant, a common bird in the area, or as a "lever". In 1611 the municipal records describe the mayor receiving a plate "marked with the Cormorant, the Townes Armes", while in 1668 the Earl of Derby gifted the town a silver-gilt mace engraved with a "leaver".[2] In his 1688 work The Academie of Armorie, Randle Holme records the arms of Liverpool as a blue "lever" upon a silver field. Holme takes this word to be an adaptation of the German loffler or Dutch lepler/lefler, both referring to the spoonbill.[6] It is possible that these continental words were adopted for the bird in Liverpool's arms as they made a fitting allusion to the name "Liverpool".[2] Around the same time the broom sprig in the bird's beak was reinterpreted as a branch of laver, also on account of the similarity of the word to the city's name.

In August 1796 Mayor Clayton Tarleton wrote to the College of Arms to request an official grant of arms to the city. His letter called the bird "a lever or sea cormorant".[5] Arms were duly granted on 22 March 1797 by Sir Isaac Heard, Garter King of Arms, and George Harrison, Norroy King of Arms; however the grant described the bird only as a "cormorant".[7]

The modern popularity of the symbol largely dates to 1911, when the Liver Building was built. This prominent display of two liver birds rekindled the idea that the liver was a mythical bird that once haunted the local shoreline. According to popular legend, they are a male and female pair: the female looking out to sea, watching for the seamen to return safely home, and the male looking in to the city, watching over the seamen's families (or "making sure the pubs are open", as a jocular version has it). Local legend also holds that the birds face away from each other, for if they were to mate and fly away, the city would cease to exist

it took them less than 400 years to invent a bird called the "lever" (not even liver...?) to explain a shitty drawing of an eagle

also bonus:

An all female rock group from Liverpool called The Liverbirds was active in the '60s. They moved to Hamburg in 1964, where they were billed as die weiblichen Beatles (the female Beatles).

[goblin-writer]

A Steady Hand and Quiet Mind

Candles, as most pyromaniacs and some poets can attest, are beautiful things. Their light spills forth like water from an upturned bucket – all at once and then in drips and drabs. But through their fascination with that small dancing light, that fills a room so similarly to a tap, letting just too much water in for the drain to handle, they do not realise that the candles they admire are far from the natural state.

In fact, chandlers have prized the creation of these perfect candles. Candles that, throughout their creation, have behaved well. Made from wax that melted sensibly and wicks that politely hung while the wax did the proper thing and cooled. The careful hand of the chandler would top up the divots of the shrinking wax and cut the wick to the length determined by the Charter of Chandlers and Chalkers.

Brytha liked those days. Days where her wax listened. Preferably without bubbling, without sputtering. And definitely without this.

She lit one of the recent candles she made. It took a moment, the fire trying to penetrate the waxen twine. But after a moment it did take hold.

“Let’s see what you have to say.” Brytha spat through clenched teeth. The flame standing stock still. Quivering.

But it couldn’t help itself. This entire batch couldn’t help themselves when lit.

Then, after a brief pause as the wax began to melt the candle started.

Your vows you've broken, like my heart, Oh, why did you so enrapture me? Now I remain in a world apart But my heart remains in captivity~

She sighed. It picked it up from the last one.

“What’s going on down there?” Guild Master Rye thundered.

Brytha quickly extinguished the candle and stepped in front of it.

“Nothing, Rye. Just humming to myself.”

The portly man stepped off the bottom step. His once-white sleeves poking through the haphazardly slashed burgundy doublet, and a curtain of black hair framing his deep brown eyes.

“Humming? In here? Why?”

“I got lost in thought.” Rye’s eyes narrowed at that. Candle making was serious business,

“Were you making candles while lost in thought?”

“Only testing them.”

“Test them again. They might have picked up your habit of being lost in thought.” Brytha nodded before Rye continued, “If any of them hum, speak, or worse, sing, feel free to take them home, or melt them down.”

“Of course, Rye.”

“Of course.” He shook his head and patted her shoulder before heading back upstairs.

Brytha looked at the candle vats. Fifty candles for home, and no docked pay. She could save a lot of money with that. And surely they wouldn’t pick up any other songs.

Grabbing a linen bag, she stuffed the candles into it and went to make another batch of candles before heading home.

She made sure they were well behaved this time. Stopping the wax from bubbling, cutting the wicks to the appropriate length, and not humming to herself throughout the process.

These candles would not be fit for a church service, she thought, but nobody at the local alehouse, The Wolf Wihout, would mind the occasional bluster, nor the smattering of curses the candles had picked up from the kitchen.

At least these weren’t singing.

---

Thank you @flashfictionfridayofficial for another wonderful prompt.

I've been enjoying the more lighthearted stories as I edit CotSJ for draft 3 which has taken a bit out of me.

[nem0c]

it's doubly funny because the film loves to show the armies as simply soldiers marching around in perfect squares (missing the book's notice of logistics), but then when the battle comes they break formation to run at each other willynilly

I'm not gonna sugar coat it, Padishah, we're looking at millions of space pounds down the drain. You can do your best, find some rough boys from down Violence Planet, scrub em up nice, get em singing lessons, have em listening to Hans Zimmer and rubbing blood on their faces, real hard man stuff. Then you send em off up Arrakeen (by chartered flight, no less. Those guild trips don't come cheap), easy set-up for em - no shields, and they outnumber and outgun the garrison - who the locals barely tolerate. All they had to do was snatch his lordship then sit on the space port and wait. And what do they do? They only go and run straight into a militiaman with a sharpened stick - no back up, no firing lines, not so much as nod to the platoon leader. Forgive the comparison, Padishah, but it were like the kebab shop on a Saturday night.

[ghoulsbeard]

ooo the Fool and the World??

ahh thank you mouse :) <3 !!

Where did Rook's journey begin? What were they doing before joining the Veilguard?

Cracks my knuckles evilly… Mikal is honestly one of my favorites sfgds and she has the big indulgent backstory… she grew up in the free marches, became a friend of red jenny at the end of the “old guard” (when the jennies were a little bloodier and grimmer), fucked over the merchants’ guild, fucked over the coterie, lived to tell the tale… became the inquisition’s enchantment expert. she and dagna have dissenting opinions on the fade and love each other for it…she and varric do not get along but he really respects her so she ended up called in for the solas hunt (mostly by tessa and charter’s doing, they both thought she’d be a great help, and she does like them both.) i think she was on tessa and vaea’s team and saw the others infrequently before she was moved over in the last year to helping lace and varric; she and lace got along fairly well in the inquisition and worked together great.. she and varric clashed a lot as usual, especially since he’d begun to get more sentimental about solas... I think a hunt of ten years wore on him a lot.

Vasiliki was an old watcher; well known as a bit of a troublemaker for years before she got put on leave for antagonizing the nobility (again)… she grew up in Cumberland alienage i believe, if i have my cities right, and worked on a fishing trawler before she became an apprentice at the necropolis. she’s always prodded at a few of the traditions of the Necropolis - the organization of labor, for one- so she wasn’t at all surprised when Myrna told her to take a vacation, though it was a blow as the necropolis is her home the wisps and spirits are her family and neighbors... i think varric and lace persuaded her to join them by promising her plenty of fade weirdness

What does happily-ever-after look like for Rook? Is it attainable, or just wishful thinking?

they’re both very pragmatic women, they live in the present, mikal’s big pie in the sky dream is to see the thaigs of Rivain but besides that they both roll with the punches so to speak.. not much wishful thinking for either of them..

Mikal is pleased to live day by day.. she wants to see her family as much as she can before she dies, explore the world and see new artistry and craftsmanship, read widely as she can, create whatever burns in her mind and soul… she romanced bellara so i think they visit bel’s clan and mikal’s family together :) mikal’s family has a tradition of engraving a stone to honor those who have passed, and mikal does one for cyrian as a gift to bel. I think they’d be happy to explore and travel together, no matter where they end up living mikal will be a friend of red jenny and bel will be a scholar of dalish magic, and she’ll have mikal read her drafts, and mikal will show her the plans for her designs, and they’ll collaborate on enchantments and so on and so forth… :) clan lutare and the glavonaks celebrating together. i think it would be great

vasiliki would be pleased just to sit by the sea and have a nice meal with someone she likes. I think if she and neve decide to make it work, they’d want to go long distance and visit a few times a year or vasiliki would consider moving to minrathous… she might do so.. her faith in the watch is deeply rattled by johanna.. she’d be a great shadow dragon all things considered, she enjoyed the work while the dragons were scattered post-dragon attack and she and neve balance each other really well … if she hadn’t romanced neve i think she’d move to Rivain, learn more about spirits… not sure what she’d do for a living though… she’s honed herself as a mourn watcher and it’s a particular set of skills

I did briefly lament that she should have been a decade younger and romanced davrin… she would have relished the challenge of training griffons & thumbing her nose at warden politics as the order changes… she and dav have a fantastic and very fun dynamic. ah well </3