#he IS a scribe of course he doodles!!

[viperiumprime]

Dimitri is totally drawing one of those terrible medieval animal illustrations based solely off of a drunk description 🤣

Giraffe, sure Jan:

[historyslittlebish]

How would king Baldwin react to utter and complete devotion ? As in writing full pages about him etc etc

a/n: Oopsy, this was sitting in my inbox for like weeks. Sorry its been a bit but I'll humor you with some cute/funny hcs!

==========================================

Warning: fluffy, y/n is kinda a bit of a stalker, Baldwin being himself

Note: No romantic stuff is detailed but I made it so you can choose to be a friend, worker, or romantic interest

It was a simple accident!

Yet his curiosity couldn't be satiated.

Seeing you run off to your quarters in a hurry made him wonder.

What could you possibly be doing?

For once when you were off doing your duties he became a little too curious..As his servant he couldn't help but observe you observe him?

He'd often catch your gaze on him, quietly observing him do his duties as well.

Whenever given the chance, you'd always go up to your room and write non-stop. Even on the job you'd carry a little notebook and write down anything that Baldwin did.

He of course had no idea and thought you were just..odd-ish..

But of course spending days seeing you run off to your room to do who knows what, of course his mind will spin and his thoughts will wander, simply thinking what could you be doing..

These thoughts have been from just simply wanting to rest to planning a coup.

He admits its foolish of him to think such things but as a ruler it's important to be weary.

Finally his curiosity got the better of him and he wandered into the quarters.

He saw a little leather journal sitting on your bed with a discarded quill and ink cup on the stand.

He carefully opened up the journal in the same spot on the bed, wondering what he would find, simply a daily planner? Did you like to write as a hobby? Planning some sort of overthrow?

Imagine his surprise when he sees rants of how great he is, how'd you think he'd be the best king in the world, how you wish there was a cure for his illness.

As he continued to read through the pages, he came across a few sketches of him, just him, in his mask but the mask having fine details, while sitting on his throne or playing chess, and others just random doodles.

He was...surprised.

Judging by the rants and words, you felt utter devotion for him as a king, you admired his work and respected him to great lengths.

Baldwin sorta..felt his heart swell.

He knew that possibly many people, including servants, found him weak or too ill-ridden to be a king but in the same breath help him with all sorts of things.

Yet here you were, praising him for his talents, his bravery, his intelligence. He couldn't help but crack a small smile.

He carefully closed the book and swiftly left, a new plan coming to mind.

The next time he saw you, he came up to you and revealed that he saw the journal and read some of it (there was much to read but he didn't have the time).

Of course you'd be very flustered but before you could say anything, he decided to give you a new job, to be his personal scribe (and mayhaps a friend?).

You'd often join him in any of his activities and he'd share personal interests and thoughts he has, no matter how random, thoughts and things no one else knew about him.

You felt honored to be able to know such things and you'd often detail his words, his thoughts, and behaviors in your notes, keeping track of anything and everything.

Baldwin felt a deep connection with you.

He never really talks to many people about such leisurely things.

So to have someone to express his interests and thoughts and ideas but them being actually interested is..an idea that makes a rush of dopamine clouds his brain.

He is proud for you, and he's glad you like him so much, enough to write endless things about him.

[sorceresssundries]

Gale sketches by @orangekittyenergy <3

CHAPTER 1 (of 2)

LINK TO CHAPTER 2 - NSFW

Pairing: Gale x Fem Tav

Summary: Set post-game where Tav did not feature in Gale's troubles in Baldur's Gate. A whip-cracking, fedora wearing, Indiana Jones inspired mini-adventure - where Professor Dekarios is tempted out of the classroom, and on yet another perilous quest. (Chapter 2 out soon)

Warnings: Chapter 1 is SFW, Chapter 2... less so.

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: Just a bit of a fun based on the Gale as Indiana comparisons. Also, he looks like a young Harrison Ford, how could I not? This is not the stuff I'm used to writing! But it's been enjoyable and nice to try something new.

Her forest was dying. Thaes’yána, a sacred patch of overgrowth within Elltavia’s home, had been under protection for so long that the Rangers of the forest no longer knew the reason why. Its guardianship had been passed down from mother to daughter for generations, and all Elltavia had known since being a girl was that entry was forbidden, and it was to be protected from outsiders. 

But now, an arcane rot had settled deep within, and was infecting further and further outside of its bounds. Animals, once serene, were being driven to madness if they got too close for too long. Among the forest-dwellers, whispers of unrest travelled, tales of violence and theft staining the once peaceful community. The responsibility had fallen to her to find help, and she had travelled far to ensure she got it. Just like her beloved forest, if the end was near, she would not be going gently. 

Her quest had led her somewhere unexpected, to the shadowy recesses of a sprawling lecture hall. She was nestled in the farthest corner, seeking refuge from the professor's unrelenting enthusiasm. From her observations, his class appeared to cleave into two distinct factions: the diligent scribes, feverishly scribbling down every word that spilled from his lips, struggling to keep pace with his monologuing, and the other group, who seemed utterly disinterested in the lecture material. Their pens lay dormant as they indulged in a different kind of attention; lingering onto his every subtle gesture and every inflection in his voice with wide-eyed fascination. There were a number of Tieflings in the class whose tails were swishing with telling enthusiasm. She imagined if she looked into their notepads, they would be laden with love hearts and romantic doodles.

She knew who Gale Dekarios was, of course. Word travelled, especially when one had command over birds to receive and deliver news from across the realm. Even as far away as she had been from the chaos and fire of Baldur’s Gate - she had taken up moonlit vigil to pray to Mielekki that the heroes' aim be true and their hope evergreen. And now she was sitting here, staring impatiently at one of the very people who had pervaded her prayers. He was more… academic that she’d expected, in his tweed blazer and bow tie. Rounded glasses perched on his nose, occasionally slipping down during moments of particular ardour, prompting him to deftly push them back up with his finger. 

His talking seemed to go on for an extraordinary amount of time, but maybe it just seemed that way because she could feel each precious second slip through her fingers like burning sand. Eventually, the class poured out with a mixture of yawns and giggles and she approached his desk as he scribbled frantically on the blackboard.

“Your dates are wrong.” she said. He flinched slightly, making the chalk jump.He sighed and wiped away his slip, having lost his train of thought. 

“Excuse me?” He turned to face her, his scholarly face frowning and making the lines between his eyes more pronounced. He looked much older when he was frustrated, she thought with amusement. 

She pointed at his scribbles; “The fighting ended in 1421 sure, but the peace treaty wasn’t finalised until the following year.” Her eyes met his, and she was struck by the depth of them. “You may want to correct your students' next lecture. Well… the ones who were actually taking notes.” 

She briefly cast her eyes over the picture frames on his desk. There was one of a formal looking woman with his tanned skin and warm eyes sitting on a sunlit balcony by the sea, and another of an unimpressed looking Tressym perched atop a pile of books.

It was the larger group photo that caught her attention, frozen in a moment of chaos.

In the centre of the frame, a flame-red Tiefling woman was mid-laughter, proudly displaying a crudely drawn portrait of a white-haired elf, the illustration nestling within an odd-shaped gap amongst the group. Behind her, a slight woman with a silver braid, was in the midst of being lifted by a huge, tattooed wood-elf, their collaborative efforts evident in their attempt to fit her into the picture. Next to them, an older woman in druid armour gestured animatedly, seemingly scolding a large, bald man who was earnestly attempting to position what appeared to be a hamster at the forefront of the group. Meanwhile, Gale, with his finger poised mid-sentence, was engaged in conversation with a handsome, horned man who stood with arms folded, seemingly annoyed. Amidst the chaos, only a Githyanki woman remained composed, her unsmiling gaze fixed directly on the camera, unaffected by the surrounding mayhem.

They were the heroes she had seen in the papers, but here they looked less like champions of the Gate and more like a dysfunctional, loving family. She much preferred this version of them. 

“I was not aware I was being monitored today.” He took in her appearance, her dark braided hair was pulled up and away from her face, and she wore travelling robes and a worn cloak. She definitely wasn’t an academic, he thought. Though she certainly seemed knowledgeable on history. Her eyes looked much older than she did - They were the colour of summer leaves slipping into autumn and sparkled when she spoke. With her being an elf, it made sense that she was probably a lot older than she appeared. 

“How can I help you, miss…” 

���Elltavia Kidd’Alka.” Her tone was brusk, efficient. “I won’t waste time with small-talk. I’m here to request some assistance on an urgent matter.” 

He sighed and rubbed his forehead, as though this was a regular interruption to his workday. “Ah, well you can tell the guild..

“I’m not with the guild.”

His frown deepened, “Fine, the harpers…”

“Nope, not them either.” 

“Then please Miss Kidd… 

“I’m a ranger stationed in the High Forest. My home is being infected by a blight which threatens the lives of many who live there.  It is believed the cause is of arcane origin. I need your help to fix it.” She dumped a heavy, jangling pouch on his desk. “I think you’ll find this should be adequate payment.”

This woman did not mess around, he thought. She was refreshing, although he would probably like her more if she actually let him speak.

“I am a professor, not a hireling. I’m afraid I cannot help.”

“Completely understandable, Professor.” She offered warmly “After everything you’ve been through I can understand why you would prefer a quieter, more relaxed lifestyle. Besides…” She said with an exaggerated, compassionate sigh. “You’re not getting any younger.”

This appeared to have touched a nerve. “Listen, Miss Kidd’Alka - I'm sorry for your troubles, but my answer is no. Now if you’d excuse me, I have much to do before my next class. Apparently my dates need amending” He gestured with his arm for her to leave, and she tilted her head with curiosity. She was enjoying him flustered, and she did not move.

“You must feel very lucky to have such a comfortable position here at the academy. Especially with the influx of ancient artefacts that have been added to its custodianship since your arrival.” Her lips tilted at the sudden stiffening of his posture.

He remained silent, eyes narrowing as she sat down in his chair and put her muddy boots up on his desk. She removed a knife from a strap at her thigh, flashing her toned, supple skin and began to peel an apple which had been left for him by a particularly devoted student. He felt a familiar, but dusty feeling stir within him at the flash of her leg. His hand automatically flew to his chest, before remembering that was no longer necessary. Old scars run deep.

“It’s so strange how the discovery of these artefacts always seems to coincide with your sabbatical leave.” Her tone was playful, innocent, but her eyes were mischievous. She slowly let the peel fall away, her blade so sharp she barely had to stroke the fruit with the edge of it. She wasn’t even looking at what she was doing, her gaze was fixed fiercely on him. 

“Your implication is wasted here, I can assure you.”

“My apologies, Professor Dekarios. I meant no disrespect.” She took a sharp bite of the piece of apple speared at the end of her knife, and he watched with fascination and derision as she swallowed, the juice trickling down to her chin. “I just thought the rumoured artefact causing the problem may be of interest to you and your academy. But, never mind. I hear there’s a ex-Sharran cleric who is fond of adventuring, maybe she can help me out.” She could practically hear the thoughts bouncing around in his head as she stood up to leave. 

She was almost at the door when he gave a loud sigh. 

“Wait. Take a seat. I’ll see if I can get my lectures covered.”

She turned to grin at him, and threw the rest of the apple across the room and into a bin with alarming accuracy.

“Leave some milk out for your cat, professor. You may be gone a while.”

The journey back to her forest had been arduous, mainly down to the fact Gale could not get the elvish pronunciation of her name right and so had resorted to calling her ‘Kidd.’ Frustrating for a woman who was one hundred and forty years older than him. Luckily, his useful knack for teleportation meant that at least the journey was shorter than expected. 

They made it to the forest by the following morning, and Elltavia finally relaxed as the sound of songbirds and swishing trees soothed her tired feet and weary soul. She was home again. The plush canopy above them provided respite from the sun, but not the heat, and it wasn’t long into their journey before Gale had switched his slightly faded wizard’s robes into something more appropriate. 

He now wore a loose, tan coloured shirt, unbuttoned enough to display a smattering of chest hair and what looked like a faded, circular scar. His tight brown trousers were tucked into leather boots held up by a belt laden with supplies and potions, and he had a satchel slung over his shoulders. Atop his head was a weather beaten fedora. Typically, she was not a fan of men in fedoras, but the way it kept his hair back off his face and shaded his handsome features was an unexpected and pleasant contradiction to the professor she had first met. But, it was the sinuous coil of a whip holstered at his side, its braided leather worn smooth by countless flicks and flourishes, that caught Tav’s attention the most. 

“A whip?” She asked curiously, trying not to let any of the thoughts it inspired creep into her voice.

“An enchanted whip.” He replied smugly. “Much more useful than a staff, comes in handy from time to time.” To make his point, he unhooked it from his belt, swished it around his head once and then cracked it at a low hanging branch ahead of them. The tail of it curled around tight and sparked with electricity, zapping the dry wood into flame. It fell to the ground with a burning crash. He looked very pleased with himself as he extinguished the fire with a quick blast of conjured water. 

“Well…” She said in the smoky silence. “That was completely unnecessary” 

The mood shifted as they got deeper into the humid, overgrown forest. Leaves and foliage that was lush green and danced in the breeze suddenly became duller, the air stagnant and unbending. Birdsong had hushed, and the once vibrant heartbeat of the forest had suddenly stuttered and stopped.

They reached the centre of the blight, hidden amidst the greenery, to find an ancient temple almost completely swallowed by forest. Its crumbling skeleton had merged with creeping moss. Vines twisted round it like the lithe bodies of a hundred snakes, gripping and squeezing out any remaining life, pushing their way through the stone work until it was prised apart to fall to the forest floor. It once would have been grand, but now looked hollow and haunted. Elltavia grabbed Gale’s arm before he got any closer.

“Wait.” she murmured, crouching slightly. She drew out the sinuous bow from her back and notched an arrow. Her ears flicked like that of a cat surrounded by too much silence. There was something stirring, she could almost hear motes of threatening magic slinking together through the blighted air. Like heat gathering to form a storm. She could practically taste the thunder that had yet to crack.

“Expecting trouble?” Gale asked, hand now hovering over the whip at his belt. 

She did not have time to answer before a skeletal figure, clad in tattered monks robes lunged at them from the shadows. His hollowed out eye sockets glowed with an eerie blue light, and his bony fingers clutched an ancient staff, carved with runes that pulsed faintly with dark energy. As it moved, the sound of creaking bones and whispers of necromantic incantation surrounded it like diseased air. 

With a raise of its staff, a surge of necrotic magic crackled towards them. Gale dove to the side, rolling behind a fallen log, while Elltavia nimbly leaped into a nearby tree, her bow in hand.

She released an arrow in one swift motion. It whistled through the air and struck the skeleton in the chest. For a moment, the blue light in its eyes flickered, but it remained standing -  unbroken and unfazed.

The guardian turned its hollow gaze towards her and began chanting in an ancient, guttural language. The ground beneath the tree where she perched started to rot and decay. With cat-like agility, she jumped to another tree just as the first began to crumble.

Gale seized the moment, sprinting forward and pulling his whip from his belt. With a flick of his wrist, the whip wrapped around the monk's legs, pulling it off balance. The skeleton crashed to the ground, the blue light in its eyes dimming as it struggled to free itself.

The ranger leaped into action, her bow discarded in favour of a pair of daggers. With feline grace, she landed above the guardian and plunged her daggers into its eye sockets, and the dimming light was finally extinguished. 

“Nice whip work.  You get much practice with that thing?” Elltavia approached him, breathless and sweating, and blew away some dust which had settled against his neck. 

“Not as much as i’d like, Kidd.” He said, brushing away some blood from her lip with his thumb. “I’m just making this up as I go along.” There was a moment where their ragged breaths mingled, and their eyes held each other before she turned with a smirk, and headed towards the entrance the skeleton had been guarding. Gale realised, watching her sheath her daggers and count her arrows, that he was in more trouble than anticipated. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he wasn’t sure the fight was the cause of it.

They made their way down ancient, crumbling stairs flooded by spectral light from an imperceptible source, and Gale started to feel queasy and breathless. It was as though something beneath his skin, in his bones, was being sapped from him. It was a feeling he recognised. 

“Sussur” he murmured, and he noticed vein-like ridges running along the walls, thin and faintly pulsing with a moonlight-blue glow. He ran the pads of his fingers over them, and felt a dull burning sensation on his fingertips.

“it’s in the walls. Incredible. It is no ordinary magic emanating from this place.” He held his hand out flat and attempted to conjure a small flame in his palm. There was a crackle, but nothing more. “My magic won’t work here.” For the first time since meeting Elltavia, he felt unsure of himself. It had taken time, patience, an orb of devastation and a mind flayer tadpole for him to even consider that he was of any use to anyone with his spellcasting ability. It had taken his friends to talk him down from martyrdom, and then Godhood. They had  prised his own destruction away from him and cast it into the Chionthar. They had saved him, but some damage is irreparable, and some wounds will always scar.

“I didn’t come to you for your magic.” Elltavia offered behind him. “I sought you out for your knowledge, and bravery. I wanted the professor, not the wizard.”

He didn’t turn to meet her eyes, but his heart fluttered slightly at her words. He steeled himself, thought of the bravery of the Ranger who was fighting for her home, and pushed open the stone door at the foot of the staircase to reveal a giant, circular chamber. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and aged stone. The walls were smooth, carved with meticulous precision by hands long gone. Covering every inch of the surface were runes and writing, each symbol etched deeply and filled with a faint pulsing luminescence that danced over their skin. 

“Amazing”

As Gale worked his way around the room, he took out a pair of glasses to help study the variety of texts carved about the place. "I’ve read about this before. A long time ago. An order of ancient monks, secretive and nomadic in nature," he mused, and Elltavia observed the delicate dance of his fingers tracing the inscriptions, as though seeking enlightenment through tactile communion. Beads of sweat glistened on his brow, causing his spectacles to slip, and the subtle readjustment sent a shiver down her spine.

“Like the one outside?” She tried to draw on what little knowledge she had. She had limited experience with monks in her many years. Certainly she had never come across any in the forest before. 

“Not like that one.” He said frowning in concentration. “That one was dead. Re-animated, as a trap.”

He explored the ruins with an elegance befitting a sage, a paradox of scholar and adventurer, warrior and pacifist, man and mage. She found him fascinating. Turning, he caught her in the act of studying him, her curiosity laid bare.

“Something caught your attention?” His gaze was burning, and his mouth was a cocky smile.

She did not blush, Elltavia never blushed, but she did pause long enough for him to move on without hearing her sharp answer.

"They are custodians, seekers of wisdom, guardians of ancient lore, and protector of magic" His voice was low with reverent contemplation. “There are very few of them, and legend has it the ones left are immortals. Chosen by the Gods to protect and serve the precious arcane knowledge which so often gets corrupted or destroyed.” 

For a brief second, his hand instinctively moves to his chest, to rest on the faded scar. He suddenly felt like a heretic defiling a sacred temple.

“You seem to know a lot about it.” She folded her arms with suspicion.

“Well.. I didn’t get tenure for nothing, Kidd.” His eyes flash at her with confident assurance. “These texts imply that they dedicated themselves so completely to their cause, to their life of protection, that they completely cast out all other distractions. They undergo a Rite, to prove their single-minded dedication. Apparently very few passed it.” He tried not to let creeping agitation wrap itself into his voice, if there was a test or a challenge to be taken for proving worth - he felt as though he was the wrong man for the job. He had cast aside the most luring and precious of temptations mortals could ever dream of. It was a test he’d taken twice, and only passed once. He didn’t want his weaknesses laid bare in front of him again. 

“What happens if they failed?”

 His answer was simple, but he feared what would come next would be less so.

“They died.”

[cuttlefish-cabin]

*a letter arrives for captain cuttlefish* 'Dear captain, i hope this letter reach's you and you have been doing well. none of us can seem to catch a break, right? but no matter... i wish to meet up, informally. just for a nice chat over a cup of tea. should you accept i hope you are fine with marie accompanying me out of translation needs. i do hope to hear back at your earliest convenience. -YAC3 (yet another agent 3)' -@ask-av-agents

"Hmm whats this" Craig asked walking out the cabin. "Oh! its adressed to me! is it 'Tav.... Oh" He frowns before opening it and reading it "Something something 3? but why would Marie need to translate? ehhhh this is garbage then I suppose. Ughh time to whip out the old scribe and quil!"

"3! What a Pleasure Of course I'd love a cup of tea with you why not tell me in person though? dont'cha still live with that youngin octarian 8? anyways I'll pull out the fancy china if thats what you wanted Till we meet again squiddo!<3

Best regards,

Gramps. AKA Captain Cuttlefish " The Letter is written in cursive with a little doodle of himself as a squid and a grumpy DJ octavio

[amourem]

alhaitham  catches  kaveh  on  the  couch,  doing  whatever  he's  doing,  and  decides  that  this  is  the  best  time  to  insert  himself  into  the  equation.  so  quietly,  like  a  cat,  the  scribe  drapes  his  body  over  the  architect's,  letting  physics  do  its  work  as  his  weight  bares  down  on  him  naturally.  of  course,  upon  pushing  his  earphones  off  and  into  the  floor,  alhaitham  comfortably  rests  his  ear  against  kaveh's  chest,  dozing  off  to  the  sound  of  his  heartbeat. // @basbousah

ㅤㅤㅤ𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒌𝒆𝒏𝒅  𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚  𝒊𝒔  𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈  𝒉𝒊𝒎𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇  the  privilege  of  slumping  into  the  couch,  abandoning  all  projects  in  favor  of  cleaning  (  alhaitham's  study  -  always  a  chore,  so  many  books  to  dust  )  each  and  every  surface  with  a  most  fastidious  nature.  only  when  the  architect  has  deemed  the  residence  sparkling  does  he  cease  his  buzzing  about,  stretching  out  long  limbs,  cape  and  slippers  discarded,  and  his  sketchpad  in  hand.  he  doodles  and  doodles  and  doodles,  whatever  comes  to  his  mind  manifests  upon  sheets  of  paper  -  though  lately,  his  thoughts  had  been  occupied  by  one  sharp  scribe.  an  unfortunate  circumstance  truly,  because  alhaitham  kept  blooming  on  his  pages  like  a  flower.  

ㅤㅤㅤannoyance  finds  him  -  but  not  displeasure.  his  renderings  are  quite  lifelike,  especially  as  he  works  to  shade  the  chiseled  line  of  the  other's  jaw,  attempting  to  get  it  so  perfect  that  he  does  not  notice  the  shadow  cast  over  him,  but  he  certainly  notices  when  a  great,  languid  weight  crawls  atop  his  body.  kaveh's  response  is  -  expected,  a  surprised  ❝  ack!  ❞  as  he  nearly  drops  items  in  hand.  but  kaveh  certainly  doesn't  resist,  not  as  the  warmth  of  the  scribe  permeates  through  him  instantly,  earphones  hitting  the  floor  with  a  thump,  and  rarely  revealed  ears  pressing  to  the  bare  part  of  his  chest.  

ㅤㅤㅤkaveh's  sigh  is  horribly  fond.  

ㅤㅤㅤ❝  it's  hard  to  sketch  like  this,  hayi.  ❞  comes  the  rumble  of  his  voice,  but  pad  of  paper  and  pencil  follow  suit  -  dropping  to  the  floor  with  little  fanfare.  immediately,  long  fingers  card  through  alhaitham's  hair,  nails  running  over  his  scalp,  before  gently  thumbing  the  shell  of  his  ear.  his  free  hand  raises,  going  to  rest  upon  scribe's  broad  back,  coasting  up  and  down  his  spine,  as  a  smile  unseen  parts  his  lips.  ❝  alright  then,  a  little  rest  won't  hurt.  ❞  permission  -  more  for  himself,  to  indulge  in  what  he  wants;  and  indulge  he  does  -  continuing  his  gentle  caresses,  until  he  drifts  off,  hands  still  securely  resting  upon  alhaitham,  unwilling  to  part  from  the  comfort  he  brings.

[idjitlili]

I can be the God of your Orgasm.

Loki x reader

(Not my image)

Summary:Some how ending up in Sakaar ,Valkyrie ends up taking you under her wing,no not her horse Aragorn,for a year ,until some Gods show up.

Word count:1768

Warnings:Language

A/n: Couldn’t end it , last time I touched this was October. Uhm, there’s a picture of Bowie, probably TMI here, but he was the first man , I ever you know over.Double aswell. I’m sorry.

You just a young woman in y/c ,heading to college your average routine ,but you never made it. Instead you had tripped over into a puddle ,but yet again you were decieved ,it was a portal. You hadn't/only left your country ,let alone been on another planet. You didn't think that was even possible;magic nor to be able to breathe on an different planet,well that was what you were told by the government. No you weren't a flat earther,thats bloody stupid. However you felt like the government hid a lot.

Michael Jacksons death,Heath Ledgers death,River Phoenix's death, Princess Diana's death , David Bowie, Obi-wan,it just seemed a little suspicous, not saying it was definitely them covering up the murders but...

Anyways so you fell into the puddle into a some rubbish ,literal rubbish. You had no idea what happened ,when Valkyrie found you she didn't either. God damn Benedict cumpatch stay in america with your fake american accent. Just stay away ,don't really want to be assassainated for being best buds with Sherlock Holmes and Dildo Gaggins.

Valkyrie had felt bad for such a young mortal being in an strange planet,she couldn't bare to bring you to Grandmaster ,to be apart of his orgies. he was indeed a tough warrior much like Dwalin the dwarf from the hobbit,who funfact is the longest living dwarf living up to 300 years,yes irrelvent.

Thus, you lived with her ,you managed to get a part time job as a cook,just so you didn't feel so bad about living with Valkyrie rent free. When I say part time cook ,I mean you just cooked for you and her,you didn't trust this planet. It was lucky when you fell in that puddle the stuff in your backpack didn't get wet,so you had some books to read,and such.

To be far being away from home stuck on an alien planet really did get boring ,you'd hate to admit it but sometimes you had to go to visit Hulk,because he was sorta normal. No he was not but he was okay ,like a destructive toddler but it was better than being alone. Other than that you really missed home ,you missed tv,you missed ice cream.

Pretty much everyday was boring. Well after almost a year of being here ,Valkyrie had brought a guest to your shared apartment thing. The God you had seen on the television a couple years ago. You had been sitting on the sofa reading at the time ,you jumped so hard when the door slammed open,you had looked up to see valkyrie shoving down a dark haired man in chains.

"Uhhh, are you allowed to kidnap people here?" you had questioned ,causing Valkyrie and the guy turn to you ,you had recognised him after a moment of trying to pin point his face. "I don't think that will hold him...h-he's-"

"Just stay away from him ,don't talk to him,don't look at him,hell don't even think about him,I will be back with Thor ,and then we can get you home, Y/n. So pack your things ." Soon as she had mentioned going home you had already started gathering your things,as Valkyrie had left after the God of Thunder. No you didn't go to the big battle compitions and Valkyrie certainly did not tell you she had found Thor ,but it didn't matter you were going home.

It didn't take you long to pack soon,you had your shoes on and everything sitting on the sofa ,twiddling your thumbs,feeling Loki's gaze on you. What's up with in love stories men staring , oh shut up you are just jealous because you can't even get a boyfriend ,stupid scribe.

"she said not to think about you...can you read minds?" you had questioned ,just really because that gaze he had on you made you feel proper ugly ,in which you were not. He had scoffed at you.

"I'm not a witch."

"I never said you were,you are a God ,must be better than having a hammer, it's like a normal hammer with steriods."

"Ah..so you have heard of me," He had smirked to himself ,you had just looked back at you hands before reaching for your bag grabbing your journal and ink,before just scribbing doodles on a clean page.Loki didn't speak after that not until you did again ten minutes later ,probably less time goes slow when the mood is a drag.

"the thing with new York, that was because of Thanos? People have controlled me by making me feel guilty so many times..OH manipulation ,you probably don't want to hear what I have to say,but I can't help it ,i've been stuck here a year the only person I got to speak to is drunk Valkyrie and hulk in which I feel like I am talking to a child. You know what I really wish I was watching Lord of the rings right-"

"You are from earth,how did you end up here?" He had grinned at you,cutting you off,isn't he like a mass murderer? Well he was tricked into doing it ,so more like accidental murderer ,why is he so handsome. Don't be stupid he is a God of course he is handsome.

"Uh..I fell into a puddle then I was here." The God had turned his head away to the floor ,scrunching his eyebrows together in confusion.

"I don't see how that's possible."

"Well it happene-" Yet you were cut off again,as the door slammed open,you quickly turned away back to your notebook,Thor ,Bruce and Valkyrie stood at the door.

You missed what happened first ,Loki having things thrown at him ,and such,you only looked up when he said something about spaceships,seeing Bruce. Your eyes glittered with excitement , Thor saw this. "Oh my! I can't believe it's-2 Thor had shook his head for you not say it. "Radiation scientist,Bruce Banner, damn,now I must say this is much more exciting than a hammer,which you don't have what's up with that? Hey Bruce how you feeling?Green? Darn, imagine being strongest Avenger!"

Thor had scoffed at you,"Does she always talk this much?"Bruce had made his way over to you smiling at you as you stood up. "It is so cool to meet you mister Banner."

"Thank you miss..." "Y/n" He had smiled at you again before turning to Thor ,"see strongest Avenger,yep that's me."

"well then ,let' hope we can get home,just first we are to go to Asgard."

***

"Valkyrie ,I'm going to stay with Dwayne Johnson,I have no fighting skills so it's better if come I after," you had gestured to Korg.

"Alright then, I'll see you if I don't die" And with that she left you with the aliens,smiling up to them.

"The revolution has begun."

***

"Hey, what's this?"

"Thank you." You had stood next to Korg as he had powered down the taser device on Loki's body,you had stood rocking on your balls of your feet in excitement to get home.

"Hey,man. We're about to jump on that ginormous spaceship. You wanna come?" Loki had jumped up,his hair a messy ,from the intense pain he had just suffered,from betraying his brother yet again.

"well you do seem like you're in desperate need of leadership." The smirk was interweaved into his voice, smooth as his greasy hair.

"Why, thank you."

"Hurry up! It has been too long since I've seen the dance seen in the james franco spiderman three!" You rushed forwards grabbing a hold of the mischief makers arm dragging him towards the ship. "Talkative and touchy," Loki just allowed you to drag him,with him supposively being evil,grinning.

***

"uhhh, what's the chances of as all dying horribly? Do you think if i pretend to be dead she wouldn't notice?" Loki was driving the space ship,whilst you sat in the seat next to him,all the alien people sat or stood behind. You really be riding shotgun on a spaceship,it was you or korg.

Loki did not answer you , yet just slightly smiled glancing to you briefly, not a good sign, you'd think with two Gods you'd be fine ,but clearly not. "Hey do you think if Thor had to fight I don't know- AHH" You weren't sure who you meant to say as you face planted into the spaceship's floor,as Loki's flying had stopped so suddenly causing a jolt. You had laughed to your lesson quietly,patheticly in honesty ,covering up how embarrassing that was.

You felt as if you were Mantis ,when Drax had informed her to watch out after she got hit in the face.  All you could think was there's like a bunch of aliens on this ship and it's guaranteed at least 3 have just seen you face plant.  "Okay , that makes me wish that I was on Thors spaceship right now." Your hair in your face, forearms pressed against the cold metal floor.

"What does he have that I don't?" His voice seeped with sarcasm, okay maybe not he was probably just annoyed that a midgardian was aboard and could not shut up.

"He probably can fly this thing better, well it's probably Bruce but that's even better , do you even know how many PHDs he has?"

"Honestly I do not know and do not care."

"Wow that's not very nice . He has..wait I dont -" The smirk on Loki's face was stamped deep, as he pulled you out of your concentration by doing so. "Shut up I bet you say to all your lovers, ‘If you givee a chance I can be the god of your orgasm’” Honestly you don’t know what made you think of that , something tells you it’s to do with a dude that reads a lot of smut named Blake. Actually the author doesn’t know if he does but..

“Thank you darling, for the new material.”

[phantoms-lair]

Endo Class Izuku prolly denies OfA. On a related note, Slime Villian regrets several life choices and Kamui Woods and the other three get a “Oh I’m sorry, would you three rather I let him DIE? Granted I don’t LIKE him, but I’m a Decent Human Being and I’m getting rid of every piece of merch I have for you three.”

Honestly I’m not sure the slime villain would have had a chance to grab Bakugou in this AU. Izuku already has people who believe in him and his dream, so he wouldn’t have been as desperate for validation as Cannon Izuku. So no grabbing All Might’s leg and knocking the bottle loose.

Instead I give you this:

The moment he heard the manhole cover move, Izuku dumped out his backpack. If it was a mere sewer worker he could laugh off being startled. If it was trouble, the contents would make good improvised weapons. He grabbed a pen over the pencil he’d been writing with (better for stabbing) and waited. Remember, a good hero must be sure of their target. No one want to make the mistake of accidently harming a civilian. Of course, the villain didn’t take long to announce his intentions, at which point Izuku turned tail and tried to run. I know it may seem antithetical, but as a hero, your first job must be to look after your own safety. You can’t help the other victims if you’re a victim yourself, and it will just make the job of other heroes harder. 

The slime quickly cut off his escape, though, leaving him with only fighting as an option. Shifting direction, Izuku leaped at the stone wall of the overpass, using it as a springboard to get above the villain. 

While a gentile subduing is the ideal, it’s not always possible. When that’s the case, use what you can to disable your opponent, dislocate limbs and break bones. Not only will this limit their capacity to hurt you, but the pain will often be distracting enough to give you either a chance to escape or render them completely helpless.

Sadly this villain had no limbs or bones, so Izuku made due with the one target he had. He raised his arm with the pen in his hand and made sure to use his momentum to slam it into the Slime Villain’s eye.

The villain screamed, and seemed to lose cohesion in his tentacles. “You brat! I’ll kill you, you hear me! I’LL KILL-”

“I AM HERE!” The familiar cry was followed by an explosion of slime as the sewer lid. 

Izuku felt his heart skip a beat. All Might? Here?

The villain seemed less than over joyed. “No, I refuse to loose this way!” He lashed out with a tendril, but the loss of his eye made the action unsteady. All Might wound up his fist and released a devastating Texas Smash (Izuku would have known the move even if All Might hadn’t announced it) The slime monster blew into bits. Did All Might just kill him?????? No, Izuku could see the pieces quivering, the eye looking around wildly. 

All Might, meanwhile, had his soda bottles (he had a bag of groceries Izuku realized) and began using the bottle to suck up bits of the villain. “I’m afraid I’m going to need that pen too.”

“M-my pen?” Izuku stammered. “It’s got pieces of the villain’s body on it. I don’t know how well he can control pieces not attached to the main body, but I can’t risk your safety on the unknown.”

A hero must never take chances with another’s safety. Especially a civilian’s.

It was just like Koro-Sensei said, and Izuku felt some warmth in his idol proving the teachings of his beloved mentor. “Here sir! And um....” Izuku grabbed Notebook 13 for the ground.  “Wouldyouautographsthisplease?”

All Might smiled and, using a pen of his own, scribed his named along with a doodle of his eyebrows. “Hero Notes?” “Yes, sir. I’m learning to be a hero at Endo Junior High, I’m hoping to get into UA next year.” “I’m sure you will.” All Might said, and it wasn’t just empty talk. The kid had kept his head and managed to prevent himself from being grabbed and, judging by the pen he’d held in a death grip, even managed to fight back. For a thirteen to fourteen year old, it was extremely impressive. “I hope to see you there!” Villain secure in his pockets, All Might took a flying leap towards the police station.

 Izuku grinned giddily. It had been terrifying, sure. But he’d faced his first villain and even got to meet All Might. He couldn’t wait to go over this tomorrow with Koro-Sensei!

[radreactions]

Companions Getting Caught Writing Fanfics

Written by a guy who can dance better than Star Lord himself, @saintlyguy!

Ada: Accidentally playing one of Ada’s personal holotape journals led to quite the discovery; Ada likes stories. A particular favorite seems to be Frankenstein’s Monster, as evident in her own self insert. Wait, what?

“Forlorn after the death of their lover, the estranged Mr/Mrs. Freeze of the abandoned Vault 111 creates an automaton to care for them and maybe even grow to love.”

ADA WHAT?!

Cait: She’s scrappy and hasn’t exactly had a taste of the good life (albeit the nuclear apocalypse makes that nearly impossible). But that’s probably why she has a soft spot for that radio play on WRVR that came on about that street girl who gets taken in by some gentleman to be educated into some Fair Lady. Cait would often be seen singing and dancing all night about how the rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain; singing as if she were the punk taken in by Professor Sole-

“CLOSE THE DOOR! KNOCK NEXT TIME! Did you see anything?”

No Cait. The Sole Survivor definitely didn’t see you singing and dancing then shoving your fan script into your mouth to dispose of the evidence.

Codsworth: He can’t exactly write, but Codsworth can be found daydreaming his fantasy of being a titular sitcom butler. Because he already is living out his dream of serving his Sole Survivor! Accompanying them out in the wastes and tidying them as well as their house is perfect for a bot such as himself. Although he will put those Old World sitcom jokes to use.

“Hey Codsworth, could you make me a sandwich?”

The butler places his master’s head between two slices of bread.

“There, I’ve made you a sandwich.”

Curie: How in the world does a scientist develop a taste for sci-fi? Hanging around MacCready and Kent. If you go through Curie’s notes, you’ll see doodles and short stories of her and her Sole Survivor in many situations where motley romances could blossom. Like there’s one where she’s a hologram assistant to vigilante Sole in the year 2099. Hell there’s even one where she’s a doctor who develops feelings for a cyborg ninja.

Danse: A man who’s situated to the influence of knighthood and chivalry, you would guess right that you’d find some fantasy AUs in his room. One where he’s a paladin (of course); in fact one of five who must venture into the Castle of Lions to find the Legendary Defender. There’s even one where he’s a Templar who falls for runaway mage Sole, the very target he was sent to capture.

Deacon: Ok who gave Deacon those old sitcom holotapes? It’s bad enough that him being a pathological liar makes hime good at telling stories, but it’s worse when he puts his friends in them:

(SING ALONG)

“Here’s the story, of a single parent. who was gearing up to form some sort of crew.”

“There’s an android detective.”

“A robot butler.”

“Even a ghoulish mayor.”

“It’s the story, of a secret agent. One of the greatest to ever walk the wastes.”

“And a reporter.”

“An android doctor.”

“Ad Victorium!”

“So then one day all these people were assembled. To find the child who was stolen from the vault. And this crew was labeled The Companions. That’s how we all became the Fallout Bunch!”

Dogmeat: He can’t write, not that he needs to! His dreams are reality because he has YOU!

Gage: Pirates?! Oh come on! Is it cuz of the eyepatch? Or was it those stories Longfellow told? Well... I guess the idea of being the scourge of the seas does has it’s appeal. For the bootlicker Gage is, it wasn’t surprising that in most of his poorly written stories he was the Sole Survivor’s first mate. What was surprising and even off putting was that one fic where he was the prisoner of a siren and was made to... do things for his freedom.

Hancock: The mayor had always wanted to be in a rock band (he probably is one in another life), to the point of playing air guitar and even writing stories. Whenever Sole tries to see what he’s writing, Hancock lights it on fire and throws it. That’s because Sole was always in his rockstar fantasies; whether as his number one fan or manager. Sole got a peek at his stories when they found Hancock asleep in the middle of writing! And would you look at that, he even started writing a song.

Longfellow: A rugged man in a place like Far Harbor wouldn’t know where to find someone after Hannah. However stories of survivalists and men of the land making city girls swoon did have some appeal to him. His favorite being about a reporter falling for a guy who can commune with animals and survived a crocodile attack. He has written a story or two for fun; often there’s a damsel in distress who needs rescuing from the mediocrity of urban life.

Maxson: “What the hell is this?!” Sole thought to themself as they read Maxson’s fantasy of recruiting girls with cat ears into the Brotherhood, all of which have feelings for their Elder.

“Y’know. Like nya?”

................................

“Arthur. I don’t want your garbage.”

Nick: While Nick wasn’t a detective, he was an adventurer! At least on paper he was. He still had a fedora, but instead of a nightstick, Tomb Raider Nick had a whip! He’d go to exotic places and uncover the secrets of lost civilizations. Often he’d run into the mysterious stranger Sole who’s often after the same treasure as he is. Sometimes he wins, sometimes they win, and sometimes they both win...in bed.

“Nick, what are you typing?”

CTRL Z!

MacCready: You couldn’t have survived Little Lamplight without having some fun. Mac’s escape was comic books and writing his own stories, some of which insert him into The Unstoppables. Mac’s longest fanfic is where he is admitted into UA High School, Unstoppables Academy. There he trains to become ALL MAC, the symbol of peace!

“It’s fine now. Why? BECAUSE I’M HERE!”

The most recent chapter shows All Mac recruiting the anti-hero, Survivor on a mission and on a date.

Piper: She’s a reporter on and off the record. Someone as articulate in writing as Piper uses it as a past time as well. She writes bedtime stories for Nat as well as scribe her daydreams. Lately she’s been writing about a Boston Bugle reporter attempting to get an exclusive with the city’s super powered defender clad in a blue jumpsuit and red cape. Coincidentally this started a bit after she started traveling with the Sole Survivor.

Preston: He’s got a thing for diners. Yes diners. He’s seen many old ads that show the vibrant environment, delicious non irradiated food, and pretty waitresses. You can sometimes see him hanging in the old diners after establishing a perimeters to have a lunch and do paperwork. Wait, paperwork? What the hell is he writing?

“The strapping general sat down awaiting for his favorite waiter/waitress to take his order.

‘Want something sweet?’ They ask.

He responds ‘How about you?’”

Yep. Nope. It’s paperwork, definitely nothing else.

Strong: Sometimes Strong can be found using raider and glowing one blood to draw on the concrete in Sanctuary.

“Hey Strong, what are you drawing?”

“Us.”

On the pavement, there are two super mutants. One of them is drawn with synth coolant to have blue.

“Strong wishes you were super mutant. Humans are losers.”

Gee thanks Strong.

“Strong is loser too.”

“But together, we take back what we lose!”

Huh, that was actually sweet.

X6-88: This guy knows nothing outside of recapturing synths. Although in the Institute he has seen many old films that the scientists enjoy during their downtime. His favorite being the one where the singer and her bodyguard fall in love. He especially liked the song in that movie. When he was asked to write something for a maintenance test, X6 wrote a story of the bodyguard named X who’s hired to protect Boston’s favorite singer. And from that story, the Institute programmed a synth to sing. Although no one knows what happened to her. When charged with guarding the director’s parent, X6 was asked what he could do. Besides shooting.

“I can write.”

What have you written.

X6 pulled out a binder labeled Work in Progress.

It’s as heavy as a dumbbell.

[fanfoolishness]

Leaving Home (Lavellan, Varric)

The rain blustered at the opening of the cave, forcing their small cookfire to sputter and flare.  Namira sighed, casting another thin barrier over the cave’s entrance.  It was enough to block most of the rain while still allowing a wisp of smoke to escape, but it made the cave’s air humid and still.

It didn’t help that they still were scarcely out of the rain.  The cave was such a shallow area carved from the mountainside, and with the four of them packed into its small space, the moisture from the endless and inescapable damp built up fiercely.  She sat against the stone wall, somehow both chilled and sweaty.

Namira stirred their dinner, humming tunelessly to herself.  Strange how the weather of the Storm Coast could behave so differently from the northern Free Marches she and her clan had traversed the past few years.  The Waking Sea had never seemed such a great divide on the map, but she keenly felt the distance now.  

The Storm Coast was beautiful, yes, but it was a wilderness that would be best traversed with friends and family, and these men she journeyed with were nearly strangers still.  She gazed out at the rain amidst lush green spires and salt-carved stone, as lonely as she had ever been, and the beauty of the trees and surging sea left her hollow.

Strange the way circumstance could change a thing.  She’d have jumped at the chance to explore new locales just a few years ago; of course, she had never expected she would be the only Lavellan for leagues.  She had never thought she would miss the arid heat and the ever-present scent of sage and juniper.  But now, as a lone Dalish in the wet and cedar-scented air, she’d take a sunburn in a heartbeat.  

At least the food smelled comforting.  She and Varric had brought down a ram while Blackwall and the Iron Bull scouted ahead for camp.  Namira was not an especially skilled hunter or butcher, but part of her First training required familiarity with all roles in the clan.  Her butchery would have earned a tucked frown of mild disapproval from the venerable huntress Marellin.  Still, it was more than adequate for their purposes.

The ram’s meat was gamey and pungent, but it mellowed with the addition of wild onion and garlic.  Marjoram and spindleweed rounded the flavors further.  Rough-chopped black lotus roots, starchy and thick, added body.  

She stirred experimentally at the stew.  Despite the herbs, so different from those found near Sundermount, the stew still somehow smelled of home.  It would be ready soon, a welcome addition to the dried hardtack safe in their packs.

Gentle snores drew her attention.  Blackwall and Bull had drawn second watch, and were trying to get some sleep at the very back of the little cave.  Surprisingly, they were succeeding despite the less than ideal conditions.  She found herself impressed by their versatility, and turned to Varric.

No hint of drowsiness played around Varric’s eyes.  He slept as little as she did, most nights.  Perhaps it was a dwarven thing.  He sat a few feet away, his fountain pen scratching at the vellum he was never without.  Luckily he’d been prepared and brought it wrapped in wax for this expedition.  She peeked at his writing, noting neat, flowing script in shining black ink.

“What are you writing, Varric?” she asked, stretching and setting the tin ladle back down on a dry stone.  “If you’re keeping a diary, I’m afraid today’s adventures were rather lacking.  ‘Stumped around in the mud.  Passed the same pine tree three times.  Fought another damn bear.’”

Varric raised his head, hazel eyes crinkling in a smile.  “Shit, you nailed it, Doodles.  The Inquisition experience!  Maybe after you seal the Breach they should keep you on as a master scribe.”

“Do you really think I can seal it, after all?” Namira asked, faltering.  Her left hand clenched reflexively around the ever-present buzzing in her palm, a constant reminder of the strange magic that had marked her.  “Assuming the mages will help us…”

“Trust me, no one wants a giant hole in the sky.  If we can get an audience with them, they’ll join up, no questions asked,” said Varric.  He capped his pen carefully, slipping it back into a pocket of his heavy leather jacket.  “And if they don’t?  Sister Nightingale’s not the only one with contacts.  I’ve got some favors I can call if we need.”  His brows rose suggestively.  “The Seeker might not be so thrilled with some of them, but trust me, we’ve got options.”

“Is that who you write to?” asked Namira. She folded her arms, resting them on her knees.  “I’m sorry.  I’m prying, aren’t I?”

“Well, I can tell you’ve never trained under a bard,” Varric chuckled.  “You’re not one for subtlety, are you?”

“That obvious?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Sorry.  It’s just --”  Namira bit her lip, gazing out at the gathering dark.  She could still easily make out the towering shapes of the pines beyond the cave’s entrance, but she knew by now that the others saw only blackness.  “Cassandra, Bull, Blackwall, Sera… you’re the only other one here who’s left home behind.  So I wondered if you write to them.  Hawke and the others.”

Varric was quiet for a moment.  “Kirkwall hasn’t been the same since Blondie -- since the Chantry incident.  Not as many people there as there used to be.  I write to some of them, sure.  But some of them aren’t so easy to find.”  

“You mean Hawke.”

“More than just Hawke,” Varric protested.  “Most of them left Kirkwall when she did.  Merrill and Aveline are the only ones who stayed.”

“Hawke is special though, isn’t she?” said Namira.  “I notice it’s Tale of the Champion, not Tale of the Champion and Friends.”

Varric looked at her appraisingly.  He opened his mouth as if to say something, then shook his head, his cheeks slightly pink.  Maybe it was the smoke from their fire.  Namira eased up on the barrier at the cave’s mouth, opening it up a little to allow more smoke to dissipate.

Varric shrugged, his cheeks returning to their normal color.  “You couldn’t call it that.  Terrible title.  My publisher would laugh me right out of my contract.”   He waved one gloved hand.  “But you’re right.  Hawke’s special.”  A short huff of breath: she nearly mistook it for a sigh.  “Never knew anyone like her.”

“Do you know where she is?  Truly, I wouldn’t tell Cassandra.  It sounds like Hawke’s had enough to be going on with,” said Namira earnestly.

“For once, I don’t have to lie.  I don’t know where she is.  I know a few places she’s been, but right now?  Nah.  She moves around.”

“Are they still hunting her?  It’s so clear in your book that what happened in Kirkwall wasn’t her fault,” said Namira.  “Assuming the tale is accurate, of course.”  She tried to keep her tone light, but couldn’t help the nagging, guilty feeling that she was prodding a sore spot.  

“I wrote a lot of the real shit in my book.  But I left out plenty.  Things that were just too much to write down.”  He looked uncomfortable.

“I know what you mean.  Writing can be dangerous, can’t it?  I don’t write much for others myself,” said Namira hastily, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground.  She’d gone too far, hadn’t she?  “Or, I do, but it’s record-keeping; marriages, illnesses, births, deaths, the daily history of the clan.  Things that are important to remember for the future.”  

She picked up the ladle, stirred again.  The stew bubbled.  “I don’t put down feelings.”  That wasn’t strictly true; her personal journal with its drawings and musings lay in her pack, wax-wrapped and magic-sealed.  She hurried to amend the statement, unwilling to speak even the smallest half-truths.  “At least, not where anyone else can read it.”  

Varric’s mouth turned up at one edge like the start of a smile.  It didn’t quite finish the motion.  “Maybe that’s best.  Less incriminating, anyway.”

Namira set the ladle down and rummaged in her pack for the waxcloth bundle containing the hardtack.  The stew was nearly ready.  “Maybe.”  

She paused, looking down at the bundle of shem food.  Everything about it was foreign: a beeswax wrapper instead of candelilla, the shape of the hardtack, the smell of it.  “Sometimes writing helps, I think.  Other times it makes things worse, reminding myself of what I lack.  I miss my home.  My people.  Why did I ever leave them?”

Varric folded up his stack of vellum papers.  “Well, if it’s any consolation, sometimes home leaves you first.”  This time, the motion his mouth made was nothing like a smile.

Namira let out a long breath.  “I didn’t mean to darken the mood,” she said softly.  “Are you all right?”

“Herald, demons are falling out of the sky, mages and templars are killing each other all over the place, and we’re here in the ass end of nowhere chasing who knows what.  I have to say the mood’s pretty dark already.  No need for you to add worrying about the dwarf to your list of shit to deal with,” said Varric.

“If you insist,” said Namira.  “But you’re certain?  Because I would worry about you, if it would help.”

“I’m flattered, but fine. Honest.”  He gestured to the stew.  “That done?  It smells a hundred times better than Hawke’s cooking, and a thousand times better than mine.”

“Yes, it’s ready.  But oh, Varric,” said Namira sadly.  “This isn’t even particularly good food by Dalish standards.  It’s just make-do food.  What did you eat in Kirkwall?”

“Sometimes it’s best not to know,” he said with a wink.  He clambered to his feet and to the back of the cave, not even needing to bow his head beneath the low ceiling.  He started nudging the others awake.  She watched him joke with them, jovial as ever.

She knew she’d hit him somewhere delicate with her clumsy attempts at conversation.  She’d been so eager to talk about what was bothering her she hadn’t stopped to consider if he wanted to talk about it.  She ladled soup into thin tin bowls, staring pensively at the way it steamed, wishing she had been wiser.  She supposed that was the difference between the Keeper, and the First.

Outside the rain blustered, and the winds squalled, and the waves crashed.  Inside the little cave, their little group shared bowls of rich woodland stew, making their plans for tomorrow and looking to the future.

Varric caught her eye during a lull.  She looked steadily at him.  Really? You’re all right? she asked silently.

He grinned, dragging his bread through the stew before popping it into his mouth.  “For make-do food, this is delicious, Doodles.  Good stuff.”

She smiled back, warm in a way that had nothing to do with the nearby cookfire or the hearty food.  She took a bite of her stew.  It was good, better than she had thought it would be.

“Thanks, Varric.”

[ma-sulevin]

The Use in Being King

Day 2 of @alistairappreciationweek is all about Alistair as a king. In my self-indulgence AU, Alistair breaks up with Sophie Amell after the Battle of Denerim and ends up ruling Ferelden alone for a few years. Here he’s dealing with the pressure of being king, the stress of Teagan, and a still-mending heart.

He’s had lots of practice keeping a straight face when trying not to fall asleep in council sessions. The trick, he’s found, is not to blink too much. Blinking makes him want to keep his eyes closed, and he’s promised Teagan he won’t fall asleep in the middle of another meeting, not after the first time.

Another trick is to pretend to take notes and just doodle little mabari all over the paper instead. The scribe takes the real notes, and Teagan takes better ones than Alistair does even when he actually tries.

It doesn’t usually matter. The issues are almost always trivial, or ones he just needs to sign. He takes more of an interest when it comes to the Wardens, or to the alienage, and at least they listen when he puts his foot down. It took them a while to realize he was actually going to be the king and not just a puppet.

But sometimes… he wishes he was just a puppet.

He calls the meeting to an end when it’s clear no more work is going to get done, and the council files out with only minimal grumbling. Teagan remains behind, as is his way, waiting until they’re alone before he brings up the same thing he always does.

“Have you looked at the dossier I gave you?” His tone suggests he knows what the answer will be, but Alistair gives him his best unimpressed look and answers anyway.

“Haven’t found the time,” he says and grins when Teagan barely manages to suppress an eye-roll.

Teagan still sighs. “You--listen, it’s been long enough, Alistair. Ferelden needs a queen, it needs heirs, and you have to stop dragging your feet and be a man about this.”

Alistair’s grin vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by an ache behind his eyes. It always seems to come when talking to his uncle--especially about Ferelden’s need for a queen.

Just because Teagan is right doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it.

“Just look at it, please. The Cousland girl would be a very good match for you, we think, and she’s--”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Alistair demands, voice sharper than usual. It makes Teagan swallow whatever else he was going to say, eyes widening and cheeks turning pale. It’s Alistair’s king-voice, the one he rarely finds he has to use.

It lets everyone know he’s ready to be serious.

“Er--” Teagan hedges. “Myself, of course.” Another pause. Alistair grits his teeth together and feels his headache growing stronger. “Eamon. The rest of the council--”

Alistair rubs at his forehead for a moment before running his fingers through his hair. It makes the front stick up a bit, out of the style from that morning, and he ignores the way Teagan frowns at it. “I’ll look at it later, Uncle.”

Then he turns and walks away, leaving Teagan -- and his notes -- behind. The door slams behind him, unintentional, but he can’t bring himself to feel bad. He lifts his chin and lengthens his stride, his shoulders square enough that even the boldest of nobles won’t stop him if they see him.

He’s tired of being king. So tired. This is nothing like the life he imagined for himself when Duncan recruited him to the Grey Wardens, nothing like the life he imagined for himself when he first fell in love. This life is nothing like the one he wants.

He’s nearly jogging by the time he makes it back to his room -- his chambers, too big to really just be called a room -- and those doors slam closed too. He shucks the fine clothes expected of him as king and slips into more comfortable, more simple, trousers and tunic. He laces up a pair of sturdy boots and leaves his rooms a mess behind him.

He keeps his head down this time, but he still walks quickly. He finds people are less likely to notice him when he dresses like a regular person, though it’s becoming less reliable the more times he tries it.

No one stops him as he leaves the main part of the castle, and he makes his way to the stables without interruptions.

He stops just inside the door and takes a deep breath. He lets it out with a smile and makes his way through the hall around to the back.

Here, away from stray breezes and curious strangers, is his favorite part of the whole city. He’s been working on breeding and training more mabari to add to the army, and though he hasn’t taken one for himself yet, he still loves to come watch the little ones play.

He picks up speed and then slides to a stop, dirt clouding around his feet, when he sees that he isn’t the only visitor to this place. A woman stands before him, her elbows resting on the half door that keeps the puppies in their stall, her chin in her hands. Her dark hair is long, spilling over her shoulder and blocking her face from him.

She doesn’t look up until he starts walking again, his footsteps echoing dully around the stable. She jumps and stares at him, eyes impossibly wide, and she hurries to stand straight. She fumbles into something that’s half curtsey, half bow, and Alistair struggles not to sigh.

Instead, he waves his hand dismissively. “None of that.” She freezes, head still bowed, and then she stands up straight and clasps her hands behind her back. “I see I’m not the only one who enjoys watching them play.”

She relaxes immediately, a wide smile springing to her face. Alistair’s eyes drop to her dimples, then -- against his will -- to trace down her body. She’s dressed in riding clothes, in men’s riding clothes actually, that look rather fetching on her. He tears his gaze away, but she’s already turned back to looking at the pups.

He moves to stand next to her, a respectful distance away, and mimics her posture. He props his elbows on the door, leaning down, and rests one foot behind him on the toes of his boot. The mabari mother glances up at them with tired interest, but dismisses them as harmless and lays her head back down. One of the puppies pounces at her, landing across her neck, and she heaves a great sigh that makes the woman giggle.

Alistair glances over at her again, smiling when he sees the soft expression on her face as she watches the pups play.

She doesn’t look familiar to him. The Denerim citizens aren’t supposed to be able to just wander into the castle, especially not this late in the day, but he didn’t get word that they were going to have any visitors -- did he?

He forgets to look away from her as he’s searching his memories, and she glances over at him with her lips twisting into a small smirk.

“I used to have a mabari,” she offers finally, giving him that bit of information instead of her name or anything that would help him identify her. She looks back down. “Oliver. We sort of grew up together, and he…” Her voice catches, and she clears her throat before trying again. “He died during the Blight.”

She’s frowning now, and Alistair’s heart seizes in his chest.

“Oh--I’m, I’m so sorry,” he stammers. She looks back at him, eyes wet but cheeks dry. “I didn’t, uhh…”

She smiles again, and he relaxes somewhat. “It’s okay,” she says, softly. She extends one hand as though to comfort him, but quickly pulls it back as her cheeks turn a lovely shade of rose. “It’s been a few years, but I still miss him.”

Silence falls again. Alistair stares down at the pups, still so young. One is sleeping on his back, snoring, little paws up in the air where he fell in the middle of wrestling with his brothers.

An idea springs, not quite fully formed, into Alistair’s mind. These are too young, but…

“Here, look.” He grabs for the woman’s elbow but releases it before he has time to get embarrassed. She follows him easily enough, deeper and to a different stall, where six older mabari pups rest without their mother. They’re in a little pile, all snores and big ears and wagging tails, and they don’t perk up until Alistair starts to speak again. “These are old enough to be imprinted.”

The woman freezes. She stops breathing even, just for a moment, then she turns her whole body to face him. “No.” The objection leaves her lips in a gasp even as her eyes begin to shine. “I -- you can’t.”

Alistair fights back a laugh and presses a hand to the center of his chest. “I can’t? No one else has told me that.” She bites her lip, wavering, so he pushes a little more. “What’s the use in being king if I can’t give away mabari to beautiful women?”

She turns even pinker at that, but he seems to have won her over because she nods rapidly.

“I can’t guarantee anything, but…” he steps back and opens the stall door, pulling it back enough so that she can slip inside. He closes the door behind her, trapping her with the puppies, and she immediately drops to her knees and extends her arms.

The pups erupt into activity, scrabbling all over each other to reach the new human. They’re all a pretty uniform brown color, black noses and inquisitive brown eyes, little stumps of wagging tails all ready to be petted.

She scoops them up and coos to them, kissing their little faces when she can pull them close enough. One is trying desperately to get her attention, little yips leaving its mouth, its front paws up on her shoulder. She scoops it up as soon as she sees it, holding it like a baby and rubbing her face against it.

Alistair leans against the door and smiles, chin resting on his hand, watching her cooing over the pup. Drawn by the noise of voices and little barks, the kennel master emerges from wherever he spends his nights. He nods a greeting at Alistair and comes to stand next to him, looking down at the strange woman.

She gazes up at them with bright eyes, a question on her face as plain as the hope that tints her cheeks pink and makes her lips twist up at the corners.

The kennel master grunts at her. “Looks like she’s chosen ye,” he mutters. If Alistair hadn’t spent so much time here, he’d think the man annoyed. The woman blinks at him, her eyebrows starting to draw together. “Ye’ll have to take her with ye now or there’ll be no comforting her.”

The woman stands up, the other puppies scattering from her sudden movements, the one in her hands still licking at every inch of skin she can reach. She clutches the puppy a little closer, letting her front paws rest against her shoulder, and turns to Alistair.

“Thank you,” she breathes, voice serious.

He opens his mouth to brush away her thanks, but the kennel master interrupts by shoving a bag of supplies at the woman.

“Collar, food, bone,” he says, voice gruff to hide the sadness that comes from saying goodbye to one of his mabari. The woman takes the bag and slings it over her shoulder, mumbling thanks and praise as Alistair steps away and lets her out of the stall.

The pup starts to squirm as soon as the woman starts to walk, and she struggles to contain her for a moment before smiling apologetically. “I need to get her settled in,” she says. She looks from the kennel master to Alistair and back again. “Thank you.” She dips another little half-curtsey half-bow, the dog gives a little yip, and then they disappear together.

Alistair watches her go, then turns to the kennel master. “Who was that?”

The older man starts, then frowns. “Why would I know?” He shakes his head and turns away from Alistair, shuffling back to wherever he’d appeared from in the first place.

Alone, again, Alistair runs his hands through his hair and pulls lightly on the strands. He should probably just… go to bed.

---

“Did you read that dossier last night?”

Alistair’s right eye twitches at Teagan’s words, both because of the irritating reminder and at the answer he knows he’s going to get in trouble for: “...no?”

Teagan sighs and rubs his temples where his hair is already graying, but he doesn’t look surprised at all. Just… resigned. Tired, with lines around his eyes when he looks back up to meet Alistair’s bland expression. “Well, it’s too late for that now,” he grumbles, and Alistair’s eyebrows shoot up.

Has Teagan given up? Has Ferelden accepted that he’s going to die on the throne -- sooner rather than later, thanks to the taint -- alone?

He clears his throat and shifts in his seat, trying to distract that train of thought before it makes him want to forget whatever Teagan has planned for him and climb right back into bed.

He almost misses the rest of Teagan’s explanation: “...she’s here now, waiting to meet you.”

“No.” Alistair doesn’t hesitate. He knows he isn’t interested.”

Teagan stands a little straighter. “You don’t have to marry her today, Alistair,” he says, voice sharpening. “You just need to meet her and Teyrn Cousland, eat breakfast, and then we can send them right back to Highever if you want.”

Alistair resists the childish urge to whine. If he’d been asked before if he wanted to meet the teyrn, he would have given an unequivocal no. But since they’re already here, it would be rude to ignore them. It might even cause some sort of political scandal that would involve apologies and gifts and a lot more work than a simple breakfast.

Teagan sees the moment Alistair gives in and claps his hands together. “Excellent. They’re already waiting.” He grins, an annoying little expression that Alistair wants to wipe away.

He doesn’t.

He just follows behind Teagan through the hallway to the lovely hall with the large fireplaces that they use for smaller dinners -- and, apparently, breakfasts. Two soldiers stand guard on either side of the door, and they both bow low before opening the double doors to allow Alistair and Teagan to pass through.

A conversation is already taking place, hushed tones between siblings that Alistair can still clearly hear.

“You shouldn’t have brought her.” The man, Teyrn Cousland -- Fergus? -- hisses, annoyance and exasperation clear in his tone.

“I couldn’t very well leave her with the maid,” the woman says, sounding more amused than Fergus, and Alistair actually freezes mid-stride at the sound of her voice. Teagan bumps into his back and makes a little huffing sound at the interruption. “And, anyway,” she continues after a pause, “he gave her to me.”

Teagan pushes at him again and Alistair finally starts moving, aiming for the head of the table but keeping his eyes on that woman from the night before. She and Fergus stand quickly, and as Alistair moves to be able to see their faces, he sees the mabari pup sitting at attention in one of the chairs.

His face breaks into a wide smile, and when he looks up he sees Fergus and the woman both bowing to him.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, your majesty,” Fergus says, and stands straight. He glances at Teagan, then back to Alistair. “May I present my sister, Ophelia Cousland?”

Ophelia. Ophelia. Oh fee lee ah.

She shoots her brother a dirty look, not at all concerned with propriety in front of the king who waved off her curtsey the evening before. She’s wearing a dress today, a fine one from what he can tell, but he finds he prefers her riding clothes from their last meeting. The dress looks wrong somehow, and when she smooths her fingers over the corset and smiles back at him, he realizes it’s because she’s uncomfortable.

“Lia is fine,” she corrects, still smiling. Teagan stiffens a little and clears his throat at Alistair’s side, but Alistair ignores him.

“Lia,” he echoes, and her smile grows, showing him her dimples once more. He looks down at her mabari who perks up a little under his attention, cocking her head to the side and letting out a tiny bark. Even Teagan has to smile at that. “It’s nice to see both of you again. Does she have a name yet?”

Lia’s face turns that lovely shade of pink again, but she doesn’t look away as she answers: “Princess.”

Alistair can’t help the little chuckle that burbles out from the center of his chest. “A fine name,” he says, still smiling, and he can’t help but think that maybe -- just maybe -- this isn’t the worst plan Teagan has come up with after all.

[Ophelia/Alistair masterpost]

[raspberryrose6]

Absolutely 😃

I’m passionate about my work and enjoy it immensely. It is incredible to work hands-on with original documents day to day, ensuring their survival into the future and communing with the hands and minds that created those documents and held them before yours. You find the doodles of a bored young scribe in the margins of an illuminated Medieval Psalter…pocket diaries kept by soldiers in the trenches of WW1…letters from scorned lovers…thumb prints on seals. Your heart beats just a little faster at those moments.

The other aspect of the job that delights me is that, as an Archivist, I work to Make Things Neat. That is very satisfying to me. You really need to be a tidy person, in both your physical surroundings and in your own mind, to be an Archivist, as you need to run a tight ship and keep everything in order. It’s not always easy when you’re dealing with huge volumes of material, but it’s a beautiful thing to make order out of chaos. Quite often people deposit large quantities of documents in a right old mess. It also helps if you love stationary and enjoy packaging things nicely! Brass paperclips, acid-free boxes and unbleached cotton tape are the tools of the trade, and there’s a purity to that aesthetic that calms my soul.

To get a place on one of the Masters courses in Archiving, you need an undergraduate degree (mine was in Ancient and Medieval History, but other subjects are acceptable so long as you can prove you genuinely love History) and some work experience in the sector to prove your commitment. Back when I was applying for the Masters, they required a year of experience, paid or unpaid, but I think they’re less strict on that now. I literally wrote to all the Archives I could physically get to and asked for experience, and went to a variety of placements through the year, some paid and some unpaid.

The Archives Masters are available at a handful of universities across the U.K., and I went to UCL. I’d definitely recommend it. My qualification was in Archives and Records Management which means I’m also qualified as a Records Manager, but the title and content of the Masters courses vary. After you complete the course and qualify, you can apply for professional level positions.

I now work in a Local Government (County) Archive which means I curate the historical records of a specific geographical area. Day to day, my work is very varied and involves a range of activities. Typical tasks are:

-taking in records from members of the public who wish to deposit them with us -accessioning those records which means assigning reference codes, packaging and quick-listing them -cataloguing them which means a more in-depth study of their origin, context and content -publishing catalogues in hard copy and online via our electronic software -contributing articles/blog posts/preparing catalogues for our website -I do a lot of the social media work for my workplace so I organise content for that to go up on a daily basis. I’ve set up Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and YouTube and it’s good to see our following grow on our various channels. -Ingesting catalogues and scanned images of the documents in them, into our digital preservation software. Archivists also need to be technologically savvy these days; I have a digital strongroom that mirrors my physical one. Digital archives are archives too! #equality 😉 -managing volunteers, which means organising projects for them and supervising/assisting with those. Plus baking them cake at least twice a year to say thank you! -dealing with enquiries from the public via telephone, face to face, letter and email, which requires research skills -trouble-shooting! For example, inevitably, with miles and miles and miles of archives, occasionally a sheet of paper here or there is misplaced and finding it is A Thing! -copyright enquiries. If people want to publish images from our archives, we have to research ownership of both the documents and their copyright. It’s complicated! Copyright is something we’re trained on whilst qualifying. -work experience students come and go throughout the year, as-like you-they want to know more about what I do and need pre-course experience. -preservation work. I work with a conservator but I’m in charge of the preservation of our archives. It’s like this: the conservator is the surgeon and I’m the GP. He does the surgery where needed but I ensure the daily comfort of my ‘patients’! -exhibitions. These are always going on in branch as well as for special events, to which we bring travelling exhibitions with us. -outreach, which can mean many things but a key example would be giving talks to groups who want to learn more about the Archive or about a specific element of local history. Can be scary but it’s also fun to share your passion and tell people all about the Precious Things you look after.

I could go on but this is already way too long and I think this is enough detail to give you a taster! Good luck if you decide to go into Archives as a career, it’s fab 💕

[swallowtail-jumper]

This Just Feels So Write

 The second thing I’ve written for my Coypu and @dragontag420​ ‘s Rah! If you haven’t read the first, here it is (Coypu’s POV is first, and dragontag420 wrote Rah’s version of it). Also, just a warning, this is a bit long. Especially with the little doodles that I put in there.

There's a lot of things people call Coypu. Handsome (okay that happened twice and one was trying to sell him something). Fast. Annoying. Cunning. Illiterate. Overexcitable. The list goes on and on and on. But if there one thing he's not, it's stupid. Well, no, he is. But not when it comes to himself. So, when he's going around still thinking of Rah, even though they haven't spoken since they met, he knows that the seeds of a crush have been planted. And it's not his first crush, not by a long shot, so he doesn't freak. Too badly. Rah is hot. And has a sense of humor. And a cute, but almost incomprehensible accent.

But Coypu doesn't know him. Doesn't know his favorite color or his goals. Doesn't know if he likes boys or how religious he is. Doesn't know how he feels about gator men being into him, or gator men wanting to be in him. He doesn't even know if Rah is in a relationship, open or otherwise. It's all very complicated. On day five of going over every detail of their encounter, Coypu makes up his mind to go see him.  What better way to get to know him than to actually talk to him? It's not like anyone's likely to need him for a couple hours, anyway. Packing a light snack and the collar-necklace thing that La Corona had given him with his name on it. Again, he's not truly stupid. He's going to need a reason to be there. And saying that he just wanted to see his face, while probably getting that delightful blush to appear, may scare him off. They've only had one conversation, no need to be that guy. He's halfway to it when he realizes that there's a chance that Rah may not want to see him. But Coypu's already heading over, and he's never been one to really shy away from affection when there's only a chance to not receive it so on he goes. He'll deal with any negative consequences later. He gets there pretty easily, but has to ask someone walking past where Rah is since he wasn't exactly paying attention last time. The person doesn't even question him, just points him in the right direction. He thanks them and continues on his way. Eventually he makes it to the room he found Rah in last time. Taking a breath, he comes on in with a flourish. "Sleeping Beauty, there you are!" The sudden attention maybe startles Rah, but the nickname has him closing his eyes and sighing. Really loudly. Like Coypu knows he's sighing because he heard him. "Ah, yes. The mysterious stranger that left without giving me his name." Damn that voice and what it does to him. "How could I be of assistance?" "Y'see, I had to do something but I've been thinking about you-" Coypu's takes in a deep breath, that honesty wasn't what he had planned. "...And what you said. Since you like writin' so much, I figured you'd be able to teach me." "You want me to teach you how to write? Why?" Because what other excuse is there? "Why not? See if it's as fun as you think it is." "Could you ask someone in your own clan?" They're not as cute. Or, well, not as cute to him. "I could, but then I wouldn't get to see your pretty little face." Coypu squashes the urge to smother himself with something at another released bit of honesty and just puts on his best smirk, hoping that Rah'll take it as a simple flirtation. It looks as if Rah gets flustered, but he turns his head and mutters 'fine' in his usual voice, so it's not like Coypu can tell.

They start with writing the alphabet. Or more specifically, going through the alphabet so Coypu can recognize them. Because damn if he knows the difference between a B, D, P, Q, or G when they're all in 'lowercase'. Five minutes in Coypu makes a conscious decision that he hates lowercase letters and is only going to write in capitals. They're less confusing. By the time they get to Coypu's name, it feels as if days have passed. Little but talk of writing has happened between them, with Coypu practicing on sheets until his chicken scratch looks vaguely like the letters instructed. "How do you spell your name?" Coypu could answer vocally, he's getting the hang of remembering which letter is which, but he takes the chance to slip off the necklace that he'd brought and hand it over for Rah to read the etched letters. Their hands brush as Coypu hands it over, and Coypu avoids eye contact so he doesn't feel the urge to say something stupid. But at Rah's, "Coypu, huh?" it gets harder, Rah's voice different from the way he taught or the way he snarled. It sounded a little surprised, a little pleased. So of course, Coypu has to ruin the moment. "I mean, you could always just call me yours." It's silent for a moment before Rah just sort of laughs. "Okay, Yours, get started on writing your name." And the shut down should've hurt, but Coypu feels vaguely giddy at the playful way it's spoken. This attention must be what's doing it. He's been spoiled by one on one attention. It takes some work to not screw up his name, switching letters up accidentally. Sometimes he thinks he's got it, but then Rah'll point out that the Y goes after the O, and Coypu'll look at his name and realize that, damn, he's right. But, when he does get it, he looks at the perfection, puts his hands up with a small 'Whoop!', and wraps Rah in a Guardian hug before he can think twice about what he's doing. "I see you've found an appreciation for writing." Rah's voice is a little muffled, and Coypu remembers the size difference they have as he feels the vibrations from where Rah's face is pressed. "Y'aint gotta be smug. It's still boring, but it's satisfying to be able to do it." They stay pressed for a moment or too longer before Coypu lets go. And then he grabs his bag to grab his snack before he gets kicked out. "Want some? It's muskrat, my favorite." Rah shakes his head, turning him down, and Coypu shrugs and devours them easily. Oh yeah, that hit the spot. "Say," Coypu speaks with his mouth full, garbling his words slightly. "What do you like to eat?" "I prefer dried insects. Much less messy. And the crunch is nice." If there was someone watching this moment, right now was where they'd pause because they could see the beginnings of the smirk on Rah's face. "It definitely suits you. And mine kinda suits me too." The trap has been set. "Because you look like an alligator, which are known for their meat-eating tendencies?" Oh, how matter-of-fact Rah sounds. Such innocence he has concerning what Coypu is about to say. "I am part alligator, but no. It's because I seem to have a taste for... Rah meat." It takes but a second for Rah’s face to show that he understands both the pun and the innuendo, whilst Coypu can't help but laugh at his pun and then the look on Rah's face. "Are you done?" "Yeah, I am. That was a good one and you know it, though." Rah had made a joke before, and it didn't seem to kill him. Coypu knows the guy has a sense of humor. "Yes, your jokes are hilarious but I do eventually need to get back to work." There's something in the way Rah speaks that says Coypu should choose his next words carefully. And, somehow that leads to him being honest again. "Does it count as a joke if it's true, or is it just a pun?" Rah's face is priceless, and Coypu might laugh if he wasn't trying to be serious here. "Are you actually hitting on me?" Ah, incredulity. Coypu's ain't heard that in a voice so strongly before. "Mm, have been all day, thanks for noticing." This is much more honest than he'd like. What is it about Rah that made him wanna spill? "But, since you need to get back to work and all, I figure I'll have to be back to bother you another day." Coypu goes to leave with his bag and papers in one hand, but then Rah's voice, small but sure, stops him. "...You're not a bother." He's too damn cute. The mood's different now, too. It's softer, makes Coypu wanna do something stupid like kiss him. It's that thought that does it. Coypu acts impulsively. Grabbing one of Rah's hands, he presses it gently to his lips and kisses it.

"Then I'll definitely be back, so long as you'll have me." Another kiss, this time, to where their fingers interlock from the hold Coypu has. "I'll go home, you work, and I'll come back when I can get away. This is bye until then." Coypu lets him go and leaves, only pausing when he hears Rah say "Bye, Coypu." Whispering a goodbye back, as if the words'll break if he says them too loudly, Coypu continues on his way home. The next day, La Corona tells him that a few empty spaces have appeared in the clan that she'd like filled. Which means Coypu is to go infant shopping again. He never knows how long these trips'll take, so he packs paper and some ink. Over the course of his trip, he sends out three letters to Rah, hoping they'll get there safely. He's never magically sent a letter, after all. But, at the very least, he tries and he doesn't even mind much the looks he gets when he asks those he passes by how to spell something. It's not until after the third letter that the need to put his hand in Rah's again hits him. That night, he promises to look hard the next day for a hatchling that'll do well in the clan. Whatever it takes that he'll be free again to go see his favorite scribe.

[randomyetnot]

W.i.P.

                                             A  Work  in  Progress    

                                               By: Scribe’s Work                                                    May 23 2017

Art -  1. The  expression  or  application  of  human  creative  skill  and  imagination,  typically  in  a  visual  form  such  as  painting  or  sculpture,  producing  works  to  be  appreciated  primarily  for  their  beauty  or  emotional  power.

2. The  various  branches  of  creative  activity,  such  as  painting,  music,  literature,  and dance.

Art.  So  many  ways  to  interpret  it.  It  has  different  meanings  to  everyone,  or  no  meaning  at all.  But  it  usually  means  something  to  someone. Art,  one  word,  has  many  different  'meanings,'  depending  on  the  way  you  look  at  it.

Art  isn't  a  new  thing,  it's  a  VERY  old  practice.  Ranging  from  cave  walls  to  today's  modern  art  on  digital  surfaces.  It  can  be  found  on  cave  walls,  carved  into  stone,  painted  on  canvas,  sketched  on  paper,  or  ( more recently)  drawn  digitally.  And  this  is  only  meaning  in  the  'typical'  art  form  of  drawing/painting.  Music  is  quite  old  as  well. Art  might  not  seem  important;  but  it  is.  Art  served  as  a  method  of  story  telling  as  well  as  a  way  to  keep  record  of  things  before  written  language  was well  developed.  And  after  that,  it  served  as  a  medium  of  expression,  of  feeling,  or emotion,  a  message of the generation.  "Art  is  a  reflection  on  life.  Life  isn’t  something  we can  cut  and  fix.  It’s  always  in  a  state  of  flux." ~El Anatsui.  Art  reflects  the  generation  that  it  was  made  in.   

           Artists  have  been  many  different  sorts  of  people  through  the  ages.  Some  of  my  favorites  shall  be  listed  below,  along  with  the  name  of  a  piece  of  their  art.

Georgie O'Keefle  (Born November 15, 1887 – died March 6, 1986 age 98)  –  Blue and Green Music 1919 - 1921  Oil On  Canvas, Based  on  the  idea  that  music  could  be  translated  into  something  for  the  eyes. 

Leonardo da Vinci  (Born  April  15, 1452 – died May 2, 1519 age 67)  –  The Battle of Anghiari 1505,  also  known  as  "The Lost Leonardo"

Michelangelo  (Born  March 6, 1475  –  February 18, 1564 age 88)  –  Sistine Chapel  1508  -  1512,  Michelangelo  seriously  hated  doing  the  ceiling.

Vincent van Goph  (Born  March 30, 1953  –   July 29, 1890 age 37)  –  Wheatfield with Crows  1890,  one  of  his  last  paintings.

Damien Hirst  (Born June 7, 1965  –  still alive, age 52)  –  The Unbearable Lightness of Being 2003,  one  of  his  more  normal  pieces. 

Damien Hirst  is  the  best  one  to  end  the  list  with,  for  he  is  the  one  that  brings  us  up  to  modern  times  and  art.  Many  of  his  pieces  are  odd.  But,  most  modern  art  seems  to  take  this  in  some  stride.  Colors  and  blobs,  oddities  and  strangeness,  abstract.  Absract  Art  is  currently  the  most  'popular'  big  time  art.  Sometimes,  there  are  meanings,  sometimes  not.  It  is  sometimes  viewed  negatively  by  those  that  don't  understand  it,  I  myself  don't  get  half  of  the  modern  art,  but  it  does  still  carry  meaning  to  someone.  Art,  in  most  any  form,  is  still... art.

And  Speaking  of  art  and form,  there  are  many  different  sorts  of  art  forms.  Traditional -paper,  canvas,  sculptures  and  such-,  Digital -art  done  electronically-,  Sculpting -self  explanatory,  and  mixed-media ( a  mixing  of  multiple  other  art  forms ).  Now,  a  bit  on  each  sort  of  art  type.              Traditional,  the  older  art  form,  also  the  most  accepted.  Now-a-days,  the  term  'Traditional  art'  mostly  means  paper  and  pencil,  canvas  and  paint;  though,  sometimes  pottery  and  sculpting  are  considered  part  of  the  'Traditional'  art form.  Paper  and  pencil,  the  simplest  way  of  drawing/sketching.  

Many  a  person  doodles  in  a  notebook  with  their  #2  pencil.  Of  course,  the  more  into  drawing  in  the  traditional  fashion,  the  more  expensive  the  hobby  can  get.  With  the  huge  amount  of different  supplies.  Charcoal  sticks,  kneaded  erasers,  crayons,  markers,  and  the  many  brands  of  each  of  these  few examples.  Take  crayons  for  example,  a  shortened  list  of  crayon  brands:  Binney & Smith (Crayola),  E. Steiger & Co.,  Franklin Mfg Co.,  Eberhard Faber., Charles A. Bowley.,  Joseph Dixon Crucible Co.,  Prang Educational Company.,  B.B. Crayons...  That's  the  name  of  a  few.             And   that's  just  with  paper,  things  get  even  more  crazy  when  one  adds  in  the  canvas  and  painting  factors,  as  well  as  just  any  expense  of  art.  When  painting  is  the chosen  art  form  though,  the  expense  does rise  a bit.  But  by  gosh,  it's  a  medium  that  is  so  popular  and  good.             Of  course,  there  is  also  pottery  and  sculpting.  Which,  as  they  do  fit  in   the  'traditional'  category,  are  so  very  different  than  the  past  two.  It's  such  a  different  set  of  actions  that  are  involved.             And  finally,  mixed  media.  Mixed  Media  is  the  use  of  a  variety  of  media  in  a  work  of  art,  mixing  charcoal  sketching  with  watercolor  for  instance.  Or, using  both  paints  and  markers  on  the  same  piece.  Or  putting  a  3D  picture  with  a  statue.            There  of  course,  Digital  art  as  well.  Usually,  there  are  fewer  initial  supplies  that  are  needed  when  doing  digital  art.  But  getting  a  good  tablet/screen  to  do  said  art  on  is  often  expensive.  It  doesn't  have  some  of  the  same  issues  as  Traditional  art,  such  as  trying  to  get  a  glow  effect  or  trying  to  make  something  that  has  a  difficult  pattern,  digital  can  make  those  problems  mostly  go  away.  It  does  have  its  own  issues  though:  wearing  down  your  nib (the  tip  of  the  special  pen),  batteries,  working  with  layers,  and  picking  an  art  program. 

"A  picture  is  a  poem  without  words." ~ Horace

Of  course,  drawing  and  painting  aren't  the  only  form  of  art.  Writing  is  also  an  art form.  This  is  the  art  that  tests  your  vocabulary.  There  are  pros  and  cons  to  writing,  one  good  thing  is  that  it  requires  less  hand – eye – coordination.  Even  if  you  are  writing  something  on  paper,  it  just  takes  a tad  less  effort.  Of  course,  creative  writing  ( making  up  stories )  does  test  your  ability  to  "world  build"  and  have  character  development.            There  are  several  ways  to  categorize  a  story,  one  way  is  by length – is  it  short  or  longer -, how  many  there  books/stories  there  are  to  a  certain  idea – trilogies or  series  with  fewer/more  books –.  Short  stories  have  less  time  dedicated  to  them,  and  the  plot  has  to  move  along  faster,  often  a  bit more  romanticized ( deal  with  or  describe  in  an  idealized  or  unrealistic  fashion,  to  exaggerate )  than  most  books  of  a  larger  word  count.            Then  there's  poems,  also  known  to  tell  stories  or  just  describe  a  thing  or  emotion. Sufferer ~Scribe's Work Once  and  a  day a  time  has  passed thoughts  drift memories  shift I  was  holding  on I  was  holding  out Keeping  my  grip But  fingers  slip The  head  is  hurting Fog  invades  the  mind hands  tremble surroundings  crumble Eyes  untrusting Sights  dusting Pain  growing Soul  is  glowing Defeated  I  am  not With  no  worrying  thought Though  I  do  suffer I  remain.

  Some  are  really,  really  short  and  others  are  SUPER  long.  Older  poetry  often  held  true  to  certain  form  and  scheme,  but  modern  poetry,  more  or  less,  throws  that  out  the  window.

"Mary  had  a  little  lamb,  little  lamb,  little lamb~ Who's  fleece  was  white  as  snow~ And  everywhere  that  Mary  went,  she  threw  the  lamb out  the  window~!" ~Version of little lamb being chanted at work (5/10/17)

The  thing  of  sheep  can  cleanly  bring  us  up  to  the  next  topic  of  fabrics  and  dye.  Clothing  is  a  sort  of  art  too.  Older  style  clothes (particularly women's)  were  often  a  huge  amount  of  decorated,  or  at  least  pretty,  fabric.  The  fancier  the  skirt,  the  more  expensive  it  was.  There  are  some  that  would  have  embroidery  on  them  that  mimicked  the  patterns  of  stained  glass  windows  or  just  fantastically  complicated  patterns.

Of  course,  then  there  are  the  less  complicated  ways  of  making  art  on  fabric.  One  that  can  be  done  at  home! Tye Dye!  Dye  is  a  fun  and  messy  way  of  adding  color  to  clothing.

Speaking  of  fun,  have  you  ever  watched  an  animation?  Well,  animation  is  yet  another  sort  of  art.  And,  just  like  still  art,  there  are  many  different  forms  of  animation:  Traditional  ( example:  Disney's Fantasia ),  CGI  (example: Rise of the Guardians ),  Rotoscope animation (example:  The Lord of the Rings 1978 ),  Claymation (example:  Shaun the Sheep ),  Stop Motion animation (example:  Kubo and the Two Strings ),  Flash  Animation (example:  Wakfu ).  There  are  more  than  this,  but  many  of  them  are  different  sorts  of  similar  animations.  Now,  animation  combines  the  skill  of  drawing  and  story  telling  in  moving  form ( cause  comics  also  tell  a  story,  though,  they  do  not  move).  These  animated  videos  can  range  from  a  few  seconds  in length  to  several  hours,  but  even  getting  a  few  moments  of  animation  can take  days.  Most  shorter  videos  are  done  by  one  animator,  while  most  movie-length  animations  have  a  team  of  at  least  three.           There's  also  video-editing  I'm  going  to  put  under  the  term  animation.  Because,  they  are  animating  in  way,  just  onto  a  pre-existing  video.

And  the  concept  of  animated  movies  brings  me  to  voice  acting.  Voice  acting  is  the  art  of  conveying  the  emotion,  thoughts,  and  words  of  a  character  in  fiction.  Just  through  the  use  of  one's  voice,  of  course,  there  usually  is  an  animated  figure  that  will  later  be  adding  expression  and  movement  to  these  lines.  But,  sometimes,  there  isn't  and  it's  just  the  voice. 

            Which  brings  me  to  acting.  In  both  movies  and  plays.  The  art  of  acting.  Having  to  be  someone  you  are  not. In  movies,  there  is  the  ability  to  do  retakes,  but  the  stunts (when  done  with  practical  effects )  are  quite  impressive.  In  a  play,  there  is  only  the  one  chance  to  get  it  right,  so  there  is  a  bit  of  more  pressure,  but  also  there  usually  isn't  as  much  fame  and  social  pressure  to  being  a  play  actor  nowadays.

Going  off  the  idea  of  filming,  there  is  also  the  art  of  photography.  Still  pictures,  taken  with  a  camera.  It  can  range  from  a  scenery  shot  to  a  person  to  a  flower.  You  can  edit  it  or  leave  it  as  is.  There's  different  cameras  that  take  pictures  slightly  differently.  You  can  go old  school  and  find  yourself  some  film,  and  make  old  lookin' pcitures,  or  you   can  go  new  school  and  go  digital.  There  are  perks  and  downsides  to both  ways.  ( Photograph  taken  by  me,  of:  Butterfly -it’s in a case)

Dance  and  music  are  both  used  in  movies  and  plays,  but  deserve  a  small spot  of  their  own.  Music  is  art  for  the  ears.  Sounds  that  a  person  finds  enjoyable.  Whether  it  be  simple  music  and  tunes  or  complicated  like  that  of  Beethoven.  There  are  many  different  types  of  music,  from  pop,  country,  synth,  classic,  and  rock. 

            Dance  goes  with  music.  Moving  to  the beats  of  the  song.  Just  as  there  are  different  types  of  music,  there  are  different  types  of  dance,  usually  going  with  the  different  sorts  of  music.

One  of  the  last  things  I  want  to  talk  about  is  Fan-Creation.  Which  means  Fan  Art,  fan  fiction,  cosplay,  and  things  just  made  inspired  by  something  one  is  a  fan  of.  Now,  there  are  those  that  think  that  fan-creation  is  not  real  art,  and  that  "Real  Art"  has  to  be  one  hundred  percent  original.  But,  going  but  the  earlier  definition  of  art... "The  expression  or  application  of  human  creative  skill..."  it  does  not  mention  having  to  be  one  hundred  percent  your  own  idea.  There  are  a  few  that  still  don't  like  it,  and  they  are  allowed  to  not  like  it.  But  they  should   not  crush  the  artist  for  drawing  Fan Art  or  such  because  they  happen  to  think  that  "It's  not  art."               Moving  on.  Fan-Art,  as  in  drawings / paintings / sketches,  is  one  of  the  most  recognized  fan-creation  forms.  It  has  the  most  variation  of  all  the  fan-creation  forms,  due  to  the  many  different  forms  of  that  sort  of  art  there  are.  It  serves  as  a  way  to  show  you  like  a  thing.  It  makes  for  easier  practice,  because  the characters  already  have  a  set  design  so  you  don't  have  to  try  and  come  up  with  something.  It  makes  most  happy  to  show  how  much  they  love  a  thing  through  drawing  it.   ( Flowey  the  Flower  Signed – Scribe's Work.–, Undertale.  Game  by  Toby Fox )

Fan-Fiction  is  the  written  side  of  fan  creation.  It's  a  grand  part.  It  can  expand  off  of  the  original  concept  of  the  thing  it  is  based  on ( canon ), or  just  be  something  based  in  that  world  either  following  all  the  world's  rules  or  coming  up  with  its  own ( fanon).  Of  course,  both  can  take  time.  Writing  is  a long  process  sometimes.  But,  fan-fiction  does  provide  a  good  medium  in  which  to  develop  writing  skill.  The  world  building  is  already  done,  so  it's  easier  to  work  out  a  writing  style  and  figure  out  interesting  concepts  that  follow  certain  world  rules.  Excerpt  from  "My  Beginning"  a  Bionicle  Fan-fiction:   ---------------------  "You covard!" I raged, "come back and fight me!" The other one, the mind that had been in danger, the one that had been my reason for forcing myself into existence. He fainted. Not knowing what else to do, I picked him up and a quick glance at his mind told me where I needed to take him. I teleported to this place. This island called Destral. ---------------------

Cosplay  =  Costume  Play.  The  art  of  dressing  like  a  character  from  something  or  just  an  interesting  costume,  or  even a  character  that  one  made  up  to  go  with  something  ( often  called  oc's )  that  goes  with .  Whether  the  costume  is  overly  simple  ( example,  my  Vakama  cosplay ),  a  middle  ground  between  complicated and  simple  ( example,  Abi's  Ruby  cosplay or  Becca's  Photo  'Bomber' ),  or  super  complicated.  Usually,  no  matter  what  sort  of  cosplay  you  do,  you  have  to  have  at  least  a  little  bit  of  skill  in  costumes.  

There  are  probably  many  sorts  of  art  I  didn't  cover,  but  I  covered  as  many  as  I  could  think  of.  There  are  troubles  with  the  ones  listed,  either  being  a  problem  with  actual  art  process  ( broken  tools,  lack  of  skill,  missing  supplies )  or  with  other  issues  (the  put  down  of  the  artist,  hate,  lack  of  motivation ).  Recently,  there's  been  a  huge  strike  against  artists  on  the  interweb:  things  being  stolen,  false copyright  strikes,  huge  negative  feedback  because  of  hate,  and  many  things  similar.  Thankfully,  this  is  being  solved  by  both  the  artists  and  the  sites  that  the  art  is  posted  on.

Art,  has  meaning.  That  meaning  is  different  to  most  everyone,  but  the  meaning  is  there.  It  Defines  the  day  and  age  it  comes  from.  It  defines  the  artist.  It  often  defines  those  who  enjoy  it.

[aventuramexicana]

Playing Catch Up

Well here I am, super behind on my blogging once again.

1/14/17- Saturday

I had a nice lazy morning in Mexico City, with plenty of time to pack before I needed to leave for my flight. I had scheduled an Uber to pick me up (don’t worry, y’all, this is before we decided Uber is evil) so I brought my bags downstairs and left them in the front office, while I went out to get couple of last pictures of the city and to pick up snacks from 7Eleven. The airport in Mexico City at Arrivals was pretty frantic and confusing. I ended up having to pay a fee for having a carry-on bag that was outside of the airline's size requirements. Then my giant purse was sent through the security scanner about 5 times before they realized that what they were seeing on the screen was a little whistle on my key chain (which looked to them like a bullet). My flight was delayed, something they never bothered to explain, which was annoying, but not a big deal.

The flight itself was short and easy, and when I landed, I have to admit that it felt nice to be home. I caught a rideshare back to my apartment, where I quickly assessed that I had essentially zero food. So, not trying to give myself too much time to settle in, I grabbed my purse and caught a cab to Soriana. I ate my dinner in their food court, then got myself a bunch of essential groceries and caught a cab back home.

On the way home the taxi driver and I had an interesting conversation, which was pretty charming right up until the end. I have included the following, from my Facebook page:

Caught a taxi home from the supermarket. The driver, an older gentleman, immediately struck up a conversation with me in Spanish. He asked what I do for a living and said I seem like an artist or musician because of my charisma. I told him I wished that were true but I am too much of a perfectionist to do that well. He recommended an art school nearby, said it was reasonably priced, and told me it was my homework to go. He said, "Just imagine, next time you visit the U.S. you can play the violin in front of you parents, siblings, grandparents, friends. And when you finish the song they will say, 'Another! Another!'"

Then as I was getting out of the cab he told me that when kids in Mexico don't do their homework they get a spanking and that if I don't do mine he volunteers to fulfill that duty.

Life in Mexico.

1/15/17- 1/16/17 (Sunday & Monday)

I took the next couple of days pretty easy, just hanging out at home, listening to Harry Potter audiobooks and trying to teach myself how to do some basic embroidery. I’d picked up some fabric that was printed with a design that struck me as not horrifyingly cheesy at Soriana, so it wasn’t long before I’d gotten to work on it. I tend to be a very goal-oriented person, so my new task immediately became an obsession. I felt like I couldn’t put it down until it was done.

1/17/17- Tuesday

I devoted the whole day to trying to sort out everything that I needed to finishing applying for my temporary resident visa. I finally had an FMM card with the appropriate stamp, so now I just had to go back through my list and assemble all the other documentation. This was a bit of a process, which involved trips to two different internet cafes and a little furniture store that doubled as a quick photo place. The last time I had my photos taken for my visa (photos that I unfortunately misplaced), it was in a formal photo studio with proper lighting, legit cameras and all. This time I was just in a back room to the shop, seated in front of a plain white wall, and having my photo taken by a woman with a little point and shoot Canon. She had me sit outside in the hall while the photos were being printed and I could hear what sounded like spray paint and then a hair dryer being used on my photos (presumably to make them matte). I don’t know what the standard procedure is for that, but I imagine it isn’t clear spray paint and a hair dryer.

Whatever, I got what I needed. Who am I to criticize someone for finding a roundabout way to provide a customer with exactly what they wanted?

1/18/17- 1/19/17 (Wednesday & Thursday)

I woke up with a migraine and a sore throat, both of which signaled to me that I had a cold coming on. Lame. I knew there wasn’t much I could do to stop it, so I decided to just drink lots of water, take Zicam, and do my best to lay low for a couple of days.

Before I completely relaxed though, I went to another Engage Oaxaca meeting (for U.S. citizens who are living here and distressed about politics in the States). We were sorting out final details for the march on Saturday, and I was acting as the meeting’s scribe. At one point a woman who had ordered a bunch of t-shirts asked that somebody volunteer to sell them at the event. I kept my head down and pretended to just be really focused on writing, but another group member directly, and openly, asked me if I would be willing to do it. I reluctantly agreed. As someone who served on student body in high school, I know what it’s like to hawk “spirit wear” at events, and it’s not a blast.

Once the meeting was over we had a “poster making party”, which was kinda fun but I gave up on making anything I could be proud of right then and there, collected all of the supplies I would need, and brought them home. See, the trouble is that I have a serious perfectionist streak, and I knew that it would take me at least four times as long to complete my poster as it would all of the other ladies. Plus, I kept committing myself to a concept, sketching it out, then deciding I hated it and erasing it all.

I spent the rest of that day and the following one mostly just hanging out at home and taking it easy.

1/20/17- Friday (Inauguration Day)

I had long-since made up my mind that I would not be watching the inauguration, but the evening before, I decided that there would be a certain poetry to finishing up my visa application process on that particular day. I went to the immigration office at approximately 10:30 a.m.. I’d double-checked everything and felt prepared with all of my documents assembled, in order, and with duplicates for each. But of course, one document listed my name as Angelica, while my passport lists it as Angelica Maureen, and that tiny little discrepancy meant that I had to go find another Internet cafe to fix it. From there I went to the bank with a form that had been given to me by the woman at the office, and paid for my visa there, then headed back to the immigration office.

This time I approached the office from another direction, and seeing as I didn’t have an actual address written down for the place, and just knew it in relation to a couple of landmarks, it made me pretty nervous when I struggled to locate it. Locating the office was actually a pretty urgent matter, because the office would be closing for the weekend at 1 p.m., and if the bank processed my payment before my application went through, my money (approximately $275) would essentially just be forfeited.

I have a famously bad sense of direction, but I kept reminding myself that I did not live in a magical wizarding world, so the office didn’t just disappear. It took me about 30 minutes, from the moment I first realized I was off-course, but I was finally able to retrace my steps from that morning and get there at approximately 12:20 p.m..

I ran in with fresh paperwork and my receipt in hand. Only trouble was, I was supposed to have two copies as well as the original receipt, so the woman working there gave me directions to the nearest copy shop and I ran there and back. Then she looked over all of my stuff, made notes, had me sign a couple of things, used one of those stamps that makes the “this stamp is official” clunk-clunk noise, and finally told me that they would be contacting me by e-mail to be fingerprinted.

In the evening I baked a chocolate cake, and got to work on a couple of signs for the march. As expected, completing two signs took me approximately four hours. From my perspective they didn’t look good enough to justify that much time and effort, but what can you do? I’d been determined to have two signs, one large poster board size, and one smaller on a post, both of which needed to be double-sided so that my message (and accompanying doodles) would be received in English and Spanish.

1/21/17- Saturday

I got to Plaza Santo Domingo early, carrying several signs (my own and those of a few group members), and prepared to start selling t-shirts. Or at least I thought I was prepared. The evening before, I’d assembled several plastic bags and created labels that said “Mens Small”, “Women’s Medium”, etc. to cover each possible option. I’d been hoping to have enough time to sort through all of the t-shirts and put them into corresponding bags, so that they could be sold more easily. That was not the case. As soon as t-shirts were spotted by marchers, they were being sold.

I worked with one other volunteer, and the two of us were bombarded primarily by angry older white ladies who kept yelling from a few places back in the line, “You know, there is a long line here!” It took so much self control not to tell them to get the hell out of line, because there was no way we had enough t-shirts for everybody, and I felt like the better behaved customers more deserving. One positive to the whole frustrating situation: all of the t-shirts got snatched up quickly and I didn’t have to miss any of the march.

Once our very brief and quiet march was over, I stopped to take a couple of photos. Oh, I should add, the march was deliberately quiet because it is actually illegal for residents who are not Mexican citizens to take part in demonstrations against the Mexican government. This was clearly not such an event, but we didn’t want to take any chances and be arrested by police officers who had a faulty understanding of the law, or frankly didn’t care.

One of the women in the march was wearing a “Fuera Trump” t-shirt that I wanted so I went back in the evening to where she said they were being sold, and tried to track one down. Unfortunately I didn’t have any luck, so I just shopped for beaded jewelry instead. As I was leaving the market, a Mexican man carrying a beer bottle asked me about my march t-shirt, and then invited me to sit with him on the planter for a minute to discuss the aims of the demonstrators. I did my best to express it, two whatever degree that I could in Spanish, but grew a little frustrated with my inability to speak about it with the same nuance that I would have in English.

He told me that I needed to see his friend’s collection of traditional parade masks, in a shop right next door, so we went in and looked around for a bit. His friend was very nice, and seemed totally unsurprised that this man had just walked in, carrying a beer bottle and requesting to show off his personal collection of art to a girl from the States. After that he asked me if I’d ever seen a black Jesus statue, to which I said no, and we popped our heads into a church right nearby to look at it. A quinceñera was taking place, so I didn’t feel right about walking in and looking around. Oh well, the black Jesus would have to wait. The man I’d met suggested to me, “Now we can go to my friend’s restaurant,” at which point I laughed and told him that I would be going home.

Who has time for this kind of thing? Like who can just meet a stranger and then spend most of their day moving from venue to venue with them? It had been entertaining temporarily, but I’d had enough.

1/22/17- 1/24/17 (Sunday-Tuesday)

The next few days were spent mostly taking it easy, watching Spanish-language television, taking notes on a "compassionate activism” webinar, and doing some hunting online for potential roommates in Mexico City.

Ideally I would like to find a place in the same neighborhood where I stayed, but who knows? I didn’t feel comfortable actually following up on any of the listings because, by this point, I still didn’t have a clear picture of when or even if I would move for certain. I knew that I would be at least another month here in Oaxaca (as I have friends visiting), but likely longer than that.

1/25/17- Wednesday

I devoted a good chunk of the day to working on my blog. Fortunately, this wasn’t complete torture, as I’d already devoted a few hours to going through all of my photos and sorting them into easily sharable albums. While headed back down the stairs from the roof, toward my apartment, I met one of my neighbors. His name is Joe, and he asked me if I was staying in one of street-facing apartments, which I confirmed. He told me that he’d stayed there before, but the noise from the traffic really bothered him. I agreed that it is pretty obnoxious, but the thing that is most irritating right now, is that I basically have no wi-fi access in my apartment. I have to go up to the roof to get a clear signal.

Joe kindly told me that he would be leaving in a couple of months and, if I still happened to be here then, he was sure I would be welcome to his apartment (at the back of the lot, and thus far off the street). He gave me a brief tour of his apartment, which to be perfectly honest, isn’t as nice as mine (ex. very minimal kitchen, not much natural light, rather odd bathroom), but it would be quite nice to have decent wi-fi and not be forced to endure the sound of driver after driver laying on their horns during rush hour. Honestly the sound of so many car horns, often sustained for a couple of hours, makes me want pull a Britney Spears and take a bat to their windows.

He also introduced me to his next-door neighbor. She is a RN from the South who is planning to stay for approximately a year. She seems really sweet, and Joe jokingly referred to her as a “known quantity”; perhaps another benefit to moving into his place.