#hearsay horizons

[hearsayhorizons]

Not me suddenly, but seriously, considering making my next character in a D&D game a Secunit that is NOT in kansas anymore, thinks it's in an immersive sim, and is trying very hard to figure out its training objective without betraying the verisimilitude, in case blending into circumstances with NO warning IS its objective.

It misses its armor, and sometimes, when people do something REALLY stupid (mages), it almost misses its Hubsys.

(reflavored warforged, probably, although ravenloft has Reborn that are like organic-esque warforged with no need to eat, sleep, but often get flashes of deleted memories prior lives)

[hearsayhorizons]

I just started an October writing challenge using Thinktober 2023 as the tag. I prefer yesterday's to today, but that might benefit from a bit of background off the link in THAT post. I dunno, maybe it's standalone enough. Mercy the kobold is fun to write for because I only use the important words.

Trying to stay motivated, disciplined instead of inspired. I haven't done any dedicated writing in... oh, years.

okay so every couple of weeks i have the thought 'wow people dont reblog writing like they used too anymore' and it's true but what's the point in having that thought and doing nothing to change it?

you all should reblog this post and share some of your writing or art or moodboards or fun facts off of it! give me something to look at and reblog!

even better, try and check out the notes once this gets spreading, and do the same!

[trensu]

Guess who's baaaaack! It's me, I'm back to writing. My laptop when kaput back in May and I've only recently gotten a replacement. In celebration of this, here's more of stasis in darkness. Enjoy :)

.

“Hello. I’ve wanted to meet you for years,” the god said. 

“Years? But, why would you want–? I’m–I’m no one, Lord.”

“Don’t say that.”

The god’s voice hadn’t gotten louder, yet his words carried a force that made the room tremble. The air became heavy with it. Wayne’s breathing grew haggard under the pressure of the words. Steve tossed out any idea of false privacy and crossed the room in a few steps to kneel at the other side of the bed. He took Wayne’s free hand to anchor him. Wayne didn’t so much as twitch in his direction but his knuckles went white as he gripped Steve’s hand.

“You gave me your spoils and your stories every night. I felt your love in every word you spoke to me. You’re the reason I’ve been able to exist this long. Wayne Munson, you are the most important person in the world to me."

Wayne let out a wordless cry. The hand in Steve's shook. Steve viscerally remembered how it felt to have the god’s attention like that for the first time. He also remembered how guilty the god sounded after he realized the effect he had on mortals. With a slight grimace, Steve discreetly nabbed the Lord of Night's attention. 

"I think that was a little too much," Steve suggested cautiously in a low tone barely audible over Wayne's sobs. "Maybe dial it back a little?"

The Lord of Night nodded abashedly. When he spoke again, the pressure in his speech noticeably lessened though the love in his words remained.

“So, you see, I needed to meet you in person. To thank you.”

The last part made Wayne weep louder. The grip he had on Steve’s hand increased in strength, and Steve was sort of relieved Wayne was an old man because even this frail, his hands were pretty damn strong. If he’d been any younger, Steve would’ve had bruises for sure. The god waited patiently as Wayne collected himself.

“My Lord, y-you–” Wayne gasped as his crying subsided. “I don’t deserve–”

“Wayne, you crazy old man, are you going to argue with your god?” the Lord of Night said in the same teasing tone he used with Steve all those nights in his pilgrimage. Wayne’s eyes widened.

“N-No! I’d never–!”

The god laughed, playful and bright as a star. Wayne halted his protests to stare in awe again. 

“You know, I usually encourage a bit of dissent but this time, I’m putting my foot down. You do deserve this, okay?”

Wayne nodded dazedly. He still watched the god with soft, warm eyes. His hand twitched in Steve’s as if he wanted to reach up to touch the god. Steve loosened his grip to allow it but Wayne didn’t follow through with the motion.

“...you remind me of someone,” Wayne whispered. The Lord of Night tilted his head curiously.

“Do I?” he asked. At Wayne’s nod, he added, “I hope it’s someone good. I know what people say about me these days, and let me tell you, it’s not super flattering. King of Darkness this and monster herder that, blah, blah, mean and scary, blah.”

“I know better than to pay any mind to hearsay,” Wayne replied. "I’ve found that most people are fools, my Lord." 

The Lord of Night laughed again. Wayne looked delighted. 

The rest of the night continued along the same line. The Lord of Night listened eagerly to Wayne’s every word as he reminisced about past heists and recalled fond childhood memories. Steve kept to himself, for the most part, letting the Lord of Night and his last believer bask in each other’s presence. Wayne stayed awake as long as he could but finally fell asleep as dawn approached. The Lord of Night began to fade as the first rays of the morning peeked through the bedroom window.

“Watch over him for me, please?” the Lord of Night asked Steve. “I’ll be back tonight.”

“Of course, Lord,” Steve replied. 

The sun broke past the horizon and the Lord of Night vanished. Steve took the stone from the bedside table. He wrapped it up carefully in cloth before returning it to his satchel. That level of care probably wasn’t necessary considering it was solid stone but it was the only thing they knew would keep the god tethered to this plane so far from his last shrine. Steve was charged with carrying his god's tether and he would not let him down by being careless with it.

It was also the only thing he had been given that belonged to his god. Typically, a holy warrior would be granted a symbol of their faith by a temple priest once a god had accepted the holy warrior’s offered service. Most of the time it would be a simple pendant or bracelet with a god’s sigil; a mass produced thing any follower could obtain, the only difference being that a holy warrior’s token would carry a particular blessing from the high priest. A holy warrior would carry that as a sign of their commitment until they’ve earned a more prestigious item to replace it during their years of service.

Steve’s journey so far has been as atypical as it could get. Most warriors traveled to their god's grandest temple. They recited that god's specific prayer for a holy warrior's offering, witnessed by a high priest who would then reveal whether the offering was accepted. Steve's god had no official prayers of any sort, much less temples or clergy. Steve's god couldn't really remember his own symbol aside from a vague outline of it; not nearly enough for it to be inscribed on even the simplest of tokens. 

Regardless, Steve wouldn't trade his experience for anything. Most holy warriors toiled for years, even decades, before getting a chance to meet their god. Steve met his god nearly at the beginning though he hadn't known it at the time. He'd been able to see him and speak to him. Steve’s humble offering of servitude had been accepted directly by his god rather than by priestly proxy. So what if his god wasn't able to grant him a token for his pledge? His presence was a privilege Steve would take over any boon.

It was a sentiment Steve knew Wayne understood. Steve scooted his chair closer to the bed where the old man lay sleeping. He wrapped a hand around Wayne's wrist to track his weak pulse, and settled in for his vigil.

–

Steve woke Wayne a handful of times to make sure he drank some water or ate some of the vegetable soup Steve had thrown together using whatever he’d picked from the garden the day before. They chatted for a while; Wayne telling Steve about his life before age and sickness caught up to him. Eventually, Steve was able to coax him back to sleep when it became obvious his energy was fading.

At some point in the day, Wayne’s temperature began to rise. Nothing worrisome yet, but dread trickled into Steve’s veins regardless. The old man had been fighting whatever ailed him for a while now. If a fever overcame him, Steve doubted Wayne would survive it.

When the Lord of Night appeared alongside the fading sunset, he seemed as worried as Steve. Wayne sat in bed, propped up by pillows Steve had strategically placed. His eyes were rheumy but steady.

“You’ve seen the Door already, haven’t you?” the Lord of Night asked Wayne dejectedly.

Wayne’s gaze strayed from the god. He glanced at the corner opposite of the bedroom door. His hands shook as he tried to point that direction. Steve didn't see any door there. The god took Wayne's hand between his own, tangible to his last believer even as he appeared more translucent than the night before.

“It showed up earlier today,” Wayne whispered. The god nodded.

“You don’t have to answer yet, but soon. Once you go through the Door, you’ll be in Death's domain. No god is allowed to enter there besides him. I would have lost my chance to meet you if we’d been delayed any longer.”

“Good thing you have Ser Steve. He got you here real quick from what he told me,” Wayne said with a crooked smile.

“Has he been talking himself up?” the god asked amusedly. “Trying to impress the boss?”

“It’s my first quest,” Steve butted in with mild exasperation borne of embarrassment. He hadn’t expected Wayne to mention him at all during his communion with the Lord of Night. “I have to make a good impression.”

“To make up for the first impression, huh?” the Lord of Night teased. 

Oh no, Steve thought when he caught Wayne’s curious look. He wanted to hide his face in his hands. That would be childish. Steve was a man so he was above that, unfortunately.

“Wayne,” the Lord of Night said with palpable mischief. “In exchange for all the stories you’ve given me these many years, what if I told you how I got my very first holy warrior?”

“I didn’t know better,” Steve groaned weakly in an effort to stop the story before it began in earnest. The Lord of Night made a shushing motion in his direction. 

“It would be a privilege, Lord,” Wayne said with matching mischief.

“Settle in, my loyal follower, and listen closely,” the Lord of Night began with exuberance. “I call this tale The Trial of Nine Nights.”

The rest of the night, the god recounted Steve’s pilgrimage. The way he told it painted Steve as some sort of gallant hero. It was suspenseful and whimsical. It didn’t sound like Steve’s experience at all. Yet every word was true, told with a flair that Steve himself would never have imagined. Wayne had hung on his god’s every word, despite the sporadic interruptions caused by coughing fits.

“The way you tell stories…” Wayne said faintly between coughs as the story wound to an end. “You…really do remind me of…someone. My little starmaker*. He was…” His voice trailed off weakly as he tried to catch his breath again.

“Rest now. Tell me about him tonight, Wayne,” the Lord of Night commanded as he disappeared with the arrival of dawn.

Wayne’s temperature seemed to climb with the sun. Steve did what he could to help. He stripped the bed of blankets and draped cold, damp towels over Wayne’s brow. More than once Wayne had asked Steve to answer the door.

“Someone’s knocking,” Wayne insisted.

“I’ve checked already,” Steve lied. He hadn’t heard a single knock all day, much less one coming from the very door-less spot Wayne kept indicating. “No one’s there.”

Wayne drifted in and out of a restless slumber. Despite Steve’s efforts, the fever had not lowered by nightfall. The Lord of Night paced at the foot of Wayne’s bed with a caged restlessness. Wayne had yet to wake up. 

“I don’t think he’s going to make it. Can you do anything for him?” Steve asked, hesitantly. “You came here to help him, didn’t you?”

“No,” the Lord of Night said shortly. “I can’t. I’m not a god of medicine. I’m not a healer.”

Each word was said with increasingly helpless frustration.

“I’m not strong enough to calm his dreams. I can’t ease his pain,” the Lord of Night said angrily. “At this rate, I won’t even be able to apologize to him.”

“Apologize for what?” Steve asked incredulously. Steve’s question went unheard. The Lord of Night tugged at his hood as if trying to hide his not-face. He gave up his pacing and slumped defeatedly on the chair beside Wayne’s bed.

“His family has sustained me for so long. He’s so devoted to me, and I keep failing him,” the god said, voice thick with shame. The brooding silence that followed was unlike the Lord of Night’s usual demeanor.

Steve wanted to protest the god’s claim. He was tempted to ask why the god believed he’d failed his last follower. Steve had seen people who’ve scorned and rejected their gods for a multitude of reasons. Wayne had not behaved like any of those people. Wayne had been so happy to see the god, Steve couldn’t imagine Wayne wanting an apology of any sort.

Before Steve could steel himself to ask, Wayne finally stirred awake.The Lord of Night straightened and drew the chair closer to his last follower. Steve situated himself near the corner Wayne had claimed to see a door. There wasn’t anything Steve could realistically achieve by placing himself between Wayne and the unseen door. When Death’s Door knocked, there was nothing a mortal being could do to keep it from opening. Regardless, Steve hoped he could provide some semblance of comfort by standing guard. 

Wayne’s eyes were glassy. He lay limp and disoriented, making not a sound outside his labored breathing. Neither the Lord of Night nor Steve spoke. Steve didn’t want to startle the man nor bring his attention to the unseen door. After a few minutes, Wayne finally noticed his bedside companion. 

“You,” he croaked in a daze. “I know you.”

“Yeah, it’s me.” The somber tone went unnoticed by Wayne whose entire face brightened with an unexpected joy. 

“Eddie,” Wayne said shakily. 

“What?”

“Eddie, you’re here,” Wayne said with more love and joy than Steve had ever heard from another person. He felt a momentary flash of envy that someone could hold another so dear, before it hit him that Wayne was speaking to the Lord of Night. The god seemed as dumbstruck as Steve over it.

“Is…is that me?” the Lord of Night asked. The god sounded so young and lost. It reminded Steve of Dustin and his friends when they were small. It inspired all the same protective instincts.

“‘course it’s you, Eddie,” Wayne said fondly. 

“Eddie,” the Lord of Night whispered. “Oh, it is. It is me. I’m here.” 

The words rang through the air. The finality in them nearly deafened Steve. The words were a realization that shifted the entire cosmos. The air he breathed, the light he saw, the very world he perceived had changed fundamentally. It was a change so loud and obvious, Steve was certain every human left on earth and everyone beyond the Door knew it happened. Yet between one blink and the next, the world remained the same as it ever was. Everything that had been still was and would continue to be for as long as the stars burn.

Inexplicably, Steve experienced a bout of vertigo at the shift that had and hadn’t happened. He fought back a wave of nausea that accompanied it.

“Eddie,” Wayne rasped over the rattling of his weak lungs. No longer translucent, the god appeared solid and real in a way he hadn’t even at the shrine where Steve first encountered him. Wayne’s wrinkled hand reached out to gently cup the Lord of Night’s cheek.

"Hey, Uncle Wayne," the Lord of Night said with a new voice. 

"My starmaker, I missed you. So much. But how're you here? You were gone, you di–"

"We didn't want you to be alone," Eddie, Lord of Night, responded thickly, leaning into the hand and covering it with his own.  "We wanted to thank you for taking care of us all these years."

"Don’t,” Wayne wheezed, teary. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Eddie. You deserved so much more than your pa or me ever gave you."

"No! No, Uncle Wayne, don't apologize," he said earnestly. "You were perfect. You gave us a home when pa died. We were so little and you protected us. You loved us. That's all we ever wanted."

“Oh, Eddie,” Wayne said in a heartbroken rasp. “That damn door’s been knocking all day. Who'll take care of you when I'm gone, Eddie?" 

"Don't you worry about that, Uncle Wayne. Steve's gonna look after me.”

“Are you sure?”

The Lord of Night took off his hood and turned back to look at Steve for the first time since he sat himself at Wayne’s side. All the air left Steve’s lungs in one fell swoop. His god had a face.

His god was beautiful.

The Lord of Night’s skin remained pale, providing a stark contrast to his large, dark brown eyes glittered with bittersweet joy and sorrow. His lips, full and a soft shade of pink, were pulled into a wide, mischievous grin that dimpled his cheeks. His dark eyebrows were almost hidden under wild curls. His hair draped over the slope of his shoulders and matched his eyes wonderfully.

Steve willed himself to stay steadfast and strong under the god’s gaze. The Lord of Night’s grin twisted a bit as if he wasn't entirely pleased by what he saw. The nausea from before came back because Steve knew what people looked like when he'd disappointed them. As usual, he had no idea what he'd done wrong.

“Yeah, I’m sure. He already promised,” Eddie, the Lord of Night, said. He turned back to Wayne and gently wiped the sweat off the old man's brow. 

“Good,” Wayne said with a. “You need someone takin’ care of you, the way you get in trouble all the time.”

“We weren’t that bad,” Eddie said with a watery smile. After a pause, Eddie continued reluctantly. “Uncle Wayne, if you need to answer the Door, you can. I won’t be alone.”

“Yeah,” Wayne murmured. “I’m tired, Eddie.”

“You won’t be for long, I promise, just answer the Door.”

Wayne’s breathing slowed. His eyes drooped closed. Eddie clung to his hand until it went lax. A choked sound escaped him when Wayne’s breathing stopped. Steve instinctively stepped forward to comfort him but Eddie abruptly stood up, sending the chair clattering to the floor. He whirled around and stumbled towards the empty space Steve left behind. 

“You better take care of him. Wayne is a good man, he’s earned–” Eddie said to…the wall? But stopped and reeled back. His mouth curved down in a scowl. Eddie’s eyes were dark and glowering as he stared at something there that Steve himself could not see.

“Oh, fuck you, I know I can’t do anything to you but–”

Eddie stopped again. He looked like he wanted to punch something. Or someone?

“I just want to know that he’ll be happy and saf–hey, asshole, I’m still talking you, don’t you dare– FUCK,” Eddie shouted at nothing. He panted in anger. Steve cleared his throat.

“My Lord?”

“I forgot how much of a dick he is. It’s not like I was asking for details! I don’t fucking care what’s past his stupid Door. It’s not a crime to want your family to, like, go somewhere good after. He could’ve just said yes or no!” Eddie ranted.

“My Lord, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Oh,” Eddie paused. “Right. You wouldn’t. And you shouldn’t. Not yet. Not for a long time, hopefully.”

------

*starmaker - so this is a reference to some lore i dropped in the previous scene during some edits I made after I had posted it on tumblr. basically, the legend explains why bedtime stories are a thing and that the lord of night creates a star for every story that impresses him. a really good book or author will get called a starmaker, though to the general population it's just a thing people say to denote greatness in stories without context of where the saying came from.

------

and now we're all caught up with what i've written so far, wow! but don't worry, i still have plenty more to write, stay tuned.

[avesque]

can i please request a drabble with i pushed everyone away because they weren’t you + neteyam? thanks.

of all the girls — neteyam

INCLUDES best friends to lovers. angst to fluff. 0.7k words.

NOTE i need him so bad. you can request a prompt of your own here! (also the great war part i might come out this thursday/friday. i promise i see those asking to be tagged, i will not forget u here is a big kith mwa) OH AND HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY i love you!

neteyam finds you all alone by the docks with your feet submerged in the water. it’s a quiet afternoon and the others are out and about with tsireya and other metkayina kids.

he finds his palms sweaty the second he settles beside you.

you don’t bother to look at him. it makes his heart squeeze painfully as your gaze stays fixed ahead, over the reefs and the horizon that he thinks you’ve mentally reached home.

you cut him off just as he’s about to break the quiet.

“why’d you leave?”

to others, it might sound nonchalant. but neteyam has known you for more than a decade; can read you like that back of his hand. there’s a bite to your tone that makes his heart climb up his throat.

you place your palms behind you and lean back but you do not look at him.

“you left,” he says. “i followed you.”

“no shit,” you scoff. it makes him wince. you always did hang a lot around lo’ak.

he swallows his nervousness.

“listen—”

you’re quick to rise to your feet. “well, i need to go.”

neteyam calls your name.

“i don’t want to hear it.” your tone is cold, biting. if he didn’t know better, he’d think you’re leaving behind snow rather than the sand you’re kicking off as you walk away hastily.

he follows you just as he has for the past twelve years. always behind you, always watching. waiting.

he snatches your arms once he’s caught up and something spears through his heart when he finds tears brimming in your lash line.

“no,” you seethe, wriggling free from his hold. “you leave me alone. go back to ayrona since you like her that much, huh?”

neteyam heaves a deep sigh, latching on to your arm again. gentler, this time. softer. consoling.

“no.”

you scoff again. the metkayina girl had shown interest in neteyam ever since you got here, always there, always lingering. it makes your skin itch, your blood boil. you’ve been watching them all this time, how she seems to enjoy those breathing lessons with neteyam. remembering it makes you want to scream.

but ayrona wasn’t the only one. back in the forest, before you had to flee, you heard other girls’ names tied with neteyam’s from hearsay. you did not have the heart to ask him about it, afraid that the confirmation will break your heart more.

ayrona is just the final straw.

but this is wrong. the lone tear that cascades down your cheek is a burning shame. neteyam is not yours.

at times, you feel like you may stand a chance, against all these other girls and against all odds. you’ve been toeing that line between friends and something more, touches lingering more than they should have, gazes softer and sweeter than most. but nothing has come of it.

you fear what you thought could have been was just a miscalculation on your part.

neteyam holds your cheek so delicately, thumbing away the salt on your cheek.

“oh, y/n.” his voice is honey; says your name like a prayer. you close your eyes, clumped eyelashes still spilling tears. “ayrona—” your stomach plummets, “—is a friend. just like tsireya.”

you sniffle, shaking your head and leaning away from his hold. but neteyam is quick, placing his other hand on your chest, right where your heart is.

“you,” he breathes, “are so much more.”

he rests his forehead on yours and he pulls you close.

“do you want to know why i told rey’nin to stop?”

rey’nin was the omatikaya girl who, despite the people’s disapproving stares, had pursued him.

“the others too,” he adds and proceeds to enumerate the girls who have shown interest in him. something warm lands on your cheek and you belatedly realize neteyam has placed a kiss there before he’s pulling away.

nimble fingers glide over your eyelids and your eyes flutter open to see gold staring right back.

“i pushed everyone away because they weren’t you.” he says your name again, this time, like a promise. “you are the only one my heart beats for. i see you. i always have.”

[zorosdimples]

YOU’RE MINE

pairing ༄ alpha!kakashi x princess!reader

warnings ༄ minors: please do not interact! i will block you. suggestive content, predator/prey dynamics, light a/b/o dynamics, mild descriptions of injuries. reader is a princess, wears a gown, and has an intricate hairstyle, but there are no gendered terms aside from “princess.” kakashi calls reader “pup” once.

word count ༄ 922

notes ༄ everyone can thank cher @honeylavendr for unknowingly?baiting me into writing this. it was really only a matter of time… kakashi is my first love and i’ve lost the omegaverse battle, so this is the result. this has no plot, so just enjoy the whirlwind of emotions!

the cold air bites at your exposed flesh like a hungry wolf. you ignore your discomfort as you hike up the heavy skirt of your gown and delve deeper into the pitch-dark forest. stray moonbeams cut through the dense canopy and illuminate patches of earth and gaps between the trees, your winding path mostly guesswork as you feel your way through the vegetation.

branches sharp as claws rip your gown and flay your flesh, and while you can faintly feel the warm dribble of blood down your frozen temple, it’s difficult to focus on anything other than moving forward. shreds of shimmering velvet catch in brambles as you run, but the sickening sound of fabric tearing doesn’t reach your ears.

after what feels like hours of running, your senses are overwhelmed to the point of numbness. the only absolute truth is your ragged breathing; everything else is hearsay as you float through the night, a whisper among the leaves. the primal urge to just survive is your sole guide.

your lungs burn and legs ache—at least you think they do—but your mind and body are currently separate entities. you know your pace is unsustainable, and you cry out to the gods in relief when you finally crash through the tree line and into a clearing. the moon hangs brightly in the inky sky, light rippling on the surface of a lake so large it stretches beyond the horizon.

you collapse to the ground in a pool of tattered velvet, frantically gasping for air as the tight bodice of your gown painfully squeezes your chest. a wave of nausea rolls over you and you bite back the urge to retch.

stretching your legs out, you clumsily gather your skirt and pull it back, gasping when you see the mottled bruises and bloody gashes that litter your skin. feet in agony, you opt to crawl to the edge of the lake to peer at your reflection in the frigid water.

“you can’t hide from me, princess.”

the smooth taunt stops you mid-crawl, horror blossoming in your gut and unfurling to caress every nerve in your now-trembling body. as if you can no longer control your movements—can you ever when he’s around?—you slowly turn to face the shadowy forest.

you see his eyes before anything else. his right iris shines silver like a honed dagger and his left glows crimson like spilled blood. when kakashi emerges from the cover of darkness, you forget your fear for a moment and bristle with irritation. he looks impeccable—not a strand of hair or thread of clothing is out of place. he doesn’t look like he has been tracking you through the wilderness for hours. for a split second, your right palm itches to slap his perfect face.

kakashi is unhurried as he approaches you, soaking in the sight of the kingdom’s beloved princess at his feet, cowering in defeat. when he reaches you, kneeling down so you are eye level, he decides that you have never looked more beautiful.

your soft face is covered in claret scrapes and angry welts, shiny eyes swollen and dripping hot tears. your hair has fallen out of the intricate updo your handmaiden worked on all afternoon; most of the pearls and pins that once adorned your silken strands would now rot away on the forest floor. the expensive gown that took hundreds of hours of labor and dozens of seamstresses to craft is now unrecognizable.

fear courses through your veins under his scrutiny, but kakashi doesn’t have to look at you to know how you feel. he can smell how terrified you are. it only makes him desire you more.

he reaches out a gloved hand to brush your icy cheek, but you jerk away from his touch. he simply tuts in mock annoyance. “there is nowhere left for you to run, princess.” his coo is cloying as he leans over you. his signature mask covers the bottom half of his face, but when he sees you eyeing the fabric, he slips it down with a cruel smirk. “if you want to look, all you have to do is ask, my little omega.”

you swallow dryly at those words. you are no longer just an omega; you are his omega, his mate. the fetters of royalty have chained you to this man—this monster. kakashi moves to grip both of your arms at the elbows, large hands gently pulling you closer and closer until you tumble into his lap.

“no matter how many times you try to run, i will always find you,” kakashi murmurs into your ear, warm breath lighting a fire beneath your skin. he nuzzles your cheek then grazes his fangs down the side of your neck, leaving goosebumps his wake; you shiver beautifully for him. “do you know why, pup?”

you whimper as kakashi’s lips ghost his mark on the juncture of your neck and shoulder. he kisses the healing wound sweetly before laving his tongue over it until you breathe a pleased sigh. kakashi raises his head to meet your heavy lidded gaze, one hand cradling your face, the other—now gloveless, claws exposed—slicing down the length of your dress until you sit completely bare. his lips meet yours chastely, but for some inexplicable reason, you hunger for more. he pulls back with a chuckle after you try to pry his mouth open with your tongue. both of his hands come up to wrap around your neck, thumbs pressing sharply beneath your chin.

“it’s because you’re mine.”

[prettykikimora]

Fascism is vibes based. It's invoking emotional reaction. There is no logic, it's not attempting to sway you, it's a violent reaction of a threatened status quo. It's knee jerk, intentionally stupid, obfuscatory, strongest in myths and hearsay. You're not supposed to argue with it because that gives it life, it gives it meaning it gives it value as an equal and genuinely held belief. They know they're lying, you're not calling people out for "hypocrisy" they just hate you that's all there is, they are a reaction to social progress. They are strongest when the contradictions of capital are at their height and change is on the horizon. This is a very scary time to be alive but it's also a hopeful one. To be attacked by the enemy is not bad but good for it shows a clear line of demarcation between us and them, and a sign that the progressive forces have achieved a great deal in our work.

[pauking5]

Song of the Sea

Pairing: Roronoa Zoro x reader

Word count: 1.3k

A/N: Changing the register for a short drabble of my favorite mosshead. This just came to me as I was listening to hymn to the sea and I couldn't hold back from writing something. I've been planning my first entry for Zoro for a while now but this one just felt right. This won't be the last one and that's all I'm gonna say for now ;)

A joyous sea shanty echoed around the ship, from the galley to the prow and the deck above. The seasonal employed bard played his flute on a rhythm of his own, just about managing to drown out the sailors singing out of tune with their rigid voices.

The dirty beer bottle in your hand was half empty, the brown liquid swirling around in the hard green glass moving in a swirl with the gentle waves that rocked the ship. The late afternoon sun, warm and brighter than its been all day, coloured the sky in orange pastels, one reflection brighter than the other as another day was slowly coming to meet its end.

You and your rented crew just finished a long quest for a chest of pearls belonging to an old maiden that ruled a part of the southern seas. You found the pearls and the dusted skeleton of the maiden hugging it tight to her bosom. She didn't put much of a fight now, but the sword left at her side told you her previous visitors weren't as lucky as you. The sailors, though atrociously bad at singing, helped you sail and retrieve the chest. All done in exchange for a part of the winnings and a round of booze barrels they already sifted through. They were a comforting enough company, even though they were really loud and liked cauaing ruckus unprovoked most of the time. But you were glad that for one peaceful moment they were filling in the quiet of the late afternoon.

"They say there's a green light at the end of sunset," spoke a voice from your right. Unknown, not one that your ears recognized, you turned to its owner with a wary hand on the hilt of your sword.

You came face to face with a pair of round brown eyes, deeper than the shade of your liquor, and mossy green hair, making their way to your side. His hand grabbed the edge of the railing, leaning forward, looking out in the direction of the sun that was now halfway down to the horizon line.

Your senses must've been dulled by the booze, not at all troubled that a stranger you haven't seen before found his way on your boat. Well, rented boat. But for some reason his presence didn't perk your defense up at all. Not even a little bit. So you let go of your sword and leaned back on the wooden edge, directing your attention to his words.

"That's a myth."

Doubt coated your tongue for good reason. You've heard of countless stories surrounding the famous green light, from sailors lost at sea finding their way back home or spirits from the world beyond coming to the surface to wickedly haunt their murderes, but none of them made any sense.

"There's a little truth in every legend," he pushed.

"And what's the truth in this one?" you ask, eyes moving from the mast to lay on him only to find him already looking right at you.

"I guess you'll just have to trust me."

You chuckled in disbelief.

This random, annoyingly beautiful, man just showed up out of thin air on your ship, trying to convince you to seek creed in a myth that was never proven true. He was asking you to believe in a fable. Hearsay. You've been at sea for most of your life and you have never seen the supposed green light.

"The green light is a mirage," you argued. "It's not real. If it was real, you wouldn't hear about it from drunken sailors," you add, taking a long swig of your beer to chase down the odd feeling crawling up your nape that there was some little truth in his words.

His deep brown eyes gave you a long look, as if aware of the fact that you gave his words another thought despite your earlier conviction that he was talking of ghosts.

"Are you one of them?"

"No..." you say. But you broke into a giggle as you pointed at your bottle. "Not a regular one anyway."

He chuckled at your reply, smile stretching wide like a tide, eyes turning into crescents of daylight.

"Then wait for it and see for yourself," he says, smiling at you.

In that moment, between a wave hitting the lower deck and your eyes landing on him again, you swore you could see the tiniest speck of a weird light reflecting in his eyes, slowly moving to illuminate the rest of his face. That same light entered your peripheral vision, making you turn back to the horizon. A gasp burst from your throat, fingers tightening on your bottle to not drop it.

There it is.

Shining brightly with the middle body of the sun sunken below sea, shimmering in specks of a lively green, dancing across the skyline.

I'll be damned.

The green light is real.

He spoke the truth.

A shaky hand made its way to your mouth to cover the new gasp of surprise that left you. Goosebumps raised on your arms as you watched the rare phenomenon happen right before your very own eyes with the man on your right. The crew was too far gone to notice either the fable before you or the very invisble, noticeable only to your eyes. As if he himself was a figment ripped from a tale dedicated to non-believers.

"Maybe the sea sings back to us," he says. "All we need to do is just listen closely and hear her call."

You let your eyes linger on the green light a moment more, then spun around to say something only to find the mystery green-haired man all but gone.

Like he was never here.

Stumbling over your legs that suddenly weighed heavier than lead, you walked to each member of the crew and shook them sober, desperately asking about the green-haired man's whereabouts. If anyone else saw him and you didn't just imagine him from all but two gulpd of cheap beer. But all you got in response were confused stares and whispers that you were indeed seeing things.

"There's no green-haired man on this ship," said the bard. He was the only person that wasn't heavily intoxicated at the moment. He's been with the crew the longest and knew each one by mother and middle name.

There was no record of a green-haired man in the crew, or any man that might have matched his description. The man was a ghost.

Frantic and bewildered, heart thundering louder than the glassy thud your bottle made hitting the almost dull disposal barrel, you ran and searched the kitchen, the sleeping quarters and the gallows below. You turned each makeshift bedding hanging from the ceiling, rearranged the gunpowder crated, flipped the cannons inside out. Breathing lost, caving under your rapid search, you stopped and glanced into the darkness swallowing the last of the light shining through the cannon room.

You found absolutely nothing that could belong to the mysterious man. There was no trace of him anywhere on the ship.

Like he was never here.

You ran back to the deck, returning to your earlier spot to see the remaining rays of green drowned in the grey dusk of the clouds.

There was no way you could tell if both the green light and the man were real or a concoction of the beer you were drinking. Not like you drank a lot or couldn't handle it to lose your mind so fast.

But there was one thing you were sure of. They felt real. Way more real than that chest of pearls.

And you would wait tomorrow, the day after that and so on until you would see both of them again. Even if you had to sail to the end of the world and back. You would listen to the sea speak through its current until you found the right frequency.

Until it would sing back to you of the green light and the green-haired man.

Thank you for reading :)

[barricadescon]

Schedule for Barricades 2024, Saturday, July 13th

Good morning! It's time for the second day of Barricades 2024!

Saturday, June 13th

All times are in UTC, and can be converted to your local time zone at this link.

Key to types of Panels:

Convention Administration panels: Panels run by the Con Committee, to open and end the convention.

Guest of Honor: Special panels from our guests of honor. This year, our guests of honor are Jean Baptiste Hugo, a descendant of Victor Hugo who will discuss his project photograph his ancestor’s house; Christina Soontornvat, the author of the award-winning Les Mis retelling “A Wish in the Dark;” and Luciano Muriel, playwright of the 2018 musical play “Grantaire.” 

Fan/Academic Panel Presentations: Panels on history, fandom, or analysis of Les Mis. Scholars will share historical research, fans will share hobby projects, and the audience may get an opportunity to ask questions. 

Social Meetups: Casual unstructured time to meet up over video call and chat!

Social Games: Games and activities.

Guest of Honor: The Photography of Jean Baptiste Hugo

Saturday, 15:00-16:00 UTC

Session Type: Guest of Honor

Presented by: Jean Baptiste  Hugo

Recorded: yes

Jean Baptiste Hugo is the great-great-grandson of Victor Hugo. He has extensively photographed Hugo’s home in exile on Guernsey, which Victor Hugo decorated following his own aesthetic philosophies–in particular, the journey from darkness into light, which we see reflected throughout Hugo’s literary career. M. Hugo will share his photographs and discuss Hauteville House as a physical realization of his ancestor’s ideas.

Reflecting on Directing Les Mis

Saturday, 16:00-17:00 UTC

Session Type: Fan/Academic Panel Presentation

Presented by: Cait

Recorded: yes

In Cait’s words: “I directed an amateur production of Les Mis at the end of last year, and would love to talk about how that went and share snippets from the show and behind the scenes. This will include talking about adapting Les Mis for the space and budget, approaches to certain scenes, dual casting lead roles, and probably raving about my lovely cast.”

The Fallibility of History in Les Misérables 

Saturday, 16:00-17:00 UTC

Session Type: Fan/Academic Panel Presentation

Presented by: Syrup 

Recorded: yes

Throughout Les Misérables, Hugo often reminds readers that what they are reading is derived from some form of documentation or hearsay. While this serves to provide credibility to the tales he is sharing, there are certain moments where Hugo opts out of describing exact details, despite his efforts at a historically-accurate record. In this panel, I will take a look at these instances where Hugo either addresses or obfuscates these events, and how by doing so, he reveals the fallibility of history, and highlights how history documentations are not always as reliable as they seem. Thesis: By crafting Les Misérables as a form of historical documentation, Hugo reveals the fallibility of history, and readers are able to understand how history and history documentation are not always as reliable as they seem.

Break  

Saturday, 17:00-18:00 UTC

What Horizon: Tragedies, Time Loops, and the Hopefulness of Les Amis

Saturday, 18:00-18:30  UTC

Session Type: Fan/Academic Panel Presentation

Presented by: Percy

Recorded: yes

In Percy’s words: “I have directed a staged reading of the play and will have video clips to show! My play is focused on the rebellion and Les Amis; it aims to give the barricades the attention they often lack in adaptation and develop the individual characters of the insurgents. I’m working to make this episode of the Hugo novel and its historical context accessible to audience members who may not be familiar with the source material, while hopefully also bringing something new to the story for longtime fans.

One aspect of the story I’m particularly interested in examining is the persistent sense of hope associated with the barricades, despite the insurgents’ eventual defeat and the previous failure of the July Revolution. Linking the seemingly cyclical process of revolution and restoration, the metatheatrical tradition of tragedies aware of their own repetition in performance before the audience, and the nature of Les Misérables itself as a story that has been told and retold countless times, I hope to show the audience the worth of the insurgents’ struggle and the importance of their continued efforts. Many adaptations construe the rebellion as futile or as solely a tragic story, so I would like my adaptation to counter that idea, as Les Amis grapple with the meaning of their sacrifice and the impacts of their actions.

In a presentation, I would discuss these ideas with reference to Hugo’s original text and the ways in which the rebellion has been changed in adaptation, as well as other works that inspired me (namely Hadestown and Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead). I’d discuss the choices I made in my adaptation process and show clips from the staged reading, touching on the different characters and the historical setting as well as the overarching themes with which I engaged.”

Cosette: A Novel, The (Fanmade) Sequel to Les Misérables

Saturday, 18:30-19:00 UTC

Session Type: Fan/Academic Panel Presentation

Presented by: IMiserabili

Recorded: yes

This presentation is  a deep-dive into the 1995 fanfiction “Cosette” by Laura Kalpakian. It will include a short background on the author and the publication, a summary of the plot, an analysis of represented historical events in the work, character analyses and comparisons to the source material and other Les Mis adaptations, and memorable quotes. 

Musical Eponine and Grantaire in song and lyric edits: Personal research on their development

Saturday, 18:00-19:00 UTC

Session Type: Panel Presentation

Presented by: Ruth Kenyon

Recorded: yes

In Ruth’s words: “I’m an older musical Les Misérables fan who has watched the show develop from its beginnings at the Palace Theatre. I have a special interest in how the lyrics and the characters have changed over time. As plenty of people know now, I am also writing a book on the musical using these experiences. I’m working on Eponine’s chapter at the moment, and while I know fans have a lot of love for as she is now, I feel quite upset to see what happened to her as she was developed from the original French version of the musical. She seems to have lost quite a lot of emotional agency along the way. Grantaire has also changed over time; he was cut before the previews and there was a big re-write of his character when the show went to Broadway, but I really like what they have done with his character. I’ll provide examples of all this detail with material from my book and (trying) to sing bits of lyrics to explain what has happened to the characters.”

Barricades as a Tactic: How Do They Work?

Saturday, 19:00-20:00 UTC

Session Type: Fan/Academic Panel Presentation

Presented by: Lem

Recorded: No

This session will explore the tactical and strategic uses of barricades, with an eye towards what to consider when writing both canon-era fanfiction and modern AUs. After all, the strategic goals towards which the barricades were used in canon-era urban warfare were often quite different from the strategic goals of similar-looking tactics in contemporary protest movements. Core components of the session will be a map-based analysis of July 1830, a comparison with June 1832 highlighting strategic goals and considerations canon-era characters would have, and an exploration of various parallels among contemporary protest tactics (which may or may not *look* like barricades).

Meetup: Musical Fans

Saturday, 19:00-20:00 UTC

Session Type: Social Meetup

Presented by: Erin

Recorded: No

A casual place to meet up with other fans and discuss the musical!

Break

Saturday, 20:00-21:00 UTC

Why is There a Roller Coaster in Les Mis? The Strange History of the Russian Mountains

Saturday, 21:00-22:00 UTC

Session Type: Fan/Academic Panel Presentation

Presented by: Peyton Parker/Mellow

Recorded: Yes

In Les Miserables there is an actual canon scene where Fantine rides a roller coaster. How did a roller coaster end up in Paris in 1817? And why did this ride, one of the world's first wheeled Roller Coasters, make a cameo in Victor Hugo’s novel?

It’s “Les Mis Meets Defunctland.”

We’re going talk about the earliest origins of the Russian Mountains, the fascinating history behind how they came to France, their many connections to the political turmoil of the time period, what they felt like to ride, why they were shut down, how they fell into obscurity, and why Victor Hugo included them in Les Miserables. It’s time for a roller coaster digression.

Fanfic Round Robin

Saturday, 22:00-23:00 UTC

Session Type: Social Game

Presented by: Featheraly

Recorded: No

Participate in a round robin to help write a fic together!

Obscure(-ish) Les Mis Adaptations To Watch

Saturday, 23:00-23:30 UTC

Session Type: Fan/Academic Panel Presentation

Presented by: Pureanon

Recorded: Yes

Les Mis has been adapted many times over the years, and this means there’s a lot of adaptations to enjoy. Because of this, a lot of adaptations are underviewed or underappreciated. I’d like to use this panel to discuss some of my favorites/the most unique — 1925, 1948, 1967, and 1995. These are all very different, and aside from all being ones I enjoy, they’re fascinating looks at how different countries and different time periods adapt this story. 

The adaptations I’ve chosen are both some of the best and some of the worst out there, but they’re all unique. 1925 is one of the most faithful adaptations out there, and it uses the medium of silent film to full effect. 1948 has Valean get shot at multiple times in the opening minutes, and the revolutionaries fight with BARRELS in the barricade. 1967 is half one of the best Anglophone Les Mis adaptations ever, and half the drunkest. 1995 is more of an adaptation of how people react to Les Mis as a story than a straightforward adaptation, and it’s one of the most beautiful and unique versions out there. I intend to show a clip from each adaptation, so people can get a little taste of what each adaptation is like.

Recovery: a Fanfic Live Read

Saturday, 22:30-23:00

Session Type: Fan/Academic Panel Presentation

Presented by: Eli, Barri

Recorded: Yes

A full cast will live read a Les Mis fanfic written specifically for the con.

Compared to Some People Grantaire is Doing Just Fine (No, Really)

Saturday: 22:00-23:00

Session Type: Fan/Academic Panel Presentation

Presented by: Ellen Fremedon, Pilferingapples

Recorded: Yes

Grantaire and Marius are the two characters on the fringes of the Friends of the ABC, connected to the group by social ties rather than sincere political belief. In this panel, Pilf and Ellen will discuss the two characters as narrative foils, touching along the way on the problem with Great Men, bourgeois inaction, what it means to have the republic as a mother, and dying for love–plus those two pistols in Marius’s pocket.

Preliminary Gaities

23:00-24:00 UTC

Session Type: Social Game

Presented by: Rare, Percy, and ShitpostingFromTheBarricade

Recorded: No

Preliminary Gayeties is the chapter where Grantaire gets drunk with Joly and Bossuet before the barricades.  It is perfect for a drinking game. 

In keeping with personal tradition, Rare, Percy, and ShitpostingFromTheBarricade will bring you a second year of our dramatic reading of the “Preliminary Gayeties” chapter of the brick. all while following specified drinking game rules (including classics such as “drink for brick quotes that appear commonly in fanfiction,” “pretentious classical references,” and “drink/eat when characters drink/eat”), and enjoying snacks mentioned in the chapter as they are mentioned. Everyone is invited to participate by reading, eating, and drinking along with this activity!

[harrison-abbott]

LONDON - Travel Poetry

I touched down at Stanstead at seven a.m.

The got the train into the city, and thus we

Passed the provincial towns in the Metropolitan

Area, where around an extra 6 million people

Live, which technically aren’t part of the

Great capitol. … Lots of people I know totally

Hate London. Whenever I go there I’m

Astounded by it’s sheer scale and mania,

And, I’ll admit, I always reap exhilaration when

I visit. … I got off at Liverpool street and

I went wandering about. I went to see

William Blake’s grave. Which isn’t in a proper

Cemetery, per se: it’s quite an odd grave in

That it’s just off the street, and built over with

Concrete. Then there is just his name,

With his bones somewhere underneath, and

I remember the immense sound of drilling nearby:

As some men were working on a building

Site close by and it was as if 21st century

London was nothing like anything in a

William Blake poem. After that I found the

Nearest subway station, and went down

Into the tunnels, with their toothpaste-white

Tile walls and their rocket-launch echoes.

As I’m always a bit slow when it comes to

Public transport, I had to ask this Irish couple

If I was waiting for the correct train coming.

They indeed confirmed that I was in the right place.

So I said to them, “Thanks. I’m always a bit

Of a numpty when I’m riding the metro.”

And the Irish man said to me, “Oh, it’s all right.

You speak English fine.” And I blinked.

I didn’t want to point out that I was from

Edinburgh, Scotland, as didn’t wish to offend

Him, but, I suppose I was heavily bearded

At that time – and most folks don’t suss me

As Scottish when they see me.

Through the oldest underground routes

In the world I flumed. I went to Hyde Park

And sat there for a while, watching the civilians

Walking their dogs, and it made me wonder

How wealthy you would have to be to live

In this metropolis; the same time as I watched

The crystalline outlines of the skyscrapers

On the horizon. Those images that bespoke

Immense wealth, international prestige.

That night I was staying with my friend who

Lived near London Bridge and so I headed

Over there, walking down towards the Thames.

It was crazy walking in that central part

Of the town where almost every street name

Had some connotation that you knew from

Hearsay or songs or culture in general.

Everywhere was famous. This was where

The plague happened, where the great fire

Happened, where the great fire broke out;

This was where the Blitz happened.

Nearly 70% of the city was burned down

In 1666. And, during the Blitz, around

43 000 civilians were bombed and killed

By the Luftwaffe planes; which was half of

Britain’s civilian toll for World War II;

Which made one in six Londoners homeless,

And destroyed at least 1.1 houses throughout

The town. And, none of those facts had killed

London. This was the place where

Bill Shakespeare wrote, performed and directed

His plays. It was where Pete Townshend was

From, where Charles Dickens form world –

‘twas a place that’d changed the world.

I got to London Bridge, and crossed it,

Watching the thick, soupy water down below,

That raced with pumping menace. It was crazy

That the Thames wasn’t in the top 100 longest

Rivers in Europe. And yet it was this complete

Brute when you looked at it, dizzily from atop

Its bridges. I reached the far side of the bridge

And headed along into the main street, and just

Then there were two flashy cars that sped by me.

As in – glitzy sports cars – and they were

Racing against each other. And one of them cracked

Into the back of the other’s boot, because the

Other had ‘won the race’ and sped past him.

Their tyres ripped rubbery snarls on the road

And there was a big dent in the forerunner’s boot.

It was basically a car crash. And it happened

About ten yards away from me, right there on

The sidewalk. But, nothing else happened either

Than that both vehicles went tearing across

London Bridge to continue their race.

I walked on and I went into a supermarket

To buy some beers ahead of seeing my friend.

Everything I saw around the shop was about

A third higher than I was used to in Edinburgh.

But I got the beers and then I walked through

The night (this was in November, 2018) of

London, along to my friend’s flat, through the

Odd mix of buildings that seemed to spar for

Space between the jostling traffic. As you

Walked you heard all kinds of languages,

And the people you passed wore a medley

Of outfits; some in suits and leather shoes,

Some in dresses and high heels, some in

Tracksuits and trainers; and all of different

Skin colours and height and weight and

Character. Nine million people crammed

Into a relatively small space, and this is

The sparky mix that you get as a result.

My friend had finished his work at 5 p.m.

And that was why I’d been wandering

About all day instead of meeting up with him

Earlier. He lived in a range of flats that

Were hard to navigate around, and in

The immediate skyline I could see the

Shard skyscraper, blinking in blue and red

Dots. I finally found my friend and we

Hugged in the doorway. He was from

California, and I’d met him years back

At university. We talked into the night,

And then went to a local bar, which

Was super expensive but it was also

Thrilling to be out in the metropolis in

The proper black night; it was sublime

To be here in Londinium, even though

It was scary, berserk and conglomerate, too.

[regnumaves]

Smoke Above Serenes [drabble]

                                       This is a story of hatred and sin                                         Written in blood of our very own kin

“Smoke on the horizon!... Smoke above Serenes!”

Tibarn’s heart stops and eyes widen as he immediately drops whatever it is that he was doing, forgetting on the spot what it was.

He sprints through the hallway together with all of his men who heard Janaff’s alarm.

                                        Beautiful, innocent, peaceful and fair                                         Never raise hand against others they swear

He knew. He had heard. Separatist though Phoenicis may be, the news reached them too, brought by spies and messengers. News of the assassination of the Begnion apostle. News of uncontrollable grief and rage sweeping through the nation. News of accusations thrown in all directions, particularly - as it usually goes with humans - at the laguz.

But, although he never trusted their kind to begin with, not even Tibarn thought they were that stupid.

What a naive, gullible, costly mistake.

His eyesight is far from that of Janaff, but he can see it - a pillar of smoke rising slowly into the sky akin to a beacon. “We fly! Quick!” That is all he throws before he jumps out of the window. No plan, no preparation - there’s no time for that; he’s not a fool, he knows that even if they push their wings to the absolute limit, the flight to Serenes will take them at least half a day. He doesn’t even pick out who exactly is supposed to go - the order is issued at no one in particular.

But it doesn’t matter; everyone who was at the scene follows him, for Hawk hearts beat in sync with those of their Heron brothers.

                                        Murderers! The humans of Begnion exclaim                                         They gather, laugh and set Serenes aflame

By the time the laguz arrive at the scene, it’s late evening. Under normal circumstances, the Hawks would avoid flying at night, for their eyes usually fail them in the dark.

But these circumstances are all but normal; the flames rise above the trees, illuminating the sky, painting it in sickening shades of red and orange, calling out to Tibarn and his men as if to show them the way - come here, come quick, the feathers of your brothers are on fire—

                                        For rumor and hearsay is all that they need                                         For another’s crime every Heron shall bleed

With no regards for his own safety, the king dives in between the trees, the other Hawks following without question. Once there, they split up. No instructions, no orders are necessary, they all know why they’re here.

The moment he descends into the hell that was made out of the once peaceful forest, he starts coughing, suffocating from the smoke, tears quickly welling up in his eyes and making it even harder to see - no, that’s not important, ignore it, get a grip, they need you, they'll die without you, find the Herons, find the Herons—

But the cursed walkers are here too, they were here first - through the trees, Tibarn hears laughter he can only compare to that of demons, drunk with the sheer wild joy of burning, hunting, killing, destroying. And the shrill screams, melodious even in despair and death as though to sing their own funeral hymn, falling silent one by one as bloodied human hands rise towards the sky in utterly misplaced, misguided retribution.

In all this pain and chaos, Tibarn loses his way, but his instincts do not fail him and his wings know to take him to the main altar. White feathers line the ground under him more and more, but he makes it just in time—

“REYSON!!”

The White Prince sharply turns back, celadon eyes blank and devoid of emotion. For a split second, the Hawk feels as though, in his panic and stress, his friend fails to recognize him, but the sensation is brief; mouth wide open, gasping for air, the Heron holds out his hand, reaching out to Tibarn in despair—

and then he collapses.

                                        O humans! Barbarians! You burned and you slew!                                         The lives the Goddess grants mean nothing to you!

The king dashes towards him, his heart dropping, but relief comes over him when he feels Reyson draw breath. At the same time, two Hawk soldiers fly over to him.

“We found His Highness Lorazieh! He’s alive!”

Tibarn pants as he nods. Another coughing fit shakes his body— but Reyson still lives. They must retreat. They have to get out of here before whatever few lives they managed to save are also snuffed out.

More and more Hawks arrive at the altar, some carrying survivors. White and gray feathers fall everywhere around them like a rain of death - the pain, the distress, they are overwhelming. But the accursed human voices draw ever closer too; though the thought rips his heart into pieces, the Hawk King realizes that what lives they did not find are forfeit. If it comes to a fight here, no one will be saved.

It pains him, but he forcefully silences the voice in his head that cries out for blood.

“We go…! We have to go! Retreat!”

                                        Do you really think that we will let this stand?                                         How our brothers felt, you will soon understand

———

He doesn’t remember their way home well.

He remembers holding Reyson in his arms and he remembers the stunned silence of his men, only broken occasionally by laments as yet another  of their silver brothers breathed his last on someone’s back.

He remembers that every time it happened, he cradled the Prince closer, praying and begging for him to hang on.

He did.

By the time the dawn breaks and they make it to Phoenicis, he and his father are the only ones still alive.

                                        We too destroy, burn, kill, give what is deserved                                         For this senseless slaughter justice must be served

News spread quickly; the horrified Hawks gather, tears in many eyes, wide open mouths covered in shock, children weeping into their mothers’ wings as they watch the scorched bodies unloaded from the backs of Tibarn’s exhausted men.

Barely aware of what he’s doing, the king absentmindedly hands Reyson over to some soldiers that come running, gives orders on what rooms to prepare, bed, food, water, bandages—

before a wave of despair, exhaustion and defeat washes over him and he falls to his knees.

He breathes heavily, his eyes wide open, realization on what he had just gone through and done dawning on him, now that the danger is gone and the stress and adrenaline wear off. His vision goes blurry - that’s tears in his eyes again, but not from smoke this time around.

This…

This really happened, didn’t it?

They’re gone. They’re really gone. All but two of them are gone.

Burned. Killed. Murdered for something they had nothing to do with. Slaughtered by the humans, those damned, cursed, idiotic miscreants, monsters, butchers, they do this and then they accuse the laguz of being nothing more than baseborn animals—

How could they

How dare they

They must

PAY

The rage does not let itself be contained in this smaller form of his anymore, the fury lighting up his eyes and pushing his body to transform against his will.

Raising his scorched wings to the sky, he lets out a harsh, deafening shriek, his wrath, anger and despair resonating through the air.

The singular voice soon turns into a cacophonous choir as soldiers and civilians alike all through Phoenicis respond, joining their king’s call.

                                        You stole our brothers! Their lives, souls and home!                                         Mistakes of the Goddess! Know despair! Begone!

[hearsayhorizons]

Thinktober 2024 11: Pun

Years ago, worldbuilding a theocractic empire strewn across islands. I come up with a great pun and text my husband:

"How does the church protect its coasts?"

My husband, who has always said he hates puns:

"Worships."

Which blows my "with canon" out of the water, but I love him anyway.

[galsource75]

Chatting with the one you love (maybe not)

Everything inside of me is screaming 'Stop its a lie' you know well enough he does not even know that you exist. You have been down this road ; "how many times GalSource?" Exactly !! Now block the person now! I don't for longer than i know better to. And Words with passion and emotions are sent from my side of this place to the person on the other end of the chat line . Confessions of love and thoughts on life are exchange by way of poems and hellos in the early morning . Before the light of dawn is above the horizon we are chatting once again the only difference this time is that it is a different person claiming to be the Man i have fallen in love with. Long days and even longer nights i allow the passion play across my screen knowing all the while it is not him , yet the hope inside of me just will not let me push to the point of getting his confession of the truth of who he/she really is . Damn , I just let it ride out so that i can release all the emotions and all the daydreams inside of my mind before they cause me to burst into flames from the desire in my soul for him to but be the true person that i need him to be . soul steps in after a short while and demands that i pull the wind from their sails . So i direct the conversation to where i need it to be and tell of the deceit i have been through by others claiming to be my Star and how i fell for so many words that they used to confess a never dying love for me all the while never being full of emotions but full of lies the entire time . Then i demand proof of the truth of who they are , they send passports that has been doctored believing you will believe their lie , even provide video chat except for the issues , on my end nonetheless, of computer and or cell phone interruptions so each call is incomplete and the only time you miss their call that they have made to you despite their busy schedule of touring and plane rides from here to there , how dare i miss their call. Of course i was there the phone rang half a ring then fell silent again , never following up with a text stating "tried to call but you were busy babe will call back later" love you . This is true and it has happened to me many times but with that said the last three persons wanting to deceive me i only played along to see where they was trying to take the conversation though i must confess that i always spoke my truth of the feelings i have for a certain entertainer. Alright if i am ever going to get this out to the public so that the Star of my heart can see what is happening to his #1 fan from Kentucky , then i must say the persons name. Please do not judge me in being a fool or for being so naive . Love sometimes clouds the minds eye and it can be over powering to every aspect of ones hope and dreams and gives rise to a faith that one may say is like that of the faith we have for our God, whom ever you choose that to be ok.. Dermot Kennedy is the person that these peoples have convinced me , or try to convince me that they were. These predators stalk the Star and other Stars, i know this for a fact, this is not just hearsay. Anyways, these persons are so determined to obtain whatever it is that they want that they have stalked me and others on the person they will pretend to be social media and lock in on the one who has posted and commented the most on the sites that they are scoping out and they will then make a double account with the entertainers name stating that it is the site they want to connect with their fans and that management is controlling the other sites which in fact the PR of the entertainer is running multiple sites for the Entertainer , anyways they prey on the emotions of the fans and believe me i have reported them everyone to someone of authority but those sites and emails but be fakes as well because i have never had anyone follow up on my complaints it is as if they read the email or voice mail and say "well there is another fool who fell for the most popular scam that is running the internet these days. " And nothing is done about it .

when will i ever learn....

[ramrodd]

Dr. Bart Ehrman's Top 3 Favorite New Testament Contradictions

COMMENTARY:

I suppose under the intellectual glass ceiling of the Marxist stylings of Post Modern Historic Deconstruction and the protocols of the Capel Hill Campus Crusade for Apostasy,, these example hold up as contradictions, However, within the encyclopedi  horizons of literary criticism, they tell me a distincly different tale. As near as I can tell, the testimony of Peter transcreved by Cornelius in Mark, which is the narrative spine of the Gospel of Mark, begins at Mark 1:29, I am guided by the visual cue of εὐθὺς , which is a Roman apparatus for designating elements of the narrative that were recorded in Quelle . I don''t read Greek, but I do read concordance and the pattern of εὐθὺς  acts like a footnote esignation, and means )C>F> Quelle:, So, anywan, the εὐθὺς  at the outset of Mark 1:30 is where Cornelius began recoridng Peter's testiomy during their debriefing in Acts 10. So, from a literary point of view, Peter misremembered who was the high Priest of the Shew Bread beecause, as it is noted in Act 4:31, Peter is unschooled and Cornelius was clueless about the scritures, generally, It's a nothing burger and the mistake doesn't change the intent of Jesus's rejoinder one iota. I mean, the significant difference between Mark and Matthew is that Matthew connects all the  Theological dots that neither Peter nor Cornelius had any idea existed. I don't have any idea how reading it in Greek alters that fact in the elast, beyound securing your personal claim to a High School Debate champion, The fact that your faith as a Born Again Jesus Freak weaned on the Campus Crusade for Christ solo scriptura indoctrintion began to unravel is a reflection on the fraud of the Salvaion Gospel.  If Campus Crusade for Christ was the only means I had of knowing the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, I'd consider Richard Carrier to be pulling his punches. And your  Princeton Seminary i tnstructor was about as clueless as you, If you are constrained by Dale Martin's protocols for the critical historic method, you are missing most of the content of the scriptures. I'm not interested in explaining away your "contradictions". I'm interested to see where these anomlies take me into the Hegelian anthropology and sociology of the culture, It down't look much like John Dominic's version of Judea. Now, your "contradiction" is even more absurd. Jesus is getting off a boat when Jarius says his dauther is dying and could He come lay hads on her and save her. Jesus taks off, but is delayed by his healing of the woman with the 12 year heorage., That takes a little while to sort out and, when that crises is solved, Jarius is told that his daughter has died and to not  to bother Jesus further. But Jesus takes Peter, John and James, who had been busy securing their boat, to go with Him to the 12 year old girl, Matthew wasn't there. He got his verion secon had somethie after the fact as hearsay evidence. Of course both version can be true: it's an example of Paradox in literature.  Matthew was a late comer to  Eeam Jesus and was a bit out of the loop. And , in the final analysis, the girl was dead wehn He got there and he revived her and had her walk it off. What is far more interesting to me is the evidence of the superior journalism of Cornlius's military intelligence methods. The 12 year hemorage and the 12 year old girl is an important example of the textual numerology the Holy Spirit empolys to illuminate Jesus's divinity and mehtodology, The doubling of 12 sets off the nature of the power Jesus commanded: this power is associated with the planentary force of Genesis 1:2, the demiruge. Jeus is a wlaking, taliking Arc of the Covenant.   And your third example of whether Jesus said staff or no staffs reflects the difference in the life styles of Peter and Mattheew: they both hard what they wanted to hear to suit their own circunstance. Peter was a fisherman and the idea of carrying around a stick on a boat never occurred to him, while Matthew, as a tax collector, did all his work on the land and a staff as a waling stick was a ntural part of his wardrobe, In addition, Matthew, as a tac collector, would have routinely carres a sizable bank and a good staff is a useful deterrant to  highway robbery, It is another example of a generally useless detail that has absolutely not effect on the flow of the narraitive, but iillustrates the the trivial purist aspect of textual analysis. My advice is that you join Derek in his remedial reading comprehension program to wean yourself away from the intellectual burden of Dale Martin's critical Historical mehtod and the comic Marxis axiom of Jimmy Tabor that Harmonization is the enemy of the Truth. Otherwise, you will extend your career of academic mal practice and abusiness model.

[vormov]

"Would you fucking wait a second?"

i always felt like i didn't belong. wisps of winds could carry me away like the wind wanted something of me, i couldn't understand why until now. as if the phrases made sense at the tugs of the gown felt real where were you when i awoke? surely you could be here among our accompaniment, i lit a pyre a long time ago. won't it come back to me enormously? perhaps if i live long enough. (let it speak)

all our gains are due to others, we speak in winds untethered but the song remains the same all of our lives feel fleeting now, the winds gave us the life we couldn't notice or let this kindness go without saying, ive never felt such grace.

you'll have to forgive me for loving on you awhile, we let this get so cold i forgot myself gigantic plunges into the unknown, we'll get there eventually, but i never felt uselesss not even this whole time for i was never truely alone. "This heart/ it beats beats for only you / my heart is yours"

the wind did spare me a time to speak, but i made excuses for it like i were a lie on fire. these things they say are hearsay, for they don't know me? but with each phantom verse we understand, one step closer. make it into a powerfully unnoticable node.

i wish to speak open like i never have, as if we longed and spoke like a wind unspoken. agaze again like the stars gave us a glimpse between this ether and the feeling downright felt like i wasn't even alive before. but have only garnered something i carry with the weight, only you know what i mean.

. * i left home, i abandoned who i was to with which such sublime above? let me to the notions of life being a lie, as if i were surprised. if i didn't remember these things i fear it'd be much more of a calamity.

we were taught to fear those of different, save those who weren't quite there… like the words we spoke meant not a thing at all as we followed our guts into the politispheric indulgence, like anyone cares anymore? blithe is the way we speak now engulfed in a madness none can see. "always in my thoughts you are/ always in my dreams you are"

ive felt the fear like a live electric spent my time wondering if the end times had fallen down from the mighty above list it in this lonely manual, i'll find out what you mean later/ we have all the time to spend here among the cosmos, let us bend it with our ever evanescent glow.

i couldn't let go quicker.

     would you fucking listen? id love to hear it come from your own lips, that just this one single time i was [redacted], but i'll never know thanks to you disown, ill go. bet that i'll see the horizon before you would, you've always been a coward.

let these winds speak this unknown to those who need to hear it, it is your only imperative now…let it be known. id give my life for that understanding, like all of existance could be summed up in a three minute movie. plead it with convincing terms to engulf it all and never think again, "we'll do it!" i can't even begin the irony without a space for myself. "kicking your crosses down…"

i'll imagine it like it were painted into the sky deeply seeing how our eyes always sought the wrong targets to focus this elegance upon, won't you know who we really were? or will i understand this last verse again on time? won't you. (8-28-24 — lyrics quoted*: Paramore, Porcupine Tree, Circa Survive)

[get-x-media]

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[oneoffvoices]

Getting my Thoughts in Order

I want to preface this all by saying that what follows is my understanding of the historical context surrounding the current situation in Palestine and Israel. All facts presented are researched to the best of my abilities, and any opinions are presented without malice nor intent to incite violence. This is simply me, a confused, ignorant white American trying their best to not be as ignorant and hopefully help both myself and someone else with their confusion. It should also be noted that I, much to my shame, am monolingual and living in the American south, so I am constrained by both a language barrier and cultural barrier from many primary sources, although I’ve tried to limit my own bias and educate myself as much as possible. The 24hr news cycle, especially as it exists now with clickbait and auto-generated (I refuse to call it AI, but that’s a different post) headlines, not to mention journalists parroting or copy/pasting each others articles that only contain hearsay, makes it incredibly difficult for any individual to sift through. Which is probably the point, now that I think about it.

At the base of all of this, is antisemitism and racism. The Zionist movement is hundreds of years old, although it started out as a minority. It only really got kicked into the world’s consciousness in 1917 with the Balfour Declaration about “expressed British support for a “national home for the Jewish people” in Palestine, but also stipulated the protection of civil and religious rights of existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine.” Many countries had and would continue to close their doors to Jewish people due to antisemitism, so the idea of a Jewish ethnostate to send them to instead was surely appealing. Historical precedents of persecution and abuse led to Jewish people wanting their own nation. Who hasn’t wanted to build their own space when every other space is hostile to them?

Different versions of Zionism were proposed, creating a new homeland in Africa or the Americas, and still others argued that they could have settlements within multiple countries and be a separate but still unified community, but none of them incited Western approval and imagination like the Zionists who demanded to go back to their “ancestral home” of Jerusalem and the fertile crescent. This also brought up the Zionist’s own racism, for they considered what once was Israel “A home with no people, for people with no home” despite the fact that the area was populated with Arabs and had been for centuries. Zionists didn’t see them as people, so they didn’t care about displacing the native population that had been living there for generations.

However, the British were also in communication with different Arab groups at the time of the Balfour Declaration, promising support to their own nationalist movements. Britain was playing both sides for support and strategic placement and as a result was unable to actually deliver to the satisfaction of either. After WWI, the Ottoman empire was dissolved and partitioned among western powers, what was Israel and Palestine going to Britain. Britain started sending Jewish migrants to the area to settle there under British protection, to the ire of the Arabs already living there.

This led up to the Arab revolt from 1936-1939, which was characterized by large scale civil disobedience and later escalating violence from volunteer Arabs helping the Palestinians on one side, and the British military of around 10,000 troops and armed Zionists numbering at around 15,000. During the Revolt Lord Robert Peel and the commission sent to review what was happening suggested partitioning the region because of the aforementioned conflicting promises; an issue of “right against right”. The Arabs were upset about being forcibly displaced from their land/homes and the revolt gained steam. Eventually, with the potential problem of another war on the horizon, British officials called for a meeting in London to settle the issue. Britain suggested partitioning the land, making the proposed Israel much smaller than previously proposed, and both areas remaining under British rule. Neither group agreed, and eventually a ‘white paper’ was published conceding to a Jewish homeland to be established within an independent Palestine where Jewish immigration would be allowed, although land transfer to Jews would only be allowed in certain areas and Jewish residents subject to Arab “acquiescence” to their presence.

Neither of the affected groups accepted the white paper, but the original mandate of Jewish immigration remained and tensions in the area remained high. The official move to partition the area came in 1947 via a vote from the UN. The Zionists approved it because it gave them more than half of the land area. War broke out in December of that year where the Arab League pledged support to Palestinian Arabs and sent a force of 3,000 volunteers. The US was concerned by the continued fighting and opposed the partition. The UN Palestine commission tried to set up provisional governments, but Arab opposition kept that from happening. The violent creation of Israel in 1948 and the decimation and exile of the native Arab population became known as al-nakba, the catastrophe.

The sides eventually reached an Armistice in 1949 with 50 countries acknowledging Israel as a nation and the area now considered the West Bank under the control of Transjordan while the area that would become known as the Gaza Strip being ruled by Egypt and a cohesive social and political identity for Palestine was impossible. The birth of Israel created a large number of Palestinian refugees who had been forcibly displaced from their homes. Most went to the West Bank, some went to the Gaza Strip, while about 1/5th left Palestine altogether. However, no matter how much Israel tried to discourage a Palestinian identity, the culture was brought together largely due to those Palestinians who had initially left Palestine for other Arab nations or the West, despite the efforts of Jordan and Egypt to speak for them.

The Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) was created in 1964, with the Palestine National Council (PNC) established as a parliament over the organization. It was originally headed by civilians, but later included guerrilla organizations as well, such as Fatah (Palestine National Liberation Movement). The PLO’s stated goal was to dismantle Israel and create a state in which Christians, Jews, and Muslims could live as equals. Israel didn’t believe this to be genuine and considered the PLO a terrorist organization.

The Arab-Israeli war of 1967, also known as the Six Day War, ended with Israel’s total victory over the forces of Jordan, Egypt, and the guerrilla forces of Palestine, as well as the exodus of many more Palestinians from the land. This also cemented Israel’s rule over the region, displacing Jordan from the West Bank and Egypt from the Gaza Strip, and putting both regions under Israel’s authority. Tensions and fighting continued throughout the 70’s and 80’s, with the PLO acting as a nation-to-be and gaining some international recognition over time. However, that resulted in increasing violence in the area.

Israel has been illegally occupying parts of Gaza and the West Bank for decades now, and though they have an official armistice it’s never really held any weight and fighting has been constant, practically speaking, the whole time. They have also been desecrating grave sites, and committing atrocities that the international stage has paid no attention to.

Hamas is an offshoot of the Muslim Brotherhood that disagreed with the secular government of Fatah and that won the election for control of Palestine Legislature in 2006. There hasn’t been an election since then, and a majority of the current population of Palestine was and is still too young to have voted in that election. Hamas has been labeled by the UN as a terrorist organization for their various attacks on Israel, as well as threats sent, such as the pictures in 2018 of Jewish leaders in the crosshairs of snipers, but who were not killed.

The fighting kicked off again “on October 7, when Hamas led an assault killing more than 1,400 civilians and soldiers and taking 230 hostages, the biggest loss of life within Israel since its creation.” In retaliation, Israel started and continues to bomb all of the Gaza Strip killing at least 8,000 Palestinians in retaliation. Israel is killing civilians and hostages indiscriminately, targeting hospitals and refugee camps under transparent claims of them being Hamas bases, as if that is a justification for killing civilians and hostages, especially the sick and injured ones, who were largely injured from the aforementioned attacks by Israel.

Currently, Israel has a stranglehold over Palestine via geography, technology, and control of their utilities and access to necessities. Palestinians cannot leave Gaza, nor can they receive most international aid. Israel has cut off their communications and access to the internet, and has launched various propaganda campaigns both historically and recently. Some of their officials have gone on record on X (previously Twitter) as saying that they have and will purposefully target journalists that are reporting on the ongoing conflict. Israel has been blatantly ignoring the Geneva convention for years, and is even more openly flouting it now. And the west is both implicitly and explicitly encouraging and approving this behavior by sending money, weapons, aid, and making public statements in favor of Israel.

Now, I know I’ve glossed over a lot, I lost steam near the end there. I haven’t said much about Hamas or what they’ve done, mostly because I haven’t found much about them that I can verify. The UN labeled them as a terrorist organization, and I assume they had a reason for that. Yes, they have attacked Israel before, killed civilians, and taken hostages. They have quite possibly participated in torture and things like that as well. I’m not saying that they are ok or in the right. What I am saying is that Israel’s retaliation is way out of line, and while terrorism isn’t ok, genocide is inarguably worse. Once you involve civilians, any civilians, in your fight you lose the right to claim any sort of moral standing in my opinion, but what we’re looking at right now is matters of scale. I have not heard of Hamas doing anything since Oct. 7th. Israel refuses to stop despite all of the voices calling out for a ceasefire from around the world, including their own people (in this instance, I’m talking specifically about people with citizenship in Israel, many of which have publicly spoken against what is happening and are involved in protests.)

I am not a politician. I am not an influencer. I’m writing this to make sense of it in my own head and straighten out some of my thoughts, in a way that can encourage feedback on any parts that I am mistaken about or any important things I skipped over completely. I’m never going to be finished learning, and I’ve got a lifetime of catching up to do already from my privileged upbringing of “not being into politics.” But if this can help anyone else acquire their own context for this whole situation, that will be a far greater success than I could have hoped for.

Call your representatives and demand a ceasefire and an end to US financial and military support of Israel. Donate money to aid organizations that are getting e-sims and supplies into Gaza, or that are supporting the protests. Go to a protest if you can. Spread posts on social media keeping awareness and visibility of this conflict high. Talk where you can. Be safe when you can. Do what you can, and once you’ve done that, pray for more opportunities to do more. Thoughts and prayers don’t do anything without accompanying action, but if you’re doing it right, it should give you inspiration and courage to do something. That’s what I’m doing. What I’m trying to do, anyway.

For ways to get involved: https://www.jewishvoiceforpeace.org/ https://act.uscpr.org/a/callforgaza https://actionnetwork.org/letters/tell-congress-ceasefire-now?source=IG_ceasefire https://therisingmajority.com/gaza/ https://www.ifnotnowmovement.org/ceasefire-now

Resources for further reading, where I got a lot of my information and some extra documents that others may find beneficial. Let it be noted that I did not, and cannot read all of the information contained therein, both for my own mental health and due to time constraints, I apologize for my weakness in being unable to read about things that actual people are being forced to live through. It is my privilege living where I do and being who I am, and I’m not strong enough to let that go entirely. I also apologize if I suffered from average Tumblr-level reading comprehension and misunderstood any of these references, but that’s why I’m posting them here as well, so that others can learn as well and hopefully we can all be a little less ignorant together: https://decolonizepalestine.com/ https://www.aljazeera.com/tag/israel-palestine-conflict/ https://globalvoices.org/2023/04/27/unveiling-my-grandfathers-past-palestine-1936-a-book-review-and-personal-odyssey-of-the-arab-revolt/ https://www.britannica.com/place/Palestine/The-first-intifadah https://www.britannica.com/topic/Muslim-Brotherhood https://archive.is/d0cYM << Military Briefing: How Hamas Fights https://mondoweiss.net/2023/11/hopeful-pathologies-in-the-war-for-palestine-a-reply-to-adam-shatz/ https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2023/11/11/we-are-minutes-away-from-death-gazas-al-shifa-hospital-under-attack

Zip folder of other documents: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1TXqNnQdPfo5MXGKJ1jUc15jMhnIApdK0/view?usp=sharing