#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.

[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.”

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Oliver Willis at Daily Kos:

After being challenged by Democratic Sen. Chris Van Hollen of Maryland, the Trump administration is in a panicked, full-court press to defend their abduction of Maryland father Kilmar Ábrego García and send him to a dangerous prison in El Salvador. Van Hollen visited El Salvador on Wednesday to check on Ábrego García’s wellbeing and possibly secure his release. He was denied access to the man, who has a wife and two children at home, who has not been charged with a crime, and whom a judge granted protection from deportation in 2019. “U.S. courts have determined that he was illegally abducted from the United States and now finds himself in the most notorious prison in El Salvador,” Van Hollen said in a video statement. “The Trump Administration can lie all they want, but the Court said they failed to show he was part of MS-13,” Van Hollen wrote in a post on the social media site Bluesky, alongside the video. “This is about bringing home a man they ADMIT should never have been abducted. I won't rest until then.” Democrats in the House have backed Van Hollen’s trip, and on Tuesday, two members of the House Oversight Committee, Robert Garcia of California and Maxwell Frost of Florida, requested that the committee’s chair, Republican James Comer, authorize an official congressional delegation to visit the prison where Ábrego García is being detained.

[...] White House press secretary Karoline Leavitt—who has a long track record of lying to the public—claimed without evidence on Wednesday that Ábrego García is a gang member and “foreign terrorist.” According to court documents, the claim that Ábrego García is affiliated with the MS-13 gang is based on hearsay from a police detective who was later suspended.

To further emphasize the supposed threat from immigrants, Leavitt has also hosted Patty Morin, the mother of a woman killed by an undocumented immigrant. The right has often invoked the Morin case to justify its bigoted anti-immigrant positions. Clearly frustrated that some in the media aren’t participating in the attack on immigrants, Trump-appointed Federal Communications Commission Chair Brendan Carr complained and threatened Comcast over subsidiary MSNBC’s choice not to air the briefing—an editorial decision protected by the First Amendment. MSNBC, which airs via satellite and cable, is generally not subject to FCC licensing requirements—something that the head of the FCC should know.

In a Fox News appearance on Wednesday night, Attorney General Pam Bondi ratcheted up the rhetoric, arguing that Ábrego García is a “terrorist” and one of the MS-13 gang’s “top” members. She offered no evidence to corroborate those claims, and Ábrego García has been denied due process to answer such claims in court.

Sebastian Gorka, the administration’s “counterterrorism czar” (who has ties to far-right extremists), claimed in a Newsmax interview on Wednesday that advocating for due process rights for Ábrego García could be seen as “aiding and abetting” a “terrorist” and grounds for federal charges.

On Thursday morning, Republican Rep. Dan Meuser admitted that the Maryland man is not a terrorist but argued that “he’s a potential terrorist” and a “terrorist-watchlist person,” justifying the man’s abduction.

The Trump Regime goes to bat for lies about Kilmar Ábrego García.

See Also:

Dark Skies On The Horizon (Frank Vyan Walton): These blatant MAGA lies about Abrego-Garcia are the purest in evil

The Guardian: Kilmar Ábrego García’s wife rejects Trump officials’ depictions of him as ‘violent’

[distant--shadow]

wip preview of chapter 7 of the witch and the widow

Focus and observation becomes a little too much (that’s probably been the issue all along).

Maybe it’s the way Ms Laudna’s hands seem unable to keep still in her lap as she waits maybe not so patiently as Imogen shucks the shells, deciding it presents as less of a ceremony if she deals with them all at once, laying them back down in a freshly-opened row on the embroidered cloth rather than waiting on the Lady one by one and having to observe piously as she tilts her head back to receive the flesh in communion.

The point of Imogen’s dagger nicks her first finger, managing to pierce through the leather of her glove.

“Shit.”

Maybe it is more of a slice than a nick.

She had, at least, made it to the last oyster before being given the opportunity to bleed all over her Lady’s lunch.

(She definitely could count it as meat then.)

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. I apologise-” Imogen stands, reacting to the blood bubbling between the cut in the glove as if it were a second skin before Ms Laudna can reach for her hand.

“There is certainly no need to do as such, may I have a look?”

Imogen feels the oyster wish to return up her oesophagus, blinks the image of Ms Laudna’s cheeks hollowed around her bloodied finger as she sucks on it from out of her mind.

“That won’t be necessary - I’ve got it, thank you.”

It’s bleeding quite a lot actually. She should really look at it proper.

Fuckin-

Shit.

Idiot.

“Are you sure? I really don’t mind, I know quite a bit about nursing injuries-”

“Honestly I’m gettin’ cuts all of the time - saltwater’s meant t’be good for ‘em, right?” she asks, not waiting for reply and glancing at the Lady over her shoulder as she turns towards the ocean.

“It is. It will sting.”

“Oh it’s doin’ a good job of that on its own - but if y’all are aware of any gators or sharks round here, please tell me before I damage m’self any more; I think that might be a bit past what either of us can handle.”

It’s meant as a joke, but Ms Laudna gives it more consideration than it is worth.

“Only jellyfish as far as I’m aware, so long as you are not planning to go too far out.”

“Jellyfish?”  

“Indeed. They sting, rather like the anemones. There is hearsay that there is a common antidote for such an ailment though.”

Imogen scrunches up her face in scrutiny of the expression that occupies the Lady’s.

“Why d’ya say it like that?”

She airily chuckles.

“This would be my turn to apologise; it conjures up quite the image…”

“Well go on, spill, less I believe you really are findin’ enjoyment in my distress.”

“Only a pardonable amount.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

The Lady smirks as she levels her attention.

“Someone else can urinate on the area of the sting; they argue that the natural presence of ammonia neutralises it, although I am certain any substances of use would be far too diluted from such a source.”

“Where do you read this stuff? Who told’ya about that?”

“The urinating part? One of Andrew’s old navy friends - not that that makes it a reliable source - I believe they would take any opportunity to see to another man’s jellyfish sting, if you understand what I am implying…”

Huh. Maybe that’s explanation for part of Ms Laudna’s casual nature towards queer folk like herself, something to file for later.

“Well, long as the jellyfish ain’t gettin’ too distressed in the process then let them have their fun, I guess.”

The lady’s eyes fix on the horizon; the look on her face now a bit bewilderingly distant considering the piss-based-banter.

Imogen clears her throat after she feels she let the moment awkwardly stretch out - paws-pointed and cat’s-belly-in-the-sun - in the silence for a little too long; notably less comfortable than that, enough for its skin to catch a burn.

“Alright, I’m goin’ down to the ocean. I’ll be right back.”

Just as quickly the Lady is present to her again, a polite smile gracing her features.

“I will stay here, be careful not to get stung!” maybe more cheeky than polite, maybe worn just as much to placate.

“Good. That’s - that’s good” Imogen’s finger thrums. The distance will be good. “- and I won’t, thank you.”

It would be a lot of layers of fabric to wrestle with.

It wasn’t really Imogen's intention for when she reached where the waves perpetually break, but her body starts to move on instinct; pulling off her work-worn shoes without undoing the laces, shrugging  the suspenders from over her shoulders and undoing the buttons of her trousers, letting them fall around her ankles.

It’s the summer, knee-length drawers should be plenty. There’s no one else about on the beach (save the Lady); no one else to scorn her or report her to the local authorities for exposing herself (and in men’s drawers at that. They had to be men’s; she needed them to be closed and to fit under her trousers without all of the frills and pleats in the lacing showing through the linen-)

And the Lady is far enough away - Imogen reminds herself as she pulls her shirt over her head, chest bare to the sea air and immediately transmuting her skin into gooseflesh - the Lady is far enough away that she surely can’t really see anything; sat in the long shadow of the cliff, her pale skin remaining fresh-milk white despite the season – Imogen almost thinks that it’s a shame that she is not sitting closer on the sand, with a black lace parasol to match. She ain’t ashamed of her body – didn’t need the courtesies her mistress offered; leaving Imogen alone in her stately bedroom so that she could get changed into her dead husband’s clothes – she should have looked through her dressers or desk drawer when she had the opportunity – maybe she could create another?  Focus and observation is hard. Imogen reminds herself that; reminds herself that she ain’t ashamed of her body as she unbuttons the gloves on her hands at the wrist, mindful to keep them in front of herself once they are revealed, the skin underneath where it isn’t blemished and mangled almost as pale as Ms Laudna’s.

From a distance it might still look like she has the gloves on anyway – it certainly ain’t easy to tell the blood and the cut and the clotting from the scar tissue.

At least it wasn’t her tongue.

It was just the end of her finger, so naturally Imogen had scuttled away and stripped herself nearly naked in order to submerge herself underwater.

This time she planned for the pull, saving her clothes from getting soaked, saving herself from the Lady’s gentilities.

Silk on her chest, soup in her stomach, the knots of flora untied from her hair-

She wonders again if hornwort can be found out in the ocean - what its closest seaweed relative would be.

The water is already well above her ankles and midway up her calf when she thinks to register the temperature of it.

Warm enough, at this depth at least. Welcoming with each collapse that laps at her knees, cat nuzzling into her palm and licking at the skin, whiskers of seagrasses.

She wades in further, until her fingertips meet the surface, the tendril of blood diluting in the water only momentarily visible like cleaning off a quill, a space she could write messages and no one else would find them, despite what careless talk the rivers carried to the estuaries to be laid to rest here.  

She steps in further still, to her hips, her waist, her chest, her shoulders - her hair splaying out all around her on the surface.

She wonders how deep the ocean is,

how long she can hold her breath-

Imogen learned to swim in a flooded quarry. The water was an unusually bright light turquoise from all of the minerals.

It was terribly deep;

she was never able to reach the bottom.

(previous chapters hereeeee)

[arylleth]

I’ve recently received some hate messages—completely misleading and unrelated to the reflections I share on my blog (which are anything but political; have you ever heard me talk about politics?). These messages made me think deeply about hatred, about how it has become a persistent part of our social fabric, and I came to the conclusion that it is a symptom of fragility.

The hatred that spreads today is not new, but it has taken on new forms: more viral, more visible, more legitimized. It is “liquid” hatred, to borrow Bauman’s term, because it no longer needs deep roots—it only needs a screen, hearsay, a spark. It is a phenomenon that spreads rapidly not because people are more evil today, but because the conditions for hating have become structurally more favorable. Donskis would say we live in an era of “moral amnesia,” where the capacity for empathy has been eroded by speed, distraction, and oversimplification. Hatred thrives where complexity is perceived as a threat rather than a richness.

In times of widespread anxiety, hatred becomes an emotional shortcut, a form of existential simplification. Its proliferation does not necessarily indicate an increase in cruelty, but rather a crisis in the psychological and cultural resilience of democratic societies. Zygmunt Bauman, in his analysis of “liquid modernity,” explained that in postmodern society, relationships become precarious, horizons uncertain, identities fluid. In such a scenario, hatred offers the illusion of sharp boundaries—between “us” and “them,” between right and wrong, pure and impure.

Leonidas Donskis, in his Power and Imagination, reminds us that hatred is not only a destructive force but also a pathological substitute for hope. When we are no longer able to imagine credible political alternatives or supportive communities, we retreat into defining the other as guilty. In this sense, hatred is the emotional revenge of helplessness.

Where does the fire start?

1. Existential Uncertainty We live in what Alain Ehrenberg called a “society of the fatigue of being oneself” (La fatigue d’être soi). People, forced to endlessly construct themselves, suffer under the weight of self-sufficiency as a mandate. In this context, psychological instability is no longer marginal—it’s structural. When the individual fails in the task of self-legitimation, frustration turns into aggression. The crisis of collective narratives—religious, political, ideological—leaves individuals naked before the chaos of the world, without tools to process fear except through anger. Byung-Chul Han, in his The Burnout Society, speaks of a transition from “virus” to “neuron”: we are no longer oppressed by authoritarian power but by an excess of positivity, performance, and self-assessment. Violence thus explodes not as transgression but as a side effect of individualized psychological pressure. Simply put: people live in a chronic state of insecurity—economic, social, identity-based—and when fear takes over, scapegoats are sought. The "other" becomes the target: the immigrant, the different, the poor, the feminist, the queer, the educated, the “weird.” Hatred becomes a way to simplify the world and feel on the right side.

2. Cognitive Infantilization Yascha Mounk, in his The People vs. Democracy, emphasizes how the simplification of public debate—driven by algorithms, sensationalist media, and digital tribalism—contributes to the erosion of democratic competence. It’s not just ignorance, but a structural redefinition of the culture of discourse, where complexity is considered elitist and doubt a betrayal.

As Umberto Galimberti observes, we live in a society that has replaced paideia (the formation of the soul) with training for competition. School, politics, and media tend to produce consumers and fans—not critical citizens. And without the ability to argue, only impulse remains.

There is a cultural regression facilitated by the media and political system. Public opinion is often fed on slogans, memes, disposable outrage. Depth is boring—and thus discarded. Idiocracy, as imagined by Mike Judge in his film, isn’t so far off: it is a dystopia founded on progressive critical disempowerment.

Idiocracy is not an extreme phenomenon but a pervasive process: it is the transformation of public discourse into an arena of moods.

3. Incentivized Polarization “Divide and conquer” today happens not only through political manipulation but also through algorithmic consensus-building. Social media platforms reward outrage—it is immediate, contagious, gratifying. Anger generates clicks, shares, visibility. A calm and reflective citizen is of no interest to platforms.

Byung-Chul Han puts it bluntly in In the Swarm:

“Digital culture does not foster a public space of reason, but a storm of emotions.”

In this storm, the powerful no longer need to censor. They simply keep everyone busy fighting each other. Debates around minority rights, for example, become weapons of mass distraction: important issues, of course, but instrumentalized to draw attention away from systemic ones—economic inequality, concentration of power, the climate crisis. Anger sells. A furious, but divided, people cannot organize. A society arguing over gender-neutral bathrooms or vegan meat won’t question wealth redistribution, manipulation of consent, or data abuse. As Han wrote, power today doesn’t repress—it seduces and distracts.

The exasperated and confused citizen becomes an involuntary soldier in superficial battles.

Have we become intolerant—or merely fragile? Intolerance and fragility go hand in hand. When fragility is not acknowledged, processed, or cared for, it becomes aggression. Umberto Galimberti, in The Unsettling Guest, teaches us that youth nihilism does not arise from a lack of values but from an excess of empty values—imposed without internalization.

We talk a lot today about inclusion but rarely practice radical listening to difference. The society of hyper-identities (ethnic, sexual, religious, political) has ended up erecting emotional and cultural barriers that are harder and harder to cross. Anyone who doesn’t fully conform to the code of their “group” gets expelled. Tolerance has become a posture, not a practice of doubt. We are not absolutely more intolerant. But we are less willing to tolerate what questions the ego. The performative individualist society—the one that tells you “you are special,” that you must always be right, that every critique is an attack—has eroded our ability to tolerate dissent. Dialogue gives way to confrontation because difference is no longer an opportunity, but a narcissistic threat.

And so, as Donskis observed, empathy has thinned out. It’s not gone—but it’s intermittent, selective, performative. No longer a human duty, but a hashtag.

Conclusion: What is to be done? Hatred cannot be fought with common-sense rhetoric, but with a care for the polis that begins by recognizing psychological suffering as a political fact.

Donskis left us with this warning:

“Kindness is the most subtle form of dissent in an inhuman age.”

We need a counter-pedagogy of empathy, complexity, and slowness. A rehabilitation of thought as a form of resistance. If we want to resist idiocracy and polarization, we must foster a culture of complexity—one that can recognize pain without simplifying it.

In a world that screams, thinking is already an act of peace.

Or at least, this is the conclusion I’ve come to. So, to those who are behind these messages that don't give me a chance to reply ( accuse me and then block me from talking? mature), I don't hate you, I feel sorry for you and for how you are instruments in the hands of political hatred. For anyone interested, I can share PDFs of the essays I’ve referenced, for educational purposes — not to harm bookstores or anything like that, but to expand minds, spark curiosity, and spread knowledge even to those who can't afford to buy books to save money, especially to those who can't afford them. I believe, now more than ever, that we need it.

Don’t be haters—be human. (Also, hate gives you wrinkles. Do you want wrinkles before their time and waste your retinol creams?)

[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 :)

[theadmiralsdaughter]

Often on early summer nights and spring afternoons, Maristella and her family would have supper or tea on the balcony, with a view of the harbor and the horizon, and a gentle breeze not unlike the one tonight.

On evenings such as these, however, the grand ballroom’s balcony was instead populated sparsely by individuals and pairings and trios: of decorated strangers who found even the perks of being wallflower to be far too social; of those using a moment’s fresh air as a reason to displace themselves from unwarranted companionship; of well-dressed young men putting smooth words together to charm even more well-dressed young women; of ladies of quality who’d stepped out for a moment together to share bits and babbles of rumors and hearsay about certain other ladies of quality they knew.

This evening in particular, the balcony of the Arrington Estate found among its inhabitants the admiral’s daughter herself, watching the harbor and the sunset it harbored this evening, sitting on a bench next to certain lieutenant she’d shared her last three dances with, with only as much space between them now as was needful to prevent their being brought to the forefront of the whispered murmurings of aforementioned onlookers.

MARISTELLA ARRINGTON: THE ADMIRAL'S DAUGHTER ch. iii

[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!

[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.

[guileheroine]

questing starward

a lotr ficlet written for this year's candy hearts exchange that i forgot to post here | legolas + gimli | ao3 🩶

They were not named the Empty Lands for nothing. Gimli wished they had come at this quest from the south, for he had heard from Aragorn that the crumbling palaces and fountains of Rhûn were still a sight to behold. Alas. 

For nearly a week, Gimli had not seen a drop of water that didn’t originate in the skins in his heavy pack. Not rain, nor snow, nor a thread of mist. Rain he had not seen since the gloomy afternoon about a month ago on which he and Legolas had forded the swollen Redwater, a fierce rainstorm compensating for the lack of meltwater in this unseasonably chill spring. If he had known it might be his final storm to witness, Gimli might not have been so bitter about it. Now he plainly stank, his once supple skin felt as if it had aged many years in the dry air, and it seemed as though his bones had aged enough for he and Legolas both. 

They picked their way through the sea of grey rock, beneath the grey sky, bisected by the slightly deeper grey of the thin horizon. Here and there were a few saltbushes and other shrubs, more grey than green. Gimli cursed himself inwardly for acquiescing to this pilgrimage. And Legolas he cursed aloud—to his shame, not for the first time that day. 

His companion only tittered, but he could not hide the nervous edge to his voice. “I fancy we are well past halfway now,” he returned after a moment; terse yet limp, the predictable strike of a blunt weapon. They had bandied their sparse words thus for hours now and his reluctance to tread this particular conversational path again was so plain as to be palpable in the frigid air. It was nothing like their usual lusty debates. 

“Halfway to what exactly?” Gimli failed to suppress the retort, so he made sure it came out in a somewhat arch tone, at least. The scree crunched underfoot. Endless foothills that never quite gave way to mountains. What a sight a mountain would have made right now. 

“Oh, come,” Legolas said lightly. “I have told you there are waymarkers. There is still a stream that came down from the Orocarni, and where it dries out in the old sea-bowl, you need only go a league or a half north and there is the very site of Cuivienen.”

He did not add that this information was hearsay. Gimli, with his best effort, also did not add it. He could see even Legolas’ dauntless spirit quailing with the miles.  

Although the bay of Cuivienen and the Sea of Helcar on whose fringe it sat were long gone (so said the Wise), Legolas could not be dissuaded from his quest to find the spot and sit and ponder there, and bring the dearest companion of his heart there, if he would come.

Which he would—he did—however grudgingly. 

Among the Eldar and the Men of Westernesse that grew under their tutelage, the westlands were associated with elves and Elvenhome, but some of the wood-elves of Middle Earth cast yet further back and into the shrouded east for their history. This was no ordinary quest for Legolas, and he had chosen to make it not with some number of his kin, who would have shared his wonder, but with Gimli. Secretly Gimli wondered if this journey was not, for Legolas, a bulwark against the Call. He knew how it haunted him, and he knew that it was a burden that his folk in the Wood did not share. At whiles the longing would stir from its slumber, and Legolas would take up a brand new venture that in some degree served as distraction.

Usually his quests and projects were more… fruitful than this. Gimli supposed the least he could do was be a good sport. Since at this moment he could not, he kept his silence. 

Eventually dusk fell and brought respite from the grey. The clouds began to thin. They sat and shared their nightly supper of waybread, still passing few words. Gimli had tired of lembas and his despondent gut ached for some game, but there was little use looking. Legolas had heard the rustlings of a few low critters but neither man nor beast had yet been sighted in this barren land: indeed they had long stopped trading the night watch, each lying down to their preferred form of oblivion together. Gimli would half welcome the interruption of some wild beast or bandit. He took a meagre sip of stale water that did little to slake his thirst.

The vast vacancy of the world around them deepened and finally, the stars blinked open. Slowly they crowded the blackening sky, much as Gimli wished anything—trees, mountains, rivers—might come up and populate the land about them.

Legolas seemed to have found the same thought. “Ah, Elbereth’s forest,” he sighed, falling back with his fair face to the vault.

Gimli sat and smoked, angling so the wind would not blow it towards Legolas’s corner of the bedroll they shared. Legolas tossed and turned and pursed his lips on the far end. Once Gimli had slid under his blankets, Legolas finally spoke again, his head still gazing starward from the pillow of his folded arms. 

“If these lands have nothing else to offer, they offer a lovely pavilion from which to admire the heavens.” There was no trace of chill in his voice this time: not a strike or counterstrike, but a truce offering, plain and earnest.

Gimli made no reply yet, but he directed his gaze to join Legolas. 

“Look,” Legolas said softly, unmistakable wonder in his tone. “Durin’s Crown. Have you ever seen it shine so? This must be near to how the stars appeared when our kindred first looked upon them and took their name.”

“Durin’s Crown, you say?” Gimli stroked his beard as he silently counted the pricks of light that made up the constellation. “And how do they call it in the Elven tongues?” He was ready to chop logic about the doubtless inferior nomenclature.

Legolas could hear it in his voice, and he broke into a smile. At last, the spring of words flowed. Thus they went on, close whispers under distant stars. For this night at least, Gimli was quenched in spirit if not body.

[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.

[rmpro]

The Role of a Financial Investment Advisor App in Stock Market Investing

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Personalized Investment Guidance

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Risk Management and Alerts

Risk is an inherent part of stock market investing, but it can be managed effectively. These apps monitor your portfolio continuously and alert you about potential risks or underperforming assets. You’ll receive notifications when it's time to reallocate funds, take profits, or cut losses—allowing you to stay ahead of the market rather than reacting too late.

Educational Tools and Market Analysis

A good advisor app doesn’t just tell you what to do—it helps you understand why you’re doing it. Many apps offer educational content, tutorials, expert blogs, and analysis tools that allow you to deepen your understanding of market mechanics. As a result, your decisions become more informed and less driven by emotion or hearsay.

Real-Time Insights and Automation

Timing is crucial in stock market investing. These apps provide real-time insights into market movements, helping you act quickly when opportunities arise. Some apps even offer automation features, allowing you to set triggers for buying or selling based on your chosen criteria. This minimizes the chances of missed opportunities due to human delay or oversight.

Choosing the Best Stock Advisory App

With numerous options available, selecting the best stock advisory App can significantly influence your investment success. Look for an app that is SEBI-registered, user-friendly, offers personalized recommendations, and has a strong reputation for data accuracy and customer support. Whether you're a novice or a professional, the right app can transform the way you approach investing.

By RMPRO financial investment advisor App is more than just a convenience—it's an essential tool for modern investors. By offering personalized advice, educational resources, risk management, and real-time insights, these apps empower individuals to invest with confidence and strategy. In an era where data drives decisions, leveraging technology to manage your finances is not just smart—it’s necessary.

[banarjeenikita]

Why First-Time Investors Should Hire a Mutual Fund Advisor

Taking the first step into the world of investing can be both exciting and overwhelming. With a wide variety of investment options, complex financial terms, and constant market fluctuations, it’s easy for a first-time investor to feel lost. One of the smartest moves you can make as a beginner is to seek the guidance of a Mutual Fund Investment Advisor. These professionals bring a wealth of experience, personalized strategies, and the confidence you need to build a solid financial foundation.

In this article, we’ll explore why hiring a mutual fund advisor is a smart decision for those new to investing.

1. Understanding the Basics with Expert Guidance

As a first-time investor, you might struggle to understand concepts like NAVs, SIPs, asset allocation, or equity vs. debt funds. A Mutual Fund Investment Advisor breaks down these concepts in a way that’s easy to understand, helping you make informed decisions rather than guessing or relying on hearsay.

Instead of spending hours researching, an advisor educates you on the fundamentals, making your entry into mutual fund investing smooth and stress-free.

2. Customized Investment Plans Based on Your Goals

Every investor has different goals—whether it’s saving for a home, planning a child’s education, or building retirement wealth. A Mutual Fund Investment Advisor takes the time to understand your financial objectives, risk appetite, income level, and time horizon.

Based on this analysis, they recommend suitable mutual funds and strategies tailored specifically to your needs. This personalized approach increases the chances of achieving your financial goals efficiently.

3. Avoiding Costly Mistakes

One of the biggest risks for first-time investors is making emotional or impulsive decisions. Whether it’s panic-selling during market dips or investing in high-risk funds without understanding the consequences, these mistakes can cost you.

A qualified Mutual Fund Investment Advisor helps you avoid such errors by providing rational, data-backed advice. They act as a financial coach, encouraging discipline and a long-term perspective—key ingredients for wealth creation.

4. Navigating Market Volatility

Markets go up and down, and as a new investor, this volatility can be intimidating. During such times, having a professional by your side offers both clarity and confidence. A Mutual Fund Investment Advisor helps you stay on course, rebalance your portfolio if needed, and ensure that your investments align with your long-term plan.

Their experience helps you ride out the market’s ups and downs without making hasty decisions that could derail your financial progress.

5. Saves Time and Reduces Stress

Researching, comparing, and tracking mutual funds is a time-consuming process. For someone new to investing—or someone with a busy lifestyle—this can quickly become overwhelming. A Mutual Fund Investment Advisor simplifies the process by doing the heavy lifting for you.

From recommending funds to handling paperwork and reviewing performance, they manage your investments efficiently so you can focus on your life without worrying about day-to-day market movements.

6. Ongoing Support and Portfolio Review

Investing is not a one-time activity. As your life changes—new job, marriage, children, or retirement—your financial goals and risk tolerance may shift. A Mutual Fund Investment Advisor conducts regular reviews and updates your portfolio accordingly to ensure it stays aligned with your evolving needs.

They also keep you informed about market trends, tax-saving opportunities, and regulatory changes that may affect your investments.

Final Thoughts

For first-time investors, the world of mutual funds can seem complex and even intimidating. But with the support of a qualified Mutual Fund Investment Advisor, you gain access to professional insights, customized strategies, and the peace of mind that comes with knowing your money is in capable hands.

Instead of taking unnecessary risks or feeling overwhelmed, you can begin your investment journey with clarity, confidence, and a clear path toward financial success. Think of a mutual fund advisor not just as a guide, but as a long-term partner in your wealth-building journey.

[investornesia]

20 Beginner Mistakes to Avoid When Investing

In the wake of the 2025 market downturn, many novice investors faced significant losses, underscoring the critical importance of informed investment strategies. The allure of quick gains often leads beginners into pitfalls that can jeopardize their financial goals. Understanding and avoiding these common mistakes is essential for building a resilient and profitable portfolio.1. Neglecting Proper Research Investing without thorough research is akin to navigating uncharted waters without a map. Many beginners rely on hearsay or trending news to make investment decisions, leading to uninformed choices. According to Investopedia, a lack of adequate research is a prevalent mistake among new investors. To mitigate this, it's imperative to delve into a company's financial health, understand its business model, and assess industry trends before committing funds. 2. Attempting to Time the Market The temptation to buy low and sell high often leads investors to try and time the market—a strategy fraught with risk. Market timing requires precise predictions about market movements, which even seasoned professionals find challenging. As noted by Dimensional Fund Advisors, attempting to time the market can result in missing periods of substantial returns, thereby negatively impacting long-term performance. A more prudent approach involves consistent investing and adhering to a well-thought-out strategy. 3. Lack of Portfolio Diversification Concentrating investments in a single asset class or a few stocks exposes investors to heightened risk. Diversification—spreading investments across various asset classes, industries, and geographies—helps mitigate potential losses. BlackRock emphasizes that diversification is a fundamental technique to minimize risk and enhance portfolio resilience. By allocating assets across different sectors, investors can reduce the impact of any single underperforming investment 4. Emotional Decision-Making Emotions can significantly influence investment decisions, often leading to impulsive actions during market volatility. Fear and greed may cause investors to sell during market lows or buy during unsustainable highs. Morgan Stanley highlights that emotional investing can derail long-term financial plans. Establishing a disciplined investment strategy and adhering to it, regardless of market fluctuations, is crucial for success.=5. Overlooking Investment Costs Fees and expenses associated with investments can erode returns over time. High management fees, trading commissions, and other costs can significantly impact the growth of an investment portfolio. According to Charles Stanley, being mindful of investment costs and seeking low-cost investment options can enhance net returns. Investors should carefully review fee structures and consider cost-effective investment vehicles such as index funds or ETFs. 6. Ignoring Risk Tolerance and Time Horizon Investing without considering personal risk tolerance and investment time horizon can lead to unsuitable asset allocations. Younger investors with a longer time horizon may afford to take on more risk, while those nearing retirement may prefer conservative investments. Investopedia advises aligning investment choices with individual risk tolerance and financial goals to ensure a comfortable investment experience. 7. Reacting to Market Noise Financial news is replete with sensational headlines that can provoke knee-jerk reactions from investors. Making decisions based on short-term market news rather than long-term fundamentals can be detrimental. Dimensional Fund Advisors suggests that focusing on long-term objectives rather than daily market fluctuations is more beneficial for investors. 8. Failing to Rebalance the Portfolio Over time, a portfolio's asset allocation can drift from its original strategy due to varying performance among investments. Regular rebalancing ensures that the portfolio remains aligned with the investor's risk tolerance and financial goals. The U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission recommends periodic portfolio analysis to determine if rebalancing is necessary to maintain desired asset allocations. 9. Chasing Past Performance Investors often gravitate towards assets that have recently performed well, assuming the trend will continue. However, past performance is not indicative of future results. Dimensional Fund Advisors warns against selecting investments solely based on historical returns, advocating for a focus on fundamental analysis and future potential instead. 10. Neglecting Tax Implications Taxes can significantly impact investment returns. Failing to consider the tax consequences of investment decisions may lead to unexpected liabilities. Understanding the tax treatment of various investment vehicles and strategies is crucial. Consulting with a tax professional or financial advisor can help optimize after-tax returns and ensure compliance with tax regulations. 11. Investing with Borrowed Money Leveraging investments by borrowing can amplify gains but also magnify losses, potentially leading to financial distress. Kiplinger advises against using borrowed funds for investing, especially for beginners, due to the heightened risk involved. 12. Not Having Clear Investment Goals Investing without specific, measurable, and time-bound goals can result in a lack of direction and suboptimal asset allocation. Defining clear objectives helps in formulating appropriate investment strategies and measuring progress. Whether saving for retirement, education, or a major purchase, having well-defined goals is fundamental to investment success. 13. Overconfidence in Abilities (continued) market experience. A study published by the The Journal of Finance found that individual investors often trade excessively due to overconfidence, which generally results in lower net returns. This behavioral bias can lead to poor timing decisions, underestimation of risk, and failure to diversify. To counteract overconfidence, investors should focus on data-driven decision-making, set realistic expectations, and periodically review their investment performance with objective benchmarks. 14. Ignoring Inflation’s Impact While preserving capital is essential, especially for conservative investors, failing to consider the erosive effect of inflation can be detrimental over time. Investments in low-yield savings accounts or fixed-income products may not keep pace with rising prices. According to Morningstar, investors should include inflation-hedging assets such as Treasury Inflation-Protected Securities (TIPS), equities, and real estate in their portfolios to preserve purchasing power. Incorporating a mix of growth and income-producing investments can provide a buffer against long-term inflationary pressures. 15. Misunderstanding Risk vs. Volatility New investors often conflate volatility with risk, believing that short-term price swings equate to permanent capital loss. While volatility refers to price fluctuations, risk is the potential for an investment to fail to meet objectives or suffer a loss of capital. As explained by Investopedia, understanding the distinction between the two is critical to maintaining a rational perspective during market turbulence. Long-term investors must develop a tolerance for volatility and avoid panic-selling during temporary downturns, focusing instead on the fundamental strength of their investments. 16. Following the Herd The fear of missing out (FOMO) drives many investors to follow market trends without conducting independent analysis. This herd behavior can inflate asset bubbles and expose participants to sudden downturns. For example, the meme stock phenomenon in 2021 led to dramatic price swings in companies like GameStop and AMC, which later reversed sharply. As reported by The Wall Street Journal, many retail investors incurred losses after jumping into trades driven by social media hype rather than fundamentals. Prudent investing requires skepticism, patience, and a commitment to due diligence. 17. Failing to Automate Investments Consistent investing is one of the most reliable paths to wealth creation. However, many investors fail to automate their contributions, leading to missed opportunities. Setting up automatic transfers to investment accounts helps enforce discipline and capitalize on dollar-cost averaging. According to Vanguard’s official guide, automatic investing smooths out the impact of market volatility and fosters a long-term mindset. It also reduces the temptation to time the market or skip contributions due to temporary uncertainty. 18. Not Reviewing Performance Regularly Investors often adopt a "set it and forget it" approach, ignoring performance reviews. Without periodic assessments, it’s easy to miss underperforming assets or drift away from target allocations. As emphasized by Morningstar, regular portfolio reviews—quarterly or annually—allow investors to reassess risk, adjust strategies, and take advantage of new opportunities. Performance evaluation should include not just returns, but also alignment with goals and risk exposure. 19. Confusing Speculation with Investment Speculative behaviors, such as trading based on rumors or investing in high-risk assets without a clear rationale, often masquerade as investing. This confusion can lead to significant losses, particularly when chasing quick profits. As stated by Forbes, investing involves thorough analysis, a defined time horizon, and an understanding of the intrinsic value of assets. Speculation, on the other hand, relies heavily on price movements and short-term momentum, and lacks foundational support. Clarity on the purpose and method of capital deployment is key to long-term success. 20. Not Seeking Professional Advice When Needed Many beginners try to manage their entire investment journey independently, often overlooking the benefits of professional guidance. Financial advisors can offer personalized strategies, risk assessment, and tax planning insights that go beyond general advice. As explained by Barron’s, investors working with advisors often experience better financial outcomes due to structured planning and behavior coaching. Even for self-directed investors, periodic consultations with certified professionals can enhance decision-making and ensure alignment with long-term goals.

Conclusion

Avoiding beginner mistakes is foundational to successful investing. From conducting thorough research and maintaining diversification to understanding risk and seeking guidance, each aspect plays a critical role in building and preserving wealth. The investing journey is not without challenges, but with education, discipline, and a strategic mindset, new investors can confidently navigate the complexities of modern financial markets. Read the full article