#herma ..... let her in.......

[kissingagrumpygiant]

🎁 tova !!

[heartthrobin]

round and round the garden (1)

sam winchester x fairy!reader

wc: 4.7k

warnings: soulmate!au (partners share scars), fem!reader, limited use of y/n, timeline is foggy but we’re working with s8 sam lookwise, reader is a creature, implied age gap (reader is early 20's), reader is uber tooth-rottingly sweet, highkey dumbification of sam winchester, references to thick reader (everyone cheered) but can be ignored, dean being dean, destiel is canon, animals, canon warnings (child kidnapping, violence ect.)

an: literally just wanted to write something fantastical and cutesy so here it is !!! this is part 1 of (probably) 4 :))) let me know if you want to be added to taglist <33 love y’all

summary: the case was bizarre, but no aspect more so than the “witch” at the end of town with the prettiest goddamn face Sam had ever seen and the long pink scar up her arm that matched his own.

part two part three part four

The house wasn't big.

If Sam could really call it a house.

It was more like a cottage, reminding him of children's illustrated stories he never had the childhood to read. Of picnics and fireplaces.

The cottage dazzled like a water colour painting: green shrubbery seeping into every corner of the canvas, with lush pink and orange and yellow fruit speckled across the page.

Creeping around it, wrapping it's branches over the house like an arboreal hug: was the largest tree Sam had ever laid eyes on. The trunk was almost as wide as the street they were parked on and it's leaves draped low over the windows peeking from inside. It stood like a monolith against the backdrop of the forest leering behind it.

The line of trees were inched back just enough to almost convince Sam that this tree, the one engulfing your cottage, made them nervous.

A stone footpath lead to the door.

"I-- looked away for just one minute ..." the woman was inconsolable.

Jenny Perez sobbed into the arm of her couch. Her sister leered in the doorway.

Sam and Dean watched her from the couch over.

"Ma'am," Sam stepped carefully. "We know this isn't easy, but are you sure you didn't see anything in the moments leading up to Manny's disappearance? Even anything ... strange?"

Washington State. Five kids. Two months. Missing.

Each snatched out their gardens where they played.

Sam and Dean had been in Illinois on the tail end of a wendigo hunt when the news of a sixth missing kid blew far enough across the country to land a tiny column on the front page of the Chicago Tribune.

Manny Perez (7) was taken from the backyard of his home this past Sunday night in Fernglade, Washington.

His mother, Jenny Perez (38), said she heard rustling in the bushes behind their house and her son laughing before going to take some food out of the oven. When she returned, her son had disappeared.

Sure it was a terrible story, but regardless, it didn’t arouse enough suspicion out of either Winchester to make it their problem. To convince them it was anything more than a 53-year old psychopath holding children in his basement.

Not until Dean found the entry. The one in John’s journal.

He’d been looking for a passage he swore was in there on wendigo hunting seasons when the ruggedly clipped article fell from between it’s pages.

“Sammy …” he’d flashed him the clip, “look familiar?”

Several articles actually: eight kids missing from the little town of Fernglade. Every Autumn, every twenty years out of some poor mother’s backyard. John had only scribbled one lonely note amongst all the newspaper staining: THE TREES

“No! It’s like I told the police … I just heard him laughing.” Her voice came out as broken shards between the heaving and the hands clutched close against her chest. “I thought I heard another child’s voice, but that was—”

“Jenny, enough.” Sandra Perez piped up from the doorway, clearly enflamed. She turned from her sister to face the brothers on the couch. “What my sister is refusing to consider, and what the rest of us know to be true, is that Manny was taken by that witch.”

“Hermana … she isn’t a witch—”

“A witch?” Dean’s calibre had twisted to intrigued.

“She lives on the edge of town. By the forestline.” Sandra’s arms were crossed tightly. “Jenny always used to let Manny go afternoons out there, God knows why—”

“A lot of the neighbourhood kids did too.” Jenny interrupted, desperate in her approach: hands outdrawn. “She’s not a … a witch. She’s a bit strange but the kids loved her and she was kind to them—”

“And now look. All those children are gone, Jenny.”

The woman deflated back into the couch again, her tear-soaked sleeves came up to find purchase against her cheeks again. They muffled a sob.

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. Dean shrugged with a look that said “maybe?”

Dean turned to the sister, “What has you convinced that this woman is a witch?”

Sanda Perez looked affronted by the question. Like Dean had slapped her clean across the face.

“Oh! Well she’s … there’s always things burning at that house and people have said they’ve heard … like, chanting at night over there.” She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, grasping at the straws of gossip that had dripped down to her willing ears. “And her house is strange and she’s always in the forest at night when it’s unsafe. Who knows what … what rituals she’s doing out there!”

The brothers nodded. “Sure. Would you mind giving us that address?”

Now that Sam was faced with the house, getting his first view through the grimy passenger side window, he’d stray from the description of “strange”. He might have agreed that “enchanted” or “mystical” fit the description of the cottage better if he didn’t resent the magic clichés.

Dean’s finger pressed into the open journal page, tapping along the stained ink of John’s nearly illegible handwriting. THE TREES.

“Now that’s a tree if I’ve ever laid eyes on one.” He leaned over so his eyes could find the top of the tree from under the cover of the car.

Sam nodded. Something felt off when he watched the house, his stomach was twisting up past his other organs in his throat.

“I don’t know man …” his finger reached up to tug at the collar choking him at the neck. Maybe the fed suit wasn’t helping. “Something feels weird about this place.”

Dean scoffed loudly. He picked up the takeaway cup from the centre console, coffee long cold, and slugged the last of it down in one long sip. He surfaced again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Every place we go to is weird.” It was clear he didn’t share the sentiment. “I’m sure we’ve faced worse.”

He unbuckled his seatbelt.

“Well, come on. Let’s go meet this witch.”

Despite Sandra Perez’ less than convincing account of the “witch” at the end of town, it was still worth a visit to know who the townsfolk had decided was guilty in the matter of several counts of child kidnapping. How evil and vile of a person they must be.  

The air was crisp outside the car and the further they ventured up the path, the more delightful the aroma became. There was a thin string of smoke curling from behind the house, it carried a warm woody scent and the tussles of flowers lining the bannister of the porch was making Sam’s head spin happily. He managed a small smile.

“Nice garden.” He whispered offhand.

Dean seemed unconvinced, eyes flashing over the shrubbery with skepticism. “Yeah, well don’t get too close to anything. And don’t touch anything either.”

The door was tall, intimidating and clearly made of some fancy wood. It was slot between the white brick on the face of the house. The feeling from the car had only tripled on the walk up and Sam had his hand against his stomach. He could feel his blood rushing past his ears.

“Dean, I’m really not sure about—”

Dean’s fist connected with the door three times. Curt and professional, like a fed’s would be.  

There was an obvious shuffle behind the door, by then each beat of Sam’s heart was like a foghorn against his vibrating ribs and for a moment he was sure he was going to be sick.

Suddenly, there was sniffle by the foot of the door. A dog? And a voice, caressed gently by a giggle, ushering the animal away.

Sam’s brain was swelling too large for his head, the doorknob creaked from inside – his fists grew ice cold – with a soft grunt, the door was pulled ajar …

It stopped.

With a smile that knocked the wind clean out of Sam’s lungs, you greeted. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

Warmth flooded back in to his palms and the thumping of his head cooled to a dizzy buzz. The nausea subsided to a hot bubbling.

Your frame took up the doorway. It seemed to fizzle around the edges, glimmering like light off a rippling pond.

Sam’s eyes slipped down your body like warm coffee down his throat. Your face was gentle, eyes round and wet beneath a set of suffocatingly black eyelashes. Wide-set thighs rippled all the way down to soft calves and pink painted toenails.

A cream crochet top reached over the expanse of your shoulders, sloping down where the rugged sleeve edges hung off your palms, a sparkling green skirt flirted at the top of your thighs. It’s silk ruffles shivered with your every breath.

If he was momentarily able to lift his eyes from you, which he most definitely was not, maybe he'd notice how Dean didn't seem even moderately as amazed as he was. That might have been the first sign if he did.

"Good afternoon ma'am, I'm agent Alice. This is my partner agent Cooper." Dean dug out the FBI identification from his jacket pocket, flashing it casually. "We just have a few questions regarding some recent--"

"Oh please," you waved your hand airily, "No need for the semantics. I've been expecting you, lunch is out in the garden."

The sound of your voice was sending waves of warmth through his stomach. Like he was sipping hot cocoa at your every syllable.

The ID in Dean's hand wobbled, his face clenched in confusion. "I-- sorry, what?"

In the shift of Sam’s gaze back up your form, he came to find your eyes set on his.

You smiled again. His tongue felt heavy and half-formed words gurgled at the back of his throat: begging to be spat out.

“I-I’m–“

“I know who you are.”

Your eyes flickered back to Dean and Sam felt hollow at the loss of their warmth.

“Not every day you have the Winchesters at your door, now is it.” You finished, stepping aside to allow them in.

“You know who we are?” Dean’s cadence dropped warily, clearly spearheading the conversation where Sam was finding difficulty. But your figure was already disappearing into the darkness of the house.

Despite his sceptic tone, Dean stepped in quickly after you. Sam trailed behind.

The cottage was warm. At least that was Sam’s first thought.

It was quickly ribbed out the way by the sheer visual of the interior.

There wasn’t a single blank wall or spot on the floor uncovered by carpetry.

Rows of paintings and stacks of photographs lined the space between wooden countertops and cherry red couches. Persian rugs and indoor plants spilled from a technicolour mirage of pots.

Desks were cluttered with books, paint supplies abandoned still wet. A dusty chandelier.

But more striking than the portraits and the vinyls and the rugs and the botany textbooks, were the creatures.

“Just watch for Goose,” she waved vaguely at a moving creature that was quickly nearing Sam’s feet, avoiding Dean’s question. “He won’t bite but he will try lick you—”

For a moment, Sam connected that this had to be the dog at the door. But the dog, Goose, was hardly a dog at all. Only once he was licking a stripe up the strip of bare skin at Sam’s ankle did he realize that … it can’t … that’s a fox.

And that wasn’t the start nor the end of it.

Draped over the couch was the largest snake Sam had ever seen. It was curled into the red frilled cushion, fast asleep. On the countertop, two ferrets were dipping in and out of sight behind the fruit basket. A gecko bathing in a sunspot on top of a stack of books. A flock of white budgies perched between the crystals on the chandelier. Three pairs of brown twitching rabbit ears peeking out from a basket of laundry.

It seemed Dean had also taken stark notice of the menagerie that was the cottage, so distracted that he’d forgone mentioning that his question had gone unanswered.

His finger pointed weakly at down at the white boa on the couch. “That’s … that’s a snake.”

You laughed again and Sam was sure he could get drunk off the sound.

“Nothing gets past you boys, hey?”

You kept walking, motioning for them to follow through another arched door out into the garden behind the house.

“Her name is Lydia. She’ll come join us when she’s awake.”

“I sure as hell hope not …” But it was muttered and Sam gave Dean a stern look for his comment. You didn’t turn back.

The garden behind the house was impossibly even more beautiful than infront. Vines creeped up the outer walls, a lemon tree grew along the underside the of the bigger tree engulfing the house. Shrubs and bushes and stark purple flowers. Your whole patch of land seemed untouched by the fingertips of Autumn that was reaching over the rest of town.

In the middle of it all: sat a small white painted table. You’d lined it with sheer cloth and platters of pastries, sandwiches and cakes.

There were three chairs around it.

“Sit, sit, sit.” You were wringing your hands, a light waft of nervousness fluttering off you. “I didn’t know what exactly you hunters eat or don’t eat … so there’s a little bit of everything–“

“Oh, hell yes.” Dean’s initial skepticism seemed to dissolve at the prospect of food and his ass was in the chair before you had chance to say anything else.

You seemed pleased. 

Sam’s face flushed red. He remembered that he still has yet to say a full sentence in your presence.

“Uh,” you turned to the sound of his voice. “T-Thank you.”

The speckles of light through the canopy of the trees drifted over your face. Sam had never noticed that on a person before.

He’d also never paid much mind to people’s hair. Not before yours. It looked like something ripped off the cover of a fashion magazine from the 70’s.

“You’re so very welcome.” Your voice was kind. “It’s more of an indulgence. I haven’t had guests in a while, not since …”

It faded off. “Well, not for a while.”

Jewels jingled around your neck, crystals wrapped in black string: dipping low down between the swell of your breasts that was just visible above the hemline—

Sam quickly swung his gaze back to the table where Dean was scarfing down an icing covered puff pastry.  

His brother was making wildly animalistic groans over the taste. For a moment, it was the only noise filling the space against the shiver of the trees in the midday gust.

Sam didn’t know where to find his tongue. He couldn’t get himself to step away from you.

“Coffee or tea, boys? I have it inside warming on the stove.”

“Coffee.” Dean responded blurrily around a mouthful. You turned to Sam again.

“I—just, I’m—coffee is good.”

You nodded. “Sure. I’ll be right back.”

He watched your figure retreat towards the house. The nausea was bubbling back into view.

“This is some fucking good cake.”

When your frame had disappeared back into the house, Sam turned back to his brother who was cleaning remnants of a second pastry off his plate with a tiny fork.

He quickly neared him, pulling out the chair across from him hastily.

“Dean, have you even considered the possibility that this food is poisened?”

Dean’s face twisted to a grimace, but only for a fraction of a moment before shrugging. “Hey. Worse ways to go.”

But Sam was shaking his head. The dizziness had returned.

“Do you feel sick? I’ve been feeling like … like off since we first step foot on this property.”

Dean watched him with hooded eyes, gaze flickering between his brother and the sliced ham and cucumber sandwich resting at the top of a nearby plate.

“Is that your explanation for the fool you’ve been acting since we walked in the door?”

Looking up from wiping sweaty palms down his trousers, Sam stalled. “W-What?”

“Exactly.” Dean gave in, reaching for the sandwich. “You haven’t been able to string three fucking words together since we got here.”

“I—she’s a witch, Dean.” Sam pressed. “I think she put like a … a spell o-or a hex on me!”

“She couldn’t have done that in the five minutes we’ve been here.”

“She knows who we are, she could’ve hexed our motel room.”

“Looks to me like someone has a crush—"

But Sam’s face was earnest. And maybe turning a little cherry red at the accusation. “Dean.”

Dean huffed. “Fine, fine, we’ll interrogate her and see what she says. If she’s a witch, we just gank her. Problem solved.”

“But—”

The sound of footsteps were reapproaching. The brothers fell quiet.

“Here we go.” Ringed fingers clinked against the side of an ornate red pot where you leaned over Sam’s shoulder. Steaming black liquid slipped into the teacup resting against it’s matching saucer in front of him.

His breath caught in his throat.

“You like the sandwiches?” You aimed at Dean.

He nodded, “Yeah, great stuff.”

You rounded the table and Sam worked hard not to make eye contact with the expanse of thigh peeking up at him as you moved.

“I have to admit, I really wish you’d brought along your angel.” You poured into Dean’s cup.

His head flickered up at the comment. “Cas?”

“I’m a big fan of his.” Your voice buzzed with eagerness, “The whole rebellion against heaven thing. I thought it was really cool.”

To label Cas "his angel" was a fair assessment. The matching fleshy red handprint on each of their chests had confirmed it a long time ago.

Dean nodded slowly. “I’ll be sure to pass on the message.”

You smiled and it made Sam’s stomach contents bubble again. He was starting to worry that maybe you really had cursed him.

The chair grumbled against the grass where you pulled it out. “Right, so I’m assuming you guys are here to question me? Kill me maybe?”

Awkward silence fell. Dean and Sam exchanged glances.

“Uh—”

“Well—”

Between another bout of laughter, you poured your own cup. “Don’t worry. You’re not the first, probably not the last.”

Dean took a long enough break from scarfing food down his gullet to look up at you. “Yes. To question you, for now.”

You nodded. Eyes finding Sam.

“What about you, Bigfoot? Here to kill me?”

Sam reached deep to find his voice again. “Uhm, just a few questions.”

Smiling, you sat further back in your chair. “Great. Go right ahead then.”

“How do you know who we are?” Dean leapt right in, repeating what had been previously left unanswered.

“Someone like me’s gotta know when hunters are moving in and out of town, don’t you think?”

“Someone like you?”

“Yep.” You nodded, seemingly unwilling to offer more than what was being asked.

Sam leaned forward. “So you are a witch then.”

You chuckled under your breath, leaning forward to stir your coffee as if he hadn’t tossed an accusation in your lap. “I see you’ve been speaking to people around town.”

Nobody answered.

So you filled the space again.

“No, I’m not a witch. Slimy bunch them, but then again, I guess you’re not too far off.”

“So what then?” Dean’s voice held that rough edge that dripped through when he was growing annoyed.

Grinning, you shrugged.

A chime, like a ringing sleigh bell, filled the space. Sam’s eyes were drawn just past your shoulders where a tall pair of opal pearlescent wings had appeared behind your head.

“No fucking way.”

Sam choked around nothing. There was a long pause, interjected with a long stare between the brothers across your table.

“Fairies don’t … they don’t exist.”

You reached for a sip of your coffee, looking unperterbed. “Dryad, actually. Give it a google.”

The wings shivered against the movement.

"So what," Dean's glare was heated over the set table, "Evil fairy godmother is that it? What did you do with the kids, eat them?"

For the first time since he'd lain eyes on you, Sam could make out a shine of something unkind crossed your features.

You set the teacup down slowly and your eyes met Dean's with the same heat of the sun glaring down into the garden: "I had nothing to do with those children going missing. I loved them."

Sam wanted to interject, but his chest was tight ... a straining grip of guilt was tightening his throat. She's cursed me, she's cursed me, she's cursed me--

"A couple of the parents said their kids used to come visit around here. Visit the witch at the end of town. That true?"

Gathering a breath and another sip from your cup, your face distorted from indignant to disconsolate. Sam could feel the tightness in his chest ebbing.

You nodded.

"Yes. That's true." From behind your seat, accurate to your predictions, the wide white outline of a snake-- of Lydia-- was creeping through the grass.

Dean's eyes fixated on her approach, all way up until she bound the foot of your chair up into your chest. She rested her head there like a lap dog. You stroked a hand over her head like one too.

"They used to come visit," you continued, "after school some days. I'd make them tea and cupcakes, and they'd come to visit my animals. I taught them about the trees."

A fond look had crawled onto your features. There was another tinkle of bells and the wings behind you disappeared.

"Now nobody comes. Parents are scared. They think I'm ... hiding their children in my basement or something."

Dean surveyed you for a few moments, seemingly deciding you were of little enough danger to dare another piece of white chocolate cake.

"Yeah, you can spare us the pity party sister." He muttered around his fork.

Sam sent him a short lived look. "Well, then if it's not you--"

"We haven't yet decided that it's not you, just by the way."

"--then what is it? Surely you have some idea?"

Lydia was curling up around the back of your neck now. Your eyes found Sam's - he momentarily felt like he was melting - and you sighed softly.

"I've heard some things, nothing definitive." Your hand stroked over the section of the snake still draped in your lap. "It's coming from the forest."

"And you heard this where?" Dean's tone dripped with skepticism.

"The trees told me."

Where Sam was sure would normally be laughter echoing from his older brother, instead, his hand stilled over his plate.

THE TREES.

His eyes flickered to Sam. It was quiet. Dad's journal.

"You can speak to trees?" Sam question was clement.

You seemed refreshed by it, watching him for a moment before nodding. "Part of the gig."

Another silence fell. You sighed. Sam could smell Dean's thoughts from across the table.

"Let me get this straight." Dean cleared his throat, leaning forward in his chair. "You're the garden fairy and you're telling us that the trees have something to do with this? Not really working your best angle here, if you ask me."

The garden rustled again. A white duck emerged from one of the bushes followed by a string of ducklings. You shrugged tiredly.

"I'm trying to help." Your voice was soft. Melancholic.

Your hand reached for a strawberry sitting on a tower of others just past Sam's cup, crocheted sleeve slipping back to your elbow to reveal the scores of golden, beaded jangling bracelets and--

Sam's blood ran all the way icy, turning to a slurry in his veins.

"Care to explain that?" Dean's voice came passing over him as if said from the end of a very long corridor.

Twisting your wrist to look, you shook your head. You grabbed the strawberry and brought it to your lips with the other hand.

"Oh, this?" A jagged scar peaked from the edge of your elbow up into the palm of your hand. It shone pink with marred tissue. "You think I got this from kidnapping children?"

Sam's heartbeat was ringing in his ears, he gripped the edge of his seat with whitened knuckles. His eyes chased up to the side of your face, finding the little spot by your eyebrow where ... the end was split with the mark of the edge of a blade in a fight gone wrong.

"Not mine unfortunately." You continued, dissolving the strawberry to pieces between your lips. "My other half's. I swear they're a bull-fighter or a boxer the way they bang me up."

Somewhere a bird chirped. There was a turbo washing machine in Sam's stomach on full blast and he thought he was about to be sick. At the same time, he was washed over by a feeling of inexplicable warmth. Like a cooled stream of bubbling champagne down his gullet. Like how they always said it might feel. Only now he could put a feeling to the talk.

"Listen, if we find out you've got something to do--"

"D-Dean," Sam's voice tripped over pebbles, "We should go."

The hands now released from the edges of his seat were shaking and his palms were scorching.

Dean looked at him, confusion tugging on his hardened face. Sam thought he might argue, but he nodded slowly. Maybe he noticed his brother's red, sweating face. Again, maybe he was just bored.

"Uh, yeah." He started to push the chair out, but his eyes drifted on a ham and cheese sandwich lingering on his plate. He hesitated.

You jumped up quickly, wrapping Lydia like a scarf, all in the same motion. "I've got a box you can take some food, if you'd like? I could just run inside--?"

"That would be great--"

"No, that's really not necessary--"

Your eyes drifted to Sam, waving him off with a smile that buckled his knees now that he was standing. "Don't be ridiculous. Let me go grab them."

Figure disappearing into the house again, Dean surveyed his brother. "What's up with you?"

Sam didn't answer. In fact he didn't say anything at all until you'd returned, Dean had stuffed as many sandwiches and pieces of cake he could fit into the tupperware and you packed Sam a box against his will.

Not as soon as he would have liked, they were standing at the door again out on the porch front.

"We'll be back, probably." Dean quipped officially, but he lifted the box of food all the same. "Oh, and uh ... thanks."

You were smiling again. "Sure. You know where to find me."

Not for the first time that morning, Sam was struggling to peel his gaze off your face. Your eyes were a swirling mess of colour and the light was flickering off of them at him.

"I'll see you around, Bigfoot."

Your shoulder peeked at him from under your top, a deep red welt matching his own left collarbone.

He nodded curtly, turning back down the path even before his brother. His collar was sticky against his neck and his brain was firing off signals the whole walk down, it begged him to turn back.

Dean jogged to catch up.

"What the hell is going--"

Sam slammed the door on him, crashing into the passenger's seat. He began ripping off his suit, the black jacket flung mindlessly into the back of the Impala.

By the time Dean fell into the driver's seat he was already fighting against the button securing the shirt to his right wrist.

"You have been acting all sorts of crazy since we got here, Sammy. What the hell is--"

Sam pried back the sleeve: bunching it at his elbow. He stuck his arm out to his brother.

Dean glanced between his face and his arm only once before pausing. The long jagged scar from his palm up his arm was impossible to miss. The one that sat identical on your arm.

"Oh."

Sam was sucking in deep breaths through his nose.

Dean's eyebrows rose into his hairline. He let off a disbelieving laugh.

"Well, I'll be damned."

-

taglist:

@firstsnowdrop @writerofthewinds @aria1245 @nyx22-blogs @lucysaloser @britishscum @pookiesnatcher @music-keep-me-sane @cryptid-with-a-cane @sammys-concubine @i-live-for-fantasy @grimbunnie @crystalreedwifey

[bougainvillea-and-saltwater]

Ocs as song lyrics!

I was tagged by the lovelies @bunniletto and @miraakulous-cloud-district (thank you both so much! 💖) to offer my ocs their Signature Song™ so I decided to go for it with my Jia and her Miraak (he is an oc, let us not repeat ourselves on this).

For Jia, I choose the lyrics of the song Breath of Life by Florence and The Machine. It's clearly her by the time she learned she was the Last Dragonborn—while her fierce dragon soul craved to live and devour, Jia, the human, had just gotten out of the most traumatic experience of her life, and she doesn't quite know... whose side she is on? Is she a dovah or a human with a hollow plain heart?

"I was looking for a breath of life A little touch of heavenly light But all the choirs in my head sang no (I believe it) To get a dream of life again A little vision of the start and the end But all the choirs in my head sang no"

"And I only needed one more touch Another taste of devouring rush And I believe, I believe it so"

"Whose side am I on, whose side am I? Whose side am I on, whose side am I?"

"And my heart is a hollow plain For the devil to dance again And the room was too quiet"

For Miraak, I choose the lyrics of the song Seven Devils by Florence and The Machine (again). It's the song he's murmuring while rebelling against the Dragon Cult, hands down—the first verse is dedicated to his fellow Priests and their Dragon masters, the second is pointed toward himself, Herma-Mora, and the inevitable near-death experience with his brother by choice, Vahlok, and the third... The third may also be referring to the continuation of his existence, in some other Era, approximately 5000 years ahead...👀

"Holy water cannot help you now Thousand armies couldn't keep me out I don't want your money I don't want your crown See, I've come to burn your kingdom down"

"Seven devils all around you Seven devils in your house See, I was dead when I woke up this morning I'll be dead before the day is done Before the day is done"

"They can keep me out 'Til I tear the walls 'Til I save your heart And to take your soul"

That was very fun! Now, I'm not really sure who to tag, so I leave this open for anyone who sees it and wants to do it. Consider yourselves tagged y'all! 🥰

[ansu-gurleht]

okay so. still kind of workshopping this but here's my tentative backstory for mushithaypo (hereafter just "spoon"): spoon (called "spoons-her-sugar" back then (he's trans)) was a slave in the telvanni peninsula who somehow got ahold of a black book or something and became a servant of herma mora, hence his arcanist powers. herma mora helped spoon free himself (and transition) and then let him wander tamriel for a bit. spoon first went to elsweyr to learn more about his heritage but at some point herma mora will call in the favor and spoon will go to necrom

[charcoalstardust]

okay just spent hours doing nothing but drawing elbelion so uh here he is in my attempt to draw his armor (and not drawing torment in the damn slightest so it looks like shit)

still haven't drawn the helmet which is a problem but i'll get there eventually

gonna be honest used this here to get a grasp on posing bc uuhhhh i don't have the mental energy to spent hours focusing on that

for the text on the drawing w/ extra additons (warning: biiig text wall. i ramble. i do not shut up.)

also now that i look at this i drew torment on the wrong side of his body.

(here's a link to his toyhou.se page if you're curious)

Elbelion Bluepool (also called Elb by friends & family and Elbe by Bryn)

The Last Dragonborn

— Commonly known as The Steel Soldier on account on having Peladius' enchanted armor. He usually wears the helmet when he's not in a hold save for the rare occasion he takes it off outside of a hold.

— Basically blind due to reading two Elder Scrolls (albeit very spaced out) as there's a period of time that passes before Dawnguard events start. I stole his plot armor

— Herma-Mora's (unwilling) Champion & the unwitting instrument of Mehrunes Dagon. Considering the Skaal & Bosmer both say Herma-Mora, Elb's gathered that Hermaeus Mora & the Woodland Man are similar enough if not literally the same entity. Also after dealing with Mora during Discerning the Transmundane and Dragonborn, he shoved the black books in a chest and hid said chest hoping the books would just vanish from there eventually. All of these events thoroughly messed him up

— For whatever reason, people love using him for their nefarious plots. This has contributed to his current attitude .owards strangers outside of the holds. Some argonian tried to turn him into a blood sacrifice and he felt a little used by the Blades (not to mention Arch-Curate Vyrthur, Mora, and the Mythic Dawn) so it's not like he can be blamed exactly.

— Socially awkward—bad at persuasion. Got through Season Unending with the most anxiety an elf will ever have. He also got snappy at both sides of the war.

— Somehow VERY intimidating despite being a Bosmer. He's tiny compared to most people. (based off the fact I regularly fail persuasion checks but pass intimidation checks with flying colors. it's really funny imagery)

extra things not on there:

In order of what events happen, he goes through the main quest, the mini quest involving Ironbind Barrow, Dawnguard, Dragonborn, a bunch of Solstheim questlines, and then The Cause.

(points to the entire Bosmer race) Sharp canines and strong jaws—for eating meat or biting a hole in your enemies' arms

Has Auriel's Shield

Had a cheatnut horse named Glade for a while up until he went to the Soul Cairn where he gets the conjuration spell for Arvak. Then he lets the guild use Glade. Occasionally summons the Daedric Horse by accident.

(Saying now that I imagine followers hopping on the back of whatever mount you're on. They deserve to be able to do that.)

Does the first two alone, then from Dawnguard to before The Cause he's with Serana. Then they talk about if she ever considered curing her vampirism and by the end of the conversation she decides to go through with it. During that Elb gets a letter and he decides well it shouldn't be that bad so he won't need the extra help right? and because cringe culture is dead Bryn decides to go with because something seems off and they eventually learn that it's that bad

Had about one friend for the longest time—an Argonian who was also crossing the border around the same time. That argonian is the Dark Brotherhood Listener, Zane (@noah-moth-cursed-chaos' oc) and that was about it before he wandered into Riften and got wrapped up in the Thieves Guild.

Only time he became a Thane was just because he helped the Jarl of Falkreath, Siddgeir. It just kind of happened and then slipped his mind.

Due to how active he is with traveling (and the high respect he gets) it's very easy for him to sneak a job or two for the Thieves Guild. Not something he expected to find himself doing but uuhh he met Brynjolf and that just sealed his fate /j

Public Thalmor Enemy #1. They hate him so much. /hj Like—both Elenwen and Ancarion have had encounters with him and he is, again, fairly intimidating for a little guy.

[barfok]

You can't just mention a mephala/nocturnal breakup and expect us not to ask about it!! Jk, instead do u have any more thoughts about Hermaeus Mora? What about Sanguine?

herma-mora introduced them bc they're "both goth" and they went on three dates and then nocturnal stole several hundred minor secrets and scraps of gossip from mephala after they spent the night together, and mephala found out and was pissed and tried to steal them back, but nocturnal didn't want to give them back so she turned all the secrets into crows and that's why nocturnal is always surrounded by crows who whisper things to her. and that's why gossip is bad, my children, because if you start spreading rumours mephala might enact some awful scheme against you to get back at her ex

all jokes aside. random bits about sanguine and hermy maury

sanguine is very dear friends with namira; their spheres overlap significantly and they spend a lot of time together. sanguine throws wild parties and then namira shows up to slurp the spilled drinks out of the carpet, it's a fruitful friendship

hermaeus mora is obsessed with nords even though they rarely have any actually good knowledge, bc nords are stubborn dicks who will keep the dumbest secrets for no good reason, and it's like catnip to hermaeus mora. hermaeus mora spends so much time trying to tease out the top secret horker skinning technique of clan iceberg-hammer it's embarrassing

on that note, i'm convinced hermaeus mora has some intrinsic connection to the thu'um but i'm not sure what. "HERMA-MORA ALTADOON" vexes and haunts me

back to sanguine and mephala. i love that he created the threads of the webspinner for her. i think they're like a form of rent for the fact that sex also gets to fall into his sphere via debauchery. like, sex is mephala's invention and belongs to her sphere strictly speaking, but she lets sanguine have joint custody in exchange for shiny trinkets.

mephala and sanguine are actually fairly good pals. even if mephala sees sanguine as a crass teenager. sanguine has nothing but adoration for mephala and wishes she'd attend his parties more often

[brookston]

Holidays 12.30

Holidays

Cleaning Day (Haiti)

Falling Needles Family Fest Day

Feast of the Holy Family

Festival of Enormous Changes at the Last Minute

Flail Day French Republic)

Freedom Day (Scientology)

Incwala Day (Eswatini, f.k.a. Swaziland)

International Day of Indian Cinema

Kodachrome Day

Let's Make A Deal Day

Lhosar (Gurung People, Nepal)

National Cheryl Day

National Resolution Planning Day

New Year’s Eve Eve

Rizal Day (Philippines)

Smart Highway Day

Take a Walk Show

Tamu Lochar (Sikkim, India)

Food & Drink Celebrations

Bacon Day [also 8.31]

Baking Soda Day

Coffee Day (Hawaii)

Drink With a Straw Day

International Day of the Donut

Kona Coffee Day

National Bicarbonate of Soda Day

5th & Last Saturday in December

Evergreen Tree Day [Last Saturday]

Last Saturday of the Year [Last Saturday]

Independence Days

Day of the Declaration of Slovakia as an Independent Ecclesiastic Province

Midget Nation-in-Exile (Declared; 2009) [unrecognized]

Northern Federation of Occidental Republics (Declared; 2012) [unrecognized]

USSR (Established, 1922)

Xenlandia (Declared; 2021) [unrecognized]

Feast Days

Abraham the Writer (Christian; Saint)

Anysia of Salonika (Christian; Saint)

Boxing the Jesuit Day (Church of the SubGenius)

The Clam (Muppetism)

Ecgwine of Worcester (Christian; Saint)

Egwin of Evesham (Christian; Saint)

Felix I, Pope (Christian; Saint)

Frances Joseph-Gaudet (Episcopal Church)

Gall (Positivist; Saint)

Get Drunk Early for Hogmanay Day (Pastafarian)

Kwanzaa, Day 5: Nia (Purpose)

Liberius of Ravenna (Christian; Saint)

Louis-Jean-François Lagrenée (Artology)

Maximus (Christian; Saint)

Obatala’s Day (Pagan)

Ralph of Vaucelles (Christian; Saint)

Roger (a.k.a. Ruggero) of Cannae (Christian; Saint)

Sabinus, Bishop of Assisi, and his companions (Christian; Martyrs)

Sixth Day of Christmas (a.k.a. Bringing in the Boar)

Twelve Holy Days #5 (Leo, the heart; Esoteric Christianity)

Twelvetide, Day #6 (a.k.a. the Twelve Days of Christmas or Christmastide) [until 1.5]

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Butsumetsu (仏滅 Japan) [Unlucky all day.]

Premieres

Alice, Darling (Film; 2022)

Aqua Teen Hunger Force (TV Cartoon Series; 2000)

Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ (Film; 1925)

Born to Die, by Lana Del Rey (Song; 2011)

The Curious Puppy (WB MM Cartoon; 1939)

Dallas (Film; 1950)

The Gallopin’ Gaucho (Disney Cartoon; 1928)

Kiss Me, Kate (Broadway Musical; 1948)

Let’s Make a Deal (TV game Show; 1963)

A Man Called Otto (Film; 2022)

The Merry Widow, by Franz Lehár (Operetta; 1905)

My Way, recorded by Frank Sinatra (Song; 1968)

Nelly’s Folly (WB MM Cartoon; 1961)

No Man of Her Own (Film; 1932)

Rob Roy, by Walter Scott (Novel; 1817)

The Roy Rogers Show (TV Series; 1951)

Some Came Running, by James Jones (Novel; 1957)

Sounder, by William H. Armstrong (Novel; 1969)

Tainted Dreams (TV Soap Opera; 2013)

Tangled Up In Blue, recorded by Bob Dylan (Song; 1974)

Tin Yop (Pixar Cartoon; 1988)

Two’s a Crowd (WB MM Cartoon; 1950)

Why Him? (Film; 2016)

Today’s Name Days

Felix, Lothar (Austria)

Feliks, Rajner, Srećko (Croatia)

David (Czech Republic)

David (Denmark)

Taave, Taavet, Taavi, Taavo, Tavo (Estonia)

Daavid, Taavetti, Taavi (Finland)

Roger (France)

Herma, Hermine, Minna (Germany)

Anisios, Filetairos, Gideon, Josef (Greece)

Dávid (Hungary)

Eugenio (Italy)

Dāvids, Dāvis (Latvia)

Dovydas, Gedrimė, Gražvilas, Irmina, Sabinas (Lithuania)

David, Diana, Dina (Norway)

Dawid, Dawida, Dionizy, Eugeniusz, Irmina, Katarzyna, Łazarz, Rainer, Sabin, Sewer, Uniedrog (Poland)

Anisia (Romania)

Dávid (Slovakia)

Judit, Judith, Raúl (Spain)

Abel, Set (Sweden)

Ainsley, Kelsa, Kelsey, Kelsi, Kelsie, Mason (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 364 of 2024; 1 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 6 of week 52 of 2023

Celtic Tree Calendar: Beth (Birch) [Day 5 of 28]

Chinese: Month 12 (Jia-Zi), Day 18 (Ren-Xu)

Chinese Year of the: Rabbit 4721 (until February 10, 2024)

Hebrew: 18 Teveth 5784

Islamic: 17 Jumada II 1445

J Cal: 4 Fest; Foursday [4 of 5]

Julian: 17 December 2023

Moon: 87%: Warning Gibbous

Positivist: 28 Bichat (13th Month) [Gall]

Runic Half Month: Eihwaz or Eoh (Yew Tree) [Day 5 of 15]

Season: Winter (Day 10 of 89)

Zodiac: Capricorn (Day 9 of 31)

[miraakulous-cloud-district]

11, 13, 16 for Signe and Fenrik!!! Hehehehe... 😼 (Ravvy, you will get your question in another ask, I promise! 🤲)

OMG HELLO!! I'm always happy to see you in my inbox <3 <3 Thank you so much!

The link to the ask game is here!

11. what do they have in common with you? how are they different? would you get along with them?

Signe: we definitely have the love for freedom and desire to be the ones always in control of our own destiny in common! I won't let myself be forced or influenced to do something I don't want to that others want or expect from me, and neither is Signe. Also, we both romanticize the HELL out of piracy!

Fenrik: we're sensitive and empathetic AF! I relate to Fenrik a bit too much sometimes hahaha! We're so sensitive and soft and we wish there was no suffering in the world. We're also both decent leaders who don't want to lead because it's too much pressure. And we both love sweetrolls. and want to live quietly enjoying sweets and books.

13. what languages do they speak? how fluently?

Signe: When I get to reveal more about her past, you'll see that she grew up in High Rock, even though she is a Nord, so she speaks a bit of bretic, but mostly Tamrielic. She was being taught bretic when she was little, but hated it because it sounded "too fancy". By the end of her journey, she will have learnt many, many words (mostly greetings, ways to show gratitude and swear words) in almost all languages because she has been adventuring everywhere!

Fenrik: old atmoran, of course, and he leant many, many languages in Apocrypha simply for lack of a better thing to do during his imprisonment. However, as he spends more time on Nirn and in the fellowship, he notices that it all gets mixed up in his head and that he starts forgetting things, because there is only so much information that his brain can hold. Also, he will eventually start forgetting more and more knowledge that he acquired in Apocrypha. I headcanon this as a way of healing and letting go of his burden that he got when he was Herma Mora's champion.

16. do they have any pets? what do they call their pets?

Signe: the pirate life is kind of dangerous to pets, so no. She wouldn't commit to having a pet anyway, but if she had a pet, she'd name them something demonic

Fenrik: his father never allowed pets in his household, but he always fed every animal he crossed paths with! Again, his life right now is not super pet-friendly, but maybe he will have something in the future!

Bonus, Ravonna live reaction to not receiving any asks. (She is so spoiled and used to always being asked stuff, while I'm here laughing 🤣🤣)

[lafcadiosadventures]

Madame Putiphar Readalong. Book One, Chapter Nine:

A cosy tête-à-tête between killers.

Macbeth illustration by John Gilbert engraved by the Dalziel Brothers, 1867 from the wonderful Victorian Illustrated Shakespeare Archive

We are back at the master bedroom of Cockermouth Castle. The Lord and Lady of the castle are doing a bit of party planning (perhaps Anne is already working on sweetening her husband’s temper, as promised)

They are interrupted by Chris, who walks up to Cockermouth “from behind” and mutters a few words in his ear. There is something about Chris’ behaviour that the Lady finds “insulting”. She leaves them, making her indignation and disgust visible. (why is Lady Anne insulted? Shouldn’t she be scared/alarmed for the imminent danger that might be about to fall on Debby? I get that Chris comes and goes into her husband’s room a lot and she might be asked to leave them alone a lot too, but she knows who Chris is, she has to know these meetings usually happen when violence is nigh...)

Chris reports to his commodore, and we get confirmation that the chest was stolen by him.

(Once again the story is constructed by the characters’s multiple pov’s. We know Debby naively assumes Patrick had taken the chesthimself, but the reader is suspicious, and gets confirmation not from an omniscient narrator, but from the dialogue between the commodore and his underling)(So far we have heard from a narrating je, in the poem preface and chapter one, but this voice induces through questioning and irony rather than emitting overt statements. He almost removes himself from the story and makes the chapters very dialogue heavy with minimal interventions to describe attitudes/architecture and nature. He takes the floor in an unambiguous way for the main portraits of Debby, Patrick and Lord Cockermouth -and Anne- but after that he goes back to letting the characters speak for themselves sans editorializing)(isn’t it interesting and disruptive that Borel’s preface is a poem, and a poem about doubt and nihilism, when most prefaces of the day are overt declarations of principles?)

Chris and Cockermouth pry the chest open to find only one letter inside it. Chris leaves Cockermouth who reads it “avidly”. The missive provokes emotions ranging from curiosity, to surprise, to contained rage. (contained rage? That’s new for him)

It is a letter Patrick left for Debby, but she didn’t get to read it. We are unaware of its content. (this points to the reader being allowed to know Debby's thoughts and point of view better than Patrick's. At least for now) For the first time, the villains are one step ahead of us, they know something we don’t.

Chris returns to Cockermouth’s room at night, for the delightful task of helping him get his boots off. He finds him smoking, frowning, rigid and erect against a wall in a way in which he seems to be blending with the building (100/100 symbolism and gothic imagery) he is “like a Hermes on his plinth.” (translation by @sainteverge here!)

Why Hermes, the patron of thieves, of communication, of speed? A trickster god with a sharp wit... Even if Cockermouth is a thief (he has stolen that letter, and his whole wealth is based on imperial power) Hermes’ role as the messenger of the gods -and a spy, and sometimes a treacherous informer- seems to fit Chris better. But the comparison seems motivated by form more than by content. Hermes himself seems irrelevant if you’ll allow me to speculate. Borel seems to have in mind a specific genre of busts of Hermes -called Herma- where the god’s torso blends into the base of the sculpture/a column -featuring sometimes an erect phallus representing virility and war-like disposition- [In fact, french wikipedia  informs me that the expressions “terme”, “hermès”, or “buste d’Hermès” are all synonyms for a bust engrained into its pedestal. (Some diverse examples of Herma here for the art nerds -warning: marble genitals on display-)]

So the master and the castle are one. He embodies the prison, like an aristocratic and more grandiose madame Vauquer -who is also some kind of a jailer- his prison/house is an extension of his body.

Stillness and contained rage, and silent meditation are all aspects of his personality that had been described by the narrator (that to foolish eyes, he could pass for a thinker when quiet) but that are new to us, we are used to his explosions and outbursts.

Cockermouth asks if Chris has a particular grudge against Patrick and wants to know the cause (yes he does, he tried to tell you about it back in chapter six. But would you listen! What a thankless job that of the besotted henchman) So we get Chris’ 1st person narration of his Tale of Woe.

Once upon a time, Chris tried to invite Patrick to drink with him at the local tavern. Patrick refuses politely. Chris misunderstands Patrick’s refusal for classist disdain, (and how dare a cowherd disdain him, “an old sailor”) while Patrick probably just dislikes bloody murderers and colonizers in general.

Patrick replies to Crhis' insulting insistence by telling Chris the onlly time he’d drink with an Englisman he’d be drinking out of his skull. Which is completely iconic and also nice because it could be a private joke by Borel alluding to the bouzingot orgies (I recommend reading Gautier’s hilarious telling of that time Nerval asked his surgeon father to gift him a cranium to make a cup out of it, to homage Lord Byron/Hugo's Han d’Islande/a general idea of a “cannibal” in the bouzingot’s orgies. Just ctrl+f the word crâne here) but more importantly, using his pagan celtic heritage to frighten the English settler, the custom of collecting trophy-heads (a pretty much universal custom of cutting the head of an enemy, embalming it in some way, and making a hole in the cranium to pass a rope through enabling the warrior to wear it as an ornament. Some cultures made chalices for rituals out of them, here’s a video with very nice skull cap imagery)

This remark infuriates Chris. His rage makes him forget the times when he “used to break Frenchmen on my knees like a stick” were long gone (uwu). He tries to punch Patrick, but he’s younger and more agile, manages to land three punches in his face and knocks him out. The people cheer and start chanting “Death to the English!”. And as much as the punches had to hurt, it’s Chris’ pride what’s mortally wounded. Formerly feared, known as “the boarding tiger” (as we know, a beast with negative connotations to Frenchmen in this era, -and probably earlier too? If anyone knows when this derogative connotations of tigers began and why, I’d love to hear- while the lion is the regal, honorable big cat, the tiger is the brutal, base animal. It is also fitting of the Indian setting of Chris’ brutal exploits) and “the anthropophagite”. Chris is sad because he feels like a has been, his glory days of inspiring terror in colonials and rivals’ minds alike are way, way behind him. He is no longer a terrifying embodiment of colonial violence, poor thing, the would be oppressed masses laugh at him, and laughter inspires rebellion. So he makes an oath to himself that one day he would crush Patrick’s throat under his knee.

When Cockermouth asks if he’d like to sate his hunger for vengeance, Chris humbly replies the honor would be too great. Cockermouth orders for him to fetch rum and tobacco. Cockermouth locks the chamber’s door under it’s three locks. The narrator informs us the people of the castle saw lights in his window all night long . . .

[bretongirlwrites]

I fell from some vast height, the towering pages of some badly-ending novel; trembling with the spells which had hit me; wondering if it were death, thinking it were worse, – the air cracking about me; I reached, felt old crumbling paper; and at last, at last, found the floor, found myself dizzy. There was darkness all about me, – in my dreams I saw him again, the masked figure, – 

And then the novel must slam shut: like the Book in my hands, which had been so unearthly, that I cast it away from me; and shaking, must wonder if I had dreamt all of it, or seen it in written words before me. I rejected at first the hands which comforted me, for they were dark and inhuman; at last saw that they were Frea’s and Marcurio’s; and that the green glow of the Book no longer illuminated us. 

‘Oh!’ cried Frea: ‘what happened? How are you feeling?’

I had thought my hands would be ink-stained; and that, pallid as they were, they were made of paper; I could not clutch my friends’ hands enough. Marcurio had half an eye on the Book, as if it might crawl over and snap us all up.

‘It was… it was Miraak,’ said I: ‘Miraak, who is trying to get out; trying to get to Tamriel; oh!’

‘Miraak!’ said Frea: ‘within the Book! did he speak to you?’

‘I do not know,’ said I: for though I tried to remember his voice, I could but imagine it printed, some spidery antique typeface; and Miraak a half-inked woodcut: ‘I think he did. I think he told me, – he told me, – he is the First Dragonborn; and means to possess Solstheim, so he can escape, – escape, –’

Paradoxical, hideous Book, which of all the reasoning world, imposed perfect unreason! so many words, and I could not find the one!

‘Some Daedric realm,’ said I: ‘things I should not know, books half-written, rivers of blood, – of ink, –’

I looked wildly at the both of them: they held me more tightly, and tried to stand me up, that we might go and breathe the outside air. I yet fearing that I’d crumble at the least movement, leaned on them, and slowly unfolded myself, and began to walk.

‘I saw Miraak,’ I said again: ‘he is coming,’ and I fell silent.

‘Herma-Mora,’ said Frea at last: ‘is it Herma-Mora’s realm you saw?’

The idea was so repulsive, that I wanted to deny it: did not speak, until we had found the beginnings of a dusty breeze, which rifling through me, did not turn me into dust. I had wanted to call it hellish; but to compare it to Oblivion, which I’d always thought so dismal and empty! Oblivion, which was not some horrible wealth, glistening in darkness, pressing outwards like books squeezed onto the shelf! Oblivion, – I had not seen Oblivion, – 

‘Hermaeus Mora!’ I cried: ‘oh!’

‘I believe he has some connexion with Miraak,’ said Frea: ‘I do not make a point of knowing about him; but if you saw all that, – rivers of ink, –’

And I blinded at last by the daylight, saw only the water running below, loud and fresh and so entirely in the sun that I almost fell. No more the crackling of pages uncut; nor spells I’d never seen; only Solstheim, which settling, let me read clearly.

‘It… it could have been Hermaeus Mora,’ I admitted: and in my right mind again, did not shiver at it.

Frea put a hand through her hair and pensive, did not reply. Marcurio took both of my hands in her absence; their warmth and solidness most reassuring; and bringing me close, – 

‘This Miraak,’ said he, ‘is about as apocryphal as originally assumed, –’

He’d so awaited the right moment for a pun, that he grinned before he had but finished it; and encouraging at once my smile and my exasperated groan, at last, at last! grounded me in brightness beyond words.

[bitchwhoreofastorm]

event denouement

A few miles outside of Blacklight, Barfok's legs decide to rebel against her. It's quite sudden-- one moment, she's walking, the next's lying face-down in a ditch. Herma-Mora is tickling her face sympathetically and her limbs are cold as ice and her poor, tired legs just aren't listening to her any more.

"Rise, Barfok," Herma-Mora prods her gently with a tentacle.

She sniffles-- her nose takes in ashy soil and she coughs pathetically. "I can't," she snivels, "It hurts."

"If you lie there," says Herma-Mora, with infinite patience, "You will... die."

"So let me die," she wheezes. "Let me choke to death here, on this... on this hateful ash!"

"Barfok..."

The tentacles are all around her, the afternoon light turning soupy and green, like algae in a pond. She whines and pushes her head into a tuft of spiky grass, clenching her eyes shut, feeling branches rake her skin. There's no pain in it, not compared to the screaming hotness of her burned back.

Even behind her eyelids he is there. "Barfok, rise."

"No! I'll die here, I'll die here."

"Rise."

"I want to die. I want to die. I want to die."

"Rise, girl."

"No! Leave me alone! I want to die here!"

"Look at me."

"I hate you. I hate you, you stupid squid meal. You stupid inky pile of dung. You slimy wretch. I hate you. Leave me. Let me die."

"Child of Atmora, look at me."

It is not Herma-Mora who roughly tugs away her coat. Nor is it Herma-Mora whose cold, calloused hands peel away the tunic from her broken skin. Barfok screams a guttural scream and thrashes, but there is a weight upon her, then, pinning her legs to the ground. She cannot see her assailant, but she feels her clothing stripped away from her, feels flames fresh upon her mutilated back, feels hands, prying, oh, gods, there's a hand on her--

"Let go!" Barfok screeches, kicking like a wild thing. "Let go of me! Unhand me!"

"Child!" someone who is not Herma-Mora replies sternly.

"Don’t hurt me!" Barfok yells, kicking out, lashing around blindly, "Go away, don’t touch me, don’t hurt me!"

"Girl--"

Barfok's hand finds an arm and she rakes her nails into it. Then, all at once, the weight rises from her. Wheezing, mouth full of ash, Barfok rolls to her side, then scrabbles frantically to lift herself upright. She manages to peel herself from the ground-- her arms collapse. Someone catches her.

She finds herself lying in the broad lap of a strange woman. "Kyne," she breathes.

For the apparition must be none other than Kyne. The woman now holding Barfok is tall, very tall, and strong, with lean and muscled limbs. Her face is broad and ugly, but her eyes-- her hooded eyes are blue-white, clear as glaciers, pale as the winter's coldest snow, and her hair-- her hair is red like old blood, long and loose and floating around her, thick with electricity. Her skin is pale, her lips thin and dry, the teeth beyond them yellow. The very bones of the earth bend away from her in fear.

"Kyne," says Barfok deliriously, "You've come for me! Yes, Kyne, oh monah Kaan, yes, take me to Sovngarde, take me to bormahi! Take me where the oxen roast and where it no longer hurts, take me back, take me back..."

The most terrible god amongst mortals frowns. "I am not Kyne," she says. "Have I wings?"

Barfok squints at her. "No," she rasps, "But you can take mine. I can feel them growing from my back. Oh, it hurts, it hurts so. Take those wings I'm growing."

"You are badly burned, little one."

"Is that what that is? The fire? Isn't that how a new forest grows? Oh..."

For, really, she got ash in her ruined back, and now that someone is holding her the wound is screaming with pain. She might have blacked out; when she wakes again she's lying on her side, and the thunderous god is behind her, rubbing something into the searing agony that is her shoulders.

"Who are you?" Barfok whimpers.

"I am Atmoran," answers the deity.

"Did Herma-Mora send you?"

"No. Do not breathe deeply."

"What are you called?"

"I am called many things. To the Nords I am Chemua. Brace yourself."

Barfok's world goes black again, and when her vision becomes something other than tentacles and eyeballs she's once more sitting upright, propped up in the woman's arms. She's shuddering all over from pain but the pain isn't bothering her any more. "Chemua," she mumbles, pronouncing it with a K- sound at the start.

"Tchemua," the woman corrects her.

"What did you do to me?"

"Bile of elf. A salve to replace the skin that was lost."

"That's gross."

"Yes." Content that Barfok might remain sitting on her own, Chemua moves around her, settles in front of her in an animal squat. "So," she begins, "Why is a daughter of Atmora dying in the east?"

Barfok certainly feels like she's dying. The earthbones are humming disconcerted  around her and her head is swimming. "Herma-Mora told me to," she answers pathetically.

The incarnate storm that is Chemua makes a contemptuous sound. "A Nord, then," she says. "Obedient you are. Like a sheep."

"Baaa," is Barfok’s feeble response.

"A domesticated animal," Chemua continues. "I should kill you as sacrifice, but Kyne loves not a domestic thing."

"Why are the qethsegolle afraid of you?"

"Because I hate them."

"What for?"

Chemua rises to her feet, glacier-eyes flashing. "For they are not Atmora," says she. "They are not the home that is lost to me. They dare to live when my home has died, and they are not home, and so I hate them. I hate this world, this vus, this task of Shor's. I hate it because I cannot leave it, and because I hate it, I vow to make it hurt. Do you understand?"

Barfok does not understand. She feels very confused-- and very dizzy, and very bashful-- but mostly confused. How can one hate Shor's work, when Shor's work is love, and made of love? How can one hear the qethsegolle and not love them? How does one peer into a candle and not have their face lit up?

Thoroughly perplexed, Barfok offers forth a "Baaa?"

Chemua snorts a laugh and it sounds like a gout of dragon-flame. "A Nordic answer." And, now thoroughly disinterested, she turns away.

"You helped me," Barfok says in wonder, as if that were any sort of argument. Then, "Can you tell me where to find Ysmir?"

This makes the Atmoran pause. "Go towards the mountain," she answers, meditative. "On the northern slopes there is an elven fortress."

"Baa. I mean, thanks. Do you really hate the world?"

"Yes," says Chemua calmly. "Very much.

"I love the world. I love the qethsegolle. Very much."

"No, you don't. If you loved it you would not wish to depart it."

Barfok can't even offer a baa to that. And then it doesn't matter; the pain creeps back, she loses her consciousness again, and when she comes to she's once more walking in shaky Herma-Mora guided steps, alone but for the daedra. And the next time her legs stop working, the next time Herma-Mora has to coax her back to standing, she finds herself whispering furious, indignant whispers: "I don't want to die!"  

[lotreckk]

one of my ldbs + silly sketch with her and brelyna

that's morrigan. she's the first i-ever-created dragonborn and she accidentally turned out to be a little bit miraak-coded lol but she is smarter and has dunmer gf 👁👄👁

she’s an imperial born in cyrodiil, specialising in conjuration and ugh too interested in necromancy for personal reasons (that’s why she was kicked out from the imperial university).

i have an idea for the fic about her let’s say herma mora worshipping problems (+ character development bc she sometimes needs a good kick in the ass to not act like a cold bitch considering emotions as some kind of weakness) but who knows if i will ever really write it or Just Think About It.

[wisp-of-the-willow]

1. Ancient Falmer

2. She likes her daggers, poisons, and sneak attacks. She doesn't fight fair.

3. Skyrim.

4. She doesn't really have anything she could put into words. In her head, it's something like 'there's no justice in the world, and no morality. I do whatever I want because there's nothing that will stop me.'

5. Skyrim. Also Skyrim.

6. Melee, occasionally dipping into ranged combat or using magic to gain an advantage.

7. Honestly, I have no idea. Probably destruction? She's not much of a mage.

8. She finds Sithis comforting. She used to worship the Aedra, but for obvious reasons she's bitterly disillusioned with them.

9. Ananda. It means joy, or so I'm told.

10. No.

11. Land. She hasn't had much experience with the other two. But she was a nomad once. She knows the land.

12. Assassin and adventurer.

13. She's fond of cooking.

14. She's the one who killed the Emperor. She's a monster, but a very skilled one.

15. Neither. She is very clear about that.

16. Just the Dark Brotherhood, which she is fiercely loyal to.

17. She's a bitter, nihilistic murderer, wounded at the core but wrapped in layers of detachment, irony, and cynicism. She's as sharp as the end of a blade, and her wit is cutting but if it comes down to that she'll probably just stab you.

18. Part of her hates it. Part of her thinks it's funny. She might have let the world burn before she bound herself to the Dark Brotherhood. She has a soft spot for the downtrodden, but she's a poor hero.

20. She's apathetic towards most of them. She hates the Companions, because they style themselves after the people who murdered her kin, but it's a cold sort of hate.

21. She is very stealthy. Though she does tend towards the dramatic.

22. She is quite competent at anything except for handling her own emotions and making friends.

23. A fallen empire, a brotherhood reborn, and a world that continues to exist. Little else.

24. Very boring, actually. She's content to stay in the void and she hasn't sold her soul to anyone else.

25. Just her knives, really.

26. Forget-me-nots.

27. She probably uses it to fund the Brotherhood's vile activities. Or perhaps to fuck over someone else. Who can say?

28. Power and alien emotion. It was intoxicating.

29. An assassin, and not much else.

30. That happened eras ago, when the Nords took up their swords.

31. ^o^

32. The Aedra did nothing when the Falmer were slaughter and turned into chattel. The Daedra were never worthy of worship in the first place. Sithis is a comfort.

33. Azura's Star, a few gifts from Herma-Mora... I'm not sure how many else.

34. One day, perhaps, she'll put down the knives.

35. More than there are stars in the sky.

36. Quietly.

Skyrim Questions

If this were a drinking contest and I had to take a shot for every time the word "Dragonborn" was mentioned in this post, my liver would deteriorate on the spot.

Feel free to answer via reblog or notes.

--------------------------------------------------

What's your Dragonborn's race?

Dragonborn's preferred weapon and fighting style?

Where was your Dragonborn born? In Skyrim, Tamriel, or someplace else?

What are your Dragonborn's philosophies, mantras, codes of honor and the like? How steadfast are they in these beliefs? How do they influence their interactions with the world?

Dragonborn's favorite province and Dragonborn's least favorite province?

Does your Dragonborn favor melee, ranged weapons or magic? A mix of all three, or maybe none?

Dragonborn's preferred school of magic? How good are they at it?

Is your Dragonborn religious? Who's their favored god/god/pantheon?

Dragonborn's name and the meaning behind it?

Has your dragonborn ever been cursed? If so, what is the nature of it?

Does your Dragonborn prefer land, sea, or air?

What is your Dragonborn's occupation, be it current or otherwise?

Does your Dragonborn have any hobbies? Are they particularly attached to any of them?

How is your Dragonborn perceived by the rest of Skyrim and Tamriel?

Imperials or Stormcloaks? Neither? Both? Where do their allegiances lie, if they have any? Are they blatant, or subtle?

How many factions is your Dragonborn in? How would you describe their ties to them?

How would you describe your Dragonborn's personality?

Did your Dragonborn want to be Dragonborn? Are they a reluctant, begrudging hero, a jaded and bitter hero, or a stars-in-their-eyes "This is my destiny!" hero? Are they a hero at all?

If your Dragonborn didn't want to be Dragonborn, what would they have rather been?

How does your Dragonborn view all the different factions of Skyrim?

Is your Dragonborn stealthy, "Stealthy" or loud?

How competent are they, be it in general life or other?

When your Dragonborn dies, if they can, what will they leave behind? What will their legacy be?

How epic is the fight between all the gods vying for the Dragonborn's soul going to be?

Are there any items they have that are significant to them?

What flowers lie on your Dragonborn's final resting place, if there are any?

How does Tamriel handle the absolutely massive treasure hoard they left behind, if they do? Do they hide it, in big caches as one big treasure hunt? Do they pass it all down?

What did your Dragonborn feel when they killed their first dragon?

What kind of person will your Dragonborn be remembered as?

When did it all go wrong for them, if it did?

Is that stupid bloody beacon still in their inventory at the end of it all?

How does your Dragonborn view the gods, daedra and deities? How do they view the Dragonborn?

How many Daedric artifacts have they accrued at the end of their journey?

Does their journey ever end?

How many scars do they carry, be they mental or physical?

How do they die?

--------------------------------------------------

[dfroza]

A string of “hellos”

and a warning to stay on guard:

“I am pleading with all of you, brothers and sisters, to keep up your guard against anyone who is causing conflicts and enticing others with teachings contrary to what you have already learned.”

And then a secret being revealed (unveiled):

“… with the revelation of the ancient mystery that has been kept secret since the earliest days, this mystery is revealed through the prophetic voices passed down in the Scriptures, as they have been commanded by the Eternal God. In this time, this mystery is being made known to the nations so that all may be led to faith-filled obedience.”

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 16th and closing chapter of the letter of Romans:

I commend to you our beloved sister Phoebe; she serves the church in Cenchrea as a faithful deacon. It is important that you welcome her in the Lord in a manner befitting your saintly status. Join in her work, and assist her in any way she needs you. She has spent her energy and resources helping others, and I am blessed to have her as my benefactor as well.

Give my best to Prisca and Aquila; they are not only my colleagues in my profession of tent making, but more importantly they are my fellow servants of Jesus the Anointed. They put their lives on the line to keep me safe. Not only do I owe them my thanks, so do all the churches of the non-Jews. Send my regards to the church that meets in their house.

Send greetings to Epaenetus. I love him dearly and celebrate his journey to faith because he was the first to believe in the Anointed One in all of Asia.

Salute Mary for me; she has worked hard for all of you.

Give my regards to Andronicus and Junias, who are part of my own family and served time in prison with me. They are well known among the emissaries and have been in the Anointed longer than I.

Give my best to Ampliatus whom I love in the Lord, and greet Urbanus (our fellow worker in service to the Anointed One) and my beloved Stachys.

Send greetings to Apelles, a tried and true believer in the Anointed, and to the entire family of Aristobulus.

Do not forget to greet Herodion, another of my relatives, and everyone in the family of Narcissus who belong to the Lord.

Greet Tryphaena and Tryphosa, faithful laborers in the Lord, and our beloved Persis, who also has accomplished a great deal in the Lord.

Give my best to Rufus, clearly one of the Lord’s chosen, and also his mother. She’s like a mother to me.

My regards also go to Asyncritus, Phlegon, Hermes, Patrobas, Hermas, and all the brothers and sisters who are along with them.

Greet Philologus and Julia, Nereus and his sister, and let me not forget Olympas and all the saints who journey with them.

Greet each other with a holy kiss. All of the churches of the Anointed under my care send their greetings to all of you.

I am pleading with all of you, brothers and sisters, to keep up your guard against anyone who is causing conflicts and enticing others with teachings contrary to what you have already learned. If there are people like that in your churches, stay away from them. These kinds of people are not truly serving our Lord Jesus the Anointed; they have devoted their lives to satisfying their own appetites. With smooth talking and a well-rehearsed blessing, they lead a lot of unsuspecting people down the wrong path. The stories about the way you are living in obedience to God have traveled to all the churches. So celebrate your faithfulness to God that is being displayed in your lives—seek wisdom about the good life, and remain innocent when it comes to evil. If you do this, the God of peace will crush Satan under your feet soon. May the grace of our Lord Jesus, the Anointed One, the Liberating King, be ever present with you.

Timothy, my coworker in the spreading of the gospel, also sends his greeting to all of you, as do my kinsmen, Lucius, Jason, and Sosipater.

I, Tertius, the one who wrote this letter for Paul, greet you in the name of the Lord. Gaius, my host here as well as patron for the whole church, sends his best to all of you. Erastus, the city administrator, sends his greetings along with brother Quartus. [May the grace of our Lord Jesus, the Anointed One, touch you all. Amen.]

So to the One who is able to strengthen you to live consistently with my good news and the preaching of Jesus, the Anointed, with the revelation of the ancient mystery that has been kept secret since the earliest days, this mystery is revealed through the prophetic voices passed down in the Scriptures, as they have been commanded by the Eternal God. In this time, this mystery is being made known to the nations so that all may be led to faith-filled obedience.

To the one true and wise God, we offer glory for all times through Jesus, the Anointed One. Amen.

The Letter of Romans, Chapter 16 (The Voice)

Today’s paired reading from the First Testament is the 27th chapter of the book of Exodus:

Eternal One: Make the altar of burnt offering from acacia wood. It should be square and measure seven and a half feet by seven and a half feet. Make it four and a half feet high. Construct it with horns on each of the four corners so that the top forms one whole piece, and overlay it with bronze. Fashion buckets and shovels for the ashes, basins, forks, and fire pans out of bronze. Make a grate out of bronze, and attach four bronze rings at each of its four corners. Place the grate beneath the ledge of the altar, halfway up from the base. Make poles out of acacia wood for the altar, and overlay them with bronze. Slide the poles through the rings on both sides of the altar so that it can be moved. Make the altar out of wooden planks, and make it hollow—exactly like the pattern you were shown on the mountain.

Then enclose the courtyard in front of the congregation tent with large fabric panels made of finely woven linen on the south side that run 150 feet on silver hooks and rings supported by 20 bronze posts set securely into 20 bronze bases. The north side is to be made the same way: hang a series of panels for 150 feet on silver hooks and rings supported by 20 bronze posts set securely into 20 bronze bases. The fabric panels on the west end of the court are to run 75 feet (10 posts set into 10 bases). The east end of the court facing the sunrise is to be 75 feet wide. Fabric panels, measuring 22½ feet wide, are to be hung on each end of the east entrance, held up by three posts set into three bases. The entrance to the court is to be a 30-foot fabric screen, made out of finely woven linen richly embroidered with blue, purple, and scarlet thread. It is to be held up by four posts set into four bases.

All the posts that define the courtyard are to have silver bands and silver hooks, and be set into bronze bases. The courtyard itself is to be 150 feet long and 75 feet wide. The finely woven linen panels should be seven and a half feet high including the height of the bronze bases. As for the items used in the ceremonies held in the congregation tent and the tent pegs used both inside and outside the tent, they are to be made of bronze.

Direct the Israelites to bring you oil from olives whipped until it is clear in order to keep the lamps burning continually and producing the best light possible. From dusk till dawn—inside the tent but outside the veil shrouding the most holy place—Aaron and his sons are to keep the lamps burning in My presence. This directive stands forever and must be carried out by the priests and people of Israel throughout all generations.

The Book of Exodus, Chapter 27 (The Voice)

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures for Saturday, may 18 of 2024 with a paired chapter from each Testament (the First & the New) of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons about honoring God’s Name:

From our Torah this week (Emor) we read: "You shall not profane my holy Name, that I may be made sacred among the people of Israel" (Lev. 22:32), which the early sages said provides the basis for "kiddush HaShem" (קידוש השם), or the duty to always honor God, even if that might mean enduring martyrdom for your faith.

Jewish halakhah (law) furthermore says we are to think of kiddush hashem whenever we recite the Shema, that our inmost intent should be self-sacrifice (mesirat nefesh), or the willingness to give up our lives to God in complete surrender. After all, if we are not willing to give up our lives for God, how can we be willing to genuinely live for him? The purpose or goal of our very existence is to know and love God, to be sanctified in truth, but if we value our carnal lives on earth as more important, we exist in a state of contradiction. Therefore people obsessed with their own physical safety, health, pleasure, happiness, well-being, etc., do not know the true meaning of life...

Our lives on this earth were not meant to be an end in themselves, but rather a means to the greater end of knowing and loving the Eternal God. Indeed, God's love is better than any sort of life this present world can afford. As Jim Elliot once said, "He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose."

Sanctifying God's Name means that we regard our relationship to God to be an end in itself - our ultimate concern - and there is nothing higher that may challenge our duty before heaven. "Seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness" (Matt. 6:33). Our mortal life in this fleeting world is a means to the end of reaching our eternal destiny (Psalm 16:11), and esteeming the means above the end is therefore idolatry (Rom. 1:25). This is called chillul HaShem (חילול השם), or profaning the Name of God...

Our faith in the LORD may lead us into collision with the world and its spurious power structures, however "we ought to obey God rather than men" (Acts 5:29). Taking a stand for Torah truth will make you an outsider to the "crowd" and its endless idols and vanities. Indeed a person of genuine moral conviction may be labeled an “enemy of the state,” may be persecuted as a “terrorist,” and may even suffer martyrdom.

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego rightfully defied the king's decree to bow down before the "golden image," and they confessed that they were willing to die rather than betray the truth of the LORD of Israel (see Dan 3). This is a prime example of kiddush HaShem, honoring the truth of God even at the risk of losing our lives. For many Jews, reciting the Shema is a solemn declaration that we esteem the truth of God above all things, that God alone is our ultimate good, and that we must be willing to surrender our lives rather than to deny the greatness and glory of His Name. Many tzaddikim have died with the Shema on their lips...

Kiddush HaShem may be understand both literally and metaphorically. Literally understood, kiddush HaShem (i.e., martyrdom) is a possibility, one of the severest tests that may be given to the soul, and the temptation is to shrink back from the threat of death by denying the faith... Metaphorically understood, kiddush HaShem is a necessity, an essential act of the will that decides to “take up the cross” and follow Yeshua, and the temptation is to minimize the truth, to compromise the faith, and thereby to slowly fade away...

In this connection Yeshua asks, "What will it profit a person if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul?" (Mark 8:36). Indeed, finding your life, value, and "place" here is to exile yourself from the promise of heaven. As Yeshua said, "Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it" (Matt. 10:39). What is required, in other words, is categorically everything, with nothing left over. As Dietrich Bonhoeffer reminds us: "Salvation is free, but discipleship will cost you your life."

We see an example of both chillul HaShem and kiddush HaShem in the life of the Apostle Peter. On the one hand, though he had boldly professed that he would be willing to die for Yeshua, he later denied that he even knew his Savior and friend (Luke 22:33-34). After doing teshuvah (i.e., repentance) however, Peter became wholehearted and fearless, and Christian tradition says he eventually died as a martyr under the tyranny of wicked Emperor Nero...

Likewise, in our effort to relate to people of different faith, we may be tempted to soften the demands of the gospel or to minimize the deity of Messiah. Sadly I've seen this happen a lot among Gentiles who get so enamored with the Jewish roots of the Christian faith that they begin to question, then outright deny the central Torah of our Messiah (the deeper law of mercy). Indeed we must not confuse the covenants of God, for this leads to double-mindedness and is regarded as “spiritual adultery” (see Rom. 7:1-4). It is chillul HaShem - the desecration of the Name of God - to turn away from the meaning and message of the cross of Messiah (Gal. 6:14; 1 Cor. 2:2). The price of being loyal to Messiah is "mesirut nefesh" (מְסִירוּת נֶפֶשׁ) -- surrendering your life by “taking up the cross.” The cross is a scandal to religion and all other attempts to whitewash the truth about the human condition (Gal. 5:11).

In the Kaddish we read: “yitgadal ve’yitkadash shemei rabba,” meaning “may God’s great Name be magnified and sanctified.” Amen, and may we honor and sanctify the presence of the LORD by turning to Him with all our heart, soul, and strength, knowing Him in all our ways. He is faithful and will help us sanctify His Name...

[ Hebrew for Christians ]

========

Deut. 6:4 (Shema) reading (with vital comments):

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/deut6-4-shema1.mp3

Hebrew page:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/deut6-4-lesson.pdf

5.15.24 • Facebook

from yesterday’s email by Israel365

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

[brookstonalmanac]

Holidays 12.30

Holidays

Cleaning Day (Haiti)

Falling Needles Family Fest Day

Feast of the Holy Family

Festival of Enormous Changes at the Last Minute

Flail Day French Republic)

Freedom Day (Scientology)

Incwala Day (Eswatini, f.k.a. Swaziland)

International Day of Indian Cinema

Kodachrome Day

Let's Make A Deal Day

Lhosar (Gurung People, Nepal)

National Cheryl Day

National Resolution Planning Day

New Year’s Eve Eve

Rizal Day (Philippines)

Smart Highway Day

Take a Walk Show

Tamu Lochar (Sikkim, India)

Food & Drink Celebrations

Bacon Day [also 8.31]

Baking Soda Day

Coffee Day (Hawaii)

Drink With a Straw Day

International Day of the Donut

Kona Coffee Day

National Bicarbonate of Soda Day

5th & Last Saturday in December

Evergreen Tree Day [Last Saturday]

Last Saturday of the Year [Last Saturday]

Independence Days

Day of the Declaration of Slovakia as an Independent Ecclesiastic Province

Midget Nation-in-Exile (Declared; 2009) [unrecognized]

Northern Federation of Occidental Republics (Declared; 2012) [unrecognized]

USSR (Established, 1922)

Xenlandia (Declared; 2021) [unrecognized]

Feast Days

Abraham the Writer (Christian; Saint)

Anysia of Salonika (Christian; Saint)

Boxing the Jesuit Day (Church of the SubGenius)

The Clam (Muppetism)

Ecgwine of Worcester (Christian; Saint)

Egwin of Evesham (Christian; Saint)

Felix I, Pope (Christian; Saint)

Frances Joseph-Gaudet (Episcopal Church)

Gall (Positivist; Saint)

Get Drunk Early for Hogmanay Day (Pastafarian)

Kwanzaa, Day 5: Nia (Purpose)

Liberius of Ravenna (Christian; Saint)

Louis-Jean-François Lagrenée (Artology)

Maximus (Christian; Saint)

Obatala’s Day (Pagan)

Ralph of Vaucelles (Christian; Saint)

Roger (a.k.a. Ruggero) of Cannae (Christian; Saint)

Sabinus, Bishop of Assisi, and his companions (Christian; Martyrs)

Sixth Day of Christmas (a.k.a. Bringing in the Boar)

Twelve Holy Days #5 (Leo, the heart; Esoteric Christianity)

Twelvetide, Day #6 (a.k.a. the Twelve Days of Christmas or Christmastide) [until 1.5]

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Butsumetsu (仏滅 Japan) [Unlucky all day.]

Premieres

Alice, Darling (Film; 2022)

Aqua Teen Hunger Force (TV Cartoon Series; 2000)

Ben-Hur: A Tale of the Christ (Film; 1925)

Born to Die, by Lana Del Rey (Song; 2011)

The Curious Puppy (WB MM Cartoon; 1939)

Dallas (Film; 1950)

The Gallopin’ Gaucho (Disney Cartoon; 1928)

Kiss Me, Kate (Broadway Musical; 1948)

Let’s Make a Deal (TV game Show; 1963)

A Man Called Otto (Film; 2022)

The Merry Widow, by Franz Lehár (Operetta; 1905)

My Way, recorded by Frank Sinatra (Song; 1968)

Nelly’s Folly (WB MM Cartoon; 1961)

No Man of Her Own (Film; 1932)

Rob Roy, by Walter Scott (Novel; 1817)

The Roy Rogers Show (TV Series; 1951)

Some Came Running, by James Jones (Novel; 1957)

Sounder, by William H. Armstrong (Novel; 1969)

Tainted Dreams (TV Soap Opera; 2013)

Tangled Up In Blue, recorded by Bob Dylan (Song; 1974)

Tin Yop (Pixar Cartoon; 1988)

Two’s a Crowd (WB MM Cartoon; 1950)

Why Him? (Film; 2016)

Today’s Name Days

Felix, Lothar (Austria)

Feliks, Rajner, Srećko (Croatia)

David (Czech Republic)

David (Denmark)

Taave, Taavet, Taavi, Taavo, Tavo (Estonia)

Daavid, Taavetti, Taavi (Finland)

Roger (France)

Herma, Hermine, Minna (Germany)

Anisios, Filetairos, Gideon, Josef (Greece)

Dávid (Hungary)

Eugenio (Italy)

Dāvids, Dāvis (Latvia)

Dovydas, Gedrimė, Gražvilas, Irmina, Sabinas (Lithuania)

David, Diana, Dina (Norway)

Dawid, Dawida, Dionizy, Eugeniusz, Irmina, Katarzyna, Łazarz, Rainer, Sabin, Sewer, Uniedrog (Poland)

Anisia (Romania)

Dávid (Slovakia)

Judit, Judith, Raúl (Spain)

Abel, Set (Sweden)

Ainsley, Kelsa, Kelsey, Kelsi, Kelsie, Mason (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 364 of 2024; 1 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 6 of week 52 of 2023

Celtic Tree Calendar: Beth (Birch) [Day 5 of 28]

Chinese: Month 12 (Jia-Zi), Day 18 (Ren-Xu)

Chinese Year of the: Rabbit 4721 (until February 10, 2024)

Hebrew: 18 Teveth 5784

Islamic: 17 Jumada II 1445

J Cal: 4 Fest; Foursday [4 of 5]

Julian: 17 December 2023

Moon: 87%: Warning Gibbous

Positivist: 28 Bichat (13th Month) [Gall]

Runic Half Month: Eihwaz or Eoh (Yew Tree) [Day 5 of 15]

Season: Winter (Day 10 of 89)

Zodiac: Capricorn (Day 9 of 31)

[safereturndoubtful]

Muckle Flugga - a walk on the wild side

Wednesday 19th July

Just over 600 people live on Unst though as many tourists will be around in the summer months. Few of those tourists stay on the island though. Now, in Unst Fest week, most visitors are here for the day from Brae or Lerwick.

Hermaness is the destination of most visitors to Unst, and the 2 miles of boarded trail from the Nature Reserve car park are the most popular trek on the island. The weather has been wild all week, but today was particularly so, with 40 mile per hour winds, and squally showers that merged into what might better be termed, as simply, rain. Though in it, one didn’t get wet for long, as that 40 mph wind had a drying effect. It was a maximum on 10C, feeling much less than that in the wind. As is evident, not a great day for clear photos..

At the end of the 2 miles of boardwalk are the cliffs at Toolie, 150 metres down to the ocean waves, crashing into the rocks below. At this point today, it was difficult to stand up. From here there is a path both to the north and south along the cliffs. I didn’t fancy it, I’m not great on cliff edges at the best of times, but today conditions required even more nerve. Roja is fine, but there are a lot of rabbits here, and the mix of the three things, rabbits, labradors and cliff edges, doesn’t go well. The photo above is about 3 metres from the edge.. I didn’t want to go any closer.

Instead we hiked up to the summit of Hermaness Hill, at 206 metres, from where I hoped we would get some views out to Muckle Flugga, and we were rewarded.

Photo of the day was Roja getting skua’d again.. bomber by a Great Skua, to whom one can attach little blame, her chicks were close.

Muckle Flugga Lighthouse is Britain’s most northerly lighthouse. The jagged towering rock of Muckle Flugga lies a mile off the northwestern tip of the island.  Its name derives from “mikla flugey”, which means large steep-sided island in old Norse.

This is a Stevenson lighthouse, although when it was commissioned in 1851 David Stevenson visited in atrocious weather and recommended other sites, as this was too wild. However, the Admiralty overruled Stevenson and decided the light would be built. The first, intended only to be temporary, light, was damaged beyond repair in a storm in 1854. Replacing it was a 64 foot tower, embedded 15 feet into the rock below, and standing 220 feet above sea level. The Stevenson’s supervised, but it was difficult and expensive (they were paid more than double the standard rate) to find workmen. All the materials had to be transported by boat, landed at an exposed rock, and carried up to the 200ft summit.  Sometimes provisions could not be landed due to the weather conditions. It was first lit on January 1st 1858.

Robert Louis Stevenson visited Muckle Flugga on 18th June 1869 with his father Thomas. It is reputed that Unst may have been one of the locations to inspire Robert Louis to write his novel Treasure Island.

Four families of keepers lived at Burrafirth Shore Station, just below where I was parked in a relatively sheltered position. A relief boat, which often had difficulty landing, ferried keepers to Muckle Flugga on rota. The boatman’s house was Shoreline Cottage, now a holiday cottage. Both the Shore Station and the Cottage in the photo below..

In the 1950s one of the skippers rescued a Swiss woman who had fallen from the cliffs at Toolie. When she was recovered and at home, she sent him a cuckoo clock. When I read this I found it difficult to believe that anyone could survive such a fall, let alone get rescued afterwards as well.

In 1939 the lighthouse was enabled with radio contact which made staying in touch with the Shore Station much easier. Muckle Flugga was one of the last British lighthouses to get automated, in 1995. The Burrafirth Shore Station was sold off as two private houses. They are incredible places to live.

Despite the wild weather we were out for about three and a half hours, for just more than 6 miles, and then decided to get out the worst of the wind, and head across the the eastern side of the far north of Unst.

We are parked up at Norwick Beach, in a spectacular situation practically on the beach itself. This is just a few hundred metres from Saxa Vord, the UK’s new space port. More on this tomorrow..