#homesign

[modern-inheritance]

Riders Signs for Dummies, Lesson #1: "Thank you"

Riders Signs are a dead language now, but there are a few around who still use it. Arya and Brom frequently communicate using Riders Signs or common Elvish when they don't want the others in the party to understand them, typically during arguments.

This sign is the cover-all for gratitude, giving thanks, and appreciation. Someone gives you half of their gummy snacks? This sign covers it. Random kid with a dragon breaks you out of prison? This totally works. Wanna be sarcastic with it because the elf is being a shithead and making fun of you for being ~30 years her senior? Double bump the second step, the outward gesture. She'll know what it means.

[modern-inheritance]

@demondayzdivision

omg YES WE ARE INDEED IN EXISTANCE ONLINE COME JOIN US WE HAVE UH

c...cookies? Do we have cookies?? We have cookies, right, guys?

Eragon fanart in the year 2024‼️‼️

Is there even a fandom online???

Anyway, 10 yo me is so happy rn

[thearcher-2]

Venus has entered her Domicile Fixed Earth Sign on 3/16 creating more enjoyment for all of us! We’ll be able to find more stability, comfort or indulge into our desires over the next few weeks! Venus will cross over the North Node in Taurus which will be very fateful with our relationships & our finances… If you wanna learn more about Venus’ transit throughout the sign of Taurus, I’ll be posting Written Horoscopes for all 12 signs over on my Patreon!! You can click the link below or copy link to access my Patreon. Plus once you join you’ll receive more Astrological Transit Horoscopes every month. Tiers on my Patreon start at $3/per month!! https://www.patreon.com/codafersastrology #astrology #horoscope #universe #venus #taurus #domicile #homesign #solid #consistency #money #luxury #materialistic #comfort https://www.instagram.com/p/Cp5pWfxvn5P/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[bonefall]

Okay so a convo made me remember that Icecloud and Foxleap become apprentices 4-5 moons after the three, which means Ferncloud either had four litters so the three could nurse while also having kits so much younger than them, or she just so happens to have milk despite not having kits OR her last litter was really held back. Mostly bringing this up because obviously Squilf and Leaf still can't nurse the three in BB and I was curious if Ferc was still going to nurse them since I know you gave away her last litter or if someone else will do that or if there's a definite answer for this detail yet.

Daisy did it! Her kits were recently weaned, but Sorreltail at the time was nursing FOUR kittens. That's a lot for one suckler to handle, so Daisy would help out which kept her milk coming.

So Daisy has it handled. Ferncloud is still reeling from horrifically losing THREE children in a short period of time. At this moment in time, she didn't feel ready for more.

But, anyway! Foxleap and Icecloud are NOT DustFern kittens in BB. They were shuffled. This is because Ferncloud has waaaay too few surviving kittens while Brightheart and Sorreltail exploded the gene pool. Their kits in BB are;

Dustpelt x Ferncloud:

Spiderleg (ALIVE)

Shrewpaw (Car accident while chasing a pheasant; Squilf's guardian angel)

Lurchkit (Destruction of the White Hart)

Hollykit (Ditto)

Birchfall (ALIVE)

Seedpaw (Drowned)

Lilyheart (ALIVE)

Ferncloud is the Educator of ThunderClan until her death in TBC. She lives long enough to confront her little brother, Ashfur, who is now from a younger litter. Dustpelt died in the Battle of the True Eclipse, while defending his last litter from Dark Forest warriors.

Additionally, Spotfur and Duststripe (prev. Sorrelstripe) are now Birchfall's kittens, in trade for Dovewing and Ivypool to go into the Firekin family. Toadstep is also still alive; the husband of Lionblaze.

Lilyheart hasn't had any kittens yet, though. I'm still holding on to Leafshade and Honey...something i forgot her name. ThunderClan is already pretty full of cats and she really didn't need to have them so young. Plus, she got seriously traumatized from how Seedpaw died, and she's the sort of mature person to realize she doesn't want to be responsible for young lives when that's still affecting her.

Brightheart x Cloudtail

Whitewing (alive)

Foxleap (Battle of the True Eclipse)

Icecloud (Born after the BOTTE, named after Iceheart, alive)

Snowbush, Ambermoon, and Dewnose all still exist, but were adopted to other couples! They're going to show up in other Clans. Cloud and Bright kept a single kitten from each litter.

Foxleap is probably going to be younger than he is in-canon, because I feel like he often gets lost in the massive Po3 Apprentice Generation. So, he'll be somewhere between Po3 and OotS, interacting with Dovewing and Ivypool as they grow up.

Icecloud, also shuffled in age, is also going to end up with a bigger role in AVOS-era stuff, he's transmasc and a fast friend of Alderheart when he joins ThunderClan after being raised by his mother Jessy as a kittypet. Him and Lilyheart make up Alderheart's misfit friend group.

(In general I think ThunderClan feels less bloated if the births are spaced out better.)

Sorreltail x Brackenfur

Cinderheart (Alive; travelling with Fallenleaf)

Honeysnake (survived the adder; killed in the BOTTE)

Poppyfrost (Alive; inventor of gardening)

Molepaw (Greencough... angel name is Moleflight and he is constantly fighting Jayfeather)

JUST having the infamous Brackenfour. No more; BB!Brackenfur was killed in the Battle of the FALSE Eclipse at the end of Po3. Sorreltail is living for a MUCH longer time; she's still around in the current arc, preparing to retire as Head of Kitchen Patrol.

[superlinguo]

Thinking With Your Hands, Susan Goldin-Meadow (Review)

In Thinking With Your Hands, Susan Goldin-Meadow meets the challenge of summarising a lifetime of research for a non-specialist audience. Since the early 1970s Goldin-Meadow has been researching the role of gesture in thinking, communicating and learning. This book captures her passion for this work, and the enthusiasm for collaboration that has resulted in the Goldin-Meadow lab being a powerhouse of Gesture Studies scholarship over the last three decades. There are some black line images throughout the book that illustrate some key gestural moments. I was delighted to read a physical review copy from the publisher. 

Goldin-Meadow’s work spans a range of topics in child language acquisition, the emergence of homesign and signed languages, and the use of gesture in educational contexts. The book is divided into three sections. The first section, “Thinking with our hands”, introduces the ways that gesture provides a more expansive understanding of language and what we communicate. In this book, as in her research, Goldin-Meadow focuses on the gestures we use alongside speech. These gestures can provide visual information alongside the structured linguistic content of spoken or signed languages. Sometimes that information is not found in the linguistic content and instead offers a different perspective on the thought processes of the person using gesture, other times, gesturing appears to not only show, but help, the thinking process. 

The second section, “Speaking with our hands”, is built around Goldin-Meadow’s expertise in children’s communication, particularly in contexts without spoken language. This includes discussion of homesign, where a deaf child is raised in a hearing household without signed language and develops a way of communicating with their family. These homesign systems are more than gesture, but less structured than a language, although as Goldin-Meadow’s work has shown, it’s the child driving the structure, not their caregivers. Goldin-Meadow is exceedingly diplomatic about the choices made by parents in these contexts, but at least makes it clear how the oralism approach does not benefit children. We also get to read about the birth of signed languages in contexts like Nicuagua, where the first school for deaf children was set up in the 1980s. In a context of support and input, children are able to collaboratively build a full language, often drawing on local gestures as one of their resources.  

The third section, “Why you should care about hands”, draws on insights from the research introduced in earlier chapters to make a case for gesture being relevant to parents, clinicians and teachers. The final chapter “what if gesture were considered as important as language?” is an opportunity that Goldin-Meadow uses for a vision for the use of the many remarkable insight from her work and that of collaborators and colleagues. 

Although this book draws mostly on research conducted by her own lab, or by people from her lab who have gone on to become leaders in the field in their own right, the book still draws on research from others across the field as well. It’s clear that Goldin-Meadow is demonstrating the ways she’s honed the message about her work, and its wider relevance, for a general audience. For someone with a passing familiarity with work from the Goldin-Meadow lab, there’s a great deal of charm in learning the stories behind some iconic pieces of research. Goldin-Meadow is very happy to let us know that had shown students some classic gesture mismatch footage in her classes for years before Brecky Church coded the data and noted that the mismatches preceded a developmental advance. Goldin-Meadow is exceedingly charming in her enthusiasm for name-checking her junior collaborators and students, as well as their students (who she gleefully points out are her academic grandchildren). 

In Thinking with your Hands Goldin-Meadow’s expertise and depths of enthusiasm are exceedingly evident, but so is her commitment to finding ways to share her work with people beyond psychology and Gesture Studies. This has become one of my go-to recommendations for Gesture Studies scicomm.  

Susan Goldin-Meadow, Thinking With Your Hands (Basic Books, 2023)

Related posts:

Blind people gesture (and why that’s kind of a big deal)

The relationship between gesture and thinking/speaking

[amaiguri]

oh your tag about arls being trained to fawn over people that hurt her 🥺 my poor little heart. was there a catalyst in which they went from hating each other to loving each other? or was it a gradual love?

Oh my goddddd thank you for the ask 💜💜💜

(Damn, I made a good choice when I accidentally followed you thinking you were the Slay the Princess Dev 💜)

SO

Arlasaire was a victim of a Dragonstorm that let her with the burn scars -- but luckily, she was adopted by a rich mafia-like family who could keep her from dying. And they trained her to be a hitman/bodyguard/glorified pet for the heir -- his name was Gil. He, like... did his best to take actual care of her but clearly, it's kinda a fucked up environment. And HE was engaged to the lovely noble daughter of a rival clan, Lucienne.

Lucienne and him had a love-hate relationship -- and Luce was an entitled menace as a child. So, she bullied Arlasaire a lot. And Arlasaire, being a servant, just kinda had to put up with it. And Gil didn't really know how to fix it, because he liked Lucienne and the power dynamic made it so he just like... couldn't entirely get it.

So as they got into their teens, they all started messing around...

You see very quickly why their relationship is a mess 🫠

Lucienne and Arlasaire had a lot of fights and a lot of (semi-fake) promises to do better but they were also like.. pitted against each other by all the people around them. So, instead of being able to admire each other, they were just both jealous of the other:

Lucienne admired that Arlasaire and Gil had a real relationship built on trust and mutual respect. Arls and Gil were always together because they went on hitman missions together. In fact, Arlasaire and Gil practically invented a whole language to talk to each other because of Arlasaire's burned throat -- they invented a homesign. Luce wanted that kind of real, genuine relationship and people she could trust too.

Arlasaire, meanwhile, admired that Lucienne was able to talk to people so easily and win them over. The secret to Lucienne's popularity is that, while in public she seems vapid and cruel, if you get her alone, she's intelligent, thoughtful, and actually has good advice. She is only confident because she knows she's a disaster and she's generally fine with that. (And God forbid she take any of her own advice 😬) Lucienne lives in two layers of reality -- real reality and like... the politially charged niceties that govern their realm. And that's what Arlasaire admires about her.

AND SO, when they lose the War and Gil dies (this happens in the first sentence of my writing, it's not a spoiler lol) and THEN through the story, they're separated and stuff... it's kinda like... all the teenage drama has some time to blow away. Because at the end of the day, all the people they grew up with are gone now except each other. So even though it was fucked up, they're the only ones who ACTUALLY understand what it was like.

And now, they can start to try to break the patterns and form a real connection 🥺🥺🥺

Also, thank you again for reading 💜 I am obsessed with them lol

[white-collar-cannibal]

gl!charlie tries on some new clothes.

includes: internalized homophobia/transphobia, unreality / hallucinations also! the signs that charlie and sneeg use are not asl or bsl or an existing sign language, it's a homesign/conlang the two invented. any similarity is unintentional. both of them being hearing and using it as auxiliary to speech, it does not have the complexity of actual sign language and they do not use it as fluently.

When he turns to see himself in the mirror, he has to clap his hands over his mouth to hold back a sound somewhere between a laugh and a bark, some expression of pure stupid joy and surprise that makes you want to flap your hands in rapturous half circles. What the fuck, dude, who let him do this? Why didn’t they let him do this before? The skirt is so pretty, long and loose and flowing, black with swirling leaves and flowers in a red-pink that goes so well with the pale red of his shirt.

It fits over his self-conception - his shape of himself in his mind - so easily. It washes over him like cold, clean water, him on the bus with his ankles crossed, at a picnic all dressed up in pink gingham and petticoats, holding a big sunhat from getting blown away in the wind. He’s never imagined himself smiling so much, and it’s something he could have. Oh my god, he doesn’t even have to ask anyone, he can just decide to, he can just- he’ll just go and tell them. He’ll- why does he feel sick? Why can’t he move? Why is he stuck staring into the mirror?

He looks so nice. He feels sick, and he doesn’t know why. Is this why Niki was so relieved when they dressed her up in pantsuits and slacks? Do skirts just make people look pretty and feel bad all the time? Is he allergic or something? He looked so nice, why is he afraid to go out, to walk into (belated realization) the view of the camera? There it is. It’s that- well, this is the setup, and the punchline comes when he steps out, when the camera sees him. He can’t do it. He’s the fucking punchline. He’ll step out and the canned laugh track will play because - he trips over the thought, fully formed, like a pearl grown in his brain when he wasn’t looking - men don’t dress like that. That’s why dress-up is supposed to be funny, he realizes, because you’re not supposed to do that. Fuck. Shit. Et cetera. The worst part is, because he, man-shaped, man-analogue, can, there must be an “or else” at the end. He knows the “or else” so well. He’ll step out, feeling bright and beautiful and get laughed at, then halfway through the episode he’ll get torn apart by something, and the laugh track will keep playing, keep ringing in his ears. 

No, he can’t go out, he wants to go home, he wants to never have been stupid enough to have done any of this. He wants to have never wanted anything in his life, to sit in his room with no thoughts staring at the wall until it’s his turn on set. He can hear them, the studio audience, muffled through the walls of the room but still so so so loud, and it must be loud enough that he doesn’t hear when Sneeg and Ranboo call to check on him, knock on the door- and what’s very concerning is that he doesn’t even see them open it, see Sneeg walk in, until he’s in front of him, grabbing onto his shoulder. His mouth is moving, but there’s no sound coming out, he can’t hear it over the chattering.

For a moment Charlie is all fear, because Sneeg must have brought the camera in, over his shoulder like a hawk, but Sneeg is signing to him, which he never does under the camera, so it must still be outside looking at Ranboo right now, and- oh, Sneeg’s signing, he should be paying attention to that. A C on the left shoulder. Charlie. A wide circle, chest height, flat palm, then pointing to him, with a confused expression. Where are you? He should be able to talk, but there’s so much ringing he can’t hear the words as they come out, and from Sneeg’s face they’re just mush to him. They don’t have a word for store, mall, dressing room, but Charlie knows what he means. He balls his hand into a fist, stands two fingers of the other on top like little legs, then moves them off and away from him. Out. 

It should click here that if he’s not there, they can’t watch him, but someone’s always watching him. He carries around a phone with a little camera in it everywhere he goes, and so does everyone else around him. Not a click, but maybe gears grinding, some less immediate, less satisfying noise. If he’s not there anymore, there’s no camera pointed at him, there’s no studio audience, there’s no tinny laugh track. It’s in his head again, which is becoming a concerning pattern. In the real world, he takes in a couple long breaths. Knowing the noise isn’t real doesn’t make it disappear, but he knows it will eventually. He scrunches his face up, closes his eyes, and puts his hands over his face as he waits for the audience to have a lull, for the noise to stop being chattering and start being shuffling in seats and whispering, don’t they know there’s an emotional conversation about to happen? When the sound stops crushing him, he tries again. “I’m- I- I’m okay.” He says this very convincingly. “I’m good.” 

He doesn’t even need to see Sneeg to know the look he must have when he responds, “You don’t look like you’re good.” Charlie draws his hands from his face to make some kind of joke or retort, but they come away wet and he realizes he must have started crying at some point, and those funny words fall away from him. “I just - I just wanted to have something without there being poison in it.”

“Fuckin’ tell me about it. What was it? Just the clothes?” 

Charlie nods, “I was- They were- I thought they were going to get me for it. They always got people for it, you know?”

“Cause they were fucking massive homophobic assholes. I mean it. That shit they pulled was insane. I wish I knew that when I was in there. Most people, real people, they don’t care about anything like that. They can’t touch you anymore. They can’t fuckin’ - write you off for being a fairy, or a crossdresser, or whatever, and if anyone else gives you shit - Charlie, look at me - I will handle them. I promise.”

“Please don’t kill anyone. I don’t like talking to cops.”

“Duly noted.” Sneeg pauses for a beat, two, then follows with “Do you like the clothes?” Charlie’s brain is full of noise and churning, but his heart, the bits of it that are clean and unpoisoned, can’t stop going yes yes yes yes, so he nods. “That’s all that matters. C’mere.” Sneeg pulls him in for a hug, and Charlie tucks his head under Sneeg’s chin and lays it on his chest, a kid again, small and afraid but despite everything, surrounded by love.

A month later, Charlie will leave the apartment for the first time in a long skirt and a loose sweater, a newborn fawn with legs shaking, but taking step after certain step. At the grocery store, a young kid, maybe seven, stares at him like they’re seeing something they didn’t even know was possible. Charlie smiles back.

[amobilenotary]

What documents to notarize www.amobilenotary.net #definitionofnotary #notarionearme #notarymeaning #whatisanotary #nationalassociationofnotaryphonenumber #meaningofnotary #notarycommission #ordernotarystamp #onlinenotary #notarydefinition #notary #notarypublic #happyplace #homeleasing #homesigningday #homesign #myhome #myhouse #notarypublicservicesnearme #notarysigningagent #florida #FloRida #spotify

[linguistlist-blog]

TOC: Diachronica: Vol. 41, No. 2 (2024)

2024. v, 158 pp. Table of Contents Introduction The historical linguistics of signed languages Claire Bowern | pp. 141–148 Articles – Aufsätze Disappearing iconicity in the evolution of Polish Sign Language: The case of słodki ‘sweet’ Wiktor Eźlakowski | pp. 149–170 Abrupt grammatical reorganization of an emergent sign language: The expression of motion in Zinacantec Family Homesign Austin German | pp. 171–202 An approach to path movement in the diachronic study of sign languages: Biomec http://dlvr.it/TFVV2F

[whosaiththewords]

How to make Austrian Sign Language

Grab a portion of stale, Old French Sign Language from your fridge and add it to a pre-warmed school. Since you want to avoid getting any traces of ancient homesigns from Latin or Celtic substrates, make sure to wash the school well ahead of heating.

Warm the entire mixture and slowly stir in Croatian signs. When your mix develops a pasty colour and telic-perfective associations, cover with a Spoken German crust and sprinkle with DGS for spice. Bake for a few more centuries. When it looks about done, label it an official language of Austria, then leave it to rot in your pantry.

[dimitria-mcrobbie-1984]

Looking for a sign for all seasons? Search no more! This DIY "Welcome to our HOME" wood sign has interchangeable pieces for the O. Can be used year round. Used scroll saw to cut pieces for O. Be inspired to make your own! #DIYwoodsign #scrollsaw #HOMEsign #DIY

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Escape, Part 2.3: Fight/Flight

(A/N: FINALLY. The last part for what is technically part one! You're gonna have to give me some time for rest and planning and edits again before we get any more of this series out. But despite the painful process to get this done, I actually find myself enjoying the end product. Sounds weird to say it that way, but I actually hit all the things I wanted to hit in this! and even added more!

Without further ado, here is the actual escape from Gil'ead.) ~~~

Eragon met the man-shaped monster’s maroon eyes with his own. Brom’s words rattled in his skull, facts, warnings, tactics. Everything Brom had told him said to run if faced with a Shade. 

“What a smart little boy you are, my young Rider.” His sharpened teeth clicked, a displeased note among the mocking words. He reached up a hand and unclasped the sable cape at his shoulders and let it drop to the floor, revealing a sword strapped to his slim waist. Despite the flutter of fabric, Eragon kept his eyes squarely on the monster’s face, not daring to look away for even a moment. “I’m afraid, though, that your little jaunt is at its end.” The smile took on a snarl at the edges. “I do hope you will not go quietly.”

Eragon drew Zar’roc and danced back two strides in a single fluid motion. He wasn’t going to engage the Shade with words, not this time. 

The tense standoff was shattered by a single, clipped shout.

“‘EY!” A red auto injector pinged off the Shade's temple, knocking his head to the side by a full inch. Both he and the young Rider whirled to find the elf woman standing tall, her sword drawn and pointed at the man-shaped monster. Her voice was rough, months of nothing but silence, screaming and swearing having taken their toll. But the vehement growl was audible enough. 

“You're fighting me.”

That look. There was a wild, raging fire in her eyes, sharp and directed at the Shade and the Shade alone. Eragon had never seen such unbridled determination in any creature’s eyes but Saphira’s, the strength and tenacity to back it up. 

There was no way Eragon could convince her to stand down. He stepped back, perpendicular to the line drawn between these two beings steeped in magic. 

Or at least, he tried to. 

He felt rather than saw the Shade moving, the change in the air pressing against his cheek only noticeable due to his attunement with Saphira’s natural instincts in the sky. Another surge ripped in front of him, sent him flying back ten feet to slide across the top of a table, scrabbling to grab the sheeting across it and stop his momentum. 

The crash of metal on metal was near instantaneous with the burst of motion, and the Shade and the elf were suddenly locked together where the boy had stood. 

Eragon stared, dumbfounded, from where he had landed in a pile of tablecloth and protective sheeting on the floor. It couldn’t have even been more than a second.

The Shade’s cold chuckle filled the room. “Do you really think you can best me, little elf?” His smile held a wild undercurrent of its own, eyes wide with unexpected glee as he leaned in over their crossed blades. “I know all your weaknesses, I can take you apart in every way that makes you scream, and you think you can–”

The elf snapped her head back and slammed it into the bridge of the Shade’s nose. 

Black blood sprayed across the monster’s face with a satisfying, squelching crunch. He howled and disengaged, shoved his sword against the elf’s to propel himself back as she did the same. 

“Shut the fuck up and fight, you rat-faced bastard!” 

With that the woman drove forward again, and Eragon lost track of who was who and what was what in the blur of blade and limb. 

“A little help!” 

Murtagh’s shout cut through his stupor. Eragon scrambled to his feet and leapt over the fallen benches. A guard was gaping at the servant’s entrance to Murtagh’s right, the rogue’s hands full with the crossbeam. Eragon cut the intruder down just as he began to turn back and shout down into the hall, rushed footsteps echoing against the stone.

“Doors!” Murtagh grunted. The tendons in his neck stood out as he heaved one end of the beam into the bracket. “And tell Saphira to get on with it!”

As if on cue the entire dining hall boomed. Masonry dust rained down. Eragon looked up, alarmed, only to throw himself against the servants entrance door and scrabble for the deadbolt when two guards clattered into the entry. “Working on it!”

“Left!” Loud Urû’baenite swearing replaced coherent language as the large main doors jolted, dislodging the beam. “Other door!”

Screaming echoed down from the rooftop. It was soon drowned out by the screech of what had to be metal on stone, ear piercing and enough to make both Durza and Arya flinch. Neither one gave, their blades a blur in the dust laden air as chunks of mortar and wood began to rain down about their heads.

Arya wouldn’t lie to herself. Hell, she could never lie during battle. This was not a fight she could win definitively, but she would try her damndest. And she had at least one advantage over the Shade. 

‘He can’t kill me. He’s been ordered not to.’ A surge of battle-joy despite the pain creeping in between her shoulder blades made her gnash her teeth in a determined smile. ‘And I’ve got a score to settle.’

His blade suddenly came up dangerously close to her face. She leapt back, threw out her right wrist when the space wasn’t enough and deflected it on the shackle still clamped around her arm. It skated off with a shower of sparks. 

Her hand went numb from the force of the blow. That was closer than expected. ‘Alright, maybe he is trying to kill me.’ She was back in his space again, slipped a foot behind his and dipped under his slash to slam her elbow into his chest. In retaliation he brought his other leg up and shoved her back, flipped over her trip and landed with the ease and elegance of a dancer.

Then it was back to the whirlwind. 

Eragon slammed the latch on the last servant's entrance closed and turned only to shove his body against the main doors as they juddered inward again. 

“Jes’ hold ‘et!” Murtagh’s face was beet red with strain. “Hold ‘et closed!” Eragon swore in response, sweat rolling down his own forehead and into the corner of his eye as he crouched and threw all of his weight into the doors. With a mighty roar his companion managed to scoop the beam up in his arms and staggered forward. 

He had to raise on his tiptoes to clear the tips of the brackets, but he did it. The beam fell into place with a solid clatter, and Murtagh slumped down, chest heaving. He gulped in two mouthfuls of air before he wiped his mouth on his ragged sleeve and choked out, “Get under something.” 

Despite his leaden limbs Eragon shook his head. Feeling was coming back the more air he took in, the lightheadedness fading. “What about–”

“Shut up and do it!” The man ran and grabbed one of the benches and began sliding it over to the doors. “If you get your head caved in then we’re all dead.”

The combat stims were wearing off. Arya grit her teeth and tried to push through the lead collecting in her veins. Wyrda had never felt heavy before. She was dimly aware that something on her back had opened, probably more than one something, and she was rapidly losing more blood than she could spare. 

Durza threw an arm out, and with a panicked jolt the elf realized he wasn’t pointing towards her. Her gaze snapped to the side, where the Rider boy had been, foot already planted and pivoting. Weight shifting, twisting through the heavy air to put herself in front of the Shade again, block his view.

It was only when his blade, unyielding and just suddenly there, bit deep into her hip did she see the Rider over his shoulder, dashing for a table as rubble rained from the sky. Entirely opposite where Durza was pointing. 

‘Oh fuck me.’ 

Her leg gave out and her knee slammed to the floor hard. She could see Durza smiling, lips moving, the familiar cold of his hand around her throat. She let out a clipped cough when her ribs slammed into the side of a table, tossed like no more than a damn ragdoll. 

Despite what had to be the absolute cacophony of the chaos above, the soldiers crashing against the doors as the young man in rags barred them, the screaming of slate and metal, all Arya could hear were the softly hissed words from Durza’s mouth as she struggled to get back on her knees. 

That spell. 

Desperation was a hell of a painkiller. She needed only one leg to launch herself at him, forced herself up, dug her nails into the flagstones for purchase and gripped Wyrda’s hilt tight as the world spun and dipped and shoved off–

And her nerves, her blood, her bones, brain, whatever the fuck was left of her soul, her entire broken body was shattered in an instant. 

Hitting the ground felt like…there was no word for it. 

All she could do now was wait for it to stop. 

Eragon whipped around at a crash of one of the tables slamming into another. The elf woman was already up again, nearly up, on her knees, looked about ready to throw herself at the Shade– 

And not even a second later her eyes flared wide and she collapsed with a sound he would never forget. A scream beyond agonized, ragged, torn, like her mind was being ripped away. 

Eragon didn’t know what possessed him. A surge of something new, something primal, screaming at him to protect. 

The Rider leapt from his cover and barked out a command to Murtagh. “Help her!” 

Without hesitation Eragon was scrambling, dashing, swooped down to pick up one of the fist sized chunks of rock from the shaking ceiling and, with perfect aim, slammed to a stop and whipped his arm through the air.

For the second time that day, that fucking hour, a projectile collided with the Shade’s temple. 

The creature staggered. The scream stopped, and the elf curled into a shaking ball with a strangled groan. Murtagh was already halfway to her, rifle slung under his arm, a trauma dressing package from the pilfered supplies clamped in his teeth.

The Shade started towards them, hand again beginning to reach out from where he had clutched the gash on his head.

“I’m not done with you!” Eragon roared. Stunned at his sudden appearance, the Shade lifted his arm and was rewarded by Zar’roc slashing through the meat of his forearm. He snarled and spun to face the young Rider. 

The first strike nearly spun Zar’roc out of his hands. Eragon shifted his stance as the next blow came, tilted the wine red blade so that the Shade’s sword slid across it rather than slammed into the edge. 

He spun away and approached from another angle. This wasn’t going to be a battle of strength. It was wits that would save him.

He didn’t dare flick his gaze up. ‘Hurry, Saphira.’ 

Murtagh hit his knees next to the elf and shoved the mahogany bench away. The sheet on the table had been ripped off at some point, and with the stone coming down around them Murtagh grabbed the woman by the shoulder of her prison tunic and dragged her under with him.

“Hey, ya’ alright.” Her eyes were glassy when they snapped to him, a hand clamping around his wrist as he tried to pry her from her side onto her back. “Easy! I’m helping!” 

He could feel blood cooling on his skin when her fingers slipped off. She tried to sit up, trembling and holding her side while trying to keep hold of the sword still in her nearly limp left hand. 

“Not a good idea!” A rock the size of an Urgal’s head bounced off the bench opposite their hiding place. He pushed her back down, alarmed at how easy it was. She had ripped apart a locker with what amounted to her bare hands earlier, and now she was shaking like a leaf and couldn’t push him away.

“You gotta stay with me, lass.” Murtagh pleaded. “You’re hurt, you’ll just make it worse.” Elves, Shades, dragons, Dragon Riders. The entire roof coming down over his head because a dragon was ripping it apart. He was rapidly starting to find he had a wits end and was maybe, just maybe, in a little bit over his head. 

“He’ll kill him.”

Murtagh nearly missed the rasped words, busy tearing the dressing packet open with his teeth while his free hand held pressure on the elf’s bleeding hip. He tossed aside the packaging with a practiced flick of his wrist, and with a gruff word of warning, none-too-gently shoved the thick gauze material into the gash. 

When he looked at her face she was craning her neck, trying to watch Eragon and the Shade with unfocused eyes. Murtagh followed her gaze, drawn to the flickers of red and white steel that flashed in the melee. 

Eragon was a skilled swordsman. Murtagh knew that fact well, still wearing the fading welts from their last sparring session. But there was no way he could best a Shade. The monster was just playing with him, dragging out the inevitable end where the boy would be overpowered and recaptured. 

But Eragon didn’t have to beat him. He just had to stall him, and the Shade was playing right into their hand.

“Don’t worry about him, yeah?” Murtagh smiled. Zar’roc bobbed and dipped, a familiar flourish that the Rider had picked up from his sparring bouts with the young man. Executed perfectly after so many nights practicing. “Eragon’s got it handled. Saphira’s almost here, we’ll be out of here in no time.”

“Saphira?” The rogue snapped his full attention back to the woman. The mumble was more slur than words, and Murtagh grabbed the side of her neck when he realized her eyes were closed. Her skin was disturbingly pale, pulse erratic under his thumb. “‘Fira’s dead.” 

“Hey!” She didn’t answer, head lolling to the side. “I just fucking said– Damn it!” 

The Shade had lost his mocking smile, a snarl full of filed teeth and fury filling his pale face. A harsh growl ripped from his throat when the young Rider managed to skate his blade across the flat of Zar’roc again, a deft mix of footwork and unpredictable half strikes putting the boy just out of his reach. 

The next blow was no longer at a fraction of his strength. Eragon’s trembling hands went numb, wrists zinging with pain when their swords connected one final time. The impact drove him to his knees, and with a clipped shout Zar’roc was ripped from his grasp and smashed to the shaking floor.

“Your resistance is laughable, boy.” Eragon raised his eyes to meet the Shade’s, lungs burning with exhaustion. “You are the last gasp of a dying creed, and a pitiful one at that.” The snarl was turning up again, triumph and mockery dripping from his thin lips. “If you are all the Riders have to offer in their time of need, then the fact that Galbatorix required the thirteen to destroy your order is yet another sign of just how weak and unfit the Riders were.”

A flicker of sapphire blue flashed over the last remaining skylight. 

Ah. That made sense then. 

A calm settled over Eragon’s racing mind. He reached out and twined his mental threads with his partner’s, felt her strength flow to him. 

‘Saphira. Now would be a good time.’

“I think you’re forgetting something.” The unnervingly serene tone to the boy’s voice made the Shade’s step falter. 

No matter. He continued to stride toward his prize. “Oh really? And what, pray tell, could that be?”

A skull shaking roar rippled into the room, and suddenly the night sky filled a corner of the hall. 

Eragon threw himself back, reclaimed Zar’roc in hand, and let the falling rubble separate him from his foe. “THE DRAGONS!”

The Shade’s face transformed from that of a mocking victor to a shocked and confused witness. Eragon was already out of reach by the time he recovered and with a wordless howl the man-shaped monster launched himself forward to reclaim his captive.

Eragon hit the floor and rolled to his knees just in time to see a puff of black blood spray from the Shade’s outstretched arm. The Rider snapped his head to the side and silently cheered. Murtagh had his rifle up, kneeling in the dust and debris. The elf was slung over his shoulders, her pack on the young man’s back, none of it affecting his aim. 

The Shade stopped. The split second of surprise was overridden when he slowly turned his gaze to the rogue. “You’ll have to do much. Better. Than that. To stop m–”

The rifle coughed again. Murtagh didn’t blink. The Shade’s head snapped back.

Even among the crashing stone and splintering wood, the shriek was earsplitting. Despite the hole in his head, the shattered bullet lodged in the massive doors behind him, the monster lifted his rapidly changing hands to his blood splattered face. His skin was fading, stretching tighter and tighter, translucent and taut. 

Something pulsed beneath the membrane. In a final, horrific scream the Shade exploded, blood coalescing into a black mist. When it settled to the ground, all that was left was a pile of clothing and the beast’s white steel sword.

Eragon scrambled to his feet and dashed to Murtagh’s side. “You killed him!” 

“I’m not so sure.” The young man’s face was grim. He lowered the rifle. “Saphira! Get in here!”

At Murtagh’s call a pair of taloned claws gripped the sagging chunk of roof beside the gaping hole and ripped it back. Saphira stuck her head in the new space and growled, warning any who dared harm her Rider that they would soon be joining the masonry at the bottom of the keep’s walls should they enter. 

The clatter outside the doors suddenly fell silent.

Eragon threw open his arms, unable to contain himself any longer. “Saphira!”

Her glittering eyes caught on him. A bugle of elation and relief rippled from her throat, and without a moment’s hesitation Saphira dropped down into the dining hall. Tables crunched under her weight, her tail sweeping away piles of rock and broken wood as she barreled into her Rider’s embrace. Eragon fell to the floor, the wind knocked from his ribs, but was up just as fast, trying to envelop all of his Partner of Heart and Mind with his too-small arms.

‘Little One.’ Her hum rumbled through his chest. His aching muscles eased, the burning tightness and anxiety that had riddled him since their separation finally abating. They were whole again. ‘I’ve missed you.’ The dragon lowered her head, gently nosed him closer to her even though he was hanging on as tightly as he could. ‘Have they hurt you? Shall I tear them from this world?’

The offer made him laugh. He knew she was entirely serious. ‘I’ve missed you more than anything.’ Despite the sharpness of her scales he nuzzled his face against her chest. 

“Very sweet, very touching.” Murtagh grunted. He was already by Saphira’s side, shoving the stuffed laundry sack into her saddlebags. “Can we get a move on? She’s heavier than she looks.”

‘Excuse me?’ Saphira balked at the comment. She pulled away from her Rider and swung her head to fix Murtagh with a sharp glare. ‘Are you calling mWhat is that?’ A sudden hiss shot through her teeth. ‘An elf? How–’

Eragon bolted to Murtagh’s side and hurriedly released the elf’s pack from his back, lashing it to Saphira’s saddle. ‘She’s the woman I’ve been seeing. The Shade had her captive here this whole time.’ Alarm at the mention of a Shade crashed through their link. ‘Can you carry us all? We can’t just leave her here.’

‘Of course I can.’ He could hear the almost offended sniff in her mental tone. He smiled and placed a hand on her warm shoulder. ‘But we should hurry. You’ve really kicked the hornet’s nest this time.’

‘To be fair, I did have help.’ 

With Eragon’s help, Murtagh hoisted the elf up into the saddle. The Rider followed her up, then helped his friend clamber on. The banging on the doors had started again, this time with the deep rhythm of a battering ram. 

Sure her passengers were secure, Saphira bunched her powerful hind limbs and leapt onto the remnants of the dining hall’s roof. Shouts from across the keep rang out, a clatter and host of clicks rising into the night as weapons began hauling around to aim inside rather than out. 

“Get a move on!” Murtagh’s voice held an edge of panic. 

Saphira snorted. ‘Featherless chicken. Now you shall learn to fly!’ And with that, she took three great bounds and launched herself from the roof and into the night beyond.

Eragon ducked out of instinct. The whiz of bullets cutting through the air buzzed in his ears. ‘Climb!’ He gripped the saddle tightly as Saphira tilted in an attempt to evade. ‘Saphira, higher!’

‘Stop getting seconds, then!’ She snapped back. A savage growl ripped from her throat as she drove her wings down, struggling to gain altitude. Pain lanced through Eragon’s arms as several projectiles tore through the thin membrane of her wings. 

It was a few more panic laden seconds before Saphira breached the thin layer of clouds, bursting through with a hiss deep in her chest. Eragon pressed his palm against her scales, feeling her trembling beneath them. ‘You’re hurt.’ It wasn’t a question.

Saphira strained and flapped hard twice more, getting further into the sky before finally gliding a stretch. ‘There’s…there’s something in the muscle.’ Burning, grating, so dangerously close to bone. ‘I…I will be fine, Little One. Brom is not far.’

‘I’ll heal you when we land. I’m sorry.’ He tilted his head back to let the wind catch and carry his words to Murtagh. “Saphira’s hurt! I have to heal her when we land.” The young man grunted in affirmation. He didn’t seem all that thrilled to be so high up. “Is the elf okay?”

“She’s out cold.” Murtagh had to yell to make himself heard. “I got her patched up as best I could, but she’s not in good shape. Brom should take a look at her before we go further.”

“Will do.” 

With that decided, Eragon returned his hands to either side of Saphira’s neck. Her shaking was regular, breath labored. ‘You are amazing, Saphira.’ Careful of her spikes, he lowered his forehead to rest on her scales. ‘Absolutely amazing.’

The dry grin of ivory teeth reached his mind’s eye, her words half panted and half chuckled. ‘You could stand to mention that more often.’ 

Eragon smiled. ‘Every day.’

They sailed off into the night, bedraggled, limping, but finally, together again.

~~~

(Post-A/N: Thank you again to everyone who has read and reviewed or commented or whatever it's called nowadays. I'll keep the blog updated on progress for the next sections and hopefully can have something out in a month? I gotta stop giving timelines. Don't you ever start actually expecting stuff to be out when I say it will. This was a fluke since I had to break this monster up into sections. As promised to another reader I will be listening to Murtagh over this next week at work, so might have to slow down on this, but I'll keep it in mind.

Cheers everyone! Thanks again for reading!)

[priyahansh]

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[nylanguageworkshop]

Workshop Monday, Nov. 20th: Lilia Rissman, "Should we ever use words to refer to concepts?"

Our speaker on Monday, November 20th will be Lilia Rissman, who is Assistant Professor of Psychology at the Rochester Institute of Technology. Lilia will give a talk called ‘Should we ever use words to refer to concepts?’:

Using language to describe concepts is commonplace in cognitive science (e.g., saying "the concept FRUIT"). Is this a coherent way of characterizing the relationship between language and thought? I will argue that concepts should be distinguished from word meanings, drawing on my research on variability in event semantics across languages and in child homesign. I will then argue that while phrases such as "the concept FRUIT" are coherent in principle, this phrasing is appropriate for few human concepts, if any. Nonetheless, conceptual and linguistic structure parallel each other in many interesting ways — I will discuss several examples from my research on the thematic roles Agent, Patient, and Instrument as well as superordinate nouns such as "fruit."

The workshop will take place on Monday, November 20th from 5:00 until 7:00 (Eastern Time) in room 103 of NYU's Linguistics Building (10 Washington Place).

RSVP: If you don't have an NYU ID, and if you haven't RSVPed for a workshop yet during this academic year, please RSVP no later than 10am on the day of the talk by emailing your name, email address, and phone number to Jack Mikuszewski at jhm378@nyu.edu. This is required by NYU in order to access the building. When you arrive, please be prepared to show government ID to the security guard.

[prose2passion]

The thousands of languages spoken throughout the world draw on many of the same fundamental linguistic abilities and reflect universal aspects of how humans categorize events. Some aspects of language may also be universal to people who create their own sign languages, according to new research in Psychological Science.

[saja-star]

This is not true. I can't speak to the study you are referencing, and individual outcomes for language deprivation can vary a ton, but the literature overall shows deaf people who have been language deprived can successfully learn a functional L1. I can also say from personal experience that I have met people with late L1 acquisition (after age 10) who went on to become skilled in multiple written and signed languages and got advanced degrees. Like I said, outcomes vary a lot, but we definitely should not treat language deprived people as a lost cause. Even among deaf people who do not have any exposure to a signed language in their lifetime, researchers now agree that homesign systems can be structurally complex and have internal rules (Senghas et al. 1993, German 2023).

Newport (1990) found that late L1 acquisition resulted in only a minimal decrease in performance on a word order task, but more significant issues with morphology. That said, note that the morphology chart here is a z-score, not a % correct, and that late learners were within one standard deviation from the mean on all tasks. (The letters here stand for tasks targeting different morphological structures, like Verbs of Motion Production, Verb Agreement Production, etc.)

Mayberry (1993) also found that on the receptive side, there were some differences in language processing. Given a task where they had to see someone sign a long sentence and repeat it back, late learners were more likely to make errors with phonological substitutions, where they mixed up similar-looking signs, rather than semantic substitutions, where they mixed up signs with similar meanings. This meant than when signers made errors, the errors of the late learners were more likely to be ungrammatical. This result was interpreted as evidence of a processing delay, where late learners were able to catch the phonological form of the sign but were not always unpacking its meaning in the short amount of time. However, notably, the late learners' responses were equally long (i.e., they were not forgetting whole chunks) and they signed at the same speed as other groups. Overall they did make more errors than native signers, but they were on par with hearing L2 signers.

These are just the two most foundational studies, and there is a lot of other literature on this from the past 30 years.

Quick soapbox: This is not at all to dismiss the harm of language deprivation. A number of studies, e.g. by Thacker, have documented how language deprivation can lead to profound harm to deaf people with mental health concerns who are institutionalized because they can't access preventative and outpatient services, are wrongly diagnosed due to language differences, are not informed about medical procedures because staff assume they aren't competent communicators, etc. Children should be given full access to language, and people who have already experienced language deprivation should be treated with respect and willingness to communicate regardless of their own language use.

what kinds of different environments would you like to raise kids in?

(For context, we're discussing absolutely unethical experiments here)

You'd want to raise a control group speaking some natural language, another group with no access to language at all (actually several groups, controlling for different variables; some kids totally alone and some with peers, for instance), and groups speaking different constructed languages with different feature sets. You'd want to try features and feature combinations that don't occur in natural language, and you'd need enough different groups that you could vary the features in a systematic way.

This is, for instance, the experiment that could put debates about UG to bed once and for all.

There are some observational studies that provide insight here. Studies on abused children who were raised without language have generally shown that they are incapable of learning language in adulthood, providing support not only for the critical period hypothesis (which is well-supported anyway) but for the idea that if some language knowledge is not developed during this period linguistic competency is permanently handicapped. Studies on children raised speaking Esperanto (a conlang, which now has a few hundred native speakers) generally indicate that they innovate a lot of grammar that is not present in the "official" form of the language, including introducing some forms of irregularity to Esperanto's unnaturally regular grammar. There is some debate around how these results should be interpreted though, in light of possible interference from the childrens' other native languages. Anecdotal observations of adult Lojban (another conlang) speakers also show them reducing unnaturalistic features to more naturalistic ones, providing at least some support for the idea that natural language is "like that" for unavoidable cognitive reasons of some kind.