#its just limited to the elders of his tribe

[riptidethepen]

In my memory, his funny moments early on were him being the straight-man in the comedy. He made deprecating remarks both about himself and others. The funniness was from the set up and cartoonish physical comedy.

Sokka in the later half of the show still has some of those characteristics. He's still suspicious of things to a funny degree but it's no longer deprecating in the same way. He still has some straight-man moments but more often he tries to be intentionally funny.

The interesting thing about Sokka and Katara's sibling dynamic was how they traded off who was serious and who was goofy. The levelheadedness was passed back and forth. Early on, Katara got to be the fun and approachable one, and Sokka filled in the role of suspicious and trying to be The Man. Then later on Katara has some more serious moments and Sokka kinda feels the pressure and does his best to alleviate with jokes or reassurance.

I saw someone post about how they hope the writers got rid of Sokkas “stupid humor” for the live action show and like damn I don’t think someone had fundamentally misunderstood a character more.

Sokkas humor is a huge part of his character and shows a major aspect of his growth. At the beginning of the show Sokka is NOT the funny guy. In fact, he’s the most serious dude in his village. In the pilot, Aang and Katara are off playing with penguins while Sokka is literally putting on war paint and preparing to defend the rest of the village from a Fire Nation war ship. He has been the only man in his village for like four years. And he’s only fourteen. Sokka doesn’t make jokes at first, and when he does they’re usually sexist because his whole thing is about how much of a man he is. Sokka developing humor signifies his growth is a thousand ways. How he learns to respect others. How he starts to make friends. And more importantly, how he turns from a man back into a boy.

[autumnwoodsdreamer]

Unsinkable

Chapter 37: Dearly Beloved

Words: 7231

Author’s Note: Ao3 keeps going down and up and down again, so I’m gonna try get back into the habit of cross posting there and here.

Reblogs and comments always appreciated!

Read on AO3 or below the cut

Din had a knack for fixing things.

It didn’t seem like much more than a quirk at first. Then, gradually, his mechanical aptitude clarified and his buir was quick to give him work that could sculpt his raw talent into honed skill. Sometimes Din wondered if that didn’t factor into his guardian’s decision to purchase the Razor Crest in the first place—it provided no end of opportunities to learn with its dilapidated state to begin with and near constant need of upkeep and repair thereafter.

But starships were not the only things Din was good at maintaining and fixing.

Appliances, furniture, gear, weapons, even clothing and flesh—he was adept at putting things back together, keeping them going, getting more mileage out of them than was advertised. He stored up every scrap of knowledge about different materials, from wood to metal to canvas to skin, learning their strengths and weaknesses. He was no medic, but he could tend a variety of wounds and ailments; he hadn’t apprenticed at the forge, but he had learned to repair most of his armour by himself, especially the fine tech in his helmet. 

These skills came in handy in his line of work. In bounty hunting, self-reliance and improvisation were as vital as his very senses, and many a road could be opened and much could be gained—intel, assets, assistance—through the promise and deliverance of repaired goods.

One of his fellow trainees in the Fighting Corps. once told him he just couldn’t leave things alone.

Until then, Din had never linked his mechanical prowess to some kind of compulsion, but once the link was drawn for him, he couldn’t unsee it. 

Because his peer was not wrong.

He couldn’t handle broken things.

He remembered and suddenly understood the meltdowns he had had as a small child when something as insignificant as a ceramic dish fell and shattered. The only distress his elders experienced in the whole incident was in regards to the sharp-edged shards scattered on the kitchen floor, but child Din was overwhelmed by the fracturing and thus the loss of this thing which, simple though it was, he regarded as a constant, reliable feature.

As he grew and more things broke, things far more important than dinner plates, he learned to accept that decay and breakage was just a part of life. Clothing frayed and even flesh eventually wore out—not everything could be repaired, replenished or restored.

Entropy was one of the most rigid, unyielding, unavoidable constants of the universe.

It was a law Din had no choice but to accept

That didn’t mean he made his peace with it.

He resisted in ways people didn’t always see.

He held onto the Razor Crest for decades, highlighting its vintage as an asset, which it was, but every day the pre-Empire model’s cons outweighed the pros. The powerlines kept leaking, he couldn’t use the internal heating system much for fear it would overload the batteries, and he was acutely aware his travel time was slowing as the hyperdrive incrementally gave up the ghost. But it was the last tangible tie to his buir, it was the only home he had any true claim on, it was his, so he fixed it over and over again and held on.

He kept his training armour for decades, partly because he understood the tribe’s supply of beskar was limited, partly because he couldn’t stomach the thought of changing it, of wearing anything else. He was the armour; to change it was tantamount to reconstructing and altering his entire visage and identity.

He stayed in situations like his affiliation with Ran’s Crew well past the point it had grown dangerous, insufficient, and unequal because he couldn’t see over the mountain that was changing circumstances.

He withheld from starting a clan of his own because that was one thing which, if it ever were to break, he knew he would not survive.

Eventually, though, he did get a new ship (because no one could even dream of repairing the pile of ash the Razor Crest was ultimately reduced to).

He donned a new set of armour (because the old set finally buckled in the mudhorn’s relentless assault).

He left Ran’s Crew (because they had all crossed one too many lines with each other, the thin ties keeping them together at last fraying and snapping and violently freeing him).

And he started a clan (haphazardly and clumsily; much of it happened without his realizing and despite his inadequacy, despite his nearly fumbling it over and over again, a family had formed around him).

All his years maintaining old things impressed upon him the value of things in a way he wouldn’t have been able to grasp as a younger, more invincible man. He would take care of his new armour and his new ship better now than if they had been easily received replacements.

All his years dancing around difficult personalities and keeping together a spiderweb of good relations with people whose honour only went as far as their own comfort had equipped him with a fine toolkit of skills such as negotiation, deal-making, discernment, and the wisdom needed to decide when to compromise, how far to concede, and how to make someone think you’re agreeing with them when, really, you’re planning something else entirely.

All his years alone made him appreciate the crew, the friends and the family that he had now.

He had a knack for fixing things.

He couldn’t handle when things broke.

He had a tendency to hold onto things until they were too broken to hold any longer.

A lot of things were broken now.

And he couldn’t fix them…

. . . . .

It felt wrong to call Ezra’s cabin a sickroom but that was what it had become.

A thick medicinal stench hung in the air, burning the nose, coating the throat. It came from necessary things—things that sterilized, things that helped with bleeding and breathing—but still it was obtrusive and overwhelming, consistent inhalation rendering one light-headed and nauseous.

There were no monitors or respirators beeping or clicking, there was just a single IV of saline taped above the bunk: a crude setup for an even cruder substitute for blood volumnizers, antibiotics and bacta.

And there was, of course, the patient, laid out and still on the bed, deeply, unnaturally unconscious.

Din didn’t count the time but a good few hours had passed since he took up his vigil. He hadn’t spent it all alone or all awake—the day and the draining, oppressive atmosphere caught up to him and he found himself slipping his helmet off and resting his head on his arms folded on the edge of the bed, fingers latching onto his brother’s cold hand. 

It was no restorative rest, however.

His mind replayed the day’s events, twisting the endings, dragging him down dead-end roads where the worst happened with such graphic intensity that he believed it.

He believed Bane and Kryze had slaughtered everyone.

That false reality couldn’t have lasted longer than a handful of seconds but dreams had an uncanny way of stretching out into years in just the span of a few, erratic heartbeats.

He woke to sweat on his brow, stutters in his chest, and a hand weakly trying to squeeze his hand in return.

Ezra.

He was awake.

He was alive.

And if he was alive, then that meant everyone else was alive.

(They were. Of course they were; the very fact they were here, in this cabin, on board the Path Finder was proof they were all alive.)

No thought went into it, Din just locked his hands around his brother’s like a child trying to hold onto something everyone kept trying to take away from him.

The running lights and the bunk lamp provided a soft light, sufficient to see Ezra’s heavy eyes struggling to open and stay open. For a long moment, he seemed to drift back asleep but then he blinked and focussed sharply on Din.

He frowned, the expression barely forming. “Are you alright?” he asked, his voice so hoarse and quiet, if it weren’t for the miracle of Kia’s hearing aids, Din wouldn’t have heard a thing.

He gave a nod then shook his head, not to change his answer but to flick the matter aside like an annoying bug that had flown in uninvited.

Whatever he was feeling didn’t matter; Ezra was the one dealing with a grievous injury.

Din didn’t think he’d ever forget the moment Izara emerged from Ezra’s cabin.

He was keeping busy tending to the others, finding and distributing blankets, making sweet-spice tea and helping Ursa put together a meal that could stretch to fill at least some part of almost thirty stomachs. He was well and distracted when he saw Izara making her way towards him.

It was difficult to hear her over the sight of her white armour smeared and stained with so much red—too much red—but from somewhere else, somewhere faraway, he did hear her.

Up until then, Din didn’t know Bane had used a slugthrower—that brutal, antique weapon only a fool would think was any less effective than an energy blaster. 

The unfortunate truth was that it was far more effective.

Standard blaster bolts made clean, precise wounds, typically easy to tend, largely non-fatal. They were more likely to slow an opponent rather than eliminate them; you had to hit something vital in order to kill with a blaster bolt—stun rounds tended to be more efficient. Most bounty hunters modified their blasters to be more deadly but even then they weren’t as bad as slugthrowers. The bullet from a slugthrower could kill even if it didn’t hit heart or brain or any critical veins because the damage it dealt and the blood it drew would so often be too much for a body to recover from.

It was for that very reason they were outlawed all the way back in the days of the Old Republic. Even under the Empire, Stormtroopers and local police forces in the Core and Inner Rim Worlds could only carry standard blasters.

But, of course, just because a thing was illegal didn't mean it didn’t still happen or that it disappeared entirely.

Din could attest to the truth of that.

He had taken a few slugs in his time, the most memorable occasion being the run-in with Vane on Nevarro. Intimately, he knew just how unlike blaster bolts they were.

A slug was bad enough but Ezra had, inadvertently, made it worse by trying to block the shot with his lightsaber. Rather than deflect the bullet, the lazer blade had melted it into burning shrapnel.

In short, the resulting wound was neither clean nor simple.

Izara and Sloan had worked long and hard but they could only offer a grim prognosis.

Grogu, dutifully, had refused to accept it.

He marched into his mentor’s cabin, his father following numbly. 

He had seen Ezra injured before. When they met, he was dehydrated and half-starved, his hair matted and overgrown, his skin discoloured with a sickly pallor. In a way, this was not as bad: he had started this day healthy and strong and well-groomed so he didn’t have that diminished, deprived appearance, but he was pale and still, his chest barely rising and falling, his midsection swathed in thick, bloodied bandages. Pain wrote hard, tight lines on his face, winding his shoulders taut even in sleep, pulling feaverish sweat from his brow and thin, shallow breaths from tired, struggling lungs.

“We can���t do much more for the pain or the blood loss,” Izara had admitted and here now Din could see the truth of it.

Grogu climbed up onto the bunk. His huge eyes took in the sight of his uncle laying there and, when his ears drooped like limp leaves, Din came back into the moment in a snap.

He realized with a sharp pang of guilt that he should’ve protected the child from this or, at the very least, he should’ve had the forethought to prepare the little one for what he might see.

But Grogu was no ordinary child. 

He had lived longer than Din had and that life had exposed him to this before—this and far, far worse.

It was distressing.

But he had the power to do something about it—now more than ever before.

So he grounded himself and set to work.

Din could only watch.

He didn’t have the Force, he couldn’t guide or instruct or even monitor his son. He could only trust that he knew what he was doing, knew how far to reasonably go and when to stop. He had more cause for reassurance now thanks to Ezra’s training, but it was up to Grogu to either ignore or utilize what he had been taught.

Din couldn’t control anything; he could only hope.

Hope Ezra pulled through.

Hope Grogu didn’t go too far.

Hope that he didn’t end up losing them both.

Grogu spent twice as long healing Ezra than he had healing Din’s blaster burn but when he finished, he didn’t collapse. He looked tired and his little frame sagged but his eyes were still present and his skin wasn’t a single shade paler than it should have been.

Din gathered him in his arms and thanked him. It was two-fold—he was grateful for whatever he had done for his brother, and he was grateful he hadn’t gone too far and hurt himself in the process.

Sabine came in then, to see how Ezra was. She stayed and sat with Din by his brother’s bedside for a while.

They didn’t talk.

But her arm wove around his and her head rested on his shoulder and Din knew then that whatever coldness he thought he detected back in the cockpit was just a figment of his imagination.

They were okay.

As okay as they could be, all things considered.

Quietly, she transferred Grogu from his hold to hers. He snuggled into the crook of her arm and she whispered that it was time for bed. 

A small “love you” spilled on Din’s breath as she stood to go.

He couldn’t stand to leave it unsaid.

Things broke so suddenly in this life, and this day had served to remind him that anything he held could be torn away from him in the blink of an eye.

Without a pause between, Sabine gave him a soft “love you, too.”

And then it was just him, parked in a seat set against his brother’s bed, unable to really do anything.

Izara, Sloan and Grogu had expended their talents, training and expertise, the Path Finder was ferrying them all to safety, but the rest of the healing was up to Ezra.

He was awake now, but not better.

His hand was cold and weak, his focus thin and fleeting.

Still, he managed to forge a spear of a look and hurl it at Din.

Without words, he admonished: Don’t blame yourself for this, Dinar (because this was very much the kind of occasion he would pull out his full name).

Din just looked away.

He was not blaming himself—such a thing implied that he had to justify his involvement in events.

But he didn’t have to manually shift perspectives to angle culpability; he was merely accepting reality, and the reality was that this… this was all his fault.

He stayed too long.

He lured the hunter to his home.

He didn’t want to take his hands back but he had to. He stood and fetched Ezra his water bottle, helped him sit up just enough that he could take a drink, made nothing of the sip he coughed up on him, just wiped what he could away, helped settle him down again and then resumed his seat.

Out in the main cabin, they were singing.

A choir of voices—some rumbling and deep, some lilting and light, all accompanied by a modulator’s particular effect—reverberated through the ship, carrying ancient ballads in Mando’a.

The Songs of the Travellers.

Mournful and low, they slowly, gradually picked up in pitch and pace until they assumed a marching rhythm, like a company of lost and weary soldiers finally finding motivation.

Sabine’s voice was with them, as was Grogu’s wordless but no less enthusiastic contribution.

Din listened to it for a while, absently, then let out a long breath: too much weight to be a mere exhalation, not quite enough in it to make it a sigh.

A short, cut-off grunt pulled his attention back to the bed. Ezra was shifting, trying to get comfortable but not succeeding. He tried to bend and draw his legs up, instinctually seeking to ease the strain on his abdomen.

Din half-stood and hovered, unsure how to help.

Ezra gave up and settled with a thin huff. “I don’t know how to put this eloquently,” he said, having to pause and catch his breath in a panting wheeze before delivering the last line in a heated deadpan: “This sucks.”

“Yeah. I know,” Din commiserated. “Rather take a lightsaber to the leg than a slug to the gut any day.”

As if to confirm the location of his wound, Ezra lifted his head and looked down at himself, his face pulling at the sight of the bloodied bandages wrapped around his middle. He looked like he might comment further but rather just flopped back down, letting the air go without moulding it into words. 

“So how’d we go?” he asked after a while, sounding even more worn out—he likely wasn’t far from falling asleep again.

But Din obliged. 

Purposefully speaking low so as not to excite, he caught him up with what had happened while he was unconscious—how he got to the ship, how the tribe left in a caravan of ships, how they had run Cad Bane off. Ezra asked about Omega and Din told him she had gone ahead of them and taken a group in her ship. He told him they were headed for Lothal and Ezra seemed to relax further then, as if just the prospect of returning to their homeworld was a much needed balm.

“And where are you going from there?” he asked, his voice a wispy thing now.

Din stiffened. “What?” he cut out, aiming to make it sound puzzled, like he hadn’t understood the question, but woefully missing the mark.

Ezra raised an eyebrow and fixed Din with a too knowing look in his eyes before letting his expression slacken as he closed his eyes and rested in the bed. 

“You…” Din began but trailed off. He leaned a little closer, opened his mouth but didn’t say anything. Clamping his mouth shut, he moved further back and regarded Ezra with scrutiny. “You knew,” he concluded, eventually, not really so surprised—this just confirmed his suspicions. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

“Because. I know you. You always go where you belong.”

He wanted to ask him what he meant by that, sensing he had some grand, all encompassing view of this mess which Din, caught in the eye of the storm as it were, could not gain.

But Ezra didn’t look like he could string many more words together and it felt cruel to force him to try.

So Din let the matter fade from his attention and stayed at his brother’s bedside while he fell back to a deep, uncomfortable sleep.

. . . . .

Lothal welcomed them in like a mother embracing her tired children.

Dusk was just a few short hours away, arraying the sky and fields in the warmest shades of amethyst and gold the world could provide. They had missed the snow by mere weeks, the thick of winter passing in their absence. However, a chill lingered, laced in the air, woven with the faintly herbal scent of the new grass springing from the awakening earth.

They landed near the mountain range, in a place not very far from where Din had parked the Razor Crest the first time he came with Grogu.

(Fate, irony, coincidence, whatever it was called, he heard the ringing. He came here months ago with the goal of finding a Mandalorian, wildly hoping they might be able to lead him to a covert, and here he and that Mandalorian were now, ushering a covert to safety on this world.)

The cave dwellings were just that: hollowed spaces in the mountainous rock spires, carved by nature, honed by hands. Apparently, there were many, many dwellings identical to these scattered all over the planet; the rebels had used some as outposts during the war but they were now regarded as heritage sites, landmarks to be preserved, history to be cherished. Quite often, local travellers came and stayed in or around them on trips with their families, embedding this piece of their story in their children’s memories.

During the Empire’s reign, before the planetary lockdowns choked trade and travel, smugglers and mercenaries liberally used them as camps and hideouts.

Din knew.

He was one of said mercenaries.

At the time, he hadn’t thought or felt much about these abandoned but convenient campsites; now, knowing it was all a part of him, knowing his ancestors had once walked here, he felt both awed and ashamed.

The Marauder and the Kom’rk had already arrived and released their passengers. Fenn, Omega, Ados and roughly half the covert were at work, directing and organizing, helping get a proper camp set up before night swept in.

They were not alone.

As the Path Finder slowed and banked around, Din spotted Ryder’s blue speeder parked in the field nearby. Two others sat beside it: a yellow one he knew belonged to Hera and a white one he didn’t recognize. Focussing on the landing, he couldn’t scan the burgeoning camp for all his friends but he knew they were about.

They landed, settled the ship, and disembarked with some unavoidable procession—such a large gathering of Mandalorians marching out a ship couldn’t help but be a spectacle.

The sight, the occasion, the emotions—his own and others—poured in and made Din’s heart swell.

It had been years since he saw so many Mandalorians outside in the light of natural sun. The circumstances didn’t fade from his mind for a moment but this was nonetheless the reclamation of a fragment of freedom they hadn’t glimpsed since the Great Purge.

For ones like little Ayisa, it was a novel experience.

Din heard her childish voice hitch with a gasp as her mother carried her down the gangplank and sunlight met her skin for what he strongly suspected was the first time in her young life.

Automatically, her eyes scrunched closed but she fought to blink and see this world—all this wide open air, bright coloured sky and endless land—for herself. 

Her awe was an innocent, unbridled kind, but even her elders who had seen a variety of different worlds and landscapes in their time were struck by the sight, pausing and turning their heads to see it all, clicking off the filters in their helmets and breathing in deep, indulging in the warm, dry air so unlike that of buried sewers and damp underground tunnels.

A short distance away, a set of faces familiar to Din and his party made their way over to greet them.

Ryder and Marida, Hera and Kanan, Jacen, little Depa, and Zeb.

Seeing them and their warm, genuine smiles was like sighting the shore after a long, perilous journey. 

But the conspicuous draws the eye sharply, and there was a stranger standing among them.

Din didn’t recognize the young man in cream robes, but he did recognize the Lothali crest displayed on the medallion hanging from his neck. Ryder wore one, too: it, along with his garb, was used to signify a high station or position of authority.

The young man stepped forward and smiled wide like a host greeting honoured guests. He glanced over the arriving group and spread his arms out as if to embrace them all at once, his manner more friendly than grand.

“Su cuy’gar! Welcome to Lothal!” he declared, his pronunciation of the Mando’a greeting near spot-on—he had had practice. “I am Governor Jai Kell. If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

Din was about to thank him but another voice—thin and raspy—overtook him.

“Wow. They just be making anyone governor these days—even academy dropouts.”

Kell’s expression shifted to shock but not because of the words, Din discerned. His gaze shot through the outpouring of Mandalorians and latched on Ezra, currently being carried down the gangplank by Pekka. He looked very feeble in the large arms and very pale in the sunlight.

Still, he grinned at his own joke—or, rather, an inside joke, Din surmised as Kell threw his head back and cracked the kind of laugh only old friends could draw out.

“Like you can talk, Dev Morgan,” he retorted, pointedly emphasizing the name (yet another one of his brother’s many aliases, Din assumed). “Who failed the final test again?”

Ezra chuckled and immediately regretted it, his shoulders hunching in sharply, his face twisting in pain.

Just like that, the banter disintegrated and the jovial atmosphere was broken.

Hera handed Depa over to Marida and closed the distance in quick strides, her brow knotted in concern as she brushed Ezra’s hair from his forehead.

“We called the medcentre,” Kanan said, coming and placing a hand on Hera’s shoulder which she took and redirected to Ezra’s shoulder for him. “Chi’s got a bacta tank prepped and waiting for you at the medcentre.”

“This way,” Hera directed Pekka before motioning for him to carry Ezra to her speeder.

Ezra didn’t protest; he didn’t have the strength to.

Din watched but didn’t move as Pekka followed Hera’s guidance and carried Ezra to the yellow speeder. Kanan and Zeb took over from there: Zeb taking the wheel and Kanan sitting with Ezra in the back.

They left, and Din felt like some part of him had been bound in rope and tied to the speeder, tearing out of him as it disappeared in the distance.

Ezra would be okay.

Izara and Sloan had down their best, Grogu had most likely saved his life with whatever amount of healing he had managed to impart, and Din knew firsthand the kind of miracles a bacta tank could work—Ezra could not have a better chance at recovery.

Still, it was hard not to worry, hard not to think of how much worse it could have been and how much worse it could still be…

Feeling like he had stepped outside of himself, Din lapsed into some kind of autopilot.

Ryder and Kell explained what supplies they had managed to procure and gift to the Mandalorian refugees and Hera gave details of how the camp was coming along; though Din heard every word, he retained none of the information. 

The briefing, if that was what it could be called, was swift and everyone returned to work, eager to get as much done before the sun set as possible.

Ursa and Sabine followed Hera to sort something or the other out, Jacen gathered Grogu and Ayisa and herded them to the fields where he was overseeing the play of the rest of the children, keeping them occupied and out of the way so their parents and guardians could work without worry. 

Din was sure he had a job to do as well, but he didn’t know what. The others left and he wound up adrift, a thing torn from his moorings.

He was walking aimlessly around when Marida found him.

“I hope in all your adventuring you haven’t let your cooking skills rust,” she said as she came and took gentle but sure hold of his arm, her accented voice a glint of light in the dark of a storm. 

Without awaiting an answer, she guided him to the cooking area: a sheltered section of the caves equipped with tables and cooking implements and a stone fire pit.

“I should—I should probably…” Din lost what he was trying to say. He nodded to the camp in general, helplessly gesturing, hoping but fearing she wouldn’t understand him.

She cut out a short laugh. “There’s no shortage of strong and willing hands, Dinar,” she told him but then her smile slipped and she covered her mouth as if she had said a bad thing. “I’m sorry. Can I… can I still call you that?” she asked, dropping her voice.

“Of course.” He frowned, struggling to trace her sudden worry. “It’s still my name.”

“Yes, but…” her gaze flicked over him and then darted to the camp, to the gathering of Mandalorians, and he understood.

She wasn’t entirely sure of all the customs of his adopted people and she didn’t want to offend.

“What are we making?” he asked, motioning to the cooking area, redirecting attention, grasping at anything to ignore the knot his insides were becoming.

Thankfully, Marida took the new road with ease. “Flatbread and sweet curry. The curry’s on already; we just need to roll out and fry the flatbread.”

“There’s about a hundred to feed.” He couldn’t help but feel some dismay creep in when he considered the enormity of the task.

“More time for us to catch up,” Marida declared, passing him a dowel.

. . . . .

News of Sabine’s pregnancy had reached Kanan and Hera but it hadn’t leaked any further, their friends discreetly keeping the news for them to share.

After relating the Morak mission and the procurement and subsequent refurbishment of the Path Finder, Din told Marida the news, feeling a twinge of guilt as he did so because he knew he was using it as a diversion to get out of talking about himself.

Nonetheless, her excitement was strong and enlivening, sweeping away any and all negative notions.

She embraced him and then had to go find Sabine and congratulate her herself as well as make sure she wasn’t doing anything too strenuous. 

(Din indulged in a private grin at that—his wife already had their crew and a whole tribe of Mandalorians making sure she didn’t lift anything heavier than a cup of water, now she had yet another maternal figure on her case.)

He watched Marida go and then, for the first time since leaving Kyn-13, he was alone with his own thoughts. They made for poor company, but he had to confront and organize them sometime—when better than while his hands were employed portioning and rolling out equal discs of dough?

Except his mind decided not to think, instead going comfortably quiet and focussing on the task, boxing everything else up—the tribe’s relocation, the target on his back, Ezra’s condition—and shoving it into a corner where he could, for now, forget about them.

He had melted into some strange state of peace when he heard a familiar set of footsteps approaching: the sound of boots scuffing softly but intentionally against the hard packed dirt ground.

He lifted his head, catching a smile when he saw Sabine.

“Tired, cyar’ika?” he asked.

She heaved a sigh. “Tired of hearing: ‘don’t pick that up,’ ‘don’t wear yourself out,’ ‘don’t do this,’ ‘don’t do that.’” She huffed again and shook her head resignedly as she took a seat on a crate. “Apparently, I’m made of porcelain now.”

“They’re just taking care of you,” he said, softly, noting that there were many crates of supplies about that she could have sat upon, yet she chose this one: the one closest to him.

She chuffed and took her helmet off; as she did, he heard little plicks of static from her hair. “It’s a whole tribe of mother hens,” she grumbled but with a note of undeniable affection.

“Have the others arrived?” he asked as he grabbed a handful of dough and began rolling it into a ball between his palms. 

“Paz and his lot came in about an hour ago, and Koska and Riel just reported in, ETA: sometime after sundown.”

He let go of a breath, feeling another length of the wire wrapped around his core unspool.

“That smells so good.” In the corner of his visor, Din caught Sabine’s hand reaching for the mound of dough in the mixing bowl.

“Hey, no.” Gently, he batted her hand away. “That’s not cooked yet; it’s not even rolled out.”

“Oh, come on. Just a little bit? It’s edible.”

“It is edible, but it will make your stomach uncomfortable.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Here.” He twisted around, grabbed a warm, cooked disc of flatbread off the plate, and handed it to her. “You can have that.”

“Acceptable,” she acquiesced, drawing a leg up onto the crate and setting about tearing bits off the flatbread to munch, her eyes still flicking every now and then to the uncooked dough with a desirous gleam.

Cravings, Din thought with an amused smile as he strategically moved the bowl to the other side of him where she couldn’t reach from where she sat. Why the uncooked dough should be more enticing to her than the fried product was beyond him but he was quickly learning not to bother applying logic to these things.

They lapsed into silence for a bit but there was no strain in the air between them, just shared threads of fatigue and worry. There was something like a shield around them here, projected by the cooking fire, lit by the setting sun, infused with the smell of the simmering sweet-curry and the fried flatbread, trimmed with the cooling air and the soft sounds of food prep.

Absently, Din wondered where Marida had gone off to. 

She had left to see Sabine but that was some time ago and Sabine was here now with him. He was just puzzling through that when a building breath broke into his thoughts.

“Omega’s gone to the medcentre,” Sabine told him, her voice dropping a notch.

“Is she alone?”

“AZI’s there. And Hera, Kanan and Zeb are going to take turns keeping vigil. If there’s anything to hear, we’ll hear it.”

Din nodded and swallowed thickly, his throat constricting.

There were two sides to what Sabine told him.

One part was the assurance Ezra would not wake alone or among strangers.

The other part was a kind of warning.

The others—the aruetiise—were leaving. The tribe would have their meal soon and then there would be a meeting and there was much to be addressed.

“Well, this is certainly domestic,” Sabine commented, cleanly steering them to a different track.

“It’s nice,” Din returned, airily, as he continued on, grabbing a handful of dough, rolling it into a ball, flattening it and then rolling it out with the dowel until it was just the right size to fit the pan on the fire. With each turn, he fancied he picked up speed.

Without asking, without awaiting instruction, Sabine came and joined him, silently slipping into his rhythm, becoming a part of it.

For a little while, there was just the work: rolling and frying, the stacks piling steadily higher. 

“I’m lucky I got someone who can cook,” Sabine remarked, randomly.

Din frowned. “You can cook, too. And you cook well; better than me.”

“But I don’t always want to do it alone,” she told him and there was something about her voice, like the shedding of a hard shell, that put him on alert, urging him to listen carefully. “And there’s gonna be times when it’s difficult or I just can’t do it.”

He stilled.

He sensed they weren’t talking about what they were talking about anymore.

Metaphorical was the word for it. Dithering and hesitation worked, too, in a way, though they all ignored the heart of the issue.

He stopped his work and set down his dowel. They had made more than enough, now they were just making sure the last of the dough was used up.

He turned to her, readying himself for a conversation, but she continued working, taking the flatbread to the fire, pointedly keeping her head down.

He just waited.

She always made it clear for him eventually.

“I want to do this with you, Din,” she told him, quietly, little by little her devotion to the task fading until she was just standing there, her hands falling unemployed. She glanced at him but quickly looked away as if burned, eyes screwing shut against emotions he suspected had been brewing for far longer than she let on. “I’ve done enough of my life alone,” she said, her voice low so she could hold it steady. “And I don’t—I don’t want to do this part alone. Okay? I just… I need you. I need you to be there when I can’t put my own socks on anymore. I need you to let me break your hand when I’m in labour and I need you to help me hold my baby because I just know I’m gonna be tired after all that. And—and you have to be there every day after because I can’t do this on my own. I can’t. I’m not as patient as you; I’m gonna mess this up if I don’t have you.”

He reached out, instinct pulling him to draw closer to her, but he froze midway. There was some barrier, a fresh new border he wasn’t allowed to cross freely. It was so strange, like all the space they had inhabited together was suddenly divided and redefined.

He turned back to the food prep but there was just a half a ball of dough left—not enough to make a full flatbread. He rolled it out anyway with as much intention as its predecessors, eking out the task to buy a small moment to collect himself and connect the pieces she was trying to give him.

“You saw the message,” he concluded aloud, setting the dowel down and leaning on the table, his stomach tying into a hard, uncomfortable knot.

In the beat after he spoke, he hoped she might frown and say something like: “What message?” He realized he would still have to explain himself, and that wouldn’t be exactly painless, but at least he would know she had been spared.

But there was no sign of ignorance on her part.

“Not all of it,” she eventually admitted, turning her head and wiping the corners of her eyes with the side of her hand, struggling to take a breath that wouldn’t betray her with a waver or a sniffle. “Chopper said you told him only to play it after you left but you didn’t tell him not to show me just my part.”

Din let his head hang as he sighed, the sound ragged and worn. “I’m gonna kill that droid,” he muttered.

Sabine laughed, and for a moment, he thought maybe she didn’t completely hate him.

He chided himself.

That wasn’t fair.

He knew she didn’t hate him.

If she did, she wouldn’t have come here, strategically orchestrating that it be just the two of them (because Marida would’ve returned unless Sabine asked her for a moment alone with her husband, just the two of them).

If she hated him, she wouldn’t have just poured out her heart, asking him to—

He moved, unthinkingly, and his elbow or something, he didn’t actually track what, bumped the table they had been working on. Things wobbled and rattled but settled without issue.

Except for the one empty plate they had been using to transfer the flatbread to the fire.

It was close to the edge and it had nothing weighting it down. The table jolted and it fell and smashed on the ground, the sound bursting and echoing around the curved stone walls before disappearing into the open night air behind them.

It continued in his ears.

Over and over again, the shattering and scattering of pieces he could never put back together again—not properly, not completely—ricocheted around them.

He stared at the shards at his feet.

He had almost left.

He had almost left her and their children, his family, his clan.

It was to keep her safe, he tried to argue; it was to keep them all safe from Bo-Katan. 

But all the good intentions in the universe couldn’t change the fact that he was still walking out on them.

Sabine began looking for something to sweep up the broken plate and it was reactionary, it was just… the thing people did when plates broke, but the fact that she was just accepting that it was broken and needed to be cleaned up and not in the very least reprimanding him cut him in a way he couldn’t explain.

He was good at fixing things.

He was also good at breaking things.

This was not entropy, nor was it an accident. It was something between a curse and an addiction: he didn’t mean to do it but he couldn’t control it, couldn’t stop.

“Leave it. Please,” he said, his face burning, his mouth drying—the words came out like a strangled plea. He took a step towards her, his boots crunching on the ceramic chips and shards, and caught her hand. “I’ll take care of it,” he assured her.

He couldn’t fix it.

He could only clean it up and make sure no one else got hurt.

For one moment, he hung suspended over a chasm. He held her hand in a way she could slip out of easily, wanting her to come closer but not pulling, not demanding—he never would: forced love was not the kind he had been trained in.

She did take her hand back but it was not to leave, instead, it was so she could wrap her arms around him.

She held on crushingly tight, burying her face in the part of his neck not covered by any armour.

Her words ran through his mind again.

He wanted to confront them. He felt he needed to dismantle those false notions, extinguish the claim that she wasn’t strong enough or good enough to do this on her own. But he caught himself before he could aim and fire a single word.

That looked like the problem but, again, it wasn’t the heart of it. She wasn’t so concerned with her potential inadequacy as she was with the prospect of losing him.

But how could he fix that? 

Platitudes rang hollow and weak; he could say things like it would be alright and everything would be fine and there was nothing to worry about, but he couldn’t ensure such things. He could restate his view of things, underline how much he loathed to leave, but she had heard that already.

So he resorted to the plain, undecorated truth.

“Bo-Katan is not going to stop. I have to sort this out.” 

“I know,” Sabine said, her voice muffled as she spoke mostly into his collar. “I know, just… don’t go alone.”

He moved so he could tuck her head under his chin. “Okay.”

“Promise,” she urged.

He breathed out, closed his eyes, and drew out the strongest words he had ever learned to cement a deal.

“Haat, ijaat, haa’it.”

. . . . .

Notes...

. . . . .

Ezra: Do I even weigh anything to you?

Pekka: Honestly, it’s like holding a bunch of space grapes.

. . . . .

I’m gonna be honest, I meant for this chapter to hold much more plot. I’ve been wanting to pick up the pace a little and get to the action, but at the same time, I don’t want to sacrifice the heart of this story and that is the characters and their arcs and bonds. 

. . . . .

There is very little in the Ahsoka show I can bear to even acknowledge, but Jai Kell being the governor of Lothal is pretty neat, so I’ll keep that.

I do like the idea that after the planet was liberated, Ryder Azadi resumed his role as governor, but it has been over a decade since. Back when I started this story and first brought him in, I was a little on the fence but I felt like he should be retired, I just never gave any thought to who the office would go to and I certainly never thought of Jai Kell.

(And it’s on purpose that I either use his full name or his surname because I went and named Din’s buir Jai all the way back when I hadn’t finished watching Rebels through and didn’t know Jai Kell was gonna come back in the end 😬)

. . . . .

If you’ve watched Rebels, I’m a little bit hoping you catch a parallel here with the end of season 2 where Kanan’s getting ready to go to Malachor and Hera’s struggling with it. It always strikes me that it’s Sabine who clearly notices the problem that draws Kanan’s attention to it. Honestly, it’s one of her most shining moments as a character to me. This is that Sabine, about 13 years later, going through the same thing but from Hera’s position rather than an onlooker.

(And if you have seen the season 2 finale, let me assure you I am not doing *that* okay? Hera basically told Kanan they should go all together but they didn’t and it went bad, so this time, Sabine’s making sure they don’t repeat history)

. . . . .

🎶chapter playlist🎶

On the Other Side — Peter Bradley Adams

The Lighthouse — Written by Wolves

Long Way Home from Here — Matthew Perry Jones

The Last Time I Was Home — The Workday Release

Where We Belong — Thriving Ivory

Save Tonight — Eagle-Eye Cherry

The Last Day on Earth — Kate Miller-Heidke

Cry for Help — Daughtry

Dearly Beloved — Daughtry

[mistressofduskanddawn]

Azurite Discovery; Scathecraw Of Aloe

[ID: A top down view of an aloe vera plant, a slender succulent-family plant with many triangle shaped leaves and spikes on its edges. This aloe vera has red and green colouring, with the red concentrated at the spiked edges. The plant branches out like a star, taking up the complete image with no background other than its leaves.]

ONE OF MY MAIN THINGS WITH TAMRIEL PCP IS ITS RELEVANCE TO EARTH, as that is the world we live and the one I adore. I enjoy finding the Aedra and Daedra in this world, and in many aspects, they fit right into our world—and in some ways, they do not. And this either requires the reality that Tamriel is not Earth, conversing with them, or more gnosis discovered about the world. One of these ways was the nugget of information that dearest Azura gave unto me: the Scathecraw found on her altars in Raven’s Rock in The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim are the red aloe of our world, and can be used for practical in her domain of vanity.

SCATHECRAW OF ALOE

Scathecraw has limited lore, the wiki describing it simply as:

Scathecraw is a long, tough reddish grass growing in the thermal ash regions of the Ashlands, Molag Amur, and Red Mountain regions of Vvardenfell. The plant also spread to the ashlands of southern Solstheim after the Red Year. The rieklings of Solstheim call it redgrass and ritualistically burn it. The soft inner flesh of the plant can be used in alchemy.

[ID: A side by side comparison of scathecraw from The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim and aloe cameronii. To the left is the scathecraw depicted growing on a low-resolution soil in front of a rock wall and a wooden post held by rope. Then to the right a picture of an aloe cameronii garden with dozens of plants, most of which possessing a vibrant red colour.]

Conversely, aloe cameronii is a grass aloe. Scathecraw’s name also clues to it being aloe: scathe means “hurt, injure, to hurt or injure someone” and craw meaning “the crop of a bird or insect, the lower digestive system of an animal.” Just as scathecraw is devised of spikes, so does aloe, which clues to me that it is more than appearances that Azura spoke of scathecraw being a variety of aloe.

Aloe vera is also mentioned as a genuine part of Tamriel; 

The Aloe Vera are tall and leafy plants that are found mainly in southern Hammerfell, but also in warmer climates like the Gold Coast in Cyrodiil, in pockets throughout the coastline and its hills. The Yokudans were well aware of the herb’s potential in medicine, often using it to staunch the flow of blood and to heal wounds. It can be mixed with other ingredients to create elixirs, like combining the aloe’s lacquer with a crushed leaf can lessen the effects of pox.[7] According to local legend, making a concoction with Ginkgo can boost one’s stamina.[8]

There is a variety of aloe that exists across Tamriel, among which include the Salloweed Aloe in the vicinity of Phaer on the island, Auridon. The alchemist, Hendil learned that it could be used as a powerful sedative against his vampiric son.[9] The aloe vera of Vakka-Bok have been harvested by the Root-Whisper Tribe, deep in the wilds of Murkmire. It was known for its unnaturally fast healing properties, such as keep wounds from festering and soothes burns. While many people do not know why it heals so well, it is theorized that the arcane magic of the sun had given the plant its abilities.

I do not see anything that contradicts scathecraw as a type of aloe, and besides, it is a gift from Azura to witness scathecraw as a variety of aloe. For the Elder Scrolls pagan, aloe as stated may be linked to the sun, and as such, even Meridia and Magnus. Azura’s own connection to magic—which arrives to the world from the light of Magnus’ sun—clues to me why she would reveal such a thing. Aloe vera can be used for burns, healing, potions, prayer, incense, and most fittingly for Azura: its power within vanity. 

THE USE OF ALOE AND AZURA

I find Azura fond of most beauty products that truly work to provide beauty, a shine, and promote love of the self. Aloe is a wonderful tool as a powerhouse against wounds that is readily available with its nature of being largely accessible to grow as a succulent. It is commonly applied within healthcare and skincare products for its power over wounds. Most of all, I am particularly interested in its usage and interest to Azura, who guided my hands to the flora.

Devotion wise, I may witness growing scathecraw of aloe—the red aloe—in honour of her ways of self-love and self-care. Azura cares in earnest of us, with her actively promoting my own journey into sustainable beauty practices. Aloe is also lovely for those of us who are low income, as it is cheap to obtain and easy to grow. Scathecraw of aloe also comes with stunning red flowers, which may be gifted as offerings to the mistress of dawn and dusk. It may also be applied in her wonders of magic as a usage in potion and salve making—essentially, real world alchemy—under her guidance. There is likely far more to learn of aloe, but that is for us as Elder Scrolls pagans to journey together under fair Azura’s stars and twilight. 

References

Growing Aloes in our Succulent Garden. (n.d.). https://www.mediterraneangardensociety.org/sloan.html

Lore:Flora A – The Unofficial Elder Scrolls Pages (UESP). (n.d.). https://en.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Flora_A

Lore:Flora S – The Unofficial Elder Scrolls Pages (UESP). (n.d.). https://en.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Flora_S

Skyrim:Temple – The Unofficial Elder Scrolls Pages (UESP). (n.d.). https://en.uesp.net/wiki/Skyrim:Temple

[nabataprophet]

so like..........what is sophia

intsys hates consistency and also me, personally

sophia is MY fave specialist little half-dragon dark mage and I get to talk about what kind of dragon i think she is

(contains spoilers for fe6, fe7, and engage (implied))

Case 1: Dragon Tribes in Elibe

In Elibe, we have explicit confirmation that there are Fire Dragons, Ice Dragons, Divine Dragons, and Mage Dragons.....sort of.

“ok sophia uses magic she’s probably a mage dragon then case closed” (EXTREMELY LOUD INCORRECT BUZZER)

Mage dragons in Elibe are not a separate species, but rather a corrupted Divine Dragon. The terminology is a little muddy, because while the kanji is the same as Archanean Mage Dragons, Idunn is specifically referred to as a Demon Dragon in Heroes. Binding Blade still lacks an official English localization, so Heroes is the only official English s-

Just kidding this has been sitting in my drafts for so long that Engage happened. Surprise!

Engage has Roy remark in his DLC bond supports with Zelestia that Mage Dragons do exist in Elibe, though it’s unclear once again if it’s as separate species or not.

Roy: You’re a Mage Dragon, right? Those exist in my world, though I’m not aware of any like you.

[ロイ] ああ、ごめん。セレスティアは魔竜の一族なんだよね。 君のような魔竜もいるんだなって思ってたんだ。

I’ve included the Japanese text as well for funsies, but he’s saying more or less the same thing. Either way, he’s clearly talking about Idunn here, and thus more or less soft de-confirming Sophia as a Mage Dragon.

“why”

Otherwise he could’ve been like wrow.....i also know a mage dragon who uses magic like you.........but actually that would’ve made a banger conversation with veyle instead because she actually has access to dark magic. damn. 😩

But I digress.

Case 2: Arcadia

Things get a little dicey here because of the nature of FE7 existing as a prequel that was released after the fact and the two games don’t always agree (god help me).

Jahn: “That is correct. However, the Divine Dragons did not agree with us. They said that that would be defying the laws of nature. As we were discussing how we could persuade the Divine Dragons to help us, they suddenly disappeared.”

-FE6 Ch 24

...

Elder:

“Master Roy… We knew that the girl you sent here was captured by the Dragons. Still, we did not try and rescue her. We feared that our kind would be in danger if we showed ourselves in front of the other Dragons again. But now, I wonder whether my judgment was correct.”

-FE6 Epilogue (True End)

These quotes seem to imply that Arcadia was where the Divine Dragons escaped to, so it stands to reason that the citizens of Arcadia are primarily Divine Dragons, descended from Divine Dragons, or fully human (Hawkeye and Igrene, for example). This especially makes sense when we consider Arcadia is particularly sensitive about not letting Fae’s existence leak to the outside world. The other dragons think the Divine Dragons are gone entirely and Jahn, the last of the full dragons in Elibe (not counting the dragons through the Dragon’s Gate etc etc etc), has no idea Arcadia exists.

So it stands to reason that Arcadia is where the Divine Dragons disappeared to, yes?

HOWEVER.

In this cg of (past, hi Nergal and Athos) Arcadia from FE7, we see two manaketes in their dragon forms.

Ok. So. One of those dragons in the back is a Fire Dragon (you can tell by the distinctive flame plume wings) and the other is...probably an Ice Dragon? It’s hard to tell for certain because the area where the (lack of) wings would be is hidden, but it has those fins on its head.

“limit why is this relevant” 

Because it confirms Divine Dragons are not the only ones making up the gene pool of Arcadia! This could’ve been easy!!!!!!! intsys i hate your ass!!!!!

Case 3: Color Coded For Your Convenience

Sometimes Intsys is really nice and color codes dragons by type. Sometimes they just tell you to fucking guess. Depemds.

Jahn is a Fire Dragon. He’s red! Ninian and Nils are Ice Dragons. They’re light blue!

Divine dragons in Elibe are....um....anywhere from bright pink and silver. Sophia is...purple, which I guess puts her somewhere in the middle of that range.

It’s not very conclusive evidence, though, is it?

Back to the drawing board.

Case 4: Hybridization

Engage fully confirms that dragons can hybridize between tribes however if I think too hard about this I want to explode.

Case 4: The Cipher Flashbang

girl huh. can you just. drop that information in cipher. is that allowed?????

You can’t even make the excuse that the skill is referencing Fae or even Idunn because it’s specifically in reference to Sophia cards! HUH??????? ?!?!?!?!?!??!?!??! GIRL WHTA

Verdict

Even putting aside the dubious canon status of information from Cipher, it’s highly likely she’s probably at least part Divine Dragon thanks for coming to my ted talk.

[merrysithmas]

mando season 3 (my version)

this season of mando shouldve been 8 eps, an intro, a conclusion, and 6 episodes where we see Din teaching Grogu the six tenants of the Resol'nare (a mando Commandment type scripture).

each ep would have a voiceover of him teaching this small child one of the ancient beliefs of his cherished dying religion as they exist in the wilderlands of space, each episode and its lone ranger&child arc reflecting and exemplifying a specific tenant. this would have been the perfect delivery method of expanding Mando lore to the audience because we, like Grogu, are children to the unshared canon concepts.

it would be a touching, intimate portrayal of this Clan of Two, this man imparting his hidden sacred wisdom of the Mandalorians on his child (in a reflection of how Luke did the same to Grogu with the Jedi/perhaps coupled with flashbacks of Grogu learning those Jedi principles and how they compliment or oppose Mandalorian teachings).

Grogu should have even encouraged Din with the darksaber in his own innocent way- making cute motions to mimick the saber techniques he saw Master Luke use. Showing curiosity towards it. Interacting w Mando - even with the use of CGI (lbr puppetry is seriously limiting their interactions).

then at the end, as Din struggles the entire journey, doing everything within his ability to reach his planet and trek its harzardous ruins, struggling the entire season through pitfalls and hardship we finally see Din reach the Waters to obtain absolution - and understand, because we the audience (like Grogu) learned the tenants, that he deserves forgiveness and is an unknowing paragon of his belief system, moreso than any other Mandalorian we have seen

enter the subplot: Grogu is sick. somehow, someway, getting weaker and more frail. maybe a Force sickness or some weird shit with the Sith that are growing in power in the Galaxy. Din is terrified and believes if Grogu bathes in the Waters its ancient magic will heal him. He fights tooth and nail to get there - not just for his own redemption, but for Grogu's life.

When they get to the Waters they are in fact destroyed as prophesized- and only enough remains for Din's absolution OR Grogu's life. He chooses Grogu - and the water does miraculously heals him.

(we later find out unbeknownst to Din that the water has no special magic, but only is sacred when the Mand'alor blesses it... which he became the moment he gave up his absolution for Grogu's life).

when finally coming face to face with his Clan - we are faced with moral conflict.

Din explains he went to the Waters but he could not be absolved, that Grogu was cleansed instead.

we see Din's clan reject him according to their beliefs, but more painfully for him they reject Grogu (perhaps the leaders of the Tribe do not want the active believers to know absolution exists in the form of the Waters and claim the act was impossible as the mines were destroyed, or perhaps the elders are wary of the Jedi child). This shakes Din's beliefs, and makes him rightfully angry - this child is a Mandalorian, by Creed.

we see the Tribe, although believers and earnest, do have their own limiting prejudices (an occurence in all societies).

this conflict would eventually cause him to part ways with his Clan, willingly, for the sake of a Foundling. to discover the origins of Tarre Viszla and how he balanced his force abilities with his Mandalorian Creed. now truly alone in the Wilds of the Universe with only his individual heart to guide him - we see him following the Creed on his own. a true believer with no guide but his soul. in a reflection of the way that he left the Guild for Grogu.

and like Grogu, we would wonder - what makes a true Mandalorian? The creed? The clan?

or Din himself? the sword suddenly glowing at his hip.

[cut to the Living Waters, dry as a bone, an enormous crackling, destructive sound, a surge of water charging up from the underbelly of the planet. alive once more, only dessiccated before as the Mand'alor did not live.. and now that has changed]

also spoiler alert they resolve their differences and eventually the Tribe rejoins HIM.

[tahomawhisperingwind]

The Golden Circle of Frybread: Celebrating Apache Culture, Resilience, and Community

Image generated by the author

Picture this: a warm breeze flows through a bustling gathering, carrying with it the tantalizing aroma of golden, crispy frybread. Families come together, laughter intertwining with the sizzle of dough hitting hot oil. For many Apache people, frybread isn’t just a food; it’s a bridge connecting generations, a symbol of survival, and a testament to cultural resilience. As we dive into the rich history and variations of this cherished dish, prepare to discover how frybread embodies the spirit of the Apache community, transforming simple ingredients into a profound expression of identity and belonging.

The Genesis of Frybread: A Culinary Survival Story

Frybread’s origins can be traced back to the tumultuous 19th century when the Apache, like many Native American tribes, were forcibly relocated to reservations. Stripped of their ancestral lands and traditional food sources, the Apache faced dire circumstances. Limited rations—often just flour, lard, salt, and water—became the foundation of what would evolve into a culinary staple.

Imagine the scene: families huddled around a fire, the flickering flames casting shadows against the stark landscape. With their meager supplies, they innovatively crafted a dish that was not only filling but also symbolic of their resilience. Frybread emerged as a comfort food, a source of sustenance that echoed stories of survival and adaptation. Over the years, it morphed into a canvas for creativity, absorbing local flavors and reflecting the unique identities of Apache communities.

Frybread: More Than Just a Meal

Frybread is more than a simple dish; it is a cultural emblem that brings people together. The act of preparing and sharing frybread is a communal ritual, a time-honored tradition that reinforces family bonds and honors the wisdom of ancestors. As families gather to make frybread, stories are shared—echoes of the past that inspire the present.

Take, for instance, Liminal, an elder in his community, who dedicates his time to sharing the art of frybread-making with the youth. As he kneads the dough, his hands move with practiced ease, each fold a lesson in resilience, each pat a connection to the land and the people who came before them. Liminal emphasizes that frybread is not merely a food; it represents the spirit of adaptation. "In every bite of frybread, there is a story of survival," he tells the eager children, his eyes twinkling with the weight of history.

Cultural Significance: A Circle of Connection

The significance of frybread extends beyond its nutritional value; it encapsulates the essence of Apache culture and community. In many Apache households, frybread is a staple at gatherings, celebrations, and ceremonies. It's served alongside stews, soups, or even as a base for Indian tacos—seasoned meat, beans, cheese, and fresh salsa piled high atop a warm piece of frybread.

This fusion of flavors speaks to the adaptability of the Apache people, who have creatively woven influences from various encounters into their culinary traditions. Frybread has evolved into a versatile dish, manifesting in countless variations—each one a reflection of the community’s journey. From sweet versions dusted with cinnamon and sugar to hearty frybread sandwiches brimming with fresh ingredients, the possibilities are endless.

The Generational Bridge: Modern-Day Relevance

In today’s world, frybread serves as a bridge, linking past and present. It transcends the kitchen, becoming a vital part of community gatherings and cultural celebrations. As younger generations learn to make frybread, they are not just acquiring a culinary skill; they are embracing their heritage, understanding the stories woven into each recipe.

Cultural anthropologist Dr. Lorraine Banally highlights frybread’s role in reinforcing Apache identity. “For many Indigenous people in the Southwest, frybread is a staple that carries the weight of history,” she explains. “Around 70% of Indigenous people regard it as an important part of their diet—intertwined with narratives of survival and community.”

In the vibrant markets and community events across the Southwest, frybread stands as a symbol of cultural pride. It’s not uncommon to see long lines of eager patrons waiting for a taste of the warm, fluffy delicacy, eager to partake in a shared experience that transcends generations.

The Many Faces of Frybread

Frybread's versatility is one of its most endearing qualities. As we explore its variations, it becomes clear that this dish is a canvas for culinary creativity.

Traditional Apache Frybread

At its core, traditional Apache frybread is a simple recipe. Made with flour, lard, salt, and water, the dough is deep-fried until it achieves a perfect golden-brown hue. Often enjoyed with honey or powdered sugar, this version captures the essence of frybread—warmth, comfort, and a taste of history.

Indian Tacos

A modern favorite, Indian tacos are a delightful fusion of flavors. Picture a generous piece of frybread topped with seasoned ground meat, beans, cheese, and a fresh salsa, each bite bursting with taste. This variation allows for culinary exploration while honoring traditional ingredients, showcasing the adaptability of Apache cuisine.

Frybread Sandwiches and Desserts

Frybread can also serve as a base for sandwiches, filled with an array of ingredients, from grilled vegetables to savory meats. And, for those with a sweet tooth, dessert frybread—topped with sugar, cinnamon, or even fruit fillings—offers a delightful treat that appeals to all ages.

Bringing Frybread Home: A Recipe to Cherish

As we delve into the heart of frybread, it’s time to bring the experience home. Here’s a simple recipe to guide you in creating your own batch of traditional Apache frybread:

Ingredients:

2 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking powder

1/2 teaspoon salt

3/4 cup warm water

Oil for frying

Instructions:

In a large bowl, mix the flour, baking powder, and salt.

Gradually add the warm water, stirring until a soft dough forms.

Knead the dough on a floured surface for about 5 minutes until smooth.

Divide the dough into small balls and flatten them into disks about 1/2 inch thick.

Heat the oil in a deep pan over medium heat.

Carefully place each disk into the hot oil and fry until golden brown on both sides, about 2-3 minutes.

Drain on paper towels and serve warm, topped with your choice of honey, sugar, or savory ingredients.

Tips for Success:

Ensure the oil is hot enough before frying to achieve that perfect crispy texture.

Experiment with toppings and fillings to make the dish your own.

A Taste of Heritage: Conclusion

As we reflect on the journey of frybread, it becomes clear that this beloved dish is much more than nourishment. It is a celebration of Apache history, resilience, and community. Each bite carries with it the stories of those who came before, inviting us to embrace the richness of Indigenous culture.

So, the next time you take a bite of warm frybread, consider the history that surrounds it. Let it be a reminder of resilience, adaptability, and the power of shared meals. In a world that often feels fragmented, frybread serves as a delicious reminder of the bonds that unite us, inviting us to gather, share, and celebrate life together.

In the spirit of connection and community, why not gather your loved ones and explore the art of making frybread together? Create your own stories, share your own experiences, and keep the rich tapestry of Apache culture alive, one golden piece of frybread at a time.

AI Disclosure: AI was used for content ideation, spelling and grammar checks, and some modification of this article.

About Black Hawk Visions: We preserve and share timeless Apache wisdom through digital media. Explore nature connection, survival skills, and inner growth at Black Hawk Visions.

[f0xd13-blog]

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Speedball Mike Bailey (@speedballbailey)

Oh that part ain't fake your character is. Not to him specifically. You know you need to built character and let go of the nerdy otaku stuff a bit not litetally you can play with your dolls or wtv but like on tv... get it real not just in the ring like be real you know... indians vs jews coz they think that's what wrestling was for and that their lil racist story is any relevant? Hmmmm

Nd i don even wanna talk bout aew coz there's people over there but like wtf .. why are they all harry potter gypsy and then celebrate anushka? So annoying like you want me to see that as only business after what happened in the real world?

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Football • Futbol • Soccer (@footyemporium)

No shit. They are racist and legally which is crazy.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Italian Football TV (IFTV) (@italianfootballtv)

Ehehhehehehe witch laughterz

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by MARCA (@marca)

He wasn't that suprised tho that's his uncle they are both jr duhh the evidence just keeps on comming

Belonging is a word throwed a around a lot .. well what do you mean by belonging? Is it belonging in a company? Because those words never came out of my mouth but it is funny how this mirrors israel they play the "they say we don belong here" but behind people backs while nobody is watching gaza exists... so who is not the one belonging? trowing me out of the window everytime and giving 2000 championships to jews? Dang certainly im the one bullying people out of their place right? I ain't just mad because you made me into a joke for years and now that is exploding on my hands IN THE REAL WORLD

Anyways words are empty when you look at things and clearly by your product im the one that is not belonging

Like my people invented that thang why isn't we getting the fruits of what we planted?it's just common sense. Ii'm tired of that childish shit... it's always trible chief mode "does that person belong in my tribe of monkes"? Listen i don care about that shit... look back at the product who was the people that made you? And listen the lack of them obvious by your ratings. Its like trying to invade nba and then ask the black people that in fact made that sport why do they think they dont belong... yess you do but stay at your place and respect the elders.. isn't that the values you stole from my culture?

And then the belong things gets turned into perfect blue shit like... so you belong so you are rn using my mask while my people get killed and you is a jew and im living in the conditions im living you see its shit.. i would respect a nasty jew that only wants to get gold and be nasty but no you chose to make my life a joke for protagonism and thats why i would stab you in reality and maybe you would wake up from that theatre you do in the ring that should be a lil bit more in touch with reality maybe just a bit you know... its like a said jews will forever be trash that don't know their limits

If you think that any jew ever invented a character you are wrong because how can you when you don't even understand wtf you are doing... you could but you can't coz you don't listen since the iron sheik be screaming at your ears that y'all a bunch of jabronis... like he wasn't lying that's the thing!

You can't invented a character when you think that we are a character as in this ain't real just coz it is a performance that is why they suck and they will never learn! Every major wrestling character is gypsy because wrestling is gypsy like you can't try to be us and say that ain't happening we just know

No not even stone cold is an original character that's the thing! Im yet to find a jewish character that isn't just them trying to be us because they don understand it was never fake

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Héritier LUMUMBA (@hlumumba)

Jews want congo's minerals and resources... booooooo wow reality. You are trying to make a jew a fucking hero and the representation of christ and the joker at the same time and im like .. my Judas say what? DOESN'T MAKE SENSE

Nd then of course we start wondering about the reasons for that right? Because it's so out of this world like if they was on a massive wormhole completely disconnexted from the rest of the worlds perceptions for what? That's the question and don tell me you are trying to show individuality coz i hurt everyday because you contributed to that sort of ignorance about my situation... don tell me people wouldn't see your individuality because a lot of peeps that are hating jews would maybe even aplaud it for it being real... nobody would try to kill seth rollins for telling the truth aboit his character and what he really represents lol

And the most ridiculous shit about this is... am i really teaching this to an entire industry that should know better? Like this is ridiculous

Yess obviamente im the one deciding who doesn't belong in wrestling look at where iam now look at seth rollins and sami zayn and his bloodline pffff pls don make me laugh ok? Wake up!!! When the sheik called you jabroni he was legit calling you a jabroni for a reason we do use sense also just like any person (should ... nowadays that is not a common trait)

So it was literally him saying idk why this fucking jabronis (mostly jews and payos that don know why wrestling exists and have no character because we know hen the character is just a wannabe gypsy) think they have a say just coz they got through indie wrestling and wrestling school totally a capitalization of our culture which is fine if you knew it was a culture and respected their people as such which is not the case at all omg people don even know how to behave accordingly around us just watch the comments around fury's appearence and the ronaldo rumour and can even go as far as to say we don own our own gimmick that jewish that capitalized it does... thats insane! You should had taught your wwe universe better. He was literally always screaming on twitter. The last interviews he did he was always super pissed for a reason. Specially when those interviews was conducted by misleading kevin nash.

Here.. it's baby iron sheik

We can also look like this even in iran btw

Now lez go back to another sort of cancer:

This one really looks like the iron sheik ahaha missing the moustache... that kids needs a moustache

"Don't take drugs" and then he looks insane ahahah i love him

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by MAKKAH مکہ (@makkah_78600)

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Psi Manoj Rajput (@psi_manoj_rajput)

Iron sheik but make it circus leader ;)

Britney is back but she is in Polinésia i fear for hee life she is going to be turned into a jewish samoan and don trust the ceasefire reports

Well is he wrong? Because after putting prisioners at the streers after that scheme called covid probably on purpose to which we don know the effects of what they be doing out there since those people can looking like the biggest politican ever... and after fascist latrashtinos schemes comming from countries full of fascism... and the recent uprise of extremest marxist movements in the usa you can't really blame him for being careful with immigration. Also idk how that co relates to the italian thang that was in fact racist coz we are their indigenous people for centuries and they caught us from egypt we never immigrated there we immigrated to greece so they took us from greece and egypt...

Litetally we was abused for centuries there that's why they have a hard time now... now you don want to be responsible for what you did... nah now you have to include us coz i ain't going to invade egypt just coz you like to get rid of you past

[ancestorsofjudah]

1 Kings 8: 1-5. "The Fly."

The Ark Brought to the Temple

8 Then King Solomon summoned into his presence at Jerusalem the elders of Israel, all the heads of the tribes and the chiefs of the Israelite families, to bring up the ark of the Lord’s covenant from Zion, the City of David. 

2 All the Israelites came together to King Solomon at the time of the festival in the month of Ethanim, the seventh month.

3 When all the elders of Israel had arrived, the priests took up the ark, 4 and they brought up the ark of the Lord and the tent of meeting and all the sacred furnishings in it. The priests and Levites carried them up, 

To bring up the Ark does not mean carry it up, it means "to discourse about the contract between God and man."

Solomon does this in Ethanim which means "to flower and never stop." The inverse means to "descend and never come up except to predate."

יתן  אתן

The unused verb יתן (yatan) probably denoted the permanence of flowing water (it does so in cognate languages). The adjective אתן or איתן ('etan) means perennial or ever-flowing.

The noun אתון ('aton), from an assumed root אתן ('atan), describes a female donkey or she-ass. In the ancient world camels signified international trade (like our trucks), horses signified military might (our jeeps), oxen signified heavy farm work or local commerce (our tractors and lorries), and donkeys, particularly female donkeys, signified the spontaneous congress of peaceful and free civilians (our Volkswagens and campers).

Female donkeys were the units of social networks and symbolized both the freedom, peace and prosperity, and the curiosity about and concern for one's neighbor upon which any social network is based.

This is why mankind's King rides a donkey (Zechariah 9:9): donkeys mostly carry stories, and mankind's King, obviously, is the Word of God, or the formal manifestation of natural law.'This is why mankind's King rides a donkey (Zechariah 9:9): donkeys mostly carry stories, and mankind's King, obviously, is the Word of God, or the formal manifestation of natural law.

To "bring up" the Ark and suggest its methodological path to peace should be properly vehicularized as the Torah insists, is symbolized by the fly, Gematria of 7226, ו‎ זבב‎ .

"What forms our perceptions of reality? On what do we base how we view our world?

Logic and rational plays a big role. Human beings have the unique capacity to think, analyze and determine. But there are many other factors.

Our education, our background, the society we grew up in, our predispositions, emotions or inclinations, and many other dynamics color or blur our vision, so that some of our decisions are not rational.

Moreover, our brain is limited, and when it doesn’t have the tools to comprehend something, it creates a thought process based on our preconceived notions.

Consider this: Have you ever tried to swat a fly midair? You’re sure that you got a direct hit, but a second later, you see it buzzing away. What happened?

Compared to humans, flies essentially see the world in slow motion. A fly can execute six full turns per second, and most flies can flap their wings 200 cycles per second. Flies move so quickly that our eyes can’t follow them. But instead of our brain admitting that it can’t track such speed, based on the fly’s trajectory, it estimates where the fly will be. Our brain’s subjective tracking is wrong; thus, when we try to swat that fly, we fail.

If so many of our perceptions are colored by our subjective outlooks, is there any objective truth?

The Torah is called Torat Emet, the “Torah of Truth” because the Torah describes G‑d’s reality. G‑d who is the Creator of our world, and the Creator of each of us is the only definition of absolute truth.

Inside our soul is a small piece of G‑d. Relating to that part of our soul and allowing its expression is where we activate our emunah, commonly translated as “faith.” Emunah, from the root amein literally means “truth” (just like when we say “Amen” to blessings or prayers, it means, “it is true.”) This part of our soul sees the truth of reality and its experience of G‑dliness.

While our brain can detect the five senses of our world, emunah begins where our brain’s reason leaves off. Just as a metal detector can sense many things—though not emotions, of course—our rational faculties are limited. Emunah doesn’t necessarily contradict reason; it just takes us beyond it, to experience the supra-rational of the soul’s true reality."

5 and King Solomon and the entire assembly of Israel that had gathered about him were before the ark, sacrificing so many sheep and cattle that they could not be recorded or counted.

The sacrifice of the herd animals which are by nature disorganized so the discussion of the "supra-rational" and realize the Shepherd instead and tally a countless number of ways to furnish the world with order and peace is the heart of Judaism. Only after the conversation flowers will the predatory world cease its wicked ways and agree to achieve Shabbat and then Mashiach.

Discussion of these things during this present flurry of ideas is what is meant by the Kabbalah of the Swatting of the Fly.

[chirpycloudyrobin]

@arthuralbion i didnt want to be limited by the character count in the replies so i am yapping here ! this is not gnna be meta btw ! just a bunch of headcanons from all the 'what ifs' i cld make from what little info we have from the novels lmao. playing fast and loose w my rambling here so bear wimme

so personally i dont really vibe w the dark!lans or dark!qingheng-jun interpretations or any version of the atticwife trope. i do vibe with the implications that whatever went down with qingheng-jun, madam lan, and the rest of the lan clan was bad and the consequeces pretty much helped shape the lan bros down the line, as generational trauma does.

a lot, or even all, of what we know abt qingheng-jun and madam lan (will be collectively addressed as lan parents from here on out) is secondary / tertiary information. we never get the full truth of it. there is no secret writings or past recordings whatsoever straight from the lan parents themselves that would confirm or deny whatever has been said by others. we also have enough reason to suspect that maybe, maybe the elder lans have a wholly different perspective on how things went down and that that perspective would always be on the side of the clan and what they deem is right and just, instead of the actual victim. in the jianghu, it's always the clan first and not the individual.

we also see how the clan, specifically the elders / ones in power, would react if one of their own would go off and try to be with someone they deem as 'other' for whatever reason. we also know that the lan elders, or at least lan qiren, would judge a child based on their parent. iirc it's common in thing, having descendants bear the sins of their forebearers (see: wen remnants being condemned for the sins of the main branch). and of course, the gentry's entire thing about people knowing their place and staying within their station

it fits well with mdzs' entire thing with rumours and their hold on cultivation / gentry society.

so we have all of that. i can now paint another picture on how the lan parents' story goes down.

im gonna sit here and assume that the mdzs jianghu is predominantly han chinese and located around the southeastern part of this fantasy china. we'll also play fast and loose with the timeline but if we have to be specific, their time would be roughly between 222AD and 589AD.

we know that madam lan was a rogue cultivator before she married into the lan clan. we do not know from whom lan wangji got his light eyes. we do not know what the lan parents actually look like in terms of colouring and specific physical features. we DO know that lan xichen has darker eyes than he does.

now what if,,, WHAT IF ,,,,

what if lan wangji got his light eyes from his mother,,, BECAUSE mama lan is actually from a culture far, far north, where there is less sun and people genetically have lighter colouring. aka, people of the eurasian steppes. aka, xianbei and rouran people, among other tribes. xianbei and rouran existed

this places her firmly in the outsider category in the jianghu. she's even more of an outsider than cangse sanren even though both are rogue cultivators. cangse sanren was born and raised within the jianghu and its society, madam lan wasnt.

"but cloud !!" you exclaim. "if she's not jianghu, how is she practicing cultivation ?"

easy, cultural assimilation. xianbei and rouran people IRL were nomadic people so we can easily say that their mdzs counterpart are nomadic also. maybe madam lan's specific tribe settled somewhere near the cultivation sects in the far north. maybe they took in rogue cultivators that made it that far up north. maybe she learned as she went down her merry way to the main setting of mdzs.

madam lan is already an outlier in her own society. she took up the bow and the sword, got on her horse, and traveled farther than her family has ever traveled. she stops every so often to help out the regular people she comes across. maybe she meets some rogue cultivator here and there and picks up on some of their techniques. maybe she meets a certain cangse sanren along the way and they become best rogue cultivator buddies and somehow end up in gusu, where they meet their future husbands

now imagine madam lan deep within the heart of the cultivation world and the gentry. shes a powerful, talented and unaffiliated cultivator. her face is other, her mannerisms are other, her speech is other. even her cultivation is other. and yet she outperforms all of them. she struggles within the social contexts, yes, but she excels wonderfully in the art of warfare and battle. in fact, she may just be on par with the jianghu's no.1 youth at that time: the lan clan's own heir qingheng-jun.

maybe it's true that qingheng-jun fell for her at first sight, but madam lan couldnt be bothered with romance at that time because she was too busy exploring the world.

maybe they both bond over the knowledge they could exchange with each other. qingheng-jun absorbs new knowledge like a sponge and madam lan left her home to learn more about the broader world. it just clicks.

but now is not the time and place for their early days. we're here to talk about the rest of the nitty gritty details.

so obviously madam lan just goes against so, so many of the lan precepts. she is far too free-spirited for them. she has different beliefs and different approaches to so many things that shouldve been the norm of their sect already. and she's from the north. where the "barbarians" are.

in real life, the sociopolitical relations of the xianbei and rouran with the han chinese have all started off very rough, in the most basic of terms. their beginnings were marked with military confrontations which would end up in varying degrees of cooperation and assimilation. the han viewed the xianbei and the rouran as a threat, and the two viewed the han the same way.

we can translate this into mdzs by having the main cultivation sects view the nomadic people of the north as unrestrained and war-embroiled. stories of the northern tribes' military confrontations and raids of northern china would trickle down to the southeast. madam lan, as someone from the far north, would obviously carry the sins of her people. she would obviously be believed to be as unrestrained as her people. obviously, she could be a threat to them and their stability. who knows what her actual motivations are for arriving and staying in the jianghu ?

so now we have a clearer picture of madam lan in this particular version. she's an "outsider" from the feared tribes of the northern steppe. she is a new, unknown variable within a mostly homogenous culture. she has no one but cangse sanren to speak for her. she has nothing to her name, but her skills are on par of their most talented. she is not one to bend to their rules. she has captured the lan clan heir's heart and no one knows what she wants to do at this point.

enter: the murdered lan teacher.

obviously the elders are going to be very concerned with this strange girl capturing the pure heart of their qingheng-jun, right ? especially qingheng-jun's own teacher who had raised the boy from toddler-hood after qingheng-jun and lan qiren's parents had died an unfortunate, early death. it's his responsibility to make sure the young sect heir keeps on the righteous path.

so he confronts this strange girl alone.

he attempts to send her away. offers her so many things just to get her out of the jianghu and out of qingheng-jun's life. she's just not fit to be by his side if she insists on keeping her barbaric ways. she refuses to learn the ways of the jianghu. she refuses to listen to her elders. she is clearly not someone fit to be around such distinguished people.

he is unsuccessful but there is a clear, unpleasant tension between the two. madam lan doesnt tell qingheng-jun, it's not her place to meddle in someone else's family. the teacher does tell qingheng-jun, it's his responsibility. qingheng-jun insists on forming his own opinions anyway, but keeps his teacher's advice in mind.

and then madam lan learns something she never shouldve known. obviously, she should be kept quiet. and who would believe an outsider anyway ?

a scuffle happens. qingheng-jun arrives at the nick of time. at the end of it, one teacher is dead. both are the culprit, but it was self defense.

unfortunately, in the jianghu, clan comes first.

the truth of that night is that both of them killed the teacher. the truth that is kept alive is that madam lan was the murderer. qingheng-jun was never in the area.

qingheng-jun still gets punished of course. a few strikes of the discipline whip and a few years in seclusion. madam lan gets thricefold the punishment.

they still want to save face. and maybe a couple of them actually do believe that madam lan has bewitched qingheng-jun.

love was still able to bloom somehow. maybe the lan parents snuck out to see each other. maybe they were given a day or two together each month. either way, they had two sons: lan huan and lan zhan. unfortunately, the lan elders dont want any of madam lan's northern "barbarian" culture anywhere near their perfect heirs

does lan qiren know the actual full story ? probably. but he was also probably on the opinion that madam lan did bewitch his older brother somehow, at that time. maybe he comes to the realisation that maybe it really was a slowly blooming love between his brother and his sister-in-law. maybe.

and maybe the lan brothers were fed a twisted version of the truth. their parents' story, bent and rewritten to serve as a cautionary tale.

unfortunately, history does end up repeating itself.

but maybe this time, the outcome will be different.

about to do something really fucking funny (make my own interpretation of what happened between qingheng-jun and madam lan that would require me doing extensive research on the sociopolitical history and interactions between the xianbei people, the rouran people, and the han chinese people, and which would also explain why lwj was always noted to have light eyes compared to the other characters whose eye colours were almost never mentioned or pointed out)

[white-cat-of-doom]

A small piece for Jellylorum’s day in the Elder Cats appreciation week, lovingly put together and run by @the-cat-at-the-theatre-door.

TW: Mentions of death.

The silence is perhaps the hardest part to accept.

Jellylorum knew that the day would come eventually. Despite the jokes told by Deuteronomy that Gus would outlive even him, as stubborn as he was, the Theatre Cat had passed. Not in a grand manner that she thought befit him, but as quietly as the soft ruffle of a stage curtain brushed against by a passing patron.

Ironic, she thought to herself, how these things played out in the end. Even after the rapturous applause of any performance, eventually always came the silence afterwards to consume it, smothering out who and what was there to have created it, leaving nothing behind in the end. In the quiet, once the bodies were gone, it never seemed as if anyone ever was there in the first place. There was no proof, just an emptiness until the next time a crowd filled the seats to prove existence.

But was that not the magic of arts? To leave behind something for the ages that outlasted even the most magical and blessed of Cats? To emboss a mark on history that someone and something had been there to be worthy of being remembered? To leave a legacy behind where those you would never meet, even they knew your name?

Jellylorum was never cut out for that and did not want it.

Despite her love for performing, she could never follow in her father’s footsteps, and neither could her brother Asparagus. Gus did not want them to either, unless it was something that they themselves absolutely wanted. As proud as it would have made him to have his children follow in his footsteps, he knew the perils of a life of performance. He had seen how the lust for talent had broken friendships and caused Cats to leave the theatre never to be seen again, abandoning the Tribe for something they likely would never find. He warned his children that egos in the field were sometimes unmatched and that they needed a thick hide to put up with everything, good or bad.

There was also the cost of time away from their family that could not be regained, despite every effort made to do so. Time never stopped moving forward, and it took with it the youths of his children, ones that he was largely, and regrettably, absent for. Jellylorum’s mother, Andromeda, had taken care of her and Asparagus when Gus was at the theatre or on tour, and at one point it seemed that she would have both of them together taking care of her family for the foreseeable future when Gus retired. The Everlasting Cat had other plans for that as Jellylorum would find out, although never fully realizing at the moment it was all happening. She was too young to have anything except a hazy set of limited memories of her mother before she passed away.

As time went on, it seemed that even her father did not want the recognition he had famously created for himself. He had to live with missing out on his children’s young lives, something that no amount of recognition would alter. Each year brought fewer Cats who even knew who he was, at least not at first glance. His coat had greyed and lost its luster; his face wrinkled with age; his paws unconsciously moving against his will from the palsy. He was a shadow of his former self and did not want to be remembered as he was at that later point in life. Those old enough knew of his achievements and his pinnacle, Munkustrap looked up to him as his biggest idol after all, but the majority of what he had accomplished was now told by Jellylorum. She thought it was only fair to keep his legacy alive as he became increasingly unable to recant his stories unassisted, just as the majority of the informative memories and legacy of her mother were maintained by Gus and her brother, Jellylorum’s two constants throughout her life.

Now one of those constants was hauntingly absent, a piece of her forever removed from this life. No matter how she tried to rationalize, it was not something she could fully prepare for. Jellylorum had known it was to come soon enough, never being afraid to tell Gus how much she loved him each day in case it would be the last time she could. And then it was. 

That last night was different. Jellylorum could see it in his tired eyes, the time had come to say their final goodbyes. She held him close, knowing she could not anymore after the new day came, telling him as best she could what he meant to her. Gus was painfully silent throughout the exchange, but there was that subtle smile before the final closure of his eyes that Jellylorum felt he had understood and was content with accepting what came next. At the very least, she hoped he did as she smiled back, withholding the tears that she felt could drown had enough fallen from her eyes.

She knew that something greater awaited him beyond those closed eyes and beyond this world, regardless of whether he was prepared for it. He would be fine; she knew it in her very being that whatever The Everlasting Cat had for him would be something that Gus could take and make his own, much as he did in his illustrious career. 

Which is why it hurt so greatly to see him fade away in the time he was sick. As much as she tried, Jellylorum could only momentarily grasp the metaphorical smoke of who her father was as it wisped around her fingers and out of existence. The candle of his life had burned almost to completion, a rarity for most Cats, almost defiantly in a way, and yet it still did not feel like long enough for Jellylorum. She wanted him to be there forever.

There was that brief feeling of relief (and dare she say happiness?) that Jellylorum felt once the initial wave of grief subsided. After all the suffering, all the sickness, all the pain, her father was now free of those physical and mental restrictions that held him down. Everything that had left Gus over time was waiting for him in the Heaviside Layer to be made whole once more.

It was all still too much for Jellylorum despite bracing for the loss. After the theatre staff took Gus’ body to his final resting place in the early morning, under the stage where he spent the majority, and most meaningful, times of his performing career with his family and his adoptive family of the Tribe, the reality had set in, along with the silence. Jellylorum and Asparagus gathered there, words unspoken but the understanding present, the only physical reminder of their father remaining in the blanket he wore over himself during his later life, much as their mother did when she was terminally sick.

It was at that point, with the two of them together side by side, much the same as they were when kittens playing on that same blanket, that Jellylorum could not keep up the strong appearance she had to force herself into to survive interactions with the Tribe. She broke down and let the grief finally take hold of her, the tinge of sadness held in her eyes for so long, visible to those who looked deep enough, now uncontrollably at the forefront. She did not want anyone else to see her like this, leaving Asparagus alone with the blanket, so that she could find a place for herself to comes to terms with everything before the start of another busy day ahead. She knew she needed to be her cheery self for everyone else’s sake, and that wallowing in the absence was not going to do her any good.

However, the flash of a more saddening realization hit her. There would come a time where the last constant in her life departed indefinitely as well. She could not bear the thought of losing her brother at some point, it was already too quiet in the theatre for just her to carry on the lives of her family alone.

For a moment, Jellylorum had the feeling that she had lost her purpose in life. The time spent taking care of her father had taken up much of her day outside of her duties with the kittens in the nursery. She had always been busy during the day taking care of those who needed her, and then doing the same with her father afterwards or during the breaks she could get away when Jennyanydots took over. Now there was to be no one waiting for her in the theatre, just the silence. It would be such a profound adjustment that she did not know where to start. 

She felt obligated to keep the legacy of what her father represented alive. The walls once filled with the images of dramatic characters and scraps of cloth overflowing into one another, echoing with the singing voices of stars long faded and forgotten, were not what they once were. They never would be like that again, but that is not what her father represented to her. Even though his name was famous in the past for who he was at one point in theatre, that did not encapsulate the entirety of his being. Behind the curtain, did the audience see who he really was? Gus’ true legacy was always meant to carry on through his children. That is what he most hoped for when sharing stories and bragging to his cohorts about his amazing family. They were his greatest successes.

In that same vein, Jellylorum realized that her legacy is carried on through caring for those that matter most to her, as she had done selflessly for so long. Those she took care of would be the ones to share her own stories and the ones given to her by Gus. Now she had more time to spread her cheer around the Tribe. Despite her busy nature, Jellylorum accepts that she needs to focus on herself as well in all of this.

Jellylorum will not let the silence take hold of everything and drown it out, not until she is to leave the world. When that times come, she can only hope that the love she bestowed to Gus and everyone would also be reciprocated back to her. Jellylorum hopes she could stay as long with the Tribe as her father did, in order to touch more lives, and pass on the stories she knew so well. She guesses that she just needs to be a bit stubborn about it, although she will have to deal with the continued loss of those she knows again and again. Her stoic father is something to look up to, and she wonders how he managed the hurt he must have been under seeing it happen over time. Perhaps forgetting was a blessing in its own way.

Right now though, Jellylorum will have to learn to live with the new silence until it can be filled once more with the sound of happiness. Gus always told her that there is laughter after pain, and if she imagines it hard enough, she can still hear the joy in his voice bouncing off the theatre walls.

[liptonsbabe]

The Daugthers of Saturn

A Wolfpack saga

Vol I. Titan

Sam Uley x Female! reader

Summary: Saturn's fate depends solely on its daughters

Warnings: none(?

A/N: So, as you all know i'm new in this twilight thing but i looooove the wolfpack so much and my mind works so fast so here it is a whole saga about our favorite boys! Please if you see something you don't like tell me and i'll change it. As always, english not my mother language so pls let me know if something's wrong. Enjoy!

Caelus spun rapidly on its axis and Saturn quickly followed suit. They were thousands of milles away from each other, but their rotations didn't slow down. You were at the center of the universe. The other planets hid to watch the fight between father and son and you wondered what you were doing there, in the middle of space floating above a constellation that murmured beneath your feet.

Then the two enemy planets rotated more strongly and from their movement emerged two men. Caelus stood imposingly in front of Saturn who, imitating his father, slowly walked towards him. Your heart raced, watching the two unknown men slowly approach you.

The space between the three of you closed. The constellation beneath your feet disintegrated and in return you stood on a golden stone that Saturn created for you. He attacked Caelus, his father, and squeezed your arm tightly.

His eyes were gray like granite and his hand on your arm was warm, like a welcoming embrace. You didn't understand what was happening, nor how you managed to be in that place, to breathe and be in front of two planets that had become men.

Caelus recovered from the attack and Saturn pulled you towards to the aquarius nebula where his territory began. Caelus vociferated in rage and Saturn grabbed you by the cheeks pinning his grayish gaze on yours.

"You are my daughter. The first, but not the only one. You must find the rest. My fate depends on it."

He said. His voice was soft, like the voice of an understanding father. You stood in your place watching Saturn's sparkling eyes. Then Caelus ran like a panther towards you and Saturn made you fall from the nebula, floating in the void.

You awoke to the tapping on the car window where your sister was trying to get your attention. Apparently you had already arrived at your new home and there was a lot of unpacking to do. You woke up, your muscles aching from sleeping so uncomfortably in the car and all the miles you had to travel from your old home. You stretched your arms, sighed and got out of the car being the last one to do so.

The rest of your siblings were already pulling box after box out of the moving truck. Your father was standing in the doorway watching them work and your mother was inside giving indications on how she wanted everything arranged. You shook your head, putting on your jacket before heading out.

La Push had a terrible weather. Humid, rainy, cloudy. The rest of the family talked to your father about the disadvantages it would bring to the pack, but he just used his Alpha voice and said that those had been old Hasen's wishes.

Grandpa Hasen was the elder leader of the sons of Caelus, the tribe to which you belonged. He had been the alpha in his time and had been the son, grandson and great-grandson of alphas. Now it was your father's turn and in the future it would be yours.

The sons of Caelus were a pack of wolves ruled by the planets. They talked, but they only talked to old Hasen and he communicated the message as best as he could.

Hasen didn't speak, neither did he open his eyes and the little he moved was for the council meetings that were held in an extraordinary way. Two weeks ago old Hasen awoke from a dream and, after years of not opening his eyes even to help himself to walk, he did so to say that the whole pack had to move to La Push, Washington.

Your father didn't understand why, but he didn't object the decision. If Hasen had had a vision then that meant that the creator father spoke to him in his dreams and laid out the path for them to follow. The rest of the sons of Caelus were unsure about establishing their home in La Push cause, as it had been for hundreds of years, the Quileutes and the sons of Caelus hated each other.

You stepped out of the car feeling the breeze hit your body but your own warm held back the cold. You shook your head trying to dismiss the dark dream you had just had. It was impossible for Saturn to have communicated with you. Your creator father was his enemy and the sons of Caelus abhorred Saturn since the creation of the tribe. You denied, telling yourself that you had spent too much time listening stories.

Rosé, your sister, was waiting for you on the porch carrying a heavy box in her arms. She raised her eyebrows when she saw your sleepy face and hair in a tousled bun. Her bright smile made you blush.

"Sleeping beauty, were you waiting for the prince's kiss to wake you up?"

"Not really. I didn't know we had already arrived."

"Fifteen minutes ago. The others are inside helping to unpack. I thought it was good to let you rest a little longer."

"Thanks, R."

You decided to start helping carry the last of the boxes inside meeting your father's stern gaze. He was a good alpha, but as a father he left a lot to be desired. You didn't have an enviable relationship nor did they have a perfect one, but he was your father, the alpha of the pack and you respected him.

"Take that to my office" he told you in a growl. You nodded making the tousled bun move and your hair fall unruly to the sides. Your father looked at you reproachfully again "Do as I told you and for the love of our father, pull your hair back."

Rosé was right behind you. You were both about to do as your father had told you when the scent of other wolves stopped you all from your actions. Your father pulled you close to him putting you and your sister behind his back and your twenty brothers protected the rest of your sisters in the same way. The strangers approached revealing none other than the new generation of Quileute wolves commanded by Joshua Uley's son.

They crept closer. Your brothers formed a barrier between them and your father. Still, the Quileutes came close enough and looked disdainfully at the vastness of your home.

"Get inside now," said your father. You and Rosé didn't move but were curious about the arrival of the wolves. Your father gritted his teeth "I said get inside the house."

You two did as he asked standing on the threshold and leave the boxes aside. From that place you could see the one who appeared to be the alpha climb the porch steps being stopped by your brothers. Your father gave them the order to let him pass and their faces met.

"Son of Caelus."

"Quileute" your father replied looking him up and down. The boy had no shirt on, only a pair of shorts. The boy half smiled

"We could smell you all from our side of the beach."

"Your side of the beach" ironized your father "I didn't know we were limited to just walking in the woods near our place."

"Well now you know" said the boy. You moved closer, quietly stepping out until you were behind your father's back "You're not welcome here."

"Who says so?"

"The treaty you signed years ago"

"That treaty died along with Ephraim Black. There is no shared territory, this place belongs to us as much as it does to you and this house is mine and my pack, so I don't want to see you around here, boy, was I clear enough?"

"Why are you here?"

"Our creator father brought us."

"Caelus spoke to you? After all these years?" asked the boy. Your father's face turned red with anger.

"That's none of your concern, quileute. Get off my property, now."

Your father turned around to enter the house bumping into you. He squeezed your arm feeling anger rise up to his ears when he saw that you hadn't tied your hair back. He pulled you to the side and you were facing the quileute's alpha as he held you so you wouldn't fall.

Your eyes met. A bond tightened and images flashed through your minds of the two of you together, happy and embracing somewhere on that beach. Your heart pounded and the quileute's arms around your waist became soft.

But then reality hit you like a bucket of cold water.

You imprinted on a quileute.

The worst enemy of your own pack.

[kuramirocket]

The term "Aztec" refers to the seven indigenous tribes who share the common language of Nahuatl and who settled in the Valley of Mexico prior to the Spanish conquest. These tribes, which include the Xochimilca, Chalca, Tepaneca, Colhua, Tlahuica, Tlaxcalteca, and Mexica. According to legend, the Mexica established their homeland in 1325 on an island in Lake Texcoco where they found an eagle on top of a prickly pear cactus (as had been prophesied by one of their priests). They named their island city Tenochtitlan. As the Mexica consolidated their power, Tenochtitlan became the capital of the Aztec Empire.

Tenochtitlan formed a strategic alliance with the neighboring Aztec city-states of Texcoco and Tlacopan in 1428. This alliance was known as the Triple Alliance and was created to provide security for the region. Although Tenochtitlan was the political and military leader of the alliance, each member retained its own legal, economic, and religious systems. Moreover, the Aztecs usually did not impose their laws or customs on the people that they conquered. The Triple Alliance dissolved in 1515.

By the time of the Conquest, approximately 1 million people were living in the Valley of Mexico, with 250,000 in Tenochtitlan alone. The Spanish conquistadores who arrived in the region in 1519 were stunned by the advanced Aztec civilization and compared Tenochtitlan to the city of Venice. The Spaniards conquered the Aztecs in 1521, destroyed the great temples and vestiges of this civilization. However, the legacy of the original Aztec empire survives today through its archaeological treasures and the indigenous Nahua people, who are the modern descendants of the Aztecs.

Aztec Political Structure

The Aztec empire was made up of a series of city-states known as altepetl. Each altepetl was ruled by a supreme leader (tlatoani) and a supreme judge and administrator (cihuacoatl). The tlatoani of the capital city of Tenochtitlan served as the Emperor (Huey Tlatoani) of the Aztec empire. The tlatoani was the ultimate owner of all land in his city-state, oversaw markets and temples, led the military, and resolved judicial disputes. Once a tlatoani was selected, he served his city-state for life. The cihuacoatl was the second in command after the tlatoani, served as the supreme judge for the court system, appointed all lower court judges, and handled the financial affairs of the altepetl.

New emperors were usually chosen from among the brothers or sons of the deceased ruler. They were required to be over the age of 30, to have been educated at one of the elite calmecac schools, to be experienced warriors and military leaders, and to be just. Although the emperor had absolute power and was believed to be a representative of the gods, he governed with the assistance of four advisors and one senior advisor.

Aztec Social Structure

The noble class consisted of government and military leaders, high level priests, and lords (tecuhtli). Priests had their own internal class system and were expected to be celibate and to refrain from alcohol. Failure to do so would result in serious punishment or death. The tecuhtli included landowners, judges, and military commanders. Noble status was passed on through male and female lineages.

The commoner class consisted of farmers, artisans, merchants, and low-level priests. Artisans and traveling merchants enjoyed the greatest amount of wealth and prestige within this class, and had their own self-governing trade guilds. Commoners generally resided in calpulli (also referred to as calpolli), or neighborhood wards, which were led by a single nobleman and a council of commoner elders.

An individual could voluntarily sell himself or his children into slavery to pay back a debt (the latter required permission of the court). Slaves had the right to marry, to have children, to substitute another individual in their place, and to buy their freedom. Slaveowners were responsible for housing and feeding their slaves, and slaves generally could not be resold. They were usually freed when their owners died, and could also gain their freedom by marrying their owner. Aztecs were not born slaves and could not inherit this status from their parents.

There is evidence that women had administrative roles in the calpulli and markets, and also worked as midwives and priestesses.

Aztec Legal System and Sources of Law

The Aztec legal system was highly complex and was designed to maintain social order. Aztec laws were based on royal decrees and on customs that had been passed down from generation to generation. These laws were also interpreted and applied by Aztec judges in the various court systems. Aztec judges were not necessarily bound by existing law, and had some discretion to do what was just and reasonable under the circumstances. The concept of stare decisis did apply in certain situations, as punishments ordered in certain cases were typically applied to subsequent similar cases.

The major civil and criminal laws were written down in pictograph for use by judges, while other customary laws were passed down to younger generations through spoken hymns. At the time of the conquest, the Aztecs had just begun to codify their laws into a more formal written form. However, the Spanish missionaries deliberately destroyed the few written court and legal records that existed because they were considered to be heretical. Other legal manuscripts were burned by Spanish troops for fuel, or were allowed to rot from humidity and neglect. As a result, the limited information that is available about the Aztec legal system comes from Spanish chroniclers and troops who documented their observations during the two years before Tenochtitlan was conquered.

Many Spanish priests also studied the Aztecs during the years immediately following the Conquest, and wrote manuscripts known as codices. These codices discussed Aztec history, religion, natural history, warfare, political affairs, and the events following the Conquest. The best and most comprehensive work was the 12 volume General History of the Things of New Spain, which was also known as the Florentine Codex. Written by Fray Bernardino de Sahagún, this work was based on interviews with Aztec elders who survived the Conquest, and includes detailed information about Aztec daily life, merchant and artisan business practices, and the governance of the Aztec empire. Because this codex provides a relatively pro-Aztec viewpoint of the Conquest, it was suppressed for 300 years during the Spanish inquisition. The Codex Mendoza, which was commissioned in the 1540s by a Spanish viceroy, is also an important resource because it covers the history of Tenochtitlan, has detailed tribute records, and includes a discussion of Aztec law and punishments. The Libro de Oro Codex (the Codex Ixtlilxóchitl) was written by Fray Fernando de Alva Cortés Ixtlilxóchitl and contains a collection of 65 criminal laws that were supposedly copied from an original Aztec manuscript.

Aztec Judicial System

The Aztec judicial system was made up of multiple courts with differing levels of jurisdiction. These included the trial courts, appellate courts, and a supreme court. The trial courts were known as Teccalli courts, and heard civil and criminal cases involving commoners. Civil judgments by this court were considered final, but criminal sentences could be appealed. The appellate courts, known as Tlacxitlán, reviewed criminal appeals from the Teccalli courts and served as trial courts for cases involving nobles and warriors. The Aztec Supreme Court reviewed decisions from the Tlaxitlán. The Chief Justice, or Cihuacoatl, determined the final verdict and his decision could not be appealed to the Emperor or the other judges. If the Cihuacoatl decided that a case was too important for the Court to rule on alone, it was sent to the Emperor, who held court every 12 days and rendered final judgments with the assistance of four elder noblemen. The Emperor retained the ultimate right to intervene in cases or appeals that were of importance to him or to the empire.

The Aztecs had various special jurisdiction courts, including commercial courts (which handled marketplace and merchant disputes), family courts, fiscal affairs courts, a military court, and a religious court (which handled cases concerning priests, students, and religious matters). The Aztecs additionally had neighborhood courts that were similar to modern justices of the peace. Judges were elected by the neighborhood to hear minor criminal and civil cases, and reported their decisions to the Tecalli courts. These judges also had a police force to serve summons and arrest criminals.

Aztec judges were viewed with great respect and honor, and were expected to be impartial, ethical, and honest. The Emperor (or tlatoani) appointed the Cihuacoatl, who in turn appointed all of the lower court judges except for the neighborhood judges. Judges were appointed for life and could be removed only for misconduct. Judges received their training through an apprenticeship program that involved observing court proceedings. Future judges were then selected from among the apprentices. The judiciary was self-policing, and judicial misconduct was punished by reprimand for the first minor offense. After the third minor offense, a judge would be removed from office and have his head shaved, which was considered a great humiliation among the Aztecs. Major breaches of professional ethics, including bribery, accepting gifts, and colluding with a party to a case, were punishable by death.

Individuals who were accused of crimes or were involved in civil disputes were summoned to court and had the opportunity to defend themselves. Attorneys did not exist, and individuals usually represented themselves with the assistance of friends and relatives. Trials were public, all parties were required to testify under oath, and documents, testimony, circumstantial evidence, and confessions were admissible. No trial could last more than 80 days and verdicts were determined through a majority vote. Judges were assisted during proceedings by court personnel, including recorders or painters who documented the court proceedings, a crier who announced verdicts, and an executioner who carried out death sentences.

Aztec Criminal Law

Under the Aztec legal system, crimes were severely punished. While capital punishment was common, other punishments included restitution, loss of office, destruction of the offender’s home, prison sentences, slavery, and shaving the offender’s head.

The Aztecs had a prison system, which included the cuauhcalli (a "death row"), the teilpiloyan (a debtors’ prison), the petlacalli (a prison for individuals who were found guilty of minor crimes), and a fourth type of prison which involved a judge drawing lines or placing sticks on the ground and ordering the prisoner not to cross them.

Numerous offenses were punishable by death, including homicide, perjury, rape, highway robbery, destruction of crops, selling stolen property, official graft, pederasty and serious judicial misconduct. Capital punishment could be carried out through hanging, drowning, stoning, strangulation, beheading, beating, disembowelment, burning, quartering, and opening the chest to remove the perpetrator's heart. It was possible for victims or families of victims to intervene in the execution of a sentence. If they chose to forgive the perpetrator, his death sentence was removed and he would become a slave of the victim’s family.

Theft was considered a serious crime. Capital offenses included theft from merchants, theft from a temple, theft of arms or military insignia, and theft of more than 20 ears of corn. Petty theft was generally punished through restitution. If the perpetrator wasn’t able to pay for the stolen item, he became the victim's slave.

Children under the age of ten were considered to be legally incapable of committing criminal acts, but were still expected to respect and obey their parents.

Aztec Property Law

Aztecs had a complex and hierarchical land ownership system, and drew sophisticated boundary maps that were used to mark different types of land and settle disputes. The Emperor owned personal and royal property which was used as he saw fit. Owners of conquered lands were not necessarily displaced and were usually allowed to continue living on and working their lands.

Nobles could own land on a restricted and unrestricted basis. Nobles obtained land by purchasing it from other nobles or as a gift from the emperor for service to the Aztec empire. Purchased land could be sold or willed. Land grants from the emperor sometimes had conditions that required them to be returned to the emperor upon the death of the owner. Warriors had similar rights to purchase land or receive it from the emperor. Institutions such as the army, temples, and certain public offices (judgeships) could also own land which was received from the Emperor. These entities owned the rights to the profits from the land and used them to support the office holder. However, the individual office holder did not own the land.

Commoners could not own land on an individual basis. However, they had access to land through their calpulli. Although the calpulli were run by nobles, members of the calpulli were permitted to elect a neighborhood leader (calpullec) to manage the distribution of communally-owned calpulli land. This land was given to individual families, and generally stayed with the family unless it went uncultivated for two years or the family moved away. If this occurred, the unused land would then be redistributed to other families. Although the calpulli was responsible for dividing and reassigning the land, individual plots of land were often inherited by subsequent generations of the same family.

Aztec Commercial and Tax Law

A strong system of laws governed the economic operations of the Aztec Empire. One of the main sources of income for the empire was taxation. Aztec citizenry paid taxes (with the exception of priests, nobles, minors, orphans, invalids, and beggars). Merchants paid taxes on the goods that they sold, artisans paid taxes based on the value of their services, and barrios paid taxes through the crops that they produced.

As for tribute payments researchers have observed that tribute payments were generally reasonable.

Merchants were extremely important to the Aztec empire, especially traveling merchants known as pochtecah who ventured into neighboring regions. Pochtecah were organized into their own calpulli and could pass their profession and land down to their children. They had their own guilds, laws of conduct, and courts to enforce their laws. They ventured into foreign regions to establish trade and sometimes served as messengers and spies for the Aztecs. Merchants who were attacked while on the road were expected to defend themselves, and were sometimes assisted by warriors. War was justified if the safety of an Aztec merchant was threatened.

Local commerce was required to be carried out in large marketplaces known as tianquiztli. The various marketplaces were open once a week on rotating days, although the largest market in Tlatelolco was open on a daily basis. The marketplaces were patrolled by special commissioners who worked to prevent fraud and disturbances. Commercial disputes were settled in the marketplaces through special commercial courts that had the power to impose capital punishment if necessary. Sales were made on cash and credit. While there was no official currency, various goods functioned as money, including cacao grains, small squares of cotton cloth, small nuggets of gold, pieces of tin, and precious feathers.

The Aztecs used contracts to carry out their business activities. Contracts were formed verbally and became legal and binding when witnessed by four people. There is evidence to suggest that the Aztecs had sales, commission sales, lease, work, and loan contracts. Loan contracts used collateral in the form of property and goods.

Aztec Family Law

Aztec family law generally followed customary law. Marriage ceremonies had to follow certain rituals in order to be legally recognized.

Marriage was conditional in that the parties could decide to separate or stay together after they had their first son. Marriages could also be unconditional and last for an indefinite period of time. Polygamy and concubines were permitted, though this was more common in noble households and marriage rites were only observed with the first, or principal, wife. Aztec families could live in single family homes, though many opted to live in joint family households for economic reasons.

Aztec families were very close knit. Children were considered gifts from the gods, but were expected to be obedient to their parents and elders. Children who became orphaned lived with aunts and uncles or other family members. 

There was no divorce, but men and women could petition the courts for legal separation on the basis of incompatibility, misconduct by the wife, abuse by the husband, or financial debt.

Courts generally tried to encourage reconciliation where possible. Simple abandonment of a household by one party was also sufficient to establish a legal separation. Property registered at time of marriage was returned to the party who brought it to the marriage. If there was a guilty party in the marriage, the offender forfeited half of the community property to the other spouse. Divorced and widowed parties could get remarried. Widows had the option of marrying their husband's brother as well.

There is some conflicting information among researchers regarding inheritance rights. According to Avalos, a father could create a will as he saw fit, with property conceivably going to his wife or daughters. 

Aztec International and Military Law

The Aztec empire was strongly militaristic. War was justified when a territory closed its roads to commerce or when a merchant or ambassador was killed. A ritual was followed for declaring war. The Aztec Emperor would issue a declaration of war and envoys were sent to the enemy region. The enemy was given a gift of weapons and 20 days to respond to the declaration and submit to Aztec authority. If no agreement was reached, the enemy was brought another gift of weapons and given another 20 days to respond. If no agreement was reached after this second offering, a third and final warning was given with harsher terms. If no agreement was reached after the final warning, the Aztec army would attack within twenty days. Enemy kings suffered personal punishment by the Aztecs if they waited until the third warning to accept the Aztec empire's terms. During combat, captured warriors were enslaved and sacrificed. Captives had the option of fighting Aztec warriors in order to obtain their freedom.

Most sacrificial victims were warriors captured in battle. To be sacrificed was an honor because it was believed that this would guarantee life after death.

Texcocan Law

Texcoco was founded in the 12th century and grew to prominence within the Aztec Empire in the early 15th century through its leader, Nezahualcoyotl.

A separate discussion of Texcoco is warranted because the Texcocan legal system was highly sophisticated and had various important differences compared to the legal system in Tenochtitlan.

First, Nezahualcoyotl formally codified 80 laws for his empire that were divided into four parts. The enforcement of each part was left to four different supreme councils: the War Council, the Treasury Council, the Council of Music, Arts, and Sciences, and the Legal Council. The first three councils were made up of one representative from each of the 15 provinces in the empire. The War Council enforced laws concerning the military, including disputes over captives, battlefield conduct, and wartime treason. The Treasury Council enforced laws related to merchants and tribute collectors. The Council of Music, Arts and Sciences handled cases involving artisans and priests. This Council also regulated the schools and licensed teachers.

The Supreme Legal Council handled criminal, civil, and property matters. Decisions by local and provincial judges were appealed to this council, which was made up of six sets of two judges from the various geographic regions. These cases could in turn be appealed to two supreme judges, who issued sentences only with the approval of the Texcocan ruler. The Texcocan ruler turned to his divine tribunal for advice on serious cases and death sentences, had a separate ruler's tribunal to handle less critical matters, and was advised by 14 great lords on political and legal issues affecting the empire. As with the legal system in Tenochtitlan, cases had to be resolved within 80 days. There is some evidence that judges followed precedent, and also made decisions based on what was reasonable under the circumstances of the specific cases.

Although Texcocan laws were strictly enforced, Nezahualcoyotl was merciful. He had corn planted along public roads so that hungry individuals could eat and not be accused of theft. The Texcocan ruler gave food and clothing to the needy and to wounded soldiers.

Second, the Texcocan empire had highly complex property laws. Land was divided into diffetent categories. Tlatocamilli land was royal land that was farmed by calpulli members for the benefit of the ruler. Tecpantlalli lands were lands on which the royal palaces were located. Commoners worked these lands and were employed as palace servants. Calpulalli were calpulli lands designated for use by commoners. Pillalli lands belonged to minor lords. These lands could not be sold, but could be passed on to heirs or would otherwise revert back to the state. Tecpillalli lands belonged to minor lords related to ancient lords, and to merit-worthy warriors and other individuuals. These lands could be sold to other nobles. 

Finally, the Texcocans had complex inheritance and succession rules. Children had the legal right to inherit property from their fathers, and could only be disinherited for violence, cowardice, cruelty, or wastefulness. Among nobles, the first born son was usually the first in line to receive the inheritance. However, if he was deemed unsuitable, a different son was selected based on his merit and abilities. Commoners tended to divide their property equally among the offspring of the deceased, and there is some evidence to suggest that women inherited property.

Source

[badlucksav]

Under the Cold Sun

Due to some unforeseen circumstances (aka me being a procrastinator as usual and my muses being flighty bitches) I did not get through prompt 1 of YuTen week so instead I'm just gonna write this little drabble I might expand on later. Placing it below the cut

Her stomach felt like a weighted ball of lead as she watched the plume of black smoke come ever closer across the blue expanse of the sea. Outwardly, Yue knew that she looked every inch the diplomatic princess her parents had raised her to be, but inwardly, she was the scared little girl who hid under her furs during storms. 

Her soon-to-be husband was almost here.

Yue had always known that her marriage would have to benefit her tribe in some way, but she had always expected to marry someone from her tribe—the heir of an old bloodline, a strong warrior, something. She did not expect this.

Princess Yue of the Northern Water Tribe was not marrying the son of a respected elder, nor was she marrying the bravest man in her village. She would not raise her children in the ice palace where she grew up under the moon's watchful eye.

No, for the first time in over a century, a Water Tribe princess was marrying out of her own country. Princess Yue was marrying Prince Lu Ten of the Fire Nation.

In three days.

There was no choice in the matter, at least no choice with any decent outcome. The Northern Water Tribe was going broke. A hundred years of limited trade with the Earth Kingdom had made the tribe's coffers suffer. And this was her father's solution. It made sense, she supposed.

But no amount of rationale eased her anxiety. All she could do was wait and watch as the Fire Navy cruiser grew steadily bigger on the horizon. At least, until a servant fetched her to go down to the main canal to greet the Fire Nation procession.

Seeing the ship enter the city was nearly frightening. The dark steel of the hull cut a stark contrast against the bluish-white of the ice ad snow. The rumble of its engines could be felt underfoot, and Yue could scarcely breathe.

With a great hiss, it came to a stop, the smokestacks spitting out final clouds of black soot. And then, they descended: a dozen men and women dressed in black, red, and gold, their expressions stoic, their hair combed back neatly. Yet Yue knew who her betrothed was, even before he stepped away from the crowd and approached where she stood with her parents.

His eyes were like honey; his hair was sable combed back into a topknot with a gleaming gold flame. He wore a black cloak trimmed in fur over gleaming armor. He looked like a Fire Nation soldier, except his eyes were kind.

He greeted her parents first, offering first his forearm to shake before he bowed low, formally, in the way of his people. Then he turned towards her and bowed again before the corner of his lips turned up into a charming smile.

"Princess Yue, I am Prince Lu Ten," he greeted her, and his voice was low, smooth. "It is an honor to meet you."

[the-river-person]

Secrets of the Deltarune

Okay so I was taking a closer look at the Deltarune and I started to notice some really weird things. It’s a symbol for the Kingdom of Monsters, right? Wrong. Gerson tells us “That's the Delta Rune, the emblem of our kingdom.The Kingdom...Of Monsters.” Okay so its the same thing, right? Nope. I looked up emblem and its distinction from Symbol. A Symbol represents an idea, a process, or a physical entity. While an Emblem is often an abstract that represents a concept like a moral truth or an allegory. And when it is used for a person, it is usually a King, a saint, or even a deity. An emblem crystallizes in concrete, visual terms some abstraction: a deity, a tribe or nation, or a virtue or vice and can be worn as an identifier if worn as say a patch or on clothing or armor or carried on a flag or banner or shield. So what does it matter? Well Gerson even tells us why. “That emblem actually predates written history.The original meaning has been lost to time...“  Hold up. Predates written history? The beginning of written history is approximately 5500 years ago. Somewhere around 3400 B.C.E. Thats a long time. And the prophecy that goes with the symbol talks about the Underground going empty, so it can only really be as old as The War Between Humans and Monsters. But...when was that? The game doesn’t tell us the exact dates. Well we have a couple clues. At the beginning of the game we have a little cut-scene of the war and then a bit where we see a human going up the mountain only to fall down into the Underground. Most players assume that this is you, beginning your adventure. Except its not. Later in the game, when you SAVE Asriel in the True Pacifist Route, we’re shown another cutscene with the exact same human figure in EXACTLY the same position, being helped by a very  young Asriel and the silhouette of Toriel. It’s Chara, not Frisk. So our date of 201X (2010-2019) takes place long before Frisk even arrives. We don’t know how long before. That really doesn’t help with when they were first thrown down there though. So I took a look at the images before that, of the war. The first image shows a human who is very different from the later pictures. Both the make of the spear and the animal hide-like clothing suggest that it’s probably stone age. The text tells us a very general “Long Ago”when describing how both races ruled the earth together. In the next two images we’re shown the actual war. The crowd of humans have various things like torches and spears. Those diamond type spears are very similar to Roman Pilums. The Human figure with a sword was interesting though. He bore a mantle (cape or cloak) and is sporting a sword. Though there’s not much detail, we can still identify the general time period of the sword. The size isn’t big enough for a proper claymore or longsword, or even a hand and half sword. Since our figure appears to be moving forward, and we can guess that it’s not in a friendly manner given the context, yet still holding the sword in one hand instead of two, it’s probably a one handed broadsword. It also has a cruciform hilt (cross-shaped) that is slightly curved. The blade is quite wide with what appears to be straight edges (based on two images with limited detail). And it has a very narrow Ricasso, an unsharpened length of blade just above the guard or handle. Ricassos were used all throughout history, but they’re pretty notable for the Early Medieval Period in Europe. And the rest of the sword (blade type, length, crossguard, and method of use) is very reminiscent of a Medieval Knightly Arming Sword, the prominent type of sword in that period from the 10th to 13th centuries. So I had to take a closer look at my spears. Turns out, they actually more closely resemble a medieval cavalry lance or javelin. And many Javelins have their root in the style of the Roman Pilums, including the sometimes diamond shaped tips. The sword and mantle of the figure suggest heavily he’s a knight, and backed up by the spear carriers we can guess that its the Early Medieval Period, possibly the beginning of the Romanesque Period. So that would place us all roughly a thousand and at least ten years before Chara fell into the Underground in 201X. Asgore was certainly alive back then. In the Genocide Route Gerson says “Long ago, ASGORE and I agreed that escaping would be pointless...Since once we left, humans would just kill us.“ and in the Post-Pacifist when you go back to talk to everyone he’ll say this when talking about Undyne “I used to be a hero myself, back in the old days. Gerson, the Hammer of Justice.” He even talks about how Undyne would follow him around when he was beating up bad guys, and try to help, by enthusiastically attacking people at random such as the mailman. This tells us that Gerson and Asgore are as old as the original war and both had been part of the battle. And both lived long enough to survive till now. Gerson is quite old looking, while Asgore is not. He explains this by saying that Boss Monsters don’t age unless they have children and then they age as their children grow, otherwise they’ll be the same age forever. But Undyne doesn’t appear to be old. And I started to wonder how long normal monsters lived in comparison to Boss Monsters. A long time for sure. From the Undertale 5th Anniversary Alarm Clock Dialogue we can learn that Asgore once knew a character called Rudy (who also appears in the Deltarune Game), who he met at Hotland University and appeared to be generally the same age as Asgore. Since it takes place in Hotland we know that it was already when they were underground, Asgore was King and was already doing his Santa Clause thing, and that Asgore was trying to find ways to occupy his time aside from actually Ruling. In the dialogue he tells us that Rudy began to look older than him. “I was there for it all. His Youth, his Marriage, his Fatherhood. Then, suddenly, one day... he fell down. ... Rudy... I... was never able to show you the sun.” Monsters can live a long time. But Boss Monsters, as long as they don’t have a child, can live nearly forever as long as they aren’t killed. Based on that, Undyne is probably quite young and Gerson is incredibly old even for a Monster, and yet only recently he’s stopped charging around fighting bad guys. Since Undyne was with him, those bad guys were in the Underground, and his distinction of her attacking not so bad folk like the mailman, means that he was probably in an official capacity to fight crime, such as a guardsman, or maybe captain of the royal guard. So. Even though there’s plenty of time for a prophecy to spring up naturally. We have a number of Monsters who have actually lived that long that would be more than happy to correct mistakes and assumptions. Gerson is quite elderly and is a tad forgetful, but he still knows much. Characters such as Toriel and Asgore are still hale and hearty, and both had witnessed so much. Though we know very little about the character, Elder Puzzler is also implied to be quite aged and knows a great deal about the “Puzzling Roots” of Monster History. You’re probably wondering what all of this is leading to. Well with these characters in place to maintain knowledge of history in the populace, then we have an Underground which created a prophecy AFTER it was trapped there, which leads me to conclude that when the prophecy was created, it must have been referencing something older than the War of Monsters and Humans.

“The original meaning has been lost to time... All we know is that the triangles symbolize us monsters below, and the winged circle above symbolizes... Somethin' else. Most people say it's the 'angel,' from the prophecy...” ‘Angel’. This is when we hear about the angel. We see the Deltarune on Toriel’s clothing and on the Ruins door. As well as behind Gerson himself. The thing he mentions clearly has wings of some kind. Surrounding a ball (note to self: Look into possible connection between mythical ball artifact from the piano room and the Deltarune Emblem). It looks a little like the fairy from the Zelda series. Those “triangles” are the greek letter Delta. That letter has a lot of connections and meanings to it. A river delta is shaped like the letter which is how it got its name. There are a number of maths and science connections. But the two connections you’d be interested in are that a Delta chord is another name for a Major Seventh Chord in music. The soundtrack of Undertale uses these chords to do fantastic things with the tone and aesthetic of its leitmotifs, changing them from a happy or hopeful tune, to a dark and despairing one without actually changing the melody. And in a subfield of Set Theory, a branch of mathematics and philosophical logic, it is used to calculate and examines the conditions under which one or the other player of a game has a winning strategy, and the consequences of the existence of such strategies. The games studied in set theory are usually Gale–Stewart games—two-player games of perfect information (each player, when making any decision, is perfectly informed of all the events that have previously occurred, including the "initialization event" of the game (e.g. the starting hands of each player in a card game)) in which the players make an infinite sequence of moves and there are no draws. But why is one of them turned upside down? I started looking things up again. Turns out there is such a symbol. The Nabla symbol is the Greek Letter Delta only inverted so that it appears upside down. Its name comes from the Phoenician harp shape, though its also called the “Del”. A musical connection is exactly what Toby would do. But its main use is in mathematics, where it is a mathematical notation to represent three different operators which make equations infinitely easier to write. These equations are all concerned with what is called Physical Mathematics. That is... Mathematics that calculate and have to do with measuring the physical world. Why is that relevant? Well the difference between humans and monsters is that humans have physical bodies while monsters are made primarily of magic. Well I also discovered that the Delta symbol for the ancient Greeks was sometimes used to as an abbreviation for the word  δύση , which meant the West in the compass points. West, westerly, sunset, twilight, nightfall, dusk, darkness, decline, end of a day. All this symbolism for a couple of triangles. There’s entire books devoted to them. And he calls the whole symbol, deltas and angel alike, the Delta RUNE. Whats a rune? Well a rune is a letter, but specifically a letter from the writing of one of the Germanic Languages before the adoption of the Latin alphabet. Interestingly... the Greek Letter Delta does NOT qualify as a Rune. In any stretch of the word. I searched for hours. What I DID find was the etymological origins of the word Rune. It comes from a Proto-Germanic word “rūnō“ which means something along the lines of “whisper, mystery, secret,  secret conversation, letter”. Interesting. So since its paired up with the Delta... it could be taken to mean “The Secret of the Delta” or “The Delta’s Secret”. If we make a few assumptions we might even get something like “The Secret of the West” or “The Mystery of the Twilight” or numerous other variations that have different connotations. It’s conjecture, certainly, and possibly a few stretches. But it is certainly there to think about. My thoughts centered around the positioning of the letters. The idea that the one facing up represented Humanity, and the two ordinary Deltas were Monsters. With the Angel above them all. Or rather, SOMETHING above them all. We have no proof that the idea of an Angel existed before the Underground’s prophecy. I like to think it did because usually that sort of thing draws on previously existing beliefs and ideas. For all we know the symbol could represent an abstract idea that governed both monsters and humans. Like “Kill or be killed” or “Do unto others as you would have others do unto you” or other basic idiomatic ideologies of that sort. Other than the realization that the Deltarune is older than the prophecy and the Underground, I didn’t have a concrete idea of what the Emblem actually means. Just a lot of theories and connective ideas. But there’s certainly a lot to be found. I don’t really know how much thought Toby actually put into this, but he’s quite well known for secrets within secrets. So its possible he knew all this going in. If he’s anything like me, and I am notorious for writing this sort of twisting references within references within references into my stories, then he’s probably at least aware of an existing connection. Its quite probably that the Deltarune is exactly what Gerson tells us. An emblematic set of symbols that is used to represent the continuing Kingdom of Monsters and has been since before written history. But as he says... its so old that it might have had a different meaning originally, whatever idea the Monsters wanted to remember, wanted to uphold enough to use it for their royal family and their kingdom, a reminder. Of something, or someone.

[brohogany]

Gays: Guardians of the Gates, An Interview with Ancestor Malidoma Patrice Somé

This article appeared in the September, 1993 issue of M.E.N. Magazine During one of the Conflict Hours at the Mendocino Men's Conference Malidoma spoke eloquently on Indigenous people's views of gay men. He kindly agreed to elaborate on his views as he sat with me among the Redwoods of Mendocino.  --- Bert: At Conflict Hour you told us that your culture honors gays as having a higher vibrational level that enabled them to be guardians of the gateways to the spirit world. You suggested that our Western view limits itself by focusing only on their sexual role. Can you elaborate for our readers?

Malidoma: I don’t know how to put it in terms that are clear enough for an audience that, I think needs as much understanding of this gender issue as people in this country do. But at least among the Dagara people, gender has very little to do with anatomy. It is purely energetic. In that context, a male who is physically male can vibrate female energy, and vice versa. That is where the real gender is. Anatomic differences are simply there to determine who contributes what for the continuity of the tribe. It does not mean, necessarily, that there is a kind of line that divides people on that basis. And this is something that also touches on what has become known here as the "gay" or "homosexual" issue. Again, in the culture that I come from, this is not the issue. These people are looked on, essentially, as people. The whole notion of "gay" does not exist in the indigenous world. That does not mean that there are not people there who feel the way that certain people feel in this culture, that has led to them being referred to as "gay."

The reason why I’m saying there are no such people is because the gay person is very well integrated into the community, with the functions that delete this whole sexual differentiation of him or her. The gay person is looked at primarily as a "gatekeeper." The Earth is looked at, from my tribal perspective, as a very, very delicate machine or consciousness, with high vibrational points, which certain people must be guardians of in order for the tribe to keep its continuity with the gods and with the spirits that dwell there. Spirits of this world and spirits of the other worlds. Any person who is at this link between this world and the other world experiences a state of vibrational consciousness which is far higher, and far different, from the one that a normal person would experience. This is what makes a gay person gay. This kind of function is not one that society votes for certain people to fulfill. It is one that people are said to decide on prior to being born. You decide that you will be a gatekeeper before you are born. And it is that decision that provides you with the equipment (Malidoma gestures by circling waist area with hands) that you bring into this world. So when you arrive here you begin to vibrate in a way that Elders can detect as meaning that you are connected with a gateway somewhere. Then they watch you grow, and they watch you act and react, and sooner or later they will follow you to the gateway that you are connected with.

Now, gay people have children. Because they’re fertile, just like normal people. How I got to know that they were gay was because on arriving in this country and seeing the serious issues surrounding gay people, I began to wonder it does not exist in my own country. When I asked one of them, who had taken me to the threshold of the Otherworld, whether he feels sexual attraction towards another man, he jumped back and said, "How do you know that?!" He said, "This is our business as gatekeepers." And, yet he had a wife and children -- no problem, you see.

So to then limit gay people to simple sexual orientation is really the worst harm that can be done to a person. That all he or she is is a sexual person. And, personally, because of the fact that my knowledge of indigenous medicine, ritual, comes from gatekeepers, it’s hard for me to take this position that gay people are the negative breed of a society. No! In a society that is profoundly dysfunctional, what happens is that peoples’ life purposes are taken away, and what is left is this kind of sexual orientation which, in turn, is disturbing to the very society that created it.

I think this is again victimization by a Christian establishment that is looking at a gay person as a disempowered person, a person who has lost his job from birth onward, and now society just wants to fire him out of life. This is not justice. It’s not justice. It is a terrible harm done to an energy that could save the world, that could save us. If, today, we are suffering from a gradual ecological waste, this is simply because the gatekeepers have been fired from their job. They have been fired! They have nothing to do! And because they have been fired, we accuse them for not doing anything. This is not fair!

Let us look at the earth differently, and we will find out gradually that these people that are bothering us today are going to start taking their posts. They know what their job is. You just have to get near them, to feel that they don’t vibrate the same way. They are not of this world. They come from the Otherworld, and they were sent here to keep the gates open to the Otherworld, because if the gates are shut, this is when the earth, Mother Earth, will shake -- because it has no more reason to be alive, it will shake itself, and we will be in deep trouble.

Bert: Christianity has separated spirit from body and spirit from Earth. And earlier you talked to us about Christianity suppressing your culture. So there’s a suggestion here that suppression of homosexuality would be the way for the Christians to shut down the gateways, shut down the spirit, and shut down our connection with the Earth.

Malidoma: Yes! That’s right! Christianity stresses postponing living on earth, as if we are only here to pack up our baggage and prepare for a life somewhere else "out there." Jesus Christ is right here, man! And of course anyone else who knows more, who knows better, will be suppressed.

And you start with the gatekeepers. You take the gatekeeper and you confuse his mind. You threaten him and you throw him in the middle of nowhere. Then nobody knows where the gate is. As soon as you lose the whereabouts of the gate, then you have a culture going downhill. What keeps a village together is a handful of "gays and lesbians," as they call them in the modern world. In my village, lesbians are called witches, and gay men are known as the gatekeepers. These are the two only known secret societies. These are the only groups that will get together as a separate group and go out into the woods secretly to do whatever they do. And if they find you during their yearly symposium, they have the right to kill you.

Unless they go out on their yearly symposium, the village cannot be granted another year of life. They have to go out to do what they do, in order for the village to feel safe enough to live the way it has lived before. This is why, to me, we’re playing with our lives.

Bert: So our culture may not be granted another year of life.

Malidoma: That’s right! Every year it feels like the number of years that this culture is entitled to live is getting smaller. So God only knows how close to the chasm this culture is. This constantly- reiterated discomfort and hatred for the gay person is again another indication that every year we might as well be prepared for the apocalyptic moment when the stars start to fall to the earth.

You see, unless there is somebody who constantly monitors the mechanism that opens the door from this world to the Otherworld, what happens is that something can happen to one of the doors and it closes up. When all the doors are closed, this earth runs out of its own orbit and the solar system collapses into itself. And because this system is linked to other systems, they too start to fall into a whirlpool. And the cataclysm would be amazing!

Ask the Dogon, they will tell you that. The Dogon. They’re a tribe that understands this so well, it’s amazing, mind-boggling. And it is a tribe that knows astrology like no other tribe that I have encountered. And the great astrologers of the Dogon are gay. They are gay. There is a dull planet that, in its orbit, is directly above the Dogon village every 58 years. Who knows that, but the gay people.

I mean, I’m not just trying to make gay people look fine. This is the truth, man! I’m trying to save my ass!

Why is it that, everywhere else in the world, gay people are a blessing, and in the modern world they are a curse? It is self-evident. The modern world was built by Christianity. They have taken the gods out of the earth sent them to heaven, wherever that is. And everyone who aspires to the gods must then negotiate with Christianity, so that the real priests and priestesses are out of a job. This is the worst thing that can happen to a culture that calls itself modern.

Bert: That theme came up earlier with you and Martín, the Mayan shaman here, that if a modern society wants to shut down another culture they will go out and kill the keepers of the ritual.

Malidoma: Oh, yes! Because they know that this is where the life-pulse of the culture is. This is where the engine room of the tribe is. So if you go and bomb that place, then the whole mechanism shuts down. That’s pretty much what’s at work in the third world, and what has happened here with the Native American culture. And the thing about it is that humans are going to be begetting gatekeepers, no matter what. This is the chance that we’ve got. So maybe that means that sooner or later we’re going to wake up to the horror of our own errors, and we’re going to reconsecrate our chosen people so that they can do their priestly work as they should. Otherwise, I just don’t understand. I just don’t understand. My position about it is not so much that gays be just forgiven. That’s just tokenism. But that they serve as an example of the wrong, or the illness, that modernity has brought to us, and that we use that to begin working at healing ourselves and our society from the bottom up. That way, by the time we reach a certain level, all the gatekeepers are going to find their positions again. We cannot tell them where the gates are. They know. If we start to heal ourselves, they will remember. It will kick in. But as long as we continue in arrogance, in egotism, in God-knows-what form of violence on ourselves, no, there’s that veil of confusion that’s going to continue to prevail, and as a result it’s going to prevent great things from happening. That’s all I can say about that.

[pretchatta]

forging

The Armorer stands at her forge, her hammer striking the white-hot metal with an almost musical ringing, over and over and over. It comforts her; the familiar motions, the rhythmic noise, the heat of the flames. And of course, she is protecting the old ways, the Way of the Mandalore. That warmth reaches further, through her armour and all the way to her heart.

She can still remember the Split, now thirty years past. She had been young, then, and eager, her blood singing for battle. She had wanted what they had all wanted, to return to the old ways, to be strong again. They had thought Mandalore was the key to it all.

Then that armourless Duchess had managed to thwart Death Watch’s plan to set the stage for their uprising, and the enemy Dooku had withdrawn from their temporary alliance as a result. Without the support of the Separatists and their droid army, retaking their home was suddenly out of reach. For many, this had been the time to reconsider their priorities.

Governor Vizsla and Lady Kryze had of course advocated for a new plan. Regroup, rebuild, and find new allies to try again. Mandalore was the key to everything. All they needed to do was to turn the people’s opinion of their New Mandalorian government sour, and there would be nothing those weak fools in power could do to stop the revolution.

For the Armorer and her clan, it wasn’t so straightforward. Why was there such a need to go through so much effort? Were they not Mandalorians now, even without their precious planet? Why couldn’t they simply accept Mandalore as lost and start again, and rebuild their society somewhere else in the galaxy? They still had their armour, their culture, their traditions; they didn’t need something so plain as a ball of rock to keep their way of life alive.

And so they Split. House Vizsla and its allies remained on Krownest -- presumably only as long as until the New Mandalorians chased them somewhere else -- but those who felt they had suffered enough meaningless struggle found someplace new to settle down. They called themselves simply The Watch; someone joked that they left the Death behind with those who so clearly wanted to meet it. They found their own corner of the galaxy to make their home, and they started to rebuild.

It was true that their homeworld held a strong connection to their history, with its cities, ruling Houses and beskar mines. Therefore, without it, the old ways became all the more important to the Watch, and they found themselves clinging tighter than ever to their culture. They wore their armour for longer periods; they recited the key tenets of Mandalorian traditions often; they sparred frequently, making use of the full array of weaponry each warrior possessed.

Of course, it wasn’t as easy as all that. The Mandalorian wars may have ceased (albeit temporarily, as these were Mandalorian wars, after all) but the great Clone Wars still raged across the galaxy. The Watch could not escape it, and being Mandalorian, neither could they stand idly by. There were many worlds that the Separatists sought to claim, worlds the Republic did not deem worthy or tactical to protect, and so the Watch stepped in. They fought, they shielded, they saved. They also lost, and mourned, and remembered. With civilian casualties so high, foundlings were common, and the Watch's numbers grew. Children were always the future, and the Children of the Watch were just as Mandalorian as those who adopted them.

Throughout, the Watch remained aware of events on Mandalore. When Viszla invaded Sundari, they were surprised by his apparent success, until news reached them of the events that followed. The insurrection by the outsider Maul, who wielded the ancient Darksaber in a mockery of its true symbol, forcing Mandalorians to kneel before his crime syndicates, brought them only a grim sense of vindication. It was painful to hear, but that was why the Watch had Split; they had known that nothing good would ever have come of that single-minded focus on Mandalore.

The Armorer had been warmed to hear of the Siege of Mandalore, of Lady Kryze ousting Maul and the criminals, even if it was done with the Republic’s soldiers and -- worst of all -- Jedi. Kryze was doing what she had to for the good of their people; perhaps she had not strayed so far from the true ways after all. But then the Empire had come and she had allowed them to take over completely, not strong enough to stop them, and the Armorer had stopped paying attention. The Watch had had their own problems with the Empire to deal with.

Clan Saxon knew of their existence, and what they were capable of. The Watch and its Children were seen as a threat to the stability of Imperial Mandalore, even if they had no intention of ever going back, and they knew their choices were to stand and fight a battle they would lose, or save what they had and run. With the war ended, they retreated to the Outer Rim, avoiding the Empire's ever-growing reach. For safety, those who had once been part of Death Watch shed their names completely, and warriors stopped removing their helmets except in front of members of their own clan. The Way of the Mandalore was recited aloud in a constant reminder of who they were, so that if any of them fell, the others would carry the memories. They still gathered foundlings, and sometimes, the Watch would divide, their Children creating new tribes that spread out in hidden coverts across the galaxy. There was safety in numbers, but it was dangerous for too many of them to live together at once, lest they draw attention to themselves.

Then had come the Great Purge. Her Tribe had gone underground as soon as the chilling news reached them, living in caves and sewers and abandoned buildings, rarely leaving the covert at all. The number of new foundlings dropped dramatically; it was hard to come across children when only one of you was amongst the other beings in the galaxy at any given time. Helmets were no longer removed even in front of one's clan, if any of the clan were even alive. Mandalorians became lucrative targets for bounty hunters, the beskar in their armour a valuable commodity now that its rightful keepers were no longer limiting its trade. Even with fewer foundlings, there was no longer enough beskar to sponsor them all, and even the older ones couldn't have more than a helmet. It was a cruel tragedy that the Empire was denying them their inheritance, even after it fell.

Looking back, it was obvious what the differences were between her own formative experience of Mandalorian culture and that of, say, the foundling Din Djarin. As the Watch clung to their ways, so too did the Children, and indeed that almost desperate grip of the culture was all they knew. The Tribe elders hadn’t even told the younger foundlings about their distant cousins; if any survived, they were no longer Mandalorian, and so not worthy of being part of their history. Only the fact that other coverts existed, and were to be helped should they ever cross paths, was taught to them. It wasn't important, not compared to their other lessons; how to fight, how to survive, how to live with honour.

As the Armorer worked, she reflected on the years that had passed, on the losses she had suffered. Even before Din Djarin had crossed blasters with those remnants of the Empire, she was the last in their Tribe who had any memories of simply being in the Mandalore system itself. Back then she had had a name, and a family, and a foolish cause she thought was worthy. That woman was an entirely different person. Now, she had been hardened by true warfare, had seen a thousand hopeful futures blossom and shatter before her eyes, and had learned what was important; what must be protected above all else.  

The sharp clang of her hammer on the metal was a heartbeat. She wasn’t just reclaiming beskar; with every blow, she kept the Way of the Mandalore alive. When she was finished, she would take what was rightfully theirs to the Children of the Watch, and it would protect them, as they would protect the Way, and the Way would keep them all safe.