#julie shearing

[blackbearmagic]

Ten, maybe more like twelve, years ago, I got a call from my friend Julie: "I have a bunch of yarn and I need to get rid of it. Come take as much as you want."

She had gotten the yarn from a coworker, who had in turn gotten it from her mother-in-law's estate. The woman had been an avid knitter for most of her life, and had amassed an absolute Smaug-load of fiber. Her daughter-in-law crocheted, but twenty contractor-sized trash bags of yarn was more than she alone could use. So she did her best to share it among fiber friends, like Julie. And Julie, having no need for that much yarn, sent out the word to all of her friends.

Much of the yarn was poor quality: old, dusty acrylic from brands long discontinued. There was some cotton mixed in, and a decent amount of wool. But I also found a plastic bag containing four loosely-wound balls of handspun. It was coarse and vaguely sticky, but I was intrigued by it, so I added it to the bags I took for myself.

And ever since, that bag of handspun has sat in my stash. It's gone through two moves with me. I kept telling myself I would make something out of it, but never did. The texture unnerved me. It wouldn't make a good hat, or scarf, or gloves. Nothing that would touch the skin. But I didn't know what I could do with it.

But last week, I decided it had sat for long enough. I had found, and made, a nice vest pattern with some of my own handspun. Surely this coarse yarn could be made into the same: an outer garment, worn over something with sleeves and a collar. I would make it to use up the yarn, and if I hated the end result, I would throw it in the donation box and make it someone else's problem.

As I wound the yarn onto my niddy-noddy to measure the yardage, though, I saw it in a new light. With my more experienced eyes and knowledge of spinning, I could see now that sections of it were under-spun, or over-plied. The twist was irregular, the drafting inconsistent. This wasn't just handspun yarn. This was likely someone's first or second attempt at spinning.

A chore became an honor.

I held an untold, unknowable story in my hands -- a story that had run up to a dead end. The sheep had been sheared, its fleece prepared, cleaned, carded, dyed; the roving had been spun into singles, plied into yarn. And there the yarn had sat, unused, waiting. It was time to finish the story. It was time for my hands to play their part.

It wasn't exactly pleasant. The yarn, as I said, was sticky and coarse. It left grease on my hands that soon picked up dust and dirt from the yarn, staining them. But I finished the task, and in the end, I found myself with a garment that... actually, I really quite like. One that I think will see a good bit of wear come autumn.

To the unknown spinner who made this yarn, I say: Thank you. Thank you for your labor, your time spent in our shared craft. I wish we could meet; I wish I could show you what your yarn has finally become, after so many years of waiting. I hope you are pleased with what we created together.

[sumwan]

I thought it would be interesting to look at c!Dream's inventory and ender chest both before and after the prison.

Before the prison

The latest time he showed his inventory before the prison was on August 31, 2020, when he was remodeling the Community House [x]

Armor, weapons, and tools

Netherite Helmet (Protection IV, Unbreaking III)

Netherite Chestplate (Protection IV, Unbreaking III)

Netherite Leggings named "Punzo Chaps" (Protection IV, Unbreaking III, Mending) (given by c!Punz after c!Dream fell and lost his armor)

Netherite Boots (Protection IV, Unbreaking III, Feather Falling IV, Depth Strider III, Mending)

Netherite Sword named "Netherite Sword11" (Sharpness V, Unbreaking III, Looting III, Fire Aspect I, Mending)

Netherite Pickaxe named "pp2" (Efficiency V)

Netherite Shovel (unenchanted)

Netherite Axe (unenchanted)

Bow (Punch I, Unbreaking III, Power V, Flame, Infinity)

Crossbow named "DEFINITELY NOT PENIS" (Quick Charge III, Piercing IV)

Shears

Food and support items

2 full stacks of arrows

16 ender pearls

1 water bucket

56 golden apples

2 enchanted golden apples

2 full stacks of steak plus one stack of 62 and one stack of 25

Various building blocks for remodeling the Community House

Ender chest

He doesn't show his ender chest in this stream, so the latest I could find was on July 31, 2020, which is shortly before the L'Manberg revolution war. [x]

1 full stack of diamonds and a stack of 22

2 full stacks of golden apples and a stack of 11

4 full stacks of iron ingots plus two stacks of 32

4 enchanted golden apples

1 dark oak log

60 arrows

1 full stack of steak

Diamond helmet (unenchanted)

1 pink bed

3 full stacks of ender pearls

1 potion of swiftness

1 netherite ingot

1 Cat music disc (not c!Tommy's disc)

1 Blocks music disc

After the prison

The last time c!Dream showed his inventory and ender chest after the prison was on April 22, 2022. [x]

Armor, weapons, and tools

Full set of enchanted Netherite Armor (given by c!Punz)

2 Netherite Swords (one given by c!Techno and one picked up from c!Bad during jailbreak)

2 Netherite Axes (also one from c!Techno and the other from c!Bad)

1 Netherite Pickaxe (given by c!Punz)

1 Netherite Shovel

1 trident (Riptide)

Shield (either given by c!Techno or picked up from c!Bad)

Bow named "Wardens Bow" (Infinity, Flame, Power V, Unbreaking III) (picked up from c!Bad)

Food and support items

1 splash potion of fire resistance

1 splash potion of strength II

4 full stacks of golden apples

10 enchanted golden apples

2 stacks of steak, one of 59 and one of 57

1 milk bucket

2 water buckets

1 full stack of regular arrows

54 harming arrows

1 full stack of obsidian

12 TNT

4 full stacks of ender pearls and a stack of 9 ender pearls

2 WARDEN ACCESS keycards

Various random items and stacks of dirt

Ender chest

53 diamond blocks

46 iron blocks

1 lava bucket

1 full stack of steak

1 full stack of flint

2 full stacks of gold blocks

6 netherite ingots

1 book and quill (unknown content)

2 full stacks of golden apples

1 full stack of feathers

1 full stack of arrows

7 nether stars

There's a lot that can be said about this, but I'm sure it's very normal to have two swords, two axes, and four stacks of golden apples on you at all times.

[munsster]

bedhead

A/N: I needed a sleepy boy on this sleepy day. and billy H needs a damn haircut >:) gif cred: @julie-thefatones

Pairings: Billy Hargrove x GN!Reader

Summary: Billy wakes with the desire to get rid of his hair eating away at him. 0.7k words

Warnings: fluff, minor angst, established relationship, implied night terrors, messy haircuts, anxiety/insomnia, scars, mentions of bullying

Everything Billy can touch is cold and dark. The sheets, the hard wood floor, the bathroom light switch, the porcelain counter. The water that pours from the faucet and the silver rings of the trimming scissors you keep in a soft plastic case in the cabinet below the sink. The only noise he can reasonably detect is the whirring of the ceiling fan. And if he listened carefully enough, paused his thundering heart for just a moment, he could hear your breath as it fans across your pillow.

But he came in here for a reason. Wielding the cold metal shears like Goliath and his sword. Marching into battle at six foot something, only to find himself in the mirror, damp with sweat and pale with insomnia. Deep purple cresting his edges and the thin crescents of skin beneath his baby blue eyes. Though the bathroom gives him a sickly green tint.

The first chunk of hair hits the floor with the faintest thud. So faint, it shouldn't be classified as a thud. But it's more the weight of the change than the handful of dark gold curls itself.

He's lopsided now. Now there's no turning back. But he couldn't proceed forward with any strength and confidence looking how he's looked for years. How he looked beating up his friends and calling girls sluts. How he looked on the verge of death.

Billy used to wear his head of sun kissed, West Coast hair like a helmet. Now it feels like a burden. You'd still fawn over him if he buzzed it all off. You'd call him stupid, sure, but he'd still be yours. And right now, that's all he's concerned with being.

Because you peer into the bathroom and coo his name like you don't see the growing pile of hair writhing around on the floor.

"Hi, baby," you whisper, cradling the scissors when he drops them into your hands, "little early for a haircut, isn't it?"

He shrugs, but he doesn't look at you. Like a child guilty of putting a piece of gum in his sister's hair. Only he's the one with the choppy locks, uneven chunks missing by his ears and the back of his head.

"Want help?"

Oh, and there are those baby blues, surrounded by soft pink sclera and nearly drooping from their sweetened places above his flushed cheeks.

Billy straddles the toilet lid backwards, arms crossed and settled on the ledge. He lets you turn his head side to side, up and down, and the pattern becomes soothing. Especially as the extra weight accumulates below his socked feet and over his sloped shoulders.

He thinks he must’ve passed out to the sound of the clippers, because he wakes with a tap on his shoulder. Your manicured pointer on his warm midnight skin rousing him from a dreamless sleep.

“Hmm?”

“All done,” you whisper, kissing his temple when he turns his head, “come look.”

Billy’s fingers feel heavy as he drops them between yours. You can hear the exhaustion in how he slumps to a stop in front of the mirror. He takes his time, a few deep breaths, and a while to admire the cropped cut. The way he hasn’t looked in years. It’s refreshing.

“You look really handsome, Billy. Was about time for a trim.” There’s a lilt in your voice that’s hard to take. It lightens his chest, straightens his shoulders, widens his tired eyes. Because there’s this sort of mischief clear on your face from where you stand behind his shoulder. He can feel it through the mirror. Intoxicating and delicious. Makes him feel beautiful as if he ever has before.

Billy whips around and twists his arms tight around you, collapsing into your embrace like a lovely paper doll. The room is cool like a nice glass of water. Even with the sun hinting at the morning and cars whizzing by down below, the light blue of five AM settles over him like a blanket.

You run your fingers up the exposed back of his neck, and he groans. The hair is short there, his neck is hot, his teeth sink into your shoulder playfully.

“Back to bed.”

He nods and does not let go, just waddles you to the bed, tucking the both of you back under the duvet with a big sigh.

masterlist

[cheruib]

I'm also from nrw!!! and fun fact: the current weather phenomenon is called Schafskälte (sheep's cold) because it is the reason why farmers wait with shearing their sheep until july. basically, it used to be kinda likely that around june, the temperatures would drop very sharply, which is dangerous for little baby sheep (especially if they're nakey).

if you look at the time period between the 1920s and the 1990s it had a probability of happening of around 70%, while since the 1990s until now it's only appeared in about a third of the years (and it's getting more and more rare). so actually, for central europe, this is normal weather! a lot of the recent years have just been exceptionally hot bc of climate change

so yeah i'm also really annoyed by this weather but the fact that it's a normal weather phenomenon which is, against all odds, still happening, kinda cheers me up. like- "not all is lost" i guess?

oh….. you have no idea how comforting this is to know? i had absolutely no idea abt any of this thank you so much for letting me know waaaah.. Hope the baby sheep are safe and warm.. 🐑🤍

[asgoodeasgold]

Matthew sheared (dog clippers again? 🤭) and ready for his Greek holiday back in summer 2022 after 7 month of hard graft on The Offer.

I hope he gets a decent break with his family after the Deparment Q shoot ends (I expect very shortly). And I hope he has something lined up for the latter part of the year 😁

📷 Photo credit: ITV This Morning. License purchased by alyssa-ty via matthew-goode.net, thank you both. My edits.

Here is a goode laugh to brighten up the day

And a little clip:

📷 My edits from ITV This morning (July 2022)

[personinthepalace]

Mischief Movie Night is playing in London for 5 weeks!

It will run from 30 July - 1 September 2024

The cast will include Henry Shields, Bryony Corrigan, Niall Ransome, Henry Lewis, Rhyanna Alexander-Davies, Lauren Shearing, Susan Harrison, Jonathan Sayer, Ellie Morris, Nancy Zamit, Matt Cavendish, Ruth Bratt and Josh Elliott with Richard Baker as the musician.

from Mischief’s instagram

[kaiwuzherenz]

Okay so apparently I haven't explained. I will have to void my accounts at July - September. Why? Because that's the main shear months, for those who didn't know, I work in the shearing sheds, so far my run is falling to the ground and we have had a dead season for about 2 months now - hence my activity has hit a spike and my phone is deff telling me.

What does this mean? This means I won't be able to roleplay actively, to the point many blogs will be voided, I will keep the main ones active as much as I can: @lute-head-exterminator @angsty-teendrone But responses will be late during these months, please I'm not quitting roleplay, this is a yearly thing. Main shear is a pain, but I must push through it Thank you for understanding hopefully

[brokehorrorfan]

Get your shears ready for Gutter Garbs's The Burning collection: two shirts designed by Sam Coyne and Brandon Stecz ($30), an enamel pin designed by Matthew Skiff ($13), a set of five buttons designed by Beyond Horror Design ($7), and a 12x18 poster of Coyne's artwork ($36). They’ll ship the week of July 14.

[log6]

As many of you know, my blog(s) have a years long tradition of closely following the annual Atlantic Hurricane Season. I've slacked off in the last couple years but expect a return to day by day updates as I will be on a Caribbean island for the coming months. This hurricane season promises to be one of our craziest yet- it's barely July and the Atlantic has already yielded two storms, one of which (Hurricane Beryl) has already reached Category 5. All-time record sea surface temperatures, the latest El Niño Southern Oscillation, one of the hottest and strongest we've ever seen, weakening to a neutral phase, leaving extremely hot seas in the Main Development Area of the Atlantic Ocean. With the ENSO further shifting into La Niña, which has a stabilizing effect on the Atlantic atmosphere, neutralizing the wind shear generated by El Niño that impedes cyclone formation, we're looking at a vastly above average hurricane season. The average expected Accumulated Cyclone Energy (ACE) for an Atlantic Hurricane Season is between 72 and 111 units, but this year estimates for total ACE put the season above 200 points in almost all estimates by various sources, with all predicting more named storms than the average 14. Some estimates are unprecedented: up to 33±6 named storms, with an overwhelming majority of forecasters expecting more than 5 major hurricanes this season. As trade winds continue to shift, and the monsoon trough deepens over western Africa in preparation for the rainy season, only time will tell how bad the 2025 Atlantic Hurricane Season will be, but it does not bode well. I will be watching the Inter-Tropical Convegence Zone closely. With that, it's my honor and privilege to introduce our coverage of the Atlantic Hurricane Season of the year 2024!

#hs2024

[writing-intheundercroft]

Your Ivy Grows // Introductions

AO3 Link

Ominis Gaunt could not see, but he could feel.

He could feel the long thickets of grass outside of his Aunt Noctua’s home.  He could feel the sand down by the beach, grainy and coarse as he ran from her, giggling. He’d learn to feel the bumps on paper (braille, the muggles called it) from books Aunt Noctua bought from London so he could read.  Ominis could feel his little wooden sailboat splash through the water of the tide pools, the sting of salty air touching the tip of his tongue.

He could feel the disdain his mother had for him, and the indifference of his father and siblings. Everyone had told him how much his mother had wanted another baby boy, but it seemed her enthusiasm had died down once she realized the task of childbearing was finally behind her.  She’d produced an heir and a spare for the Gaunt lineage, as well as three daughters to serve the bloodline.  Mrs. Gaunt was done, a triumph in the eyes of other pure blood families.  What they didn’t know was that Ominis was always at his Aunt Noctua’s; for as long as he could remember, he’d been sent in a carriage, alone with just a house elf to escort him to the beach house. 

Ominis could feel Aunt Noctua’s love.  It was the only love he’d ever come to know.  She was more of a mother to him than his own, and despite the fear he felt traveling without sight in a thestral drawn carriage, the second the carriage landed and the doors opened, he knew he would be greeted by Noctua’s warm arms. Aunt Noctua read him bedtime stories, sat with him at the dinner table, and skipped with him along the beach.  Much to his father’s dismay, she’d taken him to buy a wand, and after an entire month of researching echolocation spells, she’d taught the little blind boy how to use his wand to see.

“Ominis darling, come here.” Noctua called.

He was ten years old, just about to turn eleven in July.  In four months, he’d be off to his first year at Hogwarts—his first time ever spending more than a month away from Noctua.

Ominis held his wand up, the tip glowing red as he guided himself to the garden.  Noctua was sitting in her garden beds, tending to her beloved flowers.  He knelt down next to her, feeling her linen apron before he fell to his knees in the dirt. He remembered his father complaining Noctua’s garden was too unruly; she’d merely laughed, claiming she liked it that way.

“What are you doing today?” He asked timidly, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“I’m working on the ivy.” Noctua announced. “You must be diligent with it; it can easily overgrow and take over the other plants.  You’ll be the steward of this house one day Ominis, I’d like for you to learn so you may take care of it yourself.”

“Won’t I have a gardener?” Ominis quipped.

Noctua snorted. “Not with the way your father spends.” She took his hand, helping him feel the leaves of the lush ivy below him. “Feel this—you shouldn’t let it grow any longer than this, otherwise my violets will be completely overtaken.  But take care not to trim it too far back, otherwise the snakes won’t have anywhere to hide.”

Ominis nodded, holding his wand up in his other hand. “Will I learn how to care for ivy in Herbology class?” he quipped.

Noctua let out one of her booming laughs. “Oh no, sweetheart. You’ll learn about far more exciting plants in your lessons.  Magical ones, with many purposes.  Ivy is just a regular plant.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Then what’s the point of it?”

Noctua put her palm on Ominis’s pink cheek. “It’s pretty, and I like it. It doesn’t need to have a point besides that.” She put down her trimming shears, dusting dirt off on her apron. “And besides, plants are living beings, and life itself is magic. They bring me joy.”

“You bring me joy,” Ominis stated.

“Sweet boy.” Noctua pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “You bring me great joy as well.  I fear this house will be quite lonely without you come September.”

“Can I stay?” Ominis pouted. “You can tutor me.  I don’t need Hogwarts; you’ve already taught me so much.”

Noctua sighed. “You’ll be happy to go to Hogwarts. I loved it when I was there–I made many great friends, and I’m sure you will too.”

He pouted even more. “I don’t need anyone else besides you, Aunt Noctua.”

“I won’t always be here, my love.” Noctua murmured. “A day may come when I need to leave, and you’ll need to be very brave and take care of this beautiful house for me.”

Ominis swallowed thickly.  He didn’t ever want to think about a day like that coming for her.

“Madame Noctua, luncheon is nearly ready. Would you like Golly to set it up in the garden for you?” a little voice rang.  It was Golly, Noctua’s house elf, a plump little thing with warm rosy cheeks. She’d been Noctua’s beloved house elf for as long as Ominis could remember, and was always the one to accompany him in his carriage rides.

“Thank you, Golly. Yes, let’s take lunch in the garden.”  Noctua announced.  She stood up, holding her hand out to Ominis to grasp. “Lunch, and then we’ll play down by the water, hmm?”

It had been a simple day.  There were no presents, no visitors, nothing particularly special about it to single it out from every other day Ominis spent with her.  But he could remember her being a little sad after their tea, shutting herself in her study afterwards.  She had sent a letter to Ominis’s father, supposedly about the research she’d been conducting on their renowned ancestor, Salazar Slytherin.

Ominis heard her muttering a word under her breath that haunted him for ages.  Scriptorium , she’d called it.  A secret room at Hogwarts that no one had ever found before, supposedly where Slytherin’s greatest research was being hidden.  Aunt Noctua had been sure it would prove the Slytherin had interests outside of blood purity, and that there was more for the Gaunt family to aspire to.

Ominis went to Hogwarts that September, and wrote to Aunt Noctua every week.  He met his two best friends, Sebastian and Anne Sallow, and he told her all about the twins and their antics.  Come June, he wrote to Aunt Noctua one last time, apologizing that he would not be able to spend the summer at the beach house; he’d be in Feldcroft with the twins and their uncle.  

Noctua wrote back to him, sorry that they’d miss one another, but sincerely happy that he’d made honest, good friends.  She told him that she’d be off on an adventure, and that she’d write to him as soon as she could. Feldcroft wasn’t far from her destination, she’d teased.  Perhaps if she was successful, she could visit him before summer’s end and meet his friends.

Ominis never heard from Aunt Noctua ever again.

_____

Ominis had been coerced by his mother into dinner at Gaunt Manor; he should have known there were strings attached and that Marvolo would have an assignment for him. The three of them now sat in silence at the long, splintered wooden dining table; Marvolo, seated at the head of the table, with his cold, austere mother on the right.  Ominis was to his left, poking at the remnants of his dinner.

“So, I have a new charge,” Marvolo said easily, setting his cutlery down. “And a job for you this summer.”

Ominis raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me, a charge?”

Marvolo hummed. “Yes. A gentleman I work with has left his daughter in my care for the summer, and I need someone to mind her while I’m in London.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Ominis grumbled, playing with the tarnished silver fork in his hand. 

“I most certainly am not,” Marvolo sneered, his attitude shifting swiftly, as his moods often did. “And if you ever want to see a knut of your inheritance, you’ll do as I say.”

Ominis inhaled sharply. “You can’t seriously be asking me to play governess for the entire summer.” 

“I need someone to mind the girl,” Marvolo explained. “Someone to supervise her, make sure she keeps herself in line. You do this for me,” Ominis could sense his brother’s heavy hand pointing at him, “And you and your little farm boy will get the money you need to take your world tour.”

Ominis frowned at the mention of Sebastian. He loathed whenever his family mentioned him. His chosen family would always take higher precedence than those of his blood. Sebastian was his real brother; the two of them had planned to take a year-long tour around the world together, but Sebastian was still trying to come up with enough money to sustain their travels.  Ominis could get the money easily enough from his family’s trust, but Sebastian was toiling day in and out working at Flourish and Blotts to fund his travel expenses, and refused a single galleon from Ominis.

“That,” Marvolo took a sip of his wine. “And you can finally have Noctua’s house.”

“You have her up at Noctua’s house?” Ominis’s ears perked. 

His Aunt Noctua’s home was dear to him; he’d spent most of his childhood there, cast away from the family manor. Out of sight, out of mind, Ominis thought. His mother had no patience for his blindness, and his father nearly forgot his existence. As Aunt Noctua had never been declared dead, merely missing, the home sat unoccupied. Marvolo had brought it up in conversation a few times–mostly to complain about it being a money pit, or about it being too close to a muggle village.  It was a modest manor off the coast, hours away from any wizarding kind, perched on the ledge of a seaside muggle town. Ominis hadn’t been there since the summer before his first year at Hogwarts.

Ominis knew Noctua was dead, having discovered her body with Sebastian and their peculiar friend during their fifth year.  They’d had to leave her bones behind; despite feeling horrible about her final resting place being the door to the Scriptorium, Ominis would never, ever be put in a situation where an unforgivable curse was his only way to safety. He was sure Aunt Noctua would understand. 

“It’s been cleaned up; the old house elf is still there, minding her at the moment.” Ominis could sense the frown on Marvolo’s face.  “You’ll live there, keep an eye on her, and stay out of trouble.”

“Why does she need minding?  Does she not have a nanny of her own to do so?” Ominis inquired.

Marvolo sighed. “She’s rough, I’ll leave it at that.  Feral little alley cat of a child, already scared off the three governesses we’ve tried to stick with her.”

“And pray tell, why has her father left her in your care?” Ominis crossed his arms and leaned back against the wooden chair.  His brother was the last person who should ever have the responsibility of a child; he had no patience for it, nor a modicum of emotional intelligence. 

“Her father owes me a debt–and a daughter is all the currency he has. Can’t risk him ‘accidentally’ misplacing her, like he’s done with all the rest of his collateral.” Marvolo explained.

Ominis soured at the thought. He knew his brother dabbled in unsavory business, and no matter how he tried to frame it, he was clearly extorting this man with his daughter’s life.

“Last question.  Why me?”

Marvolo snorted. “You’re the only chap available.  Given your deficiencies , I don’t think you’ll be too busy during the social season this summer. Perhaps another year.”

Ominis tried his best not to flinch at his brother’s insult.  Ever since their father had gone senile, Marvolo had taken up place as head of the family. He was responsible for the family trust, and had carefully chosen each of their sisters’ husbands. Ominis was nearly twenty one, and he was surprised his brother hadn’t surprised him with some meek, sniveling pure blood bride. Marvolo himself had been married for a few years already, with no children in sight.  He hardly spent enough time with his own wife, choosing the company of his many mistresses in London instead. Ominis knew Marvolo blamed his poor wife for their misfortune, but he secretly hoped it was his brother’s own misdeeds that caused their inability to procreate.  However, if times truly became desperate for the Gaunts, it would mean the family lineage was left to Ominis’s hands—an idea he truly loathed.

Ominis stood in the foyer, fastening his cloak around his neck as he made his departure.  With his wand securely stowed in his pocket, he didn’t notice Marvolo sneak up behind him. The two brothers couldn’t have been more different, physically and emotionally. Marvolo had the typical Gaunt look, with dark hair, hooded eyes, and terrifyingly large figure.  Ominis greatly favored his mother’s side of the family with his blond hair and lithe figure.  Thanks to Noctua, he also had a trait most of his family lacked—kindness.

“Don’t fuck this up, brother.” Marvolo sneered. “It’s a simple job, get it done and you’ll have what you need.”  

Ominis shuddered as his domineering brother backed away, and apparated back to his London flat as quickly as he could.

_____

Ominis stood at the edge of the blustery cliff, gazing out onto the water.  He’d do so often with Noctua when he was a boy, punted off to stay with her so he’d be out of his older siblings’ way when they returned from Hogwarts.  He never minded it though–Noctua had been the only light he’d ever known before he met Anne and Sebastian.

Speaking of friends, Sebastian had begged him not to take on the job.  He’d have the money by the end of the year, he reassured Ominis.  There would be no need to stoop down as low as Marvolo to fund their trip.  But Ominis couldn’t bear to watch his best friend spend seven days a week peddling books for sickles, and anyways, he wanted to see how the old house was faring.  So now, he stood just yards from the house’s gates, clutching his suitcases, ready to take on the role of guardian. Ominis’s stomach churned with nerves; he’d never spent much time around children even when he was a child himself, so he wasn’t even sure how he’d talk to a girl.

When he pushed through the front door of the house, he took in a deep inhale.  Despite the musty smell, it reminded him of his childhood.  Ominis raised his wand, alerted to the presence of a smaller being in front of him, and let a smile grace his face.

“Golly, it’s good to see you.” He knelt down, getting on the same level as Noctua’s house elf.

“Master Ominis, it has been so long,” the old house elf croaked, patting his hand.  “My, you have grown into such a fine gentleman. You look so much like my Mistress Noctua.”

Ominis’s smile faltered. “Yes, I do miss her.”

Golly the house elf beckoned him in. “I’ve prepared the mistress's old chambers for you to sleep in during your stay. Let me take your cases.”

“Absolutely not, Golly. I’m triple your size, I’d never let you carry any case of mine.” Ominis declared. “Leviosa,” he muttered, the suitcases now floating behind him as he ascended the creaky stairs. 

As he pushed the door open to Noctua’s bedroom, Ominis bit down on his lip.  It all felt so familiar to him as he walked around, feeling everything—the four poster bed, the big bay window with a deep seat attached to it.  Even the smell of the linens felt familiar, despite being freshly washed.  The sea breeze always left a salty note on the cotton.

“I could’ve stayed in my old apartments, you know.” Ominis murmured.

Golly shifted back and forth. “Your new ward is staying in them.  I thought the mistress’s apartments would be best suited for you.”

“And where is she?” Ominis quipped. “I should meet her before supper.”

Golly sighed. “Probably down by the beach.  She’s not very good at following rules—reminds me quite a bit of your sisters when they were younger.  Master Marvolo hired three ladies to oversee her, and each quit within a week.” Golly uttered the girl’s name, tutting her tongue. “You shall see her at supper, I suppose.  Please, get some rest and freshen up.  I’ll have the meal set in two hours.”

Ominis dallied for half an hour, laying about the bed before he decided to unpack his trunks. He only brought clothes, books, and some parchment and dictation quills to write home to Sebastian. The desk had been cleared of its former mistress’s possessions, and it felt odd to set it up with his own belongings. Ominis dragged his hands against every square inch of the mahogany desk; he remembered exactly where things belonged.  Noctua’s perfume bottles would be in the center, letters and notes littered on the left edge next to her quills and ink pot. 

Ominis shook his head. If he were ever to be master of the house, he had to start getting used to the furniture being his. He splashed water on his face to freshen up, and got dressed for a formal dinner.  Ominis only ever dressed up for meals with his family, but it felt far too casual to be informal in front of his ward.

Ominis descended the stairs, the scent of a rich roast chicken guiding him to the dining room. Golly had set up a full seven course meal, which was far too decadent for Ominis’s taste.  She had always spent time laboring over Ominis’s favorite foods as a child, and he didn’t have the heart to tell her that he no longer liked figgy pudding. But it had been years since he’d seen the little house elf, and he wanted to make her feel useful after being lonely in the house for so long.  Golly hummed as she set the dishes on the table, clearly happy to no longer be alone in the house. 

Ominis listened to the clock chiming and frowned. “Where is she?”

Golly sighed loudly. “Wouldn’t count on her to be on time, Master Gaunt.”

“But your feast will have gone cold.” He complained. Disrespectful child , he thought.

Ominis sat at the table for another thirty minutes, waiting and tapping his feet against the marble floor. He was about to stand and barge out of the house looking for the girl, when he sensed a figure sauntering into the dining room.

“Golly, I’m back.” A feminine voice called out. “What’s for dinner?”

 Ominis raised his wand, a bit taken aback.  When Marvolo had said she was a girl, Ominis assumed a child–but the person entering the dining room was a woman , probably his age. She was tall, and he could sense her hair swishing around, as if it were in two long braids. He could smell the scent of the coast lingering on her frock, and the mud on her shoes.

Ominis stood up abruptly.  The girl stopped in her tracks, glaring at him.

“Who are you?” she snipped.

Ominis cleared his throat, bowing his head slightly. “I’m Mr. Gaunt. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

She said nothing, slowly approaching the table. “You aren’t the Mr. Gaunt I know,” she stopped right in front of him, appraising him. “You’re…much younger.  Certainly more handsome.”

Ominis brushed the back of his neck, fighting the blush he could feel creeping on his face. “You’re referring to my older brother, Marvolo.”

She sniffed. “Yes, much more handsome.  Your brother is quite brutish.” He could feel her eyes raking over him.

“I may be blind, but I can sense you staring,” Ominis snipped. “And it’s rather unladylike.” He maneuvered to the chair next to his, pulling it out for her.

“I wasn’t raised to be a lady, Mr. Gaunt,” she taunted him as she sat down. “But if that’s what Marvolo desires of me, he’ll have it.”

Ominis frowned as he sat back in his chair. He wasn’t sure how his older brother was so well acquainted with the young woman, and he certainly didn’t want to know.

The two of them sat at the dinner table, the silence thickened the air.  For quite some time, Ominis could only make out the sound of teeth gnashing on meat, and Golly humming from the butler’s pantry.

“How did you find your travels?” The girl quipped, the soft clatter of her silverware breaking the silence of the room.

“Quite nice.  I used to spend a lot of time here as a child, and I missed the journey.” Ominis hummed. “Weather is delightful this time of year.”  He felt silly, exchanging pleasantries about the weather with his house guest.  If he were truly to be the man of the house, he should brush up on better conversation topics.

The girl cleared her throat. “I didn’t know Marvolo had a brother,” she admitted. “How much younger are you?”

Ominis stiffened, blinking his unseeing eyes at the table. “Fifteen years.  I was born while he was away at Hogwarts, so we’re not very close.” He paused for a moment, narrowing his eyes. “You didn’t go to Hogwarts.  I would’ve known you.”

“Father wanted me to stay close to home; his profession is quite dangerous, so he couldn’t imagine me being far away.” she said simply. “Mother tutored me though.”

“And what does your father do?” Ominis inquired.

She hesitated. “Rare artifacts.  One might call him a treasure hunter. We traveled frequently with him.”

“And life on the road is much safer than Hogwarts?” Ominis probed.

“I quite liked it.” she sniffed. “I’m well traveled, I’ve studied all over the world, rather than being cooped up in a dodgy old castle.”

“It’s not dodgy,” Ominis rolled his eyes. “It’s fantastic, one of the best places to be.”  Ominis counted Hogwarts as one of his happiest places–Hogwarts, the Sallow cottage in Feldcroft, and Aunt Noctua’s home.

She shrugged. “Then you haven’t traveled enough.” She tilted her head, changing the subject. “I find it strange they sent a man to watch over me, not another governess.”

“Well, I’ve heard you’ve chased all the nannies away.” Ominis chuffed.

She smiled at that, and he bit down on his lower lip to hide his smile. “I’m twenty, I don’t need a governess. I was hoping they’d send a companion, but I suppose you’ll have to do.”

Ominis set his cutlery down, wiping his mouth politely. “Look, I don’t mean to imprison you here. I won’t say that I understand exactly why I’ve been charged with your care, but I promise to treat you with respect and make sure you have everything you need for your own comfort.” he hesitated. “We both clearly have duties to our family to attend to, but I won’t restrict you.  Go about your day as you wish, and I’ll do the same.”

Ominis could feel her heated stare.  She leaned back in her chair, playing with the end of one of her braids. “You and your brother couldn’t be more different.”

He tipped his wine glass towards her. “I consider that a high compliment.”

_____

His ward had retired to bed, and Ominis decided to take a walk around the property.  He swirled a glass of wine in his hands as he stomped through the yard towards Noctua’s garden.  Perhaps he could hire a groundskeeper to tend to the land once the house was passed down to him.  Poor old Golly deserved a retirement; he could free her once he became the master of the house. He’d pay her a fair wage, just like Noctua used to��

Ominis wasn’t much of a drinker back in London; Sebastian always enjoyed hanging out with their classmates at the Leaky Cauldron, and he was a happy drunk.  Ominis, on the other hand, would be drunk just from social exposure.  He normally found drinking alone a bit depressing, but something about being in a house that was almost his made him feel like celebrating. Golly had opened up one of the good bottles from the cellar, and he wouldn’t let it go to waste.  He felt good; the tangy red liquid had him feeling warm all over, and the salty breeze from the nearby ocean was just as intoxicating.

He didn’t need his wand—Ominis could retrace his exact steps to the garden gate, having made the journey hundreds of times as a little boy without a wand.  Once, Noctua had made him count his paces, and he still found himself doing so as he approached the wrought iron gate.  He put a hand out to pull it open, frowning when his hand met air instead of the handle.

It was already open.

Ominis pulled his wand out of his pocket, taking a large gulp from the glass in his other hand.  He knew it was ungentlemanly, but he wiped his mouth with his billowing sleeve.  Wand raised and tip lit red, he pushed forward to see who might be in the garden so late.  It was nearly eleven o’clock at night, and he was the only one out of the house.  Ominis readied himself for a duel in case it was an intruder–his heart raced, hoping he wouldn’t have to defend the women in the house.

Ominis heard the soft hum of a voice in the distance; they were singing to themself, kneeling on the ground.  he could also hear the sharp slice of shears, and the sound of branches and leaves being piled up on the ground.  He held his wand in the direction of the sound, sensing the outline of a young woman on the ground.

It was his house guest; she was kneeling on the ground in her nightgown, her two braids dangling as she leaned over the garden beds.

“What are you doing?” Ominis barked.

She startled. “Oh, Mr. Gaunt.  I didn’t realize you’d be walking out here so late.”

“What. Are. You. Doing.” Ominis seethed.

He could sense her standing up, wiping her hands on her lap. “I was tending to the garden—Golly mentioned the old owner was a dab hand at herbology, and the whole thing was teeming with weeds, it was a shame.  I’ve been trying to fix the garden beds, they’re all so overgrown with ivy.  You know, it can be an invasive species if planted too close—“

“Don’t!” Ominis yelled, kicking the shears away. He knelt down on the ground, his wand discarded, feeling the garden bed. “You’ve trimmed it too far back.”

The girl scoffed. “Excuse me, I know what I’m doing. Besides, if you let it overgrow, snakes can start burrowing underneath.”

“You’re disrupting them,” Ominis growled. “Leave it be!  This isn’t your garden.” He patted the ground; Noctua’s violets were gone. “What have you done with all the flowers? Where…where did you get those shears?”

He knew the girl was staring at him oddly. “I found them in the garden shed; Golly said I could use them and the apron.  Mr. Gaunt, I’m only trying to help—“

She was wearing Aunt Noctua’s apron, he realized. Her apron, her shears, her garden, all in the hands of a stranger.

“Well, stop it.” Ominis growled. “You’ve ruined it. And take that apron off, it isn’t yours.” He bellowed, perhaps louder than he should’ve been, given the late hour. He patted around the ground, trying to get a sense of the landscape.  It all felt so different, everything familiar was missing.  Noctua’s daffodils, violets, and her beloved bluebells were all gone . “What are you even doing out of bed?” Ominis barked. “It’s terribly improper for you to be out here at this hour.”

“I’m sorry,” The girl mumbled. “I could go to town, get some seedlings. It was just in such bad shape–”

“Get out,” Ominis hissed, waving her off. “Go back to the house, go back to bed, and stay out of the garden!”

She backed away. “I-I-I’m sorry. I’ll leave you.” Without his wand he couldn’t see her retreating form, but he could hear her bare feet thumping the ground as she ran. 

Ominis took a deep breath. He knew it was unkind to have yelled at her—he didn’t even know the girl.  But the garden was Noctua’s, no one else’s.  It was up to her to decide what was a weed, what was overgrown, what to take away or prune.  When Ominis was little, he only ever acted on her orders, making sure the garden was exactly to her liking.  Noctua loved her little plants, each and every one, even if they didn’t have any magical purposes. 

Life itself is magic, she once said.  

But Noctua was dead, the garden was too neatly trimmed, and the snakes didn’t have a refuge to hide in. The house no longer had Aunt Noctua’s warmth; it no longer felt like her.

Ominis stayed in the garden and wept.

[invisibleraven]

"did you eat today?" for Ray & anyone?

Ray found himself with more time to himself than he wanted now a days. Sure he had his work to keep him busy, but he wasn't made to sit at a chair editing between shoots, and he was comfortable enough that he could be picky about those.

He also had his family, but Julie was more out of the house than in it between school, her band, and her part time job at the local library. Carlos had his baseball and his own teen dramas to deal with, no time for his old dad anymore.

Tori had tried to set him up a few dates, but he didn't feel ready to move on from Rose. Even if she had been gone several years now, it felt like a betrayal to see other women. He was sure Rose herself would be encouraging him to get out there, but he was content enough alone.

So he decided to take up gardening.

He had always had a bit of a green thumb, helping the various plants Rose insisted on filling the house with thrive and flourish. After she passed he moved them out to her studio-more light and a chance for quiet solitude when he watered them.

Today though, when he went out to grab his pruning shears and give the ferns a good going over, he found someone there. A boy, probably around Julie's age sleeping on the worn leather couch there.

He looked rather rough, in ripped jeans and a flannel that had seen better days. Dirt smeared his face and there was a scent that spoke of a lack of access to soap. Probably a runaway who had stumbled upon the unlocked garage and figures it was better than sleeping rough.

Ray shook the boy gently who startled, shrinking into himself, holding up his arms as if expecting an attack.

"I'm sorry! I just needed somewhere to stay and the nice girl at the library said I could come here and I didn't take anything I swear!"

Ray softened, though he was definitely going to talk to Julie about offering up their property to strays after she asked him first.

"It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you or call the cops," Ray assured him. "I just wanted to figure out what was going on. Julie-the girl who sent you here is my daughter. I'm Ray."

"Reggie," the boy whimpered, oh so slowly lowering his arms and Ray inwardly hissed at the black eye and obvious bruising covering the boy's face. God who would-or even could do that to a child?

"Well Reggie it's nice to meet you," Ray said, sitting in the chair opposite him. "Do you have someone you want me to call for you?"

Reggie shook his head. "Ain't got nobody."

Ray very much doubted that, but didn't push the issue. "Well how about you come in and use the facilities? I can toss your stuff in the wash, get you something new to wear in the meantime. Did you eat today?"

Reggie's stomach grumbled, almost as if in response. "What day is it?' he asked sheepishly.

"Wednesday."

"Then no."

"Well we can fix that," Ray surmised. "How do you feel about spicy food?"

Later, when Julie got home, she found her dad and Reggie getting on like the best of friends, and she sighed in relief. She was sure that she was in for a lecture, but she couldn't just let Reggie try to catch a nap in the study corrals when she had a plethora of couches for him.

Plus she knew that her dad was secretly a little lonely, and figured this would help. He did always have a thing for strays.

It wasn't long before Reggie was all but a member of the family. And a few years later, when she, Luke, and Reggie decided to marry? He became one in every other way that mattered-right down to his name.

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

tagged by: @direwombat @inafieldofdaisies @theresaruggedroad @thesingularityseries and @madparadoxum (this week) and @nightbloodbix @ivymarquis @g0dspeeed @kyber-infinitygems (last week, tagging you all back this week) thank you all so much!

I've been struggling to do much writing at all lately, but I have a bit from Kit's Herald/Role swap AU I've started messing around with. This fic leans really heavily into the supernatural side of the FC5 lore and of course twists the origin of Kit's arrival in Hope County:

A foggy haze of smoke filled the red, infernal sky as the sun beat down upon the desert and heat rose from the golden dunes in blurry striations. Kit was in a daze, her thousand yard stare focused on the mirage in the distance while her mind was addled by pain. The twisting of metal shrapnel sheared away at meat and bone, slicing through veins and tendons as flames devoured through fat and flesh in equal measure. Fever clouded her vision and her limbs became numb as the clothes on her body charred like a Fourth of July barbecue. The fire in her belly was fading, her very life slipping away from her like sand through her fingers. Her mouth became as hot and dry as the world around her, the tongue that hung from the corner of it now thick and heavy. The steady thumping in her skull started to slow along with the beating of her heart as the lights in her eyes collapsed into tiny pinpricks, tunneling the view she had of the wreckage around her. Screaming faded into the periphery, the terrified moans and groans of her unit members desperately clinging to life became a hellish, cacophonous choir and from out of the desert, something crawled towards her – a dark mass. 

It stole the breath from her lungs, nearly ripped the heart right out of her rib cage that begged to distend and snap apart. Whatever it was – and despite the adrenaline that coursed through her removing all clarity of thought and mind, preparing her for the great beyond – only one thought came to mind: it was ancient. Older than the mountains and the sands that caged her, something that came long before the stars and the sky they called home. Primordial. The Alpha and the Omega. 

The burning sun and the scorching heat of the fires that nipped and gnawed away at her stung at her eyes, tears spilled down her cheeks as the form and figure grew closer. Then silence fell. Impossible silence. That same crushing nothing that came while in the eye of a storm, and she was facing down a tempest. Giant paws stomped down, leaving prints in the sand that turned to glass. Golden eyes stared out at her, but there was nothing feline behind the glare affixed upon her (despite the gaping maw filled with sharpened teeth like knives) instead they were slits with a light behind them that was far more human than they should have been. This was no earthly creature. There were no lions in Afghanistan. And yet here it was, mane and all, bowing in her company, and licking up the blood that poured from her wounds with its rough pink tongue. 

The breath hitched in her throat as she tried to croak out a scream, but she was rendered speechless. A waking nightmare and she was unable to make a sound, all she could do was lay there and blink and pray. Pray that she’d be deemed inedible, pray that she’d be saved, pray that someone would come and spare her life. Pray that she was deemed worthy in the eyes of something holy. 

It’s massive head rose, eyes looking into her own as if it could read the very thoughts that rushed through her mind. Sinking into its gaze, she fell deeper into the black, empty pit at the back of her mind where the darkness sat dormant and entombed, waiting to be released onto the world. She just had to let go of what little control she’d been allowed in life and open that lid to Pandora’s box. 

And then a voice – not quite male, not quite female, something that was a convergence of the two – arose from out of the dark and infested her mind. “You know pain. You know suffering. Would you like to be free?”

It asked the question and yet her vocal chords were already burned to the point she could no longer speak, her lungs having filled with acrid smoke would not allow for even choked words to spill forward from her lips, but somehow she was able to answer. “Not if it means dying.”

A laugh, cold and mirthless, sent a shiver down her spine. The rattling of a tail screaming through the very weave of time itself. It coiled in the back of her skull, and whatever amount of human evolution and countless generations it had taken to get her here was stripped back until she was nothing more than an ape who’d discovered fire as a means to hold back the dark. She was a sniveling being in the presence of something it’s simple mind could not comprehend without being driven mad. 

“You wish to live?”

“Yes.”

“What would you give?”

“Anything.”

It was a simple trade, a barter that worked in her favor. What she might have had to give up was a small price to pay for what she’d receive in return – a second chance. For what, she wasn’t quite sure yet: redemption, revenge, reclaiming her birthright? She supposed she’d find out in due time. She’d sacrificed enough in her life, it was time for all that effort to be recouped and repaid in full. 

As the fire extinguished, and the bright glow of headlights fell upon her, she was more alive than ever. Skin had regrown, her hair no longer melted, blackened and burned, the milky cataracts of her eyes scraped back to the icy blue gleam they had once been.  She was reborn, made anew in God’s image. Chosen. Saved. A miracle that should never have been. The lone witness to the hand of God still willing to burn bushes for those most fervent in their belief of him.

tagging: @shallow-gravy @cassietrn @strangefable @stacispratt @eclecticwildflowers @ladyofedens-blog @florbelles @v0idbuggy @theelderhazelnut @marivenah @simplegenius042 @josephslittledeputy @peppertheferalraccoon @neverthesameneveranother @statichvm @strafethesesinners @adelaidedrubman @clicheantagonist @voidika @confidentandgood @roofgeese @afarcry5fromstraight @chazz-anova @wrathfulrook @aceghosts @jillvalentinesday

[julie-hollis]

Starter for @dana-faust

Where: Shear Beauty

When: Present

As far as regulars went, Julie and the rest of the girls were seeing their lists grow longer and longer. Among their Paxton Regulars they began to see what some of the girls called Obsidian Regulars. Some of them said that phrase with more vitriol than Julie liked. Among her own Obsidian Regulars was one Dana Faust. As the bell announced her arrival, Julie walked towards the front desk to greet her. "How've you been, sweetheart?" She greeted and turned on her heel, they were busy today. "Are we going with your usual or switching things up this go around?"

[bomberqueen17]

Must Farm musings, cont'd

As I've continued to mull over what I wrote in the last post, it strikes me that it'd be good to kind of inventory what was, and what was not, found in the settlement, so that we can more effectively speculate on what we can't know, which is: what actually happened.

Some things weren't found in the settlement because they would not have been preserved. Animal fiber textiles, for example; wool would burn differently than linen or lime fiber; the plant-based stuff was charred and preserved, but wool burns to a crumbly ash, and furthermore the ph of the mud was such that protein-based things like wool and skin would not have survived even if they were not burnt to ash. There were potentially as many bobbins of spun wool thread as linen, but the wool would not have survived at all, so we have no way to know. Likewise, certainly these people knew how to work leather, but there is no evidence of it-- but it would not have survived, and so there being no sign of it doesn't mean it wasn't there. Every bed could have had a sheepskin coverlet and we just wouldn't know.

(I personally think, if they built this site over the winter, and were there through high summer, but it burned in late summer or early autumn-- see the flax processing debris from late July, emmer wheat spikelets from July or August, but no hazelnuts or berry seeds?-- they didn't have much wool from their flock in storage. They'd've sheared them in the spring, though I'd have to look up Bronze Age sheep to be sure-- they might be the kind you roo rather than shearing? i don't know if we know, but it seems reasonable that the wool would be a springtime product, and so would all have been spun/woven by now, and they'd recently switched over to linen because the flax had come ripe. So there were likely many finished items of wool lost in the fire-- bedding, clothing, wall hangings??-- but not bobbins or in-progress weavings, that was all likely flax.)

Some things were not found in the settlement that absolutely would have been preserved-- buckles, pins, clothing accessories. Things we know from other Bronze Age artifact assemblages, preserved in other contexts-- often as grave goods. They would be there, if they'd been left behind.

So it's safe to assume that the people left wearing most of their clothing and normal accessories. Even a wealthy person of this era would likely not have multiples of accessories like belt buckles and shawl pins, so we can assume they'd have worn them more or less daily. This doesn't necessarily mean anything, except that the fire did not happen at night. They weren't rousted out in their pajamas. But that goes with my earlier conclusion, that they weren't home at all when the fire began.

(Why were beads left behind? Well, evidently, they weren't worn daily. Possibly they were part of the decor of the houses, or were incorporated into protective amulets over the door, or incorporated into some kind of altar-like area within the house, or something along those lines. Possibly these people had even more beads than what were left here, and did wear necklaces as part of their daily adornment! Possibly the other beads we've found as jewelry in grave offerings from the period are not representational of what people actually would wear, and they're ceremonial adornments! Maybe the necklace needed restringing and was hung up waiting for someone to take it apart and get to it. There are many things that we cannot know.)

And likewise, swords and other weapons. (There's a bronze knife, among the discovered artifacts, but it is for various reasons likely not to have belonged to anyone in the settlement. The older Middle Bronze Age causeway that runs straight through the site was a place where offerings were deposited, and the sole knife was one such offering.) But this could either mean that there weren't warriors living in this settlement, OR that the warriors had taken their weapons with them when they walked out for the last time and never came back.

As far as religion/spiritual beliefs, we know very little of course. But we do know a couple of things from the wider context. One is that culture-wide, there were complicated beliefs about death. We know that some bodies in that era were enbalmed or in other ways given ritualistic treatments immediately after death-- put in bogs and then later recovered, or defleshed with knives, or exposed to birds to be defleshed. There's evidence that some people were eviscerated soon after death, to slow decay-- a person's gut flora sort of digests them after death, to an extent (which leaves traces in the bones), and the people of this era clearly knew that and for their own reasons, sought to prevent it in some cases (which we know, from the absence of those traces). Fragments of bone were then curated, kept among people's possessions, and later deposited in other contexts. (A paper about this, mentioned in the Must Farm report, is here, from Cambridge University Press, published in Antiquity in 2020.)

The Must Farm settlement was no exception: the only human remains found in the site are just such curated bits of bone, most of them likely deposited during the construction of the site, or possibly even during its brief occupation. (This is discussed in chapter 27 of Vol II.) A near-entire human skull with extensive wear-handling was deposited near what we think was the gate of the site. The bones were radiocarbon dated and are roughly contemporaneous with the site. They also had been handled in ways that to us seem disrespectful-- one fragment of tibia had been gnawed by dogs, and had wear as if it had been trampled. Like it had been kept on the floor of an occupied house for a time. The near-complete skull was that of a youngish person, probably in her twenties, likely female, and she'd had her jaw and part of her cheekbone cut off right around the time of death, and had also had the base of her skull chopped around the same time to make it sit flat on a surface, as if for display. She was not a venerated ancestor-- at least not as we'd understand it. She likely had been dead less than twenty years when the settlement was built, though the radiocarbon dating isn't precise. And there's part of a human femur from just outside the palisade, worn and much-handled, that seems to have been deposited after the site was abandoned, which is really interesting.

Another thing we know is that pile-dwelling settlements like this were, in Central mainland Europe where they were quite common, frequently deliberately burned. The inhabitants would remove all their belongings, then they'd set fires in a number of places, piling fuel near the walls to make the fire burn hotter. They'd wait until it died down entirely, then come clean up the site, and rebuild over it. This was possibly a spiritual practice, but it was also practical: these kinds of dwellings are not terribly durable and are very hard to repair. It was just more economical to destroy them and start fresh, about every ten to twenty years-- much more labor-intensive to pull down the old buildings, and if it was a good site then the inhabitants would want to stay in the same place, so burning was the quick easy way to do it. (Interesting echoes of the southeastern European Neolithic phenomenon of the Burned House Horizon, but much more straightforward actually.) Must Farm's settlement was built in a similar way to those European ones, clearly not designed for long-term use-- many of the pilings were ash, which doesn't hold up all that well to alternately wet and dry conditions. The buildings would have decayed, would have needed repair within five years, would have needed major repairs in ten, would have possibly been beyond repair in fifteen. And the builders were experienced enough to surely know that.

But it made no sense to burn it down after less than a year, the wood still green and completely free of insects, and it certainly made no sense to leave so much in them, including the live animals. And there are no signs of the kind of deliberate burning found in those European sites, the extra fuel and multiple ignition points, so it's highly unlikely this settlement was burned intentionally. I really do think it was abandoned, and then immediately accidentally burned from an improperly-extinguished cooking fire. If this was done because of some spiritual or other belief, it was an unusual example. Perhaps there was something dramatic, perhaps some event the inhabitants interpreted as supernatural.

Maybe there was a really big spider.

[usafphantom2]

10 things that sucked about the F-8 Crusader

Hush KitMay 9, 2012

July 12, 2024

Fast and agile, with a decent range, the Crusader carrier fighter enjoys a positive reputation as ‘The Last Gunfighter’. It has been described as.“..by far one of the greatest fighters of its era”; we even rated it the second-best fighter of 1969. This sleek Cold War aircraft even boasts the best kill-to-loss ratio of any US fighter aircraft in Vietnam. But, as we shall see, a great deal was wrong with the F-8. And there wasn’t a long wait to find this out, the first production F8U-1 was also the first to be lost, killing pilot Harry Brackett; a truly shocking number of incidents, many fatal, would follow. By the time the Crusader retired, there had been call to use the ejection seat over 500 times, the first in 1956 (a year before the type entered service) and the last in 1997 (in French service). Here are 10 things that sucked about the F-8 Crusader.

10. Missiles

The F-8 could carry a maximum of four air-to-air missiles, half that of the F-4 Phantom II. Even carrying four AIM-9 Sidewinder air-to-air missiles, proved draggy and made it harder for the Crusader to reach minimum landing weight if the weapons were not used. Because of this, the F-8 most often went to war with only two missiles. This lack of missile persistence was a big deal, as the gun installation was terrible and the probability of kill of 1960s missiles was terrible.

Another reason for an often smaller weapon load was a shortage of AIM-9s, particularly in 1966 (and of AIM-9Ds in 1968). Each variant of the Sidewinder used by the Crusader in Vietnam had its own limitations: the B was relatively slow, bad at turning with a small warhead; the radar-guided C was withdrawn before being used combat due to maintenance problems; and the generally superior D had less reliable fuzing than the B.

9. Bang bang bad

Though famed as the ‘Last Gunfighter’, all but one of the F-8’s kills were with missiles. This was because of the many problems with the F-8’s gun installation. A major issue was the Colt Mk 12 cannon hated being fired above a rather conservative 3.5G (the M61 Vulcan use by other US fighters was rated up to 7.33G).

The guns’ rate of fire was unpredictable, sometimes even zero, and they suffered from pneumatic charging issues and ‘barrel whip’, which caused inaccurate fire. Up to 1966, the guns jammed in three out of eight engagements.

8. Engine

There are plenty of reasons you want a quick-responding engine in a carrier aircraft, as a delay can cost you your life. The two-second afterburner delay in early versions caused a lot of heartbreak; when pilot Tom Irwin tried to land his F-8C in 1965 it caught the fourth wire, but his arrestor hook point sheared from the shank, causing his aircraft to keep rolling rather than stopping on the deck. His only chance was to take off again, but his burner was too slow in response to get him to a safe minimum speed of 80 knots. Too slow to even eject, he flew into the sea, whereupon his afterburner ignited, causing the engine to explode. Miraculously he escaped his aircraft, manually, in record time and survived. In similar circumstances, four out of five pilots were killed.

7. Rockets

Early Crusaders carried internal rocket packs, that were opened before firing. To minimise frontal cross-section the magazines of sixteen rockets were mounted one behind the other. If one rocket failed to leave the launcher, it could be hit by a round from behind with potentially catastrophic consequences. If a round failed to clear the launcher it could mean the launcher could not retract, the extended launcher blocked the nose gear door making it impossible to extend the nose gear. If when the rockets did fire, they were comically inaccurate, “One study indicated that 128 rockets, four Crusaders’ worth, would have to be expended on one bomber for a 97% probability that it would be hit at least once.1”.

5. Inferiority to the F-4

In the first training dogfight sortie, an F-8 pilot would employ the type’s superior instantaneous turning performance to better the F-4, but a mere five engagements later, the F-4 pilots would learn how to use their superior power to better the F-8; a well-trained F-4 pilot could best the F-8. This is extremely significant as one of the few trump cards the F-8 has against the F-4 is its superior agility. The F-4 enjoys two to four times the missile load, over twice the bombload, superior situational awareness, superior radar, climb rate and critically, was far safer to operate from a carrier.

(Those accusing this of being an apples-to-oranges comparison should look at the role and real-world taskings, not the weight class).

4. Bad situational awareness

Pilot George Wright noted in his description of a one-way mission in the Crusader, “The F-8’s cockpit visibility wasn’t the greatest, so you always raised your seat as much as you could. But you didn’t want it so high that you would have trouble grabbing the two yellow-and-black-striped handles above your helmet, the handles that fired your ejection seat.” He also singled out the absence of a HUD in the F-8H as a dangerous omission that contributed to his failure to pull out soon enough from a strafing run. So the view out was poor, there was no HUD, and as the type had been created as day-only fighter, its radar was barely useful. The first radar was little more than a gun ranger, but even improved later radars were poor, the AN/APQ-83 was better but one of the first cadre of Top Gun Instructors Jim Alderink considered this ‘a piece of garbage’. The F-8 relied on guidance from an air and ground controller; the radar’s detection range for the MiG-17 was dangerously small. Conceived as a day-only fighter…

Credit US Navy via https://www.cybermodeler.com/

3. Juliet blues, the F-8J

The initial J variant attempted to solve many of the shortcomings of the Crusader but in doing so added 2,000Ibs of weight and a 1,000Ib of power lost to boundary layer control. There were also wing cracks and a lack of spares. The result was a dangerously underpowered machine with inferior manoeuvrability and greater maintenance requirements, requiring expensive remedies – and happening in a major war just when fighters were most needed.

2. Out-turned by the MiG-17

As it could with every other US fighter, the veteran MiG-17 could outturn the Crusader at 300-350 Knots Indicated Airspeed (KIAS). It was superior training and missiles that enabled the Crusader to better the MiG-17. In fighting the MiG-21 in Vietnam, the Crusader did not have a distinct performance advantage. The MiG-21 had superior acceleration above Mach 1.1, and superior instantaneous G below 400 KIAS

Vietnam

That it took part in the horror of the Vietnam War itself sucks. But we shall not dwell on the many horrors inflicted by air power in the war, but instead, look at the Crusader’s survivability. A total of 118 total were lost, 57 in combat.

(*some sources put this as 170 in total)

1. Dangerous as hell!

The primary requirement of an aircraft is to keep the crew safe, and on this most important quality, the Crusader cannot be judged in a rosy light. This was perhaps not surprising as was just one in a line of ‘hot’ aircraft created by Vought. Their best, the famous Corsair of World War II, had nastier handling than the Hellcat, and the jet-powered Cutlass was a disaster. The Crusader’s safety record, even for the notoriously dangerous class of late 1950s carrier aircraft was abysmal. Professor Michael Weaver notes, “In 1966.. F-8s suffered an accident rate of 3.26 per 10,000 flying hours. Only the A-4E Skyhawk approached that rate, and the rate for the F-4 was only 2.72.”

The Crusader was a handful, and this was painfully apparent when it came to landing, a terrible quality in a carrier aircraft. There is an entire page devoted to Crusader crashes here.

“By the time the Crusader retired, pilots had made 493 ejections from all models of the F-8. Overall, 517 of the 1261 Crusaders had been built had been lost, a loss rate of 41 per cent” Peter Mersky notes. Considering the number of aircraft built, 737 entries in the Aviation Safety Network database is clearly atrocious.

According to Peter E. Davies, “Four carrier-bourne evaluation cruises showed that Crusader was hard to keep on “speed’ for carrier landings. Without the angled deck and mirror landing and mirrored landing system added to World War II-vintage SCB-27C Essex- and Midway-class carriers, the aircraft might never have reached the required safety standards.”

The high approach speed of 147 knots was a big issue on smaller carriers such as the Essex-class. Consistent speed was also important. To help, an autothrottle (Approach Power Compensator) was added in 1964, but even this caused problems as over-reliance on the APC was equally dangerous. Another peculiarity of the F-8 was its odd relationship between nose attitude and sink rate caused by its oddest design feature, on landing the wing stayed at the same angle of attack as the fuselage tilted (the wing was mounted on mechanism). Things were particularly counter-intuitive for the pilot in the final approach stages, which again required attention.

The Crusader, fine in many ways, sucked unforgivably badly in some of the most significant categories.

Sources

This site takes a lot of time and effort, if you think I deserve something back for this work then please hit the buttons on this page. Every donation is gratefully received.

F-8 Crusader, Vietnam 1963-1973, Peter E Davies

An Examination of the F-8 Crusader through Archival Sources – Professor Michael Weaver

USN F-8 training manual

https://thanlont.blogspot.com/2013/03/a-brief-history-of-f8u-crusader-armament.html

1 https://thanlont.blogspot.com/2008/12/missed-it-by-that-much-ii.html

Vought F-8 Crusader Peter Mersky

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snip snip babies bc it’s time for a

✂️bonus round✂️

here’s how it works: i’m gonna roll a random number between 150-300, and then you’re going to take the microfic you already submitted for this month and whittle it down to an even smaller word count without losing the plot points or emotional beats of the longer version. bust out those editing shears! your bonus round challenge for july is…

pool | wc: 273

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