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foundtherightwords · 7 months

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The Firebird - Chapter 9

Pairing: Prince Paul (Catherine the Great) x OFC, Fairytale AU

Summary: When Paul, a spoiled young prince, spots a strange bird in the forest near his palace, he impulsively chases after it, hoping to both escape from and prove himself to his disapproving mother. Thus he is plunged into an exhilarating adventure across a magical realm populated by enchanted princesses, dangerous monsters, and powerful wizards, an adventure that may change him more than he can ever imagine.

Chapter warning: some violence

Chapter word count: 4.5k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8

Chapter 9 - Knights and Nightingale

As soon as Paul, Zhara, and Elena cleared the trees, all three of them collapsed, breathing in the sweet night air of the meadow and the open sky. Even the donkey seemed to be calming down and started grazing the fresh grass with relish.

"Thank you," Elena exhaled. "Thank you both. I never would have the courage to stand up to her if it wasn't for you."

Paul paid her no heed. His attention was on Zhara, who was cradling her injured hand and looking pale. He found a piece of clean linen in their supplies, dipped it in the nearby stream, and started washing the blood off her hands.

"You are going to say that was a very stupid thing to do, aren't you?" she asked with a sullen grimace.

"No," Paul said honestly. More than anything, he longed to kiss her palm, but he couldn't, not with Elena there, so he settled for caressing her hand instead. "You were very brave."

Zhara's fingers went still for a heartbeat, then closed around his. "I think you were very brave too," she said softly.

For a moment, they sat holding hands, unable to tear their eyes away from each other, until a small cough from Elena made them dart away like two criminals. Paul turned around and found Elena standing awkwardly next to them, holding a bunch of frothy pink and white flowers she just picked from the meadow.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Woundwort," she replied, crushing the flowers between her fingers. Perhaps it was Paul's imagination, but he thought the flowers glowed briefly. "Put it on her hand, it'll heal faster."

Paul took the crushed flowers from Elena and carefully placed them on Zhara's wound before binding her hand with another strip of linen. If he took a long time doing it, and if his fingertips lingered over her palm and her wrist more than necessary, she showed no sign of noticing.

"Sleeping on a field on Kupala Night, how fitting," Elena mused, looking around the empty meadow. She glanced at Zhara. "Perhaps we should have waited until morning to defy my mother."

"Oh, if you don't mind, then I don't either. We've been sleeping under the stars for weeks now, haven't we?" Zhara said, nodding at Paul with a warm smile that bore no trace of her usual mockery. For some reason, the natural, easy way she said we sent a thrill through Paul. "Besides, I don't want to be around a lot of people in the morning."

"Why not?" Elena asked, bemused.

"You'll see" was all Zhara said in reply.

***

Elena took Zhara's transformation surprisingly well. Paul had the feeling that she had been confined in her own kingdom for so long that anything would come as a shock to her, and when everything was a shock, nothing was, so she took everything in her stride. He discovered that she was something of a chatterbox as well. She asked him about Russia, about his journey with Zhara so far, and about Alyosha and Afron. Paul tried to answer her as best he could, but he was unable to keep up with her pattering. Luckily, Elena was so thrilled to have someone to talk to that she didn't seem to mind, like a child who had recently learned to talk. When she had exhausted her store of questions, she started pointing out every plant and tree they saw along the way and listing their properties and uses. Paul didn't hold it against her. He supposed that when one was one quarter-leshy, a love for botany was in one's blood. After a while, he learned to tune out her excited babbling and focused on putting one foot ahead of another—the donkey could not carry both of them, so he gave it to Elena and walked instead.

Zhara's wound had healed almost completely, but she didn't fly ahead as she often did when she and Paul were traveling together. Instead, she stayed close or perched on Paul's shoulder, watching him and Elena with an enigmatic, scrutinizing expression. Paul wanted to tell her that she needn't worry about him falling in love with Elena. Although he didn't mind Elena's company, he missed those early days when it was just him and Zhara, missed falling asleep across the fire from her, even missed their bickering. But he couldn't say any of it in Elena's presence, so he only brushed his fingertips briefly over Zhara's wings. She returned the gesture by nibbling his hand gently with her beak. She ceased her watching after that, though she remained on his shoulder.

After reaching the first mountain pass that night, they discussed what to do should they run into Nightingale again. Zhara pointed out that the robber didn't seem at all interested in humans and only took the donkey and the supplies, so if they freed the donkey and crossed the mountains on foot, perhaps he would leave them be.

"What if there is another avalanche?" Paul asked. "We only escaped by sheer luck last time." He could still feel the stab of fear that had gone through his heart when Zhara went missing, and never wished to feel it again.

"We can make some snow wings," Elena piped up. Zhara and Paul turned to her questioningly, and she explained, "That's what the people of Bryansk do when they have to go up the mountains. They weave these frames out of birch and willow branches and strap them to their backs. They will save us from getting buried completely in the snow."

So they spent the night gathering branches from the lower slopes and tying them together with birch bark into something resembling a long and flat hamper. They made two, one for Elena and one for Paul, while Zhara, who would be in her avian form, simply had to stay airborne.

"Will this work?" Paul asked dubiously, as he tried one on.

"I—I've never used it before," Elena said. "But it should work." Her answer didn't instill a lot of confidence in Paul, but they had to take it.

They started their ascent of Perun's Crown early in the morning. The first two days were quiet, and they began to hope that perhaps Nightingale would not attack. Still, they were particularly careful as they neared Perun's Peak, as this was the site of the avalanche and where Nightingale was rumored to have his nest. Zhara flew overhead on slowly wheeling wings, ready to sound the alarm should she see anything suspicious, while Paul and Elena walked on the slippery path, with the donkey between them.

An echoing shriek made them all jump. Zhara soared up so high she was only a speck of red amongst the gray-and-white peaks, while Paul and Elena pressed themselves against the rock walls on either side of the path, preparing for the avalanche. It never came. They heard another shriek from somewhere up ahead, along with other sounds—the rushing rustle of a tempest, male voices shouting, and the panicked whinnies of some horses.

Paul and Elena exchanged curious glances. Could it be that some hapless travelers had been caught by Nightingale? They ran toward a bend in the path, where they cleared the Peak and the rock walls opened up into a vista of the lower mountains and the valley further down.

But that wasn't all they could see. Perched on a tree on the mountaintop directly underneath them was Nightingale the Robber, his back to them, his speckled gray plumage barely visible amongst the leaves and the rocks. From his mouth, a continuous shriek was coming forth, causing such a high, gusty wind that all the trees on the slope below were bent over, some smaller ones were snapped clean in half, and stones and branches and debris were tumbling down the hill. It was so powerful that Paul and Elena, crouched on the higher peak, could even feel some of it on their faces as it rebounded off of the mountains in the distance. The victims—two men in armor and their horses—were hiding behind a large boulder, which shielded them from the worst of the squall but didn't allow them to do much else. One of them kept trying to draw a bow, only to have to duck down again when half a sapling sailed past his head. The other one had a spear, which he drove into the ground and leaned against to keep himself from getting blown away by the gust.

"What do we do?" Elena asked.

"He's not paying attention to us at all. We can simply wait until he finishes with them and flies away," Paul said. Zhara, who had come down to watch and was now hovering over his shoulder, gave a dissenting chirrup and shook her beak. Paul sighed. "All right, so we shall try to help them," he said. "But how?"

"He's sitting on a cedar," Elena said. "It's a very brittle wood. Perhaps we can throw a rock to break the branch and make him fall—" Paul and Zhara, as one, turned to her with incredulous eyes, and she turned pink and put her head down. "I apologize. It's a silly idea."

Paul reminded himself that he hadn't been much better than Elena was when he first arrived in Lukomorye. No, worse even, for he had been too busy raging and throwing tantrums instead of trying to be helpful. So he shouldn't find her naïveté frustrating. Besides, perhaps her idea wasn't altogether silly...

He cast his eyes upward, contemplating the snow-covered slopes above them, tracing their incline to the tree where Nightingale was sitting. He turned back to watch the archer trying in vain to loose an arrow at Nightingale, only to be driven back by the mighty whistle. A thought formed in his mind.

"An avalanche," he said. He turned to Zhara and pointed to the slopes. "Zhara, can you fly up there and knock down the snow with your fire? Not too much, just enough to distract Nightingale."

Zhara's eyes lit up with understanding, and she took off like a streak of gold toward the snowy slopes. A moment later, a small flame flared red against the white, and a square of snow detached itself from the slope and started its ponderous but relentless descent.

"Go!" Paul urged Elena. They took off down the mountains with the donkey, while Zhara swooped in close behind. Below, the two men had noticed the snow and were pointing at it, shouting. Paul only hoped that they realized the opportunity and were quick enough to seize it.

The shouts caught Nightingale's attention. He turned his head for no longer than the blink of an eye, saw the snow coming down, and launched himself up like a shot fired from a musket. But that brief pause was all that the archer needed. At the moment Nightingale soared into the sky, an arrow also flew from the bow, whistled through the air, and found its mark in the robber's shoulder. With a terrible scream, Nightingale tumbled from the sky, landed hard on the rocks, and kept rolling until he ended up at the bottom of the gorge, where he lay motionless.

By the time Paul and his companions reached the base of the slope, snow from the avalanche had piled up around the boulder. Nightingale was still conscious but at the mercy of the two men, who already had him bound and gagged. The archer, a powerfully built man with black hair and a curly black beard, had an arrow nocked and pointed at the robber, while the other man, younger and slimmer, with auburn hair and light blue-green eyes, was putting the tip of his spear to the robber's neck. Both men had about them a noble, heroic air, just like Alyosha Popovich, and Paul suddenly felt quite conscious of his disheveled curls and rumpled appearance.

"Who are you?" the archer asked, raising his bow at them.

Paul threw his arms up. "Please, don't shoot. We only wish to help."

The other man's blue-green eyes widened as they landed on Elena. "Elena the Fair!" he exclaimed. "How is it that you are here, so far away from Bryansk?"

Elena looked rather taken aback. "You have the advantage of me, sir," she said.

"Apologies, my lady." The knight—for Paul was certain these two men could be nothing else but bogatyrs—took off his helmet and bowed deeply. "Dobrynya Nikitich, at your service. You may not know me, but I have seen and admired you from afar during my travels through your kingdom. It is an honor to finally make your acquaintance."

Elena's porcelain face turned a lovely shade of pink, while Paul wondered how Dobrynya managed to make such a simple introduction sound so gallant and romantic.

"And I am Ilya Muromets," his companion said. Paul was reminded of Zhara's question to Alyosha about his brothers. So these must be them.

Zhara alighted on Paul's shoulder. The two knights stared at her in astonishment.

"Can this be—?" Ilya said, his voice hushed.

"Tsarevna Zhara?" Dobrynya asked.

Zhara inclined her head. Even as a bird, she retained her regal air, and the two knights fell to their knees in front of her—that is to say, in front of Paul. Then they began to speak, voices stumbling over each other.

"We've heard the rumor, my lady, but didn't quite believe it—"

"—ever since we learned of what happened in Arthania and what had befallen poor Alyosha, we have been searching for you—"

"—to pledge our swords and shields to you—"

Seeing they were distracted, Nightingale tried to sit up, but Ilya, with a quick movement that belied his heavy physique, put a foot on the robber's chest and pushed him back down. "Don't even think about it, Nightingale."

"That reminds me," Dobrynya said, watching Nightingale writhe in pain and anger, "what are we going to do about this one?"

"I say we kill him," Ilya said.

The robber's face went white.

"Or we can deliver him to Tsar Afron," Dobrynya suggested. "The tsar will be glad to know that the mountains are safe once more."

"Killing him would accomplish the same thing, and we don't have to waste time and strength carrying him across—" Ilya was saying, when he was interrupted by the shrill voice of a woman.

"No!" the voice cried out. "Please, merciful knights! Please spare my husband!"

They all looked up, startled. Through a crevice in the mountain above, they could glimpse the face of a woman looking out. The crevice was so well disguised on the rock wall that if it hadn't been for the woman's red headscarf, they would never have seen it at all. Several other heads joined the woman's—children, by the size of them, crowding around her like chicks surrounding a mother hen. The sight of those children caused Nightingale to thrash against his bonds even more violently, his face turning purple with rage or exertion.

The woman pulled at a windlass, cleverly hidden amongst the rocks, and brought up a basket. This she used to transport herself and several of the smaller children down to the bottom of the slope, while the three older children, two girls and a boy, flew behind them on fledglings' wings. The woman was human. The children had her rounded eyes and plump cheeks and Nightingale's bird wings and bird legs, though the younger ones were yet to molt. There were nine of them, six girls and three boys.

The woman prostrated herself in front of Ilya, shielding Nightingale with her body. "Please, have mercy!" she said, tears streaming down her face. "He doesn't mean any harm! He's only trying to take care of us!"

Paul, the knights, and the princesses shared shocked glances.

"What's your name, woman?" Ilya asked.

"Akulina Dudenchevna, sir," the woman replied. "In the time of the late Tsar Dolmat, Tsar Afron's father, my husband would ferry people across the mountains and get paid for it. When Tsar Afron took the throne a few years ago, he refused to honor the late tsar's agreement with my husband. He put it about that my husband was a monster, and nobody would let him carry them through the mountains again. That is why my husband was forced to turn to robbery to provide for us. But as Perun is my witness, he has never killed anyone!"

"Well, this certainly puts a different complexion on matters," Ilya said, scratching his beard. "If what you said is true."

"It is, all of it!" Akulina got on her knees and wrung her hands. "Please believe me! If you kill him or take him away, I don't know how I can feed my children..."

"What say you?" Ilya asked, turning to Elena, Zhara, and Paul. "Should we give him a chance?"

Paul was rather taken aback. In his mother's court, his voice was never heard, and his thoughts counted for nothing, yet this knight, whom he had met only mere minutes ago, was asking for his judgment on a man's life. He was ashamed to realize he didn't know what to say. Not used to having his opinion asked, he had not learned to form one of his own.

"I think we should let him live," Elena said. "Do you think so, Dobrynya Nikitich?"

"Of course, my lady," Dobrynya eagerly agreed.

"And Lady Zhara?" Ilya asked.

Paul realized Zhara was no longer on his shoulder, but before he could worry, a peal of laughter and cooing sounds made him turn his head. Zhara had found her way over to Nightingale's little children, and was playing with them, preening the feathers of the younger ones and swooping and flitting between the older ones, challenging them to a race, making them shriek with laughter. The scene put a smile on Paul's face. Trust Zhara to always find a cheerful side to everything, no matter how dire the situation.

"I think she's in favor of sparing his life as well," Dobrynya said, also smiling.

"So be it then," Ilya said and removed his foot from Nightingale's chest.

"Oh thank you!" Akulina exclaimed. "Thank you and bless you, good sirs and ladies!" She went around kissing all their hands, even Paul's, making him squirm with embarrassment.

Ilya untied Nightingale and removed his gag, warning him not to try anything. "And if we hear you're back to your old tricks, I shall put an arrow into your other shoulder." The robber glowered at the two knights, but his face softened when he was reunited with his family.

Ilya and Dobrynya fetched their horses and prepared to leave.

"But how are they going to live?" Paul heard himself asking as he watched Nightingale's children reluctantly part with Zhara.

The two knights looked at each other. It was apparent that the question hadn't occurred to them. It was Elena who provided the answer. "I shall talk to Tsar Afron and convince him to honor his father's agreement with you," she told Nightingale. "And perhaps I can convince my—my mother to agree to something similar as well. That way, you can ferry people from both Smorodina and Bryansk across the mountains, and earn an honest living."

Akulina looked like she was about to cry again. With his uninjured hand, Nightingale plucked a feather from his wing and gave it to Elena. "Thank you, my lady," he said in a gravelly voice. "Should you ever need my help, just burn this feather and I shall be there."

And so they went down the mountains, Elena now riding with Dobrynya on his horse. Paul was back on the donkey, feeling more inferior than ever as he trailed after the two stallions, but Zhara was on his shoulder again, and her presence was a great balm to his bruised ego.

Along the way, Ilya and Dobrynya asked Paul the details of Alyosha Popovich's fate, and they both looked so distraught over it that Paul had to promise to take them back to the oak tree where Alyosha was laid to rest so they could pay their respect—though he doubted he could find it again. He also explained about their search for Baba Yaga and Afron's quest. At the mention of Afron's marriage request, Dobrynya threw a dismayed glance at Elena, but said nothing.

They stopped at dusk to let Zhara transform. They were not far now from the foot of the mountains and decided to push on.

"Lady Zhara, would you do me the honor of riding with me?" Ilya asked.

"Thank you, but I think I prefer to stay with Pavel Petrovich—" Zhara replied, glancing at Paul.

Paul imagined sitting on the donkey with his arms around her, her hair brushing his cheeks, her back against his chest. It would be unbearable. "The donkey cannot carry both of us," he said, ignoring the hurt and questioning look in Zhara's eyes. "You go ahead with Ilya Muromets."

Silently, Zhara allowed Ilya to help her onto the saddle. She sat behind the knight, holding to his thick waist, and resolutely refused to look at Paul.

They crossed the last few versts to Simeon's hut. The old man was greatly surprised to see Paul and Zhara not only return unscathed but also with some friends, and received them with his usual hospitality. That night, after Simeon retreated to his stove, the princesses made do with the narrow cot, and the knights bedded down outside to keep watch on their mounts. Paul tried to make himself a bed in front of the fire, but sleep eluded him. His head was crowded with so many unaccustomed thoughts and feelings, about Zhara, about Elena, about Nightingale, about the two knights, about the journey ahead. After tossing and turning about for what felt like hours, he gave up and went to sit just outside the door, wrapped in a quilt.

Hearing a rustling, he turned and saw Zhara's bare feet, sticking out from under her chemise, standing next to him.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked. "Why aren't you asleep?"

"Why aren't you asleep?" she retorted.

Without waiting for an answer, she sat down, snatched one end of the quilt from his hand, and wrapped it around her own shoulder.

"What are you doing?" Paul asked, alarmed. The quilt now covered both of them, and they were snuggled up underneath it.

"I'm cold," she said with a little smile, wriggling her bare toes as if to demonstrate. Paul fought the urge to lift her feet into his lap and rub those toes, although warmth was radiating from her body, making him acutely aware that there were only two thin layers of linen between them. "Is something bothering you?" she asked.

Yes, he wanted to say. You. I want to kiss you so badly but I can't, not with all these people around, not when I don't know if you would welcome a kiss from me. Such thoughts had never deterred him before, but he had a feeling Zhara would not take kindly to such liberties. "No," he said, clearing his throat. "I was—merely thinking."

"About what?"

He looked up at the sky, trying to make sense of the thoughts that cluttered his mind. It was impossible, like trying to unravel a ball of yarn that had been pawed by some energetic kittens, made doubly so by the presence of this enchanting, infuriating girl by his side. His eyes rested on the waning moon, spreading its light on the ground in a dappled silvery carpet, and what he said instead was, "I wonder if the moon here looks different from the moon in Russia."

"Does it?"

"I don't know," he said honestly. "Back home, I never bothered to look up."

"But you do now, don't you?" Zhara said, voice soft as a breeze. He turned to her. She was looking at him, her lips parted, hanging on to his every word. That eager, expectant look made his heart beat with a half-sweet, half-painful hope, and he had to turn away again.

"Do you think Afron will agree to the arrangement with Nightingale?" he said, changing the subject.

Zhara pressed her lips together. "If he truly loves Elena as he said, perhaps she can persuade him," she replied.

"I think he will be less amenable when he learns she doesn't want to marry him."

"How do you know that she doesn't want to marry him?" she asked sharply.

Paul looked toward the sleeping forms of the two knights. "I think she's fallen in love with Dobrynya Nikitich. And he with her." Throughout that afternoon, he had seen them share stolen glances, blushes, little touches. It could mean nothing else.

"Oh," Zhara said, voice softening. "That's what you meant."

"What did you think I meant then?" Paul turned to her, puzzled. Now it was she who looked away, lashes fluttering as she cast her eyes downward. Paul decided not to push it. "You must be glad for their company," he said, nodding at the knights.

"I am. But I rather miss those days when it was just the two of us."

So she felt the same. The thought sent blood pounding through his veins and hammering in his ears, and he didn't quite know how to respond. "Hopefully, they can make up for all the troubles I've caused," he said.

Zhara huffed, exasperated. "Are you still mad at me for calling you a burden?" she asked. "I did apologize, didn't I?"

"I'm not mad at you. I'm simply saying—"

"You are like Nightingale. People tell you that you're a monster long enough, and you end up believing it and acting like one!"

"So I am a monster now?"

"No! You know perfectly well that's not what I meant. And stop saying that you are burdensome, good-for-nothing, or useless, because you're not."

"What am I then?" Paul faced her, not caring how heated his voice was becoming.

"A fool," Zhara said, and she kissed him.

For an endless moment, Paul could only sit there, feeling her soft, soft lips on his, their impossible warmth scorching him like the brand of a glowing ember. Then he opened his mouth, perhaps to say something or perhaps simply to breathe, which he seemed to have forgotten how to do. As if on cue, Zhara leaned closer, pressing her lithe, compliant body flush against his, and deepened the kiss, sending liquid fire coursing through him. Before he could recover enough to kiss her back, however, she broke away, her eyes twinkling gold in the silvery light of the moon as she studied his face. He must be looking even more foolish than usual, for she gave him her familiar teasing smile, though there was a trace of bashfulness in it as well.

"Good night," she said, brushing her lips over his once more. Paul leaned forward expectantly, but she had gotten to her feet and gone back inside, leaving him at the door with his mouth hanging open, too stunned to move.

Chapter 10

Taglist: @ali-r3n

#prince paul #tsarevich paul #catherine the great #prince paul fic #prince paul x ofc #joseph quinn #joseph quinn fic

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ryttu3k · 4 years

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Hello naughty children it's Gehenna time.

...which means I'm going to read the book properly this time and write notes on each scenario, partially for my own reference, partially in answer to an ask from @rayshell22livejournalcom from about a zillion years ago. Sorry about that!

Mood soundtrack: Godspeed You! Black Emperor - F# A# ∞; Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas To Heaven; Yanqui U.X.O.

Prelude: Netchurch is an interesting character. Very skeptical, despite, well, the entire setting, although that's definitely, uh, broken by the end. Feel very sad for Afifa, who was a pawn in all this. Creepy babies galore!

Introduction: "While Vampire favors that futile, tragic, and - we'll say it - angst-heavy conclusion" - lmao you don't say. Although I do like how they have the consistent golden rule that if you don't like it, just ditch it! (Of course, the Gehenna scenarios as a whole have been completely retconned anyway by v20 and v5, so this entire book is a good example of taking what you want from it and ignoring the rest.)

"Some people are on opposite sides of this thing. They're elders who don't want to knuckle under to the Antediluvians (most elders will accept their proper place in the heirarchy again with the rising of their progenitors) and poor, misled souls who bought into the lie and are pissed about it (paging Mr. Pieterzoon). Bottom line: the Camarilla collapses like Enron/WorldCom as the worthlessness of its foundation becomes public knowledge. Chaos ensues among the vampire community, princes find themselves besieged by their own locals, and it's all a big clusterfuck."

Have I ever mentioned I love how VtM phrases stuff? Also F to Jan.

I like how they have a masterlist of what's actually going on with the Antediluvians. Spoilers ;D "For example, note that [Tzimisce] is simply referred to as [Tzimisce]. Even here at the game studio, our limited mortal minds weren't able to comphrenend the creature's real name." Lovecraft only WISHES he had eldritch abominations this spooky! Ennoia is 'Active and scary' and apparently spooks the devs just thinking about it. Makes sense. "Giovanni (Augustus Giovanni): Augustus is a pig, and he should probably die as one of the early events of Gehenna. He's the youngest of the Antediluvians and probably possessed the greatest ego (in mortal terms), so it'll be cosmic justice when he eats it." I love how no one likes Giovanni, even his creators. Malkav may or may not BE the Madness Network, in which case they cease to be an Antediluvian and just become... a part of the Malkavians, I guess? Absimiliard may or may not be chilling at the bottom of the ocean, because mood. Tremere / Saulot is definitely a fun one to play with, yeah. Although, oof, if Saulot ever gets control of their shared body, he's going to be fucked up if [Tzimisce] activates, so. Probably better to create a nice fresh body, like what BJD suggests with the child Saulot.

Chapter 1 - the lead-up: Basically a rundown of the signs and how they're interpreted. "An angel dies: How does an angel die? Who has the gall to rise up and slay one of God's firstborn? Or perhaps this is another metaphor. An angel could be a pure and gentle creature, or then again, it need not be one of God's angels (not that God's angels are necessarily pure and gentle). A feared and particularly vicious Necronomist Tzimisce, Sascha Vykos is sometimes referred to as the Angel of Caine. Many would rejoice the night that Vykos died." Hey rude :( I vote they kill Michael instead. He wants to be an Archangel? Fine, he can fulfill a prophesy XD

Honestly I really do dig that Ennoia Earthmelded with the entire planet. You can go so many directions with that, good or bad! Ennoia as The Beast Below, or Ennoia as Gaia? (Wow, that'd really fuck with the Garou XD) I love how the general consensus on Haqim is like, no one knows if he exists or not but lbr Ur-Shulgi is bad enough. Kinda dig the idea of the Toreador ante, Ishtar/Arikel, being genderfluid? I mean yeah essentially demigods have no need for gender anyway, but the constant debates over whether the Toreador ante is the female Ishtar or the male Arikel (or, uh, was it vice versa?) does lead to some interesting concepts. Ooh, similar to [Tzimisce] being linked to its entire clan (and the Tremere, anyone who's ever taken part in the Vaulderie, and anyone who knows Vicissitude), [Lasombra] may be connected to anyone who knows Obtenebration? [Ravnos]... yeah, probably dead. F to the clan. And yeah I think [Tzimisce] is flat-out the scariest one of all, and probably the one most likely to actually start the apocalypse, lbr.

Ugh this is one of the books that calls Sascha 'it' :-\ Do not like. ...Also do not like the suggestion that they're an unknowing agent of the Eldest, given, uh, the last chapter of the DA Tzimisce novel. Shoo! Shoo! You've ruined their unlife enough as it is!

Epistolary material! I do dig those. Most interesting: a letter to Sascha mentioning apocalyptic visions of New York but with the Carpathians in the background, and an anonymous letter to Hardestadt warning him of one of his line tearing down a castle that the writer feels believes the Camarilla. GO JAN FUCK IT UP.

And on to the scenarios themselves!

Chapter 2 - Wormwood: This is an interesting one. Literally a Biblical vengeance - God takes a good look at the Children of Caine and goes, "Well, this is fucked up", acknowledges that Caine never really sought true forgiveness and repentance, and sets forth Wormwood, the Red Star. The truly repentant are saved, the rest just. Die.

Herald here is a dhampir girl named Alia - thinblood father, human mother. When she's twelve, she becomes God's chosen, basically. Traveling with three thinblood guardians, one night, she's approached a Gargoyle named Ferox with True Faith, who sees himself as a fallen angel. And Alia offers him a way of redemption - find the chosen true believers, wait out Wormwood, receive judgement. Anyone can seek sanctuary, only the true believers and the ones genuinely willing to repent will survive the judgement itself. Alia and Ferox set out to find the other chosen ones.

Whew. Very full-on - the players remain in one place with a whole bunch of other vampires for forty nights. I mean, that's a test in and of itself XD All welcome! (Except infernalists and the antediluvians and Caine himself. They're fucked no matter what.)

Like. All welcome XD "Some Storytellers might feel that this character roundup could get too silly, suddenly having all these celebrity Kindred get together for a big slumber party, and they would be correct." Fuck that give me a slumber party AU XD

Am very glad about the note that the vampires inside only lose one blood point per 10 days, rather than every day. Otherwise, uh, it'd get gory.

Yeah, this is a really interesting scenario. Very character-focused, very introspective. All about the characters trying to work out what it means to be good people - not the strongest vampires, not the most powerful, but good people. Are they worthy of salvation? That's the crux of the story. Of course, it's very, uh, Biblical, heh, but it's first and foremost about morality and redemption. I dig it.

Also, giant vampire slumber party.

Chapter 3 - Fair is Foul: Ooh, this is a Lilith vs Caine scenario.

This one has the Withering hit in weird ways, including clan-specific ones - like the Banu Haqim only able to feed on vitae, then only able to gain sustenance from diablerie. Gangrel turn even more animalistic. Lasombra take to the seas, Obtenebration ripping holes straight to the Abyss. Malks, uh, leak madness. Nosferatu get even uglier, Toreador devolve into debauchery. Tremere develop third eyes, and yes, I did laugh out loud when I read that. Tzimisce... hmm... get a bit, uh, uncontrolled. And Ventrue find they can now only feed on... other Ventrue. Fun times!

"At your discretion, Lilith might be particularly vulnerable to Jewish True Faith, as the Jewish tales about her are the source of nearly every negative sentiment ever directed against her in writing. As a result, most orthodox Jews bear Lilith great contempt for defying her husband and her God." Yeah ngl I think she's pretty dang cool and I can just see, like, most of my ancestors facepalming at the idea XD;; Fuck obediance you do your own thing.

"Trying to work out traits for Lilith, Lucifer, Caine, or any of the Antediluvians would just be a waste of our word count and your time." I like the time they published a guide for fighting Caine. It was two words. "You lose."

Ah. Okay, Saulot in Tremere's body being taken over by the Eldest = scary, because have you ever been attacked by an Antediluvian wielding Thaumaturgy, Valeran, and Vicissitude at the SAME :) TIME? :) Yeah :)

Really dig the idea of Abel showing up as the first Wraith. The forgiveness element.

Overall, this isn't my favourite scenario, I think? It feels very chaotic, and while it's probably the most traditional to play, I'm not sure how much it literally challenges the characters, unlike the sheer soul-searching...ness of Wormwood?

Chapter 4 - Nightshade: Chapter starts with, "We all wear masks" and my first thought was "boy you have no idea" XD

Awww yes this is the masquerade break scenario! See here for my thoughts on that and how the Nephtali could be adapted to v5, heh.

Yeah okay earthquakes, volcanoes, and riots are normal enough. A horrible blood virus where it appears some flesh-like thing is living in people's veins and feeding off their blood sounds like something that starts with T and rhymes with Shzimitze. ...Probably. No one knows how the fuck it's pronounced anyway. Oops, those riots are apparently over the existence of vampires. Yeah that'd be... unfortunate. And more earthquakes, this time due to Kupala vs the Eldest. Whew. Red star, yep, standard. MORE earthquakes, this time due to the Second City rising. Sounds legit. Bad times all around!

The details on breaking the Masquerade are interesting. Basic emotions: denial, rationalisation, fear, anger, acceptance. The acceptance one is interesting, because I can definitely see some jumping to it straight away.

So, on to the scenario itself! Jan recruits the players to fight the... uh, mass under NYC. This is the corpse of the Eldest, which is more or less a giant fungal infection held together with Vicissitude, which frankly is just icky. This actually is canon-compliant with BJD, since it apparently has only just... dissipated? or whatever there, or if it still remains, it's no longer conscious. In this one, its soul flicks back to Tremere's/Saulot's body and wakes up, and basically every Tzimisce, Tremere, and anyone who has ever drank Tzimisce blood (which would be the entire Sabbat via Vaulderie) spontaneously frenzies. Godspeed. Cyscek, a Tzimisce methuselah, helps defeat the, uh, blob at the expense of his life, and warns with his last words, "The Dragon rises. You must stop it. Find Vykos. [They] know." (Okay yeah the text says 'it knows' but also fuck that.) Ooh, plot point!

Aaaand then they retreat from the battle, exhausted, only to find the whole damn thing broadcast on every TV screen, vampiric Disciplines and Cyscek dusting and all. W h o o p s.

Lots and lots of details of a major masquerade breach here. Hardestadt shows up and tells Jan he's proooobably gonna get Final Death for, you know, trying to save the world. Gonna share this bit because it's Very Satisfying.

Please refer to my tag #hardestadt has no rights ;D

Anyway! The characters now recruited, Jan leads them back to London for the Convention of Fire. He's working with Calebros and... like a bunch of others, probably anyone can end up here, so long as they want to actually help and not just fall apart like the remnants of the Camarilla (trying to diablerise their way into keeping power) and the Sabbat (...ditto tbh). Those definitely in attendance are Ambrogino Giovanni, Hesha Ruhadze, and Fatima! And lbr the Nod Squad are probably there too. As if Beckett would pass up the chance to NOT witness what's happening with Gehenna. And Anatole is literally a prophet of Gehenna! They found the Nephtali, led by a council of twelve, with Jan at the head. Name means 'the highest point' or 'no further' - as in, Gehenna goes no further than this.

Oh lmao here we go, the scene I mentioned earlier - Jan vs talk shows.

F to Jan.

Tremere's body (inhabited by Saulot) disappears from beneath the Vienna chantry. Tremere's body, with [Tzimisce] now well in control (having overtaken Saulot; Tremere, meanwhile, has taken over Goratrix's body, with Goratrix's mind stuck in a mirror... it's complicated), wipes out the Vienna chantry. RIP to the Vienna chantry, which doesn't survive in either timeline tbh. Hey, I wonder if that means that Saulot (in Tremere's body) is dead in v5? Etrius manages to escape and reports that the Eldest is now on the way to Ceoris, where it'll call all the remaining Tzimisce to it to become, uh, a part. Pleasant.

Everything between Krakow and Bucharest is straight fukk’d. Ceoris is the centre of all this - IIRC it's somewhere in the southern Carpathians, nearish Brasov. Either way, hell of a fight results with what can only be described as an eldritch abomination, finally both managing to destroy Kupala (the Eldest's goal) and reducing The Thing down to a human-looking body. This bit is interesting! Tremere (in Goratrix' body) and Etrius take one look at each other. "Master..." "I... I know. But where the hell is Saulot?!" Good question, because he sure ain't in Tremere's, uh, former body any more, which was in fact what was fighting them the whole time. Either way, Tremere-in-Goratrix'-body leaps at [Tzimisce]-in-Tremere's-body and diablerises his, um, former body, which must be weird as hell, then tries to turn on the characters and his powers fuckiNG FAIL. EAT SHIT TREMERE. And then the players kill him too and realise that over the course of one night they've destroyed the demon Kupala and two Antediluvians, Tremere and the Eldest. Not bad. This is the battle that causes that second lot of earthquakes I mentioned earlier.

Back to London! They find the mirror containing Goratrix amongst Tremere's belongings. Poor fucker sorry not sorry.

And now the players receive a summons to escort someone from Montreal to the Nephtali headquarters in London! Namely, a Tzimisce named Myca Vykos~ They've recently defected from the Sabbat and want to help take the Antediluvians tf down. (Note: the book here has reverted to using he/him pronouns since they're back in their original form, I'm going to keep using they/them because biological sex does not determine gender identity or pronouns goddammit. ...Anyway. I AM going to use the name Myca since that's the name they're using themself, mostly because, uh, 'Myca' is a bit less noticeable than 'Sascha Vykos', haha.)

So Gehenna has started. Myca's woken up in their original form and being like, "Hey you know what I am preTTY SURE I don't want to serve the Eldest" and promptly joins the Nephtali.

From New York to London to Romania to London to Montreal to London (...London is a hub world apparently), now off to Turkey, to Kaymakli! Which is actually a real place, my brother's been on a tour there. Anyway, this is the part of Kaymakli that they don't show the tourist and that's been sealed shut with lots of angry Cappadocians instead, so that was fun. Presumably Kapaneus hasn't been chilling out there in this one.

Also Colombia has completely been overtaken by the Sabbat so that sucks.

Into Kaymakli! Which usually doesn't let Cainites back out so it may be one-way. Don't worry, there's a ritual for that. At the bottom, they find Augustus Giovanni! Who is pissed off he never actually got to eat Cappadocius' soul and so wants to eat God instead.

As you do.

The book very strongly encourages the players to kill him. Just 'cause. Which is a mood, tbh. Killing him also reveals a beaten, bound Nosferatu, having been Giovanni's most recent food source. An F for Okulos. He's been there for four years, having managed to get a lost fragment of the Book of Nod for Beckett, who promised to come back for him and. Didn't. Which is just rude tbh and I can kind of understand why Okulos ends up betraying Beckett in the Gehenna novel but anyway. (Not canon as of v20, he's perfectly present and chill in BJD.)

End results - the fragment that Okulos went to retrieve shows how to restore the Second City, which holds a complete Book of Nod and may hold the key to stopping Gehenna. It's in Enochian so your player characters probably won't be able to read it (book suggests asking Sascha or Ambrogino). Next stop, Egypt, and a meeting with Hesha Ruhadze! Man this scenario has a lot of signature characters. It also suggests getting third parties in here too, so Beckett would actually be a really good choice. Either way, they find the probable site, and suddenly, a Second City.

Archeologists make grabby hands. Beckett, somewhere, is probably crying in joy. They find a vial with some very old blood in it that they definitely shouldn't drink because otherwise they'll explode (the book uses Sascha as the example here XD;; ). Along with some mystical enscriptions, they return to London and get to work on the prophecy - namely, it suggests that 'the gentle one' (likely Saulot) will die at the hands of another, but arise in a new form, and will stop Gehenna that way. Etrius, one of the only Tremere left and having joined the Nephtali, goes 'fuck it what do I have to lose?' and goes to find whatever new form Saulot is in (potentially can also involve Goratrix here).

Hm. Well. Saulot is apparently in a research centre outside Sydney. Apparently we're mostly chill with vampires, aside from Christians XD Go figure!

Apparently it's a cloning facility. One of the rooms had, past tense, a child, successfully cloned six-year-old, who was in perfect physical form but vegetative from birth. Religious characters will pick up that it's because the kid's body didn't have a soul. Now, it does - Saulot's. Having been thrown out of Tremere's body when the Eldest took over, his soul fled until it could find the most suitable vessel - a soulless cloned body. No actual soul to have to subdue. Saulot ends up reborn, albeit in the form of a six-year-old and without any memories. Turns out, the child was taken by a cult of Thinbloods, believing him to be the messiah.

Sydney's messy situation gets described here! Short version, Sydney's Prince is/was Sarrasine, who was a Toreador. Except he wasn't a Toreador, it was a fairly open secret he was only POSING as a Toreador - he was actually a Caitiff. (Except he's not actually a Caitiff. He's a sixth-gen Setite. Sydney is Like That, yes.) Given Sydney's independence from the sects and its apparent Caitiff Prince, it's become a major site of Caitiff and Thinbloods, which Sarrasine is just thrilled about but can't do anything about because he doesn't want to actually go 'lol I'm a Setite'. Anyway, either way, everyone is unaware of Saulot's return, so the players seek out the little boy, who's pretty spooked and confused. Asks the characters, "Who are you? What is this place? What do all these people want?" and his third eye opens. Tada! Salubri Antediluvian, and like the prophecy mentioned, he's 'unholy' and 'a mockery in the face of God' - a clone.

Back to London with kid!Saulot. The Nephtali have been trying to work out what tf is going on. A researcher tried drinking from the vial. It was messy. The characters might get some downtime. Sarrasine's followers may attack to try and get the kiddo back. Either way, everyone goes to bed, and wakes up to find a Darkness having overtaken the sun, which is generally not good for anyone, and Lasombra characters are just, feels bad man. The Veil of Darkness means vampires can be up 24/7, along with other things that don't like sunlight, and I imagine things like... plants not being thrilled. Also probably very confused animals. I'm not sure if it's like a dark atmosphere, or a physical body between the sun and Earth that just eclipses it whatever vantage point you look from, or what? Disciplines like Auspex, Obfuscate, and Obtenebration go a bit fucky. Then, a few days later, everyone feels a... Summons. For low-generation vampires with still-living Antediluvians, it's strongest. Higher gens with destroyed Antes, not so bad. So I'm sure you can guess what's summoning them.

Yep. Antediluvians. Banu Haqim are getting summoned to Alamut instead so Ur-Shulgi can turn them into an army against the Antediluvians, so godspeed resisting that, Elijah.

Off to the city of Gehenna (it's nearish Jerusalem). Elders of all stripes have been heading there to kill their childer in hope of being rewarded by their Antediluvians to get their powers restored, which is terribly rude. Indeed, the Antediluvians basically go, hey, can you not, and also can you start Embracing more childer for our armies, because they're not very nice either. Pretty much all the characters have been summoned for their crimes against the Antediluvians, and now they're gathered before them - Set, [Lasombra], Ennoia, Absimiliard, Malkav (as like... a cluster of identical little girls with glowing eyes because of course Malkav would use the Creepy Child trope), and [Toreador], who's so beautiful no one can tell if they're male or female. When the players and child!Saulot get there, they question him, but he's literally a six-year-old boy and is spooked. He also has the vial, somehow. Set takes it, and Kiddo says, "Don't drink it. You'll burn up." So Set makes Kiddo drink it instead, because he's a nice guy like that.

Kiddo's third eye opens. A giant black throne appears. The dozen small girls that are Malkav say, "Father's home." Kiddo!Saulot says, "No, Father's dead." Girls start screaming so loud people start bleeding thick black blood from their ears and doesn't stop until Set kills all twelve. A random stranger, now with their glowing eyes, steps forward and basically goes 'wow rude'.

Powerful beam of light appears. The Antes (aside from Kiddo!Saulot) writhe in pain. Angel appears, asks Saulot if he's willing to atone for all vampires. He agrees. Throne explodes, Antes fuckin' die, and everyone promptly frenzies and tries to eat each other, because vampires. In the aftermath of that, vampirism basically... ends. The player characters may be rewarded by becoming human again, as do a lot of Thinbloods, but most everyone older just, uh, dies. Vampirism ends, but the Earth has been saved.

That is... hmm, bittersweet, I think. It's a pretty compelling chronicle, very dramatic, but it's much less character-based and is more, 'the characters get dragged along to Do Shit'. I kind of like the idea of it being a story involving the characters we know, but for original characters, I think Wormwood is a much more compelling scenario so far.

Chapter 5 - The Crucible of God: Okay I'm tired now and this is the 'rocks fall everyone dies' scenario so gonna skim-read this one.

This is the chapter that introduces the level 10 power for all disciplines - Plot Device. The Antediluvians can do shit because they feel like it. Whew. Also, if an Ante spots anyone of their blood line, they can just make them... explode and their blood gushes into their mouth. Monch monch. Spot another clan mate? Roll to avoid frenzy. Just woke up? Roll to avoid frenzy. Good times!

And then the Tzimisce Antediluvian awoke as a mass of Vicissitude flesh fungal infestation with tentacles and lampray mouths and stuff and ate anything in reach until it ate, uh, every living thing in Manhattan. In one night. Bad day tbh. Eventually it burns when the sun rises, but what's left underground is still there and shit's still messed up. Like picking a leaf off a dandelion and it starts bleeding. Trees with faces, swarms of insects forming into eyes and watching. Nice and creepy. In the aftermath, it's basically infecting every life form on Earth with Vicissitude, which is distinctly uncool.

Absimliard has an animal army and currently looks like a giant humanoid jellyfish.

Oh boy here's the Banu Haqim part XD;; Interestingly, it's a lot better for them! Haqim doesn't eat his childer, they feel themselves strongly bonded to him but still maintain their own minds and wills. Downside, anyone who doesn't follow Haqim alone gets hunted down so he can eat them, so Ur-Shulgi's probably having a field day at being vindicated and poor Pyre/Elijah is hiding tf under the bed. Plus side, it only lasts a few months before something kills Haqim, so hey! And there's genuinely a way to become human again, especially for high-humanity, high-gen vampires, so that actually would be a genuinely good outcome for Pyre/Elijah.

Malkavians end up as a giant hive mind. Like, more than usual. [Lasombra] covers the world in darkness, then it stops. Ennoia merges with the entire planet and starts eating people. And vampires. And Methuselah. And other Antediluvians. She's kinda hangry at this point.

Tremere attempts to rule the entire world using the Human Genome Project as the true name of the entirety of humanity. It lasts about two minutes before [Tzimisce] turns him into a meat crime, along with, uh, the entire rest of the world, aside from the players, who were part of Tremere's ritual and thus immune from it.

Also Saulot, who they just met in the form of a little old man.

Turns out, he planned it all along. Lured Tremere to him, knowing that his body was tainted by using Tzimisce blood to become a vampire. Knew that when the Eldest returned, he'd be succeptable, and Saulot would be able to bounce out when the Eldest took over. Now, he can lead the characters in the only way to stop Planet Tzimisce, which is, uh, prayer and letting themselves get eaten. Could actually work! And you end up human again in the bargain!

End result - all vampires gone. Some of the more human ones do end up human again. Either way, world's still fucked. Open Antediluvian rule for several months has destroyed most of humanity. There are still remnants - former Malkavians who are still a bit weird, former Tzimisce who are a bit... Vicissitudey. Ennoia's still around! She's mostly chill except when she occasionally feels like rearranging landscapes. Otherwise, it's time to recover.

Alternate endings - that last one wasn't depressing enough, so here's a scenario where All Is Tzimisce, here's one where there's global extinction of literally everything except the player characters who gradually drop into torpor and never recover (or just flat out burn if they're outside), or there's one where the players are the only vampires left and start a new cycle with them as the new Antediluvians or something, oh and Caine's still kicking and is Very Displeased that God won't let him die already. Gooood times!

Rest is how to basically play it, and character sheets. Which go back to calling Sascha ‘it’ again *sigh* (And using the whole alien look despite explicitly mentioning that they look human again. Of course.)

So, final thoughts! Gehenna is... an interesting scenario. Lots of possibility for introspection. It’s very... apocalyptic, and that may bother a lot of people, since, well, for the most part, it’s going to be the end of playing your character as a vampire. Which I figure most people are playing Vampire the Masquerade for. So it’s basically either a hell of a finale, or you just don’t make use of it.

Favourite scenario did end up being Wormwood. I just really like the introspection and opportunity for hope. Did also enjoy Nightshade, but in a different way, I think? Like for Nightshade, I’d rather read it as existing characters working together, maybe as a novel, whereas for Wormwood I’d want to play it since it’s such an intensely personal kind of thing.

(I also still want a slumber party AU ngl.)

#vampire the masquerade #vtm #gehenna

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slavicafire · 5 years

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slavic folk love charms and spells

have you ever laid eyes on someone while getting back from a day of hard work in the field and thought - we must wed this summer or I shall throw myself into the Dnieper! or have you ever felt overcome with fear that your beloved might be sneaking out every moonless night to the neighbouring village to kiss that girl with braids thicker than yours? or perhaps you have seen this fair shepherd boy lead sheep into the Carpathian meadows and you wished he would take a liking to you before Kupala’s Night comes?

fret no more, my friends!

here are some of my favourite slavic love charms that I’ve stumbled upon lately:

♥ - to ensure that they will find a good husband - and fast - girls would find the branch where the first bee swarming of the year would happen: the branch on which bees sat had to be boiled, and that concoction used to wash the body

♥ - to make a boy fall in love, girls would bake mole’s heart into the bread and serve that to their chosen boy - mole’s blindess would “go over the boy, as love is blind”

♥ - if a woman did not want to become pregnant - especially again - she would have to walk in a circle around dead tree, saying “when this tree bore fruit, I bore children, when it bears again, I will”

♥ - if your beloved chose someone else over you, sneak close to their house during their wedding night, and throw over the roof: pin from a wheel to “close up the bride” or rope with knots tied on it to “knot the groom.” you know what that means.

♥ - to gain mad affection from a boy, girls would try to steal a thread from his hat - or even just dust from the soles of his shoes. then they would stick it into a lump of wax and throw into the fire, saying: “might you burn in longing for me like this wax is burning in the fire; might your heart melt for me like that wax is melting.” the boy would either fall in love madly - or get ill, and die. our foremothers did not favour the word “compromise”

♥ - to steal a boy’s heart, girls would steal his steps - cut out his footprint from the path, and take it with them.

♥ - to make sure that the chosen boy is stable in his love, girls would gather dirt from the path he walked on - again, best with his footprint - and put in into a pot, and plant there plants with flowers that bloom for a long time, and take good care of them.

♥ - to appear alluring and be desired by boys, girls would carry with them: a goshawk’s head, or swallow’s heart, or bat’s bones.

♥ - the most important love herbs that should be sneakily added to beloved’s food or drink: lovage (levisticum), adders tongue fern (ophioglossum vulgatum), sticky sundew (drosera), or poison darnel (lolium temulentum)

♥ - to awake desire in a boy, girls would either steal the water he bathed in and bathe in it themselves, or the other way around: sneak their own bathwater into the boy’s bath.

♥ - rub valerian into the clothes or possessions of a girl who’s trying to steal your boy - once she gets close to him, he will be overcome with hatred and disgust (or it will make him “wilt” with her. you know what that means.)

♥ - to become more beautiful, girls would sing to the sun, asking it to grant them its own fairness and charm, and make them as “bright and rich”

♥ - similarly, girls would ask the rainbow for similar favours: it was necessary to take off any shawls, caps, and ask “girl, girl, beauty in the skies, make me pretty so boys like me, and give me much blood so I can be full” (full as in full face, healthy, fatter - although as a strzyga I do love asking for more blood to be full as well.)

[examples come from Kultura Duchowa Słowian by Kazimierz Moszyński (volume I and II, 1934) and appear in the practices of many slavic peoples, especially from (historical and geographical) regions: Lesser Poland, Red Ruthenia, Belarus, Polesie, Great Rus, Moravia, Bulgaria, Little Rus and Ukraine]

stay tuned for new additions or part two!

#folk #slavic #love charms #folk magic #slavic folklore #as I've said... our foremothers were stubborn

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upyrica · 4 years

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How have previous pagan beliefs influenced the shape of Christianity in your neck of the woods? Are there legends, saints or particular iterations/beliefs of the holy trinity that you find reminiscent of some non-christian roots? I always wonder about local saint worship and how it might have been a covert way of keeping one's pagan faith and/or practice

Reminiscent of non-Christian roots, right.

I have to mention, I am not much of a believer in folk Christianity in terms of terminology - until the recent tendency towards secularisation and growing distance between people in society, it was the only Christianity there was. This is the way you practice when one predominant form of religion is integral to the public and communal life. Similarly, I would not say that it is local pagan beliefs sneaking their way into another religion, but rather what will naturally happen when a new framework is introduced to a people who have their own worldview and culture: this is the light in which it shall be interpreted, and the material of which it is further built.

And this is where I point to the entire Ukrainian calendar.

Let us be brief, and start with the winter holidays, shall we? For Christmas, the tradition is to leave room for the dead ancestors, who are believed to be let go from Heaven and visiting their descendant on the night, joining the family. A heap of wheat with a name reminiscent of “grandfather” is also present, inviting abundance for the year. Around that time, there are multiple occasions for people to dress up in costumes, or simply to walk around the houses, singing to the owners songs about wealth and good harvest, paid in return with money and treats. Then spring comes and it gets warm, there comes a week when you must not go into the water, because it is Rusalka’s Christmas now, and they shall drown you, poor soul. A touch later you shall have the opportunity to bathe your fill, then divine your future and cleanse yourself with fire on Ivan Kupala’s Night. Perhaps you shall find yourself working in the field in summer - be careful with the Poludnitsa and take a break at noon, lest you shall lose your mind. Going to the forest, be ready that you might meet the local Lisovyk, and be mindful to tie your dead up, because their loving hug will take you to the grave.

What you need not be afraid of is devils, you can generally come to an understanding with them provided you are a person with a good heart and your cunning about you. The Devil helped make this earth, haven’t you heard? It is unclear if it is him or Adam made lesser deemons to keep their company, but it only makes sense that we now should cooperate.

#yeshua

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jbeverywhere · 4 years

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Noc Kupały - Noc Świętojańska

Well, let’s write about another polish tradition. I mean, the night 23/24 of June is famous in many countries. So let’s see what’s going on that night in Poland.

Let me explain why I put 2 names.

Noc Kupały (Ivanа-Kupala) - 21/22 of June, the shortest night - pagan Slavic holiday.

Noc Świętojańska (Saint John's Eve) - 23/24 of June - catholic celebration.

Nowadays it’s one event. Christians couldn’t destroy pagans ceremonies so they changed names of them and a little bit the character and the objectives. It was easier than prohibit to celebrate it.

So the catholic festive - nothing interesting, I’ll describe more Noc Kupały, the pagan day because it was first and has its craziness. Ant my description is about traditions in Kraków because they’re quite different in the others parts of Poland.

And I’ll describe it basing on my own experience XD

The day starts with the sunrise! The most famous sunrise in Kraków. It’s obligatory to go to Krakus Mound to see it. But be early enough to take a spot - thousands of people will be there as well! And good luck with the weather xD

But at least before was nice!

sleeping is for weak people.

Look above my head xD you see? those dots are people on the mound xDDD

Ok, so this is the morning spirit. In Kraków there are 4 mounds and this one with Wanda Mound are for sunrises and sunsets. I mean, the sun goes down/up once a year above one of them when you are looking from the other one #magic.

In Kraków there is an organization which tries to keep the pagan ceremonies alive.

So in the afternoon/evening in the same Mound there was another event. And it was crazy. We met in this park next to the mound, many people were dresses in white clothes, like in the past times. Even me! I was prepared xD

Slavic doe! (Córa wódy, oczyszczona łania słowiańska).

Maybe you already know, or not, but people were drinking (illegally of course). And the best should be mead (miód pitny) but Soplica lemon and honey was good too. And the organizers had the best costumes xD (and they were for sure -> song). When we were a loooot, they started. First some organizing words and then we started to going down to the forest (old quarry - kamieniołom). It was quite creepy xD Alone for sure I would never have gone there. And it was darker and darker.

And there was small square, everything already prepared. The day before they upload on the event a “songbook”. What do I mean by “everything prepared”? Well, the night was about praying to the pagan gods, especially to the ones responsible for fire and water. It was about catharsis!

The night is full of the fireworks. And the first one is a burning figure of one of the gods. We should have brought some food like apples, bread to “give it” to the god as a sacrifice.

They asked people to make circles - around it and also they asked for volunteers to be in the first circle, the closest one. And because I was with my Erasmus friend who was super excited about this “tradition”, we went to be there, in the first line... It was creepy crazy. And the lyrics from the songbook... I couldn’t read it, I felt like I was calling demons 🙈

And the storm came! With huge lightning!!! They put the fire to the monument and it was quite dangerous for us in the first line xD We run away (like in Fallas...).

Here is a short example how it was xDDD

youtube

We didn’t stay long, because of the weather. The rain started on our way back from the forest. And this wind... MASAKRA hahaha I remember I just stopped and started laughing like stupid because of this tragic situation.

So this was my experience. Let’s write more about the tradition.

Wreaths

Like you see my head in the photo above, girls should have wreaths (thanks man for that one xD). Why? Girls make those wreaths from magic herbs, and later they throw it to the river. few meters further there are boys who are trying to catch them. And this is how couples are made xD If nobody catch some wreath - the girl will get married soooo late, if the wreath goes under - loneliness or death. #lifeIsBrutal

Predictions

Of course all about love future life. Who with who, when, where. Predictions with herbs, flowers and water.

Campfires

Jumping through the fire and dancing around are to protect from illnesses etc.

Flower of Fern

The most important one! The legend says that this night the fern blooms! If you find the flower of the fern you will be rich (I’m not rich but I live like a millionaire). But the truth is different. The flower was just an excuse to go to the forest and make looooove ;) In those times it was illegal before the wedding! But this night was magic... and they were just looking for the flower!

Ok. That’s all. Sounds crazy, I know. It was creepy experience in my life xD And the more you read about Noc Kupały the more it’s destroying your mind.

I’ll leave you with polish band - Żywiołak. They sing about those pagan traditions. Sorry it’s in Polish. But has English subtitles!

youtube

#noc kupały #pagan #firecamps #kupala #slavic

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deepintoforestwego · 5 years

Text

Tonight we dance

There are four great days, when dead come, when magic surges through air and earth in such bursts even snail could reach out and take, fill itself up with wonder, gorge on impossible. Everybody knows what this night means, everybody on Earth, and they all have their traditions, their own ways to celebrate the Sun.

Four nights. One for light, one for dark, two for balance. Nature loves chaos, but occasionally it likes the symmetry too.

____________________________________________________________

Tonight, they leave behind their feuds, their arguments, their lies and wars and grudges, and they dance underneath the stars (not caring that constellations are tiny bit different than they should be, that moon that rises above them is one never seen on Earth), compelled by this longest day, longest of them all. They are kind and sweet and they care for each other, all of them, even a ghost that seeks only blood, even great-grandmother who is but a girl, who was denied dancing so she would be a mother, and never forgot.

There is magic in air, magic of light and warmth and summer’s peak that half of world feels (just as other half falls under dominion of longest night) and tonight they harness it, going in fields dry and bursting and green, with wreaths of flowers that grow nowhere at Earth gracing their heads as they jump over bonfires sparkling green and purple, as they leap in rivers purer and faster than any other, filled with most wondrous creatures.

They go through doors and windows and corridors from all over world, branches and lines of family one once a year, poisons left by side and blades buried for a while, as they join in space that exists between their homes ( which is just one thing, in the end, a sprawling hungry monster that reaches through years and countries to keep and hide their secrets), to love each other freely, men and women, young and old, dead and living, no matter the faith, and for first time a new member comes, bound by marriage, and he trembles, mighty werewolf, as he realizes how bloody and wonderful his bride, as slim and sweet as willow birch is, and he loves her.

_____________________________________________________________

Tonight, the Forest blesses them. It too likes celebration, after all, so it joins them, fondly remembering days when dancers were so more common. They go, priestess of Old Ones and worshipper, and his two lovers, grateful to be invited, bringing mingling of their own beliefs to these celebrations. They feast on delicious food, intoxicate themselves on finest wine, and dance unto night.

Flowers grow underneath their feet, same as wreaths they wear in hair, and they have no need to throw them in rivers, which are wider than countries but shallow and still, for love is already here, and Firebird sings in branches above as priestess dances in flames, untouched.

In the hut on chicken legs, their grandmother rolls her eyes and sighs about unnecessary, foolish inventions of young and their stupid calendars as she strokes her crimson Sun’s surface (she is talking about linear time, to be clear), and hopes that gods will one day find some direction in their lives.

____________________________________________________________

Lady Widow wasn’t good with celebrations, according to everybody who knew her. Oh, she could dance, play music and sing unlike many, but she wasn’t cut out for simple and happy parts of life. Too morose and bitter for something like that, she always brought whispers of revenge, and secrets that lurk beneath frozen sea with herself. However, she greatly disagreed with these claims.

It wasn’t her fault that only select number of people included human sacrifice as viable means of bonding.

She wasn’t invited to her family’s festivities, that awful mockery they called family time. She never understood point of such holidays- why should blood feuds be paused for one day, why should they pretend to be loving relatives when every other time they would be on each other’s throats? That was part of why they refused to invite her, because she was honest and gave them what they wanted, and they then said she couldn’t let go. But no matter- after all, she was winter’s friend, a death’s dancer, the one who cast curses at birthdays and christenings, who caused scandals at funerals and wakes. Not to mention, that one of points of Kupala was divination, and nobody wanted actual seer to carry it out.

Well, that didn’t mean she couldn’t celebrate. Despite their opinion, she knew how to have fun that didn’t involve blood and comeuppance and calling on her uninterested eldritch masters who had no holy days because they were older than stars and time. Even she used to frequent teen locales and braid hair once, and she still had as many friends as there were shores on Earth. In fact, she ahd been invited to 117 celebrations tonight!

It would take bit of time bending, but she would arrive on them all, and get to harness enough fern flower to last her for thirty years.

__________________________________________________________

Damir walked through fog and salt, and followed cat he knew as Master.

Behind him, friends and families laughed, and in front of him madness awaited.

Dozens invited him, and dozens he refused, because such celebrations weren’t for him, not anymore.

Perhaps on some other day he would have accepted, but this was his favourite day, and so he left behind filthy, bland world and walked outside.

Fairy Queen never demanded to be amused, could not be amused, but still he would dance himself to death as sacrifice.

#fantasy #original #kupala

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sinstobetold · 6 years

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‘snuck out of the house to hook-up’ sex Forin/Marie 👀

He woke to the sound of pebbles clacking on his window.

Forin blinked bleary-eyed into the night as he heard that clink of another one hitting the pane. For a moment, he wondered if there was some strange hailstorm, but as he pulled himself out of bed, he realized what was going on. Strange as it was to see her in the middle of the night, he found Marie below, in the grass, with a handful of small pebbles and only her shirtsleeves on.

He opened the glass door that led to his bedroom’s small balcony and leaned over the edge.

“Marie? By the Gods, what are you doing down there?” he called in a hushed tone. Last thing either of them wanted were for his parents and sisters to rouse.

In the dark, he couldn’t make out much. But by moonlight her skin looked pale, and he caught the glint of something distressed in her expression. Something in the way she held herself wasn’t quite right.

“Can I come up?” she asked. He could only barely hear her at this distance.

“Of course, let me get a--” he thought to hang a bedsheet over the side, if that would help, but he should have known better. Marie dug her fingers into the stone grooves of his family’s manor and began to climb her way up with the strength of a well-trained Dragoon.

He held out his arm for her, and once she was close enough, he pulled her onto the balcony with him, and transitioned easily to loop both his arms around her middle.

“My daring sweet, do you know how late it must be?” he whispered, trying to examine her face in the shadows. “How long did it take you to get here? You must have ridden your horse a long way--”

“I walked,” Marie clarified, her tone sounding strangely numb.

Forin didn’t like the sound of that. He frowned and tucked dark hair behind her ear and away from her face, only to then catch sight of a large bruise on her jaw. Starlight revealed just enough for him to tell that it was a vicious thing. Not the sort of bruise she got from sparring or training.

But one delivered intentionally.

“Marie...”

“Can I come in?” she asked so delicately, that he almost forgot who she was.

With a nod, Forin led her off of the balcony and into his bedchamber. Had she not the bruise, he would have perhaps been excited or nervous by her seeing his private chambers for the first time. But Forin brought her in, lit a candle, and quickly pulled her into his lap on the bed so he could begin examining her for more wounds.

There were only two he could see at the moment. The one on her jaw and the one on her arm. No cuts. Only bruises.

“Who did this?” he asked, and he sounded livid. Forin wasn’t a knight like Marie was, he had no plans to be a warrior. But he would flay the person who had dared to lay their hands on her, if he was given the chance.

“It’s not tha--”

“Who?” he insisted, his arm around her waist tightening its hold.

She fell silent for a moment, staring at the light of the candle for a moment too long. Her beautiful blue eyes turned glassy as she whispered, “My father,” into the quiet air between them.

Never in his life had Forin more wanted to take up a sword.

“I’ll have him dragged before court,” Forin hissed, shaking his head as he did. “Noblemen cannot get away with this kind of ab--”

She cut him off as she flinched. “No! Forin... no, he... he didn’t know who I was. It wasn’t on purpose.”

Marie’s father had been declining faster and faster with each passing month. His night terrors resulted in screaming fits. He would berate his wife and daughter in moments of confusion. He paced and yelled at empty spaces and even Forin had seen his slipping lucidity when Lord Vasile had insisted that his wife was some fallen soldier from battles fought thirty years prior.

Marie’s father was not well. Forin had never known him before, but Marie insisted that her father had not always been so unstable. She had told countless stories of her father before the Barony was inherited, back in the capital city. How caring and kind he was.

Forin lifted one hand to gently cup her face, caressing his thumb over her cheek, careful not to press on her bruise. She looked back in his brown eyes, and he could see the storm brewing in her.

She had walked here. He must have struck her a day or two ago. The time it would have taken her to follow the road from her family’s estate into his...

He brought his lips to hers in tender acceptance and Marie leaned hard against him.

While he could not fight her father or be there to defend her every moment, he could give her this. A few moments of freedom and distraction from the way her family crumbled.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, fingers tangling into his hair as their lips pressed and moved against one another. The loose blouse she had donned for impromptu travel was quickly shrugged off, and Marie pressed her unrestrained breasts against him with heated enthusiasm.

Forin sighed, his breath warm and caring on her lips. No matter the consequences she’d face at home for sneaking away, this made it worth it. The sweet succor that he provided and the sanctuary she found in his arms.

“I want you,” Marie whispered, her lips training to his cheek, his jaw, his earlobe.

“If that’s what you want, love, I’ll provide,” he murmured back, one hand traveling through her hair and cradling the back of her head. His touch was pure silk to her raw, ragged nerves and she wanted to be surrounded in him.

Marie got up from his lip to throw away her shirt and unfasten her britches. Forin placed the candle safely on the bedside table and all too easily left his linen bedclothes on the floor. As he moved to the head of his bed, to sit against the headboard and leave her plenty of room to join him, Forin was struck.

The dim yellow light of a candle was the only illumination, and it caught the scattered freckles and lines of Marie’s figure. Her back was to him as she undressed, and he watched the long waves of her hair cascade down her back. Watched the way her body moved with toned muscles and smooth skin. Watched the way she turned to him, and her eyes dilated ever so slightly when she looked at him.

The moonlight still filtered in from the windows, and between it and the candle, Marie was divided almost in half. The pale blue light of midnight softening her features on one side, and the warm flame showing every notch and shadow on the other.

His chest clenched.

“C’mere,” he bid her quietly.

With nothing on save for the silver pendant that hung between her luscious breasts, Marie crossed to him and climbed onto the bed-- his bed, and placed her knees on either side of his hips, straddling his lap like she had done before.

They had always had their trysts in scattered moments when they could keep it a secret. While the courtship was public, their sexual history was not, but there would always be people who guessed. those who noticed how they went walking for long periods of time, or disappeared together at the Kupala festival. People who could see the looks they shared and the way his hand drifted almost territorially to her lower back at large gatherings.

Never before had she been in his bed, naked and wanting and all his own.

Again, Forin’s hand cupped her face and he smiled softly as he committed this image to memory. The first time he would make love to her in his bed. In his home. Where someday he hoped she would live too, and be by his side every night and morning.

“I love you,” he whispered, hand drifting to her shoulder, following the hard lines of sinew and strength down her figure. Her chest rose a bit as her back arched, like a cat wanting a pet.

“Take me,” she begged of him, his hand now following the curve of her breast before his palm came to hold her. His thumb circled her areola gently and he leaned forward to kiss her again and replace any other thought in her mind with himself.

He could ignore her bruises for now. This was what she needed. Love. Not pity.

Marie let out a small moan against him as he continued to feel and stroke her figure. One hand stayed with her bosom, feeling her heartbeat increase as he massaged her, rolling the heel of his hand gently against her breast and brushing his knuckles over her nipple.

His other hand drifted lower, savoring the feel of her body. She had the figure of a war goddess, some mythical creature with a spear whose body was lithe and strong and still curved in natural femininity. He touched her waist, her stomach, her hips, and he moaned too by the time he reached her thigh, thick and strong around him.

“I love your legs~” he cooed into her lips, distracting her further with playful flirtations. “You could kill a man with these legs.”

“I didn’t want to kill you tonight,” she muttered. “I just wanted to seduce you.”

“Mission accomplished my dear,” he chuckled, hand sliding from her thigh around to her behind, where he pinched playfully. This only made her startle slightly and end up biting his bottom lip, but Forin was a fan of that reaction.

He leaned forward and guided her arms around his neck as his lips drifted towards her jawline. He kissed repeatedly warming her skin with his own affection.

“Touch me,” she gasped her request as he began to bite gently near her pulse. “Please...”

With an experienced hand, Forin reached between them and dragged his fingers against the junction of her vulva. He knew how to make her quiver and moan quickly, but he wanted to take his time. Savor the moment they had in his bed and draw out how long he could keep her thoughts safely guarded with him.

So when she whined at his ear nails digging into his shoulder in an attempt to hurry him along, he knew he was doing well. He smiled against her skin and Marie gasped, “You tease!”

“Only for you,” he chuckled. “I love how demanding you get when you’re worked up.”

So he teased her more, his thumb toying with the delicate, intimate curls while his index finger parted way and began to stroke the interior of her labia. She felt warm and wet and he liked how he could feel her quickening heart pooling right where he touched her. Marie let out another moan and her back arched further towards him.

“Forin...” she was practically begging as his fingers played with her folds and the pad of his thumb found her clitoris. He was careful with her, knowing not to be too direct when he held her in his hand. Forin knew, after a few mishaps early in their affairs, how sensitive her body could be. So he was gentle as he nudged back her clitoral hood and brushed against the exposed bud.

“Forin!” she gasped his name as he finished leaving a mark on her neck-- at least one of the bruises she bore should be from his adoration. Her body jerked and writhed as his ministrations persisted, and Marie soon found herself going flush in his arms when she found sweet release against his fingertips.

It was lucky he held her, for as the climax faded, she went lax in his grasp and slumped against him for support, catching her breath.

Forin smirked as he kissed her hair. “Did that help?” he asked her. She seemed tired, and Forin wasn’t sure if she’d want to continue. Either way, he was happy to hold her.

But Marie shifted her hips in his lap, where she could feel a distinct and throbbing erection that pressed against her thigh.

“More,” she muttered, voice muffled against his shoulder. “I don’t want to be able to think about anything other than you.”

A terribly flattering thing for her to say, though Forin was all too aware of why. He still itched to coddle her wounds and find the details of her father’s mad actions, but she wasn’t ready for that. She needed him, she needed them, she needed to feel nothing but love and lust because that would dull the pain until she could process it all.

Part of Forin hated himself for enabling her to deflect so much, but another part of him loved her too much to make her face the hard truths.

“Your wish is my command,” he promised, shifting their position slightly so he could get her over him properly. Marie moved with him and reached one hand down to touch his cock and help his foreskin retract down to expose his head.

As he coaxed his love into sitting up more, her figure undeniably radiant in his lap, with dark waves of hair falling into her face like the image of seduction itself, Marie shivered and tensed.

Forin’s brows pursed. It was summertime, the air warm and tepid, and the balcony door had been shut firmly behind them. “Love?” he asked. “Everything alright?”

For a moment, Marie didn’t seem to know. She looked at him like she was lost.

“I don’t know why,” she whispered like they might be overheard. “But I... don't like the dark. It feels like it is... creeping up behind me every moment.”

Forin moved his hands to rub her back. “Hey... it’s alright,” he murmured. “Nothing’s there...”

Her breath was shaking. “I’m sorry, I feel... I feel so suffocated--”

“Let’s stop,” Forin offered, but Marie held onto his shoulders and shook her head.

“No. No, don’t... You’re the only thing that feels stable right now,” she said, staring at his face and the way the candlelight made his hair look molten gold and his skin warm. “Can we just... change positions?”

Almost every time they had sex, it was like this, Marie in his lap, either because she wanted to take the lead or because she had too much fire in her to just lay down and be still.

“Of course,” he kissed her cheek as he readjusted, bringing Marie to lay down in the pillows and sheets of his bed. Her back to the mattress, which smelled entirely of him. He moved over her then, settling between her parted legs. “Better?”

She nodded, sighing in relief. She looked so vulnerable there, her hair splayed over the pillows as she looked up at him, hands pressing to his chest. “Yes... much better.”

He smiled and kiss her, first on her lips before he moved then to her collarbone and gently lifted her breasts up and together so he could pepper them both with kisses.

“Would you like another warm up?” he offered. “Or are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” she assured him, one hand sifting into his hair. “Please.”

“Eager,” he teased her lightly to make her smile, and it worked. It always did. His head lifted to nudge his nose against her own before he placed one hand on her thigh and guided himself into place. “Why Miss Vasile, you are simply insatiable.”

She let out a contented sound from the back of her throat as he entered. Forin moaned too, trying to keep himself quiet as he did. That made Marie laugh lightly near his ear. She knew they couldn’t wake up his family, but it was the first time she’d ever heard him be restrained.

Forin kissed her jaw, carefully over the bruise she had there, and he chuckled back.

“I can hardly contain myself with you,” he cooed.

“Still a flirt,” Marie hummed. “You’re already in me, what do you have to prove?”

“Just showing how perfect you are,” Forin insisted as his hips began to rock into her, with steady rolls and thrusts. She responded in kind, biting her bottom lip to keep from being too loud as her hips lifted up against him.

It was too easy for her to get lost in him, in them. Her newfound fear of the dark fell away with every thrust, and he forgot about it too, for a moment. About the whole reason she was here in the middle of the night.

“Gods, Marie--” he gasped, his pace increasing as the lust built up in both of them. “You feel so wonderful...”

“So do you,” she moaned back, her body tensing and rising. “Forin, I’m--” her voice cut off with a gasp and she clutched him as her hips bucked back against him. Another orgasm, and the way she clutched onto him, the way she moaned his name, only made his own inevitable.

Forin pressed his cheek to hers, kissing her skin wherever he could reach, as he thrust into her completely, burying the full length of him with a telling shudder. “Marie... Gods, Marie,” he mumbled and chanted.

They both stayed there, joined and panting in the afterglow, for a long moment. When Forin pulled back, he caught sight of her bruises again, in the candlelight.

“...Hey,” he murmured.

“Hey,” she replied, playing with his hair in one hand.

“I’ll get you cleaned up,” he offered before kissing her forehead and somewhat reluctantly getting out of bed. Marie sighed and followed him to the porcelain wash basin on a small table against the wall. As Forin poured the water and dampened a cloth, Marie pressed herself to his back and wound her arms around him from behind.

She muttered something he couldn’t understand against his spine.

“What was that?” he asked, turning in her grasp to start tending her skin. He pressed the cold cloth to her bruises first, scared that they might still ache.

“I love you,” she repeated, watching his face as he worked. “...Thank you, Forin.”

“You never have to thank me for this,” he winked at her.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“...I know,” he kissed her cheek. He brought the washcloth between her legs and cleaned them both up.

“Want to borrow some nightclothes?” he offered gently.

“Can I?”

“Sure,” he nodded. “Bathroom’s right through that door... I’ll go pick something out for you.”

Marie pecked his cheek before she slipped to the bathroom and finished cleaning herself up. Forin, in turn pulled his bedclothes back on and found a nightshirt of his own for her to wear. He was folding her clothes neatly on the chair when she re-emerged.

She slipped into his clothes and then slipped back into his bed, and Forin joined her quickly. His arms found their way around her middle and he brought her in close.

“You’ve never been in my bed before,” he pointed out. “Nor have we ever spent the night together.”

“That’s true. I’m... glad we get to, though.”

“How do you want to be held?” he asked. “Do you want your back to me?”

Marie nodded, and she scooted in closer as she turned over, fitting against Forin’s chest like a nesting doll. She sighed in calm relief as he circled her up in him. The lingering shadows couldn’t creep up on her when he was there, guarding her back.

And despite the bruise on her jaw and the bruise on her arm, Marie only seemed to feel the circular little bruise on her neck, where he had kissed her until she as branded.

That night, Forin lulled her to sleep as he whispered sweet nothings into her hair. Repetitions of love and appreciation and how safe she was here, in his arms and his bed.

For the rest of the night, she believed it, and didn’t try to move away from him in the night.

#it took me ages t owrite this but here you go #it is the last of your latest smut requests #i hope you enjoy ;000 #gracu

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victuuriwriters · 7 years

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Welcome to the VWC’s Weekly Bulletin, where we feature what’s new and exciting in Victuuri fanfic every week. Look here to get a glimpse at new works that have been posted in the fandom, updated WIP fics, works from our Collective authors, and what the admins have been reading this week.

New Works

Fields of Gold by Haro: The story in which Yuuri Katsuki wins everything there is to win and retires as Japan's living legend, because he's incredible and beautiful and he deserves it. Aka 'Yuuri wins all the gold', the fic.

Meet Me by the River by c0rnfl0wer: Every Kupala Night has come and gone without his attending, but now that Viktor Nikiforov is getting older and taking over the position as leader of his village, he has to start taking his life in a different direction. He wasn't sure whether he expected anything at all in this way. But when Yuuri catches his wreath, he finds the path he had always longed for.

Historical/Mythology AU based on Slavic mythology and traditions, specifically Kupala Night - a midsummer celebration involving merrymaking in a few different ways.

Bound to Please by paxton1976: By a small twist of Fate, Viktor and Yuuri meet in the Katsuki's secondhand bookstore 'Bound to Please'. Friendship comes fast as they offer something the other has never experienced before. As they strengthen and grow individually, they realize the other holds the pieces to make them whole.

Canoe-dling: Not Prohibited by primavitya: Yuuri is a seasoned counselor at Camp Okenoko who thought he was in for just another run of the mill, shenanigan filled summer with his friends. But he could not have been more wrong as he’s inevitably blindsided by the newest arrival.Enter one Viktor Nikiforov, who’s got the charms and good looks to woo whomever he pleases, and who’s interest is instantly peaked by none other than, Yuuri Katsuki.

Dawn in St. Petersburg by Multiple_Universes: To some people it’s just another morning, but for two skaters it’s much more than that.

WIP Updates

Like a Fairytale by lucycamui: In which Prince Victor gets swept off his feet at a royal banquet and will go to any length to find his 'Cinderella' Yuuri. (And Phichit is the fairy godmother who has no idea what he's doing).

Fatum ad Momentum by maydei: These are the moments that were lost in the rush for the Gold, and the things that were built within them. A re-evaluation of everything, from day one, the real day one. From, "Be my coach, Victor!!" And how trust, friendship, and love were built from there. Through Victor's eyes, the story unfolds—the journey and experience of knowing Yuuri.

Doveglion by reginar: Yuuri Katsuki would describe himself as a dime-a-dozen poet with a degree in comparative literature from Todai and only a couple of publications due to luck. By some miracle, he’d received an Asian Culture Council grant and a Bright scholarship to help him pursue MFA Creative Writing in America. He’d been so excited because he would be in the same country as his literary hero, V. Nikiforov, writer of countless, innovative poems.

Impostor Syndrome by renaissance: At some point, most people with a childhood crush will imagine meeting their idol, and might even pretend that they're dating. This is the story of how Yuuri Katsuki meets his childhood crush, and how they pretend that they're dating.

counterclockwise by viktyuuri (Empress_Arisu): Life after retirement, Yuuri thinks, is quite a nice change of pace. Although, not so much when he finds himself thrust back into the past.

In which married husbands Viktor and Yuuri somehow end up 5 years in the past without knowing how or why.

Or: Yuuri and Viktor try and fail to keep their relationship on the lie low. (Yuuri tries for a while, but having a clingy husband makes things 10x harder.)

Everyone's suspicious, and really, Yuuri just wants to go back and have some semblance of peace back in his life, damn it.

New in #victuuriwriters

Icicles Melt in Summer (WIP) by dystopiansushi: Victor Nikiforov. Oddly, no matter how many times Yuuri repeats the name to himself, it still sounds beautiful, the r rolling off his tongue and the v melting on the tips of his lips like a mint. But more to the point, Victor Nikiforov, model for the Agape shoe and accessory line and face of Stammi Vicino Menswear, is sitting in one of his chairs.

Or, the one where model Victor Nikiforov is searching for his raison d'être in Brooklyn, New York, and finds much more than that in a small, jasmine-scented hair salon.

and once upon a song (WIP) by missmichellebelle: A popular high school ice hockey star and a shy, academically gifted transfer student discover they share a secret passion for singing. When they end up accidentally auditioning for the lead roles in the school musical, it threatens East High's rigid social order and sends their peers into an uproar.

Between the Lines by nikiforovs: Victor doesn't have a problem.In fact, he has the exact opposite of a problem if he's being entirely honest with himself. (He's not.) The cashier of that hole-in-the-wall bookstore was cute, but he wasn't the only reason Victor returned to Sweetest Reads early the following week.

Or: Bookstore AU where Victor keeps buying more books than necessary just so he can continue to see the cute cashier again.

Rock, Paper, Scissors by nerdlife4eva: Victor and Yuuri discover the only chore they both dislike is vacuuming and decide to rock, paper, scissors (RPS) each time the chore needs to be completed. Yuuri is an ace at RPS and Chris sends them personalized charts to track their successes. All adorable Victuuri hell breaks loose! (These two have no chill, in basically anything!)

Some Might Call it Fate by Chessala: The Katsuki family moves to Russia after they had to close their Hot Springs temporarily. Little Yuuri (3) has to go to a new Kindergarten where he doesn't know anyone. He sees a picture of an ice skater on the wall of his new Kindergarten and is instantly fascinated. He loved ice skating so maybe he can be friends with the person that drew this picture. But how can he talk to them?

Admin Picks

Of Bright Stars and Burning Hearts (WIP) by Reiya: Viktor doesn’t remember the first time he met Yuuri Katsuki. This however, is what Viktor does remember…Part 2 of the Rivals series and companion fic to ‘Until My Feet Bleed and My Heart Aches’. One small change alters the course of both Viktor and Yuuri’s entire lives, throwing them into a bitter rivalry that spans across many years and creates a world where they both tell a very different side to the story.

so I’m pretty sure all of you have read Reiya’s fic Until my Feet Bleed and my Heart Aches and the sequel is finally here!! This fic, man. If you’re down for hella Victor angst in the form of pining, this is for you. (Although you should def read UMFBAMHA first)

urgent need of gravity (WIP) by RennieOnIceCream (Hitsugi_Zirkus): AU in which Yuuri is a make-up artist working in a small salon when he's suddenly invited to work for big time fashion brand Stammi Vicino right alongside its top male model, Viktor Nikiforov, and love isn't all glitter and perfectly-winged eyeliner.

Model Victor crushing on his makeup artist, Yuuri in badass makeup doing glorious things to a certain model’s face (sadly not kissing. yet.), fluff of epic proportions, need I go on?

rubato (WIP) by indianchai: Yuri is a psychology major (who happens to play the cello) that moves to Detroit in his sophomore year of college to escape his ice skating past. Through his roommate Phichit, who is in their college’s orchestra, he encounters infamous pianist of the school– an overconfident senior named Victor who refuses to be an accompanist to anyone (until, that is, he hears Yuri play).

Am I obsessed with musician aus? hell yes. I could honestly wax lyrical about this au for a while, but...spoilers. Just, just read this okay.

Russian for Dummies by cutthroatpixie: “Are you a beginner? ”Viktor was not a beginner. Viktor was the TA supposedly in charge of this study session. Viktor spoke Russian. Viktor was Russian. “Sure!”

Need a cute fic to get you through the day? This one is it! Russian for Dummies is truly a fun and engaging fic that will take you five seconds to read, but will make your day 100% better.

and I feel life (for the very first time) by smudgesofink: “What do you have in mind for the next season?” A reporter asks him during the press conference and Victor shoots them a smile, trying to buy himself some time. I don’t know, he wants to say. To be honest, after winning gold once more, Victor feels lost more than anything. What does one do after finally fulfilling a longtime promise?

In which Victor helps Yuuri with his skating, but Yuuri helps Victor find himself again.

A truly beautiful fic about picking up the pieces after a tragedy. Victor finding hope and love in Yuuri is wonderfully portrayed in this fic, and the writing is beautiful to match. A truly inspiring and gorgeous piece of work that everyone in this fandom needs to read.

#weekly bulletin #victuuri #victuuriwriters

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renatedagmarmilada · 7 years

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LONDON MET POLICE SUPERINTENDENT

Top POLICE SUPERINTENDENT London, was shown heavy porn film of JOAHNNA a friend of ANNA jun sec min of health /porn starlet/ made at BBC with director Sydney-- and told that was me /?/ mother of five 46 yrs old mature University student and artist, and it was a sex therapy using the whole country, killing throughout the country permitted by UNO -- to whom lab st barths Human Research did not give any true facts...

it is called maximising extreme therapy and is all unworkable stuff piled on and on.. ANNA jun sec Min of Health-- I always wanted to throw every offence at one person and see what they could do about it.. The horror of the british concentration camp..silent and unseen. Tory:== when the british government damages an innocent person, it is either very expensive for the government or very expensive for the person, in family's your cases , it is unfortunately terrible wipe-out expensive for you and yours.

Let's be honest - who doesn't love them!

quote-I don't have enough-- oh thank you .. emneti Syrian Thief family -Longley broke into my home again Thursday..I had a shipping order for her stuff..it was my chance to make some spare cash, at her age, what the hell does she know.. teachers and painters...

sweat smell we fed into Sheffield Somalians brains was from the lab jewesses, Margit sweats and they have their menopause-- so ... Fekete did not have one, as she took hormones. also Margit's vaginal smells as she sweats heavily. //these super rich, greedy jewish bitches can afford to have menopauses, I couldn't.. /

tv2pm-- after we have EQUALISED YOU..ah another British word for racketeering, organised theft, and remote torture of the worst kind.. by lab jews so cannot be admitted... hm

Quote --Parkwood school, Sheffield, KIRSHAN Hussein is a thief and a bad thief, /loiters outside of my home hours on end waiting for me to go out..as is his sister MIRAM Hussein... ALI off Rock street was a pretty bad thief, but this mob are much worse.. Nemeti-- Longley st is over here in Upperthorpe all the while looking to break in and thieve.. so called Syrian refugee.. with his friend Abdul and Neseria and her family and step son, in Upperthorpe .. Suleiman is a thief..and fence snitch.

Prince Charles was in the lab st barths Hum Res and on the scanner remote for treatment, that is why we rob /called reducing by lab Jews/ Fekete none stop using west indians and Syrians, who do not know anything about remote --

Guiana black woman Upperthorpe Roman catholic who sends her 20 yr old son robbing for stuff for the children as she spends all £360 weekly on herself on BRAND NEW DRESSES etc-- /saw her/ prostitutes a fair bit, well ok we all know that group all do../ pn scanner permanently---if they catch me for cheating we will just go back to Africa or somewhere else in Europe..

quote - lab st barths hum Res IMOGEN-- in the last 3 weeks, 7 men have wandered round your bedroom robbing stuff, clothes, in your wardrobes, everywhere.. robbing your front room-- all of them blacks and arabs.. living near by.. Wednesday Pakistani from Pagehall broke in and robbed /my UKRAINIAN dad's German Army Sollbuch and several other items/ BECAUSE HE HATES SLOVAKS???????????????????????? THEN GAVE SOME GYPSIES MY ITEMS? GYPSIES DON'T READ GERMAN VERY WELL AND THOUGHT IT WAS HER MAN'S...... MY DAD WAS UKRAINIAN????????????WHY??????????

Fish and Chips shop-- Upperthorpe.Sheffield. Abdul and Neseria, flats Upperthorpe.. tried to sell us your goods there, clothes, paintings etc..I WENT INTO FEKETE'S HOUSE UPPERTHORPE ON THURSDAY-- watched. these thieves are SO stupid that they do not seem to realise that if the door just opens remote, someone is watching them on a scanner and they stay on a scanner...for future use. THEY ARE TRULY STUPID gone silk jacket and sailing shirts from Spain /orig German/ white chines...

Bethany- lab st barths Hum Res. John's illeg daughter-- I sold 6 of Fekete's stolen shirts to a kitch shop, because I opened the doors of her home remote for local thieves.. I also sold 7 other items, art stuff mainly, artists blocks, paints etc

from lectures by Rabbi Rothchild and my mother's stories from home- we lived in the jewish quarter of Poszon, Milealska Uc -Paintings were to illustrate my numerous 'jewish poems' which have all been stolen along with the paintings--there are quite a few more illustrations on that topic, painted in Sheffield, London and Leipzig.

''what write it all again?'' Anna insists that all is shared out of Fekete's work repeatedly, as they sat on her for years, throughout University etc and halved her marks whilst adding sexual innuendos to everything, also all lecturers at all Unis and Colleges were on their scanner /cancers activated?/ Alyson, I have to do it for her- John Fielding board of Lab st barths Human Research, asked us to tear up these 70 paintings, as his daughter Faye used them for her MA ..and sold some of them to the jewish community.. rob some of her glasses, as she sees very badly--again

Minister Prendergast told -- as soon as Fekete dies, all work copied from her work will disappear. But the cheats will have made their names by then.. so they will be the winners.. it is all on a satellite- //flying over Niagara Falls.. Canada by helicopter -my present to myself on my 66th birthday- I don't treat myself with things, this is my sort of present.Canada is very cold in the winter by the way../

From Len Krawchuk: an article about Kupala. The title below is wrong; it should say June 24 (July 7).

Alyson- I asked them to write a sitcom.. it is just slightly different to Fekete's story there, but only slightly. The Minister of health nor the State Minister Prendegast stops us. it was illegal to keep them in our prison and mess with them day and night since 1984//photo Writers Gp

IMOGEN operative-- yes it is very painful what we do to Fekete remote.It is like a truck sitting on your leg.. We have used it on the simples and they scream in pain. ANNA said that is why we should use the population, they just grin and bear it and the doctors cannot help. We have killed about 300 people in the population now.//happer times in China a few years ago

quote 8 am It is embarrassing a foreigner who can paint and write better than we can..and teach us our language, with hardly any schools, and with such a foreign name Plashet Rd back in 1995 macrosound-quote : look at you, small but perfectly formed. No bent anythings, even with your refugee background, you haven't seen us, with your clean living. --- ANNA time and again.. this is not unusual for the Brits, usually unsaid- at school, I came top in English very quickly /mothe...

quote- we have destroyed your total arteries in your body, by pressing remote. It squashes them ./now=top inner right leg-- last weeks left leg-- Meyer pressed arms endlessly, - John Fieldings dog Mohammad pressed chest arteries for months till I fled to China, pain horrendous// It flattens the artery. I am taking part so I have no need to talk. It is a remote concentration camp. Total destruction of healthy human beings by Human Research.

From Richard Woloschuk comes this neo-pagan article about the Ukrainian vinok (floral garland), apropos for Kupala. The term "wreath" is used, but a vinok is a ...

the ladies who looked after the students were lovely..

Beijing-

Your arteries are the system within your body that continually transport the essential nutrients and oxygen that you need to survive, from your heart to the rest of your body. A massive part of staying healthy and keeping your arteries clear and clean has to do with your diet. It is very true when you are told “You are what you eat.” It is also true that what you put into your body will determine your overall health including your cardiovascular health. Adjusting your diet to...

quote--Goldsmiths-- there is some good stuff coming out of the lab.. . No it is not their work, they have stolen thousands and thousands of the small Austrian teacher's art work and from years and years of writing, creatively and from several literature degrees, from her home, taken out of the post office, and in any way they could steal it.. it is Fekete's work, not theirs. They get a job for life with St barths Human research and will be placed into managerial positions immediately for tracing Fekete's work. Not one is college educated, not even GCSE- but all have a jewish father who was a lab staff member- or an unqualified doctor at the lab. it is the biggest rip off ever known to mankind.

sketch book round the city

walking round the city with a sketch book

Peter Ponsonby illeg son of Dr Meyer Edgeware Rd London, who was not really a doctor at all, only passed one exam, copied all SHEFFIELD PAINTINGS-- took cheque for +++++ I sent to China Bank januar 2016 out of post and gave it to him. Stuart, illeg son of Irwin Harry and Blanche of Finchley, I took one off lap top file and others, all originals stolen from home..part of our training is to hack into private laptops and bank accounts, council accounts, electricity accounts etc all companies .. we cannot be stopped.. State Minister Prendergast permits it.

ANGELINA, one of the 4 Poles used to copy Fekete work, given sketch books, join us and you are well paid and lots of benefits, otherwise you will be watched for life..Declined..//Polish contingent of Leipzig Uni Students..1993/

bethnal green London, Margit, mother of John Fielding, board of St barths Hospital, brings a Fielding cousin in to the lab-- two old jewesses, to pass on all my work to.. Dora, liberal jewess, /as Lauren Fielding, nee lara goldstein--//Golders Green-takes it to use.the other jewess Reform, declines. Eleanor30, illeg daughter of John- I have 400 Fekete's sketches, paintings and writings.. Fekete's saved jews from Hitler, it is called turning it all round, instead of being grateful, we destroy her and her family.

Addis Str Upperthorpe 200 something.. black woman Guiana-- sends sons out to thieve. Roman Catholic family gets over £350 per week../I get £95./ watched by lab, mother spends it all on herself so sends 20 yr old son out to thieve for the smaller children-- he took my navy tee-shirts, navy is he school colour, so she asks him to rob all navy clothes, 2 navy sweaters, my best ones- 3 artists blocks etc He went through my freezer.. mother told him off for bringing real food, fr...

when will RF come together.. she won't it is a phase out. They are trying to beggar her, we went too far. nothing will be made good. Anna fixed Princess Di's death and a few others, so she wanted her on a prison. There was nothing wrong with her or her sons. they just messed with them. Everyone knows now what the process is it is just lies and theft to feather their own nests, the lot of them.

we hold the rights to Fekete's work.. I thought you said we had the Rights to her work Anna.. No one cares a damn as long as they get benefits.. Tristran, queen's cousin here, I didn't know they were sending in thieves to rob your work, paid for by the tax payer... they said they had rights to it and you were acting or something.. I have forgotten which lie I told him about Fekete.......

quote --shall I kitsch this, I have been drawing into Fekete's drawings, well they are all stolen from her so what does it matter, at her age, she can only exhibit and now she wont and cant, we have robbed every item of work she had.. Do Fekete's legs hurt now, I have been putting bloater on them, and pressing all arteries, twisting the muscles and burning the skin- we have been told to destroy every body part on her..part of destroying and using her work wholesale.. When we british destroy, we destroy only the innocent and weak but we destroy totally..

quote- lab we have them here, we are beginning to trace and copy them as ours to make ourselves some sort of name... illegitimate children of lab members..

one year at Leipzig Uni-- visiting Berlin too..

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slavicafire · 5 years

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Kupala’s Night - Noc Kupały, old Slavic celebration of midsummer, love and happiness.

Kupala's Night - Noc Kupały, Kupalnocka, Kupała - is the Slavic summer solstice celebration, a night full of fires that reach the skies, magic, dances, divination - but most importantly, love.

Kupala is celebrated during the shortest night of the year - which falls usually around the 21st-22nd of June - and is both one of the most known and studied practices of our ancestors, and the one that survived the strongest in our cultures, being celebrated today not only by Rodnovers (Slavic pagans, practitioners of reconstructionist slavic polytheism) but also by people far from the pagan path. In common Slavic culture, especially West Slavic - as that will be, as always, the main focus of my post - it survived in the rituals and beliefs associated with Noc Świętojańska (or sobótka, signifying the eve, day/evening before a sacred day) - St. John's Eve.

It is yet another old pagan celebration which was difficult to uproot as people held it dearly - it is up to debate to what extent it was the Christianised people deciding to incorporate old ways into their lives no matter the faith - or even to oppose it to some degree; the Church trying to cover ancient beliefs with new Christian retellings; or just one of the natural and more organic processes of cultures accepting and incorporating new faith with their beloved customs, as it often happens with folk traditions and Christianity. No matter the processes that Kupala's Night went through - most likely much less drastic that some Rodnovers would want to believe - the beliefs are still alive, not only in folktales and academic research but the common conscience of our people.

This post is meant to bring Kupala closer to the reader in tale-like form and simpler terms - as far as my sources are largely academic, I want to talk about my favourite holiday in a much more lively way. Bear in mind that my perspective - both as a Rodnover and as a person researching old Slavic beliefs - is mostly founded on West Slavic practices. Slavs differed in beliefs and approaches greatly, even from village to village, as you can read more here. Sources shall be listed at the very end of the post.

Let us break Kupala into three important parts: Love, Cleansing, and Celebration.

First, as always: Love.

Think summer solstice, warm nights of June, bonfires, mead, dancing, laughing, loving. Lives are short and soon we will leave this earthly place, so let us feel magic, and joy, and love. Let us dance around the fire til first light, and whisper spells that will bring health and happiness into our homes and hearts! Did I mention love? Forget about responsibility for this one night - but also check if Gods already chose a husband or wife for you, or which of the young Slavs is the one destined for you!

A plethora of rituals and ways of divining were related to love - during Kupala the most important were wianki, so flower wreaths woven by girls, made of flowers, ferns, and herbs. They were believed to symbolise love and happiness, and young girls would set them upon the waters of a river or stream. Now, future was told twofold: if your wreath flows with the current and is carried calmly by the waters (and, later, if its candle does not go out) your future is long and full of love - you will find a heart to cherish. In other customs, if a young man catches your wreath, he shall be your future love - or love for that very night, at least. Still, you should rejoice knowing that fates favour you and love is by your side.

However, if your wianek gets stoled by the current and drowns, or gets tangled and stops, or no one picks it up... It is not a good sign, and perhaps luck and love are capricious and abandonded you. Unless... someone else gets your wreath.

Ancient Slavs cared little for obssesive modesty or shame connected to love and sex - after all, they did not know “sin”, and they believed in a world and gods that were so naturally and lovingly guided by pleasures of the flesh and spirit alike, sexuality, fertility, and corporeal and spiritual unison of all natures. We know - partially thanks to accounts of a Jewish traveler Ibrahim ibn Yaqub - that virginity wasn't valued by Slavs too much: losing your wianek to someone - the euphemism for losing your virginity in Polish - was expected, and it would be strange for an adult woman not to know and have experienced intercourse. Moreover, a woman already with child would be desired as a wife, should she be unmarried - she knows the ways of the flesh and is fertile!

Kupala's Night was most likely a time when love not only ruled, but was also encouraged: it is believed to be the moment of sexual initiation for Slavic youth, and a time when consequence was largely disregarded. As far as it would be, of course, desired, for your Kupala lover to stay with you when morning comes, it was not expected - enjoying a pleasurable night was not marriage. We know also that as much as there was no shame in spending the night with a chosen person freely, there was also little taboo to dealing with the possible outcome of such pleasures: pregnancy. While some would keep the child - a blessing and sign of fertility - some would use herbs and folk charms to aid themselves and prevent from being pregnant and having a child. Such herbs were an old and constant part of folk medicine.

Another crucial part of love-connected beliefs was the Fern Flower - a magical flower that would bloom only during that one night. It is speculated that it was not only a folk tale about magic, luck, and a flower that would bring you good fortune and riches, but a reflection of love rituals: women might have use adder-tongue ferns on their body as a charm to make themselves more appealing - or, perhaps, encouraging youth to go "look for the fern flower" was simply allowing them to go into the forest and enjoy each other far from eyes of their elders and families.

Cleansing:

Kupala was believed to be a special and magical night - the shortest one, the wildest one, carrying with it promises of love and happiness, luck and good fortune. This also meant that a plethora of rituals connected to cleansing were carried out - ways to purify your soul and body, get rid of all old and stale and ill. Souls and hearts had to be cleansed as much as bodies: prepared for new, fresh, for love.

It is a common and crucial theme in Slavic celebrations, mirrored during spring and winter alike. Two ways of such purification were known and cherished: water and fire.

Water is believed to have special properties that night - in many places, especially among West Slavs, it was forbidden to swim in rivers and lakes before Kupala, as they would carry cold and illnesses, and evil forces (you could get dragged into the depth by a topielec, utopiec, or rusałki and boginki, and drown, sharing their terrible fate).

But during Kupala, water would be the best way to cleanse your body and spirit - it would give your strength, and good health, and good fortune, - and good looks! - and ensure you will be strong enough to survive the upcoming winter, no matter how harsh it would be. People would jump into the waters, wade in rivers, swim, or throw water over one another to allow for such magical cleansing.

For Slavs, the most important property of water was this cleansing power - both of hearts and bodies. There are songs and charms preserved and discussed by scholars. where girls, in the morning of, or day after Kupala/St.John’s Eve would go to the river and bathe in it, singing: “water, dear water, as you run through rocks and roots, run through me and cleanse me of all evil” - sometimes adding the wonderful: “so I might be wonderful as spring, beautiful like the fair zorza, full like autumn and rich like earth itself”

Fire was also always believed to be sacred and cleansing - during Kupala big fires would be lit, reaching the skies and warming the bodies gathered around them. Men would jump over them - alone, as a both way of cleansing and a daring challenge fitting the joyful celebration, or with their chosen beloved in their arms, to signify their love and ensure future health and happiness. Couples would also jump together, holding hands - if their hands remained linked during the jump it would mean they have a happy and loving future together - if one of them let go, it was a sign that perhaps the lover should search for another heart.

Torches would be carried among singing and dancing, and carried from household to household, signifying also the power and importance of hearth and house fire - which for Slavs, at least at some point, began to be equally sacred as fire itself. This belief in sacred god-like fire - just as belief that fire is in fact a living being - transformed later on from fires or hearth into ovens and furnaces in households.

Celebration:

All aforementioned elements were crucial part of old slavic ritualistic approach to faith and everyday life. Celebrations were important ways of uniting the community and allowing people to not only rejoice and celebrate surviving harsh times (especially winter, which used to be often disastrous for Slavs) but also get closer to divinity, spirits, and ancestors.

Magic was - and for many still is - an inherent part of life.

Whether it was various ways of divining the future (especially connected to marriage, children, love, length of life), cleansing through fire or water, enjoying each other's company - both through pleasures of body and soul, singing and dancing, telling tales - all of it was crucial, and a much needed time of joy.

Dancing was especially important for Slavs - a way of uniting people, but also understanding and praising their deities. It was a form of ritual prayer as much as it was a form of simply having fun, and rejoicing. Later on, dancing - especially wild folk dancing, accompanied by songs filled with innuendo and tales of sex and love - was frowned upon and forbidden by the Church as the shameful, heathen practices of superstitious masses.

And therefore, we have never stopped dancing and singing, and as it has always been a crucial part of celebrations, it always and forever will be. We have Marcin of Urzędów, a Catholic priest and botanist, writing in one of his herbals in 1562 that women in Poland, while celebrating St. John’s Eve “with their wild dancing, singing, and burning fires praised the devil himself and prayed to him”

Modern ways and ideas for celebrating Kupala:

Slavic pagans and people passionate about old customs want to celebrate Kupala - it is, after all, a joyful and wonderful celebration, carrying love and magic and luck.

One way to do it is simply join in celebration a Rodnover group, a reconstructionist party, or one of many passionate groups that organise events gaining popularity recently - with threatre, performance, tales about old traditions of our foremothers. Rodnover groups are usually very open and eager to show their traditions to respectful outsiders - but those celebrations are often intimate and complex, and you also should learn whatever you can about the group you’re approaching beforehand. We all know Rodnovery is battling a lot of nazi scum and general assholery.

But remember that you can always organise your own celebration - with friends, family, or even alone. While community is so crucial and dear to our hearts, it is obvious that sometimes our path leads us into places where we are alone - in life, or perhaps just with this passion of ours, this drive to pursuing old ways. Remember that neither Old Ones nor ancestors mind that you keep your faith or passion private.

- burn fires! - make a bonfire, it does not have to be big. sit around the fire with your friends, tell tales, jokes, and rejoice. dance if you want to - to the sound of music from your friend’s guitar, from your phone, or even just to the sound of wind and laughter. remember that invoking sacred cleansing fire is crucial - if you cannot make a fire, just light a candle or two. if you cannot jump over fires to cleanse your heart and soul(s), hold your palms above the candle flame, and feel the purifying warmth. just don’t burn yourself!

- take a ritual cleansing bath - go to a river, wild stream, or lake, and let the water wash over you. if that is not possible, take a colder shower or bath - let it wake you up, clean you, take away all worries and pains. wash your hands and your face, let the water embrace you. brush your hair, stretch, rest - feel anew.

- remember love! - this is the night when you celebrate life and love - and you celebrate yourself, too. treat yourself to something nice, something that would mean a lot to you. wear different clothes - for me it’s always a white dress. make a flower crown, or just go and pick some flowers, take a walk and soak in the sun, the wind, the life around you! read a book that feels you with sweet nostalgia. kiss someone underneath the starlit sky - or message your crush. listen to love songs, but those hopeful and sweet.

- rejoice! - dance, and sing, and laugh! talk with your friends, joke, tell stories of past. drink if you’re old enough to and if that gets you into a celebratory mood - make a toast for your own luck and happiness, and for the ancestors, and for all of us! watch a funny movie and favourite stand-up routine, do something that makes you genuinely happy.

- listen to music that brings you closer to the celebratory mood - whether sounds of old (folk songs and slavic inspired music) or something that brings you closer to both nature and your own heart. I shall be posting at least one Kupala playlist soon, so do stay tuned for that.

may your bonfires reach the sky and your songs reach the gods! a sleepless and amazing Kupala to all of you!

slava, your summer-loving slavic serpent,

żmija

sources:

[ paintings and photos: Ivan Kupala - Fortunetelling on the wreaths by Simon Kozhin || Kupala’s Night in Lubań || Rusałki by Konstantin Makowski || Night of Ivan Kupala by Klavdy Lebedev || Kupala Night by I.I Sokolov ]

[books and publications: Mitologia Słowian by Aleksander Gieysztor (2006) || The Slavs by Marija Gimbutas (1975) || Kultura Duchowa Słowian by Kazimierz Moszyński (volume I and II, 1934) || Water in pre-Christian beliefs in Pomerania (...) by Kamil Kajkowski and Andrzej Kuczkowski (2017) || Ritual Dance among Western Slavs in Early Middle Ages by Kamil Kajkowski || Komentarze do Polskiego Atlasu Etnograficznego: Wiedza i Wierzenia Ludowe (2002)]

#slavic #rodnovery #summer solstice #kupala's night #noc kupały #folklore

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slavicafire · 5 years

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What should I do for my first time celebrating Kupała?

I will forward here the celebration bit of my Kupala post - I believe I wrote all the basic ideas for celebration I have there.

so!

- listen to music that brings you closer to the celebratory mood - whether sounds of old (folk songs and slavic inspired music) or something that brings you closer to both nature and your own heart.

#Anonymous

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slavicafire · 7 years

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death omens in Polish folklore

the following things, considered to be a sign of upcoming death - or even something that would bring death upon someone - are widely present in many branches of slavic beliefs. they are deeply rooted in the belief in magic - and even if now thought by many to be merely folk superstition, they were once a very set and important way of recognizing signs, foretelling the future, and protecting yourself and your household - way of life if you will.

considering my research and sources I’m using focus mainly on Polish folklore (with lesser additions from other slavic countries) I refrained from using the universal “slavic” title and categorization.

however, keep in mind that many of those will be present in the folklore of other slavic (especially east and west) lands.

birds:

- if a rooster crows three times, it means the death is coming - similarly, if he crows at night. if a hen crows similarly to the rooster, it should be killed because it is a terrible omen

- killing a stork will bring death upon the killer and misery upon the entire village

- if a swallow hits the window and dies, it foretells a death of someone in the household

- if you hear a cuckoo while staring at the ground or looking down it means death will get you before the year ends

- if a woodpecker pecks at the door or threshold of a house it warns you about the upcoming death

- if a woman sees a black pigeon it is a sign she will soon be a widow

- if an owl hoots throughout the night near the household it is a sign that someone will soon die

- if a jay sits upon the roof, someone in the household will die

- if a nightingale sings while someone is sick or dying, it means their death will be peaceful and painless

- crows, raven, and jackdaws circling above the household were the most agreed upon death omen

dogs:

- if a dog howls relentlessly at night, it means someone will die

- if a dog howls precisely three times, it means that someone just died and their soul passed close-by

- if a dog howls while looking down on the ground, it means he sees death itself coming for someone

- if a dog keeps digging in the ground in one place it is a sign of a grave having to be dug soon

- if a dog dies while its master is sick it is a sign the person will die as well

plants:

- cutting down an elderberry would bring death upon the person who did it; cutting one growing above a pond or stream would poison the water

- a lonely tree in a field, especially if dead or slanted, would bring bad luck, demons, or even death upon someone who touched it or sat beneath it

- digging up a rowan or a hazel tree (or destroying its roots) would bring death upon the one who did it

snakes:

- killing a household or barn snake would bring bad luck, illnesses or death upon the family

- if a child was sick and a household snake died it was a sign the child would die as well

dead, corpses, funerals:

- if someone points a finger at a funeral procession, they bring death upon themselves

- falling asleep in the room where a body of the deceased was kept would bring sickness and death on the person – similarly if someone sat or put anything between the legs of the dead

- if you look a dead person in the eyes they might take you with them

- if you do not belong to the closest family of the dead person or you are not the one appointed to carry out funerary preparations, touching the corpse might bring death upon you

- if someone looks through the window of the room and sees the deceased, that person will die soon

- if the funeral procession stops randomly while going through the village, someone will die in the house by which they stopped

- do not look behind you while in the procession, as the dead person's soul might be following and will take you with it

spring and Kupala’s Night:

- if someone fences off his household in spring – or during Kupala's Night St. John's Eve – and drives the stakes through the ground, they will die before autumn

- if someone bathes in a pond or river before Kupala's Night or St. John's Eve they might die, killed by "the evil in the water" (usually topielce, boginki, witches, evil spirits etc)

these are, in all honesty, just a part of nearly countless beliefs and superstitions connected to death - and the signs and omens.

if anyone - especially my Slavic followers - knows more and has something to add, please do so, I’d greatly appreciate it.

(main sources, other than personal research and conversations with people - especially older - in villages and cities of Silesia and Lesser Poland: A. Lebeda, Komentarze do Polskiego Atlasu Etnograficznego: Wiedza i Wierzenia Ludowe, 2002; Z. Sawicka Śmierć i pogrzeb w tradycji ludowej; B. Żurawski Ludowe zwiastuny śmierci i złe wróżby; excerpts from S. Hodorowicz, Polish Customs, Traditions and Folklore)

#death #slavic #folklore #polish folklore #omens #oh if you know me then you know how I love this subject #that is both folklore and death #research like this is also a part of my devotional work for Morana #please add to this

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deepintoforestwego · 6 years

Text

Worth whole weight in gold

A girl is born.

She is nobody, nothing yet. Such an ordinary, simple origin, product of too common and simple origin. A young couple, three children more, the work accident, death, single mother looking on another hungry mouth and heart breaking as she realizes they can’t manage it, that baby deserves more, and leaves her in orphanage without looking back, wiping tears.

Bah. i know, I know, some of you are disappointed. Angry. Outraged. Where is blood, where is tragedy that was inevitable and so easily prevented, homes burning down to foundations? What beginning is that, so common and reasonable? But don’t worry, soon have Sudice measured and determined shape and length of her thread and it’s place in tapestry and put her on glorious path.

Three women come to her. Second is tall and thin and beautiful, face sharp, eyes sharper still, like surgeon’s scalpels. Her suit is as grey as storm-clouds and gloomy morning sky and great hurricanes, and she almost rises off ground from excitement. She is a witch, from line of cunning and peasants, helping their own with will and wisdom, and of thieves and liars, gaining their desires by money and nice clothes. A smart woman, mystery and science joined together, who knows ways of blood in all forms, as genes and bindings. But blood doesn’t matter here, only choice, as she coos over babes.

Third, by few seconds, is a wizard, short and stocky, handsome and muscled, her nose smashed to pieces, scars over brow and back, patches of too pale flesh set in tanned skin, long braid falling below hips, red and yellow and purple, blue and pink and white flowers bursting through it, big as fists, signs only she knows meaning and purpose of hanging over her clothes, over jewelry, and few tatooed in ink (and rare few carved into flesh). She delights in baby’s cooing, in each of her breaths, in her love’s soft smile upon serious face, and throws girl in air and catches her, and they go home.

(The First we all know, and ours line best, but it isn’t time to know what she was doing, though I think you can guess).

They do everything correct.

See, first forty days are most important. Because of health too, of course, because baby is most sensitive in that time, but there are more magical reasons for why. Forty days to arrive and forty days to depart, that is what soul needs, and that is time when baby is most vulnerable to curses and demons and all unseen things creeping below surface of world.

Spells, rituals and runes, everywhere. Knives and bullets and even bombs ( it has been years, and they have changed and found more stable work prospects, but once they were warriors and hunters and they shook a world slightly, and there are sorcerers and demons too arrogant or foolhardy or fearless to ignore those trembles-or to follow trail, try to devour those who will one day be songs, not bothering to remember that each word will be written with blood and ash and carried by wind itself. That each pathetic attempt they make only produces more and more reasons to whisper when they pass- no one got pass on them for years.

Well, one did, but that is expected. they are family, after all, and bit of rough housing is expected. She even healed them afterwards).

They do everything correct, every little custom and superstition that is just minor ritual, hidden spell, imbued with love and will and power. New mothers are like that, and they took two more girls too (of them we have spoken and will speak some other times). Well, what they can- many of rituals are focused on breastfeeding and birth mother. Still, there is money given to baby, and eggshells crashed in first bath, and more then month without leaving house, and red thread around wrists.

Girl si born mundane, ordinary human. But in house like that, steeped in magic and mystery, love and power, she could do nothing but become witch.

‘‘I don’t really like fairy tales.’‘ The little girl huffs, pushing away picture books, all same and stale and stupid. Tired old stories, all same scheme that makes no sense- why would somebody who was kind to fox be good king, why would girl with strange dress be a queen.

‘’See, I told you she won’t like them. She is sensible.’’ The mama, grey witch tells her wife, for she knows magic, but in sensible, reasonable way that can be studied and taken apart, and she has never been able to find herself in them as child, never able to find girls full of need for knowledge, anything other then prince.

‘‘That’s ok, we will find you some other books. But fairy tales can be very useful.’‘ The mummy, wizard says, fiddling with metal and screws, for she was never really fond of them, but she knows beauty that is found in language and history of them, especially those spread by peasants and people that know no origin of their tales, and she has walked the path they set out, fought and run and hid following clues set upon them by folktales.

‘‘Just as long as they don’t ruin the child. If she starts mixing and forgetting tales, she won’t live long enough to come of age.’‘ Whispers the hidden, banished woman, hair tangled and hands bloody, watching the scene in puddles of mud and icemelt water, cavern above her, the saline river below, so far away that they can almost forget her.

She is reared on love. Perhaps that is the best way. Love can nurture and strengthen, give somebody strength to light a candle against night, to fight and keep all that they treasure, to fight for others too. Not every hero needs to be mired in tragedy and loss, to continue standing despite everything that is taken from them. Not all lines and fates need to be founded in their Father’s blood across stones, their Mother’s revenges (and she will know the tragedy too, friends shattered under monsters, graves desecrated by the Lady, for hero has many enemies, and blood feuds never cease until we choke out each other, but that is tale for some other time).

She learns love, and duty, and what family means. Though they are all equally old, she takes on role of eldest child, the one that looks out and cares for rules and keeps cousins and sisters safe. From her mama she learns words and spine of steel, and how to keep her face and voice blank and neutral, and from her mummy she learns how to recognize and deal with imminent fights, how to use least she has to get the most. From them she learns how to hold herself without fear, and they distill in her strength they needed to bring about a coup.

But first of all, she never learns to be anything but herself. She is enough, she is correct and perfect in all ways she is. She carves her own life as she wants, bends what life gives her in what she needs and desires, and when things come to halt she does same for others. There is strength in that, an incredible power, in knowing who and what you are and never allowing anything to shake you, bend you in shape you could never accept. And then, you just extend that strength, that certainty to others.

‘‘It is not the quest.’‘ She murmurs to herself, setting off to journey. Just a quick delegation to a hidden village of giants, to ask to borrow some of strange herbs they managed to harvest and grow, after centuries of people attempting so. Just a normal negotiation and maybe trade deal.

Raskovnik. Razkovniche, rozryw, earthern key, rainbow root. A simple garss, barely more then moss or weed, yet with power to break any chain, open every gate, unlock each lock, shatter every ward and binding spell, to reveal buried treasures. Capricious thing, sometimes found only on Kupala night, sometimes known only to animals. And giants managed to grow crops of it. Useful thing, that they wouldn’t reveal secret of, maybe not even trade, and would surely look onto her as possible thief.

The leader of giants has fingers longer then her, three heads and beard as big as house. A witch man himself, which isn’t very common among giants- magic is capricious and moody mistress, and just because he is giant doesn’t mean his magic is stronger then hers. Magic demands work and concentration and patience, and so it is just as hard for giant to light a candle or raise pebble when they are starting as it is for human and most don't bother- but those who do find great rewards

"It has not been long since we had been able to use Craft again, when humans denied it from us for thousands of lifetimes. I am not sure I can trust you that you will not turn on us again." Giant speaks, and woman hides her frustration, even as she expected this. Trust is not something humanity earned from demons, even more than other way.

"Your concerns are natural and reasonable. But our scientists just want to study it. And we could never take on you in this state. You freed yourselves before and would prevent further attacks." Flattery doesn't hurt, nor does knowledge that her family was central in that fight, that her mothers fought on frontlines, that her uncles began the conflict with setting off first spark, that her aunts toppled empires.

"Still, it was barely two decades since then. Meager knowledge and power is all we have to protect us, especially since Cataclysm brought down Middleworld." There is longing in his voice, thundering through hall like beginning of storm, feral thing almost sob. She doesn't know it, but she understands-to lose a home, a world in single night and be forced to run above, to hide in human world, in hollow trees and moving islands is pain nobody should know.

" I'm aware my reassurances don't mean a lot, but would you at least be open to negotiations? My people could give you books, equipment, whatever you may need." He knows her family. Knows how they gathered power, how they crawled up as high as they could, in mundane and magical worlds both. He knows of things they gathered, of battles her mothers led, of how Middleworld shook itself to pieces and cried rain as her uncle died, knows of bargains and paths hidden below salt and ice, shadows and sea.

" Perhaps. Maybe it could be arranged, if somebody underwent some trials of our choosing." And he heard of her, of how reasonable and dutiful she is, and fair, and unwilling to leave any in trouble. Loyal, and honest, dependable and not to be tricked.

" I will do it." She says, and her voice cuts like sword, and on her he sees golden glow of hero.

It turns out, there are horses on the island. Horses of same strange origin as giants, smallest and youngest of them as big as elephants, and the biggest... They were amazing sight, seeing all that giant muscle, those long manes, how they run trampling trees before them-and she was supposed to tame them.

There were also statues all over island, of humans and giants and other creatures, all living being turned into stone, trapped motionless and hard, that she was supposed to rescue.

And finally, a riddle.

‘‘It is not a quest.’‘ She said, in prayer.

The giant, it turns out, has a daughter. A beautiful maiden, really, with milky skin, braided pale gold hair and rosebud mouth. Slender as willow, of delicate, soft features and baby blue eyes, voice soft and pliant and warm as velvet, long eyelashes and calloused fingers. Dressed in loose, white skirts she spends her days spinning on a wheel, baking bread, helping old people walk and stay asleep, rocking babies, getting rid of weeds in garden. She is beautiful and sweet as sugar and incredible.

She could also stomp down on our hero like a bug, But instead she just smiles and offers to make her chambers, and our heroine can just stare dumbstruck and widely smile as she jumps on giant girl’s hand. It is incredible.

Even as she has to sleep in dollhouse.

The young giantess is head of house, as her mother is gone. It reminds our heroine, with her cropped hair and broad shoulders and build few dresses support of something her grandparents would have loved, a patriarchal idyll. Except not really.

All women have power and influence, even ones downtrodden, mocked, trapped. Words and wish for freedom and heart, there is always power and use and skill, no matter what kind. But here, power isn’t subtle or hidden. It is something open, respected and needed and beloved. Those who tend homes are just as respected as those who hunt or trade and reason with other creatures, no matter they a man or woman.

Giantess cooks for her cousins, prepares broths and bakes bread, brings all meals of day to table, and they kiss her hands in gratitude and clean after themselves.

She makes clothes out of hides and wool delivered by demons they trade with on tools made of entire woods, and her customers heap deers and wild goats in payment upon their doorstep.

She cares for young and old and sick, and they bring water to their home (it is hard to find such things, for in Middleworld there were places suited for their kind, with seas of freshwater and orchards high as mountains, with cattle big enough to feed them. But in human world, devoid of such natural magics, they must struggle to feed themselves through winters). it isn’t something she could stand, but it is incredible to watch this young woman manage her home as a queen.

Besides, just because she likes churning butter doesn’t mean she can’t shatter skull of anybody who angers her.

She helps giantess in kitchen often. It takes all strength of her muscles, but she brings eggs almost as tall as her, the spoon twice her height, forks that could be used as battering rams, napkins she could use as blankets or carpets. She rides on giantess’s shoulders, crawls through her long, beautiful hair, practices sword fighting with her needles.

‘‘I am sorry we aren’t same height.’‘ Says giantess, who must take care she doesn’t speak too loud, or drop her from great heights.

‘‘Don’t be-this way I can revel in each detail of your beauty.’‘ Answers heroine, and laughs when giantess blushes.

‘‘I am sorry I can’t really appreciate your cooking.’‘ says our heroine, watching loaves of bread bigger then houses, the flour falling off it, grey as her mama’s suits, crust brown as her mummy’s braid, enough flour to make a desert.

‘‘Don’t worry. I’d like if I could properly bite apple, or smell rose, or pick mushrooms.’‘ So many small things, that she can’t properly see or smell or taste, so faraway and unknown to her.

‘‘Your altar is as big as temples at my home.’‘She laughed, kneeling before candles and figurines of Mokosh as tall as towers, holding pendant of sickle and snowflake in her hands, as they prayed and gave offerings.

‘‘Your books are incredible.’‘ Giantess gasps as heroine reads to her from tiny notebook-books are rare with giants, for they spread knowledge by word and memory and mouth, for parchment and paper are hard to make, and carving words in mountains is harsh job. She dreams of learning to paint, and sculpt clay, and of sword fighting and becoming smith.

They will always remember their first kiss, a tiny peck on side of giantess’s cheek.

‘‘You know, I don’t really remember Middleworld. I was pretty young when we had to leave it, three I think. I remember air being clearer but weirder, taller trees, the cows and sky covered by mists. And those caverns and purple streams, you know.’‘ She sighed, a huff of air from her lungs that could have blown our heroine away, but missing that nostalgic shadow of weeping that crossed faces of most demons and many sorcerers.

‘‘ I don’t really miss it. I love it here, even if it is hard-everybody I know and love is here, and there is too many good memories even if life is hard, but I think I should have known it. Besides, that way I could have traveled. Or maybe I am just missing it by nature-they say it is ours after all.’‘ Her hair of pale gold flails around her head. Everybody knows how it works-Upperworld for humans, Middle for demons, Underworld for immortals.

‘‘I get it. My mama is still sad about her family manor and mines being passed to her brother. I saw them only few times in life and didn’t like them, but I never got chance to know them, why she loves them so much. And now they are gone.’‘ She thinks of mines, closed after stones claimed and buried their owners, now refuge for hundred undead. She thinks of family manor, razed by fire and water, glass flying, silk turned to ash, icons of saints burning burning as Lady walked through gates that tried to deny her for last time.

Giantess gave her a comb, a tiny thing made of driftwood, several teeth missing, brimming with tension that seemed ready to explode every moment, to reach outwards, above and below and part earth and sky in half. She threw it in front of horses, and wood remembered what it meant to live, and each tooth became a forest, tall and dark, and thorny, so horses couldn’t pass.

Giantess gave her a scarf, a lovely pale blue that seemed almost translucent, that sometimes turned silver or green, and that wiggled and tried to pass between her fingers. She threw it in front of horses, and it grew long and deep and wide, became bubbling river that they could not pass, but which was more delicious then wine.

Then, heroine asked giantess’s father to prick his finger by her needle, and let it rest in tiny bowl on which she inscribed name of their city. And then she went to threshold of each house, and spoke words her mothers taught her, did steps her mama showed her, stood with strength her mummy imparted on her, and called ancestors buried beneath, and snake housekeeper, that speaks for dead and watches over home, and usually leaves only when misfortune si to befall home and wipe it off from face of earth.

They rose from cracks in earth and stone, and she could not tell whether they were tiny or tall as trees, only that their bodies swirled and bent around her, and in their eyes she saw generations upon generation, and secrets, and love. And she bent them to her will, for hers was House of Snakes, and from each serpent she took a bit of spit, and mixed it with blood, then spilled in river and broke bowl into dust and threw it to wind.

Then she called back the forest unto comb, and horses bent their heads and knees to giants, and were as tame as little sheep. And so her first not-the-task was done.

‘‘They say, that spring of river that flows through our island is magical. That it draws water from beneath the land, from sea, or maybe from Middleworld, and that it has powers of healing and curse-breaking. But rusalkas guard it, and our kind is afraid of water, and it is deep enough for them to pull us underneath. Be careful please.’‘ There are tears at corners of her eyes, and she promises, yes of course don’t worry I will take all precautions, before rain can fall from her eyelids.

Water is trouble for most demons. They have magic knit in between their flesh and bones, and it is way of water to rue spells and magic, especially moving one, to brings chaos and twist spells in something else, bend them like paper.

( For some reason water reacts violatily with magic. Old wives’s tales say it doesn’t like magic, mama scoffs, for all people have fairy tales and all are equally foolish.

There are theories that all things have some inherent magical properties, and water has strong property of changing and twisting other workings, mummy tells her later, repeating words of old friends, gone in many strange ways.)

Rusalkas, brought from edge of death, know that well, and use it to their advantage. Water nourishes and defends them. People think they have nothing but charm and seduction, but water keeps them safe, and people think them dumb, pretty bimbos good for nothing, but all lakes and rivers are connected, and they know many secrets.

She follows clear, bubbling, cold river, not so long ago only one at island, to it’s source. A cave at shores of island, where one can almost glimpse illusions shielding island, almost brush against wards keeping it hidden from ships and satellites. Sand is fine and grounded, white with golden sheen, and dust dances in air as sunlight reflects on walls of cave as smooth as glass, and she can see shallow pool, blue tinted green, each fish and grain of sand and blade of seaweed visible, crystal foam softly kissing the shore, while near it water springs forth in small trickle, turning slowly in lazy river. She can almost feel magic brush against her, like bite on ear and grip on forearms, like brush of hair on cheek and hot humid breath at neck.

‘‘ Hello honey.’‘ Her auntie smiles long and thin, pale, wrinkled lips purple as in drowned, water brushing her legs yet leaving her dry as she sits in spring, and heroine takes step back, but slowly, not to offend her. her family are things thought to be stories of peasants and horror and children, and she and her kin edge on border of something resembling fairy tales, but Lady Widow has left it all behind so long ago to walk through trenches and abysses of glory, to become legend and myth and miracle. Often she remembers herself, and holds her mind tight and true, wraps and chains herself with reason and laws and customs and pins and buns and short, harsh, pricked words ‘‘ maybe you shouldn’t curse whole family with eternal hunger because somebody pushed you out of way’‘, but sometimes...

Sometimes, her voice sounds like faraway song, a wail of tides, and her hair falls like waterfall of ink and silver down her back, unbound and wild like waves themselves.

‘‘Greetings to you too, Auntie. And no, this isn’t quest.’‘ She says, and her Auntie laughs, as she gazes into surface of water, for she knows the way Story bends and shapes world, and knows road it’s actors must walk on, and she knows how long ago she set her family on that path.

‘‘Of course it is. It always is so with our family. Used to be all heroes, false and true, and poor single me, but now it’s all right with you kids. A hero and villain and mysterious donor to seek help from.

You, wielding reason and sword, came here for three tasks and to win heart of your donor, antagonist’s child- a giant’s daughter, classic! Good choice, you can forget her and have her fight evil witch for you. Would put you ahead of your cousin in terms of fun plot- did you know he is cheating on his girlfriend with her husband! And none of three knows!’‘ Our heroine gasped slightly at that. Their Auntie never meddled in whom they loved, or how, as long as it was healthy and loving- and insisted on being regularly fed plots of soap operas and tragic folk lyrical poems as tributes. She always had soft spot for making fantasies real, which is why big part of their teen years and puberty was spent watching Spanish telenovelas and Turkish melodramas she enjoyed to know what to avoid.

‘‘That is interesting information. Though I must say I don’t think either of us is villain or donor...’‘ She said, calculating in her head how to change topic of conversation and to figure out which cousin was in such predicament, when Auntie shook her head, yet veil from her eyes didn’t move a bit.

‘‘Oh? What of your sisters-one who keeps out of all conflicts and gives advice and secrets to all who bribe her, and one who would do anything and forgive everything for sake of our family and her strzyga lovers?’’ Sister who would be left alone with memories and bitterness beneath earth and forests, giving information and aid to monsters and champions both who pass her trials, and sister who would fill lakes with blood of innocents to prolong lives of three of them through centuries, until one day hero would come to Lady Widow who would give them sword and secret and send them off to deliver her girls to Winter Mother. But that was far away.

‘‘ And here are you, on second of your tasks. To retrieve a magical water of life to turn stone into flesh, and pass dangers while you are on it. Don’t worry, there are no rusalkas here anymore. I did nothing to them, they just run away.’‘ All lakes and rivers are bound, and all rusalkas remember Jagoda’s screams. And they fear Lady Widow, for they cannot stand her, and know not half of what she does, and she has all of theirs knowledge.

Rusalkas are children of lakes and rivers, fresh and always moving, never stopping. But all of it flows to the ocean,and Lady Widow was reared on hard ice and fishing boats, and in her blood is memory of chilly stagnation and sea salt.

‘‘So, would you then help me? As favor for family?’‘ She asks, hoping to focus her. Sometimes, Lady Widow, so tangled in legends and mysteries, born with foresight, would lose track of time and space and anything not cryptid enough to be understood without decades of research. And our heroine needed no prophecy.

‘‘Ah, but here family means nothing. You are heroine, with sword and reason and love, here to fulfill your second task and free stone unto life. I am maker of dark bargains and granter of wishes, sea witch and fairy godmother. I am thing you find on crossroads, that foolish men dream and desire and can never have, that soldiers sing about around fire before greatest battle, one whose secrets make kings and slay dragons. Are you sure you want to tangle with that?’‘ She asked, and rose to dance in water, her elder body moving graciously, in perfect ballet movements.

‘‘There are no more kings and no more dragons. World changed.’‘ At least in some ways. They all feared it, but Auntie would never part veil so much, would never reveal demons and sorcerers to world. they hoped so at least.

‘‘Yes, but it can change again, to times of glory and carnage. Middleworld was lost in a day, you know- it’s towers ground unto dust, it’s armies bowed and buried, it’s people banished to humanity by wood and water. It is just question of right moment when everything becomes ash and then Forest and then ice.. And then... then..‘‘ She spun around, sighing and singing, mumbling words in language her mama hated, that Lady Widow learnt first, before Englishand French and all other so called dignified, cultured words.

‘‘Auntie... Auntie, can you help me. Please.’‘ she asked, not pleading, but not showing irritation.

‘‘Hmmm. You sure I don’t want to tell you how your mama will die?’‘ Lady widow asked, twirling, but her tiny black hat never fell off.

‘‘I know you will kill her, and it will be bloody and petty and glorious, throne of bones and screams of children and all that. Please.’‘ She rambled off.

‘‘Perhaps, but not for now. And it might be illness, or drunk driver, or mines that claimed so many of her family, on both sides, or betrayal by best beloved ones who will take swords upon my words, and maybe Sun will war on the Moon with sage and eight sticks of fire with her, and darling girl of mine, should you go on quest once for me, I will give you way to change stone into living and clue for riddle.’‘ She stopped her dancing, and our heroine almost said finally, but she was too wise for that, and just nodded.

From somewhere, Lady Widow took a green plastic bottle, one they put carbonated water into, and ruby to close it. In she put water from spring, and strange powder, and then she bent down and touched neck of bottle with her lips.In but a second, world faded away, and only SHE was real, and everything was cold and brilliant, and our heroine felt fear turn her blood into ice, and that was good for otherwise her hands would try to tear out her heart as offering, and she bent under weight that tasted of salt and darkness.

‘‘ Rest is just a show, you know. It is all in the kiss- sprinkle it over statues, and they will feel it and think more is to come, and stone will turn to blood and bone, hoping I will grant them a half of touch more. Which is pity, because they will rot so fast, but their lives are theirs to use as they see fit. As for riddle- it will be one of classic twists, you know, tricks and hidden meanings and metaphors, requiring to think by heart.’‘ The she handed her niece bottle, and jumped in shallow spring and dived deeper then there was depth, in cold and dark that wasn’t there moments ago, and potion worked as she promised.

‘‘So girl, your final task-tell me what you think is greatest treasure of this island?’‘ Three heads ask at once, before gathered inhabitants, shortest of which are for three heads taller then her.

‘‘That is easy, sir. Greatest treasure on this island is without doubt your daughter.’‘ The answer is correct, and they don’t have time to congratulate her because they must keep young giantess from fainting.

There are adventures after, too. There are messages through magical stones and visits and spells that can make giantess as short as basketball player and human as tall as house. our heroine learns to climb on mountains in few steps and sew, and giantess learnt to paint and wield ax (sword didn’t work well enough, it turns out, but she tried). And finally, there is wedding.

Both families and all friends, gathered around statue of Mokosh, our heroine in her ceremonial armor, silver and lined with gold, her bride in white dress woven with wildflowers, demons of all shapes and forms laughing and dancing while dark haired witch with snakes around her officiates in name of Old Ones. Two processions are held, one as humans, other as giants, and there is lots of fight, but almost good natured about which goes first. It is eventually decided giant’s will be first since giantess will take up her wife’s surname, which makes her mama cry with happiness. ( No mention of dowry and bride price of course. Last time somebody joked about it Lady Widow called forth thousands of white cows from the sea to bride’s family and asked for adequate dowry).

‘‘So, my girl got herself a hero.’‘ Giant says, all three heads weeping, as Lady Widow sits on table next to him, and they all shrink from her, though her hair is bound tight.

‘‘Yes, though I’d say she herself is one. But rather fitting, married in right family- all wise and smart and trickster, theirs line is.’‘ So is our heroine’s mama, smart and good at fulfilling tasks to get help. Her mummy and uncle are strong and fearless and can take what they need, however they want it. Her other aunt is pretty and sly, charming thing, manipulating and binding people to her will. Their children are all like that- whether hero, monster or donor, they are strong and smart and charming and beloved, and even little kind (none of them like her hero, the fourth brother, the dead one, who wasn’t beautiful or respected or adored, but who would wade in darkness and deep woods for sake of lost strangers and what is right, who would feed animals and beggars, who would venture in deep water, beneath ice and salt and make bargain for which only he would bleed).

‘‘I heard of you, you know. Lady Widow. About feud and plans you have for this family. If it happens to involve my daughter somehow...’‘ Whispers like that reach whole world, of manipulations and poisons, of court feuds and blood spilled over asphalt, of curses and destroyed graves. They are children of their parents, by love and that is worse then blood, and price must be paid if they go on with their legacy, until only wizard with her flowers and braids is left spared, for friendship once treasured.

(This is what they all forget, heroes and monsters equally. Their parents are people, and they have their stories. They have sins and victories and memories and secrets, and legacy they wear has price).

‘‘She is my niece-in-law. I will love and protect her, see her wishes made true as much as possible, keep her safe and happy as much as I can, and bring damnation in all that dare harm her. And i will treat her same as all if she comes to beg and bargain, and should she harm my sweet niece or anybody else of our kin or invoke my enmity I will color my waters with her blood and make myself a bread out of her bones.’‘ She loves her nieces and nephews, almost as much as her own descendants. She is proud of fame that awaits them, fame that she gave to them as gift.

She fed them her milk, after all.

‘‘You can try. It would not take my daughter a lot to squish you down as a bug, or hack off that plotting little head of yours. She could gut you like fish before you would blink.’‘ Lady Widow smiles, and her teeth glint wide and sharp like icicles, like jaws of something from ocean’s depths, where sunlight never reaches.

‘‘You can try all of you together now if you want. I always said wedding is no good without some massacre, and it has been some time since I had such big targets to rend into dust.’‘ There they are like him, all so concerned about lives of others and laws and blood on carpet, but they don’t even know how to get rid of evidence properly. Truly, this family would be lost without her guidance.

She jumps down from table onto floor, glinting graciously as if on stag, her fingers barely touching cobblestones. Still she is proud of those children, and sets to job of making gifts, long life and status of idol and rows upon rows of failed enemies.

There is no need to bless them with long-lasting, eternally kept and simmering love. Seeds of it are already there, in their kiss, in hug that seems to be eternal, as if they are melding in one.

‘‘Lovely girls.’‘ Says the officiator, sipping her wine coated with pomegranate and roses, snakes whirling around her like necklace, hair as black as coal.

‘‘Yes, they are. Even if they are incredibly oblivious.’‘ At officiator’s amused, curious gaze, she hands her another glass and points at winking blonde rusalka gazing in her direction, and watches girl blush and stammer.

‘‘That was lovely story, Hans.’‘ The old woman says to man next to her, smelling of thunder and summer grass, her short hair white and brittle, her hands calloused from swords, while her wife stands beside her with her braid of pale gold.

‘‘I’m glad you love it so Aunts. I think they all figured out who we are talking about, with all snuggling and whispering you did.’‘ He smiles, sharp and white as icicles, as thing from depths, as his grandmother, and two of them giggle and go to woods, to their hidden cottage and their cats and friends, cottage that shifts it’s inner size in order to comply to them and their whims.

Cavern above her, the saline river below, so far away that they can almost forget her, Lady smiles scrying scene in icemelt puddle, and counts it as one of her wins.

A happy ending, ever after and forever.

#slavic folklore #urban fantasy #wlw #fairy tales #writeblr #gift for always amazing slavicafire

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