#like even the outer villages who are already looked down on by the inner cities & the nobles

[oooohno]

I think it’s crazy how the Devil Believers’ arc was so short despite addressing super important issues with discrimination & oppression within the clover society

[bitsandbobsofwriting]

The aftermath of Merlin snapping, and yelling at Arthur in the middle of the forest;

Arthur pushes for change, the gang takes bets on when Merthur will happen, and someone, somewhere, is grumpy.

Part 2 of Merlin’s Angry Outburst. 

Part 1   Part 3   Part 4   Part 5

Once Arthur has a first draft of the repeal, the first people he brings in on it (with Merlin’s approval, of course) are the 5 knights, Gwen, Gaius, and Morgana.

(Morgana, who later that evening comes back to Arthur's chamber in tears (Merlin is also there) to reveal her magic, and thank him for not being Uther.) 

All of them enthusiastically agree, after only a little conversation.

Elyan and Leon are the most... dubious, but only because of the practical factor, they don't disagree with the actual repeal.

After months of the gang working in secret, they reveal their best draft to the council. At least half the council are new members that Arthur appointed, the rest are left over from Uther’s time.

They argue back and forth for a while, half vs half. A few of the older members, who were around before the purge, slowly start changing their minds.

In the end, it takes them maybe a month to get a majority, and Arthur overrules the remaining opposition. He is King after all, technically, he doesn’t even have to have a council.

Days after the agreement is reached, Arthur goes out personally to collect a few specific Druids, who had been waiting just outside the border for the go ahead.

It takes maybe another month to go through all the laws thoroughly, changing and editing and altering what needs to be altered. With the help of Arthur's close advisors on the political aspects, and the help of the Druids, Merlin, and Gaius, on the magical aspects (what should be allowed freely, what should be monitored, and what should remain fully banned).

The city celebrates when the announcement is made, they all loved the new King anyway, and had been overjoyed with the drop in executions, and deliberate ignoring of small instances of magic.

After a feast to celebrate the new found freedom among the people, the gang gathers once more, in private, and Merlin tells a shortened version of the story he'd told Arthur all those months ago.

None of them are that surprised (Gaius, Morgana, and Lancelot already knew, of course).

If they hadn't suspected Merlin of being a sorcerer before this whole thing started (Leon, Gwaine, and Gwen definitely suspected) , then they had certainly begun to in the last few months. They cheer when Merlin finishes telling them "just how often I've saved your oblivious arses" .

They cheer even louder when Arthur announces that he would be made court sorcerer, and it would be made official in a ceremony before the week ended.

There are no cheers when Morgana stands.

Curious eyes land on her, probably due to how terrified she looks, but the small encouraging nods and little smiles she gets from her brother (her Brother), Merlin, and Gwen, give her the strength she needs to tell everyone of her magic as well.

They see she is frightened, they imagine how difficult it must have been, being at first Uther’s ward, and then his daughter. They smile gently, and she receives hugs a plenty. Once all the congratulations are out of the way, she sits back down next to Gwen, still shaky and full of adrenaline, but happy.

She spends the remainder of the group’s quiet celebrations with her hand gripped in Gwen's under the table.

(Read this how you want, I personally envision it as the start of something)

So the days draw on, Merlin is announced Court Sorcerer, Arthur hires another manservant and gives Merlin a large set of chambers in the same hallways as Arthur's, complete with all the books on magic Arthur can find, and several of the magical artefacts that had previously been kept locked away (Merlin and Arthur are the only ones who are able to gain access to the room, something magicky I guess).

(No one mentions that that corridor is supposed to be for royalty only. Leon figures they're bound to realise that they're in love with each other any day now, and then Merlin will practically be royalty anyway so... might as well cut out the middle bit of having to shuffle chambers again later on).

The kingdom is prospering, and for months after the initial announcement, and implementations of the new laws, sorcerers and nobles from all over Albion, visit Camelot, to give congratulations to the King.

They give gifts and provide knowledge.

The Druids, however, are a slightly different story.

The ones who had been helping with the paperwork, had been... odd(?) around Merlin. But they respected his wish to keep all of that under wraps, or at least until it was announced publicly.

Arthur and Gaius know the whole Emrys story. Lancelot and Morgana know bits of it... but other than that... as far as anyone is concerned, the newly promoted Court Sorcerer is just another wizard.

The new Druids entering the kingdom are paying brief respects to the Forever King (I mean... at this point, he's still only King of Camelot... which is what he was before the magic ban repeal), before staring in reverence at the Court Sorcerer stood by his side.

They respect his wishes to keep the worshipping and gift giving to a minimum, though they still come to him for requests of miracles and ask him to perform druid ceremonies (blessings and name-givings and weddings and funerals (though they prefer to call them celebrations of life, rather than commiserations of death) and such).

Merlin can only brush off so many displays of such awe before the rest of The Gang demands to know what’s up, at which point he has to come clean about the whole... “Most Powerful Warlock To Ever Walk The Earth” thing.

Much to Merlin’s chagrin (and everyone else's amusement) the Druids still insist on calling him Emrys. The stubborn ones sometimes even go for "My Lord Emrys", which gets them a scowl from Merlin (and barely concealed laughter from everyone else).

Maybe... later on... when Morgana is more comfortable with her magic, after a few months practicing with Merlin (with a supportive Gwen Always at her side) , she is announced as the Court Seer.

Merlin had never had much luck with prophetic visions, but once Morgana’s fear died down, once she learned to let it flow, and breathe through it, the visions come easier, and kinder.

She stops seeing only visions of doom, and worst case scenarios, instead she has dreams of the many paths the future may take.

She does not panic when a path seems grim and dark, for she has a King and a Warlock and Gwen, by her side. Always. And they work through the future together.

So the ban has been repealed officially for around 6 months.

Arthur is a couple months away from completing his second year as King. And he and Merlin are still beating around the bush.

The betting pool for when they’ll finally get together has been growing bigger and bigger. Practically the whole castle is in on it now, with Gwen and Morgana as the ring leaders. Whoever wins... will be very lucky.

(It's Leon in the end, he pays attention, and he know what his boys are like. But he's a noble and has no need for the money, he pays for a few rounds of drinks and donates the rest to one of children's homes in the lower town).

But the war comes first.

~

Camelot has been prospering, and has many supporters throughout Albion, but one of the kingdoms, it doesn't matter which, you decide, does NOT like this.

Scouts and small patrols have been needling Camelot’s borders for months now, and Arthur and his Council (and Inner Council) have been making quiet preparations. They know that some sort of... something, is coming soon.

Especially when Morgana begins to dream of battles and blood and lightening.

They prepare for, and expect, a full scale war, but they hope for some negotiations and a peace treaty with the opposition.

Their hopes are dashed, when a messenger is escorted into the throne room, wearing The Opposition’s colours, with a letter.

Said letter is an angry rebuttal of everything Camelot stands for, full of accusations of abandoning tradition, and spitting in the face of great leaders, of which this soft boy-king should NOT be counted as. 

At the end, there was an official declaration of war.

The messenger boy was obviously scared to death, and once Arthur read the P.S, which invited Arthur to torture and/or execute him to the whatever extent he wants, he understood why. Without any hesitation, he offers the boy a job in the stables, a new wardrobe of clothes, and a servant’s bed in the castle.

After the official council meeting on the matter, setting up war committees, laying out contingency plans, organising the distribution of emergency evacuation plans, and discussing potential aid that could be requested from allies, Arthur pulls the gang together, for their own meeting.

“We knew this was coming, and there is no need to panic yet. Our outer borders are well patrolled, and we’re still getting up to date reports. The city walls hold strong, but I want to send out patrols to warn the villages of what’s coming. Start closer to the border, and work our way in. Leon?”

“My Lord, I have teams prepared for exactly that already, I just need to give the word and they’ll go.”

“Good. Morgana, I need you to try and keep focusing your visions, if we have even a small idea of how they might try to initiate the first battle, it’ll be a huge advantage.”

“Me and Merlin have been practising some new techniques to control where and when I can see, we’ll write everything down, and ask the Druids if they’ve seen anything as well.”

Arthur holds in a smile at the confidence in her voice. He is unendingly proud of how far his sister had come, and made a mental note to tell her that when all this was over.

“Brilliant, keep me in the loop. Gwen, when we’re done here, go and let the forgery know, the Royal Household will pay them extra to push out as much long range ammunition as they can. Arrows and crossbow bolts, we need as many as they can produce.” Gwen nods, and Arthur finally looks towards Merlin:

“And Merlin, I need you to be ready. Don’t wear yourself out too much in the next few weeks, I need you in good condition, if we’re to win this with minimal casualties-”

He glances over at Morgana before he continues:

“If the two of you could also ask the Druids if they have any volunteer healers. Make sure they know they aren’t obligated to come, but any help in the infirmaries would be greatly appreciated.” Morgana nods once more, as does Merlin, before he speaks:

“There’s a camp a couple hours ride outside the city at the moment, we’ll head out at first light-” He pauses and closes his eyes for a second, tilting his head, before looking to Morgana:

“They’re expecting us.”

Arthur addresses the room again:

“Right. I think that’s all for now, anyone have anything to add?”

Gaius responds after a moment:

“My Lord, if I could make a request for a few servants to help me set up supplies for the infirmary? Extensive preparations will need to be made to ensure that I have all I’ll need. Preferably people with rough herbal knowledge, if at all possible.”

Arthur nods straight away, responding:

“Yes, of course, I’ll ask the Housekeeper and the Steward who they can spare this evening, and they’ll be ready for you in the morning. Anything else?” At the silence in the room, Arthur tells everyone to get to work.

Leon marches straight down to the training grounds (Lancelot, Gwaine, Percival, and Elyan following him) to ring the summoning bell and inform the knights of the developments, and their tasks.

Gwen heads straight to the forgery (her and Elyan still oversee work there, but they have employees (and a few trainees) to run it) to give the Kings order.

Gaius shuffles out, and makes his way back to his quarters, already making mental lists of ingredients needed, and work to be done.

Arthur, Morgana, and Merlin are left, the royal siblings thinking to themselves, and Merlin thinking to someone else. Arthur contemplates that the whole mental link thing he had going on with the Druids was extremely useful.

Both his and Morgana’s thoughts were interrupted by Merlin huffing, and clenching his fists as he opens his eyes, obviously unhappy with whatever was said:

“Merlin?” From Morgana has the Court Sorcerer looking up from scowling at the table. He replies after wiping the frown off his face:

“Oh, it’s fine. They just made a... stupid suggestion is all. Don’t worry about it.”

“Stupid? Doesn’t sound like the Druids. What was it?”

Merlin looks mildly uncomfortable at that, and replies slowly:

“It... doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you another time. It’s late, you should practice some meditation and head to sleep, no potions tonight. And remember to keep some parchment and a quill by your bed, so you can scribble down anything you see-”

Merlin stands abruptly and heads towards the door:

“-I’m going to check the wards on the outer wall, and push a little more energy into the wells. I’ll see you both bright an early.” With that, Merlin heads out the room swiftly.

Arthur looks to his sister questioningly, but she shrugs as she responds:

“Who knows. “I’ll tell you later” means he doesn’t want you to know, OR he’s hoping I’ll forget because he doesn’t want either of us to know. He’s right though, I should meditate for a while-”

Morgana stands at this:

“- hopefully I’ll see you before we head off, if not, I suppose it’ll be dinner in the evening. Good night, brother.” Morgana leaves the room gracefully, heading in the direction of her chambers.

Arthur thinks for only a moment, before rushing off, catching up with Merlin as he readied his horse, preparing for the journey to the outer walls:

“I’ll come with you. I find I quite enjoy watching you do magic, and to be perfectly honest, I could do with some fresh air to help me think.”

Arthur pretends to ignore the slight blush that dusts Merlin’s cheeks, and readies his own horse. The two of them ride out of the stables and make the journey down the cobbled roads in comfortable silence, side by side.

They take their time on the journey, and the 15 minutes of companionable silence is finally broken by Arthur, who looks at Merlin curiously, as he says:

“So what did they suggest?”

Merlin looks up sharply at that, broken from his deep train of thought as he dumbly replies “What?”

“The Druids. What was the stupid suggestion?” Merlin’s eyes widen at that, and he blushes once more as he looks determinedly forward:

“Oh. That. I told you, it doesn’t-”

“Merlin...”

“Oh fine! They suggested that I... that I forge a mental link with you. Like the one I have with them.” The sorcerer purses his lips at that, and continues to avoid Arthur’s gaze:

“You can do that? Well... would it be such a bad idea? I mean we aren’t going to be able to meet and discuss things as often as I’d like through this whole ordeal. AND you’re basically the Kingdom’s powerhouse, I’m sort of relying on your magical know-how here. Surely it wouldn’t be a bad thing? For us to be able to converse across the battle fields?” 

Arthur, in an effort to not be hurt, reminds himself that he doesn’t know all that much about magic, and it very well could be a stupid suggestion, instead of one that Merlin is just personally opposed to.

Merlin, in response, looks to Arthur in great shock, before sighing and looking down to his horses mane:

“It.... is possible. And fairly easy, technically. But it would be painful, AND permanent. I wouldn’t be able to undo it after we won. And a temporary connection takes far too much energy to maintain, even for a short time. I just figured you wouldn’t want me in your head for the rest of our lives.” He tries to inject a little humour into his words, but it falls flat, and he just seems sad.

Arthur pretends he doesn’t notice however, and responds quickly:

“How painful are we talking? I mean I’ve been hurt pretty badly before. And... how exactly does it work? Would we be able to read each other’s mind constantly, without the other knowing? Or what?”

Merlin raises his eyebrows in shock at that, and his answer comes out slowly as he looks at Arthur:

“Like... a really bad headache? Imagine the hardest you’ve ever been hit, without passing out. It would last for a few minutes after the connection is initially forged, but would fade slowly over the next day or so. And no. Once the connection is established we wouldn’t be in each other’s head all the time, we would just be able to sort of... project our voices to one another. Other thoughts would be safe, even if you were thinking about me, I wouldn’t hear it unless you were thinking to me... if that makes sense.” 

By the end of his explanation, he’s looking nervously at the King, who is deep in thought:

“Hmm. Ok. I... only if you agree but... it might not be a bad idea. Even after the war is over. There have definitely been times where I’ve needed your opinion on something but you’ve been elsewhere, or we’ve been in the presence of someone else. Of course we’ve been fine so far, if you don’t want to, but-”

Merlin interrupts him, speaking quickly:

“I’m fine with it. I agree, it would be useful. So... I can bring what we need back from the camp tomorrow?”

Arthur nods firmly:

“Yes. The sooner the better, we can do it tomorrow evening, if that’s enough time for you?” Merlin once again looks shocked at this, as Arthur stares at him:

“Oh! Yeah, Yes. That’s fine. Like I said, it’s not particularly difficult, and I can ask Gaius to prepare us something for the pain during the day. Are you... are you sure? It is Permanent.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and huffs:

“Yes, you said that already Merlin. Are you sure?”

Merlin nodded his head decidedly, and spoke confidently:

“Yes. You’re right, it’s not a bad idea. Come on, if we hurry, we’ll make it to the walls, and then to the main well, and then back to the castle, before dark.”

The pair of them hurry their horses, and after another 10 minutes of comfortable silence, they finally reach the City Gates.

The guards give a quick bow, and The King and The Court Sorcerer jump off their horses before handing the reigns to one of the Gate stablehands.

Arthur (and the guards) watch in barely concealed wonder as Merlin presses his hands against the rock of the wall, and closes his eyes.

The golden glow can still be seen from below his eyelids, and he hums slightly as he frowns in concentration, seeming to push into the wall.

Arthur sees a short of... sheen, ripple across the rock, and extend into the sky. Merlin steps back and nods, admiring his handy work:

“They’re holding strong, I’ve extended the height as well. Kilgharrah and Aithusa should be the only ones able to get over it without alerting me now, from the air at least-”

Merlin heads to retake his horse, Arthur following him, before he continues:

“Though I still want to check the tunnels again at some point in the next few days.”

“Of course. Relax Merlin, it’s barely begun, and the borders still hold strong. We’ve plenty of time before things kick off in any way.” He makes sure to speak quietly. A public announcement hasn’t been made yet, and it would be bad if rumours started spreading before The King had time to put together a proper disclosure.

Merlin nods distractedly, and urges his horse to go faster as he heads towards the main well, in the town square. It’s late, not long until sunset, so there shouldn’t be many, if any, people there. Arthur speaks again:

“Why are we visiting the well? I wasn’t aware of any problems?”

“There aren’t any, but once the announcement is made, and once the outer villages are told what’s happening, we’ll have hundreds, probably thousands, of people flock to the city for safety. I just want to make sure we’re prepared for such an influx, and boost our water levels a little.”

Arthur nods at his response, but doesn’t say anything. He chooses instead to admire the man Merlin had become. He held himself differently, more strong, confident in who he was. Just like he had back when he was still a manservant, he served Arthur, and his people, above and beyond his job description. Merlin took upon himself, not only the politics he was supposed to oversee, but the personal safety of both the King, and every Camelot citizen, and he did it all with an alarming amount of grace.

Arthur sometimes catches himself thinking that it was almost as if Merlin was built to be a king. He may not like the spotlight, but he was a protector, and leader, unlike anything Arthur had ever seen before.

“I don’t think I ever thanked you, Merlin. It feels like years ago now, that you yelled at me in a forest.” He says it with a grin, but Merlin flinches. He continues before The Sorcerer interrupts him though:

“Really Merlin. Thank you. You were right, I would’ve got there in the end, but it wasn’t fair for people to suffer in the mean time, and you took the fall in their place. You’re a hero to your people... and to me. You should be proud of your accomplishments, I know I am.” 

Arthur resists the urge to duck his head as Merlin looks at him in bewilderment, a definite flush on his cheeks as he replies:

“I... thank you, Arthur. I always had faith in you-” Merlin begins to grin before he continues:

“-and besides, someone had to knock you down a peg. Perhaps you should hire someone to take you into the forest and yell at you every once in a while.”

Arthur laughs at that, and Merlin tries to push down the blush as Arthur responds:

“Now Merlin, why on earth would I hire someone for such a job, when I already have you?”

Merlin chuckles as he answers:

“Yeah, and don’t you forget it, My Lord. Hold the horses, I’ll just be a minute.” With that, Arthur realises they’ve made it to the well, and dismounts as Merlin has, holding both of the horses reigns as he watches Merlin approach the well.

The Sorcerer crouches down, and once again closes his eyes in concentration as he presses his hands into the stone of the well. The glow is a little less bright this time, but Arthur admires it nonetheless.

Merlin finishes quickly, and gathers his horse from Arthur once more, nodding towards the castle.

Arthur follows as Merlin hurries towards the looming building. He wasn’t sure why he was in such a rush, but he only begins questions it when Merlin hurriedly hands the horses of to a stablehand, and continues to run up the castle steps.

Arthur can only just keep up with Merlin, not having the breath to ask him what’s wrong, before Merlin suddenly comes to a stop, catching his breath for a moment to go through a door leading to the highest balcony on the West of the castle:

“Merlin... what.... what are you-”

Merlin wordlessly interrupts The King as he points to the skyline, the sun only a few minutes away from touching the horizon.

There’s not a cloud in sight, and the sky is painted in oranges and pinks in front of them, bleeding into deep purples and blues behind the castle.

Merlin finally mutters, not looking away from the sunset:

“Call me a girl all you want Arthur, but nothing compares to this. It’s beautiful, I come to watch it whenever I’ve got the time.”

Arthur had only glanced briefly at the sunset before looking back at Merlin in wonder, a fond smile on his face (not that Merlin would notice).

He stares at the side of Merlin’s face, the orange sky making the gold in his eyes look even brighter, and the glare of the fading sun making his hair shine. A gentle breeze has Merlin shiver slightly, and Arthur’s smile widens as he responds, so quietly he’s not even sure if Merlin hears him:

“Hmm. Beautiful.” He doesn’t look away.

~

THIS IS COMPLETED! All 5 parts have been posted:)

If y’all want my thoughts on anything specific let me know✌️

[stars-trash-18]

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This is a hot garbage pile that I love and will edit later when I get fresher eyes. For now this is my new Paz series. I tried to keep reader G/N so if  you see any gendered terms please let me know so I can correct them. As for Attila you can choose whether you adopted him, had a surrogate, or birthed him yourself (I myself headcanon him as adopted, but it’s up to you). Also as a reminder that the spacing is the way it is, is because I have trouble reading large paragraphs close together.

Side note: my southern vocab really came for my throat 

The day you saw the ship full of runaway Mandalorians land on the outskirts of your property, was the day you knew nothing would be the same. You had moved to the planet that was in the middle of nowhere to protect your son from his father. At the time of your marriage you had no idea what his father did, it wasn’t until the divorce that you found that he was one of the biggest crime bosses in the inner rim. So when you did finally divorce him you took what was yours and your son’s and ran to the largest planet you would find in the outer rim.

 The planet was one of the more ideal, it had large open plains much like Lothal. The only real issue with said planet was the spring storms and the distance to the nearest city. But you made do with what you could grow or build yourself or find in the nearest village. It was heaven for you and Attila enjoyed every moment.

Your son loved running through the fields of long grasses, riding his Tusk Cat to check on the herd or taking the Greysor hunting, or simply tending the chickens while you gardened. He was at peace being on the farm, and though he enjoyed running around on market days with his friends or going to school, he loved spending time with you. You were going to enjoy every moment of his clinginess because he was already 10, in a few years he might not need you.

So when he came sprinting into the smokehouse as you were prepping meat yelling about a ship being close, you were on high alert. You shut the door and whistled for your Varactyl as you quickly instructed him to lock himself in the house with his Tusk Cat and to keep the radio close. If you weren’t back by nightfall to call the village for help and remain inside. 

You checked that the small blaster you kept on your hip was ready and tied one of the rifles onto the saddle before setting off for where the ship landed. You knew the pride of Tusk Cats would protect the herd just fine, you weren’t scared of rustlers, what you were scared of was that Attila’s father had found you. Your Varactyl, Shira, might have sensed your fear because she gave a slight growl before running faster in the direction of the ship. You knew there was an old bunker there, it was run down and you had no use for it, but if it was bounty hunters they could use that to dig in.

But what you found instead of Bounty Hunters was a group of Mandalorians who seemed weary. Your first thought was they were bounty hunters, but on further inspection and the sight of children and elderly was when you made up your mind that they were just a clan looking for shelter. You clicked your tongue and moved Shira to move closer but a loud thud behind you drew your attention, causing your dark blue mount to whirl around and display her feathers in a defensive stance. In front of you was the largest man you’ve ever laid eyes on, his armor a dark shade of blue only making him seem bigger than he already was. He was holding a large blaster at you and with a quick glance you saw a smaller,silver Mandalorian aiming for Shira and you could see his wrist gauntlet spark up ready to drown you in a blast of fire.

“What do you think you’re doing here,” The smaller Mandalorian growled out, shifting closer to you keeping his aim on your mount. You huffed and slowly moved to dismount, stopping only when they jumped further until the bigger one nodded for you to get down.

When you finally touched the ground you placed one hand on your hip and the other on Shira’s head to calm her down.

“Strange, I was gonna ask you fellas the same thing seeing as you’re on my property without my permission,” you huffed, stroked the feathers delicately as you threw a look at them in annoyance.

“Have any proof of that? Because we were told this place had no owner,” the big blue huffed out walking closer to you, pausing a step when Shira growled lowly. You sighed and took out the deed and map from the saddle bag, making sure they could see everything you were doing to avoid getting shot. Giving big blue the paperwork to look over.

“The bunker here is abandoned, but it’s on the outskirts of my land so people often mistake it for free land, but I can assure you that this is mine and unless you’re paying rent or wanting to buy I'm going to ask you to get off my land,” you gritted out, taking the papers back from big blue. The two Mando's looked like they were going to argue before a woman in gold armor stepped from around you and interrupted.

“We apologize for the misunderstanding, if you’ll allow us time to rest and resupply we can be out within the week,” her tone not giving you any reason to doubt that it was truth. You leaned against your mount and raked a hand through your hair in thought.

“It looks to me you’re running from something, for the safety of me and mine I* need to know before I allow anything,” you supplied. You weren’t heartless, you’ve helped many a runaway, but they were only a few teenagers and escaped slaves you knew would do no harm. You weren’t a fool either, you knew they were Mandalorians, some of the greatest warriors known in the galaxy. Their history was sad seeing how scattered they became, but even one mandalorian could cause you and Attila problems.

The Gold mando seemed to contemplate before sighing tiredly and slumping her shoulders forward.

“We’re running from the remnants of the empire, them and the bounty hunter’s guild on Nevarro ran us off after we protected on of our own and we’ve been running since trying to find a new home,” She explained, her head remained held high as her covered eyes seemed to bore into you. You could feel the heat of her gaze as you straightened up, and with a heavy sigh you thought for a moment before conceding.

“Alright, if you’re willing to we can work out something for the land, I'm not going to throw a bunch of injured and children out and I can tell you don’t have any reason to hurt others without a reason,” You started watching the warriors behind her perk up, the blue one seeming to puff his chest out.

“I’m not picky on payment, it can be in credits or labor, you might see my herds wander close by but they shouldn’t be but a two miles from the bunker and I'll make sure the Tusk Cats know your friendly, The bunker is need of repairs and maybe some digging out but it should be big enough for ya’ll, the ground is good for farming and I'll donate a few of my crops to get you started, and there is a lake nearby that connects to the river that we’ll have to share, but otherwise this land’ll be yours and no one should bother until hunting season,” you continued, going over logistics and making sure they knew your boundaries. It sounded stupid at first, but a quick glance at how tired the children and other members were made your heart bleed. There were many people who helped you get away, it was only fair you paid it forwards, and besides maybe having a group of Mandalorians as neighbors and in your debt could add an extra layer of security for Attila.

The gold woman seemed satisfied with your offer and held her arm out, you shook it as she replied with some emotion in her voice, “We thank you very much, we’ll repay you in full when we’re able, you have given us more than we were expecting, for now we’ll get ourselves set up and one day you should come by so we can outline the property and you can give us an estimate”. With that you remounted Shira and gave a tilt of your head to the legendary warriors and took off back home.

You picked up your radio once you were out of earshot and opened the line, “Attila all is good here, i’m on my way home make sure Tusker doesn't maul me.”

The line crackled before it clicked, “sorry momma eagle, don’t know who Attila is, over” he giggled, you smiled at his antics and rolled your eyes as you clicked the button.

“Momma eagle returning to nest, baby raven  is clear to fly again over,” and with that you switched the line closed.

----ominous music----

As soon as you had opened the radio line the three mandalorians had tuned in without your knowledge, they smiled as they listened to you and who they could only assume as your son talk back and forth.

“We’ll have to keep an eye on them, but I have a feeling they aren’t a threat, just in case I want all of their communications monitored and movements tracked as soon as we’re done getting set up,’ The Alor ordered, causing the two much larger warriors to bow their heads in submission and acknowledgment of her orders.

[cottage-babe]

Burning Scars part VIIS

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Masterlist 

figured id drop this real quick before the next chapter!! Its really short and not that important so its not really a real chapter ig

also! new update schedule is on sundays <3

Summary: Y/n, a werewolf from a hidden village, comes across Zuko and Iroh after being exiled. How has fate intertwined the wolf into the avatar’s destiny?

*****This chapter takes place on Season 2 Episode 13*****

___

Groggily, Y/n sat up and yawned.

The sun was blinding; they all should’ve slept in the covers of the ferry, not right next to the railing and fully susceptible to the elements. She rubbed the palms of her hands over her eyes to remove some of her sleep, but all it did was further the blur of her vision. The werewolf had to owlishly blink until her sight cleared. 

When it did, the view didn’t disappoint. 

There was a large wall stretching farther than her eyes could see. It was still a bit away, but the impressiveness had her awestruck. She looked around at her friends and saw that her travel buddies, along with her new acquaintances the Freedom Fighters, were still sleeping peacefully in their bedrolls. Y/n figured that it was the rocking of the waves that woke her and stood. 

Actually, now that she was taking account of everyone again, she noticed that one person was missing from the group. Standing at the very front of the boat, the werewolf could see the familiar figure of Zuko, standing with his back facing her. 

It was very cool that morning. It must’ve been due to the sun barely rising or the slight sprays of the water around them. Either way, it relaxed her in a way that she never truly felt on land; it almost made her nod off again. Despite all this, she pushed through her drowsiness and made her way over to Zuko.

The golden light from the sun made his hair shine brightly. The boy’s posture was relaxed as well, it seemed like she wasn’t the only one falling for the morning’s charm. He was leaned over the rails and rested gently on his forearms.

“Hey,” Y/n yawned as a greeting as she finally reached him.

Trust her, it was such a nice morning and she wasn’t all there. That was completely, 100%, the only reason why when she paused at his side, her head found itself leaned on his shoulder, eyes closed. He had tensed up at first, but once he realized who it was, relaxed once again. 

“Why are you awake?” Zuko asked.

She shrugged her shoulders, sleep almost overcoming her before he spoke. 

“I don’t know, but it’s way too early.”

Y/n looked up at the boy and found that he was already looking at her. His eyes were almost as breathtaking as the Wall that they were heading toward. The sunrise seemed to hit his iris’s perfectly, making the auburn color seem more accentuated. If she thought that they were pretty before, now couldn’t even be described. 

Unfortunately, the memories of what happened last time she was in this position flooded back to her. She cleared her throat and removed her head, replicating his position on the barrier. The werewolf missed the disappointed look that he gave her. 

“So, why are you up?” 

Zuko nodded his head toward the large wall that Y/n had seen when she woke up. “I wanted to see the Wall while I still had the chance,” at her confused look, the boy continued. “That’s the outer wall of Ba Sing Se. I’m sure once everyone wakes up they’ll be crowding to see it.”

Y/n remembered what Jet had said the night before, about wanting to set his eyes on the wall. This must’ve been what he meant. She had to remind herself that this was a monumental moment for a lot of people.

“Do you think it’ll be good here? Like the people and stuff?” She asked.

The boy’s face scrunched up in disgust. “Probably not, the only people that come here are filthy refugees. It’s not like we’ll be here long anyways; we’re just waiting for everything to calm down and pass.”

“Right... and then you guys will go back to your ‘castle’ or whatever.” She whispered solemnly. 

“Well, yeah, that’s the plan.” Zuko snorted. 

People had started to crowd around the edges of the boat; it seemed like more passengers were waking up. She looked back to her group and found that Iroh and the Freedom Fighters had risen as well. She stated that fact to the boy next to her. 

“We should head back anyways.” He offered. 

Y/n shook her head. “You go ahead, I want to take one last look.”

Zuko went back to the group and left her to her thoughts. 

Some part of her knew that this was going to happen. Their partnership was just that, a partnership. Zuko let her join their trip because he thought that she could help them; not because he cared. And once he does whatever his father wants him to, he’ll go running back home with his uncle. She was never part of that equation. 

She scolded herself after thinking this, but she wished that she was more permanent in the duo’s life. She would probably still keep in touch with Iroh after they left, but with Zuko? Not so much.

And what was she going to do after then? Stay here in Ba Sing Se? 

Y/n decided that she was just going to cross that bridge when she gets there. Worrying was just going to stress her out. 

_

After that inner battle, she had gone back to the group and helped them pack up. Just as they finished, the ferry had landed on shore and the workers were directing them off. They had to walk a bit, but eventually they made their way to a train station that would bring them into the walls of the city. 

First, however, they had to get their passports checked one last time before they could hop on the train. They waited in the line for what felt like hours until finally, they were up next.

“So... Mr. Lee, Ms. Y/n, and Mr... Mushy, is it?” The ticket woman asked with a suspicious look on her face as her eyes scanned their passports. In response, they all smiled at her politely. 

Iroh, however, just had to correct her. “It’s pronounced Mushi.”

The woman fumed. Her nostrils flared and her eyes turned to slits. 

“You telling me how to do my job?”

Iroh visibly panicked. He quickly made his way up to her desk. “Uh, no, no.” He cleared his throat. “But may I just say: you're like a flower in bloom. Your beauty is intoxicating.”

Y/n let out a laugh, but disguised it as a cough when the ticket woman glared at her. The werewolf looked off to the side and saw that Zuko had a repulsed look on his face. 

“You're pretty easy on the eyes yourself, handsome.” The woman winked at Iroh and let out a purr. Then, she stamped three tickets and handed them to the old man. “Welcome to Ba Sing Se!”

Iroh smiled at her and turned around, looking at the teens with a proud look on his face. Zuko, instead, snatched his ticket out of his uncle’s hand and stormed off, muttering how he never wanted to see that again.

‘Mushi’ handed Y/n her ticket as they followed his nephew. 

“You know, I didn’t know you had that in you.” She smirked and bumped shoulders with him. 

He held himself up and puffed out his chest. “I used to be quite the lady’s man when I was your age.”

They laughed together and caught up with Zuko. The boy was still a little upset about what he had seen, but was otherwise in a pretty good mood. 

The trio had to wait a couple minutes for the train to come; the teens sitting on both sides of Iroh. They sat in silence, with Y/n starting up her people-watching hobby again. She looked over to her left and saw Jet walk up to them once again.

“So,” He started, “you guys got plans once you're inside the city?”

Y/n was going to answer him, saying something about how she was dying to eat some food, when a screaming man passed by them with a cart. 

“Get your hot tea here! Finest tea in Ba Sing Se!” The man yelled. 

Iroh waved his hand excitedly at the cart. “Ooh! Jasmine, please!”

The tea man brought his cart over and poured his drink into Iroh’s and, after asking, Y/n’s leaf cups. The uncle paid for their drinks and smelled it happily. Y/n took the first sip, but swallowed it quickly with an ‘ew.’ Iroh looked at her curiously, then took a sip from his. 

“Ugh!” He spit it out dramatically. “Coldest tea in Ba Sing Se is more like it! What a disgrace!”

“I know right.” The werewolf replied with a scrunched up face. 

While they insulted their cups of tea, Jet and Zuko left to go talk privately. It’s probably because of how loud they were being. 

“Can’t you just like,” She made movements with her free hand. “Heat this up?”

Iroh looked at her like she made the greatest epiphany. “You’re right!” 

Y/n couldn’t see any flames emitting from his palms, but soon enough, steam began to slither out the top of the cup. 

The girl’s eyes widened in excitement. “Do mine!”

They switched cups and she watched as the same procedure occurred to her tea. He handed it to her and they both took a sip happily. Zuko came back, but they weren’t really concerned with what he left to talk about. 

Suddenly, though, Zuko’s hand stuck out and slapped the cup out of his uncle’s hands. Iroh’s arm, not being prepared for the movements, flew back and hit Y/n’s cup as well. Two cups laid on the floor, their contents spread around them. 

“Hey!” Iroh and Y/n yelled out at the same time. 

Angrily, Zuko looked at them and whispered. “What are you doing firebending your tea? For a wise, old man, that was a pretty stupid move!”

Y/n almost went off on the boy, but, after seeing the calm and mournful expression on Iroh’s face, calmed herself down as to not get into another argument. 

“I know you’re not supposed to cry over spilled tea, but it’s just so sad.” The uncle sniffled with his eyes trained on the floor. 

She almost felt bad for him, but decided not to bud into their family drama. Instead, she expressed her confusion on Zuko’s phrases. 

“What’s so wrong with firebending, huh?” She huffed and crossed her arms. 

Y/n didn’t really mean anything by her question, she kind of asked it jokingly, but Zuko scoffed and rolled his eyes. Was there really something wrong with it?

She looked out at Iroh questioningly, but he just smiled and waved his hand to dismiss her. Maybe it’s a prince thing? I really don’t know. 

Before she could question it further, the train came down the railways, but it was being pushed by... people? Were they earthbenders?

Could I learn to do that? 

Zuko ushered the two of them up and over to an empty part of the train. They entered it and took a seat, Y/n in the middle of them. 

“What a handsome baby,” Iroh smiled at the family next to him. Y/n bent to look at the baby and awed at the sight. This was the first human baby she’s seen!

Suddenly, they started moving and Y/n looked around as they were surrounded in darkness. She almost panicked, but after seeing that no one else was scared, she calmed down. 

Then, light burst through the windows. 

The werewolf’s eyes widened as she took in the sight around her. There were blocks of plants racing past them, possibly farming areas. Everything was just so spacious, the only time she had seen something so empty was in the Wu Shong Desert, the only difference here being the lush greenery. She stood up from her seat and turned to look out the window behind her.

“Zuko! Look!” Y/n grasped onto his shoulder to make him see an animal, something huge that she’d never seen before, only to have him pull her back to her seat abruptly. 

“Sit down, you’re being weird.” He looked around cautiously. “And if we’re in public, call me Lee.”

Y/n looked around as well and saw that a few people were looking at her; some of the adults smiling at her childish curiosity. She blushed and adjusted her skirt in her seat. Still, though, she tilted her head to see the passing views.

Maybe being in Ba Sing Se will be better than she thought...

___

and now we go to Ba Sing Se!! I was so excited to get here, I just wanted to get this out of the way oml

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[nathanfryerwoods]

Lucky Stars (Chapters 1-14) - by Nathan Fryer-Woods

                     1    It was a dark, cold night. Which was kind of fitting for the beginning of any story. But in south east Asia, when you start feeling the cold, you know you've been there too long. And as a ginger kid from the north of England, he should have been in his element.

   He was so far from the place he had once called home. And it had been years since he'd felt the long, scalding hug of the hallway radiator, on his return home from whatever trouble he'd been causing, beyond the icy front door.

   He had never really, truly missed home, that was until now. He longed for that familiar smell of the old underlay carpet in the council flat he once had. The flat he received after he was crippled by a speeding police car, whilst trying to cross the road years before. There was no compensation. But, as a result, he became the king of his own castle. A place for him to lick his wounds. It was dark and dingy, and located in the back of beyond where the undesirables of town were kept, but he didn't care. He was happy, and it was his. The only place he's ever really been able to call his own. But now, those days, seemed like a lifetime away.

   Today, he's found himself trapped in a different kind of paradise, one he thought he'd never want to leave. He had always believed humans to be of a semi-nomadic nature, but he had found happiness here, and at one time, for the first time since childhood, he had felt settled.

   That was until, that 'thing' happened. He didn't like talking about it, and when he did, would get so frustrated. No one understood it like he did, not many people at least.

   It had been 3 months since he last saw another foreigner, 3 months since he had seen anything of the world outside of their village. And he was an explorer at heart. Though he never strayed too far off the beaten track, and he'd never discovered anything new, he was always looking, it was just a matter of time... it was in his blood. His itch for exploration, grew stronger by the day.

   His wife was the only one in their village who could speak any English, (although he sometimes felt he got a better conversation from their eight and a half month old son), she was the only one who had even half a chance of vaguely understanding him at a deeper level. They had met 3 years previous in the capital city. A place with a pace he was used to, and found comfort in. But now, thanks to certain 'things', and the changing world around them, he found himself in the place his wife found the most comforting, her parents cashew nut farm. Up a hill, in the middle of nowhere. He felt like an elephant, with sore thumbs, in a pond, full of fish. Sticking out... misunderstood.

                       2    It was the 21st of December, not only the day of the winter solstice, but in the year of the 'Great Conjunction', between Saturn and Jupiter. Tonight the world would see these astral giants, seemingly merge into one, forming what is known as the 'Christmas Star'. It had been 397 years since this alignment last took place, just 13 years before Galileo built his first telescope to marvel at the heavens above.

   This event had to signify something, he knew it would, but he was far too apprehensive to look so deeply into it. He convinced himself it was a positive, auspicious event, but at the same time made a mental note to his brain's list of 'things to do', to see what the ancients made of it. After all, when the God of Thunder and his mighty Son do a high-five in the night sky, one should be prepared, or so he believed. But, that list in his head seemed to never end, it would only ever get longer. He knew, and readily admitted to himself, he would probably never get round to it. And in time, as soon as it was far too late, that entry like many before it would drop off the list, as just another faded memory.

   The day before, he had tried to explain to his wife, the solstice, the tilt of the Earth, and the reason for it being so cold this time of year. But soon realising that the battle for her attention against her best friend - the phone, was a battle he always lost, he promptly gave up.

   The previous week, her two youngest siblings (the brothers, aged 11 and 14), had asked him if they had shooting stars back in England. After 7 years of practice, his level of the local language was good enough to articulate most of the things he wanted to say (although this particular part of the country was the last of the true tribal areas, with 13 different clans each with their own dialect, making understanding them more of a challenge). He explained to the brothers, in as simple of terms as possible, the physics of the phenomenon. How more often than not, a shooting star was nothing more than a small pebble from outer space, travelling at unimaginable speed towards the Earth. And how it's magnificent trail was made as it burnt up in the atmosphere before it was able to reach us.

   Seeing the mystery and magic in their faces fade before his very eyes, he quickly moved on to let them know how it was customary back home, after seeing a shooting star, to make a little wish to yourself. And that this, was not to be wasted. He imagined, how even the most hardened criminals themselves probably couldn't resist this, and even they would make one. Maybe it's quite  likely that wish would be for guns, drugs or money. But you never know, the inner child in all of us, where that belief is instilled, only wants one of two things; love and happiness. And with that, comes security. The magic we're raised with as children, if at all, dies hard. And even with years of learning from science, logic and reason, some magic we just can't let go of. No matter how many times it's failed us.

   After seeing at least some of the mystery return to their faces, he moved back - with faith, to cold, hard, facts. He explained how if these space pebbles were any bigger, and hadn't completely burnt up on their descent to Earth, even a rock the size of a toy car (available to hand at the time), could devastate the planet. At the very least, make a real mess around the site of impact. He used the 3000 year old crater lake, situated down the road as an example. This, would be the last thing he'd say on the matter. The brothers went on to let him know, how their hole in the Earth was different. Through the unique use of their local, hillbilly twang, they managed to get the point across that in fact, their crater was made by a great, angry, pig-like God from the skies... obviously, and he should have seen it coming.

   The shattered pain that was once on the boy's faces, had transferred onto his own. He retreated back into his own mind, to his own thoughts. A place he understood, and needed no explanations. With no brick walls that he could waste his time with, by banging his head against.

                       3    The Sun had set, another day was done. The candy floss pink and tangerine orange that had painted the sky was gone, but the clouds remained, blanketing the Earth. Tonight was noticeably warmer, though he was still cold. And no matter how the clouds littered the sky, he still had hope that he would be able to see the events in the sky unfold. He'd poke his head out of their bedroom every twenty minutes or so and peer upwards. And around. Every direction, as he was a little unsure as to which way was west. The cloudy blanket persisted in its existence. All that was visible was a near half Moon and Polaris, the north star, slowly but surely running in circles, chasing its tail. He headed back inside, his hopes unscathed, there was still time.

   'Just one more hour', he thought to himself, 'and the great high-five of the Gods would set sail over the horizon'. The anxiety got the better of him, he zipped his jacket back up, and ventured out again.

   The Moon had become but a faint shimmer in a dirty pool, and Polaris was nowhere to be seen. In 5 brief minutes, the sky-scape had taken an unfortunate turn for the worse. The magic, once again, was passing him by. His wife came out with their Son in arm, to see what they'd been missing. She had been listening. It was a trade off that he was more than happy to make. 'I can wait sixty years for the next alignment', he thought to himself, 'I'll catch it in the next life'. His new little family meant the world to him, and nothing much else mattered.

                       4    It was 8am when he rose up out of bed. Not so early, but not too late either, in his opinion at least. He could have done with an extra hour, but the rooster that had been howling since 4am, couldn't be ignored any longer. He threw on his jacket and headed outside.

   The Sun was glaring down on him, the clouds had dispersed.    "Thanks clouds", he grumbled under his breath. "Any other day this month, and last nights weather would've..." and then, that thought vanished. He'd caught a glimpse of his Son's peaceful face, sleeping, swinging in the cammo hammock. His mind instantly emptied itself with ease, and in the same moment, filled the vacuum with a calming peace. His Son's happiness was contagious to him, a contagious cure to all his frustrations.

   His extended family had been up for a few hours already, as was normal. 6am usually, to start the day with the important things in life. Sewing tapestries, playing on phones, picking their faces, more sleep. They looked down on him for not being awake so early, but he was unsure of what they expected him to be doing at 6am. He never saw them doing anything important at that time of day, and very little changed as the day went on.

   Another thing that didn't help, was their inability to grasp the concept of sleeping disorders. His diagnosis came far too late for him, at the age of 25, just a few years before leaving England. It had already shaped his life by then, and in some way or another, had made him who he was. He now knew, that what had forever plagued his sleep was a combination of apnea, delayed sleep phase disorder, and the slight hint towards a long standing, yet self-coping problem called narcolepsy. A diagnosis the doctor didn't want to make. He learnt to never go with a self diagnosis of a problem again. A well paid opinion, is obviously worth so much more than anyone else's. Even when blood tests showed he had the gene needed to predispose a person to this condition, they were reluctant to admit he might be right. He was prescribed with the search of a night job.

   His father in-law was a good man. He'd worked hard all his life to provide for his wife and five children, and then their children too, of which little Finlay, was number four. He loved them all like they were his own.

   The farm was around half a hectare in size, with around sixty large cashew trees, five mango trees, and banana and papaya also being dotted about. The land fairly rugged and unkempt, as cashew season didn't start for another month or so. Soon, the whirring of the weed-whacker would fill the air, making the search for nuts and the spotting of snakes much easier.

   The family tractor was being rented by an owner of a sweet potato farm, 100km away, southwest of them. This way good news, it was old, and it stunk. And now, it was someone else's problem to fix every other day, and they were paying for that privilege. The last time Lawrie was here was when Finlay was born (sorry, I've never been good at introductions, but baby is Finlay, or Finn, and Dad is Lawrie. Well, Lawrie's his surname... Dan, Daniel, Danny never appealed to him, and even his parents stuck to calling him Lawrie). Ok, where was I..?

   ...yeah, so the last time he was at the in-laws farm, was when his beautiful baby boy was born. Early April, a healthy 3.6kg. And as sure as anything, without fail - every other night, Pa would be half submerged in the belly of this beast, covered in oil as it spluttered away. Not such a soothing sound to send your Son to sleep.

   These days, Pa would spend his time making furniture at his sister's house just beyond the back of the farm. Each evening, a new chair, stool or table would appear, and the huge piles of illegally logged wood, dotted around the plot would slowly, bit by bit disappear. As did the jungle that surrounded them.

                       5    Their village was located 10km outside of the nearest town, and the closest city was another 30km beyond that. That was the city of Lombang, the province capital (though the spelling of this, as did many other place tended to vary, wildly). The city was big, whilst at the same time, all being nicely spaced out. Apart from the market area, nowhere seemed to get so busy. The city itself wasn't over commercialised, the way a western city would be, mainly made up of independent, family owned businesses, it had a very local feel to it. That's what Lawrie liked most of all about this country... the people, the locals. For all the differences in culture, and the difficulties they created (of which there'd been many over the years), only added another layer of excitement and adventure to his whole experience. No matter how different other people saw him as being, he seldom cared. He had spent his entire life back home as the ginger sheep, and that had prepared him well, for life out here.

   He missed the city. He'd only managed to explore it for one day the last time they were here, when Finn was around two months old. He lost the plot one morning, waking to find his wife, Nib, sat feeding the baby, downwind of a roaring fire made entirely of plastic. He was sick of telling her, and she was tired of hearing it. He turned his back and walked away, away from the stench of burning straws, and the feeling of absolute futility. He gathered the essentials, made the small trip to the road at the top of the plot and flagged-down the first van he saw. Finally, it was adventure time. It all happened so fast. He loved being on the road, but all the way there, couldn't stop thinking about his new born bundle.

                                               6    The driver and the passengers all seemed friendly enough. Very inquisitive, as once was normal, but on this occasion, a nice surprise. Especially with how the world was turning these days. He wore his face mask, no matter how useless he knew it was to him. It was unfortunately, an essential item.

   Forty kilometers and two and a half bucks later, they arrived. He found the journey so refreshing, though Finn was constantly in the back of his mind, with not much to see along the way to steal his thoughts completely. Just miles upon miles of lush, jungle-covered hills, beyond the back to back farms that were broken up every so often by a roadside shack of a shop. So many farms.. cashew, pepper, mango, rubber, you name it, he saw it. And every so often, the odd little spot of deforestation in the distance, clearing space for a few more.

   He spent the day exploring, and enjoying his first taste of freedom in what felt like years. You see, his wife's hometown is so rural, and that trapped in their tribal mentality, even they have a hard time getting out. And generally, unless they have to, they just don't bother. Nib had told him how a while back, one of her uncles had an infection in his leg, a drunken mishap from a motorbike fall, from which he burnt himself on the exhaust pipe. He had to do the three kilometer journey on foot, through the next village to the one beyond it where the nearest thing to a hospital was. About half way there in the next hometown, you pass by the the village chief's house, who on this particular occasion, for once was awake. He imagined him stumbling out of some grand, overly ornate, heavy wooden chair, on the orders from ten or so yelping, mangy dogs. One well worn flip-flop on, while failing miserably to secure the other, not giving it the slightest bit of thought, as he starred intently at the intruding stranger, hobbling by. The chief had demanded from him, one buffalo, in order to let him pass. You're welcome to go back and read over that line again, but you got it right first time. Yes, a buffalo. A few minutes of talking by the roadside, and they'd worked out a deal, two chickens would seal it. Her uncle shuffled back home, dragging his manky leg, and after snagging two of his most sickly looking birds, started the journey again. All in the hope, of paying someone to gouge out a huge chunk of his inner thigh.

   The relative bustle of the city was a much welcomed change for Lawrie. He criss-crossed his way  down the main roads and through side streets to reach the city limits, and then double-back on himself in a slightly different direction, stopping here and there at the sight of an esky cooler to pick up a fifty cent beer.

   He arrived rather early by his standards, maybe 8.30. But with no watch, phone, or any idea of what time he woke up, he could only guess. Over the years, he had gotten pretty good at working out the time, between the Sun and the shadows. He was usually only off by about 15 minutes or so.  But who cared what time it was? It's his day off.  And this called for another fifty cent-er.

   The day went on and his heart was glad. He knew that fresh emptiness he felt in the background wouldn't be there for long, and that soon enough he'd be back with his boy. He missed Nib too, but pushed that thought out, whenever she crossed his mind.

   He wandered through the rest of the day. No plans, no direction, and not so much to worry about. He ate, drank, bought a dummy and a rabbit teddy bear which he called Barney and headed back to the edge of town that he'd arrived at, making his way home before sunset. Nib was waiting on the front, waiting with a hug.

                       7    It was Christmas Eve, and this year looked like it was set to be Lawrie's best and worst to date. But considering the problems that the people of Earth were facing, it was likely, this year was to be a historically bad one worldwide... with maybe only the 'black death', and world wars outdoing it. These were strange days to be living in.

   His lack of cash, and no real friends or family to share what little he did have, made the whole occasion rather pointless. He'd been asking Nin for the last nine days to help him find a pair of wooden chopsticks. He'd tried, but with no luck. He also hadn't mastered the pronunciation of 'chopsticks', it was a tricky one.

He wanted to fashion them into baby sized drumsticks, the first part of a home made drum kit he planned to make. As money was scarce, and Finn was too young to understand the concept of Christmas, he decided that this was ok. Especially, as no one for miles around, gave this holiday even a single thought.

   Chop-drumsticks were kind of perfect as a Christmas present out here. Lawrie had been tapping away rhythms and singing to his Son, ever since he found out he was in Nib's belly. He'd play him songs too on his guitar, and old song recordings online. Classics from the golden era of the 60's, as his parents had done for him, when he was young.

   Apart from being cheap and cheerful, chopsticks were also importantly, disposable, bio-degradable, and readily available everywhere in Asia (everywhere but, apparently, this village). He'd come to learn that while living on the farm, nothing here was actually his. Nothing belonged to anyone it seemed. At any moment, someone's grubby little mits could appear, and 'borrow', anything they wanted, not return it, and leave it half buried in the dirt to be found a week later. Just days before, the younger brother, Rutt, had taken Lawrie's lighter and Finn's favourite toy. A small, yellow, rubber pig. As Finn was teething, it was more of a chew-toy for him (the dummy by this point, had been savaged by dogs). He loved that little pig, and upon spotting it, would shuffle over, pop it in his mouth and gnaw away. Who knows where it ended up. Apparently, not even Rutt knew.

   'Give it a week', he thought. 'It'll turn up.' Probably as a charred, molten puddle, next to a broken lighter, but he'd find it eventually.

   The day was surprisingly calm and quiet. Pa had left early, sometime before sunrise, making the eighty kilometer journey to the city of Somtang. Life on the farm was always a little more relaxed when Pa was out of town. Lawrie couldn't work out why, as he was the most placid of the whole family, making him Lawrie's favourite. Even so, Pa's brief departures were always good news, a little more peace and quiet on the farm was much needed. He'd be back in a week or so, and he'd be bringing the rasping roar of the tractor with him.

                       8    Between the hours of midday and 3pm, were Lawrie's best time of day, as he usually had the house to himself. The screaming match that accompanied lunch, would cease around 12pm. Not completely or instantly, but it would get quieter and more distant, as they each skulked off in their various directions, with their own, distinct rackets.

   Ma and Nib would go to one of three places. The shop over the road, the one around the corner, or Pa's sister's house out the back. Basically, wherever the card game is happening that day, where Ma can loose the money someone else has given her, and then spend the rest of the day spreading bitterness because of it. Lawrie didn't know where the rest of them went, and never cared to ask. But he knew where Pa was, Pa was always working.

   He sat alone in the bedroom, enjoying the silence. His only disturbance coming from a faint yet piercing buzz in his ear, from a rouge mosquito that had managed to sneak in through the gaps between the concrete walls and wooden ceiling. A clap, or a self-slap to the side of his face would usually sort that out, or half of the time at least.

   He had, ever since the age of nineteen and had he left home for the last time, been some sort of vegetarian. For as long as his memory went back, he had always hated the thought of things dying for his food. To him, it just seemed so unnecessary. But out here, with the snakes, spiders, scorpions and mosquitos, his long standing beliefs were set aside. Some things were asking to be killed. He'd always say sorry, and wish them better luck in their next life... all except the mosquitos, he took pleasure in wasting them.

   He had been surprised upon first arriving in the country, by many things. During the three days it took him to get here, he felt excitement at the thought of visiting a Buddhist country for the first time. He imagined all the food and flavours he'd discover there, and how it must be much easier getting a decent meal that was death-free, and involved fewer funny looks, as the majority of people there were Buddhist.

   But he was wrong. Totally, fucking wrong. It wasn't long after arriving, when he saw a sight he'd never forget, and that would help him on his way to understanding the madness of the place he found himself...

A monk, driving a car, drinking a coke, smoking a cigarette.

'Wow', he thought to himself, visibly gawping, his jaw on the floor, catching flies. 'Wow'.

                       9    With an almighty, thunderous CLAP!..  another pesky bloodsucker was eliminated from existence. Silence resumed. Only the static like sounds of the insects outside remained, and the faint background hum from the rare moto or truck, that was making use of the empty roads as the others ate, slept, and played cards.

   He eventually managed to get a good enough data connection and logged into his messaging app. He'd always been terrible at keeping in touch, but at this time of year, there was no excuses. You can miss all the birthdays you want, and it's all forgotten by Christmas. And that's why you can't skip it.

   He scrolled through the pictures that he and Nib took with Finn the week before. They were all dressed head to toe in various shades of red, the closest thing to being Christmassy, that they could manage. He selected three pictures, tagged his family and the extendeds, and wrote a short message which he cringed at within seconds of clicking 'post'.

   He hated talking online. He hated talking on the phone as a kid, but these days preferred it to SMS and instant messages. It all felt so impersonal. To many people, he'd quite often come across as self-centered, and uncaring. But to him, his problem was he cared too much in other ways. He cared about wasted the moment he was in, and ignoring the people around him, whilst staring at screens. The past and future are pointless without a present, and the present, was drumsticks. He shot out of his chair, and with determination set off, on a final hunt.

                       10    He woke the next morning, and was glad to find that the visiting calm hadn't skipped town in the night. The only sounds to be heard were the distant chugging of heavy machinery, the here and there hum of the main road, and his wife rigorously brushing away at the laundry, by the stream that ran down the side of the farm.

   She would always wait until everything was dirty, which usually took around a week, and then spend half a day literally attacking it. Lawrie's clothes were thin, frayed and full of holes because of this, and something would always come back worse off for the abuse, but he didn't complain. It wasn't a job he was fond of, and it would ruin the callouses he'd built over the years, making playing guitar a pain. And because he'd rush through it, she wouldn't let him wash any of her clothes, and he couldn't blame her.

   He dusted the sleep off, and made his way outside. Ma was sat at the front on one of the two big, heavy, wooden bed frames facing the road, doing her sewing. He never got to the bottom of it, but most ot the houses out here had beds outside, while everyone would sleep on mats on the floor inside, but he never asked and it remained a mystery to him. Too many more important questions still had no answers.

   Finn was asleep in the hammock. It was coming to the end of its swing. Lawrie kissed his forehead, and gave him a little push.

   Suli, was the Son of Nib's youngest sister, and was the second of Finn's three cousins. For once, he was keeping himself to himself and being nice and quiet. It wasn't his fault he didn't know how to behave, and Lawrie knew that. And with Pa being away today, he probably hadn't drank half an energy drink, like he normally would have by 8am. Lawrie took the string-bound, straw brush, and swept the tiled floor, as he did every morning.

   His wife was the eldest of five. The two brothers, and the youngest of her sisters all living on the family farm. The middle sister (the most well-rounded of them all), had the right idea earlier in year, and got the hell out of there. The middle sister's two children, still spent a lot of their time at the family farm, and Suli had lived there all his life. His mum, had done what was expected of her, and left him there while she went back to work, leaving Ma to raise him. At three years old, he was understandably, a handful. But Lawrie couldn't help but worry about him, and feared he had a lifetime of problems ahead. Problems not only for Suli himself, but for the family doing the half a job of raising him. A half job they weren't doing so well.

   His top row of front teeth were nothing but black stumps, half decayed, causing him great discomfort. He was almost always covered in dirt. And usually, by the end of the day, had the remains of every meal he'd eaten, still round his mouth. Flip-flops were uncommon, and he rarely wore pants, maybe 3 times in the past few months.

   Unfortunately for him, for his first two years of life he was Ma's responsibility. And his problems, Lawrie saw as her fault. The middle sister being back to work, was expected to send money home, while it was Ma's job to play cards and sew whilst raising her grandchild. The same Ma who had done a shocking job with her own children, and it was time to do it again for theirs.

   Suli, was toilet trained. But Larwie, expected this lesson was probably taught by the dogs. He would piss anywhere, whenever he needed to go. That was usually from the tiled floor outside the house, and onto the dirt a step below. But if he was upstairs, he'd do it from there. And no one had the slightest of problems with this.

   Lawrie quite often, when going around the back of the house where there actually was a toilet, would find someone there. Usually Ma, but sometimes Nib, ten feet away from the toilet, squatting.

   Ma was so lazy, in every aspect of life. And she'd passed that on to most of her children. And by the standards that Lawrie had been raised with, she was a truly terrible mother, and in general, a mean spirited person with very little compassion. Lawrie found her unbearable. But at the same time, he just had to deal with it, and knew she didn't know any better. She was never going to learn, and it wasn't really her that he could blame.

   The civil war, decades before, that had torn this country apart, had given her parents generation a living hell to endure. An event so disastrous, it's effects still rippled through life to this day.

   Her first three children, the sisters, were all left at Grandma's house as soon as they were able to eat mashed up rice soup. This was and is, pretty much 'the norm', for kids over here. Never really knowing their parents as the grow up. Children are seen as laborers, and in a way, sort of like a pension. Breaking your child's heart isn't really an issue, if it means you've been out working.

   Now today, the third generation of children are making their way through life, and thanks to this practice, are doing so with their own broken hearts. With a level of distrust only their people know, and with the job one day, of passing this on to their own children.

   At the age of fourteen, Nib and her sisters started living with their parents who had got together enough money to by their farm, which was five-hundred kilometers away, up north. Pa built a simple wooden hut, and they called it home. There they would spend the following years learning who their children were, and catching up on all they had missed. And Ma got bigger, as they waited on the birth of their first baby boy. It was time to learn how to be parents.

   Soon after baby number four was born, Nib, with a modestly sized bag packed to the brim, was put on a plane bound for Malaysia to work in a factory making mobile phones. She did so with the help of her auntie's passport and was greeted at the airport by another aunt, who also worked there. Over the next two years, she managed to send enough money back to build the beautiful house they live in today.

   It was the nicest house in all the village, and probably the neighboring ones too, and it stayed that way for years. Pa was so proud of it, he was so grateful to Nib, and she became his favourite, and he had no worries letting the others knowing it.

   When she returned home with her final salary, the house was pretty much complete. Ma was pregnant with Son number two, and with the spare cash, Nib enrolled at school.

                       11    Lawrie had finished sweeping. The dog had been shooed off from laying on the dinner table, and he was now finishing the picking up and bagging of all the plastic crap his in-laws had tossed on the floor the day before. As he looked around searching for any last stragglers, he noticed that Finn needed another push. But his stealthy dash towards the hammock, turned out to be a mistake.

   ''Boo Ree!" (Uncle Lawrie) Suli screamed at the top of his highly pitched voice... he'd been spotted, and after doing so well. In the same instance, Finn's eyes pinged open, beaming, to find his father stood over him, startled as Suli's screech was still ringing in his ear. He smiled and raised his arms, and Lawrie followed suit. "Merry Christmas Son".

   Suli loved Lawrie, and this was mutual. He hardly ever saw his father, who was even more useless than his mum. Lawrie saw it as his responsibility to look out for him, as no one else seemed to be a positive influence. This wasn't just for Suli's own good, but Finn's too. Raising a child here was a constant worry for him. These bad habits and behaviors, were not for his Son to learn. He desperately needed a plan to get his family out, safely away. And this would need to be a plan even Nib would be happy to go along with, and before he inevitably snapped again.

   He placed his bundle into the 8 wheeled, brightly coloured walker thing, and gave him his tambourine, one of the few toys he still had. He didn't like the tambourine so much, but it kept him occupied for a few minutes. Just enough time to build a barricade around the edge of the floor using ten heavy, tree trunk stools. Suli was rolling round on the floor next to him, pant-less and screaming to himself. He made sure all the stools were placed in such a way that Finn couldn't kamikaze off the edge, and headed back to the bedroom to take stock of all he could consume that day. He loved his coffee, and cigarettes too, but was annoyed with himself. He'd practically quit before coming back here. He had promised himself that he would pack them in by the time Finn was born. He failed, and promised again by the time he was six months old. And not far off that time, had got them down to three a day... that was when they moved back, to the madness of the farm. Straight out the window.

   $1.10, thirteen cigarettes and a dollars worth of data that yet to be put on the phone. 'It's going to be a good day', a sarcastic joke to himself. He didn't laugh. It wasn't funny. He took 50 cents, and made for the shop, to treat himself.

   ''Four 3in1 coffees please,'' it was Christmas after all.

   Half way through his double strong coffee (it was actually 6 in 2), the clouds in his mind started to clear, and he was ready to take on another jam-packed day of next to nothing.

   Finn, still in the walker, had now been let loose on the dusty, red dirt at the front of the house. Lawrie was uneasy with this as the walker was light and flimsy, and flaws in its design made it that going in a forward direction was practically impossible. Almost all the plastic products sold out here, were only ever things that hadn't passed the stringent watch of Chinese quality controls. Finn spent most of his time in that thing, going round in circles, or at very best, doing his famous crab impression, scooting sideways.

   Suli was dragging around the frame of an old, crusty pram, that had seen much better days. It was full of rust, had no seat and only one of the three wheel it had left, actually turned. Suli had no toys, the ones he did have, had disintegrated in his hands shortly after being given them... their remains scattered in the dirt.

   Outside the front of the house was a huge 30 by 30 meter steel roof, hanging around 20 feet above. Suli and his pram, had made their way beyond the roof's reach, and over to where the overgrown, straggly vegetation had been thriving since that year's rainy season.

   Lawrie, had been the only one watching. He put down his coffee, and started walking over, seeing the potential for disaster as Finn chased after. He got as far as calling out Suli's name, with the hope of reeling them back in, when Finn hit a divot in the ground. The walker was sent over sideways, Finn's face smashing into the ground. Lawrie, with a heavy heart picked up speed, blurting out some frankly useless words of comfort as he made his way, to pick him up.

   Fountains of tears rolled down little Finn's cheeks, his left one being covered in small stones and dirt, with a few grazes on his chin. His wailing cut through to Lawrie's core, and he felt responsible for not getting there sooner, as he saw it coming.

   By this point Ma was screaming too. Lawrie tried to explain to Nib how it wasn't Suli's fault, in a vain attempt the message might get passed on, and Ma would shut her trap. Suli wasn't to blame, he was a child and didn't know any better, and Lawrie knew what was likely to happen next.

   Ma, still shrieking had gotten down to Suli's level and was now yelling in his face, slapping his legs, his bare backside.

   ''Viscous mutt'', Lawrie said audibly, without a care who heard. 'Silly bitch', just wouldn't have cut it, and his choice of words went straight over Nib's head. With his years of being out there, Lawrie had learnt how to best disguise his words of anger and frustration. He sometimes surprised himself with the off-the-cuff, creative expressions his mind would muster up out of the ether.

   Ma had now stood up, but was still barking. Suli was in tears and had been almost as long as Finn, who was now in Nib's arms, but still in distress as he watched the animalistic behavior unfold. Ma, taking a thin branch from the sapling of a fruit tree, was snapping off all that once grew from it. Because obviously, providing fruit for your grandchildren, and one day their children, isn't nearly half as important, as whipping a child that's done nothing wrong.

   Suli cried in this way, at least four or five times a day. A few months before, Lawrie had counted eight times in one day. He'd seen enough, and headed back to the bedroom with his mixed feeling of anger and helplessness.

   If he'd have still had his guitar, he would have been unzipping it's case as soon as he got inside. But he had no guitar these days, and upon spotting a pen on the desk, found a scrap piece of paper, sat down and started writing. And this would be the case over the coming months, a daily compulsion. He couldn't help it, he physically couldn't stop.

                       12    Maybe an hour had passed and Lawrie was still writing, when he heard the not so distant cry of his boy. Nothing like the sounds he had made earlier, but just him letting the world know he was still upset, in the only way he could. Lawrie looked out of the window to see Finn and Ma on their way back from over the road. 'No surprise he's upset', he thought to himself. He hated seeing Ma walk away with his Son, and was glad he hadn't seen this time, as it would only have played on his mind.

   He sat back down to his writing, knowing that Nib was out there and Finn would soon be at ease, filling his not so little belly.

   He could overhear a conversation between Nib and her mother. It wasn't difficult, as they only really have two levels of communicating out here, Nib's family especially. Those levels are shouting and screaming, making everything far too easy too hear, and whether you want to or not.

   Apparently, Pa was already on his way back, and was four hours away by tractor. He tore open his fresh pack of cigarettes, and threw one in his mouth biting down on the end.

   His cigs came in packs on thirteen, cost 12.5 cents, and had a very well know cartoon rabbit eating a carrot, printed on the cellophane bag they came in. ''Maybe it's this one that finally kills me'', he wondered out loud. He stepped outside, and just in time to see the younger sister making off on the moto, Finn under her arm. ''For fuck's sake...''

                       13    Lawrie was crouched down at the corner edge of the tilled floor, intensely staring down the road as far as he could, in the direction Finn had gone. He was on his second cigarette. As he rolled it between his fingers, the end fell to the dirt below. He put it out with a small piece of chipped concrete and placed the dimp in an empty discarded bottle that was laying next to him.

   Looking up, he saw Finn and the sister, with a thick cloud of red dust following after them as they made their return. A huge sigh of relief spilled out from him, he thought it would never end. Any bigger or longer, it might have been worth contacting the people who compile the world record books.

   Lawrie hated it. Too much of what they thought of as normal, he saw as an unnecessary risk. He'd had his concerns shouted down already, the first time he saw it happen, and this was just another thing he had to begrudgingly accept. But he promised himself, if she ever caused his Son any harm, he would slap her so silly, it would take them a week to find where she landed.

   When the Sun had set, he'd gotten down three full pages of writing. Not a massive achievement, and you wouldn't have mistaken it for Hemmingway (who he knew nothing about, though quite sure he's the Maradonna of writing), but he was proud of the fact that he had achieved a little something.

   He'd always enjoyed writing, mainly just songs, the first of which he wrote at the age of eleven after watching an Adam Sandler film. He'd also, always written down the strange thoughts, or scenarios that came into his head. He had no real use for them unless they were to be used in a song, but while growing up, had a few drawers full of scrappy bits of paper with random ramblings of madness scribbled down. He would sort through them one day, but they were all boxed up in his mum's garage back home.

   His first song was terrible, and unfortunately, he had come across the only physical reminder of it's existence years later, the lyric sheet. He'd written it on the keyboard he had before he had a guitar. After finding the sheet, the melody came rushing back, regaining it's place and taking up space in his memory. He realised his interest in song writing early on in life, back in primary school when they would sing in assembly. He enjoyed singing, as it was usually better than the rest of their day, and after hearing some bright spark from a few years above, singing 'toilet painted green', during the chorus of Yellow Submarine, he spent his remaining years there trying to out do it.

   The Sun was about an hour off setting, and he couldn't delay calling his family any longer. No one that he needed to call, had dependent children, and they were all likely sleeping-in. Their days of cursing Baby Jesus at 5am, covered in wrapping paper, had already been and gone.

   He called his Dad who was stuck in Bali, his Mum stuck in the UK, his Grandma stuck in hospital, and his Uncle David who yes, was also stuck. Everyone, everywhere was, trapped wherever they were when the world stopped turning.

   David, one of his Dad's half brothers, was in London. His business of delivering butchered meat was doing quiet well through all of the craziness. A good business to be in during times like these, apparently.

   His Dad had let him know that his Uncle had sent some money electronically, and that it was waiting to be collected. His Uncle was a good man, as was most of his family, but Uncle David knew Lawrie's situation quite well, as he's come out to visit him not long before the troubles started in the world. Out of most of his family, David had a much better idea of the problems Lawrie was facing.

   He knew just how lucky he was for having the family he did, but felt such guilt for not showing his appreciation as much he should. He rarely contacted them, and spent years wishing he had done so more often.

   He went with the elder brother, Ren, to collect his lifeline Christmas gift.

   Ren was only fourteen, but he rode the motorbike as he did every time, with Lawrie on the back. The in-laws, Pa in particular, were scared of what might happen whenever Lawrie left their hometown. Mainly of the police, who in all fairness were pretty corrupt. But Lawrie, who had left home the first time at the age of fifteen, was pretty savvy, and hadn't ever been in trouble with the law out here. There had been many times, after being stopped by traffic police, that he'd ride away with a new friend he'd just drank a beer with. One time, a police man gave him his fine money back, after seeing how little he had with him. Even though this was, here was tribal land, and he just had to get on with it.

   The Sun was half way over the hill when they got back to the farm. Lawrie dished the money out... a little to Ren for the trip, a little more to his wife, and way too much to Ma. She would probably be playing cards tomorrow, but as Pa was still out of town he had no choice.  Choices weren't such a big thing here.

                       14    It was around eight-thirty when Pa arrived home. Dinner had been sat there a couple of hours, waiting on the roar of the tractor, and on his arrival, the younger ones erupted with screams of happiness. Everyone loved Pa, not just the family, but those outside as well.    

   Lawrie skipped to the shop and bought four cans. They all ate rice, him and Pa drank, and then everyone went to bed. Everyone that was, except for Lawrie. He stayed up researching online, looking at maps of Lombang City. There was a few places that last time, he hadn't managed to get to. He had more than a few things to pick up, and there was a couple of people he was hoping to meet. This time, knowing how long it might be till the next, he had to get as much done as possible. Most importantly, was getting an ID photo... the next step of the only half-decent, long-shot of a plan he had. And thanks to Uncle David, all this was possible, and Finn's first Christmas was back on. And although being a day late, Lawrie couldn't be happier.

                       15        ...to continue reading, and become one of the hero’s in this story, please donate. All the kind souls that help me out of the situation will receive a full copy once completed, a name-drop on the dedications page, and the knowledge that they’ve helped this story on its way to a happy ending.

www.gogetfunding.com/luckystars

Or to continue reading for free, periodically check back here for updates, and hope for the best disaster ending possible…

Thank you, much love.

Nathan Fryer-Woods

nathanfryerwoods@protonmail.com

[brohogany]

Hodgkin's International Newsletter (December 15, 2020)                                              Meet André Singleton!   

André just recently discovered the long-term Hodgkin's survivor family, and we are very happy that he did! We feature Andre in this month's "Q and A"- happy reading!

1. When were you diagnosed with HL? How old were you? I was diagnosed in October 2004 when I was 18 years old. 2. What was the biggest challenge during your treatment? Everything was the biggest challenge for me. I was 18 years old and fought tooth and nail to get to college. I was a freshman at Morehouse College in Atlanta, Georgia. It was 5 weeks into my freshman year and during midterms. I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that I wouldn't be returning to school AND I was no tasked with fighting for my life. I returned to my hometown, Kansas City, Missouri, to undergo all the blood tests and biopsies which ultimately led to me being diagnosed with and treated for Stage IV HL. Heartbreaking to say the least. So, everything from leaving my peer group to beginning chemotherapy in the winter left my deeply crestfallen.  3. When did you first meet another HL survivor?  I met Quiana Parks through her cousin, Adriane Brown, in 2016. She is the same age and went through treatment at the same time. It was an extremely emotionally expressive moment for me. I love her.  4. What has been the most difficult thing about being a survivor? The most rewarding?  The most difficult part about being a survivor is the intersections of my survival. Not only am I surviving HL but I am also surviving as a Black man and a gay man. As an artist. As a poor person. It's been so lonely trying to navigate the world with having so many strikes against me. How the oppression of the world really crushes each one of these parts of me and collectively they are crushed. A beloved artist, thinker, feeler, activist and someone who faced breast cancer, Audre Lorde once said, "There's always someone asking you to underline one piece of yourself. Whether it's Black, woman, mother, dyke, teacher, etcetera… that's the piece that they need to key in to. They want to dismiss everything else." I wish the main part of my struggle was at least one of these things that I have been being penalized for embodying (as mentioned in the beginning of my response to this question)  but the truth is that they all do and I am punished and denied systemically a chance to live decently. At 18 years old I never had a starting chance to be self-sufficient and independent. I have been tethered to a medical system that has never cared about me. I haven't had consistent care and I struggle with even using the word "care" because it didn't, hasn't and doesn't feel very caring. So, the compounded factors make survival a very very difficult thing. I am often afraid I won't make it to 40 years old. I'll be turning 35 on December 23rd. What a surprise. I feel like I am withering away.  The most rewarding has been my ability to understand the shadow side of life. To understand how "darkness" serves me. With such a young and pivotal diagnosis I was ushered into the realm of sickness, dying and death. I have deeply connected with many people who are sick and dying. I continue to honor my dear loved ones who have died. The urgency to care and share what resources I have - whether inner or outer resources - is paramount to me. Creating the world I need/ed for myself inspires me to listen deeply and serve others in whatever way/s that I can. I never personally feel limited but I do feel the limitations that are put on me because of anti-Black racism, homophobia, classism, elitism, ableism and the countless forms of oppression. The struggle has been very real and the truth is that even iron wears down. I can't do it alone no matter how inspired I am or inspiring others find me. I need/ed critical help and support for a very long time. So, I guess the reward has yet to come. Coming?  5. Name the most interesting place you have ever visited or would like to visit after COVID? I would say the most impactful place I've visited is Salvador, Bahia, Brasil. I don't believe that there will be an "after COVID" just like there isn't an after cancer/HL. However, I do look forward to when I will be able to properly visit Africa. I've spent some time in South Africa over the years. But I really see myself spending time in Burkina Faso and other African countries. Burkina Faso is the home of two very important Spiritual teachers that have been major healers and instrumental in fortifying my faith in my body and genetics as an African person. Malidoma Patrice Somé and Sobonfu Somé (may she rest in peace) have written books, journals and lead workshops that are rooted in their traditions of the Dagara Nation/People and they have made this living experience a bit more tolerable. They have reminded me through their words that the reliance on Spirit is essential to not only living but also dying. I have infinite reverence for their understanding and eons of practiced faith which is tremendously left out of the West and the belief systems and all systems that impact everyone. Sobonfu once said, “There is a deep longing among people in the West to connect with something bigger — with community and Spirit. People know there is something missing in their lives, and believe that the rituals and ancient ways of the village offer some answers.” I want to be in a place where this isn't a concept or something you can buy but it is essential to the day to day experiences.  6. Who is the person you admire most? I admire people who endure suffering and really try to make sense of what they have or don't have. The ones that can't help but express what happened to them and how it still impacts them. The ones that keep repeating how they feel because they haven't and don't feel heard. Because I know that this chips away at their Soul/s. That hurts me deeply. But I admire the tenacity and inability to give up in their eye/s and heart/s. The ones that go out with a fight. I never say people "lost their battle to cancer" or "cancer got the best of" because cancer died too when said person departs the physical plane.  7. What would you say to your pre-Hodgkins self? Words of wisdom, advice, "If I had only known..."  (Continue to) trust yourself and your heart, mind, Spirit and Soul. Be firm but lead with soft hands, a soft voice, soft heart, soft eyes and love. Always give thanks.  8. Where do you see yourself in five years? Hopefully, still living if the world can give me that grace. I can't be here if others don't see me here and/or want me here. It's not even that I refuse to have the onus on me. I just can't simply do it alone. No one can. Especially not one who has already been fighting vigilantly just to be here on this earth physically. 

LINK TO ENTIRE NEWSLETTER 

*Bless all the other survivors who contributed to the newsletter + all the folks who know this battle well ... deceased and living. Axé* 😔❣️🙏🏿

[kchatjjigae]

Another big day in Kdramaland! We’re counting down the last hours of Leila’s stay in Korea with a march through the city. We get all classy and cultural with tours of a few palaces, one we meant to and one on accident, get our Coffee Prince on while we chase away some hanger, then activate our idol hunting skills as we cross the river back into Gangnam on a hunt for JYP. The offices, not the man. All this before we hit the critical point of our day: Korean Pizza. 

So, so, so many pictures ahead. 

Unlike the leaving of Alix, we knew right from the start of planning the trip that Leila wasn’t going to be with us the entire time the three of us planned on staying. Leila knows precisely at what length journeys stop being fun for her and plans accordingly. It was part of the reason we chose to hit Busan first over Seoul as it would be easier for her to get back to her plane. I’m not certain I’m the person who can leave when I know that other people are still there, having fun without me, but I do admire her for her strength to say “Naw, Bishes, I’m done.” Especially now knowing that she was doing these last few days on a sprained toe. 

As I mentioned in the last post, this day was going to be a Leila and I date, where we toured the palaces, possibly the Hannok Village, and any other old thing we wanted to see that SaraG and Alix had already seen before. It’s not that they don’t appreciate them, but as they’d seen them before, they thought they’d fill their time with new experiences instead. We were all, you do you boos, we’re gonna get our saeguk on. 

Now with the change in our numbers, SaraG has decided to join us! 

With a quick consult to the Naver Maps, we head back towards the palaces, thankfully, at the palaces subway stop. Throughout the station, as we headed above ground, I saw adverts for their palaces museum, which said it had some of the clothing and regalia in residence. Unfortunately, I didn’t make it there, and it’s probably one of my biggest niggling regrets. I’m sure if I’d just said, hey, I really want to go here, the ladies would have been fine with it, but at the time it didn’t seem important enough to make a fuss. That’s okay, it will give me something to go to next time! 

You know, when I go visit the whole giant palace WE ACCIDENTALLY MISSED. 

So we popped above ground and SaraG decided she wanted to hit up the coffee shop next to the palaces where she’d catch up on life now that she has a phone back and wait for us to do our thing.

As we approached Gyeongbokgung Palace, the main royal palace during the Joseon Dynasty, built 1395, the sun was bright and warmer than when we’d been there previously. So the hanboks were aplenty. Here I should probably mention, surrounding these historical areas are hanbok rental shops, where you go in and get dressed in period clothing, rented by the hour.  If you do, not only do you have a fantastic experience, but your entry to the inner palace is free. As we wandered the grounds, this totally makes sense! Watching the people walk around in hanboks really adds to the atmosphere, helps you picture what it would have been like during the Joseon dynasty. Just with less slavery and more selfies.

There was a hot minute where Leila and I had talked about doing this, but as things had changed in the dynamic and, frankly, I wasn’t up for another ahjumma belly pat-down, we decided to pass. Maybe next time. 

On our way in, we spotted a photoshoot going down to what we imagined is an up and coming girl group. You could tell between shots they were freezing in their outfits, their puffy coats tossed to the side, but they took it like troopers. I wonder how those shots turned out.

The outer courtyard was just as beautiful as before, but this time it was even more exciting as we got to go in! Well, after we purchased our very cheap tickets. I did have a moment of GAH when at the self-automated booth, my credit card was declined. There is nothing quite like that moment of panic when that happens. 

Side note. When you’re in Korea, or, I guess, anyplace overseas, use your credit card, not your bank card. I actually went into my bank to talk about this with them about how best to pay for things. I ordered some won beforehand but had planned on just using my bank card while I was there. My bank said that there are actually more fees attached if you do it that way, however, there are no extra fees if you use your credit card. So that’s what I did. I just got cash a couple of times using my bank card, but primarily used the card, just transferring my savings right over to it once I got home.

We ended up having to go through the person manned line where, after hesitatingly giving my card over with crossed fingers, I had no problems getting our tickets.

As it was early, the place wasn’t hugely packed, so we wandered around the buildings on our own, deciding to forgo a guided tour. BIG MISTAKE! Oh sure, we got along fine, had no troubles, but when we saw the cute little school-aged tour guides working on their English skills to other tourists? We were beyond jealous! (We also missed Steve.)

How epic is this?

You’d think by now the experience would be old. The same architecture, the same colors, the same carvings that we’d seen in Busan. But, there’s just something being around all that history, something that has survived, in one form or another, for all these years that’s just fascinating to me. You picture all the things that went on. How was this even created? Built? How did they choose these colors? The toppers at the corners of buildings I couldn’t’ stop looking at.

I also couldn’t stop talking in the formal saeguk accent, which I’m sure was annoying, but I couldn’t stop. 

Check out this throne.

Now picture your favorite Kdrama saeguk hero perched upon it. Do you have a favorite? Share, please! 

Not sure what this is, but it has flowers and faces on the knees. Who does that? It had to be something important. Unless it was just some arts and craft gift to some king of old and he stuck it there because his niece painted it and he’s a good uncle who simply made up some vital reasoning for it to be there. Who’s going to argue? He’s a king!

See how much fun I am to travel with? That’s the sort of brilliance I come up with.

We wandered the endless maze of rooms, of separate buildings, trying to make sure we got through everything we wanted to see. Seriously though? I could probably spend hours there just going through every nook and cranny. Taking each tour, finding out precisely what that thing with the face knees was. 

Seriously, look at this ceiling!

Watching the young girls work industriously on their selfies, again I was reminded that a good selfie is hard work. You want to be all judgy, but they were having so much fun trying different, unique poses, giggling with their friends, all dressed up prettily in hanboks, and it just looked like fun. Plus, they are going to have some great photos later!

And the girls weren’t the only ones in on the game.

As I was saying in the previous post, the fact that this exists in the middle of ultra technologically advanced Seoul is pretty amazing. Seeing all of this history while on the edges you see high rises and electronic billboards, is the perfect blend of the past and the future. Which, in a nutshell, is the ideal description of South Korea itself.

Some areas were busier than others, a few school trips, but everyone was friendly and pretty respectful.

There was another lake in the middle of the grounds.

We were working our way towards a large pagoda in the background as we didn’t really have a map to go along. It’s like when I lived in New York City — just keep the Empire State Building in sight, and you’ll always know where you are. We tried to get to the pagoda but couldn’t seem to find our way, eventually giving up and turning back instead checking out the lake as it was on our way back and people were getting hungry. 

As hanger is a very real thing, we decided to be along our way, to meet up with SaraG, but not before a quick stop off at the bathroom (yes, I have now peed in every single royal palace. Its a thing.) and the gift shop, before heading back to the front. 

But not before one more selfie and one more…weird experience.

We stood in front of my camera… side note: Fun Stephanie Fact of the post? I have very long arms. While it’s a bitch to make sure shirts fit, on the upside? I’m brilliant with group selfies. It’s where I really carry my weight on trips, also why you see my smiling mug front and center on every group shot. I’m not an attention whore, just monkey-like.

So we’re standing there with my camera, and this guy comes up to us and asks if we’d like him to take our picture. Delighted, we said yes and handed him my phone. Posing, we smile in front of the first building where he begins to take photo after photo, crouching into the ground, bending himself in half, moving the camera around, like we’re shooting some sort of album cover. We’re just standing there, smiling, feeling more and more hilariously awkward as he slowly inches forward to us. Should we be moving? Should we be practicing our posing? Are we now disappointing Tyra Banks with our lack of Smizing? Is this guy going to steal my phone?

Finally, he hands me back my phone and with a smile and a bow, simply walks away as we shout thank yous out to him. 

What a weird-fun experience.  

From there, we met up with SaraG, and we decided to wander the neighborhood looking for food and the Changdeokgung Palace, which is known for being the one with the Secret Garden. However, finding food wasn’t as easy as we anticipated and we walked and walked, circling the edges of Gyeongbokgung. We were turning into a more residentially neighborhood and were despairing we’d never find food. Then we found a cute little coffee shop on the corner of an intersection, said good enough and tramped in. There was, in fact, bistro-style food, so we sat there, basking in the sunlight, recharging those batteries, taking a moment just to hang and chat. It was lovely.

Side note. Sitting at a ShareTea drinking bubble tea writing this. It’s post-move, I’m exhausted from a solid week of non-stop, my house is in disarray, so while this post will be late, it’s for a good reason and taking the time to write it is actually giving me a much-needed rest. What makes me think of this is my previous statement: It was lovely, which comes straight from what I hear from the song playing over the shops loudspeakers. 

But now back to it because it really is driving me crazy my house is such a mess. 

Where were we? Ah, a random neighborhood in Seoul. Batteries charged enough to move, we got to our feet and continued onto where we thought the second palace was. Spoiler alert? It was not where we thought it was. We may have done a little shopping in some boutiques as we passed, nothing serious, just some meandering. Looking up, we realized we were right outside the Hannok village, which was straight uphill, up a butt-ton of stairs. Leila noped it and while I was initially disappointed, it was pointed out we had actually been there a few days ago when Alix marched us through on the Kpop shop lookout. We consulted Naver maps again and realized we’d actually walked out of the palace in completely the wrong direction. Feet being what they were, we couldn’t face walking all the way back and then onto the palace. Luckily we were right by a bus stop which appeared to be able to take us right to where we wanted to go and was even more luckily enough to be placed right next to a Churro shop.

Churro in hand, or, more realistically, churro in mouth, we boarded the bus on our way to the next palace.

We passed Gyeongbokgung, which, great news, meant we were at least headed in the correct direction, we passed Gwanghwamun Plaza with its giant statues of Sejong and Admiral Yi Sun-sin . I looked longingly out the window at them. I hadn’t realized we were so close! Visions of Faith popped into my mind, and I itched to explore. Naver announced our stop was upon us, and we piled out of the bus, realizing, uhoh, we should have probably recognized that there were more palaces in the area than just the main two and I probably should have been more specific when I looked at it in the map.

Whatevs. It was a palace, and we were there! So we paid the fee and piled in. It was fun to explore with the three of us. Deoksugung palace was actually a later palace, used for ceremonies and visits of state when the actual people lived in a more modern building. It was interesting to see the two together. New meets old. We continued our long-held tradition of going to the bathroom on royal grounds before we heard it, the drums in the distance. Turns out we were at the wrong palace at the right time, the ceremonial changing of the guards. We watched the procession march by us, the bright colors of their regalia, the bouncing feathers of their hats. 

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Changing of the guard at the Deoksugung palace. From old to new, now headed to Gangnam. #deoksugung #palace #guard #travel #seoul #southkorea

A post shared by Stephanie (@kchatjjigae) on Mar 16, 2019 at 10:27pm PDT

We headed back towards the front gates, following them along, where they waited for the actual ceremony to begin. It was fun to see these people, not at attention, just hanging out, bored. A reminder they are real people, not fixtures of the past.

Once we had our fill of palaces for the day, it was time to begin the real task, heading over the river to try and hunt ourselves down some idols, it was time to go visit the JYP offices. After a wrong start, or a wrong stop, hopping off a stop too soon, we were ready for it, prepared to see the legendary building where the likes of 2PM, Got7, Stray Kids came from. Though not yet. Turns out, he’s cleverly not anywhere near the subway stop, so we hoofed it there, stopping for more, much-needed caffeine. On the way there we passed the location of the Seoul Olympic Games which we saw the empty buildings from our position on the street. Sure, we didn’t actually go to them, but we saw the buildings, so I get to count that on the list of places I’ve been on this trip. 

Don’t agree? Go ahead, fight me. 

Finally, we were there! 

It’s an office. Dude. Get yourself a gift shop. Something. Other fans were milling about. We’d buy stuff. Mr. and Mrs. McFeeley are huge Stray Kids fans, I would have gotten something for them, and the ladies would have encouraged me, despite my DON’T LET ME BUY ANYTHING MORE. But I’d simply be able to get around that by saying, “I said I wasn’t allowed to buy anything else for RYAN. This would be for Sean. Totally different person”. But, since they didn’t have a gift shop, the point was moot. Across the street was a coffee shop, and you could see, the way people were positioned, a lot of them were just waiting for someone to come in or out so they could take a photo, be it for dispatch or just a fan site. Not wanting to be one of those people, we simply circled the block, and when we passed a snazzily dressed and perfectly coifed man, we crafted stories about who he was and what he did for the company.

Good times. 

Realizing we weren’t going to get to have the idol meet-cute we’d desperately dreamed of, we decided it was time to move on, back across the river. 

Oh! I think it was here, but if not, it’s the perfect time to talk about it. Remember the whole thing that was happening while we were there, with Seungri and his band of ugh? All about secret cams and chats and douchebaggery? Well, it’s no lie to say that this is rampant across the country. Did you hear about the member of staff who put a camera in one of the girl’s rooms on a variety show? Or there was a sting that happened at a hotel where people were recording women? It happens all of the time. While we were on the subway, we were separated, which happened when we wanted to snag an actual seat. This particular time, it was Leila and me on one side and SaraG on the other. Next to her was a man on his phone, who we joked looked just like a police detective from a drama. See? I just had to say that, and you know EXACTLY what he looked like. Turns out? 

Not so police-y. 

We got off the train, laughingly told SaraG our ideas, and she was like, “Ummmmm…yeah, he was watching pervy hidden video footage.” Apparently, there are Instagrams out there dedicated to this shit, and this guy is just, sitting on the subway, casual as can be, watching it. Ew. 

Shaking it off, we decided first on our list was to cross something off Miss Leila’s list, stopping off at the mall by our subway station and picking her up a foundation she’d seen online, but had yet to see it anywhere in Seoul except for this mall. And I was on a mission too! Find the Flying Tiger, a Copenhagen store, take a picture and show it to my friend Thea who is a big fan of their New York store. It was a huge shocker to see that they were in Korea!

We wandered around the food court, looking for something to eat, but it was pricy and not what we were looking for  (we’ve been spoiled eating beautiful and delicious food for under 10000 won.). Despite how tired we were, we decided we wanted to skip the food court, instead planned to hit Hongdae in order to find something better. Added plus? This would get Leila her last night in Hongdae with some buskers. Where did we end up? Korean Pizza! After seeing some Eat Your Kimchi posts on the weirdness that could be Korean Pizza back in the day, I’ve always wanted to try it. There was a Mr. Pizza in LA that every time I went to KCon I’d say, this was the time I was going to go there, but as one of our group was a vegan, it always managed to be pushed to the side. (We felt bad enough dragging her to Korean BBQ.) In Haeundae, our apartment was right above a Pizza School where we would pass by and look at the poster proclaiming all of their weirdo pizza flavors and planned on hitting up that one, but we just never had the chance. Tonight was the night!

I wish I’d taken pictures of the menu to tell you exactly what we had eaten, but I can tell you, one of them had mashed sweet potatoes, and the other one had galbi. Both were actually pretty yummy. We’d chosen this particular restaurant in the din of all the others as  1) was something we could all get behind with all of the other choices, and 2) was an upper floor establishment, overlooking all of the buskers. Dinner and a show!

As we ate, Leila and I investigated one last thing stop on our phones, the Han river. We knew it was close, had crossed it several times via subway, but had yet to go and find it in person. Had yet to find out which pairing of us were going to officially breakup on its shores as Korean dramas tell us is the norm. It was a must on all of our lists, and we couldn’t believe we hadn’t been there yet. It was a little difficult for us to pinpoint the best place to go to as you couldn’t really put Han River into the map, sure we’d find a shore but what else would we find when we got there? We found a park that seemed promising, but, honestly, at that time of day, after all, we’ve done, and now knowing about Leila’s poor toe, we decided to pass. 

But don’t worry Han River fans. There are still two of us who have days left and hours to fill….

With this, we close out another chapter of our trip. Another day passed. Another person packing up to go home. Which leaves SaraG and I. All by ourselves for three days. Will we make it? Will our friendship survive? Or is it going to be the relationship that crashes by the shores of the Han? Stay tuned to find out! 

    KOREAN ADVENTURE DAY ONE: AIR PLANES, TIME TRAVELS, AND MULTIPLE SARAG(S)

Korean Adventure Day Two: Sadly, No Zombies

KOREAN ADVENTURE DAY THREE: THE SOLO JOB

KOREAN ADVENTURE DAY FOUR: BY THE POWER OF STEVE!

KOREAN ADVENTURE DAY FIVE: STAIRS, AND MEERKATS, AND POLICE…OH MY!

KOREAN ADVENTURE DAY SIX: EMERGENCYS, BELLY RUBS, AND TIPSI TEXTS

KOREAN ADVENTURE DAY SEVEN: THAT WEIRD SHAPED ARTY BUILDING IN GANGNAM

KOREAN ADVENTURES DAY EIGHT: KPOP TAKES A VACATION

KOREAN ADVENTURES DAY NINE: WE LOVE A MAN WHO LOVES A MARKET

KOREAN ADVENTURE DAY TEN: STEPHANIE DOESN’T DO NAKED

Korean Adventure Day Eleven: Let’s Get Saeguky Another big day in Kdramaland! We're counting down the last hours of Leila's stay in Korea with a march through the city.

[inderosten]

City of the Found RP Campaign Info Blurb

A Condensed History of Iovid

Iovid is a planet of magic and madness. Centuries before the modern day, demigods (called vir’sakam) ruled the world, armed with elemental magic to keep the powers in balance. They created humans (lukan) as pets, companions, and slaves, which eventually resulted in a revolt and war between the two species. At the end of this war, the great demigod Spirit (Norden) gave his life to destroy magic and the demigod species altogether, leaving Iovid broken and powerless.

In modern times, humans give much more importance to science and engineering, creating their own way around problems with iron, current, and coal. Many cities on the main rings of Iovid have a fear and hatred of magic. Modern technology could be considered almost steampunk in its functions and designs.

The main lands of Iovid are drawn in two rings east-west on either sides of the equator, with the north a more powerful and organized half than the south. The sky is circled by space rocks which, in the day, cast shadows along the land, and by night shine like small moons. There are two suns which are slowly eating one another.

The Turquoise Isle

Far north of the land rings on Iovid lies the diamond-shaped nation of the Turquoise Isle. The islands here are covered in snow for most of the year, and are often cold and dark. The main island is often referred to as the Forest of Giants for its massive 300-400 foot pine trees. The trees are dark sea green in their pines and a cool grey in their wood, giving the place a faded greyscale look with blue tints and shadows.

The island is shaped almost like a pyramid or a top, rising as you near the center and shallowing as you reach the edges. The trees further towards the center are taller by nearly a hundred feet to the trees at the edges of the island and grow closer together. Their branches intertwine, creating a nearly impermeable canopy that even sunlight cannot peek through. The peoples living in the Forest of Giants never venture to the center of the island without reason (usually exile), and those that have gone into the dark have never returned home.

(map may not be accurate to actual landscape)

Everidin

The only city on the Turquoise Isle. Everidin lies to the south-west of the main island in the Forest of Giants. Buildings in Everidin are built about 40 feet off the forest floor, well above the dangers that crawl below. They are built from the grey-blue wood of the trees, tanned leather, and the black iron of plentiful ore. Some places are painted using the reds and purples of various plants, indicating a special place such as shops and town halls.

The nation is actually a series of towns, called districts, based around clumps of trees, often connected by a series of bridges, all working together as one city. Everidin’s coastal districts control naval trade, through which Everidin gets most of its supporting goods. Chief exports include iron, animal furs and skins, wood, coal, and a few varieties of crops. Everidin is fairly behind in science and technology compared to the mainlands.

The people of Everidin are a bit on the bulky side, often shorter or taller than the average height and stout in appearance. Their hair ranges in blonde, red, copper, and light brown, and their skin is fairly pale and peach. Their tails are thicker and furrier than those of the people to the south. (Think something like Vikings meet Eskimos; Viking in physical build and some attire, Eskimo in more attire).

Clothes in Everidin consist of furs and shaggy cloths traded from other nations, along with tanned leathers and iron chains and plates. Exotic accessories show a very rich trader, merchant, or other business type.

Chieftains

Chiefdom of the inner districts is split between an elder leader, The Old Spear, and his son, The Little Arrow. The Spear is a man leaning more towards honor, courage, and experience. His son Arrow is olive-skinned and dark-haired, a beautiful young man who most suspect not to be The Spear’s biological son; he was first seen at a few years of age holding onto The Spear during The Spear’s return from a trip to the mainland. Together they take on duties of leadership and aim to help the people of their districts.

The chief of the coastal districts is Subiural’dai, which translates to The Great Bull-cat (subiural are a large beast native to the Turquoise Isle, something of a mix between a lion and a bison; more info below). The Bull-cat, as he’s often called, is a stoic and powerful merchant more interested in affairs off of the island. He is very large in height and girth with a yellow-orange mane of wavy hair.

Miscellaneous

Deities

The gods of summer and winter, Vuteka and Deiura respectively, are often used as symbols and referred to in stories common in Everidin. Most of the people of Everidin acknowledge them but don’t often pray to either, unless in desperation when winter lasts too long. It is said that Vuteka lives far to the south in the deserts, and that Deiura lives deep within the forests of the Turquoise Isle. During their opposing seasons, the deities hibernate. As summer starts to heat the land, Vuteka, the giant golden owl, takes flight and reflects the sun’s rays down to Iovid. When the heat fades and rains begin to signal winter, Deiura, the snow-colored stag, gallops across the land, snow following in her footsteps.

Creatures

Subiural, or bull-cats, are beasts native to the Turquoise Isle. They appear as a mix between a lion, a bear, and a bull; a cat-like horned face leads to a hunched back, with thick forearms tipped with massive claws and cloven back hooves. Alpha males stand nearly eight feet tall at the shoulder and are extremely deadly, prone to attacking even when not threatened. Females are less hunched, smaller, and thinner, without horns. An alpha male will lead a small heard of mating females, their young, and smaller males. Females are often hunted or, more rarely, kept as livestock for meat, furs, and milk.

Tree-eaters are almost mythical in nature, hidden deep within the forest and rarely seen or heard of. Known only through tales, tree-eaters are said to be over fifty feet long and fifteen feet tall. They look like large-scaled lizards with flat bellies and tails, a dark brownish in color. Below their scales and deep within their mouths resides an incredibly hot orange glow. Wherever they walk, they leave a charred path where their bellies burn the ground. They move slowly, from tree to tree. At the preferred tree, they will claw away at the outer bark and begin to eat away at the soft, fleshy, sappy insides. The extreme temperatures of their bodies and mouths burn the inside of the trees, and when much of the pulp is eaten, the tree-eater will crawl inside and continue to eat as it climbs. A tree touched by one of these creatures will never know life again. Spotting one of these trees is easy; the inside of the tree is engulfed in a slow-burning flame that lasts for weeks after the tree-eater feasts, hibernates, and moves on.

Setup

You're a young inhabitant of the city of Everidin. As you've come of age, you've begun seeking your future occupation; maybe you've already picked up an apprenticeship with a merchant or a blacksmith or a butcher. You've begun taking steps away from your family and home to make a name for yourself. Still, you have yet to venture to the forest floor, and the thought fills you with nervousness brought on from old horror stories and myths.

It's been the past few months that a curiosity for adventure has taken to you, though. Every now and then, you stare down from the village pathways and bridges to the dark earth below, and for a second you even consider a quick trip down below, just to see what it's like.

These past few months, you've also been rattled by a strange recurring dream. In this dream, you're moving quickly, deeper into the center of the forest. The darkness consumes you, but your senses are sharper than ever; you can see further than ever, can hear every creature's noise as it disappears in the shadows, smell the wet soil and decaying ivy. Even so, the dark eventually consumes you, and your senses fade. Then, from somewhere in the depths, a pearl grows and floats before you. It's glassy and ice blue, almost like a glass crystal ball, and much bigger than any pearl you've seen before. A foreign whispering growl seems to rattle from the blue sphere, and that's when you wake. Often, you wake with anxiety from this dream, more and more each time you have it.

Lately, you’ve noticed that you aren’t the only restless inhabitant in this place. The chieftains seem to be more at each other’s throats than ever before, and the elders and parents seem more stressed than usual. You get the feeling that things are about to start changing, and fast.

Potential Vocations (/classes) *not an exhaustive list

Scout (/ranger)

Blacksmith

Merchant

Squire

Entertainer (/bard)

Builder

[vishalachouhan]

PRE- PRODUCTION (RESEARCH & PLANNING)

After completion of preliminary task, our roles were finalised and teams were divided.

My team :-

Director - VISHALA CHOUHAN

Assistant director - TINA JAJRA

Cinematography - RIYAAN BHANDARI

Editor - AADITYALEKSHMI

As soon as the teams were made, we got together to discuss a wide range of ideas for our story-line. We first decided to work on thriller and suspense genre and thought of showing a story about foster care and adoption. Than because of the repetition of the same genres from last 2 batches, our teacher suggested us to work on genres which are rarely used.

We did a small activity to understand the steps of the whole process of fulfilling the demands of the foundation portfolio.

We then thought of presenting a dance based film representing our culture. And started looking for some well known dance forms. By all the appearances, Kalbelia , a tribe from Rajasthan has been an integral part of their culture and performed by men and women. The Kalbelias moved frequently from one place to another in ancient times. Their traditional occupation is catching snakes and trading snake venom.

After doing some research on kalbelia. We came up with an famous artist who is known kalbelian dancer. Her name was Gulabo Sapera, a dancer from Rajasthan, India. Her struggled life inspired us, her story made us understand how much curse it is to be born a women, her entire journey made us realise a women is no more less than a men and if given a chance she could go far ahead.

First we thought of showing her biography and so we watched the openings of some biography movies like :

MS Dhoni

SHAKUNTALA DEVI

BHAAG MILKHA BHAAG

My inspirations were not restricted to these films, but these films felt the most relevant to my film and the genre.

After watching the openings of these movies I thought of doing something similar but switching the true story into our own ideas which made us switch to drama genre and so we just took inspiration and finally thought of doing a drama film. We are showing two social issues : first one inspired by Gulabo sapera. And the second one which is about the artist who are underpaid which was our major social issue. As nowadays, Underpaid people are subjected to long hours of work without commensurate remuneration Even there are many people who argue that it is unfair that despite the importance of their work for society, nurses, doctors and teachers do not earn lot of money. Similarly we are showing the whole situation and our idea through the character, NAAZ. So that the audience could relate with the happening situation.

Research on codes and conventions of drama genre :

Exhibits real life situation with realistic characters, setting and stories. { we are portraying real life situation through a character and chose a realistic location for our shoot }

Portrays journey of characters development { we are showing her journey}

Purpose of a dramatic story line is to move the audience emotionally. { we are showing the major issue so that audience could relate emotionally}

The heart of the drama genre is the conflict which includes inner/outer realistic struggles depicting hardship, difficulties and pain. { Naaz struggling vigorously and was still paid below average which wasn’t enough. }

Other codes and conventions are used during the production of the film.

NAAZ

After figuring out the codes and conventions of our genre, we started with the script :

SCRIPT

LOCATION & CASTING

Drama genre film does use a wide range of locations which are real life location such as in a city, in a flat, and estate, workplace etc. Similarly we needed a village area where kalbelia happens. We looked up for various locations near us and finally found a one :

Fort chanwa , Luni, Jodhpur , Rajasthan

The location was perfect for our shoot because of the surroundings and some other areas which were representing her community and her culture.

We thought of completing the shoot in a day because of the availability of the location and shooting charges.

CASTING

Amid COVID, our options were very less. The perk was that even our character requirement were less. I wanted our chosen actors to be extremely skilled as our characters are very expressive. We were looking for actors that could portray a range of emotions through their actions and expressions. It was very difficult to look for actors that would fit the role of Naaz and her husband. Initially, we selected our seniors for the act but because of their A level examination they cancelled at the last moment and then after a lot of screening we have finalised our lead character Naaz :-

KAJAL VYAS

MISE - EN - SCÈNE

PROPS

Props in a drama vary from genre to genre. We have tried to challenge this convention. As the only prop we using are ghungroos which Serves to accentuate the rhythmic aspects of the dance and allow complex footwork to be heard by the audience. We showed her dancing on the song wearing the ghungroos as these are the parts of kalbelia dance. We already had the set of ghungroo so didn’t waste time on arranging it.

COSTUMES AND MAKEUP

Costume and makeup are crucial for any film. They are the representative of the character and their personalities (mostly positive). An antagonist may wear dark clothes to portray dark intentions. We have challenged this convention as we have to show Naaz as a kalbelian dancer and the dance costume is mostly black in color but Naaz doesn’t have any dark or negative intentions. We tried arranging the costume and the jewelleries a day before our shoot so that we have everything ready to go. Naaz already had makeup so we just looked up for costume.

LIGHTING

Lighting will be playing very important role in the production. In drama genre high key lighting is mostly used for vibrant scenes which portrays happiness but in our we are challenging this convention. We are going to use natural light in our opening sequence but the scenes are not happy memories. The opening scene is all about her life in gist is sad and challenging but the lighting used will be natural outdoor light.

After finalising the location and arranging all the props and costumes I started writing the screenplay.

SCREENPLAY

We made a draft of screenplay :

SHOT DIVISION

After the screenplay was made, it was passed down to Riyaan, the cinematographer of the team. He researched about many different shots and what feelings they create, before making the shot division. We also read the conventions of drama genre to make sure we include those conventions so that our audience can recognise our product’s genre. After a lot of research, Riyaan made the shot division and a passed it down for us to make any necessary changes.

After completing the screenplay and shot division we did master breakdown. Everything is finalised and we are all ready to shoot.

We are just hoping that we complete the whole film in a day because of the availability of the location. We are worried as we didn’t get the chance to arrange the things on the set we are visiting for the first time so didn’t had any idea about the location. All that we want is the shoot goes as perfect as we planned.

[jackal-of-hearts]

Red Blossoms

I wrote a story. It’s...1446 words or so? If you feel like reading, it’s below the cut. I am not responsible for whatever pasting it on here does to formatting!

A flower blossomed, rich and red. It was an odd sight, to be sure. A lone spot of color calling out from the sun-bleached scrub and grass that stretched out across the edge of the desert. Strange, but pleasant. It was the herald of journey’s end and the first of many markers which announced the yielding of barren sand to lush soil. She was almost home.

               Jezebel, the woman was called. A name which raised more than a few glances outside of her homeland. Superstitious, they were often called. In the modern age, who still believed in monsters and spirits? Each member of her village laid claim to three names. One was private and known only to its owner and perhaps a few treasured kin. A true name, which held power. One was used during formal occasions and often found placed as a surname. Something of substance but with only a mild link to the person that holds it. The last was often offensive and given out freely and without care as it was the least of their identities. By this standard, it was a fine name, as far as such things went.

               Vehicles could not make it out this far. Any that tried found a series of incidents, swiftly escalating, that barred progress beyond the middle of the desert where the last oasis rested. By land or air, the ill luck carried. With this restriction in mind, a small camp had sprung up around the cool waters. Mounts were available for sale, or rent with the proper identification, and it was upon the back of an Arabian bay stallion that the woman gained the borders of the town. It had no name and yet laid claim to all of them. When one spoke of this place, the listener knew if they were meant to.

               Quite out of habit, Jezebel reached for her phone before remembering that it was locked up in a protective box along with her laptop, tablet and anything else that she didn’t want to risk while crossing the barrier. There would be no service this far out anyway. A soft sigh slipped past her lips as she continued on. She hoped that her clients would be alright without her. Some of them needed far too much attention. But, the trip could not be put off any longer than it had.

               Jezebel had come home for the funeral.

                 She was challenged on the approach. Out of necessity, this was a brief offering of sign and countersign. Children are the taught the ritual before they can even walk more than a few steps. The second crossing was more elaborate but allowed her to move past the high, reinforced stone walls. It was always a bit jarring to return home after so long on the outside. It was much like being the protagonist of some silly time travel movie.

               So it came to pass that a woman dressed in canvas cargo pants, a tanktop and steel toed boots and wrap around sunglasses rode a horse through cobbled streets flanked by buildings that still required thatchers. The looks her arrival garnered were of hostility and distaste. Her attire was the least of the reasons. Though this was her home, she had very few friends. And there were matters of state to attend to.

               Children were clutched to mothers’ breasts. Women pointedly turned their backs. Men sketched out signs of warding. If some few cast quick and sympathetic glances her way, they were not acknowledged for the sake of their soft-hearted issuers. Despite the almost universal shunning, Jezebel rode easily with her head held high. Fear prevented anyone from acting against her and she knew that she would reach Hunter’s Hall without issue.

               A second wall separated the town from the city. The distinction one of pride more than anything else as both halves were arrayed in much the same pattern. While the outer buildings were of rude construction, the inner city was all stone and metal with only minimal glass adornment, soundly built and easily defended. Coming to a half just inside the open gates, the reigns of her horse were taken in hand by a guard dressed in leather armor with a sword belted at his hip. More brazen than the citizens of the outer city, his upturned face regarded her with a mixture of disdain and curiosity.

               “Twin-Blade.”

               The voice that spoke her deed name belonged to a severe man with short cropped, dark hair and broad shoulders. There was no warmth in his voice and the pale gaze that regarded her was even colder. So it began. Jezebel dismounted and shouldered her pack before crossing over to him and giving a short nod in response. Regardless of his personal feelings, she was still a member of rank and standing and so he gave a proper salute before turning to escort her deeper into the city. It was a long and silent walk.

 The rituals and processes that followed were old beyond remembering. There was a reception waiting which might have seemed grand to an outsider. They were an organization based on blood and violence. Strict protocols and behaviors assured that such attributes rarely touched the grounds inside the walls. It was almost comforting. A sort of reflexive haze settled over Jezebel and quieted her thoughts as she took part in the exchanges.

A bath and change of clothing followed next. Attendants were provided who saw to these details as well as to groom and adorn her hair in the traditional manner. Baubles and badges were braided into the locks to display her rank and accomplishments and pigments were mixed to mark her lineage and standing. So it was that Jezebel walked through the Hunter’s Assembly as if she headed for battle. But this battle’s outcome had already been decided.

Jezebel ascended the steps to stand before the Huntmaster. The man had aged considerably since last she had seen him but the steel in his gaze had not diminished. Dropped down to take a knee before him, her head remained raised. It was not their way to lower gazes meekly, but to offer respect through direct eye contact. A flicker of sorrow shadowed the stern man’s gaze for the briefest instant. Or perhaps she just wished it had.

“Jezebel Twin-Blade,” The Huntmaster intoned, “You have been convicted of violating our sacred trust.” His voice was clear and might even have been beautiful if it were not so deeply worn down by a long life of hard acts and cruel deeds in the defense of the world. An ignorant world that neither knew nor thanked them for their service in holding back the legions of supernatural entities that waited just beyond the veil.

“The sentence is death.”

There was no court of appeals. And, by the letter of their laws, she was certainly guilty. Pride was the sin of the order. For those that work in the shadows and often die on far away shores in a terrible manner, it must be. Few things can keep one going in those conditions. Righteous belief in the cause? Yes, that played a part as well. But it was the knowledge of a job well done and countless lives saved that carried most of the Chosen through their otherwise uncertain lives. The Chosen Hunters of Tapio, they were called. Named for the God of the Hunt who had founded their order in the distant past. It was said that his power was what kept them shielded and placed apart from the rest of the world.

If anyone expected repentance, they received none. Jezebel stared back at the Huntmaster and simply nodded her understanding. Pride was her sin as well and she would not beg or plead. She had aided a monster against a fellow Hunter. She was guilty. She had returned of her own free will. She would not be late for her own funeral. There was respect in the old man’s eyes. This time she was certain of what she had seen. She came to accept her punishment and did so with honor.

A heavy, two-handed broadsword rested against the Huntmaster’s back. It was a ceremonial blade and deeply engraved, decorated with a large jewel upon the pommel. He lifted it easily and secured his grip to deliver the sentence. Jezebel continued to stare into his eyes while the light of the room played along the length of the blade. The edge was honed keen and the etchings guided the light up to blaze upon the point as if with celestial light. Without another word, the blade fell with swift purpose.

A flower blossomed, rich and red.

[yourbrotherzulu]

A Woman and a Miracle

so... i just thought, I’ll give you a little context here. All y'all funky people don't even know where I am. Besides in a hammock in Peru. With a monkey.

But there is more than this monkey here. There is also the second monkey. I think they are a couple but have some beef at the moment.

There is a shaman. But he doesn’t like the word shaman.

There is a bunch of russians. They don't really smile so much. Like never.

And there is a woman. Well... THE woman. (not the monkey woman, although tecnically we’re all monkeys)

And there is of course:

A MIRACLE

(tadaaa, drums please!)

(thank you, thank you. yeah. alright.)

PART I

You see... miracles are for the truthseeker what data is for the researcher. It is evidence. Spiritual evidence (not the only one of course). Without miracles, faith is just a believe. But with miracles... faith becomes knowing. And life becomes a magic carpet ride. A magic magic carpet ride. Fireworks to the left, music to the right, signs all the way through.

And one thing becomes very clear.

That miracles actually aren't miracles. They are lawful events.

They are just the natural effects of causes set in ones inner realm. Every little thing happens according to laws. Within, without, everywhere, all the time.

If ones perspective towards reality shifts, the whole universe responses. If your perspective shifts to one that is closer to the truth, things immediately run more smoothly. If it shifts a little more, things run in flow state, meaningful coincidences happen, synchronicities, fireworks, music and shit like that. If one perspective shifts right to the center, you hit the jackpot and get a miracle that changes your life with a 180 in an instant. This is the magic of reality. If you have experienced this for a certain number of time, believing stops, knowing starts, knowing that one has a intimate relationship with the universe.

Knowing this, that the cosmos is aware, that the cosmos responds, that the cosmos cares enables one to accept its love. Knowing that you are deeply loved and having an ongoing experience of that

is the real miracle.

Living with this knowledge naturally, lawfully makes one a person touched by grace. The love you receive will overflow. The light that shines on you will reflect to anyone you come in contact with. That kind of person.

A person that perceives abundance instead of scarcity, harmony where once was chaos, beauty where once was disgust, peace where once was turmoil. It changes this persons frequency and makes them saintly, free of greed, ill-will, animosity. This person surely will act beneficial for himself and for others and thus will be someone who bears good fruits, as JC said it.

Miracles, they make one eager to learn more about the spiritual laws, and become more disciplined in their application. One wishes to uncover more and more of this treausure one has stumbled upon inside so that one day one fully realizes ones own Buddha-Nature.There is a little line, if that line is crossed one finds oneself fully in the gravitational field of the selfless Self, the One in the Many, the Soul of Souls.

Because of that, one begins to understand that there is a difference between the morality of religions and societies and the morality of the cosmos that encompasses the whole law of being-ness. One begins to understand that if one does good and contribute to the harmony, peace and happiness of our earthling-family, that includes our brothers and sisters of the animal- and plant-kingdoms as well, one gets rewarded. In the inner kingdom one experiences good vibes, good thoughts, good energy and in the outer realm of the kingdom one is blessed with good relations, harmonious circumstances and material wealth. One begins to understand the true meaning of the Kingdom, which is in fact a fractal. Understanding leads to love. Love leads to care.

And the Kingdom begins to care for one.

As a mother cares for her child.

As a master cares for his student.

As a lover cares for his beloved.

As a friend cares for his friend.

The Kingdom IS the mother, master, lover, friend for such a person.

And this is the beginning of heaven.

Just the beginning. But it changes everything.

That is the teaching. And there is a way. And that way, the beautiful Dhamma is a great jewel in each and every persons life who has come across it.

People will notice. Something is different with you. Wherever you go people will feel the natural mystic in the air. They feel there is no evil in you.

There is a Path. Attaining the Path is the first goal. And practicing it is of utmost importance.

"Practice! Practice a lot, Ananda" said the Buddha to His disciple "and you will find a master hard to find."

“Doing Good. Avoiding doing bad. Purifing oneself! This is the whole of the Dhamma” the Buddha said.

“Love! Love your neighbor as yourself and love your God with all your Heart and Strength and Might! This is the Law and the Prophets” the Christ said.

Practice! Love! Practice Loving! Love Practicing!

Until you cross the thin line and enter the stream.

Then all will be good.

Sotapana.

The Path leads to the line, merges into the stream that carries one to the ultimate.

Practice!

Morality. Mastery over the mind. Wisdom. These are the three disciplines.

...

just a sec

...

shit ran away with me a little

...

lets take a little break

...

la la la

...

intense shit, right?

hmm where were we?

lets start at the beginning...

PART II

ah ja, there were monkeys, shamans, russians (which are actually not important),there was a woman and a miracle.

And all that in the middle of the Peruvian jungle. Where else would one expect monkeys and shamans?

Ages ago, at least one lifetime, I was studying medicine back in Germany. I was quite good and managed it with surprising ease. But I was also a rebel. Ask my mother, she can tell you I already annoyed everyone in kindergarten. I was always critizising what I was doing and testing if the trench we all sit on is really suitable for the future. Many people liked it. Many didn’t. I never cared. I believed in my wings.

So I started researching other ways of healing. I believed in science. I believed in God already. I didn’t believe in religion. And I haven’t had found out yet, that science is a religion in itself. I researched, and smoked a lot of weed, I read testimonials of people who got cured of cancer in the jungles of South America, got healed by this or that ancient herb in God knows what mountain village or African bushtown. I knew people myself, who meditated their diseases away. I heard incredible stories and decided to take them seriously.

And one day I had to come and see for myself.

Now, many years later I am here. In Peru. I quit med-school long ago. I don’t need a professor anymore to teach me the reality of my body and mind. I don’t need a doctor who knows all the theories about health but looks like a bag of old potatoes. I close my eyes and meditate to see the reality of my mind and body. I open my eyes and tap into the present moment to see the reality of the world. I feel my body, use my body, stretch my body, exercise my body, fill my body with good shit, try to avoid bad shit. Try to find balance, stability, strength and ease in posture. I don’t need to study health. I need to practice it. From moment to moment

In Peru, in the remote center of Don Pepe, somewhere in the moskito-infested jungle, taking care not to kick a chicken with every step I take, I am witnessing some amazing stuff.

There is this old abuela. Yesterday I hold her sweating arm, while Pepe was treating her foot. You see, the foot is dead. I mean rotten-dead. Cut-it-off dead. Seeing-the-bones dead. The doctors wanted to amputate. Any sane person would advise this. But not Don Pepe. He was treating it. And the tissues were growing back. Every day. Little by little. The black stinking flesh is regaining color. Where there is no flesh, it is growing back. Fat. Nerve. Muscle. And this is just normal business here.

At night, when we drink Ayahuasca, I see jacked giants breaking out in tears, sobbing for their mother, facing the emotional traumas they have buried deep down in their souls and forgotten about it. At daylight I see them again. Changed. More open. Less dark. Lighter.

And although medical miracles... Not the miracle I want to share tonight.

The miracle has to do with the woman.

But I gotta go back in the days for that. Way back.

When I was studying medicine, I also fell in love with... drugs. Hamburgs techno-scene was hot, the music was fresh, the people cool. Still to this day I believe Hamburg has the dopest people of all cities on Earth. I was taken by it. The MDMA allowed me to open to others, connect in a way I never knew before. I felt as if I was part of something bigger, something beautiful. I felt beautiful myself. I was less tense. More smooth. People genuinely liked me all of a sudden. Chicks liked me. And I liked them. I loved them. I loved the music. I loved the dancing, the sweat, the sexyness. I loved the vibrations. I loved the rush. Not long until I was completely addicted to it.

I needed money. For entries. For drinks. For drugs. For more drinks.

I lied to my mother. I requested money for this or that new medical book, plastic sceleton, or whatever shit I came up with. When she stopped sending me money, because it was just too much, I had a drink with a friend of mine and the next day we bought a few hundred pills and pushed them in the clubs ourselves.

He stopped soon. He said, it destroyed the parties for him. I didn’t stop. I just started. For me it didn’t destroy the parties. It just changed the game to another level. At the beginning it was cool. It was just a side hustle, for a few minutes when I went from the dancefloor to take a piss and someone asked me for something in the bathroom. I was amazed that instead of spending a hundred bucks per night I went home with an additional hundred.

Then two hundred.

Then five hundred.

Then I realized that I can sell pills in Berlin for double the price, triple even, quadruple sometimes. In Hamburg we were family, we knew each other, we couldn’t rip each other off. But in Berlin, my hometown, nobody gave a shit.

Each friday morning, when I was finished raving in Hamburgs `”Baalsaal” I took a ride to Berlin, where I would keep on partying the weekend, to be back in university on monday morning.

In Berlin I made a thousand. Per night.

I always loved the Berghain. It was just another thing. More mature. More naked. Rough and sexy.

They had their own dealers. Not that they worked for the club, but they had their claims there. But soon I realized, they came quite late, because late is when the real party starts. But the tourists didn’t know that. And the tourists were the ones who needed shit. My shit. And I could ask any price I wanted. Because they had no fuckin’ clue. And there was nobody else anyway.

It was fuckin’ gold-rush

Before the first of the home-dealers arrived I already made 2 grand.

For what? For having a great time!

It took a few weeks and I didn’t give a shit about the dealers anymore. They knew me, they liked me, I liked them. I had my regular customers who would party every weekend and would get a line or pill for free every now and then.

Everyone knew me. Everyone knew my shit was awesome. Everyone was my friend. I felt like the coolest cat in the coolest club of the world.

I was shining. I was the sugarman. I was King-fuckin’-Kong!

And I literally had unlimited money.

And then I saw her. Sitting on a black, worn-out leather couch, between two good looking dudes.

Her face was a masterpiece. Her hair looked liked fuckin’ silk. You know, like in the commercials. Like L’oreal or something like that.

She had the vibe. Fresh. Light. And dirty at the same time, ‘cause there are only dirty people in this club.

Before I even said “Hi”, I was in love. Struck by lightning

I said I liked her face. It was a stupid line. But she liked it and smiled.

“I am Josi!” she said. And I was lost. She had me. She just needed to take it.

We talked and danced and heeell yeah

she had a groove.

A girl with a groove like that, a girl who knows how to bounce the shit out of the dancefloor, that is rare, like purple moons. They exist. I saw them. But only a few times.

Her life's goal, she said, "is just being in the Here and Now"

My God, I would have killed anyone for this woman.

I had already sold all my stuff that night and had now only eyes for her. I liked to pay for her drinks and get massive bundles of money out of my pocket. She was pushing dope herself and when she heard how much I already made that night she just couldn't believe it. Like she really didn’t believed it. Until I showed her all my money. I tried to impress her by telling her I sell dope since I was 14, which was true, but I stopped at 18 and started doing armed robberies instead.

She wasn’t focused, so I took the rest of her dope and pushed it within the next 30 minutes.

We drank so much. We snorted even more. I put two lines on the screen of my phone and she sniffed them both away with a single stroke. We laughed. The smiles in our faces wouldn't stop.

But we didn't go home with each other.

The whole week I was thinking about her. Monday, while looking into the microscope. Tuesday, while cutting of some fat of some old dead dude. Wednesday while reading stuff in the library. On Thursday Night I started my business, back in Hamburgs “Baalsaal”. On Friday Night I continued in Berghain. She wasn’t there. I should have slept afterwards. But I didn’t. Saturday Night, still without sleep, I walked like a zombie to Berghain. I had to see her.

As usual, I had shitloads of pills and powders in my bag. I always hid my stash in the bushes somewhere in walking distance to the club and would take only smaller amounts at once with me into the club, hidden in a secret pocket of my fluffy red jacket. But today wasn’t always. Today was pay-day for my sins.

I forgot to hide my shit.

When they checked my bag at the entrance, and they always check everyone, they pulled out hundreds of pills and God knows how many bags with speed.

As the police arrived, all I was thinking was

"fiNaLly...sLEep"

Not counting the countless nights I spend in cells of different police stations in Berlin, it was about to enter my second real jail-time.

My mind couldn’t process what was going on. I really couldn’t comprehend at all what was happening. Just a minute ago, I was havin’ fun, dancin’, bouncin’, makin’ cash and now... what? I mean... whaaaaat?

It was just too many drugs. Too many months, too many weekends, too many nights. At the end I took more than ten pills per night, not knowing how many lines of speed and other stuff. The stop was too abrupt. It was as if my life stopped from 200 to zero in a second and my mind just crashed through the front window and I was flying through a void without anything to tell me where the fuck is up and where is down.

The second night in prison, I took the pants of the pyjama, that they gave me, tied one nice knot around the bars and another one around my neck. When I jumped, I realized that the knot wasn't nice after all. I was sitting on my butt, hurting, thinking "fUck iT" and went to bed.

The next day I was brought to my permanent cell, and the first thing I did, as the warden stepped outside and closed the heavy door behind him, was making a really nice knot, but this time properly.

I hung a few moments from the bars, then my bodies adrenaline was having a word with me and instinctively my feet were reaching for the edge of the bed. After 7 very long seconds, they managed to get hold of it, slide it a little closer and finally stand on it.

“gODdaMn” I thought with a messy mind... “I hAve a pRoBlemmm”

On the same day, I went to the doctor, told him that I am not stable and definitely gonna kill myself in here. I told him the whole story, he seemed to be really cool. He put a red dot on my cell’s door so that the wardens would check every hour whether I was still alive and fresh or already dead and stinky.

The next day I was brought to a double cell where I would live together with an arab dude who got catched selling heroin in the subway for a wage of 50 bucks a day. He was alright. Jerking off every night like there is no tomorrow... on the top floor of our bunkbed. But otherwise he was decent..

There I was. Looking out of the window. Seeing nothin’ but walls and barbwire and grey clouds.

It was winter.

And the months passed by.

I was praying, begging, crying. I felt abandoned by God, whom I met in my first jail-time as an 18 year old. I had no hope. My lawyer told me, for sure it's gonna be a few years, especially concerning my criminal record. I couldn’t grasp my situation. Just a moment ago, I was a bright young man, studying medicine, on his way to become a childrens doctor or a surgeon or whatever, the pride of his mother... and now... in prison... because I sold drugs on dirty toilets to dirty people of whom I was the dirtiest of them all.

My mom was visiting me once a week. She developed an ulcer in her stomach due to the intense stress and worry her imprisoned child caused her. That ulcer made her breath stink like shit and when I was brought back to my cell I would cry for hours while realizing what I have done to her. Silently, without sobbing. I wasn’t alone in the cell after all.

And I knew what was I about to do to her next would kill her. But I was so done. My brain was properly fucked by tons of drugs. My life was properly fucked anyway. And God left me. I was in Satan's custody now.

There was no hope.

I waited for my cell's companion to go to a certain appointment. I planned everything carefully. I pushed everything out of reach this time. No bed, no chair, nothing. I whispered my last words: "Sorry. For everything."

And then...

I fell asleep. Right where I was standing.

And then someone gave me a heavy slap right in my face.

I must have fallen on the floor. Two big muscular men with the white dress of psychiatry-nurses where standing over me. One white man and one black man. Both of them had tattoos all over their visible skin and army-like haircuts.

"Yo!" the white man was barking at me.

"Get yourself together, fool! Get your fucking shit together. You can do this! You have the strength. Just get your fucking shit together. You’re here for a reason. Stop whining and start learning, fool!"

And I was like “whaaaat?”

Then they both took me at the collar and threw me upwards.

And I was thrown through the ceiling of my cell, even through the ceilings of the cells on top of that and through the roof and I was flying further and further up until I came to a hold around 200m above the prison, overlooking the whole district, the buildings, the cars and the tiny people that would move like ants all around. The air was crisp and birds were flying around me.

And then gravity kicked in.

"Oh shit!" 

I was falling back down with an incredible speed, smashed back in my body, and woke up.

I was feeling fresh, energized and alive. There was hope after all.

For the first time in months there was a certain calmness in my mind.

I spent my days puzzling or writing love letters for all the arab inmates in my block, so that they could send them to their wifes outside, since every letter had to be in German, so that the wardens could read it before it would be sent. In return I received little jars of plum-jam or chocolates. Eating something sweet can be incredible nice in such a pale environment.

I returned to my regimen of workouts in the cell. Push-Ups and Sit-Ups. I stretched and bend.

And as my mind became clearer and clearer and more and more letters from my friends arrived I started to realized what I did on the spiritual level. You see, and I am kidding you not, I always took Jesus first miracle, when he turned water into wine into some kind of legitimation for taking drugs. But I just completely lost all measure. My friend, who stopped dealing after a few parties was wiser than me. I didn’t see clearly. I let my mind to be corrupted by greed, clouded by money. I reversed-enginereed the situation I was in and recognized, that for the last months I was only thinking about money, money, money. All day long I was calculating the numbers. How much I would spend on new supplies. How much I would earn in this club or that club and how long it would take to be really fuckin’ rich.

I read the many letters of my friends outside who were thinking of me and wishing me good luck. Before my arrest I degraded them all to mere customers. I recalled that when I met any of them I only cared about whether they need somethin for the next weekend. That was all. I didn’t hang out with them anymore if they didn’t buy stuff. I was a shell. God didn't abandon me. I abandoned him. And I didn’t even notice.

I smiled. Now I knew why I was here. Not because God stopped loving me. But because He was loving me so much, that he needed to correct me with some tough love. Because He cared, I was here. So that I can change. And become righteous once again.

A few weeks passed by and they revisited their decision whether to leave me in custody until the trial or not as it is the formal procedure in the land.

I was brought to a little court-room inside the prison.

Above the door of the room, where I would meet the judge was a triangle with an eye inside of it. And I knew God would be in there too.

The judge opened the procedure. He read my criminal records. All my arrests for fist-fights, for breaking in to cars or other stupid shit. But strangely my conviction for armed robbery was not in the list, although this was by far the heaviest crime of them all.

They had the results from the laboratory, he said. He didn’t smile.

Apparently I was selling pills the weekend I got arrested that were so heavily stretched that there was almost no real MDMA or other classified substance in any of them. The same was the case for the powders. I remembered, that on that weekend quite a few people came back to me and complained about the quality of the dope, or even wanted their money back.

You see, God works in mysterious ways. Especially when it comes to tweaking numbers. He seems to have a thing for that.

They had to let me go. The amount of substance in the drug was just too little.

Hope.

I couldn't believe it. They found at least two hundred pills and another hundred grams of speed and now they say it all was just smarties and baking powder.

What a miracle!

And still, not the miracle I want to talk about.

My mom picked me up from the prison gate. She was crying. Relieved. And disappointed of course. Realizing that she didn't know the young man in front of her who used to made her proud, who was to become a doctor, her little boy.

She made me clean up the garden. It was still freezing cold. The winter was long.

All I could think about was Josi. The angel I just met before I went to prison.

I called her. Her voice was cold. She didn't want to meet me.

And my heart fell together in itself like a ballon pierced by needle.

...

Although they gave me a lifelong ban in Berghain I managed to slip in a few times. Dancing in Panorama Bar I saw her standing with a friend on the little balcony from which one could see the whole dancefloor. She pointed towards me and I clearly heard her saying to her friend: "That's him! That’s the guy I told you about!" You see the F1-Soundsystem in that joint is quite remarkable and can erase those frequencies out of the music that are used when humans are talking with each other. This allows you to actually have conversations although the speakers are pumping sound like anything.

I knew that she knew that I was there. But when I approached her she pretended to be surprised to see me and I noticed how uncomfortable she was just talking to me.

I was desperate. So in love. And she didn't give a shit. It seemed. Some friends of mine told me she was always asking about me. I was confused. So confused. Maybe she was too... But I felt I am somehow still important to her.

Although I was not in jail anymore, I was still imprisoned.

Although I had received a little bit clarity of mind in the prison, it was all gone by now. The drugs took their toll. I had to pay my debts now. My mind was not functioning. My emotions were completely in chaos. My thoughts were dull and messy. I had problems to process language. My memory had no grip at all. All my attempts to do anything worthwhile failed. My relationships were bad. Most of my friends somehow abandoned me. I hated myself. I was a broken human being. Completely kaputt. I was staring right at it. And I just couldn't escape.

I started an apprenticeship in a carpentry workshop but I just couldn't make it work. Whatever I did, it was full of flaws, uncomplete, dirty and way too often I even damaged the work of others by accident or just mere mindlessness. I was slow, forgot too many things and noticeably wasn't mentally present. While my thinking had no power at all, the power of my emotions was way too much to handle and brought me down to my knees every day. I wouldnt pray. I would beg for mercy, whining and wailing. Especially in construction, where there is sharpness required and a lot of testosterone in the air, this emotional turmoil just completely fucked me. Every half an hour I went to the toilet to have a panic attack, to cry, to look in the mirror and saw some kind of clown I didn’t recognize. My co-workers started to talk behind my back. At first. Later they talked shit about me while I was standing right in the damn room.

I couldn't talk to friends, although there were a few who sticked with me, who were deeply worried. But I couldn’t accept their love. I couldn’t be loved.

I begged God for my death. Even for my mother to die, so that I could kill myself without hurting her.

Every free moment I was thinking about suicide. Or about Josi.

It was a Dark Night of the Soul. And a very long one.

I lived in a community then with a few people. My presence always had and still has a big impact on the atmosphere in a room. In those days for the bad. I was grumpy, frustrated with myself, alone, hopeless. The others were increasingly irritated by my presence, my moodyness, my tensions and I noticed that painfully every moment on every single day. And thus I stepped into darkness even more.

I wrote a letter. Took a kitchen knife with me. Went to the graveyard right around the corner, sat next to a tombstone, took a deep breath and was about to start the cut.

I closed my eyes.

All of a sudden I saw images. Vivid. Deep. Colorful. High Resolution. As if I would be right in them. There was an ocean, sparkling water, warm sunshine. An amazing coast. There were friends and me on a sailing boat. We were laughing. I saw myself in a nice room, playing guitar, singing. I saw myself in front of a canvass, painting, wearing torn clothes with red and green sprinkles on them. And a hat. I saw myself standing on top of a mountain. Watching the world in 360 degrees. I saw myself holding a child in my arms. 

I opened my eyes.

I dropped the knife and felt hope once again that there might be a future for me, a life, in bright colors with red and green sprinkles. One day.

But for now everything was still grey.

A friend told me about a silent ten day meditation retreat. It was called “Vipassana”, she said. I had never heard about it.

And although I was always interested in meditation and yoga, I didn’t applied for the sake of meditating. All I wanted to everyone around me to shut the up for ten days. For me shutting up for ten days. For being alone. For not disturbing anyone with my mere existence.

Without that course I would be dead by now, that much I know. And now, many years later, I would go through all of it once more, just to be brought to this technique.

From the first day on afterwards, my cognition started to function again. Little by little but tangible. My emotions were still chaotic and I panicked a lot, almost every day. But whenever I remembered to apply what I have learned from Vipassana, my emotions immediately became less abstract, less overwhelming.

Emotions stripped away from there mental projections and reduced to physical sensations were something I could handle. My panick stopped being a violent rush of self-doubt, negative memories, bad projections of the future and started to be an increased heartbeat, a weird feeling in the stomach, coldness in my limbs. That was still unpleasant, but nothing that would whoop my ass.

What once were huge, dangerous monsters in my bedroom became just the shadows of a little dwarfs standing on my sideboard as soon as i switched on the light of awareness that Vipassana taught me.

I came back to life. I stretched and breathed. I meditated. I bought a guitar.

I wasn't able to write again, but I hoped... maybe one day I will have the strentgh, joy and confidence to speak once more. Maybe one day I my spirit would be strong again, so that I would dare to inspire. Maybe one day I would have a voice again.

The colors came back. One after the other.

But Josi didn't. She avoided me. Sometimes we met by coincidence. There was no affection from her at all. And I turned into a little puppy, needy for her affirmation, her confirmation that I would exist.

Back then I knew nothing about masculine or feminine energies. I didn’t know what a man was, or a woman, and that a true man or woman has always both energies in state of balance. I only knew I was in love with an angel that would rather eat glass alone then have a dinner with me.

But I kept on thinking and dreaming about her.

...

Fast forward a few years.

...

PART III

The Golden Gate Bridge was a fucking majestically thing. The bay sparkled blue and the sky was as blue as a sky can be. I loved San Francisco, especially when I could see it from my friends balcony in Oakland.

Visiting California was always on top of my bucket list.

I was feeling great that morning. I had a funny dream the night before and dreamt about Josi, what would happen every few months. After I woke up, still half asleep on the couch, I opened her Facebook page and saw that she had an Instagram account which I checked out for the first time. I saw hundreds and hundreds of professional model-photos. She made it. I was happy. At first.

It took just a few moments and I felt like a total loser. The images in my mind of her being with beautiful actors, models, fashion-creators or whatever society-shit there is, overwhelmed me. I felt small. I didn’t accomplish anything. I was just traveling the world, doing nothing worthwhile besides finding myself. While she must be quite wealthy by now, or having a rich man by her side, I had nothing to offer. The only thing I had was God, but at least the relationship between Him and I was improving for a while now.

Something inside of me wouldn’t have it. Something inside me wouldn’t crawl back under the blanket and feel sorry for myself. If she can pursue her dreams, than I could do the same thing.

I made myself a nice coffee, lit up a cigarette, booted my laptop and did something I haven’t done for years.

I wrote.

Nothing long. Nothing good even. But at least something.

I found my mind back years ago. My Heart some months ago while in India.

But my passion I found back that very morning.

I felt grateful. I enjoyed my life. Very much. But not to be able to write was always tormenting me in the back of my mind.

I stepped outside into a beautiful sunny day and decided to contact Josi after so many years. A textmessage wouldn’t be good. It needed to be something more personal. So I made a video for her and expressed my gratefulness for the Inspiration I received from seeing her following her dream. I believe to this day, that this is the best way to help others. By living oneself to fullest. Living life like it’s golden. I sent the video. Stepped into my car. And drove north where I would sit my second Vipassana-course, 5 years after my first one.

And again it completely changed my life.

That course, I realized already on the third day, would be one of the most important events in my life. I had a certain experience that is called "Bhangha". A complete dissolution of a solidified area next to my spine. I had a pain there that tormented me for two years. It couldn’t got cured by doctors, chiropractors or yoga-asanas. Vipassana is a pali-word, the language spoken by the Buddha and means as much as seeing things as they are. And by exactly doing this, observing the painful sensations, aware and equanimously... it just melted. It was as if I threw a tablet into a glas of water and what was a solid peace at first just bubbled away. That happened to other solidified spots too. I felt opened energy lines, the nadis, vibrating throughout my body. Sometimes it was as if it was raining the other way round, that thousand of tiny drops would leave my back and ascend to the sky. Bhangha!

Bhangha. One the most important and at the same time most dangerous experiences for a meditator. A milestone. That is why it is called little stream-entry. It shows one the true power of the technique, and thus one realizes what’s gonna happen if one continues with it. It shatters one’s view of the reality of ones own mind-body phenomenon. Naga-Rupa. And it is probably the most pleasant experience ever. Even if it just occurs partially, as it did to me. This amazing pleasantness itself and the simultaneously happening dissolution of unpleasant pains... that is why it is not only one of the most important experiences but also one of the most dangerous. They warn you! You can meditate wrong! You can create new impurities and tensions if you develop cravings for the sensations of it or for the progress that it seems to be! But somehow, during that retreat I didn’t hear that. I would pay a price for that. Much later.

In that retreat, I had a few openings of the third eye as well. I saw the structures and the fractals of the cosmos, the blueprint of creation, of myself, of God. I received the second represantion of the meaning of the Kingdom. But besides that it was just spectacular. I was thinking about fire and BOUM was sitting right in front of a camp-fire, feeling the warmth, hearing the crackles, seeing the vivid red and orange of the flames. I was thinking about water and BOUM was standing naked right in a waterfall, feeling the fresh cold, hearing the splashes, seeing the vivid blue and turquoise of the water. I saw a whole bunch of other stuff too, archetypes, galaxies, battles in outer space, even Darth Vader coming out of a solidified sensation with a laser-sword. It was a trip. But although definitely induced by my brains own DMT (the way things look are just too unique) it was much more controlable, integratable and memorizable then smoking the shit.

When the course was over there was not a trace of doubt left, that I hit the jackpot with this technique. I studied in the years before many spiritual ways, healing techniques, philosophies and will always practice the eight limbs of Yoga. But this technique, taught and applied by the Buddha himself, was the only one I have encountered, that would lead to full Enlightenment. As it did for himself and for so many others after him.

I was heavily meditated. Calm, clear and confident.

When I activated my phone there was no reply to the message I sent to Josi though.

But I knew in that moment, probably for the first time in my life, that regardless if I see her ever again, I will be happy. This knowing was on a very deep level and increased my peace even more. I knew it didn’t matter at all what happened. What I did with either way, was what mattered.

You see. A miracle is not just the effect. The cause is what really counts. And the cause is always a change in one’s perspective. That is the true miracle. Whatever happens in the outside then, is merely a confirmation that one’s view has been corrected. And that the cosmos is very well aware. This awareness of the cosmos, it's responsiveness and care for the issues of it's inhabitants... this is what I call God.

When I took my phone the next time, there was a little red dot with the number one inside in the corner of the app. I received a message. It was Josi.

The next day came another one. We texted back and forth. I didn’t feel like a puppy anymore. But I felt like it's christmas everyday, with every message I received. When she switched to voice messages, and I could listen to her voice once again, my face consisted only of a big fat smile all day long.

We didn’t manage to have a call though. There was the time-difference between California and Berlin and since I was staying in a house of a ganjafarmer far out in the californian nowhere I had only a very shitty connection. If at all.

Then... suddenly... the last message ended with...

"I just can't live anymore"

And then nothing more. Internet was gone again. I was freaking out. Whatthefuck? Whatthefuck? Whatthefuckisgoingon?

I drove to the next city. Called her.

She told me that she was very sick. That the many years of drugs took their toll. That she continued long after I was out and took some heavy shit. Her mind was broken. She only had fake friends, that stole all her money. She was alone. Therapies didn’t help. She didn’t had hope.

...

"Then join me to Peru!" I said.

It took her a few days, but then

..she agreed.

I couldn't believe it. I would have traveled around the globe to see her once again. Just one more time. And now she would. Not to see me maybe, but to find healing, but nonetheless we would finally meet.

I find it always astonishing. In the moment were you stop craving for your dreams to come true, when you allow the universe to work, what once was chased for so long just turns around and knocks on the door. Although with a bitter by-taste this time. But broken things can be repaired, so not too bitter.

Worry not about what you shall eat, or what you shall wear, where you shall live. Your heavenly Father knows what you need. Worry only about the Kingdom and everything else will be given to you.

In thee days she comes.

And that is the miracle.

[heartslogos]

pull the morning out of the night [74]

“Do I need to be worried about this?”

Ellana turns, and he is more familiar with the kind of spitting angry vitriol on both sides of her face than with anything else he’s seen since coming here. The Iron Bull can place that - the anger of a noble who’s been snubbed, the affronted shock of a wealthy or otherwise supposedly important person who’s been slighted, the face of someone who’s pride has taken a hit.

He supposes he just isn’t so familiar with seeing it on her.

The unfamiliarity makes it dangerous.

Bull knows what to expect from those above examples. He knows how to handle that.

But Bull has not yet learned how to work around that in context of a person who thinks that they are going to become a god.

“Yes,” Ellana says, “About what? Yes to all of it. Everything.”

Ellana’s nose flares once and she drums her fingers on the back of a chair, the wood of it creaking in her grip as she examines him. The Wolf and Ellana both pick him apart.

“You are untouched,” Ellana determines, “They did not try to touch you. Good. Do not let them. You are not for them.”

The words curl up at the edges like something being lit on fire, like something that prickles on skin. Gooseflesh and raised hair.

This - this is more familiar. Jealousy. Possession. Bull understands those, better. And they are even familiar on her.

“Do I need to be worried about that?” Bull repeats, gesturing at the right side of her body.

Ellana lets out a rough snort, and begins to pull and tug at the many knots of her robes.

“That is not for you to worry about. It is of no danger to you, to any of them,” Ellana indicates the others who’ve retreated to their assigned sleeping corners to talk out of Ellana’s range of sight. Bull doubts it will do much. But Ellana, thus far, has shown no sign of caring about what they gossip about behind her back. Maybe she doesn’t care. Maybe it doesn’t matter to her. “The ones who should fear what is in me now are the ones out there. The others.”

Dangerous talk, Bull thinks. Others.

War talk. Destruction talk. Erasure talk. This, too, is something he is familiar with.

Ellana tosses her thick outer robe onto a divan against the wall and strides to a wall length mirror, waving a hand and summoning veil fire.

“This is the first time I’ve seen it, myself,” Ellana admits, voice breaking from the strung, angry, curling at the edges thing to something a little calmer, closer to a face raised to sunlight. Ellana examines herself in the mirror, head tilting. “I look spectacularly awful. Do you agree?”

“You’ve looked more person-like,” Bull concedes. “They looked at you like you were infectious.”

“I am infectious,” Ellana replies turning and pulling the sleeves off of her inner layers down to expose her right side, prodding at the flesh. “To them. Not to you. To mages, mostly. Maybe to Dalish and Dorian - but it’s unlikely. In either case, they’re my house.”

“That changes things? I didn’t know diseases were so selective.”

“What I have is not a disease, but a certain way of existing,” Ellana says, tugging her sash open and letting her clothes fall until she is only in a light gossamer shift and her small clothes. Ellana turns and looks at herself over her shoulder, running her left hand over parts of her back and side.

“Amazing,” She murmurs, half to herself. “He was right. I felt it - I knew it was the truth - but it’s gone. I didn’t realize.”

Bull clears this throat.

“I know we made an arrangement and it’s never the place of a hired hand to ask too many questions,” Bull says when she makes a noise of acknowledgement in the back of her throat, “But there’s a difference between that and complete and total stupidity.”

“You are correct,” Ellana says, nodding and turning to look at him, “But you are not a hired sword, the Iron Bull. I know you like to think of yourself and the Chargers as such - it removes a certain level of culpability that I know you aren’t ready for, aren’t ready to face - but you are not hired swords to be discarded and used like pawns. You are my household.”

Ellana’s eyes sharpen, and her voice begins to curl again, at the edges.

“You are mine,” Ellana says, “Trust me. Believe in me. I will bring you through this. There are things that I cannot tell you because I simply am not capable of telling them. And there are things that I will tell you in time. But you do not leave. You do not get to quit or decide terms. The terms have already been set.”

“Terms can always be broken,” Bull points out.

Ellana raises an eyebrow, “Are the Chargers the type to break contracts?”

“With good enough reason, it’s happened,” Bull replies.

The Wolf’s teeth spread out underneath her skin, her lips, “Not this one.”

Bull has no real answer to that. The Chargers can’t leave on their own and it’s unlikely that they ever will. Even if Pavus manages to figure out his message-time-book-thing.

“Will you tell me?” The Iron Bull asks.

“You don’t trust me?”

“No,” He replies.

“Why not?” Ellana pulls her gloves off, tossing them onto the dressing table. They land with a surprising soft of weight to them.

“Why should I?” The Iron Bull returns. She’s more like her elder than he ever realized. The realization is - unpleasant, to say the least. To understate it.

The Wolf’s lip curls up on her face.

“A good answer,” She replies, “But the wrong one for this situation. I promised that I would protect you and yours. That is what it means to be a house hold. I will protect you. What did the Wolf tell you when you were speaking earlier? I was unable to listen in - I was distracted.”

“To not take our eyes off of you,” Bull says following her around the room with his eyes as she goes to the wash basin and splashes water onto her face, leaning forward to bring water around to the back of her neck. “And then later, something about how if we lose sight of you something might happen. Did they protect you?”

“What?” Ellana’s hands pause.

“Did they protect you?” The Iron Bull repeats, trusting Ellana to understand who he means without saying.

Ellana’s hands rest at the back of her neck, water dripping and wetting her shift. Bull watches it start to stick to her skin.

“No,” Ellana replies, “I have never had a real house before. You are my first. I was not part of a house, then. You know what I was.”

“A slave.”

“Yes.” Ellana doesn’t look up, just stands there, her head bowed, hands paused mid-splash over the back of her neck, “Does that change anything?”

“No,” The Iron Bull says. It isn’t a real lie.

Ellana nods, once, and goes back to washing her face.

“The vallaslin all slaves wear is more than just to denote who belongs to whom,” Ellana says, “There is magic in the ink. It is called blood writing because it writes into your very flesh and blood your lack of independence, individuality. The different members of the pantheon have their own tricks to it - but my - he - his trick, in specific was to. Do you know what the Raven twins represent?”

“Secrets and death.”

“Both unseen, creeping things,” Ellana says, unfolding one of the wash clothes on the stand and wetting it to dab against her skin. “Those of the Raven Twins are trained to be silent, like ghosts, among other things. When we are unseen, unnoticed, the Ravens can use them as proxies. They slip into the mind, seeing through the eyes and hearing through the ears, even making entire bodies disappear. But that is only if the body is unseen, unthought of, invisible.”

Ellana lowers the cloth, spreading her hands on the table in front of her, eyes lowered towards the basin.

“When I left the Wolf removed my marks - the visible marks and as much as he could of their magic underneath. But there are scars.” Ellana raises her right arm and traces a line down her left, “Here. You can see them, if you know where to look. They are tattoos, after all. They are scars. And of course there was lingering magic. It shouldn’t effect me anymore given how much of the Wolf I have in me, how strong my own magic has become. But just in case - just in case.”

Ellana breathes and turns around to meet his eyes.

“I do not like it when others give you and the others orders. But in this - in this, listen to him.” Ellana’s voice wavers, like a shimmer of moisture in the air. “Look at me. And only at me.”

Bull nods, unsatisfied and annoyed as hell.

Unsatisfied for a lack of answers; annoyed because he’ll deal with it because he’d rather have no answers at the moment than accidentally hand her over to the enemy on a silver fucking platter out of petty irritation.

Regardless of what he thinks of her, of what has and hasn’t changed, there is one thing that hasn’t.

The Iron Bull doesn’t put up with the kind of bullshit the Raven Twins spew out.

(It’s Krem at the tavern all over again. It’s Skinner at the alienage. It’s Stitches at the battlefield. It’s Rocky at the docks. It’s Grim in the backwater village. It’s Dalish at the city gates.

It’s Ellana and the whites of her eyes and the white underneath her bones that yells and screams and shrieks.

The Iron Bull is good at taking blows mean to kill other people.)

[killingthebuddha]

KOCHI, India — When I get to the goddess temple, the last thing I want is to meet a public relations officer.

I’ve traveled from Los Angeles to India to report on religion and politics in the country’s looming 2019 elections. A couple days into my short, university-funded trip, a country called the “land of stories” has produced nothing but dead ends.

At the 800-year-old Chottanikkara Devi Temple outside the city of Kochi, I expect to interview a government official. The state of Kerala uses temple management boards to oversee publicly owned Hindu worship centers. I need a high-ranking board member to comment on a religious controversy at another site. Instead, I get handed off to Meena Jayraj, a spokesperson.

She reminds me of a former boss when I produced P.R. videos several jobs ago. Jayraj is wise from years of experience and skilled with people. That’s what scares me. I worry she’ll mind-trick me into puff pieces, and I’m already losing confidence in the story I came to cover. It’s my own fault. Overly ambitious and underprepared, I’m struggling to find my way in Kerala, the one place in south India I don’t have any extended family.

Jayraj invites me to lunch in the dining hall. I don’t have time for this, but it’s bad luck to refuse prasad, temple food. The red matta rice and creamy sambar soup on my plate have already been offered before an image of the goddess, seeking her blessings. This meal is holy. And now my journalism is in conflict with my Hinduism.

Jayraj tells me the temple lore. I’m still on guard. But it becomes clear she believes every word she’s saying. Judging by the lines of devotees filing in and out of lunch, she doesn’t need my help to promote temple tourism.

In the legends of the Chottanikkara village, multiple images of the devi, or goddess, self-manifested where the temple now stands. At the large religious complex, stone walkways and wooden structures connect and mark these sacred spots. Depending on the time of day, temple-goers worship the central statue as Saraswathi, Lakshmi or Durga, three aspects of one supreme being, the female God in the Shakti branch of Hinduism.

Like the goddess with many names, the state of Kerala juggles its identities. With its secular politics and a public education system producing a 93 percent literacy rate, religion still thrives in the state. Reason and faith coexist here.

The appeal of the Chottanikkara temple has only grown in recent years. Visitors flock here from neighboring states and from the U.S., the U.K. and Australia, according to Jayraj and other temple authorities. Even non-Hindus, who aren’t allowed in the inner sanctum, can sit in the outer courtyard and pay the temple priests to perform the guruthi pooja. Why would they do this? The nightly ceremony is said to cure mental illnesses. When conventional medicine and therapy fail, some turn to the goddess.

Two minutes into lunch, Jayraj says something to make me stop chewing mid-mouthful. “Come back tonight,” she says. Through her glasses, her eyes are steady, her neck anchored toward me. “And all your negative thoughts will go away.”

I can’t decide if she means the generic “you,” as in anyone’s negative thoughts, or if she’s reading my mind. Does my face give away my frustrations as a reporter? As a 40-something grad student making a mid-career shift?

Depression, the main problem (along with schizophrenia) that’s treated at Chottanikkara, runs in my family. I think I’ve avoided that gene. I am discouraged, maybe, but not depressed.

If anything, I suffer, however mildly, from a half-remembered sadness common to Asian Americans, what Neo-Freudian cultural theorists call “racial melancholia.” Disconnected from the “motherland,” I feel like a guest in someone else’s house, wherever I am.

How can a temple fix that, except as a diversion?

I follow Jayraj to her office across from the main shrine and ask her how the devi helps people with mental health issues. She gives a recent example.

A few weeks ago, a twenty-year-old woman arrived from Bangalore with her mother and father. The parents told Jayraj their daughter was hearing voices and had stopped eating. Psychiatric treatment hadn’t helped, they said. The woman was about to drop out of medical school.

Five days in the temple changed everything, Jayraj says. On the priest’s orders, the woman woke at 3:30 every morning and followed a regimen of chanting, prayer and meditation, ending with the guruthi pooja each night. Now, she’s a “new person” and, most importantly to her Indian parents, back in college. They’ve called Jayraj twice to thank her, she says.

Over the course of the afternoon, I hear similar stories from temple priests and volunteers, but I have to see the guruthi pooja for myself.

“I’ll come back another night,” I tell Jayraj on my way out, still thinking I have better, more urgent leads to follow elsewhere.

*

Devotees gather in the evening after visiting Durga in the main temple. (Photo by Krishna Narayanamurti)

When I return, I wait in line to enter the inner sanctum. Adorned in a white sari, the golden statue of Durga waits at the end of the walkway. A warm smile runs across her sculpted face. I’m told this is her maternal form, blessing believers with her grace.

But as darkness falls, Durga has a fierce twin at the far end of the temple.

I descend a sloping staircase to a separate shrine for Bhadra Kali, an alter ego of the goddess, where the guruthi pooja will take place.

In myths, both Durga and Kali fight to defend heaven and earth. But Kali is the more violent and morally ambiguous warrior. She slays demons that the male gods cannot handle and demands blood sacrifices from her devotees.

Kali’s idol is smaller than Durga’s. A wide space in front is fenced off for tonight’s ceremony. Through the dim lamp light and the distance, I can’t see her face clearly. I think she’s scowling, but maybe I’m projecting my expectations onto her.

Every evening, the doorways to the shrines are opened so that the Durga and Kali statues can gaze at each other across the temple complex. A divine face-off, the two halves of the goddess balance their peaceful and warlike energies, according to devotees.

I sit cross-legged on the floor to the left of the Kali shrine. The families paying for the ceremony are front and center. At 8:30, the proceedings get underway, but only 40 of us are present. That number will grow to a couple hundred by the end of the evening. Even at sacred events, Indians like to show up late.

A man draped in a salmon-colored dhoti leads the audience in the “Lakshmi Narayana” hymn, a litany of the goddess’s nicknames. I find out later the singer’s name is Bhaskar. With no formal training, he sounds like a fusion of James Taylor and Stevie Wonder. The CDs of religious music sold at temples never sound this good. The singers never hit the mids and highs with this much range. Bhaskar needs his own record deal, or at least a booking agent.

After each verse, the crowd joins Bhaskar for the chorus:

“Amme Narayana, Devi Narayana, Lakshmi Narayana, Badre Narayana.”

These divine names pair the goddess with her husband Vishnu (“Narayana”) and praise her in four manifestations: Amme, the mother of all life; Devi, protector of the world; Lakshmi, provider of wealth and knowledge; and Badre, destroyer of the universe.

The call-and-response lasts a half-hour, while assistant priests set up a variety of tall and short deepas, pointy brass candle holders. They add ghee, or clarified  butter, to keep the flames at a steady blaze. A banana tree stands inside a square pit to the left of the platform. Behind the pit, an offering of coconuts, rice and small fruits rest on beds of banana leaves.

So far, the ceremony doesn���t feel that different from the typical Vedic rituals for the male gods—a lot of chanting, lighting lamps and offering flowers or food. For sure, the music relaxes and soothes me. But how does that help people with more serious, deep-rooted problems?

When the singing ends, the mood changes. I realize that we must be done worshipping the goddess in her “peaceful mother” form. It’s Kali’s turn.

Two men with beards running down to their chests walk out and sit by seven large copper pots, staggered on the ground in front of the shrine.

The head priest is the older and grayer of the two men. Lines of white ash and a red circle of kumkum powder mark his forehead. He looks like a mystic from an Indian comic book. He’s not messing around.

He begins to manipulate the items around the pot, snapping twigs in a fluid motion. In between, he washes his hands and ceremonial instruments with water from a large conch. Unlike the prayer services I’m used to, the priests say and chant nothing, or if they do, their lips don’t move.

The elder priest starts to offer the contents of the copper pots into the pit by his feet. Each vessel is filled with guruthi, a mixture of water, red dye, dirt and flowers, meant to mimic the flesh and blood of the animals that Kannappa, the medieval forest dweller believed to have founded the Chottanikkara village, would offer to Kali.

In one myth, Kannappa wants to sacrifice a baby doe, his daughter’s pet. The daughter asks him to stop killing animals and offers herself in the doe’s place. Kannappa relents, but soon after, both his daughter and the deer pass away mysteriously. Later, two stones representing the goddess Lakshmi and her husband Vishnu appear in the spot where the child and animal had died. Today, these stones are cordoned off and worshipped in a corner of the temple.

Bhaskar, the singer, may have disappeared, but the night’s music is far from done. A band of percussionists takes over. Three tabla drummers and a cymbalist begin a slow, staccato rhythm while the priest continues to stir and offer portions of the pot to the fire. It’s like experimental music, purposely disorienting, but I start to get into it. The elaborate performance of it all is new territory for me, but old for India; this is a Tantric ritual of conjuring and summoning.

From the crowd of people to my right, screams and cries of women pierce through the music. A young woman in a blue sari sways where she sits among the families who have sponsored the pooja. Near her, a middle-aged woman in purple stands up and thrashes her long, curly hair in a circle. Another woman dances with her eyes closed. Things are getting weird. Has Kali taken over, chasing the spirits out of these women?

On other trips to India, I’ve seen people in a trance, claiming possession by gods or goddesses. It was terrifying. I’m not close enough to these women to look in their eyes, to test their conviction, or my own.

The drumming accelerates to the point of frenzy.

My pulse is many beats behind. Somehow, all the excitement calms me down. My mind, normally restless, is locked into the music and the screams. The anxiety and pressure I began my trip with has moved outside of me.

Another thirty minutes pass. Two more performers come out and blow a pair of horns on bowstrings. The drumming comes to a crescendo as the priest’s surgical movements quicken. He empties the remaining pots with a fury, hurling the mud and red water into the pit until all the contents have been dumped out. A drop of red paste splatters on my leg. I taste it. No flavor.

The twirling, thrashing and screaming women have gone quiet. They’re hidden behind their families and the onlookers crowding around, anxious to get the prasad from the pooja. I don’t know if the women are “cured” or if they still have more work to do at the temple.

Across the way, I see a girl in white, maybe 11 or 12 years old. A spectator like me, she doesn’t stand with the people who sponsored the event. She is sobbing — howling really, like a coyote caught in a bear trap. Either she is traumatized, or she’s feeling the secondhand effects of the therapy, an emotional release.

Afterwards, Anil Namboodiri, one of the temple priests, tells me “you have to stay for five days” for the full experience.

I ask him if the pooja is only for women. Can boys and men benefit as well?

“Sure,” he says, “you can sit for it, if you’re having mental problems.“

I assume he’s teasing me. I say “OK” with a smirk.

He corrects me sharply. “Don’t laugh. You could have them.”

Like Meena Jayraj, he’s either a telepath or an exceptional marketer.

Negative thoughts can easily penetrate the subconscious, Namboodiri tells me. Most problems come from the outside, when we let other people manipulate us, he says.

In a “land of stories,” I know I should investigate and interrogate what I’m hearing, following the way of the Western academic, the way of the journalist. For a while, I leave it alone.

*

Later, I call up Seema Lal, a Kochi-based psychologist, looking for any science to supplement my Hindu faith. Lal suggests that, on the one hand, a lot of temples promote these cures now, and it can become a way to make money. On the other hand, many people have said the routine and ritual at Chottanikkara made them feel better, and the results matter more than their reasons. In a 2017 study, other psychologists have concluded that Chottanikkara’s methods can be an effective part of a holistic approach to mental health issues.

Praying and chanting “is not causing physical harm,” Lal says, “and it’s cheaper than medicine, so why not?”

I ask Lal about the women in a trance state. Was that real?

The external stimuli from the music and ritual action can bring about a catharsis in the patient, Lal explains. For women in very traditional, repressive families, it might be a chance to express themselves freely, since the goddess will take the credit (or the blame).

“Suddenly, you get this freedom to just be,” Lal says. “Some people find it very liberating.”

As a man who grew up in a laissez-faire house in suburban New Jersey, my experience of the ritual can’t test Lal’s theory. But that night I still felt the power of Kali-Durga, the balance of chaos and order, the longing and love from a community of believers in a doubtful present.

Maybe it was dumb luck that the political story that brought me to Chottanikkara never panned out. Maybe it was the goddess, calling me home.

[theradiodude]

First Amendment Audit: Hillsdale Courthouse & Annex. "Who are you with?" Hillsdale, Michigan. *SUBSCRIBE* http://www.youtube.com/user/tacticalpatriot45?sub_c... Hat tip to Stephen Hudson for coming across this. Some interesting facts about those buildings for you: The current Hillsdale County Courthouse is the third, both in total and on that site. The first was an 1843 wooden building that was constructed after Hillsdale finally won the three-town dispute over where the county seat would be located (as that historical marker next to the anti-aircraft gun mentioned in passing). The towns involved were Hillsdale, Jonesville five miles to the north, and the newer village of Osseo five miles to the southeast. At the time, county meetings were taking place in Jonesville, so they had the strongest claim to be named the county seat. But what the state didn't know was that Jonesville officials, hoping to split the state legislature between three towns so that Hillsdale -- being larger, more centrally-located, and growing more quickly -- would lose the title, had actually settled and platted Osseo THEMSELVES entirely for that purpose, and split the county records between all three so that each would have some legitimacy to their claim. But it backfired on them. The state legislature voted, and Osseo was named the county seat. It remained such for three years before the state figured out what was going on, and the legislature almost immediately handed the title over to Hillsdale. That was in 1843, and the effort was then made to collect all the records from the three towns and put them in the newly-built courthouse. That didn't settle the matter in the minds of some, however, and even though there's no official confirmation of this, it's long been suspected that the wooden building was intentionally set fire to when it burned down -- all county records included -- in 1848. The second courthouse, both affectionately and derisively called "the Old Stonepile" was, quite literally, built out of stones from around the area, surrounding brick outer walls and inner walls made of iron. No one wanted to take any chances on it burning down again. Those two buildings were located on the north side of the courthouse lawn, facing what is now the Courthouse Annex. The rest of the courthouse square was otherwise mostly open area at the time. The current building was constructed in 1898, designed by prominent regional architect Claire Allen, who also famously designed the Jackson Post Office (now a part of Consumers Energy's headquarters), the Cascades Manor House in Jackson, and the Gratiot County Courthouse in Ithaca, which you'll notice looks an awful lot like our own here in Hillsdale (ours came first). The clock tower has always been there, and it was intended to include a clock from the very beginning, but the actual clock fixture was expensive, and the people of Hillsdale County have never been particularly inclined to give up our hard-earned money to the taxman. Since it had already taken four votes just to successfully approve tax assessments for the design and construction of the building, nobody was going to try pressing the public for additional funding to buy the clock. It wasn't until 1911 that William Mitchell -- of the prominent local family who lived in the home that now houses our city's Mitchell Research Center -- donated the clock and bells that now occupy the tower. The clock is capable of chiming Westminster bells each quarter-hour and tolling the hour as it strikes on the main bell, and has done so from time to time over the years, but due to maintenance and weather issues or simple sentiment of the general public, the Westminster chimes have been silent for most of its history. The courthouse square was also the site of a building that was used as the city's first school, a meeting hall, an alternate courthouse, and a church. It was built in 1847, shortly after the wooden courthouse building, because the county had already outgrown the official courthouse's size. That building stood at the southeast corner of the property until it fell out of use in 1868 when the city's new school building (now Bailey Elementary School) opened. The county's original jail buildings also occupied the property. First was an 1849 building that burned down in 1877. The second was built in 1881, and from what records and the memories of those who were around up until it was torn down in 1977, it was built to withstand so much abuse that it was ugly as all Hell. No one was sad to see it go. That was when the sheriff's office and the jail moved to its current location on Fayette Street on what was then the mostly undeveloped northwest corner of town. The Courthouse Annex building was originally the Hillsdale State Bank, and you can see evidence of that with the deposit box still located on the west side of the southwest corner. That entire flatiron block -- named the Waldron Block for its official original owner (there had been a lawsuit about that brought by Joe McCollum, for whom the street is named) between Howell, Broad and McCollum Streets -- suffered a gas explosion and massive fire in 1879. That entire block was originally three stories, whereas now, the majority of it is only two, and the explosion blew the entire Howell Street side of the building completely off. If you look at pictures or video of it, you can see that the Broad Street facades are completely different in style from the Howell Street facades, and that's not because of modernization efforts, it's because the entire Howell Street side had to be rebuilt. The Hillsdale State Bank building, however, occupying the whole southern end of the Waldron Block, is an exception. It was entirely rebuilt in 1929 for the purposes of the bank, since it obviously needed more security than the post office and corner grocer that had occupied it previously. I'm not certain when the county purchased it; I'd have to go dig through some records I don't have available at the moment, but I CAN tell you that, for purposes of both safety and practicality, most of our district and circuit court operations take place there. It contains the smaller of the county's two primary courtrooms, and since we don't generally have jury trials (mostly because suspects tend to plea bargain, for reasons that would encompass a whole other conversation), pretty much everything gets handled there. When we DO have a jury trial, it takes place in the third-floor courtroom at the Courthouse. Additionally, back in 2014, the county bought the former Hillsdale Daily News building at the corner of McCollum and Manning Streets, one block to the west of where this video was taken. The original reason for doing so was because of the basement-level delivery truck entrance at the back of that building. The idea was that it would be safer to walk prisoners into the courthouse through THAT entrance than through any of the publicly-open entrances at the Courthouse or Courthouse Annex. However, that idea has since been scrapped because... well, just because. Basically, the whole thing fell apart after the purchase because nobody really wanted to make it happen. So now the county owns an empty building that we taxpayers are on the hook for renovating, but there's nothing to actually renovate it FOR. And if that doesn't sum up the behavior of government in Hillsdale County, nothing will. As for the anti-aircraft gun, if memory serves, that's one of the single gun mounts from the USS LST-835, a World War II tank landing ship used to transport troops and supplies to Iwo Jima and Okinawa. She was renamed the USS Hillsdale County in 1955, the only ship ever to bear that name. She was later sold to Japan and renamed JDS Shimokita, then to the Phillippines and renamed BRP Cavite before being scrapped in 1989. I'm not certain when the county received the gun, but it's been there for as I've lived here, so at least since 1995, and probably well before then.

[astralfrontier]

“The Wake” is the name of a dreamlike fantasy world I’m creating for Fate.

You can read some short fiction here: What’s Your Story?

Table of Contents

The Spirit of the Game

The World

The Wake

Familiar Fusions

Dream Drops

Spikers

Our Daily Lives

Cities

Technology

Religion and the Theonic Guilds

Game Rules

Character Creation

New Stunts

Common Activities

Simple Fusion

Advanced Fusion Techniques

Visiting Theonic Guilds

Creating Dream Drops

Consuming a Dream Drop

Legends, Equipment and Antagonists

Sample Abstracts

Sample Dream Drops

Sample Places

The Spirit of the Game

What are we playing?

A game for having fun and exciting adventures

A world set on the frontier between reason and imagination

A world where beauty isn’t safe, and wonders aren’t banal

“We live in a world where anything is possible”: make that both sexy and scary

How do we play?

The Rose: make the world beautiful and enticing

The Thorns: make the world dangerous

The Fang: make survival a day-to-day activity

The Fur: remind the players of the strength and independence they have

The Feet: Be willing to see where an idea takes you

The Eye: Give a glimpse of every NPC’s life

The Hand: remember past moments and characters, and bring them back from time to time

The Mind: Remember that mysteries can be explored without being explained.

The Heart: Make dream magic as personal and intimate as possible

Dreams are the juxtaposition of the mundane and the magical. We eat, we breathe, we talk. There is sky, sea, and stone. Houses, furniture, utensils. All the things that are close to us, or familiar, can become new and alien. Making the world of the Wake come alive requires you to make the ordinary strange and special, and vice versa.

The World

We have a saying. “Tell me your story.” It’s an invitation to share yourself with strangers. Your dreams, your hopes, your journey. Dreams are powerful things to us. I’ll tell you my story, if you tell me yours.

Our mythology says that the world changed when the Wake came. Or did it? The nature of the Wake makes it impossible for us to ever know.

The stories don’t agree on specifics. Our world was bigger or smaller, very old or very young, depending on who you listen to. The world was alive, a sentient thing, or it was a dead ball of rock. The Wake slew the gods, or the Wake created the gods, or there was only one god and the Wake split it into dozens.

There are things we think have always been true. The world is still full of forests, lakes, and rivers; of deserts and fertile fields; of cities, settlements, and remote hamlets. We tend crops, raise children, engage in our trades, gamble, gossip, and fight. We wage war and talk of peace. The old tales have names for all these things, and tell of heroes whose lives are as familiar to us as our own.

There are exceptions. For example, there’s a brilliant white flame in the sky, which we call the sun. It’s surrounded by rings of mystic symbols. Lines of light emanate from the inner rings, connecting them to outer rings and to isolated groups of other symbols. These things lie above and beyond the highest clouds and most distant birds. At night, the stars dance and twirl like fireflies, while three moons watch in silent amusement. Was it always so? The stories describe the skies very differently.

The Wake

What is the Wake? It’s hard to describe something so basic to our experience. The Wake is like breathing: we don’t remember when we began, and it’s been with us all our lives.

We scholars say that the Wake is a collision of realities: a material cosmos, and an ephemeral realm of dreams and nightmares. The common folk think of the Wake like a particularly dangerous borderland: valuable for what can be harvested from it, but terrifying to approach too closely. Warriors and rulers are grateful for the tools the Wake offers them, such as dream drops, but know the risks that come with them.

The Wake is the source of many mysteries. Species of magical animals - “monsters” to common folk, Abstracts to scholars - roam our wilderness and threaten travelers. Floating castles hover over sleepy villages, but nobody can remember who lived there or who built them. There are wellsprings whose water will restore youth, or force one to always tell the truth. Elsewhere, walls of ever-growing and impassable thorns block travel to a cursed kingdom or forgotten fortress. The Wake also concentrates or diffuses itself in different places or times. A man may enter a Wake concentration and emerge as a woman, or a monster, thanks to an errant thought or whimsy. Explorers map out such discoveries, scholars study them, and adventurers seek to gain advantage from them.

The Wake tries to draw us into itself. Its pull is patient, but relentless. Exposure to the weird and wonderful, the act of communicating, even laying down to sleep, all give the Wake power over you. Without protection, a human being eventually becomes a Waking One. Such wretches grow fey and restless, then begin walking in trances or saying strange things. Their bodies grow lighter, then take on a soft inner radiance. One night, they are pulled abruptly into the sky, never to be seen again - at least, in the sunlit world. Certain dreamers have reported meeting Waking Ones after their ascension. All who’ve done so agree that there are fates worse than death.

Our ancestors developed a defense: the ritual of familiar fusion.

Familiar Fusions

“The first news I had of the War was the gallop of hooves coming from the village gate, and a shout of warning. I recognized the voice of Jaromir, the scout, and the gait of his horse familiar Karel. I saw the wiry little man mounted bareback. As he leaped from Karel’s back and landed on the ground, Karel reared behind him. In a flash, the flesh of the pair flowed together.”

“Saying those words makes it sound awful, but I am no poet. The process of fusion is always beautiful. Shall I instead say that Jaromir attained the strongest qualities of Karel, and Karel took on the most humanlike traits of Jaromir, until the two were indistinguishable and hence identical? The eye does not track the motion well. One is left with after-images if one stares at a fusion in progress. It is the intrusion of a dream into our placid waking reality, so some disorientation is to be expected.”

“Their fused form stands a foot taller than Jaromir, with a fierce and uncontrollable tumble of hair in contrast to Jaromir’s short-cropped stubble. The muscles are lean, a runner’s body, with powerful legs capable of devastating kicks. Jaromir’s compact face takes on a longer cast in fusion, and his nostrils flare when he speaks. It is neither horse nor man, but a powerful bipedal creature partaking of the best of both. In this form, the fusion calls himself Jarel. Jaromir’s father hails from the Eastern Tribes, where human and animal are equal partners in fusion and such naming conventions are common. In our village, it’s not the custom, but we understand that his ways are not ours. The Tribes do not think the animals intelligent - that would be foolish - but merely do them honor, a sentiment I respect.”

“Jarel had ridden for the better part of the day to warn us. I saw horse sweat sparkle on the fusion’s skin. His barrel chest rose and fell with each greedy breath. Jarel shared the exhaustion of mount and the fear of the rider, but he did his duty. The mayor emerged from his house to take the report, and Jarel showed him a map drawn on the dirt.”

From childhood, we learn a simple ritual. In meditation, we reach out with our hearts. An animal, imbued by the Wake with a strange potential, answers. Such “familiar” animals become our bonded partners, until one of the pair dies. We can acquire a new familiar, but the process grows more and more traumatic the more partners we’ve already had.

The familiar can be almost anything. Wolves, spiders, dolphins, eagles, bats, and more serve as familiars. Whole colonies of smaller creatures can do the same. Occasionally people have bonded with plants as familiars, such as the Seneschals of the Floral Fortresses.

Our familiars combine with us, both physically and spiritually. Walk down the streets of our city and you will see hybrid beast-people, human and familiar in a fused state. The familiar’s influence on our human bodies might be minor (ears and tails), nearly complete (we walk on all fours), or a mixture of the two (a humanoid but clearly animalistic form). With practice, we can shift the degree of hybridization, looking more or less human and gaining or losing the animal’s strengths in the process.

When our familiar detaches from us, it can operate independently, like any other animal. We see through each other’s senses, feel each other’s moods, and know each other’s location. Prolonged separation is painful, but useful and necessary in some cases. When fused, our familiar heals rapidly. The longer-lived partner also lends their longevity to the other. This is why, for example, the Seneschals can live for hundreds of years, sleeping in their trees, while a short-lived spider can be partners for decades with a mortal woman.

The bond with a familiar keeps us grounded. While the bond persists, we can resist the call of the Wake. A stronger bond - not merely a stronger animal - improves our resistance as well. Partners that are fully attuned with each other can easily use several dream drops in a row, or enter areas of intense Wake, at little risk.

Dream Drops

Dream drops are small ovals of crystallized dream. They take effect when swallowed. There’s a brief beam of light that connects the eater to a distant point in the sky, any time of the day or night. At that moment, the truth of the dream trapped inside the drop becomes real. Dreams of flying allow the eater to fly. Dreams of speed or grace or power grant the same effect. It never lasts long, for dreams never do, and some details are always forgotten afterward.

Dream drops don’t just grow on trees. They’re created from the dreams of the living, then expertly crafted and refined by professionals called dropsmiths. They’re sold in the markets, with a price commensurate to their utility. A sedate dream of farming is worth little, while a potent dream drop that turns you into a demigod of war is a priceless commodity. It’s possible to create your own dream drop, but an expert dropsmith is vital to make useful ones.

The most useful stones are made from the most potent dreams. The best dreams are produced by the most wild and fantastical dreamers - young children, the innocent, the mad, or the otherwise useless. Such people are most at risk of being drawn in by the Wake. A skilled dreamer can become wealthy merely by selling their own dreams, but they need something to keep themselves grounded. Professional dropsmiths are more than artisans; they are confessors and advisors to their clients.

Aside from the utility of the drops themselves, extracting dreams can be beneficial for the dreamer. Someone in the process of becoming a Waking One can have their excess Wake energy siphoned off by the process. Recurring nightmares or traumatic dreams can be removed, allowing psychological healing.

Not all dream drops have overt magical effects. A diluted drop can be created that simply conveys the experience of the dream to somebody else, for example. Other forms of drops can be created by skilled dropsmiths. Abstracts An Abstract is a creature, entity, phenomenon, or less describable thing brought into the world by the Wake. Abstracts are often ill-formed and curiously incomplete. An abstract human being might have no pulse or breathing, but be able to carry on a conversation. Abstract animals look “off” somehow. Abstract monsters are as varied and as dangerous as anything the imagination can conjure.

Abstracts have their own motivations and behaviors. Some are predictable, others are entirely random. Most abstracts are dangerous, if not for their power, then for the risk they pose to people near them.

Spikers

If the Wake can bring dreams into the world, then are these beings simply a nightmare? Or are they something worse?

We gave the Spikers that name due to the enormous stone spikes they use as transportation. The spikes can burst out of the ground almost anywhere, even inside buildings. They look like obsidian stalagmites with crude doors carved into them.

They come at night, or when few people are around. Their usual objective is to destroy dream drops or kidnap proficient dreamers. Sometimes they will simply launch a bloodthirsty all-out attack. They have been known to undertake strange, even nonsensical, goals from time to time.

Spikers wear full-coverage leather suits with masks. They protect their eyes with lenses of glass or gemstone. They wear bulky coverings where a nose and mouth would be, with hoses leading from these to tanks or other apparatus fastened to their suits. They are humanoid, but it is unknown if they are actually human. No Spiker has ever been observed to have a familiar. It is believed they protect themselves from the Wake some other way.

Spikers react violently if their suits are damaged in any way. They will immediately try to return to their spikes, or escort their compromised fellows to safety. If enough of them are harmed, they will withdraw en masse - the spikes retract into the ground, strangely leaving things just as they were before. No Spiker will leave another behind if they can help it.

Supposedly a few people have spoken with Spikers, who only sometimes speak our languages. When asked about their motives, the Spikers apparently said: “we’re trying to save you.”

Our Daily Lives

Towns, villages, and hamlets dot the landscape. Wherever opportunity or danger rear their head, people will band together and settle. Trade routes, resource-rich forests or mountains, tillable fields, and Wake-spawned mysteries can all attract a settlement. Walled fortifications stand guard over rivers, roads, and mountain passes where human travel takes place. Even the loneliest fur trader or most hard-bitten miner must bring their goods to somebody to exchange for the necessities of life. And of course, there is more than just cold mercantile interest. People have feelings and wish for company, no matter who we are.

A new visitor to a settlement will be invited to speak at the local tavern or other social hub. The locals are interested in not only the stories the visitor brings, but their potential to produce dream drops the community might find valuable. A good storyteller with a vivid imagination is likely to produce better dreams. Locals also like to take turns telling the tales of the community, both to brag and to inform.

If a visitor seems like a potential source of dream drops, they are referred to the local dropsmith, and an arrangement can be made. Otherwise, they are expected to have some business in the settlement. Trade goods, money, or marketable skills are all acceptable. A visitor with nothing to offer is quietly asked, then gradually told, to move on.

Cities

Cities act as trade hubs, markets, and headquarters. Power is typically not in the hands of individual people, but of factions or groups. For example, the balance of power in a large city might be split between the legal administration, two influential trading houses, and a criminal underworld.

Rare and potent dream drops, large quantities of steel or other industrial metals, specialized services (assassinations, academics, or adventurers for hire), and so forth are only found in cities. Each city has its own unique character, from tightly-guarded Adigel in the frozen northern wastes, to the flamboyant and colorful Uren in the Tyrian desert. Permanent residents of cities are merchants, guards, entertainers, and the numerous other occupations that keep commerce alive.

Travel to and from cities is normally done in caravan - groups of wagons pulled by beasts of burden. Teamsters learn a special variant of the familiar summons ritual to lightly bond with half a dozen animals at once, while guardsmen bonded with powerful predatory animals keep the rest of the caravan safe from attack.

Technology

We build and hunt with the fruits of Nature. We make weapons and tools of steel and copper, apparel out of cloth and leather. We boil water to destroy the motes of hostile life within, and clean our teeth with a certain chalk paste, thanks to the wisdom of our ancestors. We understand the turning of the seasons and the principles of the harvest.

Many of our needs are addressed thanks to familiar fusion. Even the simplest child of a village can hunt game, or forage for edible roots and berries, thanks to their familiar. We are as hardy as our animal brethren in the cold and rain, though we still build houses for comfort and security. Some scholars believe that the fusion weakens us as a people, because we might develop better tools if we were smaller and weaker. Others argue that we did develop a better tool already - familiar fusion.

Certain discoveries conjured from the Wake - floating castles, caches of mysterious artifacts - sometimes hint at makers with a superior understanding of natural law. Others, of course, cease to work if removed from their Wake-tainted area of origin. Like much else, we scholars will continue to debate the finer points and significance this holds.

Religion and the Theonic Guilds

Dreamers walk through a collective unconsciousness of archetypes and universal stories. Gods speak to their questors and adherents, granting them powerful dreams in exchange for loyal service. For us, this is no mere poetry or flight of fancy.

It was discovered that when two people dream of the same thing, it really is the same thing - at least in the dream-world. Wake scholars were quick to exploit this property, through the founding of the Theonic Guilds. A Guild is an imagined building or other location, imagined out of whole cloth and intricately detailed. When two or more people project their sleeping minds into the same Guild at the same time, they can meet and interact in a shared dream space. It’s not even necessary to fall asleep; training, and several minutes of uninterrupted meditation, can put someone into a light trance, allowing them access to the Guild. The experience of a particular Guild can be extracted by a dropsmith and given to somebody else, thus “inviting” them into the Guild.

Guilds exist for many purposes. Traders use them for long-distance communication and the sharing of market information. Warlords and generals use them to coordinate strategy with their subordinates, or to collect reconnaissance from scouts in the field. Secret societies use them as undetectable meeting places. Guilds are not absolutely secure, of course. It’s not easy to make someone simply forget the experience of the Guild, and that’s all that’s necessary to enter one. But Guilds remain a tremendous advantage to those who use them.

Worshipers or followers of a well-known god are all interacting with the same god, in a manner similar to a Guild. Whether the gods have an independent reality, or are simply a figment of everybody’s collective imagination, is a topic that’s hotly debated by Wake scholars. But the fact remains that gods can have a powerful influence. The altered mental state of religious ecstasy produces highly potent raw material for dream drops.

Game Rules

Several rules refer to Fate Core skills. Use the appropriate Approaches when playing FAE.

Character Creation

Create a Fate Core or Fate Accelerated character as usual. One of your character aspects should describe the animal familiar that you’re bonded with.

New Stunts

Beastmaster: You have a mental-only fusion with several animals.

Dropsmith: You are proficient at the art of creating dream drops, and may use the appropriate rules.

Fusion Specialist: You roll at +2 when using any advanced fusion technique.

Guildmaster: You are experienced at entering the meditative trance to reach a Theonic Guild or other oneiric stronghold. You spend 5 minutes under ideal conditions to meditate, and you roll Overcome at +2 to reach a Guild while under stress.

Common Activities

Simple Fusion

Fusion is a a ritual undertaken by children at a young age. The ritual can be repeated if a character’s fusion dies. The celebrant calls out for a companion and partner. Some living thing, imbued with the Wake, will respond. Either it will come toward the celebrant, or they must go to it. Animals are the most common types of familiar. Some familiars are plants, such as the home-trees of the Floral Fortresses. Swarms or packs of tiny animals can function as a single familiar. Abstracts (chimerae or mythological creatures) could conceivably become familiars but this should be unique.

Characters with an aspect granting them a familiar receive the following narrative permission:

Familiars physically merge with their human companions. The resulting hybrid creature is a blend of both human and familiar. The human partner’s intellect and the animal’s instincts serve each other. The hybrid may favor their human traits (e.g. only showing ears and tail) or their familiar’s traits (e.g. moving on all fours). While fused, the shorter-lived partner benefits from the longer-lived one’s longevity.

The familiar can separate into human and animal once again, and each can act independently. Humans lose any animal traits they acquired while fused.

Human and familiar remain in mental contact across any distance, and one can experience life through the other’s senses.

Familiar fusions can withstand the call of the Wake indefinitely. Outside of a fusion, a human will slowly be called into the Wake. Without a living familiar, a human will be drawn more quickly into the Wake.

Fusing with your familiar, or separating, requires no roll. If you are engaged in a Conflict, fusing or separating consumes the movement part of your action.

Fusing or separating can change the skill involved in an action. For example, a character with a horse familiar rolls Athletics to move swiftly while fused, but Drive to ride their horse as a mount.

Advanced Fusion Techniques

Characters can change the balance of their hybrid appearance, becoming more human-like or more animal-like in their appearance. This takes a minute, but no roll.

A character can roll a Great (+4) Overcome on Physique to turn themselves entirely into an animal while fused, or a Great (+4) Overcome on Will to turn themselves entirely human, again spending a minute of time to do so. Characters will pass as fully human or fully animal while so altered. This change in state lasts until the character separates or rebalances their hybrid appearance.

Characters can perform an advanced ritual, a partial fusion that grants them the mental link but not the physical combination. Such a link can be made with up to half a dozen animals. This requires the Beastmaster stunt.

Visiting Theonic Guilds

You must be familiar with the guildhall already. If you are relaxed and can spend 15 minutes meditating, you can enter automatically. If you are stressed, or must work faster, roll an Overcome action with Will against a difficulty set by the GM. This takes five minutes, or three on success with style. Failure means the character is unable to achieve the required trance state, but it can also mean that they can’t stay long, or they forget most of the experience on waking up. On a tie, they might forget some minor but relevant detail of the experience.

Creating Dream Drops

You must have the Dropsmith stunt to attempt this action.

A trained dropsmith can extract a dream drop from a sleeping individual. This usually requires the individual’s cooperation, though certain drugs, hypnotic techniques, or other methods can substitute. The dropsmith supplies the dreamer with an herbal drug, then waits. As the dreamer experiences their dream, their sweat, saliva, and tears will contain traces of Wake energy. The dropsmith then precipitates the result chemically.

The dropsmith may roll a Create Advantage action on Empathy to study their subject’s emotional state beforehand, discovering a character aspect.

Another several hours are necessary for the dropsmith to “process” the raw dream drop, removing traces of the original dreamer’s personality and other irrelevant details from the experience. They do this by holding the precipitate in their mouths, then re-experiencing the dream again and again and driving elements out by force of will.

At the end of the process, the character rolls an Overcome action with Crafts. The GM determines the potency or complexity of the dream drop as a rating on the Fate ladder (e.g. Average, Superb), and uses this as the difficulty. Success yields a viable dream drop. On average, a dropsmith can produce one new dream drop per day using this method. If the dropsmith succeeded on their Empathy check earlier, they may invoke the discovered character aspect as a bonus on this action.

Skilled dropsmiths can enhance the end result in other ways.

Diluting a dream drop to only convey the experience of the dream, not to have any magical effects. Roll at +1 difficulty. Keys to Theonic Guilds are created in this way.

Using other dream drops (or unprocessed precipitate from another dream drop creation attempt) to raise the potency of a new drop. Roll at the intended target difficulty +1.

Consuming a Dream Drop

If the character has been established as carrying around a particular dream drop, roll to Create an Advantage describing its effects. Use whatever skill is most logically connected to the effect of the drop, or Will if there is no obvious choice. The difficulty is the dream drop’s potency, as described earlier. The resulting aspect provides narrative justification for whatever effect the dream drop would then have. Failure can mean a complication as part of using the drop: memory loss, or being drawn too deeply into the false narrative of the dream, are the two most common side effects.

If the character has an unknown dream drop, they can “sample” it without fully consuming it to get a vague sense of what it does. This requires a similar Create an Advantage action, but the aspect is only created if the character goes through with consumption. Otherwise, they’ve spent their action positively identifying the dream drop, and can choose to activate it later. The GM describes the effects and potency of any unknown dream drops.

Use of a dream drop is noticeable for miles when outside on a clear day or at night. The beam will harmlessly pass through any intervening obstacle between the character and the sky, such as a roof or cave ceiling. Almost everyone is familiar enough with the concept to recognize the shaft of light from ground to sky. Seeing the beam only tells the observer that a dream drop user is at that spot, not who they are or what sort of drop they used. If the weather is bad (fog, clouds, heavy rain, and so on), or if line of sight to the sky is blocked by something, an Overcome action with Notice is necessary to notice it.

Legends, Equipment and Antagonists

Sample Abstracts

The Cloud Dragon

There is a cloud that drifts through the sky, but it is an intelligent creature. Its body is evaporated water, just as any other cloud, and it can reshape itself. It has magical powers and great wisdom. It can speak, but will only do so with people near it - in the sky, or anywhere else close to the clouds.

Eclipse Shield

An ephemeral small shield or buckler, worn on the arm rather than held. When in light, the shield is solid, and grows in size without becoming a hindrance. When in darkness, the shield is transparent and intangible, offering no protection but being almost undetectable.

Horsegoats

A herd of horse-like animals with sharp talons rather than flat hooves. They’re able to gallop if properly shod, but their talons can also be used as climbing aids or vicious weapons. Horsegoats are stubborn and very difficult to tame.

Teddy Bear

A child’s stuffed bear developed a rip in its seams, out of which the stuffing started to peek. Mother went to mend the toy with shears and needle, but the child didn’t understand what was happening. The Wake brought this moment to life.

The Bear is an enormous teddy-bear, with a strength that no stuffed animal ought to have. It will tower over the tallest adventurer, and its size can fluctuate. Its seams strain when it flexes its muscles. It will attack anyone or anything wielding anything sharp or needle-like (swords, spears, arrows…). If cut, the stuffing will pour out like a sentient flood, trying to crush or suffocate the attacker. Anyone with a sharp weapon can improvise its use as needle or scissors, either unmaking the bear by its seams, or sewing up a gap to stop the unending flow of stuffing. The bear can be driven away in fear, defeated by tying it down, or killed by somehow removing all of its stuffing.

Aspects:

Rampaging Giant Teddy Bear

Don’t Cut Me!

Overflowing Stuffing.

Skills:

Smash Bad People! +2

Reason and Observation -2

Health:

3 stress boxes (1, 2, 3)

3 condition slots (2, 4, 6).

Sample Dream Drops

Dream drops are broadly catalogued according to purpose. Each one is unique, so only examples are provided.

Arms and Armor

Arms and Armor dream drops equip the user with some kind of combat equipment, usually weapons or protection. Such dream drops commonly sell for a very high price, putting them only in the range of professional warriors and a noble’s bodyguards.

Claws: animal claws or talons, sharper and scarier than anything the user’s familiar fusion might already have. The reflection of a dreamer’s fear that they are becoming more animal than human.

Knight’s Suit: a stylish, ornamental suit of armor from the storybooks, sparkling with its own inner light. The dreamer’s memory of chivalry, grand quests, and similar themes turns the drop user into a paladin out of myth.

Legendary Sword: the famed sword of the ancient stories come to life. While it might look gold-plated and jewel-encrusted, the sword is an entirely functional weapon and can cut through nearly anything.

Teeth: dreams of teeth are tied to confidence, and losing teeth can represent a loss of power or self-esteem. This drop gives the user strong, sharp fangs and reinforces the jaw, allowing a powerful and self-affirming bite attack.

Vine Whip: plants grow out of the ground, providing a thorny whip the user can wield to scourge their enemies. The weapon of choice for a plant fusion, or anyone who really likes nature.

Guardian

Guardian-type dream drops summon a living or otherwise animated thing to help the user. They are surprisingly cheap, given how many dreams center around someone the dreamer knows giving them aid and comfort.

Bug Swarm: biting insects, spiders, or anything else the user’s enemies are most afraid of. The swarm will not obey the drop user’s commands, but will attack anyone who comes near the user. This sort of dream drop is rare, not only because it’s hard for dropsmiths to make safe for the user, but because it’s really weird.

Dad: the dream-conjured archetype of one’s protective and loving parent, as powerful as any child would hope. No matter how tall the user is, Dad will always seem taller.

Horse: not a fast mount, but a hardy one. A riding animal that will obey the rider’s commands and can last for several hours.

Maniac: an insane slasher, berserker, or other kind of raving lunatic that haunts the nightmares of the young. Usually armed with some kind of short but very sharp cutting weapon, and can be covered in blood or viscera. If you can see its face at all - and if it has one - its mouth is often contorted into a rictus of dark delight.

Nymph: born from dreams whose content is better left to the imagination. A beautiful, feminine fairy or enticingly masculine spirit being. While they can sometimes wield control over nature, they can also function as social companions.

Pet: a friendly puppy, cute kitty, or something weirder and furrier. Fond memories of childhood don’t always produce a useful guardian, but they have their uses. Pets are usually intelligent enough to obey commands and will have a strong emotional bond with the user.

Rock Golem: natural rock brought to unnatural life. A shambling, heavy mass of stone that can punch really hard.

Umbral Presence: shadow people - patches of shadows in a humanoid shape - are sometimes seen in dreams, or on the edge of consciousness. The drop user can summon one to conceal themselves, or to haunt somebody else.

Wonders

Wonders are any extra-normal ability granted to the user.

Blackness: a nightmare come to life, a swelling zone of darkness that seems to expand and pulsate on its own. Nobody inside the zone can see anything, and sounds are distorted or muffled. This drop would be more useful if the user didn’t begin at the center of the effect…

Campfire: a controlled fire, complete with enough fuel to last several hours. Fire is a very typical dream, so dropsmiths use this sort of dream as a test of skill or artistic accomplishment: how elaborate and useful can they make the dream for a user?

Dwelling: a small hut, hamlet shack or crudely-built lean-to typical of woodcutters. The dreamer’s memory of their modest childhood home come to life, hopefully with stew bubbling on the fire, comfortable chairs, and enough firewood and pipe-weed to pass a night in comfort. Powerful dreamers or skilled dropsmiths can bring out all the comforts of home; the less skilled can at least put a roof over your head for a few hours.

Flight: a surprisingly common type of dream drop, allowing the user to fly through the air like a bird without wings. The flight effect is often tinged with the dreamer’s own excitement (or fear of falling), if the dropsmith wasn’t skilled enough to remove such traces.

Hair: the user’s hair becomes extraordinarily long, sometimes continuously growing. While the hair can be used to make rope or other such things, cutting it for such uses often leads to unaccountable feelings of fear, impotence, or depression.

Invisibility: numerous types of this dream drop have been identified. All of them make the user harder to see (and often to otherwise detect), but come with a variety of drawbacks or catches (such as being unable to touch things).

Meal: a dream drop can conjure nutritious, edible food. If eaten immediately, it’s as healthy for the user as any real food. If allowed to sit for awhile, it won’t go bad - it’ll just disappear, optionally leaving you starving if it vanishes between consumption and digestion. Often used as a last resort, since some dream-foods may be inedible or actively toxic.

Naked: dreams of being without clothing or equipment are embarrassing, but some enterprising users found a new use for this type of dream drop: hiding important documents, weapons, or other secrets by wearing them while using the drop, and waiting for them to reappear when the drop’s effects fade.

Oubliette: a hole opens in the ground, revealing a deep and ink-black pit. Anything thrown in won’t be seen again, at least in the waking world. While some people might want to throw an enemy in, the size of the hole is variable, and you risk joining your enemy if your footing isn’t sure enough.

Song: the user is surrounded by music - an ancient, if familiar-seeming, melody. The song itself has no particular magical effect, but is calming and pleasing to hear.

Sample Places

Sensail

Sensail is a sea-port city. Its most notable feature is a growth of crystal, hundreds of feet tall at its highest. The crystal seems to have struck the earth at some point in the past, leaving a gigantic impact crater. The crater has been filled in with fresh-water. A series of locks is used to bring ships into and out of the harbor from the sea.

Sensail as a city is built up as a network of rock and wood structures, lashed together by rope or locked together by cement. Buildings anchor themselves into the quartz crystals’ imperfections. The lowest levels of the city actually reach under the water. Huge transparent sections of quartz have been carefully hammered off of the main structure, and now serve as windows to the underwater half of the harbor.

Sensail is served by two major roads: the Grunway and Killian’s Road. These form the backbone of the regional trading network and keep Sensail alive by bringing in fresh foodstuffs and money.

Sensail is ruled by two professional associations: the Crystal-carvers and the Harborkeepers. Crystal-carvers are responsible for extracting usable sections of quartz from the central mass. The material’s extreme durability calls for specialized tools, which the Carvers keep as a trade secret. The Harborkeepers offer protection and refit services for sea-going ships, in exchange for a percentage of their cargo. Their squads of bravoes are armed with crystal swords and empowered to enforce the law throughout Sensail.