#looks like we got another feeble scholar here

[biblicallyaccurateangeloncrack]

wait hes not an actual doctor im flabbergasted

PLEASE IM SHITTING TABLES YOURE TELLING ME THIS GUYS NAME IS ACTUALLY RATIO I AM CRYING

[boop-le-snoot]

PARTY FAVOURS I the scholar interlude

💖 first time reader click here 💖

Bruce Banner angst (&POV). Because our boys are sad and writer has a saviour complex. That's about it.

For the longest time, Bruce Banner considered himself unwanted, unloveable, undesirable. He would've been just as happy to be ignored as he was content with existing only within the confines of his own lab, his presence on this planet only marked by the ever growing pile of projects and articles with his name on them.

Dr. Robert Bruce Banner. He wanted nothing to do with his father's name so he dropped it years ago but one look at his government ID still made him sick deeply in the pit of his stomach. Sometimes, being the Hulk had it's advantages, and by that he meant, it was good that people mostly left him alone.

But his life was built on exceptions and he knew that sooner or later, the carefully maintained balance would tip one way or another. The exception came in a form of a fellow brilliant scientist and innovative engineer - just like multiple times before, he'd worked side by side with Tony without a second thought, not expecting much more than the feeble attempts to make friends and subsequent abandonment once Tony got what he wanted from him.

Bruce failed to take into account, perhaps, the most obvious thing: Tony was a man who had everything and nothing. Bruce didn't expect Tony's deeply rooted loneliness to affect him; after all, he was used to being alone himself, alone was safe, for everyone, not just him. But Tony's smile was a little wicked, and it knocked and knocked on his doors until he had no other option but to let Tony in.

"PUNY BANNER ALWAYS AFRAID," Hulk mocked him inside his head. Despite wanting to blow out his brains every single day, Bruce sighed and soldiered on, focusing on his research instead of answering to his green problem. It was all pointless anyway.

Days blended into one another like they tended to do when one had no destination; achievements and professional success stacked up on top of each other but it was all a tapestry, background noise to his ever-living cacophony of problems and struggles with fighting with himself. Every day, he wanted just to lay down and die.

In times like these, the Hulk took the wheel, dipping Banner nose-first, like a misbehaving pet, into the fact that he had nothing to live for. Nothing to look forward to. The meaninglessness of his life.

"Maybe, the destination isn't that important," She was a child, a girl little out of her teens, and it alarmed Bruce how much she seemed to agree with him sometimes. It seemed wrong for someone so young to be so disillusioned with life. "Maybe it was the shawarma we ate along the way," She shrugged, not noticing how those words seemed to affect Bruce at all. These days, it seemed, children crawled out of the womb already bitter and disappointed.

It went on like that for ages. She was a contradiction, very much like Tony, with a grin that was a little wicked and a mouth that was a little shameless. She bore no expectations towards him and seemed to be slightly afraid of herself; the longer he thought about it, the less sense it made. He was a logical man, left-brain-dominant, and he was entirely sure it should have been the other way around.

The Hulk, however, didn't seem to agree with him. As usual, he wanted to say, the green beast was just making his life difficult because he - he was the anger, the grief Banner himself hadn't been allowed to express - but the more he was forced to listen to the Hulk's ramblings, the more terrified he found himself. Because he agreed.

She'd smile at him over the top of the beaker and Bruce'd smile back before he could catch himself. The guilt always came and went. It was hard to feel guilty when she refused to. The carelessness that all young people possessed was blossoming in her; only later he found out how wrong he was - there was no carelessness, there was no youthful joy, she was just as afraid and confused as he was.

"Puny Banner afraid," Hulk remarked, thoughtfully.

Yes, yes, he was afraid. He was afraid he'd tainted her somehow, but Hulk violently rebuked the thought, refusing to let him out for several hours, taking control almost pleadingly as the green beast attempted to convince Banner befriend the girl. In the end, he gave in. He always gave in.

He was afraid many times after that one, but it was a different fear. Fear of loss wasn't anything either Banner or Hulk were familiar with so the learning process took even less time than they both predicted; somehow, the woes of figuring out a friendship with an outsider united the man and the beast more than any battle against a common enemy. It was puzzling but also incredibly rewarding; the joys of a common success elevating both persons stuck in a single body.

"Banner afraid?" The Hulk asked, seeing the Asgardian trickster himself enter the lab.

No, Bruce said, because Loki looked like he'd rather be anywhere else but in the green beast's lair; something important was on his mind and if they had to guess, it was their Princess.

"The Widow asked me a favour," Loki began, eyeing the various contraptions in the lab. "Although, I must admit, I have no idea why she thinks you can do serious damage. The beast is merely a beast and you, Banner, would rather shoot yourself in the foot than harm anyone but yourself," The man's tone was bored.

"I don't understand..?" Bruce was confused, temporarily losing the guarded attitude.

"I think you do. And it's about time you stop making other people save you from yourself," Loki's green eyes caught his own and Banner's breath got stuck in his throat; there was something intimate, a very familiar expression on Loki's face. It disappeared as soon as Bruce quietly acknowledged it. "I, for one, have no desire to lose this... Sense of companionship that has been cultivated recently." With that, the god turned around and promptly exited the space, taking any possibility of explanation with him.

"Banner afraid of himself," The Hulk concluded, uncharacteristically mellow in the back of his mind. Bruce cursed wordlessly, the green beast merely laughing in response. "Princess isn't afraid of Banner, isn't afraid of Hulk," The Jolly Green boasted, feeling way too satisfied for someone who'd made their first friend.

The childlike joy was infectious, it turned out, and day after day it became easier to breathe around here. Only his darker part wasn't as under control as it used to be and continuously craved more and more; as soon as Bruce acknowledged she was no child but rather a very capable, intelligent woman who's been forced to grow up sooner than strictly necessary, the desire consumed him, turned him careless and sloppy.

It didn't help that Tony had come to the same conclusion. Hulk all but forced Banner to go out and confess and clear his conscience; it seemed that lately, out of two of them, Hulk was the adult and Banner was the child being egged on to finally grow up by a persistent, supportive parent. Hulk and supportive? More likely that you'd think, especially when the green creature itself was interested in a positive outcome.

"Banner afraid?" Hulk's quiet words provided him with the strength he needed to meet her eyes, wide and round, as she wordlessly pleaded with him to help her. No, he was not afraid, not anymore. He believed her, he believed himself. For the first time in ages, he had a reason to be.

Banner wasn't afraid anymore. That said, it wasn't as if he suddenly became careless and sloppy - more like the opposite. Turned out, he was living his life without a care in the world but his paralyzing fear of himself. It was hard to be afraid under a thousand-watt smile, it was impossible to stay invisible seeing yourself reflect in eyes that shone brighter than the stars.

He'd always considered himself to be a hopeless romantic to the point of ridicule. He'd reached a point where love songs made sense and no poet was quite skilled enough to capture the sweet storms raging behind his ribs. If anything, she returned the sentiment tenfold, quietly and shyly.

Love didn't scream from the rooftops and didn't force him to fall head over heels only God knew where; it had been next to him the whole time, quiet and drowsy, waiting, expecting. Over dinner or under florescent lab lights, the Beast and his Beauty shared the conversations, ate the soul food.

"I think, if I had to ask for a portrait of Us, I would have to request the painting twice," She said, puzzling his mind (as usual). He remained quiet, expecting her to explain. "There are the public Us, the ones that wear their suits and smiles like warriors wear armour. That's the way I want the world to remember me, pretty and smiling. I don't want people to cry at my funeral, I want them to dance and be happy because I existed," She caught his stare, smile a little too teasing and eyes a little too serious. "And then there are Us that only we see. It's intimate and I don't think the whole world has earned the privilege to see me like that. I don't think some paper shark should have the honour to see the way Tony's eyes light up for you or the way Loki gets gentle around Wanda. Things like that are earned," It was bizarre, it was strange and it made all the sense.

Perhaps, it was the fact that his Princess was just as weird as the rest of them that made her fit in so quickly, so easily. And he was afraid - it was only a matter of time until the idyllic atmosphere would turn into something heavy and difficult.

It did, but not in the way he thought it would be. For the first time in years, Banner was angry. Not Hulk - Bruce was angry, and he allowed that anger to flow, to course through his veins like molten lava. He didn't fight it, he wasn't afraid of it. Not anymore.

She took it away, too. In the end, she was the bandaid to his bleeding wound, the lullaby to soothe his fear - Banner was angry but Hulk was afraid. They both knew they were helpless, having to rely on others to make sure they will never, ever feel that way again.

So when the female-looking symbiote landed on the patio of the residential floor, Bruce's heart skipped a single beat only. Tony's prone form raised a reasonable amount of concern, but their attention quickly turned to the girl-no, woman, standing still, both terrified and fearless at the same time, as she once again took his fear and anger away.

She was beautiful, like a goddess, like a Valkyrie from Thor's tales, dropping the enemy at their feet like a cat brought his prey to it's owner; her actions screamed "love me" but her words knew it might as well be the last time she'd see them be warm towards her. Much like Banner, she was afraid of herself. Of what she's capable of.

"Bruce, don't tell me you're okay with this," Tony pleaded. Banner knew Tony, he knew how sensitive was the engineer to his personal bubble being broken and he knew, she knew it, too. If she was willing to take the risk, they meant more than life to her. It was an honour, really.

"I'm not but I have to be," He removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes. "I can't risk it, Tony. If we reject her now, we'll never see her again. She's just as terrified as we are, if not more. We've been living like this, what, five, ten years? And it never gets easier. I know it, you know it." The more he spoke, the surer he became. "She accepted us, our shit and all. For once, I'll be the better person and do the same." With that, he departed for her, hugging her from behind as Natasha and Loki stood by her side with Wanda holding onto the Asgardian.

Bruce held his breath until Tony joined in, hiding his silent tears in his shirt. Neither of them could decide what hurt more - losing her or the potential of facing the very unforgiving reality of their life. Bruce had to trust Tony to pick the right option, to do the right thing and it was terrifying, it was skin-frightening but sometimes, there was just no other way.

THE TAG LIST IS NOW OPEN! @another-stark-sub ​ @mostly-marvel-musings  @vozit ​ @littlegasps ​ @pilloclock ​ @shereadsinquiet @downeyreads ​ @hermione-grangers-wife ​ @individualistfem ​ @sleep-i-ness @capbrie @lillsxd @agustdowney @dee-vn @justanotherblonde23 @fanngirl19 @persephonehemingway @softie-socks @schemefrenzy @letsby @romeo-the-cactus @jelly-fishy-babie @mikariell95 @gladiosamicitias @warrior1-19 @toomanyrobins @i-cant-hangout-im-drumming

[nomanwalksalone]

THE WALT WHITMAN METHOD FOR ACQUIRING A MANLY CHEST AND AVOIDING SYPHILITIC TAINT

by Daniel Penny

Best known for his poetic genius and fantastic beard, it turns out that Walt Whitman was also among America’s first menswear advice columnists. Zachary Turpin, a graduate student at the University of Houston, has recently discovered Whitman’s collection of self-help articles, Manly Health and Training, With Offhand Hints Toward Their Conditions. Whitman published the articles in 1858 as a running column in The New York Atlas, under the name Mose Velsor, a well-known Whitman pseudonym from his time as a hack journalist. Whitman’s journals contain notes for these articles, but Whitman scholars had thought that he had never written them. Turpin found them by searching a library database for “Mose Velsor” and then following another newspaper’s reference to the collected articles.

To think this exposition of manful wisdom was almost left in the dustbin of history. It reads like passages of Leaves of Grass mixed with dubious advice on exercise and sports, diet, clothes, grooming, and sex. Choice headlines include: “MANLY BEAUTY—THE TRUE AMBITION,” “MEDICINES—DO THEY DO ANY GOOD?” and “CAN WE THEN HAVE AS FINE A RACE OF MEN IN MODERN ARTIFICIAL LIFE, AS IN RUDER AGES?” These topics may sound familiar; pick up a copy of GQ, or scroll through the clickbait of Men’s Health and you’ll find almost identical articles, just written in less exultant prose. “Manly health!” Whitman writes. “Is there not a kind of charm—a fascinating magic in the words?”

The modern American man, just as the specimen of Whitman’s time, contains multitudes. In fact, with the advent of fast food and microwaveable mini-corn dogs, the American man contains more multitudes than ever. But with Mr. Walt Whitman as our guide, perhaps we can finally “get that beach-bod” we’ve seen advertised, and rediscover the charms of manly health.

TRAINING.

This is the core of Manly Health. Whitman may have been writing in the days before Crossfit Bowflex, and P90X, but his attitudes are eerily similar to today’s appeals to inflated masculinity. However, Whitman is more realistic about the time it takes to achieve these results—no seven minute workout here. The Whitman exercise regimen takes two hours a day, for two years.

Look at the brawny muscles attached to the arms of that young man, who, for nearly two years past, has devoted on an average two hours out of the twenty-four to rowing in a boat, swinging the dumb-bells, or exercising with the Indian club. Look at the spread of his manly chest, on which also are flakes of muscle which rival those of the ox or horse.—(Start not, delicate reader! the comparison is one to be envied.) Two years ago that same young man was puny, hollow-breasted, walking home at evening with a languid gait, and eating his meals with less than half an appetite. Training, and the simplest amount of perseverance, have altogether made a new being of him.

THE FEET.

Whitman’s suggestion of custom footwear is oddly prescient, given the current menswear obsession with bespoke shoes. (Although his promotion of socks will disappoint many a J. Crew stylist.) And for those of us with habitually chilly feet, Whitman has the answer: a cold water footbath.

Probably there is no way to have good and easy boots or shoes, except to have lasts modeled exactly to the shape of the feet. This is well worth doing. Hundreds of times the cost of it are yearly spent in idle gratifications—while this, rightly looked upon, is indispensable to comfort and health. The feet, too, must be kept well clothed with thin socks in summer, and woolen in winter—and washed daily. We may mention that one of the best remedies for cold feet which many people are troubled with in the winter, is bathing them frequently in cold water. If this does not succeed, add a little exercise.

THE THROAT.

One of Whitman’s obsessions in Manly Health and Training is the way modern life degrades the body. He hates scarves and mufflers, believing them to coddle rather than fortify the throat, “resulting in morbidly sensitive skin.” For throat ailments, he also blames: “Feeble and scrofulous parentage, precocious youthful indulgences and passions, a too various and too artificial diet, distilled liquors, syphilitic taint, sedentary employments, continual breathing of stale air, the use of drugs and medicines, &c., &c.” This sounds like a rather grim situation for the gullet, but Whitman has a natural solution.

The beard is a great sanitary protection to the throat—for purposes of health it should always be worn, just as much as the hair of the head should be. Think what would be the result if the hair of the head should be carefully scraped off three or four times a week with the razor! Of course, the additional aches, neuralgias, colds, &c., would be immense. Well, it is just as bad with removing the natural protection of the neck; for nature indicates the necessity of that covering there, for full and sufficient reasons.

FOR STUDENTS, CLERKS, AND THOSE IN SEDENTARY OR MENTAL EMPLOYMENTS.

In 1858, “mental employments” were a only a small portion of jobs in the US, but now this advice seems to apply to almost everybody in the developed world—there are very few oxcart drivers in Brooklyn these days. To keep active, Whitman suggests rowing, running, boxing, and a new sport just sweeping the nation: baseball. But for men unused to exercise, he prescribes starting with a morning walk.

…To you, clerk, literary man, sedentary person, man of fortune, idler, the same advice. Up! The world (perhaps you now look upon it with pallid and disgusted eyes) is full of zest and beauty for you, if you approach it in the right spirit! Out in the morning! If in the city, even there you will find ample sources of amusement and interest in its myriad varieties of character and occupation—in the scenes of its awakening and adjusting itself to its daily labors—in the crowds around its ferries, and all through its main thoroughfares, and at its great depots and markets. Do not be discouraged soon. Give our advice a thorough trial—not for a few days or weeks, but for months.

So there you have it. To realize Whitman’s picture of manly health, lift weights, buy better-fitting shoes, leave your throat uncovered, and take a brisk walk in the morning. Avoid stale air, distilled liquors, and syphilis, and don’t be too hasty in your judgement—as Whitman notes, you’ve got to give this training regimen a few months to work before you abandon it. Let’s see how you idlers look come Labor Day.

Quality content, like quality clothing, ages well. This article first appeared on the No Man blog in 2016.

[dailyaudiobible]

01/05/2020 DAB Transcript

Genesis 11:1-13:4, Matthew 5:1-26, Psalms 5:1-12, Proverbs 1:24-28

Today is the 5th day of January welcome to the Daily Audio Bible I’m Brian it is wonderful to be here with you and this is the first time we get to do this, we get to turn the knob as it were and swing open the door and step through the threshold into a brand-new week and this would be our first full week of this new decade. So, I am excited to share it with you as we move forward on our journey that we have begun moving through the Bible this year and this week we will read from the New International Version, brings up another little thing to explain. You’ll notice when we began the year and worked through last week we were reading from the New Living Translation and now we’re reading the New International Version, next week we’ll be reading another translation, and the week after that another one, and we do this, working our way through the year for a number of reasons, but the primary reason is…is this, we may not ever think about this or we may know this, but not really think it matters that much, but the Bible's native tongue isn't English. It's Hebrew, Greek, and Aramaic. So, every single one of the words of the manuscripts that the Bible has been translated from are a different language than English. And, so, every word has to be poured over or translated or brought into the language for which its intended. Not necessarily an overwhelmingly big deal unless you are creating theological formulas and doctrines that…that affect the human soul and its eternal life, like it becomes more of a big deal. And it’s kind of at this time that some people raise their hands and I go, “I just stick to the good old tried-and-true King James. That’s the real one. That’s the inspired word of God.” But it's actually it's actually a translation into English, like all other translations into English. And…and I've sat…I've been able to observe biblical interpretation and translation in my…been able to watch teams of scholars around the table discussing the kinds of things like verb tense and obscure Hebrew words that have fallen out of use and what do they mean. And that’s just scratching the surface. I mean, there's a number of ways to do this kind of interpretation. So, you could go like, “well why don't you just look at one word in Hebrew, and then say what is that word and English? How do you say that word in English and then just put that down and then go to the next word? And there are translations that do that, that seek to do that, and we read from them. There also biblical translation teams that…well…basically every biblical translation team would acknowledge that oftentimes one word means more than one thing, depending on its context. And, so, if you try to port a word for word translation you can see this word and know that it has five or ten equivalents in another language, depending sort of on the nuance of the context and so then you get into interpretation, “what is this trying to say? What does this mean?” And, so, often biblical translation teams will then look at a complete thought. “Like what does the sentence mean? What is the point here?” Because word for word when you read it back in English doesn't convey the depth of the meaning and maybe even obscures it. And, so, then teams of linguists and historians looking at the context of the time that a particular passage might have been written try and get into the minds of the original hearers will then looking and go, “what is the complete thought? Like, how would what's being said here in Hebrew or Greek, how would that complete thought be said in English in a compelling way that would carry the same weight that it does in its native language?” And, so, there are translations that seek to work from this perspective and there are all kinds of hybrids in between. And, so, allowing ourselves to receive thousands and thousands and thousands, probably tens and tens of thousands of scholarship hours for us to be able to rotate and appreciate and receive all of that as we continue the rhythm of the year is the goal so that being English speakers we get the most comprehensive view of the word of God that we can…that we can short of learning all of the biblical languages and then, not only just understanding how, maybe for example, to read Greek but all the slang and all of the cultural reference…like all of the stuff that you would have to immerse yourself in. We have this scholarship, and this is why we rotate through so that we can appreciate this. And, so, this week we will be reading from the New International Version. And let's get to it. Let's get back into the book of Genesis. Today we will read chapters 11…well chapter 11 verse 1 through 13 verse 4.

Commentary:

Okay. So, we have already…we have already done some talking about some things, so I don’t want to spend a bunch of time because we’ll have plenty of opportunity. I just want to point out a couple of things, three things in particular that we have begun talking about. Alright. So, let's begin with what we what we were reading in Matthew today, the Sermon on the Mount and in particular the Beatitudes. And. they’re very, very famous, this is Jesus central core teaching. And it's interesting to read it as His core teaching because it's like everything that He talks about we don't quite understand exactly how that could be. It's like He's saying bad things are good things, right? “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Just…I mean…that…that one is…that one beatitude, that's disruptive because that seems out of sync with the world that we live in. “Blessed are those who mourn. Blessed are the meek”, right? So, what is Jesus telling us here? Like are we supposed to be week, feeble, cast down human beings with our shoulders slumped and our heads facing the ground as we move about the earth? It's disruptive and it forces us, if we want…I mean…we can blow by all of this, but if we are seeking what the Bible says and trying to understand what's going on in the Bible then we have slow down and go, “Okay. That does not look like the world I live in. The advice that I'm being given is to live almost backward to the world I'm living in.” And that is the point. So, we talked about Proverbs. We talked about wisdom. And listen, I believe Jesus is the son of God. He is my Savior, right? So, like, there's no problem there but let's…let's like step aside from that understanding and just look at Jesus appearing on the scene in the first century. Like, he just starts calling people together as a rabbi and starts teaching. And we could say that the reason that the people flocked to Jesus was because He was a miracle worker and that would be true, that would be part of it. We could also say that Jesus was an apocalyptic prophet, like He spoke of the end of things, He spoke of the kingdom of God, He spoke of an ultimate reality. So, people would've also understood Him that way. But Jesus also used a specific teaching style. We know them as stories or parables. We look often at the words of Jesus, and it seems as if He may not be answering what He's being asked or He may not be talking about what it seems like He should be talking about and this is also because Jesus was known as a wisdom teacher. And, so, when you see a story or something that's disruptive and you have to stop for a second and go, “what are we talking about here?” “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven?” We have to stop and go, “Okay. How does that work? What are we talking about?” It's disruptive because the ways of wisdom are disruptive. You have to be shaken awake, right? You’ve got to see something clearly all of the sudden and then it comes to you clearly. This is the way, walk in it, right? But if we look at our lives, we see that…that like that rarely happens when everything is perfect. Like when things are super great and we’re sort of like sailing with the wind at our back downhill, like everything is moving in the right direction. It’s wonderful to enjoy those times, but wisdom usually comes in disruption and we will find that this theme and these ideas, they are everywhere, everywhere in the Bible. We will not be able to turn a page when we start reading the apostle Paul, without coming face-to-face with these themes of enduring and looking deeper, like not just looking at what we can see but understanding that there is a vast reality beyond it and we are being transformed and that…that Jesus says this, Paul says this, Peter says this, John says this, James says this. Like, disruption is actually part of it. Like, being shaken awake from our slumber is part of the journey. So, as like we are just getting going, we are just in the first pages of the first gospel, so we’ve got a lots of time before we go through Mark and Luke and John to look for this, to begin settling in and looking for this when we listen to the words of Jesus.

Okay, then the book of Genesis we have another of these weird like stories that… “where did this story come from? And why is it situated here? And it's just a really short story and then we just kind of move on. And what's happening here?” And that is a very famous Sunday school story, the tower of Babel. So, we member a couple days ago we were talking about the sons of God and the daughters of Eve and just, you know, just exploring some of the different ways that that has been talked about or viewed or understood and this tower of Babel story is kind of a weird one like that. So, here's these people and they’re…they’re moving and they’re coalescing together, they decide to build a city and they decide to build a tower. And this is going to stabilize them, and they all speak the same voice there and they’re all on the same page. And God comes and He’s like, “yeah. this is not a good idea because if they stay here and they're allowed to do this, then, you know, they’ll be able to do anything. Nothing…nothing will be impossible.” So, He confuses the language and then people have to disperse into their language groups from there. So, we could say, “well, you know, the point of the story here is that this is where the languages on the earth came from, but many theologians would say, “no. this is tied to the sons of God and the daughters of Eve…like these…and the Giants. Like this is…there’s like this other kind of story happening before us. And, so,…so the thought here would be that the people come together at Babel and decide to exalt themselves because they are…are fully…they…they have fully inherited the knowledge of good and evil, the…the price that was paid for eating the fruit, and disobeying God and that awareness that conscious shift or whatever we want to call it, the Bible because it their eyes being opened, made them realize they were naked and separate from God. So, all of a sudden this is…and this is really interesting because we know this in child development, right? So, there is a certain period of time where a child doesn't have an awareness of themselves as a separate thing, as a separate being from their parent. And that grows and then we cultivate and then we work really, really hard to get our children to be individuals. And when out back out to the garden in Eden, we see man and woman and God, and they have no awareness of a separation. They have one understanding of their reality and it is them and God together and then eat this fruit and they become aware of all lot of things that make them sense a separation. They are…they are…I need to be careful how to say this, that they are the same as their parent, that they are separate. And, so, it's traumatic for them. And, so, we zoom forward all the way here to the Tower of Babel and see the repercussions that have happened since that event. We’ve read these repercussions and we’ve moved through a terrible flood on the earth. We’ve seen these repercussions. So, the people are exalting themselves and fully embracing their otherness, their separation and God’s like, “no. No. This isn’t going anywhere.” And, so, many theologians would say, “okay. You got…you got the lower gods or lower Elohim, you have the spiritual family of God, and they interact in different ways with the human family on earth and we see those types of interactions happening repeatedly throughout the Scriptures. But Gods not going to cooperate with His fallen spiritual family and His fallen human family attempting to exalt themselves. And this will not be the first time we see this kind of thing. God does not put up with that for very long, ever. And, so, one way of theologically looking at this is a disinheritance. God confuses the languages of the people and spreads the people out so they cannot be successful in sort of like deifying themselves. And, so, an end is put to that. When people begin to coalesce around their language. Then, immediately…immediately after that story we introduced to Abram. So, it’s like not out of place. This story happens, the people are spread out. Immediately we get interest to Abram who will become Abraham who will affect the entire rest of the Bible. So, God sends the people across the earth and then we get introduced to Abraham and it is through Abraham that God is going to do a new thing upon the earth and we’ll be watching that story and its challenges and victories for the rest of the year.

Prayer:

Father, we thank You. We thank You for the richness of Your word and we thank You for the opportunity to explore and to be disrupted and we ask Holy Spirit that You would come among us and help us to get comfortable with the idea of being disrupted or interrupted because we need to get used to this idea because this is one of the primary ways that Your word works within us. It challenges us, invites us to think, but it also invites us to tune into the ears of our hearts and understand that it's much deeper than what are five physical senses can become aware of. There is a lot more going on than we ever perceive. And, so, we invite You Holy Spirit into this week into everything that we’re going to do, all the choices that we’re going to make, all the words that we’re going to speak. May they be good. May they be honoring to You. And we pray this in Jesus’ name. Amen.

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I means, some of the pages, you know, you’ll want to follow because if we, you know, send out an alert, “there’s a problem with this or here's what's going on or whatever” then you’ll be able to be alerted. Others are groups, You can just interact with other brothers and sisters who are working their way through the Bible, like the Daily Audio Bible women's page that my wife champions. If you are a woman then…then it is her mission to encourage you and you find tremendous encouragement by staying plugged in to the women's group there. Then there’s DAB Friends, which is kind our loving free-for-all where conversation is continually happening. So, check out those links in the Community section at dailyaudiobible.com and stay connected.

Another thing about social etc. is like, once in a while, you know we read the Scriptures and talk about them, but there are times when it's like our hearts…the Scriptures have opened our hearts and the only way to really respond is in song or just to drive the point home it would take me, you know, 20 minutes and a bunch of words or it could be just this one song that moves beyond our intellect and just starts to speak truth into our hearts. And, so, we do that from time to time. And invariably, you know, we get asked, “who was that?” We post all that is to our social media channels so just if you’re following that you’ll always kind of know how that all works when it happens. So, there's today’s tip.

And if you want to partner with the Daily Audio Bible, you can do that dailyaudiobible.com as well. There is a link that lives on the homepage and I thank you with all of my heart for your partnership. If you’re using the Daily Audio Bible app, you can press the Give button in the upper right-hand corner or the mailing address, if that is your preference is PO Box 1996 Spring Hill Tennessee 37174.

And, as always, if you have a prayer request or comment you can now press the Hotline button, the little red button in the app at the top and just start talking or you can dial 877-942-4253.

And that's it for today. I’m Brian. I love you and I'll be waiting for you here tomorrow

Community Prayer and Praise:

Hello Daily audio Bible family this is Stephanie from Bangalore and I just wanted to call in. Its Friday, December 27th and I thank you all for praying, those of you who have been praying for me and my in-laws. This was my first Christmas, of course, as being married and my first Christmas away from my parent’s household as far as going there and celebrating and it really was in a lot of ways better than I could’ve ever imagined which is really, really great. So, thank you for praying and we were able to have a couple of my in-laws over for the afternoon and evening and that was actually just a really good time. So, praise God, thank you for praying. Please keep praying that I can build relationships there. And, of course, there’s always the next thing, always the next thing, always the next prayer request but thank you for that. Quick update on the little girl who got the kidney transplant. For the first time in 15 months she was able to go to bed the other night. She came home Christmas Day and she was able to go to sleep without any tubes at all. No catheter for dialysis, nothing. So, please just, you know, keep her in your prayers, keep the donor in your prayers as she is recovering from the surgery as well. But praise God for that. Thank you so much family and I am sure I’ll be calling back soon. Five.

Hi Daily Audio Bible family this is Rhula from the Sidney Australia. I was just listening to 27th December reading and prayers at the end of the reading. Anonymous called and she said something that really prompted me to call immediately. Anonymous, I’m just praying for you right now because that feeling that you feel where you’re in despair and you don’t know why you’re in a relationship with God because why, like you said,  He’s always good and you’re not good and He’s always right and you’re wrong…you’re always wrong. Anonymous this is exactly why…why we need Him, because we can rest in his goodness and we can rest in his…in the comfort of knowing that the Lord Almighty who’s always right and who’s always…always knows everything, that He loves us unconditionally as we are. So, come to Him as you are anonymous, come to Him as you are because that is who He loves, you with all your flaws and all your mistakes and all your errors and everything that you feel like you’re just not good enough. Our Lord loves you as you are and that is the most profound and most amazing love that you could ever experience in the world, where it’s…He doesn’t judge us and He doesn’t condemn us and He’s a forgiver and He’s merciful and He’s grace and He’s good and his goodness will last forever and He will work all things for good because He loves us and He calls all things according to his purpose. So just remember that Anonymous. And remember that it’s not about you being as good as God. We will never be as good as God no matter what we do. He is enough, his love for us is enough and that’s what we need to know. And I just pray for you Anonymous. I pray that you get that strength for…from God…

Hi this is Marylin calling from the inland Northwest. This is my second call. I just started listening in October, somewhere around there. I do have an answer to prayer and that I asked prayer for my son who is in isolation in the psych ward, the hospital, he’s had a severe frontal brain injury back in 2002 and also mental illness. He is now out of isolation and actually they are wanting to release him, and he is very demanding and doesn’t listen, thinks he’s the medical professional and is going to be released. The problem is that I need prayer that he would be willing to…willing and understand that if he keeps doing the same old same old is insanity. He needs to be in a group home or something. He’s on very heavy-duty psych meds and he probably should be in a group home or some situation where somebody can be taking care of him and he can be monitored, and he can be also out of a very moldy sick apartment. So, I really appreciate it. I really appreciate everybody’s honesty on this podcast. I am so thankful for this program for everybody’s honesty and the vulnerability of everybody and I do pray for others as well and am so thankful I know I’m not alone being in a family with mental illness. So, thank you so much for your prayers and I am praying for everyone else that calls in. Thank you so much. Have a wonderful day. Bye.

Good morning this is Sally from Massachusetts and I’m calling for anonymous. Today is Friday, December 27th and I heard your call this morning. You were thinking about how you could meet Jesus if you pulled your car in front of the 18-wheeler. And I know what you’re saying when you say you feel like you’re very far from God. And when I feel that way, I remember that it’s me that’s turned away. God is still right there. And if you don’t know what to pray, sometimes “help me God” is the best prayer because that lets God know that you want Him to help you and He will help you. He will meet you wherever you are. And I know what you mean about how you don’t feel that you can go to anyone in your church or any of your friends to talk about your feelings. You know, you can call the suicide hotline. I did that myself. I was not suicidal but I just wanted somebody to listen to me cry and I had spent hours on the phone with a treasured friend but I still needed to talk and when I called them they didn’t offer advice or try to fix me the just asked me questions to keep me talking. And, you know, we as people, we want to offer advice, we want to help you and we want to reach out to you. Sometimes, just having someone listen and not judge is fantastic. So, I urge you to give them a call. And, also I’ve started journaling because I can get my thoughts down on paper and there out…

Hello, I’m calling myself “I am a Child of God”. I’m from Central Florida. I’ve listened since 2007 and this is the first time I’ve ever called in. I have two important requests. Sorry. I have two important prayer requests today. I’m praying for my father’s health. He has other issues that are causing him to have kidney problems. Of course, I pray that he be healed and not have surgery at all but if he does have surgery, I pray he is a very quick recovery. I’d like to have help from people that aren’t as stressful. I also pray for his salvation. He’s __ towards God. I pray God brings people into his life that he will listen to and that God talks to him in his sleep, in his dreams. I hope to call back again and get better at this. Thank you for your prayers. God bless you.

[monstersandmaw]

Submission to Ghosti - Merman x female character (sfw)

I did edit this a little, but only the title, and adding in a ‘read more’ so that it’s not a super long post.

I would just like to add that normally it'd be polite to ask if someone is ok with posting a long story by someone else on their own writing blog first before submitting it, but since the story was one I felt my followers would enjoy, I decided that this time I would post it. Please, in future, if you have something you'd like me to post for you, come and talk to me in chat first. This is, after all, my own platform for my own writing, and if you want to write your own stories, then it's easy enough to make a side-blog for that.

Thanks, Ghosti

a captured merman befriends a bandit girl caught by a pirate crew and they both escape together

Escape.

It was the only thought I harbored in my mind as I laboriously dragged myself to the steps of the cargo hold leading up to the deck. I was a truly pitiful sight, a powerful, graceful, and (to the wrong people) deadly creature, now feeble, helpless, outside my element.

If only I could make it up to the deck, I thought, as I reached the bottom step of the stairs and placed a webbed hand onto the wooden rung. None of the crew were probably awake at this time.

All I’d have to do was to scale the short flight of steps, up to the deck, drag myself across the ship, haul myself up over the railing and leap overboard, to freedom.

Which was easier said than done, when you’ve got no legs and holding your breath the whole time.

With great effort, I tried to pull myself up the few steps, my wet, slippery hands trying to find purchase onto the steps while my tail dragged uselessly behind like dead weight.

Damn, this was humiliating.

If only the rest of my pod could see me now. They, who spoke of how dreadful the landwalkers were, with their woven traps and spears of death, who killed and plundered the ocean’s inhabitants without mercy. Who would pay dearly to get their dirty scaleless hands onto one of our kind.

I had been too arrogant, and now I paid the price.

“Going somewhere, eh, fish-boy?”

I barely had enough time to register the voice before a heavy blow connected with my face, sending me sprawling across the floor. I turned, barely catching a glimpse of the captain’s ugly mug before a boot-clad foot landed heavily onto my back and pinned me to the floor, knocking the breath out of my ‘lungs’.

(Well, not exactly lungs. I have no lungs and cannot breathe air. They were more like gills within my chest, openining out through four pairs of slits in my ribs out of which I exhaled water–ah dammit. I’m no educated scholar and no place to explain how my lungs, or gills, or whatever they were, functioned to help me breathe…)

But I did know that they needed water.

Water that I’d coughed out from the breath I was holding, now spilled out onto the floor and of no use to me.

My panicked gasps only drew the stinging, unfulfilling air into my chest, choking me with its emptiness. I struggled feebly against the captain’s unrelenting boot while he, with his one green eye and cruel, crooked grin, gazed sadistically down at me.

“Well, well, well,” he growled. “Looks like our catch of the day is trying to make a getaway, eh?”

I flopped helplessly under his weight, turning my head desperately toward the bucket in the cargo hold and the life-giving liquid it contained. They’d locked me into the hold with only that bucket to keep me alive, with just enough water to breathe out of.

Water that was hopelessly out of my reach.

Two crew members, probably roused by the noise of the fiasco, entered the hold to take a look and bellowed in laughter, cruelly mocking my torment. “Looks like the little fishy wants the water,” guffawed one.

The captain cackled, “Listen here, fish-boy, do as I say, and maybe we’ll let you live once you hit land. You’re gonna be worth a fortune once the merchants get their eyes on a real, live Mer,” he gloated, greedily eyeing me from the top of my pale-haired head to my crimson tail fin. “But of course, if you refuse to cooperate…" 

He threateningly laid a hand onto my precious bucket.

Oh no.

”…then we could just let 'cha dry up and die so you’ll finally shut up, eh? I’m pretty sure your smelly carcass would still be worth some gold, heh heh heh. You know the folks by the southlands say that eating the flesh of a mermaid will make you live forever?“

I gagged at the thought, in addition to my gags of suffocation.

"That is, unless you wanna live, eh fish-boy? So what’s it gonna be? You gonna keep still quit thrashing about?”

I hated to comply to the disgusting man’s wishes, but I had no choice. Begrudgingly, I nodded in approval.

“There’s a good fishy,” he crooned. “They’ll find a nice home for you at the freak show or somethin, heh heh.”

He released his foot from my back and at once I struggled toward the bucket, frantically gasping for air. My chest burned, my throat ached, my skin itched, my entire body was violently begging for water.

Water.

The captain and his crewmates still said something as they walked up back from the deck, but their words were drowned out in the dizzying haze that clouded my mind, seconds away from losing consciousness. I squirmed and wriggled and flopped frantically toward the pail of salvation, with but a single thought racing through my mind:

“waterwaterwaterwaterwaterWATERWATERWATERWATER–”

With a loud splash I dunked my head into the bucket, inhaling convulsively as water rushed into my gills again. Despite my dire situation I at least felt slightly more safe now, now that I wasn’t suffocating anymore.

It felt good to breathe again. 

It wasn’t long before the last of my strength left me, and I passed out. I was a pathetic sight, pale like a drowned corpse with my head dunked in a pail, my graceful fins all slopped limply onto the wooden floor like wet rags, lying motionlessly upon the floor and barely alive.

But nonetheless, still alive.

————————–

I had no clue how many hours had passed when I was awoken by a loud scuffle above on deck. Taking a deep breath of water, I lifted my head out of the pail to see what was going on, just as the captain’s crew tossed a heavy, struggling bundle into the hold, which landed next to me with a loud thud.

“Why don'tcha stay down there with the man-fish, you thieving whore of a sea rat!” yelled a crewmember from above.

“Do you think it’s gonna eat her?” whispered another.

Her?

Holding my breath, I cautiously crawled toward the thrashing, wailing bundle and pulled off the tattered dirty cloth covering it, taking my first look at what was going to be my new room-mate for the next few days to come.

It was a human girl.

Her dark, curly hair covered much of her face, but I could see the surprise and terror in her big, brown eyes as she quickly looked at whatever had pulled the bag off of her head. She stopped struggling against her bonds and stared at me, a faint, terrified whimper emerging from the back of her throat.

I don’t think she’s ever seen a merman before.

Pulling myself back to my bucket to take another breath, I gazed upon the newcomer. She was a brown-skinned little one, clad in colorful fabrics and with strange, shiny stones dangling from her ears, and her hair, though messy, beautifully crowned her narrow, elegant face.

Beautiful.

Maybe I was going mad from the lack of water, but somehow this accursed, monstrous landwalker was beautiful.

A pain in my chest suddenly snapped my mesmerized gaze from her and I dunked my head back into the bucket to take another breath. Her frightened gaze turned into a sort of horrified fascination as she struggled into a sitting position to get a better look at the strange flopping, gasping, scaly creature before her.

“W-w-what are you?” she stuttered.

Peering up from my bucket, I met her gaze and nodded, pointing to myself.

“You-you can understand me?”

I nodded, eager to make a connection with this fascinating being, sure, one of those landwalkers, but still, company after being alone for way too long.

“Can you-can you talk?”

I shook my head in slight dismay. Of course I was able to speak- underwater, that is. But I couldn’t speak without water, or even breathe, for that matter, so for now, some nods and shakes had to do.

She looked down at me, at my dry and flaking scales and at the numerous bleeding cuts I had sustained from flopping about on the splintery floor. Her face turned into a wince of pity.

“Those bastards,” she muttered. “Look what they’ve done to you, you poor…thing.”

Poor thing, eh.

She was just as much a 'poor thing’ as I was, her ankles and wrists bound in ropes, bruises and cuts blemishing her face, her clothes tattered and torn, and locked up in a cargo ship bound for prison or death.

They’d treated me with unspeakable cruelty, but it seemed that they treated their own kind no better. Those bastards, indeed.

“Say,” she whispered, after a moment. “You couldn’t be one of those Mer-people I’ve been hearing about, are you? You look an awful lot like what the old sailors spoke of, one half handsome lad, one half scaly fish, hmm?”

I nodded.

“Eh. I wonder how a creature like you somehow ended up in this shithole of a boat.”

I wished I could tell her, how I was hauled up in a net, tied up by the crew, how I chewed through my binds with my sharp teeth and whacked them around with my tail, taking almost half the crew to subdue me. Boy, that would have been a tale to tell, if only I could speak to her, outside of the water–

Wait.

Ropes.

Sharp teeth.

Taking another breath from my bucket, I dug my hands into the floor and pulled myself toward her, my tail scraping painfully across the wooden floor. She inched backwards slightly, as I grabbed her bound hands, causing her to whimper uneasily.

“Please, don’t hurt me,” she cried, as she saw a flash of my pearly white pointed teeth.

I raised a finger gently, trying to tell her that I meant her no harm. I didn’t know if she understood, but I started getting to work.

She held back a muffled scream. Perhaps she thought I was going to devour her?

Her terror quickly vanished though, as the ropes around her wrists snapped. Suddenly, a look of joyful realization crept across her face.

“Oh,” she gasped. “You’re helping me escape.”

I nodded.

It wasn’t long before my sharp teeth made quick work of the bindings around her ankles. She stretched her legs in relief, as I retreated to take another breath from my bucket.

I couln’t help but gaze at her legs. They seemed so strange, so alien, almost like a pair of extra arms where a tail should be, but with stubby little fingers that were useless for grasping. They were so bizarre and yet strangely enchanting, and I couldn’t help but gaze in awe as she rose to a standing position, her unwieldy limbs supporting her weight in this choking emptiness of an atmosphere.

She headed up the steps of the cargo hold, up toward the deck. My heart sank as I realized she was leaving me.

She looked back and met my gaze once more.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

She started to head up the steps but suddenly hesitated, and she turned back again and I could see tears welling up in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” she said sorrowfully.  “I’m sorry I can’t take you with me.”

But as she took one long look around the cargo hold, he stopped in surprise.

“Or can I?”

———————-

It was a stupid solution.

A novel, but utterly stupid solution.

She had located two other buckets in the hold, and had filled them with water from one of the barrels. She placed one at the foot of the stairs, and another one out onto the deck. Fortunately, the crew were all asleep at this point, and there was none to witness the strange sight of a girl hauling a bucket out onto the deck of a ship in the middle of the night.

“Well, here goes nuthin’,” she groaned, as she stepped back down into the hold. “You’re clearly too heavy for me to carry, so you’ll have to crawl there on your own. But at least I helped, a little. It’s the best I can do.”

I smiled and nodded back at her.

“It’s the least I can do for the merman who saved my life.”

And with a swift step she was gone, heading up onto the deck to freedom.

Slowly I began to drag myself toward the bucket at the base of the stairs. It was actually a pretty clever idea, I couldn’t get past this point without suffocating and having to head back. She’d given me a couple of rest stops to breathe from.

Taking a deep breath from the bucket below the stairs, I headed up the steps one rung at a time. It was still difficult with my tail weighing me down, but with a gillful of water from the second bucket I had the strength to haul myself upward, step by step until i flopped exhausted onto the deck.

Before me was the third and final bucket. One more stop and I was almost there to freedom.

Having taken a breath, one last breath before my escape, I headed toward the railing of the ship. The sound of the waves was tantilizingly close, the salty smell of the breeze, the splashing of the water onto the deck…

I was almost free.

Suddenly, just as I was a few drags away from the railing, I heard a loud scream behind me. I turned and looked, and to my horror, I saw the landwalker girl, caught in the iron grasp of the evil, bloodthirsty captain, screaming in terror as he seized her by one arm.

“Well, if it ain’t the little bitch, trying to make a getaway in one of our lifeboats!” He gazed out at me, laying upon the wooden floor. “And you’ve freed our little fish friend too, eh? I won’t get a bag of gold for him now, but your blood would make a pretty neat consolation prize, you wretched whore!”

He lifted up a curved blade and pointed it at her throat.

Damn it, was I ever in a dilemma.

On one side, the freedom of the ocean just a few feet away.

And on the other, the life of a landwalker girl.

And never have I thought I would make such a decision.

In the biggest twist in all my life I found myself turning away from the sea, giving up my chance at escape for a landwalker girl I’d barely even known for a day.

And yet somewhere in my flopping, suffocating, water-deprived heart I knew I wouldn’t regret that decision.

——————-

With a terrible unearthly cry I launched myself at the captain, pinning him to the floor. I never even knew how I managed to make such a horrible sound outside the water, but I didn’t even care at the moment.

I was way too fucking pissed off.

I viciously tore at the captain with all my hate, with all the torment and suffering I had endured at his hand for the past few days, with all the brutality he had inflicted onto this poor landwalker girl I didn’t even have a name for, clawing and biting at his face with the ferocity of a furious shark, thrashing about wildly on deck…

“ARGHHH! GET THIS THING OFF ME!” he cried out, muffled. He dropped his blade, but he still had the landwalker girl in his grasp, his horrid, disgusting grasp…

…and in one final act of hateful cruelty, he shoved her overboard.

With a loud scream she plummeted into the ocean and hit the surf with a splash. I snapped out of my bloodthirsty rage and looked out at where she had fallen.

“Heh heh heh…” laughed the captain, pinned to the floor and bleeding all over his face. “If I can’t have a merman to sell…then you can’t have your slimy little slut either!” He cackled evilly, his green eye gazing at me, mocking me, tempting my rage…

And in a fit of fury, as a little parting gift, I sank my clawed hand into his face and ripped his damn eye out.

Pity he only had one.

Gasping for air, I flopped after the landwalker girl, hauling myself over the railing and leaping into the safety of the ocean just as the blinded captain’s screams of terror began to rouse the rest of the crew.

—————-

She was alive, but barely.

She drifted limply down as she sank, and I caught a glimpse of her dark mop of hair just as my body hit the surface.

It felt wonderful to be in the ocean again.

But I didn’t have the luxury of time to enjoy it.

For the very same water that gave me life, that breathed and lived in, was slowly choking the life out of her. Oh the painful irony.

I pumped my tail as fast as I could, with my usual speed and grace that I was denied of on land, and in the blink of an eye I grasped her around her waist and began to pull her up.

She broke the surface gasping and choking, desperate for the air as desperate I was for the water, clinging onto me as tightly as she could  as I held her above the surface, allowing her to catch a few breaths. She clung onto me tightly, sputtering, as we swam away from the wretched boat that had been our prison, and the captain’s screams of pain and rage faded away into the distance.

Once we had cleared enough distance we stopped at the shallows, next to a small island that jutted out from beyond the reef. It was small and deserted, but it was a place for her to be safe until she was rescued.

As we bobbed in the clear green waters, she spoke.

“Thank you for saving me. Again.”

With a smile, I gazed at her and pointed downwards. She seemed to get the message, taking a deep breath and dipping her head below the water.

And now that I was under water, now that I could breathe once more, I was finally able to speak again.

“Thank you,” I told her.

[stranded-warriors]

 When they fell off and onto a hard floor the duo landed with a crack each. For the moment or two before making the jump they had in their heads they were landed on thin glass but were proven wrong the moment their feet touched the ground. The clear-as-crystal stone swept the ground from under them like a rug causing both of them to collapse. Without missing a beat the fighter got their bearings and was already set to go, Kaz had been painfully peeling themselves off a cold unfeeling floor.

 “Great thinking my friend,” he coughed, and dragged himself towards a nearby rail, “if we had kept going I didn't know what would've become of our rock – no less us. I'd happen a guess it wouldn't be fun to be picked apart by those things or ground to a pulp; however,”  Kaz flattened themselves against the rail where his feeble arms were able to lift himself off the earth onto his legs. The Gothitelle lurched over the bars in exhaustion, “I’d kindly ask you warn me next time we preform a similarly bold leap, as I’m afraid my legs can't handle another.”

 Kaz peeked back over his shoulders to Feraligatr who seemed to have gotten up without a hitch.

 “I'm sure you must have an idea where we are if you were so confident we'd make the jump, right?”

 The Fighter shook their head, “No.”

 “Oh dear” he sighed, “That would make us both.”

 What they had expected to be a hollowed out cavern not unlike a massive cave along a seashore, what they were drawn to had turned out to be a massive a massive dock. Multiple layers of dockyards are build into the marble walls to the west where workers lugged massive hauls of stones and minerals, and where rudimentary machines chiseled apart the asteroids the moment they made shore. Those who were vested with wings or otherwise had the ability to fly did work atop of the masses of stone, scouring the surface for any valuables before the island-sized stone is slowly hauled off behind a large bend up ahead. The work looked to be arduous as well as dangerous, for there was little in way of a safety net preventing them from falling straight into the great void below. Neither wishing to be found by the hands of the flying workers or to see what was the end of the conveyor the duo made the leap to presumed safety the first chance they got. They'll come to learn whether it was or wasn't a wise decision another time, but aside from being in some sort of cosmic shipyard, they've made no progress cluing together where exactly they were.

 “One thing is clear, believe I can hear now – not much mind you,” after Kaz pointed out, the continuous hum and crunch of machinery went from silent to deafening. Kaz wasn't even going to try speaking over the dreadful sounds cape. “but though I hear little, that’s one sense we can make sense of. Do you care to be my ears, while I continue to speak on our behalves?”

 Feraligatr nodded.

 While Kaz had just started to glance at his surroudnings, Feralgatr had spent the minutes it took the Gothitelle to get up running surveillance. They realized that if they had both landed any further they would've toppled over a crate full of messy cobble, and as well that their section of the docks was filled to the brim with open crates of earthy materials which seem wholly unimportant on the surface, but had to have some use to the city. In spite of their strange contents the crates were neatly ordered in two by two stacks spread across the docks in several rows with stacks about four Feraligatr high.

 Without warning the Fighter crept towards the rows of shipment ready to face the challenges ahead. A tired Kaz sighed, and slowly followed dragging the tails of his robe along the crystal floor. Feraligatr would be leading the charge this time, as they lead their duo past the first of a few rows and stopped at their first of hundreds of four-way intersections with their Back pressed against the wall of crates.

 “May I recommend we opt for a more casual approach? If our plan is to sleuth around I believe we'd only draw unwarranted suspicion, ” Kaz fretted in a voice only the fighter could hear. “and secondly, that armor of yours is no fit for a thief's job. I can hear it over the machines!”

 The Feraligatr gave the man a look somewhere between anger and confusion, then nodded towards the long hall around the corner for Kaz to peek for himself.

 Far beyond the rows of evenly stacked crates the dock stretched on, but just before the curve lead the shores out of sight there was an alcove carved into the planet's white stone where the distant shapes of pokemon walked down and up a tremendous staircase. Compared to all other paths in the dockyard it was their best available route, unless they wanted to see where all those asteroids keep vanishing to; however, between them and there was a great archway looming over a guard post and many more workers going about their day oblivious to the two strangers slithering around.

 Before Kaz had a chance to comment, Feraligatr slid from their corner to the next row down and an ill-prepared Gotithelle had no choice other than to drag their heels in pursuit. All along the way the sounds of plate armor crinkled and the chain mail under it jingled. The fighter sound like a storm was ripping through the crates compared to the fabric of the scholar's gown.

 “Can't you hear yourself?” Kaz lamented when the two came to a stop, “I beg you to reconsider, friend. This can only end terribly-”

 “I can hear yous back there!” a voice caught them by surprise, one because it had  crept up on them, and two they were shocked to hear the voice speak in Common tongue. The grizzly tones of a tired old worker came from the next row over and only became louder as it encroached on the two's position. “I'm about to exercise my right to beat you to a pulp, so if you dirtbags quit messing with our work here I'll put you in a coffin, and have your friends dragged off to a cell!”

 There was a pregnant silence between the would-be sneaks. The Fighter had their confidence destroyed, Kaz had his horrors confirmed, they needed to think their way out of this and quick.

[frodos-bizarre-adventure]

Merman x Bandit Girl

A little thing I originally posted on @monstersandmaw (and also to @monsterkinkmeme) and while they were nice enough to share it on their blog, they did say that their site was exclusively for their own works and and for prompts.

So again, apologies to you guys to any inconveniences I might have caused. I'm just rather new to Tumblr and still trying to get the hang of stuff, and I just wanted to share a little thing for you guys' viewing pleasure. Feel free to share it from here instead if you wish, and hope you enjoy it :)

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Escape.

It was the only thought I harbored in my mind as I laboriously dragged myself to the steps of the cargo hold leading up to the deck. I was a truly pitiful sight, a powerful, graceful, and (to the wrong people) deadly creature, now feeble, helpless, outside my element.

If only I could make it up to the deck, I thought, as I reached the bottom step of the stairs and placed a webbed hand onto the wooden rung. None of the crew were probably awake at this time.

All I’d have to do was to scale the short flight of steps, up to the deck, drag myself across the ship, haul myself up over the railing and leap overboard, to freedom.

Which was easier said than done, when you got no legs and holding your breath the whole time.

With great effort, I tried to pull myself up the few steps, my wet, slippery hands trying to find purchase onto the steps while my tail dragged uselessly behind like dead weight.

Damn, this was humiliating.

If only the rest of my pod could see me now. They, who spoke of how dreadful the landwalkers were, with their woven traps and spears of death, who killed and plundered the ocean’s inhabitants without mercy. Who would pay dearly to get their dirty scaleless hands onto one of our kind.

I had been too arrogant, and now I paid the price.

I wanted to see for myself just how dreadful these creatures were, and see it I did.

“Going somewhere, eh, fish-boy?”

I barely had enough time to register the voice before a heavy blow connected with my face, sending me sprawling across the floor. I turned, barely catching a glimpse of the captain’s ugly mug before a boot-clad foot landed heavily onto my back and pinned me to the floor, knocking the breath out of my ‘lungs’.

(Well, not exactly lungs. I have no lungs and cannot breathe air. They were more like gills within my chest, openining out through four pairs of slits in my ribs out of which I exhaled water–ah dammit. I’m no educated scholar and in no place to explain how my lungs, or gills, or whatever they were, functioned to help me breathe…)

But I did know that they needed water.

Water that I’d coughed out from the breath I was holding, now spilled out onto the floor and of no use to me.

My panicked gasps only drew the stinging, unfulfilling air into my chest, choking me with its emptiness. I struggled feebly against the captain’s unrelenting boot while he, with his one green eye and cruel, crooked grin, peered sadistically down at me.

“Well, well, well,” he growled. “Looks like our catch of the day is trying to make a getaway, eh?”

I flopped helplessly under his weight, turning my head desperately toward the bucket in the cargo hold and the life-giving liquid it contained. They’d locked me into the hold with only that bucket to keep me alive, with just enough water to breathe out of.

Water that was hopelessly out of my reach.

Two crew members, probably roused by the noise of the fiasco, entered the hold to take a look and bellowed in laughter, cruelly mocking my torment. “Looks like the little fishy wants the water,” guffawed one, watching me gasping feebly and reaching out deperately for the old wooden pail.

My head began to spin as my vision started fading. I needed water very soon, or else... or else I would die.

The captain cackled, “Listen here, fish-boy, do as I say, and maybe we’ll let you live once you hit land. You’re gonna be worth a fortune once the merchants get their eyes on a real, live Mer,” he gloated, greedily eyeing me from the top of my pale-haired head to my crimson tail fin. “But of course, if you refuse to cooperate…" 

He threateningly laid a hand onto my precious bucket.

Oh no.

He knew I couldn't survive very long without water, and now he was using it against my mind, to break my will.

Please. No.

”…then we could just let ‘cha dry up and die so you’ll finally shut up, eh? I’m pretty sure your smelly carcass would still be worth some gold, heh heh heh. You know the folks by the southlands say that eating the flesh of a mermaid will make you live forever?“

I gagged at the thought, in addition to my gags of suffocation.

“That is, unless you wanna live, eh fish-boy? So what’s it gonna be? You gonna keep still quit thrashing about?”

I hated to comply to the disgusting man’s wishes, but I had no choice. Begrudgingly, I nodded in approval.

“There’s a good fishy,” he crooned. “They’ll find a nice home for you at the freak show or somethin, heh heh.”

He released the crushing weight of his foot from my back and at once I struggled toward the bucket, frantically gasping for air, dry, scorching air that stung my parched gills and choked me from within. My chest burned, my throat ached, my skin itched, my entire body was violently begging for water.

Water.

The captain and his crewmates still said something as they walked up back from the deck, but their words were drowned out in the dizzying haze that clouded my mind, seconds away from losing consciousness. I squirmed and wriggled and flopped frantically, desperately, toward the pail of salvation, with nothing, none but a single thought racing through my mind:

“waterwaterwaterwaterwaterWATERWATERWATERWATER–”

With a loud splash I dunked my head into the bucket, inhaling convulsively as water rushed into my gills again. Despite my dire situation I at least felt slightly more safe now, now that I wasn’t suffocating anymore.

It was a relief from the pain of drying out.

It felt good to breathe again. 

It wasn’t long before the last of my strength left me, and I passed out. I was a pathetic sight, pale like a drowned corpse with my head dunked in a pail, my graceful fins all slopped limply onto the wooden floor like wet rags, lying motionlessly upon the floor and barely alive.

But nonetheless, still alive.

————————–

I had no clue how many hours had passed when I was awoken by a loud scuffle above on deck. Taking a deep breath of water, I lifted my head out of the pail to see what was going on, just as the captain’s crew tossed a heavy, struggling bundle into the hold, which landed next to me with a loud thud.

“Why don'tcha stay down there with the man-fish, you thieving whore of a sea rat!” yelled a crewmember from above.

“Do you think it’s gonna eat her?” whispered another.

Her?

Holding my breath, I cautiously crawled toward the thrashing, wailing bundle and pulled off the tattered dirty cloth covering it, taking my first look at what was going to be my new room-mate for the next few days to come.

It was a human girl.

Her dark, curly hair covered much of her face, but I could see the surprise and terror in her big, brown eyes as she quickly looked at whatever had pulled the bag off of her head. She stopped struggling against her bonds, thick and heavy ropes knotted firmly around her ankles and wrists, and stared at me, a faint, terrified whimper emerging from the back of her throat.

I don’t think she’s ever seen a merman before.

Pulling myself back to my bucket to take another breath, I curiously inspected the newcomer from a distance. She was a brown-skinned little one, clad in colorful fabrics and with strange, shiny stones dangling from her ears, and her hair, though messy, beautifully crowned her narrow, elegant face.

Beautiful.

Maybe I was going mad from the lack of water, but somehow this accursed, monstrous landwalker was beautiful.

A pain in my chest suddenly snapped my mesmerized gaze from her and I dunked my head back into the bucket to take another breath. Her frightened glare turned into a sort of horrified fascination as she struggled into a sitting position to get a better look at the strange flopping, gasping, scaly creature before her.

“W-w-what are you?” she stuttered.

Peering up from my bucket, I met her gaze and nodded, pointing to myself.

“You-you can understand me?”

I nodded, eager to make a connection with this fascinating being, sure, one of those landwalkers, but still, company after being alone for way too long.

“Can you-can you talk?”

I shook my head in slight dismay. Of course I was able to speak- underwater, that is. But I couldn’t speak without water, or even breathe, for that matter, so for now, some nods and shakes had to do.

She looked down at me, at my dry and flaking scales and at the numerous bleeding cuts I had sustained from flopping about on the splintery floor. Her face turned into a wince of pity.

“Those bastards,” she muttered. “Look what they’ve done to you, you poor…thing.”

Poor thing, eh.

She was just as much a 'poor thing’ as I was, her ankles and wrists bound in ropes, bruises and cuts blemishing her face, her clothes tattered and torn, and locked up in a cargo ship bound for prison or death.

They’d treated me with unspeakable cruelty, but it seemed that they treated their own kind no better. Those bastards, indeed.

“Say,” she whispered, after a moment. “You couldn’t be one of those Mer-people I’ve been hearing about, are you? You look an awful lot like what the old sailors spoke of, one half handsome lad, one half scaly fish, hmm?” she laughed dryly.

I nodded.

“Eh. I wonder how a creature like you somehow ended up in this shithole of a boat.”

I wished I could speak.

I wished I could tell her, how I was hauled up in a net, tied up by the crew, how I chewed through my binds with my sharp teeth and whacked them around with my tail, taking almost half the crew to subdue me. Boy, that would have been a tale to tell, if only I could talk to her, in the air and outside of the water–

Wait.

Ropes.

Sharp teeth.

Taking another breath from my bucket, I dug my hands into the floor and pulled myself toward her, my tail scraping painfully across the wooden floor. She inched backwards slightly, seemingly alarmed by my sudden approach, as I grabbed her bound hands, causing her to whimper uneasily.

“Please, don’t hurt me,” she cried, as she saw a flash of my pearly white pointed teeth.

I raised a finger gently, trying to tell her that I meant her no harm. I didn’t know if she understood, but I started getting to work.

She held back a muffled scream. Perhaps she thought I was going to devour her?

Was that what the old sailors had taught her about merfolk?

Her terror quickly vanished though, as the ropes around her wrists snapped. Suddenly, a look of joyful realization crept across her face.

“Oh,” she gasped. “You’re helping me escape.”

I nodded.

It wasn’t long before my sharp teeth made quick work of the bindings around her ankles. She stretched her legs in relief, as I retreated to take another breath from my bucket.

I couln’t help but gaze at her legs. They seemed so strange, so alien, almost like a pair of extra arms where a tail should be, but with stubby little fingers that were useless for grasping. They were so bizarre and yet strangely enchanting, and I couldn’t help but marvel in awe as she rose to a standing position, her unwieldy limbs supporting her weight in this choking emptiness of an atmosphere.

She headed up the steps of the cargo hold, up toward the deck. My heart sank as I realized she was leaving me.

She looked back and met eyes with once more.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

She started to head up the steps but suddenly hesitated, and she turned back again and I could see tears welling up in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” she said sorrowfully.  “I’m sorry I can’t take you with me.”

But as she took one long look around the cargo hold, she stopped in surprise.

As if having a sudden grand realization.

“Or can I?”

———————-

It was a stupid solution.

A novel, but utterly stupid solution.

She had located two other buckets in the hold, and had filled them with water from one of the barrels that had been placed on a high shelf. She placed one at the foot of the stairs, and another one out onto the deck. Fortunately, the crew were all asleep at this point, and there was none to witness the strange sight of a girl hauling a bucket of water out onto the deck of a ship in the middle of the night.

“Well, here goes nuthin’,” she groaned, as she stepped back down into the hold. “You’re clearly too heavy for me to carry, so you’ll have to crawl there on your own. But at least I helped, a little. It’s the best I can do.”

I smiled and nodded back at her.

She smiled back. “It’s the least I can do for the merman who saved my life.”

And with a swift step she was gone, heading up onto the deck to freedom.

Slowly I began to drag myself toward the bucket at the base of the stairs. It was actually a pretty clever idea, I couldn’t get past this point without suffocating and having to head back. She’d given me a couple of rest stops to breathe from. I could only hold by breath on land for a couple of minutes, and her little trick here was a lifesaver.

Literally.

Taking a deep breath from the bucket below the stairs, I headed up the steps one rung at a time. It was still difficult with my arms doing all the work and my tail weighing me down, but with a gillful of water from the second bucket I had the strength to haul myself upward, step by step until I flopped exhausted onto the deck.

Before me was the third and final bucket. One more stop and I was almost there to freedom.

Having taken a breath from it, one last breath before my escape, I headed toward the railing of the ship. The sound of the waves was tantilizingly close, the salty smell of the breeze, the splashing of the water onto the deck…

I was almost free.

Suddenly, just as I was a few drags away from the railing, I heard a loud scream behind me. I turned and looked, and to my horror, I saw the landwalker girl, caught in the iron grasp of the evil, bloodthirsty captain, screaming in terror as he seized her by one arm.

“Well, if it ain’t the little bitch, trying to make a getaway in one of our lifeboats!” He glared out with his one eye at me, laying upon the wooden floor. “And you’ve freed our little fish friend too, eh? I won’t get a bag of gold for him now, but your blood would make a pretty neat consolation prize, you wretched whore!”

He lifted up a curved blade and pointed it at her throat.

Damn it, was I ever in a dilemma.

On one side, the freedom of the ocean just a few feet away.

And on the other, the life of a landwalker girl.

And never have I thought I would make such an unexpected choice.

In the biggest turn of events in all my life I found myself turning away from the sea, giving up my chance at escape for a landwalker girl I’d barely even known for a day.

And yet somewhere in my flopping, suffocating, water-deprived heart I knew I wouldn’t regret that decision.

——————-

With a terrible unearthly cry I launched myself at the captain, pinning him to the floor. I never even knew how I managed to make such a horrible sound outside the water, or how I'd covered such a distance in just a few flops, but I didn’t even care at the moment.

I was way too fucking pissed off.

I viciously tore at the captain with my claws, teeth, and all my hate, with all the torment and suffering I had endured at his hand for the past few days, with all the brutality he had inflicted onto this poor landwalker girl I didn’t even have a name for, clawing and biting at his face with the ferocity of a furious shark, thrashing about wildly on deck…

“ARGHHH! GET THIS THING OFF ME!” he cried out, muffled. He dropped his blade, but he still had the landwalker girl, who had fallen to the floor in the tussle, in his grasp, his horrid, disgusting grasp…

…and in one final act of hateful cruelty, he shoved her overboard.

With a loud scream she plummeted into the ocean and hit the surf with a splash. I snapped out of my bloodthirsty rage and looked out at where she had fallen.

“Heh heh heh…” laughed the captain, pinned to the floor and bleeding all over his face. “If I can’t have a merman to sell…then you can’t have your slimy little slut either!” He cackled evilly, his green eye leering at me, mocking me, tempting my rage…

And in a fit of fury, as a little parting gift, I sank my clawed hand into his face and ripped his damn eye out.

Pity he only had one.

Gasping for air, I flopped after the landwalker girl, hauling myself with great effort over the railing and leaping into the safety of the ocean just as the blinded captain’s screams of terror began to rouse the rest of the crew.

—————-

She was alive, but barely.

She drifted limply down as she sank, and I caught a glimpse of her dark mop of hair just as my body hit the surface.

It felt wonderful to be in the ocean again.

But I didn’t have the luxury of time to enjoy it.

For the very same water that gave me life, that soothed my parched scales, that I breathed and lived in, was slowly choking the life out of her. Oh, the painful irony.

I pumped my tail as fast as I could, with my usual speed and grace that I was denied of on land, and in the blink of an eye I grasped her around her waist and began to pull her up.

She broke the surface gasping and choking, desperate for the air as desperate I was for the water, clinging onto me as tightly as she could as I held her above the surface, allowing her to catch a few breaths. She clung onto me tightly, sputtering, as we swam away from the wretched boat that had been our prison, and soon the ship, and the captain’s screams of pain and rage, faded away into the distance.

Once we had cleared enough distance, after several hours or so, we stopped at the shallows, next to a small island that jutted out from beyond the reef. It was small and deserted, but it was a place for her to be safe until she was rescued.

She clung tightly onto my back, visibly exhausted but elated to be alive, and free.

As we bobbed just above the surface, in the sunlit clear green waters, she spoke.

“Thank you for saving me. Again." she whispered into my ear.

With a smile, I looked toward her and pointed downwards. She seemed to get the message, taking a deep breath and dipping her head below the water.

And now that I was under water, now that I could breathe once more, I was finally able to release my feelings that had been trapped in me for so long.

I was finally able to speak again.

For the first time to her.

“Thank you,” I told her.

[sunriseoverastorea]

Returning

♬ Brad Derrick - Yearning for Moonshadow

The sun was just rising, flooding the fields with golden fire, turning great standing stones black against the rubied sky. In the distance along the edge of the cliffs, the Pact airship hovered and whirred, disturbing the long, peaceful silence that Pen has come to know on this strange island. Captain Artur stands beside her, another sylvari, tall and thin with smooth scarlet bark and an informal manner about him, black eyes expressionless.

“Can I hold it?” he asks, reaching for the plump creature in her arms. The bird squawks and flaps its feeble wings and she gently hands it over, caressing the black and white face as she does.

“Of course you can. You can hold most any of them. They are very friendly. But do not try to stop them flying off, or you will get hit in the face.” She offers the latter with a sideways smile, before turning her gaze back to the standing stones, fronds falling about her face like curtains.

Artur strokes the bird's hooked orange beak, examining it curiously. “What're you staring at, sapling? Can't imagine you'll miss this place when we go. Empty handed, of course, can't wait to hear about that from the big boss.”

“Do you feel—something? In the air?” Pen tilts her head slowly, scarcely blinking. For a moment, the blooming sky wavers and trembles, a pond disturbed by a single pebble. A dull fear rises in her chest, memories of the night she lost Bashere suddenly fighting for purchase in her mind's eye, but she pushes them away, buries them in the alien serenity of the Unending Ocean that has cradled her all these months.

“I sense nothing. But, Vigil soldiers are not known for our spiritual sensitivity. I could go grab this girl that talks to the stars? Human mesmer, barely twenty and already going bonkers. I always get stuck with the weird ones.” Artur pauses, ridged brow furrowing as an idle spider-like finger strokes the head of the bird in his arms.

“No, it is alright. This place does strange things to the mind. Probably just passing paranoia.” She looks down at her feet, wrapped in fresh leather boots. She taps the toes of them in the long grasses, and remains quiet, waiting for input from the voice in her head. But Rajya remains silent, wandering in the Mists, likely lost in mourning for the cub she couldn't teach to keep still, and the woman she couldn't keep within reach.

“Well then.” Artur sets the pudgy bird on the ground, and it waddles off to join a little gaggle of brethren nearby, stirring up a trumpeting din. “It's about time we left. I'm going to prepare the crew. Join us as soon as you're ready.” He pats her on the shoulder, smiling faintly, an attempt at comfort. “You're going home, Pen Yfan. You won't die on some forsaken island in the middle of the Unending Ocean. Be happy.”

“How could I be,” she murmurs, so softly that he doesn't hear her as he turns his back and strides away, “when all I cared for is lost to me.”

She stares to the horizon, eyes glued to the wavering disk of the sun as it rises over the sleeping sea.

And then, the pebble in the pond falls again. It sends ripples out over the sky, the waves, the air itself seems to tremble and hum with an eerie vibration that she has felt once before, what feels a lifetime ago, as she bobbed like a twig in a lifeboat, and watched a tiny blue and white airship, engulfed in flames, hurl towards certain death in the raging depths of the sea.

This time is much more peaceful. These is no storm, no howling wind or thunder. The world seems to shift, in what way or direction unclear, and the golden grasses fan outward, undulating as if stirred by a summer breeze. And in the middle of the standing stones, where before there was nothing, is now something. A girl, blinked into existence without fanfare.

Pen snaps into motion, sprinting down the hill towards the little figure that the grasses fan out from. The girl kneels, head tilted back at a painful angle, eyes wide open and staring at the sky, mouth fixed in a grimace of terror. Before Pen can reach her, she collapses forward, a huge sack sliding down from her back and covering her head. Atop that sack, a slab of sheet metal is tied, soot-blackened white, the letters Horiz painted on it in pale blue.

Pen comes to a skidding halt in the middle of the stone circle, tearing the luggage off the girl, and she clutches her bony frame to her chest, her sobs wracking the serene sky.

“Marea the Silent. I prayed to your gods that we would never cross paths again, yet here you are, on my ship, sitting in my own bed, eating my rations. Looking like you're going to snap your neck if you don't—calm—down.” Artur lurches out, smacking a hand on either side of Marea's head and struggling to hold it in place. Marea grits her teeth, eyes squeezed shut tight as waves of vision roll over her, seas of empty stars, echoing endless nothingness, and her body reacts violently, attempting to throw itself away from the horror, still so visceral, as if she had never left the void. As the fit passes, she shoves Artur's hands away rather harshly with her own prosthetic ones, scooting herself up against the wall of the airship.

“I didn't choose the mooch life, the mooch life chose me,” she rasps out, throat hoarse from screaming. Eyelids flutter rapidly, and she folds her arms over her chest, as if seeking warmth.

“You didn't—what? Pen Yfan, does Marea always talk like this? I can't even describe this—this, accent. It's like she's just babbling.”

Pen shakes her head where she perches on a stool by Marea's pillow. “No, I've never heard this before. Perhaps something is wrong with her brain? From trauma?”

“I don't even know you,” Marea snaps, glaring weakly at Pen from the corner of her eye. “You were such an absentee employee that I never even met you. Stop acting like you, like you know me. Weirdass blue kindling.”

Artur and Pen exchange a look, and the latter shrugs. “Whatever she said, she's not very happy with us. I suppose we cannot blame her.”

Marea presses her forehead to the cold metal wall of the ship, taking deep breaths. She aches in every bone and trembles like a withered leaf, blown loose and set on an impossible journey, never to see the safety of a tree as solace again.

Gippa's notes are stacked on the table between them, tilting slightly, a leaning tower of mad ramblings. Artur simply stares, as if afraid to touch them, while Marea slouches in her chair, legs kicked up on the desk, cradling her skull focus between her hands. Her eyes are alight, almost manic, as she observes the sylvari's hesitancy, and an ever-increasing well of life force gathers around her. She breathes it in, revels in it, almost imagines she can feel the skull in her hands with the joyous bliss that holding magic once again brings.

“I feel like they're cursed. Are they cursed, Marea? Did you curse them?”

“I told you, a goddamn ghost contacted me through my ship's communications and told me to come down and help them. When I got there, the Pact ship was destroyed, no one alive on board. Just the skeleton of an asura—Gippa, I would guess—and these notes, bundled up very deliberately. Her spirit was waiting for someone to take them. I did. And I didn't look back.”

Though Marea's odd accent has lessened now, Artur still has to concentrate as he listens to her, warily taking the top bundle of papers from the stack. “And you gleaned from them--”

“--The existence of things beyond Tyria,” she cheerfully completes the sentence, winding silver fingers through the air, energy swirling around them like water. “I assume you know, as the Captain of the rescue team, that Gippa brought her doomed pod of scholars out here to research anomalies in the Mists and the Eternal Alchemy, her hypothesis being that things were going pretty wonky over the Unending Ocean. You can read all about her scientific data and horrific experiences in there, I sure did. I'll need to make copies of some before we part ways.”

“I can't allow you to copy classified--”

“--Excuse me, who's the adventurer that got ripped through space and time and made it back in one piece? That's me, I found the notes, I lived the notes, I compulsively crack my neck every five minutes and I want a few damn sheets of paper. Is that too much to ask?”

“...No.” Artur plops into his chair with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes for a moment. “I suddenly understand Lieutenant Graves very well. Running my own ship has been an incredibly tiring task, and having you here has only made it worse.”

“And you're not even attractive, so you've got nothing going for you.”

“Marea, be silent! Own that stupid old name! Let me think, for two seconds.”

“Sure, sure. What a luxury, peace and quiet.”

Her grip on the skull tightens. Magic is not quiet. It sings to her, entwines and tethers her in connections with the lives around her. She senses them all acutely. After the aching, beautiful silence of Middle-Earth, where at first she longed for the hectic embrace of necromancy, now, a part of her wishes she need never feel that tug on her soul again. Drawn to it, like moths, diving into flames. Sweet and tempting, and she always longs to hold more.

[thetimetravellinggaybar]

Chapter 8: The Royal We

It was nearing two in the morning when there was a loud clatter on the roof. Leaving only the time for the bar’s diminishing clientele to look up before the ceiling seemed to swell and burst, and a cluster of bodies fell through, landing with great commotion in a pile on the floor.

As the intruders extricated themselves from the heap, five figures distinguished themselves: three men in dazzling, ceremonial-looking military garb, lavishly bedecked with silk and velveteen; a woman buried up to the neck in duchesse satin, crinoline, pearl jewelry, and ribbons; and another in hunting dress, with black velvet gloves up to her elbows and thick furs draped over her shoulders.

They got up, dusted themselves off, and without a moment’s hesitation began to yell. Several seemed to be speaking Russian, and turned to each other in confusion before returning to the business of their complaining.

Feeling themselves ignored, they first looked around accusingly; then, assuming the problem must be the language barrier, all five, nearly simultaneously, switched to French.

One of the five - Grand Duke Dmitry Pavlovich of Romanov - was halfway through a sentence when, suddenly, his gaze stopped on a familiar face: that of Tsar Nicholas the Second of Russia.

“We were not informed that your Majesty was visiting! What a pleasant surprise!” He exclaimed, in French, before gesturing at the unfamiliar surroundings and switching to Russian again. “This… forgive me, but are we here on your orders, your Majesty?”

“Absolutely not. I am as baffled as the you,” replied Nicholas.

“Dima!” The call of the sickly sweet voice behind him made Dmitry freeze the moment he heard it. He didn’t need to turn around; he knew immediately who it was.

“Felix,” he muttered under his breath. The Tsar was looking over his shoulder - at Count Felix Yusupov himself, he knew - with one eyebrow raised. In skepticism, perhaps, or simply curiosity over the nickname. Dima. How dare you, Dmitry fumed. The risks you make me take, and for what? If the Tsar found out, where would you be? Where would we be?

But now the Count stood beside him and the Tsar had moved on from the topic without a word. He and Felix were discussing their sudden… transportation.

After a spat of conversation, the three decided that they could make nothing of it on their own, and weren’t there others who had come down with them? Perhaps one who spoke Russian, too.

The three of them turned, then, to the women beside them, who were making slightly less noise and trying to make sense the unusual surroundings. “You two! Do you speak French? What’s going on here?” Nicholas broke in, in French, interrupting their conversation.

“Of course I speak French! Who do think I am?” the two exclaimed simultaneously.

“Who are you?”

The more elaborately dressed of the two stepped forward. “Yekaterina Alekseyevna, Empress and Autocrat of All the Russias.” Her voice was ice cold. “What spectacular ignorance on your part. I am ashamed that any subject of mine should fail to recognize - “

“Subject!” Nicholas spat. “I am the subject of none! There is no man more powerful in all Russia!”

“Good thing, then, that I am no man.” Empress Catherine smiled a chilly smile, switching to Russian.

“Who are you? A Bolshevik? God forbid, a parlementarian? What is your business in - “

“Yekaterina Alekseyevna, Empress and Autocrat of All the Russias. Must I continue to repeat myself? Where are my servants? Who is responsible - ”

“I demand that you explain yourself!” Nicholas was furious. “I’ll have you know that I will have you executed for false claims to the throne.”

“Treason!” Catherine shouted. “My men! Treason! Have him arrested!” She turned away from the weakly rambling Tsar Nicholas and grabbed the first unsuspecting customer she laid her eyes on by the sleeve. She repeated her orders then, several times - first in Russian, then French, “Qu’on l’arrête!”, and German, “Verhafte ihn!”

When the man only stared at her blankly, Catherine turned away again in disgust. “Doesn’t anyone here speak Russian? Besides this madman,” she grimaced, glancing at Nicholas with utmost contempt. “Well some of you must speak French. Arrest this man!” she screamed, for the whole bar to hear.

At this point, the other woman, a Swede named Kristina, broke in, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Why exactly should this man be arrested? I am not familiar with either of you.”

“How many times must I repeat myself? I am Yekaterina Alekseyevna, Empress and Autocrat of All the Russias. I am feared throughout the the Empire and the world, and I will be respected.”

King Kristina of Sweden - for that was her title - only nodded along with an absent-minded grin. Little did she know, her own reign predated Catherine’s by more than a century. “You will excuse me, but I’m a little baffled. I’ve never heard of you, and given what your claims are I most certainly would have. Either there is a grave misunderstanding here, or you are quite mad.” Kristina smiled wryly. “I’m sure Emperor Mikhail the First will understand the situation at once, if I were simply to send him a missive? Perhaps have you tried for treason?” Her tone was mocking.

All of this was too much for Catherine, who broke out in fury and bellowed in French, “Seize her! Seize them all!” When nobody reacted, she went on: “Someone tell me immediately where I am and who engineered all this so I may have them executed at once!”

At this point, a woman in her early twenties, most likely a student at a nearby university, coughed nervously and raised her hand to catch Catherine’s attention. When the empress finally calmed down enough to listen, she began to speak, in rather rusty, accented French.

“Excuse me, Madame, but I think that you are maybe, uh…” she paused for a minute to look down at her phone, Googling some vocabulary, “a little inebriated, and… you should stop drinking and maybe go to your, ah, house or hotel.”

Catherine stared at her in utter disbelief. How dare anyone, especially someone of this intruder’s stature - dressed so shabbily, no marks of nobility, no… well, anything - dare to address her so?

“I cannot possibly believe i have to say this again. I am Yeka-”

“You are mad!” Broke in Nicholas II. “Yekaterina II is dead!”

“Nonsense!”

“Has been for two centuries now.” replied the woman with the phone, nodding tiredly.

For once, Catherine was silent. Suddenly, Kristina understood: this strange creature must be some aggrieved madwoman who, in a state of intoxication and with far too much money to her name, had taken to imitating an ancient monarch she’d read about in some obscure history book. Perhaps even in a legend. How tragic.

It was then that Nicholas decided to cut in. “I must admit I am no scholar, but I am quite certain... the great Empress has only been dead a hundred years, at most.”

“I can assure you I am not dead!” screamed Catherine, distraught.

“Look right here. Died, November 17, 1796,” sighed the young woman, holding up her phone. Catherine the Great’s Wikipedia page lit up the faces of the monarchs standing before her.

Kristina gaped. Catherine’s face was stormy with anger. “What is that unholy thing you possess? Must I remind you that divination is beyond illegal? Give it to me,” she barked. “You witch! Hand it over! Give it - ” Catherine snatched the cell phone out of the girl’s hand.

“Excuse me…” the girl made a feeble attempt to grab it back, but Catherine shook her off with a savage wave of her hand.

“Excuse me! Could someone - she just… she just stole my phone,” she mumbled. Someone nearby took out their phone to call the police.

When the cop’s walkie-talkie buzzed in his pocket, he was on his way to the precinct.

“Hey. You still dealing with the bathrobe gang?”

“Just on my way back. They’re at the motel down the street.”

“I have some bad news for you.”

The cop’s face fell. He knew what was coming. “Please tell me there aren't more…”

“Five of them, apparently, but only one is causing trouble. She stole someone's phone, and now she’s screaming about witchcraft. She says she's Catherine the Great, you know, the Russian Empress? And she has no idea what a phone is. I need you to go pick her up, return the phone and… you know. Just... deal with it, okay?”

Within minutes, he was back in the bar. It wasn’t hard to find the disturbance. A few very muscular butch women - Kristina of Sweden darting in among them - were busy wrestling the phone out of Catherine’s hands. Nicholas and his meagre entourage were a ways off, whispering conspiratorially to each other - given the circumstances it seemed best to stick with familiar faces. The other customers were clustered around them, eager to help but unsure as to what should be done.

“Right, stop fighting her. I’ll deal with this.” sighed the police officer. The women let go of Catherine, who dusted herself off then straightened out. Standing to her full height and striking the most regal, powerful and absolutely arrogant post she could muster, she addressed the cop, very patronisingly, in French.

“Hello, young man. I am rather surprised to find myself where I am now. I demand that I be returned to the Hermitage immediately.”

The officer, who spoke only barely enough French to pass his high school language course, was getting used to feeling baffled. He stared at Catherine for a minute, before looking around. “Can I get a translator, please?” He asked in English. “English? Anyone?”

Tsar Nicholas and the young woman whose phone had been taken stepped forward at the same time. After a brief exchange, it became obvious that Tsar Nicholas was the more competent translator.

The officer sighed deeply. This was definitely not going to be easy, and he didn't think he had room for all five of them in his car, he couldn’t leave the royals here and his translator was somehow the last Tsar of Russia. The officer briefly wondered if Nicholas knew he was going to be the last of his dynasty, but of course he didn’t. The most important thing right now was Catherine, as she still had the civilian’s phone. He needed to explain to her what was going on, and very much doubted that Nicholas would approve of his way of handling the situation. Royalty usually wants everything run their way and Nicholas would not be happy with returning the phone to the civilian.

After a few minutes, he decided just to run with the protocol and see where that got him. “Ma’am, please hand over the phone and wait quietly for your arrest.” This was of course said in English, but he glanced over at Nicholas curiously, hoping for a translation. Nicholas translated efficiently and fluently, with the only fault the omission of “Ma’am” and “please”, but this was surely no mistake. Catherine, of course, was not compliant, and was determined to keep the phone. She had tuned out what anyone was saying and was slowly reading her own Wikipedia page.

Since she was not moving, the officer found it easy enough to surprise and handcuff her. As expected, she was absolutely furious and started lashing out viciously. Luckily, the officer had prepared for this and responded quickly. He shot a blank in the air and made use of the general confusion to put Catherine to the floor and grab the phone from her.

“You are under arrest for theft. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one shall be provided for you.” Nicholas stared at the police officer in disbelief. Surely since Catherine thought herself Russian then He, the Tsar, should be deciding her fate.

“Excuse me, I think I'll do that bit. This is my subject “ said Nicholas. As an add on, he went to take the phone from the police officer, who pointed his gun at George. “If you try and interfere with the legal proceedings, I will be forced to arrest you as well. Don't make this harder for me. You know she isn’t yours. Surely you can tell something is wrong.”

It took Nicholas a few seconds to recover from the shock. He was an ally and an honoured guest in this country and it’s lowers had no right to treat him as such. “Mutiny! Revolution! Seize him! He's a madman listen to what he's saying.” announced Nicholas. Realising that something violent might happen, the gang of butch women quickly swooped behind Nicholas and, two on each arm, and positioned him in front of the officer, on the floor, next to Catherine, in a position that made it easy enough for the officer to handcuff the King.

“You are under arrest for disorderly conduct, violence towards a police officer and attempted theft. You have the-” The officer tried to end his usual mini speech but was cut off by Nicholas. “Do not ever attempt to tell me what I can and cannot do! Unhand me at once!” He bellowed. With a very decisive lurch, he tried to get up. Unfortunately for him, it becomes harder to balance when your hands are cuffed and he was quickly returned to the floor.

Seeing the state the officer had put their Tsar in, Felix rushed to his assistance. Dmitry, however, grabbed his wrist and held him back. “It might be best to remain free, at least for the moment. We can follow him, ask to escort him.” said Dmitry.

Felix nodded. “As you like. Caution doesn’t usually agree with me, but I will admit I’m a little disoriented.”

Dmitry almost smiled. If only Felix were always so thoughtful. “Excuse me,” he tapped the officer’s shoulder. “Excuse me. I am Grand Duke Dmitry Pavlovich of Romanov. This man,” he gestured to the handcuffed figure of Nicholas on the floor, “is my cousin.”

The officer looked at him blankly. Dmitry had been speaking French.

The two called for a translator at the same time. Nicholas was too busy grumbling to pay attention. The young woman from earlier, whose phone had now been returned to her and who was now standing by the bar with a bottle of beer, was brought over.

“Which is… ah, what is the problem, sir?” she asked Dmitry hesitantly.

“Count Yusupov and I would like to accompany my cousin the Tsar to… well, wherever this man plans to take him,” the Grand Duke replied.

The girl translated to the officer. “No problem,” he laughed. “We have a right party over at the station already. A couple more can’t hurt.”

“You can come,” the young woman translated back to Dmitry, who nodded curtly.

“By the way,” the officer added, “you’ll come with us, won’t you? None of us can get by very well in French, and we might need an unbiased account. For filing, you know. Nothing serious.”

“Oh. Well, yeah, sure. I guess so.”

“Sorry to keep you up, but… well. It’s not just any old thing, is it?”

“I guess not.”

The party got up to leave and determined they would not be able to transport Catherine and Nicholas with only the officer… well… dragging. Kristina had also noticed this issue and rushed over to help. Since it would be extremely indecent for the count and the grand duke to forcefully remove the Tsar, they both went to help with Catherine. Kristina and one of her new friends each took one of Nicholas’s arms and the company of six, as well as their two prisoners, made their way towards the vehicle and loaded the two Russian rulers into the back. The officer got in the driver’s seat, the translator in the passenger seat and the two butch women, Kristina and her new acquaintance - her name was Erin, she found out - in tow.

[druidx]

(Not sure why I never posted the actual text to this. Anyway, have the meat of the story because we all know no one ever clicks links)

The little room was dim. One lantern hung suspended above a plain table, the other on the wall by the door. Both cast a feeble glow over the woman and man, sat either side of the table. "Tell me about Constable Breakwood?" the man said, running long, elegant fingers down a page in his notebook.  "We are wasting time," growled the woman opposite. "We need to be out there, Aveskamp. Looking for him!" She thrust a small hand at the direction of the door. "And we will," the man said in carefully measured tones, looking at the irate woman from under pale lashes, "but I need you to tell me everything you know about him first." "Why!" she said, slamming her fist on the table. "He's not lost, he was taken! Every moment we spend here is another moment that bastard has him!" "You think I don't know that?" Aveskamp said harshly, elegant fingers curling under to form white-knuckled fists. "He's my friend too, Constable o'Toreguarde. So the sooner you start talking is the sooner I can go look for him." "If he's your friend then why do you need me to tell you about him?" O'Toreguarde asked, raking a hand through her hazelnut hair. "This is pointless." "Because he's your partner. Because you've spent nearly every waking moment with him for the past two months and I haven't. Because I'm the tracker here, and I say I need you to! Ititia's sake, Elowyn, just talk to me!" Aveskamp said, slamming a fist on the table.

The little woman raked a hand through her hair again, locking both hands behind her head for a moment before growling and bringing them back onto the table in front of her. "Fine! What do you want me to tell you?" she asked, with a confused little shrug. "What am I supposed to say? Hm? He's a long streak of piss who tells bad puns and smokes worse roll-ups." Aveskamp leant back, shoulders relaxing as he tucked a stray strand of straw-golden hair behind a pointed ear. "Just tell me about him," the elf said. "What's he do off-duty, where's he like to eat? What's his favourite colour?" O'Toregurade scrubbed at her face, fingers coming to rest pinched at the bridge of her nose. "Gods," she said, "I don't know." "Yes. You do. Think!" Aveskamp said, leaning forward to stare at her. "He... ah, gods..." The little woman flicked a hand in the air. "He smokes Baron brand tobacco, the shit stuff in the yellow packets. Except if he gets a little extra in his pay, and then he'll splash out and buy a wee pouch of Tiger Stripe that's come all the way from Bei-Han." O'Toreguarde gave that confused little shrug again. "Keep going," Aveskamp said, jotting something down in his notebook. The halfling rolled her eyes. "Ah..." she shook her head and looked at the wall for inspiration. "He'll tell you his favourite food is my Mam's spiced apple cake, but that's a lie; it's actually Isa Combs's Snake stew, what they serve in the Scholar." "Oh? What makes you think that?" "He'll turn down cake; he never turns down that stew," O'Toreguarde said, then paused, thinking. "It's also possible he's got a thing for Isa Combes herself," she added with a little half-smile. Aveskamp snorted as he scribbled. "Sounds more like our Farren," he said. "This is good. Keep going." O'Toreguarde let out an exasperated little huff. "His favourite colour is a, a deep blue, the colour the sky goes on a clear summer's day, when dusk is closer to night than not. He prefers cider over beer, and Cat's Piss brandy over both, but'll take either if it's in the offing. He goes to the Skiving Scholar most nights we have off, 'cept for every third Saturday when they run cage fights over at The Pit." "To gamble, I assume?"  O'Toregurade shook her head. "Nah. To fight. Sort of. I mean," she amended when Aveskamp looked at her, concerned, "he says it's to keep his oar in. He did undercover work, y'know? Still got contacts don't know him as a Watchman. So, he shows up occasionally. Throws a few punches, gets his face caved in to keep in good stead. Has a beer or five, shoots the shit with 'em, and learns the breeze. Y'know? 'Keeping up with the Smiths' he calls it." Aveskamp stared at her for a long moment. "I see," he said, writing something down. "Keep going." "Gods, what's there left to tell?" O'Toreguarde snapped. "I've told you where he hangs out, what he likes to drink and smoke and eat, who he wants to bang... What more can I say?"

She pushed the chair out and rose. "Sit. Down. Officer." "No. You know why? Because it's my damn fault he got took, and I'm going to go find him while you ponce around asking useless questions!" "Why?" Aveskamp asked, leaning back in his chair. "What?"  The elf gestured loosely with a hand. "Why is it your fault?" he asked, before folding the hand back into his lap. "Because!" O'Toreguarde snaps. "Because I should have been quicker, should have been more adept." She gripped the back of her chair. "Alright," Aveskamp said. "Walk me through it. What happened?" O'Toreguarde sighed, running a hand over her face. "We were in pursuit of a suspect. We chased him through Strongmount, and down to the warehouses at the back of Silver Hooks, when he grabbed a kid. I guess we underestimated just how desperate and stupid the perp was... Anyway, he vanishes into a warehouse, so of course we've gotta slow down, clear each area before proceeding. We split up, cover more ground, and it's fine until I get near the top level. There's a ruckus, and I rush up to see the perp with a blade at Farren's throat in one hand, and a rope in the other, tied to the kid, who's dangling off the crane jib. Perp takes one look at me and says 'Make your choice Copper - your partner or the girl' and let's go the rope. Of course, I leap for the rope, but there's nothing to tie it down to, and I have to watch that kuspaa walk away with my partner." O'Toreguard hung her head, short hair flopping over her eyes.

"Sit down, officer," Aveskamp said, more kindly this time.  "Yes, First Class." O'Toreguarde dragged the chair back out and took her seat.  "We will get him back, I promise, but I need you to trust me and my methods. I need you to tell me more about him." "What's there left to tell?" she asked, shoulders slumped and staring at the table-top. "Think beyond the superficial," the elf said, reaching again for pencil and paper. O'Torguarde shifted, elbow propped on table, forehead propped on knuckles, and frowned. "He..." she paused. "He finds it hard to make friends." Aveskamp frowned. "Breakwood has loads of friends." O'Toreguard looked over, head swivelling on her hand. "No. He has loads of acquaintances. He's jovial enough, sure. Lots of folks like him and he's good at making them smile, but there's a lack of deeper connection. How many people d'you see in this room Crispin?" "There's no one but us because everyone else trusts us to do our job." "Fine. Tell me how many people looked genuinely concerned when I announced what'd happened?" "Well. I mean." Aveskamp paused, drumming a tattoo on the table with his pencil. "That's just. Hm." The elf stopped drumming. "I cede your point," he said, making a note. "What do you know about his home life then?" "Now, or earlier?" "Either."

Elowyn crossed her arms, now, leaning back in her chair, and crossed her legs too, giving Aveskamp a deadpan look. "Well. Currently, he lives in the Watch barracks with about twenty other officers, and rooms with an annoying short-arsed copper who makes his ungrateful ass coffee every morning, and a stack of paperwork as big as she is." "And who is- Oh." Avesamp paused mid-writing, to look up with an irked frown. "It's you. You're his room-mate." The elf sighed. "Don't try to be funny Elo, it doesn't suit you. Girlfriend?" "We're just Watch-partners! Nothing else." "I meant, does he have one?" "Oh. No. There's a couple of girls he likes and won't make a move on, a few he has interest in and has made a move on, and too many that's he's made a move on and then woken the next morning to find out he doesn't like them in the slightest." "And before?" Elo loosened her crossed arms a fraction, a troubled look crossing her face. "I..." She licked her lips and tilted her head, her eyes flicking between the senior officer and the wall to her right. "I think. Maybe. I think he had a wife," she said quietly. "Maybe a kid too." "What makes you say that?" Aveskamp asked, looking up from his writing. O'Toreguarde scrubbed her face, hand lingering over her mouth, as she uncrossed her legs and leant forward. "I don't know," she finally admitted. "You ever get a gut feeling about something? Yeah, well. It's just... how he acts. Y'know? Things he says, 'specially to kids in the street. The timing would fit too; he's, what, forty-three? That's more than old enough to have a kid and a wife before the Demon Wars started." Aveskamp gives her a long look, grunts and looks back to his writing. "Is any of this helping?" Elo asked, passing a hand over her face again. "Yes," Aveskamp told her, scribbling something else down. He looked up, shaking blond hair over one shoulder. "It gives me a better impression of the man I'm looking for." "I told you already; he ain't missing. He was taken," Elo said.  "Sure, and this way I can guess what he's going to do about it."

Elo levels a flat look at Aveskamp. "You should have led with that, I could have saved us a lot of time. There's no need to guess, I can tell you what he'd do." "Oh? What's that then?" "The suspect was just a kid, not much older than me. Farren... he talks to people. Makes them like him. He would have tried to talk the perp down. Since they haven't come in, that's failed, so Farren would have made suggestions instead. Give the perp advice on how to effectively kidnap a cop." Aveskamp stopped writing and gave O'Toregurade a look that clearly said he thought that was a crock of shit. "My partner's no angel, Aveskamp. He did things during his undercover work he ain't proud of. One of those things was kidnapping a fellow cop; he knows how it's done." "I can buy that. What I can't buy is that he'd impart this knowledge to someone trying to kidnap him ." O'Toreguarde looked at her hands. "That's cuz right now he ain't on his side, he's on the perp's side. He just wants them both to get out alive." "So where would they go?" Aveskamp asked, the end of his pencil sounding out a tattoo again in the silent room. O'Toreguarde frowned, glaring up at the corner of the ceiling like it had done something to personally offend her. "Couple of places," she said slowly. "There's an empty building just outside of Silver Hooks, up against the West wall. It's closest. Or there's a 'commune' around the back of Alliarien's chapel. It's quite close, and while there's a lot of people, they're more likely to protect the perp from Watchmen than question why he's gone one at dagger-point." O'Toreguarde rubbed her face and sighed. "Or there's about a hundred half-way empty warehouses between where he was taken and more populated streets. Gods..." "Elowyn," Aveskamp said, reaching out. "We'll get him back. D'you think he'd do anything to get himself hurt?" "No. Unless he told a joke." "Elo..." "I'm being serious! I've wanted to stab him plenty of times for poor jokes. The perp was on edge already, one badly timed hint of jocularity might push him over." "Elo." "Alright, fine. No, I don't think he would do anything to get himself hurt. Like I said, he'll talk the guy down as much as possible, be compliant and suggest ways of lying low."

Aveskamp finished scribbling something else in his notebook, then flipped it close. "Thank you Constable O'Toreguarde, I think I've got everything I need." The elf pushed back his chair, letting it scrape against the floor as he rose. He turned to walk to the door. "Crispin," O'Toreguarde said. "You better bring him home." The elder officer turned back to see O'Toreguarde giving him a look of such profound seriousness that he stopped and turned fully back to her. "If you lose him, I swear to Libra I will find a way to make your life hell for wasting my time here." Aveskamp tilted his head and frowned. "Why do you care so much?" he asked. "Watchmen come and go all the time." "This one's special." "Why?" O'Toreguarde visibly swallowed. "Because he's the first person who didn't expect me to be anything besides a watchman. He's the only person who's ever treated me like I'm my own person, not an extension of my Aunt. Had no preconceived notions of who I should be. Gods," she paused, briefly closed her eyes, and when she looked back at him, the elf saw they were damp. "I love Aunt Lex, I love my mother - don't get me wrong - but they both want me to be more like them in ways that don't work for me. Everyone in the station looks at me like all they see is my Aunt. Farren is the only one who looks past that, Farren is the only one who sees me, and only wants me to be the best Watchman I can. So I'm telling you - he's important - all six foot three inches, and 168 pounds of him. And if you don't bring him back, so help me, I will hold you personally accountable." Aveskamp quirked a smile. "Duly noted officer," was all he said before leaving the room.

Summary: Farren has been kidnapped. Aveskamp, the officer charged with locating him, sits down with Farren’s Duty Watch Partner, Elowyn, to discuss Officer Breakwood.

Notes: One of my earlier works, trying to figure out Farren’s character. 

Warnings: References to kidnapping

[nomanwalksalone]

THE WALT WHITMAN METHOD FOR ACQUIRING A MANLY CHEST AND AVOIDING SYPHILITIC TAINT

by Daniel Penny

Best known for his poetic genius and fantastic beard, it turns out that Walt Whitman was also among America’s first menswear advice columnists. Zachary Turpin, a graduate student at the University of Houston, has recently discovered Whitman’s collection of self-help articles, Manly Health and Training, With Offhand Hints Toward Their Conditions. Whitman published the articles in 1858 as a running column in The New York Atlas, under the name Mose Velsor, a well-known Whitman pseudonym from his time as a hack journalist. Whitman’s journals contain notes for these articles, but Whitman scholars had thought that he had never written them. Turpin found them by searching a library database for “Mose Velsor” and then following another newspaper’s reference to the collected articles.

To think this exposition of manful wisdom was almost left in the dustbin of history. It reads like passages of Leaves of Grass mixed with dubious advice on exercise and sports, diet, clothes, grooming, and sex. Choice headlines include: “MANLY BEAUTY—THE TRUE AMBITION,” “MEDICINES—DO THEY DO ANY GOOD?” and “CAN WE THEN HAVE AS FINE A RACE OF MEN IN MODERN ARTIFICIAL LIFE, AS IN RUDER AGES?” These topics may sound familiar; pick up a copy of GQ, or scroll through the clickbait of Men’s Health and you’ll find almost identical articles, just written in less exultant prose. “Manly health!” Whitman writes. “Is there not a kind of charm—a fascinating magic in the words?”

The modern American man, just as the specimen of Whitman’s time, contains multitudes. In fact, with the advent of fast food and microwaveable mini-corn dogs, the American man contains more multitudes than ever. But with Mr. Walt Whitman as our guide, perhaps we can finally “get that beach-bod” we’ve seen advertised, and rediscover the charms of manly health.

TRAINING.

This is the core of Manly Health. Whitman may have been writing in the days before Crossfit Bowflex, and P90X, but his attitudes are eerily similar to today’s appeals to inflated masculinity. However, Whitman is more realistic about the time it takes to achieve these results—no seven minute workout here. The Whitman exercise regimen takes two hours a day, for two years.

Look at the brawny muscles attached to the arms of that young man, who, for nearly two years past, has devoted on an average two hours out of the twenty-four to rowing in a boat, swinging the dumb-bells, or exercising with the Indian club. Look at the spread of his manly chest, on which also are flakes of muscle which rival those of the ox or horse.—(Start not, delicate reader! the comparison is one to be envied.) Two years ago that same young man was puny, hollow-breasted, walking home at evening with a languid gait, and eating his meals with less than half an appetite. Training, and the simplest amount of perseverance, have altogether made a new being of him.

THE FEET.

Whitman’s suggestion of custom footwear is oddly prescient, given the current menswear obsession with bespoke shoes. (Although his promotion of socks will disappoint many a J. Crew stylist.) And for those of us with habitually chilly feet, Whitman has the answer: a cold water footbath.

Probably there is no way to have good and easy boots or shoes, except to have lasts modeled exactly to the shape of the feet. This is well worth doing. Hundreds of times the cost of it are yearly spent in idle gratifications—while this, rightly looked upon, is indispensable to comfort and health. The feet, too, must be kept well clothed with thin socks in summer, and woolen in winter—and washed daily. We may mention that one of the best remedies for cold feet which many people are troubled with in the winter, is bathing them frequently in cold water. If this does not succeed, add a little exercise.

THE THROAT.

One of Whitman’s obsessions in Manly Health and Training is the way modern life degrades the body. He hates scarves and mufflers, believing them to coddle rather than fortify the throat, “resulting in morbidly sensitive skin.” For throat ailments, he also blames: “Feeble and scrofulous parentage, precocious youthful indulgences and passions, a too various and too artificial diet, distilled liquors, syphilitic taint, sedentary employments, continual breathing of stale air, the use of drugs and medicines, &c., &c.” This sounds like a rather grim situation for the gullet, but Whitman has a natural solution.

The beard is a great sanitary protection to the throat—for purposes of health it should always be worn, just as much as the hair of the head should be. Think what would be the result if the hair of the head should be carefully scraped off three or four times a week with the razor! Of course, the additional aches, neuralgias, colds, &c., would be immense. Well, it is just as bad with removing the natural protection of the neck; for nature indicates the necessity of that covering there, for full and sufficient reasons.

FOR STUDENTS, CLERKS, AND THOSE IN SEDENTARY OR MENTAL EMPLOYMENTS.

In 1858, “mental employments” were a only a small portion of jobs in the US, but now this advice seems to apply to almost everybody in the developed world—there are very few oxcart drivers in Brooklyn these days. To keep active, Whitman suggests rowing, running, boxing, and a new sport just sweeping the nation: baseball. But for men unused to exercise, he prescribes starting with a morning walk.

…To you, clerk, literary man, sedentary person, man of fortune, idler, the same advice. Up! The world (perhaps you now look upon it with pallid and disgusted eyes) is full of zest and beauty for you, if you approach it in the right spirit! Out in the morning! If in the city, even there you will find ample sources of amusement and interest in its myriad varieties of character and occupation—in the scenes of its awakening and adjusting itself to its daily labors—in the crowds around its ferries, and all through its main thoroughfares, and at its great depots and markets. Do not be discouraged soon. Give our advice a thorough trial—not for a few days or weeks, but for months.

So there you have it. To realize Whitman’s picture of manly health, lift weights, buy better-fitting shoes, leave your throat uncovered, and take a brisk walk in the morning. Avoid stale air, distilled liquors, and syphilis, and don’t be too hasty in your judgement—as Whitman notes, you’ve got to give this training regimen a few months to work before you abandon it. Let’s see how you idlers look come Labor Day.

Quality content, like quality clothing, ages well. This article first appeared on the No Man blog in June 2017.

[nomanwalksalone]

THE WALT WHITMAN METHOD FOR ACQUIRING A MANLY CHEST AND AVOIDING SYPHILITIC TAINT

by Daniel Penny

Best known for his poetic genius and fantastic beard, it turns out that Walt Whitman was also among America’s first menswear advice columnists. Zachary Turpin, a graduate student at the University of Houston, has recently discovered Whitman’s collection of self-help articles, Manly Health and Training, With Offhand Hints Toward Their Conditions. Whitman published the articles in 1858 as a running column in The New York Atlas, under the name Mose Velsor, a well-known Whitman pseudonym from his time as a hack journalist. Whitman’s journals contain notes for these articles, but Whitman scholars had thought that he had never written them. Turpin found them by searching a library database for “Mose Velsor” and then following another newspaper’s reference to the collected articles.

To think this exposition of manful wisdom was almost left in the dustbin of history. It reads like passages of Leaves of Grass mixed with dubious advice on exercise and sports, diet, clothes, grooming, and sex. Choice headlines include: “MANLY BEAUTY—THE TRUE AMBITION,” “MEDICINES—DO THEY DO ANY GOOD?” and “CAN WE THEN HAVE AS FINE A RACE OF MEN IN MODERN ARTIFICIAL LIFE, AS IN RUDER AGES?” These topics may sound familiar; pick up a copy of GQ, or scroll through the clickbait of Men’s Health and you’ll find almost identical articles, just written in less exultant prose. “Manly health!” Whitman writes. “Is there not a kind of charm—a fascinating magic in the words?”

The modern American man, just as the specimen of Whitman’s time, contains multitudes. In fact, with the advent of fast food and microwaveable mini-corn dogs, the American man contains more multitudes than ever. But with Mr. Walt Whitman as our guide, perhaps we can finally “get that beach-bod” we’ve seen advertised, and rediscover the charms of manly health.

TRAINING.

This is the core of Manly Health. Whitman may have been writing in the days before Crossfit Bowflex, and P90X, but his attitudes are eerily similar to today’s appeals to inflated masculinity. However, Whitman is more realistic about the time it takes to achieve these results—no seven minute workout here. The Whitman exercise regimen takes two hours a day, for two years.

Look at the brawny muscles attached to the arms of that young man, who, for nearly two years past, has devoted on an average two hours out of the twenty-four to rowing in a boat, swinging the dumb-bells, or exercising with the Indian club. Look at the spread of his manly chest, on which also are flakes of muscle which rival those of the ox or horse.—(Start not, delicate reader! the comparison is one to be envied.) Two years ago that same young man was puny, hollow-breasted, walking home at evening with a languid gait, and eating his meals with less than half an appetite. Training, and the simplest amount of perseverance, have altogether made a new being of him.

THE FEET.

Whitman’s suggestion of custom footwear is oddly prescient, given the current menswear obsession with bespoke shoes. (Although his promotion of socks will disappoint many a J. Crew stylist.) And for those of us with habitually chilly feet, Whitman has the answer: a cold water footbath.

Probably there is no way to have good and easy boots or shoes, except to have lasts modeled exactly to the shape of the feet. This is well worth doing. Hundreds of times the cost of it are yearly spent in idle gratifications—while this, rightly looked upon, is indispensable to comfort and health. The feet, too, must be kept well clothed with thin socks in summer, and woolen in winter—and washed daily. We may mention that one of the best remedies for cold feet which many people are troubled with in the winter, is bathing them frequently in cold water. If this does not succeed, add a little exercise.

THE THROAT.

One of Whitman’s obsessions in Manly Health and Training is the way modern life degrades the body. He hates scarves and mufflers, believing them to coddle rather than fortify the throat, “resulting in morbidly sensitive skin.” For throat ailments, he also blames: “Feeble and scrofulous parentage, precocious youthful indulgences and passions, a too various and too artificial diet, distilled liquors, syphilitic taint, sedentary employments, continual breathing of stale air, the use of drugs and medicines, &c., &c.” This sounds like a rather grim situation for the gullet, but Whitman has a natural solution.

The beard is a great sanitary protection to the throat—for purposes of health it should always be worn, just as much as the hair of the head should be. Think what would be the result if the hair of the head should be carefully scraped off three or four times a week with the razor! Of course, the additional aches, neuralgias, colds, &c., would be immense. Well, it is just as bad with removing the natural protection of the neck; for nature indicates the necessity of that covering there, for full and sufficient reasons.

FOR STUDENTS, CLERKS, AND THOSE IN SEDENTARY OR MENTAL EMPLOYMENTS.

In 1858, “mental employments” were a only a small portion of jobs in the US, but now this advice seems to apply to almost everybody in the developed world—there are very few oxcart drivers in Brooklyn these days. To keep active, Whitman suggests rowing, running, boxing, and a new sport just sweeping the nation: baseball. But for men unused to exercise, he prescribes starting with a morning walk.

…To you, clerk, literary man, sedentary person, man of fortune, idler, the same advice. Up! The world (perhaps you now look upon it with pallid and disgusted eyes) is full of zest and beauty for you, if you approach it in the right spirit! Out in the morning! If in the city, even there you will find ample sources of amusement and interest in its myriad varieties of character and occupation—in the scenes of its awakening and adjusting itself to its daily labors—in the crowds around its ferries, and all through its main thoroughfares, and at its great depots and markets. Do not be discouraged soon. Give our advice a thorough trial—not for a few days or weeks, but for months.

So there you have it. To realize Whitman’s picture of manly health, lift weights, buy better-fitting shoes, leave your throat uncovered, and take a brisk walk in the morning. Avoid stale air, distilled liquors, and syphilis, and don’t be too hasty in your judgement—as Whitman notes, you’ve got to give this training regimen a few months to work before you abandon it. Let’s see how you idlers look come Labor Day.

Quality content, like quality clothing, ages well. This post first appeared on the No Man blog in June 2016.