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vir-tanadahl · 3 months ago

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Timeless

Summary: Isera Lavellan is living in modern Thedas completing her research on plants when her research takes her to a place in the Solasan Mountain range. The discovery of a strange glowing mirror takes her to a world she has never known before where she meets someone she never thought existed. (Find on Ao3) Fen'harel (Solas) x Lavellan

This is the final update before Veilguard releases tomorrow! Our ten year wait is finally over! While this chapter does not have any Veilguard spoilers (all information has come from information, conversations, or codex entries from DAI and Trespasser), future chapters might include lore from Veilguard! If that is the case, I will give you a warning at the start of the chapter! :)

Chapter 27: The Shattered Heritage

Since uncovering her memories, Isera had grown more introspective, lost in the tangled threads of her past. She knows the memories are hers, but they feel distant, almost like stories that happened to someone else. There’s a strange detachment to them, as though she’s observing a stranger’s life rather than her own and certain fragments trouble her deeply, lingering at the edges of her mind.

First, where had her mother been when the Seers performed their ritual to block her memory and magic? The absence feels glaring, as though something important is missing from the scene. And then, there is the memory of the explosion—the one that had shaped so much of her life. It feels... off, like a painting with colors just slightly out of place. It wasn’t merely suppressed; it feels as if the memory itself had been altered, reshaped into something different. But by whom, and for what purpose?

Questions swirl in her mind, haunting her each time she replays the memories. Why would someone manipulate that specific moment with the statue, and why did they manipulate it to be a forest she wandered off in? The temple’s architecture—she can’t recall ever visiting a place like it, not in her childhood or any time after.

Then there’s the question of the Seers themselves. How did they even manage to suppress her memories and magic? From everything she knows, the Seers were not truly magic-wielders—not in the way she understands it now.

Magic in her time feels nearly impossible, a forgotten myth. So how could the Seers have accessed enough power to seal away her connection to the Fade? And if they somehow did, what else might be hidden, buried beneath the surface of her time?

These thoughts spiral, leading to even more questions, each one unsettling. ‘If magic still exists in her world but is suppressed, locked away—why?’ Who would be powerful enough to hide it, and for what purpose? She feels as though she’s glimpsing only fragments of a much larger, concealed truth, and the weight of it presses down on her.

An image of Solas flickers in her mind bringing with it the old Dalish tales. ‘Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf,’ the trickster who deceived both the Evanuris and the Forgotten Ones. His cunning led him to trap them all, the Evanuris sealed away in the Fade, the Forgotten Ones banished to the Void.

The thought lingers, heavy and unsettling, weaving itself into her other questions. For a brief moment, she wonders—'what if there’s truth to these stories?’

But she quickly shakes the thought from her mind. Yet, as she tries to push it away, the image of Fen’Harel remains, haunting her with the possibility of truth buried within the stories she once dismissed.

Isera walked slow, thoughtful laps through the garden, her mind adrift as memories surfaced and faded. She paused, grounding herself in the feel of the cool grass beneath her feet, the earthy scent of flowers mingling with the soft rustle of leaves around her. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing it in, savoring the calm before her thoughts pulled her back in.

There had been something almost...freeing about seeing her younger self in those memories—moving so easily among the spirits, her face unguarded, her heart open, unburdened by fear or hesitation. The ease with which her younger self embraced the spirits left a bittersweet feeling blooming within her; she longed for that innocence, that confidence, as if they were treasures lost in the shadows of her past.

The more Isera reflects on her connection to the Fade and the spirits, the stronger her resolve becomes to reclaim and fully understand it and to wield it with the same freedom she glimpsed in her younger self. Finally, she turns back toward the fortress, her path clear in her mind as she makes her way to Solas’s private library.

He had given her unrestricted access to study there whenever she wished, a privilege she treasured. Within those walls, surrounded by ancient tomes and magical texts, she felt an unspoken encouragement to dive deeper into her craft, to experiment, to learn.

Once inside, she immerses herself in the creation of wards, finding an unexpected joy in the process. Crafting wards felt like creating and solving puzzles of her own design—each one could be as simple or intricate as she desired. Some wards succeeded, forming shields or barriers as intended, while others failed.

One ward in particular, meant to repel attackers by forming a protective shield, had an unexpected outcome. Instead of pushing away, it drew inward, creating an almost magnetic pull. Confused, Isera examined the glyphs and runes, trying to understand where she went wrong.

After a moment of studying her notes, she realized her mistake: one of the critical runes was inscribed in reverse, inadvertently creating an attraction effect rather than a repulsion. With each attempt, successful or not, her confidence grew. She could feel her connection to the Fade sharpening, becoming something she could understand.

Isera began to feel a profound connection with the Fade, as though it were a living presence intertwined with her own being and the world around her. The more she practiced, the more her confidence blossomed, each successful spell reinforcing her bond with the realm of spirits. Magic started to feel like a natural extension of herself, an effortless flow that grew stronger with each moment she spent immersed in her studies.

She could feel the presence of spirits now with increasing clarity, their energies faint yet unmistakable, like distant melodies calling from the depths of the Fade. This connection felt so intrinsic, so undeniable, that the Fade became as essential to her as breathing.

The door to the library creaks open softly, breaking the quiet with a faint squeak as Felassan steps inside. “Ah, there you are,” he says, his gaze sweeping over the scattered papers and sketches that litter the table around her—drawings of wards in various stages, some meticulously detailed, others scribbled over in frustration.

He raises an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “You do certainly enjoy making wards,” he remarks, stepping closer to peer at her work. His tone is teasing, but there’s genuine curiosity in his eyes as he studies the array of designs she’s created.

Isera glances up at him with a smile. “They’re fun,” she says with a shrug, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Felassan chuckles, raising an eyebrow. “Ah, well, I think you’re in a rare minority. Most would beg to differ.” His tone is light, teasing, and Isera rolls her eyes, feigning exasperation.

“Let’s see if you can bring that enthusiasm to practicing your offensive magic.” He gestures toward the door, his expression turning slightly more serious. “The wards may keep things at bay, but offense has its own merits.”

Isera groans, “But I’m not good at it.” She begins gathering the scattered papers, reluctantly tidying up despite her protest.

Felassan shrugs, unfazed. “All the more reason to practice,” he replies, crossing his arms as he waits patiently, a knowing look in his eyes.

Once she’s done, they start down the corridor, heading toward the familiar garden where she’s been honing her skills. But as they walk, Isera feels a shift in the air—an underlying tension she can’t ignore. There are more guards and soldiers than usual, their movements brisk and purposeful. The atmosphere feels heavier, charged with an unspoken urgency.

She glances up at Felassan, her brows knitting together with concern. “What’s going on?” she whispers.

Felassan’s expression darkens slightly, and he lets out a quiet sigh. “Movements of war,” he murmurs, his voice carrying a weight that silences any further questions. The words linger between them, pressing down like a shadow over their path as they continue toward the garden.

Isera lowers her gaze, the weight of Felassan’s words settling heavily in her mind. ‘Movements of war.’ The seriousness of the situation feels like a shadow stretching over her thoughts as they make their way to the garden in silence.

Once there, Felassan begins instructing her, his tone steady but his gaze distant. “Let’s focus on elemental abilities,” he says, gesturing toward a row of practice dummies lined up before her. “Each element has its strengths; see if you can find yours.”

Isera takes a deep breath and steadies herself, casting her first spell. The flame sputters, barely reaching the dummy, but she tries again, frustration and determination mingling as she works through each element. Fire, ice, lightning—she stumbles, but eventually, with each attempt, manages to strike the dummy with enough force to hit her target.

Felassan observes her progress with a slight nod, instructing her to keep practicing. Just as she refocuses, two more soldiers enter the garden, their faces set with grim determination. They approach Felassan, casting quick glances toward Isera as if appraising her or perhaps assessing the scene.

Felassan steps aside to speak with them, his expression hardening as he listens. Isera, glancing over between spells, senses the gravity of their conversation. The soldiers’ voices are low, their words muffled by the rustle of leaves and the sound of her own casting. She attempts to concentrate on her spells, but her gaze flickers to Felassan and the soldiers.

The air thickens with tension, each glance from the soldiers landing on her like a silent question. Their presence is heavy, and Isera feels it prickling at the edges of her focus, disrupting her attempts at casting. She stops, her attention drawn to fragments of their hushed conversation, catching only bits and pieces.

Unable to ignore her curiosity, she turns toward them, stepping closer, her gaze fixed on Felassan. His expression is grim, his voice carrying a note of bitterness she’s rarely heard from him.

“Ghilan’nain fancies herself a Creator,” he says to one of the soldiers, his tone laced with open disdain, “but I doubt she’s ever considered the true cost.”

The words hang in the air, weighted with an unspoken accusation, and Isera senses the darkness behind them. She watches Felassan’s expression closely, a flicker of something unguarded in his eyes before his face becomes impassive once more. The soldiers exchange glances, the tension palpable as Felassan’s words sink in.

Felassan glances over his shoulder, his gaze landing on Isera, unreadable yet sharp. Then, with a slight turn, he addresses the soldiers. “Dismissed.”

The two soldiers snap to attention, their respect evident in their posture. “General,” they reply in unison, giving a crisp nod before turning on their heels and departing, their footsteps fading down the corridor.

Isera watches them go, her mind racing as she turns back to Felassan, confusion etched on her face. ‘Ghilan’nain?’ She recalls the stories she grew up with, the lore that has always been part of her heritage. Ghilan’nain, revered by the Dalish as one of the People before being elevated to the ranks of the Evanuris. She was known as a huntress, a chosen of Andruil, the goddess of the hunt. The Dalish call to her for guidance on their journeys, for safe travels, to help them find their way home.

Felassan’s words linger in Isera’s mind, their tone sharp with a disdain that feels at odds with the reverence she grew up hearing in stories of Ghilan’nain. It’s as if there’s a darkness to Ghilan’nain’s story, something hidden that defies the familiar tales of the huntress, the guide, the protector.

“What did you mean?” she asks, her voice edged with cautious curiosity.

Felassan’s expression hardens, a frown creasing his brow as he meets her gaze. “About Ghilan’nain?” he repeats, his tone guarded.

Isera nods slowly, her gaze fixed on Felassan, her eyes searching his face for answers. “Yes,” she replies softly, her voice urging him to continue.

Felassan’s expression turns somber, a shadow crossing his face as he begins. “Ghilan’nain has always had a taste for creation,” he says, his tone laced with a subtle bitterness. “Experimentation, reshaping life… creatures of all kinds. Giants, monsters, and beasts that once roamed sky, water, and earth alike.”

He pauses, the weight of his words settling in the air between them, and a flicker of something darker crosses his gaze. “But it wasn’t always so,” he continues, almost reluctantly. “The halla… they’re pretty, graceful even,” he adds, his voice softening, as if remembering a kinder legacy from her creations.

Isera’s brows knit together, trying to reconcile this image of Ghilan’nain with the revered figure she’d always known. The halla, sacred symbols to her people, contrasted starkly with the image of monsters and twisted creations that Felassan’s words conjured.

“I don’t understand,” Isera says, her voice trembling as she struggles to piece it together. “I thought the war was against the false gods?”

Her question hangs in the air, laced with a hint of disbelief. Felassan watches her, a flicker of confusion crossing his face as he considers her words. “Yes,” he replies slowly, as if uncertain what part confuses her. “It is.”

He studies her, his eyes narrowing slightly, as though trying to understand the reason behind her distress.

“Like… people pretending to be the actual gods?” Isera presses, her heartbeat quickening as she tries to grasp the full meaning.

Felassan’s confusion deepens, disbelief flickering across his face as he studies her. “They liken themselves to gods,” he replies, his tone edged with frustration, as if the answer should be obvious.

Isera’s brow furrows, a hint of urgency in her voice as she clarifies, “But… do they liken themselves to the actual gods?” She stresses the word, her mind racing.

Felassan’s eyes narrow slightly, his response coming slowly, deliberately. “To godhood, yes,” he answers, as if every word carries a weight of its own.

Isera’s mind reels, the implications crashing over her like waves. Could it be true? Could the elven history she’d known and cherished—the stories passed down through generations of Dalish—be wrong? The thought shakes her, unraveling the very foundation of the tales she grew up with, stories that painted the supposed gods as powerful, ancient beings beyond question.

Though she wasn’t raised within a Dalish clan, the legends had always been part of her, woven into the fabric of her heritage. To question them now felt as though she were questioning herself. ‘What if those so-called gods were never gods at all?’

“But… are they misrepresenting actual gods?” Isera asks again, her voice laced with uncertainty as a heavy pit forms in her stomach. The question feels strange on her tongue, as if she’s challenging truths that have always been unshakable.

Felassan turns to face her fully, his gaze narrowing, a hint of impatience flickering across his face. He tilts his head, studying her with a mix of exasperation and disbelief. “You’re not usually this dense,” he murmurs, a sharp edge to his words. He lets the statement hang for a moment before continuing, his voice flat but intense. “No. They are not misrepresenting ‘actual’ gods. They want to be gods—and they’ve done much, sacrificed much, in pursuit of that power.”

His words settle heavily between them, and Isera feels a chill run through her. This was no mere misunderstanding; it was a twisted ambition, a hunger that had driven them to unimaginable lengths.

Isera’s hand rises to cover her mouth, her mind racing as she tries to process what Felassan is revealing. Memories flicker through her mind—moments when Solas had shown her glimpses of the past, the images of elven lives sacrificed in Andruil’s name. She had watched, horrified yet certain there had been some misunderstanding, that someone had twisted Andruil’s teachings to justify bloodshed.

But now, the truth begins to settle heavily over her, cold and unrelenting. She had been wrong.

‘It wasn’t someone misrepresenting Andruil,’ she realizes, her heart pounding. ‘It was Andruil herself who demanded those sacrifices, who sought power at the cost of her own people’s lives.’

The weight of her misinterpretation presses down on her, and she feels a chill spreading through her chest. The gods the elven people revered in her time, whose tales had inspired generations, were not gods at all—they were dangerous.

A coldness seeps through Isera’s body as the realization settles, her stomach twisting painfully. Without a word, she brushes past Felassan, her movements slow and unsteady, as though moving through a thick fog. The shock grips her so tightly that his voice barely registers as he calls after her.

Her mind races, her hands beginning to tremble as she walks, almost in a daze. Each step feels heavier than the last, the weight of her newfound understanding pressing down on her. The truths she had taken as pillars of her heritage now feel shattered, leaving her hollow and unsettled.

Still in a daze, Isera wanders through the fortress, her thoughts too jumbled to piece together any coherent question or plan. She’s barely aware of where she’s going, her feet moving of their own accord until she finds herself in an unfamiliar wing of the fortress. She stops in front of a heavy door guarded by two spectral figures, their eyes shifting to her as she approaches. Across the hall, she pauses, hearing faint echoes of Solas’s voice mingled with others behind the door.

Her mind feels blank, fragments of her discovery slipping through her fingers as she tries to make sense of it all. She has no idea how long she’s been waiting when, finally, the door swings open, and two armored figures step out. They exchange a startled glance at the sight of her but say nothing as they pass, their footsteps fading down the corridor.

Inside, Solas stands, his expression momentarily softening with concern as he sees her. He studies her carefully, confusion flashing in his eyes before he gestures for her to enter. She follows him inside, her senses sharpening as she realizes she’s stepped into a war room. Maps and markers cover the table, symbols and plans she doesn’t understand—but she recognizes enough to know their gravity. Without a word, Solas guides her to a small sofa set apart from the war table, allowing her a quiet space to collect herself.

He sits across from her, his gaze steady, but after a moment, he breaks the silence. “What’s going on?” he asks, his voice gentle but probing.

Isera inhales deeply, glancing around the room as if hoping it might somehow anchor her scattered thoughts. Her gaze lands on the war table once more, and she rises, drawn to it, her eyes tracing the various pieces and symbols. She doesn’t know what most of it means, but she can pick out the markers representing the gods—no, the false gods. She hesitates, her hand reaching out to one of the figurines. Solas watches her, tense but silent, his eyes following her every movement as she picks up one of the pieces, her fingers brushing over its surface.

The weight of it feels strange in her hand. She takes another steadying breath, the question forming on her lips almost without her realizing it. “What did they do?” she asks quietly, her eyes fixed on the figurine as if it holds the answer.

Solas’s gaze darkens, his expression shifting as a heavy silence falls over the room. He steps closer, his movements measured, and gently takes the figurine from her hand, placing it carefully back in its position on the war table. His fingers linger for a moment, as if the small figure holds more weight than its size suggests.

Then, without a word, he wraps his arm around her shoulders, his touch both grounding and protective, guiding her back to the small sofa. He sits beside her, the gravity of the moment reflected in his eyes as he studies her, gathering his thoughts.

“Perhaps,” he murmurs, his voice soft yet carrying the weight of unspoken truths, “it’s best if I begin at the very beginning…”

#solas #solavellan #solas x lavellan #solas x female lavellan #solas x oc #solas dragon age #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #solas x inquisitor #solavellan hell #isera lavellan #Timeless #vir writes #dragon age solas #solasmance #solasmancer #Fen’harel #dread wolf

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electricbluebutterflies · 10 months ago

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weird question but i basically went through the entire leto/jessica tag in a 2 day fever dream spiral after seeing dune 2 last month & i commented on absolutely nothing... if one were to go back through and read stuff in an actually coherent manner/leave comments, where should i start with your stuff? <3

Lol, how do I sort 300k worth of fic... let's do this with commentary!! I do have other stuff but we're ignoring some of it!

never listen but i see it with my eyes closed is the fever-dream of a canon-divergent fix-it fic I wrote (mostly) in December 2021 / my life was Actively On Fire at the time and it shows. First thing I wrote for the babes and I do side-eye some of my characterization choices in hindsight but... they were new to me and I was trying. Only longfic I've ever managed to finish.

one bright moment is all i ask is a throwback to a fic format that was popular circa like 2016 and one of the most fun little things I've written. (As you will see, everything is my favorite.)

shoot for the memory so you can forget me is a missing scene that can be blamed on a few things, but mostly the fact that that was the moment when I became Insufferable in a relatively packed movie theater. (There is Lore related to how this fandom spiral happened to me and it comes up kinda frequently...)

take his body as a relic to be canonized - the summary I posted on ao3 for this is "last thoughts of a dying man" and it is EXACTLY what it says on the tin. I broke my informal personal rule against writing death scenes for this one and I think I hit the fucked-up gorgeousness of it.

nothing in the world - the knife-kink fic, another thing that haunts me forever. There's a little context that I think is in the notes, but it's very... not the kind of content I usually write and I do love it.

give you my wild - the rituals fic, take 2. The original version of that concept was courtesy of an ex who I broke up with BECAUSE of this spiral (long story); this, written about a year later, is a softer version and twice as long.

prompt-comps, in order: i hope my love was someone else's solid ground, i never fall outside of love, i'd live and die for moments that we stole, sit awake until the wild feelings leave you (current / active one). This is where most of my fic HAPPENS / I like doing prompts that people send me, there's something about the responsiveness that works well for my process. I format them in sets of 50 for housekeeping purposes. Mostly canon'verse, occasional modern AU / me kicking myself for not writing as much modern AU as I want, "moments that we stole" has a few segments of a different canon-divergent AU that I need to do more with...

pillars - my new favorite and I'm not saying anything about it beyond that I wrote something I have spent two and a half years avoiding and it only broke me once.

#ebf talks fic

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sororalice · 4 months ago

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On The Blessedness Of Rest

A homily for the Autumn/Spring Equinox on September 22, 2024. Dedicated to a rest ally.

Dearly Beloved,

A very blessed Autumn Equinox to those in the Northern Hemisphere and a very blessed Spring Equinox to those in the Southern Hemisphere! Recently, I have been reminded by one of my household spirits of one of the most overlooked experiences in our spiritual lives, and so in my gratefulness I have written this homily dedicated to that spirit.

In our rise-and-grind “western” culture spawned by the twin hellscapes of authoritarianism and late stage capitalism, we are taught to work hard year round, to maximize productivity, and that any rest or relaxation is an indulgence, a weakness, and (often) a sin. As mages, it is all too easy to apply this same mentality to our magickal and spiritual lives. We get caught up in our initiatory work, our daily practices, our relationships with our deities, ancestors, and ally spirits, the spiral of solar and lunar rituals in our liturgical year, and, for many of us, our teaching, pastoral, and artistic vocations. All of that often leads to tired and cranky mages.

We could use a nap.

And so, on this day where my home here in Northern California begins to tip over into the dark time of the year, the period of sleep and rejuvenation for half of our beloved planet, I am moved to speak on the virtue of sleep and the joys of regeneration. I am moved to speak on periods of just letting ourselves take a breath.

I am moved to speak on the blessedness of rest.

To be sure, work is necessary in the spiritual life. I believe strongly that we are here to learn and experience and grow into the Divine, and all of that takes sustained effort. This is a basic and brute fact of our existence as mages and mystics. But I want to invite—and perhaps to gently challenge—you to take a fresh look at the notion of the “Great Work” and to question where that notion has taken us.

First, the term “Great Work” or “Magnum Opus”, while it comes to us in the modern “western” occult world as an artifact of that particular batch of occult traditions extant in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, originated as a term in alchemy. It has absolutely nothing to do with the notion of work as a virtue or work for its own sake, the so-called “Protestant Work Ethic” made famous by sociologist Max Weber. The alchemical usage of the term “work” is more akin to an “action” or “undertaking”, and expresses in alchemy the process of transforming a “base” or “imperfect” substance, such as lead, into an “ideal” or “perfect” substance, such as gold. This process was understood as being both literal and mystical; the medieval alchemists were just as often trying to produce perfect people as they were perfect substances. In alchemy, the development of spirit and matter are wed together into one undertaking.

Our honored ancestors in the craft, such as groups like the Hermetic Order Of The Golden Dawn, the A.’.A.’., and the Aurum Solis, inherited the traditions of alchemy and then used the term “Great Work” to describe their systems of initiation, of spiritual alchemy. This usage has found its way into modern “western” magick. As lead is “perfected” by being transformed over the stages of alchemy into gold, so too many modern mages conceive of themselves as being “perfected” over the stages of various systems of initiation and mysticism.

I am not ashamed to admit that I am one of these…I am a true believer in the Great Work. Much of my life since I was 12 years old and my mother bought me my first book on magick has been dedicated to the Great Work. I have officially drunk the Great Work Kool-Aid and subscribed to the Great Work newsletter.

And let me tell you, esteemed friends and colleagues, I am tired.

Every mage I know is tired. My colleagues online are tired. My primary teacher back in Santa Cruz (some of my older friends might know who I am talking about) was in his late 40s and early 50s when he was training me, and he was tired. Before he died, my dad was tired (as those of you who knew him can attest). We’re all tired. The Great Work has taken its toll.

We need rest.

As pagans, we subscribe to a naturalized theology. I repeat this endlessly, in homilies and essays, in social media posts and conversations with my peers. I believe devoutly that the surest and clearest knowledge we can have about the Divine is through Their manifestation in, with, and as nature. We meet our deities and allies first in nature, in the elements, in the Sun and the Moon, and in the planets and the stars. Nature is divine and the Divine is, in a very real way, nature. So what does nature, the world that the Divine has created and become for us, through us, and with us, have to teach us?

Nature teaches us that there is a time to grow and a time to consolidate that growth. Light and dark. Day and night. Summer and Winter. A time to reach out our branches to the sky and a time to send our energy back down into our roots. A time for waking and a time for sleeping. And yes, a time for the Great Work and a time for a Great Rest.

The equinoxes are moments of a balance point between light and dark, warm and cold, growth and death. Today the world tips over to the other side, and in the Northern Hemisphere, we move into the time of pulling back within, to the time the darkness begins to eclipse the light. So let us honor that time by taking a breath. Let us turn down the light and settle snug into bed with our favorite people and spirits. Let us lay back and let ourselves doze for awhile.

Let us rest.

Pleasant dreams.

In love,

Soror Alice

Art: Octave Tassaert, “Sleeping Seated Woman”, (19th century)

#spiritual #spirituality #mystical #mysticism #religion #pagan #paganism #magick #ceremonial magic #ceremonial magick #magic #witch #witchcraft #autumn equinox #fall equinox #equinox

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quotesfrommyreading · 2 years ago

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When children are together, they develop their own rituals, traditions, games, and legends—essentially, their own folklore, or, as researchers call it, “childlore.” That lore can be widespread and long-lasting—the mind boggles to think how many generations of children have played tag, for instance. Even seemingly more modern inventions, such as the “cool S”—a blocky, graffiti-ish S that has been etched into countless spiral-bound notebooks—are a shared touchstone for many people who grew up in different times and places in the U.S. How is it that so many children across time and space come to know the exact same things?

Children themselves probably couldn’t tell you where their lore began. If you ask a kid where a particular game or rhyme came from, they’ll likely tell you they invented it, Rebekah Willett, a professor at the Information School at the University of Wisconsin at Madison who has studied childlore, told me: “They cannot trace it, and they have no investment in tracing it.” Indeed, thinking back to the lore of my own youth, I have no idea how my friends and I thought to give each other “cootie shots” with the lead of a mechanical pencil, or why everyone in my elementary-school art class would smear their hands with Elmer’s glue, wait for it to dry, and then methodically peel it off (other than the fact that it was super fun and I would do it again right now if I had some glue nearby). These things were almost like analog memes, micro-bits of culture that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere.

Also like memes, where childlore comes from is arguably less important than how it spreads and why it gains traction in the first place. The main way childlore spreads is, perhaps obviously, by children teaching it to one another. Older kids mentor younger ones both at school and at home, where siblings play a vital role in passing jokes and games down through generations. As for how childlore spreads geographically, there are a couple of key players. One is the new kid, who shows up at school with a pocketful of lore from elsewhere. The other is cousins, who are many kids’ closest peers who don’t attend their school.

Adults have a role to play in perpetuating childlore as well, albeit a supporting one. Parents and teachers share nursery rhymes, folk songs, and games with kids, and adults create the movies, books, and TV shows that kids consume. Our nostalgia for our own childhood shapes what kids get exposed to. But Steve Roud, a British folklorist and the author of The Lore of the Playground, emphasized to me that folklore is by its nature not handed down by an authority. It is of the people, by the people—even if those people are children. So although kids may crib from pop culture and adopt things they learn from adults, making something their own and using it for their own purposes is what transmutes it into childlore. PAW Patrol is not childlore; a game that kids invent on the playground using PAW Patrol characters is.

As Iona and Peter Opie, two pioneers in the childlore field, wrote in their 1959 book, The Lore and Language of Schoolchildren, “The scraps of lore which children learn from each other are at once more real, more immediately serviceable, and more vastly entertaining to them than anything which they learn from grown-ups.” And some information—such as how to summon Bloody Mary in a mirror or guarantee a snow day by wearing your pajamas inside out—you simply cannot rely on grown-ups to impart anyway.

As for what kinds of things become popular, Alex Mesoudi, who studies cultural evolution at the University of Exeter, in the U.K., pointed me toward two main forces that influence whether a particular chunk of culture will spread. One, which you could call “catchiness,” is whether the content of the lore itself is likely to be “remembered, passed on and adopted by others,” he told me in an email: For instance, a pithy song that rhymes and repeats is probably more memorable than a long, winding one. The other is the context in which you learn about a thing, and how high-status that context is—it could be the hot pop-culture trend of the moment or just associated with the popular kids at school. I’ll call this “coolness.” (And, of course, the allure of naughtiness cannot be overstated. Anything adults have deemed taboo is a hot commodity in kid society.)

— How the Traditions of Childhood Get Passed Down

#julie beck #how the traditions of childhood get passed down #history #psychology #sociology #child development #childlore #children #games #nursery rhymes #rebekah willett #steve roud #iona opie #peter opie #alex masoudi

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alifeasvivid · 1 year ago

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This is the "ghost" document that I mentioned in that one post. Arthur's a witch and he has a big black dog named Toad and he helps get the dead where they need to go so they don't become ghosts and Alfred is........... someone he's supposed to help >.> I actually don't remember how I got this idea; basically I really like it when Arthur is actually really good at magic and then it spiraled out into this sorta fantasy au where magic exists, ordinary people know about it, and practitioners of magic are generally as much a part of society as anyone else. And also Arthur's kind of a spooky guy who gets a teeeeeeny bit of mary-sue treatment for my personal enjoyment... as a treat.

I don't think I will continue this, even though I know the plot of it, but I like it too much not to share, I guess P:

cw: homophobic slur, violence, also technically major character death, but it's a story about ghosts so... >.>

An overcast sky has the morning sunlight shifting in and out of Arthur Kirkland’s modest cottage. The air in mid-April is cool and crisp, but promises warmth; a promise on which it may or may deliver and it hasn’t decided yet.

A massive, shaggy, black dog of indeterminate breed dozes on the kitchen floor near his master’s feet. Arthur brews his morning tea, dressed in black from head to toe, black shoes, pressed black slacks, and a black sleeveless shirt with a mock turtleneck, leaving his heavily tattooed arms on display.

Most of the tattoos are sigils, some are gifts, and some are purely aesthetic.

Steam rises from a ceramic mug as Arthur removes the strainer containing leaves and petals of rosemary, thyme, and marigold. He’d have much rather had his usual Earl Grey, but he will need stronger protection today. He flavors the tea with neither his customary cream or sugar, instead using only a small drizzle of lavender honey.

The sun peeks in through the parlor window.

Arthur raises his eyebrow in that direction.

A cloud ushers the sun away again.

Today is not a day for sunshine.

Arthur moves into the parlor from the kitchen and the dog pads along after him. He sits on the small sofa and his green eyes vacantly observe his altar, which is built out from the opposing wall. He pets the dog’s head when it comes to rest on his thigh. “Ah, Toad,” he sighs, “you felt it coming too, did you?” The dog huffs in response.

Ghosts have never been the problem. Actual trouble comes from what they evolve into over time: poltergeists, ghouls, banshees, phantoms, wraiths, and many other dark, tormented beings, all lingering and longing for whatever they never had in life.

In turn, human societies have always relied on the spiritually gifted, known very broadly as magicians, to take care of such beings. Shamans, psychics, witches, sages, practitioners of all sorts have always been able to manage, until recently. With humans becoming more isolated from each other, losing community in the modern world, more and more people are dying alone, unseen, with unfinished business causing the problem of persistent, tortured spiritual phenomenon.

Attempts are being made to change this. Non-magical humans have made solid efforts to reach out to each other, form communities, and look out for anyone who might be struggling so as to prevent violence and suicides—two main contributors to the formation of ghosts.

The air shifts and swirls around Arthur’s altar and he buries his free hand in Toad’s fur.

The other measure has been implemented by various magical and psychic associations banding together to create a very specialized role: the mourners.

Since even the best efforts cannot prevent all souls from dying in pain and alone, a varied group of magicians takes part in a systematized ritual to make sure that high risk souls are appropriately mourned and thus mitigate the chance of them becoming ghosts.

Most people assigned to the job are elder shamans, crones, sages, and the like. The average age of a mourner is around sixty years old.

At thirty-three, Arthur Kirkland is one of the youngest, world wide, but the only age requirement is that mourner must have completed their first Saturn Return and Arthur had signed up voluntarily as soon as he became eligible. Those in charge of the organization had doubts at first, but Arthur is descended from a strong magical and psychic bloodline and they were hardly in a position to turn away volunteers.

When his tea is finished, Arthur stands up and lights a charcoal with some frankincense. Any minute now.

Arthur considers himself well-suited for the job of mourning, given his large internal well of energy, his familiarity with the Lower World and the Fae realms, and his generally grim and eerie disposition.

Initially, the mourners received assignments every day, but due to the non-magical world pulling at least some of its weight, the number of mourners increasing, and the decision to only focus on the more dire cases, Arthur typically receives one per week. Sometimes more, sometimes less.

Once a week is a good pace. It gives Arthur time to find the person’s body (if possible), where it was laid to rest or where it ought to be, sever any ties that might be holding the person’s soul back, soothe any pain and surround the soul in feelings of love and warmth. After that, he performs any relevant funeral rites and then the assignment is completed.

Assignments are nearly always received within twenty-four hours of the person’s death.

The air settles and a small thump sounds from a willow wood bowl Arthur carved himself. In the bowl is the usual gleaming black polyhedral made of jet. This one is an icosahedron with each side carved with a sigil relaying information about the deceased person. Arthur steels himself before picking up the relic. It’s usually fine, but occasionally the information can be terrifying and overwhelming.

The jet is soft and light in Arthur’s palm. Jet is an opaque black stone with a slight gold sheen to it and it has the strange property of looking like it will be much heavier than it is since it is created from decomposed wood subjected to heavy carbon compression: a perfect stone to deal with death. Arthur caresses his thumb over the sigil he prefers to examine first: an image of what the person might look like alive, but at peace.

Arthur gasps slightly at what appears in his mind’s eye: the face of a young man with brilliant blue eyes and strawberry blond hair appears. His smile could light up the dead of night brighter than a full moon. He looks to be in his early twenties. His skin is warm and tan and the rest of him comes into focus, he’s a little on the thin side, but otherwise well-proportioned.

“Beautiful,” Arthur mutters reflexively. He immediately wonders how anything terrible enough to designate this boy as high risk could have happened to him. Something about his general aura is so warm and inviting. Yet Arthur has seen enough by now to know that beauty is hardly a guarantee of happiness or safety in a world that often resents innate joy.

The next facet reveals some basic details: despite having died in England, the boy is from America, his birthday is July fourth and he is twenty-five… or would have been, in just over three months or so. Without having to consult the stone, Arthur senses a very troubled childhood: loneliness, neglect, a desperation for anyone’s attention.

Tragic though it is, it’s nothing so striking as to put this boy on a mourner’s list.

As Arthur’s left thumb traverses the other facets, he sees more of the same. The loneliness grows and the desperation in proportion to it. The cycle seems to repeat itself over and over: loneliness, finding acceptance somewhere he ought not to have looked, things are good until suddenly they aren’t and the boy is removed from the situation… often violently, cruelly. Arthur experiences it each time: the sights, sounds, smells, the feelings. It does break his heart.

Sensing the feeling too, Toad moves to sit by Arthur’s leg, pressing himself against it and Arthur’s right hand finds its way behind his ear for scritches.

“Good boy, Toad,” Arthur says. At last, Arthur comes to the boy’s final moments. After all he’s seen, he doesn’t flinch as his third eye replays the full experience of a horrific beating in the pelting rain: distant shouts of ‘fucking freak’ and ‘faggot’ hit Arthur like bullets. Well. That explains some of it, he supposes. He feels every blunt boot as if it were battering his own ribs and the abject misery, the boy’s own conviction that this is deserved.

Then there is the boy, from his own perspective, vision going dark as he watches the raindrops fall on the pavement around him.

Arthur collapses next to Toad and buries his face in Toad’s soft, schorl fur. He doesn’t cry and he has certainly seen worse, but it never stops affecting him. He considers that to be a good thing and worries for the day he watches such a scene and is unaffected.

Toad whines sympathetically, highly attuned to Arthur, and flops into his lap so Arthur can curl around him.

The next facet shows the boy from the outside, eyes open and lifeless, body distorted and covered in blood and bruises.

Arthur sets the stone aside for a moment and simply cuddles Toad until he can breathe again. When he can, he picks up the stone and digs his thumbnail into the grooves in the facet containing the boy’s name:

Alfred F. Jones.

“Alfred,” Arthur murmurs. “Oh luv. You deserved none of that, to be sure.” He gently strokes the stone. “And yet… what on earth has happened to put you in my hand, hm?” Arthur brushes the facet that contains the time of death only to find it is obscured. That in itself is nothing to give pause, it has happened before. They who make the assignments are not omniscient, Arthur can tell from the scene of Alfred’s death that it is recent and, most likely as usual, to have been within the past twenty-four hours.

Rubbing that facet a little more reveals that an impromptu memorial has sprung up for Alfred—only hours after his body was taken away. While an outcast and unwelcome from most places, the local queer community has already begun vigil for him.

Arthur can't help but scoff just a little. “And yet where were you lot when they were beating him to death, hm?” he mutters. He can’t help but think that, as always, non-magical humans are relying far too much on magicians to do the heavy lifting and the community-building needs a bit more attention.

Still. The presence of such a memorial means that Alfred is already being mourned.

So why does his soul require a mourner?

#ukus #not really a fic #spadian ballad

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bri-the-nautilus · 2 years ago

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yes agreed Kerouac fucking sucks...but I also don't like any beat literature. It's telling that the best author among his contemporaries was an amphetamine-addled trust-fund kid that murdered his wife.

Yeah Burroughs was a fun case lmao. I'm pretty sure he tried to tell the cops that they were pretending to be William Tell when he killed her. Seriously, all those guys were stoned out of their minds. Probably why their books are amazing if you're a 16-22 year old boy but utterly unrelatable if you aren't; there are tons of accounts online of dudes who read the Beats as teens and loved them but revisited them as adults and were like "wow these guys are losers."

Reading that one chapter of Dharma Bums where Kerouac's self-insert and his inserts of Snyder and Ginsberg do three-day-long alcoholic naked ritual fake-Buddhism sex with a shy local teenager was one of the most uncomfortable experiences I've ever had. I was like, wait, this book is based on his life, these characters are based off him and his friends, and he writes THIS??? And PUBLISHES IT???

The only Beat scribbles that I can somewhat tolerate are some of Ginsberg's poetry. "Howl" is pretty damn good, even if Ginsberg was kind of a weirdo. (sidenote: one of Kerouac's worst transgressions in my opinion was the section of Dharma Bums when he has his self-insert go to the San Francisco "Howl" reading and changed the poem's title to "Wail." Fucking Wail??? Really Jack? That word just doesn't have even a sliver of the impact and tone of the word 'howl'. A howl is something raw and primal, a hoarse, furious refrain. A wail is like a fucking baby that needs a nap or something.)

Something that always amused me about the Beats is that many of them are super aware that they're all self-destructive, miserable hedonists, but none of them do anything about it. All of Kerouac's self-inserts go through this weird nature detox where they swear off alcohol and become functioning human beings, but Kerouac died of liver failure in his mom's basement or some shit. The way Ginsberg describes the effects of substance use on his friends in "Howl" is graphic and objectively brutal (if I wasn't already convinced to never do drugs, that poem would've done it), but then he goes and makes street drugs out to be a religious imbibement akin to the blood and body of Christ. Hypocrisy about matters of self-care is everywhere in Beat literature when you start looking for it. Kinda wild.

Honestly, the more I think about it the more I think the best modern-day analogue for Kerouac in particular is fucking Ernest Cline. The Ready Player One guy. They're the same dude. They both have this fixation with the trappings of their youth (drugs for Kerouac, shitty arcade games for Cline), they both write books about self-insert characters obsessed with said trappings, both books portray the said characters as utterly despondent and in a downward spiral that they come out of while the authors are on that same downward spiral but show no signs of recovery. Obviously Cline hasn't died of whatever the '80s-pop-culture equivalent of cirrhosis is, but if you look at the way he completely half-assed RP2, character-assassinating Wade and Halliday in the process, and how he's reacted to criticism of his books, I think it's not an awful stretch to say that Cline is to RP1 Wade as Kerouac is to Ray Smith or whatever that guy's name was just in terms of how their characters can overcome their flaws but the men themselves just can't.

#bri rants about books #kerouac #beat generation #ernest cline

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worldcatlas · 2 years ago

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SNW: Strange New Worlds

Spoiler warning: there will be some.

Following the events of Discovery season 2, Captain Pike heads back to the Enterprise for his own spin-off. We start with a cute little scene of an alien species making first contact, wearing sharp-looking military uniforms with awesome light-up lapels.

My rank is aquamarine and you will address me as such.

As the scene changes, we get a glimpse of some really classic costumes from The Day the Earth Stood Still – apparently one of Captain Pike’s favourites, as he’s watching it while making pancakes and contemplating the horrifying nature of his own doomed existence in an immutable tapestry of fate.

…The movie helps.

Yes, still reeling from having witnessed his own gruesome future, Chris has retreated to his cabin in Montana and adopted the aesthetic of “comfy dad.”

The beard has some potential, though.

Then, without any warning, he cleans up and gets on a horse in a snowstorm, looking like this:

Okay, yes, I’m team beard. 100%.

The viewer suddenly remembers they are writing a blog about fashion, and remembers to pay attention just in time for Admiral April to show up in a shuttle and Starfleet’s latest winter line, complete with gloves and an extra-long jacket.

It’s nice, but I prefer the winter 2154 men’s collection.

They argue about whose jacket is cooler.

Look at this thing. I look amazing.

I think it’s mostly the horse.

Finally, they agree both jackets are good, and Pike will return to the Enterprise. Meanwhile, Spock is on a date.

I love how Vulcan formalwear is so… pointy.

With all the tact of a wild sehlat, Spock comments on how T’Pring is wearing “ritual mating colours,” though it’s hard to tell what those are with how orange everything is on Vulcan. Or maybe the mating colour is orange. That would be convenient.

I’ll bet he hasn’t even noticed her double-decker bun.

Despite the bluntness of Spock’s observation, it IS a great look, with sparkly fabric and interesting cutouts on both the front and back. T’Pring is also a master of accessorizing, and wears swirly gold earrings and a matching gold ring in the shape of a sun.

There’s another accessory inside the box, but it’s probably not important.

Somehow, being an oblivious dingus doesn’t prevent our boy from getting intimate with his new fiancée, and we get to see what Vulcan lingerie looks like! Unlike its lacy human counterpart, Vulcan “date underwear” appears to be geometric and metallic. On the other hand, the sheer cover-up that covers nothing is a well-known garment in human apparel.

I’m not sure I see the logic in this piece of clothing.

Aboard the Enterprise, we are greeted by transporter chief Kyle, who is actually surprisingly well-established in canon and not just some guy named Kyle, which I definitely didn’t assume for a very long time. *cough*

His uniform is an interesting style, and the colour blocking feels a bit reminiscent of 90s Trek uniforms. He wears a shiny metal badge with his department insignia, similar to the ones we saw in Discovery, in contrast to the simple metallic patches sewn onto the uniforms in TOS.

Friggin’ Kyle.

Most of the bridge crew, on the other hand, wear the solid colour TOS-style uniforms. Right away, we can see they’ve been updated with modern, almost athleticwear fabrics, and have a more severe v-neck.

Spock approves of severity in one’s appearance.

Notably, the rank bands at the cuffs are now coloured to match the uniform, not just standard gold across the board.

Another neat feature is that the upper shoulder/top of sleeve part of these uniforms has a tiny pattern matching the wearer’s department. These symbols are the same as those on their badges, in most cases.

Starburst pattern indicates command.

Spiral pattern indicates operations. Withering glare indicates disdain.

Later, in sick bay, we are introduced to two more legacy TOS characters, Dr. M’Benga and Nurse Chapel. Now, before I get to Nurse Chapel and lose my ability to form cohesive thoughts, let’s look at the good Doctor’s outfit.

The look of a man who’s about to get more lines than the original character ever did.

It’s a lighter blue than other sciences uniforms we’ve seen, closer to the shade used for all medical and science crew in the original series. It also features an interesting front closure, and appears to have a pattern of medical crosses on top of the sleeves/shoulders.

Look, if there’s one guy on the ship who outranks the captain, he gets a special uniform.

Nurse Chapel, on the other hand, gets this absolutely killer white jumpsuit, featuring the same silver bands at the wrist, a zipper down the front, and pockets(!). This is, by far, my favourite uniform variant in Strange New Worlds, and it couldn’t be worn by a better character.

Oh my god she’s so cool. Is she looking this way?

You can also see the same pattern of medical crosses… on the uh…

oh my god I think she looked at me

I would be sick every day of my life on this starship.

Our guys need to go down to the planet, which means it’s time for disguises! Pike gets a slick black suit, chief of security La’an gets a gorgeous copper jacket, and Spock gets a military-style uniform.

With little shorts.

*chef’s kiss*

I want to focus on La’an’s outfit, which we get to see a little more of as she executes a quick-thinking plan. I love the burgundy tights matching the dress, and of course I’m a fan of the metallic fabric studded with something shiny and metal at the lapels.

I’m a simple Trekkie. Sparkly = good.

So it’s a bit of a shame when they mercilessly beat up a bunch of doctors and steal* their clothes. I do enjoy the construction of these outfits, though, with the high collar and flap closure.

*Okay, they didn’t steal their clothes, they had the ship create replicas of their clothes and beam them down. But that kinda just seems like sci-fi hand-waving because they didn’t want to explain finding three perfectly tailored uniforms. Or have La’an beat up enough doctors to find clothes that fit.

She would, though.

We get a great shot of the full coat, as well as Uhura’s skant, when one of the aliens gets loose aboard Enterprise and they become friends in a turbolift. Note Uhura’s unique rectangular badge, as well.

First time riding the elevator in an alien spaceship?

We also get to see the aliens’ security uniforms in a gorgeous dark teal, complemented by brass-adorned holsters and little tie shields, which are apparently a thing here. I guess neckties are universal, though.

Just like many species develop two arms and eyes, many evolve the half windsor naturally.

The alien president is on top of her brand as well, with an absolutely fierce suit dress in merlot.

That’s ready to go right on the propaganda!

She even comes back in a later scene with a different outfit in the same colour, which tells me this is for sure a woman who has her shit together enough to run a planet.

I can’t even get my socks to match this well.

Before we close out the episode, Admiral April returns with a new jacket, which Pike has to admit is very good.

The badge even has laurels. Okay, you win.

I’m starting to suspect these new-Trek articles are going to be slightly longer.

#st tos #star trek #fashion #vulcan

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ashleysingermfablog · 4 months ago

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Wk 00, 12th of October, 2024

Wild Magic

Unpacking the Celtic value systems that understand nature as magic.

The source of Wisdom is nature, here in nature there are spirits that are both good and cautionary.

The practices of early cultural values comes in the form of crafting, ritualising and place a key location at the heart of the ritual or offering.

“all magic in the Celtic traditions ultimately comes of this relationship with spirit, the nurturing of friendship with the faery folk, the green kin, the trees and plants, the ancestors, and the very land itself… it requires us to be able to access that deep knowing within ourselves, and the knowledge of who we are, our ancestors, the roots that grow deep into the earth herself”.

The tracking of energies is repeated through many spiral-based motifs, where energy is either pulled into balance, or fractured. The physical manifestation of energy is therefore shown in artefacts, sketches, and common cairns or other stone artefacts which were sculpted with the patterns of the symbols in spirals, triskels, or paths in complex crosses or joined line work. As a visual reference, these elements are more than decoration on stone, concrete or the page. They hold attainable meaning and value systems: representing a pathway, relationships, movement, connection, distance and unity.

Playing on symbols like above my offerings (motifs of nature) are placed on my garden pavers or bricks which I call offering stones, to chart energy moving in a ‘charmed’ space, that I have conjured through my installation processes. I will post on this further above.

#contextual #october

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xasha777 · 8 months ago

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In the year 2450, the remnants of Earth's civilizations had formed a new society, one where technology and tradition coexisted in a delicate balance. On the once-divided Korean Peninsula, now united under a single banner, the people celebrated National Foundation Day with fervor, honoring their rich history while embracing a futuristic ethos. This day was more than a commemoration; it was a bridge between the past and the future.

In the heart of New Seoul, a towering spire known as the Chrono Tower stood as a testament to the nation's advancement. At its pinnacle resided an enigmatic figure known only as the Keeper of Time. Her image was immortalized in a painting that hung in the Grand Hall of History—an ethereal woman with serene eyes, adorned in ancient garb, her hair styled in intricate coils that seemed to defy gravity. She was a symbol of timeless beauty and wisdom, embodying the convergence of past traditions and future possibilities.

As the city buzzed with the celebrations of National Foundation Day, an unexpected event unfolded. A temporal rift, a phenomenon thought to be purely theoretical, appeared in the sky above Chrono Tower. The air crackled with energy, and a series of bizarre anomalies began to manifest throughout the city. Clocks stopped, then ran backward. Holographic billboards displayed scenes from centuries past. People found themselves momentarily frozen in place or transported short distances instantaneously.

In the midst of this chaos, a young scientist named Dr. Min-Jae Kim was summoned to the Chrono Tower. Dr. Kim, an expert in quantum mechanics and temporal physics, had long studied the mysterious energies that occasionally rippled through their advanced society. With urgency, she climbed the spiraling staircase of the tower, her mind racing with possibilities and theories.

At the top, she was greeted by the Keeper of Time herself. Though she appeared as young as the painting depicted, her eyes held an ageless wisdom. "Dr. Kim, thank you for coming," she said in a voice that resonated with both authority and kindness. "The temporal rift you see is a consequence of our tampering with the fabric of time. It was inevitable, given our advancements."

Dr. Kim bowed respectfully. "Keeper, how can we stabilize the rift? Our city—our people—are in danger."

The Keeper motioned for Dr. Kim to follow her to a large, ornate device in the center of the room. It was an ancient artifact known as the Timekeeper's Core, a relic passed down through generations. "This device," the Keeper explained, "is the key to balancing the temporal energies. It has the power to weave time back into harmony, but it requires a precise alignment—a knowledge of both ancient rituals and modern science."

Dr. Kim examined the artifact, her analytical mind racing to decipher its complexities. "I understand," she said, a plan forming in her mind. "We must use the core in conjunction with our current technology. By synchronizing it with our quantum stabilizers, we can close the rift and restore balance."

With the Keeper's guidance, Dr. Kim worked tirelessly, integrating the ancient and the modern. As they initiated the procedure, the city below watched in awe. The temporal anomalies began to fade, the rift in the sky slowly mending. A wave of relief washed over the citizens as their world returned to normalcy.

When the process was complete, Dr. Kim and the Keeper of Time stood together, gazing out over New Seoul. "You have done well, Dr. Kim," the Keeper said. "Today, we have not only saved our city but also honored the legacy of our ancestors by embracing both their wisdom and our innovations."

Dr. Kim smiled, feeling a profound connection to her heritage and the future they were building. "Thank you, Keeper. It is an honor to serve our people and safeguard our history."

As the sun set on National Foundation Day, the people of New Seoul celebrated not just their past, but the promise of a future where the lessons of history and the advancements of tomorrow coexisted in harmony. And high in the Chrono Tower, the Keeper of Time watched over them, a guardian of their legacy and a beacon of their hope.

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jainsuperstore · 1 year ago

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The History and Tradition of Arabic Incense Sticks

The allure of Arabic incense is undeniably potent. As the fragrant smoke spirals upward, it carries with it stories from ancient civilizations, tales of sacred rituals, and memories of grand celebrations. Arabic incense sticks, with their deep-rooted history, have been an integral part of Middle Eastern culture for centuries.

Origins of Incense in Ancient Arabia

The Arabian Peninsula, with its vast desert landscapes and strategic location, has been a significant crossroads for trade for millennia. The region's earliest inhabitants quickly realized the potential of the aromatic treasures their land had to offer. Trees like the Boswellia and Commiphora produced resins that, when burned, emitted a fragrant smoke, soon to become the prized frankincense and myrrh. By 1000 BC, these resins became a valuable commodity, being traded as far away as India, China, and the Mediterranean.

Spiritual Significance

The ethereal nature of smoke made it a perfect bridge between the earthly and the divine. In ancient Arabic traditions, incense was believed to carry prayers to the heavens. As a result, it became an integral part of many religious rituals. The Quran, Islam's holy book, references the use of fragrances, and Islamic traditions often use incense, especially during the holy month of Ramadan. The Prophet Muhammad himself was known to appreciate pleasant fragrances, further embedding the significance of aromatic substances in the culture.

Social and Cultural Importance

Beyond religious settings, incense has played a pivotal role in social contexts. Traditional Arab gatherings, be it weddings, births, or other celebrations, were often scented with aromatic smoke. Guests were greeted with incense burners, as offering fragrance was seen as a gesture of respect and hospitality.

One of the most renowned types of Arabic incense is 'Bakhoor'. Made from agarwood chips soaked in fragrant oils, Bakhoor releases a dense, rich aroma when burned. These sticks have been used not just to scent homes but also to infuse clothes with a lasting fragrance. It wasn't just about the scent; it was a status symbol. The type of incense and its intensity could often speak volumes about a family's social standing.

Modern Day Relevance

The allure of Arabic incense sticks has not faded over time. Modern-day Arabia still holds incense in high regard. Walk through the bustling souks of Dubai, Muscat, or Riyadh, and you'll encounter the familiar aromatic embrace of burning incense. Its ubiquity in modern Arab homes is a testament to its lasting legacy.

Furthermore, the Western world has begun to recognize and appreciate the depth and richness of Arabic fragrances. From niche perfumers trying to replicate the scent of Oud, a resin from the agarwood tree, to luxury brands incorporating Arabic incense notes into their fragrances, the global impact is evident.

Conclusion

Arabic incense sticks are much more than a source of pleasant aroma. They are time capsules, capturing the essence of an ancient civilization and its rich tapestry of traditions. They are symbols of hospitality, markers of social standing, and bridges to the divine. As they continue to burn, they not only fill our spaces with fragrance but also with tales of a history that has shaped and enriched the world in countless ways.Content Source - The History and Tradition of Arabic Incense Sticks

#Arabic incense sticks

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hosachiguru1 · 1 year ago

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Nature’s Patterns: Your Urban Escape and Inner Peace

Every weekend, a familiar scene unfolds as urban dwellers flock to the outskirts of the city. They seek the woods, trekking trails, nature walks, and resorts nestled amidst the tranquility of nature. This weekend ritual is a common thread among busy corporates and urbanites who often spend their days confined within cubicles and enclosed spaces. Why does this phenomenon persist, almost like an inner pull?

It’s no mere coincidence that we’re drawn to nature repeatedly. This deep-seated yearning is rooted in something fundamental to our well-being. Nature holds an innate power to rejuvenate and soothe our stressed minds. The answer lies in a concept known as fractals – patterns that repeat themselves at different scales. Nature is abundant with fractals, from the spirals of leaves to the shapes of flower petals.

When we escape to nature, we unknowingly immerse ourselves in these fractals. The repetition of patterns resonates with our brains, inducing a state of relaxation and calm. It’s as if nature is a balm for our overworked minds. This connection is so profound that just a simple glimpse of nature’s fractals can reduce stress and mental fatigue by a remarkable 60%, as shown in studies led by Taylor and his team.

These intricate fractal patterns in nature sync with our brainwaves, leading to a sense of ease. It’s why gazing at a scenic landscape, taking a leisurely walk in the woods, or simply enjoying the sight of leaves rustling in the breeze makes us feel rejuvenated. This natural harmony between fractals in nature and our brain’s response is the reason our inner consciousness urges us to seek solace in nature, especially when urban life’s hustle becomes overwhelming.

So, the next time you find yourself yearning for a weekend escape to the countryside, remember that it’s not just a whim. Your inner self recognizes the soothing magic of nature’s fractals, designed to restore the balance that our modern urban lives often disrupt.

Website: Hosachiguru

#managed farm land #buy farm land #buy agriculture land #farms for sale #hosachiguru #agriculture land for sale #agriculture land for sale in karnataka #farm land for sale near me #Weekend Drives From Bangalore

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calronhunt · 1 year ago

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im curious about the old mariner if you're still up for oc questions! what were his unspeakable crimes? what was his and young mariner's relationship like/what was young mariner's backstory like?

Gonna called old mariner "SR" in this answer and current day mariner "JR" just so I don't have to write Mariner a million times.

SR's crimes are purposefully vague and never spelled out because JR never learns what he did. Jr was a small kit, just enough that his baby blues went away to reveal his real eye color when he was abandoned by the sea. The reason he was abandoned was because of his heterochromia, a bad sign in the colony he was born into. Sr came across him wailing and didn't directly adopt jr, but he didn't say no to jr tailing him and following him around.

The two bond over the course of a while, Sr less teaching Jr how to do thing and Jr more watching Sr to see how its done. This is how Jr learned how to fish, how to swim, and how to do basic hunting. They had a good relationship though. Sr would tell Jr stories about where he was from and say that he was banished for unspeakable crimes, but would only tell Jr when he was older what they were. They were happy by the sea together.

Sr had thought of himself as a ghost, someone already dead and probably had crazy musings about life and stuff like jr in modern day. However one day Sr fully died in his sleep from old age(also before he could tell jr what he was banished for). Jr was a little younger than Warbler at the time. Around 13/14 maturity wise if he were a human. It really devasted jr. And these cats don't have like, burial rituals or anything, but jr took him out into the waters and let it take him whole. That's when he took on the name Mariner.

The rest of his life was spent alone on the beach until Canary showed up. He had a lot of time to think, and ponder, and have thoughts about things. There wasn't much else for him to do. He'd thought of a million things sr could've done to get banished, but at the end of the day, he would never know, so at a certain point he stopped guessing. He only started having brighter thoughts when Canary came around and she was so hopeful and nice. And hadn't faced the hardship that both Mariners had. Shame that she died and he went back on the bad thoughts spiral

#ask

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thetelesterion · 3 months ago

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Respectfully, I'd like to voice my disagreement with some of the points here.

Neoplatonism is still inherently polytheistic at its core. While the main goal is a reunion of the soul with the One, the Gods are still ever present and are the only beings we can approach to achieve that goal. I disagree that by adhering to Platonic or Neoplatonic theology, one inevitably spirals towards monotheism. The One is NOT a person, nor is it a god. No Neoplatonist ever taught as much, to my knowledge anyway. It is a principle beyond worship or thought, beyond our ability to approach. The Gods however, ARE approachable. It's easy to get this misconception about Platonism and later Platonic philosophies, that they were secretly monotheistic in nature.

This is not true.

Christians will oftentimes use this rhetoric to argue that Plato and other philosophers were "crypto-monotheists" and to justify their adoption of Platonic and Greek philosophical elements into Christianity. But it's simply not true.

Neoplatonism is especially polytheistic, as evidenced by figures like Iamblichus, a Syrian philosopher and teacher who wrote extensively on utilizing "theurgy" or rituals designed to elevate the soul in its ascent to godhood. His predecessors, Porphyry and Plotinus, placed far less emphasis on rituals and sacrifices in favor of a more contemplative, intellectual way of approaching unity with the One. But all of them believed in the gods in one way or another, Iamblichus especially.

"For us it is sufficient that this is the will of the Gods, which all enable us to undertake tasks even more arduous than these. Having thus acknowledged our primary submission to the divinities, our secondary devotion shall be to the prince and father of this philosophy as a leader."

-Iamblichus, Life of Pythagoras

On the topic of the nature of evil, I have nothing really to say except that evil in Neoplatonism is conceived of as being the "absence of good." It HAS no existence apart from a lack of goodness.

Lastly, on the topic of whether or not Judaism "started out" as a polytheistic religion, I want to say a few things. A disclaimer though, before I do so: I am not Jewish. I do not speak for all Jews or all adherents of Judaism.

l personally find conversations about this topic simultaneously interesting and exhausting. Whether or not Judaism emerged out of an existing form of Canaanite or Semitic polytheism, or whether it was henotheistic before eventually transitioning into monotheism really does not have any sort of effect on Judaism as it exists today. Judaism, as it exists in our modern day, is monotheistic. Plain and simple. I won't deny the existence of people who reconstruct Canaanite polytheism, but Judaism, and by extension Christianity, are both monotheistic and to say otherwise is misinformation. In my opinion, arguing over wether or not Judaism was "originally polytheistic" is not really a valuable discussion.

Additionally, while you correctly point out that Jeremiah 44 contains references to ancient Israelites worshipping Asherah, the "Queen of Heaven," the context of the verses are condemnatory. They are placed in the context of idolatry and Hashem/Adonai states his unhappiness with the Israelites performing such sacrifices. Does this provide evidence that monotheism came at a later stage in Israelite history? Maybe. Does it matter in the context of Judaism as it exists today, right now? No.

We can acknowledge that Judaism emerged out of a very polytheistic world while respecting the fact that it is monotheistic today. As is Christianity. Religions are not static. They can adapt and change.

Steven Dillon's conversion to Christianity: what does it mean to Hellenism and Pagan Community?

Steven Dillon, the author of "The Case for Polytheism" and "Pagan Portals - Polytheism: A Platonic Approach", recently returned to Christianity.

This event made me think a lot. I think this event can teach us that the more you are concerned with "the One" and you think it can respond, the more likely you will go towards monotheism.

The point is that "the One" is us, and is "a thing", not "somebody".

The One is not a person. This is the reason why we worship the Gods, they are persons.

The One, the All, is so big that the idea that it can listen is nonsense.

Monotheism emerges when you think the entire universe can listen to you. Polytheism is the humbleness to understand that only certain parts of the Universe can listen to you.

And when you think you are talking to the One you are always actually talking to a part of it.

This is the reason why Christ, Yahweh, Allah, etc. are parts of the One and not the One.

Even attempts to interact with the entirety of the One are just interactions with parts of the One, ie one of the many Gods.

This is confirmed by Aleister Crowley's experience, we can read from the Liber Astarte Vel Berylli that he considered Allah, Christ and Yahweh as Parts or Aspects of the One, exactly as other Polytheistic Deities, and not as the All/the One in its entirety:

"Let the devotee consider well that […] Christ and Osiris be one […]".

"As for Deities with whose nature no Image is compatible, let them be worshipped in an empty shrine. Such are Brahma, and Allah. Also some postcaptivity conceptions of Jehovah".

"[…] the particular Deity be himself savage and relentless; as Jehovah or Kali."

Moreover, Dillon was (is?) Platonic, and the problem is even worse, because sadly the reaction to the problem of evil is very similar between Platonism and Christianity.

However, the Stoic (and maybe the Hindu and Buddhist) worldview completely destroys the problem of evil, because if the Divine is good and we simply don't perceive the goodness and that is what evil is, ie ignorance or misperception, then the problem of evil is solved.

If we, instead, perceive the evil as something real and the Gods as totally good not evil, the problem of evil remains.

Finally, a Pagan that comes back to Christianity usually doesn't know history very well, and is unaware of Natib Qadish, ie Modern Canaanite Religion or Neopaganism.

If you listen to Natib Qadish (ie Canaanite and Israelite Polytheistic Neopaganism) and Wathanism (Arabian pre-Islamic Polytheistic Neopaganism) practitioners' voices, you cannot come back to Christianity.

In fact, Christianity doesn't make any sense: Yahweh is a Storm God that comes from Edom to Israel through the Kenites or Shasu, which were nomads. His name meant "to blow", and so he was a variation of Baal Hadad.

In the origin, El was the father of Baal/Yahweh, and his sister was Anat and his mother Asherah. Later, El ie the Sky God and Yahweh ie the Storm God, merged and so Yahweh was seen as the husband of the Goddess Asherah.

In fact in Kuntillet Arjud it's possible to see blessings by "Yahweh and his Asherah". Moreover, even the Bible (read The Book of Judges) witness that people worshipped Asherah/Astarte and Baal together with YHWH.

In Elephantine in Egypt there was a Jewish temple for Yahu-Anat, ie both Anat and YHWH.

So how can Jesus be the son of the only God Yahweh if Yahweh was never a monotheistic God before the Josiah's reform that made Judaism monotheistic?

If Judaism is originally polytheistic then Christianity makes no sense.

By reading the "Cycle of Baal" we'll discover the origin of the Biblical Deity (or Deities?).

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I end my dissertation with some interesting quotes from the Bible:

Jeremiah 7:

"17 Do you not see what they are doing in the towns of Judah and in the streets of Jerusalem? 18 The children gather wood, the fathers light the fire, and the women knead the dough and make cakes to offer to the Queen of Heaven."

Jeremiah 44:

"17 We will certainly do everything we said we would: We will burn incense to the Queen of Heaven and will pour out drink offerings to her just as we and our ancestors, our kings and our officials did in the towns of Judah and in the streets of Jerusalem. At that time we had plenty of food and were well off and suffered no harm. 18 But ever since we stopped burning incense to the Queen of Heaven and pouring out drink offerings to her, we have had nothing and have been perishing by sword and famine.”

"19 The women added, “When we burned incense to the Queen of Heaven and poured out drink offerings to her, did not our husbands know that we were making cakes impressed with her image and pouring out drink offerings to her?”"

"25 This is what the Lord Almighty, the God of Israel, says: You and your wives have done what you said you would do when you promised, ‘We will certainly carry out the vows we made to burn incense and pour out drink offerings to the Queen of Heaven.’"

#Hellenism #Paganism #Polytheism #devotional polytheism #christianity #pagan religion #canaan #judaism #Platonism #neoplatonism #plato #interfaith dialogue #monotheism

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